War of Dawn

Chapter 1: Life, Such As It Is

Date: 1003 After Dawn, May 14th

In the southwestern region of the Northern Reaches lies the mining town of Litnir and around the town's center, Gustaff's bar. Sunlight pours into the lone window in one of four small guest rooms on the upper floor of the bar, signaling the start of a new workday for Hilda Solberg. A sixteen year-old girl of average stature and build, she slowly rises off her hard straw mattress and stretches her arms wide. The short creaks coming off her bones play the usual soundtrack to her mornings.

With a sluggish gait, Hilda makes her over to the tiny bowl of water and mirror set by her lone window. Bidding her reflection good day with a long yawn, her tired chestnut-colored eyes set upon her pale skin marked in the usual checkerboard fashion; courtesy of a deep sleep atop sheets that may well have been made of sawdust.

Not that her hair's doing too much better. The nigh-silver strands flow down the back of her neck with drunken swerves, all running off in their own direction. The only constants are the wispy bangs that dangle by her brow, always looking for ways over to her chestnut eyes. With a nicked wooden brush, she spends all of two minutes untangling knots before tossing the tool aside. Ever unruly, Hilda's long since given up on trying to put them to order – it's easier that way.

Hilda washes her face and flings open the creaking wooden window; the cold northern wind waltzes in, bringing in the familiar smell of the mines' furnaces. The smell of hard work. With one last yawn climbing out her dry lips, she moves to the small wooden cabinet and gets herself dressed: dark woolen pants, a white woolen shirt and a gray apron.

The same clothes she's worn for quite the long time, as purchasing new ones isn't exactly a simple matter. Litnir's mines – once one of the bigger sources of copper, iron and silver ore for Europe – have fallen into very hard times over the last six years. And if the mines are doing poorly, everyone is doing poorly.

Still, that's never stopped her from doing her job. Living in the harsh Northern Reaches, paired with some exigent circumstances, she's been working here as a waitress for ten years – the longest standing one in town. Not glamorous in the slightest but she likes it well enough. That said, the first thing Hilda sees when she heads down the stairs and into the bar does not make for a very inspiring sight.

The wooden walls, floor and tables, once shiny and elegant, have long since taken this deathly gray color; the vivid red drapes have become tarnished, their color fading as if in reflection of the town. All is lit by small, pitiful candle stubs and a dreary fireplace, which seems likely to fizzle out with every crack of its embers.

Having been here long enough to remember better times, it's like having a bucket of cold water dropped on her at the start of every workday.

"Morning, Hilda," says Gustaff, already standing in his traditional spot behind the counter. An old, rather chubby German man in his late fifties, he is known around town for two things: his thick handlebar mustache which runs the length of his cheeks and being the only one with a steady supply of alcohol. The latter essentially makes him the most beloved man around.

"Morning," Hilda answers, taking a look at the establishment and noticing the distinct absence of her coworkers. "Where're Corrie and Erika? Not here yet?"

Gustaff shakes his head, staring at her with puckered lips. "And they won't be. Last I heard, they and their families were leaving for greener pastures."

Hilda sighs – that makes seven people just this week. Granted, this has been a very common occurrence for quite some time. Every month, Gustaff has to hire new folks to replace ones who've left.