INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

RORAN, OF HOUSE PIKE

Roran sat atop his horse, wearing the colors of House Pike on his cloak.
A heavy hammer hung from his belt, gifted by Newlyn Pike.

"You show some promise with the weapon. Might as well grant you with this," He had said.

Roran asked where the hammer originated, but Newlyn wouldn't answer him. It had a coiled leather handle, with a stark white bone pommel as sharp as any sword. The flat face of the hammer was inscribed with the image of a howling horned beast, and on the opposite side another bleached bone point was found, runes etched thickly into the conical fixture.

Roran's hair was long but wavy. As it grew, it became darker, streaks of black running through his normally light brown locks. A boyish beard hugged his sharp chin. It had been a surprise even to Roran, but he could tell that he had grown since Carvahall.

Roran quieted thoughts of his old home, eyes narrowed as he looked down on the small dwelling below him.

"It looks quiet." Lorgainn said, riding up behind Roran. Newlyn had insisted that Lorgainn go with Roran, speaking of the usefulness of a magic user.

"You will be in the deepest parts of the North, where there are no kings or laws. Dark things still lurk in some places, untouched for thousands of years." Newlyn had said ominously, and so it came to be.

Lorgainn ran a hand through his white hair. His face was covered with intricate tattoos, and even without his bone armor he was still fearsome in appearance. Next to him, two of his animals sniffed the air, a fox and a badger.

"What do they smell?" Roran questioned, looking down at the creatures. Lorgainn's eyes turned red, his pupil's expanding.

"Death. Blood, but not newly spilt. These people were killed perhaps six days prior this point in time."

Lorgainn's eyes returned to normal. Roran turned his attention back on the small hobble of houses.

Something is killing all of these people. They had come across castles, lords and lordlings, forts and keeps. But the lands they owned . . . the people they swore to protect . . . the villages were all decimated by some strange evil.

The lords generously accepted the terms of House Pike: To recognize House Pike as their Great Lord, and join them in the war against the Empire. But when asked of the village massacres, they had no answer. They had all been huddled in their fortified homes, while the smell of death and screams of children and women carried on the cold air of the night, unheeded.

"It is much worse than we had previously thought." Roran said, his jaw clenched. Katrina and the others . . . they were safe, but for how long? Whatever was killing these people was gaining strength in the uncharted woods and forests, attacking from the fringes of the North.

Roran turned to look behind him. His men waited, all of them ahorse. Nearly one hundred and fifty of them, all well-armed and trained. All following his orders.
Archers, swordsmen, and Roran didn't even count the bloodmages.

Lorgainn rode with him, but the rest of his magicians held back, watching their rear.

Roran sagged his shoulders and sighed.
He was tired.

He just wanted to be with Katrina. She had improved greatly, healthy color returning to her as her body filled out again, the normal vivaciousness back in her attitude. But still, Roran could tell that sadness lingered.

Our lives will never be the same.

"Let's go." Roran said, whipping his reigns forward, his horse plodding down the craggy hill.

It was misty in the morning, and so far, early on in winter, they had been lucky. Only wet rain and a few flurries of snow had afflicted them, and most days warmed relatively quickly.