Gredonhall: An Empire Larp Story

Cold, Cold Wintermark

On a cold, dark evening in a village in the Kallavesa territory of Wintermark, snow fell. Gently, a blanket was lain across the snowy mud. The sun had set past the western hills and the workers were convening in the local inn.

The inn in question was a cosy old building; The Scop's Barrel. Made of wood and brick with a thatch roof, the outside was coloured dark. In fact, most of Kallavesa was painted black. The buildings, the clothes and even some of the Kallavesi have been known to paint their face with markings.

But the inside was alive with laughter and warmth. Men and women drank deep next to a gentle fire or fickle candles, their children either playing outside or giggling next to them. It was a welcoming ambiance- very fitting for Winterfolk. Wintermark was to be commended for their hospitality but sternness in being square.

I digress. At the bar side, a young man sat drinking a weak spirit. He was tall and broad with a rectangular face. his eyes, despite his clothes and heritage, sparkled. His hands were calloused and his arms were big and burly from working on his family's farm. The teen's hair was scruffy and kept out of the way, he had work to do and had no time to worry about appearance. This was Tidwulf Ifredson.

Outside, a small caravan drawn by a chestnut shire horse parked itself outside of The Scop's Barrel. The caravan was beaten by weather and its paint was peeling. But despite the fact it looked like it could fall apart at any point, it still stood. Its driver jumped off of his seat and walked to the inn. He wore a heavy black cloak with grey fur around the shoulders and a hood over his head. The cloak swept across the snow, picking up some mud as he walked.

He was engulfed with warmth and the smell of beer as he entered The Scop's Barrel. He removed his cloak and hung it beside the door on an antler of a hanging deer head. Another young man, though this one was dressed differently.

This one was dressed in cream, tan and white. He wore woolen trousers and a wool shirt. His sheepskin covered in markings of bears, jackdaws and foxes. All of these features were that of a Suaq of the Sermersuaq region. The sword that hung by his side wasn't bespoke or made for anyone in particular, it was just an off-the-shelf sword one would be able to buy at any smithy if they so chose.

"Barkeep, Can I have an ale?" The stranger called, his dark eyes sparkled in the candle light. Tidwulf could now see this young man was a Draughir, a human touched by the realm of winter. The stranger's features were pale and tight to his face. His eye sockets, however, were black. Completely jet with veins creeping across his face with black.

The Draughir got his ale and sat to the counter to take a deep drink. He broke away for a breath and wiped his mouth, his top lip covered in foam. The stranger realised he had caught the eye of Tidwulf, his coat mainly. The Suaq smiled.

"All my kills." He gestured to his markings. "Bar the jackdaw, that's something special."

"What's it for?" Tidwulf inquired, moving closer in intrigue.

"Jackdaws symbolise courage in Suaq culture. That's the virtue that matters most to me." The stranger displayed it to Tidwulf.

"How come?" The Kallavesi smiled and asked.

"Well, you see..."