The Minstrel

The aldeia had settled into what would become known as the coldest of winters it had faced in generations. The elders were gathered in the common room of the inn, discussing their concerns about the chill that had settled across the land. The fires of the hearth were stoked high, and mulled cider was being served.

A hush fell across the villagers as the stranger entered the common room, their eyes following the cloaked man. He walked over to the corner table by the hearth, and carefully set the long case he carried upon the ground beside the table as he took a seat. A child watched curiously as the stranger pushed back his hood, revealing a craggy, ruggedly handsome countenance. Hands fell to knife hilts, clutching them white-knuckled, as the stranger reached down to unlatch his long case.

There were some audible sighs of relief as the stranger pulled out an unusual twin-necked guitar and brought it across his lap. His hand drew forth a large, chipped ceramic mug, and sat it upon the corner of the table as was the custom of the minstrels that traveled through these parts of The Beyond. The curious child drew cautiously closer to the minstrel, studying the man.

More than one eyebrow raised as the minstrel pushed back his sleeves, revealing long and winding red spirals tattooed over his forearms. The words "Peregrine" and "Bird" were whispered. The man's long fingers played over the ivory-inlaid fretboard of the shorter, lower neck of the guitar he held and moved over the tuners. His long hair fell over his eyes as he looked down to his work. Creeping softly, the child pulled up to seat himself upon the edge of the bench opposite the minstrel, his eyes alight.

Those eyes widened as they fell upon the well-worn hilt of a sword at the minstrel's side, even as the child warmed to the soft tones from the instrument.

"Who are you?" the child muttered softly, eyes filled with wonder as she watched the man tune his guitar.

"I am Naarm Frosteyes," the man replied quietly.

When the minstrel looked up to meet her eyes, the child knew the reason for the man's moniker. The musician's eyes were a cold blue throughout, with no whites nor pupil to be seen. The child could not contain her gasp.

Naarm smiled softly at the child's surprise.

"Is there something you'd like to hear, young lady? I've wandered these ways for many years. Surely there's a song I know that could warm you in these wintry times."

Despite his eerie eyes, the warmth in Naarm's voice drew the girl scooting closer towards him, until she sat across from him. Looking up to the minstrel, the girl barely had a chance to answer before her mother, a barmaid at the inn, laid her hand upon the girl's shoulder.

"Come, Tirala, do not trouble this man," the barmaid's voice quavered as she stared at the wanderer.

"The child is no trouble, milady. She's a blessing, in fact," the minstrel replied.

"I have payment for a meal and a bed, and in more than song," the minstrel continued, as he reached into his cloak to press three large, shiny carved stones upon the rough surface of the table.

"I also await someone's arrival. Perhaps we can pass the time with a story or three together."

One of the elders stood, his face reddened beneath his scraggly beard.

"We'd no pass the time with you, bird. Where you go, trouble follows. We don't serve your kind here," the older man said.

The man sitting next to him stood, placing a hand on the angry man's shoulder.

"Now Horek, surely he means us no harm. A simple traveler," the fellow said softly, then looking apologetically to the minstrel, "His daughter ran away with a Peregrine some years ago, and we've not heard from her since."

Naarm Frosteyes looked to the exchange, and nodded to the apologetic villager, offering a wry smile to the angry villager.

"I am sorry for your loss, but sometimes The Wander calls, and those of us who hear it must answer. It is a dangerous path we travel. Yet there are many stories to be told, and I know a few. Tell me, what was your daughter's name?"

The angry villager sat abruptly, the heat of his anger dissipating and leaving him a hollow shell. His eyes grew sad.

"Mirna. Her name was Mirna," he said in a nearly broken voice.

Naarm Frosteyes' thin eyebrow arched.

"Surely not Mirna Gorinsdottir? The Giant-Slayer, Lady Steelglove? If she is in fact your daughter, and you be Gorin, then you have nothing to fear. Mirna lives, and is well. Her name is well-known among we Peregrines, and her adventures are legendary. Perhaps whilst I await my companions, I can tell you of her many stories. Might I have a glass of wine or ale, to soothe this travel-parched throat?"

Naarm Frosteyes smiled as the villagers' attentions focused upon him, and many gathered around to hear the stories he would tell them this night.

The Crossroads

Here in the place where the Iron Winds howl, wreaking their horrifying changes on those caught within its grasp, the drit crunches beneath feet and beats against exposed skin. The raging screams of mad abhumans bent by bloodlust sound in the distance. The air smells burnt and blackened. The throb of something beneath the earth rattles bones.

It is an ancient place that has watched eight worlds rise and fall across endless stretches of time. It speaks neither of a beginning nor of an end, only of mute witness to the aeons. Human, abhuman, visitant, monstrosity, ultraterrestrial - all of these, and more, have strode its lengths. It has outlasted innumerable civilizations and there are those who speak The Truth that say that it will outlast countless more.

It is The Crossroads, and there are many tales to tell of its strange ways.