The Farstrider Scout

The wind ripped through the mountains, cutting icily to the bone… He did not care. The cold burned like an ungodly fire, stealing the warmth from his veins… He still did not care. The snow stung his eyes, drifting up around his legs, getting deeper and shortening his strides by the minute… He did not care. His wife, his son, his hold, and his honor had been stolen from him in one swift stroke, and there was nothing Haegan could do would that ever bring him back, yet still, a small voice niggled in the back of his mind, whispering – You fool. You’ll die to the cold at this rate, and your vengeance will never come to pass. What kind of death is that for a Slayer? You should have risked the Undgrin road, at least then you would have chanced for an honorable death, not to mention a faster path to Karak Kadrin.

The cold thoughts stung like a knife, and slowly his course turned, taking him down from the mountains and into the sheltering trees, but it was a half blind, half frozen dwarf that stumbled into the forest, and the trees of the forest are no less forgiving of dwarfs than the cold rock of the mountain peaks. Sight stolen by the wind and the snow, it did not take long for Haegan to stumble, for dwarfs are not as surefooted in the forests as they are on the stone and rock of the places they call home. A low hanging branch rising swiftly out of the gloom of night ended all thoughts and brought a deeper dark as he lost consciousness.

Haegan did not know how long it was that he had slept, but what he did know was that he was not in the same place he had been in when the poorly placed branch had ended his thoughts. It was daylight now, but the forest canopy overhead blocked the sun, and so the misty glade he was in was a muted grey, deepening the shadows of the deeper wood around him. He sat up slowly and, placing his hands on the ground to steady himself, was surprised to find himself laying on a bed of soft green moss. His pack and water skin lay just out of arms reach, leaning up against a rock, but of his axes there was no sign.

Finding his mouth as dry as the southern deserts, he picked himself up and sat down on the rock by his pack, taking a swig from the skin and fishing a piece of waybread from the pack. His eyes wandered as he munched, slowly coming to his senses, taking in his surroundings, trying to determine where he was. The entire glade was covered in soft grass, only broken by a few patches of moss covered ground, such as the one he had awoken on, and an occasional rock here and there.

But it was the object at the center of the glade that interested him the most – A circular fountain stood there, illuminated by a few scant sunbeams that had managed to break through the canopy. The water danced down from tier to tier, catching the light and reflecting the golden beam, a soft quiet burble being the only sound that broke the tranquil silence of the glade.

Something stirred within the fountain, and Haegan frowned. What sorcery is this that brought me here to this place? The thought came unbidden as he searched for something to use as a weapon, though he had no doubt in his mind that whatever he found would do little against magic. He found none though, and turned back to the fountain in time to see a woman break the surface, water streaming from her body. Haegan watched, mouth agape, for she was truthfully the most beautiful of human women he had ever seen.
Her hair was a blond that caught the sunbeams, flowing like molten gold, gleaming pure and bright in its wetness, the light giving the illusion of a halo around her head. Brilliant blue eyes, clear as the sky, watched him with a dancing smile that was made complete by her soft red lips. She was garbed in a pure white gown that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination, and her skin was almost as white, pale as the moon.

But it was the object she brought with her that truly caught his attention. Her hands rested on the pommel of a large twin bladed crescent axe, its head resting on the ground in the fashion of many a dwarfen statue. The sunbeams caught this too, reflecting off its finely honed edge. The haft was clearly formed of wutroth, a wood prized by the dwarfs who held stone and metal above all other crafting materials, its dark luster gleaming as it shed the water clinging to it. The blade itself was something to behold, a gromril alloy chased in bloodgold, with faintly glowing runes that exuded power.

The golden haired woman spoke then, her voice clear and musical, “Fear not, master Dwarf, for I come bearing tidings, and a gift.”