Chapter I Aevara's smile

In the frigid north, in the continent of Aeskenia, the winters last for years unmeasured and frost freezes the time itself. A lone raven flew above seeing that the long-awaited spring had come. Among the melting snows the yellow flowers of Aevara bloomed to the delight of all, and the waters gushed forth from the Garfjall mountains as they shook off the whiteness of their caps. The land and her people had been woken and the blazing tails of Eldrafugl gnawed at the remaining ice. Through the great forest of Sumara-Stjup the bird flew, where a horned man clad in fresh leaves rode on a grand stag, leading the great herds of clan Dyras. Yet further west it flew, until it beheld the howling hall of the high clan Lupas, jutting into the sky. There stood Velda, pale and grey in the winter of her life. She watched as her people awoke from long dormancy, but she, as elder, remained ever vigilant, even now though the freezing days were passing. Any sense of cold had long departed her, for the wind of Sifjara, the winter goddess, ever drew her thoughts northward. Yet the duty of the den mother, the guardianship of Skalla-Holl - the howling hall of her ancestors - and the love of her people kept her here. She still had a son, Agdas, whose spouse of fiery hair came from the eastern isles: Talina, who bore him a strong son, Finras, and a lovely daughter, Hetta, whose joy knew no end. The hall of her people was steeped in old blood and built from ancient wood upon a hill overlooking the overflowing Riven. Velda stood upon its threshold. She placed her hand upon a carved wolf at the gate and, with a small smile, greeted her grandchildren as they drowsily clambered up to her. Then she told them a story of the four sisters and of the cycle, to wake their minds and blood:

First came Aevara, laughing joyously by the Roaring Bay, and it was spring. From her bliss grew the first flower, as golden as her hair. Yet she tarried not forever, but left for the far north, leaving her echoing laughter in those fair, flowering fields evermore. Her three husbands — the moth, the rooster, and the bear - remain there still, awaiting her return.

Second came Sumara. Further inland she went, with trees sprouting by her feet, and it was summer. Great forests flourished, filled with beasts nurtured at by her own breast, for it is said she embraces all life. Yet the sun spilled like a cracked egg, from which emerged Eldrafugl, and Sumara turned back, digging her roots into the earth, finding her sister not. Her three husbands - the wolf, the deer, and the leech - dwell in those forests still.

Third came Rauthara, red of hair, ripening fruit and beast, and it was autumn. Northward she strode with her vibrant colors, seeking the first in the darkness. But the five-eyed father of giants smote her, and she fell into the eastern waters, her foaming blood forming the Amber Isles. Her three husbands - the mole, the squirrel, and the fox - buried her body.

Fourth came Sifjara, crying sorrowfully and bellowing frigid winds, and all the lands were covered in snow and death: it was winter. With wrath unending she pursued the giants until their father came forth, and with her own hands she slew him, freezing shut all five eyes. From her ice and his blood she shaped the Marunnai, to end the giants forever. Her three husbands — the hawk, the seal, and the eel - still hunt her enemies.

Thus Velda spoke of the great goddesses of the Marunnai, of her own race, as a raven perched upon the roof called to her. For by ancient tradition, the six chieftains of the high clans were summoned to Hramnfjall, the Ravens’ Peak, to discuss the coming cycle.

Thence Velda departed alone, bidding farewell to her son and his family. With woad was her face painted like falling tears to show her widowhood, and her long hair was bound with her husband’s skull. To that peak she traveled, where memory is held, as the winged wives of fate sang above the clouds and their white feathers fell near Velda’s feet. Through forest and river she went, and along the way she met one of the wives of god Darr, crowned with interlocking horns, seated upon his deer, blessing her. The sun and moon passed in and out of the sky, until at last she beheld the snowy peak, and on it, like a crown, sat the sanctum of Muninn, carved into the mountain and girdled black with a flock of ravens. As she passed closer, taking the narrow pathway up Hramnfjall, the birds bowed their heads before her. Thus she entered the hall, built of cold stone and surrounded by ravens watching and remembering. In the center lay Muninn, keeper of memory of the high clan Hramnas, in his nest of stone. His feathers turned from black to grey, his eyes gazed downward into the deeps of time, while the other five stood nearby in their seats. Velda, den mother of the high clan Lupas, took her seat first, for she was the oldest. She had passed her one hundred and twentieth winter, and was the strongest of her race, bearing her she-wolf cuirass and the skull of her husband, proud among her ancestors. Second was Malusha, the amber widow of the high clan Ravas, her face veiled, with trays of amber beads falling left and right. Yet beneath, the red headdress gleamed the mother’s care, for her duty was to uphold the ways of the buried one. Third sat Tor, storm-caller of the high clan Aelas, streaks of thunder-scars tracing from his head down his arm, one eye blinded. His dark hair, tinged with blue, rose upwards in anticipation like a storm cloud before the thunder broke. The fourth was Hunanga, bear-maiden of the high clan Bjornas, with a broad smile on her lips and a full belly, for her people bore the winter’s chill well. In the flowering vales, the feasts of spring had only just begun. Fifth came Gjarn, the mole-steel of the high clan Mollas. He sat last, for he knew how disputed his clan’s claim was upon the high title. Clad in armor of intricate design, with gems shining in the morning sun, he too was moved by fate.

Thus lo, so were they seated, and the old raven croaked as he ruffled his feathers:

“The cycle continues. You may speak.”

The other ravens echoed his words, and Gjarn, raising his voice, proclaimed:

“For my mastery, the honor of my ancestors, and the glory of my noble clan, I, Gjarn, shall lead the voyage into the eastward seas. In those unknown lands shall I carve my name, by the will of the gods!”

From Velda’s blue lips came a displeased answer:

“Do not be a hasty fool! Your duty is to your people, not to foreign excursions into places where your forefathers failed.”

Hunanga laughed and said:

“There is so much to celebrate! Why waste time on such idle play?”

The edges of Tor’s mustache curled upward.

“Bringing lightning to the east! Now that is exhilarating! Long have I desired to see what became of the lost houses of my great-grandfather’s kin.”

The veil of Malusha shifted slightly as she turned her head toward Gjarn, and at last she nodded.Muninn lifted his engraved beak a little and croaked:

“The west is thundering sea, the south is hallowed fog, the north is frozen time… but the east is a mystery veiled.”

Gjarn proclaimed once more:

“My hosts are countless, my ships are strong, and our armories are full. With your aid and blessing, no power in the east could resist us. This time, we are better prepared!”

Velda questioned still his resolve:

“It shall be for naught, for you go into the unknown. The eastern waters are scarcely explored. What if you find only barren lands, or waste away upon the seas? Not to mention what dark beasts might lurk there, from the sunless days?”

But Tor’s support remained unwavering:

“With my thunder, not even the Himinnfolk of the sky could hinder our navy! And with my eels, we shall reach the land swiftly, as my ancestor did. Not to mention what the steel of Mollas is capable of.”

Finally, Malusha’s voice passed through her veil, her face unmoving:

“A white crow was seen by Gjarn. His doom draws near. The threads of fate pull him beyond the horizon… and he shall have my blessing.”

Hunanga’s smile remained still.

“You worry far too much, Velda. Let us grant the hero his way. Fate demands it.”

But Velda’s countenance turned grim, and she spoke no more on the matter.

Then Muninn raised his wings and croaked:

“The decision has been made and recorded: four in favor, one against, and one observing. Gjarn of the high clan Mollas shall lead his expedition into the mystery of the east. What shall come of this no one may know for certain, yet I see it was his wyrd.”

Thus the six continued their speech on the feasts to come, and on the governance of the clans, until the five rose and took their leave, each going his or her own way. Yet Velda lingered still, gazing down from the mountain. With her grey eyes she beheld, for a fleeting moment, a white crow with red eyes, flying eastward from among the ravens. Then she turned northward, as a cold wind rose from beyond the Garfjall, from the frozen palace of Sifjara, where in the lake of blood she slumbers upon a bed of giant corpses turned to ice. As the Eldrafugl descended into the western sea, so too did she descend the mountain, treading once more the same path. When she heard the howling, she knew she was home. For Vuulk is the god of the hunt, and he takes the form of a great wolf. Where once, long ago, with his piercing howl he shook the heavens, there was built Skalla-Holl. For there he had found the people who could be both his prey and his sons. Velda knew this bitter truth well, for every chief must give one son to the Hunter. So she returned to her hall, where many of her people had come back from their nomadic hunts with the ulfar, eager to hear her words concerning the chiefs and their counsel. Little difference was ever made between the Marunnai and the great wolves they lived alongside, for both were counted as kin in the high clan Lupas. And so they gathered together around the fire in the heart of the hall, celebrating Aevara’s laughter, the blooming of flowers, and the gift of new life. Velda sat among them, unbinding her grey hair, then kissing her husband’s skull and placing it upon her lap.

“The council of the high clans has decided to send a force eastward once more. Gjarn of the high clan Mollas shall lead the voyage, with the full support of the high clan Aelas. This decision does not bear my blessing… yet if you will to go, I will not hinder you.”

So spoke Velda with a heavy heart. The people murmured among themselves, and her sister’s daughter, Styrka Strong-bone, chose to lead the one-third who were willing into the east. The clan howled in unison and returned to their feasting, spilling blood upon the ground for Vuulk’s favor, and all were merry.

It was then that Velda’s granddaughter Hetta came joyfully to her, singing the song of new flowers. Seeing her grandmother’s grim countenance, she asked with a child’s simplicity:

“Are you sad, grandmother?”

Velda answered with a faint smile:

“Oh, worry not, happy child. Winter was long, and it froze my face a little. So let me tell you a funny tale this time. One spring, your grandfather Bjoharas received a hundred great barrels of honey-mead from the high clan Bjornas. As he pondered how to spend such a boon, he spied a lone bison that had strayed from its herd. Mischief came into his head. He gave the beast a drink of mead, and then more, until it desired no drop more. Yet he forced the creature to drink still, until it was bloated and lay upon the ground with its legs to the sky. Ninety-nine barrels were empty. With the last, Bjoharas poured the mead over the beast and bathed it. Then he howled and called upon Vuulk. The Hunter came, and my husband offered up the drunken bison. Vuulk opened his jaws wide and with one bite devoured the sacrifice. But the power of the mead from the flowering vales was strong, and soon Vuulk’s eyes swung from side to side as he stumbled about like a happy whelp. Then Bjoharas challenged him to a wrestling match. He grappled the god with all his strength, but it availed little, for the Wolf dug his claws deep into the earth. At last, when your grandfather was ready to give in, the Hunter burped so mightily that he leapt into the air. In that moment, Bjoharas tackled him to the ground. By luck and by foolish wit, he had won. Thus, holding Vuulk by the neck, he demanded all the secrets of the hunt. The Wolf had no choice but to howl them aloud, and only then did your grandfather release him. Vuulk fled into the woods, but before departing, Bjoharas invited him to drink again. Ever since that day, the Wolf Lord has hated mead.”

Velda laughed, then stroked her granddaughter’s hair.

“Now go, play with the little whelps. For they too will grow colder as the cycles turn.”

With that, Hetta marched away. Such was the spring: full of bliss, as was the goddess Aevara of old, dancing with laughter while flowers sprang beneath her feet. Yet northward she wandered… and returned nevermore.