Sev's NaNoWriMo Corner (reviews appreciated!)

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So, yeppers, I'm taking part this year, and I'm pretty nervous about it, to say the least. A plot? Nothing to speak of as yet, but I'm confident something will come to me by the time it starts.

One detail so far, though. It's going to involve a giant silver Rooster, and that's final

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Okay, I've deided it's going to be a fantasy... that's all I'm good at xD And the title? "Blue Dawn". Yeah, dunno why. Characfters to come soon.

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Sventar is a young dwarf, living in the Enchanted four seasons forest. His life is simple, living in a hut on the edge of the place they call No Creature's Land in a small hut with his wife. They live off the fat of the land, and enjoy a harmonious existence.

That is, they do until the annual festival of the Blue Dawn, when the sun and moon turn a bright navy blue for a whole fortnight. The first day of the festival, as he is out with many others stocking up on as much food as he can find for the winter month, he hears a pained cry from through the snow, and in the pale shadows of a blue moon, he discovers his parents have been murdered.

His task is to find the one who committed this terrible deed, and avenge their deaths. The catch? He only has a fortnight to do it...

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Finally, I've finished the first part of my NaNo novel. It was surprisingly hard, especially since I foolishly tried to write this (the prologue, like a novel It's turned out astoundingly rubbish.

Anyways, I'd be really grateful if you could give some of your time to read on this and comment, as I'm planning to edit thins when I'm done, maybe add a bit on, and perhaps even send it out to a publisher. I'll almost certainly be rejected, but hey, there's no harm in trying, right? ;D

Anyway, without further ado, here are my first 2000 words

SPOILER: Click to show

Lord Sutherly poked unwillingly at his food, turning over the long strands of gristly pink meat again and again and again. His meal had been prepared by a whole kitchen full of chefs, and had taken three hours to make. Very probably, it was the finest dinner that anyone in the world would be presented with that night. He should eat it, he knew that. There were poor people out there starving, as his mother had always said, and it was disgusting for someone so privileged to reject the great gifts he was given.
But he couldn't.
He just couldn't.
His appetite was lost.
"Gunther," he sighed, pushing away the gold-edged plate with a shaky hand. "I am retiring. Would you do me the favour of clearing the table?"
"Of course," replied Gunther, his manservant, who was a thin, reedy man with thick, black-framed glasses. "That is, after all, my job."
"Thank you," said Sutherly, smiling wanly. He paused for a little moment, as if to say something else, but then decided against it, and shut his mouth. Taking his napkin from around his neck, he stuffed it back into one pocket forcefully, and with that he left.
Several of the staff waved to him as he passed by: washerwomen, stable-boys and scullery maids, but Sutherly did not return the favour. There was a subtle unease building in his stomach, a half-felt pain he could not describe. It seemed somehow familiar to him, but he could not quite put a finger on it.
Perhaps he could find that out later. Right now, he head to get some fresh air, breathe the sweet scent of the pine forests surrounding the castle once again. There was no exit close by, as far as he remembered, but there was at least a low window in his room, from which he could jump and, if lucky, not sustain too much injury to speak of. From there, he would run, run as fast as his legs would carry him, at least until the feeling left him.
Though Sutherly knew the castle very well indeed, having lived there for many, many years of his long life, he could not deny it was still a maze. Endless corridors of red twisted and melded into each other, turning, bounding this way and that, in an insane dance. It was as if a worm had burrowed straight through the giant stone structure, and then left without trace. Finding any room at all was a great chore, and it was only made worse by the bizarre planning system, with rooms flung higgledy-piggledy here and there. There were bedrooms beside the kitchen, the library was flanked by utility rooms, and an old armoury, which had been abandoned many years ago, was still set in what was now the servants’ quarters. Sutherly had tried many times to map the castle, but to no avail. All he really knew of his own quarters was that they were somewhere in the middle of the great stone structure, beside an indoor archery of some description.
He had a sort of intuition for it, though, a strange psychic sense he could not account for. He moved swiftly, two-step, two-step, his legs seemingly having a mind of their own. Soon, he was jogging at a lively pace, bounding down the twisting corridor, jigging this way and that like a furious beast locked in a darkened room. He knew it was coming closer, and despite himself, he allowed a little smile. Just a few more steps, and he would be there.
Then he saw it, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The door to his chambers, in stark contrast to all the others in the corridor, was not less than six metres high, and cast in pure, glittering gold. Rubies were set in a sweeping, downward motion into both panels, about twenty or so rows to each. The knob was set in silver, shimmering dully in the low lights of the corridor’s torches. It was inviting, so inviting. He reached out to touch it…
But it was only then that he realised it was locked.
Groaning, he reached into the folds of his overcoat, and dug his right hand violently into the depths of his pockets. He could feel his napkin there, the one he had used while making an attempt at dining, and also a great many little trinkets he had picked up from various assorted places, and never thought to put elsewhere.
Among them was a ribbon, which led on to a key, and a brooch.
Sighing, Sutherly yanked it from his pocket, and jammed the little silver object into the keyhole. One turn opened the heavy door, to reveal his extravagant bedroom, just as it had appeared when last there that morning, save for a newly-made bed, not doubt kindly organized once again by his maid, whose name he could never remember, a thing which had proved embarrassing at times.
He scanned his eyes around the room; it was everything one could expect from the sleeping quarters of a lord such as him. Everything was coloured in a bright royal blue, and crafted from some extravagant material such as cashmere or Berian silk. Frills and ornaments abounded, perhaps a little too much for one person to stand for too long; it seemed everything had some extra detail, some strange etching or attachment that was out of the norm in some way. Even a little disturbing in some cases: hidden away in the shadows where it belong, in the very top left corner of the room, was an intricate, immaculately detailed painting of an old woman, a noble of some description, judging by her clothes and hairstyle, who had no face at all, absolutely nothing save for a flat patch of skin where her features should have been. There had been plenty of theories as to why the thing had been created, and plenty of appeals to have the horrid thing burnt, but so for no real answers had been provided, and all appeals had been rejected. It was all part of the ancient mystery of the castle, and would probably remain so for all of eternity.
The scene, which was decidedly picturesque, and had indeed been put to canvas a great many times, was disturbed by a chill wind blowing from an open window set into the old cream-coloured wall, various objects in the room moving about awkwardly in its influence. The two huge blue curtains stretched out like ghostly tendrils, whipping this way and that, flickering like a snake’s forked tongue. They lifted up with every heartbeat, to reveal the star-speckled heavens, clear and unhindered but clouds for the first time in an age; the moon nestled in a brilliant pool of luminescence, streaming beams of light the hue of wheat, barley and oats, and the stars twinkling along to its soundless beat, beautiful and mystical all at once. Then the curtain came down once again, the wind flagging for a small moment, and the vision was gone.
Lord Sutherly strolled to the source of the breeze, breathing in the sweet scent of pine that drifted on the wind. Almost immediately, he could feel the effect that it had on his nerves, calming him, putting his mind at ease. Suddenly the dull feeling in his stomach did not seem quite so bad anymore, though it was still undeniably there, still gnawing away at his sanity. He had to escape.
Heaving a sigh, Sutherly tore off his powdered wig, revealing a head which was quite bald, due to the plague that had ravaged his village a very many years ago, when he was only a young child. Thus unrestrained, he placed his two hands carefully on the frame of the window, and slung one leg into the open air, quickly followed by the other.
His body fell down, and Sutherly began to feel a tremendous pressure apply itself to his hands. He winced. The last time he had done this, he had been a far lighter man. Disturbingly, it had only been a month previously.
He hung there for as long as he could manage, his fingers turning white and his knuckles pressing against his skin, before his fingers began to give way, with great speed. His left hand quitted within all of fifteen seconds, and his right in twenty.
Then Sutherly fell, limbs splayed wide, body rushing toward the ground. Screwing his eyes tight shut, he prepared for the impact, and cried in pain as he landed heavily on his rear, into the centre of a small, misshapen bush.
When he managed to open his eyes, his vision was blurred and distorted. There were aches and pains all over his body, all vying for his individual attention, but there were too many, and he found himself overwhelmed. It seemed he had landed rather badly, though it was nothing over-worrying. Many injuries had been picked up, it was true, but thankfully nothing had been broken, or so it seemed.
Testingly, he planted both arms on the ground, an lifted himself up extremely carefully, just in case. Every so often, he gave a different part of his body a little shake, in case there was any excessive pain. Thankfully, it transpired that there wasn’t, and he was soon on his feet.
Then Sutherly heaved a sigh, his breath freezing suddenly in the cool night air. He’d never taken a fall like that before. Never, in all his life, even at his first attempt, when he was six years old. Perhaps it was just that feeling in his stomach, fast disappearing now that he was in the open, and free from the constraints of the castle, but maybe, just maybe, it might be that he was getting old, and brittle, too frail even to take a short fall from his bedroom window.
But no, he thought, waving away the though. He was still the top fencer in the province. An old man would never be honoured with that title. It was a truly absurd thought. But still… something niggled at him at the back of his mind, added to all the other niggling feelings he was already experiencing.
Sutherly picked himself up, shook himself down, and tried to ignore the pain. Then he began to walk. To jog. And then to run. He rushed, free-spirited, through the pine forest, and breathed in the night, a glorious feeling taking him over and filling him with unhindered joy. He leapt through the moonbeams like a forest sprite, truly happy once again, and felt his soul soar high, high up above. That strang sensation at the pit of his stomach, the thing that had been eating at him, suddenly fled in terror and crawled back to whatever murky hole it had emerged from in the first place.
He felt himself wanting to do several things at once: climb the trees, marvel at the stars, grab a great handful of leaves from the moist ground, just to see how they floated down as he threw them high into they air. His happiness was wild and rampant, and he could not control it. It was wonderful, and so rare in a life such as his, where paperwork and officiousness was king.
Then he ran some more, and very soon came to a pool, its dappled surface rippling with the light of moonbeams, sparkling like a sea of diamonds. On impulse, he found himself taken by a sudden urge to jump in, to feel the cool water against his skin. But reason had some hold on him still, and he refrained. Coming back to the castle soaking wet was probably not a wise path to follow.
So he sat at the edge of the water, dangled his feet at the edge, and watched the brilliant reflections of light sparkle, bounce off each other and disappear. The stars and the moon working together in perfect harmony, working to create that beautiful golden glow. But the more he stared at it, the more something else began to appear there: a slightly blue tinge, very, very subtle, but still there.
What was that?
Sutherly paused to look up, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
It was the Blue Dawn. The sun was coming up again, and it was only nine o’clock in the evening. It would not set for another two weeks. It was a phenomenon that had not been seen for twenty years, and would not be seen again for another twenty more.
Suddenly, Lord Sutherly realised what that nagging feeling was, and realisation hit him so fast he could not gain a mental hold on it.
Simultaneously, so did the feeling itself, overwhelmingly.
He screamed in agony, and then the change began to take hold.

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EXCITING! Good luck! x3

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Thanks Sam! Good luck to you also I hope my beginning didn't bore you too much xD

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SPOILER: Click to show

Chapter I
Winter Sets In

Dawn in Four Seasons Forest. The snow drifts in from the darkened heavens, carpeting the earth in a thick blanket of white. The wind howls, and cold sets in, brought from far away. Everything is affected, nothing is safe. Birds, limp and dying, flap helplessly about on the ground, limbs freezing up in the cold. They receive many looks of quiet sympathy, but there is no move made to help them. It is too late now, there are too many to count, muddying the see of white with great clusters of black and brown feathers. Any creature fortunate enough to be in possession of protection is now looking out for themselves, no one else. The night is cold and heavy, and everyone wishes to be home.
A train of creatures moves softly through the old forest, betwixt the ancient white-topped trees: dwarves, humans, elves, and others, all clad in heavy furs and moving silently in a perfectly straight line, like some strange snake. At the very back, cut off from the rest, there is a small gaggle of green-skinned goblins, identifiable immediately as goblins, the outcasts of the forest. The others pretend silently to ignore them, but secretly they take backward glances every so often, taking another look at the strange, tough-skinned creatures.
“March!” someone shouts, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “March! March! March!” Over and over and over… no doubt, it’s meant to be encouraging, something to heat their blood and keep them going. For some, it worked. For most, it stirred in them an urge to bury whoever it was deep in the snow, six feet down.
Sven Thorson, a dwarf with a long, straggling beard, certainly felt so. And in his case, the incessant shouting was not so much a slight annoyance as a bane to his sanity. Testament to his terrible luck, he had been placed right behind that little man with a big voice.
“Would you mind,” he repeated for the thousandth time, through gritted teeth. “Quieting down a little?”
The bald man, who had a black dragon tattooed onto the top of his shiny head, simply turned right around and smiled. “Just doing my job, Sir. You can’t blame me for that, can you?”
Sven crossed his arms and stopped to stamp his feet a couple of times, before continuing on. “Granted, but pray tell, what is the benefit of this job you do?”
“Warms the legs,” said the bald man. “Good for motivation. Noise is a good stimulant.”
“Oh really?” Sven said, raising his eyebrows sarcastically.
There was a pregnant pause.
And then, just at that very moment, a thin fork of lightning flickered out from the grey-black sky, and struck the cap of a distant mountaintop dead centre, lighting up the dark night with a brilliant flash of light; following that, a tremendous noise swept across the temporary tundra, an ear-splitting crack. Several of the creatures in line fell over, and a child could be heard to shout, “I think I’m going deaf!”
It was five seconds of pure pandemonium, but it sopped as soon as it had started, and soon the gentle swish of the wind was all that was audible again.
Sven’s mouth was set into a grin line. “Really warmed my legs, that did,” he shouted, above the increasing hubbub of anxious chatter.
The bald man did not laugh, not even a snicker. His features were deadly serious. Instead, he replied with possibly the most stupid question he could have asked, “Did you do that?”
“Of, course I bally well did not!” Snorted Sven. “D’you reckon I’m some sort of god? Not even the most experienced of magicians could have managed that. It was just a freak happening, nothing more”
The bald man did not change his expression. His eyes were narrowed, full of paranoia and superstition.
“Oh, come now,” Sven rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”
The bald man turned away, and began to issue shouts of supposed encouragement again. “March, march, march--”
But he was cut off in mid-rant by another voice, thin and nasally. It was a goblin, the very last in the long line, pointing backwards at something rising up just above the horizon: a little sliver of blue, touching the black night sky with an eerie nave hue. “Sunrise!” he cried.
“Stupid goblin!” shouted the bald man. “It’s the middle of the evening, in case you hadn’t noticed; it won’t be sunrise for at least another seven hours.”
But the goblin was right. Night though it was, the sun was rising, and no more was it orange, warming and glorious. It was blue, cold and cruel, like the flurries of snow that it shone its pale light upon.
“Ye gods…” breathed the bald man, realization hitting his face. It was a phrase repeated all down the long line.
Sven was confused, however. “I don’t understand,” he said.
“Did you parents never tell you about the Blue Dawn?” said the bald man, shocked.
“No,” the dwarf shook his head. “I was raised in a home for orphans, abandoned at birth. I didn’t really have any parental figures until I finally found them when I was around twenty. No one really ever told me about these things.”
The bald man shot him a brief sympathetic glance, muttered, “Sorry…” and then continued staring at strange thing appearing on the far-off horizon, totally different to what you would expect from the sun.
“Blue Dawn,” he explained. “Is a strange phenomenon that occurs roughly every twenty years, though there can be no definite date. The sun rises early, around two hours after it has set, and its colour turns for golden to blue. It does not give out warmth anymore, but cold. Following that, it does not set for another two weeks.”
Sven looked astounded. “That could well be the strangest thing that I’ve ever heard.”
Then the bald man pointed to a far-off mountain, the one which had been struck by lightning not two minutes ago. A thin trail of smoke was still curling up into the freezing air. “Like breeds like,” he suggested. “Strange things happen during Blue Dawn. Plymatheus was destroyed during the last blue dawn.”
Sven nodded. Even he knew about Plymatheus, the great city on the cusp of the Gallaian Sea, which had disappeared completely, overnight, one chill February day. It was the all-time greatest unsolved mystery. Despite several expeditions to establish the cause of its disappearance, no reason, not even one simple clue, was thrown up. It was almost as if it had never existed in the first place.
“But,” said the dwarf, “I don’t believe in that kind of ridiculous superstition. There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation to it all.”
The bald man chuckled. “Very well. But I ask you, how do you explain that? Someone flies into the heavens and paints the sun blue every twenty years? The cause of Blue Dawn is another mystery.”
“Not beyond the realms of possibility.”
“Oh, come now,” he snorted, smiling broadly. “In any case, we’d better keep moving. The Blue Dawn is only going to make situations worse for us, and we’ve been out of the forest for far too long. There shall only be time for one more harvest, I think.”
Sven nodded, and picked a sack from the ground, beside his left foot. It contained all of his food provisions for the winter, and had been getting heavier all journey, as it steadily filled up.
“Okay!” Shouted the bald man, clapping his hands for attention. “Time to get moving again. You can all marvel at the Blue Dawn when you get back to the safety of you home. Right now, we are all in great danger of freezing to death. So get going! Oh, and you can snuff out your lanterns, if they are still lighted. We won’t be needing them any more.”

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SPOILER: Click to show

Six lanterns were snuffed out, one after the other, and the pale light of the Blue Dawn illuminated a hundred rough, weary faces, deep lines of stress etched into their strong features. Most had already made this arduous journey before, and Sven knew that experience would stand to help them on their way. That aside, though, they were in deep trouble. He could bank on it that no-one had reckoned on an icy sun blasting rays of cold anti-heat into the atmosphere.
“Let’s go, everyone, look lively!” cried the bald man, clapping his hands, verbally, cattle-prodding the villagers. He was shot a collection of stares even colder than the weather, but in the end no one said anything, and the line began moving again, cutting its slow way through the snow, and the familiar chant of, “March! March!” was resumed.
Sven’s mind was going at a mile a minute. There was something that didn’t seem quite right about all this, but it was a feeling he couldn’t place. Perhaps it could be called intuition. It felt like there was something evil in the air, something ominous and looming. It was as if the end of the world was upon them. A shiver ran down his spine.
Sven craned his head a little, to take a peek at the freezing sun, three-quarters above the horizon. It looked dead, just hanging there in the air, ghost-like. No, in fact, it looked soulless. Like some corpse who’s heart was still beating, but stared with dead eyes and could show no emotion. A zombie. The sun had been transformed into a celestial zombie.
That thought made him shiver once more, and he pulled his furs tightly about him for warmth, but it cold not banish the fierce chill in his spirit.
“Any sign of the next field?” said Sven to the Bald Man, trying to make conversation.
“Another mile at least, I’d reckon,” he replied with a shrug. “But it’s hard to tell in this weather.”
Sven nodded. A mile… that would take about ten minutes to cover. There was still time to kill.
He turned his attention to the far away mountain peaks, the latter end of the Esbjorn Range. He’d once heard a story that those peaks were hollow, carved out from the inside by a group of savages who had built a city there, many years ago. Being a sceptic, Sven did not believe these stories, though the thought intrigued him, that perhaps there could be a lost, undiscovered world out there they did not know about. Who knew, it was seven possible that they were not savages at all. They could be the most technologically advanced civilisation in the entire world, and no-one would know, because they had so long been recluses. Sometimes, he could even wager that, upon looking out of his window on a sleepless night, he could see far off-lights dancing on the hills, light bright dots of far-off fire.
Of course, pure common sense told him that that notion was ridiculous. Very probably, it was just something of a natural cause. Perhaps from lightning, as he had seen earlier; maybe it was uncommonly frequent around that particular area. That would also explain the reason for that bolt’s advent in the first place.
Sven smiled. Logic provided an answer for everything, there was always a rational reason for everything, save for one notable question, which was the question: why are we all here? And what is our purpose? That was a true mystery, but he had no doubt in his mind that one day, perhaps in the not-so-distant future, science would find the answer.
But there was something ominous, also, about the thin tendril of smoke curling from the mountain top, and the blackened, stricken patch of ground located right below it. Such uncanny timing, and what a place to strike: right on the very tip of the largest mountain in the whole range, Garzan Peak. If you were to put odds on that, the likelihood of a bolt of lightning hitting the exact spot must be at least a million to one. Perhaps that was one thing pure reason could not explain; perhaps magic really was involved in this.
He frowned. Magic was the one great thorn in the scientists’ side. They had tried to brush the issue under the carpet many, many times, but it kept coming back to haunt them, like an over-friendly stray animal you would rather not have around you. Only a fool would deny its existence. It was everywhere. From the frozen seas of Beria to the scorched deserts of Gheran. Everyone was born with a little bit, no matter how small, and magic was constantly being used in everyday life: shopkeepers would open the till with a wave of their hand, builders, if mentally strong enough, could assemble logs without ever even touching them. Even the coldest of soups could be warmed by touching the pot and muttering a simple heat spell. Everyone used it, including Sven, who was actually a semi-competent mage.
“It’s there, I can see it, the field!”
Someone’s cry rang through the night, snapping Sven from his reverie. It seemed, according to him, that they had reached their destination.
Sure enough, the dwarf was able to distinguish a few shapes through the snow. There were twelve long lines of long dots, all in a row, and to the left hand side of them there was an old dilapidated shack, which by the look of it was made from old scrap iron.
“Good,” said the bald man, nodded thankfully. “We’ve don’t have much time, so get going.”
The line disbanded then, and surged forward to the dots in the snow, which turned out the be green shoots, exactly what they were looking for. There turned out to be just enough for all of them, and though the temptation was huge to grab whatever you could and then run with it, they refrained. Greediness in a place like they were now would only lead to more trouble, and if tensions became high, they would be lost, and almost certain to die.
Sven, who was a little overweight compared to the other villagers, was the last to hobble onto the snow-covered field, and so was left with the dregs, namely two, rotten old turnips, black and worm-eaten. He grimaced in distaste, but place them in the bag anyway.
On the way back to the line, he took a look at the tiny, rundown shack, which looked forlorn and lonely in the swirling winds. It had once been something that resembled a granary, he reckoned, with a small millstone inside, and a storage area in the back for random vegetables and whatnot. Yet another wasted memory of the once great Hedran empire, which had disappeared around five hundred years before. They’d made a living on farms, many, many farms, stretching almost halfway across the world, and they were still being pillaged for food now.
Hedran farms did not run out, you see, the food was able to stay fresh for a limitless amount of time, and were not affected by the ravages of time (save for cases like Sven’s takings, which had already been half-eaten by something else). The Hedrans had discovered the secret to eternal youth and health.
Though, unfortunately, that was only in their foodstuffs, and not in themselves.
The reason for their demise, or at least the reason most commonly preferred by historians, was that a highly contagious disease had struck the Hedrans, a disease that killed in less than two days, and for which there was no cure. In no time at all, the greatest empire in the world had disintegrated, and the planets population was cut in half.
Naturally, this was a great cause for celebration amongst all the other, more primitive civilisations, for they now had access to more hand than they could possibly handle, intricately designed, beautiful architecture, and technology far removed from their own. Adding to that, they had food to last them for at least five hundred years. Foolishly, when they words “five hundred years” were spoken, the powers that were heard instead “limitless”, and no plans were ever made for the future generations, to prevent the chronic food shortage they would surely suffer as a result.
That time had since passed, and the food was already stretched dangerously thin across the land. The journey from Four Seasons forest had been getting longer every year.
“So, that’s it,” said Sven as he returned to the fray, heaving a sigh. “Another year done and dusted, eh?”
“And thanks be to the gods we made it,” said the blad man with a grin. “Though our journey is not entirely over yet, lest we forget. We still have the journey home to cover.”
“Aye, and facing into the sun, too, which is only going to make our plight worse.” Sven chuckled. “You know, it feels mighty strange to be sayin’ that. All my life I’ve thought of the sun as a giver of warmth and life, never like it is now. There’s something a little chilling about it, don’t you think?”
“Yes, there is something a little unnatural about it… thought its probably just in our minds. Don’t forget that Nature is an artist; not all of her pieces are to everyone’s taste, but she sticks to them anyway.”
“Perhaps you are right, my friend, but still…”
The bald man laughed. “Oh, don’t have such a negative attitude. We’re going home, after all, back to welcoming arms and a warm fire. Isn’t that something to look forward to?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Sven, breaking into a rare smile. “I can’t remember the last time I saw my son, or my wife. I t truly seems like an age ago, yet it was only yesterday..”
Out of the corner of his vision, the bald man though he saw a tear emerge from his friend’s eye, but he said nothing of it.
“I’m just looking for a cold, stiff drink, maybe a bath, nothing more.”
“You live alone?”
“Yes,” said the bald man, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Women tend to be scared off the minute they see this,” he pointed to the strange black tattoo of a snarling dragon on the centre of his round head. “Got it while I was in the tenth legion, and I’ve been regretting it ever since.”
“You are a Berian?” asked Sven, who knew all about the highly-trained armies of the far-off region.
The bald man nodded. “That’s the reason Ms. La Mere chose me to head this thing; she assumes I have some sort of special connection with the snow. I told her I was about as good at exploiting the weather as she was, but she didn’t seem to listen. In fact, she full-out dismissed me, and would hear not more of it.”
“She is a sharp one, La Mere,” said Sven, smiling at the idea of the spluttering bald man being turn away uncaringly by the senior Forest Elder. “But she means well at heart. The icy personality is just a façade.”
“Really? She must indeed be a fine actor if what you say is true; scared me senseless. In any case, it’s getting cold. Time to move on, I should think. EVERYONE! REGAIN YOUR LINES! WE’RE MOVING OUT!”
Then the bald man took a deep breath of crisp air, and prepared to begin his shout; but he paused.
“Oh, and by the way,” he added. “I’m Herold.”
“Sven,” said Sven, and held out a hand, which Herold duly shook. Despite the bald man’s annoying chants, he was really beginning to warm to him.
Then they turned away from eachother, and said no more. Sven hoisted the bag the contained all of his winter supplies across one shoulder, and too a deep breath, rady to set off for home.
“March, march, march!”
With a new purpose about them, the line of villagers set out into the swirling snow.

SPOILER: Click to show

Chapter II
Homecoming

Thorold Dern, keeper of the old South Watchtower of Four Seasons Forest, was rudely awakened from his sleep at four-thirty in the morning, due to an odd rustling sound from somewhere outside. He narrowed his eyes. What could that be? Probably just a particularly noisy animal or something, out hunting for the night, but he had to check nevertheless.
Yawning in pure exhaustion, he swung his gnarled legs from the sofa, the padded to the side of the thick glass pane. It had been fogged during the night, and there was a gathering ledge of snow at the bottom, but if he squinted his old, wrinkled eyes enough, he could just about make out the picturesque forest scene down below.
There was nothing especially abnormal about it: the trees swayed slightly in the gentle wind and the forest floor was covered in a carpet of pale white, concealing the thick layer of rotten leaves and old dirt track which had one been in its place. The forest was a live with the sounds of the night, both insects and beast in origin, but there was no sign of that tremendous rustling noise.
But then he squinted closer.
Just distinguishable from where he was were a line of slight depressions in the blanket of snow, both widely and evenly spaced. They were very slight, however. Thorold could tell that whoever it was, whoever had been passing by, was extremely light on their feet. It was a trail of footsteps through the snow, footsteps which only deepened his suspicion. He hated to do this to himself, but he had to concede he was now interested; it would need further investigation.
Rasping and wheezing, Thorold turned away from the windowpane. He eyed the lamp in the corner of the room, a dull brown-painted copper thing, only distinguishable from the rest of the dingy space it lay in by the thick grey spider webs it was heavily laced with.
It would need a little oil, he thought, but that could be arranged. There were a few bottle in his press, if his memory served him correctly, but most were empty. Some, however, one or two at least, had a little at the bottom. Combined, he reckoned he would have enough for one or two minutes.
Thorold staggered to the nearest cabinet, and flipped the door open roughly. Looking inside, he found what he was looking for, but only just. In fact, there was even less oil than he had expected. It had been many years since he had lost that lantern, around six or seven, he reckoned, when Mrs. Bertrand’s child had gone missing. Thankfully, that particular fiasco had ended out well: little Awkrite had gone looking for his father, who had run away many years ago, but was found near a watermill. When the miller had come out for a moment, to lock up the outbuilding, she found him sleeping soundly on the doorstep, and reported her discovery immediately.
Muttering to himself, Thorold gathered the runny yellow liquid into one small bottle, and hurried over to the lantern with it. The old man tipped the contents into the lamp, and swiftly hurried along to the mantelpiece, where he kept his matches. Fishing out a thin wood-sliver from the carved wooden box, he struck it roughly, and ignited the lantern. Light flared in the dark, and he muttered to himself again. He ran his hand across the room, searching for his thick woollen coat, and found it out the sofa.
Dragging it on, he sighed, and his breath froze in the air. There must be some kind of hole in here, he though, for the temperature seemed to be dropping lower by the second. It really was a winter night, cold and unforgiving.
For a little moment his mind strayed to the forage party, out there in the wilderness. And one of them was his wife. He shouldn’t really have been worried for her; she was strong, and was not beaten easily, but he couldn’t help himself. She was his best friend, and the one he loved the most.