The Tale is Told Thus

The future is not written. This is a belief that I have held ever since the day I saw Peripas speak. The ancient sky king, brought to life through the astral visions of the past that have pervaded my sight since the fateful day I awakened to my birthright. My mother Ilsevel, daughter of Nineve, daughter of Nirn, son of the great sky king Peripas, spoke unto me the truth of the past. That I was born with an ancient curse, one that would link my mind to the stars above that govern all aspects of my life and reveal to me the destiny’s of everyone who would walk the land beneath them. My mother told me of how the ancient sky king saw the future, he saw that he was destined to reign for ten thousand years and bring boundless prosperity to the land below. But the sky king Peripas refused to let himself be beholden to anyone, least of all the stars in the sky that he claimed sovereignty over. And so in that moment, he plunged a dagger into his heart, and with his dying breath he proclaimed, “The future is not written”. My name is Osmer Urnuna, an artisan turned bounty hunter turned prince, turned savior of the world, and my future is not written.

It began when I walked to the frozen north. Bundled in a coat of furs that had served it’s last owner well in shielding them from the cold, but poorly in shielding them from my blade. The wide brimmed hat that protected me from the great sandsea of the south that I called home sat atop my head, marking me as a man far away from anything familiar. Yet the daggers on my belt proclaimed me as a man who was not to be trifled with, the ropes and manacles that clanked in my bag amidst various papers and posters of marked and wanted men told people of the profession I practiced, and the frown I painted on my face discouraged any conversation. Each day I trudged through the snow to the next inn along the road, found warmth by the fire and comfort in a meal and bed before returning to the snow.

It was the opposite life my mother had wanted for me. Ilsevel had wanted me to be an artisan. To spend my days carving letters into gold, carefully painting pottery with fine designs for people who would display it for generations, to busy myself with a craft that would see me develop a sense of nobility and quiet. Yet that was a future I chose to deny. She left me in that great manor in the forests of the green in the west, and I bolted from the table. I climbed from the window, and descended into the streets. A child of nobility, one marked by fine clothes and wide eyes, I wandered that great gilded city. There was danger in the market. Cut-throats, pick-pockets, those who sold their flesh to fill their stomachs with food, all manner of people my tyrant of a mother had taught me were beneath me. Yet amongst them I felt filled with excitement. The plays I had read, the stories of runaway princesses taking up a sword with mercenaries filled me with a sense of purpose. I spent the day in the market. I stole food, I ran with street urchins, and at the end of the day clambered through the window. And there she awaited me. Ilsevel. Her skin bore the same pallor as mine, deathly pale, white hair, and purple eyes like the fine fabrics she draped across her frame.

Most children fear a beating from their mothers at worst when they misbehave. But my mother was a different sort. Once my father had glanced at another woman in the street. The next day, when we gathered for dinner, my mother had decorated the ballroom with the woman. Her entrails draped across the rails, her head resting on the table, her face painted with blush and rouge. My father stared in abject terror at the wine glasses filled with blood, and plates that bore roasted organs. Ilsevel merely stated that she hoped he enjoyed seeing everything the woman had to offer, as she stood there dressed in her wedding gown. When I faced her that day, I knew fear that I thought I would never feel again. Standing before her after my day of defiance, I knew that fear again. She asked, “Osmer do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“No.” I replied.

“Very well.” She stated, before telling me the story of my great great great grandfather, the first sky king. The man who saw the fates written in the stars, and defied them for his own gratification. The man who had cursed his line with his defiance of the fates and the gods. She told me of how one day I would see the stars in the sky, and have the choice to rebel, and condemn others to misery for my own gratification, or choose to obey. With those words she left me to consider my actions.

In the coming years I studied in secret. I learned to wield a knife on the streets, I learned to speak the tongues of the downtrodden and the criminal, but I found that my taste lay not in committing crimes, but halting them. To hunt down those that wronged others, and throw them at the mercy of the one they thought they could hurt without consequence. In time I carried chains, in time I left the city, int time I made my way to that great sandsea of the south, to the city of the first commander, Alain Albain Grail. I became a bounty hunter, I met my first love, and learned of hearbreak. I became everything my mother did not want me to be, someone who rebels for the sake of his own desires.

The thoughts of this filled my mind as I trudged through the snow. Each step heavy as I lifted the heavy white ice from the ground after my feet had sunk through it.  The man I hunted was called Verdant Blackwater. A pirate of the far east who sought to retire in the north on wealth plundered from merchants and military vessels alike. The names of what countries he robbed were of little consequence to himself and I, however, with a price on his head, finding him and bringing him to the east to face trial would mean lining my pockets with wealth. The greatest job I had ever undertaken.

The far north was inhospitable in the summer. In these cold winter months, it was a frozen hellscape traversed only by the exceptionally determined and foolish. I had once thought the two categories separate, but as the wind bit into my face I considered that they were more linked than I would care to admit. This mattered little, as I came upon the town that the man had called home. Winter’s Hollow. I stared at the sign to a small in, The Owl’s Roost, and entered, prepared to search for my fortune.
The boy was sick. There was no doubt of this. A disease that filled the body with fever and racked his stomach with nausea. His family’s worries had been for naught, a disease like this was troublesome and painful for a child, but it was not lethal. “The boy will live. Have him take a spoonful of this cordial each day until it is empty.”

“And if the sickness fades before then?” They asked.

“Continue.” I replied. “The sickness must be defeated completely, when the entire bottle is consumed, he will be fine. But that which heals can also poison, so a spoonful a day.”

“Thank you Dr. Rundstrum.” The mother said. Her eyes were filled with relief, shoulders loosening as the weight is removed.

“Think nothing of it.” I replied, and exited. Winter’s Hollow is filled with snow. It’s in these cold months that the pains creep in. The leather, wood, and metal prosthetic that composes my left arm bears no flesh, yet in this cold I feel the sting of the arm that once occupied its place. My assistant follows, having exited the house bearing the payment, a large bag of vegetables, no doubt carefully saved for such an occasion. Sickness was common in the winter, wife, husband, child, one in each household would grow ill with something, yet it was only when the child grew ill that panic consumed the husband and wife.

“Bag’s lighter than when they took ill in the fall Helga.” He says to me.

“It’s fine Plesko. They’re poor folk, not a coin to spare. They can hardly be blamed for saving food for an ill child.” I reply.

“You’re too kind.” He snorts.

“You’re too greedy.” My reply is pointed, sharp.

He mocks suffering a wound and begins to return to the apothecary. I turn to face the pub, The Owl’s Roost. “I’ll meet you back at the shop after lunch.”

He grumbles before lumbering off. My breath for a brief moment fogs the glass eyes of my mask. Lifting the ceramic, The cold of winter is refreshing for a time, and grows uncomfortable within seconds. My red hair dances in to my vision as I face the wind, letting nature remove it from my sight. The mask slides back into place, and the belt affixing it to my head is adjusted accordingly before my hood is raised again. It’s a slow walk to the pub. I’m a known commodity in Winter’s Hollow. The strange lady doctor who lives at the edge of town with her bully boy for protection.

The Owl’s Roost is my home away from the shop. A small pub and Inn. It holds at most five travelers at a time, serves drink that you’d forget the taste of between sips and meals that are varying portions of meat-bread and meat-stew, vegetables being a luxury in the winter. The one great luxury that is open to all is the fire. A grand fire pit in the center of the inn where meat is roasted and those weary of the cold warm their bones.

As I pass through the threshold I see a man, clad in the furs of travelers, but bearing a strange wide brimmed hat. His face is as white as the snow, and his eyes a regal purple. One of the fair folk of the east. Blessed with long life, cursed to stand apart from man, for being cast out from the wildlands they called home in the ancient days. He stands across from a man we know well in town. A favorite of the mayor. Their conversation is hushed, but decidedly not friendly. The Fair Folk gestures to his belt of knives, and the favorite of the mayor smiles. It is the cruel smile of a man who knows violence, who thrives on it. It is the smile of a man who fills the pockets of a town’s ruler so that he may take liberties with the people. He produces a pouch of coin. They spill out as it thuds against the table, overflowing with wealth. No doubt it’s the price on his head. The Fair Folk shakes his head and produces a knife, his next words are heard by all.

“I’m bringing you in. You had a good run and you got to play pirate and enjoy living high on the hog. But that’s over now. You’re going back to the east. Even if I have to drag you there screaming.” The Fair Folk is smiling, his arms are spread wide, he does a brief twirl as he speaks, hurling the knife past the man’s head, a small stream of blood flowing from the nick on the man’s ear.

The proclamation has the associates of the mayor’s favorite on their feet. They stand ready to fight. Ready to kill. The Fair Folk whirls like a blizzard as he runs atop the tables, producing knives and throwing them with frightening accuracy, the shoulder, the stomach, the chest, the throat, within minutes the men are dead. But the Mayor’s Favorite has not stood idle. He has risen and drawn a sword, one of the curved blades of the eastern seas, boasting a guard that encases his hand in a small basket of gold. The Fair Folk pulls a knife from a dead man and throws it, the Mayor’s favorite deflecting it. I drop to the ground and crawl, attempting to find a table to hide under. The Fair Folk never misses a beat. He continues the deadly dance, running and scooping up knives before hurling them at the Favorite, who chases after him. The other patrons have attempted to hide, all desperate to see an end to the conflict. The Favorite stands atop the table I am under, and in that moment I make a decision. I stand pushing on the table with all my might. The years I served in the white wolf rebellion have served me well as I turn the table over, sending the man crashing down. The Fair Folk is upon the Favorite, and produces chains and rope with frightening fervor. The Favorite is soon bound, and the Fair Folk’s smile has grown wider.

I stand behind him, my hood removed, my mask still in place. The Fair Folk turns and removes his hat, planting a foot on the head of the now bound Favorite. Purple eyes are filled with amusement as he thanks me. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

“It was nothing.” I reply.

“As gracious as you are lovely, like a desert rose.” He punctuates the statement with a wink before returning his hat to his head.

Before I can respond the door is thrown open, and the guard fill the room. “Unhand him at once.”

“Ah, good sirs, I can assure you that this man has been apprehended legally and will be brought to stand trial for his innumerable crimes in the far east.” The Fair Folk begins with rehearsed eloquence only to be met with harsh rebuke.

“That man is a personal associate of the Mayor and he will not be slandered by a bounty hunter, let alone a Fair Folk.” The guard spits the last words, and his fellows seem inclined to agree hefting their pikes. The Fair Folk steps off from the man and produces a piece of paper, handing it to the guard.

They read it for a moment, before their leader raises a fist, and the guard surround the Fair Folk. “Arrest him. These documents are false.”

“The hells they are!” The Fair Folk snarls in response, only to fall to his knees when the back of his legs are struck.

The Favorite speaks from the floor, “Arrest the red haired one, she’s his accomplice!”

The guard surround me, and despite my protests the townsfolk merely shake their heads as the Fair Folk and I are chained up, and made to march. He’s stripped of his possessions, although they grant me the mercy of my mask and my arm. One glance underneath my mask, and they begin to laugh. “A lady of the lake and a fair folk, two mongrels in one hunt.”

The Fair Folk scowls but says nothing, it is only when we are brought to the great fort that sits at the cliff above town that we are given a reprieve from their remarks on our natures. The Fair Folk as a traitor, and me as a disgusting bottom feeding temptress. The men of the fort are proper soldiers, and they herd us into a cell with little ceremony. Inside, there is an elderly man, clad in heavy brown robes, a mane of white hair decorating his head, his beard obscuring any sign of a mouth as his wrinkled visage turns to face us, his keen eyes darting between us and the guards. “Stay back old man.”

The soldier’s voice is nervous and the old man snorts. He turns his head away and we are locked inside with him. Our manacles then removed from the other side of the bars by one of the soldiers. They leave, and we are alone with the old man, stranded in a frozen cell.
The young folk are clearly together by circumstance rather than bond. The boy is a Fair Folk, the tell tale bone white skin and deep purple eyes marking him apart from your average man, although his ears lack the points of his kin. The girl is a mystery, until she removes her mask in frustration. Her hair is a brilliant red, like a flame, but her skin is a pale green, slick with a moisture to even to be perspiration or melted snow. A lady of the lake, although more accurately called nereid, descended from the great sea serpent known as the lord of all waters. Two people far from their homelands, and victim to the cruelty of the frozen north. I greet them warmly, “It’s nice to have such youthful company. I’m Geoffrey Lucien, so sorry to have us meet in such unfortunate circumstances.”

They seem baffled by my greeting, their kind are long lived after all, in truth they are likely far older than I.