Rime of the Frostmaiden
Epilogue
Bringers of WarmthChapters
The Measure
Archmagi Eearwaxx Ravenfire
Octavian Malleus Orichalcum
Arlington Porter Bainbridge
Jankx
Morgan Kurrsk
Tarquin Rose
The Measure
The Frozen North has no time for heroes.
Living was enough. Hard living, but living none-the-less. Whether it be raising axe-beaks, brewing ale, or catching knucklehead, a Ten-Towner made the best of what limited resources they had. Showboating and big-noting was frowned upon and those that did never lasted long, inevitably slinking back to the warmer southern climes and their easy lives.
But sometimes even the hardened souls of Icewind Dale could acknowledge a hero.
Someone who could quell a riot in Easthaven, ensuring justice was served for those that had fallen.
Someone who could rid the Dale of the duergar incursion, slaying a false dragon that plotted to usurp Icewind’s own.
Someone who could free Caer–Dineval from the iron grip of the Black Swords, giving that thrice-defeated Town yet another chance.
Someone who could finish the Great White Moose, and have the good grace to leave the beast to return to nature instead of trumpeting their deeds to all and sundry.
Someone who could return the bees to Good Mead, allowing the treasured golden brew to flow once more.
All of these things might earn a nod, a round of ale, or a cursory thanks.
Still and all, that was not enough. It took something more to become a hero, something beyond mere heroics.
Something like ending the endless winter.
A legend so great it would have Baterich Oxglove carefully placing six new scrimshaw figures upon his shelf, taking pride of place next to his treasured Stormwatch carvings.
A moment of such import that it stopped the sacrifices, the bloodshed, the suspicion and false idols. The Frostmaiden vanquished, allowing a new power to emerge in the Spine of the World, led by a enormous winged kobold. Some say it a new god, come to replace the banished Auril, protecting instead of destroying with their kobold minions. Others laugh at this absurdity and secretly toast their own new goddess, the Ice Queen Hedrun.
A victory that meant Dougan’s Hole, long the butt of every joke, could join Ten–Towns proper. That would promote the mongrelfolk, Otto and Zygfrek, to Deputies patrolling the newly freed streets, the Oblex slain and nominative Hole cleansed, under the careful guidance of the shapeshifting lover of Speaker Edgra. Though it would take generations, the children of Dougan’s would grow hale and hearty once again—a priceless gift.
A wondrous event that allowed the great power of Ythryn to remain buried below Reghed Glacier, hidden from the Arcane Brotherhood and forever safe under the watchful eye of the wizards of Candlekeep and their great patron, who many said bore a remarkable resemblance to the young mending boy who all remembered with great fondness.
A moment of great healing that led Caer–Konig to thrive under the wing of their newfound Speaker, a young woman of prodigious strength both in body and mind. When questioned on her role in the events of that fateful winter, she merely smiled and pulled another Graklstout brew.
A journey of such compelling truth the retelling of the tale sold out theatres in Baldur’s Gate and beyond, before the mysterious disappearance of its principal performer, a weathered man of noble stature whose thousand-yard stare silenced all doubters.
A freedom that meant in the skies above Icewind Dale the ancient dragon Arveiaturace once again flew strong and free, sunlight glinting off her ice-white scales, protecting her realm and those that lived within it, invigorated by the storyteller who rode her with grace and honour.
If such an unlikely series of triumphs were achieved, and if they were performed by a troupe of six hardy adventurers, many of whom made their home in Ten–Towns, and if the rivers thawed and lakes filled, and the sun shone warm from clear blue skies, why then it could be grudgingly acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, those self same adventurers were indeed…
Heroes.
Archmagi Eearwaxx Ravenfire
The great Candlekeep Library and Archives stand as a renowned fortress of learning, a beacon of wisdom on the Sword Coast that has withstood the test of time. Within its walls lies an unparalleled trove of tomes and scrolls, a collection of knowledge unmatched in all Faerûn.
A discreet portal within the main library leads to a dimensional enclave where classrooms and administrative offices reside. This is the domain of the prestigious Eearl’wixx Academy, a magic school of great renown that offers admission to a mere ten students annually.
Founded by an Archmage with deep connections to the northern ‘Ten–Towns’, and an unusual camaraderie with the ancient white dragon Calcryx, the Academy is known for its unique induction process and the rigorous journey it sets for those aspiring to wizardry.
The initial two years at Candlekeep are marked by intense study guided by ‘The Teachings of Mage Eearl’wixx: Volume One’, the first in a series of five essential tomes. Each subsequent volume is unlocked only upon mastering the preceding one. Students immerse themselves in learning two ancient languages: Draconic and Netherese—the latter being the tongue of Netheril and considered extinct by scholars. Notably, the fourth volume is scribed in Draconic, while the fifth and final volume is entirely in Netherese, containing some of the most formidable spells ever wielded by mortals.
At the third year’s onset, Apprentice Wizards embark on a two-year mission to one of the Ten–Towns or its neighbouring hamlets. The school generously provides for all travel, accommodation, and related expenses, along with assurances of safety, endorsed by both Candlekeep and the host town.
These budding practitioners are affectionately termed ‘Menders’ and tasked with three primary duties:
- Mending any items the locals bring, free of charge;
- Creating and distributing potions that remedy the dreaded Winter Fever to all in need;
- Learning and perfecting basic spells, such as Unseen Servant, and mastering the art of summoning a familiar.
It is a common jest among these young Menders to dub their summoned spirits ‘Horseradish’, either as a nod to an inside joke or in homage to a tradition believed to have originated with Archmagi Eearwaxx Ravenfire, who named his owl familiar Horseradish after his mentor’s owl of the same name.
Additionally, Menders serve as couriers, relaying messages between their assigned town or village and Candlekeep. Each Mender receives a second tome to guide their apprenticeship, complete with regular correspondence and assessments. The second volume, colloquially known as ‘Drakareth’s Lament’, is a treasure trove of spells, featuring a section titled ‘Beware the Owlbear’ in the appendix, offering strategic insights into combating such creatures.
Upon completing their tenure as Menders and the arrival of their successors, they return to Candlekeep to commence their ‘Journeyman’ training under the tutelage of a designated Wizard. This phase includes traversing the northern towns once again, overseeing the Menders’ progress, and furthering their magical education.
After completing their two-year training as Journeymen, students return to study at Candlekeep for an additional two years. The third volume, known informally as ‘Cadavix’s Folly’, delves into the intricate world of Necromancy and the existential challenge of an Unlife without purpose. It poses the question: ‘Why seek eternal existence without a positive purpose for the living?’ (this latter section drawing heavily on the pioneering work of Master Zandeyr Grawarith, another infamous resident of Candlekeep). The volume meticulously explores the concept of Lichdom, unravelling its secrets and dire consequences.
Within its pages, readers encounter tales of the enigmatic mage Lady Veneranda, whose consciousness resided within a jar. The book serves as a cautionary guide, emphasizing why the undead are far from pleasant and should be avoided. Amidst these warnings, it provides a selection of spells and a lengthy set of instructions for creating a Staff of Portals, along with the accompanying spells contained within this powerful artifact.
As the next two years commence, students delve into the fourth volume—an unofficially titled work known as the ‘Book of Calcryx’. Written in the ancient language of Draconic, this volume hints at a journey northward once again. Rumours abound that students may briefly encounter a white dragon bearing the same name. Upon their return to Candlekeep, these Wizards ascend to a new role: advising royal courts. The majority remain at this level, acting as esteemed teachers and tutors within the school’s hallowed halls.
‘Ythryn’s Fall’ is a tome reserved for only the stout of heart. Over the last two years, this fifth and final volume, penned entirely in the arcane language of Netherese, delves into the lore of venerable mages. It chronicles the lives and legacies of High Abjurer Taruth, High Conjurer Damorith, High Diviner Apius, High Necromancer Cadavix, High Evoker Zadulus, High Illusionist Ajamar, High Enchanter Ivira, and High Transmuter Metaltra. The equally feted and feared master of the Wizards of the Ebon Star, Archmage Iriolarthas, also features prominently. The volume explores the intricacies of the Weave, the power of mythallars, the enigmatic art of Chronomancy, and shadowy inhabitants of the Underdark. It ventures into theories concerning the phaerimm, sinister entities known for their potent spellcasting abilities and resistance to magic. These malevolent beings manipulate minds through telepathy and propagate their kind using unsuspecting hosts.
Reading this book is not for the faint-hearted. While it contains crucial spells for mastery, the path to Wizardry it outlines is fraught with peril. The rigorous examinations demand not only intellectual prowess but also a perilous journey northward to a cavernous city, where aspirants must present themselves before the council of former Archmagi—a trial that has proven near lethal for some.
On the life of Eearwaxx Ravenfire
During his adult life, Eearwaxx is believed to have wed Marta Peskryk, a companion from his youth, in a discreet ceremony, though records of this event are scarce. This marriage is rumoured to have produced children, yet details remain largely undisclosed. Indeed, aside from his educational contributions, Eearwaxx’s personal history remains largely enigmatic. Nevertheless, he is credited with financially supporting the publication of numerous books throughout his lifetime.
The literary contributions Eearwaxx has sponsored offer but a mere glimpse into his personal history, notably through works like ‘The Chronicles of Octavian Malleus Orichalcum, the DayWalker’, and ‘Mithril Gleaming: The Giant, The King-Maker’. These enchanting tomes narrate the saga of this immense kobold. These stories, whilst seemingly too fantastical, too fictitious, and too incredible to be factual, are nonetheless corroborated by historical records from reputable academics.
Additionally, there is a peculiar volume detailing the adventures of ‘Ezra and Morgan Kurrsk’ in relation to the fabled Ebon Star. The book is penned in several languages: Balok, the lingua franca of the Barovia; Vaasi, the indigenous tongue of the Vistani; and Luktar, the dialect of the Dusk Elves. It’s whispered that versions also exist in Forfarian, Thaani, and Sithicus, although those editions are not found in the Candlekeep public archives.
A further renowned book from the North details the adventurous tales of one ‘Arlington Porter–Bainbridge’, famed for his pursuit of Owlbears and Moose. Beyond the thrill of the hunt, the book offers wisdom on fatherhood and the mentorship of young men. For Porter–Bainbridge hunting is less about the kill and more about a profound bond with the wilderness. His passion for hunting and the great outdoors dominates his thoughts and fuels his imagination. Even away from the hunt, his mind occupied with planning his next foray into nature. This book is a comprehensive guide on hunting and outdoor living, covering topics from dogs to traps, and from spears to crossbows, aiming to educate, entertain, or often both.
Tarquin Rose’s literary legacy spans twenty-four collections of ballads, poems, and sonnets, reaching the most distant corners of the globe. This renowned artist—a musician, playwright, and poet—is universally celebrated. His theatrical works, available in all principal languages, are staged more frequently than any other modern playwright. Rose is acclaimed as the foremost writer across diverse domains and esteemed as the world’s paramount dramatist. During his lifetime, Tarquin Rose’s plays were published in editions that varied in quality and accuracy. After his passing, his fellow actors and friends compiled a more authoritative collection, funded by Eearwaxx Ravenfire, known simply as the ‘Rose Folio’. This definitive edition posthumously gathered all of Rose’s dramatic works, ensuring the inclusion of every one of his plays.
A fascinating addition to Ravenfire’s catalogue is an expansive series of detective fiction, featuring a protagonist known only as ‘Jankx’. The rollicking stories feature Jankx’s investigative adventures, which typically commence with an aggrieved individual—be it a relative, employer, or acquaintance of a murder victim—approaching him in a tavern. Jankx then takes on the role of their representative to unravel the mystery. The complainants range from nobility to commoners, merchants, knights, and clergy, with the severity of the guilty party’s punishment often reflecting their societal status. Each narrative is crafted as a gripping thriller. Initially distributed as copper-dreadful pamphlets, these stories are now also compiled in Ravenfire’s signature hardcover editions, available across all major cities.
In his twilight years, it is hinted that Eearwaxx passed on the reins of his Academy to a younger Archwizard and resumed his nomadic life in the North, wandering from one settlement to another, assuming the humble guise of a Mender. The Archmage Eearl’wixx’s burial site was constructed some time in this period, a towering pillar of emerald glass from which a sequence of Magic Mouths softly recount the beloved mage’s benevolent deeds and messages.
Regarding the ultimate fate of Archmagi Eearwaxx Ravenfire, whispers abound that he resides in seclusion within a concealed cave in the far North. There transformed into a Lich within the Necropolis of Ythryn, Ravenfire is believed to vigilantly guard the desolate city, thwarting any attempts by others to exploit it…
Yet, these are merely whispers. The truth, no doubt, is stranger still.
Octavian Malleus Orichalcum
The ultimate goal of the kobold race is to conquer as much land as possible.
Candlekeep Bestiary
They had travelled a long time and a great distance. From every corner of the map, and some even from below it, to convene in this great fortress.
Already there had been three deaths in the camp abutting Sunblight Fortress, where the dozens of kobolds waited with their leaders for an audience. All were wary and some clans had long-lasting feuds which had been put aside—if barely—for this opportunity.
The call came and the chosen leaders trooped into the fortress: 30 Kobold leaders representing the biggest clans across Faerûn.
In the shadowy vestibule, the major domo met the leaders and told them the meeting would be in the main hall, and though they were all guests they were to be respectful and not waste his master’s time.
One kobold, big for his tribe, four-foot of rippling muscle and a deep, deep green answered: “As long as we are not wasting ours. This reeks of fairy tales and trickery—must we also disarm before entering?”
“Disarm?” Meepo couldn’t but laugh. “Bring your weapons—maybe get more if it makes you feel better”. He walked forward shaking his head, chuckling under his breath, “Weapons!”
The kobold generals and leaders entered the great hall. Though the shadows flickered from the great fire in the cavernous fireplace, playing tricks on the eye, it was hard to believe what they were seeing.
Upon a massive throne sat the largest kobold they had ever seen. He had grown into his bones and his father’s lineage had started showing. His underbelly was now as black as night as were his two large wings.
The Kobold was Dragonwrought—once in a generation, combining dragon and kobold features. But that was not the shocking thing: it was his immense size and bulk.
He stood and they saw his full height. As tall as a Frost Giant, he could not be contained except in a place of such huge dimensions. He wore no armour but carried a huge frost spear rippling with ancient power. His dragon-black eyes glinted in the firelight.
One of the younger kobolds wet himself thinking he would have no way of escape if this leviathan turned on him. No one reacted nor even dared breathe.
Meepo stepped forward before the stunned congregation and proclaimed: “You are in the presence of Octavian Godkiller, Twice Dead, Sporeling of the Black Breath Voaraghamanther, and yet greater indeed!”
Octavian then spoke, his powerful voice echoing through the halls. “From across Faerûn I have called and you have answered. Always the kobold race has squabbled amongst themselves—worshipping dragons and distant Gods. That time is at an end. Why worship a creature that can be killed when we can make our own destiny?”
As the great kobold spoke, Meepo produced a pack and a laid it at the feet of every kobold.
Octavian continued. “Inside that pack is gold to cover your expenses, maps of your territories marking all the lesser tribes, and a token of power to prove your status.” One kobold, foolish, produced a wicked looking dagger. He looked around and realised his grave error, quickly stashing the weapon and praying Octavian hadn’t noticed.
Octavian surveyed the gathered leaders, pausing only briefly on the trembling dagger-wielder. “Go Back. Preach the power of the Kobold Race. Prepare.”
He could see the fervour start to burn in their eyes, the hunger that only the kobold truly knew.
“Once we were thought of as rats…and they were right. But unite every rat under one cause and they will tremble! We are clever, we are deadly, and they will be surprised by how many we are—in every cave, every copse, and every lair!”
Octavian paused, meeting the gaze of each of his supplicants.
“Do you believe? DO…YOU…BELIEVE?! BELIEVE IT!!”
The assembled kobolds roared. They knew their cue: they picked up their packs and scurried for the exit. Octavian sat back in his throne, confident he had earnt the loyalty of all.
Loyal Meepo, dragonrider and most trusted aide, approached Octavian, a large penguin following behind clutching a sheath of papers. Meepo took the bundle and bowed before Octavian. “Lord, I have gathered the information. We now have tracked all of them.” He smiled hungrily as he handed the papers to Octavian.
Scratched onto the top sheet was a single word:
Stormwatch
Arlington Porter Bainbridge
Exhibit 1b. A poster advertising the event held at Exploration Hall on the night in question.
According to witness statements, Mr Porter Bainbridge was last seen leaving the rear entrance of the explorer’s society hall at or about 9:45pm on the evening of the 6th Mirtul, his stated destination being the Longitudinal Arms on Backstaff Lane, some five minutes’ walk in an easterly direction.
The landlady at the Longitudinal Arms, one Gertrude Von Jessop, has stated that although she did not see Mr Porter Bainbridge arrive at the inn, that this was not unusual as he often proceeded straight to his room via the back stair when his rent was due, as it had been for some days at that point. It was not until the next morning that she became concerned that something was amiss, when he failed to appear for his usual breakfast around 9am. At 9:45am she proceeded to check his room and found his bed had not been slept in. At this point, she asserts, she sent her son, Noah Von Jessop, to alert the Watch.
A thorough search of the area between the hall and the inn by officers Grundwhestle and Pendlefrost, revealed no trace of Mr Porter Bainbridge nor any signs of a struggle which might indicate foul play.
In addition, two seers in the employ of the Watch were unable to detect any residuals of a magical nature in the area, citing a disquieting absence of thaumatological emanations for their failures.
Although the investigation is ongoing, the Watch hold little hope of locating Mr Porter Bainbridge or of recovering any rents owed to Mrs Von Jessop. It is the opinion of this officer that in all likelihood, Mr Porter Bainbridge has simply absconded from Baldur’s Gate to avoid payment of debts which, according to several interested parties interviewed, were considerable.
Senior Investigating Watchman Cranston Hardwrinkle. 9 Mir 1492.
Jankx
The thing is about names is that they are like skins, just passing conveniences. Useful for a while, and then to be discarded and forgotten when they have served their purpose. And yet strangely ‘Jankx’ seemed sticky. There was an unfamiliar comfort in dwelling in this form. Even the name itself now seemed real somehow.
The ‘others’ might even have been jealous of Jankx’s time under the new Northern sun. The female half-elf Elwynn still occasionally had the chance to briefly breathe the warming air, but the old, disfigured wine merchant—Battista Tye—once a favourite, was now largely forgotten. How did his voice go again? And was his limp on the right or left?
Jankx could hardly believe that the Ten–Towns had once seemed so alien. If his mother had known how things would have turned out, would she have sent him anyway?
Looking back, the quest appeared so simple: track down those who robbed them that night and recover the family’s heirloom, a mysterious rock that some said had come down from the stars and empowered an ancient alien empire. Delusional certainly, but what did it matter, enough seemed to believe it to make that rock worth a thousand gold pieces. Gold, and the food it could buy was what they needed, not drunken tavern stories, or pretty rocks.
Sitting by the melting lakes of Easthaven watching axe-beaks snapping fish from the shoreline, the boundaries between delusion and reality were less certain to Jankx. The towers of Ythryn, and the terrors or Iriolarthas and Auril, had left their mark, and Icewind felt strangely homely in their shadow.
But still, there was unfinished business. It was a feeling that most strongly held him the longer he stayed in his Jankx form. In this new world, ‘alien’ was working the taverns and the trivial investigations, ‘alien’ was settling down. There was gold aplenty now—more than enough for Jankx, his mother, and all the family—but that pretty little rock promised more than mere gold: it was an itch that reached out from across the icy wastes.
And Jankx knew just the people to help him scratch it…
Morgan Kurrsk
The Dead Girl
Seven years to the day after the destruction of Strahd von Zarovich and the fall of Castle Ravenloft, Viktor Kurrsk, while working through his daily routine inside the Church of St Markovia, heard the excited cries of his five-year-old twins from the graveyard. Presently, Pyotr and Serafina appeared in the doorway at the back of the chapel. “Papa, Papa, there’s more out here!” they exclaimed in unison.
Viktor smiled knowingly, walked over to the children, and knelt to hug them both. “Children, we’ve talked about this. There’re still some restless spirits living in the graveyard. They were trapped here for a very long time and they’re just taking their time to find their way home. They’re harmless and they won’t hurt you.”
Serafina looked into her father’s eyes, pleading, “We know Papa, one’s a ghost, but the other one came up through the dirt!”
“What?!” Viktor questioned, looking from Serafina to Pyotr, who was nodding furiously. The children both turned and pointed outside. Viktor stood, looking outside to see the pale, dirt covered form of a girl sitting hunched by an unmarked, but upturned grave.
The girl, who looked to be around 15 years old, appeared to have been buried for quite some time. She claimed to have no memory of her past other than a vague knowledge that the Barovia township looked strange to her, and her name: Morgan. When the twins, who had always been ‘gifted’ with grave-sight, asked after the ghostly boy standing beside her, she said his name was Ezra, her brother.
“He looks just like her, Papa”, was Pyotr’s response to his father’s enquiring glance.
Viktor quickly surmised this to be somehow the work of the Dark Powers, over whom he stood watch, dormant in the far-off peaks. He came to realise, while assisting Morgan to get cleaned up, that she was, to all intents and purposes, still dead, though not undead. Despite this, he also knew that she was in no way evil or malign—just another victim of Barovia’s past predations. In short order, he sent word to his old friend Zandeyr in Candlekeep.
After initial concerns, and much pleading from the twins, but very much in keeping with his way at that time, he took Morgan into his home. In not too long a time he came to think of her, like Xarann, as one of his own.
Things weren’t easy. It quickly became clear that, on occasion, Morgan’s mood would suddenly take a turn for the dark and angry, at which times her eyes would change from blue to a yellow-green. This anger, often taken out on furniture in the house, made it very clear she was possessed of preternatural strength.
Always fearing she would be cast out, she remorsefully explained to Viktor, Thomasin, and the twins, that these were times her brother Ezra was very sad and frustrated that he was not “here anymore.”
Taking the girl under his wing, Viktor, over the next couple of years, taught Morgan how to channel her (or Ezra’s) anger productively. He taught her how to fight with the sword, impressed by the ease with which she was able to wield even his own great sword. She was an apt pupil, and with the aid of Yevgeni, a wolf-hunter friend, she soon added unarmed ‘bare-knuckle’ fighting to her skills. For his part, Yevgeni soon told Viktor that her ability would soon outstrip their ability to teach her any further.
For those few years, Morgan was happy with her adopted family. But despite the love and care of the Kurrsk’s, she eventually found she could no longer stand the way the townsfolk of Barovia looked at her. They would do their best to be tolerant and kind, but she could always see the fear of her many held in their eyes.
One day, she decided she and Ezra had to leave Barovia, to find their own path and their own answers. The Kurrsk’s, the twins especially, were sad to see her go. Even so, she travelled with Viktor and Aleksandr on one of their sojourns to the Sword Coast, who put her on a ship bound for Candlekeep, with an introduction to consult the great Master Zandeyr.
Her time with Zandeyr was pleasant enough, albeit strange. He was the first person, other than Pyotr and Serafima, to truly acknowledge, be able to see, and converse with Ezra. Zandeyr found Morgan and Ezra truly fascinating, but confounding. After a few months of poking, prodding and research he was able to state only two things with certainty. Firstly, that she, Morgan was neither dead nor alive in the classic definition of either, rather she was “waiting between worlds.” Ezra, he stated, was indeed a ghost tethered to his sister for reasons known only to himself. Secondly, he confirmed that aging, for Morgan had not aged a day since exhuming herself, was “an affliction that would not be troubling her at any time in future.”
Happy that he now had decades to investigate Morgan’s origins, but aware that she may want more immediate answers of a sort, he enlisted the aid of an oracle of rare ability, one Madam Portencia, lately of Baldur’s Gate.
Portencia’s gifts gave no direct answers, such is the nature of tides of fate, but did provide one clue, “The deathless child’s answers are to be found in the ice of the north, in a place where winter never ends.”
Upon consulting several maps, and based on rumours filtering down from the North, the two wizards agreed Morgan should travel to Icewind Dale, via ship, through the Sea of Moving Ice. “I wish you the best of luck Morgan,” said Madam Portencia. “Although, if I might offer some advice, you may find it advantageous to cut that hair a bit and perhaps travel north as a young man. Sailors and the like can make it tough for a young woman anywhere, let alone the harsher places of the world, of which, I can assure you, Icewind Dale is one. Dress the part, and the not unpleasant husky tone of your voice should carry you the rest of the way, dear.”
A week later, Zandeyr and Portencia watched from the dock as Morgan’s ship cast off headed for the Frozen North. “Hmmmm,” worried Zandeyr as he waved to Morgan.
“I know,” Portencia replied. “Darkness surrounds that girl, and her brother. I assume you saw that?” Zandeyr nodded.
“Ezra sees it,” Portencia continued, “which may explain his demeanour. He hasn’t told her, and I didn’t see any point. Fate will play out as it’s supposed to, I hope it’s kind to them.”
Refrain
A Brother’s Lament, by Ezra Kurrsk
Under the dog star sail
Over the reefs of moonshine
Under the skies of fall
North, northwest, the snows of Icewind.
Under the Arctic fire
Over the seas of silence
Hauling on frozen ropes
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
All colours bleed to red
Asleep on the ocean’s bed
Drifting on empty seas
For all my days remaining
But would north be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Dark angels follow me
Over a godless sea
Mountains of endless falling,
For all my days remaining,
What would be true?
Sometimes I see your face,
The stars seem to lose their place
Why must I think of you?
Why must I?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
Why would you want me to?
And what would it mean to say,
That, ‘I loved you in my fashion’?
What would be true?
Why should I?
Why should I cry for you?
The Girl Who Lived
A year after the Frostmaiden’s Winter was broken in Icewind Dale, Morgan sat atop her beloved axe-beak on the crest of the final rise before Caer–Konig, taking in her favourite view. “Home again,” she said to the restless bird, ruffling the feathers on his long neck. Below, the town was bathed in the afternoon sunlight of early spring, against the glistening waters of the thawing Lac Dinneshire.
Riding up the road through town, towards The Northern Light, she grinned at the pink, purple and green streamers decorating most every building in town. Tied at one end to poles, balconies, eaves, and chimneys, they blew freely in the wind, rippling in the same patterned waves as the aurora would when darkness fell. She returned the hails and greetings of the townsfolk, many attaching still more streamers, as she passed.
At last, she pulled up in front of the inn. Trovus, leaning against the balustrade, a tankard in his hand, met her gaze solemnly. “Speaker,” he nodded.
“Sheriff,” she replied, staring sternly at him.
He lifted the tankard, “Nice root beer,” the dragonborn stated, breaking into a grin. “Still sober as the grave Speaker. No offence intended ma’am,” he finished cheekily.
Morgan smiled, dismounting, “The duergar assured me it would be. Now if you could drum up anyone other than you to drink it so I don’t go broke, that would be great!”
Trovus chuckled, “We were getting worried you weren’t going to make it back for the festivities tomorrow.”
“Sorry, stopped over in Easthaven on the way back to visit Jankx.”
“Don’t have to apologise to me. You’re the boss.” He raised his brows. “How was Bryn Shandar?”
“Oh, you know, everything takes so long,” she replied exasperated. “Duvessa and Danneth are on board, having Bryn Shandar and Easthaven on side isn’t bad, Edgra too. The rest either can’t make up their minds, argue amongst each other, and spend the rest of time questioning whether I’m too young to be involved in these things. Despite the fact I help save their towns, and I have quite a few, let’s say decades, on all of them. And Caer–Dineval still can’t seem to vote on a speaker. At the rate they’ve been moving here and down to Easthaven the place will be empty soon anyway.”
“Edgra! That’s three council meetings in a row now yeah? Never thought I’d see the day Dougan’s Hole would want to rejoin polite society. Anyway…” he trailed off, gesturing his tankard towards the side of the inn. “The dwarves dropped off the Muzgardt Stout, along with the root beer, just before dawn. The lads are still getting it stowed.”
“Right—didn’t think to help?” Morgan asked sarcastically.
“Ah well, I’ve been busy Sheriff-ing actually,” he answered indignantly. “Nothing you need to worry about. I was just taking a break.” Trovus tipped the remaining contents of the tankard down his gullet. “Better get back to it. I’ll just drop this off inside.” He turned to see Ezra leaning by the door, one corner of his mouth turned in a grin. “Ezra,” he greeted. The ghost casually tapped two fingers to his forehead in salutation.
“Alfie, hi. Why don’t you go unsaddle Ash and feed him,” Morgan said smiling as she proffered the axe-beak’s reins to the boy. Leading Ash around toward the stable, she’d seen Isaac and his son Alfie struggling to get the, frankly, huge beer kegs off the wagon and down through the cellar door.
The boy nodded, taking the reins. Ash dropped his head toward Alfie, making soft clicking noises. “C’mon Ash, let’s get some food, and see your friends” he said excitedly, leading him away into stables, from where could be heard the greeting squawks of more axe-beaks.
“Isaac, I’ll pass them down to you,” Morgan said to the sweating barman.
“Oh no ma’am it’s fi… actually that would be easier,” Isaac sighed with some relief.
Morgan dropped her bag, stepped over to the wagon, and hefted a keg onto her shoulder with ease. “And Isaac, please stop calling me ma’am,” she implored. “It’s bad enough Trovus does it.”
“Yes ma’am,” Isaac responded.
In not too long, Morgan was again standing in front of The Northern Light. She was looking up, misty-eyed, at the lantern that hung over the front door. It’s soft twinkling could be seen even in the daylight.
From the porch Ezra watched his sister, a sad smile crossed his face. “Come on,” he called, breaking Morgan’s reverie. “You’ve put it off long enough. He needs to know you’re OK, and he needs to know. Just write the damn thing.”
Morgan took depth breath, walked up the steps and followed her brother inside. As she entered, she placed her palm for a moment on the brass plaque beside the door, it read…
IN LOVING MEMORY OF CORIE & ALLIE, OUR NORTHERN LIGHTS
Dearest Viktor,
You used to tell me you thought of me as a daughter, and it comforts me to think of you as my father. I hope your feelings remain unchanged, and I hope this letter finds you well. I’m sorry it has been years since we have spoken. So much has happened since I last saw you, too many things to write about in a single letter, but it is my intent that this will be the first of many letters to follow.
I assume you heard some time ago from your friend, Master Zandeyr, that I travelled to the far north in search of answers about myself and Ezra, to place called Icewind Dale, the Ten–Towns to be precise. I write to you at my desk, in a tavern I own called The Northern Lights, in the lakeside town of Caer–Konig, the place I call home, and where I hold the position of Speaker (Burgomaster).
Since arriving in Icewind, well not quite—since a year and a season ago, I have been constantly surprised at the parallels between your life and exploits after you arrived in Barovia, and mine here.
I met and befriended a motley group of adventurers, with whom I shared experiences, challenges and to be honest, horrors. Our exploits, and the task we set ourselves, whilst entertaining in the retelling, are ultimately never to be truly understood by any who were not there to share them. They are all, thankfully, still alive. Like you and yours, I’ve come to see them as my closest friends, though we are more like are pack of arguing siblings, truth be told. Like you, after our seemingly impossible task was completed, some have departed this place of our ordeal. While I have accepted I may never see couple of them again, our bond will forever remain.
Someday, I’ll tell you more of Arlington, the senior—I’ll get back to that—member of our band, a noble, and game hunter of renown, and the man who bought us all together.
Of Octavian, a Kobold druid with a manifest destiny, a leader to his people, and truly the greatest of his kind.
Of Tarquin, a poet warrior with a silver tongue, son of one of the members of Stormwatch (tell Aleksandr—it’s true), who now rides the ancient white wyrm Arveiaturace, the mate of the dragon Arauthator that escaped that famous band years ago.
Of Eearwaxx, a boy of tender years with an uncommonly sharp mind. Who took it upon himself to become a great wizard and succeeded. Who has now made it his life’s work to study the secrets of an ancient Netherese city buried beneath the ice. Know that if you’re reading this letter, it is because he delivered to Zandeyr in Candlekeep to pass on to you. He assures me this letter will have arrived to you unopened or not at all.
Of Jankx, to whom I am closest I think, a Changeling rogue, who has worn many faces and forms through his life, but for now has chosen the face I know.
And of my brother Ezra, the other half of my heart, who for reasons neither of us know, can now be seen by all when he wants to be. Who fought beside us and threw himself in harm’s way too many times for me to count.
What was the task? I hear you thinking. To remove a curse of eternal winter placed upon Icewind Dale by the cruel goddess Auril, the Frostmaiden. Suffice it to say, by some miracle, divine provenance, fate, skill, or plan luck—we did it Father, we did it! We slew the goddess’s mortal forms, removing the curse. Again, like you, the journey, the enemies fought, and the friends lost along the way, forged us into the steel we needed to be defeat her. As you will have guessed, it’s a very long story that may take years of letters to recount.
I hope as you read, you’re wondering “why not just return to Barovia and tell you face to face.” The reason I cannot do that, and the reason it has taken a year of constant urging by Ezra for me to summon the courage to write and tell you, is that I found my answer. Ezra and I know who we are.
We are the twin son and daughter of Strahd von Zarovich.
We both know this is true in our hearts, and because of source of the knowledge—that which told us. You will know I speak the truth when I tell you something you never revealed to me, something I assume only known to you and your old companions—there is a Dark Power missing from the Amber Temple.
It is this Dark Power, The Ebon Star it calls itself, that told us. I remembered your lessons of the insidious power of their evil and their deceitful bargains. That it was they who made Strahd the vampire. But believe me when I tell you, in this I know it spoke true. I don’t how it escaped or was removed, only that it ended up in the possession, if that is the right term, of the wizard ruler of the Netherese city I mentioned, thousands of years ago.
Moreover, it named me Strahd’s true heir. As painful as it is, I know the truth in that too. I have started having memories from my childhood, centuries ago. That is why I can never return. It has asked to be returned to Barovia, said I should take Strahd’s place and can make of it what I want. I refused. It has even offered to restore Ezra to life if I did so. He refused.
Master Zandeyr told me that I will never age nor die. I still look as you remember me and have not aged a day in all this time. While I live, I swear to you that I will watch over the Ebon Star, just as you watch over Amber Temple. Its vessel is hidden in a place known only to Ezra and me, far from mortal hands. And though fills me sorrow, I will never set foot in Barovia again. I will not risk plunging your home back into the horror it took centuries, and the strength of you and your friends, to defeat.
I believe it was destiny that brought me to this harsh and beautiful place. For good or ill, I know who I am, both outside and within, much of that I owe to you. I have made myself a life here at the end of the world, and I am happy.
Please give my love to Thomasin, Pyotr, and Serafina. Tell the twins that Ezra says hello and to “be good.” They must be grown by now, I’m sure they have made you proud. I miss you all every day, I think of you all at every sunrise, and when I feel the comforting weight of the Morninglord amulet I still wear. Write me back soon.
Your loving daughter always and forever,
Morgan
When she was finished the letter, Morgan looked up and out window in front of her desk. She saw the last of the fishing boats pulling into shore from the dark waters of Lac Dinneshire. Beyond the water, the vast expanse of snowy tundra, turning a pale blue in the fading light. Beyond that, the jagged peaks of the Spine of the World and the icy wall of the Reghed Glacier. In the sky, she saw the stars appearing, the first faint colours of the aurora. “Gods, I love this place,” she said in wonder.
Ezra placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder, “I know. Me too.” His thoughts turned to the sealed cast-iron box, lying in the freezing depths of the lake. Staring out at his grey world, only he saw the inky, angry, roiling mass of cloud that hung over the waters. Clouds forever trying but, he hoped, failing to reach a place far away…
Tarquin Rose
“Things certainly look different this high up,” he mumbled, the threads of his voice extinguished by the wind.
Of course, they do, he thought. But still, things do look different.
With the clouds finally absent he could make out the edges of Lac Dinneshere. And there—Easthaven. He could see, written in the landscape, the map of the Ten–Towns. With the weak sun shining on the snow, he could almost make out the outline of the dwarven runes; runes that marked each of the Ten–Towns as targets.
And beyond, to the northeast, across the Sea of Moving Ice, lay his immediate destination: the lair of the great white dragon. Once mate of his current mount, if one can believe the tales. ‘Old White Death’, Aruathator, who almost fell to my father’s sword.
How things had changed for him…in him. The lust for blood—dragon blood—driven by the desire for recognition, had subsided with the adrenaline in the wake of the battle for Ythryn. After all, what is a couple of dragon scales to the besting of a God! The cold, dull pain of paternal disregard had been replaced by a new excitement, warmed by the Spring tide even this high up, as he clung to Arveiaturace’s neck.
A playful smile flickered across Tarquin’s face as he thought of those he left behind.
“Who among you would join her?”
The words hung on the air, shrouded in the fading mist of dragon’s breath. For once, there wasn’t a clamouring for space to speak among our merry band.
The numb silence stretched on for what seemed like an age. Perhaps I misheard? That was an invitation. I’m sure it was. But to what? It couldn’t be … what that dragonling said. To become a dragonrider! Of a great white dragon!
This was too…convenient. Too much like a Waterdeep sea shanty. Filled with monsters and heroes. Of quests delivered into waiting hands.
But the time has passed for such simple narratives. How could this slake my thirst after what we’ve just been through? “In truth, I yearn for a more complex weave,” I muttered into my chest.
As if awakened from a reverie, I looked up into the eyes of Calcryx, watching me with amusement. I turned away to my left, to Arlington, who met my gaze, as he lifted a pipe from his pocket and put it to his bearded lips. Beyond, Morgan, too, implacable as ever. Turning to my right, I caught Jankx’s wink as he stood next to a grinning Eearwaxx. Finally, I looked up, and caught the eye of Octavian. Surely, he, the world’s greatest kobold, would be the best candidate for dragonrider?
No, he was too big.
He nodded, sagely. In that way that spoke of big aspirations…for him and me.
A smile crept across my face, and I fashioned a sweeping bow.
“And so it falls to me. Gentlemen—and lady!—it appears I am ready to step away from a supporting role in an ensemble cast. I see a story bigger than a single death. An epic two-hander set in a not-so-frozen North”.
Nodding towards the waiting Calcryx, one final flourish, “Let’s see if this dragon can bear the son of a dragon killer.”