Enchantyon, Enter The Arcane: The Jörd In The Ice

Chapter Three: Another Screw-Up

All things considered, Bandle supposed that it wasn't a total loss finding someone frozen in a block of ice. A day of traveling had passed now and he was trying to look on the bright side of things as best he could. It might even earn him a nice little sum of coins should he find the right buyer. Even if it did mean that he and his companions ended up losing nearly all they had securing it.

"You know, when you think about it," Bandle started saying to Jorry and Misfit. "This all could have gone much much worse." Bandle didn't look back to see their reaction, but he could almost feel their shocked looks at his attempt to look on the brighter side of things.

"And how one earth could it have gotten worse?" Misfit asked. "We were mauled by goblins. Goblins, Bandle! None of our planning could have prepared us for that. And we still don't know what in the world brought them that far north. Or what happened to us in the...in that place."

"What do we do when the Chief finds out?" Jorry muttered. "What do you think he'll do? What if we get exiled? Oh, I bet we get banished for sure this time! I knew we shouldn't have gone down to the Dark Place! Why on earth did we follow you, Bandle? What if your dad goes and tells the Jarl? She'll be in the village for the festival. What if...what if they send word to the Emperor's men?!"

Bandle quickly hushed them both. "Relax, will you? Snap out of it! Look, no one's getting banished. Just let me do all the talking and we'll be just fine."

"Yeah, right." Said Misfit.

"Look, no one knows what happened out there but the three of us. Now if we're lucky, we might be able to pawn our new frozen friend here off one of the merchants in town, and then we can re-buy what the village needs to make up what we lost when we didn't make the trade. Just...just let me do the talking when we get to Blizzard Helm."

As Bandle led the bison pulling their wagon back into the snowy, mountain village of Froljorow, early that morning, he quietly took in all the festive preparations that had gone up since they left for the upcoming Festival of Gloaming; the rich smells of freshly cooked bison sausages and uber waffles engulfed them quickly upon passing the village border. Just outside her small cottage, there was also an elderly woman that could be seen working to get her steam-powered generator humming to warm up a large cauldron filled with what smelled like hot chocolate chicken milk, Bandle's favourite holiday drink.

Even the children of Froljorow were busy that day: there were some that were building snowmen wrapped with colourful scarves, mittens, and hats. Then there were those who were helping their parents put up decorations on their homes and setting up food stands and other festive stations. And dotted all around the village were the many younger children who were in costume as strikingly colourful faerie lords and ladies from the Seelie courts of old that once ruled these lands during the previous Age.

Like many Jords in the northern tundra empire they called home, this was Bandle's favourite time of the year. The Festival of Gloaming was one of the few times of the year when he could look back in life and he had only but the best of memories. It was the event that marked the end-of-year festivities that took place on Twilight's Eve, with some of the events spilling into the new year on Twilight Day. Thinking of this only soured their return for him, though, as he figured that what had happened on their journey would surely change that.

As their wagon started to move closer and closer toward the village's northern end, more and more eyes started locking onto their mysterious cargo. A chorus of whispers and mumbling started to grow as people began to stop what they were doing to watch and follow them. No doubt hoping for some sort of explanation as to what they were seeing. Eventually, they reached the large, stone building that acted as the home for the chief of the village. It was called Blizzard Helm, and it was the place where Bandle grew up when he was little. The guards posted at its large oaken doors of the stone hall looked warily at them and their cargo too as their wagon came to a stop just at the bottom of the steps leading up to the building.