When Nokkland found himself setting off with the inn's barmaid to track down an ice-dragon, he hadn't realized that he would be thrust into the center of a prophecy he knew nothing about. Nor that he would become part of an undercover group of revol...
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Luckily, "the Colde One" wasn't actually cold. Tripping on the threshold, Nokkland found himself in a cozy, smoky room filled with chatter and the clinking of glasses.
"Oi boy!" shouted a man from behind the bar who was as built thickly as the hut walls, "Shut the damn door before you just welcome the storm in for a drink!"
"Sorry!" exclaimed Nokkland, hurrying to close the door.
The bartender shook his head in disbelief, resuming polishing glasses.
Once shut, the whine of the wind and hiss of the ice particles were muffled slightly. Glancing around, Nokkland realized that there were only a couple people in the pub all clustered on the bench which ran around the central fireplace. He decided to join them and wound his way around more wooden furniture than he'd seen in his entire life over towards the crackling flames and heated discussion.
"I'm telling you t'aint natural," said the old man to his left, exhaling his words with large puffs of smoke.
Nokkland sneezed while removing his gloves to extend his hands towards the flames.
"Bless you!" offered the middle-aged woman across from him, "That's the fifth time you've said that Perkin but I still don't agree with you. We get abrupt storms all the time though I hope this one will die down soon because I need to get back and see how Quince is managing with the children."
She sighed, rubbing her temples.
"Well how about this then: why don't we ask the boy what he thinks? He was insane enough to be out in it," proposed the tired-looking man with dark circles under his eyes.
"Well how 'bout that, eh Clarence? I agree with you for once. Don't you get used to it," chuckled Perkin, pointing his pipe at the man with eye bags.
"What's your name, boy?" the woman asked, "and why are you staring at the floor?"
Nokkland looked up, startled. He hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation that had been conducting itself around him.
"What? Oh, my name is Nokkland, 'mam. I have never seen a wooden floor before, that's why I was staring," he replied sheepishly.
"Oh, you're from way up there..." grumbled Perkin, gesturing towards the ceiling with a stubby index, "...up there where men have to live in ice huts with saxifrage on hardpacked snow for floors. When I was a young miner, I used to-"
The woman groaned, cutting Perkin off.
"I agree with how Molly feels," Clarence interjected, "spare us another story, Perkin. Boy- I mean- Nok, um, Nokkland what do you think of this storm? Natural or unnatural?"
The circular scar on Nokkland's forearm suddenly grew uncomfortably warm. Hurriedly pulling his tunic sleeve down over the mark, Nokkland queried: "Why would it be unnatural?"
