Snow above, snow below, snow in his eyes, upon his eye brows, his shoulders, and his boots. In his heart Ardon Weavstar prayed that Skadi, the Goddess of Winter, Hunting, and the Winter Harvest, would relent and allow spring to finally come. The mistress snow had reigned over these lands for almost nine months now, longer than any winter previously. It had been so long he had started to forget what living grass looked like.

Ardon was Nor Menn of twenty one winters, tall with dark hair and eyes. He was dressed heavily to ward off the cold, double pairs of socks, fur lined leather bots, gloves of reindeer hide, a heavy coat and thick breeches which went over his shirt of mail, a large gray green cloak covered in snow flakes and the hood up over a black wool cap, and a black scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. At his side hung the bastard sword that told any who might meet him of his status as a Wanderer; a mercenary, clanless, lordless, a man free to choose his fate.

He was making his way through the forest towards a village he knew was not much more than a days march away. Winter was deadly to those alone in the wild even as equipped and experienced as he was. He had failed to find a captain to raid with for the season losing out on the chance to win glory, gold, and food. So he had been forced to wander from village to village, holdfast to holdfast, hall to hall in search of work, a warm meal, and a soft bed.

By the laws of curtesy if some one allowed him into their home, granted him mead and bread they were bound to allow him or any other visitor to stay for three days. He would be fed and allowed to sleep indoors so long as he observed the codes of conduct demanded of a guest. He would honor and respect his host; praise their kindness, the beauty of their daughters, the valor of their sons, and the quality of their mead.

When the three days were up however it was up to the host as to whether the guest could stay longer. This late into winter he usually got turned out unless he could provide some service in exchange for the hospitality. Sometimes he would hunt for them, but so late into winter game was scarce. If they were a tribal chieftain or a lord he might fight for them for however long they required but the limit he could serve any one master was one season.

It was almost an hour before the trees began to thin and he saw the first signs of civilization. Cut trees, cleared brush, the odd channel in the snow made by a person. Sure enough he saw thin lines of dark gray and black smoke rising through the trees and he pressed on.

At last he came upon a large clearing in the forest at the center of which was a small village. The village was surrounded by a moat ditch about five feet deep and raised mound of earth three feet high topped by a wooden palisade made of twelve foot high tree trunks that had their tops sharpened into points to prevent foes from scaling them. A few flimsy looking watch towers were spaced around the palisade, most simply raised platforms for archers to shoot from.

He approached the single gate of the village which was guarded by two such towers both manned by snow covered watchmen with armed wit hunting bows and boiled leather jerkins and helms for armor. A single sentry with a hand axe, a proper round shield, old mail, and studded helm stood at the gate. The Sentry raised up a hand for him to stop while the archers brought up their bows but did not notch arrows.

"Hold there stranger," the Sentry ordered. "Who are you and what brings you to Strennhold?"

"I am Ardon Weavstar and I am a Wanderer," he answered pulling down his scarf so the Sentry could hear him better. "I come for fire, food, mead, a soft bed, and a break from all the snow."

The Sentry lowered his hand and the archers lowered their bows.

"You will find little food or mead here Wanderer," the Sentry said. "Winter has been hard upon us. We will not turn you away however without our chieftain's say so."

Ardon nodded in response.

"It may be that I can help with that," he replied. "I'm a fair enough hunter and a skilled enough swordsmen if your lord would have me."

The Sentry nodded and then pushed open the gates. Ardon followed him inside the village which was small, only around two dozen cabins with thatch roofs that needed replacing. As the Sentry lead him through the narrow paths between buildings he noticed few barns, shops, only a single black smith, one tavern, and a half dozen glass gardens. Glass Gardens were Skadi's mercy from the winter cold for she had given the Nor Menn the knowledge of how to grow precious crops and herbs in doors. The glass walls were inscribed with runes of fire to keep the crops inside alive even in the most bitter winter. Few people were outside their homes most having retreated indoors despite night still being an hour or so away.

Near the rear of the village however was a raised mound of earth with a great hall built a top it. Compared to the homes of other lords and Chieftains he had known this was small by comparison. Despite its size it still gave off a warm and strong feeling that one needed to survive the bitter cold of the north. The Sentry lead him up the path to the double doors of the hall which were flanked by two more guards warming themselves by burning braziers.

These two guards were not local militia like the sentry but Huskrals, the personal retainers of a chieftain. They wore iron helms with mail extending down from the cheek guards to protect their necks, double layered mail tunics covered their chests, upper arms, and thighs, heavy boots and gloves with squares of iron on them, large dark cloaks of red were on their backs, and hardened leather breast plates went over the mail. They each bore a large kite shields painted red and with a gray hammer device. Each held a tall spear with a steel tip and girt at the side of each was a longsword.

The Huskrals nodded to the Sentry by way of greeting but Ardon knew their eyes were on him. At least he knew the Chieftain trained his men well for their jobs.

The Sentry pushed the doors open and Ardon followed him inside. The great hall was large and open, a few tables and benches lining the hall. A few more Huskrals lined the hall, tall and straight. At the far end on a raised stone dais was a throne of Spruce wood upon which sat a man with bald head, a blonde beard, and a hammer at his side who was speaking to red haired person in violet robes. Both turned as Ardon and the Sentry entered. Ardon quickly noticed the pointed ears and green eyes of the second person, a Dökkálfar and judging from the robes a Sorcerer at that.

Now far more wary Ardon knelt down beside the Sentry when they reached the dais. He quickly lowered his hood and removed his hat, it was impolite to hid your face from your potential host and employer. He drew out his sword and placed the steel blade on the floor before him.

"Rise Tarnus," the bald and bearded man said. "Who do you bring before me?"

"My lord Sternn," the Sentry Tarnus answered, "this is Ardon Weavstar, a Wanderer come seeking shelter and service."

"Well met my lord," Ardon greeted.

Lord Strenn stroked his beard thoughtfully. The Dökkálfar leaned down to whisper something but the bald chieftain waved him off.

"Well met indeed Wanderer," he said in a gruff voice. "I welcome you to my hall but alas you come to my people and I at an ill time. Winter has sapped much of our stores of food and as it stands I have little use of an extra blade."

"I understand my lord," Ardon replied. "I would be more than willing to aid and serve you however I can in exchange for your hospitality."

"If you mean to hunt for your service to me I am afraid you're out of luck," Strenn answered. "The game has all fled away from the cold or been caught already."

"I understand my lord," Ardon replied.

"I will not however turn you out into the cold," Strenn continued. "In such grim times as this what are we without the laws most sacred to our hearts."

He clapped his hands and a serving girl emerged from an alcove.

"Elis," he said. "Fetch us mead and bread. Two bottles and two loaves." He then glanced at the Dökkálfar beside him. "Unless you wish to dine with us Wernestel?"

"I suppose I shall my lord," the Dökkálfar replied.

"Three bottles and three loaves then," Strenn ordered.

The serving girl bowed and hurried out of sight.

"Tarnus go warm yourself up for a bit," Strenn added. "Then return to your post."

Tarnus rose, bowed, and left the hall. Ardon rose to his feet as a table was brought into the hall by servants along with two chairs. He collected his sword then joined the Chieftain and the Dökkálfar at the table as the first serving girl, Elis, returned with mead and bread.

"My thanks my lord," Ardon said as he accepted his small loaf and bottle.

"Think nothing of it," Strenn replied. "It has been some time since a fresh face has come to my home. Perhaps your coming shall turn my luck around?"

"That remains in the hands of the Gods my lord," the Dökkálfar, Wernestel, said before uncorking his bottle.

"This is Wernestel by the way," Strenn added, "Wernestel Black, my adviser and a Sorcerer."

"Well met," Ardon said before tearing a chunk out of his loaf with his teeth.

"Well met indeed," Wernestelreplied.

It went unsaid that the connotation of the name Black implied that Wernestel was a bastard.

"You speak as though you have had foul luck my lord," Ardon said turning the conversation. "Has the winter been so terrible here?"

"More than that," Strenn replied grimly, his face becoming somber. "My three sons went raiding last season only to be lost at sea with forty of my men. My wife wandered out into the snows three months later and never returned. I am without an heir and not likely to marry again."

"You have my sympathies my lord," Ardon said and he meant it. "Your sons deserved a more noble fate and I grieve for your lady wife."

"Aye," Strenn agreed with a nod. "But that's not the least of it I'm afraid."

"What do you mean?" Ardon asked.

"Last month three men went hunting to try and find some fresh food for the village," Wernestel answered. "None of them have returned. A search party was sent out, lead by the captain of the guard. None of them returned either."

"You suspect foul play is at work?" Ardon inquired.

"Aye," Strenn said with another nod. "We found some of their gear, covered in frost, snow, and ice but no bodies and no sign of a struggle. Did you see any sign of anyone else on your journey here?"

Ardon shook his head.

"No my lord," he admitted. "The wilds are vast and all sorts of things dwell in them, good and ill."

Strenn shook his head grimly. "That's the thing that worries me. I'm not one for children's stories or the words of drunken traders..."

Ardon shivered slightly realizing what the Chieftain was talking about.

"I have heard no word of them in these parts," Ardon said darkly.

"No one ever does," Wernestel replied. "Not until it is to late."

"Bah," Strenn growled taking a swig from his bottle. "I should not worry with my cares, you are a guest."

"That I am my lord," Ardon agreed. "However as a guest it is my duty to aid my host however I can."

"We can talk more of service later," Strenn replied. "For now we eat and drink and be as merry as we can be."

MLP:ED

Ardon was grateful for Chieftain Strenn's hospitality, getting to sleep on a straw mattress was a god send after so many nights of desperately searching for shelter in caves or large boulders. Three square meals a day, meager as they were, was a welcome change as well from hard tack and jerky. He also missed conversation and the cheer of a good drinking song before a roaring fire, the comforts of life often denied him due to his position.

However he could not forget his duty towards his host and quickly offered his aid in searching for the missing men.

"I have no doubts about them being dead by now," the old chieftian said somberly when Ardon brought the subject up again as they at the evening meal in his hall. "They were tough and strong but no one can survive in a winter like this on their own indefinitely, and they vanished weeks ago."

"What would you have me do my lord?" Ardon asked.

Chieftain Strenn waved Wernestel over and the Sorcerer brought out a map of the local terrain for at least fifty miles about the village. There were few landmarks save the odd standing stone or clearing, such was the desolation of the north lands. A single river however cut its way across the map, starting from the north eastern corner and winding its way to the south. Ardon at once knew it as the Redflow, one of the critical rivers that feed life into the frigged lands of the Nor Menn. Strenn pointed to its northern edge with a thick finger.

"That was where we found the gear of my Guard Captain's search party," he stated. "I knew the man for over twenty years, he was loyal and true. He would never have forsaken his home or his Chieftain."

"Did you find anything else at the sight?" Ardon asked.

"Nothing," Wrenestel replied. "As my lord said before there was no sign of a struggle, no animal tracks, no blood, just weapons half buried in the snow."

Ardon nodded grimly.

"I cannot put this down to a dozen seasoned men getting lost in the snow," Strenn said. "Not until I have proof. That is what you shall do for me Wanderer."

"As my lord commands," Ardon replied. "What shall be our terms?"

"Tomorrow you shall be sent forth with fresh supplies," Strenn answered. "You shall had north along the Redflow as far as you will. If you find nothing return within a week and report such and I shall grant you three additional days in my halls. If you find some sign of my men, alive or dead within that time I will give you a week within my halls. If you die may the Gods grant you a place at their side. Should you prove craven." He pulled out his heavy hammer at this. "Then Gods have mercy on you for I shall have none."

"Indeed," Wrenestel said with a nod, then he pulled a small rams horn from behind his back. "If you should find yourself in dire peril this horn. It will carry for many miles and if we can aid you we shall come as swift as we are able."

Ardon nodded and took the horn.

"I accept your terms my Lord," he said. "Gods grant that my eyes be keen, my ears sharp, my heart strong, and my fortune good."

"Gods grace you," Strenn agreed.

MLP:ED

The next morning before the sun was up Webch was speeding his way north. His pack was thankfully heavier than it had been when he had arrived at Strennhold. He made good time across the snow covered ground, picking his way through the brush along abandoned game trails.

By nightfall he had reached the banks of the Redflow river, long iced over and with little sign of thawing any time soon. He found a hollowed out fallen spruce log near the bank which he chose to take shelter in. He set up snares and trip wires about his makeshift camp before making a fire and enjoying a light meal.

The first night passed without incident to his relief and he slept relatively well. He rose early once again and collected his traps, enjoying the thin rabbit that had been caught in one for breakfast, before setting off again following the bank of the river north.

The further north he went however the greater the growing sense of unease gathered about him. He felt as if eyes were watching from from the snow laden trees, none of them friendly. The forest was eerily silent, even for winter in the day time. Few dared enter the deeper parts of the Endless forest even in fleeting summer. Menn told stories of foul monsters in the wilds and strange magic. Only the nomadic clans of Sindarla and the Wanderer's traversed it in winter frequently, chasing the reindeer and work respectively.

The clouds were becoming overcast and Ardon knew that a blizzard was likely to soon be setting in. He found shelter in a cluster of boulders and once more made camp. Before long the snow began to fall and the wind began to howl. Ardon was forced to shelter his small fire with his body for fear of it going out. In the Endless forest, no fire at night meant certain death.

It was near midnight when he thought he heard a strange sound carried by the wind. A whinnying cry like the ponies of Prance he had often raided but higher and colder. Minutes later he heard a distant scream and shouts. He could not dare move however, he would die in a blizzard like this without fire and the wind was to strong for the flames to hold long on their own without his administrations. An hour later the noises died down.

Ardon did not sleep that night.

The next morning once the storm died down, Ardon crossed the frozen river and made his way into the forest in the direction of where he had heard the noises the previous night. He had his sword drawn, cold steel glimmering in the pale sunlight as he moved, wraith like through the trees. It was still snowing and the cold air stung his throat despite his covering.

At midday however he crested a small hill and then quickly dropped down to his belly, the snow muffelling the clink of his mail.

In the small clearing before him were a dozen large covered wagons. He could see posts where torches had been light, benches and tables that had been brought out for a meal, and fallen weapons, shields, tools, torches, and childrens toys lying in the snow. But what he could not see were any people or the Snow Striders that should have been present.

He slithered down the hill into the clearing and with all the stealth he had moved from one wagon to the next. This was obviously in Sindarla clan but from the signs it looked as if everyone had simply up and left in the middle of the night. It was to creepy to be believed if Ardon couldn't see it with his own eyes.

When he pulled open the flaps to the last wagon however he heard a whimper. A crate had been overturned inside the wagon. Sword raised and ready to strike in one hand he grabbed a hold of the crate with the other and lifted it away.

The young Sindarla girl who had been hiding beneath the crate shrieked in fright and tackled him out of the wagon! Ardon's sword flew from his hand and landed in the snow as he crashed into the drifts with girl on top of him. He made to throw her off him but then realized that she was shaking uncontrollably, cyan colored eyes wide with terror, her thin arms wrapped around his chest with a vice grip.

She couldn't be older than fifteen judging from the lack of woad leaf tattoos on her face. She had sandy blonde hair and was dressed in the leather and furs of a training huntress. Her pointed ears each bore a single plain silver loop.

Slowly and gently as he could Ardon pushed the girl off him and sat up. She quickly dashed back into the wagon without a backward glance. Frowning, he retrieved his sword and pulled the flaps open again. She was shivering in the opposite corner clutching to a ragged looking doll in an old dress, tears running down her face.

Ardon set his sword down and kept his distance; the girl was shaken, likely had not slept any better than he had.

"My name is Ardon," he began slowly. "Can you hear me?"

She gave a small nod but did not look at him. She sat there rocking back and forth clutching the doll to her chest.

"Can you tell me your name?" He asked. "I'm here to help."

"You can't help," she whispered, her musical voice shaking as badly as she was. "No one can help."

"Can you please tell me your name?" He repeated. "I need to know what happened here."

She did not answer him, she only let out a small gasping sob, pressing the doll tighter to her chest.

"I have all day lass," he said trying to be comforting but still convey some urgency. "You can tell me at your own pace."

"All day?" She said turning her head to face him, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "No! We have to run! Have to get away! Monsters come back! They know they missed me before but they won't again! No they won't!"

"What happened?" Ardon repeated. "What monsters? What are you talking about?"

She turned away from him again and resumed shaking and sobbing. Keeping his calm Ardon inched closer and set a comforting had on her shoulder, the girl was almost deathly cold.

"Is that doll your sisters?" He asked gently.

She nodded.

"Her name is Misa, she was mine until I gave her to my little sister Telatha when I turned eleven," she said slowly. "That was three winters ago," she choked back a sob. "My name is Neratha."

"Good," Ardon said with a nod. "Can you tell me about the monsters?"

She shuddered again pulling Misa so close Ardon thought the dolls head might pop off.

"They've come twice before now," she whispered. "The first night they took Faesage Elianne, Micha, Fesla, and Ryondal. Second night Caerthon, Gelthas, Wyric, Polin, Sarthes, and Xandir were lost. And last night..." she sobbed again fresh tears spilling across her cheeks. "Last night... Last... Last night they took momma, papa, Telatha, and everyone else!"

Ardon pulled a small rag from his bags and offered it to her. Neratha took it slowly, her hands still shaking and wiped away the tears.

"Who took them?" He asked. "Did you see them?"

She nodded.

"What did they look like?" He asked. "Menn? Sindarla? Dökkálfar? Caladria? Avariel?"

"They were wind and snow," she whispered. "Cold and death. Frozen blood dripping from their lips."

A cold hand wrapped itself around Ardon's heart and he shivered despite himself.

"Windingos?" He whispered.

Neratha nodded.

Ardon cursed and stood up.

"We have to leave now," he said. "Flee south, there's a village there, Strennhold. It's chieftain sent me to investigate this, he will shelter us."

"Everyone is gone," Neratha whimpered.

"And we will be joining them if we don't leave now." He said, picking up his sword and sheathing it. "Take only what cannot be left behind."

He then paused and then turned back to her his face becoming somber once again.

"I'll give you a half hour," he said. "But we must be gone by then."

She nodded slowly still not looking at him. Without another word Ardon slipped out of the wagon and began stripping the others for any useful materials, flint and steel, cooking oil made from animal fat, torch wrappings, a spare bow of yew and a quiver of arrows.

Right on schedule Neratha exited the wagon she had likely called home her entire life. She had a small pack on know and heavy bear skin cloak draped about her shoulders. She had a similar bow with intricate carvings of animals in the wood, a quiver of arrows, and long curved hunting knife with a sigil of deer antlers upon its pommel.

Together they retreated back the way Ardon had come before, back across the Redflow and past his previous campsite. They sped south as fast as their legs could carry them. Every minute or so Ardon would look up at the sky and curse, another storm was rolling in.

"We can't risk a camp," he said when they took a moment to rest. "But we'll need fire."

Quickly he set to work preparing two torches, wrapping thin rags about thick branches and then covering them in oil. It took him a try or two with the flint to ignite the fuel but soon both torches were burning brightly. They each took one and hurried on even as the snow began to fall thicker and faster and the sky became more overcast.

It was almost dark when they passed Ardon's original campsite but he doubted they would make it to the village before dark. The wind began to pick up and the snow came in blinding stinging waves. The cold stabbed at them like daggers and the torches struggled to stay burning. During a brief pause Ardon tied a length of rope about Neratha's waist and secured the other end around his own to keep her from getting lost in the snow.

Their progress slowed to a near crawl as they trudged through the snow trying move through the thick torrents of blinding ice. Ardon was exhausted his stomach growling with hunger and his throat parched and dry. He had no doubt that Neratha was worse off than he was but she continued to trudge along behind him.

It was near mid night and Ardon was all but dead on his feet when he at last heard the sound he had been dreading. The long cold high pitched whinny.

"They've come!" Neratha shouted over the howling of the wind.

"Stay with me!" Ardon barked as he drew out his sword. His fingers felt numb slow and unresponsive as the steel flashed out in the flickering torch light. He heard Neratha draw her knife behind him but they pressed on, forcing their way though the snow drifts.

All around them however Ardon could hear the approaching foe. The champing and whinnying cries were drawing close steadily getting closer and closer. To Ardon's joy however the ground was becoming more flat and regular, and he recognized the approach to the village.

"We're almost there!" He shouted turning to Neratha.

Terror filled his mind however as he saw them moving through the trees driving their thralls on before them. Frozen corpses with bloody lips and dead eyes, menn and Sindarla alike. Neratha fell to her knees in the snow whimpering as the shambling forms of children moved between the frozen dead while the Windingos circled over the heads of their horde. Neratha's torch died as it landed in the snow and her knife slipped from her fingers.

A fire awoke within his heart, not fear but hot anger. He moved himself between Neratha and the advancing horde brandishing his flickering torch and sword alike.

"Back!" He called his voice thin and feeble in the wind.

One of the windingos gave a whinnying laugh and the horde continued its advance. Cold seeped through his veins like ice water as they drew nearer threatening to snuff out burning fury within him.

"Back I said!" He called again but as he did so his torch died in the wind. He was plunged into darkness the only light coming from the eyes of windingos and Neratha who was now sobbing uncontrollably.

Ardon's mind race frantically. He could cut himself free and leave Neratha to die. Sacrifice her to save himself. He rejected this at once, craven cowards were damned almost as badly as those who broke sacred hospitality. Then he at last remembered the horn given to him by Wrenestel.

He dug through his pockets even as he heard the snow crunching as the dead and the windingos advanced upon them. He found it, drew it forth, brought it to his lips and blew. The horn loosed a long, high, and proud challenge; cutting through howling of the wind and chasing the cold from his body. He heard the windingos pause and he used the moment to let the horn fall.

He drew out some flint and struck the flat of his sword with it reigniting his torch with the sparks.

"Back!" He shouted raising the burning brand, his voice stronger. "Back monsters! Back or face my steel!"

The windingos remained uncowed and they advanced with their thralls. They closed in around the two of them hemming them in on all sides. Ardon raised his sword to strike...

Then a horn sounded and a great cry rose up behind them! A fire ball hurtled through the trees and set many of dead a blaze. Mail and leather clad warriors surged up around Ardon and Neratha, weapons and torches in hand. Strenn and his men charged the dead and began hacking and stabbing at them with axes and spears.

The Windingos scattered away as Wrenestel sent another fire ball at them and their hordes began to draw back but not without inflicting some loses of their own. Three of Strenn's men fell in the snow blood spraying from wounds made by tooth and claw like hands. One of the dead made for Neratha but with a single swing Ardon took the wretches head off causing it to crumple into a drift.

It was over in minutes and the dead lay still once more. The storm died down and Ardon lowered his sword. He turned to Neratha who was still kneeling in the snow shaking uncontrolably.

"The Gods were with you Wanderer," Strenn said clapping Ardon on the back.

"Perhaps my lord," Ardon replied.

"Who's she?" The chieftain asked.

"A survivor," Ardon answered. "We'd best get indoors my lord."

"Aye," The chieftain agreed grimly. "This will cause a stir no doubt about."

As the chieftains men set fire to the corpses Ardon took a long last look into the forest. Even though a fire was just starting he shivered. He could hear them whinnying and braying far off into the night.

Author's Note

So there's the first true chapter. Expect another chapter by Sunday.