Dawn of the North

Nelcreed sat around six ways (12 miles) from the southern border of Niln, the great Northern Kingdom. It was a farming village, quite wealthy with crops and cattle, raising Aurochs for meat and Oxen for work, as well as sheep and goats. The houses in this village were longhouses built from long planks of wood for walls and thick rooves of thatch. At the end of these houses were stone and clay silos for storing the many crops grown there before they were shipped to less fertile places up north. In this village, we find a man named Othor Silversmith, and his assistant, a young Forest Elf named Ameria.

Youngfall 8th, 145 PIE

Nelcreed, Barrow Hold of Niln

The sun was just rising, the air was cool as the winter began its approach. The Holdsmen made their way around the village, tending to their livestock and starting to harvest the last of the crops, these were being stored away for winter rather than being sold further north. Children either performed their chores, cleaning the houses or helping in harvest, or played in the main cobblestone street that ran through the center of the village.

The bell from the temple tolled loudly, a long house-shaped temple at the edge of the village was what it was, it only served as a place of residence for priests and healers rather than a place of worship. Those were reserved for the shrines outside of town. Inside this village was a blacksmith hut, a longhouse curved with a stone porch inside the curve. The porch held a circular stone forge with all the essentials of a forge, a billow stuck into the bottom, a water trough nearby next to an anvil, a grindstone also close by.

Sitting at this forge was Othor Silversmith, a man who had served for House Barrow as a soldier until the Battle of the Dusk Field, he had his hand cut just above the wrist by an East Olma Soldier. After this, he was given a special prosthetic that allowed him to add attachments, hammers, and the like, which made him an excellent blacksmith. The last time he's made weapons for the Jarl's men was during Rolig's Rebellion, but that had been near twenty years ago.

Now he was seventy years old, he made his living as a blacksmith in Nelcreed, making tools and cutlery for the villagers, it made him a good amount of coin. He was tall like all Northerners, standing over most humans, with muscle to back it up, his face was worn and wrinkled, marked by a long white beard that had been tied in a knot, and long white hair going down to his back. He wore black pants and shoes, and a white shirt underneath a leather smith's apron.

His prosthetic looked to be bolted onto his arm, it went halfway up to his elbow and had a rounded head, a hammer attached to a long pole sticking out from it, tongs in his rough and callused left hand. He had an assistant who lived with him, a Forest Elf girl no more than twelve, standing just below five feet in height. Her name was Ameria, he skin was the tan brown of a Forest elf, her hair was a brownish-black, it was braided in the traditional style of the Forest Elves, her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue.

She dressed more like the traditional dress of a Northerner, a small smith's apron around the front of her dress. She stepped out of the house and made her way over to the forge. She watched the spectacle before her as he took a long scythe blade he had been working with on the anvil and gripping it in his forge tongs, took the molten blade and dunked it in a trough full of water, sending steam high into the air with a loud bubbling sound.

It truly was a sight to behold as the old, one-armed man would hammer away at his forge, she truly envied him as a mentor and a sort of father. He turned himself around to look at his young ward:

"Still amazes ye don' it?" he bespoke, a crooked tooth smile crossing his aged face. Ameria was quiet at first but spoke up:

"It really is amazing," she walked over to him as he took the now cooled piece of steel, she stared at the marvelous steel craftsmanship, it looked as beautiful as Castle Steel with all of its wave-like ripples.

"Go grab me da shaft," said Othor, pointing his head to the wall where a scythe shaft leaned. Ameria grabbed it from its place "Now hold it up," Ameria held it straight as per Othor's order "Now watch yer head" Ameria ducked down as he took and hammered the freshly forged piece of steel down onto the shaft. They finished the task and Othor took the scythe over to the grindstone, he hesitated before saying "Would ya like to sharpen it?"

An excited smile crossed over the young Alluvian's face as he got up from the wooden seat of the grindstone and gave her the tool. She began to spin the stone wheel using her foot, as she worked the steel blade, Othor looked to the east. He watched the sun peak over the rooves of the longhouses, listening to the sounds of workers, and the almost musical sound of steel being sharpened on a grindstone. It brought back memories of his days as a smith for the Jarls' Army, great days of glory and strength and his honor, and days when he brought honor to his name.

His memories were interrupted as the deep drone of a horn carried over the village like a long gust of wind. Almost as suddenly as it came, it stopped and the world was quiet as the Holdsmen had stopped their labors. They gathered on the main path through the village, looking in the direction of a watchtower south of the village. The loud droning of another blast carried over the stillness of the township.

Then they appeared, riders, coming over a hill south of the city. They bore bronze armor that glinted in the sun, they were bronze corslets that covered down to their legs made from flexible plates. They wore leather boots covered by bronze sabatons. They donned crested bronze helms donning no crest, cheek guards covering their strangely colored faces. In their hands were long lances of wood, tipped with bronze leaf heads, at their hips were there Kopis' in black leather scabbards.

They rode with a soldier donning full bronze plate armor, a plume of blue-dyed horsehair on a crest atop their helmet. This warrior held a long banner in their hand, one showing a white field with twelve blue kite shields dotting the field. It swung in the breeze as the horsemen galloped to the village, hypnotizing the Holdsmen in fear. Othor snapped out of his trance, he grabbed Ameria's shoulder, still looking at the fastly approaching cavalry:

"Inside, now" Ameria stopped grinding and got up from her spot, running inside, dropping the freshly forged scythe. She was soon followed by Othor who shut the wooden plank door behind them. Othor brought the young elf over to a table that sat against the western wall. The old soldier kneeled down before her as she lies underneath: "Don't move from this spot, you understand?" the elf nodded "good"

Ameria watched as her Northern guardian walked across the room from the table and grabbed a long battle ax off a rack hanging from the wall. Othor looked over its glinting steelhead. Gripping it with his left hand, he rested the handle on his steel arm. He rested the end of the ax's shaft on the floor and lowered his head, letting out a quiet prayer. He lifted his head and brought up his ax. He swung open the door and ran out of the longhouse, and into the dirt street, his ax in hand.

Ameria moved from her spot, creeping across the wooden floor and over to the door, peering out to the cool morning air. The horsemen rode through the village, lances lowered in a charge, running down its Holdsmen denizens with no discrimination. Riding on their horses they thrust their lances through the backs and slash them with their kopis' shoot them down with their great wheellock pistols.

Othor gaped around at his surroundings, shocked at the brutality of this attack. Even when he'd been a soldier he'd never seen men attack a village with such wild abandon. Othor turned south where the attackers came from, he saw one charging, he saw his eyes, his blue skin, and lighter blue beard. He stood, ax in hand ready for a swing as the rider came closer. Like it was magic, the old warrior used all his strength to swing the large-headed ax in a great downward swing like chopping wood.

The steelhead of the ax met the neck of the black warhorse, nearly decapitating the beast. The legs of the creature crumpled, throwing the rider forward snapping his lance, and sending splinters of wood through the air like small arrows, and dismounting the rider. The soldier, filled with rage, lifted his dirt and armor-covered body up to meet his attacker. Standing full, he barely met Othor's cheek, the bronze-clad warrior unsheathed his long single-edged, and recurved kopis, cast from glinting Equin Bronze that shone in the rising sun.

Othor held his ax in hand, dripping with the crimson blood of the riders' steed still dripping onto the wet, cool ground below. The tall north man swung the sharp blade of his ax, to strike the rider before him with the speed of a young soldier. The bronze soldier before him, gripping his blade with both hands, struck the hard edge of his sword against the wood of the ax handle, leaving a deep cut in its grain.

Othor did not wait for the soldier to strike, before he could pull his blade from the ax's shaft, he struck him on the side of the head with his blacksmith hammer attached to his arm. He swung it with as much force as an old blacksmith could, leaving a massive, deep dent in the soldier's bronze helmet. Like a flash of lightning, the Equin soldier pulled a pistol from his hip, a short-barrelled wheellock made from dark wood. Before Othor could react, the horseman let loose the lead ball packed inside its short barrel.

In a cloud of dark gray smoke and bloody mist, Othor fell to the ground, a bloody hole in his left eye and an even bigger hole in the back of his head. His massive corpse fell to the ground with a great thud, a cloud of brown dust rising from where he fell. The rider began to stumble off south, dropping his pistol into the dirt before he fell with a metallic clank, dead from his wound.

Ameria stayed transfixed on the corpse of her teacher as it lay on the cold hard ground. she stared for what felt like hours until a shout snapped her from her trance. The soldier in full plate rode just where she could see, the soldier cried out in a language she could not understand and then pulled out a great war horn made from white cattle's horn bound in gold bands, painted with scenes of Hoplites doing battle.

With a loud blast from the horn, soldiers began to light bundles of tallow-soaked reeds with chain-connected flint and steels. As the bundles caught fire they were tossed onto the thick thatch of the house rooves, lighting them ablaze as if they sat within hearths in a lord's hall. Another loud blast from the horn and the soldiers galloped south almost as suddenly as they had come, leaving the village empty and silent, say for the burning that of the houses.

Ameria got up, the house she was in remaining somehow untouched by the soldiers and their fire. She stuck her head out, looking to see if the riders had left the town, she looked south to see a cloud of dust where the riders went as they disappeared over the hill they had come over. The young she-elf approached the corpse of her loving teacher, his aged face now pale and cold, blood pooling around the chasm in the rear of his skull.

Tears fell down her brown face as she looked upon his opened blue right eye, frozen in death, he tears fell onto the dirt her sobs kept muffled by the crackling fires around her. She dried her tears with the sleeve of her dress and began to form a plan in her head. She needed to find a way to quickly warn the Jarl. She ran westward, past the burning temple and to the stables near the western border of the town.

The stable was filled with the corpses of large workhorses and fleeting steeds lay inside. Though one remained alive, it was a large horse thick with muscle, white covered with black spots, with only a halter on its muzzle and no saddle. It kicked and neighed loudly as the fires crackled around it, sending timbers down from the roof. Ameria ran over to the beast, using all of her strength she jumped onto its back, better than some Northerners could.

The beast bucked and kicked as she tried to hold on. She gripped its halter and managed to gain control of the animal, directing it towards the road leading out of the village. The horse sped off as fast as it could, leaving the city burning brightly in the early morning sun, black smoke rising high into the air like giant serpents with black scales.