Chapter 2 - Abelard Pre Story 2

Chapter 2 - Abelard Pre Story 2 - Young, Dumb, & on the Run

Bloodied, beaten, and certain that whatever doom had befallen Trollansby was both his fault and still hunting him, Abelard ran through the darkened woods and away from his life, his love, and his family.

At first, young Abelard’s only thought was to run to neighboring village of Frithdair and get help. But Trollansby was larger than Frithdair. Stronger. Better defended. Trollansby’s warriors always bested Frithdair’s when they competed at the Thing… What could poor Frithdair possibly do but die as well?

That thought, combined with the feeling, always the feeling, that he was being followed, being Hunted, turned Abelard from his path and set his feet towards Fjordheim itself. Days away, Fjordheim, but Abelard knew the way, and knew what was safe to eat along the way. Swing an axe, he could not, but pick tubers and fruits… This he could do.

“Swing an Axe!”, he thought to himself as he flashed back to the hectic escape… “A sword. A sword appeared in my hand. It just… Appeared!” Bringing his hand up to look, there was no sign of the shadowy black stabbing sword that had materialized just in time for him to use to save himself. “I.. I must have dropped it. Stupid, stupid. Jorunn would be…”

At that beginnings of a thought, Abelard froze in his tracks. Jorunn… Jorunn was dead. He had watched the bravest, fiercest, most wonderful person in the world be cut down. Be cut nearly apart. Jorunn would never be angry with him again. None of them would.

They were dead. All of them, dead. There was nothing left to do now but get help… Get vengeance. Someone would pay. Whoever that gravelly voice he had heard belonged to… He would pay for what he had taken. Then and there, to the air and darkness, Abelard vowed his revenge!

But, for there to be revenge, he needed to survive. To survive this night and more to come. There was no chance of a fire tonight. Abelard had not but his undertunic. No food, no Firestarter, no weapon. Should he re-trace his tracks and find the sword he had dropped? “No. Foolish to turn back when someone is tracking you. So no warmth of a fire for you, Abelard. So… Lesson time.”

“How do you stay warm without fire, Abelard?”, he barked to himself in his best impression of Kendir Aerik. “Keep moving. Keep eating. Keep yourself off the cold ground when you rest!”, he chanted in singalong school response. Every kid, even Abelard, knew that staying warm in Fjordheim’s cold climate was the single most key to staying alive if you were lost. Well… Tonight Abelard would get to see if Kendir Aerik actually knew what he was talking about.

Abelard started forward again, Keeping moving while he looked for food, for shelter, for cover… Rubbing his arms and legs as he went. Peering about as he made his way through the woods, Abelard searched for, and finally found, what he was after. A Pine tree, boughs heavy with snow, but center untouched and still mostly dry. Careful not to shake the limbs and dislodge their burden, he climbed up off the cold ground and curled himself up in as tight a ball as he could to retain heat and, freezing and frightened, eventually drifted to sleep.

Dawn came, seemingly moments later, and an exhausted and chilled to the bone Abelard climbed down and began running in circles to regain blood flow. “Keep moving. Keep eating. Keep yourself off the ground when you rest!”, he chanted to himself, with a lot less sarcasm than the night before. Once warmed up at least to the point of hips and shoulders not aching in pain, Abelard checked the position of the dawn light and continued his long trek towards Fjordheim.

Foraging as he went, Abelard managed a fine breakfast of harsh, sour winter berries, wild winter lettuce leaf, and a bitter tuber that didn’t so much count as food as it did just fill the stomach and stop it from rumbling.

Surrounded by winter woods, and the occasional call of animals, Abelard still could not shake the feeling that he was being followed…. Being watched even. It was… Uncomfortable. It was hard to pause to forage, to rest, to empty his bowels even. Not a moment passed where he did not feel like one of the night raid soldiers was about to leap from the trees to grab him. And yet…

And yet the shadows were where Abelard felt the safest. So he made his way in fits and starts, darting from one canopy shadow to another, ever watchful for a sign of whatever it is that was watching him. Numerous times, as he paused in shadow to search around, he thought he heard something. A distant cry. A call. A whisper. Yet never did he spot any sign of his pursuer… If indeed there was one and it was not all in his head.

Eventually, finally, the steps of Fjordheim came into sight, and Abelard stopped at the wood line edge to assess his options. As always, stopping reminded him how cold he was. Seemingly frozen to the bone, it was almost startling when he looked at his arms and legs to Not find icicles growing from them. With a frown he realized he could not recall the last time he had actually been able to feel the pain in his fingers and toes. That… That was probably not a good thing at all. He needed warmth. He needed protection. He needed clothing.

Abelard spied one of the nearby squatter campsites set up on the plateau by the Stairs that had some furs and cheap clothing hung out to dry between snowfalls, and carefully made his way towards it. “Just act normal. You’re just another squatter out for a walk. Nothing to see here. Just an ordinary guy on an ordinary walk!”, he muttered, praying not to be noticed by any of the few people out and about.

He almost stumbled and fell when one of the squatters nearby looked his way but, though the man obviously saw him, he made no move other than the barest of nods before glancing away again. Abelard did not stop to wonder on his luck, on why the man would say nothing about a dirty, half-starved and three-quarters frozen boy stumbling into town. He simply continued on his way, watching the camp in question for movement.

Luck continued to perch on his shoulder, for there was no movement in the campsite, and no one in view to see him as he grabbed trousers, tunic, and furs and continued onwards. Not pausing until he passed around a corner and out of site of the camp, and sure he was going to feel a heavy hand on his shoulder stopping him at any moment, Abelard made his way to a shadowed alley and quickly tossed on the clothing and furs, gasping out loud at the instant respite from the wind and sighing as the furs began to collect and return his bodyheat. Ah, Gods. Had warmth always felt this good?

It was Heaven… Absolute Heav…. “Oh ow… Oh ow ow ow ow ow!” he hopped from foot to foot and rubbed his hands as two days of feelings all returned to them at once…. Dancing on the heads of hot needles. “Blood and bloody ashes that hurts!”

Eventually the pain subsided and normal feeling returned, and with it the realization that he was standing there in stolen clothes and doing his best impression of a dancing court Jester.

Straightening his tunic and trousers and trying to make himself look presentable, Abelard startled as he glanced down at his feet. His bare feet… that looked like they were in boots? He had not taken boots, and assuredly had not put any on... yet looking down at his feet, there they were… booted.

He reached down and could feel his bare toes, yet the image persisted. What on Helvger? Abelard quickly looked around and found a nearby puddle he could stand over and look into. And so he did. Yet, the face that looked back at him looked nothing like Abelard. Nothing at all. Older, rounder, plainer… Just all around…. Ordinary. “Just an ordinary guy on an ordinary walk!”, Abelard repeated his earlier prayer to himself in confusion as his hands felt his own face but clearly showed another. “Did I?... What did?...How?”

The sound of voices coming nearer broke Abelard out of his astounded confusion and, with a startled hop, he turned and continued on his way toward the famed Fjordheim Giant Stairs. “Sure wish these pretend boots came with some pretend heat!”, he managed with a chuckle.

Stairs of six feet per step, carved with incredible precision, and still remarkably intact despite being weather warn from centuries of exposure to the elements, the Fjordheim Giant's Stairs were still awe inspiring to behold. .Like the hundred other traveler’s taking their first steps upon the Fjordheim stairs, Abelard couldn’t help but stop for a minute and stare downward, where the massive stone steps descended into the Shroud below. What was down there? What would it be like to stand below the shroud… To see all that Humanity had left behind?

With a final glance down the tiered stone stairs, Abelard turned, made his way to the rougher hewn small stairs that had more recently been carved into the side of the mountain, and made the remaining climb up to Fjordheim proper.

**

In Fjordheim, days passed with Abelard wandering about the city, unable to come to terms with the changes in his life, and without a hint of what to do about it all. His attempt to rouse the City Guard hadn’t resulted in anything more than a sore cheek and a dirty bum, as the guard backhanded him to get him to quit pestering him with fairytales. His trip to town hall ended before it even began, with him being escorted out the minute he started talking about Trollansby. He was met with a wall of unconcern. With responses of "Horrible business, that. But done is done." With armed escort out to the street. With anything but any ideas of what to do next.

It came as quite a shock, yet a profound relief, when young Abelard learned he could control whatever magics it was that were allowing him to create these masks to disguise himself. The ability to change his appearance, combined with what he discovered to his own delight to be a not so small fraction of acting talent, saw him through a number of close calls as he “borrowed” what he needed to survive.

Equally wonderous, and amazing, was learning that he could also summon forth a weapon to hand when needed. And not by sleight of hand from a hidden pocket like the travelling ‘magicians’. Literally summon… Out of nowhere, a dark, shadowy weapon. It truly looked as if it was made of shadow itself, and weighed as little as well. At first, he was only able to call it forth in dire need, but with time, and practice, it became a simple act of focus.

Several times, Abelard’s newfound ability to become someone new and not seem out of place, combined with the ability to defend, (Or threaten to defend), himself, allowed the young refugee to carve out a place for himself in the city. Yet, every time, that sense of being chased, of being hunted, pushed him to leave and find a new corner to hide in. Abelard could swear that, in the darkest nights, as he relived the attack on his village and his fleeing, he could even hear voices… Or…. A voice? *Yessss.*, the whispers would follow him, *Remember them!* *Do not lose hope.*

And, somehow, even though he was reliving the worst possible moment he could ever experience, even though some strange impossible voice seemed to be speaking at him from the shadows, even though he cried himself to sleep, surrounded by the mental images of fallen and dead loved ones…. Even though all these things…. It, somehow, helped ease the pain and helped him get through the grief. With every telling, the mind bending, body freezing, all encompassing pain of the loss receded. With every, step by step, walkthrough of the night’s events, the young Half-Elf’s loss turned to numbness, his fear into anger, his cowardly escape into a burning demand for Vengeance.

And Yet… And Yet… Abelard well knew that he could not return. He could not face seeing Trollansby, face witnessing the buried dead.

And still, the sense that he was being hunted persisted. Abelard crept about the city, finding hiding place after hiding place. But, days or weeks later, he would again feel the hunting presence. He would again succumb to the urge to flee. And so he would run. Some time later, (Was it Months?, Years? Tracking time seemed meaningless to the young Half Elf), Abelard ran out of city to hide in next, and he began looking for his next way out.

Fjordheim was no longer safe… It was time to take to the skies.

***