Morana raised a frostbitten and poorly bandaged hand to shield her eyes from the snow glare. The road to Hallthor is lined with frozen hovels of squat stone, blending into the terrain as the craggy peaks of southern Thiudoricus give way to rocky tundra of the north. Rather than farmers tirelessly toiling in the permafrost, the plow has been replaced by the pickaxe, with peasant miners digging up their gardens that hold no hope of bearing a harvest in search of ore and gems, pedaling their finds to unwitting travelers taken in by the novelty.
She was a queer site in the northern land, lean and rather short, though not gaunt, her skin paper white with ebon hair holding a slight curl, and glittering blue eyes like ancient glacial ice. The Thiudoricans by contrast were a statuesque people, towering over most other humans on the continent, with hulking bodies seemingly chiseled from stone or having the build of a walrus, concealing power beneath thick hide and rotundity from too much ale, with voluminous beards and too hairy arms. They were a fair people, fair of skin, hair and eye, though known for a hardy nature and suspicion of those from outside their mountain borders.
Morana raised her stiff hands to shield her face from the frigid gust that whipped up shards of ice from the packed snow drifts. She shivered with each step, the white blouse and black, pleated pinafore dress was common summer wear for students of The Academy at Asketill and would be fitting anywhere else on the continent; only the northern nation of Thiudoricus had no concept of summer, being a kingdom cursed by never ending winter, the entirety of their habitable land blanketed in snow all year long. She adjusts the canvas guitar case upon her shoulders, raising a frozen hand to shield her face from another sudden gale and flecks of ice.
The city of eternal winter, Hallthor, was known for many things, its countless virgin mines, storied culture, immeasurable wealth, and a chapter of the Black Mage Society. Mostly, it was a draw for alchemists seeking to peruse the nations stock of rare and valuable minerals, or geomancers seeking employment in the kingdom’s greenhouses. Aside from that specific demographic, few saw need to travel to such an inhospitable land. Traders and merchants perhaps, the occasional missionary attempting to convert the heathen masses to The Order of Dawn, and of course the mercenaries seeking fortune and glory in the lawless lands of Xanavene to the east. However, it was not the allure of riches or the safe haven of the Mages guild that drew Morana, rather, war torn Xanavene was her final destination, Hallthor was merely a place of brief respite to gather supplies.
Her journey had been a circuitous one, traveling the Rivers of Aes Sidhe north to the mountainous border, travelling across the Blasted Wastes of Niflhel by carriage, at least until her money ran out, finally walking one-hundred miles across the tundra towards the capitol of the kingdom of Thiudoricus.
On the verge of collapse, her heart quickened at the sight of the great stone walls surrounding the city built upon the slopes of Mount Fenrir. As if on their own, her frozen legs in thin lace stockings had carried her to the ice slick cobblestone streets of Hallthor. Morana’s stiff, frostbitten limbs carried her through the city, past gawking locals dressed in warm furs and ostentatious jewels. She weaved her way up the road towards the hope of food and lodging.
The sound of several unfamiliar tongues being spoken at once snapped her from her fugue, as she found her herself surrounded by mages dressed in the thick winter cloaks of the Academy. They huddled around enchanted flames floating betwixt circles of five or more under the building eves. A “No Vacancy” sign was tacked upon the door, and a hired sword stood guard.
Morana squeezed passed a gaggle of mages and peered inside through a window. Students were packed onto sofas and huddled in sleeping sacks on the floor. Her heart sank as she stood shivering in the cold, watching dinner being served inside.
Morana dusted the snow from her shoulders with numb limbs and confidently approached the door, only to find her path blocked by the doorman’s muscular arm.
“Hey lady!” one of the mages shouted. “No cutting in line!”
“I have a reservation.” Morana sputtered through chattering teeth.
The doorman rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his barrel chest. “Funny, we don’t take reservations. Its first come first served. Now wait in line or go try one of the inns.”
Morana tried to force her way past, but was easily rebuffed, falling hard upon the frozen cobblestone street. As she began to mutter a hex under her breath, the hired sword smiled and pulled an amulet to ward off curses from under his cloak. With a begrudging swear, she stood and turned back towards the city square.
Despite the cold, the streets are bustling with activity, finely dressed individuals wrapped in furs and gratuitous amounts of jewelry trudge through the snow. Many passersby stare and gossip about the inadequately dressed mage standing in the middle of the lane, but none stop. Laughter catches the mages attention, and she stiffly turns towards the commotion. A tavern radiating warmth and cheer practically called out to her by name. Its gilded sign swung in the faint, arctic breeze, The Autumn’s Tint of Gold.
