Krogenar's Trip: Chapter 13
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Othello kept his distance from the newcomer.
He'd done the same himself - thieving from a thief.

"Come now, no need to be nervous..." Kalamar advanced slowly.

Othello, tall and fair-haired, put his cold weather gear back on, always keeping his eye on this other one. He was human, and didn't seem to wish to take The Eye - but he couldn't take a chance.Kalamar held his hands apart, trying to calm the younger thief.

"If you're worried about your treasure... it's yours."

"Aye, it is! What do you know of it?"

After some time, the two thieves spoke; Kalamar telling Othello

Kalamar nodded, "Aye, but I am a member - and they need me."
The older thief explained...

"The Church of Mysteries is charged with discovering, and protecting mysteries - the ultimate mystery of course, being 'The Art ... commonly called magic. It allows us to manipulate The Weave." Othello nodded, beginning to understand.

"But all knowledge is precious to us. But aside from discovering new magic, we must _preserve_ what secrets we have..." Othello started to understand... he looked back at the entrance to the crypt. 

"And what of me? The Eye is still mine!" Kalamar shrugged, continued, "Before I was a Mystran..."

"... I was a masterful thief. But I tired of stealing coins, and useless trinkets. I began to discover that the ultimate commodity was knowledge - information." Smiling at the younger thief, he said, "You know, perhaps, of what I speak?"

Othello paled - pulled his dagger, held it outwards from him, his other hand outstretched. "Back! Give it back!" Kalamar tossed it to him high in the air, above his head.

Othello snatched the gem out of the air above his head, never taking his eyes or his daggerpoint away from Kalamar. Impressed, Kalamar smiled at Othello, continued walking towards him.

Yet, somehow, it did not seem to shine so brightly, did not seem quite so valuable anymore... but it was HIS nonetheless! Kalamar stopped following him, but continued to speak. "As a thief, I know best how to guard secrets against thieves!"

"THAT is my service to Mystra!"

Othello turned, and ran into The Waste, back to civilization.

But the older man's words echoed in his ears.

"Stop hunting shiny bits of metal... Hunt for Mysteries!"

.........................

That night, as Othello slept, his saddlebag held tightly to his chest, 'The Eye' secured in several layers of clothing within it, the saddlebag crumpled slightly. 

........................

In a dark tavern in Torregiano, a mercenary sat in a booth, groping at a drunken barmaid, unworking the lacings of her corset as she laughed. He never noticed his dagger slipping from its sheath. Floating beneath the oaken table, it began etching words into the wood, writing directions, shadowed hints... it slid back into its sheath.

........................

The librarian snored, facedown in a large book. He awoke, the letters from the script faintly visible on his face. He heard a scratching. Looking about, he could see no one among the stacks of books. He shrugged, and went back to sleep. Back in the stacks, a red quill danced across a page, writing in the margins. Its task done, it dropped, and the book snapped shut, floating to the top of the bookcase, and waited to be found. Waiting to direct the next potential Mystran to his or her test.

........................

As the ceiling arose in the chamber of Kashoon-Amun, a flickering appeared in the finger tips of the statue... which waited patiently.

Next Chapters... The Wendigo
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Krogenar's Trip: Chapter 14
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Leaning into the wind, the strider pulled his coat closer around his face, shielding it from the stinging shards of windborne ice.

The features of The Waste?

None. Just a flat white monotony that stretched on... the distant mountains were the only landmark, and Krogenar often peeked up at them, fixing his path on a particular peak... using it to orient himself.

He'd accomplished at least two goals on his trip so far.
One, he'd found his prey - another strider for his Church.

Sammian would be a fine addition to The Order of the Shooting Star.

Second, he was sure he had broken out of the peaceful boredom that had gripped him in the Forest of Mysteries. He had felt regret at having to deceive Sammian about the settlers.

They had not had a chance to survive. Unfortunate, but true.

Those foolish settlers, trying to cross The Waste - just to save some traveling time.

But of all his goals, one still eluded him.

He still had not found 'The Way'.

The halforc grinned spitefully against the wind, his teeth bared.

He felt as though some force sought to hold him back -  

something more than the wind, something that hid from him.Since learning from his fellow Mystrans the true nature of The Rok, that it was not Lord Ao's desire to destroy them all, but to destroy his accursed "apprentice" - he had thought long and hard on what could be done to save the Realms.

There was the Sword Prophecy, of course.

Legend stated that if the five elemental blades of Ragnarok were brought together in the Templ of Light (which had never been found) - The Apprentice would be destroyed, and The Rok would fade.

If someone of evil brought the blades together... the world would be plunged into death.

Krogenar had put more stock in throwing pebbles at The Rok.

The people who held the Swords would never part with them, let alone allow them to come together to stop The Rok.

So he had his own plan.

At first he was too stunned about the nature of the Great Realms.

"A bubble... a sort of wall..." Grandal had tried to explain.

At the elder Mystran's words, the strider's thoughts had burned.

Wall, barrier, call it whatever you wished. It was a cage.

Bits and pieces of Grandal's words had pierced his thinkings.

"The original founders of this world passed through.."

After calming himself over the thought of being caged, he had eventually warmed to another thought. The thought of other, newer lands, just beyond that barrier.

And while The Rok blazed overhead, The Way could also provide...
... other opportunities. There were always the Mysteries to protect.

He could see in his mind's eye, the squabbling and fighting that would come at the end, when The Rok began its final descent. But he and His Own would survive it, carrying themselves and whatever Secrets that could be carried with them.

And in another sense... it was the greatest challenge he could strive for as a strider. He had always found a path. Whether it was over a mountain, across a river, or about some other geographical obstacle - he had always found some Way.

Peering inside his pack, a scroll, neatly rolled, with a blob of wax sealing it. 

The Harper Sigil was upon it.

Strange. He turned back again into the wind, determined to make a shelter, in which to rest, and read this message. No trees, no rocky outcroppings. Just a plain of stark white.

Kneeling into the snow, Krogenar pulled his heavier gloves over his usual fingerless gloves, and began digging.

Krogenar's Trip: Chapter 15
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He pulled the last block of ice into position, lodging his ice knife and ice hammer between the joints - in case it should freeze over during the course of the night.

Krogenar removed a ball of continual light from his pack. Dirty from years of use (why discard what was useful?) the strider rubbed the dirt from it, brightening the small shelter's interior.

After settling himself on an icy ledge he had leveled out, the strider ripped into a bit of beef jerky, unrolling the mysterious Harper Scroll.

He dipped it gingerly into the ink well, he began to write in small block letters...

Jovik -

Good travels to you Harper.
You have assumd korectly. The sities are already Evil.
It would be best, I think, to remain at the edges of sosiete.
That is where we hav opirated in the past.
I do not think we can destroy our Foes.
We must survive against them.

The frontier towns represent new places, and new people.

The halforc paused... considered the letter.

The Harpers and his Church had always preferred to work behind the scenes. But this new Faction, The Pax Faerunis... ... it would have to be out in the open.

He ended in the traditional strider fashion.

Keep your eyes on the Horizon, and your nose to the Wind.

Your Friend, -K.

He crumpled it in his hands then, packing it into a tight ball. 

Grasping the ball of light, he placed it in his pack.

In the darkness, he shivered, then slept, and dreamt of The Way.

Wrenching on his ice hammer, the strider cracked the ice that surrounded it.

Having loosened the key block of ice, he used his second ice hammer to hook onto the other side of the block. The halforc dug his heels in, and pulled.

Stowing his hammers in his belt, he surveyed the distant mountains, sighting along the mountain peak he had selected for his navigation point.

He strapped his snowshoes on, tested them on the packed snow, and then set out, keeping the mountain peak directly ahead of him. He started trotting along, keeping his eyes on the snow ahead, peering up at the peak every few minutes, correcting his direction when needed.

As he ran, a ghostly image began to form in the distance - a shape.

As the drifting snow moved like a curtain around it, he saw the rectangular shape of it.

Veering towards it, he squinted. It was the ice-rimed shape of a collapsed wagon.

The settlers he had spotted days before. Or what was left.

"... useful gear... food... maybe new snowshoes ..." he thought, and felt ghoulish for thinking it - his decision not to aid them only worsening the feeling.

Krogenar's Trip: Chapter 17
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Staying low to the ground, the strider skirted the edge of a snow drift, extending his senses outward. Even in the chill air, his nose picked apart the various smells.

...... leather... wood... oil ... flesh ... rust ...

His ears twitched... no noise. Just the wind and the sound of ice skittering across the ground. Emerging from hiding, the half-orc advanced on the wagon, some 50 yards away yet.

The rear of the wagon was crusted over with a wrinkled skin of ice.

Sunken into the snow, like some beast that had fallen to its side, its wheels lay frozen into the permafrost - shipwrecked against an icy shore.

Krogenar looked into the black opening of the fabric that closed off the wagon. The sheet of canvas flapped in the wind, small icicles hanging from the ropes, where they hung free.

"Opened." he thought. But relaced from within.

Crouching, he touched the snowy ground. Small shoeprints led away from the wagon, after circling it somewhat. Squinting at them, they seemed smallish.

"Young adult... adolescent mayhap...." But strange. A normal shoe - but whoever wore them walked toe to heel. "An injury? No." Not like an injury. An injured persons tracks often showed signs of sliding, a dragging of the injured limb. Not this 'toe-walker'.

Circling the wagon, he followed the small tracks to the front of the wagon.

Grimacing, he met the still face of the driver. In his early forties, he was frozen to the seat, his hands still clutching the reins. Hunched in on himself, the driver lay to one side across the driving bench, its springs rusted over.

His eyes were shut, as though sleeping. Strange again. Krogenar had come face to face with many a wide-eyed ice-corpse. Their eyes stayed open.

Krogenar pulled himself onto the bench beside the driver - the wood creaked - brittle from the cold. Holding his face over the drivers face, the lids were pinched shut. Closed by the toe-walker.

Disarray all about. Belongings hurled into a pile within. Signs of a struggle.

Could toe-walker have been a thief of some kind.. a scavenger?

Sensible enough to take the belongings of the dead, but kind enough to close their eyes on The Waste?

No.

He couldn't smell it, hear it or touch it... but 'toe-walker' had draped the blanket over the female shape. A mother? Turning his head slightly to the driver, he knew.

It was their child that had left this deathtrap. The strider imagined the struggle within, the thrusting of equipment into the child's hands. No food left.

Leagues ago, he had seen their wagon, and had applied the Grim Arithmetic.

And those rules of survival had predicted this result.

Foolish of them to attempt a crossing. And all just to save 6 weeks travel time. Guilt washed over Krogenar. He snapped himself back to the moment.

The wind howled out at him, singing, "the tracks will be gone soon...."

He left the wagon, and set out after the toe-walker.

Krogenar's Trip: Chapter 18
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Giving little regard to the terrain about him, Krogenar picked up his pace.

In this storm, the tracks would disappear soon. His breath came out in ragged white clouds, his hair was wet, clinging to his face where it was not bound.

Hugging himself, the strider let the increased pace warm him. But his sweat was collecting in his clothing - chilling him. In a short time, he’d have to stop,

and change his clothing, allow himself to dry out. When that happened, his search for “Toe-Walker” would be over. There would be no surviving the storm without shelter. The tracks were very faint now. He gave himself another hour of searching.

He stopped.

In the distance, a short, dark humanoid shape was visible between the wafting ice dust. Krogenar squinted. ‘Toe-Walker’ was moving away.

He hurried to catch up, yelling out. The figure turned, still indistinct.

A sick dread began inching its way into Krogenar’s gut, twisting at his innards.

Looking about himself, he could not spot the mountains he had used for navigation. Everything was a white cloud about him. But his senses told him he was moving deeper into the storm. Was he led here by “Toe-Walker”?

The ground between them arched slightly. He rushed over the distance - eager to end the chase, and take the child to safety.

On his first stride, his leg passed through the thin layer of ice and snow -

shattering it.

In a curtain of ice and snow, he fell. His arms reached out into nothing. There was a moment of silence - only wind in his ears.

Krogenar’s body glanced off the edge of the ravine, knocking the breath from him. Limply, his torso spun sideways from the impact.

With a sickening *crumping* sound, he landed on the bottom of the ravine.

His face smashed downwards against the rock-like ice. Blood jetted from his nose. Chunks of ice tumbled down the icy ramp, settling atop him.

The strider remained still.

His head shaking, Krogenar turned his head from the floor, peered through watery eyes at the edge of the ravine, at least 30 feet above.

“The Wendigo.” he thought dreamily.

“Needing a companion for your journey through the skies, eh?”

Putting one hand to the floor, he pushed to raise himself...

... and screamed.

Falling back down from the pain, he turned his head as far back as it would go. The strider’s legs lay behind him, twisted at a crazy angle, a grey-white spur of bone peeking from his thigh.

A dry sob gripped him. A sharp intake of breath - he could not breathe out.

Nausea.

It had been a trick. The Wendigo, that malevolent spirit, had needed a companion. Luring travelers to their deaths, legend stated that it would take its victims into the sky, walking the winds, visiting distant, unknown lands.

It then discarded them at a great height. Their feet burned away by the walking, they were found deep in the snow drifts, frozen solid.

Turning to the where he had seen it, Krogenar gasped - the creature was now on the ravine floor, only moments later. Pulling himself away, the pain in his leg overwhelmed him, and he collapsed.