Posts from Snowy tale.

Winter. A time for magic, fulfilling the most diverse desires, both bright... and not so much.

The carefree season has passed; the hour of frosts has come, capable of driving even the strongest lads into their small dwellings. Frozen rivers, whose beauty is a delight to behold, snowy roads traversed by swift sleighs, trees sleeping under a white blanket. The majestic hand of winter completely covers Ethelflad – a town located on the very edge of the great Hreiwood forest. Evening has already claimed its rightful place; the streets are lit with thousands of bright lights, and people caught off guard by the blizzard hurry home, seeking warmth and comfort.
I feel that my focused gaze will be quite welcome; there is unstable magic in the air, ready to close the balance of natural forces at any moment. Only the Creator knows what might happen if something like this occurs. Ah, I worry too much about these natural phenomena. Every year, magic freezes in tension, ready to break free from control, thereby contributing to the appearance of new gray hairs among us, the guardians. It's just another incompletely understood natural phenomenon, nothing more; it is probably somehow related to the cold.
A meteor shower. Burning clumps of light rush towards the earth, leaving behind a shimmering bluish trail—a truly stunning sight. Countless wishes will be made tonight, romantic, silly, touching, unfulfilled. Fortunately, these are just sweet fairy tales whispered by loved ones under the cover of night. It’s frightening to even imagine what would happen if every wish made at this moment were granted.

Part One.
In which a blizzard grants the heroes many unforgettable moments.

The horses ran forward cheerfully, effortlessly pulling a large sleigh carrying four men frozen to the bone. The snowstorm had subsided slightly, replaced by heavy snowfall; it grew darker as night slowly descended upon the land. In the distance, the lights of a city were already visible, full of inns eager to welcome weary travelers from the long and cold road into their warm embrace. The driver, releasing puffs of steam through a thick scarf, hummed an old song, barely audible over the creaking of the sleigh and the thud of hooves on the packed snow. Oben, sitting beside him, dozed with his eyes closed. After a sleepless night at camp, the journey had finally exhausted him. A dissatisfied Arandor, unlike the shaman who looked around in admiration and didn't even bother to cover his head with a hood, tried to shield himself as much as possible with warm clothes, ignoring the beauty of nature. The merchant had already mentally reproached himself countless times for the reckless decision to travel to the city by sleigh. It was fortunate that same loyal bodyguard Oben was nearby, who did not hesitate to voice all these reproaches several times at every stop. It was regrettable that this was the only way to reach the destination before the New Year. But it was heartening that there was very little left to travel—another hour, perhaps two—and then warmth, comfort, delicious food, wine, and sleep in a dry, soft bed. And already the next day, by direct road with one of the trade caravans that had arrived here the day before, straight to the capital.

Descending the hill, the sleigh turned off the main road into the darkness of the forest, where a narrow corridor of trees was visible leading directly to the city. To the question of an anxious Arandor, the driver said that all local residents used this path, shortening a considerable distance. By the time Oben woke from his slumber—who certainly would not have allowed such a thing—it was already too late to turn back. There was barely enough light to distinguish the road ahead, so the shaman had to call upon magical lights for help, which flitted chaotically around the sleigh. Everyone except the cheerfully muttering driver was tense. The trees were replaced at certain intervals by snow-covered clearings and ravines; forks in the road repeatedly led them deeper and deeper into the forest. There was no longer any way to determine which direction the city lay, so deeply they had become entangled in this dark weave of snowy landscapes.
Around another bend, a small house appeared, its window glowing with a dim light and thin smoke drifting from its chimney. One could only guess who lived there. At some point, it became clear that the road ended here; beyond stood only an endless forest, which by this moment had completely plunged into darkness. Neebo suddenly grabbed the driver by the collar, demanding explanations, but it was too late. From behind the cozy little house appeared armed men in black cloaks. The driver whipped out a knife from under his cape and slashed blindly a couple of times, only to put the elf at a disadvantage, after which he managed to strike his opponent in the chest with both feet, sending him flying from the sleigh into the snow. The shaman, prepared to fight back with magic, suddenly found himself face-to-face with a man armed with a pistol, a rifle, two swords, a dagger, a dozen throwing knives, and three incendiary hand bombs. The brigand smirked under his hood, pointing the loaded rifle in his direction. There was a reason the thug named Yashchur was called "the Malicious"; hardly any villain in all of Khreyuode was more heavily armed than he. Without wasting time, two robbers climbed into the sleigh, unceremoniously throwing the former passengers into the snow and leaning over the fur-covered chest. The treacherous driver deftly jumped onto the box, tore the hood from his head to reveal copper hair sticking out in all directions, and shouted a spirited song. Hurrying out of the house, a cheat known in narrow circles dropped something shiny into the snow but only cursed filthily, having no time for searching. With a shout, the driver snapped the whip; the sleigh suddenly bolted, racing away into the darkness of the forest.



A loud knocking filled the cramped servants' room; someone was hammering very insistently on the door. Jumping from bed and barely managing to throw on a thin blanket, Drakkoshka ran to open it. The mistress, greatly agitated by something, immediately began to chatter rapidly. Through the annoying remnants of a dreamy sleep that she did not want to leave at all, the maid made out the following: the lady's son had caught a severe cold while running with friends to see a fallen star; the local doctor had unexpectedly vanished somewhere, so they must run to Lady Drake and ask her to send hers; the star fell right in the city!
Quickly getting ready, Drakkoshka threw a yellow fur cloak over her shoulders and ran out into the night streets of the city. Despite the late hour, there were quite a few curious citizens going to see the stunning event. The girl very much wanted to join them, but disobeying an important errand from her mistress was completely unacceptable. Running along the lantern-lit path, she quickly encountered a group of guards moving slowly toward her. Turning onto a smaller street, the maid ran through dark courtyards, where after a couple of blocks she collided with another person rushing about their own business. It was a real collision; appearing from around a corner, the man rushed past, knocking the unfortunate victim of his unpunctuality into a snowdrift. Red with anger, she stood up and continued walking, stomping indignantly.
Running onto the porch of the Drake mansion, the girl carefully rang the bell. A minute later, a familiar maid opened for her. It seemed the lady was receiving guests; a lively conversation was taking place in the main hall. Upon learning of the sudden problem of her high-society friend, Lady Neyra Drake ordered that the doctor be summoned, who had been busy studying a medical treatise in the library. Politely inquiring with Drakkoshka about the current affairs of her mistress, Lady Neyra mentioned a shining stone that had fallen from the heavens straight into the establishment of a respected baker. Bowing out, the girl rushed onto the street, but instead of returning to her mistress, she decided at all costs to see the fallen star with her own eyes.
Finding the site of the fall was not difficult, as a crowd of people had gathered around the small bakery whose yard had hosted such an extraordinary phenomenon. After fifteen minutes of pushing, the girl managed to get into the front rows, from where she could discern a translucent, shining snow-white object with many sharp angles. Near the "star," the city mage and a general were arguing about something; several guards prevented citizens from getting closer. Besides the representatives of authority, a southern Sorceress was allowed to examine the mineral; placing her large staff on the ground, she sat on her knees right on the cold snow. Her companion seemed not as interested in studying the stone; he was more concerned with a far less global but certainly more pressing matter regarding a glass of wine and a soothingly crackling fireplace.
Despite it being dark and the offender having quickly vanished from sight, Drakkoshka still recognized her recent tormentor in the southern warrior. A malicious plan for retribution was already spinning in her head; her teeth chattered with impatience—though perhaps from the cold, one couldn't tell immediately. All that remained was to wait for the right moment for her countermove.
The Sorceress began explaining something to the mage who had approached her, occasionally tapping her staff on the ground. General Naver gave orders to the guards and departed for home. The crowd slowly began to disperse, having seen enough of the beautiful pebble, especially since the shop owner was extremely dissatisfied with the nighttime raid on his premises. The southerner, already yawning widely, was deep in thought, waiting for his companion to finish her business conversation. A sticky cold ball, fashioned with all her heart and accurately thrown by the enraged maid into his face, disoriented the guy for a few seconds, causing him to involuntarily take a step back, trip, and fall straight onto the shining mineral.
— Fail! — the Sorceress said sternly, shocked by her companion's antics. — Get up, immediately! Do not damage the gemstone!
The business-like Sorceress had already managed to classify the previously unseen magical phenomenon as a "gemstone," now trying to convince the mage of the correctness of her assertion. Smoothing his short beard, Ment only smiled, agreeing that "gemstone" sounded quite appropriate. No one thought that direct human contact with the stone would cause any unexpected consequences; even when Siver-fail, burning with a thirst for vengeance, jumped to his feet, the sorcerers did not notice the large crack in the object of study.
— Now then, who did this?! — the man shouted.
Elated by her excellent throw, which was unexpected even to herself, Drakkoshka did not see how the children standing nearby all pointed their fingers at her. Throwing back his hood and fully demonstrating his dark face to those around him, the southerner jumped toward the girl, demanding explanations. Planting her fists on her hips, the maid expressed all her thoughts regarding the lack of manners of city guests arriving from distant lands, but, of course, forgot to mention the original reason for her action. Siver-fail, who had most certainly seen this insufferable maiden for the first time, knew nothing about having sent someone into a snowdrift while rushing to a meeting and being late for the second time in twenty-four hours. The most fascinating conversation could have ended with various mutual revelations, but fate decreed otherwise. A blinding flash, a crack, a metallic smell in the air, and thus only a handful of silvery ash remained of the fallen star. Those present could not tear their gaze away from the remains of the wonderful gift from the heavens for a long time, unable to believe their eyes. In the small crowd, people began to whisper, pointing toward the couple who had been arguing moments ago.
— Extremely sad! — Ment said with regret, then shifted his gaze to the presumed culprits and added with a smile: — We will have to detain you until the end of the investigation, please understand correctly. Guards!



Standing up from the wooden chair, Oben tossed a couple more logs into the fireplace, glanced briefly toward Arandor who was rummaging through a huge chest, and sat back down. On the table, among chaotically scattered playing cards, wooden mugs, dirty plates, and chicken bones, stood a bottle of Dirty’s that was almost half full. The negociant had forbidden touching this vile swill, but his will on this matter held no significant authority. Still not wishing to quarrel unnecessarily, Oben assumed the appearance of a tired soldier uninterested in drink. But as soon as Arandor plunged headfirst into the chest, the elven warrior easily secured the bottle for himself, taking a substantial gulp. Enjoying the pleasant warmth spreading through his body, he closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them, it turned out that the shaman had returned from his educational night walk.
According to what nature told the forest caster, there was an inhabited hut a kilometer from here. It was time to think about how to reach it across the snowy wilderness when the wind blew with such force that one had to hold hoods in place by hand. The elven ambassador needed to arrive at the trade guild as soon as possible; therefore, desperate measures had to be taken. Due to his craving for comfort, he had already lost a valuable artifact that was in the chest lying in the sleigh—a magical cloak protecting the owner from temperatures that were too low or, conversely, too high. Money, about 100 coins taken just in case, spare clothes, a bottle of good elven wine—all this had gone to wretched bandits. Since nature could be of no help this time, they would have to resort to the aid of another, far less ordinary power. Sighing heavily, Arandor asked his subordinates to leave the hut.
Once they had disappeared behind the door, he removed a pendant in the shape of a tiny claw from his chest and cut his finger with it. Having absorbed enough blood, the pendant slowly began to turn black. Clenching it in his fist, the elf recited an ancient spell. The wooden floor before him smoked, hissed, and erupted in a fountain of fire, summoning a terrible demonic creature into the material world. A master-trickster, an adept of deception and gambling, dressed according to the latest fashion—the demon Ple’Sen responded to the call. Looking around, he demonstratively pulled a red handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to his nose, despite the fact that there was no smell at all in the hut.
— Where have you brought me, Arandor? — the demon asked displeasedly.
It didn't take long to explain; within five minutes, all four were standing outside. Spreading his wings, the demon flew into the skies. Feeling no cold, he could remain in the frost without additional clothing for as much time as he wished, provided, of course, that his contract with the summoner remained in force. After making a small circle, Ple’Sen descended to the elves who had already managed to freeze. Pointing the direction, the demon erected a small shield protecting from the wind and the severity of the cold, which also melted the snow underfoot so that they would not sink too deeply.
Despite the warm clothing, the magical shield, and the relative proximity of the goal, the travelers reached the hut frozen through. After insistent knocking, the door opened, revealing to the travelers' sight a surprised hunter. A large black-and-white dog ran outside, barking at the demon hiding behind a long cloak. The hunter turned out to be Imaris Moon, who had absolutely not expected guests at night, especially pedestrians, and in such weather. Introducing himself, Arandor briefly—as quickly as he could manage—told the hunter, who showed no desire to let them across the threshold, about the misfortune that had happened to them. After prolonged evasions, Imaris did eventually have a cart in his possession, which he mostly used for transporting pelts for sale, pulled by a single stern gray horse.
After long persuasion and generous promises, Imaris finally agreed to yield it to them. But he demanded the return of the cart along with the horse no later than twenty-four hours later. Finally saying goodbye to the hunter, they sat on the cold bottom of the hunting carriage, leaving the control to the shaman. Sensing the caster of nature, the horse snorted approvingly and moved from its spot.



The night turned out sleepless for the academy; sorcerers and scholars were completely absorbed in discussing the incident. It was established that the so-called "gemstone" (a mineral of unknown structure and origin) was nothing other than a concentrate of magical energy, very unstable by its nature. In addition to all this, the "jewel" did not influence active spells in the best way, including the transmission of long-distance messages. Thus, communication with the capital, as well as all other cities of Khreyuode, was lost.
The released prisoners were brought straight into Ment's office, where he, allowing himself a minute of idleness, was smoking a pipe in an armchair. Asking them to sit at the table, the mage rose from his cozy spot, approached a wall covered with dark blue fabric, and began his story. Sesam, a sorceress from the southern islands, nodded understandingly as the monologue progressed toward the essence. Siver-fail, burying his face in his palm, half-dozed, wishing to move to a more comfortable place as soon as possible. Drakkoshka understood nothing, looking now at one then another participant of this terribly important gathering. The mage concluded his lecture by stating the necessity of forced disintegration of all, or at least most, "gemstones" within the borders of Etelflad. The honor of conducting this operation was, naturally, offered to the three discoverers of the phenomenon's unstable nature. While Sesam was delighted by the possibility of participating in such an extraordinary experiment, Fail and Drakkoshka experienced mixed feelings. In the warrior, a thirst for action and adventure struggled with a desire to throw a dozen coins in the face of the tavern owner for first-class service, including wine, food, and a soft bed. On one hand, the maid was very afraid of her mistress's anger, scolding, and loss of work; on the other, she feared spending an unknown amount of time in the company of unknown people. Fortunately, Ment spared them from the difficult choice by unfolding a scroll with General Naver's personal signature on the table. Everything had been decided for them an hour earlier.
In the guild courtyard, two guards were presented to them, called upon to accompany the small group of "treasure hunters." Ment smiled every time he uttered this pun. The senior captain of the guard introduced himself as Dag; prepared one hundred percent, he held a perfectly sharpened halberd firmly and, by all appearances, knew about discipline firsthand. The second was a young guard named Alexis, trying his utmost to seem important. The mage explained that guards were needed for sorties outside the city, where operations could be hindered by wild beasts or, even worse, bandits.
Drakkoshka, who until the moment of meeting the soldiers had not lost hope of somehow slipping away unnoticed, turned pale, ready to faint. A sleepless night in the frost, in the company of strange foreigners, rude guards, and the city mage, by direct order of the general—and all this without the permission of her strict mistress.



An empty liqueur bottle hit the wall, shattering into fragments across the floor. The men laughed. Yashchur dragged even more drink from the street, piling it all on a large box used by the brigands as a table. Madgerson, already quite drunk and with a tangerine peel stuck in his thick beard, was rummaging through the chest in hopes of finding a hat that suited him. Shuffling a brand new deck of cards, the thoughtful Heroist shifted his gaze from one comrade to another, sometimes lingering on the wonderful cloak carefully folded in the corner of the room on a wooden barrel. Bright orange and covered in beautiful patterns, it completely captured his attention. Taking a sip of strong swill, Tox laughed, clapped his hands, and rushed to an oil flask standing by the fireplace roughly laid with unhewn stones. Splashing some into the fire, causing it to flare up with new strength, he filled the lamp hanging on the wall. When the amount of light finally satisfied him, he whistled, clapped his hands again, and sang. Wishmaster, plucking strings, immediately picked up the tune. The nimble driver danced wildly, striking the floor with his feet at incredible speed, and soon the whole hut was filled with drunken shouts and approving whistles.