Endzeiten - Cold Blows the Northern Wind [Interest Check]

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Another trail of rising smoke, another village laid to waste, another hundred lives extinguished.

But this isn’t the first, is it? Hardly so, from Höxter to the passes of Magadan, the maddened northerners raid, sowing death and destruction in their wake. But no matter how many bands are crushed, there is always another. Margrave Wöhlen has levied his men nearly half a dozen times this year alone, and the men grow weary. The fields, once plowed and ready to plant, now lie fallow, abandoned by farmers who have beaten their ploughshares into swords - or were felled by them. I know you have heard what they whisper in the common square and the dark corners of the pub: starvation, pestilence, famine.

Rest assured, friend, the worst is yet to come.

And what of the things in the woods? The villages that disappear overnight, emptied and pillaged without sound of alarm? Talk of Savage Trolls, Elves and worse grip the Ostland, from the eastern shores to the foothills of the Worldspine. Reports of strange beasts and hideous malformities multiply daily, though nowhere stronger than in the west, as if they were drawn there, or summoned…

Yet the world turns, and the Long Night approaches again. Every two months the sun slips behind Maia, when the things best left forgotten stir from their eternal slumber. The Catacombs and Ossuaries of the land have become more darksome of late, and the priests no longer seem eager to tarry too long there. This is to say nothing of the fanciful tales from the Osiruk, of great cities lost to time in the desert beyond the Spine of the World, and the unholy things there that rise to walk again.

But the Long Night is only supposed to last for three days, and it has seemed to linger, has it not?

It is a tumultuous time, to say the least. As good a time as any for the Elisabethans and the League to be at peace - but for how long? Zofia I delivered a remarkable victory at Darmstadt, and Anne of Niermeer was wise to heed it, but you know as well as I that the Elisabethans will never stop. Their God, much less the Abbatial Diet, will not tolerate heathenry and paganism in its presence - much less a mutant. What boon Zofia’s presence was at Darmstadt may soon become a liability in these most unnatural times, as no doubt it won’t be just the Elisabethans who eye her with suspicion.

Marvelous, isn’t it?

A storm the likes of which the land has never known, and opportunities abound for the both of us. A veteran mercenary is worth their weight in gold, my friend - but a seasoned mercenary band? That is the beginning of an empire. It won’t be safe, but that’s not why you’re in the business of selling death, is it? Some of you will die - I’m sure of it - but when, where, and how is up to you. If you’re wise, you can emerge from this nightmare with a fortune.

Do with it what you will - your reasons for your price are none of my concern, save only that your work is worth it. I only have one condition.

Don’t get in my way.

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You find yourself marching north with Steitz’s Salvation, a free-company of men-at-arms - and those who claim to be - to the city of Sagard. Whether you count yourself amongst their number or simply follow their camp, you have, in one fashion or another, weathered the lengthy and indecisive summer campaign against the northmen. Marching with the land’s Baron, the lord Karwitz, the Salvation were one of the few regiments that had any professional bearing about them, commanding a comfortable price with the scarcity of options. But even now, as you approach the warmth and safety of civilization once again, a hush has fallen over your number.

With the approach of winter, the contract with the Margrave, much like his campaign, is over.

To some it is no doubt a cause of celebration - a chance to collect their pay, and enjoy the earthly comforts of life, if only for another winter - but not all share such sentiment. Debts to be paid, food to eat, or avarice alone, there are several among you who rely on the consistency of conflict. No matter the case, there is no better place to start for either than Sagard’s market square, and the alehouses that surround it.

For the first time in weeks - or months - you feel the warmth of a fiery hearth, and can drink something other than stale wine and the quartermaster’s hooch. Even if it is only bread in a tankard, it is still something else, and even that is nothing in comparison to the savory-sweet scent wafting from the cauldron by the fire. But such divine sensations were pushed aside as one voice carried itself to your ears.

“Forty Litthauf Marks for eight volunteers, each. The Baron has immediate need of you.”

A she-elf bedecked in plate and maile. This far north, dressed in the manner of Men?

But, forty pieces of gold can go a long way…