Tattle Tails
Howl & Ash
Unnatural winds rush and tumble along the Sig Mountain passage that spans the distance between the upper valley kingdom of BOWDEN and the lower coastal kingdom of CALDERAUN. The clouds above give no sign of where the winds started or how long they have been blowing. Only time knows with certainty where they will end.
Muted sounds of early spring fill the trail as the wind rustles through the trees. A solitary bird of prey appears at the tree tops. Known by many names: sea hawk, fish hawk, Osprey, the bird is female and decidedly far from water.
Flying with purposeful intent, she surfs on the wind and glides around the bending turns. She keeps a watchful eye on the trail through dips and dives and suddenly pulls up to rise above the breeze, letting the winds roll ahead. Hovering for a moment, she scans the mountain surroundings. Turning toward the southwest trail, she spies a formation of men riding in the opposite direction. Her keen eyes detect that the horses and riders are adorned in military attire, while a few of the horses are groomed impeccably with braided manes.
Her eyes pick up additional movement from the tree line and a second smaller group of riders appears on the trail. They stop and briefly chatter before the new riders fall in line at the rear, and the formation continues away.
The hawk watches for a little longer and then turns back to the northeast trail. Her steely eyes follow the winds rolling straight toward a lone traveler on the path. He is just a young boy; certainly no one of any fame or acclaim. Even the lady hawk knows that the mountain trail is not a safe place for a young lad to be traveling alone.
The boy is barely thirteen, wearing a large baggy robe with a satchel hanging from one shoulder and carrying a tall walking staff. His robe is a quality garment but weathered and worn. A few sizes too big, it covers his long strap sandals and hinders his step. He is not looking to engage anyone in long conversations about high fashion, but he is talking to himself.
“I am HOWL, son of Grim the wizard,” he says nervously.
The sound of fast winds builds up from behind and approaches like a thundering beast. Howl stops in his tracks and quickly turns toward the sound. Too late, the wind slams him mid-stride and pushes him off balance. He catches himself by anchoring his staff on the ground and bracing against the winds.
“Hey!” he yells.
The winds pass, and he straightens up again. His robes are bunched and disheveled, and his shaggy brown hair has blown across his face.
He lets the staff fall to the ground, and he begins to straighten his clothes. He struggles to get his hands free from his long, tangled sleeves. He is startled again by a screech from high above. Howl looks up just in time to see the bird of prey flying away. He wipes the hair back from his pale blue-green eyes.
“Very funny,” he mutters to himself.
Howl stoops to pick up the wooden staff. At first glance, it seems like the walking staff is just for show, but upon closer inspection, he is slightly unsteady on his feet and leans on the staff for support.
As the winds die down, he repositions the bag on his shoulder and looks up and down the trail. He lingers as if considering both directions and then turns back to carry on toward Bowden.
Unseen from the tree line, a large black wolf tracks the boy and matches his every step. Nervously Howl glances at the trees and then looks ahead, muttering,
“This is not going to work,” he says.
“Relax,” a growling voice comes from the trees at his side.
“Easy for you to say; you’re not the one walking around in all of this,” Howl says.
He gestures at his garments and sees his sandal straps are untied again. He moans and bends down to retie the straps.
“Stick to the plan. In, out, keep it short and simple,” the voice replies.
Howl stands up and flexes like a contortionist trying to scratch the middle of his back.
“This is not going to work,” he repeats.
“You got this,” the voice growls.
The mountain pass trail is a series of twists and turns that suddenly opens into an area at the foot of the mountains known by travelers and locals as Guilderland.
Howl carries on for another half a klick before approaching a small industrial village called Basin. The name is far from glamorous but is still a clear winner over the other choices of Armpit and Toilet. The town lies on the bank of the Somme River and is home to mounds of raw ore, blacksmiths, tailors, cobblers, inns, and pubs for everything else.
Howl walks through the village with eyes wide open in wonder and continues forward until he reaches a stone and wooden bridge that crosses the river. The path leads him past a collection of small wooden structures used to house bridge personnel and maintenance equipment. Howl looks up at the bridge and sees two members of the Guilderland Guard wearing light armour and hilted swords, standing next to a covered guard station. They are pacing back and forth across the wooden planks of the bridge. They notice Howl and stop to watch with equal parts curiosity and amusement as the young boy in big clothes struggles to approach.
“Go on, look at this one,” they snicker.
Howl reaches the bridge and stops in front of the sentry. They eye the boy curiously.
“What do you want?” they ask.
Howl opens his mouth to speak, and his voice cracks.
“I am, ahh-wooo,” he begins to howl but cuts off and pretends to cough.
Going through puberty is tough for any kid, but this takes the cake. The Bridge Guards (BGs) look at each other and laugh.
Slightly embarrassed, Howl begins again, “I am Howl, son of Grim.”
The guards notice something wild in his eyes, and he speaks with an accent they have never heard before.
“I seek an audience with King Eorek to discuss a matter of the utmost import.”
The guards stop laughing at the mention of their king and become more serious.
“State your business with the king,” they bark.
A loud yowling suddenly emanates from the trees, alarmingly close to the bridge. The BGs quickly look at the woods and then back to the boy. Howl stomps his staff on the ground and begins to mutter in a wolfish language.
He raises his free hand and extends his palm to the bridge beneath their feet. The guards look confused as the wooden planks soften and sag under their weight. Before they can adjust their balance, the planks bounce back into shape and fling the guards into the air like dolls. They drop their weapons as they fall hard on the reconstituted bridge.
Two other on-duty soldiers, Cookie and Fisher, hear the commotion and wander over to investigate. Cookie is wearing the proud uniform of kitchen patrol (KP): a food-stained apron and holding a soup spoon. Fisher is holding a bone net needle and a tangled section of fishing net.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Cookie asks.
Looking embarrassed and angry, the guards get back to their feet. While they dust themselves off, they realize the howling has stopped, and the boy is nervously standing on the path, tightly grasping his walking staff.
Without warning, a large black wolf with glowing yellow eyes enters the trail ten meters behind Howl, ferociously growling and snarling. Weaponless, the guards retreat several paces. Howl turns around in time to see the wolf rushing toward him, charging at full speed. The guards react with professional excellence.
“Five bits on the wolf,” shouts Cookie.
Admittedly, pulling guard duty on an old bridge in the middle of nowhere is neither choice nor exciting. So when they see an opportunity to take bets on a perilous outcome, they are decisive men of action.
“I’ll take that bet,” Fisher quickly counters and roots for Howl. “Come on, kid, use that big stick!”
Howl is deeply touched by their concern. Nice, they could bother to watch a voracious wolf lunge for his throat. He clutches his staff and swings his free hand in a large circle.
The soldiers see a shimmering orb suddenly engulf the wolf and transform it into a long-tailed flying squirrel. The squirrel gently floats onto the boy's outstretched arm, then scampers up to his shoulder, where it lies down and wraps its long tail around his neck.
“Hey, ASH,” Howl says softly.
The soldiers have all seen battle and blood, they have even heard the rumors of the mountain wizard, but none of them have ever seen real magic. It must be unsettling when the impossible is openly displayed before your eyes. Cookie’s mouth hangs open, and he drops his spoon.
“Did ... did a wolf just jump into a sparkly cloud and turn into a squirrel?” he asks.
Fisher smacks Cookie on the meat of his arm, “Dang son, you owe me five bits.”
Howl turns back to the men with the squirrel looking at them from his shoulder. He stamps the staff again.
“I am Howl, son of Grim,” his voice booms. “I have come to see the king,”
He quietly whispers to Ash, the squirrel, “Get ready if this goes south.”
The guards scramble to retrieve their fallen weapons and spoon. They are convinced that the squirrel has a threatening look in his eyes, and Cookie slowly approaches the sentry.
“Hey, uh, if you want to take him to the king, we can cover your watch,” Cookie says.
“Or we could take him,” Fisher suggests.
The duty guards look at each other and nod. If they pass this off and it goes bad, they will get the blame or worse.
“Crap,” they agree.
If they pass this off and it turns out good, they won’t get the credit. The guards sigh warily.
“No, no, we’ll bring him to Black Hall.”
