The town of Northallerton is a frontier town overlooking the tall mountains and the border to the Holy Lutatanian Empire. It serves as the northernmost settlement under the rule of King Alaric and the human kingdom of Eldoria. The region is known for its harsh winters, with snow blanketing the ground and covering the nearby mountain peaks. The town is currently preparing for the expected yearly snowfall, with supplies being stocked up.
The town is nestled within a valley, and its surrounding landscape is dominated by the towering presence of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, named for the jagged, snow-capped peaks that resemble the fangs of some great beast. The nearest peak, Mount Cinder, looms over the town, a silent sentinel that has witnessed countless seasons come and go. Its slopes are covered with ancient forests of pine and fir, their needles a deep, vibrant green even in the harshest winters.
The people of Northallerton are a hardy folk, shaped by the unforgiving climate and the constant threat of the wild. They are predominantly human, with a smattering of other races, including a few dwarves who have settled in the town, drawn by the rich mineral deposits in the surrounding mountains. The dwarves, with their beards braided with intricate patterns and their axes always within reach, are a stoic and reserved people, often seen huddled in the warmth of the local tavern, the Frosted Mug.
There were some demi-humans like the Wolf-Kin and others who were discriminated against within Eldoria. They lived in a small, tightly-knit community on the outskirts of town, their homes simple but well-kept. The Wolf-Kin, with their keen senses and lupine features, are often employed as scouts and hunters, their knowledge of the surrounding wilderness unparalleled.
The town itself is a bustling hub of activity, with its cobblestone streets lined with wooden-framed buildings. The town square is the heart of Northallerton, where the weekly market is held, and where the townsfolk gather for festivals and celebrations. In the centre of the square stands a statue of King Alaric's great-great-grandfather, a stern-faced warrior who is said to have slain a dragon in the very mountains that now surround the town.
The local lord, a stern but fair man named Sir Reginald, resides in a small but well-fortified keep on the outskirts of town. He is a veteran of the war against the Lutatanian Empire, and his face bears the scars of countless battles. He is respected by the townsfolk, who know that he would lay down his life to protect them from any threat, be it from the empire or from the wild.
The town's militia is a ragtag group of farmers and craftsmen, led by a grizzled old veteran named Borin. He is a nice guy, although he's an intimidating figure to some members of the crowd.
It's a peaceful town for the likes of Sergeant Merlin Watford as he blended into the crowd as he made way towards the tavern.
He wore an old and worn-out Eldorian tunic, patched at the elbows and faded with countless washes, over a simple linen shirt. His trousers, also of Eldorian make, were tucked into a pair of sturdy, mud-caked boots that had seen better days. A leather pouch, containing a few silver coins and a small, intricately carved wooden bird, hung from his belt. It was hard to say where all of his original gear was after the few weeks or maybe months being stranded here.
It was the little things that were different; the way the cobblestones were uneven and worn, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat that wafted from the tavern, the sound of a blacksmith's hammer ringing out from a nearby forge. These were the details that made this place feel real, that made it feel like home, even if it wasn't his own.
Merlin sat in the dimly lit corner of the room, the wooden chair creaking under his weight as he leaned back, the worn-out Eldorian tunic stretching across his shoulders. He took a long, slow sip from the wooden tankard of ale before him, the bitter, yeasty taste washing over his tongue.
He'd been in this world for... what, weeks? Months? The days had started to blur together, the relentless cycle of hunting, foraging, and trying to survive making it hard to keep track. He'd been stranded here, alone, after the mission had gone sideways, after the portal had closed behind them, leaving him and a handful of others trapped in this strange, medieval land.
He'd lost everything. His kit, his rifle, his comms... all gone, swallowed by the chaos of a recon mission through the portal. He'd been lucky, he supposed, to escape with his life, to find this small, isolated town tucked away in the mountains. But luck felt like a cold comfort when you were sleeping in a barn, huddled for warmth with the livestock, and wondering if you'd ever see home again.
Almost immediately, a barmaid, with a warm smile and a glint of curiosity in her eyes, approached Merlin's table. "Fancy some ale, traveller?" she asked, her voice a melodic hum that cut through the tavern's din. "Or perhaps something to eat? The stew's fresh today."
Merlin slipped in three copper coins and a pair of silvers onto the table.
"All of them. Twice, keep the change." Merlin said in the local dialect, which he'd picked up from listening to the townsfolk. It was a strange, lilting language, full of guttural sounds and rolling vowels, but he'd managed to get the hang of it. Mostly.
The barmaid's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the silver coins, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before she quickly masked it with a polite smile. "Of course, sir," she said, her tone a little more deferential than before. "Right away." She swept up the coins, her fingers brushing against Merlin's, and hurried back to the bar, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the tavern's music.
Merlin's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He took another long swallow of ale, trying to ignore the intrusive thought, the unwelcome presence in his mind. He'd grown used to it, over the weeks, the constant, chattering commentary of the entity that now shared his head, but it was still a struggle, sometimes, to maintain his composure, to keep the illusion of sanity intact.
He couldn't remember exactly when it had started, the whispers in the dark, the phantom sensations that weren't his own. It had been gradual, at first, a slow, creeping awareness that he wasn't alone, that something was stirring in the depths of his consciousness. He'd tried to fight it, at first, to push it away, to lock it away in some dark, forgotten corner of his mind. But it had been too strong, too persistent, and eventually, he'd had to accept it, to make a kind of peace with it, to find a way to live with the constant, chattering presence in his head.
Merlin then saw it.
The ghostly visage of a woman, her form shimmering and translucent, seated across from him. She was ethereal, a spectre woven from moonlight and shadow, her long, white hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken waterfall. Her eyes, deep and fathomless, held a hint of amusement, a flicker of ancient wisdom that seemed to pierce through him, to see into the very depths of his soul.
Merlin's breath hitched, a cold dread washing over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block her out, to make her disappear, to banish her back to the depths of his subconscious. But it was no use. She was always there, a constant, unwelcome presence, a reminder of the pact he'd made, the price he'd paid for his survival.
"Not now," he muttered, the words a low, guttural growl that was barely audible over the tavern's din. He clenched his fists, the knuckles white, the muscles in his forearms taut with tension. "Just... not now."
A bitter, humourless laugh escaped Merlin's lips. "Partners," he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is that what you call it, Thana? I didn't exactly have a choice, did I? I was dying. You offered me a deal. A life for a life. My soul for my body. That's not a partnership. That's a prison sentence."
"You saved yourself," Merlin shot back, his voice rising slightly, drawing a few curious glances from the nearby tables. He lowered his gaze, staring into the amber depths of his ale, the reflection of the flickering torchlight dancing on its surface. "You needed a body. A vessel. I was just... convenient."
The barmaid returned, a steaming bowl of stews in her hands. She placed them on the table with a gentle thud, the rich, savoury aroma wafting up to greet him. "Here you are, sir, two stews and two ales." she said, her smile a little hesitant, her eyes darting between Merlin's flushed face and the space opposite him. "Is everything... alright?"
Merlin forced a smile, the muscles in his face straining with the effort. "It's fine," he said, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. "Just... thinking out loud. Thank you."
The barmaid gave him a last, uncertain look before bustling away, her brow furrowed with concern. Merlin picked up the wooden spoon, his hand trembling slightly, and dipped it into the thick, hearty stew.
Merlin ignored her, focusing on the simple, physical act of eating. He spooned the stew into his mouth, the chunks of venison and potato a welcome distraction, the warm, savoury broth a small comfort in the cold, unforgiving world he now inhabited.
He knew she was right, of course. The barmaid did think he was mad. They all did. He could see it in their eyes, the way they whispered behind his back, the way they gave him a wide berth when he walked down the street. He was an outsider, a stranger in a strange land, a man who spoke their language with an accent that was not quite theirs, who wore their clothes.
But they didn't know the half of it. They didn't know about the entity that lived in his head, the ancient, powerful being who was now a part of him, who saw through his eyes, who heard his thoughts, who shared his every waking moment.
Just how did this happen? He asked himself. He remembered the fall, the endless, dizzying plunge into the abyss, the sharp, jagged rocks rushing up to meet him. He remembered the pain, the blinding, all-consuming agony as his body broke, as the life drained out of him, drop by precious drop. He remembered the darkness, the cold, suffocating embrace of the void.
And then, he remembered her. A whisper in the dark, a flicker of light in the endless night. He had stumbled into her chamber, drawn by a sound he couldn't explain, a feeling he couldn't name. He had found her there, chained to the rock, her body a prison of bone and starlight, her eyes burning with a fire that had been banked for centuries.
The last thing he remembered after that was nothing. Just a void, an endless, dreamless sleep. He died. He was sure of it. He had felt the final, shuddering breath leave his lungs, the last beat of his heart. He had felt the cold at that time. That's the last thing he remembered before waking up, healed, whole, with a strange, blue crystal embedded in the palm of his left hand, a pulsing, living thing that was now a part of him, a constant, tangible reminder of the pact he'd made.
Thana Lou, the witch who saved his life, was now living rent-free inside his head.
Merlin finished his first plate and quickly moved to the next. He felt no satisfaction nor full, Thana took all of the taste and flavour away from him. There is a reason for two meals anyway. He took a glance at his left hand as the blue crystal in his palm was glowing softly. A sign that she is also enjoying it.
"Glutton," he muttered.
Thana's spectral form leaned forward, her translucent hands resting on the table.
"A Witch who got chained up for her crimes," Merlin shot back, the words escaping before he could stop them.
The temperature around him seemed to plummet. The warm, lively air of the tavern grew heavy and cold. The cheerful chatter faltered, and a few patrons closer to him instinctively pulled their cloaks tighter, shivering for no apparent reason. The flames in the hearth danced wildly, casting long, monstrous shadows that writhed like tortured souls.
"I don't really give two shits about the politics, local or cosmic," Merlin growled back, forcing the words through a jaw that was clenched so tight it ached. He slammed the empty tankard on the table, the loud thud making the barmaid jump. "I want my life back. I want to go home. I want you out of my head."
Merlin looked up. Through the thinning crowd, a man was making a beeline for his table. He was broad-shouldered and weather-beaten, with a thick, grey-streaked beard that reached his chest and a deep scar that cut through one eyebrow. He wore a well-worn leather jerkin over a woollen tunic, and a heavy-looking shortsword hung from a simple belt at his hip.
"Oh for god sakes..." Merlin muttered under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was the last thing he needed.
The man, Borin, stopped at the edge of his table, casting a long shadow over Merlin. His gaze was direct, appraising. He didn't seem to notice the empty space where Merlin had been glaring, but the faint, almost imperceptible glow in Merlin's left palm caught his eye for a brief second.
"You're the traveller from up north," Borin stated, his voice a low rumble like stones grinding together. It wasn't a question. "The one who's been living in old man Hemlock's barn. Always been curious about you."
Merlin let out a slow breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, affecting an air of casual indifference that he was far from feeling. "That's me. Just a traveller passing through. What can I do for you, Captain?"
Borin's eyes narrowed slightly. He pulled out the other chair, the legs scraping loudly against the wooden floorboards, and sat down without waiting for an invitation. He was close enough now that Merlin could smell the scent of steel, old leather, and pine needles that clung to him.
"Word travels fast in a town this size," Borin said, ignoring the question. He rested his calloused hands on the table, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm. "You came down from the mountains a few months back. From the north side of the Tooth. Not many come from that direction. Not many live to tell the tale."
Merlin clenched his left hand into a fist under the table instinctively, hiding the faint glow of the crystal. "Well, the mountains sure is no place for a stroll. I had my reasons." He kept his tone flat, noncommittal.
"So do I," Borin countered, leaning forward slightly. His gaze was intense, boring into Merlin. "I have a town to protect. Winter's coming. That means wolves, starving and bold. It means bandits pushed down from the high passes. But what about you? You seem very unfamiliar, yet so... familiar." He paused, letting the last word hang in the air.
The barmaid, a woman named Elara according to the chatter Merlin had overheard, approached cautiously. "Another ale, Captain?"
Borin didn't even look at her. "Aye, Elara. Oh! And another for my friend here! Just make sure to take your time, I'm just having a private chat with this traveller here." The dismissal was absolute.
Elara gave Merlin a sympathetic glance before scurrying back to the perceived safety of the bar.
"Private?" Merlin finally said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm just a man trying to enjoy his stew before I freeze to death in a barn. I'm not looking for trouble. I'm just trying to head down south today."
"South? To the capital?" Borin let out a short, harsh laugh. "Where on earth are you going at this time of year?"
"Aye, I'm heading home. To a town called Lyon, near the Mystic Meadow?"
The words of the Meadow, from what he heard from the messengers who regularly came from the capital, said of a mysterious gateway which connected to another world. And according to them, it was somewhere near the Mystic Meadow. He wasn't sure if he could even trust the messenger; everything sounded so ridiculous. The crown prince being killed by some metal beasts that could fly and a mysterious soldier wielding sticks of fire and thunder that pierce any royal armour. To him, it was all nonsense.
But if there was any chance that he could get home, he would take it.
Borin's laughter died in his throat, replaced by a look of grim understanding. "Lyon... That's a fool's errand this season. The passes will be snowed in within a fortnight. You'd have better luck trying to dig a tunnel to the Lutatanian Empire, with a spoon."
Merlin looked undazed, keeping his deadpan expression. "You think I care? I will make my way through," he grunted, taking another spoonful of the stew. He had already finished the second bowl. It was now empty.
"Well, if you excuse me, I'm going to take my leave," Merlin said, rising from his chair. He stretched his arms, the worn-out Eldorian tunic riding up to reveal the faint, silvery scar that circled his left wrist. He turned to leave, but Borin's hand shot out, gripping his forearm. The old militiaman's grip was surprisingly strong, like a vice.
"Hey don't be rude, I'm not finished talking," Borin said, his voice low and firm. His eyes were fixed on the crystal in Merlin's palm, which was now glowing faintly, a soft, ethereal blue light that seemed to pulse in time with Merlin's heartbeat. "What in the nine gods is that?"
Merlin tried to pull his arm free, but Borin's grip was like iron. "Let go of me," he snarled, his patience finally snapping. He could feel the power surging through him, the dark, ancient energy of the crystal responding to his anger. He could feel the urge to lash out, to break the old man's arm, to send him flying across the room.
But Merlin fought the urge, pushing the darkness back down, forcing the power to recede. He took a deep breath, the muscles in his arm trembling with the effort of restraint.
"Captain... You're a good man. But I'm suggesting you let go of my arm," Merlin said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"Then enlighten me," Borin shot back, his grip unwavering. He wasn't intimidated. He was fascinated. "I've seen strange things in my time, stranger. I've seen men come back from the dead with wounds that should have killed them. I've seen women who could talk to the wind. But I've never seen anything like this." He gestured with his chin towards the glowing crystal. "Is it magic? Some kind of enchantment? Are you a mage?"
"I'm neither," Merlin said, finally pulling his arm free with a sudden, violent twist. He stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, the crystal pulsing with a cold, blue light. "And I suggest you do the same. Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."
Borin rose from his chair, his hand resting on the hilt of his shortsword. He was a good head taller than Merlin, and his broad shoulders blocked out the light from the hearth. "It's not that simple, traveller. This town, these people... they're my responsibility. I can't just let a strange man with a magic rock wander around without asking questions. Especially not now."
"Strange things have been happening in these recent times, traveller," Borin continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "We have stories of armies heading into the unknown down south from where you're heading off to." He said, pointing south with a calloused finger. "Stories of metal birds that fall from the sky, spitting fire and death. Stories of soldiers clad in strange, black armour, wielding weapons that speak with the thunder of a thousand storms. I'd dismissed them as tavern tales, the ramblings of madmen and drunkards. But now... I'm not so sure."
Merlin raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
'Guess the news spread all the way to here too…' he thought to himself, he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
"So these stories from the south about some war that happened a few mounths ago... do you believe them?" Merlin asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He needed to know. He needed to know if there was a way back, if there was a chance that he wasn't the only one, that the portal was still open.
"The Crown Prince is dead, that much we know is true," Borin said, his expression grim. "The messengers from the capital confirmed it. But the details... they're sketchy. Some say it was a Lutatanian assassination. Others say it was a coup. But the stories I've heard... they speak of something else. Something not of this world. It's had to believe anything coming from those fools in the south. Now back to the topic, tell me something, traveller, what's the glowing rock in your hand? And why are you so protective of it?"
"It's the only thing i got left." Merlin said half-heartedly. It wasn't a complete lie. The crystal was the only thing he had from his old life, the only thing that connected him to the world. But it was also the reason he was trapped here, the reason he was bound to Thana.
"Why is it so important to you?" Borin pressed, his eyes narrowing. "What's it for?"
Merlin hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't tell him about the pact, about the entity that lived in his head, about the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, a walking, talking prison for an ancient, powerful witch. He had to come up with a lie, a plausible explanation for the glowing crystal.
"It's a family heirloom," he said finally, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. "It's been passed down through my family for generations. It's... a good luck charm. Of sorts."
Thana taunted, her spectral form leaning against the bar, her arms crossed over her chest.
Merlin ignored Thana and confidently continued.
"My family, we were... scholars. From a far-off land. This... this is a piece of our history. A key to a forgotten knowledge. It's all I have left of them." He let a hint of sorrow creep into his voice, a carefully crafted emotion designed to evoke sympathy, to deflect suspicion.
Borin's expression softened slightly, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "I see," he said, his voice a little less gruff. "I'm sorry for your loss. But that doesn't explain why you're here, in Northallerton, of all places. Why were you in the mountains? What were you running from?"
Merlin took a deep breath, deciding to risk a half-truth. "I wasn't running. I was... looking. For something. It was from my great, great, great, great grandmother's book, that the key would react to something in these mountains. I had to see it for myself."
Borin stared at him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. He seemed to be weighing Merlin's words, considering the possibilities. The tavern's noise faded into the background, the distant strains of a lute, the clatter of tankards, the low murmur of conversations, all merging into a dull, indistinct hum.
"A key, you say?" Borin finally said, his voice barely a whisper. He glanced around the tavern, making sure no one was listening. "To what?"
Merlin hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He couldn't tell him about the portal, about the gateway between worlds. That was a secret too big, too dangerous to share.
"To… errr… knowledge," he said finally, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. "Lost knowledge. My ancestors believed that the answers to the universe's greatest mysteries were hidden in these mountains. That the key would lead me to them."
Thana drawled, her spectral form reclining on an imaginary chaise lounge.
"Knowledge," Borin repeated, the word tasting strange in his mouth. He looked from Merlin's face to the glowing crystal in his palm, a thoughtful expression on his face. "And did you find it? This lost knowledge?" he asked, his voice a low, rumbling whisper.
The question hung in the air between them, a challenge and an invitation. The tavern's noise seemed to fade away, the world shrinking to the small space between their two chairs, the glowing crystal the only source of light in the dim, smoky room.
"No," Merlin said, the word a harsh, bitter laugh. "I found a whole lot of nothing. A dead end. Just like I'm finding here." He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the wooden floorboards. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a barn to get back to. Before your 'good people' decide to burn me as a witch."
He stood up, the crystal in his palm pulsing with a cold, blue light, a silent, steady beat in the growing darkness. He was done with this conversation, done with the old man's probing questions, done with the entire town. He needed to get out, to breathe the cold, clean air of the mountains, to be alone with his thoughts, or what was left of them.
Borin chuckles loudly, "Oh, you are one of a kind, stranger. I guess I should stop asking you questions. We will have another chat some other day."
"If we meet again," Merlin said, his back already turned. He didn't wait for a reply, striding towards the tavern door, the wooden floorboards creaking under his boots. He could feel the weight of Borin's gaze on his back, a heavy, lingering presence that made the hairs on the neck stand on end. He could feel the curious stares of the other patrons, their whispers following him like a cloud of gnats.
He pushed open the heavy oak door, the cold night air hitting him like a slap in the face. The streets of Northallerton were deserted, the only light coming from the flickering torches that lined the cobblestone paths, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe in the corners of his vision. The wind howled through the narrow alleys, a mournful, keening sound that spoke of the coming winter, of the long, dark months that lay ahead.
He pulled the worn-out Eldorian tunic tighter around his shoulders, the thin, threadbare fabric offering little protection against the biting cold. He could feel the snow in the air, a fine, crystalline dust that stung his cheeks and clung to his eyelashes. It was coming sooner than expected. The winter was going to be a hard one.
"It's a long way back down south," he mumbled to himself. "If I don't freeze to death first…"
"I'm not dead," he growled, shivering violently. "I'm... temporarily inconvenienced."
He ignored her and focused on the road ahead, South Road it was called, a muddy, rutted track that led out of Northallerton and into the unknown. He had to keep moving, to put as much distance between himself and this town as possible. He had to get to Lyon, to the Mystic Meadow, to the portal.
He had to get home.