[center][h3]Empire of Lynn-Naraksh[/h3]
[b]Torkhane, Demesne of Kostraal[/b][/center]

That evening, the wind was blowing from the east. [i]Zenre[/i], the locals called it, the black wind, for it was the ash that flew and lay down to smother the snow. It was unusual for the season, and usually a sign that the weather would be good the day after. As good as it could be in Koresta, that was. Even in the milder months, these lands, nested in an ungainly corner between the ever icy fangs of northern Naraksh and the dark plains at the heart of the Empire, were torn between the white shroud that crept down from the nearby hills, refusing to melt even when it grew to cover the edges of the ever-scalding wastes, and the choking plumes of cinder that rose in gusts from luridly lit crevices. The malice of the elder horrors that lurked in dread myths remembered when night fell seemed to live still in what they were fabled to have wrought, animating the wretched elements themselves to mock and torment those who would brave their domain. It would take, it appeared, incredibly stubborn or just as incredibly desperate folk to make their home here.

Yet those who dwelt in Torkhane and the few other villages scattered throughout the Demesne were no more desperate than any who walked the earth, and no more stubborn than any of their compatriots. Whatever cruel will might once have driven their forebears to settle that ravaged soil, they had chosen well in laying its foundations. It stood near the all-too-clear boundary between the two realms, yet not quite upon it, where it would have been torn even as the land itself. Rather, it crouched by the edge of the black expanse, at the mouth of a descending ravine, split just near the divide and running further up into the hills beyond it. The gulch's ridges loomed darkly over the huts in their midst, steeping them into a gloom deeper even than what was usual for Naraksh, but they were as good as walls to hold out frigid winds and swirling ashes alike.

At the very edge of the village was a wooden building larger, and, for an eye who had known only the coarsely sturdy shacks that were its ilk, comelier than most. Before its door there stood a bench just as rough and unpolished, and on the bench there sat an old man with a weather-beaten, leathery face and a crude smoking pipe between his parched lips. Now and then, he took it out of his mouth, blew out small clouds of foul-smelling smoke, eerily similar to the ash plumes that could even then be seen rising over the plains in the distance, and took a swig from one of the two tankards that stood near him. With a smoothly practised motion, perfected over years of sitting before the tavern with a pipe in one hand and ale in another, he swung his fingers to blow the smoke over the second keg. It didn't help the ale's taste, of course, but it kept the waste gnats away. Awful things, those. You let one touch your drink, and next thing you knew 'uns maggots were eating you from the inside. That's the way it was.

But it seemed the old man would not have to keep the gnats at bay for much longer. A loose troop of dark figures was approaching from eastwards, where the ash fields lay. Some carried tools over their shoulders, while a few others led along sickly mottled donkeys with sagging sides. Behind them hurried children with empty sacks, at times stumbling in their oversized bast shoes or over the rags wrapped around their feet. Most did not so much as look up as they passed by. A few nodded or raised a hand, and the elder nodded back.

One of the men turned from the path into the village and came towards the bench. As he approached, sideways to the setting sun, more and more details about him became visible. His grimy, patched clothes, woven for a larger frame, hung somewhat loosely over his body, though it was not thinner than was healthy. His hands were dirty with soot, and his face was covered up to the eyes with a cloth held in place by his hat. These rags could become furnaces on hot days, especially if the fabric was not loose enough, but most people could not afford a proper mask, and no one wanted to keel over at twenty years with blackened lungs.

The newcomer reached the tavern's doorstep, flexed his right arm, waving the gnats away as he did, and sank onto the bench with a grunt. He took the tankard the old man held up to him in his left hand, and raised the right to sweep hat and rag away from his head. The face beneath the cloth was only slightly younger than that of the old man, and even more wrinkled around the eyes. His grey-streaked beard was, despite the protection, stained with ash, and he wiped it with the hat before laying it down to his side. While those signs could, in the eyes of some, have marked him as no longer fit for the fields in the eyes of some, they had far less meaning in Naraksh than in most other place. It was a common jest that the hair of people here was grey as soon as it grew, and there was just enough truth in that for it to sometimes still raise a chuckle despite being older than the Blood Lords.

The younger man raised the keg to his mouth and drank. The dark liquor was bitter, as most things were around there, and tasted of burned cheap smoking herbs more than it did of mead, but this was the one best moment of the entire day. His friend stared pensively into the distance, mulling over the last dregs of his own beverage and absently rapping his pipe against the bench to dislodge the ash from it. Ash, more ash. It was everywhere, here.

He set down the keg, spat out a lump he had caught in the brew, and reached under his coat, producing his own gnarled pipe, a fire striker and something wrapped in a dirty cloth. Holding up a corner of the rag, he deftly gathered up some of its contents with two fingers, rolled them together and stuffed them into the pipe's mouth. He then held up the wrap and half-turned towards the elder. The latter took a pinch, smelled it and looked up curiously. "What's this one?"

"New. Trader came round while we were working." The other replied. "Looked like an easterner. 'en said this comes from Ultevrer. Also said it's pure, but ya know how's that."

The old man picked some more of the dried herb and filled his pipe. His companion, who was already puffing at his share, struck a spark into it, and for a while both sat smoking in silence.

"'s't good." The elder was the first to speak up. "Bit sweet, and has this strange taste tha' lingers, but good."

"Uhurm." A nod. "Nezhden also got few other things off him. Some of 'erm dried spiny fruit, nukre, pot of barkback for next month. An' a skin of nukre root brew." He winked, though that could have been just some smoke from the pipe going into his eye. "We'll have some this evening if ya come over."

"Always for it, ya know." The old man briefly flashed a smile of sparse yellow teeth. Suddenly, he sat up from his slouching posture and frowned, turning his squinted eyes to the horizon.

"What's that? Wurm?" There almost never were any about at that time of year, even in [i]zenre[/i] weather, but one could never be sure with the wretched beasts.

"Don't look like it. But..."

Both men stood up and moved a few steps towards the mouth of the ravine. There was something moving over the plains, not too far away - no, several things. Some could not have been much larger than a human, but others were clearly imposing despite the distance, and their forms were something out of the savage wilderness. They moved ahead slowly, yet steadily. One could almost swear the creaking of fleshless limbs could be heard from the tavern.

"Woodkin." The younger of the two bit on his pipe, mild bewilderment written over his face. "What're 'urn doing here? Now?"

"I'en'no. Never see 'erm here, that's for sure." His fellow blew out smoke, blinking when the wind carried it back into his eyes. "Weren't they goin' to war with them of Mat'thran?"

"Heard so. If they's goin' to war, this's wrong way. This way, ya go..." In spite of himself, he felt his heart sink as his words trailed away. He could barely bring himself to finish the sentence. "...ya go to the Throne."

"Mrm." The old man was about to add something, but stopped. It was clear what the other's lapse meant. If they had gone to war, and now were going to the Throne, it wouldn't be to share the spoils. They would ask the Emperor for help. And the Emperor would not refuse. The Blood Lords always wanted more of everything. "We don't know erm's goin' that way yet."

"Na, we don't." The other did not seem convinced. "But I can't think of no other. If we get called to go... We're behind on'na tillin', and us old folk inn' enough. And..." He wiped the ash that had gathered around his mouth with his sleeve. "Dragna's expectin' her third, and Nezhden's as fit as ya can have 'erm. 'en gets taken, and it'll be the four o' us left. 'un'd be easier to just sell ourselves to the master." He forced a smile, not very convincingly.

"Me and Zlaibna i'll help, ya know that." The amicable blow to the shoulder that followed must have betrayed just what that help could possibly amount to, because he added, in a laughingly apologetic tone, "Not like we used to."

"'sa never gets worse." A spell of silence, as the last of the pipe-herbs smouldered in the quickly falling darkness. It was already impossible to distinguish ash from sky. The distant figures had faded into the dusk. "But ya'rs right, we don't know that yet. And it's night already. Let's, or they won't warm the nukre brew."

The two, themselves little more than gaunt, spectral shapes between the ridges, turned back and vanished into the shadows of the gulch. Ahead of them, the village was already opening its many narrow, glimmering eyes of fire. Yet not as many as there would have been had the snow lain over the ash. Tomorrow would be a good day.