The Arkanist

Ald-Rhenar

Ald-Rhenar

Jakn walked through the gates of Ald-Rhenar, tired. The troupe had made great speed to the capital, resting during the cold nights and traveling the remainder of the day, from dawn to dusk. Several horses died, and several more were taken by the fearsome Ever Winter. It was grim traveling, silent and grey. Ekin charged forward nonetheless, clutching their prisoner the entire ride north, his grip iron. The man choked and cursed against his bonds, thrashing wildly, a cloth stuffed into his mouth to save them from his screeching.

         The gates were wide and high, of iron and stone, draped with banners of the noble House of Alvarris. Green and gold rippled from the battlements in the crisp winds, riding their bitter currents. The walls were high and stout, manned with grim watchmen and shivering torches. High snowdrifts climbed up the stone, but did not creep over the parapet. If it ever did, the city would go into oblivion. Jakn had seen it first hand in the south, when they had passed by Avelorn. The ancient fortress was a ruin amongst the sea of snow, a once outpost of the Anturans. At the height of their power, when Aureus the Lionheart was emperor, their influence stretched far and wide, extending to the ends of the kingdoms of the Runir and even south in Hhad and north into Vorae, but never over the Mountains of Aztar-Thalak. It was said soldiers of great rock who, would strike down any trespassers, guarded those mountains. Jakn knew it as myth and song. That was all.

         Ald-Rhenar was seated on a crumbling stone hill, with a rise on the east and a gradual descent facing the west. In the middle of that, rose a sheer and steep spike of rock, named the Shard, whereon the great keep of Rhaerik sat, overlooking the entire city. Jakn could scarcely see it through the falling snow and ash, but he knew it was there. He had only been to the capital twice, and remembered it like he had been there all his life. It was a grim place, Ald-Rhenar, after the fall of the Anturan Empire and the plight of the Ever Winter, where before it was a regal city, flourished with flowers and color and culture and wealth.

         The gate led the troupe into Riverside, the low-district, some say, the Shard looming above them like a gravestone. The stench was palpable as soon as they entered, and not even the cold could challenge it. The drifts here were high, scaling the bleak stone buildings and running across their steep tiled roofs. Men lay dead in the streets, their blood staining the snow and their filth clogging the drains on the edges of the frosted cobble road. Jakn followed close to Ekin as he led the troupe through the tight roads, the prisoner screaming for mercy amidst the gathering commotion.

         The streets were narrow with common folk, scrounging for food and warmth. Many were beggars, pleading on their beaten knees for money or food. They all wore the same sort of roughspun cloak, some fixed with wild furs to keep warm in the cold and others with heavy hides and wool. As Jakn freed himself from the gaze of a desperate old man, his beard longer than his chest and his eyes drear stones, he saw the red hearths blazing from inside the stonewalls of several taverns and inns. Music and song flowed from their glass windows, as the drinks streamed gold into the old wood mugs.

Jakn passed a young boy with fiery red hair and a tattered green tunic singing and fingering his damaged lute as the snows began to fall heavy. Jakn did not know the song, but knew the tune to be a grim one. They almost always were. At the boy’s feet was a small mug with a single iron pent. It was most likely his life savings, but it was hardly enough of buy a loaf of bread. There was a moment when their eye’s connected and Jakn’s lingered, feeling a great weight come upon him. He walked away with the burden on his shoulders.

         The troupe came upon a crowded stone courtyard, cloaked in snow, centered about an intricate statue of the Nine Divine hewn out of dark granite. In Ardinell, and much of Runir, following the demise of Antur, the Nine Divine were whom the people prayed to in these dark times. They had been normal people once, walking the same roads as any, but they had done extraordinary deeds, and were honored by the gods, given immortality and a seat in the eternal bliss of Ardengard, where they feast and watch over their followers from the Halls of Arden. Hope was what they provided, a respite against the cruel Ever Winter and the death of the gods all those years back. Jakn could hear their deep chorus as they left Riverside and crossed over the Eolar.