Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
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The frost-laced windows shuddered against the fury of the winds outside The Frosty Hearth inn. Lord Aldridge pulled his coat tighter and inched closer to the meager warmth of the hearth fire, whose dying embers did little to pierce the unnatural chill that had settled into his bones.
The common room was silent as the grave, empty save an ancient man hunched in the corner, slowly nursing a tankard of ale. His wizened face was obscured by a battered hat, pulled low against the chill. The innkeeper had long since retreated, leaving Lord Aldridge alone with the popping and hissing of the flames.
Unease trickled down Aldridge’s spine as he strained his ears against the moaning gale outside. No natural storm this fierce should last so long without respite. It was as if some malevolent entity controlled the winds, trapping all within Winter’s End under its icy veil.
The man in the corner raised his tankard in a mocking salute. “Come to wait out the storm, milord?” His reedy voice carried oddly through the room.
Aldridge started at the sudden voice. “Indeed. I expected to pass straight through Winter’s End, but it seems the fates had other plans.”
“Oh, aye. This storm’s been brewing for years now.” The hat tipped back, revealing the man’s face for the first time. Aldridge recoiled in shock. The man’s skin seemed thin as ancient parchment over sharply jutting bones. But it was the eyes that drew Aldridge up short - two caverns with naught but the faintest sparks in their depths. They seemed to pierce his very soul, and Aldridge fought the urge to shudder.
“Begging your pardon?” Aldridge managed.
“Let me tell you a little story.” The man grinned, revealing missing and blackened teeth. “Have you heard tell of why this place came to be called Winter’s End?”
Aldridge mutely shook his head, unnerved but curious as to what tale the locals told about themselves.
The man cackled. “Not surprising - they like to keep the old legends quiet around outsiders.” He leaned forward. “Let me enlighten you...”
As he launched into his tale, the storm continued its relentless assault upon The Frosty Hearth, making the flames dance and glow and sending odd shadows dancing about the room. Aldridge found his attention fracturing - straining after the sounds of stray voices or ghostly movements in the edges of his vision. Again and again he had to force himself to focus on the ancient man’s words.
“...the Fellwinter clan ruled these lands. Wolf kings, they fancied themselves. Lords of snow and ice who could command the very storms to do their bidding.” The man paused to take a long draught of his ale. “Their true power was over men, though. Brutal warriors all, who defeated every army sent to face them. For an age they dominated the countryside, demanding tribute and fealty from hapless villagers.”
“One year, the winter was long and harsh beyond even the wolf kings’ command. Game fled, livestock died, and the villagers grew gaunt and desperate as the snows lingered into spring and summer.” The man leaned back into the shadows, his voice dropping. “The elders among the Fellwinters read the signs. Their grim gods demanded blood sacrifice to turn aside their wrath. And so the tribute wagons rolled out, seeking their terrible dues...”
