Level 5 - Noble Minion of Scribbling
Time flitted by, and I was unable to continue my journey. Had the snowfolk (NAME?) not taken
us in I fear Furtham and I would have perished in the cold winds. Yet little good it did us
to sit and wait in the SNOWFOLK'S underground caves under heaps of wool blankets and Bulral
skins with chattering teeth. Nothing they do could keep us warm. Our hosts assumed we would
recover from our frostbite and illnesses naturally if fed and allowed to rest, but they
became worried and summoned a mystic when this was not the case. I remember being apprehensive
upon seeing the mystic, but was frigid and desperate. He sat down next to the fire and
stared at me for several minutes before he closed his eyes and began to hum. With his eyes
still shut he motioned for me to approach him. He took my hands in his, as if to read my palms.
And then he thrust my hands into the flame, and he held them there with an unnatural strength
as I cried out in pain and tried to pull my hands back. He made me watch as my fingers began
to shrivel and blacken. I remember waking with the memory of this event, and of the pain. I
looked down and saw both of my hands were bandaged. I rose to curse my guest for my treatment
but stopped; I wasn't cold anymore.
-excerpt from the journal of Sir Orin of Veda, Knight of the Chalice, detailing his infection
by Therads and the painful extrication process.
Lord Waters, the high knight and ruler of Inga commissioned seven great bells to be made, one for each great virtue. Each bell was made by a great metal-worker and each bell was paid hansomely for and put atop a great tower. The last bell, the largest, was named Honor, and it is the singular pride of Inga today. But few know the sad history of Honor.