Tall Tales & Fables

Tales of Fjolfrin the Frigid

Along the riverbanks of Lloringel, in the shadow of the Roof of the World, Fjolfrin stumbled into his meager home after toiling the fields of the Kinsey family estate. Despite the ache in his bones and the weight in his eyes he remained restless. The mockingbirds of the north made sleep all but obtainable as their mimicry carried well into the mid of night. Their songs were that of an eerie sort for they had taken upon themselves the sounds of roaming beasts and the ever moaning undead.

There then was a vial shriek and the birds fell silent. Fjolfrin rose, grabbing his axe and took for the street. Thick smoke clouded his sight and burned his lungs with every breathe. Fjolfrin knew not friend from foe as shapeless forms whirled through the smoke all around him. He was knocked to the ground and fell unconscious.

---

Fjolfrin awoke coughing, covered in dirt and ash, beneath a warm spring sun. He rose slowly and wiped his face with his forearm. Plumes of smoke still stretch towards the sky from the charred remains of the village. There were few able-bodied people helping where they could, gathering personal items of the unfortunate and dousing what fires still lingered. Fjolfrin shook off the aching in his head and began to lend his hand in their efforts.

He soon found that his home too was unable to withstand the midnight blaze. Much of his possessions were lost or were misshapen lumps of charcoal. He was able to find a sword, relatively undamaged and still warm to the touch, as well as a few mundane utility items. Through the following hours Fjolfrin came to the realization that despite the loss of all he had known as a boy, it may be the perfect opportunity to become more than a simple farmhand.

As the sun began to fall in the sky Fjolfrin gathered what little he had and started down the road towards Fronepu. In all his years he had never been to the capital of Ar Agyr and eagerly looked forward to the new prospects that lie in wait.