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Between Winters.

By Glycanthrope.

Part 5.

Cats and birds and things that come off in the wash

This was not Rania's finest moment.

She had spent the day searching in vain for a potion to cure her parents, she had broken into a stranger's house, she had stepped into a magical trap and now she found herself suspended midair in the amorous embrace of an oversized beanstalk. Oh, and now the sorcerer who owned the house had just come home. It was just one of those days.

Rania watched Victor the sorcerer walk slowly towards her, lantern in hand. He walked halfway across the floor and then stopped to study the sleeping cat, who was sufficiently annoyed by the lantern to wake up and study right back at him.

Three more steps and he made another stop by the caged raven. He held the lantern aloft and shone the light trough the bars. From her awkward position, Rania could not see if there was any reaction but she heard the soft rustling of feathers and a slow exhale of relief coming from the sorcerer.

He took three careful steps towards her, as if he expected the trap to contain some kind of monstrous creature.

"He can't see me" Rania realised, "Human eyes don't work when it's dark".

When the sorcerer was close enough to make out the contents of the vine-trap he stared at Rania in quiet disbelief.

"I'll bet that the first thing he says is: -and just who in the bloody abyss are you? - Either that or, what are you doing in my house!"

"How did you manage to get this far?"

"Guess I was wrong on both accounts", she thought. "You left the door open, so I walked in". Rania figured that this interpretation of the events was sufficiently truthful. Victor had in fact locked his door but he had also left the key behind, so the only fact neglected was the tiny detail that she had given the key a good twist before entering. "I only wanted to buy a few potions from you, honestly, and I did leave coins on the table."

Victor seemed oblivious to both explanation and coin, and kept glancing around as if he expected the darkness to provide an answer to some unspoken question.

"Hugin and Munin did not attack you". It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

"You mean the two city guards? I thought they went with you"

"Not the guards! Hugin and Munin!" Victor waved an agitated hand towards the two pet animals. -"They protect this place against intruders. You know medusae, lamias and the sort... But apparently not foxes - That's actually very interesting."

"You have a guardian cat?"

"Munin is only half-cat and Hugin only half-raven. Believe me; you won't like them when they change. Lots of teeth and claws and ...things", Victor made wiggling movements with his fingers as if to illustrate the word "things", then he took a few steps back towards the cat. "What made you leave this one alone, I wonder?" Munin politely ignored the question and rolled onto one side but otherwise remained unchanged. There was no sign of teeth or things.

"Now he's talking to the cat". Rania decided that the human was mostly harmless, but clearly a few dice short of a game. "You know, I've been stuck in here for hours, could you please let me out of this contraption?"

"I'm sorry", Victor put two fingers to his forehead and concentrated. He then pointed a hand at the plant-like growth that held Rania captive, and she could feel the vines loosen their embrace.

"Please, my parents are dying. I just wanted to buy a few curing potions from you. I took three flasks and now they are somewhere on the floor, underneath that... plant thing".

Victor looked at Rania and then back at the table with all the flasks.

"You shouldn't have come here", he said. "I hand over each and every potion to the city hall, so what you see on the table are all the dead ones where the magic didn't take. I've been meaning to pour them out, but..."

-"They are not ALL dead, you know. The ones on the floor are okay, and there is another one on the desk."

Victor spun around "Ha! How on earth would you know? You're a fox. Last time I checked, your kind doesn't channel magic!"

"Maybe you don't have to channel magic to feel them glow".

"Glow?"

"That's how you tell the live ones from the dead ones, right?"

Victor looked intensely at Rania. This was not the desperate ramblings of a scared girl, he decided. She seemed convinced that she could somehow tell a magic portion from a dead one, simply by "feeling them glow". He took a deep breath, "gods, I must be just as desperate as you for doing this, but tell me, which flask on the table did you say was live?"

Rania kicked the last of the clinging vines off her legs and approached the table. She touched a few flasks before picking one and handing it to Victor. "That one!"

"This one? Are you sure?"

"It glows - that's all I know."

Victor uncorked the flask, took out a vial from his pocket and added a small drop of Litmus Magii to the potion with an eyedropper. After a few seconds, the entire potion turned light red for a few seconds, before reverting back to colourless.

"Sweet Odys!" the girl was right. "Okay, pick one from the table that doesn't glow"

"That's easy, none of them do"

"and the ones on the floor?"

"Those are the ones that I picked for my parents. They are okay".

Victor dropped to his knees and searched for the flasks among the withering vines. Once again, he popped off the cork and dropped litmus into the potion, and he watched again how the potion turned momentarily red.

"I...I'm sorry that I snapped at you."

"It's alright, can I go now?"

Victor didn't answer. He stood quietly with his head bowed and held on to the table with both hands like someone who was about to topple over. He made soft noises as if in pain and his eyes leaked sudden streams of water that ran down his face. It was a terrible sight.

"Please, are you hurting?"

"You don't know how much this means ... You have no idea".

...

Snowheart was greeted by the five elder badgers of the tribe when he entered the old council hall. The number of council members changed over time, generally ranging from five to nine - but always kept at an odd number in case of a vote.

He squinted at the sun to make out the time. It was considered very impolite to be late for a council meeting, but the most-elder assured him "You are not late - It is us who have been up all day". Snowheart looked around; the council elders looked tired and troubled indeed. Even Turf-digger looked worn out and far from his jolly self, and only offered a faint nod for a greeting.

The pungent smell of vipermoss brew rose from a simmering pot on the table. The hot beverage dampened the need for sleep, but was very hard on the stomach, ungratefully rewarding daytime work with bloated pain and flatulence. It was therefore used only under the most pressing of circumstances, and those who imbibed were kindly asked to go for frequent outside walks.

The most-elder waved off any further politeness with a tired hand. "Please Snowheart; sit down with us for a while. You were recently commissioned to compose a letter to Myron Silverspear of the minotaurs, on behalf of the centaurs. Did you notice anything ...different or unusual in the correspondence?"

"Only the sudden request to address Chief Silverspear as "Mahei" stuck me as unusual. Apart from that it was just a standard 'we would like to pretend to be sorry for trespassing on your territory' apology"

"There are signs of trouble rising, Snowheart, and the wording of this letter may suggest wider and alarming implications"

Snowheart sat uneasily in the chair, and had no idea where this was leading.

"Were you aware that bands of orcs have recently attacked a number of human settlements?"

"Well, I know that orcs and humans have never shared any great affection for each other, but ..."

"The orcine tribes have lived an anonymous existence in the mountain areas to the north for just about hundred years. Contact with other races has been sporadic, and mostly centred around trade. Our reports say that shortly after winter, armed orc units launched sudden and unprovoked attacks on several human dwellings in the Grimslade plains. Farms and smaller lumberyards were among the initial targets."

"This makes no sense", said Snowheart. "Why would traditional mountain dwellers take any interest in the plainlands?"

"This has puzzled the council too. But also the brutal nature of the attacks is very unusual, even for orc standards. The orcs have razed and burnt dwellings to cinders, while hunting down and slaying any survivors."

"So, humans and orcs have clashed once again. It is not exactly the first time in history this has happened. But we're badgers; can't we just leave them to fight it out on their own?"

"We most certainly would, young Snowheart -If it were only that simple. By the last attack, our friends, the minotaurs had joined the orcs."

This made no sense to Snowheart. No Minotaur leader would ever allow himself to be involved in any skirmish that wasn't immortalised by a bard. He had met Myron Silverspear on several occasions, and he was no exception to this. Surely, an attack on defenceless farmers would never work "you can only rhyme peasant with "pleasant" or "pheasant", he said. "Imagine that in a taurian battlesong."

"If you think that the situation is confused at this point, it gets only more so. The latest settlement to be attacked was a logging camp near the Nerwan Forest. More than thirty humans, women and children were hunted and slain by orcs and minotaurs. Many more would probably have been killed, had the elves from a nearby settlement not joined in to assist when the humans fled into the woods. The elven archers managed to chase the attackers out of the woods, and the human refugees are currently under the protection of the elves until they can find safe passage to fort Julianmarch."

Snowheart listened in silence. The various tribes of taurians had been traditional allies of the badgers for centuries.

"Elves?"

"Indeed. Humans and Elves have been known to work together and to protect each other"

"Dwarves too", turf-digger intervened.

"And dwarves... Problem is, that elves and centaurs are also very close allies, but so are the dwarves and minotaurs."

"I still fail to see how I fit into the picture", Snowheart argued"

"The letter of apology that you were commissioned to compose was sent weeks prior to the attack - so how would the centaurs know to propose a kinship with the minotaurs?"

"Unless the centaurs knew in advance that the minotaurs were planning to join the orcs. They must have known about the battle plans, but still kept it a secret from everyone - including their own Elven allies"

"Friend is turning against friend, Snowheart. New alliances are being formed and attacks are launched. We badgers have always been asked to mediate in matters such as this. For centuries, wars have been avoided because the tribes have had the common sense to settle their differences in these halls, through the assist of our council, but look at us now; we have lost touch with the situation."

Fernfell rose to his feet. "We need someone who is fluent in both humanoid and beast tongue to go and to talk to the involved parts and find out just what is going on".

The elders all looked at Snowheart. "You are knowledgeable in both beast and humanoid languages. We would ask you to go on a journey and visit the tribes involved. Talk to them and find out where they stand, and whom they support."

"We'll be expecting a trade caravan in a few days, and we ask that you join this caravan as a passenger and travel with it on its voyage through Namairith."

Snowheart returned home in a mild state of shock. The council had bestowed a great honour upon him by sending him off as a representative of the badgerkin, but it was a very sudden decision and he felt unprepared. If nothing else, he knew that it was time to brush up on the common humanoid language.

. . .

One week later, the trade caravan pulled into the settlement around noon. One by one, the horse drawn carriages arrived along the muddy road, carrying a wide assortment of goods. The traders unpacked as per routine and put their wares on display with the smooth efficiency characterising a long journey on the road.

Travelling across the land, the tradesmen made numerous stops along the way, visiting human, elven and dwarven settlements, as well as those of select beastfolk. The latter included the badgerkin, the foxkin and most definitely the centaurs, whose generosity was well known and appreciated among traders.

Snowheart was among the first badgers to arrive at the caravan. With a plump sack of coin given to him by the elder council, he was eager to seek out any humanoid, who could offer him information on the current orc attacks and its wider implications.

The traders themselves came from all across the Namairian continent; human clothiers, elven armourers, a dwarven alemaker, goblin manufacturers of dried sundries. All brought goods along goods that they believed to be of interest to the settlement. Traders who carried goods of little interest to any particular settlement, and travellers who had joined the caravan as passengers stayed behind outside town limits.

Snowheart knew that most humanoids were diurnal - they preferred to sleep throughout the night and leave this to the activity of nocturnal beastfolk. Setting up shop around mid-day had proven to be a comfortable compromise between the conflicting time schedules.

The first human who caught Snowheart's interest was a young weaver selling lengths of cloth. He estimated the trader to be of some 20 human years. He carried the scent of nervousness and unfamiliarity, and Snowheart guessed that it was possibly his first journey with the caravan.

"Come, take a look at my wares", the weaver shouted and spread his arms in a vaguely flapping motion with practiced enthusiasm. "Straight from the loom, you will find no finer weave this side of Ferndale".

Snowheart rarely bought clothing from the humans. With their lack of natural fur, humans were prone to freezing and wove their cloth much too heavy and far too warm for his taste. Elven clothiers on the other hand, were partial to finer types of weave, and since elves and badgers were of roughly the same size, their tailors made suits that actually fit. Snowheart felt and sniffed the assortment of cloth that the young human had on offer. "If you like what you see, you are SO going to love THIS", the weaver quipped enthusiastically in the common tongue.

"I was going to save this for later, but seeing that you are a badger and all, I think that you really want to see this." The weaver held up a length of cloth. "You know how snowberries change colour from white to red when they are crushed, right"

"They turn dark, yes"

"So, when you pick them you get juice all over your clothes and the stains simply won't come off... Well, this fabric has been dyed through and through with winterberry. I mean, you just won't find such a rich shade of crimson anywhere else in Namairith."

Snowheart examined the length of cloth. It had a nice enough shade of dark but as much as he wanted to, he could not share the human's enthusiasm. He concluded that it was probably one of those human colours. "You know, colours really don't do a lot for badgers."

"Okay, so reds are out, But FEAST your eyes on this one!" he continued and held up another length of fabric. "This dye comes from a blue plant imported from the warm south. I swear, never has such a rich blue colour been captured in a single weave. It is so deep, so saturated...."

Snowheart sniffed at the length of cloth on offer. It carried a strong odour of bitter plants and ...human urine?

"What's with the urine?"

The weaver looked heartbroken."It... It's the only way that we can fix the pigment to the cloth"

"You actually... pee in it?"

"It'll wash out easily, I promise".

Snowheart found little comfort in the tradesman's promise. Human's perception of washing meant that they took a large lump of pork fat and boiled it with ashes. From this they produced a sticky substance, which they mixed with extracts made from dead flowers.

They would then wet themselves with copious amounts of water and smear themselves with the substance. This they believed, somehow disguised the scent of human, but only the human nose was weak enough to be fooled by this ritual to any degree. They would still smell human, only combined with strong notes of dead animal and decaying greenery.

Humans and elves both had a strong fascination for sprinkling themselves with potions extracted from various flowers, plants and bark. These potions carried no magical or beneficial properties, except that of exhausting the sense of smell. Experienced traders knew that the scent carried by these potions were much too strong for the badgerkin, and respectfully kept their wagons at a distance. They knew very well that business would pick up again as soon as they arrived at an elven or goblin settlement.

Snowheart scratched his head. By the ears of Inaris! If this was the caravan that the council wanted him to join, travelling with humans was going to be one beast of a culture clash.

"listen", Snowheart offered patiently, "I'll help you pick out the types of cloth that actually has an appeal to badgers. Cut back on the colours that we can't see anyway, and stick to the finer weave". Snowheart pointed out an assortment of rolls of weave, coloured in hues of whites, browns, greys - and what he perceived to be shades of black. "These will work".

The weaver stood silent, limply carrying the length of blue cloth that held so much pride to him.

"And I'll have some of what you are carrying".

The weaver let out a long sigh of relief.

Snowheart returned home to pack for the journey, and found his sister Sloe in her workshop. She was tired, but happy. "Would you believe, the foxes bought eight of my chairs... eight!"

"That is fantastic! How many do you have left?"

"That's all I had in stock. There's little competition because human-made chairs do not come with a proper hole for the tail, so now I've got to make a batch of new ones"

"Do foxes see blue?", asked Snowheart.

"I think so, why?"

"I've got this cloth for you. Made by humans and dyed blue with the rare extract from some exotic plant. I thought that you might be able to use it for upholstery on some of your furniture.

"But Snowy! This cloth reeks of urine! I always thought that humans were a bit unsavoury, but they didn't have to try this hard to live up to their stereotypes."

"It'll wash out easily, I promise".

. . .