The throne room glowed with past victories. Between the massive spires of the 
central keep lay the crowns of attempted kings, the armor of base foes and 
celebrated heroes, the downy furs of animals of the hunt, and the towering 
tapestries that preached the proud history of Sala. A fire pit crouched in the 
center of the rich hall, already roaring in anticipation of the true winter 
months. 

	In the back, raised up on a pedestal twelve spans high, the See of Sala 
loomed over any foolish enough to enter by the massive double doors in the front 
of the hall. All of the northern tribes bowed to the throne, a monument of 
glory, a dynasty crystallized in sculpted wood and bronze inlay. A list of 
vanquished foes decorated the pedestal, practically honeycombing the structure. 
Runes of protection and authority, wrought and sealed by a generation of the 
finest runesmithes, supported the back of the king when he chose to sit.

	But right now, King Petroyv of Sala had taken a more mundane stool of oak 
at the foot of his forefathers' grand creation. The venerable warlord nursed a 
mug of spiced wine, mulling over the state of the world in the simple leather 
smock of true statecraft. A tight, weather-beaten face stared bitterly into its 
liquor from behind a hood of disheveled gray hair.

	"Has that man Toura reported back from Iso yet?"

	The hall's only other occupant, the Crown Prince Tiroth, gently closed the 
side door behind him, quickly locking out the sad chill of the keep's 
antechambers. He was the splitting image of Prince Dmitri, if not for his 
younger features and harsher disposition. "No, my lord.  We have received no 
word from him or his men. But the generals assure me that there is no need for 
panic. The mission is still well within its timetable."

	"Timetable. Pah!" The king smeared wine across his floor as fragments of 
his mug spilled out in front of the fire pit. "If only I could pull back my 
words, I would have never condoned this monstrosity! By now, twelve good men 
have been destroyed! And for what?!"

	Tiroth strode to his father's side. "He conspired against you, against the 
throne, against Sala itself. He pulls at the flanks of your kingdom like a wolf. 
He has betrayed the blood in his veins."

	"He has done no such thing." The Petroyv stood and wobbled towards the 
dancing flames, past Tiroth. The prince could smell the wine on his breath. 
"He...he honors his blood, if nothing else. I would forgive any man his 
patriotism."

	Tiroth clenched his fists. "You go too far, my lord, in your philosophy. 
Such a bastard as Dmitri should be thankful he is suffered to live!"

	Petroyv spun unevenly. "He is your brother-"

	"Half brother!" Tiroth's eyes bulged with rage. Slowly, surely, he calmed 
himself. "He is not my true brother, my lord, no matter how greatly you wish it. 
He is tied to me by patronage and to you by a single drunken mistake. If the 
gods truly smiled on man, men of his condition would not exist."

	"From whence does his jealousy stem?" Petroyv laughed through his tears. 
"What has been denied to you, Tiroth? You have your proper title, you have your 
heritage, you have the crown merely hovering from your skull. There is nothing 
Dmitri received that you have not received five times over. Justice is yours, 
Prince Tiroth! Rejoice!"

	"That is not true, father." Tiroth rejoined silently. "Dmitri has taken 
the whole territory of your heart." Instead, he merely lowered his head and 
turned to look on the names of the conquered.

	"As I thought. Leave us now, Tiroth." Petroyv turned back to the flames. 
"You have done naught but unsettle my thoughts. I need my whole facilities now 
to meditate on what shall happen once Dmitri is back in Sala. I will not waste 
twelve men simply to throw him in chains. A treaty will be drawn, if indeed 
forced."

	Tiroth stalked back the way he came, holding back a grim 
smile. If that runesmith did as was expected of him, then his father would have 
no choice but to crush Iso, no matter the guile of Dmitri. Tiroth had been 
fortunate when the man had come to him, with his knowledge of what tortured 
Tiroth's heart and his strange process of turning man to beast.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The North 
A Tale of High Adventure 
And Low Temperatures 

Part 2: Creeping Frost

Created by Schneeble (Brian Stubbs) 
Written by Nick Callahan

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Wet. Wet and cold. Wet and cold and falling from the sky. Wet and cold and 
falling from the sky and getting caught in the wind and splattering against him 
and soaking in through all the cracks of his clothes.

	Arlen was developing a severe dislike for snow. Back in Kaddegh, snow was 
perfectly normal and expected, something that came yearly to clog roadways and 
chill travelers. But here! Oh, but here, it was a plague! A blight! A swarm of 
horrible white insects! Oh, yes, Arlen would greatly enjoy the next Kaddegh 
summer he saw.

	Fortunately, this slight storm wasn't as bad as some of the flurries he 
had seen on his trip to Iso. He could still easily make out his companions. 
Grael jingled on his left; the trot of his war-horse tuned armor, barding, a 
giant sword, a small collection of horseman maces, and various bags to the same 
quiet cacophony. The sergeant's face was hidden by a sack-cloth muffler draped 
over the man's fantastic mane. The mask of burlap reminded Arlen of the strip of 
thick wool that Katria gave him to cover his own face.

	"If you draw a sign of invocation with a sign of collection, the two 
forces will interrupt each other, causing your medium to suffer severe strain."

	"Good. But what if the opposing signs invoke and collect the same magic?"

	"Then...then..." Katria searched her mind for a moment. "Then you get an 
overload that you may not be able to control."

	Katria. If she were any less of a mystery, he'd swear she wasn't human. 
She made Arlen think of certain girls that who contracted themselves to his 
mother's brothel without realizing what the job fully implied. He hated having 
to wax apologetic with some of mother's more disagreeable and downright perverse 
clientele. He readjusted his grip on the pack donkey's reins and tore his eyes 
from a professional appraisal of Katria's clock-covered form.

	"And how can one sense the coming of an overload?"

	"Well...um...you...you can't, really."

	Arlen turned a deaf ear to Brandt's lesson review. He couldn't help but 
reflect on this morning's argument. A vague shadow play danced out the event in 
the shade of the forest as it all came back to him once again.

	Serpent will head away from Sala, the shadow of Brandt recalled. He can't 
arrive there with his two beasts and explain why Grael had to stay behind to 
hold off patrollers. 

	Do you think he'll try camping out in the tundra? Arlen remembered that he 
asked that rather incredulously. 

	No one tries that. Grael's shadow interjected at this point. Anyone knows 
that's suicide with the winter storms coming. He's not stupid.

	There's still time, though. The shadow of Katria was impatient. Raiders 
used to do it to throw off Sala's army. It's risky, but it works.

	Grael's shadow twisted around like it wanted to say something, but thought 
more diplomatically about it.

	It makes sense. Brandt's shadow studied the map that Grael's shadow had 
brought. East and west would take him back towards Iso or too close to Sala, 
respectively. South leaves him open to be chased by a light party, once the 
court at Sala realizes what he's done. That just leaves the northern tundra.

	It's clean, open space, right? Katria's shadow was excited. If we drop 
some supplies and ride hard, we could overtake him before he got too far!

	And face those monsters of his exhausted? Arlen found himself agreeing 
with Grael's shadow. It might be better to wait him out and call his bluff.

	But what about Dmitri? Katria's shadow protested. Anything could happen to 
him!

	Dead men won't rescue the prince. For the price of my men, I think he can 
afford to wait a bit.

	Then Katria's shadow said-

	"Hold!" Brandt's true voice called Arlen back to reality. He joined Katria 
in glancing around, vaguely aware that Grael was reaching for one of his maces. 
Brandt was doing everything but buzzing. The horses danced about in shock.

	"There are active runes near us...They're getting closer."

	Arlen's hand found his hilt.

-----------

The two of them stared off into the all-consuming mother of pearl that made up 
the tundra proper. Squatting down on their legs, impossibly long arms buried in 
the snow, the runebeasts failed to even twitch. Dmitri, in the bubble of a 
makeshift hut, watched them watch...something.

	"Remind me, prince, but what is your father's full title? I'd hate to 
address the king of Sala without the proper respect." Dmitri gave the runesmith 
a cold look. The man grinned sardonically. "Oh, well, I suppose he wouldn't care 
for formalities anyway, would he?"

	"Why are you doing this?" Dmitri growled out.

	The runesmith raised an eyebrow. "Why? Oh, why not? Fortune. Power. 
Security. Perhaps, dear prince, it's time for a new king to rise up in this 
barren clime." The magician put down the final lines of his letter with a 
flourish. "I'm not asking much of your father. Some land claims of my choosing, 
protection under the throne, a bit gold to invest in this and that...Being given 
these things just makes the process so much smoother."

	Dmitri laughed bitterly. He nodded to the statue-esque beasts. "You think 
those two poor devils will make you a king? They maybe be strong individuals, 
but a proper army would swarm them under like specks of dust."

	The runesmith winked at Dmitri and stood up. Holding his hand out to the 
snow, he clucked out a strangled little cry. The pathetic simulacrum of a bird 
bounced into the hut. The thing was practically a corpse, and the runes carved 
into it did nothing to help. He jumped eagerly onto the runesmith's offered arm. 
"How long would you say it took me to craft this little fellow, eh? An hour? 
Half of an hour? He took but a matter of minutes. If you can imagine that, 
prince, then maybe you can envision my upcoming draft."

	Dmitri felt a bit of hope fade with the birds arrival. Gently, the 
runesmith slid his finger into the birds breast and opened up the avian's 
ribcage. He stuffed the note in and threw the bird into the air. The newest 
runebeast flapped doggedly and made a straight line in what Dmitri supposed to 
be the direction of Sala. The runesmith nodded in satisfaction. "There he goes, 
then, to carry off my message and bring back the king's reply. All is in hand. 
Now, tell me, Dmitri, since we understand each other so well..."

	The runesmith turned his gaze to the shelter's third occupant.

	"...What is this young lady's name?"

	A runebeast twitched ever so slightly. Dmitri's screams of rage lasted for 
hours.

------------

The trees whipped past them as the group rushed to get out of the woods. How 
close was it? Arlen wondered. Twenty yards? Ten yards? Would he hear it coming 
before it was too late? Vaguely, he heard Grael shout that a clear field lay to 
the right. Arlen wheeled his horse around as bark and leaves smacked across the 
top of his hood. His nerves screamed to draw his sword, to make sure that some 
mystical force wouldn't hold it in his scabbard. Blinding panic gripped him as 
prompted his horse to higher speeds.

	Then he burst into the open. Grael's charger stood in the center of it, 
Grael himself stuffing his muffler into a saddle bag. Brandt pushed the donkey's 
reigns into Katria's hands. Arlen realized that Brandt was the only one calm 
enough to remember the poor pack-beast during the mad rush. An eerie calm 
settled as the runesmith tugged on a leather glove with a cruel metal claw on 
the thumb.

	The beast lumbered out anti-climatically. It had changed, Arlen thought. 
Thick brown bristles covered its arms. Monstrous teeth jutted from its mouth 
unevenly, bit of torn checks and lips hanging from the largest ones. It's 
translucent stomach hung wetly from its torso, swelled and maimed organs 
pressing out against the wall of the skin. Several stubby, underdeveloped limbs 
sprouted from the small of its back. Runes swarm on its surface. The beast 
roared and gurgled, spilling out drool and mucus and blood onto the snow. 
Drunkenly, it stood up and cried out again.

	"It looks like it's in pain." A nauseated Katria observed. Brandt 
stoically pulled a fluted stick from his bags and poised his claw over one of 
the marks on it. Grael slid his massive sword off and let it drop to the ground, 
opting for one of the maces sitting at his flank. Arlen slid his scimitar into 
the cold air.

	The beast vaulted into the air like a bird.  Arlen spun his horse around 
as best he could and kicked the poor beast into a charge, churning up snow and 
throwing Arlen to and forth in the saddle. Grael had executed a much smoother 
turn and was tracking the monster's flight, mace in hand. 

	Brandt fought to keep his horse from bolt. By the time he could bring the 
stick to bear just the beast landed directly in front of him. The wizard tore at 
the rune and a cloud of steam burst up behind the demon. As Brandt took aim 
again at the now crouching opponent, the runebeast dashed forward and slipped 
under the horse like it was only a third of its size. Spinning on its heels, the 
demon tore its claws into the side of Brandt's horse. The poor beast broke into 
a bleeding dash with the wizard still a rider, leaving behind a grim pennant of 
skin in the creature's hand.

	Before the creature could pursue its prey, Grael met it first. The armored 
man blind-sided it with his mace, pulling the beast off balance and dragging it 
three feet through the air before it gravity took hold again. Arlen came next, 
whipping past as the beast tried to rise. The tip of his sword caught the beast 
across its vivisected jaw, trailing blood behind him. As Arlen readjusted his 
grip, he noted Grael making a second run.

	This time, the creature wouldn't be caught unawares. Grael's hand flew 
from the mace's handle when the creature's jaw closed around its swinging shaft. 
Spitting the weapon into its hand, the beast spun to find Arlen and hurled the 
impromptu missile like a cannonball. Arlen ducked down in his saddle as the mace 
streaked past his head and crashed into the tree line. Looking up, he brought 
his scimitar to bear just in time to ward off the charging beast with a clumsy 
slash. The creature barrel-rolled in the middle of its pounce and landed a few 
feet to his right. Wasting no time, Arlen forced his horse into a run and gave 
the beast a wide circle.

	"It's no good!" Grael yelled to him. "There's too much risk to the mounts! 
We have to take it on foot!"

	Arlen blinked once or twice at his surroundings. "Where's Katria?"



Katria pounded through the woods. The donkey was lost somewhere behind her.

	"Brandt!"

	Broken foliage lay before her. Blood stained the ground.

	"Brandt!"

	At last, there was the horse. It had fallen on its injured side. Behind it 
trailed muscles.

	"Brandt!"

	Katria leapt to the ground and rushed over to the runesmith. Blood 
trickled down the side of his head. One leg sprawled out in front of his gut. 
The horse hid the other. Katria fell to his side.

	"Brandt, can you hear me?! Oh God, Brandt, say something!"

	"Katria..." Eyes hazy with concussion looked up to her. "My leg, Katria, 
under the horse...the bone's sticking out. I can feel it."

	"Don't worry, Brandt! We'll think of something! I'll think of something!" 
Katria felt her mouth go dry with panic. If Brandt was too hurt to go on, what 
could she do...? "You'll be okay! I mean, you're a runesmith! You've been 
through a lot worse!"

	"That I have, girl...That I have." Brandt smiled puckishly at her tears. 
"But, still...you have to do it, Katria. Arlen and Grael...they're no match for 
that thing. You have to work the runes." Groaning with pain, he brought his arm 
away from his chest, revealing the fluted stick and the clawed glove. "You've 
seen me use this, right?"

	"I...I understand..." Katria marveled as her arm, cold and mechanical, 
took the offered weapon. Her hand felt hollow as the glove enclosed it. "I 
understand what I have to do." A deep breath and a sense of purpose flowed out 
from the glove and stick.

	Brandt sighed as Katria's horse tossed up mud and snow. "No, you don't, 
child...but maybe it will turn out all right."



Swick. Nothing but blood and gristle. Swick. Exposed a tooth that time. Swick. 
Just making it angrier.

	Arlen jumped back as the beast swung its massive paw at his last position. 
He readied to engage it again, but then scrambled away as a second attack came. 
The creature's eviscerated jaw line slogged more blood down its chest as it 
roared it frustration. Arlen tossed a hand-full of snow at its eyes and 
retreated even more.

	As the enraged monster tried to ready a revenging charge, Grael's sword 
clubbed it across the back of its shoulders. Grael swung up and down again, 
smashing it into the snow. With the third swing, the beast caught the blade on 
its shoulder and stood up, forcing its way past the leverage. 

It smiled sickeningly as Grael, just as Arlen speared an eye with the tip of his 
sword. Finally losing itself to pain in full, the beast reeled back, clutching 
its leaking socket. Grael pulled back his sword and thrust the tip into the 
translucent belly.
	
	The clear flesh popped like a bubble. Out tumbled the engorged organs. 
Then up they popped again, snapping at Arlen and Grael's feet with newly-found 
teeth. The two swordsmen stumbled back, Arlen warding them off at blade point 
and Grael crushing the demon mouths with his metallic boots. The beast's head 
swung back to face them, the fetal form of a new eye gazing out at them.
	
	A cloud of heat billowed past Arlen's face. A mask of flames flowed past 
the beast's head. Both of its eyes popped and poured from their sockets. The 
remains of its lips and cheeks blackened and flapped away. Arlen spun and saw 
Katria gallop out of the woods, tugged back in the saddle, holding Brandt's 
stick. He gathered his wits in time to reverse his arc and see the eyes bursting 
forth across the creature's form.

	"Don't waste time, you fool!" Grael's armored form caught the beast with a 
tackled and dragged it though the snow until the monster broke free. Be-fanged 
intestines encircled Grael, trying to chew through his armor, as the beast's 
arms swiped against the flat of Grael's massive sword. 

      Just he prepared to dive into the battle, he caught Katria in the corner 
of his eye. She was on the ground now, obviously woozy from her previous magical 
effort. She braced herself and aimed the stick once more.

      He began to cry out that Grael was in the way.

      But she would know that, wouldn't she?

      A plume of steam erupted between Grael and the creature. Arlen saw Grael 
first. The sergeant stumbled backwards, covering his eyes. Bits of his armor 
glowed molten. He had dropped his sword in the maelstrom of heat.

      Rushing into the steam, he saw the creature next, a glowing mass of 
horrific living runes. Thankfully, the intestines were ripped away by the blast. 
His sword flew through its opening jaw, throwing a long trail of blood to the 
side. Grael, still sans sword, barreled past him suddenly and tackled the beast 
to the ground.

      "The brain! Aim for the brain!"

      Arlen fell on the creature, driving his point down into the barren eye 
sockets. The flesh contracted around it, holding his blade fast. As readied to 
dash back once again, but then Katria appeared next to him, collapsing into the 
snow.

      A clawed thumb found its mark on a rune placed directly on the forward. 
Screaming like an alley cat, she slashed viciously at it. Multi-colored crumbs 
flew about, mixing with blood. The rune exploded in light as its form dissolved 
and faded away, like some kind of perverted will o' the wisp. Then, finally, it 
was over. With a strangled moan, the beast ceased moving. A silence feel on the 
field as the three waited to see who would admit first that they could get up.

      "I...I recognized it...from Brandt's lessons..." Katria choked out. "It 
meant...It meant persistence..."

      "Smart thinking..." Grael wheezed. He leveled his eyes at Katria. "But 
don't pretend...that you're exhausted..."

      "Magic's...hard...work..."

      "Remember..." Arlen interjected before Grael could start. "We...softened 
it up...for you..."

      The joke hardly helped.

---------------

"It probably went crazy and ran away." Brandt shifted in his seat. A splint 
covered his leg, small runes glowing on it. "There were a lot of problems with 
that man's ruins. Maybe we'll luck out and all his creatures will fail like 
that."
	
	"Well, hopefully, not all like that." Arlen smiled sorely. He leaned 
against the wall of the imperfect ice house Katria had put together under 
Brandt's instructions. The runes on the cast were her work, too, something 
Brandt said would help him recover his strength. "I'd rather go home and tell 
mom that I lost the girl."

	Brandt chuckled slightly. "Where's Grael?" Katria was outside. She said 
she wanted some fresh air

	"He's burying the body. He says that it was still his man and deserves a 
bit of respect." Arlen stirred the fire under the soup.

	"Can't argue with him. I pity all those fellows." Brandt stared at the 
ceiling. "So, tell me, did Katria try to kill him?"

	Arlen shook his head. "Technically, she was trying to kill that demon. But 
she wasn't too concerned with Grael getting out of the way."

	Brandt nodded. "I was afraid she would. She's dangerous that way. They 
both are, but Katria especially. Grael's a bit more disciplined."

	"I think I need some explanation here." Arlen pressed. "I mean, honestly, 
what's the issue between them?"

	"Honestly?" Brandt closed his eyes. "The same thing that started this 
whole mess. You see, the people up here are divided into tribes. The Touran 
tribesmen, the tribe controlling Sala, are the technical rulers. A few hundred 
years or so ago, they brow beat the other tribes into accepting their chief as 
king. Prince Dmitri is the son of King Petroyv of the Touran and a daughter of 
the chieftain line of Jorouk, the tribe at Iso. He's been trying to build up a 
movement to establish self-rule for the Jorouk tribe, and since he's the son of 
the king, a couple of nobles took into their heads that he has the authority to 
do it. I was supposed to be part of the more militant end of that movement."

	"I think I see where people like Grael and Katria come into this 
equation." Arlen rubbed his eyelids. "Well, damn. You just had to take Katria as 
your pupil, didn't you?"

	"Would've been someone even more closed minded if I didn't. I think I can 
shove her face in the big picture, with a bit of effort. Think you can handle 
Grael's end?"

	"With sword of his?" Arlen replied incredulously. 

	"Is the soup boiling yet?" Katria called from the outside.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's notes:

Don't you love it when you think you have an idea for something and yet somehow, 
you absolutely hate the final result. Honestly, I am not proud of this piece at 
all. I'd slap the label 'filler episode' on this sucker and make way for more 
talented writers.

As for the rate at which Serpent can produce runebeasts, that was Schneeble's 
idea. When I was chatting with him for ideas, he suggested that Serpent could 
possibly turn an entire town in a fair amount of time, at least in about the 
course of an episode. Also, as to Arlen's sword, the original description 
described it was a curved sword, so I slapped it with scimitar for the sake of 
simplicity. It can't see him with a cutlass or a katana.

Thanks goes to Jerome Wiwezar for prereading.

Good luck to coming writers. Hope you do way better than me.

--Nick Callahan (12/2/02)