Weatherwise, the day of Ulric's departure couldn't have been better. As had become the norm, the temperature was icy, the wind bitter and dry. Snow fell intermittently as the finest of crystals, shimmering iridescence that pervaded the gaps between branches. In the complete absence of leaves, sunlight poured down onto the leaf-carpeted forest floor. Ulric was a little surprised at the difference in how much brighter was the journey for his return to the grove, dense canopies had made for a rather closed-in, dusky forest. The Elven escort padded lightly, a slight crackling of frosty leaves that was mostly lost in the comparative din of his heavy tread, whose impacts crushed down to the soil beneath.

Ulric was finding that his Bolt deer boots would need a substantial upgrade to be fit for extended winter trekking as his toes felt keenly the cold ground beneath. Once they stopped moving, he'd need a fire immediately to keep the impending frostbite at bay. The magical substrate of the Iriel'en fortress city, famed Heartwood, resisted greatly the winter's grasp, aided also by the ensorcellment that prevented the air from losing its heat within that place.

Not so the wilds beyond. With a vengeance, the full weight of the season pressed down onto the land. Unlike the plateau, with its near constantly gusting winds, the arctic chill pushed through in vigorous waves only every once in a while, all the more potent for its infrequency. Ulric's Forest Lord overcoat, fur-trimmed to the inside, bolstered him against the cold, likewise for his leggings of the same material.

Such a boon that the Greater beast's carcass had proven to be. Food that had sustained him in those early days, protective clothing that, even now, made him virtually impervious to the elements, and bones and ligaments that had produced tooling capable of carving out a living from the glade. These primitive instruments had allowed him to carve staves and handles from the improbably hardened boles of Steelwood and had given him the ability to cut a dwelling out from the monstrously dense trunk of the fallen giant.

The old beast had turned out to be Varda's gift to him. A boon of the Watcher? Provided he was able to survive its last whisps of fury, of course. Not much came freely on this gift of a world.

Ulric considered that as he walked, confident in his personal safety. It might well be axiomatic that a Vardan gift was something that is patently commodious, but will attempt murder before you can employ it.

Geyrt trailed behind him, bow strung and held at an easy ready, hand span arrow head fitted for flight at any sign of threat. The only alteration in her gear from their initial meeting, newly gifted bow aside, was an over cloak of white dappled myriad greys and browns. Clearly, it was meant to be camouflage for those Hunters and soldiers who roamed the deep wood in Winter, with its heavy, deep hood, and thickly furred interior. Ulric was left to only briefly wonder at how well the cloak actually served to hide its bearer until his Shadow had swiftly climbed a tree and promptly vanished against the backdrop of snow-covered branches.

Ulric asked her when she returned from her brief scout about the animal from which its hide was derived. Geyrt was glad to spend a few minutes to gloat about its construction. The otter-like beasts had been harvested by herself and were considered exceedingly challenging to hunt, thanks to a frustrating combination of blending into the environment at any season and being swift to evade to cover at the slightest hint of a predator.

Even more prestigious, they weren't to be found in Iriel. A Hunter had to infiltrate the wilds of Prespang for one, deep, deep into hostile territory. Obtaining them was as much an exercise in bragging rights as it was for the phenomenal water shedding and optically bewildering fur.

Compared to that, the inner cloak was a more routine prize of the forests, lined by thick pelts of a creature akin to a snowshoe hare, called Dagger Feet for their wickedly sharp hind clawed paws. It retained heat extremely well, his Shadow was toasty beneath her cloak despite the bitter chill.

She had run a circuit ahead of their course, scouting the land before returning to her position as rear guard and showed the slightest sheen of perspiration for her efforts. Ulric would have admitted easily that it was a comfort knowing she was on duty, a drawn bow aimed outwards towards anything that might make trouble.

Few words passed the lips of the travelers for the hours that they hiked toward the west of Iriel. The going was easy. Winter had, as Bald'rt had claimed, been generous in withholding the heavy snows that were typical of this time of year. They were coming, a few dark grey clouds promised it, but, for now, only the lightest dusting had fallen, and that only lasted in the darker shadows of brush or the leeward side of a hill. The trails remained clear and clearly marked, just as they had been when Brighteyes had shown Ulric the way on their journey to return the lad home. With such easy travel, the Elves and their Human ward made distance-eating strides and tirelessly covered the kilometers between Iriel'hos and the great towering wall of Vardan stone that was the face of the plateau. Only the rapid descent of the twinned suns in the sky brought their advance to a pause, the shorter days and seasonal cold forcing a timely camp. Ulric estimated they had covered roughly two-thirds of the distance from Irielhos to the Ancient's Gate.

Interestingly enough, Geyrt was carrying the tent Ulric had made for Brighteyes. Whether a testament to his own craft or a symbolic gesture of keeping the lad in her thoughts, Ulric knew not. Either way, it was a nice thing to see.

Driving poles into the frozen ground was less pleasing.

Theoretically, he didn't need to do it, the poles balanced well on the level patch of clear ground Christ had declared a traveler's campsite, but he'd rather not chance a stray down gust coming off the plateau tipping it over into campfire or some similar punishment for laziness. Better to give a mallet its time in the sun and be safely assured of warmth through the night.

Travel rations provided proved delicious: bread, cheese, fruit, and charred meat, washed down by jamfruit juice. Ulric couldn't complain, he and Brighteyes had mostly subsisted on dried, smoked meat, and baked glade potatoes, at least until the boy had scored his kill on the Stone Plated Boar. After a short communal sit around the campfire, dark and the effort of many kilometers bygone called the travelers to their bedrolls, saving those on watch. Ulric's turn was in the Witch's Hour, midnight on his old world, so he gladly turned in early.

An ungentle nudging with delicate feet covered by Geyrt's tall, hard-soled boots urged him from his slumber. Ulric struggled to keep his bitching confined beneath his breath. Even with firelight behind her, the contrast carving Geyrt's form into a silhouette, Ulric could smell the delight she took in rousting him from his blankets. That boot had very obviously been driven by malevolent glee, though her face revealed nothing. Damned Taipan. At least the watch passed without incident, while he huddled with his back to the fire, tucking himself into an imitation of a hermit crab with a fur shell.

Of his unruly Shadow, he saw no sight, she had taken to the trees immediately. He didn't mind the absence, the tongues of flame, starry skies, and his own thoughts were company enough, as they had always been. Besides, he used the time to work through the mana channeling and manipulation exercises prescribed by the three Great Ladies and that now familiar balance routine Idra'se had given him to improve his basic coordination when he felt like he needed to warm up.

The second day of the return picked up nearly as the first one had left off. The fire, fed regularly by those on watch, was brought back to full flame.

Breakfast, a haunch of some beast or another, sliced and roasted with seasonings sprinkled over it went well with the bread and fruit. Fruit would become a luxury as Winter wore on and the fresh stuff was consumed. From then on, the fare was preserves, jams, jellies, berry leathers, and other, somewhat more exotic methods of keeping produce. Infrig was used liberally to flash freeze a host of things but many leafy greens couldn't survive the process, these items would be gone until the spring gatherers returned to cultivating their forest plots and tradesmen brought in shipments of summer harvests from abroad. Fortunately, the Elves had made an art form of preparing cuisine from preserved goods, Ulric had little doubt that he'd be glad to sup with these folk all the Winter long.

It beat to hell his plan of subsisting on smoked meat and root crops.

Once fed, the travelers packed up camp with practiced efficiency and were devouring the kilometers that separated them the Ancient's Gate just after the Twins showered the forest canopy with golden spears of brilliance. Ulric initially kept his attention on his Elven companions and the landmarks of their trail, trying to pick up whatever navigational tricks he might. Occasionally, when Geyrt had returned from one of her frequent rounds of scouting, Ulric would ply her for practice with Elvish. He wasn't quite fluent, still needing to translate the things he wanted to say in his head before he could say them and needing help with many of the contextual vocabularies that littered Elvish.

In a way, their language reminded him of speaking to technicians in niche fields. They used so much jargon that, if you were an outsider to that particular area of expertise, you would swiftly be lost. He remembered the floor engineers placing pools on how long it would take him and his colleagues to lose executives or administrative personnel when they inevitably attempted to peek under the hood to find new ways to squeeze productivity out of the already overworked staff. Ulric smiled at the memory of winning a rather large prize pool by using terms for metallic bonding interactions that hadn't been employed since precollapse, most of them dug out of a preserved library of long-extinct publications on the topic. Zintle type polyanionic clusters. Mixed doner ligand strategies. He nearly spat to remove the taste of the obnoxious terminology from his mind.

Other than the few tangential distractions of these reminiscences and tricks for keeping one's way in the bush, Ulric found himself growing slightly bored by midmorning. Thusly motivated, he made the hike into an applied Thousand steps practice session. He kept the angles of his feet firmly in mind, alternated in half steps on occasion, and he would run through short sequences and then jog to make up the ground before repeating the process. The soldiers accompanying him razzed him briefly until Christ joined in, the two of them trying to outdo one another for the more ridiculously difficult transitions or rapid cadences.

Seeing their royal guard companion seriously engaging in the training put a thoughtful expression on their faces. The guards were chosen based on highly competitive dueling and combat scenario games, similar to how the ancient Olympics were used to display combat prowess between the Grecian city-states of old. Young as he was, Christ was head and shoulders the superior fighter amongst these trained combatants. Even hard to impress old Idra thought he had potential.

Minds flashing back to more or less horrific memories of being subjected to Idra's brand of combat school, the warriors focused on keeping watch on the surroundings then and hoped not to be roped into more of that special flavor of misery. Aside from this game between Ulric and Christ, little evidence was there to suggest that this party was anything other than a particularly devoted group of outdoors enthusiasts. If, of course, you ignored the baleful gaze of Geyrt Iriel, a scowl that seemed to dare the forest to spit up something to deserve her wrath, and enough weapons between the lot of them to convince an observer that they meant to arm a small village.

The odd detail about field craft here, linguistic touch-ups there, and a particularly devilish series of movements designed by Christ to make ones knees invert kept Ulric fully occupied. It was with some surprise that, upon breaking out of a particularly dense copse of Azure Cedar, Ulric found himself but a stone's throw from the platform of the Ancient's Gate, they having come upon it along a different trail than that used by Brighteyes.

Time spent enduring combat drills with the Royal guard had paid dividends, Ulric's fitness had found a peak. He and Christ stood panting before the monument to Elder days. Legs tired but not spent soon regained their strength as one of the troop, a heavily scarred Elf whose name Ulric had been unable to remember, activated the lift to bring them up the sheer face of the escarpment.

A budding excitement started to swell in his chest. He was, after far longer than he'd ever intended, coming Home. Not for good, not just yet. There was simply too much to gain by way of his boons of the Iriel'en, not the least their baths and mess halls.

As the platform soundlessly rose, Ulric, more sensitive now to mana than he had been when last he had ridden the lift, now that he'd experienced a less mana-dense environment with which to compare, felt the thickness of the magic as they approached the plateau's surface. Heavy, cold air, laden with a certain stiffness he now attributed to sheer magical density, swept into his lungs. It even tasted like home to him. Scents of the Elder trees, the mossy floor of the forest, free of snow thanks to the densely covering skyward ceiling that was the great Canopy, drifted up to his nostrils. Other odors pervaded, fallen leaves, and those of a more animal nature. The musk of a buck Bladefern Elk hit Ulric's senses, and he could have sworn he could follow it to the owner, so rich was the air with it. The others were no doubt aware of the animal's presence, if the scrunched noses were any indication. Pleasant was not on the menu with Bladefern Elk, they frankly smelled like fermented deer shit, and that without the musk.

Unaware of the slight smile upon his features Ulric started forward now fully capable of leading the party back to the familiar ground of his glade. The Twins, high up now, though mostly obscured by a dense cloud promising snow fall, still provided sufficient bearing to permit easy navigation. There was also the panoramic vista of rolling forested hills, the fantastically ribboning Zelus, and, far more distantly, the faint mountain chain that defied his old world understanding of perspective.

Ulric had learned more about the geography of these parts, some from Brighteyes some from the odd conversation with Taipan, Geyrt, Ulric reminded himself. Those mountains were absolutely mind fuck colossal. Even the middling ones were Everest sized and the highest would dwarf that greatest of Earth's peaks. Nothing lived at that altitude above ground, earning it the apt name Skypiercing Spear or, in Elvish, Caelus Dor'yt. Just visible was that peak so impossibly far to the South that Ulric would not have believed it, stretching near to the outer reaches of space. Only the curve of the planet and atmospheric conditions could ever hide that mass of stone. Impossible was what that mountain was, the product of some ultimately powerful entity or magic, to lift stone upon itself in defiance of reason.

With all of these guideposts so readily at hand, Ulric could retrace his steps, and the glade called like a lodestone, pulling him to his domain.

This impulse was brand new and, Ulric suspected, deeply related to his title [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. Perhaps a budding instinct of similar source to his troubling aggressive tendencies towards all challengers. There had to be a linkage between them. He might have been an unsociable asshole in his old life, but he'd never been homicidal. And there was no doubt, that instinctive reaction was decidedly more murdery than Ulric was comfortable admitting. At least the other facet of his Akashic nonsense, the one called [Warrior's Instinct] tended to pull a calming frame of mind into place that resisted the influence once the shit was on. Damned good thing too, losing your cool in a fight was bad for longevity, from what he knew.

Stats weren't the only influence of these connections to the Akashic record, the world exhibited its own pull on the denizens who resided thereon. Varda itself had a mystical communication with the lives that populated it, largely through the manifestation of whatever the fuck the Akashic record actually was. Classes, stats, titles, it all got murky in Ulric's mind and reeked of godshit. The real kind, none of that thee and thou wilt worship this statue every third day stuff, just good old fashioned Let There Be Light levels of fuckery.

These were influences well beyond the philosophies of Ulric's old universe and he was distinctly unsure where in this whole scheme a reincarnated former engineer fit. If, indeed, he fit in anywhere at all. That could have been the Watcher's game, after all. A cosmic wrench thrown into the works to see what happens when it locks up the gears. Ulric didn't think that to be the case, not seriously, but, anymore, it wouldn't have surprised him either.

Breathing deeply of the heavy air he let that train of thought go. Spiraling and unproductive, there was nothing to be gained plumbing the infinite possibilities of what if, not without any means to test his ideas. A hypothesis without an experiment was the grossest waste of brain cells this side of string theory. Fortified, Ulric started to push forward only to be halted by a hand on his shoulder. They were a bare few meters away from the platform and the unexpected contact made him impulsively look around, Elven folk didn't touch casually, not out in the field anyway.

"A moment, Glade Chief." The hand belonged to Christ, whose normal good cheer had been replaced by concern.

The troops had scattered to canvas the Gate and the surrounding ruins near the landing. One, a female with ribbons of silver fabric woven into her short braid, looked up and shouted, "Here! There is sign, though it has been obscured. A small party, no more than ten, at least ten turns of the Twins ago. Skilled woodsmen, scouts, but not Aes'r."

The group drew up around her as she rose. His escort had grown grim, this meant an incursion into the sacred lands, again, and unscouted. They took it personally.

"This is ill fortune, Glade Chief. It cannot be allowed to pass." Christ said with smoldering anger.

He and the rest had clearly not expected such a finding. Hands were unconsciously testing weapons in sheaths and gripping hafts. Ulric caught himself fingering the small Giga bear bone throwing knives in his leg holster and willed stillness into his hands.

Scar spoke up, gravelly voice hard "Word must be passed to Irielhos. Lord Iriel must know of this, and sooner than later."

Nods passed around the group of warriors.

"This is true." Christ admitted. "Which among you covers ground most swiftly?" He asked the group.

"I do." spoke Ribbons. "I can run this lot into the ground and have energy to spare when it done." She grinned as she said it, taking the edge off the jab. The rest of them greeted her sass with a roll of eyes.

Christ acknowledged her with a grin that vanished as he considered events.

"Then you will take the Gate and return to Irielhos, report what we have found here to Lord Iriel. I will continue to lead our party to Ulric Glade Chief's home, as we had originally intended. We will also be able to scout for sign of these trespassers and, perhaps, determine their intent."

Christ's words were turned into actions, Ribbons activated the Ancient's Gate immediately and descended.

Turning to Ulric the royal guard apologized needlessly "I am sorry Ulric, but this has changed things. We must determine if there is a threat to Iriel. None should be here, none would dare. No word has passed Iriel'en lips to outsiders of your killing of the beast. There are trespassers within Iriel, and this cannot be allowed."

Shaking his head Ulric put him to ease, at least on that score. "There's nothing to be sorry for Christ, we are of one mind in this. We're going to kill two birds with one stone here: get to the glade and put my house in order, and also find out who has the balls to stomp around my home while I'm visiting friends."

A simmering anger had entered his tone even as he thought about the presence of strangers invading his glade. It was back again, the whisper of violent intent. A murmur he suppressed thoughtlessly, not needing the distraction. Just what in the hell was going on here?

Around the ruins that stood encompassing the lift, the Elf squad took a more active stance, limbering weapons, the three that carried bows unshouldering them, pulling gently strings to dispel by friction the embrittling cold of the fibers so they wouldn't snap at a full draw.

Ulric's confusion was targeted for the invading presences. Why? What to gain? Winter was on in full, only the massive arbors had kept the ground here free of at least a meter of snow. Blizzards would be blowing in fiercely, carried on a brittle wind. What would drive someone to travel all this way, through Elven territory, uninvited?

At the least they risked the few denizens of the forest that roamed actively in this season, hunger driving them to heightened aggression, according to Geyrt. At the worst they risked running into Hunters on patrol and, in all likelihood, those would shoot first and ask questions later. The fact that they had made it this far, for a second time in as many months, meant that they had to have some way of evading detection or that they had intel on the positions and patterns of Iriel'en patrols.

When Ulric voiced this concern more than one set of eyes widened. One of the other warriors, a rare greatsword wielder whose blade vaguely resembled a great butcher's cleaver, objected. "None would tell an otherkin of the patrol dispositions, none who know them, at least. That they have a way to escape notice is clear, but I cannot believe that any would reveal this knowledge willingly." Cleaver declared with certainty.

Ulric was inclined to agree with him, nothing of his experiences with the Iriel'en indicated that they would have problems with moles in their outfit. They were too unified, too insular, and, if Ulric was being totally honest, too contemptuous of the otherkin. That meant that someone had figured out a way to avoid some of the best scouts, admittedly self-proclaimed, on this corner of Varda.

Ulric had been hunting most of both of his lives and he hadn't met any people that moved so easily through the brush or as quietly as these Elves. Earthen myths had been pretty spot on with regards to their sylvan prowess. Taipan had managed to sneak up on both Ulric and her own little brother, from the front no less, and take a shot in total stealth. That there was someone or someones who could bypass similarly skilled woodsmen was almost certainly due to some bad juju being worked. It also served as a warning to Ulric. Moving through enemy lines and setting up an ambush required virtually the same skillset.

Geyrt, in a rare occurrence, addressed the group.

"It is not impossible for traitors to exist, it has happened, rarely, before. Information can be gained through many methods, however. Passive external spellworks are disrupted within Irielhos but active intrusions or scries, if cast by a gifted enough mage, could get through to listen to enough soldiers to get tactical information. It would take a very subtle touch and a great deal of time to accumulate information this way without detection but it could be done. The potential also exists for enough clues regarding Hunter locations, gleaned from copied scouting reports, to reveal the most likely patrol courses. These could be gained without an active conspirator but, more likely, would involve someone connected to the regional villages who could also gain access to scouting reports in number to cross-reference them and gain a rough map of our force concentrations. Iriel supplies its scouts to most of Orlethrem, it would take a great effort to identify holes in our security for a well-funded and long-running spy network."

Wow. Ulric couldn't help gawping at her for a second. Who would have thunk it? Geyrt Iriel was a counterintelligence expert. In a way, it made complete sense. She had learned from her mother, one of the best Hunters her people ever produced, and had been carrying around a murder boner for otherkin ever since her brother was assassinated. What else to do with one's hundred year-long grudge than learn to recognize and deconstruct organized intrusion attempts? It briefly made him wonder just how many people this adorable, dusky vision had killed in her time.

That…probably merited a short discussion later.

It was a solid analysis, Ulric, no great military mind, of course, couldn't see any flaw in her conclusions. She had also introduced a possibility that had never occurred to him, but which he now could not get out of his brain: scrying. Remote viewing or listening spells. It was one thing to improve your eyesight through some kind of mana binoculars or telescopic air lenses or some shit, these ideas had been tossed around in Ulric's idle brainstorming sessions, but the thought of magical surveillance from afar sent chills up his back. He needed to figure out how to enable some kind of passive scry busting and he needed to do it ASAP.

"Nahl'ir and Taipan may both be right." Christ announced, "These are all good and fair points, I say. And all deserving of consideration for the powers that can act on them. Here and now though, we grow no closer to our goals and the Twins dance no slower for our uncertainty. We have, perhaps, enough time to get to the glade, if Ulric is able to find his old path swiftly."

Ulric felt a little more pressure to get the team to the glade now, the stakes were higher than before. So occupied was he that he missed the glare his defacto body guard shot at Christ, and that Elf's returned wink.

"Best case scenario we arrive by nightfall," Ulric estimated, judging their rate of travel against his trip with Brighteyes as he stared down shaded paths, "the woods up here are dim at the best of times…and that snow cover on the upper canopy is going to be near impenetrable as we get deeper in and lose the sunlight."

"I can't see in the dark so I hope some of you can." He told the group without enthusiasm.

Christ didn't seem thrilled at that prospect, but agreed in principle.

"So be it, the time for easy pace is gone. We will move as swiftly as we are able toward our destination. I would prefer camp in a defensible location from here on out. We go." Declared the young guardsman.

None commented about being able to peer through pitch black forests though, so Ulric had to assume that they could manage in low light conditions. Instead of offering insight into that condition, the warriors took off at a brisk run, leaving Ulric to extend his stride to bring him to the front or shame himself by forcing them to slow. Watcher fuckery got put to the test as his legs propelled him into the shaded corridors between giant trunks.

The group followed his lead, adopting a sort of diamond configuration around him as he went. Ulric was near the front, Cleaver just before him on the vanguard, Christ holding the rear center with the other two soldiers, near twins of one another, a few paces behind and ten or so paces out wide to either side, ready to flank any opposition. Geyrt maintained her usual position in Ulric's shadow, rather than departing to ghost in the surrounding forest as she had in the woods of her homeland.

They advanced swiftly, only slowing when he found himself needing to use the navigational tips he'd been teaching Brighteyes when they came through the first time to retrace their original route. The lack of undergrowth and snow cover allowed them to make excellent time, and, amazingly, enough light diffused through the Forest of the Forgotten to permit his eyes to adjust to continue along, although that would not last when true dark fell.

Down the rolling hills, buried trunks of ancient trees long dead, and over them, they ran, jumping creeks and rock outcrops, around the massive pillars of Elder trees, on and on for kilometers. His legs were lightly, steadily burning, and he grimaced, recalling the expenditure of energy playing games with Christ. He was fine though, he would be able to keep this up for as long as he needed to, it was not in vain the hours spent both with Idra and without working his body. Eventually the burn faded as his muscles settled into the marathon rhythm. None of the troops fell out, of course, they were veterans at least a hundred years Ulric's senior, and the party made a ruck that would have killed the much-vaunted Rangers of the pre-collapse North American military.

Unfortunately, not even at this murderous pace could the party race the dark.

It was as Ulric had predicted, night came on far more rapidly than was welcome. There was a glorious span where the rays of the twin suns poured into the gaps between the plateau below and the snow-blanketed canopy above, turning the forest into a prismatic golden tunnel. When that period ended, night chased swiftly, as if consuming the light along their trail to create total blackness when it caught them.

They passed a landmark, two great pillars that stood so closely that even the slightest of these Elves would have to turn sideways to squeeze between them, that Ulric declared to mean they were around five kilometers from the glade. Christ decided in the gloom that the trees were a fortifiable position and, with the forest turned to pitch around them, a stop to the journey.

Ulric chafed a little, he could almost taste the air of the glade, but agreed. With who knows what out there, and making light being out of the question, they'd be a beacon for enemy fire. It was the right call. He didn't have to like it though. What he liked less was that they ate cold rations and camped without fire that night.

It was a long, cold, misery of a night. Ulric alternated sleeping, laying there staring at the blackened roof of his travel teepee, and shivering to stay warm. Even in his fur clothes, the night air held a bitterness that seeped into bones. Just before his mind faded to sleep one last time that night a though hit him: he'd missed his evening balance and magic exercises. Fuck.

Morning's light was late in arriving at that cold camp. All that meant for weary travelers was that they decamped in the dark. Ulric didn't know how they knew what time it was but he didn't bother asking questions. He was too anxious to get back to the glade. This close it called to him. Home sweet home.

They traveled those last kilometers slowly, visibility was improving steadily but, as Ulric knew intimately, the wood beyond the glade was wild and strictly ankle-breaker country. Soon enough, Ulric's eyes took in the familiar sight of the break in the towering floor to the indigo giving way to blue morning sky. The Twins, still too low to be seen directly, nevertheless offered their light to the clearing as the party came out into the open.

His glade was, more or less, as Ulric remembered. Low shrubs dotting small rises, saplings rising only a few dozen feet, scrawny compared to their aeonic brethren, and various other isolated cousins, including a stand of Steelwood, some of them coppiced beneath a layer of white powder. It seemed that the leaf fall had mostly buried the outer edges of the glade, and he could not see some of the low berry bushes that lined its borders with the vast forests beyond. On top of the great, broad arrow shaped leaves that were regularly kicked up along the entire run across the outer plateau's thinner snow pack, the powdery snow had fallen deeply into this canopy hole. In some places it had drifted and lay at least a meter deep already. A grey cloud at the edge of his sight promised more yet.

There, in the approximate middle of the glade, lie the corpse of the dead Elder tree. At its base, on the Southward facing end of the clearing, reared up the broken crown of roots and the shattered stone beneath. Now buried in ice and snow, lay his rockpool. There, inscribing a modest half-acre semicircle, was visible the spiked fence that demarcated Ulric's homestead.

A satisfied sigh escaped his lips.

He felt like it had been an age since he'd left. For all that he'd been enamored of the Elven woodlands below, had been astounded by their architectural splendor, and had been granted ultimate comfort in the fortress city, here was his realm. But he had not long to enjoy it. Pressing matters were at hand, there were invaders on the plateau and he was going to do something about it, if possible.

Best case scenario, some very sneaky merchants or smugglers were hoping to make a bit of quick coin exploring the riches of the newly explorable plateau. Worst case scenario the interlopers were scouts of the same flavor as those marauders who had kidnapped Brighteyes. It wasn't likely that a great many had managed to infiltrate the Ancient's Gate, too good was the screening of the Elves. A small band, under cover of magical warding and excellent intel, perhaps. But a regiment of troops? Unlikely.

Signs of Ulric's habitation could be seen, tanning racks suspended here and there on the sides of the half-buried giant, a large snow-covered mound that would be his wood splitting block, the thickly covered outdoor firepit and dusted tripod for hanging cookpots, and two stacked round smokers. Various other projects were largely invisible under the fresh powder. Mostly though, was the comforting sight of the large shelter Ulric had built into the side of the wooden flesh of that great trunk. His craftsmanship was sound, the notched and stacked limbs, their gaps packed with clay and moss, stood strong. The angled bark-shingled roof, with a rock and clay chimney rising from one corner, its chimney cap of bark, was proud over the simple door that beckoned to shelter within, if only he dug away the snow bank blocking it.

Without preamble, Ulric knelt next to the door and scooped snow away from it, rapidly clearing the way. The trident, whilst an excellent pokey tool, was not so wonderful a snow shovel and Ulric bent over to use his hands to get the thing done. A minute later he had enough of the powdery stuff shifted to get at the woven sapling and clay-wattled portal, with its sturdy wood handle.

"Well, here we are. My home is open to you all, such as it is." Announced Ulric, pulling open the door to his shelter to reveal the rustic interior and its meagre comforts.

Geyrt looked skeptical, at best, at the cold, yet dry, interior.

Ulric was proud of his primitive, if cozy home with its smooth floors, shaved by glass-resin draw knives. In the middle of the four meter by five cave, a low stone firepit dug out, a meter in radius, Steelwood spits and grill grate straddling the white ashes just as he'd left it.

Against one wall crude barrels of timbers and Steelwood bark wrapped, along with woven bark baskets filled with produce, dug tubers, and other produce that did not readily spoil, including a type of grass seed that proved nutritious and profligate in the late fall in the glade. Sharing that wall were the two pole beds mounded high with hides.

Along the walls shared with the door and the back of the room ran a trio of rough timber shelves, mostly filled by crudely fired pots and jars alongside more durable Steelwood and glassresin cylinders, shaved of their bark and smoothly carved. Each container was lidded tightly by glassresin lipped lids.

A couple of tripod stools sat against the wall opposite the beds, and, in the corner of the front of the shelter opposite the bed wall was a bulky construction that brought a smile to his face. The large stone and clay hearth dominated that corner of the hewn room, its chimney rising out through the roof as seen from outside. The chimney cap from outside would allow the smoke from the firepit to draft out, but a set of notched limbs permitted a slat of wood to be slid into place, block it and thus reducing the heat loss from the shelter when cooking wasn't occurring and the fire was low. He'd been careful of that, dying of carbon monoxide poisoning in his sleep was high on his list of things to be avoided.

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Despite her habit of sleeping in the rough on patrols, the Elf woman bound unwilling to his side was also of a high status amongst her people, who had been cultivating their lands for thousands of years with artistry and mastery, and, most importantly, time, to refine their dwellings. The craftsmanship here was less than impressive compared to her standards.

"This hovel is where my dearest brother was housed to recover from his wounds?" She asked with not a little disdain, which aggravated him intensely.

"It's a little cozier when it isn't buried in snow," Ulric said defensively, "I might also add that I had to build everything here, alone, with this axe on my pack, some homemade carving knives, in between hunting monsters, gathering forest edibles, the ones that I could figure out wouldn't kill or cripple me with toxins. Oh! And also, bear in mind, I was dropped, naked, into a strange world a bare seven-moon cycles ago from a world of technological miracles you couldn't imagine, where knowing how to weave a rope from bark and grass was considered an oddity. You'll have to forgive the rough edges Princess, I've been busy."

The other soldiers smiled.

His Shadow frowned but didn't refute the point.

In truth, they were not completely unimpressed with this pocket of rudimentary civilization. The materials to work with were not optimal, from a construction point of view. Steelwood and its bark were wonderful materials when the finished product was presented. They were a bastard to harvest, or to actually work with. The same could be said of the lithic Elder trees whose wood was nigh indestructible outside dedicated application of fire and a tool of at least Forest Lord bone hardness, driven by nigh inhuman strength. And a sturdy mallet.

Christ broke the slight tension with his usual ease.

"We accept the hospitality of your home Ulric Glade Chief, thank you." And added a slight bow of courtesy, "If it please you, we will establish a base camp just near to your most economical apartments and set about clearing the area of snow. It is likely that we will need to scout outwards in all directions, possibly for days, to determine the extent of the infiltration. We must also construct sleds to transport whatever goods you have deemed necessary for our return to Irielhos."

"Right, right, of course, you're right Christ." Ulric conceded, trying not to be too touchy, while studiously ignoring his Shadow's disapproval, "We'll get this place cleaned up and squared away in no time. How do you want to handle the scouting parties?" He asked, after a bit of ear twitching and frowning deliberation.

Christ took a few moments to think it over before opening and quickly closing his mouth. Then he took a few more. Eventually he worked it out to his satisfaction.

"I am worried Ulric." The young Captain bluntly stated, his hand stroked the hilt of his estoc absently.

"That our territory was not once, but twice penetrated without an alarm raised is something unheard of. Normally, the Otherkin of Prespang come stomping around with soldiers in formation, trying to bludgeon their way where they are not welcome. Then we draw them into the wood and bleed them until they have decided they have watered the roots of Orlethrem enough, and they go away for a hundred or so years." Admitted the normally good-humored Elf, his Red and Bronze flecked eyes drawn down in concern.

"This tactic, this approach, that I would not have said was possible, of making inroads so far into Elf land through stealth, is new. Its success is new, rather." He said, worry creeping into his tone.

"It's a thrice damned disaster is what it is." Chimed in Cleaver, almost growling the words out from behind clenched teeth.

Christ acknowledged the warrior with calming gesture before he continued.

"It means that whoever is behind these movements has studied our tactics, has the wisdom and resources to undermine our regular defenses. Normally I would have us rove out separately, going wide in each direction, to spiral inwards and thus catch the invading force in a net. If we cannot be guaranteed to be in control of first contact though, I will not risk Iriel'en lives, allow us to be ambushed alone by unknown foes. No, we will rove out in a team of three, the triads more like standard Hunter protocols in dangerous territory, and zig-zag to find signs, each day in a new direction. It is slower but risks less. The remaining soldier will assist you and your Shadow with tasks here in home base." Concluded the young understudy of Idra'se.

That was good enough for Ulric.

As much as he wanted to follow the buzzing impulse at the base of his spine, to just head out and start prowling around for whoever was infringing on his home, it wasn't a good idea. Luck had been on his side so long ago when he'd rescued Brighteyes. He'd been in a fantastic ambush position, intended for Bolt Deer or Bladefern Elk, but just as effective for men, and had had the advantage of two wounded Greater beasts for distraction.

Walking into an ambush wouldn't yield fruit he'd care to eat. If these Elves were anything to go by, coming against a party of prepared elite scouts, who knew he was coming things could get ugly, quickly. But damned if he didn't still want to go out there right this moment and find out who had the brass to come stepping around his backyard, even so. Age-old wisdom spoke to him "Discretion is the better part of valor". The instinctual urging, a tiny, but forceful voice, meanwhile, ranted more along the lines of "Kill, Kill, Kill the white man, kill him until he is dead."

Ahh, sweet duality.

Ulric distracted himself by inviting the Elves to make themselves at home, which, to them, meant to begin unpacking their gear and finding places to lay their bedrolls, while he saw to a fire. Despite his offer to take a rest inside the only structure in the clearing, the warrior troupe set up their tents in the flat spot Ulric liked to use to split wood and make with the crafting, when weather outdoors permitted.

For Ulric, first priority was getting the hearth and firepit inside his shelter lit, to give his guests a windless place to warm themselves, the chill of a flameless night still upon all their bones. It didn't take long to clear off his stack of firewood and bring a few smaller logs inside to shed the diamond dust that clung to them, and then to dry. Kindling was provided by looking in on his reserve of dried wood that lay underneath his bed and beside the hearth.

A few minutes stalking around by the tiny winding creeks that marked the water sheds of the glade yielded some tinder, lingering fluff pods from a tall variety of plant that liked to grow in the low places of the clearing, places that remained shaded and wet, or, now, frozen and buried beneath near two meters of snow from drifts. The Glade Cat-tail stalks tasted like celery, their roots like broccoli, and their fluff burned like a resinous torch. A most useful plant it was and Ulric had long ago memorized its preferred growing locations.

Once the fire was well established, his escort gladly packed into the shelter and warmed themselves by the flame. As the deepening cold left their bodies, Ulric extracted his large woven Steelwood bark water pot, drew water from the rockpool, which required bashing a hole in the ice with his axe, and hung it over the flame on a pole tripod. Basket weaving had never really been his schtick but it had proven itself a near miraculously useful craft out here, where carving jars or throwing a clay pot was an incredibly large time investment and easily failed due to faults in wood grains or cracks in clay during firing. The best part was that the Steelwood bark strips, true to their namesake, carried heat easily through to the water within, but burned only with great difficulty on a fire far hotter than one used to cook.

Soon enough, the water boiled and he threw a selection of dried tea leaves from one of the leather pouches hanging from a drying rack strung across the back wall of the shelter. His guests seemed faintly amused at the primitive, if thorough, show of hospitality. They were all of them astonished by the rich flavor of the tea though, and Christ told him that whatever that plant was, Ulric should never tell anyone where it grew until he was paid dearly. By their expressions it was near to Elf catnip. The warriors all sat back with contented sighs as the aroma and warmth set them to ease.

The sight of Geyrt's blissful smile while she sipped the tea put a slight stirring into the host and he made an effort to look elsewhere. Best not to get any ideas, it had been a while now since dearest Hal'et had made waves with him. It sure was nice to be appreciated though, and the pleased expressions of his guests was a surprisingly welcome sight to the formerly hermetic man.

Ulric was inspired to grab one of the last preserved shoulder roasts of Forest Lord in his meat cache. There was precious little left of the great animal. Knowing now what he did about the creature he couldn't help a little sadness thinking about it.

He owed much to that last, insane, denatured guardian of the Plateau of Ancients, and wished that things could have been different, that it could have known peace and companionship instead of tireless rage and violence. There wasn't much point to it, what was, was, but still, it didn't hurt to wish that the world could, sometimes, be gentler. All worlds, as it happened. Old Earth didn't have a monopoly on suffering, just a more refined touch applied by his own species' doings.

Moving along, he refilled everyone's tea and his own before redrawing water and putting the roast into the pot. He used his knife to dice some glade potatoes, carrots, a radish-like root, and some somewhat spicy herbs, caramelizing them on a rock before adding them to the soup. A little salt from his pack, that last, greatest, missing ingredient held precious in its dry box in his pack, a gift of his Elvish neighbors, finished the seasoning. His guests watched with interest and some degree of amusement, at the odd man's dedication to playing host.

It only took a few minutes before the dried meat began to pour its rich aroma into the shelter. Ulric had actually forgotten how incredibly delicious the Gigabear meat was. Mouths watered as he stirred the pot and drew off the scum from the top of the darkening broth. Wooden bowls were shortly filled with Forest Lord stew and Ulric garnished them with a final pinch of some savory crushed leaves whose taste was akin to cilantro combined with oregano, with an almost vinegarish olfactory note. That herb has cost him blood, picked from a devilishly thorned bush, barbed tines guarding lushly delicious foliage.

The assembled Elves breathed deeply of their bowls before diving in to eat with abandon. Everybody was hungry, and that always helps, but they did seem to genuinely enjoy the meal, a mark of pride for Ulric's well-honed bush cuisine. A series of instructionals on turning foraged edibles into fine dining, courtesy of Sage Stroud of the Pre-Collapse, served him well these past months.

"Glade Chief, you are a surprising creature." Said his Shadow suddenly, her voice utterly devoid of its normal veiled irritation, looking up from a nearly inhaled bowl.

"You hide many talents. Sometimes you appear as a savage, others as a scholar, and, now, you show domestic abilities I would expect of a caretaker. Never have you mentioned that you could cook properly. Or carve beyond the shaping of minor tools. Or, Great Sky's Above, weave! A water-tight weave of such difficult material as this Steelwood of this glade is good enough to hold a place with our own weaver's young apprentices. With this food, and that tea, you have an artisan's gift for flavoring. I can say with confidence that you would find success in a traveler's kitchen should you choose to open one." She praised, dead serious.

"I would second your Taipan's assessment, Glade Chief," Said one of the unnamed soldiers, a man with one green-gold, one red-gold eye, the only heterochromatic Elf Ulric had seen, who grinned at Geyrt's hissed "I am not a Taipan!" as he continued, "Never did I guess that a Lord recognized by the Akashic would cultivate such refined domestic craft. Next, you will pull out a barrel of mead, and truly will I be in awe."

"If I told my comrades that we were served a wilderness meal rivaled by our own kitchens in Irielhos, by the Glade Chief, no less, they would near demand satisfaction for an untruth." Finished Santa, the Elf dubbed in Ulric's thoughts for his holiday-themed eyes.

"Where have you learned such skills, if I may ask?" Inquired Twin One, or was it Twin Two?

"Indeed, did you train with masters in your life previous?" Followed Twin Two, maybe One.

If not for the utter seriousness of their questions, Ulric would have been ready to declare that he was being made the butt of an incredibly drawn-out ruse. They weren't joking though, they were absolutely genuine. Ulric's interdimensional status, his magic, his position as a minted Lord of the Lands, none of this impressed these Elves. No, it was the skills honed by a bachelor's life, strict adherence to cookbooks, and his random hobbies practiced often while dreaming of long-dead wilderness that had them gobsmacked.

"Ummm…thanks? This is uh…just normal though. I always prepared my own food, and I enjoyed handicrafts in my spare time when my day's work was done. I've done this kind of thing for the last thirty or so years, reading books and watching tutorials, from, I guess, artisans, or at least professionals. Hell, if I hadn't had to leave the Glade and escort Brighteyes I was planning on making some grain spirits to tide over the Winter. Christ, is this really so strange?" Ulric asked.

His newmade friend gestured with his hands, an Elven sign of affirmation.

"It is, somewhat. Most Elven families divide their responsibilities, each to their strengths, and it is rare for one individual to have any great skill at so very many aspects of home, even more so when they have trades in other domains, like smithing and the combat arts. Especially to cook as you have, this is very rare." Informed the young swordsman, indicating the soup pot as he did.

"You know which herbs to add, and when, and how much to bring out the flavor of the meat without overwhelming it. You have chosen complementary vegetables, prepared by appropriate treatments of heat to retain their pleasing texture, that also round out the nutrition of the meal to be completely balanced. I have heard Idra'se practices culinary skill, but have not experienced such, he only serves his innermost rings." Praised his partner on the training field.

He smiled and actually looked a little embarrassed, admitting "I cannot cook at all, other than to roast flesh over a fire."

That failing was echoed by the other warriors, except for Santa, who, being a Hunter, was somewhat capable, though he professed to being unable to come close to matching the spread Ulric had provided here.

"Also!" interjected Christ, "The other tasks, the sewing and weaving and fabrication of clothes, and such, these are not so common either. I have a head for knot work, and can sew repairs to equipment, but would not know where to start cutting patterns from the hides that you have sewn into those clothes. I can carve, somewhat, carpenter passably, and I play a lyre with skill, but, mostly, I am a fighter. You, you might even be able to qualify as a Duty." Christ explained.

A Duty? One of the servants who maintained the citadel? The Elf made that sound like the highest praise. When Ulric asked about it, the entire group professed amazement. Duties were among the most honored citizens of the citadel, trusted completely with the possessions, homes, safety, and cleanliness of the entire city. Cooking, cleaning, weaving, sewing, tailoring, carving, upholstery, maintaining defensive wards, and vigilantly watching out for the inhabitants of the citadel, the Duties did it all. This position was regarded with great respect amongst the Iriel'en.

Housekeepers, that is what the Iriel'en revered.

Ulric was stunned.

How had he missed it? The Implicit trust, the complete faith that all would be safe and secure in their hands, wherever they went and in all that they did. That quiet efficiency that Ulric had noted time and again, these were not mere servants, they were the glue that held the fortress together. Elven society revolved around the functionality of these ever-present but, rarely noticed masters of the domicile.

Now that Ulric thought about it, the easy teasing, frequent challenging statements, and competitive nature of the Iriel'en Elves had never once been turned toward a Duty. They were always treated with respect and requests of their time were made with utter politeness. Huh. Color him surprised.

Never had he intended to live as a caretaker for Elf fortress cities, but he'd keep that information in his hip pocket. Retirement was best planned decades in advance. Ulric did have to admit a great deal of satisfaction in cobbling together a fine meal for guests and the fire in his own hearth warmed more than just his flesh. This…was not bad.

Best to enjoy the moment, there would be blood and dying in the near future; he could feel it. If he had anything at all to say about it, none of either would belong to him.

When his guests had finished their impromptu breakfast, Ulric bustled around cleaning up, rejecting offers of help with a preemptory "Sit, sit, just relax awhile, I've got it." to their collective bemusement. Even Geyrt, whose role as a Shadow had her mostly acting in a subservient position, was treated as he had been taught so long ago by his parents, rules of hospitality ingrained in him.

Courtesy with neighbors and treating guests like they were visiting diplomats was one of the bedrock social underpinnings that survived collapse, long polished during the centuries spent in underground oasis safe from nuclear fallout. The escort and his Shadow, hardened warriors all, found themselves warm, fed, watered, and comfortable while Ulric pitter-pattered around his home. Going through these habits, long unpracticed though they may have been, was comforting in their familiarity, in spite of the, call it rural, environment.

Finished with his tasks, Ulric fixed another pot of tea. They'd be getting to work soon. A last cup would provide lingering warmth as they labored in the frigid air outside. Once the last sip had been downed, Christ set his team to order. He, Cleaver, and Twin Two would scout North, since their route in had come mostly from the South-East. Signs of the invaders had totally vanished upon leaving the Ancient's Gate, indicative of fieldcraft and specifically designed magics from a group well versed in going undetected. That they had left any sign at all was mostly due to the resistance of the Gate itself to any external spell work, it was like the mana was locked into place within the confines of the ruin, preventing casting other than the Gate's own workings. Twin One would help Ulric and Geyrt clear the camp of snow and assemble a sled, after which they would start going through the items Ulric wanted to bring back to Irielhos.

With a click of wooden cups on the stone firepit rim, the scouting party departed. Ulric wished them luck, the faster Christ found out who was lurking around the faster they could figure out what to do about it. Specifically, Ulric would know what he might do about it. With a final glance at the rapidly receding Elf party, Ulric decided it was time to get on with clearing camp. It was not even mid-morning, they had all day, short though those were becoming.

Considering that there were potential threats wandering around the area, even though they hadn't been spotted Twin One agreed with Geyrt that the former Hunter's talents were best spent keeping a perimeter and ensuring that nothing crept up on them. As Ulric and Twin One started removing snow by piling fine powdered snow onto hides, which would then be dumped outside the camp proper, Geyrt vanished into the surrounding brush.

"Good luck animals." Ulric said with an imagined salute, your apex predator has gone on the hunt.

Time passed swiftly then, with the steady rhythm of sweeping and throwing snow followed by hauling and dumping it. He and Twin One had soon worked out a system, Twin One would pile up snow on a series of furs tied together by a loop through which Ulric could run his spear, creating a wide fur drag, which Ulric would then pull to the edge of camp and dump into an ever-growing pile. Two of these drags were laid out so that while Ulric pulled the first away Twin One could pile snow onto the second keeping a steady pace of clearing. Ulric didn't mind doing the donkey work, the willingness of this proud soldier to scoop snow out of his camp was more than he would have expected. In a matter of an hour and a half, the immediate camp was snow free, excepting the dense layer they'd compacted with their feet while working. Geyrt would stop in periodically to report "All's clear" before disappearing again. Once, she deposited a wolf corpse. Truly, she was a ghost out there in that winter cloak.

Ulric stood smiling, his breath coming deep and even, regular bursts of fog rolling out into the brisk air as he gazed on his works. He felt the deep warmth of exertion in his limbs while satisfied grey eyes surveyed the clear area, and found himself trying, in vain, to attempt to spot the Elf woman who was almost certainly lurking somewhere nearby. In vain was that effort, abandoned after a minute of fruitless staring. A large pile of snow beyond the rockpool made a near-chest-height wall ten meters long, a demarcation of the camp's Southern border, within the wattle and stake fence, the testament to his and his guest's labors.

With that done, they could figure out the sled.

Ulric asked Twin One if he knew how to make one or if they would have to carpenter one up from scratch. Twin One informed him that he knew the method to make a durable pack sled for hauling wounded and gear. At the instruction of Twin One, Ulric cut some poles from an already felled Steelwood with his axe, choosing limbs as thick as his wrist. It took another couple of minutes while he shaved the bark from them, setting that aside to use for baskets later. Twice he had to stop and touch up the incredibly hard edge, even the bone of the Forest Lord needing some refining after working against those incredibly durable fibers. He used the haft of his trophy trident, itself made of bizarrely hard metal, as a honing rod. With some even, measured strokes, the curved axe blade sang its high-pitched whine as Ulric guided the edge back to sharpness. Carefully, he ran his thumb across the edge to test it, satisfied that the tool was ready to work. While he prepared the framing poles, Twin One was readying lengths of rope, and working some cross pieces down with his belt knife, a two-sided monster Seax that looked better suited as a spearhead. More than once the Elf cursed in his own tongue at the resistance of the Steelwood.

"It's a bitch, is it not? Maybe you'll have better luck if you let your husband do it." Ulric gibed, noticing the warrior's struggle.

"Ahh, if only; the nights at least would be warmer." Remarked Twin One, recognizing the jest for what it was before he observed casually, "Fortune favors you, Glade Chief. We cannot all of us be so ugly the wood parts in fear."

Ahh, that was a pretty good one, he'd have to remember that one to hit Geyrt with later. Not that she'd take it seriously, given her beauty. Eh, replace ugly with spiteful. Raising a pole in salute to the Aes'r warrior's joke, he returned to his work.

Steelwood, seriously, was an absolute motherfucker. And a miracle.

That species was Ulric's source of material for most of his constructed shelter, his bowstaves, and his tool handles. Cleaned lengths and rounds, stacked on one end of the camp had taken more than a little of his time, once he'd understood how universally incredible the stuff was. Mature trees contained plenty of long straight branches if you could get to them.

In some ways, the tree grew like Yew, all knotty whirling grained evergreen and rough-barked from the roots to about a meter from the ends of branches, before smoothing to finely textured gray, those were too large and difficult to work with so Ulric ignored them. The younger trees though tended to sprout in Hazel-like clumps of straight arm thick-trunks about a meter up from the root base, in those the bark was completely smooth and the grains lacked the knots that made them impervious to his axe.

The fledgling mountain man had coppiced this one early on, after he'd gotten his Forest Lord hip bone shaped into an axe blade that would actually cut it. The outer bark was too rigid, and had to be cut off, but the inner bark peeled in long broad strips which could be separated into straight fibers, fantastic for rope making, or, as he had already proven, basketweaving.

Twin One and Ulric soon had a set of lashed poles on a solid frame, Twin One having had brought plenty of rope along in his pack, as did all experienced soldiers in the field. At the guidance of the Elf, they assembled the sled with solid side walls which could be covered by hides to create a pretty nifty almost enclosed area to pack gear. At three meters long by two meters wide, the foot print of the sled was manageable, if only just, once loaded. After a moment's examination at the slick job of Elven carpentry, the former engineer got an idea.

Ulric split a pole into two flat runners. He then used his brace or hand drill, his masterpiece of modern technology, to bore holes to dowl into the sled frame. These would help the sled run smoothly along the snow and Twin One approved of the addition.

Even though both of them were no slackers, Steelwood was a proper bastard to work with. It took strength, concentration, and a sharp tool of great hardness to shape, and thus, Twin One and Ulric did not complete the thing until the dusk had begun casting shadows deep into the glade.

Geyrt scared Ulric into a near fight by placing a hand on his shoulder, her approaching presence completely undetected as he and Twin One discussed how to secure their items to the sled. Her smug grin at his strangled curse and jump was short-lived. He'd already been devising a plan to get some payback for her various slights.

Ulric gave her the task of testing the sled's pull by hauling him and Twin One around camp in punishment for her sins. Twin One casually discussed the various uses and habits of beasts of burden in Elven farming villages as Ulric's Shadow pulled them, both seated somewhat uncomfortably cross-legged on the fur-lined frame whose unforgiving poles refused to bend. As she pulled through the snow Ulric could hear her steady curses and see her complaints made visible as puffs of mist in the frosty air, their cadence matching her stride as she circled the fallen giant that marked the center of the glade. Not often did the man take so blatant a pleasure in putting Geyrt to work, but this was satisfying vengeance. Still, he did have some remorse when Twin One suggested another lap. Her curses were louder this time round, and slightly more breathless.

Feeling generous, the [Lord of the Ancient Glade] made it up to her by taking a turn pulling the two Elves around the camp along the trail Geyrt had broken. He was surprised that the proud Huntress wasn't too offended by her recent use as a mule to agree, but she and Twin One sat happily while he gave them a tour around the glade. Afterwards, Twin One insisted on a turn, saying "It is my privilege to bear the Glade Chief and his Shadow on royal procession" with a playful grin whose cause was clear when he took off at a sprint, the now thoroughly smoothed path allowing the sled to race rapidly in its course. Ulric and Geyrt rattled around in the sled with as much poise as they could, their asses bouncing off the none too cozy Steelwood frame as Twin One hauled them around the glade at full tilt. Ulric thanked Twin One for his services, his hand rubbing a likely bruised hip bone. His Shadow grimaced but refused to acknowledge her abused anatomy where Twin One could observe and take satisfaction. Panting heavily from the exertion of his prank, Twin One left no doubt that he was quite aware of the quality of his work.

Ulric had to applaud him, the old boy took his life into his own hands fearlessly. It was a well-executed trap as well, neither he nor his Shadow had seen it coming. Doubtless, Twin One had recognized the potential when he'd experienced the rather more sedate pace of the first trip and determined that the opportunity wouldn't rise again as they later realized exactly how uncomfortable the hard Steelwood frame would be at a jostling.

"Can I suggest a bit of extra padding to the Glade Chief's bedroll? Likewise to yours, noble Taipan, you appear a little shaken by your ride." Cracked Twin One.

"My bedroll is none of your business, Froka, unless you would like your corpse to pad it." Spat Geyrt, her hands twitching to avoid comforting her throbbing buttock.

"And I am NOT a Taipan" She hissed in Elvish.

An exaggerated sigh escaped the grinning warrior, "Ahh beautiful one, even my corpse would be honored to find itself in such a prized mausoleum. And, if you are not a serpent of such ill repute, why are you yet so venomous?" Retorted Twin One, who might be known as Froka, unless that was a profane utterance unfamiliar to Ulric's growing Elvish vocabulary.

Geyrt's scowl left no doubt that the grizzled soldier had won the round, and she said nothing further, unwilling to risk going any deeper down that rabbit hole. Instead, she turned her ire towards his own person.

"Do you see what you have done? Your taunting false name is now known to all of Iriel. I will never get my own name back with them now, always it will be 'Taipan this, Taipan that' and it will be only blood kin that utter my proper calling." Lamented his Shadow with deep resignation.

Ulric was a great believer in names holding a certain power so he wasn't entirely unmoved by her complaint. However.

"I calls'em as I sees'em Lady." The man rejoined, remembering keenly the arrows sleeting at him from the trees from unseen assailant, "At the time of our meeting, you didn't give me any reason not to be less than flattering. I still have a scar from an arrow, that SOMEBODY poisoned, on my leg. I can't help it that your own folk thought the moniker appropriate enough to stick."

Geyrt's narrowing of eyes and darkening visage foretold sharp words, soon.

Fortunately, he was spared any further grievance as Christ and his party had returned. Ulric turned his attention to the scouts as the lovely woman continued to practice drilling holes into his spine with her eyes. Was this how Bald'rt managed to be so hard to reach? Bearing Vedyr's ire against his back through the centuries was as good a way to find lesser threats of no concern as Ulric might think of. What were a few threats of war against the constancy of impending doom from behind?

He concentrated on the returning party. News wasn't great, nor was it entirely bad. Thirty kilometers out and back in, in a serpentine pattern that should have found any passage other than directly back towards the Ancient's Gate and no sign.

Of any kind.

No fires, no trail markers, no waypoints, no broken branches. Nothing. The scouting Iriel'en were clearly concerned by the absence of tracks, it told them that specialists of great skill were involved, but Ulric didn't bother offering any advice. He didn't know what the Iriel'en equivalent was for "Go teach your grandma to suck eggs" but he'd rather not find out. Christ delivered his report in silence and the group took a few minutes to silently ponder the implications.

As the scouts surveyed the now cleared camp and gave the sled an appraising view Christ presented himself to Ulric somewhat formally. It was a distinctly odd feeling, having a guy older than you, physical appearance aside, who had also puked into the same pale in training acting like a junior officer addressing a colonel.

"It is my regret that we were unable to find any sign of our foes, Glade Chief. It may well be that they did not turn North or that they angled to follow the escarpment and thus keep a flank secure. We have no way of knowing with any certainty, thus it is my best judgement that, until the interlopers are found, we double our watches, two on and three off. Your Shadow you may use to your satisfaction, I would not think to command her in your place." Christ reported with tight expression.

He was clearly not happy about being unable to find these guys, whoever they were. No sense beating a dead horse though, they'd done as well as anybody could expect with their numbers and the sheer scale of terrain to cover.

"Don't worry too much Christ, I'm sure you'll pick up a trail before too long. It's hard to imagine anyone getting too far out here without leaving any sign at all." Ulric consoled the, in his mind, young man.

"Look on the bright side, between the snows, the short days, and the cold up here they probably aren't making good time with all this stealth. I have no idea what conditions are like up in the canopy at this time of year but if the monsters up there are active in the Winter, it would be a poor strategy to attempt to run the tree tops."

Ulric looked up and indicated the leafless but still too dense to see through mass of criss crossing branches, each of them every bit as large as any normal ancient oak tree.

"I spent enough time up there, you don't want to play with some of the critters running around the canopy. We'll do what we came to do here in the glade and then we can devote the whole team to pursuit, if that course of action seems good to you." He offered.

Nodding, Christ looked over at the sled. He gave it a brief examination and seemed well satisfied by the results.

"It is a good war sled you have prepared Glade Chief. No doubt you've seen that Froka is a practiced hand with carpentry, at least as versed as myself, perhaps more." the young Elf praised.

"Indeed he is Christ, thanks for lending him today. I think with what we managed to accomplish today we can probably pack the sled tomorrow and winterize the shelter. I'll want to empty the food caches to avoid tempting beasts into camp while I'm gone, and secure some things your people might find useful. The rest of that Steelwood tree, for one; Froka was pretty impressed with it." Ulric said, indicating that they should retire to the shelter, for true dark was only minutes away.

Twin Two, at least he was reasonably sure it was Twin Two, the pair of them had shuffled beyond his ability to be certain soon after their reunion, retrieved water while Cleaver rekindled the fire. Santa and Christ busied themselves chopping up more firewood. Twin One, Froka, unless it was the other one? Anyway, whoever they were, they waited for Ulric's instructions. Ulric, again, would cook up something special using his limited herb and spice supply.

These were things he was going to have to cultivate on a larger scale next spring, he would have been caught a wide margin short of the end of this bitter season without many of the niceties he leaned on to make dried meat and tubers palatable. The seasons on Varda appeared to be significantly slower to change than his old world, if Winter was expected to last five months to his expected three.

This time, he decided on a rather special rock stir fry and soup. Breakfast had been the first step in his plan, a sweet invitation. Now, he would lay the killing blow. First, he had the Elf he was almost sure was Twin One soak the dried meat, Blade Elk backstraps that Ulric retrieved from a pit larder outside the shelter in hot water and gently massage it to reconstitute it. While the meat rehydrated, he sliced thinly some tubers and added them to the water Twin One was working into the meat, so they could absorb some of the smokey meat flavor. His, now resting, guests munched on offered berry leather from what few kilos of berries he and Brighteyes had gathered during the boy's convalescence, while the hard traveled scouts waited. Clearly, the Iriel'en were looking forwards to this meal. Oh boy, were they in for a doozy.

It was with effort that Ulric restrained an evil chuckle that might give away his intentions.

Heating a large flat stone directly on the coals he began to slice the now moist meat into thin strips. Next, he diced the glade garlic and onions, as well as healthy quantity of his ultimate weapon, retrieved from a sealed clay jar, a powdered herb that he carefully avoided getting onto his hands or face. He also avoided getting it close enough to any of the Elves resting in the shelter, he didn't want to spoil the surprise. This particular plant most reminded him of Basil, with a twist. These ingredients he mashed into the meat with a wooden mallet he'd long ago carved for exactly this purpose. As the odors began to fill the shelter, none of his guests suspected anything.

Next, he went to his specially made containers for rendered lard, a storage of Forest Lord, Bolt Deer, and Blade Elk fats, each in individual containers. These were a small matter of pride for Ulric. When he'd discovered how precisely [Hydrocutter] could cut, he'd cut rounds off of the branch tips of his fallen elder tree, at great mana expense, each thick around as his thigh, and, along with a Forest Lord rib chisel, hollowed them. Then he'd carefully removed a thin round and carved a recess to allow it to nest on top of the hollowed container, making a cap. Some molten glassresin inlaid with a thin stick allowed him to get a near perfect seal, and a syringe of nested glass-resin tubes drew the air out before plugging the tiny hole, closed the containers so effective he wasn't able to smell the rich oils in the jars that otherwise might have drawn scavengers or worse. He hadn't had time to make more than three of these large, almost vacuum sealed storage units, but they were on his list of projects to do to keep about everything remotely fragrant, rich in volatiles, or air sensitive he'd gathered.

From his Forest Lord container he scooped a dollop of beast lard onto the heated griddle stone. Sizzling and melting oils released succulent odor, filling the shelter with its aroma, tasty compared to the beast's pungent smell. Now he tossed the spiced meat strips onto the greased rock and stirred with the back edge of his bone knife, the sweet onion and potent garlic almost hiding the distinct sharpness of the herb. When the meat was ready, as was clear due to its slight char and caramelization of the onion, he scraped it into a huge wooden bowl before replacing the griddle stone with the soup pot, using wooden poles to lift the griddle to its resting place safely. Leafy greens, more garlic and onion, an earthy root paste that reminded him of miso, and salt were added to the simmering tubers. When the soup turned fragrant, he poured the pot into the bowl with the meat.

Stir-fried spicy meat soup was finally ready to portion out.

This dish was one of Brighteyes' favorites, the kid loved the hot stuff and Ulric was glad to comply, spicy food being one of the things he'd come to miss about the Before. He was glad he'd given the pepper herb a second chance, he'd thought he'd poisoned himself the first time he'd tested it. It was like Basil, if Basil packed the heat of a Carolina Reaper pepper.

The looks on his guest's faces was again reward enough for Ulric to be slightly profligate in his use of limited ingredient stocks. Nobody would accuse Ulric Einar of substandard wilderness cuisine, not after he'd suffered several indignities figuring out which of the glade plants wouldn't cause a rash, projectile vomit, or it's even worse counterpart from the opposite end, or multiple symptoms of toxicity, one of which included the worst psychedelic trip of his life; fifteen minutes of being warped to the center of the universe as a cosmic snail.

The special herb he'd added, dubbed Reaperfern, he'd utilized generously. It was among the most potent in his arsenal, and had the most incredible delayed burn of anything he'd ever experienced. There was a minute long grace period before its power became obvious. Ulric found it fascinating to observe the different responses to the dish amongst the hardened veteran soldiers.

Cleaver's wide-eyed panic and rush for the water hole outside was refreshing for its honesty, fortunately, that mighty Elf was able to rally and complete the meal, endurance tested greatly. Santa coughed violently mid-way through, having accidently inhaled some of the spice into his nose as he breathed heavily to avoid inflaming his stinging tongue, his curses in Elvish were interesting, and when he fled the shelter to vomit loudly outside, defeated, Ulric was sympathetic. He offered a salad and some untainted stirfry discreetly held aside for consolation. Santa accepted this with thanks, but directed a hateful grin towards Ulric that promised comeuppance. Twins One and Two sweated heavily, noses running freely but, otherwise, showed no sign of impairment as they ate, bold souls unwilling to allow the other to yield in the face of adversity. Christ battled hiccups for the first five minutes of the meal before bravely settling into the pain, a growing smile as he appreciated the delicacy, and the joke. Geyrt Iriel proved indestructible, and shared her little brother's passion for the good stuff, only a slight sheen of perspiration on her forehead evidenced the effect of the spicy meat soup. For Ulric's own part he was with the Twins, sweat and mucous flowed from his face as he relished the burn spreading through his mouth.

The meal ended with last of the soup, Geyrt slurping the final rich broth from the pot to bring it to a close. A contented sigh and smacking of lips accompanied the return of the empty pot to the shelter floor.

It was a few minutes before any of the party was willing to risk speaking. Christ was the first to recover and break the silence.

"Ulric, there was a time I thought you a barbarian, incapable of decency. I now know that to be true, but you also have a great gift for food. Thank you again for this repast." He declared.

Ulric accepted this praise with grace, offering his own exaltation, "You are very welcome, Christ, I am humbled to have the opportunity to serve such brave warriors in my home. None wept, even if tears flowed. You are all worthy people."

"Young Brighteyes found this meal to be among his favorites and recommended it to be served, if the opportunity ever arose. I must commend my Shadow, ever unflappable, she is the greatest among us. The Iriel's blood line shows its strength." Ulric finished.

Geyrt accepted Ulric's accolade as her due, a shallow bow to the room acknowledging her lessers.

"I would rather tell my father in law I was in debt to a fish merchant than try that again." Said Santa.

Cleaver, the worst of his suffering behind him now, offered a thought for the future.

"We'll all be lucky to get out of this glade with our guts inside us. Ye gods what is it going to do to me on its way out?"

Ulric nodded with the certainty of a prophet, knowing exactly what it was going to do to them on its way out.

"There will be no shame in your howls tomorrow, we are all of us brothers in lava butts." He offered.

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