Nerd In the North: 3-3

III-3: A Red Dawn

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg stumbled out of the house, his legs unsteady and squinting as the sunlight clawed at his eyes like tiny daggers. One hand raised to shield his face as cold air slammed into him as if the morning had decided it hated his guts. The chill bit at his skin, but it wasn't enough to shake the haze clinging to his thoughts.

The village was chaos.

Screaming villagers tore through the mist like panicked birds scattering before a predator. Steel clashed, flames crackled, and horses reared and trampled the ground with terrifying rhythm. Gwenna was a blur behind him, her breath sharp and fast as she struggled to keep pace.

Smoke curled into the sky, thick and dark, choking the pale blue morning. A house buckled in the distance, the flames devouring its roof, collapsing it into an inferno that painted the snow in an orange glow. Greg's stomach twisted as his gaze caught on the bodies lying limp in the snow—too many of them, all in unnatural, broken shapes.

Faces he'd seen before flashed by, too fast to name, but he knew them.

They were people. The cobbler, the woman who sold thread, the old man with the endless stories about nothing.

Now they were just… bodies. Bodies cooling fast on the snow-covered dirt stained with streaks of red.

"Holy shit," Greg muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the noise. His voice cracked, weak and rasping from disuse—a reminder that his body wasn't anywhere near okay.

How many were already dead?

Greg's eyes darted around, his brain trying to process too much at once. The hooves pounding against the earth felt like they were right in his chest, hammering a rhythm that made it hard to think. His pulse was racing, but his body felt like it was moving through molasses.

He was sluggish, like someone swapped him out with a crappier, knockoff version of himself.

Hooves thundered against the dirt road, pounding out a rhythm that felt like it was echoing in Greg's chest. The riders weren't like anything he'd seen before. Brutish men in mismatched armor and furs, their faces wild and twisted in manic excitement, shouted at one another in garbled voices.

The words didn't register—just noise, sharp and alien, like the crack of a whip.

One of the riders not far off pulled back a bowstring, the movement quick and practiced.

Greg's eyes tracked the movement almost instinctively, the string drawing taut, and he saw it happen. The arrow shot forward with a hiss, and the baker—the guy he remembered from his last day in Frostfall — months ago — arguing over the price of honey—went down mid-run. His legs buckled under him as he clutched his stomach, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Another rider charged after a fleeing woman. His massive sword arced downward, catching her as she turned. The blade didn't stop, didn't hesitate, and she crumpled to the ground, a spray of red painting the snow.

Greg's stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat as his hands shook, clenching into fists as his breath quickened. It felt wrong.

All of it.

It wasn't just the violence; it was the glee painted on their faces. The sheer joy they took in tearing through lives like they were nothing.

"Hit back or keep running," he muttered to himself, even as his body screamed at him to fold into the dirt and hide. He flexed his fingers, testing the strength in his legs.

It wasn't much.

His nerves were still buzzing, a faint burn that felt like frayed wires under his skin. 

It wasn't going to stop him but it sure as hell wasn't helping.

"M'lord!" Gwenna's voice snapped him out of it. She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward what little cover they had. "You can't just—"

He didn't hear the rest. 

Greg locked on a rider bearing down on them, his horse kicking up clumps of dirt and snow with each step. The man's face was split in a toothy grin, axe raised high, ready to cleave through them both. Greg's muscles tensed, his feet sliding into a stance he didn't even recognize, and the world seemed to slow. His mind blurred, flicking through fragmented images of daggers, of maces smashing through bone, of training he'd never had.

His body moved before his brain could catch up. He stepped forward, snatching up a broken plank from the debris nearby. It wasn't a weapon, but it was heavy and sharp enough on one end. It'll do.

As the rider closed the gap, Greg lunged, swinging the plank upward with everything he had. It connected with the man's chest, the force knocking him clean off his saddle. He hit the ground hard, his weapon clattering away as he gasped for air. Greg didn't give him time to recover. He brought the plank down again, the wood splintering against the man's helmet with a sickening crunch.

His arms trembled as he backed away, the broken plank slipping from his fingers as his soul pulled wide again. The horse reared behind him, the noise of its panic pulling him back to the present. Gwenna pulled at his sleeve, her eyes wide and frantic. "M'lord, we need to go!"

He glanced at her, then back at the chaos around them. Riders were circling, closing in, their faces alive with malice. A house collapsed behind them, the flames roaring higher. His heart pounded, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he muttered, "...Fuck this."

Greg didn't wait for Gwenna to finish, her words barely registering over the adrenaline pounding in his ears. He was already moving, his legs weak but driven by pure instinct, the pain in his muscles drowned out by the sheer urgency of the chaos around him. The air seemed thicker, heavier, with the acrid stench of smoke clawing at his throat. Another house groaned before collapsing inward, flames devouring its timbers with a roar that sounded far too alive.

Villagers darted past him, their faces a blur of fear and desperation. Some screamed, some didn't.

One woman clutched a child so tightly as she stumbled to the ground and Greg half-wondered if the kid could even breathe. Not your problem right now, focus, he told himself, eyes scanning for threats even as his body screamed for him to stop.

A rider broke through the haze ahead, his horse kicking up clumps of snow and mud as he charged straight for Greg. The man's sword was raised high, its steel catching the firelight in jagged flashes. 

For a split second, Greg froze. 

But then his fingers twitched, curling into a sign almost on their own. The word came out before he'd even thought about it.

"Ard!"

The force ripped from his thrust palm, invisible but felt all the same. It slammed into the rider with a sickening crack, throwing both man and horse off course. The rider hit the side of a nearby house like a ragdoll, the crunch of bone lost beneath the crash of splintering wood.

Greg winced, his breath catching as a sharp burn flared in his veins. Fuck!

His legs wobbled, threatening to buckle, but another rider was already turning toward him.

The fear in the man's eyes was almost satisfying, but Greg didn't have time to enjoy it. He grabbed a rock—a half-frozen lump of dirt and ice, more jagged than smooth—and hurled it with everything he had. It struck the rider dead center in the face, the spray of blood and shattered bone marking the ground as the man tumbled from his terrified horse.

Greg stumbled back, the world tilting for a moment before he steadied himself. The burn in his nerves had spread, creeping like wildfire through his limbs, but he shoved it down, burying it beneath the cold, hard fact that he wasn't done yet. The clash of steel and the screams of villagers still filled the air, and there were more riders—more problems—to deal with.

The ground shuddered suddenly, a deep thud reverberating through his boots. Greg spun, half-expecting another horse, maybe a charging brute with an axe. What he saw instead made his breath catch in his throat.

A bear.

No, not just any bear.

"...Ash?" the word slipped out, barely audible, as Greg stared.

The bear—or what should've been Ash—stood in the middle of the chaos, his hulking form impossible to miss. His fur, once a dark, scruffy coat of a cub, was now sleek and blackened at the edges, singed by fire but untouched where it mattered. He was massive, at least the size of a Doberman, though the sheer weight of him made him feel larger, like a shadow that didn't quite belong to this world. Muscles rippled under his fur as he moved, each step deliberate, almost predatory.

And then there were the eyes.

They glowed, a deep, smoldering red that wasn't entirely natural—embers burning in the sockets of something that had crawled back from somewhere darker than Greg wanted to think about. But it wasn't just the eyes. The wings, too—wings—spread out from Ash's back, each one as long as Greg's arm, their ends sharp and metallic, catching the firelight in jagged flashes.

Greg blinked, his mind tripping over itself. That's not possible. That's not fucking possible. But the bear didn't vanish.

Ash was there, solid and real, his gaze locked onto Greg with an intensity that felt almost human.

Greg's lips moved before he realized it. "...That you?"

Greg barely had time to process what he was seeing before Ash lunged, a blur of muscle and smoke. The sound of his growl was deep, resonant—more dragon than bear—and Greg swore he saw sparks flash as Ash's claws slashed through the rider's armor like wet paper. 

Blood sprayed, painting the snow in violent strokes, and the rider's scream was short-lived as Ash bit down on his arm, shaking him with an almost animalistic fury until the body dropped limp to the ground.

"Holy shit," Greg muttered, his breath catching in his throat. That's Ash? What the hell did he eat while I was out?

But there wasn't time to gawk. Another rider was bearing down on him, sword raised and ready. Greg's body moved on instinct, sidestepping at the last possible second. The horse's flank brushed past him, close enough to rattle his nerves, and Greg threw a punch without thinking. His fist connected with the horse's leg, and the sickening crack of bone breaking was immediately followed by the horse's scream. The beast collapsed, throwing its rider violently into the dirt.

Greg staggered back, panting. His legs felt like they were made of lead, veins still burning.

The fallen rider tried to scramble to his feet, his sword trembling in his hands, but Greg was faster. He raised his hand, fingers curling as he forced the word through his aching throat.

"Igni!"

The cone of fire erupted from his palm, engulfing the rider in a flash of orange and red. The man's screams were brief, almost mercifully so, and Greg turned away before the smell of burning flesh could hit him full force.

Ash was already on another rider, his massive form slamming into the horse with enough force to send both it and its rider sprawling. The horse bolted, leaving its master to fend for himself, but Ash didn't give him the chance. With a single swipe of his claws, the man's chest was laid open, his armor doing nothing to stop the carnage. The rider let out a wet, choking sound before slumping forward, lifeless.

"You really grew up, huh?" Greg rasped, his voice barely audible over the chaos. Ash growled in response, his glowing eyes flicking toward Greg for a brief moment before he pounced on another target.

The Bolton riders were faltering now, their once confident charge reduced to scattered, panicked attempts at retreat. Greg moved through the chaos like a man possessed, his punches landing with enough force to shatter bones, his kicks sending riders flying from their saddles. Even as his body screamed at him to stop, even as his vision blurred at the edges from exhaustion, he kept going. Every movement felt like it was costing him something, but he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when these bastards were still breathing.

A rider came at him, his axe swinging in a wide, clumsy arc. Greg ducked low, his body protesting every inch of the motion, and drove his fist into the man's stomach. The rider let out a strangled gasp, doubling over, and Greg followed up with an uppercut that sent the man sprawling backward, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

"You picked the wrong village," Greg muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse and raw. And I picked the wrong day to wake up.

He leapt into the air, muscles straining with the effort, and landed a punch square into another rider's chest. The man flew from his horse, his scream cut off mid-air as he hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Greg landed hard, his knees buckling slightly, but he pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his legs.

Arrows hissed through the air, narrowly missing him as he ducked behind the charred remains of a collapsed wall. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face despite the cold. Stay low, stay moving, he told himself, grabbing a chunk of broken masonry from the ground.

He hurled it with everything he had, his arm burning with the effort. The rock struck an archer square in the face, the force snapping the man's head back with a gruesome crack. Greg grabbed another rock, then another, each one finding its target with brutal precision. He didn't stop to watch the bodies fall, didn't let himself think about the fact that he was killing men—men with families, probably. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

The ground was slick with blood now, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of death. Greg's fists ached, his muscles quivered, but he kept moving, kept fighting. Because if he stopped, even for a second, he wasn't sure he'd be able to start again.

Greg gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. His arm shot out, a desperate motion more than a calculated one, and he barked the word: "Ard!" The air around him seemed to ripple before a blast of force tore through the space ahead. Two men were ripped from their saddles, their cries cut short as they hit the ground like sacks of meat.

"Ash!" He roared, voice hoarse.

His Dracobear wasted no time, a blur of black fur and flame as he rushed forward with a roar of his own and tore into the fallen riders. Claws sliced through leather and flesh with obscene ease, leaving nothing but carnage in his wake.

Three more riders barreled toward him, their horses kicking up slush and ash as they closed the distance. Greg let out a shuddering breath and lunged to meet them, barely dodging a blade aimed for his neck. His fist came up and smashed into a rider's leg, the crack of bone audible even over the din. The man screamed, tumbling from his saddle and hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. Greg swung around just in time to duck another attack, his body moving on muscle memory even as his thoughts lagged behind.

Ash was everywhere, a whirlwind of fire and fury. His roars shook the ground, his claws leaving burning streaks in the snow where they struck. Greg caught glimpses of the bear-dragon taking down another rider, his jaws clamping around a man's torso and shaking him like a ragdoll. The remaining riders hesitated, their formation breaking as fear took hold. Greg could see it in their eyes—the doubt, the realization that this wasn't the easy raid they'd expected.

"Yeah, that's right," Greg muttered, his voice barely above a rasp. "Run, you bastards."

He surged forward again, his body screaming in protest as he delivered a sharp kick to another horse's side. The animal reared, throwing its rider to the ground, where Greg finished him with a brutal stomp. Another rider turned to flee, but Greg grabbed a broken plank from the wreckage nearby and hurled it with everything he had. It struck the man square in the back, sending him sprawling face-first into the mud.

For a moment, it felt like they might rout completely. Greg took a shaky step forward, his vision tunneling as his pulse thundered in his ears. Then he saw it—a glint of metal in the chaos, a crossbow being raised.

Shit.

He moved, but not fast enough. The bolt slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Pain blossomed in his chest, sharp and unforgiving, spreading outward with every frantic heartbeat. He clawed at the bolt, his fingers trembling as he tried to comprehend the sheer wrongness of it.

Another bolt struck, this time in his stomach. The force of it drove him back further, his body jerking against the dirt like a puppet with its strings cut. Greg's vision blurred, the world tilting and spinning as pain became the only thing he could focus on.

Ash roared, his massive form bounding toward the retreating rider, but Greg raised a hand weakly, the motion barely more than a twitch. "No," he croaked, his voice ragged and thin. "Let them… go. We'll… we'll get 'em… later."

His hand dropped back to his chest, brushing against the bolts that felt like foreign invaders lodged in his body. He tried to pull on his energy, to summon the healing magic he knew was there, but the burn in his veins flared up again, hot and blinding and filling his body with more pain than the bolts themselves. It was like trying to light a fire underwater—every spark snuffed out before it could catch.

"Fuck… I… what…" he muttered, his breath hitching as he struggled against the darkness at the edges of his vision creeping closer. "Why can't I… can't I heal?"

Ash paced back to his side, his growls low and guttural, his glowing eyes full of something that almost looked like concern. Greg managed a weak chuckle, his bloodied lips curling into something that might've been a smile if it weren't for the pain. "You worried about me, big guy? Me too."

His head lolled back against the ground as the sounds of crying and screaming filled his ears, distant and muffled like they were coming from underwater. He fought against the urge to yank the bolts out, knowing it would only make things worse, but the pressure and pain were unbearable. 

Every second felt like a lifetime, and the darkness was getting harder to push back.

Then there were footsteps, fast and frantic, crunching through the snow and dirt. Gwenna skidded to a stop beside him, her face pale and wide-eyed as she dropped to her knees.

"M'lord!" she gasped, her voice trembling. "You—"

Greg cut her off with a weak gesture, his fingers barely moving. "Bag," he croaked, each word costing him more than he wanted to admit. "Get… the bag." 

She stared with wide panicked eyes. "What?" 

"My… fucking bag, Gwenna," he hissed from the pain and impatience both, already feeling bad for doing so. "The bag!"

Gwenna hesitated for a fraction of a second before scrambling to her feet and running back out of sight. Greg closed his eyes, focusing on the shallow rise and fall of his chest, on the sharp pain with every breath, on anything that would keep him conscious.

When she returned minutes later, he barely had the strength to lift his head. She dropped to her knees again, the bag clutched tightly in her hands, and Greg forced himself to open his eyes.

"Good," he rasped, his voice barely audible.

Gwenna fumbled with the straps, her hands trembling as she tugged the pack free and shoved it toward him. 

Greg didn't wait for her to get it open as his fingers tore into the bag with the urgency of a drowning man reaching for air. The moment his hand closed around the smooth, cool surface of the flask, a sharp breath hissed through his teeth. 

Relief? Not yet.

But close enough.

The glass was cold against his fevered skin, almost mocking. With a hard yank, the stopper came loose, the faint pop drowned by the chaos still unfurling beyond them. His free hand moved to the bolt sticking out of his chest. The edges of the wound pulsed, hot and raw, the pain cutting deeper every time he dared to move.

"Here goes," he muttered, his voice ragged. 

His fingers wrapped around the shaft and pulled.

The bolt didn't slip free; it fought him, the barbed tip catching against bone and muscle, dragging at his thick skin like it didn't want to leave.

Greg half-roared through gritted teeth, his back arching from the pain. Blood spilled freely now, warm and sticky as it poured down his chest, but he didn't stop. 

Couldn't stop.

The moment the bolt came free, he muffled another shout by slamming the flask to his lips.

The liquid burned.

Not like alcohol.

Worse—hot syrup sliding down his throat, setting every nerve alight with fire and ice. His vision blurred for a second, black creeping at the edges, but then the heat in his chest began to ebb. The warmth spread outward, radiating like ripples from a stone dropped into water, and the angry thrum in his veins dimmed, cooled.

The burning shifted, prickling into a sensation like his foot waking up after too long asleep.

One down.

Greg didn't let himself breathe too long before his hand moved to the bolt in his stomach. This one was trickier—deeper, angled wrong. The first pull made him hiss like a scalded cat, and he almost dropped the flask.

"Son of a—"

Another yank.

The pain spiked, white-hot and searing, his hands slick with blood now. His fingers slipped, and he growled low in his throat. The groan turned into a growl as he wrenched the bolt free in a single, savage motion, the barbs ripping through skin and muscle like a fishhook yanked the wrong way. He didn't waste a moment to process the pain; the flask was back at his lips, the thick, glowing liquid sliding down his throat and settling heavy in his gut.

This time, the warmth hit quicker. 

It pooled in his stomach before rushing through his limbs, tendrils of heat snaking out to every sore, burned, or broken part of him. His chest rose and fell in shaky breaths, the ache dulling into something tolerable, then into almost nothing. The blood stopped flowing. The gaping wounds knitted themselves shut, muscle pulling together under skin that shouldn't have been whole.

"What in the Seven Hells is that?" Gwenna's voice broke the quiet. She sounded more startled than scared, but not by much. Her wide eyes flicked between his wounds—no, where his wounds had been—and the flask still clutched in his blood-slicked hand.

Greg coughed, testing his chest. No stabbing pain. His ribs felt solid again.

Good, good. He tipped his head back, catching his breath for the first time in what felt like hours, then tossed the empty flask aside.

It landed in the dirt with a hollow clink, glowing faintly even as it rolled to a stop.

"Magic juice," he croaked, his voice rougher than he meant. "Better than... Gatorade."

Not done yet.

Greg dug into the bag again, his fingers brushing past unfamiliar objects—why does it feel like someone packed this thing for an apocalypse?—before finding another flask. This one felt the same: cool glass, smooth and weighty. His hand trembled as he brought it to his lips, but the liquid went down easier the second time. The warmth spread slower now, less invasive, more comforting. He exhaled through his nose, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like days.

His fingers flexed, the stiffness in his limbs fading. The searing in his chest—the thing that had been clawing at him every time he so much as thought about magic—was gone. For once, his body didn't feel like it was trying to mutiny against him.

Greg rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of his strength settling back in like an old coat as he felt most of it returning. "Okay, okay," he muttered, mostly to himself.

His hand went to his chest, fingers brushing the spots where the bolts had been.

Smooth. Unbroken.

He almost laughed.

Gwenna was still staring at him, her mouth slightly open like she wanted to say something but couldn't figure out where to start. Greg gave her a crooked grin, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What, never seen a guy heal himself before?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression shocked and unamused and confused all at the same time.

Greg leaned back, his head tilting toward the sky. He felt lighter, stronger, the dull ache of exhaustion replaced by the kind of energy he didn't dare waste. His grin widened, a small huff of air escaping as he muttered under his breath.

"Thank fuck."

The survivors clustered together in the ashen wreckage of Frostfall's square, their faces hollow with fear. Shadows from the smoldering fires played tricks, turning their gaunt features into grim masks. The smell of burnt wood mixed with the metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying in Greg's nose. Their whispers and murmurs reached his ears from where he stood, sharp and cutting, full of blame and fear.

"We're cursed now, we are," muttered an older man, his voice a rough scrape of disapproval. His wiry frame stood out in the flickering light, his beard streaked with soot and blood. "Boltons don't leave things unfinished. They'll be back wi' twice as many men, twice as many blades, an' when they do, who'll stand wi' us then, eh? Him?" Greg barely glanced at him, his body aching less now but not yet fully restored. The man's glare settled on him as he stared back. "Who else?"

"Weren't us who called 'im here," added a woman, her accent thick and clipped, as she clutched a child so tight the boy squirmed. "What'd we do t'deserve this, eh? Didn't ask for no sorcerer settin' foot in Frostfall." 

Greg winced at that. Ash growled low, his larger form bristling like he could sense Greg's rising frustration. Seriously? I just kept you all from getting turned into mince, and this is the thanks I get? 

"He saved us!" a younger man shot back, stepping forward with fists clenched. Barely twenty years old, his broad shoulders stood strong anyway. "Did ye not see what he did? Chased 'em off, he did! Without 'im, there'd be none o' us left standin'!"

The old man's face twisted in frustration, his hand gesturing wildly to the ruined village around them. "And now what? When the Boltons send knights? When they send killers wi' iron will and proper trainin'? Think that lad can stop an army wi' his fists an' fire, do ye?"

Greg tensed, his lip curling at the jab. He opened his mouth to retort—maybe something about how he'd already done just fucking that—but another voice cut through the noise.

"Enough!"

Gwenna strode forward, her green eyes blazing like a northern storm, her red hair catching the firelight in streaks of copper and gold. Her voice, still hoarse from screaming commands earlier, carried a force that silenced the murmurs in an instant.

"He didn't bring 'em here!" she spat, jabbing a finger toward the older man. "He chased 'em off! Fought for us while the rest o' ye were cowerin' in the shadows like mice!" 

The man's face twisted, anger faltering under her glare. "Lass—"

"Don't 'lass' me, Willen!" she cut him off, her voice sharp with grief and fury. "Ye've no right ta talk of doom when ye couldn't even lift a blade ta protect yer own kin!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd, the weight of her words settling heavy on the gathered smallfolk. The woman clutching her child looked away, her lips pressed thin, while Willen's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

"How dare ye blame him," Gwenna continued, taking a step closer. 

"Gwenna," a softer voice interjected. Gerda, her mother, stepped forward, her broad figure streaked with grime and exhaustion. She tugged gently at her daughter's arm with slightly trembling hands, her face a softer echo of Gwenna's own. "Don't, lass. This ain't the time for such words. Let's not fight our own." 

Gwenna yanked her arm free, eyes flaring as she whipped her head toward her mother. "An' when's the time then, mam? When he's dead for defendin' us? When they've burned the rest of Frostfall to ash?" Her gaze swept the crowd, daring anyone to meet it. "Ye'd all be corpses if not for him."

Greg tried not to wince at her words. "Uh," he rasped. "Thanks?" 

Gwenna turned to him, her hard expression softening for a moment. "Don't thank me, m'lord," she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. "Just tell 'em they're wrong."

Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Look," he said, raising his hands. "You're right. They're wrong. But—" he gestured vaguely at the destruction around them, the half-burned buildings and the bodies still cooling in the snow. "—this? This isn't over." "Gwenna," her mother called again.

"Na, mam. They're actin' like he didn't just save their lives!" Gwenna's voice cracked slightly at the end, but she didn't falter, her words as sharp as the cold northern air biting through the smoke.

Greg exhaled, his shoulders sagging. Yeah, she was angry. But she wasn't wrong.

He watched the crowd shift uneasily.

A murmur rolled through the crowd like a wave gathering force. Some nodded stiffly, their faces pinched with fear and grim resolve, while others whispered furiously, their words swallowed by the crackle of flames and the winter wind cutting through the square. Every glance was sharp, wary, and weighed heavy with unspoken accusation or uneasy gratitude. Greg's eyes scanned their faces, trying to pick apart the hostility from the hope.

Near the edge of the group, a younger woman stifled a sob, clutching tightly to the arm of a stoic older man whose fur-lined cloak was singed and torn.

"Bolton men," she whispered, her voice shaky yet cutting through the silence. "Who else but the flayed man'd do summat like this?"

Greg inhaled sharply, his fists curling at his sides. The fires danced on the soot-streaked faces before him, wariness clear in their hollowed eyes. They already don’t like me, he thought bitterly, though he couldn't blame them. Ramsay had left scars deeper than just broken houses and burning fields. Still, they deserve to know.

"You're right," he said, his voice cutting through all the sound as the crowd stilled. He clenched his jaw, his chest tight. "It was Bolton men. They came because I killed Ramsay."

There was a gasp, not one of shock but like a realization; then something else—a sharp crack of noise that sparked into cheers from one side and muttered approval from others. Several younger men and women clapped, their soot-streaked faces twisting into grim smiles. A woman near the center let out a bark of laughter, high-pitched and strained but genuine.

"Good riddance!" someone shouted over the din, their voice raw. "The bastard deserved worse!"

"Aye!" another shouted, a wiry woman with soot streaking her cheeks. "Bolton had it coming!"

Greg blinked, mouth twitching. Wasn't expecting applause for that. He shifted awkwardly, his gaze flicking to the crowd, and then to Gwenna. She hadn't joined in the cheering. Her stance was rigid, shoulders tight, her face a storm of emotions. The green in her eyes looked duller now, shadowed with something else.

She stepped forward, boots crunching against the icy ground. Her eyes locked onto Greg's for a moment before dropping to the charred dirt. "He killed..." her voice wavered, cracking like ice underfoot. She swallowed, her hand brushing against her neck. "Before ye killed him, he... he killed my father."

Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry, his mind stalling. Harl… What… I can’t believe it.

"He dragged me off." Her fists curled at her sides as she continued, shaking with the force of holding herself together. Her voice thickened, each word forced through the tightness in her throat. "Chased me fer his bloody games. His fun."

Greg's chest tightened, a cold knot settling somewhere beneath his ribs. He stared at her, his pulse a dull, thudding ache in his ears. He knew Ramsay was a monster—had seen the wreckage the man left in his wake. But hearing it, this, how close it had come to breaking her entirely, twisted something deep in him.

He sucked in a shaky breath, glancing down at Ash, who growled low.

The crowd hung on her words, their faces shifting from shock to something harder. Then, a cough broke the silence, ragged and sharp. An older woman stepped forward from the back of the crowd, her hunched figure swaddled in layers of tattered wool. Her voice, cracked but firm, rang out over the tension. "We're wi' ye, lad and ye too lass," she said, her accent heavy. "He deserved what he got, and if the Boltons think they can take us down, they're wrong."

Others began to voice agreement, their words swelling in the firelit gloom like a reluctant tide.

"Aye, we'll stand wi' ye, Lord Veder!" a thickset man with soot-streaked hands bellowed, his voice rough as gravel. He jabbed his pitchfork into the dirt for emphasis, as though that alone could hold back the Boltons.

"Ye fought fer us, when no one else would," added a young woman near the center, clutching a toddler so tightly that the child let out a low whimper.

Greg could feel the crowd shifting, an unstable mass of fear and desperation looking for an anchor. But then the older man—Willen, or whatever his name was—shook his head, muttering something under his breath before stepping forward. His jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck bulged.

“And what now?” he spat, words sharp and bitter. “Ye think it’s all good an done, do ye? What happens when the boltons send more? Knights, soldiers, killers, the lot of ‘em. you reckon he’ll stop ‘em all?” he gestured sharply at greg, his wiry hand trembling with rage.

Another voice shot back from the crowd—a broad-shouldered farmer still gripping his pitchfork like a weapon. "Better to die fightin' then," he said, his voice steady, almost eerily calm. "I'd rather bleed on my feet than beggin’ for my life from a lord like ‘im."

The crowd buzzed. Half of them sounded like they’d been ready for this fight their whole lives; the rest, like they were one breath away from turning and running into the dark.

A few others echoed the same, their voices rising loud and proud. 

Greg raised a hand, his movement sharp and deliberate.

"Hey," he said, his voice low but carrying, steady like the calm before a storm. The chaos rippled to a halt, leaving only the crackle of the burning wreckage and the sound of his own breathing. He stepped forward, squaring his shoulders, feeling the eyes of every villager boring into him.

"This isn't about revenge," he continued, his tone hard. "It's about survival. It's about keeping a lord from Bolton from doing this to you again, you understand. I'm not asking you to follow me for no reason. I'm saying I won't let this happen again. Not here. Not anywhere." His throat tightened as the words left him.

They felt too big, too final. But what else could he say?

I'm tired of these Lords.

The murmurs fell to a tense silence. Greg could feel the weight of their stares pressing on him, expectation coiled around his chest like a vice. Gwenna stepped closer, her small frame steady despite the tears still brimming in her green eyes.

"Aye, we’re wi’ ye, m'lord," a younger woman said from the edge of the square, her voice clear and strong despite the waver in her hands. "He's the only one who's fought fer us."

A few others echoed her sentiment, their voices rising like fragile kindling catching fire. The dissenters, like Willen, began to shrink back, their muttering drowned out by the growing chorus of reluctant resolve.

Greg's chest felt tight, his breath caught somewhere between exhaustion and something he couldn't name. They looked at him like he was some kind of answer, their fear and hope braided together in a way that made his stomach churn. He took another step forward, trying to swallow the knot in his throat.

"I didn't bring this," he said, the words rasping against his dry mouth. "But I'm here now. And I'll fight for Frostfall, for every village they've crushed under their boots. I'm not going anywhere."

The crowd roared, a ragged cheer that tore through the still-burning air like the final embers of a dying fire. Greg forced himself to hold their gaze, nodding stiffly even as the sound prickled at his skin.

Then he turned to Gwenna, her pale face streaked with soot and sweat. She was watching him closely, her lips parted like she wanted to say something.

"Where's my sword?" he asked, his voice cutting through the lingering noise.

Her eyes widened, startled, and she blinked at him like he'd just asked her to hand him the moon.

"Yer sword?" she echoed, her tone uncertain, almost like she hadn't heard him properly.

Greg stepped closer, his shadow stretching long in the firelight. "Yeah. Where is it?" his tone sharpened, the exhaustion creeping back into his voice. He didn't have time for this.

Gwenna's gaze flicked toward the edge of the village, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "They must've… taken it," she stammered, her voice faltering as she met his eyes again. "When the Bolton men left."

The words hit like a kick in the nuts. 

"Fuck," he muttered, the curse slipping out before he could stop it. He turned away, his hands curling into fists as he stared out at the smoldering ruins of Frostfall. 

His sword was gone. Great. Fucking perfect.

"FUCK!"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Improvised Warrior (150 GP) - Remorseless

Unwanted Hero (200 GP) - Tarnished

Disarmed Legend (200 GP) - Crusade

Roll: Remorseless [Final Fantasy IX] (Free) - "You are the star and for whom the spotlight shines. Your confidence in your role is absolute, and your resolution to put yourself forward is an undeniable force. Concepts of morality are for those who have to consider the feelings and stance of others, insignificant to you. Concepts of morale, even more laughable when nothing can faze you save for your own choices.

Those insignificant masses should pray they do not attempt to subject you to silly mind control spells as they are want to do – or they’ll see the attempt bounce right back at them, mentally wounding them."

Roll: Tarnished [Elden Ring - Liurnia of the Lakes] (100 GP) - "Though your eyes do not shine with the golden light of those blessed by the Erdtree, you possess the guidance of Grace, one more suited for you. This Grace shall lead you down a path that will eventually see you acquiring great power, be it personal or political. It will not force you, but it is through walking this path that you will most easily gain strength befitting a crown."

Roll: Crusade [Darkest Dungeon] (100 GP) - “Behold- righteousness and zealotry- gleaming in the morning sun.” There are few things that can be said about the Light; that it is anathema to the wandering dead is one of them. Although not necessarily opposed to the eldritch- which may have some disturbing theological implications if one thinks about it- the Light does indeed scour the clattering bones and rotting flesh of the undead and the unholy beyond what ordinary swings of a weapon should accomplish. As one of its champions, you will find yourself capable of imbuing your attacks with its power to bring the Light’s judgement to forgotten crypts and the lairs of necromancers. Furthermore the rigors of long campaigns has strengthened your body, giving some small protection against blade, arrow, and other physical methods of spilling blood."

Grimoire Points: 550