Phealafarian Frontiers: 22 : Smoke and Silver
Snow drifted thick and slow from the night sky as Steal Team 6 reached the village of Angeldenn. Most windows were already dark, the streets quiet save for the muffled crunch of boots on frost-hardened ground. Above it all loomed Ulaa’s Wall, the mountain range casting a jagged, unmoving shadow across the rooftops like the arm of a slumbering giant. Their breath rose in white clouds as they made for The Gleaming Goat Inn, where warm torchlight spilled across the road. Horses were stabled, and Peanut the elephant—drawing curious glances—was bundled under a heavy blanket with a generous pile of hay.
Inside, the group shook off the snow and gathered at a corner table. Talk quickly turned to the haul of boar meat. Tosk, arms folded and jaw set, argued they should keep every scrap. Zaryth countered with measured calm, pointing out the danger of hauling such a large amount through the mountains—predators and opportunists alike would be drawn to it. Tobias suggested a compromise: sell most, keep some. Tosk, unconvinced, later slipped to the stables to fill his pack with loose cuts, muttering about waste.
For the second night in a row, Zaryth quietly covered the cost of their stay. Tobias, unusually solemn, promised to repay her. The party settled under thick quilts, the wind rattling the shutters as the dark silhouette of the mountains loomed beyond.
Morning broke cold and clear. Over steaming mugs of tea, they spoke with Marlenna, the half-elf innkeeper. Hearing their need to sell the meat, she immediately suggested, “Hobrin Wesk—runs the Brine & Ember Smokehouse. Best in the region. Tell him I sent you.”
Tobias and Guardian took the task. Hauling their cart through the thinning streets to the forest’s edge, they found the squat stone building with a chimney puffing steady plumes of fragrant smoke. The air was rich with the scent of spice, brine, and slow-burning wood.
Inside, their voices echoed until a stout dwarf emerged, his black beard streaked with silver, leather apron marked with years of labour. “Hobrin Wesk,” he said, wiping his hands. Tobias explained the boar attack and their surplus of meat. Hobrin inspected the cuts with a practiced eye before offering a flat, “Thirty-three gold for the lot.”
Tobias tried to include bones and hides, but Wesk shook his head. “Ain’t meat, lad. What’m I supposed to do with it?”
With little to negotiate, they accepted. Coins clinked into Tobias’s hand, the cold air outside biting sharper as they left, the smokehouse scent clinging to their cloaks.
Back at the inn, plans turned to mountain supplies. Zaryth pressed the need for provisions; Tosk waved her off. “We’re good for food—with all the meat.”
“I actually just sold all of it,” Tobias admitted.
Tosk froze, then stood without a word, stomping out into the snow. His boots left deep prints all the way to the smokehouse.
The door banged open as he entered. “You’ve bought stolen property,” he barked, “and I want it back!”
Wesk narrowed his eyes. “That so?” A stubborn exchange followed until Tosk claimed he could prove which cuts were his—they’d been stored with three-week-old potatoes. After a long stare, Wesk relented. “Fine. Take whatever touched your precious potatoes.” He weighed out a single pound.
Defeated, Tosk muttered it wouldn’t last the crossing. Wesk paused. “You’re crossing the mountains?”
“Not that it’s your business, but yeah,” Tosk said.
“There’s an old ranger’s cache at Wyrmpath Encampment,” Wesk told him. “Borglins overran it a few months back. If it’s still standing, there’s a silver-etched dry box under the supply hut floorboards. Bring it to me unopened, and I’ll give you the rest of your meat, cured proper. If not, I keep the pork.”
Tosk agreed. Wesk handed over several days’ worth of cured rations as a down payment.
When Tosk returned and explained, the meat debate flared again but soon burned out. By nightfall, they were on the road toward the black peaks. Under the stars, the mountains watching in silence, Tobias lay awake with an unsettled stomach and the weight of unspoken guilt.
The mountains greeted the party with biting wind and a white-knuckled chill that sank deep into their bones. In the dead of winter, the air was sharp enough to cut, and the snowdrifts along the trail turned each step into a slow, gruelling effort. Ulaa’s Wall loomed ahead like a fortress of jagged ice, its sheer cliffs swallowing the horizon and casting the path into perpetual shadow. Even the hardiest among them felt the oppressive weight of the climb—every breath a plume of white, every step sinking into snow that clung stubbornly to their boots.
Guardian fared worst that first day. His tiefling resilience faltered against the mountain’s merciless cold; his lips turned pale, his horns rimmed with frost, and his shivering frame hunched beneath his bedroll. The others built a makeshift windbreak from snow and canvas, but it barely blunted the chill. By morning, Tobias crouched beside him and gave a firm tap with the enchanted oven mitt. Heat rushed into Guardian’s limbs, driving out the cold until the trembling stopped, a reluctant smile breaking across his face.
By the second afternoon, the trail narrowed into a ledge opening onto a snow-scoured clearing cut into the forest slope. The scene was grim: a campsite recently ransacked—tents slashed, supplies scattered, the firepit choked with grey ash. Around the wreckage lounged a knot of Borglins, their hunched frames bulked out by mismatched furs, lean wolves curled beside them with watchful yellow eyes.
The party split in practiced silence. Eldrin, Tosk, Erisa, and Thomas slipped into the tree line, shadows among shadows as they circled to strike from above. Zaryth, Tobias, and Guardian walked openly into the clearing, boots crunching on the frozen ground. The Borglins stiffened, hands hovering over their weapons.
“Wait, wait,” Tobias called, palms raised, his breath misting in the air. “Please—we mean you no harm. We just want to pass through.”
The leader stepped forward, snout twitching. “Jus’ pass? Jus’ pass? Sure. You jus’ pass—pay toll.”
“Of course,” Tobias replied evenly. “What’s the toll?”
“Everythin’ you got.”
Tobias’ tone shifted, smooth and deliberate. He offered them an alternative—help clearing their name with the villages below, proving they weren’t raiders. The leader’s eyes glazed with disinterest. “You talk too much,” he muttered, then gave a sharp whistle.
The air cracked. A crossbow bolt streaked from the treeline and slammed into Tobias’ side. Pain flared hot, and the camp erupted into chaos.
Borglins surged forward with snarls and flashing steel. Before the leader could whistle again, Eldrin’s arrow ripped through his hand and drove into his skull, dropping him instantly. From the flanks, Erisa’s bolts and Thomas’ arrows cut down their targets, and Tosk roared as he swelled to giant size, charging through the snow. He scooped a Borglin into his trunk and swung it like a flail into another, sending them sprawling.
Tobias, blood staining his coat, still tried to call for peace, but his words vanished under the clash of battle. The Borglins fought with the desperation of cornered beasts.
Another volley of bolts hissed from an unseen sniper, forcing the party to scatter. “They won’t negotiate—kill or be killed!” Zaryth shouted, her blade igniting with divine light. One strike obliterated a Borglin in a burst of radiance, leaving only drifting motes where it had stood.
A dagger flew from the melee, sinking into Guardian’s side. He wrenched it free and lunged to return the strike, but the blow missed. With a frustrated snarl, he vanished in a swirl of shadow and reappeared several paces away.
The wolves broke formation, lunging for Zaryth and Tobias, but quick shots from the ranged fighters dropped them mid-leap, their bodies skidding to a halt in the snow.
The battlefield thinned quickly. Only the limp, wide-eyed Borglin in Tosk’s grip remained alive—too beaten to fight. The sniper, however, still lurked unseen.
Eldrin caught a glint high on a rocky pillar: a Borglin half-buried in snow, reloading his crossbow. The group moved fast, boots slipping on icy stone as they scaled the height. They crested the top and dispatched the last threat in a swift flurry of steel and magic.
Breath steaming in the cold, they regrouped at the ruined camp. The wind keened through the pass as they searched the bodies and debris. Scattered coins spilled from pouches, boots, and sashes—seventy-two gold, forty-one silver, and eighty copper. A single healing potion rolled from a torn satchel, and they found eight days’ worth of rough rations: strips of dried lizard jerky, smoked fish, and hardy root vegetables. Three waterskins held fresh water; a fourth was frozen solid.
The weapons were crude but serviceable—a Borglin-crafted short sword, two throwing spears with thin black feathers tied beneath the heads, and a scout’s longbow still strung. A set of studded leather armour, Borglin-sized and rank with the smell of damp fur, lay bundled near a collapsed tent. Among the smaller spoils were a wolf fang necklace, a battered music box that played only half a tune, and a monocle with a cracked lens. The most unsettling find was a small wooden box containing four human teeth, each etched with a distinct rune.
They divided the loot in heavy silence. Above them, the frozen spires of Ulaa’s Wall stood unmoving, watching with the cold indifference of stone.
