In a cozy Kingdom to the north, in the Norwegian sea called Alvana. The people who lived in the middle ages as the world around them grew more modern. Knights still fought for maidens' hands, while more Viking-like clans still lived in the mountains to the north. The kingdom of Alvana was not well known to the rest of the world. So they mostly left each other alone, isolating themselves from the world. Still, they learned along with the rest, people fled from the rest of the world and lived peaceful lives here. It did not mean it was an entirely peaceful kingdom. An evil king by the name of Gular ruled the land, enforcing his ideas and beliefs. You did not want to disobey him, or you could lose everything, even your life. It was said the true prince was safely living from his cousin's grasp in one of the old forts, but no one could prove it. So it stayed a hope for the people of the kingdom. Nothing more than a mere legend. Though in the far corners of Alvana, the people were mostly untouched. Different clans lived peaceful lives, hardly daring to travel from their villages for fear the king would harm them. Most tried to forget about the king and his dark army. Yet choose to move on with life, others were not so lucky. That did not mean they were perfect, though, as in every other place they still had outcasts and orphans.
In the Northern Mountains, nestled in a hidden valley, stood a log house. Well, more of a treehouse, up high on the side of a cliff overlooking a river that wound its way through the deep grove in the land of the harsh mountains. A good forty feet above the riverside was a wide ledge with a cave behind it, the house stood in this. Built into the hard soil and rock as if it was a part of the cliff itself. The main body of the cottage was normal, with sturdy logs laid on top of one another, the cracks filled with hard clay. But that was the only classic part of its elegant design. It had two levels, with a small deck on the front made of half rock and half wooden planks laid down to extend its width. A chimney jutted out of the rock like a stone pillar, a thin line of smoke making its way from the opening. A window shutter on the side looks out over the valley. What truly made the design different would be the forge and tannery built into the frame. It was currently boarded up, but you could see that it was able to open up to let the hot air out when in use. The house would seem to have no way of access at all, the sides were either cliff or river. But if you looked closely, you might notice a thick rope line across the river about 30 feet in length. Stretching from one side to the other from a weird-looking frame at the edge of the ledge attached to the base of the house. A similar frame stood on the other side, the rope mounted solidly to the top. It stood on two poles with one atop, while smaller planks supported the base. A strange set of pulleys attached to the top log and ropes were wound around it in a complicated matter. One hung down, tied securely around a large rock. The only thing stopping it from dropping any lower was a leaver wedged into the pulley. It was pretty much the same on the opposing side, other than a small square platform that hung from the main rope under the far frame. Behind it, and slightly hidden from view by a bush, was a thin path. Worn into the mountainside, diving into two separate ones a good way down. One leads up into the lush forest and the other wound along the valley edge toward the nearby village. A young woman was making her way up the steep mountainside, travelling along the valley path. Dressed in thick clothing to keep out the bitter cold, a cloak wrapped around her shoulders with a recurve bow strapped to her back, along with a case full of arrows. Her hood was up, hiding her face in its shadows through, you could see a long braided strand of fiery red hair that fell from her shoulders. She was wearing a skirt of thick leather lined with fur that hung in strips. It covered her well, but was loose and flowing. Elegant fire patterns were decorating the bottom, almost matching her hair. A pack was slung over her arm full of something. She made her way up to the frame and disappeared from sight behind a bush, before appearing under the frame. As I made my way home from a long day at the northern markets, my heavy pack weighed me down. I wished I could drop it into the river and rest my arms. But I needed the food and other supplies in it, as they were necessary for survival. I walked behind a berry bush and set down my pack under the wooden frame of my lift. It landed with a thud on the platform as I stepped on after it and pulled the lever, releasing the rock weight. It fell down the cliffside, dragging the rope after it, moving me and the lift along the cable with the momentum. As the lift steadily moved upwards to my home, I picked up my pack again and made it ready for the drop-off. When the platform reached the mainframe attached to the base of my cottage, I hooked the lift in place and stepped off onto the deck. Sighing, I unlocked my door and dashed in, shutting it behind me. The warm air came as a relief after walking two miles in the frigid temperature of the cold world outside. Taking my boots off, I walked inside enjoying the heat warming my limbs, blood warming, and I gained feeling back into my cold hands and feet. Only to turn around and see that the fire had recently gone out. I groaned and dropped my pack off on the kitchen counter to unpack later. After gathering some firewood from the lean-to, I unceremoniously tossed it into the fireplace. Crouching down, I waved my hand over the kindling, letting a small flame leap from my hand and set fire to the wood. With a few twists of my hand, I had a roaring fire once again. I was in a good mood after a successful day at the markets, most of my stock had sold. Only leaving me with a few daggers, bows, and articles of clothing to take home. My visits to the market were pretty much my only contact with other people. And I was happy with it that way. I was not going to take another chance with them after what happened to my family. Making my way back to the kitchen, I emptied the food from my bag into the cupboards. Checking the supplies off the list in my leather-bound notebook as I put them away. Getting one of my metal pots filled with already made stew from the icebox outside, I set it on the stove to warm up. Humming a catchy tune I had heard in the nearby village tavern, I went about making supper. While the stew was warming, I settled myself by the fireplace, pulling out a strip of leather from my collection. Then went about cutting out the desired shapes from the hide with practiced ease. After all four years of growing up by myself without help, I had to find a way to supply myself. So leather and metalwork called to me, and I became creative with them. I smiled as the skirt formed under my patient hands.
Across the kingdom, still in the mountains that curved around the edge of the island. Though it was a warmer land, it was no less of a rugged hard climate. A few miles out of the nearest city, a trading cavern made its way along one of the less used routes. They had spent an extra day in the city Caverain, trading at the shopping center as they restocked with goods for the next city Tibal. Located 37 miles away from Caverain, on the east coast among the foothills as they connected with the sea. Now late, they were taking a shortcut through a ravine, attempting to make up for the lost time. As the night had just fallen, the sun was long hidden behind the mountains. The leader was looking for a good camping spot for the rest of the night. But as the cavern passed, the oxen slowly pulled the heavy wagons. The guard failed to notice the silent figure on the forested hillside, watching as they passed. He was perched on one of the lower branches of a great pine tree. The gentle breeze moved his black cloak softly, as he observed the group. His face, though in the shadows it did not hide his eyes as they glowed golden, reflecting the light of the moon. Once the cavern passed, he gracefully leapt down from the tree, the cloak billowing out behind him as he landed on the ground with a muffled thud. He ran up the mountainside, moving as if he was one of the shadows himself. The darkness of his cloak hid him from any watching eyes as he leaped from rock to rock. Finally, he slowed and moved aside a curtain of vines and disappeared. Breathing heavily from my exercise, I moved aside the vines hiding my cave from view. They fell back in place as I passed, stepping into the soft glow of my campfire. Noting that I was getting low on wood, I took off my cloak and draped it over the end of my cot. The frame creaked slightly as I sat on it. Pulling some dried vision from one of the pockets adorning my belt, I moved to the fire. Chewing slowly, I savoured the taste of the salted meat, as I added firewood to the growing list of things I needed to do that I was writing in my notebook. Glancing around my cave/home, I was looking for anything I might have missed. I did not have much, a cot, shelf, bow, hunting knives, fireplace, ropes, and traps of various kinds. Sighing, I added water to my list, which would mean I had to take a hike to the river half a mile away. Then again, I could check my traps and fishing net along the way and take whatever I found into town. The shops there never minded getting fresh stock from me, and I could trade what I made from it for more untradable needs. I leaned back against the cave wall, watching the flames flicker and dance. A branch fell outside the confines of the pit, the fire made its way over to the nearby dry grass. I waved my hand, the pebbles moving and pushing the branch back into the pit. I was reminded of a home as I stared into the flames, thinking of the kind healer that saved my life and raised me. It was hard on me when she passed. I was the village outcast, I had no life there, so when she died I left. I got up and dove under the furs on my cot, trying to forget the flood of memories. I fell asleep to the song of the cracking fire.
In the windswept prairies to the west, along the coast. A village set around the walls of a small harbour. A thick forest surrounds it on one side, on the other are the lush grasslands filled with fields growing different grains. The breadbasket of the Kingdom. The village huts are arranged in various lines and circles, making the most use of the space available. Toward the sea on one of the sea stacks rests a small wooden hut, a thick straw roof kept the weather out and the heat in. The wood fading and worn from age, and salt from the sea. The door opens, and a young man about 16 in age steps out into the morning sunshine. In his hand is a wooden staff almost as tall as him. It's painted to look like a shadow, the dark grey colour giving it that effect. A weaved basket takes up the other. He makes his way to the wood plank bridge, spanning the gap between the mainland and this sea stack. Skipping along it with no apparent fear of the decent drop into the sea below. The outer edge of the village rests along this ledge, slowly curving downward on the grasslands below. Smoke moved upward in curling wisps from stone chimneys, making the sky seem as if it was being woven. The fields of wheat waved gently in the morning wind, almost like they rippled. Taking a deep breath of the fresh morning air, he looked over the town, taking in the sights and watching as more people exited their homes to start their day. I watched as people made their way about the morning chores, the village waking slowly after a long night. I trudged down a goat path, taking a shortcut into town, using my walking stick for balance. It was of my own make, carved from a piece of driftwood I had found while exploring the beach one day. Walking in a more proper manner, as my more natural style was more of leaping from roof to roof. I sighed and pulled the market list from my pants, looking it over carefully to plan my order of operations. "What do I have for today? Rosemary, lemongrass, cloves, flaxseed, flour, oil, eggs. The usual again, what is that the third time this week?!" I groaned and made my way into the quiet streets, hoping I would be finished before the morning bustle came about. I loathed shopping, but it was the least I could do for my aged parents, who had raised me the best they could, though we had a challenging life. No matter how much I loved my parents in our home by the sea, the forests and grasslands called to me. I spent most of my childhood hiding from other kids in the woods, as most did not dare to brave them. I grew to love the feeling of flying as I would swing from branch to branch, the wind always gliding me along. With that thought in mind, I entered the market grounds and headed for the assigned shops.
In the mouth of a great river, that runs through the whole island, feeding the land with its freshwaters. A city rises from atop the surrounding sand dunes. The brick structures provide shade from the scorching sun that beats down on the desert. Smaller homes line the cost, housing the fishing men and their families. While the knights and nobles lived in luxury in roomy decorated flats higher on the dunes. With slaves and servants huts in the back by the kitchens. About midway up one of these wealthier districts, in one home among several neighbouring mansions. A female figure could be seen in the gardens alone, a curved sword in both hands. She swings at invisible opponents, the swords dancing through the air with an air of grace. Shifting her feet in a strategic pattern. Sweat soaks her clothing, making it cling to her slim but muscled figure. Her hair is loosened from its braid framing her face. She stops, glancing around the gardens before her eyes came to rest on a maid under a balcony. Hearing movement outside that of the normal city background, I stilled my movements and looked about the gardens. I spotted my maid in the shade under the balcony and begrudgingly walked over. Running a hand through my hair, letting ice form under my fingers. "Yes?" She hummed and scrutinized me carefully, and seemed to come to a decision. Holding up a towel folded in her hands, she began to wipe the sweat off my face and neck. "You have been working, I see. Do your parents approve?" I shook my head, and took the towel from her, drying myself. Following her as she turned and headed into the cool interior. "Not really, but they know I won't stop. It's my dream, you know Marcie. To be a knight or whatever they call the females." Marcie sighed and shook her head gently. "You must learn to be a lady and wife, no female has ever been a knight before you know that. Your parents love you and want what's best for you, but you must stop this silly dream." She closed the door behind us as we entered my room. I dropped the damp towel on the laundry pile, moving a shawl from a peg aside. I hung my swords in their cases. Taking my tunic by the edges, I pulled it over my head and tossed it into the corner. My leggings soon followed. Marcie had pulled the washing basin out and was filling it with warm water as I undressed. Walking closer to the bath, I slide off my breast bindings and pantyhose. Stepping into the water carefully so as not to slip, I sighed in relief as the water cooled me down. Relaxing as I felt Marcie untangle the last of my hair from its braid, pouring some water over it. Then picking up a jar of scented soap from the stool, she took a handful out, before taking my hair into her hands and working in the soap studs. "The noble Roger Amcottes is coming to visit us over the evening meal with his family." I sat up quickly, splashing the water over the sides, a tiny bit startling Marcie, who was a victim of my movement. "You mean to inform me of the inferior king's bodyguard and his family is calling on us?" "Yes." "Pray to tell me that his son, that wretched brat, will not be coming?" She sighed, placing a towel on her lap, and gesturing for me to sit down again. I did so knowing she would not answer until I had. "I'm afraid so, and your father mentioned some form of contract. Also, no, before you ask, I do not know what kind of contract." Groaning I prepared myself for my upcoming demise. Nevertheless, I could obtain more information about the King. Roger's wife Darya was quite the gossiper, often giving away more sensitive information. With that thought in mind, I relaxed once more into the bath and let Marcie's gentle fingers massage my scalp, the stress melting with them.