Children of Terra

~3 February 1000~ ~Last winter of Morgraig~ ~In the grand castle hall~ ~Erland of Larvik~ He used to look forward to the gathering of his brothers every winter; hearing their tales of the Path, building their bestiary codices, coming up with new styles and methods in hunting and alchemy . . . and most of all, being around the only group of people that could really understand one another. Those gone through the Trials.       Erland looked back up at the depressingly few witchers left. It seemed the younger ones took a stash of supplies and made off to found yet another schismatic sect -- their absence compounding the emptiness. What happened to the dream? He looked deep at his reflection in his mug of Kaedweni Stout when a hand clapped his back.       Barmin, one of the swordsmanship instructors and a younger generation witcher smiled at him. "Melitele's tits, Erland! Cheer up! It's terrible for morale when one of the First stews and brews with furrowed brow!" To emphasize his point, Barmin took the parent cask of Kaedweni Stout and opened the spigot directly in his mouth. With comical gulps and a big satisfied sigh, he finally pulled the cask away; not bothering to wipe the foam mustache off.       Erland toasted and quaffed a swig of his own when the claps and cheers in the hall revealed many of the witchers had been tensed awhile. He decided to put his thoughts away for the night -- after all, it was clear from the tone this was likely last of such a meet in Morgraig. No one bothered to restock the pantries.       At least with this gesture, the mood finally lifted somewhat. Games and tales began to echo in the hall once more, almost bringing back the ghosts of the past. Erland found it enough to actually laugh along his younger brethren for a change.       It wasn't all bad, there was still a healthy stocking of Children of Surprise, orphans, and other unfortunates with no where else to turn. Many decided to chance the Trials, even after hearing and digesting the awful return rate. Poor kids. Times were getting bad -- and in many ways worse than when the Order was first founded those decades ago. People's hearts were growing harder nearly every year now. A new world seeming every time the witchers left Morgraig anew.       The night finally dwindled down as the witchers began their meditations and rests one after another. Eventually Erland himself retired to his quarters, cold stone it was. ~The next morning~ Many of the witchers had gathered in the lightly snowed courtyard when he woke and ventured about. Ah, the kids were having a sparring match. They were all pre-Trial, so it was more of a show of courage and mettle than anything else. The eyes, though, they were so bright . . .       Barmin chuckled as he took his place at Erland's left. "See that one, the kid with the ponytail? Vesemir. My best, he's got a knack for the blade. Even smiled when I told him about the Trials."       Erland peered at the boy. 11-12 if that. But undeniable, the whelp had a passion for the sword arts. He smiled before speaking. "Yes, he does have promise. I'd like to hear of him one day, Barmin. Keep the wood on his knuckles."       "Who do you take me for? I'll have his name echo for the ages!"       Erland let this string die down as they continued to watch the children. Maybe only 6 would remain by summer. He let a small sigh out before remarking: "Barmin, I think it's time - "       "We know. I've talked to the rest already. Many will stay behind to make sure the kids at least make winter before heading out. An eastern tributary of Buina, Gwenllech. There's - "       Erland held a palm up with a chuckle. "Best we don't know, Barmin." He held a hand out then, turning to the swordsman. Instead of simply clasping hands, the witcher pulled Erland into a parting hug, before pulling back. The once-man from Larvik was stunned.       "Erland, who says this is the end for Morgraig? Times could be up, you know. Besides, you aren't alone."       Erland didn't have the words, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a gathered bunch. They pounded their chests as they looked to the veteran of the Order. He had to close his eyes for just a moment before opening them again. "You're right, Barmin." He raised his voice enough for the rest. "We'll be heading out then, as soon as readied. As long as I live, I won't let the Gryphon's teachings lie." He took his witcher's medallion in hand. "Will you join me?"       They huzzahed. They few 13 would join him. And that was enough for Erland. He smiled as he prepared himself for the next chapter. ~Meanwhile~ ~On the confluence of Buina and Nimnar~ ~Caed Uniade~ ~Aelen, spirit guide~ The Caed was always a secular bunch. They remained out of the way, content with a simpler life. Many of the younger, hot-blooded elves would set out on occasion to join Ard Carraigh, or even venture far to the east and south in search of other enclaves.       It somewhat bothered Aelen the tidings and rumors of the other Aen Seidhe. Rhetoric was heating up. He looked about his small gathering, wondering how best to navigate his own people through these times. ~Nestled on the banks of Nimnar~ ~Ghelibol, town of no-drowners~ Rumors and legends had stilled in Ghelibol. Tales of the elven witchers faded with the next generation, until forgotten in due time. All that was left for the human settlement was the rumor of a demon in the northern woods; a spirit of vengeance that was only calm on one full moon of the year -- the last lunar cycle. Any other time was ill omen to venture into those crags. While kids would brave out on dares, it only then served to fuel more superstitions -- as all who entered suffered terrible nightmares for weeks afterward.       That said, any who passed through Ghelibol always remarked some variation of the same thing.       Sure lucky with the drowners in these parts, aren't ye?