Joseph L. Selby

 

These events take place following Dyv4-08 Linchpin.

 

            It is uncommon in a region as temperate as Dyvers for it to snow. Some claim it is the magical properties of the Nyr Dyv that keep the region warm; others simply claim that the god Telchur never travels this far south. Regardless, the cold white has fallen for three weeks straight, causing many cart vendors to move off the main thoroughfares to more hospitable locations like Evernight Street. The markets open and close as usual, but with fewer urchins or homeless trying to make a quick Wheatsheaf. Frostbite has claimed more than one life already, and unattended cargo on the docks is repeatedly stolen for firewood. Life in the City of Sales has radically changed…in more way than one.

            Standing in the market square, two figures—a tall, muscular Suloise man and a little Oeridian waif-girl—stare at a large board. Usually, the board is covered with paper calling for adventurers, mercenaries, and tradesmen for various jobs and opportunities of fortune. Today, though, there is simply one piece of paper.

            “Do you know what it says?” the little girl asks.

            “No,” the man replies matter-of-factly. “Do you?”

            “No. I can’t read.”

            “Me either.”

            They continue to stare at the paper. The snow begins to accumulate on their shoulders.

            “Looks important,” the girl continues. “I wish I knew what it said.”

            “Me too,” the man replies, his tone unchanged.

            “Do you have any money?” the girl asks. “We could pay someone to read it for us.”

            “Nope. Do you?”

            “No.” She frowns, letting out a steam-filled sigh. Soon after, the large man lets out his own steam-filled sigh.

            They continue to watch the paper as if they might learn its secrets if they stare hard enough. A few minutes pass and the girl begins to shiver. The man looks unaffected. His girth and rough demeanor suggest that he was raised in such an environment, not that it does the little girl any good. She was born in the city, and this is the first time she’s ever seen snow.

            A halfling approaches, holding a steaming cup of cider. Looking at the odd couple, he follows their gaze and begins staring at the board. He sips his cider, handing the cup to the girl when he notices her shivering. She takes a large gulp and hands it back to him. They continue to look at the paper.

            Finally breaking the silence, the halfling speaks up. “What ya doin’?”

            “Reading this paper,” the man replies gruffly.

            “What’s it say?” the halfling asks.

            “We don’t know,” the girl says. “We can’t read.”

            “Oh.” The halfling sips his cider. They stare at the piece of paper.

            “Can you read?” the little girl asks.

            “Yeah, I can read,” the halfling replies.

            “What does it say?” the tall man asks.

            “Got any money?” the halfling asks.

            “No,” the man replies.

            “Ah well,” is all the halfling says. He takes another sip from his cider and then begins to read the paper.

            “A Proclamation: Forthwith, let it be known that in this Common Year 594, Captain Larissa Hunter has abandoned the post of Magister of the City and Free Lands of Dyvers. In accordance with the law, governance of the realm remains in the hands of the Gentry Council until such time as a new magister is elected. Until such time as civic tranquility has been fully restored, the Free and Independent City of Dyvers is under martial law. A curfew to be enforced by the city Constabulary and the Free Army is set for sunset. Violation of this curfew is a non-taxable offense punishable by incarceration. The Gentry Council understands the importance of maintaining and enforcing the laws of the Free Lands in these chaotic days, and we are willing to take what steps are necessary to secure the peace. A new magister will be chosen as swiftly as possible and, gods willing, we will continue on with our lives in health, happiness, and prosperity. Signed Robert Lord Navoy and the Gentry Council of Dyvers.”

            “Non-taxable, huh?” the Suloise man says dryly.

            “Yup.”

            “Well that’s good. I don’t much like taxes.”

            “Me either,” the little girl chimes in. The three stare at the paper in silence, their breath filling the air with steam in a steady rhythm. “So what did all that mean?” she asks.

            “That means Larissa Hunter isn’t magister any more. She left,” the halfling answers.

            “Oh. Well when is she coming back?”

            “She’s not,” the tall man says, stunned. This is the first time his voice has changed during the course of the entire conversation.

            “But she has to come back. She’s pretty!” the little girl protests.

            “And an expert swordsman,” the Suel, heavy with melancholy, says longingly.

            “She was Dyvers,” the halfling says, his voice choked to nearly a whisper. “She was beauty, valor, bravery, cunning, and everything that is great about this city wrapped into one. …she was the best of us.” He hides his face in his empty cup of cider. The tears freeze on his cheek as he quietly leaves the two at the board, making his way home to mourn in private.

            “Well it’s not fair!” the little girl shouts. “She can’t leave! She just can’t! And… and I’m going to go tell her so!” The waif marches resolutely into the haze of white, disappearing from view. Her body will eventually be found huddled under a pile of trash, overcome by the cold.

            The large man of the north had traveled from his frigid homeland to find glory and fortune in a new land of sun and adventure. It seems that, in his travels, the winter-god Telchur followed him to the City of Dyvers. His land of opportunity is now as cold and desolate as the home he left behind. He walks the streets, unsure of where to go next, overwhelmed by the city’s sorrow. He sees it on the faces of every person he passes. The loss of the magister is unbearable, and they would cry if it weren’t so cold.