Winter Wanderland

“Did I ever tell you of the time I got lost scarce a league from my house? When winter sets in and the snows deepen in these mountain passes and forest paths ‘round the Thrivinwood, it can be hard to see yer hand afore yer face. Well, come on in then and warm yerself by this here fire. Just leave those wet boots by the door. I ain’t got a spell powerful enough to get out soggy stains from my new rug…” -Erbsto Bedherwyc, writing his spell-poem “A Frosty Epistle to a Winter’s Guest”

“So lost I was, that I found I had grown quite frustrated. At this rate, I thought, my expedition for nary half a cord of firewood would turn my undoing and some poor hunter or traveler would find my icy husk come the spring. Probably the best that it didn’t all shake out that way, or I’d have had to haunt that poor soul with my angry ghost. Still, though, in my frustration I sat down on what I thought was the stump of an old bygone oak. As it turns out it was just a snow drift, and…welll… I can still feel a stinging in my seat to this day when I remember it…” -Erbsto Bedherwyc, “A Frosty Epistle to a Winter’s Guest” Chapter II, verse IX

“I’d stay clear of The Spear if I were you. Ice gnomes live up in ‘em mountains… Build their villages in the valleys and under the glaciers, they do. Sure, they trade good ancient silver for a pint of arak or a well-woven hex, but they’re a mite unpredictable too. Get on their bad side and, well… they can peg a mouse ‘twixt the eyes from a hundred paces away, and those snowballs of theirs sting mightily…” -Erbsto Bederwyc, on the ice gnomes of The Spear near Hawkstone

“Half an hour’s walk is two hours in the deep snows. I know these passes like the back of me wrinkly old left hand and even I don’t attempt to cross Pinecastle Creek in the Month of Dreams. So why did you, old friend?..”

“Oh to be sure the Thrivinwood’s dark and the Valewall mountains are cold, but I’d not give up my home near The Spear for a cartload of bribery gold. For ‘tis here that you see, grows that auld magic tree, the Northern Westmeri Spruce. Tips of the needles for teas, tonics and ales, other spices all pale, when compared to thee. Collect in summer’s light and brew warm and bright, and all winter you’ll drink the nectar of life.” -Erbsto Bedherwyc, spontaneously composing poetry aloud over one ale-pot too many

“Finally home… Too long was I out today. I have to remember not to strain myself overmuch when all it takes to keep fire and food all winter have I stocked and piled in the new cellars and larders I’ve built. Those ancient ruined halls ‘neath my tower may still look grim and foreboding but I mustn’t trick myself into misremembering that they are cleared and safe of their…previous horrors… Not a moment too soon have I gotten the fire going too, a little smoke and itch within are fair trade for being spared those winds without. The snows are water-laden too. It’ll weigh heavy on the pines. I’d better watch my head with that branch by the door when next I go on walkabout.” -Erbsto Bedherwyc, 19th of Úlmanad, 1112

“I suppose I can rest my eyes for a moment until the kettle boils. The pines rocking like that in the wind may set me to sleep but sure the whistle will wake me…” -Erbsto Bedherwyc, on more evenings than he’d like to admit