Chapter Text
To most, Snowden Drifts is an inhospitable place. The harsh, icy winds seep into the bone and its ferociousness rips apart all senses. Wild wolves run rampant across the snowy plains, attacking travellers unsuspecting and ill-prepared. To most, it would be unbearable. But to the Norn it is home.
Now, a path cuts through what was once a heartless, untamed landscape leading into the Shiverpeak Mountains. It is off this road, a forest resides isolated from all else. The blanketing snow thick and undisturbed, the trees grow a healthy grey—taller and older than most. A single fallen trunk lays snapped in two at the base, its column brittle and weak with age. Inside the leaves atop this petrified tree a person lies in wait.
White fur obscures the figure, blending in seamlessly with the surrounding snow if not for the soft, red glow emanating underneath. Vega stays perfectly still, crouched low with his legs wound tight. His left arm hangs forward gripping onto the smooth, seasoned wood of his short bow. He feels a faint tingle from the cold, pulsing steadily through each fingertip on his right hand but quells the urge to move. He has been like this for hours. The wolves have steered clear of this area for some days now, it was only a matter of time before he finds what he’s been looking for.
He feels the ground reverberate before it comes into view.
A colossal moa, towering over even the tallest of Norn, saunters through the trees. Its heavy claws crunch the snow beneath, shaking the trunks with each passing step and pillowing its black feathers with white flakes rippled from the leaves above. Vega’s hand twitches, itching to reach for the poison tipped arrows he’s prepared beside him.
Patience. His crimson eyes are unblinking as he follows the moa’s path through the clearing; a thin line of wire tied between the last two trees glistens indistinctly in the waning sunlight and he smirks. Everything falls into place.
The wire snaps with nary a sound but to Vega’s ears it rings loud and clear. He takes a deep breath and rises from his hiding spot. Three chains burst from the ground harpooning the bird in its legs and neck, clamping shut and pulling taunt. With an arch of his spine, he draws his bow fully using the corner of his eye as an anchor point and with a twang the arrow pierces the moa’s chest. It staggers slightly before locking eyes with him.
The moa starts to thrash voraciously, the chains whining from the strain barely holding in place. The poison from a single arrow was enough to down a Minotaur but proved ineffective against the black moa. Vega doesn’t break his stance. His arms flex naturally, taking aim with honed speed and precision. In one smooth movement he shoots another two arrows, one hitting its mark before a link breaks by its leg. The moa lurches, escaping the other arrow by a hair's breadth. Seemingly undeterred the black beast drags the weight with it. When it turns the other two chains follow suit as it charges towards him at breakneck speed. He furrows his brows in concentration and releases a flurry of arrows but it is unexpectedly agile, dodging left and right in succession. It reaches him in the blink of an eye, slamming its enormous, yellow beak right on top of him. He narrowly evades the attack, leaping over the fallen trunk as it crushes the wood like paper.
It swings its battering ram of a head his way and it is now that Vega truly takes in the sheer size of the creature. At full height he only reached its tar-feathered knees and its head was as wide as his arm span. He cranes his neck to watch its hardened beak spear at him with a speed and dexterity he did not think possible for a creature this large. He sidesteps the first couple of pecks; they leave craters in the snow, bursting the earth underneath with a mighty boom and he dreads the thought of it landing any hits. He jumps backwards and nocks another arrow from his quiver, resting it on his finger to take aim.
The arrow glances off the moa’s beak. It comes too close to dodge completely. Vega clutches the shaft of his short bow and holds it in front of him to lessen the blow. The limb shatters upon impact; the momentum flings him straight into a tree eliciting a pained grunt as he lands in the snow with a thud. The moa is back on him in seconds and he barely rolls away from its massive, powerful claws poised to land directly through his skull. A talon nicks him just under his eye and leaves specks of gold on the white ground. He gets up, tosses his broken quiver, the arrows inside snapped and useless, and unsheathes two long daggers tied neatly on each of his ankles. Then he runs.
He weaves through the trees, leading the moa’s neck around the thin nape of a tree trunk before turning sharp and slicing at its legs. It squawks and snaps at his feet but can do little else with the limited room the dense forest provides. He ducks under its frantic kicks and stabs at the constricted flesh repeatedly. His strikes are not strong enough to leave deep cuts but after a few runarounds its limbs are stained red and stinging in the cold. Soon enough the moa goes back on the offensive—it gives chase, using its long reach to limit his movement. He takes note of the diminishing number of trees at his disposal and they reach the end of the forest in no time at all.
A jagged barricade of rocks envelope all sides leaving no exit but the way they came. Vega slowly inches back, panting heavily from their prolonged game of tag, holding his daggers in a defensive pose until his back hits the barrier. The moa emerges limping briskly towards him, its eyes scowling down at his vulnerable form. It stops a short distance from him, heaving air just as hungrily. It has him cornered. Vega’s eyes widen, black pupils shrinking as he watches the moa rear its head back and unfurl its pitch-black wings. He knows the power of a moa’s screech. Hunters have told many a tale about how it can leave a person discombobulated, dazed and with an incessant ringing for days, sometimes even rupturing the eardrums for good. He knows this, and he is ready.
Just before the moa opens its beak, Vega pulls at a string protruding from a crack in the wall. The mechanisms whirl and two bolas launch from crevices on either side, spinning rapidly and wrapping around their target, clamping its jaws securely shut. The weighted balls pull the moa down and he takes his chance. Using small rocks jutting out from the wall he leaps step by step until he is equal height with the beast. Bending his knees as much as he can, he propels upwards and backflips onto the moa’s head locking his legs tight around its neck for purchase. It flails, trying desperately to shake him off to no avail. He drives both daggers straight through its skull and holds.
The thrashing becomes a weak sway.
The sway turns to a halt.
The great bird falls.
Vega dislodges the daggers with a wet squelch and his legs shake with the effort to stand. He stares at the moa’s large, round eyes as they turn glossy and grey. As its life essence drains away he finds that he feels nothing at all.
The winds grow harsher as night begins to fall. The stars speckle the evening sky; their luminescence bathes the desolate tundra in a cool white. Although torches lining the path always stand vigilant, there are no travellers walking through tonight. The only sounds that break through the eventide stillness come from the homesteads of Norn rejoicing another day hard fought and well met. But none were more thunderous than the hunters residing at Podaga Steading, the largest lodge in Snowden Drifts.
Second only to the great halls in Hoelbrak, the structure casts an imposing shadow across the Skradden Slopes. Its oaken walls are formidable, an almost nauseating height. Shallow scrapes from Dredge drilling machines cover the surface, the metal seemingly incapable of penetrating the wood and stone. Its tremendous doors stand slightly agape, letting a glimpse of the warm glow bleed from within.
A multitude of furs adorn the walls, the trophies from countless victories and at its center a great fire bellows. The room is filled to the brim with boisterous men and women, the seductive flames compelling them to regale one another with stories of their hunts. With drinks aplenty, another round of ale makes its way towards a band of burly warriors, their laughter shaking the foundations.
“I swear on the Great Bear Spirit it was this tall!” The man declared; the bandages wrapped around his torso pulled tight as he stretched his arm as high as he could. “The young moa fled before I could give the finishing blow so I gave chase. And lo, by Snow Leopard’s swiftness the beast appeared! It was as if day became night at that very moment! The black of its feathers was all I could see, it was that monstrous.”
“The hunter became the hunted, did he?” His friend jests as she throws a punch to his bicep and downs her mug. He sneers at her and continues.
“But I was not unworthy prey! I swung at the bird with my mighty axes, cleaving at its belly with Bear’s strength,” he mimics the motion sloshing his drink in the air, “but its hide was too thick and it possessed the cunning of Fox, almost as if it could read my movements. It parried my strike and sunk its huge talons into my side,” he lifts his bandages to reveal the raw, crusty wound as his companions howl in excitement, “and I was flung so far I thought I had been given Raven’s wings!” They roar hysterically, some falling to the floor clutching their stomachs as the wounded Norn leaps from his seat to give a demonstration.
He wipes a tear, “It was gone before I had come to. I hope our paths cross again.”
“All that for a bowl of poultry soup?”
“Bear’s breath! I didn’t even catch the baby one!”
The barkeep lets out a chuckle, not noticing the small figure standing in front of her. A deep voice resonates in her ear like the hum of air through a hollow log and her eyes glance down at the source.
“I’ve come to collect a reward.”
Standing there is a Sylvari, draped over his shoulders a pelt sullied by dirt and blood obscuring the rest of his garb. His bark is a dark, chipped birch, the left cheek protruding a particularly hardened piece as if the bark had grown over akin to a scab. His face is marred with shallow grooves like an aged tree, the cracks glow in red lines illuminating his sharp eyes. His pupils are dark pits and there is crimson where the whites should be. The light pulses through the red-brown leaves that taper down to his shoulders like bright veins radiant in the dim corner of the bar.
“Spirits of the wild welcome you, little one. What reward have you come to claim?”
She gestures to the wall behind her, rows of paper cascade down depicting bounties with various warnings and remunerations. The ones lower on the wall describe minor nuisances, easily completed and torn down on a regular basis. The ones with higher risks are placed above, waiting for worthy challengers to claim their prize. She follows the line of his hand as he points to the bounty in question. Her eyebrow raises as she turns back to him.
“The Beak of Darkness?”
When the name is uttered a lull falls over the room. The circle of warriors set their eyes on the Sylvari and shout incredulously.
“That twig took down that gigantic moa? Now that’s the biggest load of yak dung I’ve ever heard!”
“Sure as Wolf’s teeth it would have split him in half and used him like a toothpick!”
“I’d sooner shave a Charr than believe he defeated that beast singlehanded!”
Laughter sweeps around the hearth and soon the Norn resume their merriment. The injured hunter waves his comrades off and lumbers toward the bar. He smiles down at the Sylvari,
“Pay my friends no mind. Too much ale in the belly loosens their tongues.”
He rests an arm on the tabletop and leans in, “You know, I’ve faced The Beak of Darkness before and barely escaped with my life so I imagine someone of your...” He rolls his wrist pensively, “stature would have a hard time vanquishing such a creature!” He takes a swig of his mug, downing it with a satisfied sigh, “You have to admit it sounds a little far-fetched.”
“Be that as it may,” the barkeep intervenes, “I’ll need proof of the kill before I hand over the gold.”
The red glow seems to shine brighter as the sylvari smirks at her and jerks his head towards the doors before he moves to find a seat in the bustling hall. She makes her way outside and the warrior, ever curious, follows suit.
An attentive bar maiden swaggers over with a drink in hand. The occasional inquisitive glance is thrown his way but he is unfazed, he hands the woman some coins, grasping the Norn-sized pint with two shaky hands and taking in a generous gulp. He lets out a relieved sigh and wipes the froth from his mouth just as a shout bellows through the lodge.
“BY OGDEN’S HAMMER!”
All heads turn in the direction of the doorway. Recognising their friends voice, the band of hunters chortle into their drinks.
“Better check on our idiot before he goes and hurts himself again!”
The female Norn declares and so they down their ale, slam their mugs onto the table and make their way out.
A couple minutes go by until yells cut through the ambiance again and stuns the patrons to perplexed silence. Curiosity quickly takes over and more than half the room head to the entrance, the oaken doors sprawl open to accommodate the crowd. Even the workers are keen, the bar maiden absently refills the strange Sylvari’s mug before shuffling closer to watch the commotion.
At first they can see nothing but the cold air fogging their breath, then they spot the end of a rope thrown haphazardly onto the stone pavement. Its length stretches beyond the wooden bridge connecting the lodge to the Snow Leopard effigy; two lofty metal beams hold golden chalices, the flames burn brilliantly framing the steel sculpture in between.
There they spot a black mass encroaching steadily towards the lodge. As it gets closer they spot the group, the barkeep standing with her boot on top of a dark mound and the band of Norn pulling a large cart. The lights inside the lodge illuminate the cargo and the head of the fabled moa lays limp encrusted with ice but from its sheer size the crowd instantly recognises the frozen corpse. Cheers start sounding off in waves; more and more Norn race up to the wagon, some grabbing at the rope while others push the sides eager to get the bird inside.
Once they wheel the prize through the doors, the barkeep leaps off the cart and makes long strides to the back of the bar to retrieve a large sack of gold, its contents threatening to spill over and a mysterious bottle wrapped neatly in paper.
“Tell us your name, great hunter and come claim your reward.”
Everyone hones in on the lone Sylvari. He stares back stoically, rising from his seat. His footsteps echo as he makes his way through the crowd parting for him in quiet reverence. When he makes it to the table, he stares pointedly at the bottle and lifts his head to address the tall woman.
“My name is Vega. I have no use for the gold, do with it what you will.”
With an amused scoff and toothy grin, the barkeep leans across the bar, with a twist she wraps her meaty arm around his neck turning him towards the crowd and throws a fist in the air.
“Then the Spirits have blessed us! Let the ale flow free tonight, this calls for a moot! Drinks are on our new friend, Vega!”
He stiffens at the contact and tries not to grimace as the roars become deafeningly loud, his ears bending back beneath his leaves. As the workers bring out tankards of ale and mugs overflow, he quickly swipes the bottle from the table and slides towards a more secluded area. The Norn congratulate him as he walks by and after a couple pats on the back they seem content to leave him and enjoy drinks at his expense. He finds a relatively empty space by the wall and brings a stool over. When the noise drowns out he truly takes in the prize in his hands. He eagerly pulls the wrappings free and a small smile etches on his face.
The label reads Black Lion’s Reserve. Only once a year does Evon Gnashblade open his vaults and send out small casks of this reserve to small breweries across Tyria. This year’s stock is especially rare. When Lion's Arch was destroyed, the Black Lion Trading Company was fortunate enough to save, in his opinion, one of their most precious treasures. He uncorks the bottle and lets the dark liquid burn delectably down his throat. His eyes close shut as he savours the taste. The aged, rich, full-bodied brew has slight coffee, vanilla, and pecan flavours with a caramel finish that is not overly bitter and not overly sweet. He hasn’t eaten since this morning, too focused on the hunt, but the brew resting comfortable in his stomach fills him more than anything and warmth spreads through him more intense than the fire swallowing the room. He loses himself in the feeling for a moment before he hears his name being chanted in the distance.
The male Norn who was talking to him earlier has situated himself between the moa and the hearth surrounded by his comrades who eye him from across the room with hearty smiles. He waves his brawny arm enthusiastically, beckoning Vega over.
“The slayer of this magnificent beast shouldn’t be drinking alone in the corner! Come by the fire and give us the tale of its defeat, surely the battle was worthy of the skaalds!”
After a few moments of pointed staring, Vega realises the Norn aren’t going to leave him be. Reluctantly he reseals the bottle and strides toward the rowdy bunch. They shuffle around, leaving enough room for him to sit between them in the center of the bonfire. The rest of the room who were keeping a respectable distance away sneak a little closer, leaning not-so-subtly on the edge of their seats with ears perked for the tantalizing tale about to unfold. He pays them no mind and positions himself between the male and female Norn at the top of the steps closest to the fire.
“There is not much to tell,” he gestures vaguely at the hollows on its head, “I struck through its skull and it ceased to be.”
Moans of discontent sweep across the lodge and gales of laughter rip from the group of warriors as if he just told them the best joke they’ve ever heard. A large hand slaps his back as the man tries to collect himself.
“Bear’s jaws, my friend! You speak as if you killed an arctic bee and not a twelve-foot moa!”
The woman sitting on his other side bumps her fist against his shoulder.
“Humility will do you no good here. The fire yearns for stories and so we must gloat and brag the night away!” she swings her arms wide and splashes some of her friends in the process.
The Norn sitting in front of her gingerly wipes her drink off his beard with a chuckle and looks up at Vega.
“Your story would stoke the flames especially. We don’t get many hunters who can take down monstrous prey by themselves. Let alone a Sylvari.”
Another Norn pats the man’s shoulder and chimes in,
“Don’t underestimate them. They learn strength from ivy and viciousness from blackberry bushes.”
Vega gives the man a polite smile, unsealing the reserve with a pop and taking a swig.
“Let’s not forget that the Pact was forged by a couple of sylvari.”
Vega stills.
“I heard the Pact Commander was the one that struck the final blow on Zhaitan!”
“An Elder dragon! Now that’s the biggest prey of them all!”
“Didn’t she also take down that madwoman Scarlet?”
The pit in his stomach coils sharply. The group continue chatting amongst themselves, he stares down blankly into the mouth of his bottle. The decadent liquor tasted little more than sludge now and even though they are right by the fire a dark chill starts creeping over him from the inside. He gives off the slightest of tremors but before anyone takes notice he stands and tips the whole bottle down his throat.
The rush doesn’t allow him to taste it, scorching all the way down and igniting a tingle on the ends of his leaves. He isn’t quite sure if it’s the burning in his throat or the brew pumping hot through his veins that compels him to be more talkative but the chill does ebb away so he knows he needs more of it. The Norn pause and ogle as he finishes his drink in one impressive gulp. He expels the steam with a deep sigh and addresses the crowd.
“If you want to know how I felled the Beak of Darkness,” he turns and throws the bottle into the fire pit in one smooth motion, the glass shattering and the embers roar brighter from the residual liquid. His voice picks up in volume, “then more drinks are in order!” He gives the bewildered man beside him a wide, toothy grin, his red glow shining almost manic against the flames,
“As you said, ale loosens the tongue.”
The man lets out a thunderous laugh.
“That’s the spirit!”
He calls some workers over for another round of ale.
The commotion peaks the attention of the rest of the lodge and they crowd around the group tight and frantic. Tables are strewn to the side and chairs are hastily abandoned. Instead they sit shoulder to shoulder, cups filled to the brim eager for the little hunter to weave his tale. He raises his barrel of a mug high and with an elated howl the rest do the same. They drink the night away, lapping at his every word and in a room full of people easily twice his size, Vega feels tall. He knows the feeling never lasts long. So he continues to beguile— drawing out words, leaving dramatic pauses, captivating the audience before him, keeping himself distracted.
By the time he finishes, the fire had become a smoulder. Between churning out every little detail of the hunt he could think of and declaring toasts about one thing or another he’s lost track of time. He’s also lost count of how many ales he’s had but staring blearily across the floor at the Norn blacked-out and sprawled gave him an inkling. At some point the man beside him decided his wolf pelt was a good pillow and was leaning heavily onto his shoulder. With a grunt Vega shrugs the fur off, the Norn’s head falls with it thumping on the timber. He throws a fist up meekly mumbling something along the lines of ‘Fame never dies!’ and goes back to snoring. Peering down at the sleeping figure, he takes a deep breath. He stretches, bark creeking softly in protest after sitting down for so long.
Vega descends from the firepit, avoiding the bodies splayed in a drunken stupor until he reaches the longtable where the barkeep is sharpening an array of knives. She stills the massive whetstone in her palm and looks down at him with a playful glint in her eye.
“If you’re looking for another stein of ale, you’ll have to wait. The stock’s completely drained.” She turns her attention back to the knife in her hand and whets the steel with steady strokes. “It’s been many moons since I’ve seen that happen,” she turns the blade inspecting her work. “You would make a decent skaald.”
Vega pays the remark no mind, instead setting his eyes on the moa carcass. At some point it had been moved, wheeled to a more vacant area of the lodge. Droplets of water ooze out of small gaps in the wagon, the body has thawed completely leaving the corpse as fresh as when it was slain. The workers sweep the floor diligently, collecting the black feathers scattered around it. Though the moa had been plucked bare, the skin underneath was just as dark.
The barkeep walks past him towards the wagon, carrying the knives securely on a belt around her hips. She unclasps the corners of the wagon bed, laying its walls flat to get better access to the body. Unsheathing a large, thin blade, she begins slicing through the thick hide by its thigh, peeling back the skin to reveal the taut, red flesh. She glides her fingers methodically over the meat, using a different knife she cuts away at connective tissues until the whole piece pulls free. After placing it into a nearby ice bucket, she meticulously repeats the process muscle by muscle. As he observes, his curiosity grows; he knows the Norn to be quick and efficient, preferring to package the meat as fast as possible, minimizing the risk of spoiling. He approaches her just as she scoops out a glob of cartilage.
“You are being awfully careful with it.”
“I have to be. The man that issued the bounty was very specific.”
He frowns at that.
“You did not post the bounty?”
“Wouldn’t be smart of me to incite a moot at my own expense, would it?” She retorts with a shrug.
Moving onto the skin at its breast, Vega notes astoundingly that the arrowheads he managed to shoot at it had barely pierced its leather, only the very tips peeked through and left nary a dent in the tender meat underneath. He inquires further.
“What does he want?”
“He’s paying extra to keep the meat intact and he wants the bones unscathed so I have to go slow.” She waves at some of the workers to retrieve the buckets, quickly replacing them with new ice before continuing. “Then he wants us to put the skeleton back together. It’s all pretty bizarre but with the amount of gold, I can’t complain.”
Before he could ask any further questions, a loud thud by the door catches their attention. They watch as a male Norn stumbles in covered in snow. He shakes off the snow vigorously, flinging it in a similar manner to how a dolyak would. His voice booms across the room to the dismay of several sobering patrons.
“Barkeep! I came as soon I got your message. Is he still here?”
He stomps in, scanning the room until he spots the woman toiling away on the cart. His eyes widen when he spots the Sylvari standing next to her and charges towards them with fervent enthusiasm. Vega tenses, staring impassively at the tall figure grinning down at him.
“Are you the hunter who collected my bounty?”
“I am.”
The Norn’s smile grows wider at his response.
“And are you the very same hunter that’s been claiming high profile bounties across the Shiverpeaks?”
Vega narrows his eyes.
“And what if I was?”
“Then Wolf has finally put me on the right path! You’re a hard man to find.”
He squares his broad shoulders and extends a brawny hand, placing the other on his hip.
“My name is Fredrik and I’ve come with a proposition.”
He takes a moment to observe the man in front of him. He is shorter than most Norn that Vega has encountered but no less broad. The thin purple tunic wrapped around his slim figure (at least by Norn standards) is common among his ilk, white fur lines the edges cutting off at his forearms showing off the elaborate tattoos ending at his wrists. His auburn hair is shaved at the sides, the middle grown long and tied into a tight braid draping down his neck. Underneath the thick beard he can tell the man is fairly young, his amethyst eyes beam expectantly at him. Vega stands unmoving and his scowl only deepens.
“Not interested.”
“Come now, Vega! Don’t be that way! At least hear me out first.”
Most of the Norn have retired to their sleeping quarters, leaving just the workers, the unconscious patrons and themselves. Fredrik guides him towards an empty table away from prying ears. His hands clasp together loosely resting on his knees as he hunches forward in his seat. He divulges his plan in a low, hushed tone.
“As you may know, the whole Scarlet incident last year left no time to organise the Great Hunt. I understand how preoccupied Knut Whitebear was with all that but I refuse to stay untested any longer. I long for a hunt worthy to start my legend and I believe I’ve found it.”
He furrows his brows, “There have been whispers of a fearsome creature skulking across Tyria, I hear it has even eaten people. I have been tracking it for a while now but everytime I think it’s within my grasp,” he makes a fist and stares hard at it before unclenching, “it slips away.” He sighs quietly to himself before raising his head and flashing Vega a grin. “That’s where you come in!” He points at him. “You will find the beast,” Then he waves a thumb at himself, “and I will slay it.”
Vega stares sceptically at his grinning face. The Norn are solitary people, for one to ask for assistance while in pursuit of prey means it may be more trouble than it’s worth.
“What am I to gain from helping you?”
“I can pay you handsomely, I’ll even cover travel expenses.”
“I am not interested in gold.”
Fredrik lets out an amused bark. “Ha! It would seem so. The barkeep sounded especially pleased with her earnings today in the letter.” He leans back on the seat, glancing over at the rapt woman elbow-deep in the carcass. He turns back to Vega, eyes bright and calculating.
“But perhaps I can persuade you with this.”
He ruffles through the pouch strapped by his hip and takes out a glass bottle filled with an amber, luminescent substance. He pours the thick liquid into two small wooden cups and hands one to Vega.
“When I learned the hunter I was searching for was a Sylvari, I went looking in the Grove. The people in Starbower said this was extracted from the finest garden the tree had to offer.”
Vega takes the cup. He gazes into it vacantly but the twitch of his ears and brightening red glow gives his eagerness away. He takes a slow sip, letting the sap melt in his mouth. How long had it been since he tasted Nectar? The sweetness hits him through his core and it reminds him of a time when his mentor still called him Valiant. A time when his bow hand was not quite as steady and the days training under the Pale Tree’s warm canopy felt steadfast and resolute. He smiles fondly into his cup until Fredrik’s voice brings him back to the present.
“That good huh? Too sweet for my tastes but they do say sugar helps with plant growth!” Vega watches the Norn pat himself for the joke and can’t help a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. Perhaps he will hear the man out, if only to pass the long night away.
He returns the cup and smirks,
“Say I do help you, what manner of beast would we be hunting?”
Fredrik’s smile seems to beam brighter as though he was a fisherman reeling in his catch with irresistible bait. He leans in close, his voice a low vibration,
“Now that I can’t say.” He sits up and crosses his arms, “I have yet to see it for myself. The rumors say it’s an animal unknown to Tyria.”
His words echo through Vega, he doesn’t catch the next few sentences Fredrik says— a thrumming resonates through him, his insides panging like the inside of a bell. The foliage on his head bristles as something within him stirs. His right hand twitches erratically but he quells the compulsion with a tight grasp. He knows this feeling. It compels him with every bounty he’s taken, every great beast he’s felled. But the feeling never lasts long and this time won’t be any different. And yet it calls to him like an itch he can’t quite scratch. So he cuts into Fredrik’s prattle with an urgency he did not expect from himself.
“Can you imagine? The first to defeat a dangerous, new—”
“Do you have a lead?”
Fredrik pauses, observing the Sylvari in front of him. His sharp, fiery eyes are focused and determined. He can tell Vega’s serious. He slides the bottle of nectar towards him and answers in earnest.
“It was fortunate Wolf lead me to you when he did. I just caught whiff of some trouble at the Rana Landing Complex in Metrica Province.”
Vega contemplates the information and with a curt nod he picks up the bottle, taking his leave. There is much to prepare. He calls out to Fredrik,
“We set out at sunrise.”
Fredrik let’s out a joyous woop, “This calls for celebration! Barkeep!” He yells for the woman. She stops to look at him expressionlessly. “Bring me a round of your stoutest ale!”
“Sorry, your friend there drank me out of house and home.” She responds dryly, continuing her work.
He sits there baffled, bursting into laughter moments later when he realises she wasn’t joking, clutching at his side and gawking at Vega’s disappearing form.
“They did warn me your hunting skills were only matched by your love of tapping barrels!”
“Then you should have more Nectar to offer at the end of all this.” The Sylvari shouts over his shoulder and Fredrik laughs heartily into his empty cup.
Soon enough, the diminishing embers are put out completely and he too retires for the evening.
The sun breaks through the horizon the next morning, slowly basking the snowy expanse in a blinding white. Even at the break of dawn there is a flurry of noise; yelps from sleeping drunkards woken by children splashing buckets of water with mischievous glee, grunts from merchants unloading fresh shipments into the lodge, and furniture scraping the floor as workers prepare the hall for another day.
Vega strides through the bustling crowd with a satchel of supplies in hand. The aged, hardened rosewood he’s acquired makes a sturdy set of shoulder guards and arm braces, the gear securely wrapped around his brown leather garments with red, braided knots. He’s added an additional belt to his hip carrying an assortment of throwing knives, the extra weight a small comfort until he can find a suitable replacement for his bow. The hooped hilts clink softly as he makes his way to the central, unlit fire pit. The ashes have been swept clean but it’s the exhibit looming behind it that catches his eye.
Standing formidably by the back wall is the Beak of Darkness; its towering skeleton is polished gleaming with preservative oils. The neck is bent allowing it’s harrowing, bottomless eye sockets to stare down while also showcasing the two puncture wounds through its skull that spelled its demise. Vega observes as the barkeep, standing precariously on a ladder, puts together the remaining bones on its flared out wing. He feels a heavy weight pat his shoulder and turns his head to find Fredrik smiling down at him. He moves past Vega to inspect the woman’s handiwork, giving the bones a slight tap with his knuckles. Strapped to the Norn’s back is a traditional greatsword; the blade is wide and reaches down to his calf, cultural markings are etched into the spine and wrapped with leathers and furs. After some approving nods Fredrik turns back to Vega with a proud grin.
“As expected, it makes an excellent centrepiece.”
He looks up at the Norn and lets out an amused huff, “Is that really all you wanted it for? To display someone else’s trophy?”
“Finding you was the prelude to my epic journey. Every story needs a good build up.” He answers, making his way towards the door, “And besides, I put up the bounty so it sort of counts as mine.”
Vega follows beside him, brow furrowing disbelievingly at the childish remark. Once they step foot outside, Fredrik unwraps a chunk of moa meat and rips into the juicy flesh with a satisfying bite. Ever curious, Vega asks him about the other condition set in his bounty. He looks down at the Sylvari and shrugs nonchalant.
“There wasn’t much significance to it.” he replies with a mouthful. “This is just how I like my meat.”
A moment of silence passes until Vega looks at him dead-panned.
“Did I mention I shot the moa with poison arrows?”
“Son of a Svanir!”
He quickly spits out the piece and a faint laugh escapes Vega’s lips.
As the sun rises and the sky clears, they descend from Podaga Steading and set out to Metrica Province.