Spanning the southeastern quarter of Vanaheim, its tumultuous weather conditions were similar to those of bordering cities in Mokosh, with heavy storms and floods being a common seasonal occurrence. Fortunately, however, it lacked the heavy pollutant concentration present in its counterpart. This meant that, rather than poisoning its fields and rivers, the consistent rainfall came as a blessing, priming its moderate-relief terrain for local grain farming and cattle herding. Furthermore, the recent influx of cheap migrant labour has helped significantly expand agricultural efforts, reestablishing the region as a core component of Asgaardian self-sustainability.
Rolling fields of golden barley, wheat and other grains, alternated with vast, evergreen grazing hills, nestling humble villages and brewing communities. The sight was a welcome change for travellers coming from Mokosh, who were often thankful, first and foremost, for the paramount safety these roads offered. Vanaheim was known as the bane of beasts, housing no malicious monsters across its lower and higher landscapes. This was mainly due to the Vaanite Hunting Parties, who spent centuries culling the local monster populations, ensuring Vanaheim was a haven for Northern Tribes to establish trade routes and industrial communities.
Despite the convenient transit, Viktor and Fjalla had found themselves hard-pressed to spend as little time as possible off the road. Winter was finally knocking at the gates, bearing with it the wrath of Demeter. Piercing gales, howling winds, and leaden nimbus scoured the winter skies like the remnants of monsters insurmountable by spears or cannons. Leaving little time for the pair to set up camps or dwell in a lesser shelter.
To the best of his abilities, Viktor had attempted to schedule each day to make the week-long journey plausible. Every morning, they would disassemble their camps, inspect their rabbit traps and collect kindling before heading back on the road. Around noon, they would start a small fire, prepare their rations and get moving. By midnight, the pair would use what little energy they had left to set up a camp, Viktor tending to the fire and tents, while Fjalla set up bait in the vicinity, a task she was quite the expert at, much to Viktor’s daily astonishment.
Keeping to the path, they did not intend to explore local villages. Aside from inns being scarce in themselves, they could not afford a residence within an inn had they found one. Unfortunately, the Gods had different plans for the two, for no longer than three nights along the country, a violent tempest brewed within the heavens. Knowing their gear could not survive the night, they were forced to change their plans. Viktor scouted the region, settling his sights upon a local church community.
Burchll was relatively larger than most towns in the region, with its dirt roads merging into a singular boulevard surrounded by ranches. Its central square hosted seasonal livestock auctions, where shepherds and cowboys from all over Fulstein displayed their finest specimens. Saloons, stores, and wooden houses lined the main path heading up to a picturesque pale chapel with slanting copper roofs. Stout and confined, its main structure sat beneath a towering belfry in a fenced graveyard.
Hitched about halfway between the square and the church, Viktor perused the contents of his satchel, pillaging for any coin he could get his hands on.
“Ten, eleven, twelve bezels – and thirty-four dregs,” he whispered to himself, placing one coin atop the other, “shit!”
He’d pre-emptively known approximately how much cash he had on his person, but was intrinsically praying his estimate was incorrect. The situation was quite dire. If they were lucky, they could afford food for two nights, but certainly no shelter would take them at this price.
Not too far off, Fjalla was glued to the glass pane of a nearby store, oogling at the display with star-stricken peepers. Baskets of bread, platters of patisserie and confectionery trays sat fresh out of the oven beneath warm golden lamp light. The girl had never seen such an enticing assortment of delightful baked goods in one place, their colourful toppings and glazed crusts drawing her to them like a moth to flame.
Surveilling the girl behind the glass, veiled by the blinding glare, was the resident baker. Plump, short and almost a decade older than Viktor, the northern lady made her way out of her store and onto the street. She faced the entranced girl, her hands on her hips as her mouth splayed into a wide smile beneath her rosy cheeks.
She coughs to grab the girl’s attention before uttering, “Excuse me, little miss!”
Fjalla shifts her gaze, looking the lady from head to toe with her jaw still agape. She wore a stained cream apron, tied above a billowing brown dress that matched her bonnet. Streaks of grey trimmed through her reddish-brown mane, with thick, round spectacles framing her beady green eyes. Oddly enough, she resembled a gender swapped version of her Papa.
The girl was so lost in the moment that she’d failed to notice the lady had extended her open palm. She was offering some sort of confection, a round buttery biscuit, covered in white powder.
“Would you like some shortbread?” the lady asked the girl so sweetly.
Hesitantly, Fjalla approached the lady, slowly grabbing the girl before looking upon the baker.
The older lady gives a nod of approval.
Fjalla examines the biscuit, admiring its pale, porous crust through the thin coating of sugar. She inhales its warm, doughy aroma as she draws it closer to her lips. Placing a frugal portion of the cookie within her bite, she thinks her teeth effortlessly through the crumbling underlayer. Specks of snowy dust coated her tongue, leaving a cool sensation across its surface as bready rubble came crashing atop her taste buds. The medium-baked delightfully crackled and cracked beneath her teeth for but a moment before the soft buttery interior melted onto her lower jaw.
Despite her best efforts at savouring the experience, it wouldn’t be too long before the girl had consumed the biscuit in its entirety. She stared in awe at her own sugar-laden fingers, her own gluttony taking her by surprise. It had been a long time since she’d enjoyed anything remotely palatable, and yet she was fairly certain she’d never had anything quite as delicious before.
The old lady giggled at the girl, proud of her own handiwork.
Recently aware of the interaction was Viktor, who approached the two, stood behind Fjalla and placed his hand on her shoulder.
He looked to the baker before he asked abruptly, “How much for the shortbread?”
Annoyed by the question, she momentarily frowns at Viktor before returning her gaze to the girl and smiling once more, “It’s on the house for the little one.”
Smiling gleefully, Fjalla responds, “Thank you, Miss!”
Viktor looks to her, appreciative of the gesture, he nods and remarks, “ Yes. That’s very kind of you.”
Turning her sight towards the hunter, the baker frowns once more, this time raising her eyebrow in suspicion as she casts her question.
“Say, you two look about as related as apples and fish guts,” she asked rudely, “what’s your business with the girl?”
Taken aback and frankly insulted by the accusation, Viktor recoils and stutters as he attempts to respond. Fortunately, Fjalla comes to his rescue, explaining their situation.
“Papa sent Mr Viktor to escort me to my uncle in Dansfurt,” she states.
Viktor nods in relief, as the baker seems content with the girl’s story, which, in all fairness, was not too far from the truth.
“Well, how nice of Mr Viktor,” the baker says, softly looking upon the girl once more, before nodding appreciatively at the hunter.
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Tipping his hat, Viktor pauses before asking, “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead,” the baker responds.
“Does this town happen to have a postal board?” he enquires.
Nodding, the baker answers,” Should find one at the saloon” She points her plump finger towards a two-story wooden building a tad further down the road.
Viktor examines the facade for a moment before they fare the lady goodbye and make their way towards the town saloon. Once by the porch, the hunter tasks Fjalla with watching over their mare as he enters the establishment.
The bar at the saloon was quiet and empty this time of day, with villagers tending to their respective jobs and homes before the storm comes in. As he walked through the swinging doors, Viktor set his eyes upon the building's lone inhabitant, a frail bartender glossing through his wares.
“Got a notice board around?” Viktor asks, wasting no time on greetings or small talk.
“Mhm,” mutters the young man at the bar, gesturing with his head to the far wall as he scrubs an empty glass with a rough cloth.
Viktor approached the barren board, where only three notices had been posted in bleached parchment. Desperate for cash, Viktor skimmed through each of them:
- Bridal Request: A post by a farmer announcing his wish to find a bride and the requirements she must meet.
- Mule for Sale: A post describing an old mule called Nelly and setting a starting bid.
- Do not feed the dog: A request to stop feeding a stray who lives by the general.
Disappointed, Viktor massages his temple. He’d grown tired of reading through idle requests, an endemic plaguing Vanaheim’s job boards as of late. With the establishment of regional police departments and the steep increase in enforcement funding, local populations found little reason to hire private contractors aside from the uncommon tracking request. This meant people like Viktor, who previously played the role of hired law enforcers, were left with little coin to make. Though particularly true in major cities, it seems this phenomenon has begun expanding into the far reaches of the countryside.
“Looking for work, I guess,” asked the Bartender, his eyes still glued to the container he was polishing.
“Guessed right,” responded Viktor, making his way towards the bar,” got something for me?”
The scrawny bartender chuckles shortly, holding back as he glances at Viktor, making sure he didn’t offend the larger man.
“Not really,” he goes on, “not many jobs left for men of your craft these days.”
Perturbed, Viktor grimaces and turns to leave immediately.
“But there’s something that could help,” the bartender calls, “if you’re willing to cough up some coin.”
Turning to him once again, Viktor snarls, his hand resting on the handle of his gun, “Speak.”
“Alright! Alright!” the terrified bartender rears, dropping his glass to the floor as his attention shifts to Viktor’s holster.
Viktor pulls his hand away from his gun and places it on the counter.
“It’s the local priest,” begins the bartender, sighing in relief,” he’s been complaining for a couple of days about some monster in the church. Speculates it's some sort of goblin-like creature that rummages through his pantry.”
Viktor raises his eyebrow in suspicion. There haven’t been goblins in Vanaheim for over a century.
“I know, he’s probably crazy,” continues the bartender, “ the regional police seem to think so, so they keep dismissing him. But he’s getting quite desperate, and I bet he’d be willing to spend a few dimes to have it figured out.”
Breathing in, Viktor found himself satisfied with this new finding; any lead is better than none. At this point, he’d been considering robbery and was just thankful it may not have to come to that.
“Alright,” mutters Viktor before slamming his other hand on the counter, “ here’s your fucking coin!”
Peering at the offering, the bartender counted three whole bezels. Despite finding this compensation meagre, he pursed his lips and nodded in approval, glad to have survived the encounter with lightly soiled pants.
The iron gates to the churchyard were wide open, welcoming all those who sought penance through these harsh times. Viktor posited that he should go in alone once again, leaving Fjalla and Kashmir by the fence, much to the girls’ dismay.
Contrasting its humble exterior, the inner halls of the church had been exceptionally well maintained. Freshly plastered walls rose high, concluding at a vaulted roof supported by two rows of ivory-toned pillars. Each pillar was trimmed in golden inlays depicting gothic foliage patterns matching the ornate chandeliers hanging from the painted ceilings. Across the inner arches of the ceiling were painterly portrayals of significant events to Western Panthean faith, such as the flight of the Valkyries and Ragnarok.
In the far corner, at the apse of the chapel, sat seven marble statues, depicting the respective pantheon gods. Each sculpture was meticulously carved, standing around five feet tall, with the central (fourth) statue almost 1.5 times as tall as its contemporaries. Standing at the altar, towering above, it was embellished in golden patterns that glimmered beneath the light shining through a large window abaft.
As he slowly marched down the main aisle, strolling between the vacant wooden benches, Viktor took off his hat to carefully examine the colossal figure. It was an image of Baldur, wielding his spear and round shield valiantly, with his signature winged helmet crowning his fair-faced bust. His central position and exemplary size distinguished him as the patron god of this church and, by extension, the surrounding community.
Greeting Viktor at the lectern below the titanic effigy was an elderly deacon, dressed in the emblematic wide robe and liturgical stole. He was of slighter build, short and skinny, with slender fingers that interlocked in a perfect lattice to stabilise his shaking extremities. His complexion was darker than the locals’, olive-toned with brown orbs. His aged, dry skin wrinkled across his eyes and mouth, dotted with liver spots, complemented by his lovely mane of silky silver hair.
“Greetings, my son,” the priest began softly, “have you come seeking contrition?”
“I am afraid not, your holiness,” responds Viktor, who was still gazing upon the statue abaft.
He holds his hat to his chest before, looking the priest in the eyes, “Name’s Viktor von Eirick. I am here for the job.”
The priest looks back, confused.
“The goblin problem,” elaborates Viktor, “I heard from the bartender.”
“Ahh, that,” acknowledges the priest, taking notice of the hunter’s gear, ”It is good you have come. Please follow me.”
The priest led the hunter onwards to the eastern end of the hall, where a small wooden door opened to reveal a winding staircase. At the bottom of the well was what seemed to be a cellar, about the size of the chancel above; it hosted rows of shelves that carried all sorts of wares. Grains, cheeses, fruits, utensils, books and memorabilia, all sorted in their respective shelves, filled every corner of the underground expanse.
With dim lighting, limited visibility and clutter, Viktor could clearly see why an elderly priest would struggle to navigate the pantry, much less find a dwarvish assailant. Yet, somehow, the holy man was able to identify missing items, pointing to multiple locations where the thief had potentially snatched an item or two.
“You sure this is a goblin, your holiness?” asked Viktor, “ could be a rat problem. Not that I mind handling those either.”
The priest, offended by the suggestion, moved closer to Viktor’s, staring wide through bright brown eyes at the hunter, “I’ve seen it, Mr Viktor.”
“The hunched-over walk, the curling claws, the long ears,” the priest added, “I KNOW what a goblin looks like.”
Viktor exhales, considering the priest’s proposition,” Just haven’t heard of one in Vanaheim.”
“Yes, yes,” responds the priest, ”but these Mokish f-...You never know what they bring with them!”
Viktor grimaced. He had no ties to the Mokish, but he remembers a time when his kind drew the ire of the public, when he was called an immigrant filth.
Absconding from lashing out, Viktor cuts to the chase, “Well, whatever it is. As long as you’ve got some coin.”
“About that,” murmurs the priest, crossing his fingers beneath his nose, “ the church is a non-profit establishment; I have nothing to offer but food and prayer.”
Furious, Viktor grits his teeth; he feels like setting the whole pantry on fire for wasting his time. However, he had priorities for now, and that was to survive the oncoming storm with Fjalla. Suddenly, an idea comes to mind.
“Well, that will do. Anything for the church, your holiness,” responds a collected Viktor, his response pleasing the priest, “but would you mind providing me and my accomplice shelter while I investigate this issue?”
“But of course,” responds the elderly man,“ you may use the sacristy for lodging as you like.”
They shook hands, after which the priest left the chapel to the travellers, heading towards his rectory before the weather turned to the worse. It wouldn’t be much longer before howling squalls brought forth storms of relentless downpour and thunderous light.
The priest left behind three keys:
- Key to the pantry.
- Key to the sacristy.
- Key to the chapel.
Fjalla was lodged in the sacristy, lying atop a padded chest as she read her book to the background noise of the rain. In the meantime, Viktor took a handheld lantern down to investigate the pantry, suspicious of the priest’s wild claims.
As he entered the subterranean chamber, he once again made use of his “predator sense”, scanning for traces as he recalled the areas the priest had pointed to earlier. Upon reaching one of said spots, Viktor managed to pick up on a trail that instantly denied his accusations against vermin. Marking the sandstone tiles of the pantry, by a ransacked shelf, was a peculiar trail of tiny human feet, invisible to the regular human eye.
“Could it be?” he thought, doubting his own reasoning as he stared at the humanoid tracks. Goblins haven’t been sighted for decades; the Cycladian Committee in Tirune had declared them extinct long before Viktor was even born. There was some speculation that isolated populations exist in the uninhabited quarter of the Jade Kingdom; even those claims were refuted as political hoaxes by Northern and Southern Scholars alike.
“No, it can’t be,” Viktor concluded, shaking his head as he followed the trail. It wound around the pantry, shifting mysteriously as it stumbled between the shelves before coming to a stop by one of the brick walls. No footsteps led away from the wall, and no markings indicated an attempt to scale the wall or dig beneath it. It all came to a dead end. Faded away.
Viktor ran his hand against the wall, whispering to himself, “Must be some sort of illusion. A Hecatic rune of sorts.”
Knocking on the surface, he gets the response he expects. Hollow thuds. There was a hidden room in the cellar, one that the priest did not want him to know about
He took a few steps away from the wall, certain his target was on the other side, but unsure how to breach the barrier without blowing it up. Desperate, he tries communicating with the assailant, shouting at the wall, “I know you’re in there!”
No response.
“I know you don’t have food in there, no drink,” called Viktor, in a haunting raspy tone, ”I won’t be leaving anytime soon, you know. You can either come out now or come out later, when you’re starving, weak, and tired. Either way, I’ll be waiting here.”
Viktor wasn’t expecting a response, for he was not bluffing either. He was sheltered, comfortable, and had all the amenities he could need right within the cellar.
He diffused his lantern and drew a devious grin as his golden eyes took a cold, anguine form. Drifting into pitch-black mist, he cast a crippling primal tension in the damp subterranean air. One that the inhabitants of Gawa, his homeland, knew too well. An aura that whispered:
The jaguar was on the hunt.