The Hut

I made up my mind. The storm was fast approaching, green flames of lightning crackled at the tops of the trees and a strange, deep-voiced wind blew as if from all directions at once. Being caught in a Spellstorm, alone and this far north, was near certain . My best option was to take shelter as soon as possible and if that meant taking my chances with some skin-stealing barrow-witch, mountain curseworker, cannibal hermit or whatever other sorts of unholy barbarism these savage northern wilds might contain, well so be it!

Hurrying down into the valley, I reached the fence built around the hill. It seemed barely firm enough to withstand the air-pressure generated by a passing bee, let alone these gale- winds. Looking closer however, I could make out the faint, shimmering traces of runes, etched into the gnarled boards of wood. As I passed through the front gate, it seemed as if the sounds of the storm outside grew fainter, as if heard from a distance, despite the fact that I was still outdoors. It appeared that whoever had woven this barrier-spell had done an impressive job...

Talismans crafted from bone and straw and sticks adorned the heavy front door of the hut. The windows were small and made from impenetrable jar-glass, such as one might see at the front of one of the vile public houses down in the lower towns, where the unwashed inhabitants of these desolate and depressing northern lands go to drink their poor, benighted lives away...

Taking a deep breath and running through such formulas and spells as I had at hand, I lifted up my walking-staff and banged three times on the rough wood of the door.