Venturing Forth.

"We should move." You decide, pushing up to your feet.

"Aye, you're right." Donald nods. "We should be able to make it back to the Spring before dark. We'll make for the encampment at first light, then-"

"Did you forget what we came here to do?" You ask.

"You're a curious one, aren't you?" Donald laughs. "Do you really feel up to it?"

"We've come this far. To go back now would be a waste."

"Maybe you're right. This little detour has knocked us off course some, but we're close. One, two hours from the spot Sritti mentioned.

As the two of you venture out of the cave, you notice Donald's horse hitched to a tree down the trail a spell.

"How in the name of the Gods did you deal with those wolves?" You ask, limping towards the shivering steed.

"Got lucky, I suppose." Donald shrugs. "You splitting the pack must've helped, too."

Donald goes to help you up into the saddle. After all that's transpired today, you're beyond the point of pride.

"I'm in your debt, Donald." You finally stammer, as the Beathan unlashes the horse and hoists himself into the saddle behind you. "Hjordis would've taken me for a ****."

"Nonsense, Edward." Donald responds, as he guides his mount off at a modest trot. "I hadn't invited you up here, you would've never met that overgrown monster."

"But I did, and you saved me." You reiterate. "I owe you."

Donald lets your words hang in the air for a moment, then speaks.

"There is something you could think on. Tensions between Beatha and Dean are at a high. We've repelled bands of their slavers, struck out at them on a few skirmishes. They occupy Beathan land to the north, and we've taken land of theirs to the east. I should imagine there'll be a war in the next few years. A small commitment of Itherian troops could make all the difference."

"Committing men to a foreign war is not something to be taken lightly." You begin, in a measured tone. "I'd have to consult with my advisors.

"It could be an important first step. For taking our kingdoms' alliance further than a fortnight of sport." Donald says. "And don't tell me you wouldn't like to exact a little payback on Hjordis' cunt, as Beathan forces set her drinking hall aflame."

You guffaw. That, you admit, would be a fine thing.

"I wouldn't expect your answer now, Edward. Barring any unfortunate developments, this scrap won't go down this year, or the next. But it's coming." Donald advises you.

-

The snow lets up ever so slightly as the two of you arrive at the location the scout indicated. Donald dismounts, and surveys the mountainous terrain above.

"There's some ruins, not far up that way." Donald points out one of the lower peaks. "Mighty old, they are, but by all accounts, there's little of value."

"Might be worth a look?" You suggest, your intuition flaring up.

"Very well." Donald agrees. "But if there's nothing to be found, we ought to head back to the spring."

-

You ride up one of the mountain trails, looking out for the ruin Donald described. As you ascend, the air gets thinner. You have to fight a little for every breath. Donald, for his part, is hardier, and more acclimated to the rugged extremes of his land.

Nearly half an hour up the trail, you spot an ancient stone structure, carved into the very side of the mountain itself. The size and grandeur of the rough-hewn facade is stupendous. Creating something like this, in such an inhospitable place, would've been a monumental undertaking indeed.

"I'd guess this is the place." The Beathan muses, hitching the horse up outside.

The two of you venture in, Donald with his axe drawn. The inside of the structure is similarly ornate, albeit cold, seemingly uninhabited. The only source of light as you make headway across the sizeable entrance chamber, is shafts of natural light, from gaps in the firmament above.

"No singing." Donald notes, sounding almost disappointed.

"Are you surprised?" You slur. "I thought you didn't believe in the Spirits.

"Aye, but I'm open to being proved wrong." The warrior prince responds.

It isn't long before you reach the end of the lengthy hallway you've been travelling down. All that remains to be seen is a great stone slab, high enough to dwarf Jarl Hjordis herself, and, you imagine, even thicker. And a strange, frost-covered basin at waist height.

"Say what you will about my people, Edward, but we're persistent!" Donald laughs, gesturing to the impressive collection of chips, indentations and smash marks on the slab. Despite presumably many Beathan warriors giving it their all, it would seem they've only dealt superficial damage to the barrier. "Looks like this is the end of our wee expedition."

You're not so sure, however. Your eyes flick down to the ice-covered pillar of the basin. Reaching out, you rub away at the frost with your good hand, attempting to melt it away.

"Allow me." Donald says, hefting his axe into the ice. After a few careful blows, you're able to dislodge a few pieces.

"Well, I'll be!" Donald exclaims.

One the base of the pillar are a series of pictorials. Older than many inscriptions you've seen, though you're far from a scholar. On the first, a human figure, wearing a crown arrives. Next, he draws a measure of his own blood, letting it fall into the basin. Finally, he is joined by a spirit.