Location: On the border of Orkney
Timeline: Sixth Age, 52 Year, Winter
There is no greater burden for a younger brother than the weight of a future king’s life. Barkla was born to be the hammer of the empire, while Brega was born to be the hand that guides that empire. Yet the foolish plans of mortals are rife for disaster. Kon-Herr Hanbull had nurtured Brega to be the older, responsible heir and Barkla the younger, aggressive protector. Imagine the painful painful irony that was about to play out when Barkla failed in his one duty: to keep the King-to-be safe.
The Departure into the Void
The stone walls of the stable at the Grey Eagle were thick, but they could not drown out the low, ominous groan of the northern wind. Inside, the air was a heavy mixture of dry hay, horse musk, and the sharp, metallic scent of cold iron. A single, guttering lantern hung from a beam, casting long, jagged shadows that danced across the stalls like restless ghosts.
Barkla’s breath came in short, white plumes as he pulled the heavy leather cinch tight around his pony’s belly. The beast shifted, blowing a soft puff of steam against Barkla’s shoulder, its dark eyes wide with an animal’s instinct for the coming gale.
“Steady, lad,” Barkla hissed, his voice a rasp in the dark. “We’re leaving this house of talkers behind.”
His eyes turned to the stall beside him, where Brega’s pony stood, already saddled and laden with the bulk of their supplies. On top of the pack, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, lay the Meisterstaf.
Barkla reached out, his fingers trembling—not from the cold, but from a feverish, manic energy. He pulled back the wool to reveal the silver-plated wood. In the dim lantern light, the engravings of Ajax leading the Drokka to freedom seemed to shimmer with a silent, judging gaze.
Brega is the heir, Barkla thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. He was born for the throne, for the scrolls, and for the soft words of the Council. But a Kon-Herr is only as strong as the ground he stands on, and the ground in the North is made of ice and blood – that’s my realm.
He felt a bitter swell of resentment. Their father Hanbull had given the staff to Brega, the elder, the “future.” But Brega had spent the talking to locals and preaching “patience” while a storm gathered. To Barkla, patience was a luxury for those who didn’t understand the cost of a future rapidly slipping away.
He’s too soft, Barkla’s mind hammered. He’ll lose the blessing if he doesn’t take action. If I am to be his shield, I must be the one to carry the light. I am the General. I am the one who does what must be done.
And so Barkla secretly stole the Meisterstaf while Brega slept. Yet Barkla knew in his heart that hd didn’t just take it; he claimed it, lashing it to his own saddle with a savage, final knot. Barkla convinced himself it wasn’t a theft—it was a rescue. He was saving the quest of his people from his brother’s hesitation.
Thus it was that the would-be general led the ponies toward the heavy stable doors. He paused, his hand on the iron bolt. Outside, the world was unnaturally silent. The freezing rain had stopped, replaced by a deceptive, powdery snowfall that fell in thick, vertical curtains. It looked peaceful—a white shroud draped over the jagged edges of Rasburg.
“I’ll be ten leagues north before he even wakes,” Barkla whispered to the darkness. “I’ll find the pass. I’ll show him that the Freemaker’s path isn’t found by sitting by a hearth. I’ll return with the prize so he can claim his glory, but we’ll both know I’ll have save our people.”
As the door creaked open, and a gust of biting, sub-zero air rushed in. Barkla didn’t flinch. He stepped out into the drifts, leading the ponies into the white expanse.
The headstrong dwarf didn’t the way the wind was beginning to whip the snow into spiraling dervishes. He didn’t feel the drop in pressure that made the very stones of the village seem to shrink. He felt only the silver wood of the Meisterstaf beneath his hand and the manic, rhythmic thrum of his own heart. He was a General without an army, a protector who had just abandoned his charge, riding into a storm that was preparing to swallow him whole.
The White Death
For mortals, the transition from sleep to wakefulness is sometimes like surfacing through deep, black water. For a moment, Brega lay still beneath the heavy furs of his bed, his breath hitching. The usual morning sounds of Rasburg—the distant ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer, the barking of dogs, the muffled chatter of merchants in the street—had been erased. In their place was a hollow silence that made his ears pop. It was the sound of a world being smothered by a white shroud.
He turned his head toward the second bed in the cramped, timber-walled room. It was empty, the sheets tossed aside in a chaotic tangle.
“Barkla?” Brega called out, his voice sounding flat in the deadened air.
There was no answer. He felt a flicker of annoyance rather than fear. His younger brother had been a caged animal for more than a moon; likely he’d gone down to the common room to demand ale and a hearth-fire before the sun was even up. It was just like Barkla to start a row with the innkeeper over the weather.
The future king of Rhokki Pass sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and instinctively reached for the corner of the room near the head of his bed. That was where the Meisterstaf always rested—propped against the rough-hewn oak, its silver plates catching the first grey light. Yet his hand met nothing but empty space.
Brega’s annoyance vanished, replaced by a sudden, jagged spike of adrenaline. Scrambling out of bed, his bare feet hit the freezing floorboards – he checked the wardrobe, then behind the heavy curtain. The staff was gone! The sacred blessing of their house—the blessed artifact that would grant success to their quest—had been taken. But how? Who?
A cold, eerie sensation crawled up his spine, more chilling than the draft whistling through the window-slats. He knew his brother. Barkla wouldn’t take the staff for a morning drink. He wouldn’t touch it at all, unless… he intended to use it!
“No,” Brega whispered, a terrible realization dawning. “You wouldn’t be that much of a fool.”
He didn’t bother with his boots; he threw his cloak over his shoulders and sprinted down the narrow hallway, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He burst through the kitchen and out into the yard toward the stables, the sudden transition to the outside air hitting him like a physical blow.
The stable door was already unlatched, swinging on a single hinge with a mournful, rhythmic creak-thud against the stone wall. Inside, the stalls were empty. The warm, earthy smell of the ponies was fading, replaced by the encroaching scent of ice.
It was then that the silence truly terrified him. It wasn’t just the quiet of a morning; it was the quiet of a grave. Barkla hadn’t just gone for a ride; he had stolen the quest itself.
Brega didn’t hesitate. He returned only long enough to lace his boots and grab his furs. He didn’t have a pony, and he didn’t have the staff, but he had a King’s responsibility to the brother – even one who had just betrayed him. And so he ventured into the white maw.
The world outside the Grey Eagle had vanished. There was no sky, no road, and no horizon—only a swirling, vertical sea of stinging ice that turned the air into a solid wall. The trek that followed was a descent into a vertical ocean of white. Every step was a battle of inches. The wind was a living thing, a predatory roar that sought to strip the heat from Brega’s bones and the breath from his lungs. The snow didn’t fall; it attacked, horizontal needles of ice that blinded him and turned his beard into a mask of frost. But the prince’s determination was a singular, white-hot coal in the center of the freeze. “I am the elder,” he told himself, the words a silent mantra as he pushed through drifts that reached his waist. “I am the future Kon-Herr Drokka. I do not leave my kin to die. We will not fail in our quest!”
He walked by instinct, his feet finding the slight depression of the road beneath two feet of fresh powder. He might be a King-in-training, but his “kingdom” at this moment was reduced to a few yards of visibility. His determination was a cold, steady flame. He wasn’t just walking to find a brother; he was walking to save the last hope of the Drokka. Without Barkla, he was a King without a general. Without the quest, their entire clans were doomed.
Hours bled into a singular, frozen blur. His eyelashes were matted with ice, and his fingers had long since lost the ability to feel the wood of his walking stick. But then, the miracle happened.
Perhaps it was Rhokki. Maybe Kalypzo. Who can say. Whatever god blessed Brega’s cause the fact is that somehow, against the odds, through the swirling chaos, Brega saw…something.
It was dark mound in a shallow ravine, barely visible through the white-out. He stumbled forward, his knees buckling. It was a pony. And there beside, nearly buried, was Barkla!
His brother was curled in a fetal position, his skin a terrifying, translucent shade of blue. His hands curled into empty, frozen claws. The Meisterstaf was nowhere to be found, but that thought didn’t even register to Brega as he knelt beside his brother. Barkla’s breathing was so shallow it didn’t even disturb the snow on his lips. Brega knew the signs – his brother was mere moments from the “Long Sleep” that would take him away forever.
There was no time to build a fire, no shelter nearby, and the wind was only growing more feral. Just then Brega’s eye caught the sight of the dead pony, its body still radiating a faint, fading heat. He didn’t hesitate.
“Forgive me, old friend,” Brega whispered. With fingers that felt like wooden pegs, he drew his belt-knife – and sliced through the pony’s belly, the steam rising from the carcass in a grotesque, ghostly cloud. The smell was iron and salt, a visceral heat in a world of ice, but Brega worked with a grim, surgical focus, hollowing out the space inside the beast until it was large enough. Quickly then, he dragged Barkla’s limp body closer and shoved him deep into the steaming warmth of the animal’s ribcage, then he tucked the pony’s hide back over his brother, creating a macabre hot box that would hopefully buy Barkla a few more hours of life.
At last, Brega collapsed – his back against the carcass that cocooned his brother, his own strength finally spent. Yet the wind still roared over the ravine – now louder than ever – the triumphant howl of a predator that had finally cornered its prey. In despair, Brega looked at his hands, now stained red and turning black with frostbite. He might have briefly saved the future General, but the some-day King was out of miracles.
Against his will, his eyes began to drift shut. He had no more strength to move, to think, to even exist. He looked up into the white void, the wind screaming its victory. Would this really be the end of the gods’ miracles?
“I saved him, Father,” Brega thought, his body impossibly heavy. “But who will save the King?”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 