“I’ll tell ya what, Bors, no matter how often I come up here, it still brings a tear to my eye.”

Two Hrothi guided their shaggy, highland goats alongside a busy road. Behind them, the highway snaked deeper into the mountains of Fioralba. Teams of wagons, laden with lumber, candles, and other consumables from the neighboring kingdom of Aranor made their way up the near side of the road. On the far side, stone, ironmongery, and foodstuffs from the rich mountainside delvings of inner Fioralba made their way down toward the valley. Catcalls, shouts, curses and jests from the drivers mingled with the lowing of oxen, the snarls of otterbears and the basso rumble of trison.

“I know what ya mean, Marchwarden Bellême,” grumbled the shorter of the pair. “I think it’s the damned sunlight. Glints off the snow summat awful.”

The taller Hrothi snorted, and twisted back in his saddle to look up into the snow-capped peaks. Their summits clawed at the very heavens themselves, and the icy winds which howled down from their granite shoulders made one wonder whether winter ever truly left Fioralba. “Pacyen grant me patience, Bors. Only you could come out from Longest Night and complain about a bit of sun.” He swept an arm out over the landscape which fell away beneath them. “If the snow bothers your eyes, what do you make of the rest of our fair Bergental?”

In Denhørt, Bergental means “mountain valley”, and the county had borne that name as far back as records could be found. The valley curved around Redfall Lake, a crystal-clear body of water fed from a massive underground river. County historians held that the lake was named for the local red granite - the waters were so pristine that the color was clearly visible when the light was right. That being said… some folk offered darker tales of the lake’s namesake, particularly when they were in their cups and the long winter nights seemed like they would never end.

The lake formed a natural barrier between the mountain duchy of Fioralba and the neighboring kingdom of Aranor. While Aranor and the Kingdom of Ashland were generally on good terms, an old Hrothi proverb was often quoted by the Bellême family: “If you want peace, prepare for war”. To that end, Marchwarden Bellême’s ancestors had long been the protectors of Lakewatch - an imposing fortress which sat astride the only major bridge over Redfall Lake.

Bors grinned. “She needs a bit of patching up, but I think ya did your ancestors proud, Trug. It’s not every generation that can say they didn’t lose a soul to the Night.”

The Marchwarden and his Councillor were performing an old tradition. Every generation, when Selene blots out the light of Angelica and plunges the lands of Elyria into a yearlong night, the Hrothi work tirelessly to ensure that all people have what they need to survive. Borders are opened, foodstuffs are stockpiled, and trade reaches a frantic pace. Following the Night, the Marchwarden journeys to the farthest reaches of the county, and ensures that roads are repaired, checkpoints resupplied, and all families are accounted for. The journey can last many weeks, but no true Bellême would ever rest until their domain was taken care of.

Trug and Bors were on the return journey, having just left the last of the many military checkpoints which guarded the highway. The frosts of the Longest Night had buckled some stretches of road. Some of the outposts and farther flung settlements had been running low on supplies, but repairs and resupply were all well underway.

Trug nodded. “Aye, Kedryn was with us to be sure. Still,” he continued with a frown, “I don’t want to count on the Virtues hauling our asses out of every fire. That way lies sloth.”

“Right enough, Marchwarden.” Bors said, making a quick gesture to ward off ill luck. “Sod me, speak of the Vices…”

A plume of smoke was rising along the road near Lakewatch. Screams drifted along on the crisp mountain air, and Trug could see guards already riding out from the fort to intervene.

“Bandits again, you think?” Trug asked as he buckled his helm and put spurs to his mount.

“Likely,” grumbled Bors as he urged his horse to keep pace with the Marchwarden. “That, or those damned serpent cultists again.”

Trug shook his head in disgust, but couldn’t keep a faint smile from his face.

Never a dull day in Bergental.