Tales from the Windswept Peaks: Healing

Bitter winds swirl across the mountain range, yet for now the snows have stopped. The screams of a few wounded come from the yurts carefully arranged on a broad shelf. A bearded nomad stands slightly to the side, looking down at the encampment.

A wise woman steps from the closest yurt, her leathers covered in blood up to the elbows, as well as down the front of an apron overflowing with bandages and herbs. The bearded nomad walks towards the wise woman.

"It is good we did not march to the lowlands, or that the walking dead did not come farther north. But it is also good that we send aid to the dwarves, for they have upheld their deals with us."

A series of flashes occur as a handful of nomads appear, some carrying others, about half of them wounded. They move into the tents. Shaking her head sadly, the wise woman replies over her shoulder as she turns to heads back toward the yurt.

“Death stalks us still though. None of the young have died yet, but the injuries keep coming. You know we are too few to survive if many die. Would you have the line die out completely to uphold our agreements?”

Touching a heavy onyx amulet that rests around his neck, bearing the sigils of the wolf, nightingale, and raven, the bearded nomad nods once without hesitation.

“Yes. Without honor and memory we are as nothing. Would you have us become as the Bonedancers?”

Quick as a striking snake, the wise woman spins and slaps the bearded nomad across the face.

“Never mention that tribe again. They are as nothing. They listen not to the wind, only the dead silence in their hearts.”