Far to the north, not too, too distant from one of the headwaters of one of the many rivers that eventually feed into the Sellen…
In a watermill perched on the edge of the Seven Tears River, Mina Krannock closes up her ledgers and log books. It’s hard for her to tear herself away from her work—and her beloved books—but it’s time. Tonight is her 64th birthday, after all, and she should head over to the party. When she was a little girl, she hated that her birthday fell on the Night of the Pale, because it meant she never really got the attention everyone else got on their birthdays… but she came to be glad of the fact as the years have passed. In her adulthood, even though each individual birthday came to feel less and less significant—as something to celebrate or commemorate—if she’s honest with herself: it’s actually nice that the community always has a festive gathering on the night that just so happens to be her birthday. She can pretend that in some small way the party had something to do with her. No matter how introverted she grew as she got older, and older, she always had a reason to tell herself to get out of her little apartment above the mill and go over to the party. It’s for YOU, you CAN’T miss it. That’s what she’d tell herself. Every year, she’d tell herself that. So that every year, she wouldn’t have to be at home when her brother and his wife paid their yearly visit. They died SO LONG ago—back in the Baron’s day, and who even really thinks about him anymore?—but still they come. And they didn’t even die in the same year! None of this is how the Night of the Pale is supposed to work! But still, blood calls to blood, and every year, while she sits down in the tents set up around the Blackpipe, Mina looks across the green, at the mill, and sees the terrible blue glowing figures moving hand-in-hand past the windows of her apartment, and she’s grateful she has somewhere else to be.
Meanwhile, in the Brazen Frontier of Osirion, on the far-off continent of Garund…
Ugwis the Blacktooth walks down, down, down into the Pit of the Scourge. He’s alone, like he is every Night of the Pale. None of the others will join him. None of the others dare join him, even in this, their sacred gathering spot, on this particular night of the year. Too many ghosts. Too many angry ghosts. Too many memories. But the shades do not harm Ugwis. All because of the Conqueror. The Conqueror ruled in life. The Conqueror rules in death. And Ugwis is, after all, of the Conqueror’s blood. And blood calls to blood. The tribe doesn’t know this. They’d likely kill him if they did. But it is the secret reason why Ugwis can join this annual gathering of the fallen, the great melee of the dead, every year… at the passing of the year… and bear witness. And listen to the whispers. Truths are spoken amongst the dead. Truths that illuminate the past (and thus the present) in ways that Ugwis can put to use as Shaman. So he marches down into the amphitheater—not a natural amphitheater, as it turns out, but an ancient temple fallen into ruin; he learned this from the dead—and he waits for the gathering to begin. He waits for the Conqueror, his grandfather, “old One-Eye,” to manifest. And for the Conqueror’s son, the one who killed him, to manifest. And for the son of the son, who died by fratricide, to manifest.
Meanwhile, back in Ustalav…
In a small cabin on the edge of the peat bogs that line the Droa River just below the Albria Woods in southwestern Ustalav, an elderly human woman sits under a blanket near the fire, trying to warm the chill out of her 80-year-old bones. Georgetta Vatticus is ready. She welcomes the Night of the Pale this year. It’s time. She’s lived enough. The last of her close friends passed away this year. Evelyn’s grandson, bless his heart, still stops by with food and firewood—and a bit of conversation—so she’s not totally alone out here in the home her husband built almost 60 years ago, before he died and their son was born fatherless, long before the son left for university all those decades ago and she never heard from him again… another lifetime ago. Georgetta’s heart is failing her and she’s ready to rest, but not before one last visit with Olivia and Danika, both of whom passed this year. This place wasn’t their home, but they spent so much time here over the past many years, so she expects she’ll see them. Plus, she really seems to draw them. The Pale Spirits. Olivia and Danika won’t be at peace. And they’ll likely say difficult things to hear. But she’ll be able to see their faces one last time. And that will be a comfort. She’s ready.
But what she’s not ready for is the appearance of a ghost she doesn’t recognize. A man. Middle-aged. Bearded. Salt and pepper hair. Pale skin. His body is covered in a mapwork of razor cuts. He’s missing a number of his toes. And several of his fingers. And most of his teeth. “Mother?” he whimpers. And then the spirit begins weeping. Blood calls to blood. And once he can get words out through the convulsive sobs, so, too, weeps Georgetta Vatticus. And the longer his story continues, the more she fears her heart may not last till midnight.
And on the far western edge of the continent of Avistan…
On a cliff at the edge of the Fogscar Mountains, overlooking the rough and rocky Varisian Gulf… Seb Stoiču pulls his pack mule to a halt. His small wagon—filled with medicinal supplies, some changes of clothes, a bit of food, some sundries, and a collection of trinkets to dazzle goblin raiders with—his wagon creaks to a halt. This place is not “home” but it’s the closest thing he has. Many old-school Varisians, the “people of the road,” travel so much that the idea of “home” has to take on different associations. Maybe it’s a particular wagon. Maybe it’s a particular collection of people. For Seb, it’s a place. A spot where his family, his far-flung family, would gather in reunion every three years. At least, until the Red Death. Now, he’s the only Stoiču left. And every year, on the Night of the Pale, he treks here, alone, to sit in communion with the shades of his family. He sits under the great tree, next to the old hole where something was dug out of the earth many years back, and he waits for night to fall. And then they appear. Blood calls to blood. It’s different combinations every year. Sometimes his mother or father. Sometimes his aunts or uncles. Brothers and sisters. Cousins. They’ve all appeared at one point or another. All but one. And they rail at him. They blame him for abandoning them. But he clutches his charm so they cannot hurt him. And he takes their abuse. He internalizes their recriminations. He takes it all in. Because he deserves it. Because it’s all true: he wasn’t there. And this time, as the year 4718 dies and becomes nothing more than memory, Seb waits to see if this is the year little Viktor will finally appear to curse him.
First Reference: Chapter 136
Other Notable References: —