Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay · From The Old World to 5th Edition · Mythveil Chronicles

November · Week 3 · What the Snow Remembers · The Drakwald · Sean & Eljara

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THE STORY

The first thing Sean noticed was the smell of woodsmoke. There should not have been any. He and Eljara had spent the day trying to find a road through the Drakwald as a blizzard swallowed the trees. Their horses were tired, their provisions low, and wolves were howling somewhere in the dark. Then, between the pines, they saw a two-storey coaching inn, with smoke from the chimney, warm windows, a fiddle playing inside and horses in the stable. The sign showed a lantern ringed by thorns: THE LANTERN AND THORN. Yet no footprints, wagon tracks or horseprints disturbed the new snow.

Eljara checked the roadwarden’s map. It marked only the ruins of an inn destroyed by fire forty-one winters ago. No shelter available. Sean preferred to examine the impossible building before dying of exposure. They agreed to stay together, keep their weapons and eat nothing until they understood what was happening. Sean found the last condition especially cruel.

The door opened before they knocked. Edda Harth, a silver-haired woman with a spotless apron, welcomed them into a gloriously warm common room. Venison stew simmered by the hearth; fresh bread lay upon the table. An elderly merchant called Herr Meiss shuffled playing cards beside the fire. A young woman embroidered flowers upon a wedding dress. A carter slept beside a tankard. A roadwarden named Tamsin Greve stared at her untouched supper. Edda said travellers always found the inn when they needed it. Eljara noticed that none of the guests had wet boots or melting snow on their coats.

Tamsin believed she had arrived yesterday, perhaps the day before. She knew she had been sent to inspect the northern road, but could no longer remember her commanding officer’s name. Every time the longcase clock sounded a note, she seemed to lose another memory. The hands remained fixed at seventeen minutes past eight. Herr Meiss said his son expected him in Middenheim tomorrow, yet he could not remember his son’s name. The young bride declared that her wedding was tomorrow while passing the needle through the same hole over and over. These people were waiting for a tomorrow that never came.

Edda served supper. Before Eljara could stop him, Sean tasted the stew. For a moment he found himself in a remembered room, with laughter, a familiar person and an old song played on a guitar. When he returned to himself, the food was untouched and he could no longer remember the melody. Edda offered only warmth and another helping. Sean pushed his bowl away, more frightened by the missing song than by the forest.

The carter, Oskar Pell, was different. His boots were muddy, his hands recently injured. He really had come in from the road. He spoke tenderly of his wife Alina, who was waiting at home. Then he remembered that she had died six years earlier. He insisted she had stood in the kitchen and spoken to him again. When a woman’s voice called from there, Oskar followed. Eljara wanted to bring him back, but Sean argued that they first needed to understand what held him.

In the guest register Eljara found forty-one years of names, some marked with small circles and none with departure dates. Their own names were written on the final page in still-wet ink, assigned to Room Seven. A circle appeared beside Sean’s name. As the clock sounded again, he realised he had forgotten part of the road they had travelled. The danger was not merely what the inn showed them: it was what they were losing.

They attempted to leave with Tamsin. Eljara marked trees with her knife and counted three hundred paces. Then the same yellow windows appeared ahead. The cuts on the trees had somehow shifted behind the inn. Edda smiled from an upstairs window and urged them back, saying it was safer indoors. Tamsin could no longer remember where she was trying to go. Inside, Room Seven contained a mirror framed with carved thorns. Sean saw himself rested and younger, beside someone from his past holding a guitar. Eljara saw a life in which nobody needed her, no danger required a decision and no responsibility weighed upon her. Both found the vision desperately tempting.

They descended into a hidden cellar. There the polished inn gave way to soot-blackened beams, charred plaster and the broken crockery of a building that had burned forty-one years earlier. A surviving account book described a blizzard, an inn crowded with travellers and more strangers arriving from the forest. The strangers were frightened, perhaps fleeing Beastmen; Edda heard horns and barred the door. Somebody outside struck the entrance with an axe. Inside the guests argued about allowing them in. A lamp overturned, the fire spread, and the main doors remained locked while the rear passage was blocked by snow. Twelve died inside, four were found frozen outside. Nobody could prove exactly who, or what, had been approaching the inn.

The last account listed a nine-year-old survivor: Rieke Harth, Edda’s daughter. Edda herself was presumed dead. When Sean and Eljara confronted her, she insisted the guests were safe. She could not accept that the fire had ended the evening and killed them. In the inn she had fashioned, the merchant could always be travelling towards his son, the bride could always be looking forward to tomorrow, and the cold could never reach the hearth. But the living who entered slowly surrendered their memories to that comforting illusion.

Tamsin forgot why she wore a roadwarden’s cloak. The fire flared brighter each time a guest lost something. Edda called it letting go of troubles. Eljara called it losing oneself. Edda had begun by trying to keep people safe and warm; now she would not allow them to leave. Sean recognised that the place was offering him relief not only from walking, but from the exhaustion of living with loss. Eljara felt the temptation of a world where nobody needed her. Neither wanted to pretend that the offer was entirely without comfort.

They found Oskar in the kitchen holding hands with a woman who looked exactly like Alina. She spoke gently and promised they could be happy forever. Eljara asked her what Oskar had said when he proposed marriage. ‘That he loved me,’ the apparition answered. Oskar knew that was wrong. He had asked whether Alina would marry a fool with two mules and a debt to his brother. She had said yes if the mules were better behaved than the fool. The figure could not remember the mules’ names. Oskar recalled his wife’s temper, humour, exhaustion and stubbornness. He loved all of her, not a perfectly smiling memory. The image dissolved. Oskar was not happy, but he knew where he stood.

Above the great entrance hung a promise: ‘All who cross this threshold may rest until the storm has passed.’ Edda’s storm had never ended. Eljara told her that shelter had become a prison, and that the living would forget their lives if they stayed. They revealed that Rieke might have survived the fire: Edda had opened the rear passage, pushed the girl towards the stable and gone back to help someone else. For the first time Edda remembered the end of that night. She confessed she did not know how to let people go. Sean answered that sometimes you must open the door despite fearing what waits outside.

Edda helped draw the bolts. Bitter snow came through the cracks. The clock moved from 8:17 to 8:18, then 8:19. Tamsin remembered her commander’s name. The young bride remembered the smoke; the merchant remembered his son. Beautiful walls revealed charred timbers beneath. Edda apologised and asked Sean not to call her merely kind. She wanted the people to know she had been frightened. They promised to tell what they could establish, not what would make the story comfortable. The roof collapsed, and Sean and Eljara fled into the snow with Tamsin and Oskar. The ghostly guests faded with the ruin. Nobody could be certain they had found peace.

Outside, the Drakwald remained dangerous. They endured wolves, cold, exhaustion and an injured knee for Oskar. Tamsin’s fingers suffered serious frostbite. At an abandoned watchpost, Sean attempted to play the old melody that the inn had shown him. Nothing came. Some part of that memory had truly been taken. He did not joke. Eljara sat beside him in silence.

When they reached Wulfbach, the roadwardens revealed that Tamsin had been missing eleven days. Four nights had passed since Sean and Eljara entered the inn, though they recalled only one. They reported their experience and asked that the ruin be examined with a priest of Morr. They also met Rieke Harth, now fifty. The old brass key to the inn still hung at her neck. She remembered her mother sending her out through the rear passage, then going back into the smoke. Rieke loved her mother and knew that people had died because of her terrible decisions. She did not need to deny either truth.

Oskar returned to visit Alina’s grave, knowing that the real woman would not want him to stop living. Sean and Eljara continued south. The old song might never return, but Sean still remembered the person with whom it was connected. He tried another melody on his guitar: uneven, melancholy and unfinished. Eljara asked him to play it again. The Drakwald offered no certainty, but the road finally led where it should. Behind them, the Lantern and Thorn lay somewhere beneath the snow. Perhaps the haunting had ended; perhaps the next storm would restore its warm windows. They chose a dangerous, unfinished tomorrow over a comfortable yesterday that would never end.

SEAN & ELJARA — THE STORY RETOLD

SEAN:
I’ve decided winter has a personal grudge against me.

ELJARA:
You said that after the dwarfen fortress.

SEAN:
And after the avalanche. Now the Drakwald has joined in.

ELJARA:
We were lost in a blizzard. Then we smelled woodsmoke.

SEAN:
And saw the Lantern and Thorn. Warm windows, horses, a fiddle playing.

ELJARA:
Yet no footprints, hoofprints or wagon tracks in the fresh snow.

SEAN:
Perhaps the horses were very tidy.

ELJARA:
The map said the inn burned down forty-one winters ago.

SEAN:
An inconvenient detail. But the wolves were moving closer.

ELJARA:
We agreed to investigate together, armed, without eating.

SEAN:
That last part was gratuitously cruel.

ELJARA:
Edda Harth opened the door before we knocked.

SEAN:
Silver hair, spotless apron, a smile promising another helping.

ELJARA:
And a common room full of guests who behaved strangely.

SEAN:
Herr Meiss endlessly shuffled cards.

ELJARA:
A young woman kept embroidering the same flower on her wedding dress.

SEAN:
And Tamsin Greve, a roadwarden, had forgotten where she was going.

ELJARA:
Every time the clock struck, she lost another memory.

SEAN:
That clock. Seventeen minutes past eight. Always.

ELJARA:
The merchant was expecting to visit his son tomorrow but couldn’t remember his name.

SEAN:
The bride said her wedding was tomorrow. Apparently tomorrow wasn’t coming.

ELJARA:
Then Edda brought supper.

SEAN:
Excellent venison stew.

ELJARA:
You agreed not to eat.

SEAN:
Only a spoonful! I saw an old room, someone I loved and a guitar melody.

ELJARA:
Then you came back and the stew was untouched.

SEAN:
And I had forgotten the melody.

ELJARA:
The inn was taking memories.

SEAN:
Then we met Oskar Pell, a carter with muddy boots and a cut hand.

ELJARA:
He said his wife Alina was waiting at home.

SEAN:
Then remembered she had died six years ago.

ELJARA:
Yet he claimed he’d seen her in the inn’s kitchen.

SEAN:
And when her voice called, he followed it.

ELJARA:
So we checked the guestbook.

SEAN:
Forty-one years of guests, no departures and little circles beside some names.

ELJARA:
Our names were already written there. Room Seven.

SEAN:
A circle appeared next to mine. I felt distinctly unwelcome as a guest of honour.

ELJARA:
When the clock sounded again, you forgot part of the road.

SEAN:
Then we tried to leave. We marked trees, counted our steps.

ELJARA:
Three hundred paces later, we were back at the inn.

SEAN:
The same wretched sign. Edda offered us shelter again.

ELJARA:
As though staying were the only way to be safe.

SEAN:
In Room Seven a mirror showed me rested and younger, beside a lost companion with a guitar.

ELJARA:
I saw a life without responsibility. No one needing me, no decisions.

SEAN:
It sounded wonderful.

ELJARA:
That’s why it frightened me.

SEAN:
Then we found the cellar.

ELJARA:
Burned beams and charred plaster. The actual ruins from forty-one years ago.

SEAN:
A blizzard, guests inside, frightened travellers begging at the door.

ELJARA:
Edda heard horns and feared Beastmen.

SEAN:
She barred the doors. Somebody outside struck the wood with an axe.

ELJARA:
A lamp fell, the building caught fire, and the exits remained blocked.

SEAN:
Twelve died inside. Four froze outside.

ELJARA:
Nobody established whether the strangers were Beastmen, refugees or raiders.

SEAN:
But Edda’s nine-year-old daughter Rieke survived.

ELJARA:
Edda herself was thought dead.

SEAN:
She wouldn’t accept that the fire had ended the night.

ELJARA:
The merchant still anticipated his son, the bride her wedding. The dead repeated their last evening.

SEAN:
And the living were forgetting everything that might make them leave.

ELJARA:
Tamsin even forgot why she was a roadwarden.

SEAN:
Every forgotten memory seemed to make the fire burn brighter.

ELJARA:
Edda called it rest. I called it captivity.

SEAN:
Then we found Oskar holding hands with someone who looked like Alina.

ELJARA:
We asked what he’d said when he proposed.

SEAN:
The figure said he’d told her he loved her. Wrong.

ELJARA:
What did he really say?

SEAN:
Would she marry a fool with two mules and a debt to his brother?

ELJARA:
And Alina said yes if the mules were better behaved than the fool.

SEAN:
The apparition couldn’t remember the mules’ names.

ELJARA:
It offered the pleasant outline of a person, not all she had been.

SEAN:
Oskar remembered the real Alina: angry sometimes, tired, funny, stubborn.

ELJARA:
And loved all of her. The illusion vanished.

SEAN:
He wasn’t happy. But he was himself again.

ELJARA:
Then we had to open the door.

SEAN:
The sign promised shelter until the storm passed.

ELJARA:
But Edda’s storm had been lasting forty-one years.

SEAN:
We told her the records said Rieke survived.

ELJARA:
Edda had pushed the girl through the rear passage, then gone back into the fire.

SEAN:
She asked how to let people go.

ELJARA:
And you said?

SEAN:
Sometimes you open the door even when you’re afraid of what’s outside.

ELJARA:
Edda helped us pull the bolts.

SEAN:
Cold snow entered. The clock finally moved from 8:17 to 8:18.

ELJARA:
And then 8:19. Tamsin remembered her captain’s name.

SEAN:
The bride remembered smoke and the merchant remembered his son.

ELJARA:
The lovely walls became burned beams.

SEAN:
Edda said: ‘Don’t tell them I was kind. Tell them I was frightened.’

ELJARA:
We promised to tell what we knew, not a comfortable legend.

SEAN:
Then the roof collapsed and we ran into the snow.

ELJARA:
With Tamsin and Oskar. The ghosts faded inside.

SEAN:
Outside the cold, wolves and darkness were painfully real.

ELJARA:
Tamsin suffered frostbite; Oskar hurt his knee.

SEAN:
And my old guitar melody was gone.

ELJARA:
At Wulfbach we learnt Tamsin had been missing eleven days.

SEAN:
Four nights had passed for us. We remembered one.

ELJARA:
We spoke to Rieke Harth, now fifty. She carried the inn’s brass key.

SEAN:
She loved her mother, but didn’t deny the people who died there.

ELJARA:
Oskar went home to visit Alina’s grave.

SEAN:
And we told the roadwardens, so they could examine the ruins with Morr’s priest.

ELJARA:
Do you think the inn is gone forever?

SEAN:
I don’t know. I wanted to stay, you know.

ELJARA:
So did I. It offered relief from everything we carried.

SEAN:
Some of the warmth felt real.

ELJARA:
Comfort can be real and still cost too much.

SEAN:
I can’t remember my old song.

ELJARA:
But you remember the person it belonged to.

SEAN:
Yes. And I have a new melody. It’s unfinished.

ELJARA:
So are we. Play it again.

SEAN:
Was Edda a monster?

ELJARA:
She wanted to protect people until she stopped allowing them to leave.

SEAN:
Love became possession. Shelter became a prison.

ELJARA:
Yet finally she opened the door. It couldn’t undo the fire.

SEAN:
But it stopped stealing the futures of the living.

ELJARA:
And outside there was danger, grief and uncertainty.

SEAN:
And tomorrow. Shall I play the new song?

ELJARA:
Please.

THE QUESTION

What happens when a place promises to take away everything that hurts? The Lantern and Thorn offered warmth, rest and the faces of people its guests had lost. In exchange, it stole their memories and freedom to leave. Edda’s fear and love had turned one catastrophic winter evening into an endless yesterday. Sean and Eljara could not undo the fire or recover all that had been lost. But they opened the door. Remembering someone does not mean refusing to live without them. Outside waited cold, uncertainty and the possibility of another loss. Outside waited tomorrow.

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