It is winter. A cruel wind cries as it plays with drafts of snow, tossing them about like thick blankets, blotting out the horizon from all angles. Amidst the storm there is a small building, a circular thing from the view of a bird above. Its sturdy windows, although wooden, keep the outside gales at bay, and the walls are made of heavy timber. Inside, it is a merry place, filled with those from all walks of life. At one table there sits a bearded man with an eyepatch, a three-pointed hat leaned carelessly on his head. Across from him a bald man, thinly haired around the lip, makes a move on the game resting on the tabletop between them. At the pub's main table, a large fellow, joyful from his drink, proudly retells his conquests, his victories, his adventures, riling up his viewers. The crowd around him watches intently, all eager to hear a warrior tell his tale, as people do. Along the walls there are men in pairs, groups of three and groups of four, all laughing and punching shoulders as they converse. None of them know exactly why they're in this building, but the warmth of the pub's fire pits and abundant hospitality is certainly more pleasant than the beast raging outside. In a small, dimly lot corner of the pub, a man rests, legs upon his table, flat-topped hat tilted to hide his face. The heavy mug before him is empty, but a fresh one sits nearby. The man is quiet and at rest, until a group of men, laughing and drinking, saunter over to him and land heavily on the bench across from him. The candle by the his hat flickers from the shaking. "Oi," the largest visitor leans over the table and says, "My friends and I be weary from our travels, and we've heard every tale told here. Can you provide us with a new one, the likes of which we've never heard?" The man's hat tilts upward and he replies, "I see you recognize me as a Bard. How so?" The visitor laughs, and takes a swig of his ale. "I've seen enough Bards to know their marks," he watches the man glance quickly at a tattoo on his hand. "I fought alongside one myself!" At this, the Bard grins. He picks up his hat, gently, and places it down on the table. His eyes are brown, his hair long and black. He too takes a swig of his ale, before responding. "So it's a tale you want, eh? Then a tale there shall be!" The group of men, now as close as brothers, as bards tend to make, cheer and exchange pleasant greetings. Who they are is a tale for another time. They share a few more mugs of ale before settling, and they all take their blades and drive them into the tabletop; a universal sign of friendship and peace. The torchlight glints off of the knives and axes, casting orange light around the group. Several empty mugs scatter the light still more; a server comes and sweeps them away. Above them, beyond the roof and walls of the sturdy tavern, a storm continues its siege. It gets no recognition, however. The sounds and sights of merriment are far too prominent. A wizard across the scene attempts to con a thief; a small crowd gathers to watch the result. But they are not the focus of the group of men and the Bard sitting together in the corner. "So then," the Bard says, a glow in his eyes and wonder in his voice, "Let me tell you all a tale, about a man named Isen."
And so, with those words uttered, the Bard begins to recall his story. -------- Isen. The name is godlike to some, meaningless to others, and terrifying to all else. It is the name of a humble farmer, working to feed his kin. It is the name of a great king, driving an empire with a just fist of steel. It is also the name of one of the cruelest killers to ever have walked this worlds’s soil. They are few and far between who have not heard the name, but they will hear of him as soon as they learn of their lore. This tale I share with you is not about Isen the Great. It is not about the Isen that lead his swelling armies across dead tundras and cracking deserts, the Isen that allowed his rival's kings a final word, a last wish, a forgiveness before dethroning then. It is about the Isen who would kill his own kin, and raze the kingdoms he amassed and rebuilt in his name, for reasons still not known. It is about the Isen who held no more feasts, and was no more a king to his people than a fire is a forest's brother. I tell you this now: Isen is no man. Truth; I pity his soul. The Isen you may know of began his days as a child, young and strong, born to a farm in the icelands, a day's walk from the fields of ice that stretch for eternity. It was a peaceful little farm, one with no warrior’s honor to earn it a title, but the family lived well. Little Isen grew as best a boy could; learning his father’s ways, crafting his own tools; by his coming of age, he had forged himself a helmet of emberstone! Truly, Isen was gifted. Odd enough, with his hands able and mind curious, he never left his home to go to the Empire, with its unique ways and new opportunities - of course we all know that their 'civilians' are quite unlearned in life. Instead, he ventured the opposite way, into the ice fields. The wolves, great as the largest warrior, were not the threat that changed him. He was well prepared for the titans of snow that lumbered about, that would try to whip his face with the airborne frost and fill his jacket with snow. No, the thing that made Isen anew was one far worse than any of the beings wandering the ice. You see, Isen had left for the fields for a specific purpose. He had gone to acquire a chunk of the fields’ ice, that which never melts and yet cools all it touches. This would work well for his forge, which was quite promising at the time. And so he went, and after many days of picking and hammering, he did acquire his ice. When he returned home, however, he also brought back the thing that would change his destiny, forever. Isen grew, and his forge became more powerful with every summer. Eventually, the Empire all but dragged him into its gaping maw, demanding he serve it. Now what was Isen to do? Why, he did the one thing we all do. He fought! When the Empire's men marched into his home land, battle spears at hand, Isen fought. It is known by all us Bards that when the last soldier knelt before him, trembling at the sheer power the man expressed, our Isen said to him, "I forgive you, for you came unknowing of your foe." And so he became more popular among the people. Soon enough, he was a warrior’s age, and far more capable. People heard tales of him, marveled at his skill and followed him. His village had grown into a city, all attracted to and working with his forge. He had no more time for the hot place now: he had a city to be a king of. And so Isen had a small empire of his own, a city of thousands, ever growing. Now this, friends, this is the Isen your Kings and your Princes and your Warlords remember at the name’s mention. This Isen was the great leader, who knew enough to rival any battle-capable opponent at any time. But as I will tell you, this was not the truth of Isen. No, Isen would go on to become vile and cruel. I say this carefully, for I fear he may be listening from his cold, dark tomb.
You all know of Isen the Great’s rule, and how he led his empire to greatness. I'm sure you have all heard tell of his battles with giants and dragons and other such beasts. I will not waste your time retelling old tales. Now, Isen was a king by this time, grown wealthy, strong and happy from his forge’s success. The ice he had retrieved so many years ago had granted him unparalleled efficiency, and his machines had grown. Now he had other matters to think of. The flames and metalworking were not so important to him anymore. However, his empire had not moved far, rather taking in cities all along the Ice-side to be its own. In fact, it has been said that Isen sought to take the Fields themselves to serve as land. And that is what he did. For months his men worked, leading armies of metal beasts and titans to pave a way. For months they braved the Ice which hates, and expanded far beyond anything you or I have ever seen! ----------- "And then," the Bard takes a short reprieve, suddenly drawing a sharp breath before coughing. The travelers watch and listen. ------------ And then Isen’s men found a cave. So big it was, that one of the iron titans fell in opening it, and took thirty men along as it went. The King himself came to see the occasion, to pay respects for his lost men, as well as to investigate. And so with a party of eight men he entered. Oh, how wrong the Great Isen was to make that choice. For days, his men outside waited for him. There were times workers have up, quit. But many stayed long enough to witness a stranger's voice from the cave. "I have seen the Frost, and the Frost speaks!" I do not know much about what happened during this time, but I hear Isen emerged from the cave shivering. An old man, ancient and stooping, had come out with him. I have been told by those that know that Isen had saved this man from the cave, after finding him in a freezing shelter. The man’s name was never discovered, as he disappeared without notice not long after. However, this was not without consequence. Isen fell gravely ill shortly afterwards. The King’s voice shook as he spoke now, his hands became unable to hold a sword, and he became lame of leg. A tragedy, it was! And yet, this was only the beginning. Isen would continue to worsen. His hands would lose feeling, his mind would slip. All his kin feared and pitied the poor creature residing in his chamber, legs weak and spine bent. Even the greatest Alchemist in the land couldn't cure him. He tried. ------------- "We are reaching the end of Isen’s life, truly. But I grow tired now; let us get more ale, and then I shall resume." the Bard’s face looks grim, although it may be one of light’s many tricks. As the smallest man hurries away to fetch a tender, the largest leans over the table. "I have heard of Isen, believe you me. I have heard every telling of his story among the Four Seas, and by every Bard. Tell me, how do you come off telling us this tale? Surely you know better than most how we value honor?" "Honor truly is the universal currency," the Bard chuckles, "but I can afford this trade. There are things I would rather not say, but know this; this telling of Isen is the truest I have ever told. You have my word, and if I am lying, my life." The two lock eyes, judging and thinking. Then the ale arrives, and suddenly the lonesome table in the corner is alive with laughter once again.
The bard continues the tale, his belly now full of mead and his thoughts clear. ---------- Now, Isen’s ailment was a tragedy, that is to be sure. Many mourned for him, believing he could eventually cured. But many more believed he was dead. In fact, it was weeks before the High King disappeared when his Council announced his life’s end. However, a cure was found. Well..." The Bard coughs loudly and falters, "it was more of a discovery. A Sage, not from Isen’s land or the Empire, found the old man - the same old man with whom Isen had left the cave a time before. Being from Elsewhere, this Sage had no qualms with immediately experimenting on the man. I say experimenting because it is... The most acceptable word for the practice - no need to raise arms, the Sage is long dead. And so this Sage revealed the old man’s true nature - a demon which called itself Raiz. Aside from the name of this beast, the Sage learned nothing. He was never heard from again. But word went around, of Raiz the Iceborne, until it reached Isen. This is the part of the story where everything coincides with what you have heard. There is very little to tell, I'm afraid, but when Isen heard of the demon’s name, his empire went silent. He emerged from his chamber at last on that day, into the arms of quiet citizens. Then Isen and his great nation simply disappeared in the mother of all snowstorms. ---------- "That's all?" The largest man asks, "that's all you have to tell us about Isen the great, Isen the giant-slayer, the one who felled entire nations with a word!?" The Bard nods his head. His expression is grim. "Tell me... Why is it you tell us this version of the tale? Is there something you hold back from us?" "I have hidden nothing from you that you have asked for." The Bard is sitting back now, adjusting his hat. The smallest of the men now asks, to confirm his own suspicions: "Bard, friend... I have heard of how Bards weave their stories. Tell me please, whose eyes do you tell this through?" There is a deathly silence in the tavern’s corner, but nobody notices. The Bard’s expression is fierce, the men poised. One of them would later comment that the air then was hardly breathable, until the Bard spoke the next words. "I know now that I can trust you all. Do not ask how, only know this: all of my tale was true. Isen did live as I said. He also disappeared as I said. And he did learn the name of Raiz." More silence follows. "Very well then, Bard. What is you trust us with?" The Bard’s face under the hat grows darker still. "Isen lost his honor and his name when the demon drowned his city in ice." The storm outside hammers against the doors, sending a heavy ball of hail crashing into the roof. "And now, Isen wants his honor back."