The chill wind of the foothills bit at Liam Thorne’s exposed skin as Kaelan, the grim-faced guard-captain in Thane Joric’s service, gestured vaguely towards a squat, timber-and-stone edifice. “This is the Scythe-Hall.” “Ah, yes. My thanks for the escort, Kaelan,” Liam replied, a dry politeness in his tone that usually served to disarm or, failing that, thoroughly confuse people. Kaelan’s gaze flickered over Liam—a quick, assessing sweep that betrayed a lingering unease—before he stepped back, a visible tightening around his jaw. “I’ll leave you here, outlander. The scribes inside will guide you through their… peculiarities.” He paused, his focus shifting, now speaking more to himself than to Liam. “You would abandon the Thane’s favor to become a mere Hired Spear? It beggars belief.” Liam merely offered a thin-lipped smile. *A mere Hired Spear, he says.* Kaelan, like most denizens of Aerthos, saw the profession as the lowest rung, a desperate path for those without clan or craft. But Liam, with his peculiar blend of academic fascination and survivalist pragmatism, viewed it differently. It was a clear, unambiguous path to establishing himself, a blank slate in a world where his origins from the Frostfangs were viewed with suspicion, his lack of ‘spirit-fire’ with outright dread. *Romanticized? Perhaps. But at least it's a path I understand.* He wasn't some wide-eyed fool from the World-Before, stumbling into a fantasy adventure. This was Aerthos, a brutal, bronze-age world, and a ‘Hired Spear’ was a mercenary, yes, but also a recognized entity, a professional. He craved the structure, the clear transactions, even if the pay was likely abysmal and the risk substantial. Kaelan let out a low grunt, a sound of resignation and profound disapproval, before turning on his heel and retreating into the biting wind, his broad shoulders squared against Liam’s perceived folly. Liam watched him go, then turned his attention to the Scythe-Hall. It was less imposing than he’d imagined, more functional. Timber beams, darkened with age and smoke, formed a low roof, and rough-hewn stone blocks made up the walls. He pushed open the heavy oak door. It groaned on its hinges, a sound like a tortured beast, and the already unstable floorboards within creaked ominously under his weight as he stepped inside. Each step echoed, the timber protesting his presence. He expected a cacophony—the boisterous shouts, clanging of tankards, and raucous laughter he’d read about in every single fantasy novel describing a ‘guild hall.’ Instead, the overheated, smoky atmosphere of the interior, thick with the smell of sweat, stale ale, and something vaguely metallic, was suddenly cooled by an eerie, unnerving silence. Every head in the room had snapped up the moment he entered, eyes wide, mouths agape, mid-sentence conversations abruptly severed. The room, which must have been a maelstrom of activity moments before, was now filled with an unfamiliar, brittle quiet. *Right. That.* Liam had almost forgotten. The duel with Borin had been… impactful. He hadn’t meant to scare them quite this much, merely to demonstrate competency. But it seemed that precisely controlling a blow to leave an opponent incapacitated but not permanently damaged, especially when delivered by a man with no visible spirit-fire, was less reassuring and more utterly terrifying to the inhabitants of Aerthos. They, after all, were accustomed to the visceral, head-crushing brutality of warriors who simply hammered away until one side broke. He scanned the room. Clustered around rough-hewn tables, men and a few women, all bearing the worn, hard-bitten look of those who lived by their blades, stared at him. Their hands, though not on weapons, were tense, their shoulders hunched. Liam noted the irony. *Mercenaries are simple and ignorant, they say. Apparently, they can also be quiet. And rather easily intimidated.* He internally shrugged. *Well, add that to the growing list of things about fantasy worlds that don't quite match the brochures.* He decided, not for the first time, to jettison all preconceived notions. He’d accept this world, and its inhabitants, on its own terms. Quiet, pale-faced Hired Spears, then. So be it. He spotted a figure cowering behind a stack of parchment, their eyes wide and darting, clearly designated as a point of contact. Liam strode forward, the floorboards groaning in protest beneath him, directly towards a burly man gripping a tankard so tightly his knuckles were white. The man’s eyes were indeed shaking, wide and unfocused, as if he’d seen a specter rather than an outlander. “My apologies for the interruption,” Liam said, his voice level, entirely too calm for the tense silence, “but might I trouble you for a small piece of information?” The burly Hired Spear practically levitated from his bench. “Yes, yes! Please, good sir! Anything!” he stammered, nearly overturning his drink. “Where might I find the scribes responsible for Hired Spear registration?” “Over there!” The man's finger shot out with astonishing speed, pointing frantically towards a smaller, partitioned area at the back of the hall. He nodded vigorously, his face a sickly shade of ash, as Liam offered another polite, if slightly weary, smile and continued walking. The scribes—two young women and an older man—had already noticed Liam. As he approached, they hesitantly pushed their rickety chairs back, only to find themselves pressed against the rough-hewn wall behind them, their eyes silently pleading, *May the barbarian not come to me. May he go to another.* But the barbarian, it seemed, had a perverse sense of humor or simply an unfortunate line of sight. He arrived at the desk, directly in front of a young woman with a tangled braid and a face that now rivaled the untouched parchment on her desk in paleness. Lyra’s breath hitched. *Why me? Why always me?* She felt a scream clawing at the back of her throat. She’d always dreamed of a handsome chieftain’s champion, riding a magnificent war-steed, sweeping her off her feet. Dreams could come true, couldn't they? But instead of a champion, she had… this. A man who seemed twice her size, his frame broad and solid, with eyes that held an unnerving intensity, though not malice. He sat on the stool opposite her, a stool that groaned beneath him as if in mortal agony. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Liam said, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It was met with Lyra’s eyes clamping shut, her entire body rigid. Liam sighed inwardly. *Apparently, the reassuring smile needs work.* He wasn’t a mirror, but he knew his appearance in this world was… formidable. He was taller than most Aerthos folk, broader of shoulder, and his facial features, even if not overtly aggressive, were certainly not ‘friendly’ in the way they understood it. His lack of visible tattoos, scars, or ritualistic mutilations, paradoxically, made him seem more alien and therefore more dangerous. “I assure you, I intend no trouble,” he said, pitching his voice low and even. “You may relax.” Lyra’s eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly. “Oh, y-yes. Of course…” she managed, her voice a reedy whisper. His calm words, however, did seem to chip away at a sliver of her terror. She was a scribe, after all, a recognized citizen of the Clan-Hold. If he caused her harm, he’d be an enemy of Thane Joric, a criminal. *He can’t touch me. He just can’t.* She repeated this mantra, a desperate, rational thought, until a semblance of composure returned to her. Liam, observing the subtle lessening of her tremor, took it as a sign of success. “I am here to formally become a Hired Spear.” Lyra swallowed audibly, reaching for a stylus. “A Hired Spear… Do you, perhaps, have any form of identification? A clan brand, perhaps? A token from a previous Thane?” “None that this world would recognize,” Liam admitted. “My origins are…complicated. But my purpose is singular. I understand that by serving as a Hired Spear, one can earn recognition, a verifiable status within the Clan-Hold, even for an outlander. Is that not so?” Lyra nodded, her gaze fixed on her parchment. “Yes, that is correct. However, it requires a significant number of accomplishments to achieve full recognition. Are you… prepared for that?” She looked up, a flicker of something akin to incredulity in her eyes. After a few more questions about his (non-existent) prior experience, and his (non-existent) clan affiliations, Lyra finally spoke, her voice gaining a surprising, if fragile, note of authority. “Verification is complete. For mercenary registration, you will need five iron marks.” Liam reached into the pouch at his belt. He’d accumulated a fair amount of the rough, cast-iron discs from his recent foray into the Sunken Crypts, and even more from the blood-duels he’d fought against several of Thane Joric’s less-disciplined champions. He counted out five heavy, cold coins and placed them on the desk. “Your name and… age?” Lyra asked, her stylus poised. “Liam Thorne. Just Liam Thorne. As for my age… I’m not precisely certain in your reckoning. Suffice it to say, I am a man grown.” “…I will record a reasonable estimate,” she said, scribbling something with a speed that suggested she wanted this interaction concluded as quickly as possible. Moments later, she pushed a small, intricately carved wooden disc across the desk. “Your Hired Spear registration is now complete. This is your badge. It is a symbol of your profession; do not lose it.” Liam took the badge. It was a simple, circular piece of dark wood, etched with a crude depiction of a spear and a shield. He looped the leather thong through the hole and hung it around his neck, the unfamiliar weight resting against his tunic. A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. *Alright, step one. Officially a Hired Spear. Now, to actually do the ‘hired’ part.* “Excellent,” he said, looking at Lyra with genuine anticipation. “What missions are available? I’m eager to begin earning my keep.” Lyra, who had been about to relax, froze. She handed him a familiar, crinkled parchment. As Liam eagerly took it, he imagined grand quests—slaying primal beasts, delving deeper into ancient ruins, recovering forgotten artifacts of the high-magic past. The thrill of adventure, the genuine excitement of it all, hummed beneath his usual cynicism. His eyes scanned the crude symbols and pictograms on the form, translating them into the common tongue of Aerthos. As he briefly read the contents, his brow furrowed. “Hmm? Is this… all there is?” The missions listed were undeniably simple. Gather sun-dried moss from the Whisperwood. Retrieve lost livestock from the northern pastures. Repair a leaky roof in the out-settlements. Mundane tasks, barely above chores. Lyra hesitated, her gaze dropping to the desk. “That, that is not *all* the Scythe-Hall offers, Hired Spear Thorne. But… the missions currently available for you, as a newly registered F-grade Hired Spear, are… well, these.” Her voice trailed off, awaiting the inevitable explosion. Liam stroked his chin, a slight frown touching his lips. *F-grade. Of course.* He knew how these systems worked, even in the World-Before. No one was handed the keys to the kingdom on day one. Anyone could register as a Hired Spear, but earning actual trust, actual renown, took time and effort. Starting with humble tasks, completing them diligently, building a reputation, gradually ascending the ranks. Even the legendary Spear-King of the Northern Wastes had started by chasing down escaped goats, or so the legends claimed. There were no shortcuts, no matter how formidable one’s reputation, or how intimidating one’s presence. Lyra watched him, trembling, pressing herself back against the wall. In her experience, a warrior of Liam’s evident physical prowess, presented with such insulting tasks, would invariably erupt. He would bellow, accuse, perhaps even smash a table. Guards would come, attempt to subdue the rampaging individual. But could the Clan-Hold’s guards truly subdue *this* barbarian? His arm looked thicker than her waist. He revered strength, surely he wouldn’t just accept such demeaning work without protest? Liam, however, merely finished reading the form. He raised a finger, tapping it decisively on one of the entries. “I’ll take this one.” Lyra opened her eyes, startled. His finger rested on the mission to gather sun-dried moss from the Whisperwood. “It’s a mission that needs doing, isn’t it?” Liam reasoned, pulling his finger away. “There’s no problem with that.” “Well, if… if you say so,” Lyra stammered, utterly bewildered. “I do,” Liam affirmed. “I understand. Right now, I’m an unknown. A new face. You can’t entrust critical missions to an outlander who arrived yesterday, regardless of… prior demonstrations.” He glanced at the other Hired Spears, who quickly averted their eyes. “For now, I’ll earn your trust, step by step, by taking on these smaller tasks. That’s just common sense, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes. Of course…” Lyra agreed, her voice barely audible. It was a profoundly rational, sensible statement, indeed, the very essence of common sense. But coming from the hulking outlander, the man who had effortlessly put Borin in the infirmary, it felt incredibly awkward, almost unsettling in its unexpected normalcy. “Where can I find these herbs, then?” Liam asked, his tone still perfectly pragmatic. “Oh, yes. The Whisperwood lies just beyond the outer palisade. They are called ‘sun-dried moss,’ but they are more like a silvery-green lichen. They grow low to the ground and are often found on the northern faces of exposed rocks.” She hastily retrieved a small, dried sample from a jar, passing it to him. “Ah, I see. I’ll be right back.” Liam confirmed the sample, then rose from the stool, the timber groaning in relief as his weight was lifted. He offered Lyra one last, small nod before turning and making his way back towards the door. As the heavy door thudded shut behind him, the tension that had held the entire Scythe-Hall captive suddenly snapped. Hired Spears exhaled in a collective, shaky gasp, some slumping back onto their benches, others rubbing their temples as if recovering from a shock. A low hum of incredulous whispers slowly started to fill the silence, focused entirely on the outlander’s perplexing behavior. The outer gate guards, a pair of bored-looking sentinels leaning on their spears, snapped to attention, their eyes widening in shock as Liam approached. They’d heard the whispers, seen the stretchers. One instinctively stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Liam casually took out his newly acquired Hired Spear badge, holding it up for them to see. “I’ve just received a mission to gather sun-dried moss from the Whisperwood. There aren’t any within the Clan-Hold, so I need to step outside for a bit. Is that permissible?” The guard, still pale, fumbled with the heavy latch. “Yes, yes! Of course! Right away!” He pulled open the massive timber gate with a desperate haste that spoke volumes. Liam felt a faint pang of hurt, a familiar weariness, at their attitude. It was clear they wanted him gone, out of their sight, as quickly as possible. “I hope you realize,” he said, his voice carrying in the crisp air, “that I truly don’t intend to cause any trouble.” The guard, already straining to hold the heavy gate open, merely let out a strangled groan that might have been an assent, or might have been sheer terror. Liam just shook his head slightly, a cynical amusement flickering through him, and stepped outside the palisade. Aerthos, in its raw, untamed glory, greeted him. The vibrant greens of tough, scrubby vegetation, the rich browns of fertile earth, the distant, imposing peaks of the Ashfang Mountains—it was all starkly beautiful. A genuine, unbidden smile crept onto Liam’s face. *Alright, Aerthos. Let's see what you've got.* He took a deep breath of the cold, clean air and made his way towards the Whisperwood, following Lyra's directions. He soon found the edge of the Whisperwood, a dense thicket of hardy, gnarled trees clinging to a rocky incline. There, clinging to the northern faces of ancient, moss-covered boulders, were several patches of silvery-green lichen, perfectly matching the sample Lyra had provided. “Are these for healing wounds, then?” he murmured to himself, examining a patch. “They look… distinctly alien.” Though his knowledge of botany was primarily theoretical and Earth-bound, these plants were certainly unlike anything he’d ever seen. Liam, a man accustomed to the precision of engineering and the academic rigor of history, squatted down, looking incongruous amidst the primeval wilderness, and carefully began to pluck the moss. It was a rather tedious task of simple repetition, requiring a delicate touch to avoid damaging the fragile fronds and their root-like anchors. But Liam found himself enjoying it. To harvest herbs with mystical effects from a fantasy world, with his own hands, was an intrinsically satisfying experience, a tangible connection to this new, strange reality. After about an hour of this surprisingly meditative work, Liam returned to the Clan-Hold, his leather pouch feeling pleasantly heavy. The bustling assembly area of the Scythe-Hall quieted down once again as he pushed through the door. Every eye in the room, it seemed, followed his progress as he strode back to Lyra’s desk. Lyra, whose expression was a mixture of surprise and profound relief, took the heavy pouch of herbs that Liam offered. Her eyes widened. It was five times more than she had expected for such a trifling mission. She emptied the contents onto her desk, examining each clump individually. Her astonishment grew. “They’re in exceptionally good condition!” she exclaimed, her voice barely a whisper of awe. Harvesting sun-dried moss wasn’t simply about grabbing a fistful and yanking it free. It required delicate work, ensuring the delicate root-structures weren’t torn from the rock and the fronds weren’t crushed or scratched during handling. Most Hired Spears, in their haste or carelessness, simply tore the lichen free, often rendering it less potent or entirely useless. Lyra hadn’t held high expectations for the outlander’s haul, envisioning a ruined, muddy mess. Instead, each silvery clump was pristine, carefully separated, and dried. Liam Thorne, the barbarian, the intimidating outlander, had gathered the moss with the meticulous care of a master herbalist. His very presence defied expectation. And it was, in its own way, just as unsettling as his strength. Liam merely offered another small, unreadable smile.

The Scythe-Hall's Chill Reception