//------------------------------//
// Chapter 5: The Wolves of Rainright, Pt. 1 
// Story: The Legend of Arcadian 
// by DustyDominic 
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Arcadian traveled north to the Griffon Kingdom, mere miles from the bases of the forbidding range of mountains the feathered creatures called their homeland.
He saw the last groves become mere stands of trees, then finally all that stood on the land were solitary windswept pines. The road became gravelly, and the wind swept hard across the land. Again the land sloped upwards, much harder than it did in Fetlar. The road crisscrossed to wind its way up as the two nearest peaks, snowy towers of grimness, spread apart just enough to leave a gap which became the most convenient place to build a road for traveling. 
The Griffons in their tongue called it Egersund, and in the narrow pass was the Griffon border city of Fauske. It guarded the entrance from the ponylands to the south, and it was a monstrous walled city, with an impressive Keep and an armed guard that never slept. It was one of the greatest prides of the griffons, this city, aside from the capital city of Mrohthlingar, the Keep of Arkenfell, and the Keep of Stainfell.

Arcadian of Bragn came to the broad steel gates of the city of Fauske. Not a single solitary soul had he seen from Fetlar to hence.
The city walls towered high above his head, a great many more stories than he had ever seen. The walls were colored an imposing grey, and the humongous steel doors themselves were of a dark, unwelcoming hue. A great wind blew from the mountainside, and Arcadian felt a great chill. He pulled his fur pelts closer to him and worked up the courage to work the great steel knockers.

*Knock* *knock* and another *knock* later, a squawking voice shouted above him, "Who goes there!" Arcadian looked up and saw a helmed, beaked face leaning over the parapet.
Arcadian stepped backwards to let the griffon guard get a full view of him, and he said, "I am Arcadian, and I am a capall with business in the Griffon Kingdom!"
The guard shot him a look of irritation, and said, "What sort of business, litla? Don't you know that today is a no-entrance from the hesturlandur?"
Arcadian said, "I am on much more important business than whatever prevents you from letting me in. Do open this gate, good sirs."
The guard sneered at him disbelievingly, but called for his fellow guards to open the gate. Sure enough, the gates swung open, and two other griffon guards snickered as he passed through into Fauske.

Fauske was a city unlike anything he had seen before. The houses were built differently, the streets were paved in large stones, and even the clothes the citizens wore were of a much different fashion. Oh, and how many of them were walking the streets! For the first time in his life, Arcadian was nearly lost in the crowd. He could not see the end of the street for all the crowd.
Neither was the crowd merely griffons; occasionally he would see a capall going about some business. He called to one or two of them, but they shrugged him off. To Arcadians eyes, they looked terribly worried and angry, occasionally glancing around in suspicion.
The griffons themselves were dressed for the wintry cold, even though they had much more protection in their feathers than the ponies did in their coats. One pair of ponies looked much different from the capall, and he judged by their strange language and their rich clothing to be Equestrians, the strange westerners with pastel coats and colorful hair.
He paid no attention to them though, and he continued ambling through the streets of Fauske. He was clueless about the next step for him take. He knew not who the thane of Fauske was, whether he or she would receive him or not, or even if the griffons had thanes!
He could not even read the strange language that the griffons wrote in on their signs. He found himself on the corner of Trasiga Vägar and Isiga Gata without the faintest clue what to do next. He saw in the corner of his eye a sign which, though he could not read the runes that spelled the name of the establishment, clearly bore a symbol only inns possessed.

Arcadian stepped into the inn, unnaturally full for midday. Some of the griffon patrons stared at him for a moment, then resumed their conversations and drinking, casting glances his way every so often. A griffon tender polished his treasured silver goblets on the bar, but when he saw Arcadian step in, he brought out his pewterware.
Arcadian said nothing of this obvious slight and instead ordered a stiff drink. The griffon filled the pewter cup to the brim with a foul-smelling mead that looked like it had been rotting in the cellar since the last century. Arcadian swigged it and held back a grimace.
So far, it seemed the Griffon Kingdom was intent on testing him.

He asked the innkeep what the rooms in the city went for, and the griffon gave him a price Arcadian considered almost extortionate, and he told him so. The griffon innkeeper slammed his talon'd fist down on the bar and told him if he didn't like griffon prices, then the pony could sleep in the trash bins for all he cared. Arcadian realized that the griffon was not willing to negotiate the price and pushing it would probably result in being thrown out into the street. He agreed and paid out for a room for the next night, saying nothing more of the incident.
Arcadian went to his room and checked his supplies. He had enough food for the next two days, and he had enough gold for what he'd thought was to be twenty-five nights. At the rates the griffons were charging him, he perhaps only had seventeen nights to make it to Stainfell on Mount Hjalmur.
He gritted his teeth. He might possibly be stranded in the midst of churlish griffon ruffians with no money to leave, and that would be a sorry end to his journey.

He sat in his room for a good while, thinking about his predicament. He had not worried much about planning his journey wisely, but now that he had entered the lands of griffons, he must think twice over his every move.
Griffons were proud creatures, even by capall standards. Whether from Connacht or Skye, Ulster or Sutherland, all capall were sensitive towards insults on their honor and their kin.
Griffons, though, were an unpredictable lot. They were brash and cutthroat. They would as soon shake your hoof as bite your tail. If he said the wrong word, Arcadian figured he would find himself at the edge of a griffon's blade before he reached the north gate.
What should his course of action be, he asked himself. That innkeep was extremely unpleasant, and he knew innkeeps were generally the friendliest ones in town. If that's the welcome he can expect from the best, what might another have in store? Arcadian felt utter distaste for the griffons, and it manifested as bile in his throat. He promptly spit it out.
"No spitting in the rooms!" He heard the innkeep yell from downstairs. How he had heard Arcadian over the ramblings of his customers was anypony's guess.

Arcadian decided that the prudent course of action would be to seek out the griffon in charge to secure safe passage directly to Stainfell. He originally hadn't wanted to reveal his intention to fight their hero—and he felt extremely reluctant about his decision now—but he saw that he was not left with viable alternatives. It would be a long shot to convince the thane, or lord, or mayor of Fauske to give him special escort, especially if Fauske was a city that supported King Hakon.
On the other hoof, if he didn't get an escort, or at least papers granting safe passage, he would be at the mercy of every hoodlum and troublemaker on the road to Stainfell. Being waylaid was not something he looked forward to.

He trotted downstairs to speak with the innkeep. The common area of the inn had become strangely, quietly empty and as hirelings swept and put away benches, the innkeep was furiously locking away his silver. Arcadian asked who was the Thane in Fauske.
The griffon snorted, "Thane? We have no thanes, horsa, but you're welcome to speak with our Jarl. He is the noble who lives in the Keep yonder. You haven't got the faintest chance of seeing him today though. By the gods, if you can get an audience with him, I'll declaw myself."
Arcadian asked what the name of the Jarl was. The innkeep said, "Hell if I tell you."

After some mild pleading, the innkeep told Arcadian that the name of the Jarl was Ulricus the Nebbstreik. Arcadian knew not what the epithet meant, but he noted it. It would be respectful to address the Jarl by his full title after all.
Arcadian exited the unpleasant inn, and stepped into the stone street. The crowds had thinned out, and he could now walk with comfort among the traffic. He noticed that all the traffic was now one way towards the north, and that the general mood of the passersby had become intent and intrigued.
He decided first he would see where everypony, or every-griffon, was rushing. Twice was he nearly tripped over by a careless griffon hurrying along. He righted himself each time though and kept on pushing forward.

Arcadian then came to a dense crowd formed around the northern side of the wall. In a massive open space, hundreds of griffons gathered in a mass of feathers and fur. They were all so much bigger than Arcadian that he couldn't see over them. He shoved through the crowd to get to a lamp post on a corner, and he climbed up it a little to see over the griffons' shoulders.
He saw that the town guard captain, dressed in a fine robe of bright cyan, was announcing some news from a stage. He was too far away to hear him properly, but he could hear the crowd next to him disseminate the tidings.
"Oh, that cannot be true!"
"How dreadful is that! I planned on taking that road next week."
"I was going to walk it tomorrow! How lucky I am."
"Wolves, he says?"
"Ah, the Captain wouldn't know a wolf from a sheep-dog."
"Would you be willing to bet your life on that?"
"Hush now, he's saying it's closed."
"Closed until further notice? That will strangle my business. Why can't Torkil just take his guards and kill the beasts?"

From this and other gossip, Arcadian gathered that the road north had been closed due to a great pack of giant wolves which had killed over half a dozen unwary merchant griffons traveling that route. Captain Torkil was to enforce, by the Jarl's orders, a complete closing of the road until further notice.
Captain Torkil and the Jarl also had an offer to the griffons: they would be accepting requests to open the north gate for any heroes that wished to take on the giant wolves and secure the road.
Arcadian perked up at that mention. Here at last was his best chance for continuing through Fauske. He had to travel the north road anyway, as there were no other roads except the south one he came in on. Besides, taking on giant wolves would be the perfect way to flaunt his warrior skills and to burnish his lochragh oireach with another deed.

Captain Torkil had said that any heroes willing to try their talons at the task to go to the Keep and apply with the guards there. After applying, they would be granted audience with the Jarl. As the crowd dispersed, Arcadian looked for the Keep and, once he spotted the massive structure, made a note of where it was.
He hopped off the lamp post and weaved through the crowd, making his way up the hundred-fifty-three steps that formed the front porch of the Keep of the Jarl. The Keep's gates stood large before him, with guards lining each side and cyan and gold-emblazoned banners flying overhead, emphasizing the ultimate strength of the griffons.
About thirteen griffons came through with him, all strutting ahead of him in the halls of the Keep. Some wore fantastic gold baubles, others mere chain-mail, and a few were decked out in heavy plate armor and wielding massive weapons. All were larger than Arcadian, and boasted confidently to each other that they alone would be more than a match for the giant white wolves.
A dirty capall maiden dressed in servant's rags clung to the hall's wall to let them pass and humbly kept her eyes down, but when she saw Arcadian trailing behind them, she looked at him in shock and horror, as though he were completely insane. She pulled him aside and hissed, "What are you doing, following these brutes?"
He told her that he was applying for the Jarl's blessing to kill the giant white wolves. She shook her head vigorously, and in a barely controlled whisper said, "They'll tear you to pieces before the wolves do. Leave now, and go home to Connacht."
Arcadian refused. He forced her to let go of him and trotted to catch up with the griffon braggarts. They filed into a gilded room, in which a marble podium stood, supporting a richly adorned, solid silver throne.

Upon that throne sat a great griffon, with yellow eagle eyes, a scimitar beak, and striking cyan feathers. He tapped his black talons against the arm of his throne and waited for the heroes-in-waiting to quiet down. This was the Jarl Ulricus, and he was a great and terrible lord. He was harsh because he ruled a border city, and he had no patience for ponies, or for meddlesome troublemakers. He prided himself on keeping Fauske in complete order. He thought it self-evident that he was by far the greatest Jarl in the Griffon Kingdom.
For these reasons, he frothed with fury at the wolf problem. How dare they force him to close his north gate? He did not want to send any guards out to kill the wolves, lest some civil unrest erupt in Fauske. He hit upon the solution when he realized that the ones most likely to cause trouble in town would also be the most eager to fight the wolves.
Ulricus sent out Captain Torkil with the message that there would be great rewards for any volunteer who would take care of the problem. He sincerely hoped that from the mighty griffon warriors who frequented his city, at least one would manage to kill the wolves.
Finally, those careless barroom brawlers and haughty sword-slingers would be good for something.

At length, Ulricus stood and he made a grand speech to the heroes gathered there. Arcadian eagerly awaited his orders. His voice swelled and boasted and it filled their hearts with enthusiasm. The griffons beside Arcadian cheered and whistled at the right moments, but Arcadian himself felt very odd. Ulricus' voice made for a moving speech, but he spoke in the Griffon language, and Arcadian could not understand a word he said.
All the griffon warriors had ignored him hitherto, and it seemed that the Jarl had not even registered his presence. He did not once regard Arcadian during his speech. The stallion figured that he would interject at the opportune moment to request the Jarl for permission to take on the wolves.
Ulricus made his speech in ten minutes, and at the closing, he said magnificently, "Har du goden krigmenn noget a spryja?"

Arcadian took this to mean the Jarl would take questions now, and he said, "Aye, sire. I wish to address your magnificence upon this subject."
The Jarl swiveled to address Arcadian's outburst, and he could see Ulricus was entirely stupefied. Upon seeing the capall, somewhat shoddily dressed, in his highlander outfit and his assortment of clothes picked up along his journey, the Jarl narrowed his eyes and clicked his beak.
"Hvad, puny foal? How dare you interrupt me while I am speaking to my subjects? Remove yourself from my presence! I speak now to only the warriors who are here to save this city." He reinforced this message by stomping his rear paw on his podium. He wheeled back to face, pointedly refusing to regard the pony any longer.

Arcadian slammed his buckler down on the cold stone floor with a terrible *crash*, echoing throughout the castle.

The griffons glared at him, the attendants had mouths agape, and Arcadian could see fury in the Jarl's eyes burn more fierce than the fires of Gehenna. Arcadian heard the tramps from the far-off halls, signifying the approach of the Jarl's guards to arrest him promptly. But he did not back down.

Instead he stepped twice forward and said, "My fair and benevolent Jarl, Ulricus the Nebbstreik, I am one among these warriors who wishes to offer my loyalty and services to your magnificent hand, and to slay these foul winter wolves in your name!"
He knelt before the Jarl and bowed his head, not knowing what to expect.

At this point, the Jarl lost his snarl and instead assumed a face of astonishment, which slowly grew into a smirk, then a full grin, before breaking into full, harsh laughter. The other griffons followed suit, whooping and convulsing in merriment. 
Several guards came in the room, led by Captain Torkil, but upon being greeted with such a sight, they merely stood awkwardly, trying to figure out what was happening.
At long last, the Jarl spoke through his patronizing grin, "Oh, is that so, little pals-boll? You seek to kill the wolves yourself? You want to compete with these brawny, experienced griffons of honor, in your pony rustnig and with your pony sverd and on your little pony hovar? You want me to pass up these krigmenn for your puny self? You would die of cold before you saw the beasts! You would lose your way as soon as the city gates closed behind you!"
"You are a fool," he continued. "You are a sorry little thing, and you have no place here. It would be a waste of my breath to even order the opening of the gates for you. Return home, little one, and find some errands to run for your thanes. Fix your walls, slay your pests, farm your land. I will leave the wolves to real warriors."

Arcadian had never been more angry in his life than just then, at what the Jarl said, but with great effort he controlled himself and asked, "Why, wise Jarl, do you dismiss my service thusly? Though it is true I am of less experience and smaller in sheer size than these honorable warriors whom I am humbled to stand near, is that a reason to refuse? Why should your greatest warriors be troubled for something a pony can do for you instead? It would be more convenient, rather than waste the efforts of great griffons on such a frivolous excursion."

The other griffons snickered. The Jarl raised his head haughtily and said, "You dare to presume that a true griffon warrior would refuse to battle a beast because of mere inconvenience! That would be an insult of great proportions, pals-boll!"
"No," he shrugged, "I would never let a lesser animal take away a griffon's birthright to do glorious battle! We say here in the Griffon Kingdom, never send a pony to do a griffon's job."
Arcadian felt his shoulder sagging at this. The proud griffons would never let him prove himself, not so long as one of their own was willing to go. There were thirteen proud warriors there in the room, and one of them would likely kill the wolves before Arcadian got a swing at them.
Ulricus said something in his language to the other griffons, and announced in capallian, "Since we have thirteen contenders, plus our horsa friend here, I will hold a raffle to decide the order of attempts. I am a fair Jarl, and all contenders"—he gave a wink to the griffon warriors, and they dutifully snickered—"will have an equal chance."

All the warriors wrote their names on scraps of parchment, and a raffle was held. The order was written down and announced by Captain Torkil then and there.
As it turned out, Arcadian was sixth to go out of fourteen. The ones who were seventh and onward griped very loudly, but the five first ones assured them that one of them would be sure to kill the wolves before the pony ever got a swing at them.
The first one granted right to leave was a steely-looking griffon with a battle-hammer and a long scar across his face. He left after his name was read, Captain Torkil escorting him to the north gate in all haste. Ulricus told the rest to take the rest of the day off and to wait in case their turn came.
Arcadian left the Keep, returned to the Warm Heart Inn, went to his room, and drew a hot bath. The day was a difficult one, and it had been a while since he had a hot bath.





The next day, Arcadian returned to the castle to see how the battle-hammer griffon had done. To the surprise of he, the Jarl, and the rest of the court, the warrior had not returned since that day. The Jarl announced at midday that it was likely that the brave warrior had been slain. All lowered their heads in honor of the fallen.
Ulricus then gave the second warrior on the list leave. This next one was a Talon-Spear warrior, a mail-sporting, pike-wielding griffon from the river cities, used to long voyages and sea-going raids. He was grey-eyed and sharp-beaked. He too was escorted to the north gate.
Again, all the rest were dismissed for the day. This time, Arcadian took his time to explore the city of Fauske.

He visited its kirk, dedicated to the gods of the griffons. These gods were called the Vanir, and they were managed by priestesses called the völur, who carried great staffs of authority and saw into the realms of beyond. They invited him to make an offering to the Vanir for fortune and glory, but Arcadian politely declined.
He visited the Fauske markets, where he saw a good many things being sold. He found Capallian bronze, Allemane wood, and Equestrian grain all being sold there. A fellow capall told him that the market was a little less full today than usual because of the closing of the north gate. The wolves' effect on the trade which was the lifeblood of Fauske would eventually bleed the city to death, so said he.
He visited with the other capall he met in the city. Though they were not talkative, they were pleasant enough responding to Arcadian's inquiries. Some lived in Fauske year round, and some took seasonal caravans back and forth between their homes down south. However, they confided, they had noticed that even their regular presences in Fauske were getting significantly more resentment from the locals.

Arcadian returned to the inn and ate dinner. He thought perhaps he would make a more friendly host out of the innkeep, so he told him about the list of heroes who were in line to take a swing at the giant wolves. Instead, the innkeep spat in Arcadian's mug of milk, hissing that a mere capall should always go last to give the krigmenn the best shot at honor.
Arcadian shrugged and tossed out the milk. Every hour he spent in the Griffon Kingdom, it seemed, he grew more and more used to the poor treatment. He consoled himself in thoughts of decapitating the tyrant Brandhard and parading his severed head through the streets of Fauske triumphantly. However, he realized that was naught but fantasy at the moment.
He struck up a small conversation with a married couple, blacksmiths both. They were surprisingly friendly to him, and they boasted to him the superiority of griffon metals which were granted to them by the god of steel, Stenhjarta, in the days of the earth-forming. Modestly, Arcadian complimented their work, and the griffons thanked him much for it. He wondered if they were in need of work done, since he might need a way to support himself in a few days, if the wolves were not killed. They told him they could, in fact, use a hoof doing chores so both husband and wife could spend all their time working metal. They bid him good eve and left his company then.
Arcadian finished his dinner and slept with more comfort than the previous day. At least he knew he had a way to earn money should he run out before the wolves were killed.

The next day, once again all the contenders gathered in the Keep to await the return of the hero, and once again he did not return. The Jarl was most puzzled at this, and he clacked his talons impatiently until midday came. He frowned and then announced that it seemed the second contender had also been slain. All bowed their heads in respect for the fallen.
Ulricus gave the third contender permission to exit through the north gate. This hero was a yellow- and white-feathered griffon, boldly dressed in flowing red robes and a suit of gold-plated armor over his shimmering full mail coat. His fur was sleek, and his feathers were trimmed. He drew his golden sword in earnest, and Captain Torkil led him to the north gate.
Once again all the rest of the warriors were dismissed until midday the next day. The rest of the day Arcadian went for a long hike along the south side of Fauske. The mountains had mists surrounding their snowy peaks, and he could see far away, the fogbanks rolling, silently crashing like pillowy waves, into the Langsbrae of Skye.
He thought of the purple heather that lined their mountainsides. He thought of the mysterious Ulster forests. He thought of the wide glens and friendly cities of Connacht.
He thought of his friends whom he had left on his journey, and he thought of his home in Bragn, and as the sun set on the western peak, he wept alone.