laughter.
Moving deeper into the cavern, the first thing I notice is the warmth. This sensation, lost to me for two months, immediately brings back memories of home. Perversely, it is only from stepping into the warm that I realise how very, very cold I actually am. Being able to remove my gloves for the first time in weeks is, surprisingly, almost an emotional experience.
The smell also reminds me of home. It is that healthy, earthy, salty smell that is, perhaps, of nothing in particular other than a person’s home. It is not an especially nice odour but, nevertheless, my sense of smell, somewhat of a luxury sense when compared to the others, has been neglected for a very long time during this frozen journey.
As I begin to adapt to the warmth and smell, I notice to my amazement that the burrow walls actually appear to be constructed rather than dug. The walls are made from brick in the same way that they would be in Tallakarn. The only difference is that instead of the rough stones we use, these stones are perfectly rectangular red stones. I have never seen anything like it.
It also quickly becomes clear just how these savages, surviving in the middle of a frozen waste, appear to be so healthy. Many of the small caves we walk past contain dried or salted meat that they are quite clearly storing for hard times. Although it is not a large complex, every chamber is taken up with evidence of almost boundless industry and resourcefulness; fur coats, skin tents and weapons made from bone seem to almost litter the place.
We are invited to sit when we reach the biggest room, deep underground, lit by fat candles. We are quite taken aback to realise that there are more people tucked away in this cosy and safe room. There is another woman who looks, perhaps, a little younger than the mother of the family that escorted us down. She is nursing a baby. Meanwhile another baby, of toddling age, scurries about on the floor. These three bear a very striking resemblance to the rest of their family. My mind races, trying to work out what the relationships must be.
There is one last individual in the room who, tucked away in the corner, is quite clearly not related. He is, perhaps, a teenager, and it is by him that I am probably most intrigued. He does not resemble anyone that I’ve ever seen previously; his eyes and hair both seem to glow in an unsettlingly bright chestnut tone. On his shoulder is a branded mark that I can scarcely make out through the firelight; it is the face of a ram.
“Hi,” says Morrigan, raising a friendly hand, once more forgetting how unlikely it is that anyone will understand.
“Hi?” replies the unusual teenager, seeming surprised to understand us. At this realisation, he suddenly springs up, filled with almost as much excitement as we are.
“You speak our language?” I ask, suspiciously. Now that he is standing, moving towards us, I can see that instead of looking plump like ‘his family’, he is instead compact and muscular. His copper features are striking, frightening even. Despite our common language, he does not look like someone from our kingdom.
“Yes…” The answer seems to surprise even him. “But I don’t know how… Where are you from?” The language falls from his mouth in an unnatural and stilted way, in the manner of someone who is speaking a language that they do not fully understand – in the manner that one of our people may speak Bwlch or Kernowek, for instance.
The host, seemingly insulted at the strange little sideshow, gestures brusquely for the boy to sit. He then shouts something at his wife, gesticulating enthusiastically. The boy sits once more, but not where he had been. Instead, he seats himself across from us in the loose circle that the room naturally forms.
“Do you understand this chap?” asks Morrigan, more quietly, gesturing to our host.
“Yes…” The boy’s reply, once again, sounds confused and unsure.
“Then tell him we’re sorry. And thank
Moving deeper into the cavern, the first thing I notice is the warmth. This sensation, lost to me for two months, immediately brings back memories of home. Perversely, it is only from stepping into the warm that I realise how very, very cold I actually am. Being able to remove my gloves for the first time in weeks is, surprisingly, almost an emotional experience.
The smell also reminds me of home. It is that healthy, earthy, salty smell that is, perhaps, of nothing in particular other than a person’s home. It is not an especially nice odour but, nevertheless, my sense of smell, somewhat of a luxury sense when compared to the others, has been neglected for a very long time during this frozen journey.
As I begin to adapt to the warmth and smell, I notice to my amazement that the burrow walls actually appear to be constructed rather than dug. The walls are made from brick in the same way that they would be in Tallakarn. The only difference is that instead of the rough stones we use, these stones are perfectly rectangular red stones. I have never seen anything like it.
It also quickly becomes clear just how these savages, surviving in the middle of a frozen waste, appear to be so healthy. Many of the small caves we walk past contain dried or salted meat that they are quite clearly storing for hard times. Although it is not a large complex, every chamber is taken up with evidence of almost boundless industry and resourcefulness; fur coats, skin tents and weapons made from bone seem to almost litter the place.
We are invited to sit when we reach the biggest room, deep underground, lit by fat candles. We are quite taken aback to realise that there are more people tucked away in this cosy and safe room. There is another woman who looks, perhaps, a little younger than the mother of the family that escorted us down. She is nursing a baby. Meanwhile another baby, of toddling age, scurries about on the floor. These three bear a very striking resemblance to the rest of their family. My mind races, trying to work out what the relationships must be.
There is one last individual in the room who, tucked away in the corner, is quite clearly not related. He is, perhaps, a teenager, and it is by him that I am probably most intrigued. He does not resemble anyone that I’ve ever seen previously; his eyes and hair both seem to glow in an unsettlingly bright chestnut tone. On his shoulder is a branded mark that I can scarcely make out through the firelight; it is the face of a ram.
“Hi,” says Morrigan, raising a friendly hand, once more forgetting how unlikely it is that anyone will understand.
“Hi?” replies the unusual teenager, seeming surprised to understand us. At this realisation, he suddenly springs up, filled with almost as much excitement as we are.
“You speak our language?” I ask, suspiciously. Now that he is standing, moving towards us, I can see that instead of looking plump like ‘his family’, he is instead compact and muscular. His copper features are striking, frightening even. Despite our common language, he does not look like someone from our kingdom.
“Yes…” The answer seems to surprise even him. “But I don’t know how… Where are you from?” The language falls from his mouth in an unnatural and stilted way, in the manner of someone who is speaking a language that they do not fully understand – in the manner that one of our people may speak Bwlch or Kernowek, for instance.
The host, seemingly insulted at the strange little sideshow, gestures brusquely for the boy to sit. He then shouts something at his wife, gesticulating enthusiastically. The boy sits once more, but not where he had been. Instead, he seats himself across from us in the loose circle that the room naturally forms.
“Do you understand this chap?” asks Morrigan, more quietly, gesturing to our host.
“Yes…” The boy’s reply, once again, sounds confused and unsure.
“Then tell him we’re sorry. And thank
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