Unnamed

Black Capped Chickadee

Meat

This songbird has an excellent memory, so the survivors of its flock surely won't forget you.

15

2

Stormcaller

Ariadoc has been many things. He was once a bard of the Zephyr Steppes, then traded his lyre for a mantle and rosary. His life as a priest taught him that folk would believe anything if it made their lives seem more meaningful. One fateful journey across the southern sea, he was blown off-course, and landed by sheer luck upon a frozen, desolate isle. Yet his luck ended there: of all the isles in all the seas, he had chanced upon the one inhabited by a cannibals tribe. Ariadoc had no intention of joining the thousands of bones that littered the rocky shore- he used his training as priest to convince the flesh-eaters that he possessed knowledge of the future, and that he could guide them to glory and providence.

His prophecies were vague enough to convince the meanest brutes of his powers, and soon he gained an audience with their leader. Tasting freedom, he made a foolish mistake- concocting some story of untold riches and certain victory, he convinced the chieftain to challenge a rival tribe across the waters in the hopes of raising enough outrage towards his captors that retribution- and his rescue- would eventually come. Raiders were dispatched to the mainland, and became lost amidst the mountains. Only half returned, their forces crushed by the civilized Ice clans of the coast. Filled with wrath, the chieftain gouged out Ariadoc's eyes, and cast him into a deep pit to be fattened.

It was then that Ariadoc went mad. Or at least, so he thought at the time. Feverish from his wounds, it seemed he had begun to hear voices on the wind. It was faint, as the pit blocked out most noise, but it was persistent. Soon other sounds resolved themselves- the crackle of bonfires, the cries of gulls, and the crashing of the waves far away. He recognized the voices as members of the tribe. Straining his hearing, he found that he could detect other strange noises. The drone of bees in the field, the lowing of elk- but how could this be? The isle was barren, devoid even of weeds. He must be mad.

The wind brought him sounds from all around- hushed words spoken between the flesh-eaters at night, and further away, across the sea, the creak of sails and the barking of orders. A force was massing on the mainland. Though it had been many months, it would appear that the ill-fated raid had not gone unnoticed by the coastal Ice kingdoms. Ariadoc bided his time, refusing his food as he listened to the fleet draw near. Finally morning dawned, and he did not need to strain to hear the panic rippling throughout the camp. Ships had been sighted on the horizon. In desperation, the chieftain demanded answers of his so-called oracle. Ariadoc merely smiled. They'd made him more a prophet than they knew.

When the last of the flesh-eaters had fallen, and their bodies put to the torch alongside the bones of all their victims, the invaders happened upon an emaciated ridgeback, standing tall at the bottom of a foul pit amidst the middens. The leader of the troupe, an imperial of frigid temperament, offered Ariadoc a place in his fleet. They had lost their storm-caller in the attack, and needed a new mage to put wind in their sails. No longer a bard, no longer a priest, and barely a prophet, Ariadoc agreed. No god had saved him- his faith had been laid to rest at the bottom of that pit months ago. But he still had loyalty, and a will to live, so he would cast his lot with this unknown savior.

He would, in time, become a trusted member of his captain's retainer, valued as much for his council as for his strange abilities. His communion with the wind only grew stronger. Among the fleet it was said that, perhaps one day, he would simply become one with the wind and be gone.