pring comes,” announced Olga that morning as she nudged a bowl of steaming porridge into his hands. Mog gazed upon her blearily, hung over and sleepy as he was. Her words rang inside his head, loud and leaden.

“Aye, it follows winter,” he mumbled. Olga sat down across from him, oblivious as always in the face of sarcasm. Norn, he reflected bitterly, had a sense of humor better suited to children. Non sequitur and bodily-functions topped the list of common comedic devices. He fell silent as he sat at the roughhewn table, deciding better of antagonizing his host. Unlike children, Norn could rip off his head without much thought.

“Yes, that is true,” Olga said, her dignified tone almost causing Mog to laugh. He somehow managed to remain silent and unreadable as he shoveled the bland gruel into his mouth and swallowed it with effort. He no longer thought they were stupid. Simple, yes. Their manner of speaking was earnest and grandiose. They valued oaths above mere agreements and believed anything could be solved by contests of strength.

“What causes you to speak of spring?” he asked, deciding to take a more direct approach. He was also learning that the Norn never made idle chatter. If she had observed the arrival of spring and bothered to mention it, there was a reason.

“The passes thaw and the rivers are no longer solid. I have seen your kind stirring in the heights.”

“Where?” he asked, his heart suddenly clenched in his throat.

“I had hoped you would stay, but you will not. You are like Raven. It amuses you to taunt the earthbound creatures with your quick wit, but you will always go back to your own kind.”

“I miss my friends. I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize. Mog Ruith, I cannot keep you here against your will. I will take you to these humans. Perhaps they will guide you back to your kin.”

For the first time he felt a fondness for her, reading in her guileless face a hint of mischief and sadness that he would no longer be sharing her fire.

“I could come back to visit,” he offered by way of apology.

“I would like this,” she replied, “Many of us enjoyed your songs and stories. I fear some may be wroth that I allowed you to go. They do not understand that you do not belong to me. Finish your food. We will prepare for your journey.”

He did as she asked, shoveling the tasteless gruel into his mouth hurriedly as she stalked around the chamber gathering up items and shoving them into a worn leather rucksack.

“No, leave my pipes,” he said as she reached for the crude set he had modified during his stay, “I will come back to play them. Their presence here shall be my promise.”

Olga nodded and smiled. He heard the metallic whisper of a coin pouch being placed inside the sack and was about to protest but she shook her head before setting the bulging pack before him on the table.

“Your tales speak of humans trading honor for money. It may be that you will need this to survive.”

“Thank you,” he replied, humbled once more and regretting that he had thought unkind thoughts about her and her kind. He readied himself for a long journey, donning the heavy furs and leathers that had been donated by the various Norn families in that mountain valley. It was bright and clear when they emerged from the hut and the full blare of the sun felt warm upon his face. The long curtain of icicles that clung to the eaves glistened under a sheen of melt water. The cool air was soft in his lungs.

Olga carried his pack as she hurried him up the narrow trail toward the saddle of spruce trees that marked the low point between two craggy mountains. In the deep patches of shade the snow formed a hard crust but in the open it was damp and heavy, soaking his deerskin boots and leggings. He gazed back at the circle of buildings that had been his home during the long dark winter. Olga nudged his shoulder to hurry him along. There was urgency in her step and her pale eyes scanned the alpine forest anxiously.

The Northern Shiverpeaks were not familiar to him and there had been little call for him to travel there in his youth. Old shrines and temples were scattered throughout the heights, but these were mostly dedicated to Grenth. He had originally considered seeking one and hoping the holy people dwelling there might offer him shelter until he could follow visiting pilgrims back to civilization. As a servant of the Five, it would not be difficult to convince them to help. At least it had never been difficult in the past.

He labored after Olga, regretting that he had imbibed too much that prior night. His head ached as they neared the crest of the hill and gazed down on a deep rut in the snow that had been created by a passing beast. Olga nodded to herself and forged onward, following the track. Once he was beside her he saw the distinct shape of human feet and soon smelled the acrid taint of a campfire.

“They are in the shadows of the trees,” Olga said, a strange huskiness in her voice. It put Mog on edge with its low note of malice. Norn slipped easily between their mild-natured and deadly sides. He had that much in common with them.

“I will go speak to them,” he said even though Olga’s sudden change in demeanor had put him off balance, “Humans tend to fear that which is strange. Perhaps you should hang back.

“I will not let harm come to you,” she said firmly.

“I appreciate that,” he said, then stepped away from her, wandering toward the shelter of the trees. It would not be easy to hide his approach, and probably unwise given that these were strangers, so he walked slowly and boldly, his hands in plain view and his expression neutral.

“Who goes there?” came a man’s voice.

“I am Mog Ruith. We saw your approach from afar,” he said boldly, hoping these strangers would be less inclined to do violence if they believed he had several allies at hand. He reached out to them with his mind, instantly aware of three others. Mog tried to determine their reaction to his approach and was shocked to discover they were pleased to see him, almost as if they had expected it. He found this unnerving and he could imagine no reason why this should be so.

When the rugged figure stepped free of the dimness and faced him, he did not recognize the man. He was thickset and scarred but did not wear the garb of a warrior even though he had the direct and steady gaze of one. Instead he was clad in long robes and furs studded with stylized disks of metal. His fur-lined hood was drawn back to reveal his sun-darkened skin and tightly bound black hair.

“Surely it is the gods who have brought us together this day,” the man said, his voice having a musical quality with its rich Elonian accent, “Come, be our guest. We shall deliver you to your proper place.”

Mog’s mouth became suddenly dry. For a moment words were lost to him and the man must have seen the stricken look on his face for he smiled and bowed.

“Do I know you?” Mog asked.

“No, do not be alarmed, it is simply an Elonian turn of phrase,” said the man with a winning smile. Mog, however, was unconvinced. There was something odd about the way the man smiled at him and he could detect the shifting patterns of deception. He glanced back at Olga and realized, to his dismay, that she was gone. He saw the pack that she had prepared for him lying atop the snow.

“Come, join us at our fire. The journey is long but it will go quickly among good company.”

Mog gathered his pack, gazing back toward the ridge beyond which Olga and her people dwelt. A faint pang of regret caused him to sigh, for he had not gotten to say farewell and on the balance of things, the Norn had been kind to him for all their crassness and bluster. It was ironic now, offered a choice between staying with her kind or traveling with these strangers, he mistrusted his own kind.

Ultimately, however, he was human and he missed his friends and comforts. As uneasy as these people caused him to feel, they were his best chance to find his way home.