Prologue

Prophetic Dreams and Humble Meetings

Autumn arrived without delay. The broadleaf oak shed its color to leave only the deep green of the pine, and each morning the sun chased off the evening's frost, the spindled fingers of winter reaching out to choke the unprepared. Six souls stirred restless after another night on the road. For some the cold was unfamiliar, having never been north of the Surbrin, for others it was all they knew. Though they did not travel together, nor share the road nor camp at night, their destination was the same and their fates would soon rest upon each other’s strength of will.

Fabian could still hear the old woman’s voice in her head as clear as when she’d dreamt it. But that hadn’t been a dream, she reminded herself. She reached into the coin purse belted tight to her waist for the tarokka card, almost surprised to find it still there. 
She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and kept her pace. Farm work had prepared her for long walks such as this, and though the road had been slowly climbing for two days, it had not slowed her pace. Perhaps her continued strength was a result of the restful nights propped up on fir trunks, the first in months without the haunting dream for which she now journeyed so far from home.
In the dream she’d had nightly for months, an old woman in red silks called her name, her face hidden behind a darkened veil. The smell of burning sage stung her nostrils and the woman’s wavering whisper filled Fabian’s mind. The whisper spoke of her past, memories she’d herself forgotten, stories that no other soul could know. She spoke of destiny and magic, promised answers to her questions, the fulfillment of her fate.
Every night Fabian demanded a straight answer, an end to the riddles and games, but just then she would awake with only the smell, lingering.
But in the final dream, Fabian demanded and was not awoken. The woman answered, "I see your mother, she stirs with a dark secret she never gave you. I can point you to this secret - I can help you recover a piece of yourself you never knew you lost - but only if you seek out my fire.
“Seek the Diviner, the Executioner and Thief, the Guild Member, and the Seer. You will find them in the Nightmare’s Stable, in the town of Daggerford. Then you must seek out the traveling man of many colors. His song will guide you to me, and I will show you what you cannot find."
On the third day a haze descended from the snowy mountains into the wood around her. She’d long ago left the traveled road for the impression of a path cut through the dense trees, and it led her to the crest of a hill where she saw the town of Daggerford below. It was built astride the River Ivlis, a proud title for a meager brook formed from a thousand beads of snowmelt high in the mountains to the north. They towered over the village, the dozen buildings crowded around each other as if huddled for warmth.
But amidst the brown cabins and viridescent hills stood a red-striped tent and three pack-laden carriages, a faded cerulean. Fabian raised an incredulous brow. The imminent snowfall was sure to make this region unpleasant for travel, and backcountry shepherds carry light purses, if they carry them at all. Any twopence mummer’s troupe knew not to venture north of the Old Wood, let alone a group so regarded for their craft as the Vistani.
Fabian recognized the vessels of the Vistani from story alone, and half-remembered tales of the curse that forced them to wander rootless brought the ache of pity to her heart. A great sense of importance gripped her being this close to her destination. Somehow her doubt and uncertainty only emboldened her as she descended the hill into town.

At the squeaky moan of weathered wood, Ante looked up from the counter where he prepared the day's turnip stew to see a proud woman standing in the doorway of his tavern, the Nightmare's Stable. The name he never thought much of, it was a joke told so long ago he struggled to remember the punchline, but in all his years as a tavern keep in Daggerford he had never seen a day more peculiar than this one. 
The woman paused in the doorway and scanned his dining room, her eyes likely adjusting to the dark. She stood proud, face long and deeply creased for someone shy of 30. She had a regal presence about her, though nothing of her physique spoke of the effortless life of nobility. Her dark hair fell to the shoulders of her simple traveling tunic, but Ante spied the sword sheathed on her belt, and the rimmed shield slung over her pack. Tell-tale signs of a mercenary, or perhaps adventurer if one's feeling romantic. He knew these signs because Fabian was in fact entering like-wise company.
Seated at the far end of the benched table that took up much of the tavern were three equally out-of-place travelers nursing cups of cider in anxious silence. A young half-elf with pitch black hair and piercing yellow eyes whispered something to his companion, an even younger woman, face concealed by a green-eyed cowl. She nodded and took a sip of cider, as her friend sat upright and motioned Fabian over. Not that there was anyone else in the tavern she could have possibly approached incorrectly, but still, Fabian appreciated the invitation. The third was a dwarf of a man, shaved completely bald and draped in metal tools and implements holstered to countless loops and pockets of his leather apron, as if a witch had brought to life a wind chime and taught it to stand completely still. He sat noticeably apart from the others and merely stroked his pointed goatee as Fabian approached.
"Good evening friend," the dark-haired man spoke jovially, "I assume you've come with a card?"
As he asked, he pulled a single tarokka card from the breast of his fur lined cloak. Torn and stained though it was, Fabian could see the familiar hooded face of the Executioner.
"I have, friend." Fabian produced her card from its hidden pouch and held it up in turn, the Shepherd. "I can only assume you've all received one? And perhaps in a less than ordinary manner?" she asked.
The young woman smiled and quick as lightning produced the Thief, conjuring it from the back of her hand with a flourish. The dwarf silently slid his card across the table, the metal tools clinking softly as he moved. It was the Guild Member.
"Athrin Oakwing is my name," the Executioner said. His thin eyebrows curled up when he smiled, giving every phrase an uncertain edge.
"I'm Fabian Tomas." She held out her hand to shake, but Athrin merely glanced down at it blankly, then returned her stare.
"Eliza Valdemar." The Thief leaned in and clasped her hand firmly. "You might get used to him, you might not."
Fabian moved to take a seat, turning to the dwarf, "And you?"
"Dyson's fine." His voice was kurt and quiet. He ignored her outstretched hand to raise his cider to his mouth, then wiped his mustache clean with his lower lip.
Put off, and feeling somewhat intentionally so, Fabian sat upon the bench in silence. The barkeep came by with a bowl of still-warm turnip soup and a mug of cider and walked back to his seat with three of Fabian’s copper bits.

Greetings, others enter, everyone is cagey, decide to check out the tent

Meeting Stanimir and his Vistani family, exchanging stories and agreeing to go with him

Travel to the gates, departing Stanimir with his excuse as to why

Svalich woods first impressions, smelling the messenger, searching the body

Building storm clouds, wolf howls and sun setting

See the first house and run to the children on the stoop