Part 1

In the morning, after the meeting of the Gods the night before and Vordea’s return to Karand, there was a commotion in the inn around where Vordea left her claymore Orenmir embedded in the ground, as a promise to return and a threat that she had returned. Vaust, still playing Innkeeper, chuckled as usual, refused to explain the sword, or how it appeared in the Inn.

“Come on man, tell us how it got here!” one of the travellers was at the bar, asking the Innkeeper about it.

“The sword? Whatever do you mean?” Vaust asked, smiling as he prepared breakfasts.

“You know, the one embedded in your floor up to its hilt right there?” the traveller responded, gesturing at Orenmir. “The one with the ominous sigils carved on the hilt? The one that gives off the feeling of creeping dread if you look at it for too long? That one?”

Vaust sighed. If he answered the questions it would raise questions as to who he was, but if he didn’t answer them they wouldn’t stop. He thought for a moment, then realized he had an out. His bookshelves would give him plausible deniability and Eigengrau could plant evidence.

“Alright. I’ll tell you what I know. Get everyone to shut up and gather around the banquet table. I’ve got a tale.” Vaust said, motioning toward the long table.

Word spread that the famously opaque Innkeeper was actually going to talk about something interesting quickly. The crowd of thirty to forty people gathered around the table, with Vaust himself sitting at the head of the table.

“So, you’re wondering about the claymore in my floor. First, let me ask you all a question. What do you know of the Primordial Goddess of Change, Vordea?” he said after a short silence.

Various answers came in, all of them invariably mundane and bland things about Vordea written in the old history books. Her purview, the creation myth, her High Priestess. Vaust chuckled at all the falsehoods.

“What if I told you that claymore embedded over a metre into my floor right now is the legendary blade Orenmir? Have you heard of this sword?” Vaust responded, folding his arms. He heard a shout from the back from a Dwarven Templar.

“The fabled claymore of Vordea herself?” the Templar yelled. “The blade that slew Agbus at the dawn of time?”

Vaust nodded his head. “Yes, that blade.” Vaust got up and walked over to Orenmir, the ornate hilt emitting a soft black glow, kneeling down at the claymore, he pointed at parts of the handle. “See the sigils on the hilt? This is the binding spell Vordea herself forged on her own powers after the death of Agbus.”

“But if this is truly Orenmir,” the Dwarven Templar began, but was interrupted by Vaust.

“Don’t speculate. Think about what this means.” Vaust said, walking back to the table. He smiled despite himself when he saw the Templar’s eyes grow wide.

“Vordea, in all depictions of her throughout the ages, has always been with her massive sword, taller than lithe goddess herself. Now if it is as you say and a self-inflicted wound on her power, then what we felt last night was the Goddess herself.”

Vaust nodded. Now to inject an altered first person account, he thought. “I was still awake when it happened, you know. Was hauling up kegs from the basement.” He saw everyone stop murmuring and look intently at him. “No, I didn’t see it happen. But I felt it. Like a great monster descended upon the world. In all my years I have never felt anything like it. Now that I think of it though,” he began, suddenly remembering something very important. “Wasn’t there a Vordean Priest in the Inn last night? Has anyone seen him?”

“I’ve been meaning to mention that,” a ranger said, raising his hand then stepping forward. “I found him nearly catatonic in his bed earlier. He just kept repeating ‘she has returned’.”

Vaust visibly paled at this. They forgot to check for priests before approving Vordea’s entry. Showtime, he thought, tapping his foot 6 times on the floor. With a creak, the front door of the Inn fell over and Eigengrau floated in and stopped at the sword. The gathered patrons turned to look at Eigengrau, and Vaust slipped into the shadows.

Eigengrau was confused. Orenmir was interfering in her ability to enter the mortal realm. No matter how she walked the path was barred by the claymore. So she grabbed hold of the sword, and felt something she had never felt before: Pain. Sensing that screaming would probably immediately kill everyone on Karand, she endured, and collapsed onto the floor, forcing herself into the mortal realm. Her hoarfrost which normally appears in response to her physical presence was in a much smaller area than usual, but much thicker, nearly ankle deep.

“Lady Eigengrau?” the Templar asked, getting closer than anyone else.

“I appreciate your concern, Yurn, but I am unharmed.” Eigengrau said, remaining seated on the floor but leaning against the claymore. “I will speak for Vordea. The Taciturn Goddess walks the land not as the Goddess of Change, but as the God of All-Creation itself, her power unchained for the first time since Agbus died. She has prey, pray you are not it.”

Eigengrau closed her eyes and rested against the sword, its divine shackle completely ineffectual against her. Perhaps some rest is good every few millennia, she thought, ignoring the cries and pleading of the troublesome mortals in the Inn. Why does Vaust do this? She hummed a tuneless song and her frost engulfed her and the sword, encasing them in the ice. The mortal world can wait, she thought. I can return later.