They were at a fire again, its flames a beacon of light and warmth against the dark and the cold.  Winter have arrived, and with it the dragons had withdrawn into their lairs, retreating away from the cold that seemed to freeze their fire.  To Keto it seemed a respite, a time to take a breath, and she had smiled at the sight of the forces they had gathered leaving campy to return to theirs families, amongst their packs the rations paid out to see them through the winter.  While some did stay, drilling in the dark of winter before the fresh battles of spring, for most it meant time for a little peace and a time to celebration surviving another year.

The Bard had thought to go with some of them but the training sounded stuffy, nothing there for a song, and while the return of soldiers to children and families was tempting, it also seemed something unbefitting of interruption.  So, she had opted to stay with him.  To see how it was that the Last Landian spent his winter and to see if she could coax a few more words, a few more stories, from him.

So far it had been cold.

The Landian seemed restless in the time of year where everything else seemed to take a step back, to take stock.  She wondered at his activity, if it was a lesson learned fighting in his Cycle.  If perhaps winter had offered opportunities he was loath to not pursue, an easier time to gather info on dens and numbers, to land a calculated strike that would pay dividends in the warmer months.  She wondered more pragmatically if the Last Landian’s activity was a way to avoid thoughts of his past, of a time when he still had friends and kin to celebrate with.  So, Keto stayed with Quartes as he had moved about.  Mostly, they stayed  in the area around Kol Tailen where the dragon had taken its winter refuge.  With her he delved into a few dens, found packs of Kercs and the occasional Hagerc and silently put them to the blade.  He was a shadow in the winter, the snow padding his footsteps into deaf echoes, with newly fallen snow and the shorts days giving hiding all signs of his presence.

A fire was a necessity but one Quartes avoided as much as possible.  Diligently planning where he would light them, and only when he was confident that it would draw no predators nor inform prey of his coming.  He was tending a stew in its pot, she was tuning her lyre.  They had moved away from Kol Tailen in the last few days.  His most recent lair diving had found a pack of Hagarcs still awake, and even the Last Landian had to pause at times to heal.  She sang the note as she tuned her instrument and smiled when it drew his gaze.

“It should nearly be midwinter you know,” she noted from across the fire.

“I do,” he answered, returning the lid to the pot.  “Time is not our ally before spring comes.”

She frowned.  His single-mindedness had stymied their conversations for the last week.  With him injured it left Keto further worried.  “Do you know that many in this area, yours truly included, celebrate a festival around this time of year.”  She looked at him when he didn’t respond.  His gaze was off into the mid-distance and her frown deepened.  She put down her instrument.  “You do know festivals?  Dancing, drinking, gift giving, someone getting a chance to play music for a crowd?”  She exaggerated the last point.

Her pedantic tone brought his gaze around, a small smirk crossing his lips.  “I have lived enough to know what a festival is.”

“Good, I think we should go to one.  There’s a decent size town on the edges of Koric called Cedarspoke.  It’s probably only a couple days away.  We can catch their festivities if we head out tomorrow.”

He had sat back as she spoke, that grim line of his face deepening a little bit.  She wasn’t shocked at the answer when it came.  “Thinning the dragonkin numbers in the Winter saves lives in the Spring, gives us a better chance at the dragon this year.”

“I’m asking for a few days Quartes,” after a pause she added,  “for the both of us.”  Her blunt tone gave him further pause.  His brow furrowed.

“Not being seen in the winter creates an image problem?”

She smiled at his recollection of past debates.  A breath further helped to calm her rising frustration.  “I rather think it matches the image.  No, I think not doing this creates a you problem.  I know you’re focused on what can be done to stop the ending of this Cycle, but in that focus I think you forget what there is in the world besides the fight.  Maybe your legend will protect you but you’re hurt now and I think a break will good for you both your body and mind”  His gaze had shifted to the fire, his scarred hands coming together as he watched the flames.  She leaned around the flames, so as to see him without the distortions of their heat.  “And I’m guessing you haven’t been to a festival since the end of the last age.”

The hint of a smirk returned, “Stopping attacks on ones not counting.”

“They do not.”

“Then you’d be guessing correct.”

“Good,” she smiled, “I think you could use a reminder of what life is when you won’t be able to do this any more and I could use a bath, more drink, and the warmth of a fire kept indoors.”

* * * * * 

They set out the next morning, turning west and picking up a section of the old Greenway, not that it could be called that this time of year.  As they neared Koric and the old road picked up the smaller roads and trails that met it, the fresh snow packed into ice and the ground beneath turned to mud.  Their pace slow but Keto was in familiar territory now and she took them down a nearly rutted out side road.  It wasn’t much longer into that day before they could catch the smell of their destination.  Cedarspoke was known for its orchards and even in the winter the notes of fruit turning slowly to wine pressed into the air.  It’s reputation for wine is what had first brought Keto here a few years ago, had kept her staying through winter and enjoying its festival.

“So you’ve never had a rum pot?”  She asked, the offense clear in her voice.

“That was my answer.  What is it?”  She had cast a glance towards him, his gaze had continued to move around but it lingered more so than it normally would.  It occurred to Keto that Quartes may have never been here, that he was having to take in fully vice just checking.  It was a strange thought but she supposed Illithiust was big.

“So, the orchards are big about here, mostly wine but not only, there’s apples, plumbs, and such.  A lot of the harvests come at different times and the cuisine adjusts to match.  However, good seasons and harvest will produce extra and so the locals had to come up with a means to keep it all from rotting on them.”

“Some apples can last a year or more.”

Keto straightened and looked at the Landian, his gaze was pointedly looking off to the side.  “How do you…nevermind.  So, most of the fruit doesn’t last long but besides wine they also make brandy and rum.  So they’ll take the fruit, boiling some of it down into sugar and use that and the liquor to top off the remainder of the fruit.”

“That keeps it from turning?”

“They say it hides the fruit from the Fey that would ruin it.”  The Landian voiced acknowledgement and Keto continued, “The best part though is at the end of the year, when everything else is running short, they break out these rum pots.”  She turned towards him now, walking sideways.  “So think about it, thick boozy syrup, heated over the flames so the temperature and the alcohol warm you up.  Eaten on the last of bread or what have you.”

“Good decisions from the spring coming back to save you through the winter,” Quartes observed.

Keto stopped in her tracks, the Landian carrying on ahead of her for a couple of paces before stopping.  She saw the small smile on his face when he turned back to her.  “Sometimes, you’re more devious than I think you’ve been given credit for.”

“I’m simply learning.  So, is there something special about the rum pots here?”

“There is,” Keto started again as she caught up with the Landian, “the families here each make a special batch during the year, which they share as part of their winter festival.”

“Ah.”

“They also tend to break out some of the young wine from this year.”

“Ah,” the Landian noted again, a bit more emphasis this time.  “I think I see the appeal.”

Keto ignored him, “It’s a time for some final festivities, dancing, games, and music before waiting through the slow return of the lighter days.”  She turned sideways to watch him again, “Plus, music means work for me which has been lacking for a while.”

“I thought we were working on our plan, plus the soldiers seemed to enjoy the song.”

“The soldiers don’t pay much, and you don’t at all.”

“Here I thought I’d convinced Brokel to allow wine in the camps.”

“The people sent out for supplies have bad tastes.  You’re missing the point though.  Between the young wine and the shared pots, there’s a mingling of old and new.  Songs sung over the year, refined and tested, are sung again as a final sendoff and new songs are tested to replace them.  Musicians and poets will bring work that may not quite be ready to see how it does, to perfect it over the rest of the year before sharing it once more at the next festival.”

“What are you thinking of sharing?”

“You,” she noticed and had not quite expected the stutter in his step at her answer.  “I’m going to show them what it means to know the Last Landian.”  Quartes had stopped and turned to face her.

“Keto…” he started but she interrupted.

“The Landian of old and what he can bring anew.”