The north of Io, a sad and dreary expanse of frosted ground be speckled both with withered fields and the sour faced people who worked them. A hard and unrefined place of rough edges and harsh truths, however a week in the saddle and it well represented my mood.

I had met a caravan on my first night out from home. While the moon was beginning its slow climb out from under the horizon, they appeared at my hearth, all wide smiles and kind words. A family of seven with oxen and luggage trailing merrily behind. I later learned, after we decided to share camp in the interests of communal safety, that they were journeying to a recently granted tithe on the shores of the ice bite. The father, being a minister of overwhelming capability, had proved himself deserving within the walls of Io.

Upon discovery of said shared destination I was offered a place in their trek and together we began a journey of much pleasantness. It was, sadly, not to last as three days into our march, three grand days of teaching the children to sing, as best I could anyway, and lounging in the splendorous collection of stories and gossip Hans, (the father) had accrued, their carriage, in which was housed the children and possessions, broke a wheel on a testament to our nations decline, a pothole on the northern highway.

I wish I could have stayed with them as they repaired it, but with the meeting, prearranged a week from my outset, hanging heavy in my mind, I forced myself onward. Looking back with conflicted gaze at the kind knot of waving figures as they faded into the foggy haze of the northern morning.

The roads when alone are a grim affair. Grubby men carrying heavy loads sneer upward at those who ride and with the bannermen and lords sequestered away in their war the before distant threat of banditry worms its way into the forefront of my imaginings. I have traded a world of safety and stone to one were a hare in the grass conjures images of grinning brigands and wicked blades. The memory of you gives me the strength to go on, though it does little to steady my hands.

You can envision my relief then when the sprawling collection single storied buildings of stubborn construction rose in the distance, the sight of them finally making real the promise of safety at which their plumes of chimney smoke had before hinted. I had reached the outskirts of Siess.

The city derived its name from the fort at its centre. Fitting really for that nasty collection of black stone towers and halls was the beating heart from which all life here flowed. The place was reminiscent in some ways of an army camp, with all the inhabitants catering to the military mustering point of the empire. I’m sure our current state of mobilisation didn’t help the situation at all though.

And yet as I rode through those bustling streets thronged with the clanging clamour and acrid smoke of the many smithies and the calling, gyrating women who stood outside the brothels I couldn’t help but feel enthused and, peculiarly, welcome.

The road had been cold and silent. Reminiscent of a home now made an unyielding construct of crushing loneliness. And yet this city, vulgar as it was, still remained the first place of laughter and earnest joy I had immersed myself in in long a time.

And so It was with an old, reborn smile that I did tie up father’s horse and stride through the threshold into the Black Hand Inn. The arranged place of meeting with the group of hunters who shared its name.

The ground floor was a place of pungent odour and obscured vision. Clouds of pipe smoke swirled through the dimly lit area, unacknowledged by the many raucous patrons who crowded the bar and tables, shouting and hooting to one another over steaming mugs and grey, leathery meat.

I pushed my way through the crowd, attempting to perform a pantomime of father’s domineering strut. I’m unsure of how well it worked for no matter my walk it seemed inevitable that I would be caught in the mosh of the crowd of shoving, burly figures reaching for another round. However with the help of shard elbows and unflinching resolve I soon reached the life raft that was the damp wood of the bar counter.

The man of wiry beard and disarmingly soft eyes who catered to the outstretched hands of the masses took his time in reaching me, dealing first with the grasping wall of customers, sending them off with yet more mugs of the undisclosed drink. But when he did arrive and received my hushed whisper of intent he leant back and, after an appraising gaze and flash of unknowable expression, ushered me to a door at the far end of the inn from the bar, cleaving a path though the patrons at a far faster rate than I had. I suppose I now know how accurate my impersonation was.

After reaching the door he pushed me through with downcast eyes, then closed it as he ran back to his bar, shutting me into a chamber of shadowy environs. Locked in as I now felt I began to second guess my decision of coming here. But almost as if called you flashed across my mind and with renewed courage did I call out a challenge to the overwhelming din. Then I waited, though not for long.

For from behind me, for I had now advanced further into that mute void, did a cold tongue of steel caress its way across the soft flesh of my neck, its cold embrace quickly evaporating the steel of my nerves.

“Why have you sought us out?” Spoke the blade, and thus was I first introduced to the Black Hand Hunters.

- Isabella