You may know him as Brave Kelwas from the time he stood tall, staff in hand, to defend his village from mounted raiders, as wild-eyed and shaggy as their horses.

You may know him as Strong Kelwas for how he lifted the heaviest bells used to weigh everything from beets big and red as beating hearts; to cave-shark roe, kept in brine and scooped out of barrels to glitter like sapphires on the scales; to the fiercest of goshawks, glaring at handler and buyer alike with its jesses trailing. Kelwas lifted and juggled even the heaviest bells, tossing them in high arcs and catch them, laughing and inviting the otherwise indifferent crowds at market to sample his wares.

You may even know him as Kelwas the Golden and be forgiven for thinking it was for his long braid and drooping moustaches, both the deep amber color of honey. But no - he was not fair as a sunrise across the steppe, chasing off Old Gaunt's cloak, no. Though his hair was dark as a crow's wing, his voice was clear and resonant as the bells that call pilgrims to Holy Mirdhras and it was said his singing could make birds on the wing swoop down to listen.

As any hero of the common people, names followed Kelwas like a flock led to pasture, but today we will know him as Kelwas Ironwood. So named for his quarterstaff - so often used in lieu of a shepherd's crook, for wolves prowled the steppes - which rebuffed both errant knight and his sword.

On this day of days, Kelwas was at the Khaimestaz Market, smiling and singing in rhythm with each launch of a weighted bell. The past day's rains had been chased away by the bright sun, and the wind leapt from stall to stall, making the colorful tarps flutter like pennants. The feel of the wind and the sun on his face after such a long and bitter winter was enough for song to bubble up from his broad chest, even if sheep were his only audience. It wasn't until the monks hammered out the noon-day hour from atop their rolling shrine that Kelwas realized the muddy paths should have been thronging with people.

He hailed a caravan guard squelching past, his dark and sun-cracked face long with boredom.

"What goes?" Kelwas gestured at the empty stalls.

"Raiders is what I heard."

The market was some distance from surrounding villages, but no tatters of smoke marred the bright sky. The previous days' rains had prevented any fires from catching for long. Kelwas wished he could have done something to help the villagers, but even if he had known which of the several villages had been attacked, he wasn't Old Sirzei, measuring the threads of fate between her gums, and able to appear the instant before this or that event and alter what could or would into what will happen. Kelwas left, resigned to the flapping his empty coin pouch made with every step. He guided his flock onto the narrow road back to his village, singing all the way.

To get back, though, Iron Kelwas and his flock followed the road until it passed through the Wildwoods. There, even the wide, dusty road shrank to a mere footpath before the gnarled boles of trees older than the first axe. You have no doubt heard many a dark tale about the Wildwoods. It is a fey place, and parts of it drift into the otherworld, and if the tales of that place are to be believed, plunge into those untamed lands the closer to its heart one wanders. The part Kelwas passed through was but a far-off arm of the greater forest, its trees dozing fitfully and dreaming green dreams - perhaps of a world free of axes and fires and the human beings who wielded these hated things. The flock crowded close to each other, silent but for the clop of their hooves under those deep shadows. Even Kelwas felt the silence weigh on him, the song he had been singing - full of fresh breezes bending the heads of wheat and sunlight streaming down from a clear and cloudless sky - became a low whisper. He cleared his throat and raised his voice for the next verses:

Brother, O brother
Don’t hang your head
You knew, O you knew
We’d cut you down dead

Brother, O brother
I’ve sharpened my scythe
I’ve come, O I’ve come
To turn death to life

Brother, O brother
I’m hanging my head
And mill, O I mill
Your bones for my bread

A low breeze sighed through the leaves, setting the trees to whisper among themselves. Ahead, the path narrowed as if the forest itself wanted to squeeze the life out of it. Kelwas was forced to prod his sheep - frozen in place but for their trembling - ahead. As if an unseen door had opened, they came upon a clearing.

A horseman, all in black, a cloak of raven's feathers draped over his shoulders, blocked the way.

Kelwas moved to put himself between the volgatyr - for it was clear the horseman was one of that once-noble order - and his flock. He planted the heel of his staff and raised his hand in greeting.

"Well-met, good ser! How goes your search?" 

As many of you certainly know from your babkas, Kelwas offered the horseman the traditional greeting to volgatyrii, charged with seeking out the World Stone and collect a few drops of the waters springing from it so their long-slumbering liege lord might be healed and awaken once again. Instead of responding with a greeting of his own, the horseman laughed with a sound like a whetstone scraping against steel.

"My brothers and I turned from that path long ago." His voice was a harsh croak. "Hungry work," he said, looking past Kelwas to his flock.

Ah, you may think you are clever, and in a rush to show others just how clever whisper to whoever may listen, with the raven feather cloak and the knight's croaking voice, it is clear this is a symbolic retelling - perhaps of the Rimelands War, when the enemy pulled their longboats across the frozen land like sledges, their raven banners fluttering in the wind. Yes, to hear the sages tell it, that old battle threatened the Riverlands, and yes - the Rimelanders are truly so fierce and fearsome their women fight alongside their most seasoned warriors, but this knight is not a symbol for them, no. He was - as your own white-haired babka surely told you - one of the raven-born, great-grandson to Grandmother Owl (herself a granddaughter to the Tziren who guards the gates to the Night Lands) and sent to vex the people of the Riverlands for an ancient grudge. What that grudge is, however, is a story for another time.

Kelwas fought the urge to bring his staff up into a defensive position, afraid that any such movement would doom them to a physical confrontation with no further chance to talk. Instead, he whistled through his teeth, the high note lingering in the stillness.

The horseman laughed. "You're far from help, friend. My men crave mutton, roasted over an open fire, juices running into the flames to make them pop and sizzle."

"Then they shall have to learn to gather acorns and gnaw on old roots," Kelwas said, raising his staff with both hands. "For they'll not have mutton today."

The horseman hunched over his saddle, eyes glittering with malice before he bowed his head and shook with laughter. "You have made me laugh, friend. For that, I'll cut you down quick and not let Old Gaunt linger while I have my fun."

He drew his curved blade, spurring his horse to ride down Kelwas.

The thunder of hooves, the horseman's blade as he swung it in a gleaming arc, bracing for the blow to skitter along the length of his staff became Kelwas' whole world.

Until a gray blur darted into the clearing and leapt at the horse, snarling.

With a scream, the horse reared - dumping its rider - and galloped away into the forest.

What luck that Kelwas has, you may think. Which god or saint poured good fortune upon him from on high? you might ask. If he received any divine favor, it was (as the very wise may tell you) partly of his own making. The observant among you might remember he called for help, but might be forgiven if you expected one of Kelwas' neighbors, perhaps a stout villager or two bearing makeshift spears to even the odds. You would be correct in realizing help would come, but wrong in the form it would take.

When Kelwas called, his sometime companion answered: long legs and shaggy gray coat and lolling red tongue in a sharp-toothed smile. Kelwas had never been arrogant enough to name him, since all wolves have their own names they call each other in their wild and untamed language.

Wait, you may ask, did not Kelwas carry his ironwood staff instead of a shepherd's crook to fend off wolves, to crack their bones, to make them flee, yelping, back to their dens? 

Yes, you would be correct. This was Kelwas' intent, but when at last he stood over a young wolf, panting in pain, its amber eye rolling towards him dull and accepting, Kelwas felt a pang of mingled horror and remorse at the power he held over the creature. Instead of dealing the killing blow, Kelwas nursed it back to health. At first, it growled and snapped at him but Kelwas found that his voice - especially raised in song - soothed the animal. Perhaps this is because wolves also have their own way of speaking to each other in song, or perhaps this is because - as the very wise say - music calms even the fiercest heart, or perhaps the young wolf was merely starving and alone, and backed between Kelwas caring for it and death, chose the former; choose whichever reason seems best for you, or all of them at once - you will need to make peace with not knowing.

And so, the unhorsed rider rose, the glossy black of his raven-feather cloak marred with bits of moss and leaf litter, curved blade betraying a tremor as he held it before him. Seeing his opening, Kelwas shifted his grip and lunged forward. In one swift movement, he batted aside the blade and cracked his staff against the other man's helmet hard enough so that it rang like a bell. Staggering backwards, the volgatyr dropped his sword, raising his hands to toss aside his helmet. His long black hair glistened with blood, and the side of his face Kelwas had struck was a swollen mess of black bruising. The volgatyr's one visible eye had gone wide, but instead of showing any whites, his eye grew dark as a spill of ink. As Kelwas watched, black quills sprang out of his skin like seedlings hungry for the sun and his cloak spread, growing larger and larger until it became clear the rider had shrunk, arms withering into dark, glossy wings, mouth becoming a broad, hooked beak.

With a croak, the raven hopped and took flight, its harsh cries faint in the distance.

The wolf, who had lost interest in pursuit, returned. He loped at the edge of the clearing, yellow eyes following the raven's flight. Once the bird was not visible anymore, he let his red tongue loll as if he was enjoying a jest only known to his kind.

At least until something moved among the pile of things the raven had left behind. Both Kelwas and the wolf - ears pricked forward - approached with caution before a small voice cried out. Grandmother’s bone, it seemed to lament. In an instant, Kelwas lowered his staff to dig into the pile and uncovered a young girl, so thin and grimy the layers of dirt seemed the only thing holding her together. One hand curled round a thin curved bone, now broken, one hand was wrapped in a filthy bandage, brown with old blood. Kelwas reached out, thinking to change the dressings. A strip torn from his tunic, however travel-stained it might be, would be an improvement.

She flinched away from his hands, and squeezed shut her big, dark eyes as if he would go away if she kept them closed long enough. When he brushed tangled hair off her brow, her eyes sprang open, full of a black hatred and her lips peeled back in a snarl. She struck at Kelwas with her unhurt hand, raking her nails across his collarbone. If not for his quick reflexes, she would have scratched his face.

"Where's my brother?"

Stricken, Kelwas glanced around the clearing for another child. "The horseman took him, too?"

"Dolt! The horseman is my brother."

The girl spoke with a cultured Riverlands accent Kelwas had trouble understanding. When he made the mistake of admitting this to the girl, she scoffed and muttered a prayer to Khayme All-Father to deliver her from both backwaters and their bumpkins alike.

How Kelwas managed to get the girl back home to his family's farmstead, even when - as you would be correct to imagine - she spat and struggled like a cat in its bath is not as important as the fact he brought her there. She was possessed of such feral and wiry strength Kelwas was forced to gentle his own lest he hurt her. All you need know is though he suffered some scratches as she struggled against him, Kelwas arrived home with her draped over one shoulder. 

His mother, as gray and round as a river rock, fussed over their new guest. The girl glared at them, but accepted a heel of bread and some watered wine. While she ate, Kelwas helped his mother boil enough water to fill the girl's bath. Once done, he left his mother to work her magic. After much wailing and carrying on - wonder of wonders - the girl emerged, so thin and pale it seemed the late afternoon sunlight shone through her.

Her mousy brown hair, transmuted by the alchemy of soap and judicious scrubbing, into a deep gold.

Kelwas called her Goldenrod.

"That's not my name, you oaf!"

"Thin as a weed, topped by yellow?" Kelwas glanced outside, where long stalks bent under bright yellow flowers. An alarmed look crept over his face as he looked from one flower to another, ignoring the girl. "Where did you go? Goldenrod? Goldenrod?"

When he turned back towards her, Goldenrod rolled her eyes even though her lips trembled to contain a smile.

Then, the time had come to change the filthy bandages on her hand, no matter how much Goldenrod cried and pleaded. By the time Kelwas was at last able to reassure her enough so she stopped flinching and struggling, his mother crushed her in a bear hug, immobilizing her. When he unwrapped the bandages to expose Goldenrod's narrow hand, he recoiled from her wound with a muttered oath.

Her hand was one mass of exposed bone, weeping blood and fluid, skin gathered in folds at her wrist. Her fingers had been joined and molded to resemble the blade of a key, the joints forming ragged bits. Stunned, Kelwas' gaze drifted to meet hers, the inevitable question on his face.

"My brothers," Goldenrod said before looking away. "The only way for me to join them in their feasting hall was locked."

"They did this to you?"

Goldenrod turned to stare at Kelwas, tears quivering on her lashes. "No! Wait - yes. Yes, they did, but I wanted them to."

Kelwas felt his mouth move and try to form words but could not find them. He knew he must look like a landed fish, yawping at the air. You may remember how often in the old tales heroes do terrible things for love. Did not Irulina the Bold strike her lovely bride's arm off to prevent the dragon's venom from reaching her heart? Did not Yare the Wanderer's love for his liege lead him to challenge any who spoke ill of his lord even if it might lead to his own death?

Would you be surprised to know Kelwas had - until that moment - thought such behavior only existed in stories? In part, this may have been because Kelwas was the only surviving child of seven. Surrounded by their absence, he felt their presence in the long silences his father and mother inflicted upon each other. Both curled into a pain Kelwas had - with the desperation of a child - wanted to heal for them, but did not know how.

After his father left to hunt and never returned, Kelwas was forced to shoulder the role of provider, to help his mother plow and sow and the thousand things small and large a farm needs to keep them fed. Kelwas often had vague, dreamlike memories of an older sister who sang him to sleep, but not much else. He stopped asking his mother about it when he realized stirring up those memories dug into an old hurt.

So, he tugged at his moustaches and at last asked Goldenrod, "why?"

"They were so glad to see me again," she said. "After our father's curse, where once seven boys had huddled together in play they scattered in a flurry of black wings. Every night, I wept as I imagined them frightened and hungry and would repeat their names like a prayer before sleep."

Babkas may have warned you to do as you are told, lest you end up like Goldenrod’s seven brothers, but before you go off looking to pester someone who follows the old ways in hopes they'll transform you into a raven, free to fly anywhere - even to the very Gates of Paradise - thinking it a blessing in disguise, remember that before long the allure of being clever and quick is strong. Strong enough to make the memory of being human wear thin and tatter like a dream upon waking. Strong enough that before long, less of you remains, replaced more and more by the cleverness of the raven. You might occasionally remember your human shape but remaining that way might require effort better spent flying and being cunning.

Kelwas set aside the old bandages for burning the next day - the smell of old blood on them was certain to attract predators - and dressed Goldenrod's hand again. While he did so, Goldenrod continued, her voice low and distant.

"Little did I know that when our father cursed my brothers - who doted on me, their little sister - he also worked a much more subtle curse upon me. I went wild with the need to see them again, to do anything to be reunited." Goldenrod wanted to say more, but at that moment Kelwas' mother set a bowl of oats before her, sweet butter melting into the gruel. She slurped down her bowl, and asked for more. Kelwas and his mother shared a look before scooping out another portion for Goldenrod. They listened as she told them about her brothers' hall, which had once rung with song and laughter, as her brothers ate from tables groaning under all manner of delicacies. From pheasants, roasted and posed as if launching into flight out of shrubs made of fresh greens and dried cherries, to bowls filled with neeps drowning in butter, or mounds of beets as large and red as hearts with generous dollops of honeyed yoghurt. While she smiled and remembered as she told them the tale, Goldenrod did not notice Kelwas and his mother had already finished their much smaller portions.

Perhaps you have never had guests arrive unannounced, and out of hospitality your parents offer them food - sometimes taking it from the very supper you were in the midst of eating. Know then that this is common among the small and scattered villages of the Riverlands; long ago, they learned that want divided among many is lessened. Not every belly might be full, but very few were left empty, and so one's neighbors might repay kindness in kind.

By then, Old Gaunt had spread his cloak over the sky, and the night pressed itself up against the windows and doors. The tapers had gone low, and it was time to set up the girl's bed. Kelwas let her take his usual place, near the hearth. He sat, keeping watch over their door. The silence settled over the cottage, marred only by the far-off cry of an owl and the low buzz of his mother's snores. Just as his eyes drifted, sliding sideways into a doze, Goldenrod's small voice woke him.

"Kelwas?"

He grunted, now awake.

"You will help me see my brothers again, won't you?"

"Yes," Kelwas said. "I promise."

When dawn's rosy fingers once again pulled away night's threadbare cloak, the girl was gone.