The Frozen Stag is packed with desperate men.

  Dozens filled the benches – laid off miners, guardsmen whose pay was always late, scarred veterans drinking cheap ale. Out-of-work laborers stared into the middle distance. On the small, raised platform at the tavern's far end, a bard with an uneven beard tuned his lute.

  Eirik Stormcrow, hood pulled low, bent over a beaten wooden table near the back wall. Across from him, Isolde Fenrir sat strangely calm.

  "Do you think this will be a good idea?"

  "It is. Don't stress over it." Isolde turned her gaze from the room to him. "Honestly, Commander, I haven't seen you like this. "

  Eirik shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench. "It's just… this isn't really my area. Lying in ambush? Fine. Striking hard? Fine. Sitting here waiting for some singer to spin fairy tales about me? Makes my skin crawl."

  "Then just watch. Trust the story. People crave simple tales."

  Before Eirik could voice the unease growing in his gut, the bard struck a final, loud chord that cut through the tavern's noise.

  Heads turned towards the platform.

  "Gather 'round, lads!" the bard rasped. "Gather 'round and lend an ear! Forget yer woes for a spell! Tonight, I sing a legendary tale! A tale of the Stormcrow!"

  A shared intake of breath rippled through the room.

  "Stormcrow?" "The Bastard?" "Heard he butchered trolls by the dozen..."

  The bard started his song. It wasn't subtle.

  "From the frozen wastes he came,

  A spirit made in winter's flame!

  Cedric's get, but born anew,

  Touched by the Frost Mother's holy dew!"

  Eirik cringed. Touched by holy dew? He felt ridiculous.

  The bard painted him as a figure easily seven feet tall, muscles stretching plate armor that shined like moonlight on fresh snow. The actual Eirik felt clearly under-sized in his shadowed corner.

  "He faced the Troll-King's shaman dread,

  With frostfire burning 'round his head!

  His blade, a piece of northern star,

  He cut the beast down near and far!

  The very mountain split in two,

  As Stormcrow's legend fully grew!"

  "Legend?!" a voice muttered nearby. "He's a bastard."

  Another voice, older, more rough, replied. "Aye, a bastard who made Flint dance like a puppet and pay two thousand silver on the spot, didn't he? I'd call that legend enough."

  The bard ignored the murmurs, going into ever more impossible acts:

  Eirik single-handedly held a mountain pass against a hundred Skarl riders—He hadn't. He controlled ice wyriths—He hadn't seen one. He talked with the Frost Mother in holy caves—More like argued with Isolde about useful scripture verses.

  The bard hit a winning high point.

  "So raise yer mugs to Stormcrow's name!

  The North's own champion, Everwinter's claim!"

  The ending hung in the smoky air. Some men cheered. Others remained silent, drinking their drinks and their doubts. Then, from near the bar, a voice loud with ale cut through the clapping.

  "Claim? Touched? Ha! I heard different! Heard from Flint's way! Heard he ain't touched, he's possessed! Demon got him! That's how he does the frost tricks! Dark magic! Unnatural!"

  A ripple of unease went through the crowd. Eyes darted towards the hooded figure in the corner, then quickly away. The fear of heresy, of the unnatural, was a powerful thing.

  Before the fear could harden, another voice shouted out from the opposite side of the tavern. It belonged to a huge, rough-bearded miner.

  "Demon-like?!" the miner yelled. "Aye, maybe! A demon that killed the trolls blocking the Ironvein! A demon that embarrassed Flint and made him pay in silver!" He slammed his tankard down. "Fuck yer noble whispers! If that's demon work, I say the world needs more bleeding demons! Especially ones that pay!"

  A shocked silence followed the miner's outburst. Then, a noise started. Laughter, rough agreements, banging of tankards.

  The bard, feeling the important moment, didn't miss a beat. He struck a single, sharp chord that silenced the rumbling support.

  "You speak truth, friend!" the bard called to the miner. "Aye, Stormcrow does act! While others wait and bleed us dry! And he needs men. Real men. Men with ice in their veins and fire in their bellies!"

  His gaze moved across the room.

  "Ten silver talons! Paid upfront! For every man who joins the Talon banner! Ten talons now! Five every week! More to come with victory!"

  Gasps erupted.

  "Ten?"

  "Up front?"

  The bard raised his hand for silence. He had them now. He played a final chord.

  "He brings together steel, he brings together might,

  To chase the Skarls into the night!

  To claim a fort, strong and tall,

  And make it Northern kingdom's wall!"

  Eirik felt the tension coiling in his own chest. Here it comes.

  The bard's voice rang out.

  "He marches soon, his holy vow! To raise anew... FORT ABERCROMBIE NOW!"

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The name hit the silence like a falling big rock. Fort Abercrombie. A choked gasp came from somewhere near Eirik.

  An old veteran with a scar cutting across his eyebrow froze mid-sip. His eyes snapped into scary focus, filled with sudden, gut horror.

  "You… you can't mean it," another man whispered. "Abercrombie… Frost take me…"

  The name rang out with awful power.

  "Sweet Frost Mother…" a guard muttered. "My brother… they pulled him out of the east breach…"

  "Aye," another veteran rasped. "Got the chill rot after dragging young Miller's body back from a Skarl ambush. He died coughing up black spit in the barracks." He shuddered. "Cursed ground. Death soaked into every stone."

  The initial shock of ten talons had been replaced by a wave of dark memories. Is this hatred too deep? Eirik wondered, watching the raw pain on worn faces. Will they see only death, not opportunity?

  Then, the old veteran with the scarred eyebrow slammed his tankard down with a crack that echoed. Ale sloshed. Every eye snapped to him.

  "Abercrombie," he spat the word with hate. He looked around, meeting the haunted eyes of his fellow veterans. "That cursed rock drank the blood of my mates! Drank my nephew's blood! Drank Varn's silver until he bled us dry!" His voice rose. "They abandoned it! Left it to the skinning knives! Left our dead not paid back!"

  He pointed a shaking finger towards the bard.

  "You say this Stormcrow wants to take it back? To rebuild it? To hold it? Not bleed on it forever, but hold it?" He turned his fierce gaze.

  "Ten talons? Frost take the talons! You tell yer Commander…" He drew himself up. "You tell him I'll carry his banner up that cursed pass! For free! If he means to plant it on Abercrombie's rubble and make the Skarl bastards choke on it!"

  A moment of shocked silence followed his statement. Then, like a dam breaking, the mood shifted.

  "Aye! Damn right!" another scarred veteran yelled, jumping to his feet. "They owe us blood! My boy died holding the west tower!"

  "Ten talons and spitting in a Skarl's eye? Count me in!" a younger miner shouted. "Fort Abercrombie…" a guard whispered. "Hells. Why not? Can't be worse than freezing my stones off on Frostholme's walls for ha'pennies."

  The bard, seeing the tide turn, played his lute proudly.

  "You heard the man! Fort Abercrombie rises again! And Stormcrow's banner flies first! Who else stands with the Talons? Ten talons now! Glory later!"

  A rough cheer went up, louder this time. Men started pushing towards the back of the tavern, where Yorick had set up a makeshift table with a heavy lockbox. Leif moved to impose order on the sudden rush. Isolde leaned close to Eirik.

  "See? Told you. They didn't need the Frost-touched hero. They needed someone to give them permission to be angry. To offer a target for that anger... and pay them for it."

  Eirik turned his gaze towards the tavern door, as if he could see the distant, broken shape of Fort Abercrombie against the mountains.

  The hard part began now.

  ———

  "Form a bloody line, ye mangy dogs! Shove yer neighbor and ye get nothin' but boot leather! Ten talons paid straight! Sign Yorick's scratchin's! Swear the oath! Then get yer scrawny arse over by Bjorn for yer kit assignment! MOVE!"

  Olaf stood near Yorick's makeshift table as he scanned the pushing crowd. New recruits – miners, ex-guards, thin laborers – shuffled into a rough line that snaked towards the promise of silver.

  Eirik saw Olaf's gaze sweep past him without recognition. Perfect. The Lieutenant was playing his part flawlessly. To Olaf, Eirik was just another faceless body in the throng, drawn by the glint of coin and the dangerous lure of the Talon banner.

  The image that the bard had painted – the seven-foot titan carved from glacier ice – was so far removed from Eirik's reality that it was laughable. Let them look for a giant. It's the blade they don't see coming that cuts deepest.

  The line crept forward.

  Names were shouted as thumbprints pressed into ink. Olaf issued curt orders.

  "You. Team Four."

  "You. Team Six."

  "Team Two for you, whelp. Try not to wet yourself."

  Eirik finally reached the front.

  "Name?"

  "Errol."

  Yorick scratched it down without looking up.

  A sneer curled Olaf's lip.

  "Errol, is it?" His voice dripped with amused contempt. "Look at ye. Like a stiff breeze'd snap ye clean in half. What hole did you crawl out of? You sure ten talons is worth the trip to Abercrombie? Skarls'll use yer spine for a toothpick, lad."

  A low ripple of nervous laughter went through the recruits nearby. Eirik felt their eyes on him.

  He kept his head down, shoulders slightly slumped.

  "Need the coin, sir," Eirik mumbled. "Hah!" Olaf shouted. "Coin's no use if yer guts are decorating some Skarl chieftain's hut!"

  He jabbed a thick finger at Yorick. "Pay the scarecrow his silver, scribbler. Maybe it'll buy him a decent burial shroud." He turned away, already scanning the next recruit. "Next! You! Look like you've seen a blade before! Team Three!"

  Yorick silently counted out ten heavy silver talons. He dipped his thumb in Yorick's inkpot and pressed it onto the book beside his false name. The act felt strangely binding, even as a deception.

  "Oath," Yorick said quietly, still not meeting his eyes.

  Eirik raised his right hand, fist clenched over his heart in the Talon salute. The gesture was instinctive and ingrained to him in both his current and previous life.

  "Sworn to the Talon. To the Commander. To victory, or the cold ground."

  Yorick nodded. "Accepted. Bjorn will assign your kit and team."

  Eirik moved away from the table, pocketing the coins. He felt the lingering stares of the recruits behind him.

  "Scarecrow, Olaf called him. Apt."

  "Bet he bolts before we even see the pass."

  "Ten talons for that?"

  He headed towards the towering Bjorn, who stood near a pile of worn leather jerkins, dented helms, and basic weaponry – spears, axes, a few mismatched swords.

  "Name?" Bjorn rumbled.

  "Errol."

  "Right. Arms?"

  "Used a sword.Bit of bow."

  Bjorn handed over a bundle: a stiff leather jerkin smelling of old sweat and oil, a simple iron cap helmet, a woolen cloak thick enough for the mountains but patched, a waterskin, and a worn but serviceable one-handed sword. Standard issue for the lowest ranks.

  "Team Seven." He pointed towards a cluster of men huddled near the tavern's back door. "You are now number Seventy-Six. Go."

  Eirik felt a flicker of dark amusement.

  "Talon protocol." Bjorn repeated as if he was just another green lad. "Recruits don't get names. You earn those. Hold out your right hand."

  He pressed a stylus against his palm.

  "Memorize your number," Bjorn commanded. "That's who you are until you prove otherwise. You answer to it. You fight for it. You die under it. Understood?"

  Eirik nodded, gathered the gear, and turned to join his group.

  Four others were already waiting. All looked at Eirik with a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled disdain.

  "Errol, is it?" Seventy-Two smirked, looking Eirik up and down. "Heard Olaf mark ye. Scarecrow, eh? Fitting. Hope ye can at least carry yer own pack, scarecrow."

  "I'll manage," Eirik mumbled.

  The recruitment continued for another hour. The pile of silver in Yorick's lockbox dwindled. The pile of gear Bjorn guarded shrank. The tavern filled with clusters of men sorted into teams.

  The name "Stormcrow" was whispered constantly, threaded with awe, disbelief, and morbid curiosity.

  "Think he's really that big? Ten feet tall?" Seventy-Four whispered, eyes wide. "Bard's tales, lad," Seventy-Two scoffed, but he glanced towards the tavern door as if expecting a titan to stride through. "Still… made Flint pay. In public. That ain't nothin'."

  "Demon, some say," Seventy-Three rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft. "Said he cracks mountains. Freezes blood in yer veins."

  "Don't matter what he is. He pays silver. Points us at Skarls. Good enough for me. Just hope he knows what he's doing with that cursed rock."

  Finally, the last recruit signed. Yorick snapped the book shut with finality. The lockbox clicked locked. Olaf surveyed the room, now packed with over a hundred new faces interspersed with the worn Talon veterans supervising the teams.

  "RIGHT!" Olaf's roar silenced the remaining murmurs. "Listen up, ye sorry lot! Ye got yer coin! Ye got yer kit! Ye swore the oath! Welcome to the Talons! Such as ye are!" He spat expertly onto the sawdust-covered floor. "Forget yer mothers' skirts! Forget soft beds! Ye belong to the ice and the steel now!"

  He paced slowly in front of the new recruits.

  "Ye heard the songs? Heard the tales?"

  He stopped near Eirik's Team Seven.

  "Aye, Stormcrow's a terror! A Frost-touched giant!" Olaf yelled. "He'll lead us to glory at Abercrombie! Heh!"

  He leaned down slightly, his eyes raking over Seventy-Two, Seventy-Three, Seventy-Four, Seventy-Five, and finally lingering on the hunched form of 'Errol'.

  "But glory... it ain't handed out like stale bread! It's paid for! In blood! In frozen toes! In the screams of Skarls dyin' on yer steel!" He straightened. "Ye want to see the Commander? Ye want to bask in his mighty frosty presence? Prove yer worth first! Make the end of yer spear sticks the Skarl! Then maybe... maybe... ye'll earn a glimpse of the Stormcrow!"

  The new recruits exchanged confused glances. They'd paid, they'd sworn, they'd braved the terrifying prospect of Abercrombie… all to catch sight of the legendary figure. And Olaf was telling them they might not even see him?

  "Now!" Olaf clapped his huge hands together. "Dawn comes early, and the road north is long and cold! Get some grub down yer gullets if ye can afford it! Find a corner to curl up in! Be ready to move out at first light!"

  But then he stopped. He turned back, his gaze falling specifically on Team Seven.

  "You lot. Team Seven." Olaf pointed a thick finger at them. "Don't get too comfortable in yer corners. Ye've got an important job tomorrow. An early start. Be ready."

  Important job? The other teams looked at Team Seven with renewed curiosity – and not a little suspicion.

  "Sleep well, If ye can."

  ? Elder's Chosen: Chains of the Beastborn [VRMMO, LITRPG, ISEKAI, KINGDOM BUILDING] ?

  by Bobby Robinson

  Elders Chosen explores themes of grief, identity, and survival in a world shaped by oppression, war, and myth. While not explicit, this story contains scenes of emotional trauma, slavery, and violence. Reader discretion advised.