The fire was warm, but it was the light that drew the villagers to it on this mild, moonless night. A feast had welcomed home the warriors; meat for all and the first of the sun-ripened crop had been ready to pick. Now they would while away the evening in talk and song – remembering their deeds and those who had not returned.

“We walked the coast road to the mouth of the river, we stayed with the Crabbers who work the silt of the bay. Tide’s bad in Spring, so the barter was welcome.”

“You will have passed my old village – Naburn, where the cliffs shallow out to the beaches”

“Yes, we did – it’s gone though. Ice-folk came in the winter, creeped up the beaches and burnt out the houses. There’s only bones left now.”

“Never have! You must have passed a ruin – there’s plenty of failed villages on the coast, the sea is not kind.”

The warrior did not meet the eyes of the questioner, instead turning to warm hands on the fire. The action spoke more of awkwardness than need. They all knew of the Ice-folk; monsters from across the sea, pointed teeth and half-moon eyes, they would creep up the bays and sate their appetite for blood on the unsuspecting who did not bar their doors. Wild tales were told of these creatures, but it was not their wildness that made the warrior uncomfortable.

“No mistaking. I am sorry to bear the news but Naburn is gone, Ice-folk killed them and took their food. They wouldn’t trade with them so instead they are dead, sacrificed to their seal-spirits.”
“How can you know?”
“Crabbers told me.”
“How can they know?”
The warrior looked up then, met the eyes of the questioner.
“The Ice-folk told them.”