Later, in a tavern, some of the townsfolk gathered to discuss this strange visit. Under the peaked cedar rafters, the men and their wives smoked and drank - the doors shut tightly against the cold night wind. People spoke at individual tables, until the talking turned to debating - with speakers taking the floor, one by one.
Krogenar watched them from his table, silently. Ordinarily, they were a taciturn, unreactive people - not given to the loud passionate speaking that was the norm amongst those of warmer lands. But the days doings had aroused a fire in them.
"I say let them warm this place - we have suffered too much from the cold!" The middle-aged fisherman sat down, pulling his warm ale closer.
An old man stood shakily from his table, helped to his feet by his sons. "The warmth would be kinder to old bones like mine... I say we take them at their word." His sons nodded at that wisdom, helping him to sit, wrapping him in furs.
But other voices did not agree.
A youngish man, tall and lean, with the wide shoulders of lumberjack stood, placed his mug on the table beside him. "Polaris has always been as it is now. Why should we change? If others wish it to be warm and balmy, like some desert - let them leave!" Some cheered to this.
Smiling at the support, he finished, "Or let them rule elsewhere!" More applause from some patrons.
As the catcalls and cheers died slowly, other concerns were raised. "What of these Istishians? They could be lurking about, even now! If what the FLAMEs say is true, we should be wary of their lies." Another spoke, "They hate the Istishians - that's clear, I think. We should NOT choose sides betwixt them - keep to the old wisdom: 'Leave Fighting Bears Be.'"
Some knew of Krogenar's association with the Church of Istishia. And as the word slowly made its way about the room, from conversation to conversation, many eyes came to settle on him.
The strider kept to his beer.
"Well, Istishian? What say you? Can the FLAMEs really do what they said they could - make us into a paradise as they promise?" A fisherman stared at the half-orc- waiting for his reply.
Putting his mug down, Krogenar looked down into it.
As though speaking to it, he said, "I call Polaris paradise already - no changes needed." The room erupted into argument again. The strider stood, pulling his knapsack over his shoulder, arranging his winter coat.
From the din of voices, a young man shouted to Krogenar. "You're not even a Polari, half-orc! Don't pretend to know us! The FLAMEs offer us warmth, and we'll take it!" Krogenar stopped on his way to the door. "Think on this, Polaris - think of what the cold and ice has given you."
Most of the younger nobles scoffed. "..numbed fingers!" But some of the old-timers caught his meaning. The strider approached the young men who tended to their aging father. "You are right. I am not Polari. But I have traveled to other, warmer lands, and so I can tell you of them." Some leaned in to listen, others fell back into their chairs, smirking.
"They are not like Polari. Grown fat and lazy where the living is easy..." He seized one young man by the shoulders - who resisted - pulling away. "Your young are strong, resilient - hardened by the cold." he said, smiling. He motioned to a table of lumberjacks. "Your sons, able to withstand the fierce north winds, only they dare to chop at the trees of the north."
The room quieted to a low buzzing as they discussed this idea. But the strider continued. "And what of discipline? Your fishermen, survive the raging seas only through the discipline that adversity forces upon them."
"Polaris, you are strong - strong because it was the cold, the ice, the snow - the Water - that forced you to such strength."
"Would you be like all the other cities in the Realms? You are a rare northern jewel! Would you take on the other qualities of the warmer cities?" He played this card, knowing what they thought of the people who populated the south.
