View source for Graf Klaus von Nibelheim I

(b. 03/02/0751) (m. 08/15/0788) (heir b. age 44) ('''h. 0825''', aged 74) (d. 01/10/0826 of exposure, aged 74)

'''Atrocities:''' '''789 – 798 : The Cleansings, 796: The Night of Judgment, 808: The Holy Ash Valley'''

'''Legacy:''' Founded the '''Chapel of St. Walpurga''' near the estate road, consecrated '''820'''.

'''Wife:''' Hildegard of Bavaria (b. 05/14/0769 – d. 07/28/0798, postpartum hemorrhage, aged 29)

Children:

  1) '''Gertrud''' (b. 07/01/0790 – d. 09/03/0791, infant frailty)

  2) '''Adalbert''' (b. 08/12/0792 – d. 06/17/0832, border wounds, aged 39)

  3) '''Mathilde''' (b. 11/28/0794 – d. 02/16/0813, summer fever; wed 0811 to Herr Dietmar of Trento, aged 18)

  4) '''Vin''' (later '''Karolus)''' (b. 12/05/0795 – d. 04/28/0878, natural causes, aged 82) – **chosen heir**

  5) '''†'''(f) (b. 07/28/0798 – d. 07/28/0798, stillborn)
----

=== '''Graf Klaus von Nibelheim I (751–826)''' ===
''(Granted the Grafdom of the Brenner March circa 787 CE by Charlemagne)''

==== '''Historical & Political Context''' ====
The Tyrol of the late eighth century sits at the hinge between empires: a wilderness threaded by the trade road that will become the '''Brenner Pass'''. When Charlemagne conquers the Lombards in 774 and pushes east into Saxony, he needs steady hands to guard the high crossings. The old Lombard families are too independent, the bishops too soft.

Around '''773''', imperial records first name ''Klausus de Nibelheim''—a commander under Frankish banners. Often assigning himself on perimeter runs and outer rides usually reserved for scouts, he proves ruthless in pacification work—efficient, obedient, never drunk on the field. Bishops praise his zeal and the efficiency with which he “encourages” conversions; his soldiers call him the ''Silent Wolf''. At this time, his banner is a wolf head in front of three pine trees before a burgundy field embellished with a darker burgundy cross.

During Lucien’s siege of Pavia in '''774''', Klaus had the foresight to have himself assigned as a forward scout for the season in enemy lands. Dren sends word back to command that he survived a skirmish but was gravely wounded. He returns for the '''776''' season with a nasty scar that is more than proof enough.

In '''778''' immediately after Lucien’s experience in '''Roncevaux''' (ambushed), he instructs Rynzel, Thayne and Dren to send word up the chain to Klaus’s commanders that he was ambushed while riding between a supply point and camp. They make a ‘crime scene’ and send soldiers on a phantom goose chase. He manipulates a nearby ring as soon as he can stand from Lucien’s injuries to stagger in “hours later” with wounds that look fresh and is dismissed to convalesce.  

Nobody is sure where Klaus went to heal, as Lucien is doing so where Charlemagne can keep tabs on him. 

He returns ‘for service’ when those wounds should have plausibly healed, but is sent “home” again as they clearly have not. Soldiers admire him for returning, but high command, though praising his desire to serve the King, reminds him that his weakness is a liability and stubbornness is drawing out his healing.

He does similar in '''777''', though those injuries were less severe, a mace hit becoming a ‘kick from a spooked horse” on a routine perimeter check with his entourage just outside a safe camp, and in '''797''' he “goes missing for a week after a solo ride”, his mount returning without him. He is “found” in the valley’s riverbank by a playing group of children, keeping the story that his horse crushed him but doesn’t remember much. By this point, he is Graf, and sends his men on a ‘fact finding’ mission uncovering no helpful information.

==== '''c. 782–785 CE — Initial Stronghold''' ====
* When returning healed after "'''an ambush" (Roncevaux)''', Klaus is assigned to Tyrol to begin fortifying the Brenner Pass. He chooses a natural shelf on the northern slope of '''Kirchdachspitze''' (KIRKH-dach-shpitz-eh), overlooking the Wipptal. 
* Initially this angers Valkaenar as it takes Klaus away from Saxon slaughter detail, but he knows that Charlemagne needs the strategic hold of the alpine passes and calms himself down.
* At this point it’s little more than a timber palisade, a stone storehouse, and a     watch-tower—standard ''marcha Alpina'' construction. It eventually becomes '''[[Burg Kirchdach]]'''.
* Purpose: to control the Alpine road used by imperial patrols and merchants traveling between Sterzing and Matrei. It functions as an unofficial supply depot and safe camp for troops cycling through the mountains.

Klaus is rewarded for loyalty and savage success on campaign in '''787''': the king appoints him to perpetually retain his assignment to the area, creating the '''Brenner March''', a small but vital border fief that charged with keeping the passes clear of raiders and heretics, and to keep the road between Verona and Augsburg safe. Klaus is invested as '''Graf von Nibelheim''', sworn to keep the pass open to pilgrims and armies alike. The grant reads: ''“That none shall close the way between the realms of Rome and Aachen save by the Graf’s leave.”'' The post is effectively permanent: ''“until the line of his blood fail or Christ return.”''

To Aachen, he is the perfect frontier noble: pious, obedient, and terrifyingly efficient. To the Tyrol, he is something stranger—an outsider who knows the land as if it whispers to him. His new crest—the wolf of Nibelheim, flanked by firs, with the mountains behind—becomes both badge and warning. Travelers say that no caravan vanishes on his roads, but none dare cheat his tolls. The wolf-crest is still recognized in the valley in the 21<sup>st</sup> century.
----787 The first [[Winterbinding]].
----'''787–790 CE — [[Burg Kirchdach]]’ s Stone Expansion'''

* When Charlemagne formalizes the Brenner March and confirms Klaus as its Graf, funds and masons are released through the bishopric of Salzburg to turn the fort into a permanent seat.
* The timber curtain wall is replaced with '''rubble-core stone''', quarried on-site; a '''square bergfried (keep)''' rises three stories high, and a small '''chapel to     St. Michael''' is attached to the inner wall.     
* A subterranean cistern and a tunnel connecting to a lower spring are begun—ostensibly practical,     secretly useful for concealment.

'''c. 791–820 CE — Hof and Chapels'''

* A site he has selected roughly halfway between high mountain fortress and Trins.  He builds a small timber structure he knows will be temporary on the site that eventually becomes '''Nibelheimhof'''. He does not want to house his family in '''Burg Kirchdach''' or be hours away from either Trins or the fortress should he be needed in the other.
* In '''799''' Klaus builds the first stone building on the site''':''' the private '''[[Chapel of the Silver Mist]]''' with an ossuary beneath (that later adjoins to his manor), consecrated by Bishop Arno of Salzburg. Its inscription—"'''''Fiat Justitia, Et Deus Videat'''”'' (''Let justice be done, and let God witness it)'' —frames every later cruelty as righteous witness. The motto sticks, and he uses it elsewhere throughout the ages. A resident priest, beginning with Father Adelhard, tends both household flock and secret, bound by oath, geas, and by something older than parchment.
* Once his garrison is secure, Klaus shifts focus from fortress to permanent residence. '''[[Nibelheimhof]]''' is built over the next fifteen years on the site of the timber structure and chapel, complete with terraced pear and apple orchards doubling as what will become shade gardens when the trees mature. Finished in '''806''' CE.     
* '''819-820: Chapel of St. Walpurga''' is built of finer limestone at the foot of the pass and consecrated by Bishop Arno of Salzburg.
* '''Burg Kirchdach’ s''' fortifications remain functional but also take on symbolic power—both shrine and citadel. Pilgrims interpret the wolf-crest carved above the gate as guardian of the faithful; soldiers know it means ''death to thieves''. 
'''By 808''' Burg Kirchdach stands as a compact but formidable marcher fortress, garrisoned by roughly fifty men and a handful of household knights. Its riders can close the Brenner road with a single draw-barred gate.

'''Local Governance & Reputation'''

Klaus establishes his hall, '''[[Nibelheimhof]]''', halfway up the fog-drowned slope of Kirchdachspitze and rules with the precision of a monk and the patience of a hunter. From there he controls the toll road, the grazing rights of Trins and Steinach, and the monastery routes to Maria Waldrast. He fortifies his estate like a small citadel and endows the Church liberally: timber, stone, and men for the new priory.

He is a friend to the Church and its monks, forever ready to host visiting clergy. The charter praises his “zeal in rooting out the remnant of pagan wickedness.” He donates grain and timber to the priory at Maria Waldrast. His hospitality and punctual tithe payments make him the clergy’s model noble. To the Church, he is a sanctified warden. 

His piety is not gentle. Those slow to convert find themselves pressed into baptism “for their own salvation” or violently “sent to God”. Pagan rites disappear because he sees to them personally.  

Peasants come to see him as their protector— demanding, but just. Wolves prowl the forest yet never raid their herds. Two are always at their Graf’s heels like tame hounds. To them, he is a wolf who guards his territory well. 

To later ages, he is the first of a line who rules by faith, fear, and an unspoken rumor that death never quite ends him.

'''Unofficial Titles:''' the obvious '''Wolfs Herr''' and layered '''Herr des Winters-'''

'''Outward / Acceptable Meanings'''

1.     '''Patron of Endurance'''

* The priests preach that winter tests faith; those who survive it are made pure. The Graf, enduring through every storm, becomes the living parable of steadfastness.

2.     '''Keeper of the Hearth'''

* In valley tradition, winter belongs to those who guard fire and family. Housewives whisper thanks to the Lord of Winter before lighting the first Yule candle, thinking of him as guardian of warmth.

3.     '''Bringer of Penance'''

* The Church reads winter as God’s silence before renewal. The Graf’s title fits sermons about repentance and the cleansing of pride.

4.     '''Symbol of Divine Discipline'''

* The cold that kills the weak and preserves the strong—monks cite him as proof that hardship is holy.

5.     '''The King’s Warden'''

* To imperial envoys, “Lord of Winter” simply means the man who keeps the Brenner Pass open when others freeze.

'''Hidden / Household Meanings'''

1.     '''The Cold That Does Not Thaw'''

* Among the sworn, “Lord of Winter” means unending dominion. He is the frost that does not melt upon the mountain summits.

2.     '''Judge of Breath'''

* He decides who will wake from the cold and who will not.

3.     '''The Frostbound Oath'''

* An unbreakable promise sealed in his name becomes “winter-bound”—merciless and permanent.

'''Marriage and Politics'''

In '''788''' he weds '''Hildegard of Bavaria''', niece to a loyal Agilolfing vassal of the king. The match ties Nibelheim to the Bavarian heartlands and gives the Church another reason to bless his name. Her dowry brings relics and monks; her death in '''798''' in childbirth turns to legend. Klaus commissions a silver reliquary for her heart in the Chapel of St. Michael at Burg Kirchdach, claiming the design—a wolf’s maw holding a lily—symbolizes faith guarding purity. The bishop calls it “a wonder of devotion.” It is moved to the household Chapel of the Silver Mist in '''799'''.

He does not remarry. 

Nibelheim is considered odd in that he does not arrange marriages for either gender. Marriages are not required or approved until his children have both courted and accepted potential suitors. This eventually becomes accepted tradition but is inconvenient at best for other nobility.

'''Atrocities and Pious Cruelties:'''

'''789 – 798 – The Cleansings:'''

With the wars still bleeding northward, Saxon and Slavic refugees drift into Tyrol. Klaus orders compulsory baptisms: those who balk are “returned to God by fire.” The Verbrannte Kirche at Trins becomes legend. Charters describe it as “a house raised from the ashes of the stubborn.” 

((794)) 
----The square smelled of smoke and pitch. Villagers huddled at the edges, eyes wide, clutching rosaries. At the center stood the accused: a gaunt woman, her wrists bound, her mouth gagged. The priest beside her looked grave, book in hand, voice rising with scripture.

And then Graf Klaus von Nibelheim stepped forward. Cloaked in black, silver crucifix gleaming at his throat, he raised his hands for silence. The crowd stilled instantly.

“My people,” he said, voice rich and steady. “Heresy is a rot that eats the soul. It spreads if unchecked. Better one life burn than the whole village fall.”

Murmurs of assent. Nods. Some crossed themselves.

He turned to the priest. “Christ commands us to guard His flock. Today, I guard it.”

The priest lowered his eyes, handing Klaus the torch. The Graf held it as though it weighed the world — and then, almost imperceptibly, his lips curved. The smile was small, pious to anyone who looked, but behind it, his eyes burned with hunger.

He lowered the flame. The pitch caught, fire leaping with a roar. The woman screamed against the gag, thrashing as the blaze climbed her dress. The crowd gasped, then prayed louder.

Klaus’s expression never faltered. “God’s mercy be upon her soul.”

The villagers wept, half in horror, half in relief. The priest murmured a blessing. Only Klaus himself knew the truth: that the prayers and the fire were theater, and that his heart thrilled at every crackle of burning flesh.

He pressed two fingers to the crucifix at his throat, bowed his head solemnly, and whispered — just for himself — ''“For Christ.”''  

----'''Epistle of Bishop Adalbert of Trient to His Grace, the Archbishop of Salzburg'''

''Anno Domini DCCXCIV''

To His Grace, my venerable brother in Christ,

I write to commend to you Graf Klaus von Nibelheim, Lord of the Brenner March, whose steadfast faith shines as a lantern upon the mountains. In these troubled days, when heresy and sorcery gnaw at the roots of Christendom, the Graf stands as a shield for his flock and a scourge to the ungodly.

Only this fortnight past, he presided over the cleansing of one who had given herself to dark superstition. With great reluctance, and only after due counsel with myself and the priests of the parish, he consented to the sentence decreed by the canons. Never have I seen a nobleman carry out so grievous a duty with such solemn piety.

He did not rejoice, but wept. He did not revel, but prayed. And when the fire rose, he knelt, his lips moving in intercession for the woman’s soul. It was a sight to move even the hardest heart.

His charity is not confined to zeal against heresy. He has endowed the abbey at Wilten with lands, provided alms for widows and orphans, and given generously toward the bell at Innsbruck. Truly, he lives not for himself but for the Body of Christ.

Therefore, I commend him to your prayers, and beg that his name be carried with honor when you speak of the defenders of Holy Church.

In Christo Jesu,

+Adalbert, by God’s grace Bishop of Trient

'''Letter of Father Matthaeus, parish priest of Trins, to Father Conrad in Bavaria'''

''Anno Domini DCCXCV''

Brother Conrad,

I have received your letter with concern, for it grieves me to hear such grave slanders spread against our lord and protector, Graf Klaus von Nibelheim. You write of tales that reach you in Bavaria — that he burns innocents, that he delights in cruelty, that he is no man but a shadow. Let me put your heart at ease.

Yes, he has put fire to heretics. That much is true. But always with the bishop’s sanction, always in accordance with canon law. And never has he smiled in doing so — those who claim it mistake solemnity for delight. I have stood beside him in the square. I have seen him pray for their souls as the flames rose. He wept, Conrad. He truly did.

Yes, he is stern. Yes, he keeps to himself, and the peasants murmur as peasants always will. But I tell you, he provides as no other lord does. When the snows took the harvest, it was Klaus who opened his granaries. When wolves stalked the ridges, it was Klaus who rode at night to drive them off. These are not the deeds of a beast, but of a Christian lord.

The Church here loves him, as do I. We see in him not darkness, but light veiled by the burdens of his station. Believe no rumor, brother, but only what is writ plain: Graf Klaus von Nibelheim is faithful, and God’s hand is upon him.

In Christ,

+Matthaeus

'''796 – The Night of Judgment:'''

Five mercenaries desecrate a roadside shrine. Klaus ‘hosts’ them for confession, reads the Psalms of Penance, and executes them one by one before the crucifix. The bishop of Brixen later cites the event as proof that “even wolves may serve the Lord.” The local priest calls it “justice without hesitation,” and the act becomes local sermon material for decades.

'''808 – The Holy Ash Valley:'''

Famine and pagan offerings coincide. A hamlet refuses his relocation order; a week later, “wildfire” consumes it. No one (save Rynzel, Thayne and Dren) has any idea that a lightning bolt spell was involved. To the bishop, it is “divine warning”. He rebuilds a chapel on the site and names it ''Tal des Heiligen Asche''—''Valley of Holy Ashes''.

'''End of Reign & Legacy'''

'''820 – The Chapel of St. Walpurga:'''

Klaus finances a stone chapel at the foot of the pass, dedicating it to “purity and vigilance”. Pilgrims climb to leave votive candles; many are veterans who fought under him. His motto, carved above the door, reads: ''“Fiat Justitia, Et Deus Videat.”''

'''821 – 826 – The Wolf’s Peace:'''

Banditry ends. The road prospers. Every monastery in the valley reports full tithes. Innsbruck’s merchants travel unmolested; pilgrims find bread and candles awaiting them. The Church hails the Graf as an exemplar of Christian rule in wild country. Peasants light lanterns in their windows when storms come—so that “the Wolf of Nibelheim” can find their homes first. The Church calls him “God’s Warden of the Pass.”

The rule of hermitage comes into play for the first time in the winter of '''825''', allowing seamless succession, and he disappears to a ‘hidden mountain shrine’ to ‘spend the rest of his days in prayer, reflection and solitude’, of which Father Adelhard was to travel to bi-weekly to ‘bring him supplies’. He is never seen alive again.

A partially consumed corpse (though not by wolves!) is found in January '''826''', deemed death by exposure. It is rumored that Klaus I intended to submit to winter so as to not become a burden on his family as do the wolves. The body is interred in the Chapel of the Silver Mist. Klaus II determines that he too will continue the traditions his father put into place, but that he will establish a safer hermitage watched by a monk for himself and later descendants. This is deemed wise by all.

By his “death”, the Brenner corridor is prosperous and quiet. Innsbruck’s tax rolls show record tithes; no bandits trouble the high road. The monks of Maria Waldrast sing requiem. 

To king and church he was the exemplar of Christian order in savage lands.

To the mountain folk, he was a shadow that kept darkness at bay.

And to history, he was the beginning of a paradox: a line of Grafs so holy that their cruelty was mistaken for grace.

'''House Rules''' (set by Klaus I and maintained thereafter)

'''Age-Thirty Law:''' Full powers pass to the “heir” at 30.

'''Seven-Year Solitude:''' Each new Graf rules seven years before marriage.

'''Children:''' All children receive a permanent “polymorph (not exactly that)” at birth to give them a strong family resemblance; eventually removed only for the heir. Parentage is never questioned. Boys are guaranteed to get more of Klaus’s facial structure, but in the beginning it’s just enough to be plausible. He reevaluates this glamor on children that show promise as needed, stopping when appropriate “to send them away for schooling”, leaving them to grow as they will and using a temporary glamor when it is time for his heir to play the part. This allows them to garner a sense of self.

'''Succession Optics:''' The heir is chosen from his wife’s sons for trust and temperament (not strictly primogeniture).

'''Sanctified Exit:''' Every retiring Graf “withdraws to contemplation” (hermitage or monastery under Church protection), generally the very day the heir turns 30. The Ascension is always that day barring emergency, though the “official” hermitage/pilgrimage might be delayed until spring if the Ascension date falls in winter.

'''Raising and Choosing the Heir'''

'''Educate at Home (Cover: “abroad”):'''

All children are educated starting at five years old; the girls as much as he can get away with, and the boys fully. Tutors are sworn to secrecy; no extra glamour during these years so sons develop their own minds and are comfortable with themselves. Often, the polymorph and glamor are removed entirely from the chosen heir, as it will be removed when he leaves. As needed, primary candidates receive extra glamor when visitors might arrive, but the household alone needs no glamor other than the base polymorph. Klaus chooses an heir as soon as it is clear who the best choice is, to allow the others a sense of normalcy.

'''Teach the Role:''' Voice, posture, signatures, habits, local law, vassal names, Church etiquette.

'''Select the Heir:''' Pick the son with best judgment, acting skills and discretion; swear him to the Graf compact.

'''Re-Fit the Glamour''': Heir receives a precise glamour to match Klaus’s face at the appropriate age or older version, depending on best role performance; short rehearsals only. This only takes place as needed while the “heir steps into public view alongside his father”, perhaps here and there for a few years. It ends entirely when the elder Klaus “dies”, but mostly stops upon the elder Klaus stepping down and entering hermitage: the heir is kept within arms reach for ‘emergencies’ until death, at which point the young man is free to make his own life with his own true face. 

A second son (if available) is also trained to mimic his father ''and'' brother’s required mannerisms to prepare for the possibility the chosen heir might die, at which point he would take over his brother’s role in life until the ruse is no longer needed to be kept up. 

'''Formal Abdication Day:''' Court assembles. The “elder Klaus” (either Valkaenar or briefly the glamoured heir depending on what works best) hands over signet, titles, and blessings. 

'''Procession to Seclusion:''' The elder departs (this time the kid, brief public sighting) to the mountain hermitage, partner monastery or final pilgrimage. 

'''Seal the Paper Trail:''' The abbot records entry; letters go out that the elder no longer receives visitors. 

'''Managing the Elder’s Disappearance:''' No ongoing illusion; After departure, the elder is to never seen publicly again. Rare cameos: if a signature or rite is demanded, the heir uses a glamour again for a single, dim-room appearance as the elder; then stops again. 

'''The “Death” and Burial''': Acquire a Body (quietly): Suitable remains secured (accident, plague, unknown soldier). Illusions applied if necessary. Wrap, anoint, seal, grand funeral, interred in the Chapel of Silver Mist; ledger entries completed; masses endowed. The heir now has his own life with a large sum of money to do with as he pleases.

'''''The First Ascension, Winter of 825 CE'''''

The great hall of Nibelheimhof gleamed with candlelight reflected in silver plates and the soft shimmer of frost through the windows. Servants moved in silence; even the wolves lay still beneath the dais. It was the night of the ''Ascension'', a feast born of devotion and secrecy, though the valley only knew it as the passing of the torch.

The elder Graf, Klaus von Nibelheim, sat at the head of the table—his hair streaked silver, his hands still steady. Beside him, the young man who bore his face in younger lines: Vin, the chosen heir. No courtly actor could have played it better, but the affection between them was unmistakable. Valkaenar had taught him every gesture and inflection, not to mimic him, but to ''understand'' him. The boy was Klaus’s echo in flesh and manner, and tonight he would carry the name onward.

When the bishop’s blessing ended, Klaus rose. His voice carried easily, measured and deliberate.

“The Wolf grows weary, but his line does not.

The Lord of Winter gives his strength to spring.

By vow, by faith, and by the seal of Nibelheim, 

I lay down the road and its keeping. Let it never close.”

He drew the signet from his finger and placed it on Vin’s palm. The crowd murmured, half awe, half grief. The younger man knelt; Klaus rested a hand on his head. 

“You are no longer Herr Vin von Kirchdach, but 

henceforth Graf Klaus von Nibelheim the Second.” 

For a moment, neither moved. To those watching, it looked like the passing of a legacy—grave, holy, final. To the household who knew the truth, it was simply a turn of the wheel, one mask yielding to another, both parts played by men who trusted each other entirely. 

When Vin rose again, he spoke the reply Valkaenar had taught him since childhood:

“By your leave and by God’s, I take your name and all of the duty that accompanies it.”

They embraced—brief, tight, utterly sincere. The feast erupted in cheers and prayers. The elder man smiled, soft and tired, and watched the younger take his seat in his stead. It was perfect theatre.

'''''After the Feast — The Quiet Arrangement'''''

The hall had emptied, leaving only the hush of embers and the scent of wine. The wolves slept by the hearth, their flanks rising and falling in unison.

Valkaenar sat wearing Klaus’s youthful guise with his cup untouched, the signet once more upon his hand.

Across the table, the young man still wore the weight of ceremony on his shoulders, but his face was now his own.

“You played the part well,” Valkaenar said, his voice warm with approval. “They will sleep soundly tonight—full of meat and mead.” 

His adopted son managed a faint smile. “And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I will sit that chair again, as always. And I will need what you have borrowed.”

Vin hesitated, then understood. “I return to you your title of Graf, the duties granted to that title, and the name of Klaus the Second, Father. The valley believes, and all of it is yours.” 

The immortal fae Lord of Winter inclined his head. “As it ever was.”

He studied his human a moment, the way a craftsman studies his best work. “You have worn Klaus’s face with grace, and you have earned a name worthy of him.”

Vin’s brow lifted. “A name?”

“''Karolus.''” The syllables carried both weight and tenderness. “For the king I once rode beside. He was brave, honorable, and loved his family more than power. The world remembers him as a legend; I remember him as he was. I would have his name live again in another good man, one that I have raised, one who has shown the same heart.”

The man’s eyes widened, then softened. “Then I will carry it with honor.”

“You already have,” Valkaenar said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now the world will know what I’ve known all along.”

He rose, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Rest tonight, ''Karolus.'' In the morning, you will wear the face of an old man, and ride into the mists. The day after tomorrow, the valley will greet a new cousin of the house who was, regrettably, too late for the Ascension—one who bears no titles but carries my trust.”

The human nodded, understanding passing between them without need of glamour. The fire popped softly, and for a heartbeat the two of them looked like brothers in the lamplight—one ancient, one beginning, both bound by a secret that felt less like deceit than like stewardship.

“Do you think they believed it?” he asked.

“They want to believe it,” Valkaenar replied. “The people desire a mortal lord the valley can outlive.”

Karolus nodded, serious now. “And what am I now?”

Valkaenar smiled faintly. “Family. Always that. Tomorrow you’ll be that cousin from Trento you’ve never met- until we decide on something more permanent. Klaus the First will be the name given to a corpse in early January, and I will need you nearby until the proverbial mask can be put away for a few decades. You’ll live well, as far or close as you wish. Write to me as though to a friend, visit as you like, and wear your own face. You’ve earned that.”

“The abbot’s records are sealed—filed under the bishop’s hand, as agreed. He has the old Graf’s signed declaration—the hermit will enter solitude tomorrow morning,” he said, his tone that of a man long accustomed to miracles. 

He paused, regarding the pair with open fondness. “The valley will sleep easy.”

“It should,” Valkaenar said. “We’ve done well.” He intended to make ''sure'' of it soon enough within the Dreamstate.

The priest inclined his head. “God keeps his instruments close, my lord. The people see one man pass and another rise; faith requires no more.”

The ‘new’ Graf’s grin was faint, almost kind. “And yet faith always gets more.”

Father Adelhard chuckled under his breath. “Then heaven must approve your methods.”

“Let us hope it never notices,” Valkaenar answered with a low chuckle, standing. “We’re all due some peace before the next storm.”

Argent and Cindre stirred from the hearth and followed as he crossed the hall toward the stair, Karolus rising with him.

The next morning, the household would wake to a valley unchanged: the “old Graf” “going to prayer”, the “new Graf” seeing him off, and a “family friend” soon taking up residence nearby.

The first Ascension had ended exactly as it was meant to — without a single true goodbye.

'''''The Morning After the Ascension'''''

Morning broke clear and cold. Frost silvered the courtyard stones, and every breath hung white in the still air. Nibelheimhof was solemn quiet.

The household, the Bishop, and several villagers gathered in the courtyard to see the old Graf off on his final journey to solitude. He descended the great stair wrapped in white furs, his gait slow, his hair streaked with silver. Servants bowed as he passed, villagers wished him well. The Bishop blessed him. To general mortal eyes, this was the aged Klaus I taking his leave of worldly things. Only those ensorcelled, geased and oathbound knew that beneath the frail glamour walked Karolus, playing his last role for the valley.

At the gate waited Dren. He looked ancient—back bent, beard rimed with frost—but the illusion of age sat easily on him. His eyes were sharp, his bearing steady, and his loyalty far older than the years of every human present combined. He would need a new face soon enough as well.

Thayne and Rynzel watched with household staff, “newly hired” that fall. Valkaenar stood beside Adalbert near the horses, they completed the picture of two dutiful sons seeing their father to the edge of life. The ‘new’ Graf’s cloak caught the light; his expression held the perfect balance of pride and restraint.

Karolus inclined his head toward him. “Keep the fires lit, Graf Klaus von Nibelheim, and the road clear. The valley is yours.”

Valkaenar bowed. “And always will be.”

The “old Graf” turned to Dren. “Come, old friend. You will see me as far as the birchwood.”

“As my lord commands,” Dren said, mounting his horse.

The courtyard watched as the two riders passed through the gate. Hooves struck frozen stone, then softened to snow, fading into the white. When the last sound was gone, Valkaenar lifted his face to the mountains and exhaled, the stress of the ruse fading. The unbound villagers saw only the new Graf and his older brother lingering in reverent silence.

By midday, the house was alive again: orders given, ledgers opened, smoke curling from the chimneys. To the valley, the rite was complete.

Meanwhile, beyond the pine bridge, Dren and Karolus rode in companionable quiet. When the Hof was no longer visible, Karolus reined in. “This is far enough,” he said, his voice his own again.

Dren nodded, his tone unchanged. “They saw what they needed to see.”

Karolus smiled, fatigue and relief mingling. “Then let’s be done with the ghost.”

He drew a breath and dropped his father’s illusion on both himself and the horse. The stoop straightened; the silvering hair darkened to chestnut; youth returned to his face like dawn through mist and the horse’s coat color changed. For a heartbeat the snow caught the faint shimmer of fae magic and then stilled.

“You’ll circle back before dark?” Dren asked.

“As the cousin from Trento,” Karolus confirmed. “Father wants eyes nearby until the mask is buried.”

Dren’s mouth twitched in something like a smile. “Then I’ll see to the hermit’s trail and meet you by the orchard wall. We’ll have a fine story ready by nightfall.”

Karolus nodded, turned his horse, and vanished into the trees. The winter light swallowed him whole.

By evening, the valley would whisper that the elder Graf had gone to prayer in the mountains, and the “cousin from Trento” would arrive at Nibelheimhof, polite and unassuming, to pay respects to his grieving kin.

And in the manor’s upper rooms, Valkaenar would already be back at his desk, quill in hand, while the wolves slept before the fire and the world went on believing that Klaus was ‘mortal’. 

--------

'''''The Passing of the Hermit Graf — Early January, 826 CE'''''

The snows lay deep that winter, heavy even for Nibelheim. The valley had gone silent—rooflines buried, roads closed, wolves bold enough to come down to the edge of the orchards. When the first thaw came in the new year, Father Adelhard and Dren set out from the Hof with pack and torch to bring provisions to the old Graf in his solitude. It had been three weeks since the last word reached them, and though the people called him a holy man, no one wished to find him frozen.

They found him before dusk, not far from the birchwood shrine where he’d said he would pray. The snow had drifted around his body, half-covering it; his hands were folded over his breast as though he had lain down to rest. But the face was gone—picked clean by the scavengers of the forest, foxes or martens most likely. The marks of teeth and claw left no question.

Father Adelhard crossed himself, whispering, “The mountain took him gently, at least.” Dren said nothing. His breath came white in the air, and in his silence there was both reverence and the faint tension of a man acting well within his role.

They carried the body back under nightfall, wrapped in furs. By morning, word had spread through the valley: ''the hermit Graf had died as the year turned, found kneeling in prayer, the forest having claimed only what heaven no longer guarded.''

'''''The Pilgrim in the Snow — The Night of the Ride Back'''''

The night after the Ascension, the wind had changed. Fine snow drifted down through the pines, whispering across the road like spilled sand. Dren rode ahead, lantern swinging from his saddle, while Karolus followed close behind, still half-numb from the long hours in disguise. They had just passed the old orchard wall when the horses balked.

Something lay half-buried by the ditch—a shape unlike a stump. Dren dismounted first, brushing snow aside with his gloved hand. A man’s arm showed through the drift, stiff and pale, the fingers curled around a rosary frozen fast to his palm.

They uncovered him slowly, carefully. A traveler by the look of him—a pilgrim, wrapped in threadbare wool, his pack soaked through with ice. The skin of his face had been torn by scavengers, the features lost to frost and teeth alike. Judging by the state of him, he’d been dead a week, maybe two.

Karolus stared down, his breath fogging. “He’s near my height,” he said quietly.

Dren’s eyes flicked to him, then toward the mountains where the hermit Graf was supposed to have vanished. “And his face is already gone,” he murmured. “The mountain provides.”

They worked in silence for a while, freeing the body from the snow and laying it across Dren’s horse. The rosary they left coiled in his hands.

By the time they reached the Hof, the torches along the wall were burning low. Valkaenar, Thayne, and Rynzel met them in the stable, cloaks drawn tight. One look told Valkaenar what they’d brought. He touched the corpse’s shoulder, testing the stiffness.

“Unclaimed?”

Karolus nodded. “No marks of guild or house. Pilgrim’s belt, worn boots, nothing else.”

Valkaenar considered the body a long moment. “Then he won’t be missed.”

Dren bowed his head, smirking. “The timing, my lord… it borders on ''divine''.”

Valkaenar’s smile widened. “Let’s call it providence. Heaven seems to ''like'' tidy endings.”
----'''''Later That Night'''''

Father Adelhard arrived when the moon stood high. The six of them stood around the bier in the cold hall, the fire crackling low. The priest bent to examine the body, his expression sober but oddly calm.

“He died on pilgrimage,” he said softly. “It would be cruel to deny him a name.”

He traced a cross over the corpse’s brow—or where it would have been—and whispered the absolution for travelers lost in snow.

“Every soul finds its purpose. Perhaps this one’s was to remind us that God’s work is not always elegant, only effective.”

Valkaenar inclined his head. “Then let him serve once more.”

Adelhard met his gaze, the ghost of a wry smile beneath his grief. “You do realize, my lord, that this borders on sacrilege.”

“If Heaven minds, it’s been slow to say so.” Valkaenar said.

The priest chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “God must approve of you, then. Providence seems to keep your company.”

Thayne covered the pilgrim with the Graf’s shroud. The rosary stayed where it was, frozen fingers locked around it. In the candlelight, the illusion already worked. To the eyes of the world, it would be enough.

'''''The Pilgrim in the Snow — Continued'''''

The body lay on the stone table in the hall below the chapel, candles guttering in the draft. Meltwater pooled beneath the wool cloak, running down to the floor in thin rivulets. Thayne had closed the pilgrim’s eyes out of habit, though there was little left of a face to read.

Valkaenar stood over him, sleeves rolled past his wrists, breath misting in the chill. Karolus lingered near the door beside Rynzel, silent, watching his father’s expression as the faint blue shimmer of magic gathered in his hands.

The temperature in the room dropped sharply. Frost crept from the edges of the slab, lacing across the body’s cloak and fingers like lacework spun by winter itself. Steam hissed as the moisture stiffened and turned to glassy ice. In moments, the corpse was sealed beneath a smooth crystalline shell—opaque enough to blur detail, clear enough to suggest preservation.

Valkaenar stepped back, examining his work. “That should hold,” he said softly. “No rot, no smell. By the time they see him, he’ll look as if he had died tonight.”

Dren exhaled. “Where will he be found?”

“Up by the birches,” Valkaenar replied, wiping condensation from his sleeve. “Where the ‘hermit’ was meant to pray. We’ll keep him below until the weather turns in a few weeks.”

Karolus hesitated. “Won’t the cold make him… unnatural?”

Valkaenar gave him a faint smile. “That’s the beauty of it. The valley expects the mountain to take what it loves. A body returned by frost is practically scripture.”

Father Adelhard, standing by the door, crossed himself but didn’t argue. “You’ll have to thaw the edges before I bless him again,” he said wryly. “The Church prefers its miracles a little warmer.”

“Of course,” Valkaenar said. “Two weeks in the lower crypt should do. After that, we ‘discover’ him. By then, the villagers will be restless for closure.”

He leaned close to the ice, his reflection faint in the frozen surface. “You sought God in the heights—He’s answered, in His own fashion. You’ll rest among my chosen; mercy takes many shapes.” 

The faintest pulse of light flickered beneath the ice—no enchantment for life, only for stillness. The air smelled of pine resin and old stone, sharp and clean.

Valkaenar turned to Dren and Thayne. “Seal the door and keep the key on you. No one enters without my word. The dead must stay obedient until they’re useful.”

Dren bowed. “As my lord commands.”

Karolus glanced once more at the ice, his expression uneasy but understanding. “And when he’s found?”

“Then,” Valkaenar said, his voice low and certain, “we let ''faith'' do the rest.”

'''''The Discovery — Early January, 826 CE''''' ''(Two weeks later, when the storm had eased...)''

The morning came gray and still, snow falling in slow, lazy flakes that blurred the birchwood into a single pale haze. Father Adelhard rode alone, the wicker basket of bread and wine tied behind his saddle. He knew exactly where to go. The valley believed this was his monthly pilgrimage to deliver provisions to the hermit Graf; only he, Valkaenar, and those bound closest to him—Dren his shield, Rynzel his shadow, Thayne his mender, and his mortal son, Karolus—knew what waited beneath the drifts.

At the old shrine, his horse snorted and halted, as if sensing what lay ahead. Adelhard dismounted, muttering a soft prayer more out of habit than piety. The snow rose nearly to his knees as he waded forward.

There, beneath the birches, the ice clouded, softening beneath the first weeks’ thaw, lay the body — precisely where it should be, hands folded, cloak stiff with ice. The rosary still glimmered faintly in the cold light.

Adelhard knelt beside him, brushing snow from the pilgrim’s breast. His gloves stuck briefly to the frozen cloth. The face was ruined, and he was grateful for that mercy. Nothing to recognize, nothing to contradict the story.

He bowed his head and spoke the words he had prepared weeks ago.

“Lord, receive your servant Klaus, who sought You in solitude and found You in silence.”

The forest was utterly still. Even the wind seemed to pause for him. It was not revelation—it was ritual, a truth told twice so that the world might believe it once.

Adelhard drew a flask from his belt and sprinkled wine across the snow, a gesture that looked like holy water from a distance. “You chose well, my lord,” he murmured, voice low and fond. “Even heaven must admire such neatness.”

When he rose, the basket was empty. The bread he left near the shrine; the wine, poured out; the rest, between him and the secret they kept. He turned his horse and started down the trail, rehearsing in his head the right tremor of voice, the right delay before the words ''“We found him.”''

By nightfall, the valley would know. And as the Hof’s bells tolled the news, Father Adelhard would stand in the courtyard beside Valkaenar, weeping on cue—not from deceit, but from quiet faith.

“The mountain took him softly,” he would say again, the line already polished into scripture.

And somewhere beneath the snow, the pilgrim who had died nameless slept beneath another man’s legend, wrapped in ice and purpose, his silence sealing the lie as perfectly as faith ever could.
----'''''The Announcement at Nibelheimhof'''''

At sunrise, the household assembled in the courtyard. Valkaenar—now Klaus II—stood before them, cloak drawn tight, grief composed but convincing. The body, shrouded and sealed, lay on a bier before the chapel doors.

“My father, the Graf of Nibelheim, has gone to his rest,” Valkaenar said, voice steady, eyes bright with the cold. “The snows closed behind him as he prayed, and when they opened again, the mountain had taken him. Dren and Father Adelhard brought him home. His vigil is ended.”

The servants bowed their heads. Some wept quietly. Others whispered that the Graf’s soul had chosen to remain close, that the wolves had left his body only because they knew his spirit still watched the valley.

Valkaenar continued, measured and ritual:

“He asked for no procession. Only that he be laid beside my mother, that his house be kept well, and that our hearths burn through the long winter. Three days of prayer, and then the work of the living must resume.”

He placed his hand on the shroud, lingering long enough for all to see, then turned away, his expression a study in restrained mourning.
----'''''After the Announcement'''''

When the crowd had dispersed, the great hall fell quiet. The bier rested before the chapel’s silver doors, candles burning on either side. Father Adelhard sat nearby, recording the death with formal calm. Dren stood behind him, hands clasped, eyes low.

Valkaenar spoke softly once the quill had stilled.

“Make certain the record matches the tale. The forest will account for what’s missing.”

The priest nodded. “The people will say the mountain claimed his face to keep his likeness from idolaters. They will believe it.”

“Good,” Valkaenar said. “Faith always seems to prefer a touch of mystery.”

From the doorway, Karolus entered, now again wearing his true face—the ‘cousin from Trento’, weary from imagined travel. His arrival drew no question; timing, as always, had been perfect.

Valkaenar turned toward him, offering the faintest smile.

“Welcome, ‘cousin’. You’ve come in time to pay your respects.”

Karolus bowed his head. “It’s the least I could do for the man who kept our bloodline strong.”

The wolves stirred by the fire as Valkaenar glanced back at the shrouded body. “The legend will hold, then. He died as a man, but they’ll remember him as more than that. And that’s all the story ever needed to be.”

Father Adelhard closed the ledger. “God grant that his peace endure.”

Valkaenar’s eyes flicked toward him, the ghost of humor in them.

“It will,” he said. “He’s very well looked after.”
----'''''The Burial of the Hermit Graf — Mid-January 826 CE'''''

The thaw held for three days, just long enough to open the road to the chapel on the lower slope. Villagers came up in twos and threes, their breath misting in the brittle air, hands clutching candles and sprigs of pine. The bells of the Hof tolled slow and even; no one hurried. They said a good man deserved stillness.

The bier rested before the chapel doors, the shroud drawn high to the breast. Only the clasped hands showed—thin, pale, the nails clean as if he had been laid out by angels. The face was left covered, “to spare the weak of heart,” Father Adelhard told them, though his tone carried the suggestion of something holier.

“When they found him,” he said to the gathered crowd, “his face had been veiled by snow. The forest keeps what it loves; God keeps the rest.”

The words traveled through the valley by nightfall—changed already. By morning, some swore the forest beasts had knelt beside him, that light had lingered over the body until the priest’s arrival. Valkaenar did not correct them. Truth had done its work; belief could finish it. Argent and Cindre followed him to the chapel but not inside it. The rest of the pack milled nearby, watching the events unfold from the treeline.

Inside, the chapel smelled of wax and pine. The windows glowed faintly blue from the snow outside. The stone altar bore the sigil of the Nibelheim, newly polished. Valkaenar knelt there as the coffin was lowered into the crypt beside the tomb of his “mother.” From his sleeve he drew a small bundle wrapped in linen.

He unfolded it carefully: a worn rosary of dark mountain ash, its cross mended long ago with silver wire. The beads were smooth from decades of handling; to any onlooker, it was the well-used devotion of a humble man.

He placed it gently upon the lid.

“For the road you prayed to see,” he murmured, low enough that only a few heard him.

Father Adelhard inclined his head, recognizing the object but not its deeper history—it had hung for years in the chapel alcove, always ready for any supplicant’s hand. A token no one would ever think to question.

The priest sprinkled holy water and spoke the final prayer.  

“Ashes to ashes, flesh to earth, and spirit to the keeping of the Lord. Let no winter take from this valley the warmth of his name.”

When the stone settled into place, the rosary vanished beneath it—unremarkable, devout, and perfectly safe. The valley would remember a pious man buried with his beads, never suspecting that the Lord of Winter had chosen the one thing in the world that no inquisitor would dare disturb.  

Klaus II rose. His face was solemn, distant, perfect in its restraint. To the people watching, it was the grief of a son who bore the burden of legacy; to those who knew, it was the quiet satisfaction of an artist seeing the last brushstroke dry.

Outside, the villagers lingered, crossing themselves, pressing hands to the chapel wall as though to take a little of the sanctity with them. Some claimed later that the snow melted slower on the roof that night, that the wolves howled once and then fell silent.
----'''''After the Burial'''''

The crowd thinned by dusk. Father Adelhard locked the chapel doors and handed the key to Valkaenar, who turned it in his palm before tucking it into his cloak.

“The tale has grown wings already,” the priest murmured. “They call him ''the Winter Saint.''”

Valkaenar smiled faintly. “A saint indeed.”

Karolus waited at the gate, dressed in travel cloak and humble colors. When the last cart creaked away down the hill, Valkaenar and Rynzel joined him.

“It’s done,” Karolus said softly. “He’s buried, and they’ll guard that tomb for generations.”

“They will,” Valkaenar replied. “Every prayer they whisper for him will keep eyes off me. Faith truly is the ''best'' camouflage.”

The three men stood in the cold until the stars came out, thin and bright above the ridge. The wolves howled once more, then quieted as if to mark the end of the rite. Somewhere below, the villagers lit their candles and spoke of miracles.

In the stillness that followed, Dren’s voice broke the silence from the shadows near the stable:

“The valley sleeps easy, my lord.”

Valkaenar’s answer was calm, certain.

“As it should. The dead are at peace—and so are we.”

He turned toward the manor, cloak whispering over the snow, leaving behind only the faint scent of pine and the memory of a man who had never truly died.

'''''Epilogue — Late Winter, 826 CE'''''

By February the valley had returned to its rhythms. The snows thinned to a gray crust, and smoke rose from the chimneys of Trins once more. Word of the Hermit Graf spread only as far as the next parish—no farther, just as Valkaenar intended.

A letter arrived from Salzburg, sealed in red wax and full of polite unease. The bishop thanked “Graf Klaus the Second” for his swift report and offered to send a canon to “verify the late lord’s sanctity.” Father Adelhard read the letter aloud at breakfast. Valkaenar smiled without looking up from his cup.

“No need,” he said lightly. “The valley has its miracle already. We’ve seen his peace with our own eyes. Let the Church chase greater wonders.”

Adelhard nodded once, understanding. The reply he penned that afternoon was brief and impeccably courteous:

''The family requests that the bishop’s generosity be directed toward those in need; our late lord’s piety is better honored in silence than spectacle.''

The letter rode out with the next caravan. It was never answered.
----In the weeks that followed, small pilgrimages began anyway. Farmers left candles at the chapel door; a shepherd claimed his sick ewe recovered after sleeping near the wall. Valkaenar allowed it—such things kept the villagers happy—but he forbade any carving of icons or sale of relics. When a mason suggested building a shrine, a sudden avalanche took half his scaffolding. After that, the people decided the Graf preferred modesty.

By spring the story had settled into its final shape:

the Hermit Graf who had prayed for the valley,

the faithful wolves who kept watch,

the son who carried on his work.

A tale tidy enough to keep peace, human enough to be believed,

and humble enough that no churchman would bother to verify it.

And high in the mountains, where the snow never truly melted,

the legend of the Hermit Graf rested quietly—untouched by Rome,

guarded by frost, and watched over by the fox who had written it.