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The land mass northeast of Northern Gaia, the Island continent of Guldor, is far different than anything further south, and so is Guldor's vast Tundra. At first glance the Tundra of Guldor seems barren and desolate. Upon closer inspection, the gentle rolling fields covered in ice and snow are teeming with local flora and fauna. The forests are a frozen wonderland; the ice casting the weak sunshine into brilliant glimmers of color that change when one moves.

• Description:
  As stated, the Guldor Tundra seems desolate and cold. But to the races that live here, the Tundra is the most lively and liveable place on the continent. The tundra spreads across the interior of the large continent, and is struggled over by the local s for the biggest pieces. Sheep, rodents and goats graze on the sparse grass, and wolves, bears and other carnivores prey upon these. There are not many insects or large birds living in the Tundra; it is quite cold and makes it very difficult.
  
  In the forested areas of the Tundra, the trees shelter the ground, allowing some of the more colorful plants to live in shelter from the cold gusts. Paths are worn all through these forests; giving a sense of great use. However, these paths are created by the snow that falls from the trees, it lands upon the earth and wipes away any seedlings that try and take hold.
  
  The towers of the former Kyonuske stand tall and erect beyond the reaches of the Tundra; the Ice Elves now dwell within them.
  
  The massive towers of ice were fashioned by more than ordinary means. Outside, it seems like a slick stalagmite jutting out of the earth. Inside, there are many floors. The first floor is the court and meeting area, it is the largest room. Steps lead up to the second tier, where as many as five families live. It continues upward, to the final tier. The final tier houses the ruling sect of the tower. These towers usually stop at about 5 stories.
  
  Each home has at most two rooms. There is the sleeping room where the members sleep by wrapping themselves in cloaks and blankets. The second room is a belonging room. All the weapons and belongings are kept there in small piles. It is particularly unorganized, but there seems to be few problems.
  
  
• Location:
  The Continent of Guldor is located northeast of Northern Gaia. As the continent is quite surrounded by ocean, the amount of foreigners who visit is few. The Tundra of which we speak spans the interior of the main-land mass, reachable from shore by a two-to three-day trek by horse, even shorter by vehicle or flight.
  
  
• People:
  There are a few sparse races that colonized the Guldor continent. The Ice Elves are quite primitive compared to brethren of other continents.
  
  
• Climate:
  The Guldor Tundra is cold. Very cold. Its inhabitants wear heavy layers of fur and cloth, and cloaks to wrap about themselves. Ice and snow is ever-present, and few plants of warmer climates can break through the cold snap. Plants that live here are only native to Guldor.
  
  
• Flora:
  The Plants of the Tundra are for the most part dull and drab in color, growing low to the ground to avoid the cold and the wind. While some of the plants use animals to transport their seeds, others prefer to hide among others and deposit their seeds themselves. All of the plants of the Tundra are native to Guldor; it has been proven that if a plant is withdrawn from the Tundra and placed in a warmer climate; it either dies or grows to amazing size. The skyweed for example is believed to have originally been native to Guldor; the plant seems well-contained in the cold of the tundra.
  
  
• Fauna:
  Goats and sheep can be found at the Tundra in abundance, though their numbers are kept down due to the things that hunt them. Bears, wildcats and wolves, as well as other carnivores also hunt these animals; though these hunters are not seen so often. Small ground birds flourish here, though large birds that take to wing are rare. Most animals here have only a small distinction to their warm-climate relatives; they have thicker fur and a small layer of fat to keep them warm. Some grow fur on their paws for traction on the ice.
  
  
• Resources:
  Though the Tundra seems desolate, the land is rich in resources to those that know what to use and where to look. Sheep wool can be woven into thick, heavy cloth and pelts are even better at insulation. The meat of these animals is rationed; what is not eaten right away can be packed in ice for a later meal. Sinew makes great string, cord and rope; much stronger than that of the sheep-wool. Bones and horns have uses as pins, buttons, beads and other trinkets, as horns can be ornamental or used in trade. Whales and seals are used in the same fashion; though their massive amounts of fat serve in candles and seasonings. Plants can be boiled and combined to make foods and seasonings; some are medicinally useful. Metals are easy to find in Guldor, though they are impure and pliable. This makes them near useless for things other than cooking and weak defense armor.
  
  
• Myth/Lore:
  As the people who live in the Tundra are quite serious, there is little room for myth. The Kyonuske base their clan upon the Nightsons; they maintain that it is not myth. The Ice Elves are known to have few or even no myths, they prefer not to clutter their already-hard lives with something unreal to fear or wish for.
  
  Some people claim there was a huge troll or beast that roams the Tundra; stealing kills and scaring them unnecessarily; few try to think about it. Some accounts are included below:
  
  
  "The beast is huge! it has to be at least 12 feet in height - and covered in fur! Or ice... I'm not sure. But it looks like a bear,
  walking erect with blood red eyes."
  --Makai, Greendeath
  
  "Had taken down a goat with my bow at 40 feet out, I did indeed. Saw the goat fall and everything... but when I got there, all I could find was a
  bloody mess. No goat anywhere. The thing took my kill and wasted my time. Next time I see him, he'll be MY meal."
  -- Ammos, Korenjaan
  
  There has been no recent reported sighting of the beast, which is rumored to have been killed. There is no evidence to verify or discount the rumors.
  
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The eyes of a true predator are cold. So cold that even in a place such as Guldor, they are still frosty enough to send chills up one's spine. Perhaps a predators greatest tool in the hunt is fear; paralyzing and stunning. But for this particular hunt, stealth and the element of surprise were much more important than stalking one's prey. It's hard to think that in a vast, open tundra one could find somewhere to hide, somewhere to strike from, but a great hunter could locate such an area with little difficulty; the world's greatest hunter, then, could create such an area. The key to this hunt, however, was bait. Live bait.

One of the great wolves that were commonly used as mounts by Orcs, often known as worgs, glared hungrily at the limping figure of a baby caribou over the crest of the small gnoll it was currently crouched down upon. The small, wounded fawn was walking about in circles in the shallowest of valleys surrounded on all sides by slight hills; the valley was so shallow that if a grown man was standing erect on the other side of one of the small hills, he could see the bottom of the basin. But, luckily, worgs walk on all fours, and are greedy loners when it comes to easy food. With the smallest growls of impending victory, the wolf leaps up to its feet and charges silently down upon the wounded animal, its soft foot-pads making gentle noises on the freshly fallen snow.

Worgs are not stupid animals, and even a wild, non-tamed beast such as it would, and did, notice that this whole situation was not as it appeared. One thing and one thing alone would have saved its life if it would have taken a bit longer to assess the situation, but being hungry and greedy had clouded its vision; the fawn's leg, which had appeared broken at first glance, was actually being hobbled by a small length of sinewy string which was bound abouts its knee and lower thigh. But by the time it had comprehended the situation and began to slow its run, it was too late; death had already visited upon it.

Ten or so feet from the small caribou which, by this time, had screamed and tried to run, only accomplishing falling to the ground however, the worg met it's end. The snow just off to the side of its right flank was flung upwards and a heavily camoflauged figure burst out from the small groove which he had dug, sheets of snow still falling off of the heavy polar bear pelt which was strapped to the hunter's back. The greatest of predators struck like lightning, the cold steel of his daggers taking out the throat of the worg and severing its spine just above the middle of its back before it even began to think of retaliating; hell, before the wolf even started to comprehend that it was unroyaly screwed. But the hunter's momentum did not stop when it killed the worg, contrary he continued on, using the dagger lodged in the beast's spine to launch himself over the animal in a flying roll; leaving the dagger in its throat.

The snowy, camoflauged hunter came up to his feet in a roll, bounding up with a bow that had been previously hidden beneath the snow in a simliar groove as the one he had hiding in moments before. In one fluid motion he drew and nocked the single arrow that had been in the quiver on his back, now revealed since he had discarded the polar bear pelt in his short flight. Before the worg had begun to stumble to the ground in death, the hunter had put an arrow in the worg's flank, piercing a lung through the gap in the bones of the animal's wide rib cage; being large had its strengths and its weaknesses.

The worg took one last, shuddering step, coughed up some dark ichor, then fell faceforward into the snow, quite dead.

Although cold and supremely tactical, a predator is also compassionate when the hunt is over. With the greatest of care and a soft touch, the hunter calmly moves away from his kill and kneels next to the hobbled caribou child, using yet another dagger from the folds and bindings of his clothing to free the binding about its leg. Then, with a kind pat of the small animals head and a gentle slap to its rump, he sends it scurrying back to its herd, grazing the scrub grass a couple of hundred yards off; there would be plenty of food and resources to be found on the worg, and hardly any meat could be taken from the little animal anyways. Offering the tiny animal a silent smile from beneath his heavily wrapped and insulated face, the hunter moves back to the dead worg and begins wrapping its hind legs with rope, knowing that other predators, and the worgs vengeful pack, would soon detect the scent of blood and come scurrying to the site of the kill for scraps.

Retrieving his weapons from the beast's back, throat, and flank, the hunter wraps and conceals them all in the heavy bear pelt laying nearby, covering them quickly with loose snow; it wasn't perfect, but it didn't need be- he'd only be gone a minute. Throwing some loose trailing rope from the thick bindings he had tied about the wolf's legs over his shoulder, he grips the rope in his gloved hands and begins to drag it back to the small cluster of trees about fifty yards away from where he was currently located. It was a short trip, but undeniably tough. Although he was strong enough to drag the massive wolf with ease, unnaturally strong actually, hauling a bloody carcass through thick snow without leaving that much of a trail is pretty damn hard. But this wasn't a new task- he had been doing it for years -and he made short work of it; storing the wolf carcass a dozen or so yards into the treeline in a hollowed out trunk. The cold climate made this massive, hollowed-out tree an ideal meatlocker.

Snatching up a waterskin of foul smelling solvent, a supply he had traded to a merchant from Latent for some of the fine pelts he collected, from a shelf of the meatlocker, the hunter hurries back to the scene of the kill and splashes the liquid over the steaming pools of wolf blood; in minutes the blood would have disolved, or at least lost its scent. Now with this task accomplished, the need to rush was over, and the hunter began to casually stroll back to the tiny forest, snatching up the pelt-roll of weapons as he went.

A cold wind that would have cut a weaker man to the bone blew across the tundra that evening, but the hunter seemed not affected at all; he simply breathed deep the chilly air and exhaled it in a white cloud of vapors, the familiar burn in his lungs making him smile inwardly. The thrill of the hunt and the resulting adrenaline still burned heartily in his veins, and he did not relish heading back home without having a bit more exercise; but although daring and possibly one of the bravest people there ever was or will be, he was not stupid, and that is what he would have been if he would have allowed himself to be caught at night on the open tundra. Worse things came out at night then a big doggy, and the temperature became even unbarable by his standards. With one last look out towards the horizon and the sinking sun, the hunter extends forth a hand and spreads out his fingers, as if to catch the last few rays of warmth before the night chased away the day.

But this moment of repose was not long, and as the sun sank below the horizon and the ice of the tundra was seemingly set ablaze by its heavenly fires, the hunter sighed and dropped the hand back to his side with an unceremonious flop. With a small smile playing on his concealed mouth, the predatory man grips his bundle of tools a bit tighter and proceeds into the cluster of trees, the soft, yet tough, bindings about his feet crunching snow and pine needles alike underfoot as he headed deep into the woods that were his home. He passed a sign he had constructed himself as he walked; it read -

Bander's Grove
You are unwelcome.
Be you friendly, or be you bold, ring the bell.

- Similar signs were posted at the four points around his grove that a person could enter; or at least the four points that the tightly packed trees allowed. And just as the sign stated, a silver bell hung from the bottom of each sign; anybody with half a brain in their head would be smart enough to ring it, for entering the Grove unwelcome meant certain death. The orcs of the region feared this place, for although he was a generally peaceful creature, the hunter had a personal distaste and disrespect for the brutish humanoids, and took grim satisfaction of taking the heads from their shoulders and leaving it sacks made of their own skin at whatever camp they had originated; he always knew which one, somehow. The Kyonuske, although not friendly with the hunter, shared with him a mutual respect and stayed clear of his grove if at all possible, occassionaly entering to trade with him for food or pelts; and he made sure to always treat them courteously and promptly, for they were, unlike the stupid orcs, great warriors and worthy advesaries.

Bander, the hunter, stowed the bundle of tools away in yet another one of those hollow trees, his work for the day done. The worg he had killed would need skinning and treating, he thought as he glanced at the nearby meatlocker, but not tonight; he fealt like relaxing, and the small amount of comfort he had carved out for himself in this harsh land allowed him that small luxury. In the center of the grove there was a small hotspring, the steam rising off the water making the climate near and around it comfortable, although a bit humid. And if one was to wonder how long he had been here, they would be answered as they entered the inner-most confines of the grove, the section located directly next to the hotspring; or, more appropriately, directly above.

Five huts were built about forty feet up in a monstrous pine tree, each one capable of comfortably housing two or three people. The tree in which they were housed was massive; so big it is quite plausible that all of the trees surrounding it, huge themselves, had sprung from this original tree. Travelers lost on the open tundra, if they survived, often wound up at Bander's Grove by chance, recognizing the huge tree as a beacon; he never turned these unfortunate people away because, as he said, the Goddess of Nature had put the tree there for a reason and it wasn't up to him whom turned up there. The huts are constructed of wood undoubtedly taken from some of the surrounding trees, and they have sharply sloping roofs designed to shed off snow; each roof is rubbed with ample amounts of animal blubber annually, as it happens, to further aide this exact purpose. All of the huts are connected by rope bridges wide enough for one person, and can be reached by rope bridges that can be retracted upwards at the first signs of danger. The structures had originally been designed in the early years of his solitude to keep him away from danger and off the ground, to prevent being murdered in his sleep, but as time progressed and attacks became less and less frequent, they simply became a novelty and no longer a neccessity; simply something neat for visitors to look at.

Bander didn't head up to bed at this point however, because he wasn't quite ready for sleep. Rather as he came up to the hotspring, he stretched and regarded himself in the reflection of the water; it brought a bit of a smile to his quickly dethawing visage. Although the stoic hunter hunted the beasts of this land, he couldn't deny that he did look rather like them; he even wondered sometimes if he was the yeti that people talked off, the creature that he longed and quested to hunt. It was completely possible he mused as he looked himself over in the 'mirror', for the layers of pelts and cloaks he wore did make him look rather beast-like.

His most outer layers of clothing were all constructed from the pelts of wolves and bears, their coats allowing him natural camoflauge and warmth, all lined with sheep's wool. He had multiple sets of clothing like this, each one a different set of pelts to stay camoflauged with the seaons, his 'fur' changing just like that of the animals. And underneath those thicker layers of clothing are tougher, armor-like sets of clothes. Made from the pelts of all of the beasts he hunts, the skins have been toughened into light armor under Bander's masterful handling. They are neither fancy nor abundant, simply there for the most basic combat; the hunter was rarely lowered to state of pitched battle. Things tended to die before armor became neccessary. A simple pair of pants, a shirt, and fur-lined bracers made up his 'suit of armor'.

These garments were stripped off however, because it was time for his bath. He threw his cloak off to the side, tossed his foot bindings and gloves ontop of that, dropped a coat and thick breeches onto those, unwound the thick scarf from about his face and added it to the pile, and finally threw his armor and undergarments to the growing pile of clothes to finish it off, along with his undergarments. And, hark, he was human! ...ish. Being wrapped in clothes nearly exclusively and living in the snow had earned him a very pale complexion, and the long pointed ears growing out of the side of his head marked him as having elven blood flowing in his veins. His body is tough and firm, not built like an ox but definately not weak in the least; hunters have to be dexterous and nimble as well as strongle, and that has honed his body to a sinewy might. People usually likened him to a hunting cat. Sharp, intelligent eyes of silver, untypical of Ice Elves, gleamed beneath a shock of stark white hair which hung just below his chin and onto the top of his back, remarkably well kept for his wild lifestyle. And his cheekbones, not as sharp and angular as typical of his race, were a bit lower and rounder, making him not only much more handsome, but also of mixed blood; but not even he knew whom his parents were, so his heritage was unknown.

None of it mattered and all his cares flew away as he gently lowered himself into the warm waters of the hotspring, a soft sigh escaping his lips as the warm water eased and loosened up his tense muscles; he was very sore because, believe it or not, laying beneath a heavy pelt for hours and hours, covered in snow, motionless, gets pretty tiring. With only his head not submerged in the soothing water, hair splayed out all around him, Bander stares reflectively up at the stars twinkling above him. This life was fulfilling and exhilirating, and he would have it no other way, but he got so lonely sometimes. Elves were typically social creatures, their long lives leading to a need to be around other near-immortals, but his life and its happenings had forced him into solitude. Over his near-two hundred years of life he had tamed and befriended a considerable amount of animals, but their eventual deaths always left a hole in his heart and he didn't handle loss very well, so he had stopped. But this is the price of my decisions, he mused, and nothing is perpetual. He dearly wished someone would befriend him, although he never voiced it when people came around. He would stick true to his identity.

He was Bander Tol, the greatest hunter in Gaia since Arvins. Orcdeath, Wolf-tamer, Killer of the Bear, Slayer of the Frost Wyrm, and Exile of the Ice Elves- perhaps his favorite title. A legend in his own time, and all he wanted was a friend.

The gentle tinkling of one of his warning bells rang in his large ears, and eyes which had just been about to slide shut snapped rigidly open. Judging by how the sound bounced off the trees, it was coming from the southwestern exit. Bander Tol slowly dragged himself from the water, groaning with the exhertion; dealing with somebody didn't sound so great right now, despite his lonliness, but it was his duty after all. And he couldn't rightfully leave somebody out in the cold...

...unless it was an orc.

Dressing at his own pace, not really seeing the need to rush- it wasn't like the person would die after standing there for a minute or two -he slowly relayered himself. Glancing towards his armory, hidden in another one of those large hollow trees, he wonders if he should even bother arming himself. Hand-to-hand combat was one of his specialties after all, but... he supposed he should grab something. Apathy just didn't want him to walk that extra ten feet. A small sigh and a few steps led him to the door of the weaponry, and he snaked his arm in through the cracked door and grabbed his favorite sword, always sheathed and leaning right next to the portal. He belted it on across his back, the hilt protruding over his right shoulder, and then pulled the hood of his cloak up.

Trotting off into the forest and the darkness, he was soon lost to sight...

"Be you friend or foe?"

Bander's voice rang out to the stranger, but he wasn't seen. He stayed back behind the treeline and in the darkness, perfectly invisible and concealed.

"Enter then. I assume you realize what the punishment for any kind of hostilities is."

And then the voice and Bander, although the man in the cloak wouldn't see it, were gone. Just simply gone. No noise, no rustling of bushes; just gone. The path back to the main camp and the hotspring was short, maybe thirty yards, but from the treeline you couldn't see it due to the tightly packed trees. The trail, however, was plain to see and marked with oddly colored, purplish stones.



When Hul arrived he would find Bander kneeling quietly by the hotspring, scooping up some warm water, and would be questioned so,

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Of course, kind trader. What do you require, and what do you offer?"

Bander stood up straight and simply began to drink of the cup of warm water, pulling down the scarf about his face with the opposite hand. He regarded the merchant with mild interest, noting his strange garments. Unfortunately enough his Ice Elf heritage tended to make him kind of dull in certain areas, the foremost of which being memory and writing, and he didn't recognize the young man. Keeping his outer impassive facade up, he questions the man further as if just continuing their business.

"Be you of the Kyonuske? Or perhaps of the monastery?"

"Of course. And the deal seems suitable..."

Bander nodded and tossed the small tin cup unceremoniously into the hotspring, letting it float there while he went about his business. The hunter walked over to the 'meatlocker' and let his eyes adjust to the grain of the wood, searching for the seam. Like stated before, he had a bad memory, and it always took him a second to find the door; but once it was located, it was a simple matter of punching the wood just next to the outer edge of the door, not too hard, and the storage tree popped open. The Kyonuskes always loved that trick.

After a minute or two of rummaging about, Bander emerges from the hollowed out tree with his strong arms full of sacks made out of seal skin, full of pelts, and kicks the door shut behind him. A bit of blood trailed on his foot and he smelled heavily of copper, the carcass of the warg was still in there after all, but he seemed undisturbed; ickiness was kind of his thing. For god's sake he drank out of the water he bathed in.

"These pelts come from the white wolves that reside around the Orc-lands, and there are a few of the larger warg furs as well."

A bit of a smile played on his lips, and he added.

"Quality furs, these be. You monks are lucky I'm partial to your brew."

There were four sacks, and each contained ten furs. The deal was always ten furs for one bottle of the monk's brandy; he remembered that much. After setting the sacks at the blond man's feet, he glanced upwards at the huts and nodded, motioning towards both the rooms and the night sky peeking through the canopy of trees.

"I assume you'll stay here tonight? Only the foolhardy and the reckless wander out on the tundra at night."

"One moment."

Bander was oblivious to the man's plight as he stepped off into the shadows of the encompassing trees, disappearing from the monk's sight. A minute or so of rustling and moving about, and the quiet patter of feet, he was up in the lowest of the treehouses. The hunter made some unseen movements and then a rope ladder unrolled and fell down through a hole in the wood-planking patio about the hut.

"Come on up and don't fall. You won't die, but it will hurt."

Falling forty feet onto frozen ground was painful, to say the least, and Bander could vouch for that. Building those damn huts had been a b***h, and it was enfuriating to think how pointless it had been to build them in retrospect. Oh well, no matter.

The hunter made no attempt to help the man up; he was a full grown, healthy male after all. Once the monk had pulled himself up over the edge, Bander motioned with his head at the hut and the hanging animal hide which acted as a door. Inside there was no windows and no ornaments, simply a pile of wolf and bear pelts and a small lantern hanging from the low ceiling with a whale tallow candle inside- a flint and tinder nearby.

"This is your room. You may wander about the grove, but I wouldn't suggest it. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't come to my room without announcing yourself- it's the one with the arrow stuck above the door."

It was also the highest up and hardest to reach, but he didn't mention that. And, catching something with his acute sense of hearing, his clever silver eyes shift lazily towards the inner treeline and the smallest of sighs slips through his lips.

"And if you think you'd be handy in a fight, leave the ladder where it is; but if not, then hoist it up."

Then, without explaining and with no further words, he vaults over the railing and disappears into the darkness that occupied the space between the light on the ground and the light in the huts. No sound was made on the ground, so what had happened to him? The hunter had a few tricks up his sleeves for any intruders.