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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/grasping_at_a_flame on 2025-12-28 15:31:01+00:00.

The heads of a hydra stared back at the professor from the face of the coin; her mind was elsewhere —

— mostly cursing the cold; congratulations, she thought sarcastically, you've ventured further north than any previous expedition ever dared.

One of the logs on the fire chose that moment to collapse, the crackling of the spray of sparks sounding to the professor like applause.

And now you know why no previous expedition ever dared, her thoughts continued; it's because it gets, to use the old Mannish expression, "ball-achingly cold".

Men, the professor thought, it always comes back to Men; not males — she could hear the Orc innkeeper in the cellar grunting as he re-arranged barrels — but Men.

Humans.

They were amongst the greatest of enigmas; from the beginning of recorded lore, Men had played an outsized role in it; in the Age of War, it had been Men who had always commanded the armies, Men who had always volunteered for the most perilous missions; in this Age of Peace, it had been Men who had conceded their lands to bring to an end the wars for resources, Men who had emptied their treasuries to build the trade roads and by doing so forge chains of symbiotic relationships; it seemed that wherever there was any great upheaval, Men were always in the middle of it —

— and then, one day, Men just ... went away.

There was no war; no plague; no famine; but, also, no Men; just memories and monuments.

As time passed, the panic caused by the disappearance of Men faded; and as generations passed, Men became almost mythical creatures.

Still, the question of what had befallen them remained unanswered — as did, more worryingly, the question of whether whatever had happened to Men could happen to another race.

The professor sighed inwardly; and so the Faculty of Lore funds these expeditions, and I chase a rumour to this place, where a warm day is almost a myth, she thought.

The professor shifted, trying to make herself comfortable in an armchair made for a member of a race typically far larger than hers and the warm but maddeningly itchy woollen garment she had bought from one of the townswomen; she was glad that there were no other patrons in the inn at this time in the afternoon who she might have needed to compete with for her place by the fire, or who might have necessitated her using her magiks — the innkeeper appreciated the subtle glamours she could weave, making his establishment seem more warm and inviting, as well as the less-subtle illusions the professor could weave, convincing patrons who were "drunk" and heading towards "and disorderly" that it really was time to leave — and had — very grudgingly, occasionally muttering about "bloody knife-ears" — reduced the rate he was charging her for a room as long as her magiks were benefiting him.

The professor once again sighed inwardly; maybe the Faculty of Lore will be so pleased with my fiscal responsibility that they'll overlook my expedition being a failure, she thought dejectedly.

In truth, she knew that nobody, not even herself, was really expecting her expedition to discover the fate of Men when so many expeditions before hers had failed; still, she hadn't been able to entirely quieten her feelings of hope when she had detoured to this little town on the border of nowhere after hearing rumours that a number of people had seen a figure in the nearby woods that resembled the description of a Man.

The professor scowled; she would have preferred it if the rumours had been a complete fabrication, for the truth was, somehow, more disappointing: a Halfling recluse who had fashioned himself a pair of stilts in order to keep his feet out of the snow.

The professor idly rubbed a thumb over a face of the coin; heads, I'll continue this expedition; tail, I'll return to the University, she resolved; a deft hand movement sent the coin spinning into the air —

— a figure was closing the door to the inn behind it, and the professor's senses were shouting at her that something was wrong; she snatched the coin out of the air so as not to have it clatter and alert the figure, as she snatched too at the threads of magik, ready to weave illusion to hide herself from mundane sight if she needed to flee, or to confuse her opponent about the whereabouts of her blade if she needed to fight.

But the figure, seemingly oblivious to the professor and her pounding heart, took the few steps to the counter, and rang the crude iron bell there to get the innkeeper's attention.

With the figure's back to her, and its attention focussed on the innkeeper, who had been summoned from the cellar by the sound of the bell and the possibility of coin, the professor took a moment to try to calm herself and take stock; the innkeeper didn't seem to be at all alarmed by the figure — but, the professor thought, the typical Orc's senses are far less acute than my race's.

The figure was dressed for the weather, the professor noted, in a dark, thick, hooded cloak, boots, and gloves; it stood a little shorter than an Elf and a lot shorter than an Orc, and although its clothes could be deceiving it seemed to be broader than the former whilst not being as broad as the latter; the professor pulled gently on the threads of magik, surreptitiously checking for any glamour on- or illusion about- the figure, but found not a trace; what's wrong here?, she thought —

— and a heartbeat later she saw it: although the figure had walked in on a typical afternoon here in the north, there was no snow on its cloak, no mud on its boots; it was as though it had simply decided that the weather didn't apply to it — and the weather had complied.

As the professor struggled to think of an explanation, the innkeeper pointed in her direction, and the figure began to turn to walk towards where she was sitting; the professor pulled more roughly on the threads of magik, weaving illusion — mundane sight would perceive her as resting her chin on a fist as she stared at the coin in her other hand; it would take magikal ability to see through her illusion and see her as fully alert, a hand on the blade that hung from her belt.

"Professor", the figure addressed her with a nod of its head; the illusion reacted as though slightly startled by its thoughts being interrupted, whilst the professor studied the figure and found it nondescript — but in a way remarkable for how unremarkable it was; its face wasn't as fine as was typical for a member of her race, but wasn't as plump as a Halfling's, and was androgynous; its voice was similar — pitched too high for a male, but too low for a female; its garb was of obviously high-quality material and masterfully fashioned, but was bereft of any ornamentation; and a hope was kindling in the professor —

"You have me at a disadvantage", the professor heard her voice come from the illusion's mouth; "you apparently know of me, but I don't believe that we have ever met."

The figure skirted a small table adorned with a collection of dirty mugs, and sank into one of the armchairs; "you are correct", it stated, "we have never before met; and I do not have a name I can give you, for I have only a title — 'emissary'."

— "No", the professor almost shouted in annoyance, interrupting the illusion beginning to say something vacuous and causing the innkeeper to glance in her direction — seeing no weapons being brandished, he returned to redistributing the grime on the countertop; there was a blur as the illusion unravelled; "no", the professor stated a little more calmly; "I will not be mocked; this is a trick — plenty of the townsfolk know of my reason for venturing this far — one of them put you up to this."

The emissary gave a wan smile; "you don't truly believe that", it stated; "and this is no trick — I'm Human, a 'Man' in your tongue."

"So many expeditions before mine ended in failure — why do you appear now, to me?", the professor asked, a myriad of emotions in her voice.

"I appear to you because we have watched you seek knowledge even when the quest brings you discomfort — physical", the emissary gestured to indicate the less-than-hospitable world on the other side of the door to the inn, "or intellectual; and I appear now because we have completed our deliberations."

"And what deliberations were those?", the professor asked.

"When you were a child, did you ever play make-believe?", the emissary asked, ignoring the professor's question.

"Yes", the professor answered with a confused nod, "but I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

The emissary gave a sigh; "we did, too", it stated; "we have always sought to escape from our world and into fantasy; we told one another stories, we put on plays, we wrote books; and, as our knowledge grew, we learnt to create worlds we could step into — and one of those worlds we populated with Orcs and Elves, Dragons and Halflings" —

The professor didn't feel the emissary pull on the threads of magik, but now there appeared to be a game board atop the table between the armchairs, with two carved wooden figures representing a Mannish warrior and a Dragon on it.

— "But we felt that the world we had created lacked verisimilitude; at first we strove to simply make that world look more real", the emissary continued, as the figures on the game board became more finely carved, paint spreading across them to give them colour and pick out details; "but, paradoxically, the more that that world looked real, the less believable ...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/HFY/comments/1pxu1ur/snowglobe/