Half the village, it seems, is in shock... those who can do so help with the healing, or form ragged groups to put out the last smoldering buildings. The guards, who ought have given warning, are found to be dead in the ruins of the gate watchtower, black-fletched arrows protruding from necks and skulls.
Those few who are blessed with magical gifts of healing quickly spend their most powerful gifts; then it is down to the spells that will, at least, keep a man from dying if he hovers on the edge, that and the mundane ways to help a wound.
Nobody seems really able to believe what has just happened.
Thrymr reaches the gate to find it a scene of dazed confusion, though Old Hilde and others are forcing a loose kind of order on the devastated villagers-- ordering the bodies of the living pulled out of the snow and back inside houses.
From the wreckage of the gate, he can see the black sphere moving away, along what is constitutes the only real 'road' into Hofn in clear weather. Two inches of snow has fallen overnight, covering the initial tracks of yesterday's arrivals for the festival, but the footprints of the orks are still fresh and clear... though the snow is still falling.
The blackness is perhaps three hundred feet away from the gate right now, and still moving, but for now, the orks would indeed be easily tracked.
Knute
Palli takes the bottles with a curious frown, uncorks one, and makes a face at the smell before squinting at it. "I do not think poison..."
He pours out a drop or two onto his fingers and touches it to his lips. "Ptui. Foul, and yet, medicine often is. I've heard of this... monster's blood is used in it, but it can bring a man back from dying. You say the orks had these? Here, we can pour one down your-- friend's-- throat--"
Rikissa takes a deep breath and swallows at Knute's asking about Helvar. Before he can fear the very worst answer, she rubs at her face. "He lives... but he'll need to learn a new way to handle the fishing line. One of the orks went for your little cousin Tomi-- Helvar grabbed the child..." Rikissa makes a chopping gesture, one-handed, across her wrist, with her face grim. "We cauterized the stump. May the orks burn in that same fire!"
Palli's voice cuts in again in answer to the rest of Knute's questions. "They got away," the old man says wearily. "I don't know how many children they took, yet. Or how many of us died trying to stop them. I am needed at the gate."
Halla
Stabilizing dying leaders... it's a living. Too bad you didn't get the dwarf chief for three strikes
The pulse of Hrolf's blood out into the snow eases-- just in time, too, as Halla glances over and registers how much blood the warrior has lost. She may bear him little love, but she can nurse the private brooding knowledge that she probably just saved his life.
Hilde is struggling through the snow, wading; Bjorg leaves Halla without a second glance to go offer a hand to the old woman and help her make her way through it. "Grandmother-- where are your boots--"
"There was no time! Halla, girl-- Palli will have all the healing stores from our home already, but I know Hrolf keeps some at the great hall-- Bjorg, you go, you'll get there quicker than I will and Halla and I will stay here to do what we can for those near death--"
Hilde moves to Hrolf to check his grievous injuries.
You see the foreign woman that stayed the night in Palli's longhouse crouched over a maybe-dead pig, with bloody hands.
Eysteinn
The old dwarf woman wordlessly works with you on her kin, and then, helps you with the other Ulfens. Too many of those you find injured are not warriors but only farmers, fishermen, craftsmen-- and parents, more often than not, who refused to let their children be taken from them even at swordpoint, and paid the price. Some are dead; some, you are able to stabilize. You are soon covered in more blood... you cannot tell where your own blood ends and that of others begins. Only determination keeps you on your feet after your own injuries.
"Eysteinn!" barks a familiar voice, even as you are looking around for him. Thorgal strides forward, hand raised as if he would grasp your shoulder... then he changes his mind and stops at the last minute, coming to a halt a few feet away. Thorgal has a nasty cut along his bare belly, but a strip of cloth is wrapped around it now.
For a moment, Thorgal regards you in silence, his jaw working side to side. His head lowers a moment, and then he moves to walk past. "Keep helping those who need it, boy," he says in a rasping voice, and briefly touches Eysteinn's shoulder before heading on to the body of Hrolf Half-Hand.
You see a foreign woman, not one of the villagers, bent over a bloody pig...
Rikka
Lazy Sausage is not looking too good. The pig's tattooed flanks move a little more feebly with each breath...
Generally observable stuff for everyone at the gate
The dwarves are gathering their dead. The woman that had told Rikka where to move is still bent over a dwarven man, making a low keening noise; he is clearly past any help. Many of the dwarves are badly hurt, but stoically they move through the village, drawing the bodies of their fallen together. It looks as though at least five dwarves perished, of the twelve that came to Hofn for the feast.
The elves seem to have no such interest in gathering their dead, although there are two elven dead. They form a tight circle around the purple-skinned woman, near Rys's unconscious form, and speak quietly in their own tongue, letting two elven corpses stay in the snow where they fell. Their injuries seem less than that of the Hofn defenders or the dwarves, but their murmuring is urgent.
Of Hofn... Astrid Eikbrunr is found dead in the doorway of her longhouse, half a dozen savage hacking cuts on her naked body. Kjell Strongarm is several feet away, his arms locked around a dead ork but his body pierced with arrows, at least one of which found his heart. Torgi the Blue's youngest son is dead, and the old warrior clutches the youth's body to his chest and rocks soundlessly back and forth. Signy the Fair took an orkish blade across the face-- she lives, but it is unlikely she will still be called 'the Fair' in days to come. All in all, twelve of Hofn's people are dead... and six of their children missing, even though several were saved.
You said you would die before you let them past you, Halla muses as she looks down at Hrolf in the bloody snow, and you nearly did -- but I kept you from it. I would have been kinder to let you die a hero and force someone else to take charge of the aftermath, but now you must live with your failure. Tor grant that you win atonement ... for the sake of the children, if not your own.
She turns away from the fallen goði wearily, seeing who else might be snatched from death, and sees the strange woman kneeling over, of all things, a heavily-tattooed pig. To Halla, a butchered pig means ham and bacon ... but the woman used seiðr; she has heard it told that seiðkonur sometimes make pacts with spirits in the shapes of animals. The woman fought alongside her for the sake of strangers' children; if she wishes the pig not to die, Hofn owes her as much. With a wave of her hand and a few short words in Maeve's tongue, she stabilizes the pig and gives the woman a nod of thanks.
As she moves on to others lying in the snow, she keeps an anxious eye out for Five Solomon. If he is not dead, now would be the time a man who took pride in not being a warrior would emerge from hiding. The longer she does not see him, the more her heart sinks: If he is neither dead nor hidden, then the stranger must have been somehow part of the orkish plot ... and she had welcomed him.
Knute looks at the bottles with consideration, then shakes his head, motioning for Palli to keep them.
"No, there are others who will need them more," Knute says to Palli. "That you've said she'll be okay is enough." Besides, Knute thinks, I wouldn't want that stuff poured down my throat unless I really needed it. It smells abysmal, and who could say what Lydd would want.
Knute's face blanches at his mother's description of what happened to Halvar. A fisher's hands were his means to sustenance, and a wound like that would not mean easy times ahead for Knute and his family.
Turning back to Palli, Knute lets the weight of what has happened begin to settle in. Our children stolen? Our neighbors dead? How could this have happened? There was nothing to prepare us, no warning... He sags under the weight of the tragedy, but catches Palli's sleeve as the older man turns towards the gate. "Would you let the elves at the gate know that one of theirs, Lydd, is here, and alive?"
Then he sits back and looks at his mother. He makes a weak smile. "Halvar will figure something out, I'm sure. He can't let me best him in selling more, after all." His smile slips into a grimace as he moves his shoulder again. "How's the house? I saw it wasn't on fire from on top of the ridge."
Taking in the scene as he approaches the gates... Thrymr's resolve is only deepened. Few still stand and less are ready to follow...
fånes stood and fought... and died rather than wait for when they might attack with better odds. Slowing his steady pace after a forward glance showed that the orcs would not be hard to track, he bellowed to all and none "Who still stands and can fight? How many have they?" trying to get a read on whether any others still had wits or strength to join him in the hunt, as well as know how many he might be hunting.
Regardless the answer he continues after "Thrymr will spåra, others can come... but Thrymr will not be waiting long." the ardour he felt in the situation overriding any thought he had of Thralldom or fealty to any other master but that which felt right to his heart.
To look at the bearlike man and his hund, you would see them bloody and clearly having fought... but also that they were not badly hurt, and Thrymr was clearly equipped to set out into the wild without pause.
Through moist eyes, Rikka nods her thanks to Halla for the life of her companion. She pats the animal and then reluctantly leaves the creature's side. She hustles over to the group of elves, bows her thanks and an apology for the intrusion, and gets to the point. "On behalf of the people of this village, I thank you for the blood you have shed in their defense. I don't know if the Hofn-men will be able to pursue the orks before the snows again cover their tracks. Do you have a tracker among you who could shadow them from a safe distance - miles if need be - just so their trail is not entirely lost?"
Raising his head from the bleeding people for a moment, and wiping frozen sweat and caked blood from his nose, Eysteinn looks at Thrymr who seem to be set up for pursuit.
“You worry about the snow, trapper?” he asks “Look around you: there are almost no warriors left who will be able to come. I’m doing my best to keep them alive, and I’m about to pass out myself” he reveals the large wound on his stomach.
Then he looks at the gate, at the swirling snow in which the dark bubble disap-peared a few moments ago.
“I guess you could track them from a short distance and leave clear signals for a party to follow you with haste. We should hope they don’t notice anyone in pursuit, so it could be safe. M’lord Hrolf, what…” he looks for his chief and master for approval of this plan, then remembers that Hrolf is worse off than most.
“Lord Thorgal” he says then “I offer to be part of the pursuit effort, but I need time to heal and prepare. What says you?”
Halla
Hilde moves roughly with you, murmuring prayers of her own to ward off death from the worst injured. She sees Sven Aurigr with his bleeding hand and goes to bind it.
Looking down the road, you see Bjorg returning with a wooden chest-- and Five Solomon, helping her carry it. He has a long gash running down his temple and, though he said he was no warrior, he has an odd curved sword hanging at his belt, not entirely unlike the ork's thick swords, but lighter.
His eyes meet Halla's over the wounded and worse, and Five Solomon gives her a small nod, his face stricken and grim as he and Bjorg crouch by Hrolf and begin digging small bottles out of the wooden chest.
Knute
Palli nods, and hurries to some of the injured with the bottles, leaving Knute to his reunion with his mother.
Rikissa returns Knute's smile faintly. "No, no fire. The beasts smashed the door open, but it is nothing that cannot be repaired." Unlike Helvar's hand. Rikissa's eyes track down to the body of the elf that Knute has brought down, her brows drawn together. Wordlessly, she looks back to Knute, and then nods, slowly, and gives him a brief squeeze to his (non-arrowed) shoulder.
"I'll... go check on Helvar," she says, her voice suddenly thick with the realizing her son has grown up, in many ways. "Make Palli get out that damned arrow from you!"
Knute gives it a bit, but none of the elves seem to show any interest in coming for Lydd, forcing him to keep hauling her on the impromptu travois. When he reaches the gate, the elves look over slowly from their private discussion. One of them, a man with raven-black hair and vivid green eyes, steps lightly through the snow over to Lydd and crouches down by her, touching at the cuts and the blackness.
"Mav, näetkö? Joku aseistettu niitä taistelemaan meitä," he says, not to Knute, but to one of the other elves, a woman with skin the color of dusk and midnight hair. She makes a short gesture in answer, a dismissive shrug, it seems. The pale leader of the elves is down, being tended by the others.
The green-eyed elf looks up at Knute and gives him a brief nod. "Thank you for bringing her," he says-- off-handedly, as if Knute had done nothing more of significance than handing him the bowl of mead at feasting. The elf turns back to the others.
However Knute may feel at this response, he sees something else that may draw his attention: Garnith and Arda, his gambling friends... save that Garnith has lost the final gamble: the silversmith is dead in Arda's arms, and the dwarf-woman has her head bowed over him, still despite the chaos around her.
Thrymr, Eysteinn
Thrymr's deep voice booms out over those assembled... Thorgal Magnisson looks up from where he is crouched over Hrolf, with one of the village women and a foreigner. Thorgal wipes blood from his face and straightens up wearily, though Eysteinn's voice answers before he can.
Some look towards Thrymr and nod-- largely, these are people stepping out from their homes armored now as well, at least, those who have armor to their name-- others, those who already took their blows in the battle, groan and shake their heads grimly. This latter group makes noises of assent when Eysteinn speaks.
Thorgal clears his throat and speaks, his voice a tired rasp over the mumbling. "Sven Aurigr: see to your man, there, once your hand is seen to.
"What would you propose, thrall? That with half the war-band dead or gone, you would lead the charge to regain our kin? Will a bondsman and his hound succeed where Hrolf Half-Hand fell?"
Despite his harsh words, Thorgal is looking around the gathering crowd as he speaks, assessing the same numbers as Thrymr had asked: who can yet stand, who can yet fight...
Leif Hrolfsson pushes through the crowd with a hoarse shout, shoving; he has one arm bandaged but is otherwise uninjured. "I'll go! I'll go, damn your eyes-- I'll lead them on my father's killer and swear blood vengeance to Tor himself--"
"Be silent, Leif!" Thorgal snaps. "Your father still breathes, and you've not earned leadership of the war-band yet!"
Leif stews, but falls silent for the moment. Thorgal runs a hand over his face and stares out towards the ever-receding ball of blackness, his shoulders slumped.
"They came on us with foul seiðr. Who is to say they will not use it to disappear into this snow? Not I, for I know nothing of such matters. We have lost so many today already... I'll not send men out to track, so that they too may fall to blackness and black arrows. Do you think you can follow them, unseen, Thrymr Níðingr?"
Rikka
The elves turn on her with a synchronicity that might as well be choreographed: graceful eyebrows rising, jewel-colored eyes all staring her direction. The one they seem to be deferring to, right now, has skin the color of evening twilight and eyes with no white at all, and she stares frankly at Rikka, a long moment, before smiling humorlessly.
"Oh yes, we have a good tracker," she says, and gestures with her chin at a half-clothed elf woman lying on a crude cloak in the snow, her skin bloodied and marred with strange black streaks from her grievous injuries.
"We have no love for those you call orks, human woman.... but the day and the night of Jól is over. Look: you can see the dawn coming. We do not stay, past Jól."
The woman turns away from Rikka at that, and looks to the elf who is tending their leader. "Voiko hän toteutetaan?" The question sounds impatient.
Before it is answered, the pale elf sits upright with a gasp and a wince. He clutches at his injured side, and looks around wide-eyed, his eyes staring at Rikka first, and then past her, to the village.
To Eysteinn, Thorgal and Leif's questions Thrymr can offer only a shrug and a simple answer "Don't know... just know that if we do not spåra, then children they took are dead already. Maybe Thrymr will die, maybe not... but better to try than live with blood of the taken on hands and do nothing." furrowing his brow and pausing for a few seconds before gesturing towards a certain fallen body with the butt of his mattock "Hrolf Half-Hand thought it worth dying for..." holding a steady and unchallenging pose, but not shying away from eye contact. Gifr keeps a steady vigil at his side.
Rikka nods politely to the wounded leader and the other elves that still meet her eyes before turning and heading toward the Hofn-folk, shaking her head at any look that dared hope the elves would assist them yet again.
"If we are set on pursuit and rescue, we must travel fast. We'll need skis or snowshoes, clothing for ourselves and the children, and food."
Knute winces at his mother's emotional voice, realizing he's made this day harder for her than it had to be. But how was I supposed to know orks would raid tonight, of all nights? At her urging to get the arrow removed, Knute grins. "I don't know mother, I think it looks fetching," he says, jokingly. He does agree to go see Palli though, as soon as he sees Lydd off.
After waiting a while with no sign of movement from the elves, Knute drags Lydd over to them, and waits for them to notice him. They don't seem very concerned with Lydd, Knute thinks. Or their own dead, for that matter. What strange beings elves are... Knute frowns at the green-eyed elf's casual manner, but says nothing. He does, however, make a mental note to check later and make sure Lydd has indeed been taken by her kin, and not just left in the snow here.
Knute looks up and begins to walk towards the discussion at the gate, only to see Arda cradling Garnith's dead body. The Ulfen sighs, hanging his head at the terrible losses all around, and makes his way to Arda, crouching down next to her. "I am so sorry, Arda," Knute says, quietly. "From the little time I spent with you and your husband, I think of you as friends." He looks to Garnith. "Now I know you are great and brave allies, as well. Thank you. Hofn will remember his sacrifice." Not knowing what else to say, Knute stands up and continues walking towards the gate, leaving Arda to her grief.
He joins the discussion just as Thorgal is forbidding a group to follow. Knute notes Thrymr's bold words and stance. Sven's thrall has heart, even if he is hasty. And he is right about needing to have some knowledge of where the orks are going... He steps up, nodding to Thrymr, but directing his words at those gathered: "I am willing to join a tracking party, if there is one. With respect, Lord Thorgal, I think it's at least worth sending a small party to get an idea of where the orks are going, if not follow them until a larger party can catch up."
"Besides," and here, Knute hesitates, "even if they had not taken our children, I would think we should follow. These orks were very organized, and we need to know what led them to this. We have to know if more of these attacks are coming. With the orks distracted and thinking we have been beaten, I would bet a few could go undetected. Maybe Thrymr, myself, and Red Alf?" Knute looks around. "If Alf still stands, that is..."
The dwarf-woman, Arda, looks up from the corpse of her husband, her face dry of tears but weary beyond words. "I saw nine in the blackness, counting their leader. Two were slain. But I think others slipped over your walls while the focus was here... so seven at the smallest... likely more." She shrugs, and arranges the limbs of her husband, closing his eyes.
Thorgal listens to the dwarf's statement and runs his fingers through his graying hair and keeps shooting glances at Hrolf-- Palli is crouched over the leader, pouring something down his throat. It is clear enough that Thorgal wishes the decision in Hrolf's hands rather than his own, but until Hrolf wakes...
Knute takes his place by Thrmyr, lending his support to the man's argument. Red Alf's voice answers his words, sounding broken and exhausted-- a few of the crowd clears to reveal Alf, limping forward, one leg freshly bandaged.
"I stand," the hunter rasps, dark hollows under his eyes, "but I cannot run. One of their arrows took me in the thigh. Still I would go with you, to the gates of the giants' castle themselves-- they have my little Ingrid," he snarls, his face contorting with helpless rage. "But I will only slow you. Thorgal, let them go-- the thrall has the right of it, and Iversson too... the longer the snow falls, the harder it will be to track, and will you write my daughter off to those monsters?"
A chorus of shouting arises at his words, some assent, some argument. Thorgal draws a weary hand over his face.
The elf leader is standing, now. He has pushed to the edge of the group of the elves and is listening, his face drawn and tight, but interjecting nothing at the moment.
The liquid that Palli has poured down Hrolf's throat brings him conscious: the old warrior gasps and coughs into the snow, spitting foul taste from his mouth even as his body begins to shrink down to its normal size once more. Thorgal's shoulders sag with relief, and he holds his hand up a moment trying to get some peace from the yelling as he strides to Hrolf. Hrolf sits up in the snow, looking around him wildly.
"How bad is it? Are they gone? What is the tally?" he rasps, eyes raking along the buildings without stopping. Hrolf struggles to his feet, takes two steps, and trips over an ork body lying as-yet-untouched.
Thorgal crouches by Hrolf and explains the situation in short, quiet words, even while he gestures for one of those nearby to go fetch Hrolf a cloak, at the least. Hrolf listens, kneeling in the snow, his many injuries still oozing blood.
"Track them!" he shouts, though his voice cracks hoarsely. "Before Tor and all his hall, track them! Find where they lair, and we will come upon them as they did us, and I will strike down their leader like--" Hrolf breaks into a ragged coughing fit, hacking blood onto the snow. Thorgal stands helplessly a moment, then takes a deep breath and looks to Thrymr and Knute.
"Very well," he says. "Try to follow them, unseen. Alf, what of your birds? Have you a pigeon to give them, that they may send quick word when they have reckoned the destination of these lawless ones?"
The bustle of preparation begins to take over from the dazed milling of despair. Thorgal looks at Rikka, his brows raised in a not-quite challenge. "You are quick to offer yourself to go find the children of strangers, visitor. I thank you, but this is not your fight."
The eastern sky is beginning to lighten...
Halla lets out a breath of relief as she sees Five Solomon and moves over to help him and Bjorg with the supplies in the chest. "Tá mé sásta a fheiceann tú. Bhí mé a d'fhéadfadh rud éigin buartha tharla duit," she tells him quietly.
When the field thrall with the hound attempts to rally Hofn to pursuit, the voices in her head mirror the debate among the villagers.
Is he blind? Does he not see the dead and the grievously injured?
Well, and what of it? People are dead. Does it follow that the children must die too?
He will throw more lives away. Hrolf Half-Hand was all but dead, and so was the elf-goði. Will a handful of men too fearful to have been part of the stand at the gate succeed where they failed?
The elf-goði was felled by the winter-child, and the warriors of Hofn were thwarted by the dark seiðr. The winter-child has fled. If the darkness also melts away with the dawn, the odds will even.
'If!' 'If!' Who can say how long the foul darkness may last? If the orks turn back on the trackers, will they not be swallowed up and die fighting blindly?
And so what do you counsel? To forget the children? If the orks see that Hofn is so easily cowed, will they not return and wipe out the village at their leisure?
Why Jól, though? puts in a voice that Halla recognizes as Maeve's. A sevenday from now, or a fortnight earlier, the orks would have had only the Ulfen to deal with. Why attack on the one night when the dwarves and elves are within the walls to aid the defense? It makes no sense.
Her head pounding with unanswered questions, she advances on Rys. "I make a claim," she tells him with a steady gaze. "I drove away the winter-child, and then I stanched your wounds. Ask your people: I saved your life twice over, and I seek a boon to settle the debt."
Thorgal looks at Rikka, his brows raised in a not-quite challenge. "You are quick to offer yourself to go find the children of strangers, visitor. I thank you, but this is not your fight."
Rikka plants her spear decisively. "I have been warmed by Hofn hearths, dandled Hofn babes, and been invited into your people's circle. I see no strangers here, not after we have all shed blood. I am seiðr and a free Ulfen woman... free to pick which fights are mine. I choose this one."
Halla
Five Solomon gives her a wan smile as they pull out flasks together from the chest. Halla recognizes the bottles as Palli's work (and her own, as his thrall, having to crush herbs and stir a pot for hours), made on better days, for emergencies such as this.... though it is unlikely Palli ever saw a day quite like this coming.
"Ó, tá mé scríobtha ach -" he begins, then frowns as he notices the blood that had trickled from Halla's ears at the strange wolf-howl. "-ach gortaithe tú, mo bhean?"
***
Halla strides towards the knot of elves. Rys has been silently observing the debate so far, but turns at her approach, spidery hands still clutching his battered ribs. Silver brows arch at her words, but the purple-skinned woman gives a simple nod of agreement with Halla's statement, a flick-of-her-fingers that could mean anything.
Rys's thin mouth thins further. "What boon would you ask, then, healer?" he says softly, each word drawn from a reluctant well.
Rikka
Thorgal hesitates a moment, then nods the once, as he turns to help Hrolf settle a cloak around his battered body. Hrolf looks towards Rikka, though not quite at her, and speaks... albeit with interruptions to spit blood into the snow.
"You speak-- well, woman. Can you-- work seiðr to bedevil our-- foes-- as they did us? Can you-- strip the darkness-- from them?"
Thorgal frowns. More quietly, he asks, "Do you wish to travel with the trackers, then, seiðkonur?"
Rikka crouches near the wounded leader. "I can bedevil them, and worse, when the time comes... though my powers are all but spent for now. Breaking their darkness is beyond my skills but I know enough of their magics to say that the dark sorcery is already unraveling. They cannot cloak themselves in night forever. We must gather our strength and be ready to strike when daylight and circumstances favor us."
To Thorgal, she replies. "I will travel as you bid but stealth is not my strength. If the scouts are to shadow the orks in secret, I may get in the way. If they are to harass the orks, I may be able to help."
Knute nods in thanks at the permission to leave, then turns to Thrymr. "I need a few minutes to grab supplies, and see this arrow taken care of. Could you get the pigeon from Red Alf?" He looks at the seiðr stranger speaking with Thorgal. "And also determine if any others should travel with us," Knute says quietly. While he is uncomfortable around magic, practiced by stranger at that, he recognizes it may be necessary to face their enemies. "I'll be back soon."
Knute (painfully) shoulders his way out of the gathering around the main gate, and makes his way to Palli. "Could you remove this arrow, Palli? And if there's anything else you can do to get me ready for the trek ahead, I'd appreciate it." Knute sits down, clenching his teeth and closing his eyes before the arrow is removed.
"Ó, tá mé scríobtha ach -" he begins, then frowns as he notices the blood that had trickled from Halla's ears at the strange wolf-howl. "-ach gortaithe tú, mo bhean?"
Halla rubs irritably at her ears and brings her fingers into view with a faint smear of blood on them. "Tá sé rud ar bith," she matches him in downplaying her injury. There are too many with wounds from which they will never fully recover: Sven Aurigr will be a new Half-Hand, and she wonders if Old Palli's grandson has yet regained consciousness to learn of the loss of his arm.
***
Rys's thin mouth thins further. "What boon would you ask, then, healer?" he says softly, each word drawn from a reluctant well.
"Tell me what you know," she asks quietly, "or if you know nothing, what you suspect. You have lived many winters and are wiser than our cleverest skald. What do the orks want with our children? What was the thing in the darkness that howled like death itself?"
Rikka
Hrolf stares at the air near Rikka's face, but each time he speaks it dissolves into more coughing. Thorgal finally urges the leader to sit, wrapping the cloak around him, and turns to address Rikka's words, his own face knit and drawn.
"I think we are all nearly spent," he says wearily. "Better to rest, if we would assault our foe in earnest. I will tell the hunters to hunt-- but only to tell us where the enemy lairs. Then, with our wounds somewhat tended and our spirits bolstered... perhaps we can strike. You speak wisdom, woman."
Knute
It is a less than pleasant experience, having the arrow-shaft broken and the wicked head pushed through your flesh. Well, you'll have a good scar for it, to add to the many ways this has been a memorable night. Palli cleans the wound with a liquid that smells of juniper and stings like living fire, but in a surprisingly short amount of time the wound is bandaged and Knute is on his way again.
Though he still seems to curiously not feel the cold, he prudently grabs his gear all the same, telling Rikissa quickly what is going on. When he explains that he will go track the orks, his mother pales and grips at the table of the longhaus, while Helvar looks up grimly and silently, rags wrapped around his fresh stump of a hand.
Rikissa opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it into a tight, trembling line. She nods once. "Go safely," she says, in a hoarse voice.
The image of her standing by the table, one hand gripping the wood so tightly her knuckles are white, follows Knute in his minds eye as he heads back out into the cold air, and for the gate.
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Halla
Five Solomon murmurs a brief 'northern women are very brave' to Halla in Varisian, but Halla's attention is on the elf-goði...
Rys is silent a moment. He stares out the open and demolished gate into the snow, then down to the body of one of the elves-- a woman, being treated by two of the others. She is shirtless and her injuries can be plainly seen-- cuts of a heavy blade, with odd black stains swirling out beneath her skin from the wounds.
Rys bends, wincing as he does so, and picks up a black-fletched arrow from the snow.
"This is not ork-work," he says slowly. "They rarely have archers that could bring down a deer, let alone shafts of this quality. My own people make arrows this fine. But we do not trade with orks."
He turns over the body of one of the orks with his foot, face drawn in distaste, and he picks up the thick, heavy blade the orks favored. In the grey light of half-dawn, it seems to be black and reflect no light.
"This blade," Rys says, "is also not what orks have used before. This blade cuts your flesh well enough. But it was made to hurt my people," he says, with a small nod towards the body of the elf-woman.
"Of your children.... I could not say. Many gods take sacrifices in blood and in souls. Some prefer the innocent."
"Of the howl? That, I did not hear," he says with a thin, tight smile. "I was unconscious, I believe."
One of the elves adds on, "It sounded like a wolf, to me." Rys shrugs a thin shoulder in answer, as if to say, well, there you go. He looks down to the ork-corpse again, and bends, and digs out a small amulet from around the brute's neck-- a thin leather cord, and a small stone carved to resemble a wolf's head.
"Their leader, whoever or whatever he was... he is a commander, it would seem, not one of their usual brutes ruling by merit of his fist. This symbol-- the wolf's head..."
"...many orks worship monsters of fire and brute strength... but there is one ork-god called Varg. They say Varg is cunning, like the wolf. Varg's worshipers favor ambushes, tricks... tactics. The might of an orc, coupled with a mind that plans... well, you see what results," he says, with a gesture around at the smoldering wreckage. Rys lets go of the amulet, and stands up with another wince, his breathing shallow and strained. "Perhaps they take children to sacrifice to Varg. Perhaps not. I have never known orks to act like this, and, as you say, I have seen many winters."
Halla looks down at the wounded elf-woman with a touch of concern. "Will she recover?" she asks. "You have medicines that will counter the black taint? If there is any herb you need, Old Palli may have it in his stores." For a price, no doubt, knowing the healer, but the elves can afford to pay.
She takes the wolf amulet from the dead ork. The stone feels cold, colder than even stone buried in snow ought to have any right to be. "If they came with such weapons," she reasons slowly, "they knew your people would be here. Yet if they had come a day earlier or later, they could have fought the warriors of Hofn alone, without allies. Is Jól a sacred day to Varg? Is that why they chose to face your people and the dwarves as well?"
She looks around for Yngvi Wyrmtongue, having lost sight of him when the darkness swept through the gate.
Halla
Halla has acquired inventory item: wolf amulet.
Rys looks down to the elf. "She will heal, but faster in our home."
The purple-skinned woman says something in their tongue, and points east towards the lightening sky. Rys nods in a terse fashion before answering Halla's next question with a shrug of pointed shoulders. "I have not made a great study of the Varg-cult. I do not know their holy days. It is possible. Perhaps they only thought to catch Hofn when as many children would be here as possible, in one place... and when warriors would be snoring and drunk."
He starts to walk towards Hrolf.
The elves seem to be preparing to go-- drifting through the village only to gather what little they may have left behind them, preparing for travel.
Knute's query as to whether he can await the pigeon gets a small nod from Thrymr, though the second portion of the question is more and less easy for him. How am I meant to figure that? glancing down to his hund momentarily and getting a tilt-eyed questioning look from the dog that isn't of particular help. As a partial response to Knute as well as to the female choosing to accompany them "Get ready quick... bring fur and food, we need to leave soon to keep the trail."
Thoughts on trust and honesty are easily quelled with the internal resolution to let actions speak... and to let the listening to them decide. As he waits he looks to Thorgal and catches eye contact, nodding a stoic thanks to his apparent trust in permitting Thrymr to spåra.
Taking a knee to wipe some of the matted blood from Gifr's maw, Thrymr takes a moment to touch heads with his hund... a silent acknowledgement of their bond. It is then that Thrymr remembers Shale... and looks to see if the dweorg is at the gate...
Halla approaches Hofn's skald, the dead ork's amulet in her hand. "The elves say the orks follow Varg," she informs him. "Do you know anything about this god, why he wants the children?"
Halla
With a bit of looking, Halla is able to find the skald: he has one arm hastily bound but has taken charge of organizing the putting-out of still-smoldering buildings, getting bucket lines going from the bitterly-cold, half-frozen stream.
When she shows him the wolf's head and explains what Rys said to her, Yngvi frowns, stroking his fingers into his patchy blond beard.
"Varg... aye, I heard tell once from a sailor who spoke of that name, years gone... She was from a port town somewhere far in the southlands, said they'd been under siege for the better part of a year by an ork horde. Said they had big contraptions that threw rocks at the walls... towers on wheels... rams to hammer down the gates, carved with the head of a wolf."
Yngvi frowns again, shaking his head slightly. "But as to what they want with the barns? That, I cannot say. Nothing good, it is clear."
He returns to giving orders to the bucket brigade. Five Solomon is not too far away (though he looks about ready to freeze to death, as he is not wearing his thick layers of fur now and he is shivering badly after minutes spent outside helping), and he arches his brows in turn and pulls on his strange little beard.
Thrymr
Shale can be found with the other dwarves, silently working to ready their dead for travel. He seems very subdued now, and does not meet Thrymr's eyes when the other man comes close. His wounds at least have been seen to.
"My friend of the drink," Shale mutters with a dip of his head in acknowledgment. "It is good that you live. And your hound."
Grunting with barely a half smile on his lips "Aye... for now." before furrowing his brows at the despondence the dweorg shows "You fought and killed yes? Then why do you tjura like a youngling?"
"Téigh, fháil do fionnaidh," she tells Five Solomon with an amused half-smile, "nó ar a laghad seasamh níos gaire teach dhó. Tá tú i bhfad ó do fhir déanta as dóiteáin."
Halla
"Dócha go bhfuil smaoineamh maith," Five Solomon says through chattering teeth. He hesitates, then sticks on, "Bí sábháilte."
He turns and scurries off towards Hrolf's longhouse, in search of his heavy furs and not the strange clothing he had on beneath, all light silks with bright colors like the elves wear.
Thrymr
Shale looks up at that, and shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck with one callused, bloodied hand. "Their chief... he did something... I ran like a little mouse," he mutters, low, obviously embarrassed by that. "That is not what a man does. You are going to track these orks? I would go also, if I could," he says, with a half-glare at the very old, white-bearded dwarf who is their apparent leader. "I am not afraid!"
Thrymr & Knute/anyone else at the gate
Red Alf returns after several minutes with two of his plump pigeons in a simple cage made of lashed twigs. The birds coo and blink sleepily, feathers puffed up against the bitter cold.
Alf pushes the birds off into Knute's hands. "You know to tie a little bit of leather to their leg, yes?" he says, his face grim and drawn. His daughter is one of the missing children. "There's some little scraps of leather in the cage. Cover the whole thing with this big hood the rest of the time, it'll keep them getting restless and freezing." Alf fastens a wool-lined blanket over the cage.
The worst of the injured have been taken inside, now. Those who still stand outside are those who have some business doing so-- people putting out fires, or dragging the ork corpses into a pile to be burned later. The elves seem all but ready to leave-- looking over, Knute sees that Lydd is now on her feet, though she still looks weak and hurt, and she does not even glance his way. She has pulled on a large fur cloak with a hood drawn up over her face, and she leans against one of the other elves as if doing so took most of her strength.
Thorgal clears his throat and addresses Knute and Thrymr. "You are only to follow, not to fight. Try to learn their direction-- wherever they lair. You have the two birds, so you may send two messages back, at need. We will try and have a fighting force ready to go, once you can tell us where."
Thorgal glances towards Hrolf as he says, clearly unsure whether Hrolf will be in any condition to lead such a raid, but he shakes his head and keeps talking. "Have you everything you need?" he asks, and looks to the people still outside, raising his voice. "Will anyone else go?"
The exact children who are missing has now been determined, after miserable parents took tally of their young and found who was absent and who present. Six children were hauled out through the gates in the end, despite the valiant efforts of the defenders that managed to wrest two others free.
Grunting dismissively at the dweorg's pain, but not insultingly "Feh, you still stand and your heart burns for more... there is no need to feel shame. And aye, I will spåra..." trailing off slightly as he realises he cannot speak with any confidence that he could succeed... just that he could try.
To the dweorg being beholden to his chief Thrymr nods "We each have masters... go well dweorg... if we meet again... I will drink with you." extending an arm for a warrior's handshake...
Knute thanks Palli through gritted teeth. I should stick to hunting prey that doesn't shoot arrows back at me, Knute thinks, testing out his arm and finding it surprisingly okay.
Knute speaks softly as he packs up his gear, explaining his plan to his mother and Helvar as he pulls on his furs and boots. He drops the orcish falchion he picked up onto the floor, instead buckling on his handaxe and short sword. Patting down his pockets and checking over his backpack one more time, as he does before every hunt, Knute finally looks Rikissa in the eyes, and sees her raw fear for him.
The hunter freezes for a moment under her stare, but shakes himself, and finishes packing. As he gathers up his things and makes to go, Knute grabs his mother in a fierce hug. "I'll be back," Knute murmurs, as he turns away and leaves his mother and stepfather staring after him.
After the worst of the wounded and the largest of the fires have been dealt with, and Eysteinn sees Knute and Thrymr waiting for Red Alf’s birds, Eysteinn quickly scampers back behind Palli’s house. He knows he’ll find the right stuff there. Careful not to be seen, he mixes up a few liquids and herbs, shakes, sniffs to be sure he didn’t make mistakes, then comes back.
“Here, trappers.” he says to the men “I had this tucked away. It’s a tonic, it will numb the pain and thicken the blood should you be wounded. It tastes bitter but it will keep infections away. Hope you won’t need it, but you never know.”
________________
Thrymr gestures for Knute to accept the tonic gift from Eysteinn.
Halla watches Five Solomon go with amusement until she is called back to her task by Old Hilde, directing her inside the makeshift hospital to see to the many wounded. She goes resentfully, throwing a jealous glance back at the scouting party heading out into the snow.
Shale frowns at Thrymr's words at first, then nods, slowly, and straightens up a bit as he grasps Thrymr's hand and forearm in a firm shake. "Take care of your hound. Next time you must bring the drink," he says, and then the old dwarf calls him over, and Shale leaves with a last duck of his head.
*
Knute's mother doesn't answer his promise with words, but she grips his shoulder hard for a few seconds before letting go, and half-pushing him towards the door. Her face is a stoic mask, but he can see the threatening emotion behind it, and heads out before his mother can start crying in front of him.
*
Eysteinn finds Palli's longhouse full of injured, Hilde seeing to various wounds, but nobody questions or stops his claim to need some herbs to take to Palli. He ducks behind the house and works swiftly, and soon brings a little bottle of what may be a lifesaver to the scouts. Knute accepts it, tucking it away into his pack.
And with that... there is little enough more to be done. Thorgal stands at the broken gate to see them off. The eastern sky is paling, but overhead the clouds that always come after the one clear day of Jól are building thick. Gifr sits at Thrymr's heels in the snow, canine breath steaming in the bitter air.
"I pray Tor go with you," Thorgal says, a bit awkwardly-- Hrolf was the one to invoke the gods, and Hrolf sits now by a fire inside a house, cloak wrapped around him, like a man thirty years older than he is. "And that he guards you, and guides you. Enough talk. Go now."
He hesitates, as if he would say more, then simply gestures out to the snow, and turns to trudge for one of the longhouses himself, for the warmth of a fire and a brief respite from death-work. The smell of blood and smoke hangs in the air.
The tracks are still plainly visible-- at least half-a-dozen pairs large, booted feet left this way, and here and there there is the smaller imprint of a child's bare foot.
A child could probably follow the broad, trampled trail; for the thrall and the hunter, the path is perfectly plain. However, as they go, both of them pick out other details in the tracks:
It's Thrymr who first points out a track other than an ork-or-human foot: a wolf's paw, though a big one, easily the size of a man's hand with fingers splayed. Once noted the first time, the two of them can see it easily enough, here and there throughout the trail.
It is Knute who sees the first converging trail of a single pair of booted feet, beelining through the snow to join up with the larger group-- straggler orks, it seems, who scaled the walls perhaps in places other than the gate, and rejoined the bulk of the raiding party. Several more times, the two hunters see such tracks... their quarry might now be a dozen orks.
The ork trail leads south: it keeps to the road for a good distance, their quarry apparently prizing speed over stealth. The road leads past the outlying farmsteads of Hofn, the longhouses that stand unusually empty as near everyone had gathered in town for the feast. For an hour Knute and Thrymr follow: the sun rises, casting a weak glow over the winter landscape unlike the clear, bright sunlight of yesterday. The snow falls in fits and spurts, clearing for a few minutes only to kick up again, whipping into their faces. Heavy gray clouds overhead are pregnant with the promise of stronger snow to come...
Though it is cold out, Thrymr's years in the fields have made him able to ignore the chill... and Knute does not currently feel it all. At least for now. They are still in the coastal regions, after all, and it is warmer there than once one climbs inland.
Eysteinn
After you watch the two scouts disappear into the snow, there is little enough to do but try and help pick up the pieces, with everyone else. With the most immediate of emergencies dealt with-- buildings extinguished, those in danger of death treated-- the adrenaline vanishes and in its place one has only the ache of hangover, too-few hours of sleep, the pain of injuries sustained in the battle, and the emotional numbness of watching friends and sometimes-family be cut down.
Thorgal continues to bark orders and push people into a semblance of functionality, but he is not Hrolf. Eysteinn's father has never been known for his way with people-- Hrolf inspires loyalty; Thorgal only requires obedience. Eysteinn can see the tension in his estranged father's shoulders every time he looks over and happens to catch sight of him.
Palli sees to Eysteinn's not-insignificant injuries, and then puts him to work all the same despite those injuries: sitting by his longhouse's fire and helping to boil water and mix pain-killing teas for the wounded. It's light labor, but with his body reeling from the battle, even that is taxing. Halla, Palli's apprentice, is busy as well in Palli's longhouse, and takes many doses of the tea from Eysteinn off to patients who need it.
After what feels like hours of this, Thorgal appears in the doorway of the longhouse, Palli with him. Palli is shrugging helplessly. Thorgal gestures to Eysteinn.
"Eysteinn! Come here," he grunts, and waits for Eysteinn by the door. The air outside is cold, after the close heat of Palli's cramped longhouse, but at least it smells clean after the scents of blood and injury.
Thorgal looks at his disowned son a moment in silence, then exhales. "Hrolf has need of you... come."
He leads the way to Hrolf's longhouse. Eysteinn's breath steams in the air en route, but soon enough they are entering Hrolf's home. The goði sits on one of the benches by the fire, staring ahead at the far wall.
"Hrolf," Thorgal says with a throat-clearing, and Hrolf turns to look... but not quite at them.
In a low voice, Thorgal says to Eysteinn, "They stole his sight.
"The village will find out, eventually, but for now I am trying to keep it quiet. Not like people are not afraid enough already..."
Thorgal takes a deep breath, looking anywhere but at Eysteinn. "It was seiðr that did this to him. Perhaps it is only seiðr that can change it. Can you..."
Thorgal swallows, and raises his eyes to his son's. "Can you help him?"
Halla
Like Eysteinn, Halla gets to work picking up the pieces. There are many injured, from those near dead on their feet to those with light scratches, but all must be treated. Palli's longhouse is turned into a treatment area-- the fire set to boiling endless pots of hot water, and Halla tasked with assisting Palli or Hilde with what soon feels like countless instances of cleaning cuts, stitching them shut, mixing poultices, applying them, dosing patients with bitter tea made of willow bark...
The thrall Eysteinn helps tend the fire and mix the tea, but he's too injured for much else. Palli works Halla and himself for what feels like hours, and only once does the old man have another embarrassing, awkward moment like before-- when he must sew shut the gash across Signy's face, stretching from cheek over her nose. His hands tremble, then, and he mutely pushes the steel needle and sinew thread into Halla's hands to finish the task.
After what feels like hours of this, Thorgal appears in the doorway of the longhouse, and looks to Halla.
"Girl! Come here." The air outside is cold, after the close heat of Palli's cramped longhouse, but at least it smells clean after the scents of blood and injury.
The goði sits on one of the benches by the fire, staring ahead at the far wall.
"Hrolf," Thorgal says with a throat-clearing, and Hrolf turns to look... but not quite at them.
In a low voice, Thorgal says to Halla, "They stole his sight.
"The village will find out, eventually, but for now I am trying to keep it quiet. Not like people are not afraid enough already..."
Thorgal takes a deep breath, looking anywhere but at the 'touched' girl. "It was seiðr that did this to him. Perhaps it is only seiðr that can change it. Palli has said he has no herb that will help. Can you..."
Thorgal swallows, and raises his eyes to Halla's at last. "Can you help him?"
Chase Group:
Thrymr takes the farewell from Thorgal with a simple nod, then turns to the snow. Trudging with as steady an even pace as he can muster hindered by his furs and hide armor, the bearish man keeps his mattock in one hand resting across his shoulders in case it needs be brought swiftly to bear. Gifr pads along at his side for the most part, though occasionally stops to sniff at some of the tracks to their fore and aft. Unless given reason to speak, he keeps a silent gait - pointing out any feature of track or passage wordlessly.
The wolf-like tracks do give him cause for voice though "As they made for the gate... I saw into the blackness. It is a big bastard, with the orken leader riding it girded with iron. Pale fur as much as I could tell."
Chase Group:
Knute follows Thrymr's lead, remaining fairly quiet as the three hunters (two Ulfen and one hund), make their way along the road. He speaks only briefly, to learn the name of Thrymr's hund: "Your hund looks strong. A fine hunting partner; what's his name?"
Glancing at Thrymr, Knute notes the readiness of the man's weapon, and his general wariness and solemnity. His bow remains on his back, but Knute picks up his companion's wary manner and his hand hovers near the sword on his belt. Not much like hunting with Father, then... Knute thinks to himself, remembering jokes and games from when he was young and learning his way around the forest.
"As they made for the gate... I saw into the blackness. It is a big bastard, with the orken leader riding it girded with iron. Pale fur as much as I could tell."
"A wolf that large is already odd, but tamed by a leader of orks... What could have led the orks to change tactic so drastically?"
Chase Group:
To the question of names, Thrymr replies "Gifr" and the hund briefly looks around at the sound of it's name being spoken before continuing to pad onwards.
The more difficult question draws little more than a shrug from the agricultural hunter.
Halla's typical bedside manner is Ulfen at the best of times; by the time she has worked her way halfway through the wounded in Palli's longhouse, the men and women she is ministering to have ceased to register as more than cattle. She ignores the faces and voices, whether stern and stoic or groaning and mewling, to focus on the mind-numbing slate of broken bones, contusions, and open wounds.
Still, when Old Palli wordlessly hands her the needle and thread and retreats from Signy's cloven features, she hesitates. The coward! she berates him silently. If she is unhappy about her appearance, now he can blame it on clumsy stitching by the thrall-woman. Still, he must have had to bandage a grandson's stump already, even if the young man hasn't yet awakened to be told what he has lost. She looks around to see if she can locate the one-armed man among the other patients and briefly, morbidly, wonders what was done with the severed arm.
She settles in, kneeling to one side of Signy's head, and speaks to her softly, though she hopes the woman is too sedated or senseless to carry on a conversation; indeed if she seems to be getting coherent responses, she'll stop and call for more willow tea. "Signy, where were you last night? With one of the elves or with one of your admirers? Was it Torgi the Blue's son? You fared better than he did. And Astrid Eikbrunr is dead, did you know? Perhaps you can take her place; being a warrior sounds more interesting than being a jarl's wife, no? And scars and a crooked nose never got in the way of her bedding whichever man she set her eye on, from what I hear."
She pauses and takes stock of what she has done with the needle and thread, grimacing a little. The old man should have done it himself, she judges bitterly, or given the job to me before my eyes were glazed and fingers numb from being covered in other people's blood. Oh well. You could only have been Signy the Fair another decade or so at the most; you can be Signy the Scarred until the day you die.
Thorgal appears in the doorway of the longhouse, and looks to Halla.
"Girl! Come here."
Halla gets to her feet and painfully straightens her aching back, after leaning over so many pallets. She resents her former master's tone but can't deny a sense of relief at being called away from her endless task. The suddenness of the outside air sends a chill through her, and the droplets clinging to her hair from sweat and the steam from the constantly boiling kettle quickly begin to freeze. She tucks her raw hands under her cloak as she follows him, her eyes lingering a bit resentfully on the elves as they prepare to leave. Will they come back again next Jól, as if nothing has happened? And Hofn, can they possibly celbrate again next year, or will the events of this day still throw a shadow over the observance? I suppose it will depend on whether the children are recovered, she decides, silently wishing luck to the pair of scouts tracking the orks.
"I ... I know no secrets that Palli does not," she replies slowly, fascinated to see Hrolf's eyes twitch and flicker to try to pinpoint her location. "You must ask the elves. Their goði is wise; I saw him throwing lightning like Tor at the winter-child. If there is seiðr to undo this thing, he will know of it."
Thrymr and Knute
Gifr's sniffer is drawn less to the visual cues, and more to the blood-- here and there, when the tracks first leave Hofn, Gifr snuffles along noticing the dark, frozen speckles of ork blood, as the orks were not unwounded when they left the village. Less happily, there is also the occasional crimson dot of human blood as well, remaining bright red in the below-freezing temperatures.
As the trail continues, the signs of blood become rarer, though never entirely gone...
The two men and the hound keep to the trail, even as the hills, and the road, rises away from the sea. The road proceeds inland, ultimately going many miles into the heart of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, but for Hofn, the sea is the real road: ships can come and go year-round, when the road itself has been long since buried under snow. Most passage on the road happens in summertime, and only the desperate would try a long journey on the land-road in winter-- when the only thing distinguishing it from the snowy taiga around it is that the road was, at some point in the last few years' time, cleared of trees...
The second hour on the trail is uneventful. The trail remains clear and easy to follow... although the falling snow is starting to fill in the tracks to some degree. Gifr is briefly thrown off, but Thrymr and Knute keep on with no problems, and soon Gifr picks up the scent again.
Gifr is a good and a faithful hound, bred from good stock to weather the bitter cold of the north... but he had a busy morning what with ripping out the throats of orks, and in the haste to get on the trail, he didn't get the usual good marrow-rich bones and fatty meat scraps he might have on another day. This is hard work on an empty stomach. He whines, his pace flagging a bit behind his master, and his trail droops as he picks his way through the snow behind the two humans. When Thrymr looks to see what has sapped Gifr's love for the chase, he notes that the hund is shivering a bit in the cold, tongue lolling from his panting jaws and his breath steaming in the air.
Looking forward to seeing all the dead and dying orcs by the side of the path as they start failing their Fort saves too :)