Laws they made there, and life allotted To the sons of men, and set their fates
The village of Heldren is always watchful, but rarely has the watchfulness been tinged with such worrisome thoughts. One would think it enough that there are signs the ice troll of Irrisen grow restless and hungry, but now hunters from the border of the Grungir speak of cold weather unnatural to the season – being as it is at the height of summer. The cold bloomed like an unholy flower disgorging heavy snow and bitingly icy winds to woods that should yet be temperate. Those that travel the wood speak of an uneasy presence, as well as new, dangerous predators.
No one knows what this event means, but the town’s runecaster, Old Mother Theodora, claims dark times lie ahead. As if in proof of that dire prophecy, a badly wounded mercenary arrived in town yesterday, claiming to be a bodyguard of Lady Argentea Malassene. He told the village council that the noblewoman’s escort came under attack by bandits and strange, wintry creatures near the edge of the Grungir. He alone escaped, and Lady Argentea was dragged away into the forest. Now the townsfolk cast wary eyes at all, seeing ill portents and witch-signs where there are none. Fearful eyes flick between the border and the newly snowy forest, and bets are being made as to which will rise to swallow the town first.
Tavern Rumours and Village Malcontent:
- Everyone says the weather is unseasonably cold for midsummer—it even snowed in the Grungir!
- Most suspect magic is involved, and some fear Irriseni agents played a role in it.
- Old Man Dansby claims that someone keeps stealing from his fields. His farm lies closest to the Grungir, where half his crops have died from an icy frost and the rest have been carried off.
Each of you have been approached in turn over the course of the day and given an invitation to attend Heldren’s þing this evening at the local tavern – The Silver Stoat. No further detail was proffered by the messenger, though it does not take much thought to connect the summons with the arrival of the injured bodyguard. Evening comes early and the sun dips below the horizon, a chill wind blows from the North and West as you make your way to the tavern. Thoughts are grim as you push through the door and into the assembly… whether it portends weal or woe will be truth-made in the telling.
Halla has only been in town a few days, but everyone knows her at least by sight; it is hard not to notice a head of hair as black as a raven bobbing through the Ulfen town. The woman beneath that hair, however, has proved reclusive, thwarting the town gossips' best efforts at extracting her story for jawing over the evening hearths; when she cannot avoid direct interaction, she replies politely while spending as few words as possible, a forbidding air about her that effectively quells further inquiry.
What is known is that when a group of men arrived from an outlying farmstead yesterday, she disappeared long enough for the news they brought to circulate through the town before showing her face again. The old women whisper that she is running from something ... but then the old women are always whispering about something to keep their blood flowing in the unseasonable chill.
She is an early arrival to the thing, rather slight and frail for a northerner but still sturdier than the doll-like people who inhabit the warmer lands to the south. She keeps a fur cloak pulled over her dark hair, even inside the Silver Stoat, and takes the seat nearest the door despite the draft every time it opens. She fixes each person who arrives with a piercing gaze, seeming to try to read their intentions before lowering her eyes back to the table.
Annalísa stops at the door of The Silver Stoat and squats down to put herself face to face with Hundur, noting for the millionth time how alike his steel blue eyes are to her own. The dog nips at her long, blond braid and tugs playfully. She chuckles and pulls her braid free of the dog's mouth, running her hand down the length of it, feeling the bump of each of the hundred smaller braids that make up the larger braid.
Standing back up she readjusts the furs that drape her shoulders and shifts her leather vest a bit, letting a bit more of her milky white flesh show through the partially unlaced tunic beneath. Looking down at Hundur sternly she speaks,
"Be good and stay out here, keep quiet and I'll bring you back out a treat. Now stay."
Annalísa looks at him a little doubtful he'll listen but leaves him behind and enters the tavern anyway. Approaching the bar she orders herself some ale and asks if they've got any scraps for Hundur. Ale in hand, Annalísa takes a seat that places her back to a wall and the door in plain sight. She sips her ale and waits for things to get started.
Rikka crosses the town square on her way to the Silver Stoat and - not for the first time - wonders at the identity of the statue. The invitation and the curious events outside the village take precedence this night, however, as the scrappy sorcerer continues on to the tavern without a backwards glance.
The wind whips her hair into a loose tangle as the blonde woman pushes through the tavern door. She assesses the people inside briefly through slate-grey eyes as she gives Kale a cautious nod of greeting. Rikka sets her long, leaf-headed boarspear against the wall even as she boots the door fully shut against the chill in the air.
She is an unremarkable woman dressed for the changing weather - in a dark brown woolen dress beneath a practical, fur-lined, leather coat. The only thing that sets her apart from the village women is her less than average height and the multi-pouched, leather sash slung diagonally across her body and anchored at her hip by a well-used handaxe.
Rikka runs a hand roughly through her hair to get the majority of it out of her face and then takes a nearby seat at the bar. Having no interest in drinking, she watches the room.
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Elghund tries to look as inconspicuous and non-threatening as an Orc can as he moves through the village. Unfortunately, he is on the larger side of his Orcish ancestry and has a hard time not being noticed, especially armed as he is.
His furs are styled as a typical tracker or hunter for the region, and coupled with a utilitarian set of studded leather armour, suggesting he might moonlight as a caravan guard as well. Attached to the outside of his well used backpack are snowshoes and cleats, as well as a grappling hook and a sturdy rope.
Seeing he is a little early for the meeting, the large fellow sits outside the Inn to one side and begins quietly going through his equipment and checking it is in good repair, studiously adjusting a buckle here, removing a bit of tarnish there.
In front of him, poorly scribed sits a small and weatherbeaten sign:
"Work wanted: Track, Hunt, Guide, Guard. Friendly. Good price"
He maintains his post hopefully as he awaits the call for the meeting to begin.
He occasionally looks to the dog the Northwoman left outside, and although they don't speak, there is clearly some understanding between them. He waits 'til no one is looking, and throws it some of his afternoon snack.
Wild Empathy
Skäne trudges grim faced into the Silver Stoat as the throng assembles to address the village’s concerns.
Ignoring whispered gossip regarding the unseasonal cold, or a colder still stare from a raven haired woman seated by the door, the tall warrior takes up position near the midst of the þing. Most of Helden’s folk shuffle to avoid him, having become all too aware of the mirthless nature of the daunting incomer.
Any looking about Skäne’s person see he wears a battered leather coat reinforced with iron plates and overlaid with the moth-eaten fur of a black bear. His waist and thighs are further protected by an armoured kilt of foreign design. The inside of his coat clinks with a duo of throwing axes, and at his hip sits the signature weapon of the shield wall butcher - the Scramaseax. The pack, pouches and a sporran he carries clink with the sundry equipment of a travelling mercenary. Across his broad back sits a battleaxe whose blade is nicked with use and a battered heavy wooden shield - upon its face the faded image of the white lion of Taldor.
A faint scent of muscle liniment reaches the noses of any he passes close to.
Stoically he retrieves a elegant pipa from his sporran and slowly packs it, then waits dispassionately for proceedings to begin...
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Halla is first to arrive, but is soon joined by the others that are not of the village. Annalisa bids Hundur to sit sentinel without and he obeys without complaint... however the hund is also distracted by the arrival of a hulking orc with food to spare.
The interior of the tavern is spartan and workmanlike – in line with much of the town’s general aesthetic. Long trestle tables with communal benches sit like hedgerows in the common room plus there is a small standing area near to the bar. There are already a smattering of people within, townsfolk and farmers all – most with a relatively dour countenance. Above the bar mounted on the wall is the item that gives the tavern its name – a stuffed large stoat that has a silvery sheen to its fur. The husband and wife team that service the tavern are behind the bar, polish rag in hand and serving tankards to the village folk.
At one end of the common a small area has been cleared where three chairs sit alone. The center bears the village headswoman Ionnia Teppen, of Varisian descent and slight – though steadfast to the town. To her left is the town smithy and head of the local militia, a barrel chested Ulfen man by the name of Isker Euphram. And to her right is an Ulfen blooded face you have not seen prior.
Bloodied and beaten his right arm is riven and the remains held in by red soaked linen tied as a sling. Blond braided hair is held back by further bloodied bandage and his beard is tinged scarlet also. Despite this he holds his head high and does not beggar any sympathy.
The Man in Question
As the last of you make your way to the inn, the room buzzes with a hubbub of rumour and loose words ”…bloody ice queens… saw some trow on the border… iced right over… that savage outside better… fecking crops are gone… we’ve enough to worry without…” most of it not worth the listening and very little to be gained through attention.
After a few minutes, Ionnia stands and she does not even need speak to have the room quiescent for her words.
”Welcome friends and neighbours all… and those that are not of our flock. Before we tell of portents and deeds to be done… let us remember.” to this she breathes deep and lets her words slip into an Older dialect of Skald and her voice gains depth as she booms:
” Heill dagr!
Heilir dags synir!
Heil nótt ok nift!
Óreiðum augum
lítið okkr þinig
ok gefið sitjöndum sigr!”
”Heilir æsir!
Heilar ásynjur!
Heil sjá in fjölnýta fold!
Mál ok mannvit
gefið okkr mærum tveim
ok læknishendr, meðan lifum.”
Hail, sons of day!
And night and her daughter now!
Look on us here
with loving eyes,
That waiting we victory win.”
”Hail to the gods!
Ye goddesses, hail,
And all the generous earth!
Give to us wisdom
and goodly speech,
And healing hands, life-long”
You see that all around the hall have turned solemn and if not they say the words, then they mouth along with them. At the completion of the verse tankards are raised and a minni-sveig given to the gods in tribute.
For the thousandth time since entering Helgrend, Kló pushes aside his unease at being around so many people as he hustles through the unseasonable cold, every breath producing a not-so-small cloud to be whipped away by the wind, though even that is lost in the dark of the evening. It suited him just fine that the darkness helped to mask his passage. At nearly seven feet in height, he stood out, even among his tall Ulfen brethren.
His feet, armored against the snow by well-worn, weather-treated hide boots, crunch in the deepening show with every footstep. The rest of him is likewise clothed. Serviceable and well-worn clothes and armor of animal skins leaves only his hands, neck, and face exposed. Also leaving exposed the strange nearly-red birthmark on his neck and left palm – a most unnatural-seeming bear-paw print in the pale snow of his skin.
He is nearly at the door of the Stoat before he notices the two creatures. Kló's bluff face cracks ion a frown. The hound was normal enough, but Kló didn't see many orcs… much less full-blooded ones in Ulfen towns attempting to get a jobs by way of written skill-boards. Kló gives the orc a wary nod before stooping and pushing through the door.
The wall of sound and near-stifling heat hit him like a wave. A wave the towering man bears stoically as he searches for a place along a wall. Finding one in the back corner, Kló unshoulders his pack and leans against the wall-beam, which groans a bit at his weight.
Halla stares at the floorboards as the prayer is invoked, superstititious enough to feel uncomfortable as a rock diverting the flow of piety around her but stubborn enough not to pay homage to gods who have never betrayed the slightest interest in her.
Annalísa finds herself speaking the words with Ionnia, as she surly has many times before. She raises her tankard in toast with the rest of the room and takes a deep swill before returning her eyes to Ionnia.
Skäne continues to smoke as the prayer is spoken, noting briefly the jotunn sized latecomer.
At the mention of "healing hands" the warrior grimly smiles to himself.
Seeing the time has come for the meeting, Elghund picks up his belongings and his sign and gives the dog a knowing look before entering like he was told.
Once inside he loiters at the back of the room and looks about the scene, his mind clearly ticking and calculating as he notes the people in the room.
When the prayers start, he makes an effort to try and speak the words, but his eyes are still busy looking at the injured man, clearly trying o understand his importance.
Rikka glances about the room as the minni-sveig is performed, curious about the ritual and the faith it bespeaks. Her eyes are drawn to the raven-haired woman, one of the few not mumbling the words.
Interesting.
For the sorceress' part, raised in the wicce-drohtaþ , she had only a passing acquaintance with the Gods and thought of them as little as she imagined they thought of her. Her appreciation was far greater for the nameless impulses that drove the world - seat of the Gods' and Patrons' powers.
Rikka watches the crowd and - with the same reverence with which she'd let a dog out a gate - hastily raises a glass in emulation of the locals.
Klò has no drink in hand and no specific love for these people's gods. But as they finish their final verse, he dips his head in respect, waiting to hear what is to come.
Taking her seat after the toast, Ionnia continues to speak and the room listens to her words ”By now all of you will have heard… whispers or strong words of the coming of ice and snow. The boughs of the Grungir hang heavy with snow that should not have come for months yet. And now creatures of the deep cold have been unleashed, and prey upon us” nodding to the injured man next to her. ”Ill portents all… but yet the iss trow and beasts of the ice queen are seen across the border in Irrisen. Wary and watchful, we must always be… though we cannot be deaf to cries for aid.”
Ionnia’s voice dies off and Isker’s gravelly voice takes it’s place ”The man that sits tall beside us is Yuln Oerstag, guardsman to the Lady Argentea… who was taken from him by bandits and worse within the wood. Bloodied, broken… but not beaten he is all that survives her honor guard. He has ridden to us… called upon his kinsmen for succor and while he heals, for some brave souls to march to her aid… and bring back his Lady… either alive or dead and avenged. We have but almost none that can be spared from our own guard, especially with the Irriseni threatening to strike.” the blacksmith settling his gaze to rove the room and take in the locals… but mostly those that are not of this village by residence.
Yuln himself then speaks, voice holding but a fraction of what power it likely usually does ”I plead to you kinsmen that I know not… ride out and find her. Weregild I can offer – for proof of her fate. Are there any brave enough to tempt their fate?”
Lastly Ionnia speaks once more ”Annalísa… those that walk will need one with knowledge of the paths and signs nearby. Will you join the band?”
Kló's stoic features remain mostly unchanged through the words of the three speakers. Were those few who truly know him present, they'd see the small but obvious shift in his features that give testament to his internal struggle.
Words of unnatural snows and ravaging creatures of the deep cold stir at the core of him. Deep hurts and old rages crash against the cage of his self-control, though he tries to keep it from showing in his expression.
He gives the woman called Annalísa a considering look. And while the primal thing inside him – the thing Kló must learn to understand – roars for Kló to lift his blade against these Children of Irrisen, patience demands that he wait to see how the others in the room respond to the call.
Hasted decisions make bad decisions, he thinks as he watches Annalísa, the orc, and the other non-locals.
Anyone who happens to look at the lumbering man would see a person biting their tongue…
In answer to Yuln’s call to arms Skäne thumps the butt of his ax upon the floor, until all eyes are upon him. In a low, flat voice he speaks out to all and none;
”I am Skäne Ingvârssonn: Once of Bildt, once of Taldor, now returned to the cold embrace of my Northern "kin". Once son of Ingvâr Sharptunga, know to some as The Frost Biter, known to all as a breaker of oaths to Jarl and kin...“
The warrior continues in his flat, unemotional speech;
”...I have come to make my own name… my own reputation… for good or ill... I care not. If my foes walk upright or slither like wyrm I care not. Be they mewing children or mighty warriors I care not. You require my axe and this red hand that wields it..."
At the last words he once again smiles grimly before finishing;
"...So I do not think Heldren cares either nei?”
Yuln nods solemnly at Skäne ane as he makes his pronouncement "Hail Skäne Ingvârssonn... your axe is welcome. Let the reaving-path left in it's wake be your truth-bond."
"...We have but almost none that can be spared from our own guard, especially with the Irriseni threatening to strike." the blacksmith settling his gaze to rove the room and take in the locals... but mostly those that are not of this village by residence.
Rikka listens with a mixture of disappointment and hope. Less the work of destiny and more the needs of man brought that message to me, it seems. Still, fate works in its own way...
Yuln himself then speaks, voice holding but a fraction of what power it likely usually does "I plead to you kinsmen that I know not... ride out and find her. Weregild I can offer - for proof of her fate. Are there any brave enough to tempt their fate?"
Rikka raises an eyebrow at the warrior's mention of fate so hard upon her own thoughts. Her fingers stray to the hand-sewn bag kept safe in her sash. Without thinking, she plucks forth a rune carved carefully on a sliver of bone. She glances at the rune, letting fate truly decide...
The broken-shouldered 'F' of the Os rune speaks to her. A symbol of authority, it points her towards the leaders of Heldren - Ionnia and Isker - as if to say "do as they would have you". Content with fate's advice, Rikka carefully places the rune back in the bag as she speaks.
"Fate comes for all - whether or not it is sought." She considers her words briefly before continuing, "I, also, will go to find this woman and see the truth of this early winter with my own eyes."
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As Isker the blacksmith begs off on behalf of the locals who simply cannot be spared and stares down the strangers, the corner of Halla's mouth twists into a smirk. This, then, was why outsiders had been specifically summoned to a town þing: to foist on them the dangers the townsfolk chose not to shoulder. She keeps her seat and holds her tongue, giving the woman called Annalisa a curious glance; she appears to be a local, known to the leaders of Heldren. What has she done that they are so eager to send her off into the wilderness with an assortment of strangers?
Kló listens as Skäne and the small Ulfen woman volunteered.
The man certainly looked to know his bloody business. That was good. The small girl is a surprise, and Kló frowns at her seemingly-intentional use of the word 'fate'. He wouldn't use that word, but the Old Way was a way full of signs and portents. Kló guessed that his own reason for being in Helgrend – a mystery even to himself – had been the result of some sign the Old Man had seen. Interesting, indeed.
Maybe this is the purpose.. maybe not, he thinks. Either way...
Kló pushes off from the wall, eliciting a second groan from the beam. "I will go." There is a pause before he realizes more explanation might be expected. "What the Children of Irrisen want, I would deny them." As much as he would love to keep it contained, his hatred for the nightmares of Irrisen is obvious.
He shrugs as if to say what more is there?
Annalísa looks to Ionnia with a half smile on her face, "Dearest Ionnia, should my sword ever fail to be at your service, may Gorum claim my head in his shame."
The orc fidgets at the back of the room, as if a little unsure and growingly uncomfortable.
"I will go too" he grunts "Hunt them down, bring your woman back, bandits be left in the snow".
He once again pulls out his natty signboard and points to the poorly scribed runes for 'hunt' and 'track', then to 'good price', "Deal?"
Yuln gives a nod and acknowledgement of each who pledge their support to seek out the fate of his Lady charge "Seiðkonur...Björn bror... Annalísa..." though pauses to look to Ionnia as Elghund commits to the cause. The headswoman gives Yuln a stern look as though he had questioned her personal honor and the Ulfen resignedly shakes his head and nods "Aye... and the orc too." taking a settling breath before pleading once more "Are there any more who have courage enough to aid? - By my gold or to rescue the Lady from whatever suffering she endures?" holding pose for a long span of seconds...
...before adding "Come brothers and sisters, let us speak of what more I know" giving a nod to Ionnia and Isker before unsteadily moving through the common and upstairs to where a private room is situated.
The sorceress slides through the crowd and retrieves her ash spear from its spot near the door. Convinced the boar-spear was possessed of a nascent spirit, Rikka dared not insult the weapon by leaving it behind. She rests the spear comfortably against her shoulder and trudges lightly up the stairs after Yuln.
Kló takes up his pack once again, musing on his given name as he carefully watches the orc.
The stairs creak under his weight as he lumbers up them, and he gives the common room of locals a last glance before heading in to hear more of what he's just agreed to.
Annalísa allows the others to enter ahead of her, shutting the door behind her so they have privacy. She leans against the wall next to the door.
"We have a map of the area handy so he can show us just where he was at when they were attacked?"
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The procession up the stairs behind Yuln is slow, as his ascent is labored by his injuries. As you do so, Ionnia asks the room of any other issues worthy of discussion... and with non forthcoming the þing begins to dissolve. Most of the townsfolk do not linger in the Stoat for long, eager to get back to their homes and rest before the prospect of another long day in the fields or workshop on the morrow.
A few stay behind, to finish meals or nurse tankards of ale... but they seem more interested in their own thoughts than any conversation and the Stoat grows quiet.
Upstairs:
Yuln eases into a seat on one side of the single table that sits in the middle of the private room. A parchment has already been laid out and Yuln takes charcoal to begin to scrawl a simple map of where the caravan fell under attack.
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The Orc seems rather pleased by the turn of events, and regards his ragged sign with a bit of pride and reverence for a moment before putting it away almost triumphantly. He nods towards Ionnia in thanks as he passes.
After a moment of silence watching the man draw the map, the Orc looks at the people in the room. "Elghund, or you call me Dog or Hound, same thing. " his brow furrows deeply as he awaits a response.
"Greetings, Elghund. I'm Annalísa." Annalísa nods to Elghund, wondering only how well he can fight. She's met a few big folks who couldn't fight worth a damn.
"Well met, Elghund." replies the spellweaver, "I'm Rikka." Her grey eyes indicate the boarspear, "This is Riimukirjain."
Elghund sounds out the names quietly for a moment to ensure he has them right before speaking them aloud, "Annalisa and Rikka". He fixes on the spear "Good for hunting, bad for boar" and half chuckles at his observation "Why does it have a name, did you kill someone big with it?", he seems genuinely inquisitive.
Skäne stoicly stands watching the group converse before flatly adding;
"You all heard my name at the þing... seems nei point in repeating it."
He then leans in to watch the map's progression.
"Skane" the Orc replies in a harsh and guttural tone, as though remembering and making sure he is correct, then remains silent and looks at the map being drawn.
The big man nods at each of the others' names, frowning a bit at the orc's suggestion that they call him dog or hound.
"Kló," he says by way of introduction as he once again unshoulders his big travel pack. He sets it and a large nondescript circular wooden shield in the corner before making his way over to a seat. A seat which – once he sits down – begins to look a little like a child's seat with an adult in it.
"Annalisa and Rikka". He fixes on the spear "Good for hunting, bad for boar" and half chuckles at his observation "Why does it have a name, did you kill someone big with it?", he seems genuinely inquisitive.
Kló stops testing the weight-strained chair to give a small smile. "Then I'll hope she doesn't find reason to name a weapon Kló… at least not any day soon."
When people look over, regardless of their expression, the smile slips from his face in discomfort, and Kló lapses back into silence… only the rare groan from his chair breaking his silence.
The orc stifles a laugh at the big strangers joke.
At the mention of his name Skane raises his shaggy head to look back at the powerful orc;
"...Hund... Like how minn name sounds when spoken by an orcné... like a jagged ax. Huh."
A bemused smile fleetingly plays on the Vikingr's hard features before his customary grim set once again resumes.
He fixes on the spear "Good for hunting, bad for boar" and half chuckles at his observation "Why does it have a name, did you kill someone big with it?", he seems genuinely inquisitive.
Rikka smiles at the observation and 'Hund's curiosity, "No, no. He's never killed anything big. His name, well, all things bear names - whether we know them or not. Some are named for what they do; Some, for what they are. Riimukirjain is named for what I think he will be when he awakens."
Kló stops testing the weight-strained chair to give a small smile. "Then I'll hope she doesn't find reason to name a weapon Kló... at least not any day soon."
The sorceress eyes the man that is practically taller seated than she is standing and chuckles at the jibe. "My axe is unnamed but I doubt I could fell a tree so tall as you." Her tone is one of wonder, not a jest at Kló's expense.
Annalísa cannot help but to chuckle at Elghund's description of Riimukirjain, and then to laugh heartily as the conversation continues. She takes a drink of her ale, which somehow she 'forgot' to leave downstairs and studies the map being drawn.
"How many people were in your caravan, Yuln?"
"And how many were they that overran you?"
Rikka rests the spear against the wall and joins the conversation, "And what manner of beasts were there?"
Halla keeps her head down and her face concealed inside the hood of her stolen furs until the town authorities have left the tavern. As the common room empties, she breathes more easily but still avoids the gaze of those patrons remaining. If anyone were watching her, they might see her lips moving almost silently over her ale, perhaps saying a quiet prayer for the lives lost and any survivors from the unfortunate caravan or even for the brave heroes who have volunteered to investigate. But she is not.
We have to leave. Someone could arrive with word from the farmstead at any time.
We were waiting for the caravan.
But now there is no caravan!
If we went with them and found the Lady....
There is still no caravan! Her men are dead, and if she still lives, she will be in no state to go South, not before word arrives from the farmstead.
What will you do then? Even if weren't so cold, you could not travel through the Nolands alone.
Oh, suddenly now it is 'I' and 'me!' If I die, what becomes of you?!
Hush, Halla, lasai zeure burua. I only meant I cannot help you with the cold and finding food, and if the Nolanders find you, there is little we can do, even together.
We have to leave.
Then go with the 'heroes.'
They are going in the wrong direction, into the Grungir!
Better the Grungir and free than Heldren and in captivity, no? From wherever you are, there is always a South.
They will hand me over for the weregild. If they will travel into danger for coin, will they not collect when I am already in their midst?
Only if they know of it. They will leave early in the morning if they hope the Lady might still live; word will not get any closer on this cold night, not before the morning. We will be away before it can travel far.
Then what? We cannot come back through Heldren.
We needn't. From the Grungir, there are many ways South. We could take the river to Kalsgard; no one will ever think to look for you there.
How do you know such things, Maeve?
I learned many things I never made use of; they may as well serve you.
Yuln sketches out a rough map that Annalisa can easily follow "We were skirting the North of the river, just about to the Northern ford where we would have cut South to Heldren. At the first... we thought it was mere bandits. The bastards hide like cowards in the forest and emerge to strike when they feel bold or foolish. We turned their arrows and blocked their blades... we had thought the battle won... but then" clearly struggling with wounded pride as he gets to the part of the tale that encompasses his failing.
“The unseelie flowed from the shadows like poison... blood chilled and bones shattered. We fought as best we can... but those with cold-touched steel fell quickly and there was little the few could do. With the fae at their side, the short knives of the bandits became slick with blood. Of the numbers I cannot say with confidence of heart... we were ten... and they were more."
“The unseelie are the threat that steels my heart. Bastard fey who have sworn themselves to the White Witches of Irrisen." spitting to one side as he speaks the epithet "Tiny sprites no taller than the length of a man’s forearm it is true. But don’t be fooled by their small stature. Legends say they have taken a sliver of ice into their hearts, and their touch bears the harsh bite of winter.” holding his riven arm up as proof of that.
"As I fled to the South, they took my Lady North... into the Grungir."
Rikka nods, "Did it seem, to your eyes, that they intended to capture your Lady all along?"