Signe pauses amidst her dismount. "But aren't the lights in our path? Can you see a way around that the horses can take without endangering themselves and us?"
At the question, Ramundr looks around thoughtfully. It would be prudent to avoid entanglements, if we could safely assume that entanglement does not involve Olafsdottirs. However, the witching lights may not be easily avoided. The forest can be strange, and paths may change at the forests will, or so Ramundr heard over fire lit evenings in the Vale. Still it could be wise to try to find an alternate path. He casts his gaze about, considering the terrain.
Brave Signe’s proposal to scout ahead is waived for the moment, for there are many paths to choose, and all should lead through the woods eventually. And so the party turns left to avoid the lights, but only moments later the strange green glow reappears directly in your path.
And now Signe's idea is offered again, and so she stows her torchlight, dismounts her horse, and treads a careful path, looping around tree trunks in an attempt to approach the lights unseen...
Ramundr nods as the lights once again appear before them in the woods As the stories have been told, when the witching lights appear, they appeared for those that saw them, and were not easily be avoided. Ramundr says to no one.
Ragnar looks at the bearsarker with a look of longing. Did the song came from him, or did he follow the song?, he ponders, then nods as the others hint to leave the man alone. "May his wisdom find you before his fury.", he mutters a goodbye blessing as he turns to catch up with the rest, his mind pondering the words. Who is Donar's usurper?, the question of Signe carries weight, as he considers the words of the gods. "At this time, little is known. Perhaps if we're to meet him again,", he nods back at the bearsarker, "The full truth will come out."
As the dancing lights appear, Ragnar's hair stands on end. "No sane Northlander would...", he mutters, covering his face with his cowl to shield himself from the winds as Signe disappears in the forest. "Be watchful, Signe.", he warns, as he stands his spear on guard.
Signe reaches up and rubs her eyes. She blinks a few more times trying to determine if her mind is playing tricks on her. She has never seen any creatures other than humans and animals before and so is having a hard time believing what she is seeing. Finally she decides to pinch herself. As the pain registers and the scene before her remains, she has no choice but to accept that what she's seeing is real. There really are many satyrs, dryads, pixies, and other faeries preparing for a feast.
Part of her wants to move forward and get a better look, maybe even talk to them. After all, who can say that they've talked to the fae? But she doesn't want to intrude. She's fairly certain they've seen her but since they've ignored her, maybe it's better she not bother them.
She slowly begins to back away and make her way back to the others. She stands silently for a moment not really knowing what to say without sounding out of her mind. "Mushroom lights...a party...there are...many fae ahead. I think they know I saw them but they didn't acknowledge me. Maybe they want to be left alone?"
We can't avoid them, unless we turn tail. I say we must walk through. Ramundr ponders amoment before turning to Ragnar. Among us, you are likely the most familiar with the tales and histories of such folk. Do you know of the significance of this feast? Would it be wise of us to make some offering for their feast?
The fae? Þyrnir listens wide-eyed to Signe's scout report. It was true that the forest had a bit of a reputation, but what were the chances that they would stumble upon a fey gathering just as they were searching for the jarl's daughters? Truly, many signs and portents this day!
Signe describes the extraordinary sight. Ragnar agrees with Ramundr that faeries are only seen if they wish to be seen and, as attempts to avoid the gathering proved futile, the best course of action is to simply try to step by unnoticed.
And so the brave Northmen skirt the edge of the wood, watching the satyrs, dryads, pixies, and other faeries string up garlands and set the long table for a feast. But as you watch, the scene changes, and the faeries have assembled along the benches in obvious anticipation.
A horn sounds in the woods, and a tall, regal stag with antlers like birch branches walks to the head of the table. The stag, its rack shimmering as if crowned by glowing gems or living fire, addresses you in a voice like the flow of a fresh, pebbled brook.
"Strangers! Be welcome as guests or cursed as interloeprs. The choice is yours. Come and sit; partake of our feast, but repay our generosity in kind, or be gone and on your way as craven and honorless men, mere trespassers in our domain."
At first, Signe is completely mesmerized by the stag. She watches its antlers sparkle but forces herself to focus on its words. She never thought she'd ever be in the presence of a talking stag.
Signe didn't like the idea of being considered to be an interloper or a trespasser by anyone. But was it really wise to accept the invitation? They were in a hurry to find the jarl's dottirs so could they spend the time feasting - even if it was with faeries? To Signe, it seems dangerous to refuse the hospitality of the fey.
She looks at the others and inclines her head towards the table and takes a small step forwards to show her inclination. However, as usual, she would do whatever the group decides.
Interlopers? Tresspassers?! Ramundr found himself more than a little irritated.
There was no time for debate. Offending the fey was perilous indeed; should they earn their ire, they would probably never find their way out of the woods again. There were many tales of hapless travellers bewytched and tricked. Þyrnir goes on one knee before the stag, head bowed.
"You honour us, Forest Lord."
He was overstepping his bounds and he knew it, but he could not worry about that now. He worried about Runa and Inga and Fastvi, and the jarl as well. To the others, this may have seemed like a pointless delay, but the alternative was much worse. And, who knows, perhaps the fae could help them, for a price.
Otryggr slides off his saddle, landing heavily with Braka between him and the feast, and then slowly comes around, ducking past the horse's head, reins held loosely in one hand.
Can it... surely not... but...
The stag speaks, and the voice rings with authority and peril. And yet... their pressing need, their quest...
Signe takes a step forward. Thyrnir goes down on one knee. Dare they offend the fey? Unsure, and far, far outside his element, Otryggr looks sidelong at the godwytch.
Ragnar's mouth opens to confirm, but Thyrnir's quick response sounds before he could even start forming a sentence. Frigg doesn't grant her favour unwisely, of course., he thinks as he nods in agreement with the others, himself bending the knee with respect, as he turns around to the others with a frown to indicate they should offer their greetings as well, as his mind dashes left and right. "The offer is most welcome indeed. Any who offer respite to those on a hurried task as perilous as ours are the noblest of hosts.", he says as he stands up, leaning on his spear. I hope I managed to relay our haste politely enough., Ragnar thinks with a silent sigh. It's hard to read the face of a stag.
Without indicating whether he understands Ragnar's implication, the stag bows his head, his antlers lustrous in the lamplight. A lithe satyr appears from behind the horses, though you'd swear there was no one there before. And another, whose supple form seems to swim down a treetrunk. Together they guide you to your place at the table, and the festivities commence.
The feast is one of otherwordly fare and beauty. Dainty cups made of flowers are filled with mead brewed from faerie bees and water from secret magical streams.
Steaming hunks of roast pork, as well as other savory dishes, are brought out on platters of bark.
The bread is light and airy, yet filling, and both sweet and hearty as needed.
The conversation, to say nothing of the company, is beyond words, and you soon find yourself swept away on a tide of wonder.¸·´¯`·.¸¸¤... .•:´¨•☆ •.¸¸.•´´¯`•¸·´¯`·.¸¸¤.
The feast continues for hours.
After it is done, the stag speaks to you again, this time in a voice like sultry summer winds blowing through fully leafed trees. "As you have enjoyed our fare, let us enjoy yours. What do you offer us in return for our hospitality: songs, stories, dances? What entertainment can you show your hosts that befits the food and drink you have consumed?"
Otryggr sits, bewildered and bemused, feeling an oaf beside the fey, unmannered, uncultured, and unwashed. At first he hesitates and second guesses himself, sneaking covert looks at his companions to see how they fare, but eventually the music and wine loosen his tongue and he begins to laugh appreciatively at the marvels before them.
The food blurs before him, one delicacy after another, and they're more sensations and memories than actual plates of meat and vegetable. They evoke colors and sounds as he chews and swallows, the wine, oh, the wine is like an endless river, absolving him of doubts and fury, insecurity and madness.
Finally when the stag speaks again, he rises to his feet, all doubts long gone.
"Songs and dances I can offer none. I am Otryggr Grimsson, and I hail from the mountainous peaks of Vastavikland. There I was wont to pass the long winters matching myself against the strongest men in the vale and slopes, engaging in wrestling matches where the winner was he who forced the other to submit. I challenge any of your followers, my lord, to such a bout! But beware, for though I am but mortal, never have I lost a contest of strength or resolve!"
Braggart. Ramundr could not help but think. Never lost a wrestling match? Bah! Then you spent your time training with children.
Ramundr, not of a diplomatic nature nevertheless sees a flaw in the Otryggr's boast. These were the Fae. Beings of power and wonder, of mystery and the wyrd.
No. We might brawl as you desire, croon at the moon sweetly as not. We might speak tales of lost daughters, of strong backed men raiding in longboats, of Jarldoms lost and won, of the waxing and waning of harvests and the seasons, and even of immortal wanderers met on a lonely roads. Yes, we might even offer up our small bit of smoked fish and poor ale from our packs.
But no. There is nothing we could perform, boast, offer, or sing that befits the food and drink we have consumed, nor is worthy of those that provided it.
Ramundr pauses. But I am willing to try.
Despite the urgency of their mission, Þyrnir finds himself enjoying the feast quite a bit. He has seen many feasts in the jarl's house, but only as a servant, bringing the food and drink for others to enjoy, cleaning up the mess afterwards. This time he is sitting at the table and sharing the fine fey foods and the fine mead.
As the celebration comes to an end and the stag speaks his request, Þyrnir bows his head in acknowledgement. "My lord, I don't have a way with words as others do, nor is my voice sweet and pleasant to listen to. Your people are so beautiful and graceful that any attempt that I would make at dancing would only look clumsy and foolish." He pauses, looking around. "I do have a small measure of skill with carving however, and if you would permit it, I would craft a pair of rings to wear on your magnificent antlers, cleverly fitted to open and close and adorned with images of the forest. They could be fashioned from wood, or stone, or whatever other material you wish."
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Ragnar taps his fingers together for a moment. Maybe the one with the tomte?, he considers the story about the house fey, before reconsidering. Maybe not tell the one about mistreating their kin, regardless of how the look onto those of their own living with Northmen. He looks around at the stag, realising that whatever song he can sing about the beauty of the forest would likely be a pale comparison to the Fae's experiences. However..., he finally realises, before settling on a tale.
Ragnar clears his throat as he stands up. Tapping his spear into the ground, he throws away his cloak on the ground and starts narrating.
"There once was a troll.
Named Hrol.
And Hrol, the Troll,
with his smell and visage pale,
thought that he was a man."
The story of Hrol the Troll is quite possibly one of the funniest tale Northmen tell, and one of the few that deals with absurd comedy, as other, more "civilised" countries would call it. In it, Hrol the Troll ventures from the woods to a small hamlet, where he claims he is a man, and the terrified villagers don't dare correct him. Some of the most notable moments are where Hrol starts his farm (and in it, plants nettle and ferns), rides a horse (to the horse's immediate downfall), and attempts to sing to his love (who doesn't quite share his sentiments.)
In the end, after unsuccessful attempts by others from nearby towns to chase him away, his "love" convinces him that she'd marry him if he fetches for her the moonglow from the south, and he departs with his oaken spear (or, an actual oak tree) and his helmet (a cauldron).
Ragnar does his best, even dropping in a low, guttural sounds for the troll's words and even acts out the scene with the horse with a sad whimper, then taps his spear again, with a smile, to indicate that the "saga" has ended.
Signe doesn't remember feeling so carefree, so light, in a very long time. Not since before the death of her father and her brother. When it had just been her family on their farm, life seemed much simpler and far less dangerous.
Now she's sitting at a faerie feast in the forest in the presence of a talking stag when they should be in pursuit of the jarl's dottirs.
With the stag's request for an offering, Signe recalls a lullaby from her childhood. With thoughts of her family on her mind she is eager to share it.
[b]"As the others have said, nothing we offer can come close to matching that which you have blessed us with this evening. I will forever be changed because of what I've experienced tonight. The atmosphere here tonight reminded me of being at home as a child and would humbly offer a lullaby that my father would sing to me.
Rocking, rocking the child
The pot is hanging in the iron
Cooking full of porridge made of sour cream to the little child
Father, he's sitting and cleaning the husks off the corn
Mother, she's playing the horn so beautifully
Sister, she's sitting, spinning gold
Brother, he's walking in the forest
hunts all the wild animals
but
if he's grey, let him get away
if he's brown around the chest then let him roam the woods
Even though her heart is obviously in her song, the melody was anything but pleasant. Her choice of notes definitely revealed that Signe was most definitely tone deaf.
"Songs and dances I can offer none. I am Otryggr Grimsson, and I hail from the mountainous peaks of Vastavikland. There I was wont to pass the long winters matching myself against the strongest men in the vale and slopes, engaging in wrestling matches where the winner was he who forced the other to submit. I challenge any of your followers, my lord, to such a bout! But beware, for though I am but mortal, never have I lost a contest of strength or resolve!"
With brays of joy, both satyrs leap onto the feast table and slide across it, sending food and plate scattering. They wrap their limps around the Vastaviklander and Ramundr, crawling like squirrels over a tree as they attempt (in vain) to drag them to the ground.
"I do have a small measure of skill with carving however, and if you would permit it, I would craft a pair of rings to wear on your magnificent antlers, cleverly fitted to open and close and adorned with images of the forest. They could be fashioned from wood, or stone, or whatever other material you wish."
While Ótryggr and Ramundr struggle to get a grip on the satyrs, Þyrnir finds that a wood-carving blade and a few birch branches rest in front of him on the table. It takes only a few minuets to carve the rings, but many more to engrave them with fine patterns of ivy and berries. When he is complete, he presents them to the stag, who tilts his head to allow the priest to slide them onto his antlers.
"There once was a troll.
Named Hrol.
And Hrol, the Troll,
with his smell and visage pale,
thought that he was a man."
The other faeries, and a few plants, listen in rapt attention to Ragnar’s tale, laughing heartily at all of his jokes, gasping in dismay when the horse is injured, but applauding the tale when it is done.
And while Signe sings, although one dryad pokes her branch-fingers into her leafy ears, everyone else hums along, encouraging the ranger in her effort.
When the entertainment is done, you begins to get drowsy, lulled into sleepiness by the mead, company, and late hour. Soon, you find yourselves drifting off.
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You awaken, once again licked in the face by Bogi, who barks and wags her tail as though this were entirely normal. The faerie court is gone, but a clear path leads out of the clearing and in the general direction of the Tor.
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Puzzling at the strangeness of the encounter, Þyrnir only has eyes for the new path that has opened for them, He suspects that they have the fey to thank for that, and wonders how it was that they knew what their need was. He might think it all a dream, if not for the fresh calluses on his fingers that could only have come from carving. He shakes his head in wonderment, then starts getting ready to set out. Hopefully they will make good time.
Signe is surprisingly refreshed as she rouses. She looks at the sky and can tell that it isn't as late as she feels it should have been based on the length of the feast. The Forest of Woe was a curious place indeed.
She's grateful that the path is clear leading towards the Torr. Not long after they travel along the path, Signe sees signs of human footprints. She points them out to the others, "There are other humans about. I doubt they belong to whom we're after so maybe, this deep into the wilderness, they belong to Styr the Ugly."
Otryggr is refreshed in body but still mystified in spirit - did that feast truly happen, and did he laugh and roar as he wrestled with a satyr before the lords and ladies of the fey?
Bemused, he rides at the back as usual, only for Signe's words to rouse him from his thoughts.
"Over there," he says, pointing down the bank toward a secluded spot under the canopy of an old oak tree. "See that ring of stones? A temporary campfire. We must close to their camp."
For a moment he clearly wrestles with his desire to turn off the path and pursue these bandits, but then he scowls. "They can wait. The girls cannot."
Ragnar sleeps, dreaming of fae and satyrs, and not at the least, a very amusing troll. Upon waking, he looks up at the skies, as if surprised by the lack of light, before nodding down with agreement. "Indeed, fickle is fortune.", he comments to nobody in particular, reaching over to scratch Bogi behind her ears. As he rises, he curls himself in his cloak as he sees the others already tracking a path. The hunt is a thing I could never bind to my will., he shakes his head. "Otryggr speaks wisdom.", he nods at the burly Vastaviklander with a nod. "If light worries you, Wotan has lent to me the power to spread it to the darkest of places, so let us hurry to the Tor.", he taps his spear on the ground as he hurries to find his surprisingly unruly horse.
I seem to be alone in this, but it is my opinion that we should at least identify those in the camp. First, there is a chance the girls are here. Second, if it is Styr the Ugly, then we ought to know for sure before moving on.
Ragnar and Otryggr state their case that, given the information you have, it is more likely the kidnappers have gone on to the Tor. They speak as feeders of ravens, and their words carry mind’s worth, and so you decide to take the risk that the girls are not in the Forest, and continue on southwest, toward the river, leaving the humans who dwell here to their own machinations.
You lead your horses along the path. Before long, a stream engorged with spring rain blocks your path. Just beyond is the tree line and the Barrow Lands beyond, the path that, you hope, leads to the jarl’s daughters. To pass out of the forest, you must cross this stream. Normally fordable, it is currently swollen due to recent spring rains. The stream is cold and has overrun its banks, creating a raging torrent of brown water 60 feet wide and 8 feet deep at its center, with shallower water extending 10 feet from the edges.
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Jaw set, knuckles white, Otryggr urges Braka down to the foaming water's edge. The horse shies away, neighing fretfully, but the Vastaviklander curses and pulls its head back around, digging his heels into its flanks.
With a panicked surge Braka lunges into the water which immediately swirls and boils around his legs, then forges forth, Otrygrr urging it on. Deeper and deep, the water lapping up Otryggr's shins, then splashing over his knees, then finally the horse's hooves leave the mud altogether and it swims forth into the current.
Otryggr holds on for deal life, hunched over the saddle, staring intently at the far bank as if focus might bring it closer. Braka strains and fights the swirling waters, head raised, eyes rolling, nostrils flared, and several times tries to turn back only to be met with Otryggr's stern cry of warning and a yank on the reins.
At the center of the river they almost flounder, and Otryggr goes to release the reigns to grab hold of his ax - only to force himself to hold on, to defy his fears and kick his heels into Braka's flanks once more.
With supreme effort the horse swims forward, and finally finds the riverbed beneath its heels once more. Snorting and fighting it climbs free of the water, laboring for breath, and Otryggr nearly sags from his saddle in relief. Instead, he turns to regard the others, and this time he does draw his ax, lifting it high in a sign of victory and encouragement.
"Come on!" His laughter is wild, dangerous almost. "It's but a trickle! Nothing to be afraid of!"
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Ramundr is very proud of his new chain mail, but he's found that riding a horse in it to be a frustrating experience...he couldn't always shift his weight as he had back at the farm's work horse. His toppling near the ditch the day before was still fresh in his mind. That said, he was not about to start walking, especially as Otryggr had passed so easily. He had carefully noted the path the large man had took, the tricky parts where the stones could shift the horses hooves, or where the water flowed especially quick. Ramundr goes forward, and was pleasantly surprised when he arrived on the other side quite dry. He grins at Otryggr, slaps him on the back. My thanks for going first.
He then scans the terrain on this side for any possible threats. As he does, he hears a large splash behind him as Ragnar takes a dip.
Ragnar slaps Flona on her flank as he sets in the river after Otryggr. The sprightly mare, however, seems to have a mind of its own, and Ragnar's curses sound louder than the rustling of the creek. Stopping short of actually hitting the animal, the skald grumbles, trying to stay on the saddle. "Bah!", he rumbles as the horse steps left and right, trying to remain upright with no regard as to her rider. "Stay still, child of Hela!", he continues his rant, before tumbling into the water. Amidst the thrashing of hooves and the water, Ragnar's promise to turn the horse into stew rings loudly.
Here we go, old boy." the dark-skinned thrall mutters as he urges Hross into the icy waters. The horse shies away at first, but Þyrnir keeps steady pressure with his knees and soon the horse is swimming in the middle of the stream.
*splash*
"Master Ragnar! Here, grab my hand!"
Þyrnir extends a hand to the man floundering into the turbulent waters to help him reach the shore. At the very least, Ramund could grab Hross's tail and be towed to the shore.
Signe is no stranger to water and it seems like her horse isn't either. She has to put in the effort to encourage her mount into the water but thanks to Otryggr's example, Skip is eager to follow the others - maybe too eager. Skip wasn't taking its time to properly place its hooves making for a rough and tipsy ride.
The swift current seizes Ragnar and pulls him under, certain to drag him downriver and perhaps thrash him against an outcropping of jagged stone. But Þyrnir's eyes are sharp, and his hand quick, and he is able to seize Ragnar's arm and, with Hross's help, tow the skald ashore. Now sodden and shivering, the party stands on the far side of the river, watching as the pugnacious Flona drags herself onto the muddied, pebbled bank.
And ahead, sprawling before you as far as the eye can see, the Barrow Lands. Built by the long-dead Andøvan tribes, the ancient barrows cover the highest points in the Moors. Some of the mounds are only waist high, others are as tall as a man, but all have a sinister air about them. Corroded weapons protrude awkwardly from the sides and tops of some of them, and a few have stone doorways marking their ancient entrances. Of these, a handful have no stone slabs blocking them, leaving them gaping open and revealing only darkness beyond.
In the far distance, thunderclouds gather and roil as a huge storm builds in intensity before unleashing its raging power upon the lands below. Unfortunately, this storm stays in one spot rather than moving with the southern winds, concentrating all of its fury in one location. In the continual flashes of lightning that lance down to the ground below, you can see beneath this gathering gloom a single tall hill some miles distant. Multiple lightning strikes impale its peak, and from the crown of this hill can be seen a pale, muted glow.
Dark magic is at work upon the Tor.
The horses balk and refuse to budge any further.
Grabbing onto Þyrnir's hand, Ragnar helps pull himself out of the water. "Praises on you. I won't forget this.", he says as he's heaved to dry land, before grasping the man's hand into his own, staring into his eyes. Indebted to a thrall. Most curious a circumstance, but dues are due when they're due..., thinks Ragnar for a second, before seeing Flona crawl out of the river. "Bah! And the mulechild survives!", he spits in anger for a moment, before grabbing the horse's reigns. "Maybe your temperament would besuit a rider with the patience to reign it in. Not me.", he harumphs, before climbing on the horse. "Believe me, if the Olafsdottirs weren't in danger, I wouldn't even look at you.", he continues his tirade to the horse for a brief while, as he settles to dry himself.
As the stubborn horse refuses to continue alongside the others, Ragnar doesn't waste time climbing down and tying the horse at the first opportunity. As he gazes onto the remnant of the Andøvans, his eyes glance for a moment onto a nearby barrow, the slabs of which lay shattered, his gaze staring straight to the darkness of his past. "Wotan took much and gave much when he sent me to the Moors last time...", he says audibly, but the feeling that the words are mostly meant to himself hangs in the air. Perhaps preparing me for this return? Grasping his spear, a small crackle of lightning travels down its shaft from his whitening knuckles as he points it towards the hill.
"No matter our wyrd, it lays there. Fear not the dark wytchcrafts, for Wotan's rage protects. Fear not their swords, for Wotan's rage strikes true.", he speaks, slamming the spear's hilt in the ground. With steady step, his steps carry forwards with resolve. Wotan's usurper? Could they be stealing the lightning from the god of lightning himself?, a horrid thought appears in his head as he marches towards the storm.
Thunders rolls as though in response to Ragnar's words, and the horses shy back, pulling at their tethers.
This portion of the Barrow Lands stretches north and east of the Tor, forming a miles-long expanse of low earthen mounds. The reputation of the Barrow Lands is that of a haunted place of certain doom; it is a reputation richly deserved. Hundreds of barrows are in this field, most averaging about four feet high, though a few are much larger. A few of the larger mounds have stone posts and lintels framing an entrance, and most entrances are closed off with a large stone slab. Some of these stand open, however, granting access inside to the foolish or allowing things to come out into the world of the living. Many of the mounds have corroded bronze weapons of ancient design--short swords and spears for the most part--sticking out of their upper surfaces like a macabre garden. No plants grow here, nor do even insects buzz about.
Mere moments after Ragnar enters the field, the hollow notes of a horn sound from one of the open barrows. The ancient earth cracks and shifts as something from beneath forces its way out.
A long-dead Andøvan warrior emerges from the darkness.
The faint moonlight reflects from his bronze armor and the finely crafted, though somewhat corroded, sword he bears. Behind him comes his entourage, four dead warriors armed with swords of green-tinged bronze. They advance upon you, but only the armored warrior steps forth, gesturing with his blade.
Ramundr stands dumbfounded staring at the dead warriors standing before him. He had heard stories of course, but had largely discounted them as fanciful embellishments. Not that he disbelieved they existed, just that he doubted he'd ever behold one.
There is no reasoning with the horses, Þyrnir knows this. Some people praise them for noble animals, but the thrall knows them to be selfish and vicious at times. They would not understand, or care about, the plight of the Olafsdottirs. So he follows Ragnar's example, tying Hross to a sturdy tree on the river bank.
The apparition of the dead warriors strikes terror into his heart. This was why he wanted to avoid the Barrow Lands! The fell lightning on top of the Tor does nothing to quell his fear, and for a long moment he is torn between fear for the girls and fear for himself and his companions. What do the dead want, he wonders.
Ragnar stares at the Andøvan with frowned brow, trying his best to recall any lessons about the long-lost tribes. He settles for hailing the long-dead warrior back in the Northmen custom, then tapping his spear on the ground. "Hagalaz, hail, you who walks again.", he says in a loud voice, as he stops and takes a step back for the others to catch up. "Why are they not attacking yet?", he asks with a raised eyebrow.
These men of old, they shiver not, and feel neither winter's bite, nor Loptr's blade. A strong club or hammer is best to break the bones that walk unbidden.
Perhaps Otryggr would like to wrestle him. Ramundr quips.
"If a fight it is what they desire, cutting blades and piercing arrows will not serve us well. Best to use weapons that crush and smash." Þyrnir regards the dead warrior with barely restrained terror, his voice quivering with tension. He is anxious to move on, but these... these creatures are barring their way. Not a cowardly man, nevertheless he finds himself very reluctant to engage the dead warrior in combat.
"The warrior is demanding a challenger come forth for single combat. I guess that could be Otryggr. Or did someone else want to volunteer?"
If we must, then I volunteer. But must we? Ramundr eyes the dead thing, which seem either as patient as death, or was a good gambler in life.
The warrior's feet remain firmly planted where they are. He knocks the broad side of his longsword against his breastplate with a clang, causing dirt to fall from his bones in myriad places. Clearly, he is waiting for...something.
Is it evil? Ramundr asks pointedly of the warpriest, Þyrnir
What is evil..., Ragnar finds himself asking the question all of a sudden. Evil is that which seeks to cause us harm with no regard for our honour or our betterment. Unlike a hard lesson or a unrelenting winter..., he considers. "If it were truly evil, it would've pounced on us like a wolf on an unattentive flock. I believe it is merely of a different time.", he concludes vocally on his thoughts, before tapping on the ground, impatiently. "Decide, then. The Andøvan have until the world itself is consumed. Neither the Olafsdottirs, nor we, have this cursed blessing.", he breathes out.
Ramundr steps forward, hefts his shield, and his spear, and nods to the skeletal being.
While the retinue of skeletons remain still in the background, their leader watches with cold, empty eye sockets as the brave Northman steps forth. It draws its own shield, a heavy steel affair, on its left arm. With a slow, creaking nod of its skull, it signals its acceptance, and the beginning of the challenge. The storm on the Tor intensifies, and a cold wind begins to blow.