Rikka
There's a listening, respectful silence among the little knot of women for Rikka's song-- one or two of the women even hum along, apparently they know this one, or at least, something close enough the melody of it.
When she finishes, one of the women stirs a bit. "Aye, staying up til dawn is for the young-- although you look young. Forgive my manners. Has any yet offered you room for the night? If not, then I will offer my hearth to you as is fitting to visitors... and besides, my daughter loved your marking," she finishes wryly.
Though this woman doesn't have the beauty of her daughter, the bright blue eyes do speak a certain resemblance to Signy and Hilde both.
"As the lay goes, I'm a child of the waters and the wild..." she adds lightly, "...so I planned to pitch a tent on the village green. And Lazy Sausage is a surprisingly warm bedmate who snores less than most men." Rikka gives the woman a wan smile. "But I would be grateful for a place by your hearth, if it's no inconvenience... and if you dream of an image you'd like inked on your skin this night, I'll do that on the morrow. My needle has never touched three generations of one family in two days." Not forgetting her manners, she adds. "I'm Rikka and I thank you for your hospitality."
Rikka waits on her hostess' pleasure for when they leave.
Thrymr lets the cold of the night soak into his furs and reach his flesh, content that hund and dweorg both would be amused for a small passage. At the drunken stumble of the elfin and his fling he sneers and spits - not giving structure to either word or thought, and yet still expressing disapproval. Eventually though, he stretches his neck and heads back within - first angling for the food tables to garner a armful of bread rolls and a sizeable hunk of cheese.
Knute notices a dark look pass over Lydd's face, but it is gone so quickly he questions whether he imagined it. What did I say wrong...?
"Elves bored? Ha," Knute laughs. "How can that be? Every Jól you bring mystical items, and seem the most strange and wonderful people to exist. It's never a dull moment with you all here!"
Knute gives the rest of Lydd's response some serious thought. "True words indeed. The only people without passion are the dead. Even the ice trolls and giants have passion: killing." Knute's mouth curls in disgust at the last bit, but a long sip of the wine soon puts him at ease, smiling happily. "What of you then, Lydd? Is hunting your passion? Or do you chase something else?" Knute hopes asking about Lydd, and avoiding more prying at the elves in general, will not offend.
Rikka
"Tsk, too cold for that," the woman says with a little shake of her head to Rikka's idea of sleeping in the square. "I am Björg Alfsdottir, and no visitor will sleep in the snow when my home is near. You are welcome, though I will not, I think, take one of your markings," the woman says with a half-smile.
For the next half-hour, Rikka and her hostess chat amiably as the feast continues around them. Ultimately, though, Björg gathers up her knitting, and a tow-headed boy of about ten who has fallen asleep in the corner, and prods his sleepy self towards the door, gesturing to Rikka to follow.
"There is room for your pig," says Björg, and they wait for her to collect Lazy Sausage before they set off in the silent, cold streets.
The stars are bright as ice motes overhead, and the muted noise of the surf on Hofn's beach can be heard as they trudge through the streets together. The moonlight glitters off the bay, and off the frozen waterfall as well; it's an eerily beautiful sight, and the three of them the only ones to see it, right now.
The walk is short, but long enough for the winter air to be felt again, to chill one's nose and mouth. Björg leads to a larger-than-average home. Inside, she stokes the banked fire until the coals flare up again. Like all but the fanciest of Ulfen homes, everything the family uses is together under one roof: at one end of the longhouse is a pen holding chickens and a sleeping cow; a long bench runs the length of one of the walls, serving as sitting space and sleeping too in a pinch; the fire boasts a central space, and at the far end from the animals are little alcoves to hold various goods, and sleeping cubbies. Björg bids Rikka make herself comfortable for the night, and leaves a stub of candle near her should she need it. Lazy Sausage is made at home in the stall with the cow, and snuffles happily into the straw.
A warm hearth, shelter from the wind, a belly full of food and a profit made for the day... what more can you want?
Thrymr
Though the tables are starting to show the effects of having been picked over all day for choice goodies, Thrymr is still able to find a goodly number of rolls, and fine creamy cheese. A glance over at Gifr reveals the hound and the dwarf are rolling on the straw of the floor like pups, mock-fighting, the dwarf laughing to himself at the game.
Perhaps a bit more meat for Gifr? As Thrymr debates, he becomes aware of a presence at his elbow-- it is one of the elves, tall enough to look any in the village in the eye, though lean as a birch tree-- and pale as one too. Where his kin are all colors of a rain's bow, he is an ashen gray from his skin to his hair.
The leader of the elves, Rys by name, gives Thrymr a long look as he reaches past him for the cheese on the table.
"Try the wines," he suggests in a voice dry as chaff. "The dökkálfar are not the only masters of drink."
Knute
Lydd only smiles at Knute's compliments. "Everything is exciting when you only see it once a year," she counters. Her fingers rest on Knute's even when the cup is lowered, absently tracing over the calluses and little scars of his own hands as if they were somehow fascinating.
She flicks her golden hair behind her, laughing again at the question. "Yes, the hunt! Someday I will have the skin of every creature that walks the north, or flies it, or swims it, to hang on my wall. Perhaps even the old ice-wyrm himself. Do you think I could do it?" she challenges.
"But tonight I am hunting different prey," she adds on, eyes returning to Knute's again, questioning, watching his reactions. "Is he caught, do you think? Shall I spring my trap...? It will be a fine and sweet catching..."
A rumbling chuckle rolls through Thrymr at the sight of the young dweorg and hund at play... the Ulfen keeping eyes on Gifr for a few moments to make sure there is nothing in the dog's demeanor that would suggest he might lash out by mistake. His hund companion was hardly a Southern lap dog after all.
Rounding to face the älva, Thrymr needs to angle slightly upward to lock eyes - though he easily swamps the elf for girth. Taking measure of the man and his words Thrymr raises his eyebrow and speaks with cascading bass that shows a little of the growing warmness to his senses "Why? - the dweorg sits in the dirt with me, raises horn and empties it with me... even scratches my hund." turning and beginning to walk back to his place at the wall, calling over his shoulder "Come älva, join me in the dirt... then maybe Thrymr will try your sött vatten"
Thrymr angles for his spot, turning back to the wall and crashing against it before sliding unto his arse with a thump. He picks out Rys within the throng... marking whether the elf follows or ignores him to move on.
Rikka enjoys the quiet of the house after the clamor of the evening and settles down happily by the fire on her travel bedding, leaning her spear against the hearth. She takes a leather thong and lashes her barely controlled hair into a pony-tail as she speaks. "If I can't tempt you with a mark, Björg Alfsdottir, then I'll consider your kindness a debt I've yet to pay - Jól or no. And my skills go a bit beyond inks and needles." She gives Björg a smile then burrows into her blankets, already half asleep.
The laughter around the table hasn’t yet stopped when Eysteinn drinks up, hoping to be able to think of a good comeback. He puts down the cup and people are still chuckling “Aye, aahhh…” nothing comes to mind, it’s clear that the elf beat him “Bah, what the Nine Hellsh! You drink… you drink like a pup but you have… your tongue is ever sho sarp… sho sharp! You win!” he finishes the last cup still in the bottle, prentends to bow to the elf, and falls to the ground drunk in the attempt.
Thrymr
The elf does not follow Thrymr, nor sit with him. Though when he glances back, it is to see Rys staring his direction still. After a long moment of their eyes meeting over the crowded hall, the tall elf turns on his heel and returns to his chair by Hrolf's side.
Shale sits up and leaves off with the energetic play, going for a more restrained head-skritching, at Thrymr's return. "Your hound has a good heart, a strong one."
Eysteinn
Well and bested, the sting of defeat is cushioned for Eysteinn by the many flagons of elven wine he has drunk. As the saying is, he is feeling no pain...
He's not the only on to wind up on a bench or a floor in the room. As the carousing gets ever more inebriated, the wiser leave off and stagger to their homes for the night. In ones and twos people start filtering out of the hall, but a score still remain, drinking, swearing brotherhood undying, and all the other things one might regret tomorrow morning.
Hope you've got a good hangover cure brewed, Eysteinn, you'll need it come dawn.
Eysteinn sleeps, snoring off the deep sea of wine. And he dreams.
"Are you practicing?" the old man/woman says sharply, voice as critical as ever. "Have you forgotten all I taught you? You have lost enough for the knowledge already, but you think you can have it both ways-- that you can be your father's son again, and walk with head held high, and come back to taking lessons from me. Ha!"
Grinmer's laugh is harsh as a crow's. "There is always a price. I had to give up my name and life: why should you be luckier? But I'll teach you... I'll teach you..."
Grinmer stands up, straight-- straighter than you ever seen the old seiðmann stand, bent and hobbled as he is. And the eyes that look at you from under the curtain of hair are no longer milky with cataracts, but a deep and vivid green.
"I'll teach you," says a voice, and the voice too has changed: a woman's in truth, musical and calm. "If you want it. I could give you a new name, as well: one that fits you. You are wasted where you are, surrounded by fools with small fears. Come to me, and learn."
Come to me, and learn... whispers through your dreams, all through the night.
The house is soon quiet save for the noises of the animals grunting and wheezing. Occasionally the door opens with another member of the family coming home, but they simply stumble for their sleeping furs, and the door letting in the cold air is quickly shut, each time. With the thickly-insulated walls and the heat of the fire and the bodies, the longhouse is warm, and sleep comes easy.
Rikka dreams.
Birds sing, ants crawl, and squirrels chase each other among the branches. Around her the very air seems charged with life. She imagines she can feel the pulsing sap of the tree beneath her hands, like a great and steady hearbeat. Golden sunlight filters through the leaves and paints everything in a green-hued light.
Abruptly, the birds go still, then take wing with little shrilling cries. The squirrels chatter nervously and run along the tree-limbs seeking shelter. Down, down, down below, Rikka can see something approaching: something sinuous, winding its way along the ground in flickers of blue and white.
She launches herself into space, and as she falls, she feels her clothing and her skin sloughing away like ash. When she emerges through the leaf curtain, she falls as a creature of golden scales, terrible and bright. In this body she screams a challenge to the creature that is coming towards the tree...
The fall seems to last forever.
With a grunted dismissal, Thrymr lets the elf pass from his mind and instead focuses upon Shale once more. Nodding at his words "Good heart... bad breath... more ale..." seeing horns filled and emptied once more...
Halla
The indigo-skinned woman smiles and spreads her graceful, long-fingered hands. "Nothing you could not spare. The memory of the first time you saw a flower, perhaps... or the memory of your first kiss?"
A low chuckle. "Have you been kissed, child?"
Unbidden, the memory arises of a muddy spring day in the fields, a tow-headed thrall boy complimenting and cajoling her, then an outbreak of laughter and catcalls from behind a hummock and her suitor running off to demand his promised rewards for going through with the dare.
She can have that, and good riddance, Halla thinks, but Maeve is alarmed: I'll not have a stranger rummaging around in here! Would you trust her go through your belongings?
"How do I give you a memory?" Halla asks slowly.
"Everything is exciting when you only see it once a year."
Knute inclines his head at Lydd's comment, admitting she has the truth of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Lydd's hands trace his. Her hands are soft, Knute clumsily thinks. The potent wines and ales he's been drinking are starting to have their inevitable effect, as Knute feels a pleasant warmth radiating through his body, both from the alcohol and the company.
"Yes, the hunt! Someday I will have the skin of every creature that walks the north, or flies it, or swims it, to hang on my wall. Perhaps even the old ice-wyrm himself. Do you think I could do it?" she challenges.
"Ah, that sounds like an excellent goal," Knute rumbles. He catches the odd, wild tone in her voice, but doesn't pay it much mind. And the dream sounds so close to his own, he can't really judge her that harshly. The Ulfen's eyes seem to glaze over as he looks into the distance. "Imagine the places you'd go, the things you'd see, the beasts you'd face..." He sighs, looking wistful. And here I am, not sure if I'll ever leave the woods outside this village. Then he smiles. "Oh, I have no doubt you can do it. From the furs you wear, some of them pelts I've never seen before, I'd think you're already halfway there. As for a Linnorm, well, I'd be a fool to doubt what any elf, let alone a fine huntress, puts her mind to."
Knute's eyes widen slightly under Lydd's intense gaze. Then he grins. "With your skills, Lydd? I'm sure whatever prey you seek has been caught. All that's left is to take the catch home."
Thrymr
Several drinks later, Thrymr has led Shale into more singing, and is, in fact, being taught a dwarven drinking song. This is complicated by the fact that Shale's command of the Skald language is becoming much less coherent, but... they're managing.
Shale has dwarven constitution on his side, but he's also young and he is eventually struggling to remain conscious before Thrymr is.
Sven Aurigr takes that moment to come by. The richest man in Hofn has unusually dark hair (they say his mother was from somewhere else), flecked with gray at the temples, and keen gray eyes little dimmed by how much he has had to drink tonight. He gives Thrymr a small nod of acknowledgment.
"When you've had enough... sleep in the storehouse here in the village walls tonight," he says to Thrymr, and lest Thrymr mistake that for concern over Thrymr having to make the long trudge, in the snow, out to the actual Aurigr farmstead, Sven adds on, "I have sealed several trades with the dwarves and in the morning we'll need to unload their wagons to my storehouse."
With his instructions given, Aurigr heads back into the press of people, no doubt planning to make a few more lucrative bargains before the night ends...
Later on, Thrymr makes it to Aurigr's storehouse within the village walls, where he keeps trade goods stored ready for loading to his ships, or unloads them as well. The fire is banked low, but still gives enough warmth to let one curl on the seats with furs (or a warm dog). A few of Sven's other thralls are already here, snoring away.
In time, Thrymr sleeps. And Thrymr dreams.
"From earth you were made. To earth you shall return," says the bjorn, though the bloody muzzle never moves. "All things are born, live, and die in their season, as steady as the cycle of crops. The earth has claim on you. What will you sow? What will live after you? What will grow from your corpse, son of nothingness?"
You are standing, you realize, in the rye field that you were plowing, but the rye has sprouted now-- is growing-- inches in the span of seconds, until it's at your waist, then your shoulders-- and now you cannot see the bjorn, can see nothing at all but waving leaves and tasseled stalks, green-gold. A wall of them, each way you turn, the rye gone wild and having abandoned the lines it was sown in...
You press through the rye for hours, but do not find an end to it.
Halla
The woman smiles, a broad and pleased smile at Halla's apparent consideration of this bargain.
"You simply agree to my terms," she says, "and I will touch you-- on the hand, if you like-- and take the memory from your knowledge. You will forget it, and I will have it. It does not hurt."
The woman lifts a hand to her black-as-midnight hair, tucking an errant strand back with a graceful gesture. Her whiteless eyes remain fixed on Halla.
"So," she says. "I will discover for you the reason for Rys's displeasure, and tell you, in exchange for a memory-- a kiss, or a flower... is this agreeable to you?"
Knute
Lydd grins, flashing those very white (and maybe a bit sharp) teeth briefly. She sets the wine-bowl to one side, takes Knute's hands in hers, and says, "Come with me."
She leads him out of the noisy, crowded hall and into the night air-- the silence and cold hit almost like a slap to the face, so sharp is the contrast. Knute's breath steams in the air, as does Lydd's.
The stars overhead are brilliantly keen, swimming in Knute's somewhat-intoxicated vision. He stumbles after Lydd as she leads him along the paths of the village (she doesn't seem to be anywhere near as inebriated). The chill of the night air quickly cuts through the relatively lighter clothing Knute was wearing for the festivities-- the day started out sunny, after all.
The cold no longer seems to matter. It could be a spring day, or ten hours ago on this day. Even the wind that whips chilly off the bay feels only like a mild and temperate breeze to Knute.
"That is better," Lydd says with some satisfaction. "I do not like walls around me and roofs over me, do you? Now catch me if you can!"
And before Knute has time to blink, she is running: off through the village, her long and lithe body caught by moonlight in flashes of silver and gold. Lydd takes the trail that leads up the hill to the pond-- she ignores some of the trail's switchbacks, cutting right up with climbing and leaping. Knute runs after her, but her height and reach and grace mean that she has reached the top long before him.
He arrives at the top (somewhat out of breath) to see... she is nowhere in evidence. The frozen pond where some people had skated the ice, earlier today, is here: bright white under the moon. One of the watchtowers is a far stone's throw away from Knute, the red-orange glow of fire a homely sight in the otherwise stark-white landscape. The lights of the village twinkle several hundred feet below.
Where is she--?
Here-- sneaking behind him with a laugh, a caress, fingers trailing along his cheek in play. Knute grabs at her, and Lydd darts out of the way only to press herself to him a moment later, the games gone in favor of a kiss, then another, urgent and eager.
Behind one of the little hummocks that surround the frozen pond, Lydd spreads her thick fur cloak on the snow. The bright watching eyes of the stars above are the only ones to see what happens next, but Knute will have mementos of his own for the evening, little souvenirs from Lydd's mouth and fingernails.
Knute sleeps... eventually. He still feels no cold at all, despite his knowledge that it must be well below freezing around him. Lydd's body is warm next to his, her fingers resting on his chest, and her eyes are closed.
Knute dreams, but we will leave the nature of those dreams up to the reader's imagination.
"The kiss," she clarifies, slowly extending her hand. "You'll take no more than that?"
You goose! Maeve seethes. And what if she takes your memory of the agreement itself and doesn't keep her promise?
Then you'll remember, Halla reasons placidly, and tell me.
Halla
Another flash of a white smile, and the woman inclines her head. "My word on it."
Her indigo-tinged hand settles on top of Halla's: her touch is cool, her fingers smooth and soft like the hands of a jarl's wife that need not labor.
For one moment, Halla feels a sense of disorientation, like she is standing at the edge of a yawning chasm. Vertigo washes over her. She is aware of her mind as a lattice of bright threads, warp and weft (is one set of threads Maeve, and the other herself?) mingling together to form a complete pattern. Then she is aware of a presence, an intruder darting in among the loom of her self, like a minnow in the water.
The little purple presence finds one of the thousand threads, bumps against it, and it flares brightly a moment before unraveling and drifting away. There is a gap of one miniscule thread in the tapestry now.
The vertigo vanishes and Halla is sitting in the hall, catching her breath. The elf-woman's eyes are closed, her face drawn. After a second she flinches, then relaxes, her eyes opening again.
"Ahh. That one stung," she murmurs languidly. "You are a clever little one, to give away thorns with your roses."
The dark hand withdraws, and the elf-woman smiles as she gets to her feet. "Now I will go find out your answer."
There is a curious sense of absence in Halla's mind, not unlike the feeling that follows the loss of a tooth, the desire to probe at the gap with your tongue.
The elf-woman moves away, towards Rys.
Misty eyed but still somewhat cognizant Thrymr manages a nod of affirmation to Sven. Debauchery played out entire, he stumbles his way to storehouse - making it just inside the walls before figuring that it's easier to merely faceplant into the dirt than curl his barrel-like form unto a bench. Sleep comes quickly, and Gifr sets on his haunches just within the door.
What does she mean, thorns? Halla wonders, a little disoriented.
Halla
The indigo-and-violet woman makes her way to Rys, matter-of-factly moving past the line of Hrolf's gift-receivers and bending to speak in the pale elf's ear. His brow furrows slightly at the words, and then he glances across the distance between them to look again at Halla. For a few moments, he and the woman seem to have a brief argument, but eventually the woman straightens back up with a small smile and Rys returns to being honored guest.
The elf-woman makes a graceful way back through the crowd to where Halla is sitting.
"Cai-- the one of my people you spoke of-- made a seeming, a trick for the audience," she says when she is within quiet speaking range again. "But he made a seeming of a creature that we do not deem lucky or wise to call up, even as a trick: the wyrm. Rys took it as a poor omen, and foolishness on Cai's part."
The woman shrugs slightly and spreads her hands. "Nothing to do with you after all, child," she says with her eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "Was it worth trading away a bit of your self, to know?"
What does she mean, thorns? Halla wonders, a little disoriented.
I don't know, Maeve responds snippily. You're the one who let her consume your memory.
Don't you remember? Halla challenges. You were there.
It was your memory, not mine. While it was here, I could see it, but now it's gone. Awkward for you if you should meet the one who kissed you and not remember. She's coming back! Quick, try to see her arm again: the patch of skin, you remember?
Why?
Just look, and see if it's the same!
"Cai-- the one of my people you spoke of-- made a seeming, a trick for the audience," she says when she is within quiet speaking range again. "But he made a seeming of a creature that we do not deem lucky or wise to call up, even as a trick: the wyrm. Rys took it as a poor omen, and foolishness on Cai's part."
The woman shrugs slightly and spreads her hands. "Nothing to do with you after all, child," she says with her eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. "Was it worth trading away a bit of your self, to know?"
"It was to do with me," Halla replies, feeling a little defiant toward the dismissive elf. "I challenged him to make the seeming of the linnorm." She remembers that clearly enough, which is a relief. "I didn't know your people would consider it an ill omen. If you see him, apologize for me; I am sorry I brought your goði's disapproval on his head."
Before going back to her mat at Old Palli's, Halla will be sure that Five Solomon has received someone's hospitality for the night, hoping to see him again in the morning.
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Halla
Halla looks sharply for the woman's arm, but the sleeve has concealed it once more...
The elf smiles wordlessly at Halla's prickly argument, then inclines her head to one side in acknowledgement, if not agreement, to the request.
Halla can be comforted at least by the knowledge that Five Solomon seems to spending the night in Hrolf's own home. The goði has taken responsibility for this guest... and she knows he is unlikely to be able to leave the village once the weather starts again, so probably she will be able to see him again.
In Palli and Hilde's longhouse, her head busy with the eventful day, Halla curls up in her corner, furs tugged over her.
Ultimately she manages to sleep. And dream.
The first card depicts a bound man hanging over a cauldron of bubbling wax.
The second card depicts a colorful dancing twirling a Varisian scarf.
The third card shows a woman lifting a newborn babe into the air.
The fourth card shows a destructive storm tearing across the land.
The fifth card shows a hideous crone with clawed hands and an eyeball in her fanged mouth.
The sixth card shows a smith hammering away at his anvil.
Finally, the last card shows a slave standing before a blue sky, hands lifted and shackles breaking.
The elf sighs heavily. "You have shown me all of these before," he says, and the dream dissolves away into the pressing darkness of the cave, broken only by many roots that penetrate the soil and entwine Halla in place.
It is snowing. In the great hall of Hrolf Half-Hand, those with truly heroic constitutions keep drinking into the night, and the fires are fed with logs, but the vast majority of those within Hofn's walls are sleeping, back in their own homes if their homes were close, and often in the home of a cousin or friend if the walk out to outlying farmsteads is too far.
The air is cold and silent. The moon is full and bright. The black water in the harbor whispers softly against the gravel beach.
And in the woods things are stirring.
Quiet shapes creep through the forest and the gently-falling snow. A cloud of blackness drifts over the snow like insiduous and oddly-deliberate smoke.
One of the few guards left to a miserable watch yawns, and blinks out over the unchanging landscape that she has watched for over an hour now. She sees the forest, the snow. She does not see the shapes that climb, utterly silent and agile, up the cliff towards her lonely watch.
A knife in the dark. A bestial growl the last thing that Mara hears.
***
You wake to the sounds of screaming and the clash of steel. For a moment it seems like naught but more of your strangely vivid dream, but as seconds pass it becomes horribly clear that you are awake. You stumble upright, shaking away the lingering vestiges of images and dreams, and stare around you...
Your head pounds from all the elven wine.
Your head pounds from Shale's dwarven brew.
Lazy Sausage is squealing frantically and a cow is lowing with animal dread. Olde Hilde stumbles out from the curtain that shields her and Palli's alcove, her gray hair wild and her hunched body clad only in a linen shift. "Orks!" she breathes.
Wordlessly, Lydd points. The landscape is bathed by bright moonlight. You see that at the trailhead leading down into town, there are four figures, perhaps three hundred feet from your current location: they are taller than most men, lanky in the fashion that wolves are lanky, but with strong and powerful upper torso and shoulders. They have powerful-looking longbows, and they are gazing down into the village, occasionally taking a shot with their bows as they see things of interest. It has been years since you last saw one-- a raid on the village when you were twelve-- but you know them: orks.
You are perhaps three hundred feet from the watchtower, where someone should be on guard. You see the fire still burning in the tower's window, but there is no noise or cry of alarm from the watchtower.
The four orks do not seem aware of you or Lydd.
The orks are setting the building on fire. They are upending skins of oil on the wooden beams, then putting torches to the beams.
Lurching from ale addled slumber to wakefulness at Gifr's barking, Thrymr lurches to his feet and grabs his mattock. The world spins and he needs take a moment to quell it by leaning upon the mattock handle. A hand to his head then waist gives him enough information to know that the last of the drink's aftereffects is yet to work through his system, and that while he is not garbed in stiffened hide... he is at least armed with knife and axe.
The smell of smoke gives him cause to bellow before he calls Gifr to him "Följ" and the bearish hund moves from the door to walk beside it's companion.
From there Thrymr moves outwith Sven's stores and his eyes adjust to both the morning light... and the sight of the monstrous creatures defiling the village. His walk turns into a run as he kens the purpose of the orcs that assail the Great Storehouse. Every word he yells sends a pulse of pain and fatigue through him... but the svart ilska of impending battle grows, and salves him against it.
attempting to rouse fast action from the other villagers as well as draw the orcs attention towards himself. For the moment, he carried his mattock one handed to the side and focused upon quick coverance of the ground between him and the stores. His voice kept up the cry, seeking to rouse those that had not yet risen.
Gifr shadowed his companion with drawn lips exposing sharp teeth and a nascent growl in his throat. Though he had speed to outrun Thrymr, he kept steady and even pace with him... head and body low to the earth and poised for the fray.
I'll die before they take me again. She grabs at the handle of a sickle where it was put away for the winter after the first snow and looks for the crossbows with which even the thralls are expected to defend the village in times of danger.
Thrymr - @ the Granary
Despite the pounding of his head and churning in his gut, Thrymr manages to run a more-or-less straight line along the road to the storehouse. Several of the other thralls stumble out into the snow after him. Though the dawn is hours away yet, the bright moon plays over things and lights things clearly.
One of the orks turns at his roaring approach, giving him a contemptuous smirk and snarl before touching his torch to the oiled wood and causing a greedy tongue of fire to lick up the beam.
The orks are lean and rangy, like wolves, but with bulk to their upper torsos and shoulders. Each one is holding a torch in one hand and a heavy and crude, but sharp, curved blade in the other.
The clash of steel cuts her musing short and draws Rikka's mind back to her body with a start. The blonde's grey eyes snap open, completely aware. She rolls quickly to her feet and grabs her spear resting near the hearth. Rikka surveys the house, noting the location of each person and what weapons they bear. She casts a baleful glare at the squealing boar. "Sausage - be quiet!" Strangely, the boar goes silent as if it understood.
Much as she was loathe to reveal her skills, Rikka had no intention of letting herself or her kindly hosts be butchered. With words of power and a swirl of her hand, a shimmering and nearly transparent shield springs up in front of her. She calls out to the men at both doors, "Which door will hold longer? We should strike through the other door first."
1st Spells (5): x
Dancing Light (3):
Spell Effects:
Shield - +4AC - Rnd 1 of 20
Storehouse (Round 1):
Pointing to the orc at the North and East edge of the warehouse Thrymr barks "Dräpa" at Gifr, before taking a long handled grip on his mattock. A single steady breath centers himself, and calls upon the obstinance of an ornery bull. The impending crunch of steel into flesh strains his muscles and puts strength into his ale-försvagat back. There is no form to his charge, no attempt at subtlety... just thick legs pumping through the earth and snow, sending all six feet of Ulfen muscle towards the orc. His mattock is swung into a two handed overhead grip before Thrymr pivots at the close, using every ounce of his weight to bring the mattock down towards the orc's trunk...
Charging Sickened Mattock: for
Gifr springs forward, happily giving away his checked gait for speed and ploughing towards the orc. A slight veer to the right is twisted into a lunge with open jaw and bared teeth, seeking to savage the orc's thigh...
Charging Bite: for
Halla and Rikka - @ Palli's Longhouse
Like half the others in the house, Rikka and Halla roll out of the sleeping furs and to their feet, hunting weapons. Rikka grabs her spear, and Halla snatches up a sickle from the tools/weapons in one of the corners.
The middle-aged man that Rikka remembers as having been bullied into grabbing a stool for for him has thrown his weight against the back door. He looks over to Rikka at her take-charge words.
"This door is the weaker," he says, grunting as a powerful impact hits the door...
...and bowls him backward as the door splinters off its hinges. The man crashes back over the fence of the stable area and in with the cow and Lazy Sausage. Björg curses, and runs that direction with her axe. Old Hilde raises her hands and her face to the ceiling. "Tor! Týr! Hlín! Odyn! Guide your children!"
The ork that so powerfully burst the door in follows in the next second, snarling like a dog as he shoulders inside the house. He meets Björg who had run to that side of the house, and swings at her with his curved blade.
Björg is clad only in a long shirt-- she brings her axe up to try and parry the swing of the cruel blade, but she has no chance. The blade lands like the ork is chopping wood, biting deeply into Björg's shoulder. The woman reels on her feet with a scream that echoes through the confines of the longhouse. Hilde echoes the sound herself. "Björg!"
Björg is still standing, defending her home and family, but the wound looks grievous.
The two men at the other door look anguished, torn between the the desire to run back and come help and their knowledge that letting in the orks on this side will not help anything. They keep their combined weight against their door, which holds solidly.
Thrymyr - @ Storehouse
Thrymr plows forward on the road and stands ready with his mattock; Gifr runs a few more steps, snarling a threat at the orks.
The orc that had sneered turns around. He pushes through the snow to the road, coming towards Gifr first-- but the hund is ready, and snaps savagely at the orc, catching the brute off-guard with a fierce bite to the orc's thigh. In retaliation, the orc swings his sword at the dog.
Gifr's speed serves him well, though-- the hund dodges below the blade, and the wounded ork snarls.
Another of the orks pushes through the deep snow towards Thrymr, his foul breath steaming in the night air. But the snow slows him enough that when he finally pushes up to Thrymr, Thrymr is waiting and ready-- the mattock swings down, faster and harder than the ork could have guessed. In one smooth motion he pulps the ork's skull.
The third ork, a female, looks over at the quick slaughter and hisses. She puts her torch to the building as well, then slogs forward to Gifr.
The fire rages and crackles. It licks over the lintel and doorframe, growing a bit. Icicles hanging from the roof shed a few melting drops.
Thrymr sees the other thralls from Sven's house running his way to help, but they're not they're yet.
Storehouse (Round 2):
Snarling, Gifr waits for the injured orc to shift it's weight, before lunging forward under it's reach and trying to dig teeth into it's gut...
Bite: for
Thrymr sees the other thralls coming and bellows pointing to the burgeoning flames before turning back at the female and lumbering forward screaming "Hakkaa päälle!" and clumsily swinging his mattock in a wide murderous arc...
Charging Sickened Mattock: for
Edited in: Confirm Bite: for extra
Confirm Mattock: for an extra
Rikka curses the ork's strength and quickly steps toward the stable, bringing the ork and doorway into full view. She calls upon ancient bonds with the fey spirits that dwell in deep ice. They answer her call with a thin, slick, sheet of rime spreading across the doorway beneath the ork and extending out the door...
1st Spells (5): x
Dancing Light (3):
Spell Effects:
Bless - +1 ATT; +1 Fear Saves - Rnd 1 of X
Grease - Rnd 1 of 20
Halla moves wherever she must to pick up a crossbow.
.
Orks? Here? Of all nights... Knute thinks. And me with neither sword nor shirt, at that, he adds, looking down. As Knute comes fully to his senses, he takes full stock of the situation. Deciding he doesn't like his and Lydd's odds, relatively unarmed and unarmored, against four orks, he gets Lydd's attention and points in the direction of the watchtower. He mimes walking quietly away from the party of orks.
Maybe we can find some weapons or armor at the watchtower? If not, it's still the best way to get to the village without taking an arrow to the back.
Knute slowly, quietly gathers his belt and other belongings, and stands up. Drawing on years spent hunting in the woods, he begins stealthily making his way towards the watchtower, avoiding any other orks or beasts.
Eysteinn’s sits up after being abruptly awakened. His mouth is a mess of disgusting taste, his head pounds as a wardrum.
Then he hears it “Orks!”
It takes more than a hangover to stop him, after all the liquid foulness Grinmer exposed him to during their lessons. He quickly reconstructs his past few hours Great hall. Feast. Jól-day. Contests. Weapon. New blade! his hand frantically taps around him until it lands on the beautiful sheathe. He stands up and draws in one motion, not even feeling his head turning.
He sees immediately that people are running out of the building. he joins them, and his blood freezes in his veins as he sees the granary at risk of being burned down just as the winter begins to get cruel. “Buckets to the granary! Water and snow, stop the fire!” He then starts running towards the building, longblade in one hand and dagger in the other.
Palli's Longhouse - Halla and Rikka
The ork that had so grievously slashed at Björg slides and slips in the sudden eruption of a buttery lard on the floor and walls. Björg gasps, in startlement and relief both, and lifts her axe in both hands over her head... she brings it down, hard, like splitting a log for wood for the fire.
Hard, but slightly off. The ork manages to catch the blow with his arm rather than his skull-- but it still bleeds.
Arvid struggles to his feet in the wreckage of the cow stall. He grabs a piece of broken slatted wood from his impact, and steps forward with it raised to bring down on the ork as well.
Hilde calls out to Hlin, and raises her withered fingers in the air. She limps forward trying to get to Björg, but age has slowed her.
The other two men keep their shoulders to the main door, even as it shudders with impact.
Halla takes a short step around the corner and snatches one of the hard-used but serviceable crossbows from the wall. She slides her sickle into her belt and locks a stubby crossbow bolt into position.
Despite the weight of the two men thrown against it, a brute of an ork slams his way forward and in, shouting in his gods-cursed tongue at his fellows behind him, who roar in bloodthirsty approval and start piling through the door after him. The humans stagger back from the splintered door, grabbing for their saxes.
At the back door, Björg swings wildly when the ork that sliced her tries to get up-- -- too wildly, for the ork dodges her axe.
...but not Arvid's frantically-swung piece of wood. It cracks into the ork's skull and he slumps to the ground, groaning. The ork beyond, a female, bares yellow, sharpened teeth at Arvid, and tries to plow through the grease to get to him-- running uncaring over her own tribe-mate.
The blade catches him on the thigh, slicing down to the bone. The cow lows in terror.
Thrymr (and soon to be Eysteinn)
For one split second, Tor smiles mightily on Thrymr. No matter the pain in his head or the roiling in his gut, it feels as if the god of war himself had taken control of his limbs and aided his swing-- and Gifr too. In one second, the hund springs up from the ground and goes for the throat, like a wolf, bearing the ork down to the snow and mud with a rending of flesh. In the next second, Thrymr's mattock crashes into an ork's ribcage like Tor's thunderbolt. So powerful is his blow that his mattock-handle cracks with the dealing of it, but the ork crumples without a wet and ragged gurgle, his heavy curved blade dropping to the ground.
Though the flames roar and lick and over the wood, they engulf no new bit of the structure right now. Behind him, Thrymr can see the other thralls running after him. One has grabbed a bucket. Another is detouring to smash the ice on a feeding trough.
Eysteinn - In Transit
As Eysteinn runs, he sees the miller's weedy son run out of another building-- and drop like a sack of grain, as a black-fletched arrow sprouts from his chest. Eysteinn looks left to right, but sees no archers nearby.
He realizes he has immediate problems, though, as two of the orcs look up from a building they are trying to shoulder into, and turn to deal with him.
The orks react incredibly fast... Eysteinn reacts faster. He flicks a knife that tumbles end over end and lands in the nearer ork's gut. The beast yowls like a dog, but is still standing.
The unhurt ork takes advantage of the stretch of road to charge Eysteinn, howling in inhuman glee.
....and somehow still fails to strike, skidding on the muddy and snowy road. The orc with Eysteinn's dagger in his gut lurches forward in the snow, but doesn't manage to swing at him, his wound giving him some trouble.
Knute
Knute looks to see if Lydd is following... and can't see her. No, seriously, where'd she go....? He catches a flicker of a gesture from up ahead, pale-silver skin against white snow, and sees she is gesturing him to follow.
The splintering of the main door earns a hard scowl from the small tattooist. Bad luck all around. She weighs the odds and where her skills will do the most good. The grievous injuries to those nearest, decides her course.
Rikka speaks a strange phrase, attempting to confound the mind of the nimble ork, hoping that the slick surface beneath its feet or her magic will give the family time to finish it off. She pulls up the lowest log of the stable trying to free Sausage.
"Sausage, come! I'll need your tusks for all these orks. Arvid - you have my spear if you need it."
1st Spells (5): x
Dancing Light (3):
Spell Effects:
Bless - +1 ATT; +1 Fear Saves - Rnd 2 of X
Grease - Rnd 2 of 20
Thrymr roars in exhaltation as both orcs drop in unison. His addled brain doesn't register the snapping of his mattock haft and when he attempts to put weight upon it for support it buckles and sends him to his knees in the road. The exertion then catches up with him, and his stomach expresses it's lack of contentment through forcing him to vomit ungainly beside him. Gifr keeps his jaws upon the orc's throat until it stops jerking before releasing it and padding over to Thrymr, blod dripping from it's maw as the hund pants.
Taking a moment's stock, Thrymr registers that Gifr is there - but does not reach to him... the battle still raging and needing to be won. Instead he looks around and uses his ears and sense to take stock...
Fumbling the bolt into place, Halla steps back where she can see both ends of the longhouse and stands ready to shoot the first ork that makes it past the defenders at the doors.