A small, amused laugh, more audible, greets Rikka's last trick-of-the-light, but their unseen prankster doesn't deign to show him-her-or-itself. Rikka thinks her assessment is likely correct-- that the dweomer will not last forever, and that the spirits care little for wealth as men reckon it, but judge each gift by their own calipers.
Stirgen runs a small hand through his hair, only partly mollified by what Rikka has said. "I'm-- I'm very tired," he says, half-explanation. "Can we not rest?" He looks very eager at the thought of making camp.
Tassidar is exchanging discussion with the eik-karl on just that subject, more or less. As the shadows lengthen, little points of light start to be visible, all around you, rising from the grass and from the stream. The Lands of the Linnorm Kings do in fact see fireflies-- in the short, sweet summer months-- and these are like them but unlike, for rather than the uniform green-yellow glow of lightning bugs, here there are blues, reds, golds, and every other color imaginable, floating and darting over the grasses.
The eik-karl does not seem taken aback by the appearance of the little lights, but keeps up his one-sided-singing conversation with Tassidar, answering the questions the groups asks in his fashion.
"The market.... is this way... two... hours' walk... on my legs. Youursareshorter.... but... it is the-time-of-closed-leaves. I.... rest. You... also. Up. Up is... safe." The eik-karl hesitates several long seconds, then adds on a gesture that needs no translation-- follow me.
Turning, the tree-man strides away through the dusk, back off in the direction he had first come from.
”Up is safe?” Kló repeats as he considers the situation. He looks at the motes of light, the failing sunlight, the darkness, at the group, then over at Stirgen. You can tell his own fatigue is mirrored in the smaller man. ”I say we follow the eik-karl.” He stubbornly looks at their surroundings again, as if he could will the dangers to reveal themselves. ”He seems nervous, and not just at us.”
The big man waits to hear what the rest of the group says, but seems ready to follow the tree-man.
"I think getting off the trail - at least a bit - might be better than camping on it. Given our host... no fires." She begins to follow the strange creature.
Klo, there are many stories told of spirit-lights, often contradictory. Some say spirit-lights lead lost travelers astray in the woods, others say you'll find them above rings of mushrooms... these seem to be staying close to the river. If you were to try and get a closer look at one of them you might be able to tell more. You might be able to catch one, even.
Making your way down the road after the eik-karl is easy enough-- you can hear him singing up ahead, though even Tassidar cannot make out the words. It seems to be some variant of Sylvan-- here and there he catches a word, manling, sprout, but not the gist of the statement. It doesn't seem directed at you, however.
You catch up to him at the spot where the other creature disappeared off the road. You're finally close enough to see him fully as more than a distant, half-silhouetted figure. He stands taller than Klo, and his skin is the brown of tree-bark.
Furthermore, there's a similar creature emerging from the bushes-- a little smaller, but still taller than all of you save Klo. A green tunic, possibly made of leaves, covers the torso; if the loincloth indicates the first one is a man, this one might be a woman. She has an even smaller version of themselves lashed to her back with vines, who looks at your group with small bright eyes the color of new leaves.
The eik-karl takes pains to keep himself between your group and his presumed family. He turns and points down the road, and in the distance you can see the small bushes becoming trees again.
"Up. Saaaafe. Out of.... fooooooog."
Rikka nods to the strange creature. "Thank you for helping. We owe you and your family a debt." She nods politely to the 'female' in passing, heads for one of the large trees, and starts climbing.
Kló leaves the drifting curious little lights alone, with little more than a lingering glance as he follows the eik-karl and his fellow travelers down the path a short ways.
When Kló’s long strides finally overtake the tree-man, Kló has to work not to stare. At the original one or the smaller ones. He nods to each in greeting, not knowing what else to do. His father had told him stories. Old stories. Of creatures like this and other, but so few had actually seen one. Kló impressed the memory into his mind. His father would be fascinated.
If father still lives, he thinks darkly, not sure what to think of the possibility of so much time passing. He forces the thought from his mind, focusing on the task at hand.
He follows the eik-karl’s outstretched fingers, eyebrows climbing at the sight of the bushes growing so rapidly. Kló’s dark eyes flit between them and the tree-man, and he gives the creature another, thankful nod.
In his mind he repeats the creature’s words as he begins climbing, following Rikka up into the tree limbs.
[Climb, take 10]10 + 4[/dice]
"Sleeping in a tree to stay safe in Aelfheim," he mutters. Then he grunts.
Slowly and fluidly indicating to Rikka, Tassidar speaks slowly to translate for her.
He then slowly motions towards the trees shown to the party.
The eik-karl gives a long look at Rikka at Tassidar's translation, and gives a small nod of acknowledgment, but otherwise does not address this debt matter right now.
"Manythings. Manybad. Thingsthaaaattake. Up."
After a few minutes hurried walk-- the strides of the two tree-folk are long, and they do not slow their pace to yours-- you have reached the trees that seem to be their destination: several large oaks, or something like oaks, anyway-- they have rough-shingled bark, and oak-shaped leaves, but you also see dark red fruits the size of a man's fist hanging here and there. The tree-folk scale up into the largest specimen barely even breaking pace, climbing as natural to them as walking is to each of you. (Stirgen, to his vast relief, has regained his normal size by the time you reach the trees.)
The tree-folk are unsurprisingly at home in the oak. They move on to much higher branches that don't seem as though they'd support their weight (or yours), until the eik-karl notices that you are, as a group, rather less good at this. He slings back down to your level through the branches with his long arms, crouching on a limb to observe your efforts. A few of the tiny lights are still here, floating through the branches of this tree and giving you some illumination as you make your way upward.
"Reeessstintree. Notfall?" he asks Tassidar, rather dubiously.
Good question. It certainly won't be the most comfortable camping ground in the world. Any plans to make your night easier or safer?
At the translation, Kló pauses in the exertion of his climb to touch his heavy pack. ”Rope. Twine. A few empty sacks and some fishing net. We could try to make a few hammocks or slings.” He looks at their number, then notes the combination of men and women. ”Means grouping up to sleep together, though.”
Should have left them at the shrine, Halla thinks sourly as she needs help getting her heavy winter blanket and bedroll up the trees. As temperate as this place -- Aelfheim? -- is, it's hard to imagine needing the warmth of bedding. Even during the short summers, it's a rare night that one could sleep outside comfortably without a fire.
"I have a blanket," she offers to Kló doubtfully, "if it could be fastened securely." When she was young, Maeve used to sing a song in her head at night about a cradle in a tree; she doesn't care to find out how the child felt when the branch broke.
"I've also got a blanket and bedroll."
"I have a bedroll and blanket as well," Knute offers, "and string, and rope-- I think we can lash them between the branches...?"
Stirgen just nods, seemingly unwilling to look down at the ground below, keeping his face close to the bark of the tree and his eyes mostly shut.
Tassidar's knowledge of engineering comes in handy, as he's able to help suggest ways to criss-cross the group's ropes in order to provide a quasi-surface for bedding to be laid down upon. The sailors' knots that Knute and Klo both likely learned from their fathers come in handy as well-- securing the contraption to the tree limbs. It's a strange way for Ulfen to sleep, but together, you manage to rig something that is at least a few steps above "rolling off a branch in the night."
The eik-karl watches your work for a few moments until he is apparently satisfied that you know what you're doing. He leaves you to it, scaling further up the tree to where his family have already made themselves comfortable; he has long, strong arms, his hands ending in hooked claws, and you are glad that Tassidar was able to get the creature on your side.
When the lashings are at last completed, there's a moment of weary silence. It's the first real cessation of movement that some of you have had all day-- and for Stirgen and Klo, even longer. Was it only this morning that Halla and Rikka stood in Hofn, getting ready to hike in the pre-dawn light... Eysteinn with them? Was it only this morning that Knute and Tassidar stood at the edge of the clearing and watched with horror as Thyrmr was dragged within the cave? It seems so much longer, to all of you... the ice creature Tokko, the strangeness of the caves, the pitched, frantic battle with the orks... and then the doubled strangeness of emerging here, a place of story and legend.
What seemed a difficult, but plain, task by midwinter's light-- find the orks, save the children-- has taken you places you could not have dreamt, and you can only pray that the morning brings a clearer trail.
Stirgen is numb with exhaustion; he curls up on his makeshift hammock, rubbing at his face. "I can try and stand a watch, if you need me," he says with little joy at the prospect. He fumbles in his rucksack for something to eat, bringing out some crumbly pieces of bread that look more than a little stale. He looks too tired to care, though, and manages to choke some of it down with water from his waterskin.
The eik-volk are presumably above you, though you see only tree limbs and leaves when you glance upwards. Occasionally you catch a waft of sound from above-- deep, sonorous song, but the words are unintelligible. There's also a faint, sweet-sharp smoke scent from above that may take a moment to place: tobacco is not entirely unknown in Hofn, but it usually comes only on Sven Aurigr's trade-ships.
It is fully dark now: the crafting of your hammocks took some time. The ground is some twenty feet below you. The little glow-lights drift as numerous as stars, reflecting in the river that runs nearby-- as yet, you see no fog such as the tree-man spoke of. There appears to be no moon rising, but the night is rich with sounds: rustling leaves, running water, frogs, owls and whippoorwills, the eik-volk song, and occasionally snatches of small, bell-like laughter that the breeze brings your way. The night is only pleasantly cool-- to Ulfen, it is positively balmy.
Knute eyes the hammocks. "They're sturdy enough, so long as we don't roll around too much," he mutters. He follows Stirgen's lead, pulling out some rations to eat. Then the ranger lays down in his hammock, his mind tiredly trying to comprehend the strangeness of the day. Then he sniffs. "Is the eik-karl smoking? That seems... strange." Knute pauses for a moment, shakes his head, and mumbles, "sleep well, all."
Kló nods at Knute’s words, listening above him to the strange sounds of the tree-man’s speech. He shakes his head in wonder, ”A wood creature smoking.”
When Kló finally settles into his hammock, his bulk getting surprisingly little reaction from the incredibly thick branches of their tree-home, he lets the fatigue wash over him. He feels like it’s been ages since he’s slept well.
He looks over and watches Knute pull food from his pack, then does the same. The rations he pulls out are desiccated into uselessness, crumbling like dried leaves in his big hands. He releases it, watching it scatter and drift slowly on the breeze. ”I will look for food in the morning.”
As the quiet stretches on, his voice carries quietly to you all. ”Thank you for freeing me,” he mutters. ”There’s no telling how long I would have been enslaved.”
Would it be so bad to stay here? Halla asks herself, drinking in the relative warmth, the sounds of life and aromas of summer, the drifting pinpoints of colored light. Then she remembers the satyr and the state of the two men with him, and that the orks apparently walk freely here as well, and shivers despite the temperature.
”Thank you for freeing me,” he mutters. ”There’s no telling how long I would have been enslaved.”
"Is there telling how long you were?" Halla asks sharply. "Who was the goði when you left Hofn? And how did you come to be here?"
Knute takes the time to fish out the twig-cage that holds the remaining pigeon; he's checked on it when the chance presented itself here and there, and feeds the bird some crumbs and a little water. The bird squawks unhappily at its long confinement.
The sight causes Tassidar to do the same: he retrieves the scrollcase into which he put the small white bird, hours gone, and-- careful to keep it from escaping-- he coaxes it out with his fingers. He earns some pecking for his troubles, but the little bird can't escape his long-fingered grasp. He gives that bird water and crumbs as well.
"Would that circumstances were different, and we could truly enjoy the beauty of this place," the elf says with a gesture around at the glowing lights that fill the night around them. "Even I have never seen the like..."
Tassidar's hawk settles on a branch near him, seemingly jealous of the attention the little white bird is getting. Tassidar slides the tiny bird carefully back into the case before stroking the glossy feathers of the hawk instead, and feeding it some shreds of dry meat.
"Tomorrow will no doubt be as strange as today."
Halla is no less tired than anyone else, but she consoles herself with the knowledge that she must merely stay awake a bit longer, and then she can rest until a presumed morning... or something going wrong.
She settles herself as comfortably as she might in the cradle of the tree's branches and their makeshift bedrolls, listening to the others settling in. At this time last night, she was talking to old Hilde about harrow cards and strangers... and now she is in Alfheimr. Perhaps she thinks of what Five Solomon might make of this place; perhaps her thoughts do not stray that direction at all. Her thoughts are her own.
Nights in Ulfen winters are things of bitter cold and deep silence. Nights here seem barely less lively than the days: the call of birds never ceases during Halla's watch, nor the small, drifting lights that bathe the sleeping forms of her fellow travelers in different colors. Nor are these the only lights she sees: well away from the road, in various directions, Halla can see distant lights appear and disappear, several times over the next hour or so; ruddy glows like big bonfires, kindling far away in the woods.... sparkling lights like clustered stars, drifting in a tight formation along what might be the road.... but none of the lights ever come near to the tree or its base. Several times Halla thinks she hears music, but when she tries to focus on it, the sound seems to have been of her own imagining. Maeve finds everything as strange here as Halla does, with little fresh insights to share.
Eventually Halla finds herself nodding despite her best efforts. She nudges the seidrkona until Rikka stirs and yawns awake, then does her best to get comfortable as well.
"Is there telling how long you were?" Halla asks sharply. "Who was the goði when you left Hofn? And how did you come to be here?"
There is a pause. "The goði ... was Erik. You said Eysteinn's father is Thorgal." He shakes his head in wonder at that. "How old is he now? I remember him well. I competed against him on many a Jolday. He and Hrolf both."
There is a pause. "Do any of you know a man named Björninn? Does he live?"
"Is there telling how long you were?" Halla asks sharply. "Who was the goði when you left Hofn? And how did you come to be here?"There is a pause. "The goði ... was Erik."
"You said Eysteinn's father is Thorgal." He shakes his head in wonder at that. "How old is he now? I remember him well. I competed against him on many a Jolday. He and Hrolf both."
She shrugs, never having given the matter any thought. "Old enough to have a grown son, young enough to lead a warband."
There is a pause. "Do any of you know a man named Björninn? Does he live?"
"He lives," Halla answers, "or did when we left Hofn ... this morning?" So much seems to have happened since then, too much to fit into a single day. "Since we entered this place, though, who is to say how much more time has passed back home?"
Kló nods in the dark. Thorgal had no son when Kló left. His son looked to be around twenty winters. And Björninn still lived. Twenty? Thirty years? He shakes his head wearily.
"It is good to know my father lives," he pauses, considering her other earlier question, "I came to this place through a cave. The ones a day's march north of Hofn. Hrolf and his friends slew a trull there. I took shelter there from a storm. Did some exploring." He shrugs, the gesture lost in the dark, "Came out here."
He pauses again, and when he speaks, his voice is heated. "That's when I met that lying creature. I don't really remember it. Just music. Then drink. Then ... a blur of drinking and working. Then you."
Rikka finds herself fascinated by the stars overhead, visible here and there through gaps in the branches. They are not the constellations she knows from home, and they also seem to refuse to stay... in place. Every time she glances up at them, a new configuration seems to be present.. but perhaps Rikka's merely weary after the long day. Or perhaps her thoughts lean towards a dream: being up in a tree, very high, the earth very far below her...
When she finds herself starting to nod off for the second time, Rikka admits defeat and shakes the foot of the scout, Knute. She curls up on one of the stretched blankets and drifts off in short order.
About halfway into Knute's watch, he notices that tendrils of fog are creeping up from the stream. The fog doesn't just flow from low ground to low ground; it seems to move in surges, flowing rapidly over open ground then congealing rank and heavy around shrubs and anything else that protrudes from the landscape. The tiny floating lights that have remained thickest over the stream wink out like snuffed candles where the fog travels; you see a few of the specks of light seeming to dart away from the leading edge of the fog. The gray mist advances like a tide, inexorably moving forward, downstream, in the same direction as your travel.
The fog thickens, pale and opaque, around the trunks of even some of the trees, but it doesn't rise very high off the ground, at least-- not enough to reach you in your makeshift camp.
Though there is no moon to help you judge the hour, and the stars are strange and do not match the winter-stars of home, you think it is midnight, or near-about there.
Knute slowly awakes from his dream, about to yell out, when he remembers where he is and who the woman shaking his foot is. He stands up and settles in to watch, leaning against a nearby branch.
When he first sees the fog, he can't believe his eyes. He squints, but they only confirm that there is indeed a devouring fog down there. So the eik-karl wasn't kidding... It seems to be killing the motes of light, or something. Knute shivers at the thought of what would have happened had the eik-karl not warned them. He opts not to wake any of the group yet, but his senses are now on high alert, looking for anything moving in the fog.
"I came to this place through a cave. The ones a day's march north of Hofn. Hrolf and his friends slew a trull there. I took shelter there from a storm. Did some exploring." He shrugs, the gesture lost in the dark, "Came out here."
"Is that the same cave we came in by?" She glances at the butcher's son for confirmation, having no frame of reference herself of the lands outside Hofn.
He pauses again, and when he speaks, his voice is heated. "That's when I met that lying creature. I don't really remember it. Just music. Then drink. Then ... a blur of drinking and working. Then you."
Like a thrall, save for the music and drink, Maeve remarks dryly.
The night seems both quieter and darker after the mist dissipates. The little lights still drift and twinkle, but there are less of them now. Knute has a difficult time relaxing after seeing the fog, but when he feels weariness dragging at him, he taps Tassidar on the shoulder. The elf hasn't laid down-- he's still sitting upright, seemingly somewhat at home in the tree, but his eyes are shut. He nods at Knute's poking, moving to sit on a tree branch and observe.
Tassidar and his hawk stay very alert, keen elven sense primed to each oddity that passes in the night. Tassidar makes note of several things, and only reluctantly goes to wake Stirgen, loath to disrupt the weary man's rest but aware that he will need rest-- if not sleep-- himself for his arcane arts.
Stirgen is only partially rested from the time spent as the satyr's unwilling 'help.' He yawns throughout his watch, pinching himself several times to try and stay awake before he eventually goes to nudge Klo.
That message relayed, Stirgen crawls back to his patch of the makeshift hammocks, wearily pulling his furs over his head again.
Kló adopts a patient posture in the fork of two large branches. The weariness of his body served him well enough to help him overcome the thousand questions that still race through his mind; but now that he is awake again they return to plague him. His father, the gut-slipping knowledge of lost time... he can only pray to the old spirits that he will return to Hofn in time to see his kin once more.
But his thoughts don't keep him from posting a sharp watch. He hears no hoofbeats, but he does think that he sees movement off to the north-- something big, and large, and slow seems to be in motion off in the shadows, hinted at only by the occasional sound of something shuffing on the grass, or just the vague suggestion of motion when one of the tiny twinkling lights drifts that direction. From the tree he can tell little more.
On the road itself, especially as dawn draws nearer and the sky begins to lighten a little, Kló sees more things: a... badger, or something that looks very like a badger, anyway-- although it's the size of a pony-- that trundles and snuffles along the path, its low stocky body near to the ground. He sees it stop moving at one point, head raised in the direction of the trees where the group is camped, but then the animal puts its muzzle back to the earth and proceeds along the road, headed towards the presumed market. Klo also sees what appears to be half-a-dozen tiny, flying figures some time later, each of them no taller than a foot high-- the little creatures stay aloft by means of constant motion from their butterfly-like wings, and chatter to each other in a high-pitched voice as they fly down the path. They take no notice of the group, however, if they even know you're there.
Soon enough, the sun starts to creep into the sky. Kló is treated to a sight few enough mortals ever see: sunrise in Alfheimr.
(As he wakes the others, Kló, and everyone else, will notice that to the north of the path, there is a pile of large rocks off in the grassy sward, about a hundred feet away from the path. ...those weren't there last night, were they?)
Kló watches the sunrise in quiet. It's pretty, but pales in comparison to some of the sunrises seen over the far northern snow-covered mountains. Soon enough, he knows that the others must awake.
He wakes them all, giving a report on what he's seen. The unseen movements and the strange badger-creature. "Given an hour, I can likely get us some food." He looks at the others, trying to gauge their skillsets by their gear, "Any of you good on a hunt?"
"Any of you good on a hunt?"
Halla shrugs. "I can tell you if a berry or leaf is poisonous before you eat it ... if there are any plants here the same as those near Hofn."
Given the climate, it seems unlikely, but Maeve puts in, Or Varisia.
Is this what Varisia is like, then? Halla asks with interest.
No-oo, Maeve admits reluctantly. The temperature is closer, but if I had to say this place is like anywhere, it would be Kyonin. And I know only stories of there.
Rikka runs a hand through her unkempt hair and looks thoughtful. "A hunt may cause you to stray too far from the safety of the road. If the town is but a few hours ahead, I say we press on."
Kló, you think the badger you saw was quite possibly intelligent, but you're basing that partially on scraps of children's fables-- fairy tales about talking rabbits and bears dressed as jarls-- as much as any solid knowledge of having heard of one before. It's four times the size of any badger you've ever heard of, and its behavior in clearly sticking to the path definitely mark it as unusual.
Stirgen clambers down the tree with the others, muttering a half-courtesy as he takes himself behind a bush for morning's business, though he's careful not to move too far off the road. Tassidar watches him disappear from sight, then says to nobody in particular, "I hope none of us accidentally.... 'disrespect' the wrong tree, let us say..."
The elf then crouches by the road, seeming to look for something, then smiles and points. "Hoofprints," he says with satisfaction. "I wasn't hearing things, at least. Well. I was. But they were real things."
Though Kló glances around for possible prey, he sees no sign of a fat rabbit just off the side of the road, or a bird that would lend itself well to a net... the best prospects might be in the river itself, fishing, but whether the little band of travelers wish to take the time for that is another matter. And Rikka does have a point as well: hunting in earnest would almost certainly mean leaving the road-- with consequences as yet unknown to your group, being also the vague stuff of legends.
The tree that you spent the night in does seem to be a fruit-bearing tree-- it boasts fat, hanging rounds the size of a man's fist, a dark and glossy red in color. They are like no fruit known to any of the group, however .
Halla is also able to see that there are also some more recognizable blackberries growing in a clump at the stream side, as well as cat-tails; the grass around you is rife with clover and burdock, chickweed and sheep sorrel-- all plants that you can eat, though they won't taste very good raw. Usually one boils them to make the taste more palatable.
As you are debating the merits of food-gathering versus setting out peckish on the road, the eik-karl and his presumed wife and child descend from the tree as well, their long clawed limbs giving them a loping, swinging progress from branch to branch. By full daylight, they seem even stranger: their flesh is flesh, for it moves too supple-y to be truly bark, yet it's ridged and patterned to let them perfectly blend with a tree. The male seems to have the patterns of an oak; the female of a beech, and the little one too smooth to make judgments yet. Their 'hair' is not, in fact, actually leaves, but you realize that leaves have been woven into it, in clumps and knots. The female doesn't address you, but sidles past with her child still on her back. The eik-karl himself pauses a moment, looking at Rikka and then at Tassidar before he sings out a few deep basso notes.
Tassidar looks over to Rikka. "He wants to know how you-- well, we-- are planning to settle the favor owed? It's all of us who are-- involved, I suppose, but I think he thinks you're the one in charge of that, because you brought it up last night. Hmm, I'm not sure what I have that I might give him..." The elf begins rummaging in his pack.
Stirgen re-emerges from behind the bush, but keeps his distance from the eik-karl, standing back and rubbing at his arms.
Rikka considers the matter and then says to Tassidar for translation. "Please tell him that I am a stranger to his ways. How would his people settle such a debt? Is there something he would value that we may have? Is there a favor I can do in return?" She laughs, "Would he like a tattoo?" She shows a few of her more modestly placed tattoos.
"We'll not make it out here with the boots on our feet if we keep having to pay for the privilege of turning a corner or sleeping in a tree," Halla grumbles under her breath, taking advantage of the language barrier.
Knute grins at Klo's question. "I'm okay on a hunt. I was looking around for food sources yesterday, and saw fish and small game around. Of course, most of that would require leaving the trail..." His voice trails off, clearly believing that's a bad idea. "I also think we should probably get going. You can have some of my rations, if you need some now." The ranger begins rummaging in his pack to pull out some food.
Knute also takes the time to relate the fog he saw during his watch to the others. "We'll have to find high ground, or some other shelter, every night we stay here."
The ranger also nods at Halla's comment. Skaði send that we make it through this without selling the clothes off our backs...
Tassidar again translates; the eik-karl listens, his deep-set eyes roaming the group from one face to another. There's another bit of low singing, then the tree-man turns and starts walking down the road in the direction of the presumed market, his mate striding with him.
The elf shrugs. "He says that... perhaps at market, we'll see something to give? I think. I'm fairly sure I'm missing much of the nuance of his speech-- I'm only getting the words, and not whatever else he means to convey with the music itself..."
Tassidar seems as delighted as a child with a new toy, to be here at all, to be talking to tree-people and so forth. He rambles a little bit about linguistics-and-music before realizing that nobody else here is exactly a scholar of languages, per se. "I have some rations to spare, as well-- waybread, and dried fruit, and toasted nuts," he offers. (Who travels without some nice dried meat or smoked fish? Elves, apparently.)
The eik-volk have long legs: they are quickly moving down the path, and you would need to half-jog to keep up with them, likely.
Kló accepts the offered breakfast. "I will repay this," he says with a nod to Knute as they begin their march. "There is much of that happening lately."
Tassidar gives Klo a slight smile.
"I have offered my food freely, you are under no obligation to repay me."
Tassidar moves alongside the Erik-Karl.
"It appears they may intend to help us. I will try to clarify that with them."
Fascinated the elf does just that, trying to keep up with the treeman and his mate while speaking to them until he notices the others falling behind.
Tassidar's conclusion that the tree-people are interested in offering further assistance runs into the somewhat-contrary evidence of the eik-karl and his family walking swiftly away. They show little sign of interest in stopping to chat.
Everyone else ambles at a slightly more leisurely pace. It is a stunningly gorgeous day, or it would be, at home: if the sun shone this bright and warm, if the sky were this blue and filled with clouds like tattered cotton, if the birds sang this sweetly... it would be a day where a good omen would be declared, the sort of day where little work got done, and fishermen sailed for the joy of the wind in their face rather than to catch fish, and maidens did their stitching or weaving outside, and hunters went into the woods not really seeking game...
But, as your surroundings constantly remind you, you are not at home, and here, things are very strange, and even the very beauty of the day seems alien and perhaps untrustworthy.
The path broadens as you go. Other paths join it, here and there: smaller tributaries, feeding into the wider road. The dirt itself is marked with wagon ruts, and the passage of many feet-- Knute, Klo, and Tassidar are all able to pick out tracks that range from "barefoot humanoid, five toes" (but sized for an adult) to "hooves" and "paws" and more besides. There is no immediate sign of a human child's footprint, but-- if the satyr spoke true, and five days of time have passed in this strange land-- then perhaps other tracks have covered them up.
Kló finishes up the last of his gifted rations as they walk. His fatigue gone and his stomach a bit fuller, the tall man's long strides carry him easily down the road at pace with his newfound group.
As he walks, he watches their surroundings, but his eyes are constantly drawn back to his companions. When an opportunity presents itself, he looks over at Knute, studying the man's features.
"You are of Hofn," it's somehow both a statement and a question. "You have the look of Iver." Again, somehow it's both statement and question.
Knute returns Klo's nod. "Since you're coming to help us rescue the children, you can consider any debt paid and then some. Besides, Skaði favors those who help their fellow hunters and travelers," the ranger adds with smile. "And we have enough debts to settle here with the fae without creating more between ourselves."
Knute glances worriedly at the tracks in the road, noting the lack of Hofn-child footprints. Either this road is very well-traveled, or we're actually five days behind the children... Or worse, they left the path. He's shaken from his troubled thoughts by Klo's (sort-of) questions.
He tilts his head, curious. "Well, I'd hope I look like Iver. He's my father. And my mother is Rikissa." He looks thoughtful for a second. "Did you know my father or mother?"
For the most part, the path stays close to the stream, but here and there it diverges, going over the crest of the hill as the shorter route rather than hug the low terrain of the bank. You crest one such hill and find yourselves looking down on an odd sight, which may take a moment or two to resolve the various figures in play:
There is a garden, it seems, just a dozen or so feet to the north of the road, with a large oak at its north-most end. It has a low fence that appears to be mostly twigs with leafy ivy between them, and the rows of plants within the fence's bounds definitely indicate intentional cultivation, even if they have grown with a sort of riotous exuberance that makes the little field appear chaotic.
In the midst of this, there is motion: a small scarecrow (or so you take it to be at first) is twisting and turning-- as if caught in a strong wind. A few other equally small figures hop and dance around wildly, flailing thin, tiny limbs.
As you get closer, you can see that the 'scarecrow' is actually a green figure the size of human child, with, well, a pumpkin for a head. The other small figures do not have gourds serving in place of skulls, but they are similarly green. The figures move frantically around the little garden, waving around sticks and making agitated gestures. The breeze bears short popping noises your direction, like the sound of a pitch pocket in a bonfire, snap! pop!
Even as you watch, one of the two non-pumpkin-headed figures topples over, its limbs windmilling.
"They're being swarmed," Halla says sharply. "The garden is under attack." She starts down the hill, not at a headlong run but with a clear purpose of intervention. "If we help them," she calls over her shoulder, "someone here will owe us a favor."
Halla strides purposefully downhill, towards the scene...