"Ah, mistress, I think that's a dog, but it seems friendly enough. It can come with us for now, and perhaps the jarl will let you keep it, eh?" Turning to Ramundr, the thrall smiles and makes a hand gesture to signify that everything is under control. "The young mistress has been wanting a four-legged companion for a long time, and it does not seem dangerous. We will keep an eye on it, of course."
Spying Signe a short way away, Þyrnir walks over and bows his head to her. "Mistress, forgive my boldness. Mistress Runa seems to have made a new friend, would you take a look at it and see if it has any illness or disease that we should be concerned about?"
"No one wants to keep you from riding horses. You just need to take one of us with you. If you want to gallop, I'll gladly ride with you."
Signe keeps one eye on Fastvi and one on their surroundings. At times she offers to help the younger woman read tracks she comes across and also tries to encourage her to pick her flowers. That's why they had come after all and they should have something to show for their journey.
When the animal meanders out of the woods, Signe tenses momentarily. Her keen eyes study it intently for a moment before relaxing. She sees no immediate threat in its demeanor.
Signe gladly puts Þyrnir's mind at ease. "It seems to be someone's dog who has gotten lost or has lost its master. It doesn't appear feral or rabid at all but I will take a closer look to make sure it isn't a threat to young Runa."
The ranger approaches the young girl and the dog. "May I take a closer look at your new friend? I want to make sure they're not sick or hurt."
Runa nods and Signe kneels beside her and the dog. The dog responds to her presence with a friendly wag of its tail. The ranger holds out her hand which the dog sniffs before nudging it with its nose as if asking to be petted. Signe moves a little closer and then looks at the dog's eyes, teeth, and coat. She also runs her hands along its body feeling for lumps or wounds.
When she finishes her examination, she smiles. "A little malnourished and hungry but otherwise seems healthy. I bet if you feed her some of the food we brought, you'll have a friend for life."
Runa looks to those around her and the dog very solemnly. ”Very well. Will you swear an oath? Will you swear to protect my new friend Bogi, just as you would protect me?”
Inga seems to tire quickly of picking flowers and, once her basket is dutifully filled, spends her time flirting with Ramundr. She walks with him through the meadow, chatting and gently touching his arm. As they pass behind a large tree trunk, she turns and, before he realizes what’s happened, she steals a light kiss on his lips.
Fastvi’s shrill scream pierces the air.
Climbing to the higher branches of a tree, she went to far, slipped, and now crashes down into the flowers. After a moment, she begins to wail. She has landed on her right arm, and the gruesome orientation of the bone makes it immediately clear it is broken.
Ragnar's eyes land on the dog with a smile. He takes a step forward, before hesitantly stopping himself. If the dog reacts as crazily as those stupid horses, that might turn bad., his thoughts paint a frown on his face. "It can be, indeed. Though I'd recommend having her washed before you present her to the Jarl.", he smiles. I haven't done the runes for housework in years now... And besides, superstition..., he sighs.
As Runa suggests an oath, Ragnar taps his lips. "An oath isn't a thing one gives easily, Runa. If you remember the song of Hildur Sunhair, then you know that an oath given hastily can be a terrible thing.", he furrows his brows, tapping the ground twice with his spear theatrically. In a moment, however, a smile spreads on his face. "But I promise that I will do all I can to keep Bogi safe, treat her kind, and even sneak out a bone or two when Matheld isn't watching." He sighs, clearly nervous about something, before raising a hand and drawing a rune in the air. "Valfather, grant me your sight.", he utters, as his eyes shimmer the colour of moon silver for a moment. If I am wrong, let it be so., he says, immediately preparing himself for the surprise and fear in the eyes of his onlookers, only for Fastvi's shriek to turn him away.
Running as fast as he can towards the coming of the scream, he raises his spear, the tip flashing red for a moment, before he sees the girl lying and screaming on the ground. The broken branches and leaves on the ground leave the experienced climber with little to guess as to what has happened. He crouches next to the girl, disappointed look in his eyes. "Fastvi.", he says, seeing the other arrive. "Now, Wotan has given me the power to mend wounds, but magic always has a price.", he says, crossing his arms and throwing a glance at Þyrnir. "Pain is a lesson we all must learn, and to ignore advice to be careful three times already is very, very foolish of you." His voice has dropped down an octave. "An arm can be easily set, and will recover in a couple of months." He sighs, looking at Þyrnir with a look, carrying the message Am I on the right track here?, stepping closer to speak to the thrall in a whisper.
"We could mend her, but then she might listen even less, knowing there's one of us around to fix her mistakes. We can leave her be, but then Jarl Olaf might argue that we weren't watchful enough guardians.", he pauses. "So I am at an impasse, bar ordering her to swear an oath to be careful. Or we can have her promise to do a task that would teach her patience and caution.", he chuckles.
Otryggr is riding on the far side of the meadows when Fastvi's scream shatters the air. He startles, sawing hard on Braka's reins, pulling the gelding's head around roughly as he half rises in the saddle to stare in the direction of the others.
Trouble? Styr? He's halfway to loosening his ax when he sees the others in the group rushing to the fallen girl, not in preparation for battle, it seems, but rather to console her.
Otryggr relaxes a fraction. Not a threat, then. Not an attack. Was that disappointment he felt? He should probably ride over and at least show a modicum of concern for the fallen girl. But then again, what could he do that the thrall or godwytch couldn't do better?
No. Best he continue his vigil. Best he continue circling the meadows, seeking some sign of trouble.
Signe knows that humans can have special bonds with animals. But she also knows that if she has to decide between protecting people or an animal she will always choose people. Unsure if she can actually make such a solemn oath to a child, she ends up echoing Ragnar's sentiment. "I also promise to protect Bogi if I am able and I will always treat her well."
Shortly after Fastvi's scream pierces the peaceful quiet of the Meadows, Signe's bow is in her hands with an arrow nocked. She scans the area looking for any threat.
Seeing no immediate threat, she approaches those attending to Fastvi. "Do we need to return for medical aide or can one of you help her?"
Signe's voice takes on the soothing tone that she would use with frightened or hurt animals. "Cousin, now you will get a small taste of the pain that warriors experience. How are you faring?" She leaned in and whispered, "Maybe you'll have a scar."
Even though she tries to make Fastvi feel better the fact that the jarl's daughter has been hurt troubles Signe. Fastvi had been severely hurt while in her care. She failed her jarl and doubted she'd get another chance to prove herself. In her opinion this was one of the worst things that could have happened. She definitely wouldn't avoid taking responsibility for Fastvi's injury but she didn't look forward to the consequences when they returned.
Ramundr just smiles, kneels down at scratches the dog behind the ear. What will you name her
Ramundr leaned into the light kiss, and felt himself respond, but refrained from kissing her. Smiling, he touched her arm, . I'm afraid there is just too much of me to steal kiss such a small tree.
I've a bruise or two like that. Be proud. But, to my mind, Ragnar, if you can heal it this evening, then do.
"As you wish, mistress Runa." He doesn't take the oath, not precisely, but if little Runa wants her new friend protected and cared for, then Þyrnir will do his best.
Like the others, Þyrnir comes running when he hears Fastvi scream. Kneeling by her side, he examines the broken arm. Ragnar is most assuredly correct in that the girl needs to learn her lesson, but Þyrnir won't be the one to deliver it. Pretending not to notice the talk of magic, he supports Fastvi with one arm as he murmurs soothingly. "It's not too bad, mistress, it's a clean break, will heal right quick. Now you have a battle wound to show off, eh? We'll take good care of you, set it properly, I'll make it as good as new. That's my brave girl. Don't you worry."
As he speaks, he gathers a few of the broken branches, choosing the ones that are more or less straight, and using strips of his own clothing to tie them to Fastvi's arm. He leans in closer to the girl, whispering. "This won't hurt a bit, mistress, but pretend that it does? I'll pray to Frigg for the swift healing of your arm." Hoping that Fastvi's loud moans will cover the words of his magical prayer, Þyrnir entreats Frigg to help Fastvi and set her arm right.
Runa gasps in wonder when Ragnar’s eyes shimmer, then squeals and claps her hands, unafraid. She bends and picks several long stems of grass, looping and knotting them. Then she hands a “ring” to Ragnar, Signe, Thyrnir, and even the non-committal Ramundr, attempting to slip the knotted grass over a finger. ”The oath is made,” she says, before dancing away to play with her new pet.
Inga looks a bit surprised, then laughs, raising a hand to her flushed cheek. ”Then we must seek a larger tree! Come, join me in the cornflowers!” she turns and races across the meadow, her hair bouncing and dress billowing behind her.
”Fastvi is hurt! We must return at once! ” Inga proclaims, her sibling rivalry set aside for the time being. ”Odi can set that arm right.”
As Thyrnir worries with the arm, Inga doesn’t have to pretend overly much that it hurts, her wails rising in pitch each time she is touched. But suddenly her cries fade, replaced by sniffling and a look of amazement as she gingerly touches the newly fashioned sling. ”But how did you--? It doesn’t hurt anymore...” She remains on the ground a few minutes more, listening as the others speak of this, her new battle wound. ”Do you really think there’ll be a scar?” she asks hopefully. ”I only have a few from practicing needlework.”
”Frigg has answered your prayers!” Inga breathes, touching Thyrnir on the shoulder. ”It is true what the others say? You are a healer to rival even Odi, and yet you are no cunning woman.”
Perhaps 10 yards away, Runa has found some bugs to follow, crouched down as she pursues them through the grass. She stops and stands up abruptly. She utters a pronouncement in a powerful voice unlike that of a little girl. Then her demeanor shifts back to that of a little girl in a bright spring meadow as she skips off after a butterfly.
Ragnar's eyebrows jerk up as Runa claps at his display of wytch powers, choosing to smile instead. I could tell myself she's smart enough to recognise Wotan's touch where she sees it. Or I could simply assume Runa is, well, Runa., he chuckles to himself as he looks at the knot. As Þyrnir works the magic of Frigg, Ragnar's face flutters between disappointment and approval. Tapping Þyrnir on the shoulder, he crosses his arms. "Perhaps you were a bit too hasty. She could've used the lesson." Leaving the thrall to the questions of the others, he stares at Runa chasing a butterfly, when the horrid, bellowing voice echoees from the girl's mouth.
Reflexively drawing a protective rune, Ragnar's mouth gapes open as he looks back at the others, amazement making place for narrow-eyed contemplation. "The raven... and the... Utskruing", he grits his teeth, staring a one-eyed stare at Runa. "The raven, the crow, the wound-sea drinker, feaster of eyes...", he mutters, as he tries to connect the threads. "Tell Runa not of this, and don't mention it until we talk to the Jarl and Odi.", he says, an unnatural steel in his voice.
utskruing - unraveling, unthreading, meaning reveal of a prophecy.
"I know not of what you speak, mistress." replies Þyrnir to Inga. "I am only trying to help." He hides his face and busies himself with Fastvi's bindings. As Ragnar taps him on the shoulder, he turns, face expressionless. How can he withhold healing and succour from the jarl's daughter, to whom he is sworn to serve and protect? Even if he would agree that the young woman could use the lesson, but it is not his place to decide.
As Runa speaks with the unnatural voice, he freezes, watching the girl with wide eyes. Could this be a true prophecy? That meant... the jarl would die, and soon. He shudders at the thought, his heart saddened beyond measure.
Ramundr looks at the pale faces around him, and can see worry and wonder in their eyes. First Gods on the road. Now the Wyrd prophesied. Perhaps even Ótryggr could appreciate the glories we have been entered into.
In truth Ramundr was troubled too. He served Olaf now, yes, but his larger duty was to his Jarl, Anud Cursespear of the Vale. This prophesy was of no small import to the interests and security of Storstrom Vale. How could I send word?
Signe breathes an inward sigh of relief as Fastvi's cries subside. Whatever Þyrnir had done had also saved them from having to explain to the jarl how his daughter got hurt on their watch.
Her back is turned towards Runa when the girl speaks in a supernatural voice. A shiver makes its way down Signe's spine from her head to her feet. She slowly turns around expecting the worst, only to see Runa return to chasing a butterfly. The veracity of Runa's words are evidenced by the physical effect it has on the trapper but Signe still has to ask, "Was that real or is Runa just playing? Do we warn the jarl?"
”Runa?” Inga calls uncertainly, rushing to her sister. Fastvi, gingerly testing the strength of her arm, climbs to her feet and slowly approaches her sisters as well. ”What is it?” Inga continues, ”Of what do you speak?”
But Runa has no recollection of saying anything, saying only that she vaguely remembers ”a shadow that passed over the sun and then was gone.”
Unsettled, Inga and Fastvi agree it is time to head home. Although Runa has no memory of her strange behavior, she’s also eager to bring Bogi home and show her parents.
"Ramundr?" Inga says in a worried tone. She suddenly stumbles over into Ramundr’s arms, collapsing into unconsciousness.
Surprise Round
Otryggr
Round 1
Ragnar
Ramundr
Signe
Thyrnir
Otryggr
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...tracks here, leading into that furrow beneath that bush. Rabbit, looks like. Might tell Signe. Traps. What are the odds that she'd come back out here tomorrow? Waste of time. Forget it. Dense undergrowth. Odd how it stops and becomes meadow. What reason? Change in soil? Like a man's soul. Arbritrary line between meadow and dark forest. Shadow and light. Good and -
A bolt of excitement and fear shoot through Otryggr as he sees the figures deeper within the woods, hears the faint murmuring, notes the dirty and haggard form, the stone bowl, the wytching -
The Vastaviklander tears his blood-ember from his back and rises in the stirrups, reins clenched in his off hand, his whole body as exultant and alive as a banner that's been snapped taut by a fierce headwind.
"For the breaker of rings! Death and ruin! Death to the wolf-hearted!" His roar is the crashing of surf upon unyielding cliffs, a cry to be heard over spear-din and to challenge the thunder itself.
Grinning wildly, his focus narrowing to the figures deep within the underbrush, he urges Braka forward into a gallop, leaning low over her neck, ax held out behind him like the boom of a sail that he'll whip around at just the right moment and so topple his foes into sword-sleep.
An intense wave of fatigue washes over you, and your eyes droop heavily, but you manage to shake it off.
Ramundr stands steady as the girl slumps into his arms. a strange day, Ramundr murmurs to himself. He rubs her face, pulls open an eye-lid. No response. Ramundr looks around, not knowing really what do do. Perhaps Þyrnir would know. Þyrnir. Inga! Ramundr gently sets Inga down to the ground.
"Bah! Wytch!", roars Ragnar as he stumbles for a moment, before rising up his spear. Looking around, he grits his teeth with anger as he looks around like an ambushed beast, eager to see his assailant. He slams Flona's flank as he settles towards where the Vastaviklander disappeared. "Otryggr!", he roars, the surprisingly ornery mare's hooves throwing the winter moss under her stride. "Let our strikes rain like Wotan's thunder!", a bellowing shout leaves his lungs as he attempts to catch up with the black-bearded man, spear raised at his shoulder.
Ragnar spurs Flona into a gallop across the meadow, nearly reaching the edge of the field where the treeline begins.
Inga remains unconscious as Ramundr lowers her to the ground, though she continues to breathe. Fastvi clutches Runa, who begins to wail in terror. Bogi spins circles, barking at everything and nothing.
To your great dismay, Signe, who had just remounted Skip, slouches over in her saddle, falling heavily to the ground.
Runa screams again. Fastvi's eyes have rolled up into her head, and she slumps against her younger sister.
Ramundr, hesitates in moment of indecision. Stay and protect the girls, leave them here helpless and assist Ragnar. He starts off at a run, pulling his spear from his back, but looks back around the meadow as he does.
"Runa! To me, my precious! Let's stay together!" Þyrnir unslings his shield and unsheathes his seax, standing over the jarl's daughters in a protective stance. He needs to keep Runa calm. "Runa, my sweet, hug your friend Bogi, she seems scared. But you are a brave girl, show her how to be brave."
As he speaks, he rakes the clearing and the woods with his eyes, trying to find the source of the mysterious attack.
He then turns to Signe, who lies on the grass fallen from her horse, and begins to shake her, attempting to rouse the hunter.
Within the forest, where Otryggr disappeared, a small crash is heard, following by Braka's distinctive whinny.
but then a darkness gathers at the edges of the world, drawing itself in and around you, choking and smothering as the forest begins to spin, and then all fades to black.
Ramundr and Thyrnir search the field desperately, but find no apparent source for this attack.
Inexplicably, Runa stands. Her screaming ceases. Her eyes are wide and vacant. Ignoring Thyrnir's instructions, she begins walking slowly across the meadow, toward the treeline where Otryggr disappeared, and to where Ragnar now rides.
Ramundr takes off at a run across the field, but makes it no further than fifteen yards before stumbling and falling to the ground, unmoving.
"Runa! Come back! Bogi, go get her, girl!" Torn between protecting the unconscious girls and Runa, Þyrnir starts running towards the youngest girl, attempting to drag her back.
Signe does not respond to Thyrnir's efforts to wake her. In a panic, he runs after Runa, sweeping her up in his arms. Yet as he turns back toward the horses, the meadow begins to spin, faster now, and even as he tries his best to place one foot before the other, the ground rises up to meet him as the priest falls, trampling the flowers beneath.
The world fades to black.
You wake up, your head splitting in pain that no amount of mead or ale could have produced, and blood trickles from ears, noses, and even eyes. Your mouth is a dry roadbed paved with molded sail cloth.
The sun is slanting down in a mid-afternoon glare--you have been unconscious for several hours.
Bees buzz among the flowers in the meadow. Of the girls--and your horses for that matter--there is no sign. The only other living creature you see is the mangy stray dog claimed by Runa. Bogi. She licks at your faces as if happy for you to wake up.
You can see the spots in the tall grass where Inga and Fastvi fell, as well as signs of larger tracks around them. There are no signs of blood or violence, however. In the forest, eighty feet from the edge of the meadow where the tracks head off to the northwest, are the remains of a large stone slab the size of a shield. It has cracked in several places, and the writing on it is faded and almost entirely illegible, as if recently scoured away.
It is approximately the sixth hour non (past noon) and the sun will set in two hours, though the full moon will give enough light to see .
Nothing shows the girls were harmed, and the footprints look like Runa was even cooperating, so it is likely they are still alive and a few hours ahead. The jarl’s household knows where you’ve gone with the girls, and when you are missed, a force will likely be sent. You might choose to leave a message here for the jarl’s men while you pursue the girls yourselves. This presents its own challenges, however namely where to go from here…
The tracks lead directly through the narrow band of woods and into a section of the Moors that skirts the Trollfist Hills. The kidnappers are unlikely to head north toward the civilized lands under Jarl Olaf’s sway with his kidnapped daughters in tow, so that leaves only the Moors or possibly the Barrow Lands.
There are three possible ways to reach the Tor from the Meadows. First, there is the trail followed by the kidnappers. This is the fastest route, through the relatively flat lands of the Moors and the Barrow Lands, but also likely the most dangerous for the many undead denizens said to haunt those lands. Second, there are the paths through the Trollfist Hills. This is slower, but likely safer, though there’s no guarantee that new dangers don’t lurk there now. And third, the mid-length route follows the game tails through the forest to skirt the Barrow Lands and the Trollfist Hills . They are faster than the hills and less dangerous than the Barrow Lands.
The howl leaving Ragnar's mouth echoes in the clearing, as he slowly rises. As his eyes dart around, he fails to find out what he's looking for, namely the Olafsdottirs. Kicking the ground furiously, he curls his fists, eyes pent up with fury. "Hela take their wolven hearts!", he barks out, "And let the ravens choke on their entrails while they're still alive! Pah!", he continues kicking around, until the stone falls in his sight.
Pausing his tirade for a moment, his attention is drawn to the fusark on the stone, ancient words forming in his head. "Ha!", he blurts out, pointing the stone tablet at anyone. "The runes on this stone were responsible.", he comments, kneeling down next to examine the writing in detail. Stone would keep magic safer than vellum, its true..., he thinks, fingers following the scratched remains of carvings.
Knowing he lacks the patience and focus for tracking, Ragnar nods as the word of the direction is brought to him. "Hmmm...", he ponders. "Sibbe the Unkempt was probably the rat-eaten woman I saw.", he says, nodding at Otryggr. "When I saw you lying on the ground, I also saw a dirty-looking woman working Wyrd in the trees, accompanied by two men carrying that tablet.", he points to the slab of stone. "If the wytch has taken them...", he grits his teeth.
Running back to where he fell, he pulls out a short spear from his quiver. Drawing a small knife, he cuts off a piece of his red shirt, tying it to the weapons's haft. Drawing a small line down the spear's hilt, he looks at the others. "I say we avenge both ours and Jarl Olaf's honour by letting our spears drink deep from their wound-sea! I say we go through the moors, but we need to leave the Jarl a message." He points towards the spear, gesturing with his carving knife.
ey... Ramundr groans, but picks himself up, memory returning, but his eyes yet refused to focus on anything. Odin.. Ramundr recalls, but as more recent memory returns, he begins to look about the meadow. A beautiful place, this.. He stretches his broad back, and focuses. Olafsdottirs. Not here OK. Horses? Not here. Ah, Not here. Magic? Hon varr lombung e skreyja, sugandi toti tik madr! Ramundr curses, growling. Yes. Revenge.
Nothing for it. Might as well get started. He goes out looking for the girls and horses, and after a while only finds the horses. He notes the whites in their eyes, and takes his time coaxing them, easing them.
Signe groans as she comes to. She grasps at her last memory and then sits up suddenly, too suddenly. She swoons a bit as her equilibrium is tested by her movement. Danger! There was danger, wasn't there?
She looks around wildly and realizes that the girls are gone as are the horses. She struggles to her feet looking almost drunk as she gains her footing and her bearings. "What happened?"
She sees Ramundr rounding up the horses and she helps him so that it would go faster. All the while she wonders what to do next. They definitely couldn't return without Inga, Fastvi, and Runa yet the jarl would know something was wrong when no one returns tonight.
As Signe searches the area to get the horses back, she finds tracks leading away from the meadow and heading west. "There are footprints over here!" she calls. "Two men and a woman, all barefoot...and small shoeprints. Looks like Runa's judging from the prints I know she left in the meadow. They're heading towards the Moors. We have to follow or head them off and get them back!"
The darkness recedes like the bloodied tide. Ótryggr fancies himself for a moment defeated, dead upon some battlefield. His face pressed into loam and moss. His arm numb and twisted beneath him. The world swims as he moans and lifts his head, working his jaw. He spits twigs and dirt. Groans again as he seeks to understand. To piece together.
To remember.
Shouting from close by. Fury. "Hela taken their wolven hearts....!"
Memories.
The pounding of hooves. His ax unslung, thirsting for blood. Fierce joy, savage confidence. The two men and their stone disc. The filthy crone.
Trees flashing by. Ax rising. His war cry exultant.
Then -
Darkness. Failure. Defeat.
Ótryggr curls his hand into a fist and slams it into the mossy ground, the kind of blow that would stave in chests. His whole body clenches as fury rips through him, white hot and savage like the metal-melting incandescence in the heart of the forge.
He sees again the crone. Hears her skirling words. Hears the caw of ravens.
In a blink he's leaped to his feet, snatched up his ax and taken three broad strides to bury its blade inches deep in the closest tree. His roar of fury sprays spittle, and muscles writhe on his forearms and along his shoulders and broad back he yanks the ax out again and slams it once more into the first cut.
He leaves it buried there. Failure. Weakness. Helplessness. He staggers back, sinks to his knees, then throws back his head and howls, the sound rising to challenge the canopy, the very firmament itself.
His hands flex. He casts around, wild eyed, searching for something, a target, a victim, a means to vent his frothing madness.
Nothing catches his eye. Trees and underbrush, the dappling of midday sun on forest floor, shelf fungus on a fallen trunk, shadows and motes of dust burning in shafts of light.
The fury leaves him and he sags, shoulders slumping, hands dropping to his thighs, head hanging low. He pants for breath, a line of spit falling from his lip, and then, roughly, he wipes at his face, paws away the dirt and small fragments of wood that have imprinted themselves upon his cheek and brow, and stands.
It takes three tugs to pull his ax free. He slips it over his shoulder. Only then does he look around for Braka. Gone. His lips snarl into a grimace, but then he lets it go.
Emerging from the forest, he moves directly toward the others, coming in time to see Signe and Ramundr departing after the horses. Ótryggr walks up to the godwytch.
"Vengeance, yes." His voice is a low rasp. "Carve runes for the jarl. Tell him that we hunt this Sibbe. That we go to bathe in their battle-dew. Inga. Fastvi. Runa. We shall bring them back."
Þyrnir groans as he opens his eyes, a splitting headache pounding in his skull. He flails around with his arms for Runa's little body, only to meet emptiness. With a wordless shout, he scrambles to his knees, then to his feet, standing there and swaying as he searches around with frantic gaze. Gone. All three, gone.
"Mother forgive me, I have failed."
He groans again, almost slumping to his knees. But shouts and curses rouse him, and he notices the others, expressing their rage and frustration over this disaster. His mind feels muddled as he tries to ponder the possible trails. He knows the most about the Barrow Lands, and none of it good. While the fastest trail, the speed they would make would mean nothing if they were beset by the restless dead.
One thing he can do, though. Ripping of a piece of smooth bark from the tree that Ótryggr has savaged, he scratches a few runes that briefly tell the tale of what happened. After thinking for a bit, he rips another piece of bark and quickly carves a depiction of the events, in case the party sent by the jarl had nobody who could read the runes. Then he stands up, ready to set out on whichever path the others chose.
While Thyrnir and Ragnar prepare a message for the jarl, Signe follows the tracks leading into the forest and, less than a quarter mile in, finds a small clearing where she determines three horses had been hobbled for some time, but are now gone. Clearly, the kidnappers mounted here to ride with their prisoners in tow. The horse tracks likewise head northwest into the Moors.
Barrow Lands
The burial mounds of the ancient Andøvan dot much of the central portions of the Hord Peninsula where the tableland is drier than the surrounding moors.
It is said that the Barrow Lands are haunted by the ghosts of the ancient warriors laid to rest here.
Tales of those who have journeyed into the Barrow Lands usually mention that the living never come back, remaining among the dead for all eternity.
Trollfist Hills
These hills are rugged, barren, and have long been the haunts of trolls, outlaws, and giants. A path leads through them that loops to the south toward the Barrow Lands near the Tor.
Though the hills have recently been cleaned out of outlaws, trolls, and other threats, there is always the possibility that new dangers might have moved in to the old vacated lairs and caves.
The Forest
These woods are fairly open and are composed of old growth forest that has only been logged around the edges. The trails through the forest are tricky and twisting, but are known to lead to the southwest around the Barrow Lands.
Though far removed from it now, the forest here is a distant extension of the Forest of Woe at the south end of the Hord Peninsula. Though not nearly as primordial and untamed as that legendary woodland, the forests around Silvermeade are said to be the home to several bands of wild fey, though none that are known to be overtly malicious.
The Tor
The tors scattered throughout the Northlands are large hills or outcroppings of stone used long ago as ancient Andøvan fortifications or ritual sites. The Tor near Silvermeade Hall bears upon its summit a stone circle jutting up like broken teeth above the surrounding plain.
Legend says the stones of the Tor were used in powerful ritual magic performed by the Andøvan at the four corners of the year.
Andøvan stone circles are known to often contain spells written on stone tablets.
Andøvan Magic
Of Andøvan magic, nothing is known.
Sibbe the Unkempt
Sibbe the Unkempt is a seiðkona, a witch-woman, and has long been a feature in stories and tales of the area, often acting strangely, coming and going as she pleases, and is used as a local “bogeyman” to frighten children. She would have to be more than 80 years old for all the tales attributed to her.
Rumors more than once have placed Sibbe upon the Tor performing some unnamable ritual or other. It would appear that she has had an interest in the magic of the site for decades.
I am no scout, and do not know much or the area, being from the Vale, but shouldn't we follow the tracks, footprints, broken branches, so forth, which ever way they go?
"They'll be expecting us to follow them directly. Maybe a different route, perhaps through the forest, may be a better option. Hopefully if we move fast enough, we could head them off. Isn't the witch heading for the Tor?"
I trust your instincts Signe.
The forest is relatively open. Few people venture here because of its horrid reputation, and thus few trees are felled these days. It is an old forest, with soaring towers of tree trunks spreading out above to form a tightly closed canopy, leaving the forest floor in deep shade. A low mist hangs about in dells and crannies and seems to flow away as you approach.
The forest here is a remnant of the mighty forest that once covered most of the Hord Peninsula. In decades past, it was logged and thinned in all but its southerly most reaches where it is still thick and primordial and is known as the Forest of Woe. However, since the fey that have long inhabited the depths of the Forest of Woe have become more aggressive in past years, the logging has ceased everywhere but on the outermost edges of the tree line. Even here on the peninsula’s northern reaches, the forest is often looked at askance, as if it were the Forest of Woe itself.
The part of the forest that runs to the south of the Meadows is a relatively peaceful stretch of woodland, one regularly used by people from the area for hunting, wood gathering, and other such activities. However, to pass through this arm of the forest and loop around the southern edge of the Stonefist Hills in order to find safe passage to the Tor, you must skirt the deeper and darker heart of the forest here.
Unfortunately, there is no straight path through the forest. You have another choice: you will have to go cross-country or try to navigate a maze of game trails and small paths.
Striking out cross-country is difficult, as the forest floor is dense enough in places that the horses will have a hard time getting through. Nightfall is also approaching, complicating navigation further.
Following the game trails is easier, though they do twist and turn, crossing each other with great frequency. Due to some lingering fey enchantment of the forest, the trails sometimes change direction and location, especially at night.
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Ragnar leads his horse through the forest. As the quick trot of the hooves carries through the woods, a quiet tune hums from his otherwise sullen lips. The few words overheard suggesting it's the saga of Torvald. Humming along, Ragnar stares at the road in front of him with unseeing eyes, himself listening to the sound of his voice and the song in his head.
"As spear rend his flank, his slaughter-dew drew forth..."
"..Yet ashen grew his foe, with Torvald's chilling roar.", he continues mumbling, visibly preparing himself with the bolsterous tale.
A saga of one of Wotan's first Bearsarkers, Torvald roamed the lands, armies breaking before the furious voice of the man before he'd even drawn his spear.
"He stood in din most thickest, his laughter their last sound..."
"...Not sword nor axe would wound him, for fury makes man strong..."
As legend goes, Torvald's fury was seen never before, nor will it be after. His wounds would only make him more powerful, as he set out to avenge his family's death.
"Ring-giver of the ravens, a widow's shrieking curse..."
"...his enemies forgotten, great many they were still."
The story is so ancient, that it has been forgotten who Torvald was fighting against, except that his enemies had been numerous. As he fought on, many men and women picked up weapons against him to avenge a fallen friend or a family member.
"...The moon was cast in crimson, fields red and gray...
"...on bed of death and darkness, Torvald slowly laid..."
"...the swans of blood were crawing, as far as eye can see..."
"...were stretched Torvald's foes, the wyrd had deed them done..."
"...three daggers in his flanks, twelve spears in his back..."
"...a rustle woke his fury, he sprang for an attack..."
Ragnar pauses, taking a deep breath.
"...The valkyrie had judged him, his blow was laid astray..."
"...Take me with!, he beckoned, my family's avenged..."
"...roughly roared Torvald, yet she avert her gaze..."
"...Valhalla's for the mortals, for those who've end their path..."
"...I cannot take you, Torvald, for you're not man..."
"...but rage..."
He takes a moment to realise he'd been orating for the past several minutes, then clears his throat. "Guide us, Signe...", he says, reaching to grab a handful of snow to freshen his throat. "And let us focus not on vengeance, but bringing the girls back."
Otryggr returns to his spot at the rear of the group, ax drawn and crossed over his saddle, turning his head every few moments to examine either flank of the path and occasionally twisting around altogether to stare behind them.
It's hard not to think somber thoughts beneath these ancient boughs. To catch sight of signs that betray mankind's presence here once, but a presence which has now retreated: old stumps hidden in the foliage, the occasional triangular pile of logs long abandoned and moldering down into mulch, the random small hut that looks little more than a collection of broken stones covered in vines.
Ragnar's soft words rouse the Vastaviklander from his melancholy mood, and he finds his pulse quickening as the saga of Torvald unfolds in his mind's eye.
""...I cannot take you, Torvald, for you're not man..."
"...but rage..."
Otrggyr shivers and sits up straight. Those words hit home like a whaling spear driven deep into blood-foamed waters. He stares at the godwytch's back, brow lowered. There was so much more to that man than he understood. First that encounter with Wotan which only Ragnar had perceived, then the sound of the godwytch at his back when Otryggr had led the charge against Sibbe, now this, a tale that seems to whisper from the depths of time.
Part of Signe is happy to be amidst the trees but she is also wary. Being part of the Forest of Woe made this forest not to be trifled with. Ragnar's song makes the forest seem heavier somehow but Signe is unwilling to interrupt and listens with rapt attention.
She considers their two options and decides for the safety of the horses that the game trails would be the better choice. "We can either cut cross-country or take the game trails. Finding our way on the game trails will be challenging but taking the horses cross-country risks them breaking a leg in the dense underbrush if they can make it through at all. I would vote for the game trails but am happy to listen to a different choice if the group prefers."
I say stick to the trails. We hurt our horses, we may not arrive in time to save the girls.
The game trails stop and end at unexpected intervals, their paths crossing seemingly without reason. The party struggles to agree on the appropriate path to take, and even Signe becomes lost for a time, losing her orientation within the perplexing forest. It is Otryggr, after all, who finds the way, leading the party down a dangerously steep slope hidden by an esker formed from melting snow. Here the trees seem to sway, although there is no wind, and the bows above choke out the sky while the trunks of the trees stand sentinel to guard the way.
Then, beneath the bows of the forest, in the waning moments of twilight, you come upon a shocking scene.
A rugged and heavily muscled Northman is tied to the trunk of a gnarled oak tree, arms suspended above, a foot above the ground. From the way the ropes are tied, it is evident that he tied them himself. He is entirely unclothed, and his body is crisscrossed with scars both old and new. His face is a mask of dried blood on one side where it has flowed down his cheek and onto his chest, and it is evident that that eye has been plucked out. His other eye is closed, and his face is a contorted mask of pain. He does not acknowledge your presence in any way.
This man is a Bearsaker, and has hung himself from this tree in imitation of Wotan's sacrifice in order to gain wisdom. Despite his apparent pain, he is in deep reverie and shouldn't be disturbed as he seeks divinely inspired revelations.
While not of the bearserker blood himself, his adoptive father had the rage. He had heard tales of such rituals in the evenings over ale at the fire. The plucking of the eye is unusual, though it would seem an obvious reverence to Odin One-Eye. He wondered what the man knew. It would be disrespectful though to impede upon the ritual though. The man may have information for which it would be worth the wait, however, and night was falling.
Ramundr looks into the trees, judging the hour and weighing whether following the trail further this night would be wise. As he pondered the twilight, a sudden thought made him gaze again upon the man. Is this Styr the Ugly?
As they come upon the man, Þyrnir raises a hand to halt the others, his other hands to his lips in a gesture that asks for silence. As they move a little farther away, far enough that the Bearsaker would not be disturbed, he explains in a low voice.
"It is a holy ritual that must not be disturbed. He is seeking divine inspiration, and has sacrificed much to gain it."
As the party passes by the Bearsarker, leaving him undisturbed, he moans in his trance-like state. ”The storm…the storm will come. And, and…Donar’s usurper must be laid low. Ice and cold threaten the world. The glow…the glowing stone must be returned for mind’s worth.” He says no more, lapsing back into silence.
The party continues on through the woods, guided by Otryggyr and Signe, and by Narrah, the white moon. As she reaches her zenith in the night sky, you see lights ahead in the forest, low to the ground and glowing with an eerie green color.
Ramundr looks to Ragnar, letting just a hint of worry color his tone Heard of this witching magic before?
Signe is fairly certain that she won't readily forget the scene they just passed. Who would willingly do that to themselves? And how could something causing so much pain be considered holy? She is quite happy to keep moving and leave the strung-up man behind them.
"Is there any truth to his rantings? This is the second time a coming storm has been mentioned. Does anyone know who Donar's usurper may be? Seems like more information to tell the jarl when we return with the girls."
When Signe sees the odd lights ahead she prepares to dismount. "Shall I go ahead and scout to see what is casting light at this hour in the forest?"
The sight of the baresarker strung up on that tree haunts Otryggr for a good while after they've ridden an. An omen? A warning? A prophecy? The scars, the muscle, the sheer bloody willpower to undergo such a trial: was that a hint of the road that lay before the young Vastaviklander?
Morose, lower jaw jutting out, he almost doesn't notice when the rest of the group comes to a stop. Rising in the stirrups he gazes over their heads at the lights, and then loosens his ax and lets it slip down into his palm.
"What good can come from investigating such witchery?" His voice is a hoarse whisper. "We ride for the Tor, and should avoid all entanglements. Let us circle around and put these lights and their ill-omened wyrd behind us."