Knute frowns at the bottle that now seems to have lost its power, but tucks it back in his pack. Maybe it'll be good for something yet.
Knute points to the orks dragging their comrades back to the ridge, muttering "They're dragging off the bodies. I was hoping to go back and search them for supplies or information." Knute frowns, considering. "It'd be a hard shot to make at this range and with the winds, but I could try it. I don't think it's worth giving away this position though, do you?"
"We'll kill more orks, Tokko. We'll just do it later," Knute says grimly.
Knute sets about making as best a nest he can on the rocky face: He positions his heavy blanket and bedroll such that he can lie comfortably on the outcropping, able to view the surroundings without exposing himself to the wind or unfriendly eyes. The ranger moves quickly and confidently, with the air of one who has set up many similar hunting blinds, though rarely at such a height or hunting such cunning prey.
Satisfied with his setup, Knute focuses back on Tassidar. "I'm going back down to cover our tracks, mark the area as dangerous for the warband following us, and retrieve what arrows I can from the field if there isn't an ork watching it. You can use that whistle I heard earlier to make a call like this," Knute whistles two short notes, one high and one low, "if I need to come back quickly. Sound good?"
Knute, as soon as you've said that, you remember that Tokko mentioned the orks have wolves with them-- and you know enough of the hunting dogs of Hofn to know that they can track a scent for miles, and the wolves are no doubt similar. You might be able to fashion a tree-limb brush to deal with your footprints in the snow, but it would be a far harder thing to throw wolves off the scent your little group has left.
From the top of your 'nest', you have a clear view of the pond-- should the war-band approach that way, per the note you left, you think you would have a clear view of them, long before they were in danger of stumbling upon the ork meadow.
Knute pauses, then seems to think better of the idea. "I'd forgot, they'll have wolves tracking us. We'll just have to hope they can't scale this cliff. Should we pull up the rope and wait, then?"
"Yes, let's pull up the rope. I for one don't mind trying to give them a volley. Let them know they are in danger and are not free to roam. At this distance the arrows will be arcing in from on high. If they are struck without warning it could be hard for them to tell where the arrows came from. The wolves will find our location fairly quickly by scent anyway. Let them feel surrounded on all sides."
"We may not kill them, but we may strike a psychological blow."
"Do you want to try?"
Eysteinn falls back to quiet as their march recommences.
Thorgal, wisely, is leading the warband to one side of the partially-filled footprints so as not to confuse the trail. Halla frowns. "Were there not two who volunteered to track the orks?" she asks Eysteinn and Rikka. "Knute, the butcher's son, and the field thrall with the hund? Are there not three sets of footprints besides the animal's that we are following now?" she points out.
Knute sighs. "I suppose they can find us with their wolves anyways," Knute says, unlimbering his bow and sending a careful arrow towards the nearest of the living orks.
I might need to make new arrows soon, Knute thinks morosely, as the arrow sails off target.
Tassidar firing his arrow, Tassidar goes prone to watch the flight of the arrows.
"Get low Knute."
"Tell me. Fey guard specific places and features around here right?"
Tokko watches curiously as the Ulfens loose arrows over the great distance between them and the meadow. The stiff winds whip away Knute's arrow and it is lost somewhere in the trees between them and the meadow. Tassidar's arrow flies closer to its mark-- but lands in the snow some 20 feet away from the ork, with a little puff of whiteness. The ork's head snaps up left and right, but the small, distant figure hurriedly drags the bodies back to the shelter of the ridge.
The two scouts-- or the scout and the elf, at least-- hunker down, focusing on staying warm as they wait for the war-band... Knute knows it will take several hours yet, for the war-band to reach them.
After what seems a minor eternity of long, cold, windy waiting, the two scouts see figures emerging from the woods onto the edge of the white blankness that marks the pond they had passed on their way here. There are ten of them, wrapped in heavy furs, all other features lost due to distance and the thick garb they wear-- but Knute knows the war-band was likely to come along this path, and some of the figures look too small to all be the tall, powerful orks. Probably it is the war-band.
The second is his right hand. His right hand hurts as if it were being plunged constantly into a fire. Very vaguely, through the pain, Thrymr registers that that arm is not bound-- though his left seems to have been re-bound, this time down at his ankles, secured to the same rope that knots his feet together and forcing him to awkwardly hunch.
His mouth tastes again of the vinegar taste. A clawed hand grips his jaw.
"In old days, you would be dead now," says the crow-sweet voice of the old ork, very near to his face. "In our old ways. But Varg teaches better. Varg sees you are strong. Brave. Fierce warrior.
"And Varg knows death is good, for warrior. So. To do bad... We make you... not warrior."
Thrymr's free hand feels wrong, weak. Something is very wrong, other than the screaming pain that happens every time he tries to move it.
Should he look down, he will see why: all five digits of that hand have been severed, the stumps nothing but angry red weals blackened at the edges.
The ork's voice continues, a soft hiss. "I want you to talk to me, manling. You need your tongue to talk. Only that. Your other fingers... your eyes... your stones... you do not need those. Will you talk, manling? Or be warrior still?"
In error he attempts to stand, the ties that bind his left hand to legs rendering that a useless gesture that sends him toppling to one side. As searing torment assaults him again, the only charity offered is that at least he fell to his left. Lying as he does, the words of the crone are heard... though it takes the Ulfen long seconds to truly hear them.
A number of images pass before his mind's eye... his hund, the bracing chill of a oncoming blizzard, the harsh majesty of his land... and that in the eyes of the Ulfen he was now less than useless. He could never again hold a mattock, drive a plough... till the fields. The miasma of self-pity swirled within him as he imagined the gods of the sky slowly turning away from him... abandoning a now useless northman.
But as the divine shadow of his mind left... there was a single figure that yet cut through the fever dream. Long haired and bearing a sceptre... and then a moment of clarity cuts through the mind-fog and gives Thrymr pause. Words seep into his mind and stain his thoughts
Týr er einhendr áss
ok ulfs leifar
ok hofa hilmir.
Mars tiggi
Thrymr starts to wheeze, then huff, then cough... and finally laugh. Not a nervous laugh, nor a mirthful chuckle. This laugh filled his throat, chest and belly and spilled out to fill the room and echo off the walls. The cackle of a madman who had been broken... but remained un-bent. Rolling unto his side, Thrymr held out his destroyed stump and etched a single rune onto the ground... three strokes forming an arrow, pointed towards the ork.
"So, you answer," the old witch grunts. "Your little god chained the great wolf, yes? We tell the story another way. But in your stories, the godling, he gives his hand to the wolf, to make it so the wolf is bound? The godling is brave. The godling makes sacrifice of himself, to win battle, of a kind."
The ork witch draws a dagger that looks to be made of bone. "But you?
"You are not a god. And Varg is not chained, but free to eat the sun. And you sacrifice... for nothing. Making nothing.
"Tell your one-hand god that, when you meet him. That you fought not as a man, but as a beast... winning nothing, gaining nothing."
She says short harsh words to the other orks, who step forward from around the fire-pit. They grab Thrymr with no gentleness, and one yanks back his head by his hair, baring his throat.
Perhaps Thrymr regrets, in that moment. Perhaps instead he cleaves to the spirit of a warrior, which has driven him today; rather than the broken spirit of a thrall. Perhaps Tyr, or Tor also, will accept him into the great hall as a son of blood and battle-- as more than his low birth-- for the sake of the fighting he has done today.
But what he hears, in the seconds before the bone dagger strikes home, is the voice of the björn from his dream:
What will you sow? What will live after you? What will grow from your corpse, son of nothingness?
The dagger bites. And there is nothing more.
Tassidar watches his arrow fall short of its mark.
"Even the Silent Hunter himself might have trouble making that shot. At least we put the fear in them to keep their heads down."
Knute shrugs at the elf's remark as both arrows fall off target. They still gathered the bodies, and still have Thrymr. They just know we're watching, now. The loss of his companion seems to have soured the ranger's mood. Instead of voicing his gloomy thoughts, the Ulfen hunkers down into the blanket and bedroll, keeping an eye out for the warband.
Knute perks up as he notices the figures trudging through the snow. He motions to Tassidar, to ensure the elf sees them. "That is likely the rest from Hofn," he says, excitement entering his voice. Knute looks around at the ground below them, and then stares out at the slowly moving party, judging the distance to them.
War-band
Thorgal frowns, raising his hand, at Halla's question; he inspects the tracks himself, as does Yngvi. After a few moments of looking, they nod. Aloud, Yngvi says, "Aye. It does seem a third set. But who, out here...?"
The skald shrugs, and Thorgal looks glumly at the tracks a moment before indicating they keep going. "Weapons drawn," he says shortly. "It is possible that the third set of feet followed our scouts, as an ambusher."
The mood is tenser as the group proceeds, trudging through the snow. Those at the back, at least, have the slightly-easier progress that comes when seven pairs of boots and snowshoes have stamped down the snow before you....
Another interminable section of time passes-- the group is now skirting the edge of one of the ponds of the region, a large one; keeping to the trees and yet following the tracks. Abruptly, Thorgal says a short, "Ware!" as he turns with his sword raised, looking through the trees-- then he slowly lowers his blade.
"Iversson?" he says, and grunts in lieu of an actual greeting. Yngvi is less restrained. "Well met, scout. What is the news?"
Knute emerges from the trees. He has news, after all... some good, but more of it bad.
Eysteinn’s long blade is in his hands before the order mists past his father’s lips, and he marches with it resting casually on one broad shoulder.
"Ware!”
Eysteinn takes one long step to put himself between the two smaller women and whatever breaches the trees, weapon coming into a two-handed grip … only for it to be Knute. Despite a small bit of relief, he maintains his wary stance.
His voice is pitched low for Rikka and Halla as his dark eyes scan the area around them. ”If our scouts have made camp here, who close are their quarry?”
Knute slowly steps into the warband's path with his hands raised, and smiles at Yngvi's warm greeting.
"It's good to see you, Yngvi." Knute nods to Thorgal in deference, and scans the rest of the group. Strange, that outlander woman with the pig is with them, and Hrolf is not... Knute takes a deep breath, then begins:
"We only arrived here this morning, so you all made good time. Last night, we stayed near the trull cave, where we ran into a snow leopard and received some unexpected aid from an elf. He was actually making his way to Hofn for Jól, but was late." Knute motions for Tassidar to step onto the path for the rest of the warband to see. "He helped us slay the leopard and search the cave for clues of the orks, then track them to their present location, a cave in the rocks over there." Knute jerks his thumb in the direction of the orks' lair. "So far as we can tell, they still have all the children with them."
Knute stands back as Tassidar introduces himself, but as the Ulfen faces turn back to him, he hears their unspoken question: Where is Thrymr? The ranger shuffles his feet, then clears his throat.
"When we reached the clearing up ahead, the orks had posted a sentry outside their cave, who engaged us. We fought back, but more spilled from the cave. We killed three of the orks. Tassidar learned what god they worship, and might have some information there. They captured Thrymr and his hund, though. He was too far ahead of us for us to do anything..." Knute hangs his head at the last, ready for rebuke.
Halla hisses with alarm as the silver-haired, porcelain-skinned elf appears with Knute. "'The pale elf,'" she whispers urgently, grabbing painfully at Eysteinn's wrist.
Tassidar smoothly steps forward with the grace of one accustomed to introductions.
Knute notices a necklace displayed around his neck for the first time. A blue starburst stone set in a white metal setting that looks like an elongated star. The jewelry looks quite exquisite and and valuable (150gp).
The elf places his right hand on his left breast and bows to the assembled Northmen.
"I travel to your lands in peace. It is with sorrow that I arrive and learn of the trouble that has come to you and yours."
"I am Tassidar of Kyonin, a Son the Emerald Realm."
"I offer my assistance in reclaiming your children the taking of whom is an act most vile to both of our peoples."
"Knute sells himself and short. Thymyr fell battling the Orc leader, but landed heavy blows before being brought low. Together we killed several with our bows and we have kept them from spilling forth because the orcs believed us to be many."
"This band follows the Orc god Varg. A deity better known to the land's of the south."
Thorgal listens with a frown, his brows knit-- drawing together more thunderously as Knute speaks-- but the appearance of the tall, stately elf seems to momentarily silence him, as he turns awkwardly to greet the elf.
Tassidar-- the 'war-band' spoken of seems a smaller and more motley lot than you might have hoped, after all the tales of Ulfen warriors you've heard of. The man in the lead is tall but weathered, his brown hair streaked with gray and his face bearing the tension of responsibility, as well as a few scars. He seems momentarily at a loss for words in response to Tassidar, then manages a short, awkward bow in return, sheathing his sword as an after-thought.
"Master elf," he mutters gruffly, and glances at one of the other men to travel, this one leaner, with blond hair worn in a long braid. That man offers a bow of his own, clearing his throat.
"Hail and well met, to any who come in peace," he says, more at ease in his speaking than the dark-haired man. "Our kind and yours have long had alliance, Lord... Tassidar, yes? By our old pacts and by the shared blood, we most willingly accept your aid. I am Ynvgi Wyrmtongue, skald and story-keeper for the people of Hofn, and this is Thorgal Magnisson, right-hand to our goði, the great Hrolf Half-hand.
"The name Varg, you speak of--" here, the blond man pauses, looking back over his shoulder at three near the back of the little group-- two women, and one man, it seems, in particular, "I have heard already in the last day. It seems you bring tidings we should heed..."
"Giants piss on all that," the larger man mutters uncomfortably. "What's this about the thrall being captured? Tell me of this clearing-- can we assault as many? What's the nature of their cave, their numbers? Bones and blood, I gave orders not to engage..." Thorgal paces a bit, as best he can, in the snow.
Thrmyr is a thrall? I hadn't thought his status was that low.
Tassidar nodded in acceptance to the skald and in deference to the warband leader.
"A star shines on our meeting, though it's light is shadowed by storm clouds that gather around us. While I come wishing Godi The Great Hrolf Halfhand green paths and the warmth of the sun on his back, Magnisson is right. . . Pleasantries must be cut short due to our circumstances."
"Your men tried to heed your orders. They sought to locate the camp and observe it. I assume your host found the trail marks left for you along the way accounting for your timely arrival."
"The orcs lay hidden in a cavern. The entrance to which is concealed in a rocky hillside ahead. Unfortunately there is a clearing around it. The trail had shown us your children's footprints in the snow letting us know they were still with them. I believe this knowledge pressed Thrmyr to risk cresting the hill to see if the camp lay beyond it. Thrmyr crossed the meadow hoping to be mistaken as a lone traveler if spotted."
"Alas, though Thrmyr encountered and killed the lone sentinel who laid in ambush, more orcs spilled out of the hillside. It is a tale worthy of a telling by firelight, but ultimately the Orc leader struck Thrmyr down and the rest of the orcs retreated from our arrows taking their dead with them back to the cavern."
"We withdrew to the raised cliffs over there. From that vantage point we could watch for you and the next move for the orcs. We are safe from their wolves on top. The orcs sent scouts out once, but our arrows turned them back."
"Since the orcs already knew that we were here we led them to believe we were your entire band."
Tassidar leaves the rest open for Knute to explain. The hunter had read the tracks and knew the enemy's numbers much better than he did.
Tassidar takes the warband in looking at the humans and their equipment.
Mindful that she's an outsider, Rikka listens silently assessing the situation.
Knute looks slightly anxious as Tassidar introduces himself, but as Yngvi and Thorgal accept the elf he relaxes visibly. Knute backs up Tassidar's description of the clearing and their encounter with the orks with a few small nods, and ignores his embellishments. He catches Tassidar's eye and smiles thankfully, relieved that he didn't have to relate the whole story himself.
Knute then picks up where Tassidar left off. "We know there are at least 7 orks still in the caves," . Knute then relates how many orks he thinks there are based on the tracks, and whether the worg-riding seiðr-user's tracks also entered the cave.
After this, Knute looks back in the direction of the clearing. "We should probably head towards the meadow or the cliffs, so they can't slip away while we're not watching."
Aside from the two who have introduced themselves already to Tassidar, he counts eight others: one man whose furs seem of finer quality than the rest, with a fresh bandage upon one hand ; another man with a cloak of dyed-blue hide and a haunted expression ; a young warrior who looks to have not quite grown into his frame and muscles yet, blond of hair, and looking impatient ; a solidly-built blond woman with an axe slung over her shoulder ; another woman, taller, with a spear, red hair in braids, and a dour look ; a dark-haired woman in fine furs who seems to be staring Tassidar's way and her hand gripping the arm of a man who bears a slight resemblance to Thorgal Magnisson ; and, finally, a golden-haired woman with a spear who is watching everything intently .
Sven Aurigr tugs on his trimmed beard as he listens to the news. "Thrymr fell to the orks? Damn," he mutters with a sigh. The man in the blue cloak snaps at him, "Far from the only one! You may have lost a farm-hand-- my son died yesterday--"
The young warrior interrupts. "We'll avenge him, Torgi-- we'll avenge them all, I'll burn down into their caverns myself and hack them limb from limb--"
"You'll do nothing of the sort, boy!" shouts Magnisson, causing a few startled birds to take flight at the tree's edge. "You'll obey your orders, Tor witness my words, for I'll not bring your corpse back to your father, and you are not chief yet!"
Even the outsiders-- Rikka and Tassidar, each in their fashion-- can tell the chaos of disorganization when it strikes. The strong voice of a leader who can maintain his cool seems lacking, here, though the man Thorgal Magnisson is trying. He runs hands through his greying hair, glaring up at the gray sky overhead and then gesturing for silence over the babble of voices.
"Well," he snarls after a moment, "the kamphundrs know their foes have found them, already. So to come on them unawares cannot be done. I pray to Tor they are still within that hill at all.... vermin always have places to crawl, and holes to escape from," he says, all but spitting his words into the snow.
Thorgal draws himself up and looks stiffly towards Tassidar again. "Do you alone stand with us, of your people?" he says after a tense pause. "I mean no... disrespect, master alfr.... only, your kind lost lives also, in the raid. Are your people so heartless that--"
Yngvi steps in with a throat clearing. "Forgive the words. Thorgal is a great warrior, but he is not, as we say, glint-tongued... We are grateful for your assistance. Very. Only that it was... unlooked for, for you and yours have always stayed.... apart, most of the year."
Thorgal turns without a further word, letting Yngvi field that, and grabbing at Knute's arm instead. "Here, the snow is flat here-- draw me the arrangement of this hillside--"
(Knute is able to do so, sketching a simple layout in the snow, for Thorgal to study.) And Knute saw no signs of the huge wolf-track into the cave mouth, but then, fresh snow has fallen since the orks presumably reached the cover of their lair.
To Rikka, reining in the impulsiveness of the more hot-tempered villagers is vital, And while she doubts - as an outsider and seiðkonur - that she could lead the warriors, she might be able to dampen some of the dangerous fervor building within them. She plants her boar-spear in the snow and steps into the group, speaking to all but focusing her attention on Leif and any others with unabated bloodlust in their eyes.
"Hear me well, warriors of Hofn. I understand your rage. The dead and the maimed among your kith and kin call for vengeance. The missing children cry for deliverance and bloody justice. Your anger burns and that is fitting... but it serves the orks if you let it master your reason." She lets the idea stand a moment before continuing. "Thrymr is gone, I think, because his bloodlust led him to act foolishly. The orks know we are here. They have magic and skill. They fight as an army. We must attack them in their lair - where they are most dangerous and most ready. In Hofn, your people along with the dwarves and elves fought with valor and ferocity... and the battle was lost. Ferocity wasn't enough; it isn't enough. And in this battle, we are fewer in number. We have no dwarves, only a single elf, and we fight in the stronghold of our enemy. This battle will be far harder."
Rikka looks around to see if her point is becoming clear. "Ferocity alone will leave the snow painted red with our blood. And then Hofn will go unprotected, the dead will go unavenged, and your children will be butchered. If we are to fight and WIN, then you must bury that rage in your heart for now. Use it to sharpen your senses, steel your resolve, and fire your limbs. But in our minds, we must be as the North Wind - cold, unrelenting, and ever seeking the gap in our enemy's armor to freeze his flesh, slow his limbs, and steal his life. We are Ulfen. Our blood is hot but our vengeance is best served cold."
Halla hisses with alarm as the silver-haired, porcelain-skinned elf appears with Knute. "'The pale elf,'" she whispers urgently, grabbing painfully at Eysteinn's wrist.
Eysteinn had apparently had the same thought, his brown eyes narrowing on the stranger, the leather his sword-hand creaking slightly as his fingers flex on the pommel of his bastard sword. But despite his suspicion, he tries to keep a clear head and listens to the exchanges.
As the discussions progress, he whispers back to Halla, ”If this is the pale elf, why risk being seen by our scouts at all? Why not just warn the orks that the scouts were coming? Or if he was found by our scouts before he contacted the orks, why not lead them right into the ork cave to be slaughtered? It makes no sense.”
The line of thought is cut short as Thorgal kneels over Knute’s map and Rikka begins addressing the Hofnites. Eysteinn uses the opportunity to catch Wyrmtongue’s attention, look briefly at the elf, then shrug.
Then he trudges over to Thorgal and Knute. ”Good to see you breathing,” Eysteinn mutters when he reaches Knute, then he looks down at the drawing. ”Lord Thorgal. Something you said stood out. ’Holes to escape from’ … what if we could find one of those? Might be able to hit their flank, after all. Or maybe steal our children back while they watch the main entrance?”
As the discussions progress, he whispers back to Halla, ”If this is the pale elf, why risk being seen by our scouts at all? Why not just warn the orks that the scouts were coming? Or if he was found by our scouts before he contacted the orks, why not lead them right into the ork cave to be slaughtered? It makes no sense.”
Halla clearly isn't troubled by trivialities. "Why would he suspect we know anything about a pale elf?" she whispers back. "It's only due to Grinmer's seiðr that the dead ork spoke. And why lead two into ambush when he can lead twelve?"
Tassidar waits with baited breath for the North-men's reaction to the woman's impassioned speech. He takes in the slightly built Ulfen woman with dishwater blond hair and curiously grey eyes. She carried a spear, but did not look like a typical warrior-maiden.
She speaks of reason and logic. Hopefully that means the group can be lead effectively. Being smaller in size she has had to learn to fight smarter and craftier than the others.
the elf had seen Knutes smile, but was wary of returning it. Tassidar knew that thrall status carried different meaning and potential hardship depending on the region. He didn't want the man whom he was coming to consider a friend to be harmed due to some social misstep on his part.
Towards the back the unsmiling raven haired south-lander who continued to converse with the young man whom bore a resemblance to Thorgal. The woman clung to him and both cast glances his way.
Does he grip that sword pommel tightly due to me being here? They are situated towards the back of the group, possibly meaning they are of lower status within it.
As the war-leader seemingly moves on to other interests and the group moves about it appears that tensions have lessened to the elf.
Tassidar addresses the Skald.
"I take no offense to your war leaders questioning words. They are spoken plainly and honestly if a bit raw in delivery, such is the nature of great warriors on the battlefield."
"In response to his inquiries, I am but one. Also, I have never treated with the elves that are known to you so I cannot pretend to know their minds. I have traveled here from my homeland which is many months travel from here."
"I offer my assistance to you and yours freely. I do so without bond, pact or oath requiring me to do so. The shield-maiden mentions that the orcs have magic. I command some of my own and lend it along with my blade and bow to free the children. Knute has seen some of what I am capable of and has watched me kill orcs along with him in battle."
"The orcs and their gods are enemies of my people and yours. There is nothing more precious than a child's life. It would be both silly and tragic to have petty mistrust and suspicion weaken our fellowship in the face of a common enemy. I will leave you to counsel among yourselves if that's what is wished."
Tassidar reaches out to his familiar sitting in the tree watching the hillside to see if there is any change in his awareness.
The skald, Yngvi, looks relieved at Rikka's words, nodding along with her statement, briefly locking eyes with the young, angry Leif and the frustrated Thorgal. The second-string war-band who are gathered here mutter and nudge each other, but there is some nodding, and even Leif sighs, digging the tip of his spear into the snow with his shoulders slumped in recognition of the seidr-woman's words.
"You speak well," Yngvi says to Rikka. "All of you, listen to the wise-woman. We must fight with a little of Odyn's cunning, today, not only Tor's fury..."
Thorgal glances up at Eysteinn's approach and question, rocking back onto his heels in the snow that covers the pond. The old warrior tugs on his gray-streaked beard, giving his disowned son's words grudging consideration.
"Perhaps there might be other holes, aye. The trull cave isn't far from here, I know... though I did not know of this pit here. Yet if these rocks boast two hellir, then there may be more yet. While we have the daylight on our side, it is worth the looking: the orks do not like the light, and will likely stay in their hole if they can, to make us fight in their hole. Hm... damn, but I wish Red Alf with us. He knows the woods like the back of his hand."
Thorgal glances skyward, judging the remaining daylight against the long length of the stone ridge, and the time it will take to search.
Yngvi, meanwhile, nods towards Tassidar again. He seems taken aback by the elf's admission to being from somewhere far away, and gazes at him with curiosity and bemusement.
"As I said, master: your aid is welcome," the skald says slowly. "We do not disdain it. But you are... different from the elves that we know. You are-- most generous."
The skald, Yngvi, looks relieved at Rikka's words, nodding along with her statement, briefly locking eyes with the young, angry Leif and the frustrated Thorgal. The second-string war-band who are gathered here mutter and nudge each other, but there is some nodding, and even Leif sighs, digging the tip of his spear into the snow with his shoulders slumped in recognition of the seidr-woman's words.
"You speak well," Yngvi says to Rikka. "All of you, listen to the wise-woman. We must fight with a little of Odyn's cunning, today, not only Tor's fury..."
Rikka gives the skald a deferential nod and steps from among the warriors. She pulls her spear from the snow bank and stands near to where Thorgal is plotting a strategy, wrapped in her own observant silence.
"Not generous, strangely colored, look different, mix blood with humans, but usually live aloof from them? These Elves of Jol are perplexing to me. What have they done to themselves? Have they gotten out of phase with out world somehow? Out of sync with time?"
Tassidar becomes distracted by the small snowbird.
"It sits there close and unperturbed despite all the noise and commotion? Knute says the village has fewer workers of magic . . . The enemy caster's familiar perhaps?!"
The eleven wizard emotes hunger and excitement to the bird of prey through the empathetic bond he shares with Vethrfolnir. Tassidar's love of falconry had been the determining factor for his choice of selecting a hawk for his familiar. The hawk had already located the bird; this was a perfect opportunity for taking game.
--------------–------------------------------------------------------------ --------
Across the meadow, the black and white hawk leaps off its perch and quickly beats its wings to get above its prey for a dive with both talons ready to strike.
__________________________________________________
As the attack becomes imminent Tassidar replies to the skald.
"Ah. My hawk appears to have found something to eat."
"I have found the people of your village to be more welcoming, thus far, than those of othersI have visited since arriving in the north. Does your lord enjoy falconry?"
Eysteinn nods to his father, ”We’ll make do. We have to.” He seems about to say something else, but he gets distracted by the exchange between Yngvi and the elf. His eyebrows draw down into a scowl as the elf’s speech continues.
Eysteinn looks over at Knute, ”He always have this many words? Maybe we judge your scouting efforts too harshly …” A half-smile plays on his features, ”… the orks were bound to hear you coming.”
Remembering their situation, he turns back to his father, ”Lord Thorgal, the plan to look for hidden entrances is a good one. One thought, though. Knute and the elf say the orks think we already hold that high ground. Let’s use that. Bring much of the war band up there. Light fires. Make noise. Look to be settling in. Keep their focus up there.” His brown eyes cast about the surrounding areas, ”Then you can send some scouting groups to find those caves. We may not have Red Alf, but…” he shrugs at his own repeated words, ”we’ll make do. I will offer to go on the searches, if it's what you choose.”
”Good to see you breathing.”
Knute nods at Eysteinn's words. "Thanks. I only hope the same can be said of Thrymr, and our children," Knute replies resignedly. He perks up at the mention of other ways into the cavern, and looks back towards their rocky outcrop, where Tokko presumably is. Tassidar or I should make sure to ask Tokko if he knows of some other entrances before we begin searching blindly...
Knute also takes note of Tassidar's exchange with Yngvi. "Aye," the ranger chimes in, "I trust him to help us slay the beasts; Tassidar was able to help me down orks with his seiðr, and provide convenient light in the cave. He is also skilled with the bow," Knute adds approvingly.
Knute notes Eysteinn's glare at the elf and looks at him curiously. "Do you dislike all elves, Eysteinn? Or has Tassidar done something specific you dislike? He's offered to help us, at least. So far as I can tell, he's been true to his word and his interest in helping us is genuine." At the rest of Eysteinn's words and actions though, Knute nods. "I'm not sure the orks know we've occupied that cliff yet, but we can make sure they do know if we'll be scouting for other ways to enter their cave. As for making camp on it..." Knute draws a small map of the outcropping and its surrounding area for Thorgal, Eysteinn, and the woman who came to watch their planning.
When he finishes drawing and explaining, Knute stands up and says, "I'll lead you all to the cliff or the meadow on your say so, Thorgal. And I'll join you in the scouting, Eysteinn. Just let me know when to start heading where." The Ulfen is obviously distracted, still trying to think of a good way to ask Tokko about the surrounding area without spooking the creature with the appearance of the warband. "I can also scout ahead, and make sure there's nothing to surprise us..."
With that, he shrugs and turns to Tassidar, muttering near him, "We should find a way to ask Tokko if there are other entrances, without frightening him or my fellow Hofnites. Unless you've asked him already?" The ranger sounds hopeful at the last.
As plans are discussed, Thorgal interrogating Knute as to the lay of the land, the hawk that accompanies the southerner elf takes to the air... it shrieks as it dives, its natural instincts urged on by its master.
The little snow bunting doesn't have much of a chance; the hawk blitzes down like summer lightning, claws snatching the tiny brown-and-white bird from the branch. The tiny bird shrills in fear, caught in the hawk's talons.
Ynvgi watches the display of birding with some interest. "Hrolf flies a good hawk, aye," he says with a sigh. "Though maybe not ever again..." The last is a low mutter.
***
Thorgal listens to the words of the disgraced thrall, and to Knute, crouched back on his heels on the snow-covered ice of the pond. Already the wind is trying to cover up the little map Knute has drawn. Thorgal tugs at his beard in absent distraction, weighing the words of the two younger men.
"Making them feel pinned in their lair is... a wise strategy," he says, perhaps reluctant to too obviously endorse the words of his disowned son, but unwilling to discard a good plan. "If I were them, I would be waiting for the dark to counter-attack us, when an archer can't see to shoot them anyway-- and perhaps they think we won't dare their foul little den... so aye, if we can pin them for the daylight hours with our archers and this high ground you speak up, well and good, while seeking other ways in."
The temporary chieftain mulls a moment longer, then gets to his feet with a nod. "We'll go to the cliff. A few can go up-- some who can draw a bow to shoot that distance. We need not expert archers, only those who can get an arrow to the meadow, and make them fear to walk openly. The flame is also well thought-of, if we can keep it burning. Two up in this roost, to watch, to signal us if the orks emerge-- and the rest of us shall split into two bands, to more quickly search the ridge-- for as I judge the light, we have only a few more hours of daylight to us. As soon as we lose the light, we lose all advantage."
He whistles, and those who had been crouching or leaning against trees to rest their legs stand up.
"Socially awkward. That is how I sometimes feel among these humans, but a hunter towards its prey? What have we got going on here?"
Tassidar moves to retrieve the quarry from Vethrfolnir.
"Some familiars can communicate with others of their kind. Perhaps this bird can?"
The elf will try to slip a tether on its foot to keep the little bird captured.
"I assume then Lord of your village lies injured from the raid?"
"Is this his eldest son with you?"
Tassidar listens to the men planning and watches the exchange between Knute and Thorgal with interest. When there is an uncomfortable pause he speak to the leader of the humans.
"The cliff is really more of a ledge. You can fit about four men up there. Keeping a fire going would be hard due to fuel and the wind. My light spell is unaffected by such things, but I must be awake to maintain it."
"Knute mentioned the fey creature Tokko. He was the one who showed us the ledge and has a knowledge of the caves around here. Perhaps we could ask him."
”Good to see you breathing.”Knute nods at Eysteinn's words. "Thanks. I only hope the same can be said of Thrymr, and our children,"
It’s Eysteinn’s turn to nod somberly, but he doesn’t put words to his fears. When Knute asks him about Tassidar, Eysteinn softens his features. He chews his lips thoughtfully when Knute gives his read of the elf’s genuine intent. ”No, I’ve not met him before.” He waves the conversation off, obviously not wanting to get into it, ”This whole thing has me jumping at shadows. Makes a man suspicious, I guess.”
His attention is drawn back to his father, though, and he has to bite back a few sarcastic responses. Of course it’s a wise strategy, he thinks, but he schools his features to reserve and simply nods along.
”You know I’m worthless with a bow, so I’m ready to scout at your orders, Lord Thorgal” he says, trying to plant the idea in his father’s mind as his father’s own idea. Playing the part of a good thrall was important, if ridiculous sometimes. ”Aside from Knute, should I ask around for volunteers?”
Rikka steps forward, saying quietly. "I'll scout. Magic may serve in the stead of blades when the ring of steel on steel is dangerous."