RP:The King's Inheritence

Part of the Eboric Unites the Tribes Arc

Homecoming, Fog Forest

Eboric leads the small party up the hill to his home settlement, which proves to be a rather small village, complete with farms and flocks, small wooden homes and barns, and a long hall at the crest of the hill. A palisade surrounds it, of course, a legacy of the tribe's wars with the ogres of Gamorg to the south, but it is plain that no violence has reached this far in some time. Eboric is recognized at the gate, and so continues upward unchecked, with a guard running before to alert those within. As the party climbs higher, the rest of the Kuronii lands can be seen, stretching westward to the sea, dotted with similar villages and linked by wide dirt roads. The werebear takes a moment to look out over the familiar sight, his face unreadable as he surveys the land of his childhood. He is interrupted by a loud roar from the hall above, the sound emitting from a gray, stooped, but still powerful man who begins to descend as swiftly as he can, followed by a much younger, smaller figure, a robust blonde boy that soon speeds past his grandfather. Eboric turns to meet them both, an involuntary grin brightening his face.

Raidh has not felt at ease often throughout this entire journey, so very far from the only land she’s ever known. But, as they reach that hill and she surveys the view, she feels a little bit as though she has come home. These people are not so different to her own, though they live in houses which do not move, and she finds them all and their settlement with them entirely fascinating. That shout brings her attention sharply to the elder man, and blue eyes widen as the boy runs forward. “Aethelric?” she says, mostly a guess made to herself, and her lip part in a wide smile, before her gaze shifts back to the grizzled warrior she supposes must be her husband’s father.

Eboric nods at Raidh's question, answering, "My son," before stepping forward to meet the boy, swinging him into the air with ease. The child is but a toddler, and although he is big for his age, he is still dwarfed in his father's arms. Setting the boy back down, the warlord straightens to greet his father, who at last reaches the group. The family resemblance is unmistakable, although Penda is stooped by age and even more scarred than his son. "Father," Eboric says, turning back toward his party. "This is Raidh the daughter of Jarl Jorgun, of the Riddarnir people. I took her to wife, as part of a pact between her people and mine."

The old man peers at Raidh as Eboric speaks, and grins. "Another one? You're more foolish than I'd thought." Eboric snorts out a laugh, and Penda smiles before speaking again. "You are welcome in my home, Raidh, daughter of Jorgun."

Raidh’s people bow to no-one, this being their creed for untold centuries. However, the elder warrior elicits an immediate and profound sense of respect in the shieldmaiden, for Penda reminds her of her own father. She offers the ealdorman a dip of her head as a mark of that respect. “Lord Penda,” as she lifted her gaze again, she grins, “I see where my husband gets his humor from. It is an honor to become daughter to such a lineage.” She turns to gaze on Eboric’s son, “A line which will continue into the far ages, and many a fine song will come of it.” She snaps out of it with a slight cough, that small moment of seer-saying, which leaves her with a shivery nape. “The Jarl Jorgun Ironseat of the Great Western Plain is proud to once more have blood-bond between our people.” She finishes the formal greeting, a slight blush in her cheeks.

Eboric 's father inclines his head in return, another smile crossing his face, the expression seeming to come much easier to the father than to the son. "So long as my boy does not make a mess of it. But come, we will go to my hall. There is food, and drink, and you can tell me of this great plain from which you come." Penda turns and moves back the way he had come.

Eboric pauses only to scoop up Aethelric, who squeals joyfully, before following, his men falling behind. The hall consists of only a few rooms: one large room just inside the low door, with smaller, walled sleeping rooms along the back of the building. A fire burns in a pit in the center of the main room, and already servants bustle about it, bringing in meat to roast, and long loaves of bread.

"Had you given some warning of your coming," the old man lectures Eboric, "I would have had a feast prepared. But we will make do, and tomorrow we will hunt, and bring back a proper feast."

After the Feast, A Walk in the Fog

It’s late. So late that morning has opened one eye already, and even here in the fog-thick lowlands close to Penda’s hill the sky looks less black than a murky pre-dawn grey.

Raidh can barely see a hand in front of her let alone where her feet are taking her, so she’s stepping cautiously over rocks and clumps of grass, only occasionally getting snagged by a snaggly branch as she wanders. Eboric and Avaldi must be tired of scolding her for wandering off, but there always has been that itch in her feet, even back on the plains where she knows almost every mile of open grassland like an old friend. Let alone here! In this strange, exotic (very foggy) place, where the urge to explore is just too much. Her head is still somewhat muzzy with ale and kumis from the night before, and she’s dressed in thick wool against the damp and cold. As ever, by her side hangs a weapon, her short-handled seggox; now and then her hand reaches for it, just for the comfort it brings as she attempt to sight-see in this place where seeing sights isn’t exactly feasible.

Grailan wasn't already here, but he hadn't the desire to enjoy any drink with remnant partygoers of the dinner and he hadn't the need -or ability- to sleep. Easy movements brought his dead body in that obsidian-hued armor with the distinct sound of greaves touching one another as the thegn brought himself behind Raidh. And a step to the right. "You yearn to run free?" Each word was stated with the usual melancholy and oppressive sadness that exhuded from him, his pale skin, white hair, and dead, glossy eyes.

Raidh hears him coming; she recognizes the sound of that armor. Her face turns, reply comes over her shoulder. “I am already free. And running in this mist in the dark doesn’t seem a good idea to me.” Miss Facetious faces the deceased knight properly, then. “Of course,” she says, in that absent way people do when making an observation mostly to themselves, or answering their own questions. “You would not really require sleep, would you. Being,” she wonders if there’s a polite way to say it which doesn’t sound worse than the direct way, and decides there is not, “Dead.”

Grailan 's features did not betray any evidence of being offended by the queen's words, as they were enthralled in that mournful expression even as cold, dead eyes turned upon her as if in pity of her words. "I would like to rest, but I cannot." His gaze turned from her, neither admiring her form nor exposing her further to those hideous, sorrowful eyes. "Just as I cannot enter the Halls." Then his sight lit up, briefly, in an uncharacteristic hope; a liveliness that echoed briefly through his very being, "But you have entered them. What did you find?"

Raidh’s eyes hold no pity. Well. Not very much pity, for though she has a kindly heart, the very idea of ambulant cadavers is repulsive to her. And here she is, keeping company with one! Perhaps the murk hides her repugnance, as well as the fact that it is mingled, just a little, with sorrow at the thought of how it might be for a warrior banished from the home of the fallen brave. Draugheim, too, for that matter. And then, as if he can read her mind, Grailan makes that direct reference to that lacklustre realm, which startles the girl so that she blurts, “The dead.” There’s a long silence as she lets this foray into obviousness fade, then she adds, “Also, good reason to die amid the glory of battle. Draugheim is bereft of the joys that are to be found in the warrior’s halls, and I should not like to spend my afterlife there.” Raidh goes quiet again; this line of conversation has become awkward, all things considered. “But there’s peace, if you like that sort of thing. Tell me, Grailan, what it would take for you to find your way?” Raidh seems quite eager to help him get there, if she can.

A post is missing here! Oh noes! Hopefully, it will show up soon!

Though Raidh would gladly be rid of the dead man’s company, still she is impelled to comment, “Don’t call me that.” If she is answered by silence for more than a breath’s span, she will add, “I have yet done nothing to earn it.” She means it, this is obvious in the stubborn set of her face and frame; she will have none of it, this being queen by sole virtue of sleeping next to the King! Even though Grailan is dead and therefore repugnant by default to the shieldmaiden, she still regrets the sharpness of her tone with those last words when all he's offered her is courtesy. In a softer voice, she hurriedly follows with: “Our shamans might know a way. You should come with us, when we go to see my own father. Perhaps you may still find a path to some sort of peace, if not a more glorious afterlife.”

Morning, at Penda’s Hall

Penda's household rises early to prepare for the hunt, and Eboric wakes to the sound of hounds barking excitedly. He rises quickly, donning leather instead of the more noisy chain mail, and buckling his weapons belt around his waist. Ducking under the low lintel, he emerges into the predawn gloom and moves toward the small fire, around which those hunters already awake are huddled, eating red meat for strength. Eboric accepts his own portion and stands near the fire to eat it, listening to the others' idle chatter. Penda emerges not long after, and joins the werebear, standing only a little shorter than the younger man, despite his age.

Raidh slips back into Penda’s compound just moments before the King wakes, and perhaps her bleary-eyed, weary-faced visage will be attributed to the kind of restlessness which won’t get her in trouble. If, that is, neither Eboric nor Avaldi happen to note the state of her boots and lower pants-legs, spattered with dirt and thick with the sticky seeds of seaside grasses. Yawning, she joins Eboric and his father among the hunters’ breakfast camp, armed with a long-spear and her best ash bow, but lacking armors other than the thick wool of her tunic, padded inside with layers of felt. “Good morning, father,” she smiles to the elder Kuronii male, before greeting her husband. Sky-hued eyes glance around then, for she has not seen Avaldi at all since late in the feasting the night before, and hardly even then, thanks to the buxom serving-girls (plural) doing their level best to gain a seat in the warrior’s lap.

Eboric does happen to notice Raidh's condition, and he raises an eyebrow, but says nothing of it as yet. Instead, he greets her in return and gestures for the cook to give a few of the strips of meat to Raidh, as well. "A fine morning for a hunt," the king comments, and the others nod. More are straggling in now, the warriors high in the favor of their respective chieftains. Eboric turns from the fire, and notices Raidh glancing around, and it is not hard to guess who she is looking for. "I have not seen him since late last night. No doubt he was lured off by some warrior's daughter. Poor man, she'll have tricked him into marrying her by now." The hunters laugh, Penda included, though there are some that look like the joke may be more truth than humor to them.

Raidh is quite clearly relieved when a change of topic comes about, as one hunter speculates loudly on the number and species of game available this time of year. She listens as she chews on a strip of roasted meat; of particular interest to her is the excited talk regarding recent signs of a wild boar in the area. Swine prefer forests to plains, so while Raidh has heard many tales of boar-hunting she has not hunted one herself before. She turns to Penda, after wiping grease from her lips with her sleeve, “I hear they can be quite ferocious, father? I’d be pleased to know what other beasts roam your woodlands, it will be a good tale to take home, if I hunt something strange to the Riddarnir.” Aside from dragons, she won’t mention those, still feeling somewhat uncomfortable regarding their single dragon-hunt here. She looks around again, then, as something occurs to her sleep-deprived mind, “Are we riding?”

Penda takes a boar spear from one of the hunters, and shows the weapon to Raidh, pointing out the long blade with its heavy iron crossbar. "When you hunt boar, the best way to kill it is by letting it run itself onto your spear. The hounds flush it toward you, and once it feels like the only way out is through you, you step left, plant the spear, and aim for the heart." The old man glances up at the sky, now lightening slightly in the east. "It is time to begin. We may ride for a little while, but soon the trees will press too closely for the horses, and we will continue on foot." He signals, and the horses are brought.

Eboric climbs onto Beorhtanfeax, ignoring the curious glances his father's men give the spectral steed.

Raidh watches the demonstration closely, murmuring, “Avaldi would love that, it’s his way of fighting everything,” silently damning her brother for being absent, before she adds, aloud, “May Othinn bless this hunt, so close to Walpurgis that the gods may hunt with us. Let our weapons seek heart-meat and not thirst for blood!” The blessing given, she pulls a knife from her belt, slicing her hand a little so that a few drops of her own blood fall to the earth, a small sacrifice from shaman to her gods. Raidh then is approached by one of Penda’s warriors, her attention directed toward a thick-legged, feather-hocked gelding, a sturdy bay fellow, and thanks Penda heartily for the loan of a mount. “Your horses are bold of eye,” she tells him, a great compliment indeed, then says to Eboric with an excited grin, as she swings up into the saddle of the bay, “Good hunting, husband.”

Eboric gives a small smile. "And to you, wife," he responds, before the party begins to move out. They enter the forest swiftly, but there the pace slows dramatically, as the huntsmen led them along a winding path between the trees. The men holding the dogs' leashes range out ahead, letting the beasts sniff out their prey, while the bulk of the party rides together. Almost all are armed with the heavy boar spears, but a few have bows as well, and they constantly scan the woods for any sign of deer, or other beasts. As the path takes them southward, Eboric tells his father of the dragon, and how it met its end.

The old man squints at Raidh, looking for the amulet. "A neat trick," he says, when told of the corrosive power of the stone.

Raidh’s cheeks flush with pink at his words, “A very old trick, father Penda, one the Jarl hopes to revive some day, if we can rediscover the source of the dragonbane ore.” She slaps the bay’s neck gently, appreciation for the horse that is well-deserved. There is more she would have said, about the method of extracting the pure metal being lost to them now, and more besides, but that slew of information drawn from the old tales is, she wisely-for-once decides, best left for another time. The hounds hold her interest as they pass, larger than the swift, lean hounds of the plains. Her own spear, she thinks, is not apt for this hunt, being suited for running down bison and antelope, rather than standing for game, so she leaves it strapped in place and chooses her fine ash bow, a beauty of a weapon, and red-feathered arrows tipped with sharpened steel points.

The baying of the hounds interrupts Penda's reply, followed shortly by the long, loud call of the huntsman's horn. The party picks up the pace, trotting swiftly toward the sound of the beasts. As they draw closer, they can hear the snarls of the dogs as they corner the boar, the shouts of the hunters as they try to keep the hounds in line. Eboric slides swiftly from his horse, readying his spear. Most of the other hunters do as well, although Penda himself remains mounted, saying, "I am too old for such games. I will watch from here." In a tangle of brush against a stony outcropping, the hounds can be seen darting about excitedly, wary of the beast that lurks in the leaves.

Raidh’s already off her borrowed horse while it trots along beside Eboric’s. and she is then running toward the swine-at-bay with an arrow nocked, her eye trained along its shaft keenly for sign of the boar breaking siege. She is careful to angle herself between spear-holders, allowing space for her arrows to fly cleanly through the throng of hunters while keeping herself as close to Eboric as this action allows. As fast as her heart beats for the hunt, she spares a glance back to Penda, and that heart cracks a tiny bit for the tragedy of a great warrior grown old and feeble. But the hounds are baying for blood! The men are shouting! Cold and true is the gaze of Jorgunsdotr, keen as her arrows fixing on those bushes, her nerves taut as the string of her bow!

Eboric places himself in the very center of the half circle of spears, facing the threat directly. At the encouragement of the huntsmen, the hounds converge on their prey, snapping and biting to goad the boar into action. Two of them retreat yelping with deep cuts from the beast's sharpened tusks, but they have their desired effect. With a grunt, the boar breaks cover, charging out of the brush in a straight line, fury in its eyes. It is a huge thing, near three hundred pounds at least, with stiff black hair and long deadly tusks. The suddeness of its charge causes the horses to panic; they rear and paw at the air, fighting the servants that hold their reins. Eboric pays them no mind. His gaze is focused on the boar, his spear already dropping to aim at the creature's chest.

One arrow! Two! Like lightning from the hand of Othinn’s son, they fly from Raidh’s bow in swift succession. Three! Four! The boar’s charge is swift and brutal, it hide so thick, it’s skull so dense of bone that the bite of arrows is like the sting of marsh-flies to it, distracting but not deadly. The monstrous swine seeks blood-revenge on its tormentors, flinging itself toward the waiting spears! Raidh and the other archers round on it carefully, diverting its rage first from its left flank, then its right, but the boar is in his prime and filled with rage, and even this slew of sharp-tipped agonies cannot abate its furious charge. Raidh’s eyes widen as it bears down on the King, who flinches not!

A feral smile spreads across Eboric's face as the boar approaches, and he waits until the last moment to step once to the left, then plant his spear. The boar runs directly into it, the well-placed point driving straight into the beast's chest, followed by the long blade, until the boar encounters the heavy crosspiece, which stops it in its tracks. The spear bows alarmingly, but holds, and Eboric grunts with the effort as he stops the creature's advance with brute force alone. The pig gives a horrendous squeal, still struggling against its inescapable death, but it is futile. Handing the spear to the man next to him, Eboric draws a knife and approaches the dying prey, held transfixed by the spear in its chest. The king puts his free hand lightly on the boar's neck, patting the bristly fur almost gently, before he takes a more solid grip and drives the knife through the creature's eye and into its brain, ending its struggles. As he feels the life flee from the boar, Eboric straightens, grinning. The spearman pulls the weapon back, and the werebear crouches to heave the boar onto his shoulder, giving a pleased laugh at the immense weight as he turns back to the rest of the party.

Raidh’s jaw drops in a moment of disbelief as the great bear lifts the pig like a sack of onions. How strong he is! Then she smiles, a grin of vicarious triumph, while cheers ring through the air, the hunters hooting victory-cries for the son of Penda! She turns to follow the King but pauses as she hears she approach of hooves thundering through the trees. Who comes, so late in the hunt?

It’s Avaldi, of course, drunk as a wine-pickled fish, his feet planted on the back of his horse, his arms held out, like a surf-rider riding a wave, for balance. His spear is in hand and his beard is still wet with whatever those girls were serving him all night. Onward rides the Riddarnir heir! On to the hunt! – until a low-hanging branch refuses to move from his path and clocks him in the forehead with a massive thump. Not so much onward as downward, then, goes Avaldi Jarlsson! He is on his back, his brow already swelling, while his horse bolts toward the hunting party.

None of them see this unseemly accident, of course, just the horse in its riderless arrival. Raidh’s face screws up in concern for whoever (and she has an idea of the ‘who’ behind the ‘ever’) is no longer in the saddle.

Eboric turns to look at the riderless horse as it appears, confusion knitting his brows for a split second, only to be replaced by shock as his gaze slides to the other horses. The boar drops back to the earth with a thump, and Eboric sprints for the horses; there, on the ground, lies Penda. Thrown from his horse when the boar appeared, his fall has gone unnoticed, thanks to the excitement of the hunt, and it is only now with Avaldi's horse's arrival that the eyes of the party are drawn back to their steeds. The other's being too stunned to react quickly, Eboric is the first to reach his father's side. The old man's head came down squarely on a stone, and blood pools beneath him, darkening the gray hair. The king kneels beside Penda, laying his head on the old man's chest in search of a heartbeat. Finding none, he stands up, his face contorted in an awful grimace of grief and pain. His fist lashes out with blinding speed, catching the horse that his father had ridden on the side of the skull, a crack of bone sounding from both the horse's head and the warlord's hand. Ignoring both the flash of pain in his hand, and the thump of the lifeless horse hitting the ground, Eboric crouches again to gather up his father's body. By now, the rest of the party approaches, the huntsmen hanging back at least out of arm's reach.

Raidh forgets all about her brother for the moment, in the shock of what comes after the arrival of his horse. Her first thought is that the hunting party is under attack; her long-knife slithers free of its sheath, ready for blood. But no attack comes, only the terrible grief of a son for his father. She sees the horse killed, Penda’s blood on the stone. Her gaze fixes on the King, “Husband..” and while she doubts Eboric presently holds the reins of reason enough for words, but Penda’s spirit would hear, “Father of Nine and of All, Seer of all mysteries, Great Warrior, Seeker of Truths, guide Penda now to your feasting-halls, let him not drift to Draugheim’s drear realm! For he died in a hunt, in this hour of Walpurgis, and has served you well all his days!” Her voice is soft as she speaks the prayer.

Avaldi stumbles upon the cluster of hunters, his forehead swollen with a goose-egg, a wine-grin on his lips until it dies a swift death; he is not drunk enough for the gravity of the situation to escape him. Catching hold of what had just occurred, the King’s newest brother is abruptly a great deal more sober.

Eboric pays no mind to either the hunters, his wife, or the newly arrived Avaldi. Standing with his father's lifeless body cradled in his arms, he jerks his head at the servants tasked with holding the horses. "Take them." His voice is harsh with grief, although his eyes are dry. He turns and walks back they way they had come, putting one foot in front of the other in a brisk pace. The hunters swiftly take the servants in hand, and follow at a respectful distance, two of them tarrying only to place the boar's carcass across an empty saddle, the both of them grunting at the strain. And so they follow the king, keeping him in sight, but never straying to close to the king as he bears his burden back toward the hall.

Raidh’s look to her errant sibling is harsh, brief and full of the promise of later upbraiding. Her gaze then shifts to the servants, and knowing what fate and the hand of King has in store for them, hurries behind Eboric in silence. Prayers fill her mind and work upon her lips without sound as she walks apace with the saddened warriors, then strides ahead so she follows Eboric at a distance of several long paces. Her wounded hand leaves a trail, small droplets of blood fall as offering to the gods that they may show favor to the fallen Ealdorman.

Avaldi flinches at his sister’s scathing glance, his head low for the shame of being drunk at this moment, and rips his tunic as a mark of respect. The Jarl’s son thinks of the tales Penda told around the feast-fire the night before, and he too prays that the old warrior finds an eight-legged horse waiting to bear his spirit to the Hall of the Honorable Dead.

Upon the return of the hunting party, the folk of Penda's steading prepare for the funeral, subdued and silent. The boar is taken, gutted, and skinned, then thrust on a spit to roast. Messengers ride from the hall, sent to gather the folk from all across the tribe's land. It is yet early, and the distance is small enough that it is not long before the first mourners arrive. They gather in the hall, where ale and mead flow in abundance as they share stories of Penda, of the battles in which he triumphed, and the life he led. Eboric takes no part, however. After depositing his father's corpse in the hall, he takes himself to the high earthen mound behind the building, and seats himself at the apex.

Jorgun’s daughter does not join the celebration of Penda’s life either, but visits the village’s temple soon after their arrival at the hall. There, she washes in a bowl of water blessed thrice, cleansing herself of human frailty and all her other sins. Then she seeks out the holy men and women at the mound. The wound on her hand has clotted and closed; she opens it afresh, the blood dripping down her forefinger used as paint to mark the brows of the captive servants, runes appropriate to their coming fate. Only then does she seek the King out where he sits, though she will only hover in his periphery for the moment; if wants her, he can speak it. Otherwise, she will simply stand there in silence, until Eboric is ready.

Eboric remains silent as the sun climbs to its zenith, staring into nothing. Sometime after midday, Aethelric liberates himself from his nurse and climbs the hill to join his father and Raidh. He sits beside the warlord and imitates his gaze, staring off at the horizon. Some instinct keeps him from chatter, and Eboric does not break the silence. The mound on which they stand is a grave itself, occupied by Aethelred, the brother of Alimer and Ine, and it is from him that Eboric seeks advice, silently. As soon as the sun begins to set, the king stands, only then noticing Aethelric and Raidh. "Come," he says, his voice somber, his eyes still focused far away. "It is time." He descends the hill to the hall, his son dogging his heels. Within, the nobles of his father's land await, while the common folk gather outside. Penda's body lies on a stretcher, clad in armor, with his sword in his hand and his shield under him. As Eboric enters the hall, drummers begin to tap out a beat on their stretched hide instruments, filling the air with an ominous tone. The king approaches the stretcher in silence, and all conversation dies as the bystanders notice the heir's entrance.

That somber quiet is broken now by a low and eerie, keening-song. Raidh’s voice is pure and strong, a fit vessel for the holy words leaving her lips. In her hand, a sharp knife, its razor-edge blessed and dedicated for sacrifice. Somewhere above the hall comes a deep, rolling rumble and soft gasps of the gathered underscore the maiden’s song. Thunder! The gods indeed have come for the soul of Penda! Raidh’s gaze is distant, her mind gone to prayer.

By the mound outside, an elderly priestess directs warriors to bow the disgraced servants down so they might be properly cleansed. She is careful not to smudge the mark Raidh has laid upon them in blood.

In the hall, Raidh continues the song she learned in the yurt of the seers, its language ancient and barely recognisable, root-words shared once by Kuronii and Riddarnir both in times long gone by.

Eboric glances up as Raidh begins to sing, her words triggering a memory that is not his own. It belongs to the brothers that share his life, Alimer and Ine, and it is from their memories that he joins in the song, in words long since forgotten by the Eastern Kuronii. Wild as the northern wind, the song rises and falls, taking on an otherworldly nature as the high and low voices blend together. Penda's people listen, enraptured, to the ancient melody. As it draws to an end, Eboric places one hand on his father's chest. Ancient words spill forth from him, echoing through the hall.

Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?

Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?

Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?

Hwær sindon seledreamas?

Eala beorht bune!

Eala byrnwiga!

Eala þeodnes þrym!

Hu seo þrag gewat,

genap under nihthelm,

swa heo no wære.

Subsiding, the warlord turns to the hall's door, where the blood-marked servants enter wordlessly, moving to take up the stretcher. As one they lift, and carry the corpse out of the door and toward the mound. Eboric precedes them, moving swiftly to roll away the large stone that covers the grave mound's entrance.

Thunder cracks across the sky again, swiftly following a flash of lightning’s forked fire. Clouds have rolled in, their deep black edged with hems of white in places, gold and red in others, yet not a drop of rain falls.

When the song is finished, Raidh treads her path behind the King until they reach the mound. As shaman and daughter, it is her job to ensure that sacrifices are properly carried out.

Avaldi has been missing for some time, but returns now with a heavy, blood-soaked sack in which are the head and hooves of the horse which threw Penda. Prayers spills over his yellow, horse-blood spattered beard, while he lowers the sack to the ground near the entrance to the mound. Raidh turns to her brother, and he shivers, for he can plainly how the spirits have taken her, how the will of the gods peers and peeks from her eyes.

Raidh picks up the bagged offerings with an indifferent nod, effortlessly as if her arm belongs to someone much stronger. Knife in one hand, proper Riddarnir offering in the other, she waits for Eboric to finish his portion of the rite.

Eboric glances over to Raidh, noting the blood-stained sack. He nods, as if to himself, and gestures for her to follow, as he trails the servants into the mound. Within, a long corridor can be seen, with open doorways gaping on either side. Although the servants seem intent on continuing down the hall, Eboric halts them, directing them through the first doorway on the right. Within, only one body rests. The bones of Aethelred, long since laid to rest, moulder on an earthen shelf dug out of the hill itself. The servants set the body beneath those remains, then stand off to one side, waiting. Eboric glances to those following, few as they are, ignoring the fact that his young son is present. Guards march forward to take the servants in hand, and the first is pushed toward the king. Drawing his knife, Eboric takes the man by his hair and opens his throat in a swift slash, holding the servant so that the gush of blood washes over Penda's corpse. One by one, the rest of the servants follow, each meeting his end over the blood-soaked beir, until only the last remains alive.

Raidh solemnly treads a circuit around the sacrificed men, a piece of horse taken from the sack and lain beside each: four hooves, one each for the cardinal points. The last servant, who can barely control the trembling in limbs but yet holds his tongue so he may with some honor intact, is directed by Raidh to stand at Penda’s crown, holding the head of the King’s horse in his arms.

“You are blessed,” she whispers to him, “To be given this, a second chance to do your duty well.”

The man nods and steadies himself on his feet, even as Raidh’s curved blade opens his throat. The horse-head tumbles from his arms as he falls, and Raidh hurries to arrange it in its proper place. On the plains, the bier would lie atop a tall stand of wood, so eagles and ravens may feast. Here, her song calls them in spirit only, to carry away the spent flesh of Penda to lofty places as gods, ancestors and fallen kin welcome him home.

Beyond the mound, the rain at last is falling, a torrential downpour amid which the yells of children drown amid the sound of the gods beating their shields for the Ealdorman’s return.

Eboric steps forward toward the skeleton on its shelf. the warlord's appearance, to those gifted with soul-sight, shifts blindingly, now showing the face of Eboric, now of Alimer, now of Ine, a dizzying cycle. Entranced, the king lays his hands on the skull of his ancient ancestor, clasping the bone tightly as the last of the servants dies, his blood splashing onto Penda's pale flesh. An eerie ringing fills the chamber, a ghostly noise that drives the warriors back, out of the room, although Eboric himself does not stir. Before the skeleton stands the spectral figure of Aethelred, clad in armor, his ancestral cloak falling from his shoulders. The spirit meets the eyes of its brothers, unseen, unheard communication passing between the wights, before the ghost steps forward, merging itself with the physical body of its descendant, joining with the spirits of both Northern and Western Kuronii, within the body of Venturil's king, which shudders uncontrollably, dropping into a kneeling position.

The nobles of Penda's court return warily to the chamber, where they behold the shifting visage of the king. They kneel as one, in the presence of Otherworldly might, to do homage to the true heir of the Kuronii clan.

Left standing are the Riddarnir, who bow to no-one, not even such venerated ghosts as these. Avaldi’s sword-arm thumps across his chest, however, a sign of his respect for Penda, and friendship to the King.

Raidh is still in the grip of the gods, and to her seer’s eyes the ghosts of the Kuronii forefathers may as well be alive and present. “There is only one now,” she says, in a voice not entirely her own, “One more brother, though he be long-lost to you.”

Avaldi glances at her sharply, but his sister is not wholly ‘at home’ and ignores him utterly.

“On your feet,” she says to Eboric, “The weight of those who came before must be borne. Stand!” But it is not Raidh speaking, for the tone is gruff and deep and unlike her own in inflection.

Eboric stands, though it is unclear whether that is by Raidh's order or from some unknown call, and shuffles forward, his body fully under control of the wights that share his flesh and mind. He steps toward the specter of Aethelred, one arm extanded, palm outward. Aethelred meets the king's hand with his own, flesh of spirit and man meeting between them in a crescendo of noise, filling the tomb with a keening sound, that lasts for a full minute. eventually, however, only one being stands above the dead Ealdorman; that of Eboric, with the three ghostly brothers flitting vainly behind the war-king's ice-blue eyes.

The Kuronii king turns then, looking over to Raidh. "It is done," is all he says, speaking with the voices of Alimer, Ine, Aethelred, and Eboric himself, an eerie mixture that echoes strangely from the earthen walls of the mound.

In that moment where all merge to one in the flesh of her husband, Raidh becomes just a skinny girl with a knife in her hand. The knife trembles, clots of blood falling from it, for the strain on Raidh has been great. She will keep her feet though, and her spine steady, for is she not a child of Jorgun Iron-seat, sister of the Half-Arm and wife of Eboric, son of Penda? Steadily, she will stand in the phantasmal sight of the barrow-kings, too!

Avaldi does his best, but he is no shaman and never will be, plus he has an incredibly powerful hangover which was not aided at all in being flattened by a branch. The Half-Arm keeps his feet but he is pale to the point of sickly, sweat beading on his brow.

Eboric turns from his father's body, which lies blood soaked on the sodden earth. On his head shines the ancient crown of Aethelred, graven with runes, a mark of the dead king's presence. He gestures for the two Riders to follow, and exits the mound. Around the gravesite the folk of Penda's realm have gathered to witness what they may of the festival.

The warlord turns and climbs the mound, halting at its apex to face the crowd. "My people," he begins, his voice still full of soul might from his experience within. "Within this mound lies my father, Penda, resting with our hallowed ancestors. I grieve for him, as I know you do. As his heir, I claim lordship over his lands and lords, his wealth and herds. But I do not mean to remain here. In the West, I have carved myself a kingdom, wherein live tribes of our folk; Northern and Western Kuronii, with those of our blood that have been with me since I first set forth from this isle. It is there that the future of our clan lies. This land is tainted, accursed, as my father's death portends. Nothing but sickness and death awaits us here. Come west with me, my kin, and I will give you fields flowing with crops, rivers teeming with fish, a land free of ogres, dragons, and other such monsters. I will give you the West, and more!"

A gravid silence follows Eboric’s speech, all faces are turned to him, all eyes intent on the heir. It hangs for many moments, long enough that it seems to Raidh as if the Kuronii are offended and there will be some sort of revolt. But then, Eboric’s people (her people now, too!) draw breath and roar in unison, a mighty cheer that rings in her ears long after, and then comes the cacophony of an excited crowd discussing what he’d said. Change comes hard to people, some more than others, Raidh knows this all too well, so she thinks little of the frowns and shakes of head she sees among the laughter and cheers. Venturil is everything Eboric has promised and more, and she was sure even the most curmudgeonly of elders would find it a pleasant change from all this fog and gloom. Her legs threaten to give out under her, but still the maiden stands before her King. Soon, she will earn the right to be called ‘Queen’. For now, she is just proud to be the wife of a man whose line springs from warriors, one who could command such loyalty and respect as she sees here.

Eboric's relief can almost be felt, although he keeps his face blank as the crowd roars aloud. He waits for them to quiet down before continuing. "There is much that must be done. The bones of our ancestors will remain here; this was their land, and they will stay with it, as I know they wish. But my father's body will come with us, to be interred in a mound in our new home, that he may still bless us with frith and luck from the Land of the Ancestors. Those of you that own ships may use them to sail to the mainland. I will buy them from you myself when the voyage is done, and I will send them back for those of you that do not own one of your own. Bring all of your valuables, your herds and flocks. I will arrange safe passage through Cenril, and my warriors will escort you over the plains and through the mountains. The journey is not hard; there are paved roads leading home. Go, my people, and prepare." Dismissed, the crowd disperses to prepare, and the king turns to Raidh. "You have done well," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "But you must be weary." He offers her an arm to help her down the steep slope and into the hall.

It wouldn’t be seemly for Raidh to show the extent of the weariness overtaking her, so she takes Eboric’s arm lightly and with grace, and doesn’t lean on him at all the way she really wants to. At the King’s words of praise, her features glow with warmth, and a faint but happy smile.

Avaldi is walking stiff-legged down the slope too, his brow angry with purples and reds, his eyes squinting though the sun is not bright in them.

Raidh casts her brother a worried glance.

Avaldi returns it with a grin. Has he not survived worse? He raises his stump and waves it, to assure her of this.

But the bump is not what is raising concern in his sister. Raidh mutters to Eboric, “He needs a good hard battle to knock sense into him, and soon, if he’s drinking again.”

Eboric glances over at Avaldi, examining him as best he can. "Is he one of those men that fall entirely into the bottle, body and soul? I have known such in my time. I will thrash it out of him, if you'd like; it may be some time before we find a foe able to give us a good fight. I will do my best not to hurt him too badly, of course, but is often necessary for a...a man like him to take a good beating. It lets them know who leads the pack."

Something in all of that bothers Raidh, but she’s too weary to think on it deeply. Keeping her voice low, she replies, “Not entirely, no. But he gets reckless, restless. He is much like our father that way, as you’ll probably see once we go to visit the Jarl.” There’s more to it, but Avaldi’s sorrows are not hers to tell, “I am sure some good, hard training will improve things. And not just for my brother, husband. I fear I may grow into a fat ceorl-wife if I don’t take up a sword or axe soon, in earnest.” It is Raidh’s experience that any sorrow in a man who deserves to be called a man is generally put to rest once he gets excited about a battle, with friend or foe, it didn’t matter. The Rider siblings are not the only ones she thinks would benefit from focussing on blade and shield.

Eboric cannot help but smile. "It is true that peace gives birth to softness. But my father always said that peace is merely a chance to train, before war returns. When we return to Venturil, I will expect both of you to join me in the training yard, with the men. It will not be easy, that at least I can promise you." He leads the way into the hall, and makes for the main bedchamber; although it feels strange to him, it is never wise to eschew the trappings of rulership.

Translation: Eboric's song

Where is that horse now? Where are those men?

Where is the hoard-sharer?

Where is the house of the feast?

Where is the hall's uproar?

Alas, bright cup!

Alas, burnished fighter!

Alas, proud prince!

How that time has passed,

Dark under night’s helm,

as though it never had been!