The snow was not particularly unwelcome to the itinerant priestess, either.   It minded her of winters back home-- secure and comfortable in their family's home.  Particularly those occasions where her mother's unspoken preoccupations had seemed at bay.  And she had gone about performing the role of mother, and wife, and homekeep, with something that could pass as contentment.  If not joy.  At those times, she had enthralled Petra and her step-brother with Elvish folktales, steeped in mystery and mysticism. Told them something of the histories of the various Elven tribes, which were as enrapturing as any fiction she could have devised.  And prepared for them baked treats that were as much craft-art, as they were food.

Her father had been his happiest at those times, too.  All Elger Faust had wanted was the satisfaction of his trade and his business, and the happiness of his small family.   Small enough things to ask, one would think, for all that the latter was fated to be ephemeral.

And then of course there were the outings with her uncle -- somehow even more magical and special during winter, than even spring, which she generally held her favorite season.  The boundless white mantle of the snows was ineffable in its beauty.  That it paradoxically brought danger and death notwithstanding.  That only added to its poignancy.

Today, Petra required no furs to stay warm against the chill.  The cloak Kandralde had gifted to her kept her warm;  enough so she needed not augment her attire at all.  Even lacking it, she knew an invocation that would produce the same result, for a full day and night.  She had planned to offer it to Heolstor. But, having failed to convey her plans to him the previous night, he had let her sleep in.  Truly, he was the least controlling of lords one could ever expect to find!  And, yet, he no less commanded loyalty of those who followed him than the most so.  Which she understood well the why of.

Valhalla smiled upon the leader who inspired, rather than domineered.

Shortly enough, she found tracks that looks like his. Joined by those large enough that she wagered Tugdual was back with them.  Which was well.  The Druid was welcome company, with his wisdom at once earthy and eldritch, his astounding contributions to their efforts.  Drawing nearer, Petra caught snatches of conversation as she did.  And stopped in her tracks, on overhearing the topic.  She suddenly found something on a nearby tree to take interest in.   A mix of feelings rang within her, like a discordant note.

Heolstor's family had been unsettled by his father's decision to take a Brython bride, and introduce that blood into their line.

What would they think of adding too the blood of a woman of mean birth, and that of Elves?  No grand noble house, as in all the pretty lays about love between Human and Elf -- but an Elvish fugitive , evading the consequences of her thievery, if Petra's suspicions were true.  Ah, she could well imagine how that would go over.

She hated this line of thought.  Especially, after last night.  Likely, one day, she would see Heolstor take a proper Saxon noble-woman as his bride, and she --  she, would end up some robed and ribboned high-priestess in some reclusive, remote, temple-tower!  Aye.  Likely enough, she concluded in dour humor.  Sometimes, this world vexed her a great deal. With all its silly customs, and binding traditions.  She was half-tempted to inveigle Heolstor to disappear to her homeland, once this was over.  Where no one would know him, except her.  And they could keep a modest cabin in the woods, live in total obscurity, like any other rustic, peasant couple.

It was of course a silly child's dream.  But - she was unashamed to retain some of those.  Reckoning they were in fact good for the soul, and the heart.

Petra cleared her throat audibly, resumed her pace, making no effort to silence it.  She nodded to the both of them, once she was close enough to talk:

"My lord Heolstor.  Druid Tugdual --  so good to have you back with us!  I will interpret this as a favorable omen.  Not to mention bad news for our foes." 
This message was last edited by the player at 20:14, Fri 01 Mar 2013.

 After Heolstor's words, Tugdual had remained silent for a long while. Indeed, he did not wish to think or talk about the painful parts of his history, those feelings that brought a bitter taste to his family memories.

 Upon noticing that Petra had come closer to them, the druid wondered whether she had heard what the two men had been talking about. He welcomed here with a warm smile and few words :
  "The proverbial Valkyrie... welcome dear, walk with us."

 After only a few steps together, the blunt druid resumed his talking :
  "I was just mentioning to Lord Heolstor how grand it would be for the two of you to bring forth a new life into this world."

Hun strategties area a muddled compromise between greed and bloodthirstiness.  On the one hand, they have their lust for battle.  But on the other, the knowledge that battle brings both gain and loss, and in the long run, the greatest leaders are those that maximize the gains and minimize the losses.  So even a hasty retreat, like the retreat from the debacle at Beda, evolves rapidly, and the paradigm shifts from "let's get out of here" to "let's get out of here with whatever plunder and strategic advantage we can."

To that end, the moment there was news that the force at Beda had been turned back, the Huns abandoned their river location at Celtanc.  The Elven town of Celtance was in a fine position if you wanted to control movement throught the Fifth and Sixth wards of the Kingdom of the Ardennes, but as Tugdual and the Elves had already seen first hand, the tight river bends nearby, with their steep bluffs along the banks, made it too easy for river traffic in into and out of Celtanc to be intercepted.  And now that the priority had shifted to "getg out of here with as much as we can", the Huns didn't wish to see their flotilla intercepted again.

So even as the remnants of their assault force was retreating, the barges were being moved.  Celtanc was abandoned, with every prize the Huns could take.  It did not matter if it had any value- the simple fact that something was taken from Elves made it valuable to the Huns.  As soon as they could, the barge landing position was shifted downstream- to the very point were Tugdaul, Haakon, and Cirostis had participated in the attack on the barges as they came up.  The steep bluffs the party had held were ideal for controlling the river below, and now, they were equally ideal for setting up a final defensive perimeter while Orcs frantically scrambled onto the waiting barges.

Most of this is seen by the Owls- the great Stryx and the flock, tired and having lost a few over the days, is in the air again, silent feathered masters of the night sky.  Even as the group hurries to intercept, Owls pass on word of the Hun movements, and the allies are able to shift their own courses.

Very strangely, Hermod seems to have some kind of natural rapport with the giant owls.  Almost like they all belong to the same "Magical Feathered Wings Club".  They seem to understand each other even without words being exchanged, although exactly what thoughts are being exchanged is impossible to know.

The Owls give up to the minute reports of where the Huns are, and it soon becomes apparent that "Force Heolstor" has several choices for movement:

They could go directly up and over the ridge- the shortest route because it cuts across the neck of the tight river loop, but right into the thickest defense the Huns have.  This route has the greatest risk, but the potentially greatest return- if the ridge top is taken, they will have the same commanding position over the river that Haakon, Tugdual, and Cirostis did a few days ago.

They could follow the river loop- this is the longest route, but bypasses the natural defense of the ridge top.  This is a safer route but gives the Huns more time to escape.  More barges would get away.

They could divert even further south west and check out Celtanc.  They might miss the main barge force entirely, but very likely they would catch the last stragglers at Celtanc and be able to hit them with overwhelming force, as well as intercepting any lastg groups of retreating Orcs whose last instructions were "get to Celtance and get on a barge" and didn't get the memo about the site being moved.

Finally, they could head north of the Hun ridgetop blocking position, and reach a good point downriver of them, perhaps by a few miles.  If so, they would likely encounter the barges already on the move, along with any Orcs that for some reason weren't able to get on a barge and are following along on land.  (When the Huns came, they also had a column on either side of the river.  They had far too many Orcs for the barges, and they had the warbeasts that could not fit.  Things might be different now, but it is still likely that given the hurry and the scattered forces, many Orcs will not be able to get on a barge.)

Previously-

Petra Faust might be legitimately accused of a number of things.  But, easy to embarrass, and being at a loss for words, weren't on the list.

But the Druid's blunt honesty left her with mouth slightly agape, and a ruddy tint rapidly encroaching on her cheeks.  Recovering from the initial shock, she groped and grasped for some appropriate answer.  Any answer.  And then tried to think of a joke that would render the whole matter unserious.  And finally prayed Heolstor might have one.

But, lacking any such reprieve, she finally resorted to looking  off into the distance. And some comment about the prevailing and probable weather condition.  And then took interest in an unusual bird. A chickadee...well, they were sort of unusual, she tendered lamely.  Compared to a robin-?

Quasi-mercifully, there were no lack of weighty and consequential matters to discuss.

Presently-

She cast her gaze heavenward, where Hermod soared and swooped with the great Owls.  Intrigued by the seeming empathy betwixt he and they.   Certainly, they were alike fliers...but that did not explain it, in her mind.

"Would it be right to say both are elementals of Air, in a manner? Or could a flesh and blood being never truly be considered such?" she inquired of Tugdual.

As to their approach against the enemy, she felt she should have some wise council to offer.  But, she was yet no strategist, and nothing immediately lept out at her.  So she awaited to hear Heolstor's perception of the situation.

 Tugdual had not had any mischievous intent, but he seemed rather satisfied with Petra's awkward reaction. Very likely, things would move on this front faster than anyone expected. If bards did not get to writing about it, he would do it. He smiled good-heartedly when the priestess attempted a shift of topic towards avian matters.

 Once she had recovered and started wondering about the very nature of airborne creatures, the old druid gladly offered his insights :
  "I would not call them elementals of Air, no... though I suppose it is a matter of vocabulary, essentially. Dwarven has many words for steel, I understand, when Druidic calls iron any metal that is neither gold or silver... but has over a dozen different words for oak. I probably shouldn't blab about druidic vocabulary though.
 Anyways... I'd say they are both creatures infused with elemental magic, rather than pure elementals."

 He suggested they went directly up and over the ridge. Risk was great, yes, but the position was worth it and he though it would give them the best edge against the barges.

Heolstor was of no help to poor beleagured Petra. The corner of his lips twisted up wryly, thinly masking a smile. The Frisian Priestess was not often flustered... And he did find the flush of her cheeks pretty, bright as it was against the starkly white and grey world that surrounded them. Strang stepped across the snow's surface, feet crunching through its thin ivory blanket to the crisp autumn leaves below. He noted the snapped base of a slender aspen whip as he passed by - its young wood bent and cracked by something large and careless. Here and there a splinter of bright green and pale yellow showed through the break.

Recent. An orc, the Saxon guessed, but also a reminder. This forest of winter was beautiful... But they were not alone, and those that shared it with their cohort wished harm upon them.

He wondered if this was how the Huns had felt when they crossed into Elf-lands. Heolstor decided, after a moment, that it was not. Elves were masters of fighting in woodland country, particularly their own. Huns by comparison were amateurs, blind to the wilderness.

Then there was the matter of the barges...

"I prefer the direct route," Heolstor suggested "Caution has its place, but if we do not destroy their barges our elvish allies will only see them again. Headed down this river carrying another horde of warriors - intent on reaving their way through the Ardennes."

After making a wide, high circle in the air, Hermod lands near Petra, and walks, wings folded but ears erect and aiming this way and that with rapid flicks.

The horses are doing the same thing, and cavalrymen know- the horses always know first.

The ridge is partially cut by a saddle pass- Tugdual recalls this was the way they came to elude the Orcs after ambushing them at the river, on the east side of the ridge.  Up here on the ridge the trees are low and wind twisted.  On the ridge, the sunrise is visible early, the orange glow rising over the hills to the east.  The horses follow the ridge line, the land sloping down to either side.

Then, from the saddle, they can see the Orcs blocking the ridge about 800 feet ahead of them, past the saddle, commanding the highest point ahead.  They are barely visible, only as shadows moving through the dawn woods- there is too much cover, and too much distance, to tell anything more.

 Like any horseman (though more of an aurochsman at the moment) Tugdual knows how to read and when to trust the instinct of one's mount. The druid dismounts and whispers :
  "Let me scout ahead... no need to fall in an ambush."

 He crouches and curls up, loses in stature and volume, and soon gains an orange shade very much suited to the dim dawn light.

 The moment after, a red fox scurries away and ahead, ready to gather intelligence on the number of orcs, weaknesses in their defence line, possible breaches in their position, terrains where they could easily be overrun or flanked...

 Once done, Tugdual comes back and resumes his human shape to report.

Tugdual brings back his report of the Orc position at the top of the ridge.

There are less than a score of Orcs up there, ready and waiting to hold the position at all costs against the Elven attack they expect.  They are wearing very heavy armor, and they have taken cover behind trees and rocks.  They are spread out, forming a loose defense, so a single offensive spell- the most feared weapon of Elves, along with their arrows- can take only a few at once.   In front of their position, they have set a few spears into the ground to impede attackers.  That last touch seems one of desperation- with their loose position, the spears can be bypassed; there are not enough of them to make a solid barricade.

But the most worrisome things are the two skulls Tugdual saw, set on posts.  He felt a chilling fear as he approached, and he saw runes scribed in blood on each skull.  Tugdual has never been a squeamish man, but he recalls having felt a panic creeping upon him, and the two skulls were almost unbearable to look at.

The Orcs are quite aware that they have been pursued.  Tugdual's troops aren't as noisy and cumbersome as a large army, but apparently the signature is enough- the Orcs know "something is out there" and they are waiting at the ready.

She again marveled at Tugdual's facility for slipping into, apparently, whatever form of fauna suited his purposes.  Once having heard the description of the macabre and profane totems, she offered to Heolstor:

"Let me try to deal with those.  Such unholy magic is best countered by the power of the divine. And, it will be a pleasure. I am tired of these perverse priests of demons. And their willingness to stoop to all manner of foulness, in pursuit of their sick aims."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:34, Sat 09 Mar 2013.

The enemy's position sounded formidable. Though it wasn't ever, Heolstor supposed, likely to be anything but. He crept forward in the snow. His footsteps came lightly, though even then they broke the brittle crust atop those ivory drifts. Strang held his blade close - one of the magicked ones he'd pulled from the dead. His steaming breath left a thin dew on the blade's tip, lighting it up bright white wherever his breath touched it.

Petra spoke. Heolstor listened. The passion in her voice was real. Strang understood his, in his own way. Everything these shamans and dark priests did was a perversion of Petra's own art. Their gods too were bitterly aligned in opposite her own. For a servant of righteous gods - it would be a wonder if she was not so passionate. "Do what you can then, Petra. I will take the hill when you have dispelled their foul sorceries."

Strang gave the signal for his men to spread out into a skirmishing line, if no such order was given from their elven leader.

Hermod appears before Petra without even being called, sensing in that uncanny way he has that he is needed.  The Winged Horse folds his wings back and does a shallow bow that with any other equine would look awkward, but because of the wings, is part of the "boarding procedure" with Hermod.

From their position, the Orcs can see something large and white, and they don't like it.  Large things with that clean, pure brightness are always trouble for Orcs.  There is some noise and shouting from them, but at this distance no one can really make out what they are saying.

 As a Fox, the druid had managed to brush off the effects of malevolent magics infused in the gruesome totems. Yet he came back restless, a feeling of unease making him shiver even as he grew back to his natural shape and size.

 Tugdual reports and suggests :
  "I'm not master of tactics... but couldn't we strike on their flanks, taking few of them at a time ? They expect a frontal attack, we ought to deny them that...

  When indeed we do attack... I have two surprises for them."

 The druid analyses the terrain with care, considering how best to make use of a sleet storm to cover their approach, and then of a flaming sphere to roll along the hunnish line of defence.

To work with a being possessed of such grandeur as Hermod was truly a wonder.  Petra wondered what father, uncle, and, (particularly) mother would say, if they only knew.  Her mother-- probably quite certain in her head that her half-human offspring would do no more than spend her early years as a common huntress, or border skirmisher.  Before settling down to make a banal and proper home with some local boy.  The sort of thing her mother had run from. Like the thief in the night Petra was fairly certain she truly was.

Ah, mama -- if you could but see me now.  Anointed cleric -- ministering to and aiding an army. Standing on the lines and facing Hun warriors, shamans, and Abyssal Lords.  Having fate-heavy conversations with the leaders of your people, in the Elvish that you taught to me! For no more reason than not wishing your child to be -too- human.  And, aye, let us not leave out the winged horse. Little pestering Petra had come quite a ways, indeed. 

She caught herself, then.  She knew the deep folly of such thinking.  What the Romans called 'hubris.' Or perhaps simply still trying to get even with her mother, in the only way left to her. Whatever- it was worthless stuff to have any attention on, now.  She had told the most beloved person in her life today that she would perform a duty.  And so she would.

Mounted upon the wind-steed, they swiftly took altitude.  Tugdual's idea had merit for her, too. Deny the foe the luxury of any approach too predictable.  And create a distraction, to aid the stealth of those afoot.

Petra urged Hermod to all the speed he could muster, directing him further and further upward. And then swooped sharply down.  Once they were thirty feet from the height of the ridge she arced wide to the right, and then came in sharp toward them, as wary of any missile weapons as she could be.  Petra's hand went to the quintet of sacred sigils that hung from her neck.

Her objective was the grisly totems...

2.
The Orcs have chosen their defensive position with an appreciation for terrain.  They hold the crown of the ridge.  Flanking them means moving onto the slopes of the ridge, and they are steep.  What’s worse.. it’s December, in the Ardennes, and ice and snow are everywhere, even without a Sleet Storm spell.  The slopes to either side of the Orcish position are hazardous.  (Of course, a Sleet Storm spell would change those slopes to “suicidal”.)  The troops must fight dismounted here.

Tugdual suddenly recalls the hooked gloves that had been captured from Orcs.  They’d come in handy, moving on treacherous ground like that.

The ground is rocky with boulders large and small.  The trees have shed their leaves.  Heolstor's troops fan out and advance on the Orcs.


Petra takes to the air and heads for the foe... very understandably, the Orcs are not to keen about this, and they take a few shots with arrows and spears.  But Petra isn't after them, and uses the crowns of the trees as cover as she appoaches one of the skull-staffs. 



 

 As the elven troop advances and reaches the hazardous area where they might be a target for the Hun archers, Tugdual calls on the power of Taranis to bend the elements and locally disturb the climate.

 A sleet storm covers the front part of the ridge, extending from the left pole to the right pole, hiding the elves and their horses. Only the few skirmishers scattered at either end of the orcs line may get a line of sight.
  sleet storm, 40' radius cylinder, centred around V-15

  "March towards the storm ! It will only last a few moments, and as soon as it dissipates, charge and engage them !"

 Vurambix the aurochs walks a brisk pace next to Tugdual, and he is ready to lead the druid right in the middle of the battle field.

Near to them now, she knew what it was Tugdual had experienced.   No simple effect instilled by merely looking upon the things. She knew the doughty Druid had viewed far more grisly spectacles.  As had they all.

No, this was, in truth, the bane-laden* power of the unholy.

But, in counter to it was the holiness of the Gods whose supernal might she now invoked.  Within her fingers were the sigils that stood for those Petra named:   "Frigga, Freyja, Ullr, All-Father Woden, and life-bringer Eostre...cast out this deathful blight from the sweet soils of Midgard!"

She was a vessel, a channel.   The power that she drew upon came through her, but was not of her. It was a sacred trust that allowed her to wield it, and bring it into this world.  One that she must ever and always strive to be worthy of...


*bane-laden -- you know, like Osama Bane-Laden.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:45, Thu 14 Mar 2013.

Petra's faith is suppressing the power the Orcs had expected would cause fatal fear and hesitancy in an attacking force.  The Orcs aren't too happy about this, and there are some muttered promises concerning what will be done to a certain shaman whose powers are much weaker than expected.

Heolstor's force, led by Tugdual's big Aurochs, (which finally has an opportunity to do something), charges up along the spine of the ridge, at the center of the Orc position which is rapidly abandoned.  The Orcs were prepared for Elven magic, and they know how to handle these wide "area spells" stay loose, stay mobile, swarm and attack the spell casters.

One of which is obvious:  the flying blonde woman on the bird-pony thing.  Hermod keeps moving, but the Orcs keep sending arrows an javelins their way.  One Javelin grazes one of Hermod's legs, and an arrow gives Petra a superficial cut across her back.

The Orcs become divided, leaving the Sleet Storm center of the ridgetop, while they break into bands on the steeper ground to either side.

But Heolstor's force is screened by the Sleet Storm- the Orcs can't see through it to aim any weapons at the attackers.  They rush up, hoping to time their assault with the lifting of the spell.

 

 Tugdual was perhaps not happy but at least a little bit content that his faithful bull steed finally saw some action. Often they had ridden through the wide valleys, practising these kind of charges... now was the time for the aurochs to show his mettle.

 Meanwhile, Tugdual has taken notice of Petra's situation. He calls on a few of the elves around him and shouts :
  "You and you, and you too. With me, let us overrun them on the flanks."

 And so the druid leads a small group of four to the left side of the ridge, with an intent to neutralize them before they can throw more metal things at the priestess. At the vanguard, Tugdual brandishes his great oaken club and is ready to break some hunnish skulls.

"Ah!" cried the priestess, as she and steed were both dealt relatively superficial, but still blood-letting, wounds.

She focused past that pain, which was wholly bearable, and maintained her will upon what she was doing.  Desiring to give her allies the best odds for ending this swiftly as was possible.

"The spirits of the valiant watch from Freyja's blessed hall in Fólkvangr! Bless all who fight only to defend Life and Light!"

With Petra's blessing, they charge in as the Sleet Storm vanishes.

The storm divided the Orcs- the "south group" reacts quickly, but the north group is struck with the Aurochs, which crushes the first Orc that gets in front of it, and the bulk of Heolstor's force.

Divide and Conquer.  It looks like it will be a quick fight at the ridge top.

Note:
These aren’t Elven warriors here… well, a few are Elves.  Most are hand picked volunteers from Heolstor’s men.  The Elves are within a mile or so, having taken different routes, with everyone moving in small bands for maximum speed and efficiency in the forest at night.


 

 Tugdual fights alongside Heolstor's men, his great club flies from an orc to the next and his fur cape blocks their wicked blades. A few weeks ago, the druid could have counted on his fingers the times he had been in a fight... now it had become all too common to use blunt force against the orcs... and he did not like it so much.

 Vurambix deals with the orcs his own way. His long sharp horns are deadly weapon, but his true gift is to charge. Which is why he does not linger around the northern part of the ridge and soon rushes to the other end to bull rush into the remaining orcs.

Petra continued to keep at bay the unhallowed power of the skulls.  If it reached any point where no longer seemed necessary, than she would take her bow, and see if there was anywhere an opening to put a shaft into an enemy.

But keeping the mens' hearts free of the unholy influence was her primary objective.

Petra has her ways of dealing with necromantic magic, but the big Aurochs has ways of his own, which under the right circumstances are arguably more effective.  The great wild bull, directed by Tugdual, turns south towards the second cluster of Huns, and prepares a second charge.  In doing so, his massive rump collides with one of the two skull posts.  The post, not meant to survive the impact of a hundred pounds of beefy backside, (connected to a ton of animal) is knocked to the ground.  Moments later a hoof finishes it off.

Both Petra and Tugdual immediately sense the loss of dark energy from the thing.  But there is still one left.

The Huns have attempted to regroup, and the Aurochs scatters them again. The animal is injured, hit by a Hun pole arm, but it will take a lot more than that to stop it.

One of Heolstor’s men, getting the idea that the destruction of the first Hun totem was a good thing, even if by accident, replicates the feat with his axe.  The Huns are too scattered to offer a solid resistance, and their numbers have fallen by half.  They continue fighting, though, showing a marked preference for the handful of Elves that have accompanied Heolstor’s troop.

From her airborne perch, Petra can see the barges in the river below, and she knows that very soon, when the soldiers secure the ridge top, they will see as well.  It is a steep descent down- they could easily slip and tumble if they are not careful.  There are about 30 barges in the river their, and Orcs who seem to be the leaders are shouting at swarms of Orcs to get on the barges.  The Orcs seem determined to take whatever they could from the Elven villages along the river- whatever it takes, they will show some prizes for their effort!  She sees Orcs loading furniture, and several goats, onto one nearby barge.

About ten of the barges look simply abandoned- left floating in the river with no sign of activity around them.

The Huns are not waiting for a convoy to form up.  Barges are being sent downriver as soon as they are full, and it looks like some have already gone. Petra can see them floating away.

Mouth just a little agape, Petra made mental note of the effectiveness of an Auroch's rear against the powers of the Unholy.  Just for future reference.

And then she and Hermod were swooping out, for some brief and needful reconnaissance. Once she had seen what the Huns were up to, they winged back toward Heolstor, Tugdual, and the others, and landed to give report, and convey all the relevant detail.