It is two nights before the Solstice, and it is very cold, and very silent, and very dark, and there is a light, icy snow blowing around.  The world is ice and shadow.

Quietly, a few Elves move around the camp, waking those who have volunteered to move east to attack the Huns at the Moselle river.  There are to be no fires, of course, but when ready, the group will slip out of the fort at the Albach ravine.  Anakri will not be going, but she is awake; she will use a Lower Water spell on the Celibus river ford, so the raiders can cross without getting their legs wet, which would quite possibly cause frostbite before they were halfway to their destination.

Ilsyan Greenstag, grandson of the Marquis of the Fifth Ward, is checking to see who is up and with him.

 Despite his eagerness to hunt down and kill the important orcs, shamans and leader on the run after their defeat, Tugdual understands that disposing of the barges is more important a mission at the moment.

 When the elves browse the sleeping camp for volunteers, they find a fully recovered druid snoring and curled up in the fur of his mighty aurochs. The two of them wake up, and start walking in silence with the elves. Despite its size, the large bovine can be rather silent when the ground allows him to.

 Knowing what they might be up against, the druid has adapted. The power nature grants him allow for great versatility, and this time he is ready to wreck barges.

Heolstor felt and heard the snow, silvery stiff with frost, crunch beneath his feet. The air was crisp - carrying with it the cold bite of the North, he thought. It burned his lungs in a way that made his chest feel clearer and deeper. The nip that came with each breath served a chilly reminder he was alive. Heolstor had been told he'd been born in the winter; this, he believed. Many dreaded the snows. Not so Heolstor Strang.

He shrugged his shoulders, shaking the length of his forest green cloak and letting its light coating of snow fall freely off.

In the bleak predawn gray Lord Strang had strapped a new and nameless blade, foreign to him, to his belt. He knew nothing of its title: one did not name a sword before they saw it cut, it was not proper. Likewise he bore a new shield. This one plain - absent of the obsidian raven that flew across Heolstor's banner and marked his other shield. Today would be a day of proving. Heolstor would not only test the mettle of this newly found equipment, but also his own.

It had been a while since he ventured forth in the company of anything but an army. To stalk the woods again, hunting and seeking out individual combat, it was something he found himself longing for. To only carry the weight of his own life, Heolstor knew, would be a far lighter burden than he had carried these last months.

The Saxon had not left without saying his farewells to Petra, if she were awake and did not intend to come. If she was still resting he might snatch a kiss from a sleeping valkyie - he imagined that would be something to brag of in Valhalla, when he should someday come to find himself there.

.... And so Heolstor made his way through the shallow snows and across a field covered in creeping shadow. Men stirred all about him, some preparing for just the same expedition that he was bound for. Others trying fitfully, best as they could, to remain asleep despite the crunching tempo of footsteps moving past their beds.

Heolstor met Tugdual along the way, greeting the other druid with a firm slap to the Celt's shoulder. Then he reported in to Ilysan, along with however many men Greenstag had asked him to procure for this mission. If that number was none then Heolstor, obligingly, came alone. If horses were desired Heolstor's force had more than enough fresh mounts.

Strang stood off to the side among the other infiltrators assembled for this raid. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as more warriors made their way over. Instead of seizing control, as he often did, Heolstor remained virtually silent. This was an elvish attack. He had been asked to assist, not to take charge. In order to be a good leader, which Strang hoped he was, one must be a good follower on occasion. He looked to Ilysan, his observant eyes telling the elf: this time you are in charge, I will follow you.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:21, Tue 26 Feb 2013.

 Tugdual rides alongside Heolstor and shares words of wisdom with him. The young Saxon lord being an initiate of the druidic arts, the elder considers it a duty to make sure he is up to date on his knowledge of nature and seasonal rites. For once the war leader does not have to concern himself with decisions and directions... the old man takes advantage of these precious moment to mentor him in the language of druids.

  "I have been watching you and Petra..." he comments after the boring lecture. "The two of you deserve a place in legends of our world. I hope one day she gives you a stout heir.

  Are you ready for it ?"

Despite their lack of traditional hierarchy and military structure, the Elves do know a thing or two about fighting in their forest.  Some of the “Elven Way of War” isn’t just tradition, it’s centuries of tradition based on learning.

Their insistence on small numbers for the attack, for instance.

The Ardennes forest is difficult ground with dense forests, rocks, and slopes.  In winter, it’s worse.  And at night, worse still.  There are good trails- and the Elves know where these are- but those trails are best used by groups moving single file.  And a single file of travelers is prone to getting stretched out over distances in conditions like this.  Each individual delay, each slip, stumble, or moment of extra caution crossing over a fallen log, gets transmitted down the line, and the last in the line gets the cumulative effect of all the delays of everyone in front.  And unlike straight, easy road, it is very difficult and sometimes dangerous hurrying to make up for a delay.  So over the long run, the longer the line, the more stretched out it becomes and the slower the movement.

Their usual tactic is to use several closely coordinated parallel lines.

Ilsyan Greenstag is well aware of the abilities of a Druid in conditions like this.  (Many Ardennes Elven clerics are actually Druids).  He insists Tugdual stay close to the head of one column, with Heolstor, five native Elf guides, a couple of Lucimburic volunteers who don’t want to miss out on the chance for more action, and a score of men, with their horses, from Heolstor’s Light Cavalry (Which is well rested, having had less action than most of the other groups during the Battle of Beda).

Anakri does as she promised, temporarily creating a dry crossing of the Celibus.

The snow is red stained on the far side, but in the darkness that’s hard to see.

Heolstor walked with Tugdual. He proved an able and willing learner - eagerly soaking up what Tugdual lectured to him. The secret rites and language of druids had never fully been taught to him. Fate, and his father, had put an end to that. This was an opportunity to correct that gap in his knowledge. Atleast, in part.

Tugdual's breadth of knowledge on the natural world, its workings, and inner secrets was impressive. If only there were more time to learn. He had only the march to the barges for now.

Then the question was brought up. Heolstor let the silence it heralded live for a few long moments. He considered what he would say, time stretching as they trudged through snow dark with shadows. "That is kind of you friend. I think there are many who have earned honor and deserve fame for what they've done these past weeks. Yourself included, Tugdual."

"Ready?... I do not know," Heolstor replied thoughtfully "Though whether I am ready matters less than it might. My position demands that I have an heir, one of my own blood."

"Even if I lack that choice, Petra does not. I cannot speak for her." He continued. "I think: it is likely, Petra doesn't even think on that demand. Most never need to. She is lucky enough to be able to choose; even if she doesn't yet realize that choice is there."

  "That is a complicated answer my young lord..." Tugdual thus philosophises.
  "You're most certainly right though. Whether you want it or not, feel ready or not, Cernunnos and Epona will likely bless you with a heir sooner than you can imagine."

 The old druid tries not to lose focus on his task as a wilderness guide through the tricky terrain. Vurambix the aurochs follows quietly, breathing loudly in the chilly air.

  "I was myself... blessed with fatherhood earlier than I had imagined I would," the druid resumes after a while. In his mouth blessed sounded a bit like cursed, even if he tried to disguise it. "I'd be honoured to help you make out the snares and pits in which I fell head first..."

 The offer was genuine and light-hearted. The druid smiled, but talking thus had cast a veil of bitter melancholy on his usually jovial face.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:17, Wed 27 Feb 2013.

"I had forgotten you were a father," Heolstor admitted apologetically "It has been sometime since we last talked." The Saxon's left leg stepped easily over a hollow log, despite its apex being made taller by drifting snow. The right came next. Both moved with a practiced simplicity that spoke of long days spent in the woods.

He felt Tugdual's switch in temperament almost immediately. There was some tragedy there. Or perhaps loss. Whether his own, or another's, Heolstor did not know.

"Your advice, I will take freely. I am always gladdened by the opportunity to learn from you. Perhaps I will manage to avoid some of those traps myself: though I doubt it, it seems nearly inevitable that I'll find myself with a noose around my foot someday." Heolstor said, eyes on the trail ahead. "And should a time come when you wish to speak more on your past, I will listen. Though I will not press you to speak on what you have not yet chosen to voice."

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.

Heolstor rushed the hill with the bulk of his troops - sword bared, shield pumping back and forward in time with each loping stride as he charged. From the moment they crested the ridge he realized the skirmish must end shortly. Their enemy, as it was, could not hope to turn them back. Even slowing their assault seemed unlikely if Heolstor's force maintained its momentum and violence of action.

So, the Saxon pushed them to do so. He and his men could not match the terrible strength of Tugdual's aurochs... But they could follow behind, tearing through the scattered defensive line the beast had already thrown into chaos.

When it was over Heolstor gathered his men and brought them back into order to prepare for an assault down the hill against their objective itself: the barges. Petra's report was not wholly surprising. The enemy was trying to beat a hasty retreat - though their greed slowed them.

"We must act now." Heolstor directed as he march to the ridge's culmination, urging his men to immediate action. Then, to Petra and Tugdual: "If either of you know any tricks or cantrips that might slow them, now is the time."

Then Strang rallied his men, ready for the final plunge at this long campaign's ending.

Petra nodded at that request, and sought quickly for a suitable, small, rock.

Once she had such, she incanted and cast a spell of darkness upon it, and quickly placed it into an empty, ceramic flask.

Then she and Hermod winged out over the enemy, and she dropped that, at the densest cluster of Huns, or wherever the abrupt and sudden manifestation of a large sphere of darkness would cause the most chaos, surprise, or problems...

4. Heolstor has been fighting with the sword he lifted from a fallen Hun warrior at the Celibus.  It’s a fine weapon, and he’s certain it has a minor enchantment on it (It’s a +1 weapon).  It there is more magic woven into it, though, it is subtle- and probably that’s a good thing, as the Orc who had been wielding it didn’t seem to gain any special powers through it.

The troops take the ridgetop.  A few Orcs flee, one goes tumbling down the steep hill.

Moving down the slope towards the barges is tricky- there are patches of snow and ice, and if they move quickly there is a risk of slipping and sliding down, like the Orc did.  Sometimes, moving down over steep ground is as hard as moving up.

They cannot rush at the barges, and the Orcs down below are making haste.

Petra does what she can with a “darkness bomb” to cause confusion.  And then…

Heolstor’s group was not alone.  There were Elves on the move here also, and the assault by Heolstor on the ridge top allowed them to move around it unopposed, and take up a position where they could start sniping Orcs with arrows.

A view of the Moselle here, showing the ridge:

 

 Tugdual could not help a deep boisterous laugh when Heolstor asked whether he had a cantrip or two to slow them down...
  "Indeed I have, my Lord... may all of the spirits of the Moselle be with us, for the ritual I'm about to accomplish knows not who be Hun and who be Saxon...

 Follow through... but keep your distances."

 The large druid took a few quick step towards the steep slope, and without so much as a warning, he jumped down towards the river bank. Those who do not know him might think he would land on hard rock and ice, breaking every bone in his body... but Heolstor would expect him to have an other trick up his sleeve.

 In mid-air the Celt turns into a grey heron, and glides gently downhill to the river. His flight takes him a few hundred yards upstream before he starts calling on the powers of Icovellauna and Sirona, all-powerful sisters of the European rivers.

 The tip of his wings touch gently the surface of the waters, as it starts rising... and rising... seemingly not to be stopped. What started as a riddle soon becomes a wave, and the wave grows, and grows to reach dangerous proportions... the grey heron leads the way downstream, as if dictating his will on the waters. At this point, he is really just trying to get out of the way, for the tremendous force he had unleashed does not discriminate.

 The wave covers the whole width of the river, and spills widely on the dry banks. When it reaches the first barges it is more than twelve feet above the natural river level, probably the highest tide this river has seen since the great flood of 487...

 The druid will probably cause great mayhem in the villages and settlements on the river, downstream from there... but that does not seem to be his primary concern. As far as he's concerned, floods are part of the natural cycle and riverfolks have learnt to deal with it. Besides, nature has to reclaim what's rightfully hers from time to time, and druids are always there to help.

  I'm not sure how the spell Control Water is supposed to work in a river.
 Basically, Tugdual can raise the level of a body of water by 14 feet, on an area 140'x35', for 70 minutes.
 Now I'm assuming that this huge bulge of water will follow downstream, and last for up to 70 minutes or until it breaks against something (or loses its strength gradually on the riverbanks)

 Anyhow, I'll let Ben decide on how efficient it may be in wrecking the barges open, or parking them on the riverbanks, or sending one atop a ridge, or turning one or two upside down... and hopefully drowning a good share of orcs.

 This spell is extremely situational, but I'm it can do wonders when used right ;) 
This message was last edited by the player at 13:48, Tue 26 Mar 2013.

"Old gods be good," Heolstor whispered as he saw the river rise and undulate "Blinded by darkness, accosted by unnatural tides. I do not envy the Hun." But... The Saxon did not sheath his blade, did not put aside his fel intent. Their enemy lay before them: confused, tossed into a chaotic sea with no line to hold to. Strang's grip tightened on his blade's hilt til he felt pain shoot through his fingers, leather biting into his palm. In the elm boughs above Pwyll looked on interestedly - head cocked to its side, a single probing black eye looking downhill at the deluge therein.

Perhaps the crow knew what this meant. That this might be the last time steel was loosed on orc and man. There was an excitement to his stance, predatory and aware. He rustled his wings readily and leaned forward hungrily from the gray-brown branch that held him. He cawed eagerly, beak spread wide to display his pale tongue. Whatever comedy Pwyll might have held another day was lost - when he screamed, he cried for death. For hunger's sake.

If Heolstor's motives for bringing the hammer down on this orcish fleet were any different... If he sought to free this river valley of their threat, if he wished to protect his people and so many others from future incursions, it made no difference that both his desires and Pwyll's needs demanded the same thing: that these Huns be smashed, their ships crushed to driftwood, their warriors left laying in the cold snow til they froze stiff as stone.

Heolstor raised his sword as an extension of his arm, straight to the sky and perpendicular to the ground. Then, as a line of men at his left and right shifted with nervous steps... He swung it forward, pointing its bright red tip downhill. "Forward! Push them into the river!"

Petra's distraction covers the movements of the others, but he needs no cover himself.

He is a heron.  A perfectly ordinary inhabitant of Europe's rivers.  If they had nothing else to do, the Orcs might think: "Kill it!  Let's Eat It!" but they are too busy for such fun.  So a few watch, but the rest ignore him.

Besides, there's a lot of movement on the ridge.  That must be more important, right?

And there was a swelling in the river.

The natural inclination of all that water is to go downstream, and it does.

The barges in the middle of the river bob up and down like corks, but towards the banks, some are washed onto shore.  The river attack is something the Elves would never have done, having ecology woven into their souls, and maybe even Tugdual must find a way to atone for it, for the wave of water will damage not only dwellings, but the natural habitat along the bank for miles.

The enemy still has the numbers, but their disruption is complete- they are scattered along the river, and have no desire for anything but as fast as a flight as possible.

Down the hill Heolstor charged, intent on smashing the disorganized Hunnic force below. Pwyll followed - his wings spread wide to slowly glide in, like a dark shadow on the clouds, over Strang's head.

The Saxon would strike at the first orc unlucky enough to find himself in his path.

Warriors who fight battles experience an entirely different world from those who only read about them later.   As the stories will carry the battle of Beda, the attack on the barges was just a follow through, a last encore in a battle already won at the Celibus River.  It will be recorded simply- they breached the defense on the ridge, and then Tugdual's magic scattered the barges,  And after that, it was nothing more than small, frantic fights with a disorganized, routed enemy.  Just the final mopping up- the battle was already won.

Those chronicles would never carry the truth- that this last fateful hour was as filled with blood and sweat and savagery and fear as the first.  The Orcs surely knew they had lost and their cause was hopeless, but when small groups of them were pinned against the Moselle river, they still fought.  Heolstor's force lost two men in the last stage of the battle, one of whom had slipped heading down the treacherous slope.

Upstream and downstream from their location, the Elves attacked the barges lodged on the banks.  In all, less than half of the barges survive the attack and make it down river- and many of those were mostly empty, the Orcs leaving as soon as they could, not even waiting for their brethren to board.

 The wanton wave had brought mayhem and destruction. To the barges as expected, but to the riparian forest and dwellers as well. It would be a lie for Tugdual to pretend that he had not anticipated this destruction. Many a bird had lost its nest and many riverbank plants had been torn away... the druid however knows that Nature overcomes. It was neither mating nor nesting season, and come spring most of the river dwellers would come back twice as strong. And Tugdual would be there, taking care of those whose environment had been crushed by his command to the river sisters.

 At this moment he took an oath to Icovellauna and Sirona, that everything they had helped him destroy he would help reconstruct come spring.

 Most of the barges were ruined. The battle was over, or so it seemed. Nevertheless, the druid was not satisfied. Not yet. The Huns had to understand who the masters of the lands were.

 A grey heron he was no more. Ducking under the water, Tugdual was an otter. While a mere otter is no danger for the average barge, but this one had carpenter skills. Bending wood to his will through the use of nature's magic, the otter wrecked the hull of those barges that had managed to float through the tidal wave.

 While the druid does so, Vurambix tries his best to follow Heolstor and his men downhill. The massive aurochs is no mountain goat though, and it takes him time and some more to reach the riverbanks. When eventually he does, there is little to do but run after orcs trying to escape the wrath of the Saxon lord.

  using 3 Warp Wood, Tugdual can warp up to three "almost huge" objects. Effectively he tries to sink three barges if it can be done.

All that remains now is to clean up and go home.

Tired Humans and Elves line the north bank of the Meuse.  More than a dozen barges are grounded on the bank, a few others have split apart and sunk.  In the battle's final phases, though, Tugdual learned that the Huns had anticipated that the Elves would use "nature oriented" magic against the barges- they are warded against such things as "warp wood" and even seem resistant to more direct attacks like fire and lightning magic.

There are, once again, a great many dead Orcs.  Some of floating down the Meuse, which is already turbid with the mud churned up from Tugdual's Control Water spell. That kind of indirect attack the Orcs hadn't planned for.

Elves and Humans are picking among the ruin of the battle, checking the barges and gathering Orc remains for burning- no one wants to pollute the Meuse any further.

Here and there, a few Elves are recovered alive from the barges.  Even in the rush of their retreat, the Huns took the effort to move any Elves they had managed to capture.  Nothing is more valuable to them than a captive Elf.  A few of those Elves actually owe their lives to the protective spells the Huns had placed on the barges.

It is over, and there is relief everywhere.
And for the heroes of the battle, a new level for each.

 After his last stunt in small aquatic mammal shape, Tugdual heads for the riverbank and comes out of the water before returning to his human self. Despite the victory, there is a bitter expression on the druid's face.

 There's the destruction of a good share of riparian habitat, even though he can live with that on his mind. This was not the first and will not be the last sudden and catastrophic flood for the Meuse to experience.
 There are the elven prisoners, some of them might have drowned because of the use of a mass destruction spell... that would be harder to live with, he'll have to argue that it was for a greater good.
 There's also the realisation that the battle is over, and once again the druid has no idea where to go next. The war seems far from over, and he still wants to protect his land and that of his neighbours...
 Heolstor will know best.

 The druid brushes off as much water as he can, and uses an orison to protect himself from frostbite. That done he whistles Vurambix and tries to find the Saxon lord, wondering what he will do next.
 Unless he's offered a better alternative, Tugdual will chase the Hunnish survivors from the encounter at Beda and hunt them down. Starting with shamans and demonic spellcasters.

Winter, as soldiers know, is a bad season for campaigning.  Not only is the weather so much more difficult, and the hours of daylight so much shorter, but living off the land becomes nearly impossible.  And right when the cold weather means people need more energy, and therefore more food.

This is even the case for the Elves.  If they are going to muster any more effort with significant numbers, it will not be until spring.  Now, there are homes to return to, and in some cases, rebuild.

And the bridge at Celtanc to repair.

Now is not the time to pursue the Orcs any further.

All this, the Greenstags discuss when they regroup with Heolstor and his company, later on, at the river bank.

They would be guests of the Elves through the winter, of course.  It would be dishonorable to offer anything less.  But after that?

One thing the Greenstags learn from their Owl messenger network:  Theoderic, and a great many other notables, including Elves, have gathered in Lucimburic.  Expectations are high that some sort of plan for coordinated action will come out of that.  So, the Marquis of the Fifth Ward, Goylan Greenstag, does not wish to make further plans without hearing of the decisions made at Lucimburic.   He himself will not be going, he says.  Too many of his people are hurting, they need the presence of their leaders.  But he will have appointed emissaries.

 In the meantime, though, a few of Heolstor's troops bring some fortunate finds from ruined barges to the attention of Heolstor, Petra, and Tugdual.  Scrolls.  Orcs rarely make use of them, being mostly illiterate.  Even the best educated Orcs are generally barely able to read and write... except for the Shamans, and some key advisers.  But the scrolls do not seem to be religious in nature.  They appear to be instructions, for key Hun leaders, on how to coordinate with the forces of other warlords who were pooling their resources for an attack on the Ardennes, and how booty was to be distributed, to avoid the result of the last battle here, last year, which had some forces quitting early to safeguard the treasure and captives they had taken.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:01, Thu 04 Apr 2013.

Petra participated in healing and mending wherever she could, after things were settled.  It had not been a protracted battle, for which she thanked Eostre and the other Gods. As well as 'Tugdual Bargewrecker!'

The scrolls were a good find. Insight into the enemy's workings and plans was always valuable.

Later, catching up with Heolstor, she voiced her own feelings that attending the gathering at Lucimburic would be well worth it. In the name of coordination and comradery with those other forces.  And then inquired what his own view and intent were, as regarded the opportunity.

They withdraw to the nearby Elven town of Celtanc to camp for the night.

Celtanc has been... in a word, desecrated.  Finding it abandoned, the Huns did what damage they could, in the time they had. Symbols of their Infernal lords have been cut into homes, and into tree trunks.  Anything that had been fashioned into a thing of beauty has been marred, defaced, burned, slashed...

And when the night comes, it seems very dark, and cold.  The twinkling magic lights the Elves use in their villages are gone.

The Elves return, just a few at first, by the middle of the night, the whole village.  For them, the shock of seeing the Orcish destruction is lessened by the joy that Elves who had been taken from Celtanc- those who didn't flee in time- were freed from the barges in the river battle.

Trees can be healed, and the bridge repaired, and the works of art restored.  But the Elves know they have a long job ahead of them.

Victory was not bitter to Lord Strang, but it did not taste so sweet as he had dreamed. Here he stood, at the hour of their campaign's final victory, and he could not relish their triumph. He could not think of what good would assuredly come of it.

He thought only of two young men, broken like a child's ragdoll. Here at the end, when the climax was so close, it didn't seem right for them to die. How close they were to their womens' arms. To growing old, telling tales as weaved with fanciful exaggeration as truth about the glory they'd won today, and dying fat somewhere in the woods of Burgundy.

Heolstor quit the field of battle early, departing for the Meuse's bank as soon as the last Hun fell. Pwyll did not follow - the crow contented itself by flitting on dark wings from orc to orc, pecking curiously at baubles dangling from necklaces and wrists. His Saxon handler had little interest in the dead or their loot. His footsteps drew him to the river's side, to a bend beside a gnarled old yew. Where once it had stood straight and proud it was now cracked and bent, riven from its wholeness by the flood. The dying tree still sheltered a shallow pool below it, roots wrapped about each other to form a latticed roof where soil had long washed away in the river's tides. Flotsam had caught in this hollow - wood from the barges, cloth, and other debris.

The bits and pieces of what had been a fleet bobbed up and down in increasingly calmed waves.

Then Tugdual came. Heolstor looked to him, forest green eyes thoughtful, but shared no words. He didn't judge Tugdual to have made the wrong decision in bringing's forth the river's wrath. Such things cycled with nature, life coming only with death. Creation only with destruction. It was a truth that all knew but few spoke. Some young tree that would have been stifled in the old yew's shade would come to sprout here. To feed a deer, or hold this bank in its own time, til it came to its passing too.

Tugdual would know this too. Heolstor did not pretend to understand the wilds better than the wizened druid.

Petra arrived sometime shortly later. He pulled her to stand beside him, offering the shelter of his own arm. Then, with the Valkyrie by his side, he broke his silence. The words came from his mouth with curious gentleness. Fire driven from him after the campaign as fury was driven from a river after the flood water passed. "That's true," Heolstor replied to Petra "It makes sense for us to hasten to Lucimburic. What council has formed there, I am not sure, but I am certain that words will be traded."

"Words that may decide how next the war proceeds. If it is to proceed." Heolstor said. "Which it must."

"I will go to Lucimburic. You should consider that road as well Tugdual - you cannot chase these Huns forever. You should not. There will be more when the spring thaw comes. Sharpen your claws, enjoy what time victory has won us, and be ready for what is to follow."

"We will make good time. With just ourselves to carry, in such a small number, I do not doubt we will make Lucimburic close on the heels of our allies."

Heolstor gave orders for the two men who had perished to be buried atop the ridge. Though, he did not leave the funeral detail to the men - he carried them up too, alongside his troops. If he didn't know their names Strang asked them... And he did not forget.

The Saxon looked over the scrolls briefly, absorbing what he could at first glance. Then he retired to an empty elven home having claimed it for Petra and himself. Its owner, dead or fled, did not mind. There Heolstor spent the darkening evening.

Once Heolstor had chosen the residence they would use, Petra went to work there.

He yet had rounds to make, various matters of compassion and concern, before he would return.  Which gave her some time.  Enough, she reckoned.

First things first; she double inspected the exterior, and found it free of any unwholesome markings or sigils. This one had been missed by the Huns, or simply neglected in haste. She asked pardon for any presumption, and then gave gratitude to the home's rightful owner, be they alive or departed –  and gone on to whatever Celestial glade or glen awaited the spirits of the Elvish dead.

Then, she unbuckled the metal-studded armor of leather that served to protect her after swiftness, sword-parry, or shield had failed to.  She was always glad to rid herself of that weight.  While it was goodly pounds lighter than the mail the men wore, it was equally, or even more, burdensome for herself.  Though she was in very good condition, her strength was still wanting compared to a robust, male warrior.  It was only the bolstering derived of Divine magic that enabled her to come through the close combats as she had.   Aye, and too, Elven-quick reflexes and agility hadn't hurt the odds, either.

She gave praise to Them for both these things, and that she again found herself both alive and unmaimed this evening.   And more so that the same could be said of the man who would join her here tonight.

For the moment, she left on the undergarments she worn beneath her armor.  She would change later, but only after she'd had a chance to wash.

Soon, Petra had a fire going, the home having had a decent store of wood remaining.   She set a pair of large kettles to boil, and then set about inspecting and tidying the place.   There did not appear to be any room for little ones.  For this she was thankful.  She would not have wanted to be left to contemplate what fate they might have come to.   She did not touch any belongings at all, where she did not need to;  respectful on the odd chance the owner, or any relative, would return here.   In more than one place, there was an icon of Arduinna.   Petra inclined her head reverently to the first of those she spotted, acknowledging that here She presided, and not Petra's own Gods.

Shortly food was delivered, by those in charge of its distributing, whom were instructed where their liege was lodging.  Because of the conditions of winter, there was no abundance, but Petra found herself in possession of several strips of venison, as well as some passable potatoes, carrots, and bread.  She had her own stash of herbs for cooking, and so there was prepared.  She went efficiently at the preparatory work, lightly singing a folk tune of her homeland as she did.

Once the vestiges of a stew were asimmer, it was time to tend to herself.   She took the other kettle of water for that purpose, and appropriated some snow from outside, to cool it enough to wash with it.   After she was clean, she changed to clothes that were equally so:

Warm, coarse wool, blouse and long skirt –  the former a dark indigo, and the latter a medium grey.  She brushed out her hair in front of an available mirror, and decided to ponytail it.   This might have produced the seeming of peasant woman, more so than not –– but there were incongruencies.  The first of those being that, with her hair so held back, the pointed tips of her ears were plainly on display.  Which served to make more identifiable the other traces of Elven ancestry in her face.   And ––  though she gave some thought to hanging it somewhere in reverent display –– she instead opted to put back on her necklace of sacred sigils.

Aye, and so.  Petra Faust was incongruent.   Heolstor Strang had doubtless already come to terms with it or, soon enough, would need to.

A piece of wood in the hearth burned through, and fell in half.   Petra jumped at that ––  battle readiness and reflexes apparently not yet shed, as had been armor and arms.  She made the symbol of Eostre above her bosom, and willed herself to relax.   Everything complete for the moment, she found a comfortable chair to help her do that.   And got to thinking.

Heolstor's mood, post-conflict, was plain enough. And it touched on feelings that were dichotomous, and rang together in discord within her heart.

Her religion –– the culture of which she was part ––  gloried valor and victory in combat.   Portrayed that there was little that was more worthy to live for.   And, that dying nobly in such conflict was its own reward; something for survivors to sing about, not weep over.  And, there was part of her that understood that, felt it ––

And, there was part of her that was horrified with it.  And wished fervently for some end.  Eventually.  Once the forces of darkness were finally, sufficiently, defeated ––

But when would that be-?   The Huns aside, how did one ever stop Demonlords, who like Gods, did not know age, would never relent, and had until Ragnarok to continue their fell plotting-?    Who would respond to the death of their expendable minions by simply seducing and recruiting more?

She was a minister, the Gods own representative.   Supposed to have answers to soothe and succor in the face of life's adversity.   But how to answer this-?  What to say to Heolstor, when she saw that look in his eye?    She wished suddenly that Kandralde were here to speak with.   Someone wiser and more learned than herself.  Perhaps Anakri –– but, no.   She couldn't very well go to the leader of their allies, and toss such religious and personal quandary at her feet.  No –– it was for her to come to terms with –– between herself and her Gods.

She had mostly ceased the brooding once Heolstor returned.   And the warm, tender smile she gave him was only authentic.  If no less so the unresolved feelings and thoughts that lay behind it.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:47, Sun 07 Apr 2013.

 Tugdual would give help reconstruct whatever was still to be saved. He offered his skill as a healer, even though the elves knew their bit at that. He organised the troops, those who were still able at least, so that they could help gather wood or fix shelters for the night. He put the tremendous strength of his aurochs to good use in moving fallen trees or rebuilding roofs in a haste.

 There was a task of utmost importance, and perhaps of sizeable urgency. Erasing the foul symbols of demonic lords that the orcs had scribed here and there. Tugdual used magic when possible, his ivory cutlass otherwise, even fire if it could help.

 The druid made a point of getting rid of these symbols. Whatever the orcs could gain from them, if only sapping the elves morale, it was worth ruining it.

 " I will accompany you to Lucimburic. I am not sure what place I can find in this war, but I sure cannot go back to my forest and wait for the Huns to knock on my door. Besides, I need to stick around the two of you... something tells me you might need my services sooner than not."

 When dark came, Tugdual shared his meal with the soldiers, before retiring to a barn with Hermod and Vurambix. He'll take on a wooly bovine shape for the night. That would keep him warm and help him recover from his wounds. The old druid had always appreciated the occasional wildshape nap, but the powers that recently grew on him now allow for a full night, and that's priceless.

There is a sense among Heolstor's small remaining contingent that they have reached a “payoff”.  It's over-this, now, is the tale they can go home with.  The best of  the best of Burgundy have proved themselves.

Heolstor is familiar their social structure.  It's common among Saxons as well, and among other people.  Every nobleman wants to surround himself with a circle of great warriors.  The quality of this circle helps the prestige and political power of the noble.  As a result, a young man not yet fixed to a permanent liege has a lot of choices if he has a reputation as a good fighter,  He will be in high demand, courted by the lords, and his future is made for him.  Campaigns like this one are the best opportunities to make these reputations.

(In some ways, not unlike modern day sports.)

But what it means is that while they were eager for battle, they are now just as eager to go home.  For most, there is no great moral crusade to go and continue the war until the last Hun is driven from Europa.  And most have little inkling of the Demonic forces that have directed the Huns.  Abigor was just a mighty general who led the Hun army.

It's not that they don't believe in the existence of Infernal Powers.  Everyone believes.  Their existence is self evident.

But to most Burgundian warriors it is not part of their world, and so it is simply ignored.
A warrior can' t do much about Demons, so its best not to deal with it.  (To drag our metaphor back into service, much like a professional football player might know that the massive lawsuit the team's owner faces is of much more concern than the game... but he can't do anything about that, so he just worries about the game.)

The reputation gained, and the stories they will return with, far exceeds the value of the modest loot they've obtained from the battle.  They know they'll probably spend half of it on he way home anyway.  In good cheer, the troops head back west, towards Lucimburic.

It is a three day journey back to Lucimburic, following the Moselle River for half the journey.

 Tugdual will follow Heolstor and Petra for now.

Heolstor came to Petra weary of body and mind. The weight of this latest campaign weighed on him still - how could it not? It was so fresh yet. The dead had not been buried but for a few hours. Still, the warmth of her welcome and sincerity of her smile did much to alleviate his sickness of the soul. To see something so familiar as a meal waiting for him... and Petra waiting for him, dressed for comfort rather than battle. It brought a wide smile to Heolstor's face.

He had not ever thought to wonder to himself if Petra cooked. The bow and blade came to her so naturally... and so the ladle too apparently. A tool that Lord Strang had never grown handy with. He could make a meal, that was so... but that was not entirely the same as cooking. Evermore she impressed him. Better to keep a list of what Petra could not do, then what she could. The latter would be tiresomely long to read.

Strang embraced his valkyrie, holding her tightly to his chest. "How are you real? A man could dream a thousand dreams and never come upon one like you." He let her go and made his way curiously to the stew, the smell too much for him to stifle his curiosity. Scents of venision and vegetables rose thick over the pot, wafting temptingly through the steam. "I've come to the edge of the Ardennes. To a fine meal and a finer woman." He reflected, before turning back to his golden-haired beauty.

Strang's green eyes searched hers as he closed the distance between them. Til there were scant but a few inches between them and his hands found their way to her arms, cupped around those delicate shoulders of hers. Not too tightly - not so tight as to hurt where chain might have chafed. He held her there for a long moment, looking through her. Past the beauty of her face. The curve of her. The enticingly exotic elven bent to her. Past the warrior who fought astride a pegasus. The priestess who gave strength and relief to those who needed it. Though it was difficult, past this all,  and through to Petra.

"I would have gone farther." Heolstor promised. Then he brought his eyes lower to her own rich brown eyes... and he kissed her.

Heolstor would spend the rest of the night in the comfort of their adopted home and the pleasure of Petra's company. For one night his triumphant troops could see to themselves.

The story can be “backdated” along the way home if need be, (and continue posting here) but I am going to assume the group returns to Lucimburic, so you can post there as well. (In the Merchant's Faire to buy things, the Clear Fountain Plaza to attend the wedding, etc.)

After several days they are back in Lucimburic.   The weather cooperated, allowing a few days of easy travel in the heart of winter, but there are already signs that this will not hold.  Being a Druid, Tugdual is able to read the signs of weather, and there will be a front coming through within the next few days.  He knows that a winter storm can blanket the area in snow, and paralyze travel.

The “barge raid” troops are the last contingent to arrive.  They find the town already stuffed with visitors- not only the troops Heolstor brought all the way from Lingones, along with the Elves and Dwarveds, but Ardennes Elves, Theoderic's Belgican, Frankish, and Gallic troops, Centaurs... yes, those are centaurs...and even some Halflings from the distant Nethershires.

The town is crowded.  There's no room at the inn.  Any of them. The troops have set up a series of camps, along the south side of the town, and it seems as if Lucimburic has sprouted a new suburb or two.

The ongoing festival is split between the events in the Clear Fountain Plaza, and the nearby Merchants' Fair, which sprawls across the plazas and streets of the central town.  When the reach the camp, they will find that the camp is mostly empty- most of the troops who have already arrived are off in the town, seeing the sights and enjoying themselves.

Petra found herself surprised, yet again. Tears welled in her eyes, though they were solely tears of joy.  In essence, she agreed with Heolstor.  Not of herself; while she possessed confidence, conceit was no part of her nature.  She was sufficiently self critical to stay from that vice.

No, the concurrence was to the fact that she too found their being together a bit surreal.  And, to her, that surreality also made the whole thing feel more than a little fragile.  The events that surrounded them being no small part of that.

"Oh-? And here I thought you were the one who had strode from out of the fable!  You know, the sort that most girls thrill to. That portray the dashing, valorous, hero -- who battles unflinchingly for the right, survives the impossible, to become a great lord. Which he has been in spirit, all along.  Then marries the princess. Which, as you know, I am not. But, I wager I do cook a better stew, than most of those."   

Her arms slipped about the back of his neck, and she returned the kiss in equal measure.  After which she paused a moment --  with a faintly quizzical look upon her features.  Shortly, she disengaged from him. And then took her necklace of sacred sigils off, and hung them on a spare hook over the hearth's mantle.  After which she returned to Heolstor's embrace, and smiled once again.

"Not a priestess, tonight. Not specifically, at least. Just a woman..."
* * *
And, then...to Lucimburic!
This message was last edited by the player at 02:25, Mon 15 Apr 2013.

 Tugdual wishes he could summon a warthog and a mongoose to sing in the background, unfortunately he has only ever heard of such animals...

 To ensure the priestess and lord some intimacy, the seasoned druid would keep the troop busy and take care of their needs an questions, to the best of his ability and knowledge. He would entertain them with fables of old, tales about fawns and unicorns as well as ordinary stories of peasants and cattle.

 He will get to know the soldiers a bit better during the few days to Lucimburic (even if he spent a good share of these scouting ahead and about, in avian shape). Given the chance he will try to convince some of them to stick around instead of heading back, to find a purpose and a reason to stay at war instead of going back.

 Truth be told, the old druid was not sure why he remained at at war himself... hopefully Lucimburic would brings answers.

Skimming the surface of Burgundian society, one might get the impression that war is the occupation of men.  During her time with the priestesses of Eostre, Petra learned that there is another level- one unseen by all but a few, mostly priestesses.

War is an expensive business, in lives and treasure.  But for the Burgundians, battlefield experience is essential, especially considering the world they live in.  The priestesses seem inclined towards peace but are not advocates of it.  None tried to dissuade Heolstor or any of the troops from this campaign.

Warriors will die, but they can be replaced.  Babies are born, the young take the place of the fallen.  As long as that can happen at a rate that at least makes up for the losses in battle, Burgundy will prosper, and the priestesses know this.  They will know that Heolstor’s losses will bring grief to some families, but they have not been enough to harm the nation.  On the unseen balance sheet kept by the priestesses, where warriors might as well be herdsmen’s bulls, Burgundy has come out ahead.

But that calculus hinges upon their getting home.   For Burgundy and other Germanic peoples, war is a seasonal thing.  They fight in summer and go home.  This has been a very unusual campaign.  Heolstor has gathered his captains and made his offers.  Even among the veterans, it’s a difficult choice.  Everyone expected they would spend the winter in a camp, and then head back home.  Now there is the possibility of continuing the campaign.  It can be costly.. but what is the goal?  Destruction of the entire Hun empire?   Is it even possible?  For those raised on stories about the evil of the Huns and the courage of the heroes fighting them, it is tempting.

In the camp, Gerolf, Heolstor’s most senior captain and commander of the company of heavy horse,  advises seeking out the leaders here- the King Theoderic everyone seems to be talking about.  If they are to press on… perhaps only a fraction need do so, if they can ally with the others and work together.  Then those who wish to go home can go home.

Heolstor is in agreement with Gerolf. He will speak to Theoderic as soon as the Frankish King can be found and brought to conversation. In the meantime though he asks that Gerolf help him make inroads with the other Burgundians. The Saxon will need men to safeguard Lingones, Tullum, and the springs that lay between.

The road, he believes, must be kept open if either city is to flourish.

Then there is the spa, ofcourse, which Heolstor plans to reclaim. With some effort, a few masons, and the favor of a peaceful road it might come to draw both travelers and settlers. The incomes and taxes from both, considering the magical power of that spring, potentially being very significant.

Someone, Heolstor suggests, will have to hold the title to that land to administrate it in the Saxon's name.