RP Session 2: "To the Mattresses"

"If you sent a missive with Lady Tiesera’s to Proudglaive could he board the river boat there and be waiting for us? He’d have to drop everything and board immediately" Rhoderick suggested to Erron. They had an easy camaraderie that spoke of a familiarity with each other.

Then he clapped Corson on the back. "If you need rain to keep your hoods up I can make sure you’re rained on as much as you like. The Mother of Storms will bless you for the whole journey if required."

"Very well!" Ser Lancaelad said, slapping his palms down on the table and rising from his seat. He looked pleased as each companion outlined their place in the plan. They were an eclectic and motley band, but they (naturally) looked to him for leadership. One could not be a general without an army at one's back.

"Those that hunt us are many in number and ruthless in intent. Though they are an overwhelming force, they shall find themselves no match for our sharpness of wit, strength at arms and faith in each other. May the Stormlord, the Lady of the Seas, the Father of Forests, and the King of Gods and God of Kings favour us! Rest well, my loyal followers, for we ride at sun's first embrace!"

Forgetting his intention of sobriety the knight toasted the table and quaffed his cup to the last drops, then staggered off towards bed.

Tiesera left before sunset, leaving just enough time for correspondences to be penned. She reasoned that no pursuer would break away after her while their quarry were holed up within manor walls, but should she leave tomorrow or after their trick was discovered a lone traveller might not go so unharassed.

Missives in hand, hear parting words were simple but grave. "Ride fast. None in Roesone know what that man's import is, but I am certain it is greater than we were led to believe. Should all go wrong, go to the sign of the Red Ox in Thorien's Landing and say you're there to meet with Meg. You'll get all the help I can summon." And with that she was gone.

After Tiesera's departure the group parted to find their blankets early in preparation for a hard day's ride. While most packed their bags, Tovrunn was disturbed by a tapping at her door, that slid open before she had a chance to reply revealing Rikke with a long taper.

Stepping past the threshold on swift, silent feet she laid down the candle and caught her cousin in a fierce embrace that belied her newfound courtly manner, and hearkened back to the wild-eyed Rjuven huntress of old.

Finally stepping back she fixed Tovrunn with a stern look. "Don't you die for them. I know this is your- our new home, but that doesn't mean you're one of them. They're liars, with schemes stacked on schemes hiding schemes. Don't you forget that you can't wrestle a bear. Don't trust everyone just because they have a deer on their coat. And remember, these Anuireans are only the ones who built all the roads because our kin never needed them."

Rikke looked meaningfully at Tovrunn, as if that were all deeply profound, but at least the last part seemed more literal than allegory. Then with a final savage embrace she was gone.

Corson moved to inspect the decoys, cinching up their packs so they fit the mannerisms of his companions. "Sit up straighter. Ser Lancaelad is a noble and carries himself as such. And you, Salien is from more humble stock, comport yourself as such."

The fog unnerved him, but Corson waited, trusting in Rhoderick's faith to guide them to safety.

Lancaelad had risen a little early, and though his head throbbed (more from the lingering effects of the blow sustained at the docks than the drink, he told himself) he helped his ostler Geremie Trotter saddle and harness the borrowed destrier. The magnificent beast was as ill-tempered as his namesake; he seemed to tolerate Geremie's gentle hand and respectful cooing, but Lan sported a few bites before they got the bit between his teeth, and a sore foot where Ogre had planted his hoof down hard.

Perched in the saddle, he watched Corson attend to and advise the false party. The squire seemed to have a knack for it; perhaps his so-called Order of the Green was used to travelling in disguise. He sneered to himself at the thought of such base ploys, ignoring the fact they were engaged in exactly the same behaviour.

When both parties were ready to depart and Rhoderick had called up a blessed mist from Nesirie to match the fog that drifted across the winter ponds and seeped from the Elvemeres, the young knight addressed the false riders. "Men and women of Roesone, you do your liege lord and lady proud with your service today. Your passage will sow confusion and misdirection amongst our enemies; your slyness will be our shield. Keep your swords light in their sheathes, for those miscreants may seek to waylay you by force of arms. In the name of the Black Hart and the Hawk, show them Roesonean courage!"

He snapped the reins to set Ogre cantering to the stable doors and take the van, only to remember he was supposed to be following. Chargrinned, he tried to slow the warhorse, but Ogre did not care for such half-hearted guidance and bucked, nearly throwing Lan off. He had to pull hard on the reins and grab a fistful of mane to keep his saddle, and Ogre tossed his massive head and cast a disapproving glare back at his rider before slowing to a walk.

Watching Lan wrestle with the headstrong warhorse, Corson pulled himself up into his own saddle and looked on, waiting for the others to begin on their way.

As was her custom, Tovrunn had risen early in the morning of their departure, when moon and star and sun shared the sky together with the mists and birdsong of the predawn twilight. Moving quietly to a small glade within sight of the manor, the displaced Druid meditated on the will of Erik and of Rournil, on the departing words of her cousin and of her own ambitions and intentions. There was much to juggle, and much to think on. Too much for a single morning sojourn. So, without reaching a conclusion, Tovrunn gathered the gifts of the Father of Forests etched into the bark and soil and swirling morning mist and captured the last traces of starlight and stored them inside her gem before returning to the house and to their task.

Saddling Fegrð with few words and a solemn disposition, Tovrunn smirked only slightly as Ogre proved a test of her fiance's skill as a rider. He was a fine animal, born and bred for war, and with they temperament to match. Tovrunn had faith that Lancaelad would impose his will over the beast, though, even if he wasn't able to do so gracefully. Dutifully she waited until the fog lifted and then dutifully she followed as their troupe rode west into the marshlands. And as hunting trail gave way to game trail which in turn gave way to fens and marshlands, something came over her. Perhaps it was the croaking of frogs and calling of birds unique to the wetlands, or perhaps it was the suddenly cold gust of air that blew the scents to her nose, but whatever the cause was the young druid had learned enough of her heritage by now to lean into the sensation.

Craning her neck and arching her back, the being now known as Tovrunn breathed in the air of the marshlands and closed her eyes. And when those eyes opened again, he was Skalvaar Alfgeirsson, soon to be known as Skalvaar Iron Tooth.

Looking out over the peat bog that was just beginning to frost over with the coming winter, Skalvaar's mind was filled with hate. A throng of orogs had struck at his longhouse, a raid that claimed the life of his sister and father while he and many of the other men were away at sea. Survivors had seen them dragging away women and children into the bogs that he now rode into, bogs that he had known to house the clan that had committed this crime. His father and the orog leader, Bor the Breaker, had always kept a tense and unstable peace, but now the orogs had broken it, counting on the death of the Rjurik chieftain and the fast approaching winter to turn the muddy quagmire into a frozen deathtrap in order to ward off reprisal. But they had miscalculated the reckless rage of the son of Aflgeir and the power that a Druid of Erik could leverage over the natural cycle of summer and winter. A hasty deal was struck between him and the archdruid of the nearby circle, winning Skalvaar his chance at vengeance. He dare not waste it.

If Bor expected Skalvaar and his men to stumble and fall in this quagmire, then the element of surprise was theirs. After all, these wetlands were his home too.

Breathing out the memories of her thrice-great grandfather, Tovrunn's eyes opened and evaluated the mere in a new light. Her posture was straighter, her gaze more assured. Gently, she spurred her horse to the front of their troupe. Though she would play the fox to Skalvaar's hound in her hunt, she would navigate this living maze like her grandfather before her.

"Follow."

Corson felt much more comfortable in the marsh than in the towns they had sought shelter in. Old habits he thought. The squire of the Green looked at his companions, making note of Tovrunn's change in demeanour... It weirded him out. He had heard of the Rjurik oracles before, but never gave it much credence.

He looked at Salien, the man was going through a lot for someone that never asked for this kind of life. What kind of secret was he holding, intentionally or not?

The warrior looked next at their leader. Lancaelad always puffed up like one of the peacocks he had seen across the sea, but the politics of the region almost demanded it. These peacocks would eat each other at the first sign of weakness.

The two newcomers were interesting. The storm herald was boisterous, and the wary squire thought he got a good read on him, but the other was reserved. Corson resolved to get to know them... Could he trust them? Well, it was wise to find out. Ser Taethan always told him, 'it is better to be able to keep two eyes for danger than need one for your back.'

Pulling the reins to bring Fegrð to a halt, Tovrunn looked out oner the ancient battlefield. Common knowledge held that places such as these were taboo, that the blood spilt upon the ground had desecrated the land and caused the spirits of the fallen to linger, angry and jealous. It was not wise to pass through this field. But, looking side to side as the ancient battlefield stretched out before them, neither was it wise to dally and lose what advantage they had gained.

"Tis a riddle," she commented aloud. "The shortest path risks angering the dead, while the longer one might cost us our lead. What then are we to do?"

"Who are these dead of the mere? Was there a battle here in the past?" Corson asked. He should have known himself, but he never had much interest in history as a young lad. If it had no knights or monsters, he yawned at the stories. He wished he had paid attention now.

"This looks like it stretches for miles" noted Rhoderick. The Keepers of the Silence had spoken back in Seminary about how to quiet the restless slain, as was their role as Nesirie’s Guardians of the mourned. Unfortunately he had often chosen to slip those for extra weapons practice, or to simply go sailing, but he wracked his memories to see what he could recall.

"A prayer of Appeasement should grant us safe passage unless there are beings of pure malevolence there. Nothing is guaranteed but a detour could cost us a day or more." He brightened, close back to his normal bombastic self. "Anyone following without the correct prayers to the Goddess may not have that luxury."

"Fighting the restless dead is not favorable, but if there is even a chance we can avoid the trap without threat to our charge, it would be wise to take advantage of that. We should still be prepared for the worst." Corson looked to Lancaelad for the final decision. A subtle gesture, easily overlooked.

Lancaelad had been lost in his thoughts as they rode, trying to find a rhyme for Ogre. Such a fierce and majestic beast deserved an ode in his honour. Ogre... ogre... maugre? A toad grumbled at their passage and plopped into a pond. Croaker? The reddish-brown clay and mud of the moor stained his hooves ochre? Mist flared from his nostrils like a pipesmoker?

The warhorse stopped with a snort as the rest of the party halted, and Lan swept his hood back and blinked. Tovrunn had lead them deeply into he marsh, so deep that only mossy trunks and ferny banks could be seen around, rising from the stagnant ponds and trickling brooks. He caught the tail end of the conversation, and gaze ahead at the tortured land.

Wise men feared to trespass on the resting places of the fallen, especially with the Eve of the Dead not much more than a month past. No one had ever accused Lancaelad of an abundance of wisdom, however. The blessings of his bloodline also made him curiously fearless in the face of unnatural foes; his heart did not quail at the thought of crossing arms with the denizens of the Elvenmere. Seeing the others looking at him - naturally, he straightened in his saddle and spoke:

"Midwinter is passed. Each day dawns warmer than the last, and the sun is bright in the sky. The dead will not trouble us. But say a prayer in their honour as we pass, Rhoderick; these soldiers may have fought for the Old Gods against the Shadow a thousand and more years gone bye. Paidrig, my lance."

His squire swallowed a sigh, grabbed the long weapon from the cart and hopped down, trudging and squelching through the mud to hand it to his liege. Lan fixed the lance to his harness, ensured his crow's bill was close to hand, and coaxed the warhorse forward. There were no curious eyes about, he wagered, so it was safe to take the lead.

On rode Ogre, though
The bogs of the vanquished had a foul... odour?

Rhoderick eyed the muttering Knight in askance. Could he even get up to a charge in this swamp? The Lance was not a great weapon when all the speed they could gather was a slow slog through the marsh. He sighed and concentrated, then sprinkled some droplets from his flask of sea water to the ground below and muttered a blessing to Nesirie to consecrate the ground.

"Blessings of the Mother of the Silence upon all who rest in her embrace here. We seek not to disturb but to honour May you sleep deep and happy in the eternal Silence of Nesirie."