Session 1: Fools before the Tower (Ending Jan 12)

The people of Kallbacken shuddered when they saw plumes of black smoke above the forest, coming from the horizon to the east. As Alva advised caution, no scouts ventured along the coast, or into the woods. Throughout the day, everyone was gathered, and no hunting parties set out. The village's largest building, the Shrinehouse, was the source of much gossip, as gathered voices discussed what was to come. Was this a sign of someone else's trouble, or was Kallbacken soon to be threatened by the shadowy menace people had heard so much about?

Just as the sky was beginning to turn crimson, and the familiar twilight calls came from the forest, those who had remained ready outside the perimeter ran into the Shrinehouse, loudly announcing to all in the stone-reinforced longhouse that a small party of messengers were arriving. Those in the Shrinehouse left, and as they walked towards the Eastern entrance, they were joined by the rest of the village.

The village is protected on the south by the sea, and on the west by the river Kall. A long wooden palisade runs from river to sea in an arc, easy passage only available at the entrance, or along the coast at low tide. It is at this entrance that a band of warriors presented themselves, brandishing a large banner as they did so.

The five warriors walked up to the village, each dressed in padded jackets thick enough to beat the coming Winter's cold and reinforced with small studs and loops of metal. Two carried spears and waited outside Kallbacken; the remaining three bore swords at their waists, and entered with their banner held high enough for all to see. The warriors' features were of similar descent to the citizens of Kallbacken, close enough that they may have come from the next village over, but their style of dress was more foreign. Instead of long, looped, belts and woodland colours, the interlopers wore thick, unembellished belts, and they were covered in cloaks of a yellow hem.

Their banner was far stranger. The standard stood over ten feet tall, and the banner was at least half that length. On it was no heraldric sign, but instead a detailed tapestry depicting an odd scene. A Tower of black stone, with a vertical, slitted eye at its zenith, which seemed to look back at anyone who saw it. Four people, in bedraggled rags, were depicted falling from the top of the tower, apparently frozen midair by the embroiderer's hand.As the three enter Kallbacken, they walk to the square. There, the town is gathered. Even Shadow, having seen the fires and worried for its village, was there to witness the spectacle. Here, their leader sticks the banner into the ground.

She pronounces, in a clear voice, "Hear me, people of this village. The Tower has cast its eye upon this land, and it thinks it good. Its will is that all here are spared. It is willing to be merciful in this. Its will is that all here worship it, and its brethren. It will not be denied in this. People of this village, I leave this, the Banner of the Tower. When we return, as the sun sets tomorrow, each and every one of you must bow before your new master. The Tower demands your worship. It will be merciful in this. If any of you refuse, they must be expelled from the village, or they will be put to the sword. Understand, you are at The Tower's mercy. Your village will fall if you do not worship. If you do, then you will be well treated. You will become one of us. Our blood, our sweat, and our souls will be the stone that builds the foundation of the new world. The new world will be ours."

With this, the three of them leave, taking pains not to fully turn their backs on the gathered crowd. The large banner stands still where it was placed. At the entrance, they are joined by their allies, and the group of strangers begins to walk back through the woods to the east.

As the villagefolk lose sight of the messengers, murmurs and whispers start to run through the crowd.

Vasil watches this delegation from the back of the crowd. 8 years in this village, and still an outsider, perhaps he should keep his opinions to himself. He makes Smalltalk with a few friends in town. The tension in the village is palpable.
Vasil returns to his cottage to relay the news to Oyvind, finding the old man bundled in cloaks, snoozing beside the embers of the forge.
I do not like ultimatums, Oyvind. Vasil muses while stoking the flames of the forge.
Oyvind nods wearily, in deep contemplation.
I will be urging caution at the town meeting. I do not trust these men. They seem the kind who would slaughter this village to a man. For that reason, we should take steps not to antagonize them. Not until we're ready.
The old man nods again, shuffling his bundled form away from the now raging forge, and settling in the corner of the workshop. He is slow in his old age, deliberate. As Vasil prepares the workshop, Oyvind begins to speak...

Taft stands near the edge of the crowd, with a group of fishermen and hunters who are good friends of his.

He listens in on the conversation but doesn't contribute more than a few thoughtful nods.

Confused and upset, he steps back a bit and stands in the darkness, looking at his people and feeling the disruption.

He sighs and looks upwards to the stars. It feels better, looking up there. He feels small, and humble, and he knows that his job is merely to listen.

Taft backs deeper into the shadow of the wall, then skulks along its edge, finding pleasure in the practice of being unseen. Of being an animal.

At the edge of the water, he carefully unwraps his footwear and enjoys the pressure of the barnacles against his calloused heels.

He climbs around the edge of the wall, then makes his way up to a nearby hummock of cranberries outside of the village. He nestles in for a moment, to ease his mind and listen to the waves.

...

Soon after, he hears a heavy breath and turns to see that Shadow, the Wolf, is standing at his side.

He says nothing, but feels a thrill that his mysterious companion is here.

He knows that there is nothing he can say. Shadow already knows what has passed.

It is Taft's job to listen. He will wait until Shadow speaks.

Eiríkr quietly waits along with the group of fishermen and hunters near Taft, his cloak pulled tightly around himself to keep warm in this gods-damned cold. He seems confused at first by the ultimatum, but if this Tower could protect the village, why wouldn't he worship it? After the crowd disperses, he goes to meet with some of the other men of the village at the barracks.

Shadow watches Taft from a short way away. Concealed in the leafy undergrowth, all that can be seen of the massive wolf is two yellow eyes, blinking in the foliage. "On his own," it thinks. "Should be more careful."

The wolf steps out of its hiding place, padding on silent feet up to Taft. "I saw," it growls softly. "This is bad, stinks of the Spirits. We need to know more." The wolf then raises its head, and lets out a strangle, almost whistling howl. A passing raven hears it, and echoes the call back. The wolf lowers its head, closing its eyes. "They will come soon. The Ayes. They can tell us more."

As Vasil begins to forge himself a new weapon, Oyvind rhythmically pumps the bellows with his foot, adding a strangely legato sound to the rhythm of hammer on steel. Luckily, Vasil had foreseen the need for weapons, and instead of beginning to forge down from a bar, he had most of a blade ready to work from.The crowd does not disperse. The ultimatum given, the whispers evolve into words, and quickly the village has disintegrated into pockets of loud discussion. Some of the villagesfolk are obviously willing to do anything they can to protect their village, and its spirits, including Freyr, who Eiríkr sees speaking to the other shrinetenders, and discussing what they can do, if anything, against such a seemingly powerful foe, one who can speak so boldly about killing an entire village.

The conversation seems endless, and it is clear that someone will have to bring everything to order. Eiríkr can see his mother, Alva, looking around for the support of Taft, who seems to have disappeared.

Vasil readies the smithy as best he can. Cleaning and tidying, preparing his best chance for success. It has been a long time since he has made a weapon of war. Seven years of horseshoes, nails and tools - the staples of a village blacksmith - left him feeling rusty. He still recalled his training, but it felt so long ago. Another time, another place.

With preparations done, there was ought to do but wait. Placing the thick black kettle near the forge, Vasil settles himself on the floor, already exhausted. His right leg aches, the dull throb that never quite leaves. He runs his calloused fingers along the series of craterous scars on his calf, and for a moment relives the memory. Shaking his head to purge the phantom, he focuses on a nearby sack of charcoal, describing it in detail to himself. Brown, hessian, bulging, black stained, fibrous...

Vasil lies in the warmth of the fire for a time, enjoying the short rest. He and Oyvind enjoy a mug of tea together, the leaves having been fermented in river clay, giving it a complex, earthy flavour. Vasil had needed to teach the process to Gami - wife of the forager who harvested the leaves from the forest's edge, as fermented tea was not customary to this part of the world, unlike Vasil's home. This, one of the few things he brought with him, brings great comfort.

Eventually, with a sigh, Vasil gets up from his spot by the furnace. It's time to go to whatever gathering or meeting has eventuated.
Vasil grabs Oyvind an extra coat for the cold. Oyvind scolds Vasil playfully for mothering him, his smile giving thanks. Finishing their tea, they open the door, the cold air an unpleasant contrast to the heat of the forge. Pulling their furs a little higher, Blacksmiths Vasil and Oyvind step into the night.

Knowing full well he has a full night of forging ahead of him, tonight will be a long night.

Taft crawls back into the shadow of the low pines as ravens start to gather. They are capricious and mysterious beings to the woodsman. He leaves food for them in his yard, and always leaves carrion behind for them after a hunt, out of respect and appreciation. They do not always return the gesture, and have tricked him more than once.

The salty air picks up from the East, as it does this time of night. The smell of smoke from a campfire carries towards him: The visiting humans are camping on The Ridge.

He smiles. It will be an uncomfortable night for them there, when the wind increases. But it is a good place to camp if they wanted to prevent the villagers from leaving. The Ridge lies twenty minutes East of Kallbacken, and extends from the ocean straight inland for a long ways.

The main trail from Kallbacken to the neighboring villages bisects the ridge. They will have camped on the trail. There are large boulders and the ridge is crowned by a long tor where they could defend themselves easily from high ground.

Taft could sneak up on them quite easily, and might even be able to lead a guerrila-style raid.

If the people of Kallbacken were willing.

He thinks about Alva. She is probably waiting for him.

He nods to Shadow, and points to the shoreline with his chin.

[I]You are always welcome in the town, dear friend.[/I]

..

Taft returns to the village and finds his place near Alva's side. He looks around the crowd for signs of his son.

"How are people taking it?"

He keeps silent about the location of the visitors' camp, for now.

A raven swoops down out of the sky, landing on a rock nearby. It caws in a mocking, almost laughing tone.

The fur on Shadow's hackles raises, and its ears lie flat against its head. "You," it growls. "Why?"

The raven preens itself, nonchalant. "I was nearby, chick-chaser," it caws.

"For the last time, I saved that hatchling from a spirit," Shadow growls. "I didn't mean to scare it."

"Uh huh. Sure," the raven responds. "What do you want? Make it quick, I have better things to do."

Shadow's fur settles, and it speaks in a series of growls. "The Tower. It's come here to my village. What is it? What does it want? Why does it threaten this place? Has it killed many others, like the humans have heard?" It growls again, this time more threateningly. "You'd better tell me the truth."

"They do not welcome change, but they fear destruction." Alva says, simply, as she is reassured by the presence of her beloved. "I do not know which way will end happiest, but I feel it would have grave consequences indeed were we to turn our backs on the spirits and worship this more vicious fledgling."

Looking at the villagers, who are outside the Shrinehouse as much as in it, it is clear that few of them are going to sleep well tonight. Bram, a drunkard and a braggart, seems to be blaming the townsfolk's troubles on being too kind to outsiders such as Vasil. Everyone else is far more preoccupied with the immediate problems: could Kallbacken surrender; if it did, would that save the village; if it did not, could they survive the repercussions.

To Taft, the answer is quite clear. Eiríkr and some of his friends, although not his husband, Freyr, are joined by a few hunters; they either believe the story the emissaries of The Tower have sold, or are too scared to stand up against it. The rest of the village is scared, and without a leader to safeguard them look like they might talk themselves into leaving before they are pushed, or even giving in completely. The only people who will hear nothing of bowing down to a spirit are the tenders of the Shrinehouse; Freyr and his functionaries, who view the proposed changes as anathema to their way of life. it is unclear where Oyvind and Vasil, who have just arrived together, find themselves on this continuum.The raven, Riverswift, unleashes a torrent of mocking caws "Our great feeder, eh? It has come to Kallbacken, has it? Well, I can tell you about what always happens to those who do nothing, and maybe what happens to those who fight back!"

Taft saunters up to some of his own friends and Eiríkr. These are the fellows who can be seen almost every morning at his home, taking Alva's tea and bread and filling up his living quarters with warmth and chatter before heading out to work for the day. These are also the men who take drink with Taft. He has hunted, fished and trapped with them for his whole life. He has build their houses with them; and they have built his. As it should be.

Taft nods and listens to them for a while. He is surprised and disturbed by some of the cowardice he's hearing, but does not show it outwardly.

Eventually, he elbows his old friend Ake - a wiry trapper and fisherman with a thick accent. His skin is dark and leathery from many years on the water and in the bush. Taft and Ake have shared many hunting trips together, and have built a respectable number of 'camps' (small shelters) along the network of game trails that weave throughout the land.

Taft talks quietly to Ake, but welcomes the ears of anyone else who is nearby. Taft doesn't talk much, so when he does, people like to hear what he has to say.

"It's naught to be afraid of. I jus' went out and had a sniff. They're camped up on the Ridge." He smiles, like he's just told a joke. "Gonna be a cold night for them up there, you think?"

Ake smiles, and Taft opens up the joke to the rest of the discontents.

"I was just tellin' Ake that they're camped up on the Ridge. They knows what the Tower is, I s'pose, but they sure don't knows where to lay their heads about here! Gonna need a bigger fire than what they have by the time the night's though, judgin' by this Sou'Easter coming in!"

..

Approaching the gathered village, Vasil sees a universal emotion: fear. It plays out differently across the faces of the villagers. The majority wear it around their tired eyes, exhausted and helpless. They want the easy solution, and who can blame them?
For others, fear turns to anger and indignation. These villagers know that their solution is the correct one. Neither side is really listening to the other, though they accuse the other side of exactly that. Arriving at the back of the crowd, Vasil leaves Oyvind near to a fire for warmth. They have discussed their opinions together, and are of one mind on the issue.
I will back you. He had told Vasil, which does carry some weight. Oyvind could have been a village elder, if he had chosen so, but the death of his wife had been a hardship from which Oyvind had never quite recovered. So, though his age, calm demeanor and wisdom were respected, his distance, and close association with an outsider weighed against that.
Either way, having someone at his back is reassuring to Vasil as he begins to move through the crowd. Slowly, patiently, he waits his turn.

Once at the front, he listens for a time. The sides are going in circles. There is a pause. Heart heavy, and a gut full of lead, Vasil makes himself known. He does his best to affect a calm demeanor.
The Tower means us ill. I do not trust them.
He pauses, waiting for the heads to swivel, and comprehend who is addressing them.
Speaking again before his turn is swallowed, Vasil asserts himself, But we must proceed with extreme caution. These people will not hesitate to kill every man's woman and child in this town, and I believe they have the means to do so.
Feeling the ripple of fear caused by his words, Vasil looks to see the reaction from the crowd. It is the majority he must win, not the indignant arguers. He wonders to himself, am I one of them?
As Vasil goes to speak further, a voice calls from his left,
There were only 5, and we are many. When they come back, let's hang em by the fuckin' necks!
A group of his peers rose in agreement. You suspect alcohol is involved. Liquid courage and bravado.
Vasil addresses the man who spoke. Yes, we are many,
and there is great advantage in numbers, but we do not know their numbers. We saw only five. They were well armed and armoured, disciplined, and had the look of hardened killers. When did you last swing a blade, Dorin?
This is not like slitting the throat of a trussed pig. These men will fight back. Hard. How many of us even own fighting weapons? We have butcher's knives and pitchforks. Hunting bows designed for the soft flesh of unarmoured deer. Our arrows may not penetrate, our pitchforks are made to fight hay, not man. I stand here to advise caution. Rash action will see us all dead.

Dorin the butcher yells back, What makes you so sure, outsider? Know something we don't? He spits the words, offering a heavy implication.

Addressing the crowd, more than the individual, I know this much; men with blades do not walk into a village and threaten death with such calm certainty, if they are not sure of their abilities. Threats are to be taken seriously. Unless they're Bram after a few too many drinks!
Vasil immediately regrets the joke, and glances to see how the crowd takes it.Out of the corner of his eye, Vasil sees Bram react to this slight, going red, fists balled.

Knowing he has limited time until confronted, Vasil closes,
I urge caution. Send word to the spirits, we desperately need their help. Send a man to [the next closest village] and see how they fair. I suggest we wait. Tomorrow when they come, we kneel in false submission, and bide our time until we are ready. We cannot win tomorrow, but if we build our strength, maybe soon.

Shadow growls again, a deep, thunderous growl. Its lip curls upwards, baring a flash of sharp, white teeth.

"Stay your claws" Riverswift caws, realising its predicament. "You are not in danger from The Tower". At the obvious lie, Winter's Third Bite growls again.

"You are in much danger from The Tower." The raven admits, its beak drooping in shame. "It is growing fast, and leaves many bodies in its wake."

"It needs not a large army, for it sends a few soldiers, clad in disgusting cowhide, and spirits with them. Spirits whose flesh cannot be pierced by mortal steel or burnt by mortal fire." At this, Winter's Third Bite's tail thumps, and it licks its snout, the Wolf knowing that spirits cannot be so harmed. "Having quashed any rebellion, the soldiers put all the spirit wardens and Channelers to the sword, claiming that they cannot love both their previous spirits and The Tower."

The raven turns its head at this, leaving one eye staring directly at the giant wolf's two glaring ones. "But we both know that this is a lie. Those spirits are scared, and so is their master, The Tower, for Channeling is akin to the power you have. And Channelers may pierce the skin of these Spirits."

"The few meat-bringers who have walked East from here go to the near-ocean-cliff). There they encamp with the rest of their more-than-a-few meat-bringers. They have been told that this town is weak, and that between them and their two less visible friends they can make much food for the Ayes. The Tower is not there. The Tower makes its way more slowly, building structures and tying our food onto spikes as it comes."

So done, the Raven flies off, with a start "Riverswift will not forget you cornering me, Winter's Third Bite. Even the largest shadows flee the light".As Vasil's starts his speech, Freyr seems ready to celebrate him. As the Outsider continues, the Shrinetender shakes his head. "You speak of what you know little. If we malign the spirits, they will not protect us from the storms, our old bargains so broken. We may speak to them, at noon tomorrow, if they arrive, but it would be at their own bidding, not ours. And were we to turn to worship this" Freyr spits "wretched thing, even in play then we would divorce ourselves from those self-same bargains."

Bram seems stung by the sting. Emboldened, and red-faced, from anger or from drink you cannot tell, he raises his head and roars. "You, Baz gaar, you are the cause of this town's woes. It is you who is to blame for what is happening. I would sooner burn down this village than have you spend another moment in here. This Tower is strong, and we would do well to honour it, if it will protect us from plagues such as you."

The Hunters sat with Taft draw breath through their teeth at this point. Each of them has been listening to the Master Guide, and believes that perhaps there is some merit to following him. But as the Outsider reminds them of the horrors of conflict, their resolve had wavered. Now their discussions are split again, some incensed by Bram, but others empowered by his rage.

Iofr, an aged swineherd and Elder, seems to agree with the small, but growing, faction, who all offer the same solution: surrender, and in surrendering, be shielded again. He stoops, and can be heard discussing the need for a consensus, and you can hear him suggesting that those who disagree with that solution should therefore be considered people of Kallbacken no more.

The wolf watches the raven leave, leering. It would be so easy to jump up and nab that pesky bird... but Shadow knows that the Ayes Above are a useful source of information, and it can't risk losing their favour. As easy as it would be to snap the Raven between powerful jaws, it just wouldn't be worth it. Shadow snorts, shakes its head, and then leaves, padding silently towards the village.

Shadow finds its way to the village square just as Vasil finishes his speech. It slides up behind Taft, nudging its favourite human with a cold, wet nose. "I have spoken to a raven. The situation is worse than I feared, but may be salvaged. The Tower fears Chanellers because they can hurt it. It hunts them. And will soon come after my pack too, I am sure." It pauses for a moment, panting and glancing at the heated discussions around the square. "These humans are scared. Telling them may be dangerous." Its eyes close in thought. "The Tower's pack rests at the near-ocean cliff. They are ordered to hunt your town. The Tower stalks closer slowly... Building, the Ayes said. Perhaps we could hunt them before they hunt us."

Vasil sees Winter's Third Bite slink up behind the crowd, and whisper to Taft, the hunter. These two are no friends of his. Taft, though less egregiously hostile as Bram and his ilk shows his mistrust in more subtle ways. A way of watching Vasil, along with the social exclusion that comes with small-town xenophobia. He didn't seem a bad sort overall. Perhaps, in time he would learn to see past his prejudice. Wishful thinking Vasil supposed.

Behind Taft sits the wolf, fur as black as shadow - a name he had heard others affectionately refer to it by. What was it's name? Winter's Second Snarl? Vasil eyes the huge beast warily as he approaches, the pain in his leg flaring in his mind. Vasil reaches for the sword on his hip - it's not there, that was another wolf, another time. He may not trust this wolf, but it may know more than ignorant and scared villagers.

Standing close to Taft, so as to place a buffer between himself and the wolf, Vasil largely ignores the man, speaking low and calmly. Wolf. he states, with a nod as a form of greeting.
Winter's Third Bite nods in return.
I come to you for perspective. These frightened villagers know nothing outside these walls. You and I are from without. What do you know of this Tower? I do not trust their intent. To fight blindly, or to join with them, these people will die, I feel this. I have made my home here, I do not wish to see it in ashes.

Vasil sees Bram nearby. He looks drunk, and in a sour mood. Vasil's ill advised jibe had enraged the man, who is now glancing around the crowd, spoiling for a fight.

Taft nods in agreement with Shadow's proposal, but doesn't have a chance to reply before Vasil approaches. He is curious at how the blacksmith obviously ignores him, and wonders if he has been too hard on the outsider.

In an attempt to ease the situation, he speaks to Vasil. He steps aside to from a triangle with Shadow, so the wolf may also listen. Though he is aware of Vasil's discomfort, he is blunt and does not know how to invite debate. As a seasoned guide, he is used to being an authority when he speaks. When you are leading a hunt, there is no room for discussion.

"Vasil. Shadow says that they are afraid of the way we work with the Wind. We must attack tonight. But the town is in chaos. Nothing will be decided in these small discussions, and with drunkards shouting. We must convene and resolve this in the Formal Way."

Taft nods towards the Shrinehall. The Formal Way is a set procedure for resolving conflicts, which involves a public round discussion between a select group of villagers within the Shrinehall. As the most experienced hunter, Taft is included in that special membership, as are Alva and Freyr and several others. Other members of the village are welcomed, as the situation requires, and Shadow would certainly be allowed to participate in this case. Vasil, notably, would probably not be permitted to speak during such a ceremony. Drunkards are not allowed to enter the Shrinehall under any circumstances, so such a meeting would exclude Bram.

As Alva walks over, looking flustered, Taft places his hand gently on her back.

"Alva. This is only getting worse. Do you think it is time to call a meeting in the Shrine Hall and resolve this in the Formal Way?"

..

Alva nods, and she licks her lips, ready to call the gathering to order.

Shadow watches the dynamic between Vasil and Taft with great interest, sniffing the air around the blacksmith curiously. Vasil had always avoided the wolf before, and it is happy to have a chance to meet him properly. Once it finishes memorizing his scent, it looks up at Vasil, saying to him, "There are few in the pack, fewer than a score. Enough hunters could make the kill. Perhaps my pack could help. You could help too. But if we don't hunt them, they will kill all the channellers and leave them for the Ravens to eat." The wolf snarls at the thought of villagers being killed. "This can not happen."

Alva agrees with Taft's suggestion to meet in The Formal Way, in the Shrinehall. She bustles off and starts arranging things with the crowd. She faces resistance from a number of parties, and the people grow more fractious, until the village suddenly falls silent:

Winter's Third Bite walks in from the periphery and slowly pads towards the crowd. There is a hush, and the people of the village part to make a path for the great wolf as they approach. The creature has never been so bold, and its massive presence is enough to awe everyone.

The wolf saunters slowly into the Shrinehall and sits, waiting. The people of Kallbacken murmur for a few moments, then filter into the hall and assume their rightful positions, seated on the ground in a circle around the centre of the hall. The wolf sits with them.

....

After a long uncomfortable silence, Taft speaks. He uses Shadow's full name, out of respect and formality.

"Welcome, Winter's Third Bite. You bring us news from the forest. You tell us that the people are many, but for now there are only few. You tell us that they fear our ways with the elements. You have spoken to the Ravens, who tell you that The Tower will kill Freyr, the spirit wardens and all the Chanellers as soon as we concede. They do this out of fear.

If we do nothing, our village will die. Our chanellers are our Elders and our protectors. They are our promise and a recognition of our agreement with the land, the sea and the air. Without them, we are departed from the soil. We are nothing.

Winter's Third Bite, you urge that we attack now. To me - you speak for the forest, and the land that sustains us. If we let ourselves be overrun by the Tower, we will die in many ways. We will die from grief of the deaths of our chanellers. We will die because we will have broken our contract with the Air. And we will die because we have broken our trust with you, my friend, and our connection to the Land itself."

Taft is surprised at the words leaving his mouth. He speaks from the heart and doesn't know what will come next.

"We need to attack tonight. We need to work together. Like a herd of bi'kal our safety is in togetherness. When we are separated, that is when we can be chased down and eaten."

...

Vasil is surprised by the response. Perhaps he misjudged the hunter. Taft's body language opens the conversation, rather than closing it. This small act of inclusion went a long way, weather Taft knows it or not.

He listens to the Wolf intently, this animal - no, this is a sentient creature, not like the ferocious beast who ambushed him - this wolf speaks slowly, with careful intent. Not unlike himself.

Vasil begins to realise his hypocrisy at this point. He has judged, dismissed members of the village for not prejudice towards outsiders, but here he is showing prejudice to a wolf who had done him no wrong. Taft too, he had painted with the same brush as the others, keeping distance for fear of rejection, and in doing so, determining the outcome he feared. Work on it, Vasil. You can do better.

As these thoughts fly through his head, Vasil processes what the Wolf has said. The Tower kills channelers. Elemental workers.
The culture surrounding channeling is distinctly different here in Kallbacken, than Vasil's home village. His dealings with channelers at home was limited. The bloodlines were all that of the aristocracy, a rigid class system that forbade entry to the likes of Vasil.
Kallbacken still saw channelers as members of it's council, but here felt organic, rather than enforced by rule. These weavers of air had a more subtle touch than those who wield the fire in his homeland.

If The Tower seeks and kills channelers, perhaps this means The Tower is vulnerable to them? Or perhaps it is just unadulterated hatred. We do not yet know.

Taft speaks after the Wolf, urging swift action. Together they try to rally a raid upon their camped position. If they number only five, a mob of villagers could overcome a small band of solidiers. Maybe. There may be losses.

Vasil begins to speak these thoughts out loud. Drawing from his experience in the guard, dealing with dangers of the road, listening to his superiors' tactical discussions.

He continues, We have very little weaponry. I planned to begin forging a blade tonight, in fear of what is to come. I fear all I have to offer is horseshoes and nails.

We must consider the repocussions. What happens when they discover we killed their emmisarries? Will they send an army? We do not know this organisation.

With a start, Vasil has a shocking realisation, and turns slowly to look at the banner left standing in the yard. What if it is listening to our every word? The eye on the banner looks like painted cloth, but also... more.

I think we are putting ourselves in danger by rushing into this, these is so much we don't know. Then again, maybe we're in more danger by waiting. Either way, I must impress on this group the seriousness of any choice we make. It will have consequences.

Vasil pauses to emphasise this point. His face grave.
If we do this tonight, I will join you. I do not know if this is the best course of action, I would prefer to wait a few days, get organised, and spring a trap on home soil, but I see the risks in this plan too. I am one, I have voiced my opinion. Thank you for listening to me.

Eirikr is surprised by the response. Surely his faith in the Tower despite it being new would help with this. But the others slaughtered because they lacked faith? Including his husband Freyr? He wasn't sure how to react to that. Pulling his cloak around himself, he struggled with the thought of losing people he cared about, including his father and husband.

Vasil shivers feeling an inhuman gaze upon him.
I don't mean to sound paranoid, but I think the banner is a spy device left to watch us.
At best, it's nothing, I'm just being paranoid.
At worst, it knows our faces, has heard our plans, and has alerted the men on the ridge, losing our element of surprise. We should prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

At Vasil's words, a murmur runs through the crowd, but it is quickly silenced as Iofr takes his turn to speak, cutting the noise with a wave of his hand. "You are being wilfully obtuse, talking of magic banners." yells Iofr. "You refuse to appreciate the severity of the situation we find ourselves in!"

"We must surrender. If some of us are taken by these strong foreigners, then we must give them up"Iofr waves Bram forward, who launches into a drunken tirade "It's all the fault of this Baz Gaar, he's the one who led them here. We need to surrender, and fast, before he leads us to be killed on some fool's errands, or has us chasing this banner of peace".

Sulo, Bram's brother and captain of the guard, is next to speak. "Both ways have their merits. But I side with Iofr, he is right. We are not prepared for bloodshed."

Anger flares in Vasil's chest. For fuck's sake, he has done these people no wrong, yet at the first sign of trouble, he becomes a scapegoat.

He turns to Iofr, I refuse to appreciate the severity of the situation? I am the one preaching caution! I am the only one talking of consequences, repercussions. How dare you accuse me of failing to appreciate the severity. You spend too long with your pigs, old man! They may believe your half-truthes, but I know the people of this fine village are smarter than the pigs you take them for. He roars, pointing an accusatory finger.

Vasil sweeps the eyes of the crowd, taken aback by the mild-mannered Blacksmith's fury. Eventually he finds Bram, and locks eyes. Vasil takes a deliberate step forward.
And you. He declares, quieter, and full of venom. You would call me traitor?
The crowd parts for Vasil, like the waters for a Rivermage of the East. He walks slowly, punctuating each sentence with a step towards Bram.
You, the layabout drunkard.
Step.
You, who takes berries from the gardens of Matthias.
Step.
You. Who would take belt to his pregnant wife.
Step. Vasil now stands in the middle of the crowd.
You would accuse me of selling this town?

His tone softens some, addressing the crowd, rather than his quarry. Anger and betrayal still flare at the corners of his eyes.
I have lived in this town some eight years now. Its people saved my life, and I have made my home here. Many of your have shown me great kindness, and some - with a dirty look to Bram, cannot see past my accent, or the colour of my hair.

Turning once more to the crowd, If you truly believe I would sell you to the likes of that. Vasil points angrily at the great banner. The faces of the falling bodies twisted in fear. ...then I am truly saddened.

Softer now, still, We are in great danger. Let's stop fighting ourselves, and figure out how to fight that. We should not be hasty, nor arrogant. I say again, the men who came to our village are hardened killers. They will not hesitate to put your wife or babe to the blade. Do not trust them, do not underestimate them. [Edit:]

Taft shifts uncomfortably at Vasil's outrage, but maintains his place in the circle and waits for his chance to speak again.

Hands shaking from adrenaline Vasil takes his leave from the Shrinehouse. Oyvind will tell him the details of the meeting later, along with a chiding for losing his cool, no doubt. Vasil steps back into the night, to make his way back to the workshop. Enough bandying about with words, he will go do something he is good at, work metal. Maybe a cup of tea to calm the nerves first.

Seeing Vasil leave, the wolf stands from where it sat near Taft. Usually, it tries to keep low and move gracefully while in the village so as to not startle or scare the villagers, but now, it leaps to its feet in a powerful, fluid motion. It is deeply aware of the alarmed expressions growing on the nearby humans' faces, but now, it lifts head as tall as Taft's. It closes its eyes, tilts its chin to the roof, and lets out a loud howl of undulating tones and unspeakable wildness. The Shrinehouse instantly falls silent, the chatter and arguments drowned out by the wolf's overpowering call in the small space.

Shadow's howl ends. The wolf opens its eyes and glances around the shrinehouse, noting the silence. It yawns, satisfied, before turning to Taft and tapping the side of his neck with its nose. "Speak now," it says. "They will listen." Then, Shadow turns and slips out of the Shrinehouse, moving low and graceful again.Outside the walls, Shadow sniffs the air and then bounds after Vasil. It finds the blacksmith halfway to his shop; the man is stomping along in a foul mood. The wolf feels for the man; joining a new pack is never easy, especially for humans. Wolves have rules which govern such matters, but humans have nothing but superstition and trust to rely on. No wonder the blackmith looks like he wants to steal a kill off his potential Alpha. The wolf would normally leave him to brood and watch from a distance, but now, it has business to attend to.

It hunches down, muscles tensing and rippling beneath dark fur. Then, it leaps, landing in front of Vasil. It blocks his path with its bulk and then speaks, taking care to not sound threatening. "Blacksmith. I can smell your anger. I do not ask you to release it, but I do ask: Would you be willing to return with me to the gathering? You speak with a sensibility they lack. Even if we are mistrusted, we outsiders should stick together. We know things the pack do not."

The sudden appearance of the great wolf startles Vasil.Vasil listens to the wolf, and sees that they want the same thing. Vasil's years of apprenticeship crushed his youthful ego long ago. He swallows pride, and silently follows the wolf back to the building.

Taft falls silent as Vasil and Shadow re-enter the Shrine Hall and take a place in the circle. He waits to make eye contact with the blacksmith, and nods respectfully, offering his welcome.

Taft sits silently as the elders initiate the meeting. He patiently listens and awaits his turn to speak.

Sulo, stood with his spear, motions his younger brother to speak, announcing "Now stands the one who accuses the outsider who has so besmirched our village."

Bram, red-faced with anger, looks as if he's going to launch into a tirade, but instead his words are cold, and sharpened with his wrath.. "This outsider is not one of us. He is therefore untrustworthy, and should not be allowed to speak."

Vasil has calmed. His outburst before was doing nothing to help his cause. I am an outsider, but I will serve the people of Kallbacken until they see me as one of their own. He repeats to himself. I must do what is right.

Before beginning his speech, Vasil speaks quietly to Taft only, "Should we lose this debate, all is not lost. We may have lost the opportunity to strike first, but we can wait, then lay a trap. I still think tonight is too soon, but you have my complete agreement that these men are not to be trusted."

With more of the usual calm the village knows him for, Vasil steps forward to address the room.
"Bram suggests that my being an outsider is reason to mistrust me, yet in the same breath argues that we implicitly accept these outsiders. When I came to this village, it was on a stretcher, bleeding to death. If not for the kindness of this town, I would be dead.
These strangers came to our town with threats of violence.
Yet you say I am the one we should not trust."

The wolf draws up behind Vasil and sits, leaning slightly against the smith in a friendly manner. Its tail thumps on the ground, stirring up a little cloud of dust. "I trust him," says Shadow. "He and I are very similar. You took us in and saved our lives. Now, let us protect yours. We do love this village. Please trust him like you trust me." It opens its mouth, letting its tongue loll out into a happy canine grin like those of the village's pet dogs.

Rolling!

As a gesture of support, Taft reaches to his side and grabs Vasil's shoulder.

"You speak from the heart. Thank you."

He leans in and whispers more confidentially,

"A trap is a good idea. Whatever happens, I would be honoured to fight alongside you."

Iofr yawns loudly, before rising up to his feet and speaking in his voice. Albeit thready with age, it is clear that he's speaking from the heart. "People of Kallbacken. Hear me and listen. Any foe strong enough to leave an ultimatum such as this is a foe we should not take at their word. They offer protection, and advancement. Perhaps, in my lifetime, we can see change. Perhaps, in my lifetime, we can reap the benefits of this Tower. Perhaps, in my lifetime, we can finally beat back the ever encroaching borders of the forest, and make something of this once proud town, with a spirit active in it's realm!"

Freyr shakes his head, and stands. "This is blasphemy most foul" he begins "The spirits are with us, and we take all we want from the forest. Listen to Taft, his plan is good"

At this, Sulo stands, refusing to cede the floor to Taft as is procedure. "The Hunter knows nothing of war. It is not his place to lead. Do not listen to him"

Shadow's fur prickles. It considers baring its teeth and growling at Sulo. Instead, the wolf closes its eyes and tries to find patience and understanding for men and their petty ways. It turns to Iofur. "The spirits are indeed with you now, and I eat any who become malicious or threatening. I am a Spirit Hunter of the Ancient Forest Wardens as well as a protector of your village. You need not show your belly to this thing yet; my pack and I would help you to reject this threat."

Taft gently motions for Sulo to sit.

"I do not wish to lead. We must walk together as one, as we always have."

Once Sulo sits, Taft clears his throat.

"Iofr, your words are wise. Thank you. Waiting for time to pass might be a good idea. But we have already heard that it is not possible to wait. Our friend, Winter's Third Bite, has watched the devastation. He has spoken to the Ravens, who say they will kill the Channelers outright. He has seen this himself, in the adjoining villages.

Tomorrow, if we do nothing, I will be dead.

So will you, Greta Windspeaker. And you, Frafhrd, for your talents. And your children."

He looks around the room and his eyes well up with tears as he makes eye contact with each of the Channelers in the room, young and old. Some of them are babies. This silent accounting takes time, and the entire village is forced to watch as Taft bears the grievous reality of each member of his community that might be dead by this time tomorrow.

Wiping his wet face with the back of his sleeve, he finally resumes speaking.

"I know the hunt. I know when it is good to wait. But we are not hunters now. We are hunted. And we will die unless we move."

He puts his hand on Shadow's shoulder and nods to him, in thanks for his support. Then he bows his head, to show that he is finished.

To Vasil's surprise, it seems the anti-Tower side of the debate has the upper hand. The opposition still grumble and complain, but a compromise can be reached. Vasil hears talk of staging an ambush in the village tomorrow. Enough time to make a weapon.

His mind is racing. This is not much time to plan an ambush.Vasil speaks quietly to Winter's Third Bite,
The banner they left in the yard. It does not feel right to me. I am not skilled in the ways of magic, or spirits, but I feel as though it watches me.

Sulo and Iofr nod to each other at Taft's words. Sulo says "The guard will stand with you, but not tonight. It is late, and we are not as used to the woods as you, Taft. Tomorrow, or when they come to our village, you will have your chance".

Iofr sags visibly, his age clearer now than ever. "I will not stand with you, but I will prepare whatever you need for when you stand. I hope you forgive an old man for not raising the swineherd's stick when there are so many people more able bodied. Instead, let me make roast hog for everyone. Tomorrow we must celebrate a coming victory."

As the community breaks into groups and start talking about plans and other concerns, Taft puts his arm around Iofr.

Whatever you do will be appreciated. Thank you. But get some sleep, too. It is late.

To a few hunters who are following him for plans, Taft says,

"It is late. I think we should all rest while we can. Let us not act too suspicious - the banner in the centre of town may be more alive than we imagine. Come morning, we will leave on an early hunt, and prepare a suitable ambush spot between here and the Ridge. I am thinking about the bog, where the g'wit'kan grass grows. But let us look together, and agree together. For now, I think we should rest."


Alva gestures for Taft to head home, but the hunter nods over to Freyr, one of the town's most esteemed Channelers. "One more thing before we sleep, my love. If the Tower is afraid of Channelers, I think we need to bring them with us tomorrow for the ambush. At least, we need to bring as many as are willing."

On his way back to the shop, Vasil asks around for someone willing to dig a ditch, fill it with spikes, and cover it in such a way to be less obvious. Vasil suggests placing it near the proposed ambush site.

The ditch(es) need not be deep enough to swallow a man,but only to break an ankle, or spear through his foot.
Able to provide steel wire from his workshop, Vasil suggests hanging this wire tightly at ankle and throat height in key locations.

Taft and Alva weave through the thinning crowd toward Freyr, their son's husband, and pull him aside...

Eirikr is trembling on the inside, incredibly worried. Should they be attacking this Tower, whatever it was? It threatened to kill Freyr, as well as anyone who refused to bow to it. Seeming on the verge of tears, he heads over to where Freyr, Taft, and Alva are, holding Freyr's hand once he got there. He didn't know what to do. But no one was going to threaten Freyr. Not by any means.

Taft nods to his son and gives him a warm smile. His love for his boy (as he still refers to him) is unshakable.

Turning to Freyr, he nods and gives a small hand-signal which signifies deference from one channeler to another.

"Thank you for holding the ceremony in your lodge, Freyr. I'm glad we came to an agreement. I am ashamed to say that it has taken this event for me to realize how many Channelers I have around me. I have been taking it for granted. Usually we are integrated in the life of this town, but now I feel that we are... distinct, in the increased threat the Tower poses to us.

I seek your advice on how the Channelers should meet the Tower tomorrow. I will be leading an ambush at sundown, near the bog. Winter's Third Bite tells me that the Tower fears Channelers. I think it would be advantageous to have a group of us as part of the ambush - not only for our command of the Wind, but for the moral difference it may make.

What do you say? I speak to you as a leader, and one who knows the Wind more than most of us. You are a loved member of my family, but in this question I approach you as my superior and defer to your judgement."

Vasil, having successfully found willing and able ditch diggers directs them to Taft for further direction, passing on his advice for optimal placement and depth.

He returns to his workshop, the forge still hot from his earlier preparations, stokes the flames, and begins work. Carefully, patiently, he forges a blade of good hard steel. A blade to defend his home. A blade to defend the village that saved his life.

After the debate, the wolf had slipped away, pausing only to hear the blacksmith whisper friendly words to it. The man's words pleased it very much; it had padded away with its tail wagging gently and its tongue lolling happily out its mouth.

First, it walked by the butcher's, smelling the meat in the air. The butcher, who was hard at work over an animal the humans would feast on that night, eyed Shadow with distrust. The wolf pulled its ears back, lowered its eyes respectfully, and slunk off. It had made off with a whole deer once as a yearling, and had learned very quickly that stealing was the worst idea ever around humans: they all became very noisy and angry, and Shadow had bared its fangs at them, worrying they were going to eat it instead. If not for Taft's diplomacy, it might not have survived that particular mistake. Five years later, the butcher still acted suspicious when Shadow came around her stall, though she'd be the first to scratch its belly anywhere else. Shadow never stole from the village again... But still, it couldn't resist sniffing the delicious scents every time it passed by.

Now, it wanders into the village square, drooling and licking its chops. As soon as it steps into the square, it's painfully aware of the ugly, unnatural banner stabbed into the middle of the square, like a tooth in the neck of a deer. Shadow's fur stands on end. It stands very still for a moment, tail stretched out straight and still behind it. Then, the wolf instinctively finds the shadows at the edge of the square and blends in. From this shadowy position, it observes the banner. Is that thing really watching the village, or are the anxiety and paranoia of Shadow's human friends rubbing off on it? The only way to find out is to check.

Shadow sniffs the air, trying to detect any trace scents still sticking to the banner. Then, it closes its eyes, pricks up its ears, and listens in the same way it was taught to listen for spirits.

It hears nothing unusual. It smells nothing unusual. The wolf sneezes and opens its eyes. Looks like it's time to get serious.

Shadow tenses for a moment, and then leaps upwards, onto the roof of the building next to it. It takes a deep breath, breathing in power and motivation as it breathes air. Lungs full, it points its snout to the sky, and lets loose a long, undulating howl followed by a bark.

Freyr smiles, an expression which seems far more at home on his handsome features than the sombre thought and anger you’d seen in the Shrinehouse. "Father, you need not make any deferral to me. Only Frigg and myself are skilled enough with the Wind to call it in anger, but it’s song will be loud enough the woods will reverberate." He laughs at this, and you see the depth of his pain at seeing the village threatened as it has been. "When it comes to battle, we know little. But we trust the spirits, and the wind will buoy our own spirits, too"

At this point, the conversation stops as an almost ear-splitting howl emerges from the gigantic jaws of Shadow. Winter’s Third Bite’s howl is surprising enough that several villagers scream, and at least one man passes out. There is something otherworldly in its cadence. It rather pauses the conversation.

The wolf's voice echoes around the village and far beyond. The people in the village pause for a second on the edge of fight or flight as Shadow's primal bark touches something deep and wild still within them. The dogs of the village don't join in this howl, but they all dash to the square to watch, drawn towards this greater cousin of theirs singing a song they can't quite understand. And outside the village, a couple of miles away, the ears of another great wolf prick up. It lifts its face to the sky and sings too.

After brief, fitful, starts of sleeping by everyone, the sun rises.

Winter’s Third Bite meets its packmates, called as they were by the Primal Howl, outside Kallbacken. Autumn’s First Howl, towering over the other wolves, growls its acknowledgement of Winter’s Third Bite, and from the glaring of its teeth makes its position clear.

"The Primal Forest Wardens are here to hunt Spirits. They will not stand with or against either human side, but will only attack their ancient foe. This is the right path."

After brief, fitful, starts of sleeping by everyone, the sun rises.

Winter’s Third Bite meets its packmates, called as they were by the Primal Howl, outside Kallbacken. Autumn’s First Howl, towering over the other wolves, growls its acknowledgement of Winter’s Third Bite, and from the glaring of its teeth makes its position clear.

"The Primal Forest Wardens are here to hunt Spirits. They will not stand with or against either human side, but will only attack their ancient foe. This is the right path."

Vasil takes to his workshop, methodically crafting a weapon of war. In his previous life, before Kallbacken, his work has been more varied. Though there was overlap - mending wheels and maintaining tools, Vasil had to arm his caravan with weapons to defend themselves. He remembered his training, even if he was a touch rusty.

Working the bellows and anvil, he forge welds iron to steel, focusing the harder metal along the cutting edge. Heating and hammering, Vasil works the ingot across the horn, creating the socket - left open for now. He narrows the neck, and takes to forming the blade, drawing and extending the metal, as it grows thinner towards the tip.
Vasil takes a good, long piece of Ash wood - too nice for a shovel or broom - and cuts it a fraction taller than himself. He prepares the wood for the socket, and heats the metal gently, softening the metal enough to work, but not to destroy the wood. The shaft is placed inside the socket, and hammered closed. Vasil checks his work for straightness and balance, makes some adjustments, and continues.
The forging process is over reasonably quickly, leaving him ample time for the lengthy grinding and polishing to come. The blade is tempered, cut and refined. Oyvind watches, snoozing intermittently, and brewing tea periodically. He enjoys watching Vasil being his old shop to life. As a lifelong craftsman, he takes pride in the quality of work demonstrated today. Vasil is focused, hunched over the Whetstone, making steady, careful strokes.

Eventually, it is done. Exhausted, covered in sweat, coal dust and metal filings, Vasil emerges from his shop, squinting away from the bright sun beginning to rise from the East. In his hands, the spear. Polished ash shaft, darkened by a generous coat of Tung, leading to a bright, mirror polished blade, catches the morning light. The spear he names Odzáil, drawing from his native tongue. Translated literally, Castle's Ward, or, defender of my home, as Vasil intended it. He smiled. The work was good.

Once his eyes have adjusted, Vasil takes a long deep breath of the morning air. He takes a long lingering look around the village, and still wearing his thick leather Smith's apron, Woolen hat, and sturdy marching boots, Vasil walks towards Taft's house. He really hopes they've got some food.

Eiríkr spends the day with Freyr patrolling the city. Everyone seemed to be in a state of shock about what was going to happen, with the assault and all. The atmosphere is solemn, cold, and dark. Not things that he enjoyed. Before he goes to bed, he holds Freyr close, saying, "I don't want to lose you."

Taft takes a few friends 'hunting' the next morning. They are careful to outfit themselves normally and to refrain from speaking around the Tower's flag in the centre of town.

Once outside the walls, they head to the East. They take the main trail, which leads to The Ridge where the tower is encamped.

Thirty minutes from Kallbacken, the trail descends through a thick patch of low, windswept pines, then opens out upon a wide bog.

The group stops here and looks out upon the bog.

They all know this is the best place to set an ambush from. There is only a single trail made of fallen logs that leads across the exposed bog, and stepping off the logs would leave their prey in knee-or waist-deep muck and water. The pine thicket is dense, and it would be easy to conceal Channelers and others here. There is cover in the forest, and only grasses, moss and lilies in the bog.

The hunters scan the terrain silently - all are considering these things without saying anything.

Taft finally speaks.

"The only problem is that it might be too obvious of an ambush point. But I have a thought. Those of us that are good with bows could hide within the bog, on their flanks. Once they're close, we can fire at them. Their only place for cover would be the forest. They will run for cover, and other villagers with spears and other weapons will be waiting for them. The Channelers can hide behind our warriors, and they could retreat to town if everything fails. The wolves can move through the forest better than any of us. As long as they can discern friend from foe, they will wreak havoc."

"Their only cover is these long reeds, but if we choose our positions in the bog now, we can cut some reeds carefully enough for open lanes of fire. As we do when hunting b'kun. Except the b'kun know the land better than these foreigners."

He smiles. They group circles around, and starts cutting firelanes from their flanking positions to the trail.

Shadow and the Ancient Forest Wardens had watched the group's approach in complete silence, their strange fur concealing them between the trees and in the underbrush. Shadow's dominant hadn't let it out of sight since their conversation; now, Shadow is lying politely next to where the larger wolf sits. Shadow glances up at Autumn's First Hunt and then averts its eyes respectfully. It stands to go alert Taft of their presence, but the dominant wolf's lip instantly curls, flashing its huge, white teeth at Shadow. The gesture is not a threat, but a clear reminder: Do not go to the humans. We hunt only our ancestral foe, that which threatens all.

Shadow flops down again, rests its head on its paws, and sighs dejectedly. It has little idea of what the humans' plan is and how to help, but it is glad to be nearby at least.

Taft spends the day carefully preparing the ambush site. Not everything goes perfectly - some people stumble in the mud, and they do their best to cover excess footprints. They cut blinds in the forest for the spearmen and warriors to hide behind. The blinds work well, but Taft is less confident with the firelanes they've cut through the reeds. In order to keep it looking natural, he and the archers had to leave up a fair number of reeds. It forces them to hide closer to the trail than he'd like.

Vasil walks through the streets of Kallbacken toward Taft's house. It is eerily quiet - not a true quiet, but the quiet of a man holding his breath. The animals still snuffle in their pens, and the birds chirp in the trees - though even these seem muted. The wind still blows through the Singing Stones. What is missing is the sound of people. There is no chatter, barter or work. No creak of a wooden cart, nor hammer on nail. There are no shrill cries of playing children. Those who remain in the village - the young, the elderly, the infirmed, they make themselves small. Hiding behind the windows of their homes, bracing for the oncoming storm.

Reaching Taft's home, he finds it empty. Vasil curses. He is late.

As he walks towards the planned ambush site, Vasil's stomach reminds him I'm fucking hungry!
He pauses, sighs, and turns. Vasil lets himself into Tarin the Butcher's shop, and helps himself to some cured meat. He eats quickly, and without pleasure as he walks. If I am alive when this is over, I will sharpen Tarin's knives in thanks for the stolen meat.

Kallbacken is not a large village, so Vasil arrives at the gate quickly, though he takes the long route in order to avoid the banner. It is not long before he approaches the ambush site. He has stashed the last of the meat in the pocket of his apron. Seeing Taft, Vasil approaches...

As the afternoon wears on, Taft is distracted by a possibility that had not initially occurred to him:

What if rear members of the Tower group escape, and run back towards the Ridge, and tells others of the ambush?

If this happens, the ambush might do more harm than good, and cause a rapid response against Kallbacken.

He silently curses himself for not thinking about this earlier. Humans were not like deer, which could be tracked for days through the bush after they were ambushed. Here, he had to think that The Tower might have lines of communication in place.

They had to be cut off.

After everyones' orders have been given, Taft returns to his position in the marsh, at the Easternmost edge of the archers. Taft is positioned to see the Tower first, and to have sight of the last of them. But its not enough. He needs to be in position to block the trail.

He nudges his old friend Bhon, who is positioned near him.

"Old friend. There is one more thing. I am cursing myself for not thinking of this: I do not think we can let anyone run back to the Ridge. I am going to sneak further Eastward, and closer to the trail. I will hunt down any stragglers, or any who will retreat. Will you come with me?"

As Vasil makes it to the gathered group of hunters, it’s plain to his eyes that there are no wolves here. Even his newfound friend "Shadow" is nowhere to be seen. Gripping his spear, not just weighted well in his hand, but also beautifully and artfully made, a sort of rustic ornatesness, he listens to the plan.Taft and Bohn make their way slowly across the solitary traverseable path through the muddy bog. The two of them reach an ambushable position on the other side, content to focus their fire on those attempting to escape. Crossing the bog, they spot the shapes of gigantic creatures hidden beside and inside it; the wolves need make no blinds to find themselves almost invisible, their fur being a natural camouflage.

Autumn’s First Howl has organised the wolves into a line parallel to the path the others will take. Quite unlike how the pack normally works, it is not beginning with a Howl and a Chase, instead content to co-opt the human tactics, so long as it aids the pack’s goals. Autumn’s First Howl puts Winter’s Third Bite in the location closest to the hunters, and puts itself on the far side. The net is ready.

Vasil fast realises he is of little help when it comes to setting up the ambush, and so quickly sets to improving and reenforcing the blinds constructed by the village, using his knowledge of mending and carpentry to do so. He keeps his spear within arm's reach at all times...

He wishes he'd paid more attention to the training the caravan guard had received, lamenting his lack of ambush tactics. The drills played around the background of his memories, but all he could see were the broken wheels and busted armour that had filled his days with the company.

Eirikr leads a small platoon of villagers to the forest where the ambush will be taking place. He grips his axe in his right hand, his body trembling with fear. He looks at Freyr for a moment, squeezing his hand tightly. Hopefully, he or Taft didn't die today. Hopefully their losses would not be in vain.

Bohn immediately halts at the sight of the huge wolves, but Taft presses close to him and whispers,

"There is nothing to fear. This is a good sign. The Pack has decided to ally with us, for now."

Taft feels elated with relief. The presence of the Pack is a sign that his instincts were correct. He feels aligned with the land once again, after a long straining day.

He takes a deep breath crouches at the edge of the Pack, maintaining a respectful distance.

Winter's Third Bite catches his eye for a moment. There is a recognition, and a camaraderie, between them.

Taft breathes slowly.

We are all hunters, here. There is nothing to do, but listen. We will act and speak as we were meant to. We will know when the time is right.

He looks up to the grey sky. Feels the cool breeze. Nods silently to Bohn, who lies beside him. Checks his weapons, and waits.

Silent as the wolves.

The pack moves as one, stalking unseen through the trees like the shadows of the Taft's hunters. Autumn's First Hunt lifts her nose and sniffs the air before her body tenses and lowers, ready to leap into action. The pack mirrors their dominant; they can all smell the enemy nearby. Yet, even as they tense, Autumn's First Hunt looks from side to side at them all, warning them with her teeth: no action until an ancestral enemy appears.

Shadow feels a bit bored with its leader's insistence on waiting, but it stays still in the appropriate position, ready to fight. It feels eyes on it and glances up, only to find its gaze locked with Taft's. A slight smile touches the man's lips, and Shadow twitches an ear and cocks its head in response.

Then, the wolf vanishes back into the overgrowth, to where it will be best hidden and in a vantage point to surprise any enemies it might be allowed to attack.

The stomping sound of people trekking through the forest, out of step. It's clear that they're making an attempt to be silent, but you all hear them before you see them. Twelve figures, each adorned in the same armour, the thick jackets, walk purposefully. You spot two of them first, carrying swords, with unstrung bows across their backs, who come up to the bog and turn back, waiting to bring the others to safety. These scouts, and the leader who stands in the middle of the group, Taft is close enough to recognise as the three who entered Kallbacken. The other nine Interlopers carry spears; these they hold confidently, even as they start to cross the "bridge" over the bog.

As the Interlopers start passing the bridge, the forest around them erupts; arrows, and a stray cheer, start flying from the Kallbacken side. The soldiers, despite their armour, panic; they all seem to be looking at their leader for support. She is looking around, perhaps in shock, perhaps for an opening.

A howl comes up from the wolves, they seem to be fixated on something stood on the mud itself, as they circle around to a spot where it seems nothing stands; they are out of range of the spears, and seem to be ignoring the humans.You can smell the air thicken as the metallic scent of the warriors come, but you also notice the tang of the spiritual. As the arrows begin flying, the pack have already pinpointed two spirits, which smell of stone and wailing to you. The pack Howls for the Ancestral Jaw, in unison, and circles the two spirits, which are not affected by mud, and so walked alongside the bridge.

Taft glances at the wolves to note the location of Shadow, then looks away. He is aware that something odd is happening around the wolf pack, but this is not the time to be distracted.

He draws his bow and carefully aims at the back of the leader of the Interlopers. He aims between the shoulder blades, just to the side, where the heart would be.

He holds his breath for a moment, offers a silent blessing to the wind and the land, and fires as he exhales.

Vasil remains hidden behind a tree, placing himself adjacent to the archers, along with some other village fighters.

OOC:

Intent is to stand in the path between the enemy and our archers, but not blocking the archers line of sight.
When their footmen engage us, the archers should still be able to shoot them. Vasil is standing his ground, hoping to gain advantageous position, and if possible, surprise.

Vasil stands among the spear line, at the edge of the bridge, shoulder to shoulder with the villagepeople. His spear's wicked point gleaming, ready, he plants his feet, and readies himself to plunge the point into the first enemy who closes range.

The soldiers find their footing, and as Vasil comes to defend the bridge, they begin to clasp their weapons more confidently.The wolves strange dance seems to be evolving, they worry at an invisible foe, in a strange and bizarre dance, as one leaps forward and drives a set of massive jaw at the air, and then that one's opposite partner mimics the movement.

Taft looses his arrow at the very moment that another member of the Tower retinue steps in front of their leader. The arrow glances of his shoulder, leaving only a minor wound.

Taft falls to the ground and presses himself into the muck and ferns. He whispers to Bohn, who passes him another arrow,

"My aim was true but I hit another. And I did not even fell him"

Vasil grits his teeth, and steps forward onto his strong leg, driving the spear forward with his legs and core. He looks into the panicked faces of the men before him. I have worked hard to make this place my home. You will not take that from me.

Shadow chases after the scent, howling as it runs, and aims to tear off the largest chunk of spirit.

The spear thrusts seems to be mimicked time and time again by the flying of arrows after arrow through the air. In a few seconds that last an age, the villagers capitalise on the panic of these Interlopers. Before the group have regrouped enough to mount any sort of defence, six of their number lie dead.

The arrow that missed the leader snaps off in the armour of one of the scouts. The scouts back off to side side closest to their ridge, stepping on the mud now as if it were solid ground. They string their bows as they go, bending the wood against the bank. The leader's gaze drops to the arrow, and she turns to look towards the hills on which Taft hides. She steps back, carefully, along the log, and her voice rings out loud and clear. "Retreat in good order. Make for the trees."The wolves tear at a first prey, and then, swiftly, bear down on a second patch of mud. The taste of spirit-essence and cold, grey, stone fills Winter's Third Bites mouth as the wolf tears at the flesh of a creature as large as a human. As the wolves leap on their second prey, the faint outline of fallen rocks, arranged haphazardly. can be seen where they downed their first one.

The largest wolf howls, turning to face the retreating soldiers, and the following words form in Vasil's mind "The Wolf Will Hunt The Spirit-Taken".

Time dilates, slowing and racing at once. Vasil yells as he plunges the spear into the belly of a man, who stands frozen in fear. Moving to a second - this one a woman - has some time to react, seeing her comrades felled on both sides. Vasil takes a half-step, feinting a blow toward her forward knee. She moves to block, swinging her weapon low, but her fear leaves her slow in her response, as Vasil presses his rear hand to the base of his weapon's pole, levering the point high, and drives it into the enemy's neck.

An arrow soars across the bog, planting itself into the shoulder of a Tower soldier. The solder jerks, fumbling his attack, and is quickly stuck with a spear and a pitchfork bore by the two farmer's sons.

The Tower's soldiers begin to turn heel, as Vasil sees Sulo cut down one more, shouldering his foe into the bog below.

Half a dozen of their enemy incapacitated, dead or dying, the village militia begin moving forward in pursuit of the now fleeing enemy. Vasil moves with them, functioning more on instinct than thought.

Moving one foot after the other, Vasil is struck with a thought,
The Wolf will hunt the Spirit-Taken...
It takes him a moment to realise, that was not his thought, but a voice in his mind. Vasil's eyes quickly meet those of a large grey wolf, who stares back into his with intent. What intent Vasil did not- an arrow flies past Vasil, breaking his train of thought.

Adrenaline overtaking the strange sensation, Vasil moves to catch Sulo and the others, who are chasing the enemy.As with any chase for Vasil, it is reasonable to call for a test of his bad leg.

The majority of the Kallbacken defenders fight with the village at their back, but Taft and Bohn are on the far side, behind enemy lines.

In spite of the snarling and screaming all around him, Taft finds himself in a place of calm.

His instincts recall decades of hunting, and he falls easily into the rhythm of stalking, watching and waiting.

Lying deep in the ferns, he keeps his eye on the leader of the Tower. Lying on his belly, he backs slowly into the trees. They will soon be standing near where he shot his first arrow. It is a good place for cover. Taft will be waiting deeper in the forest, and this time, when he fires, he won't miss.

He whispers to Bohn,

"Stay well back. We are separated from our fellows, so we need to be ready to run if they find us. I am going to fell the leader."

Eirikr leads a small battalion towards the Tower. The group fights viciously, and Eirikr draws his axe, leading a charge into the fray.

As soon as it hears the order from Autumn's First Howl, Shadow refocuses on the Spirit-taken. The wolf's heart beats fast in its chest, every ounce of its being is focused on this hunt. It rallies with its pack, and pursues, jaws aching to tear at spirit-tainted flesh.

Should anyone draw, I will adjudicate.

The wolf sets its sights on a spirit-taken holding a bow. It glances at its dominant for permission before splitting off from the main group of the pack, running wide and circling around its prey. The spirit-taken tries to shift course away from Shadow, and finds themself trapped between the wolf and the pack, which has begun to savage its comrade. They turn away from the carnage frantically, and loose an arrow at the wolf. The arrow goes wide, splashing into the mud a few feet away. For a moment, Shadow holds, fur bristling. It revels in the fear and desperation it sees on its prey's face.

Then, it leaps forward, landing squarely on the chest of its quarry. The spirit-taken barely has a moment to look into the wolf's huge jaws and scream before Winter's Third Bite closes them around its prey's head.

Autumn's First Hunt howls from a little way away. The rest of the pack lift their heads and howl with her.

Taft slips back into the forest as the followers of the Tower approach. To his far side, he notes that the Wolves are lively and seem to be succeeding as well. He whispers a quick prayer for them, and especially to Winter's Third Bite.

...

As he suspected, the humans retreat right into the open area under the pines where he himself lay, a minute ago.

Bohn quietly hands him an arrow.

Without looking away from his quarry, Taft nocks the arrow, draws back the string, and fires.

This time, they are so close that it would be next to impossible to miss.

The leader falls with a scream.

Taft doesn't take the time to assess the damage. He slips back into the forest with Bohn.

"Let's head towards the ridge. Parallel to the trail for a while, then we can move onto the trail and track any survivors."

Taft's heart is pounding. He manages a small smile and slaps his old friend on the back.

Vasil runs. For the first time since his arrival in Kallbacken, he runs. The eight years have not been kind to his body, as this is harder than he remembered. He focuses on the invaders retreating before him, on his footing on the slippery surface of the bridge. His damaged leg screams at him, his body willing him to stop.

He runs alongside Taft's boy, Eirikr, who shoots Vasil a grin. It buoys Vasil's morale to have backup, allies. These are not the sorts to leave him for dead.
He digs deeper, matching pace with his axe wielding comrade.

Leaving the bridge, they are met by a fast moving black mass - the wolf.
Shadow now runs alongside Vasil, at a gentle canter. Vasil places his left foot on a loose rock, forcing him to balance. The muscles in his damaged leg fail to adjust in time, but for a gentle nudge by the great wolf, a stumble is saved. Vasil finds his stride again, and the three, along with those remaining of the militia run headlong toward their fleeing enemy.

Eirikr and Vasil lead a charge against the Interlopers, harrying them across the difficult terrain. As the wolves pounce on their own prey, the leader is felled by an arrow from somewhere behind them. At that beat, Vasil thrusts his spear at a target, who drops her spear as she parries the blow, and Eirikr lops off a head with his axe. Suddenly, he feels a jolt of pain in his side; Sulo yells as a pair of arrows hit the grizzled warrior who just stabbed Eirikr.

Sulo rushes to Eirikr's side, seeing blood pouring from the Wound. As Vasil and Shadow chase down the fleeing soldier, Freyr rushes up to Eirikr, and begins fretting. "He is injured, but it is not so grave" Sulo says, curtly. "We must get him back to the village."Vasil, his leg hampering his run only a little, chases down his target. She flees into a clearing, and stops suddenly as Winter's Third Bite emerges from the far side; she's caught between the two of you, and unarmed.

The wolf lets out a deep growl. "Submit, human," it says. "Submit and talk." The blood of the last enemy it killed still drips down its chin.

Vasil reaches the clearing. Winter's Third Bite slinks low, aggressively approaching the enemy. The Great Wolf orders the woman to submit, moving closer.

Making brief eye contact with his ally, Vasil points his spear at the unarmed enemy, and moves toward her, stopping within range.

Taft emerges from another edge of the clearing. His bow is drawn and raised, and it is aimed at the woman's chest.

"I don't want to kill you, but I will, if you run."

The woman stares at the Wolf in front of her, and chances a glance at Taft and Vasil. She looks terrified, but the then crouches her legs a little, dropping into what looks a little like a fighting stance.

"Promise me life, or give me quick death; a Sigrundotr will not be a slave." She says.

Shadow's fur settles again. It glances at Vasil and Taft, and then further to the end of the clearing, where Autumn's First Hunt and the rest of the pack are standing. Its nose feels dry; it licks it wet again. It speaks.

"The Ancient Forest Wardens have no use for slaves. Neither does Kallbacken. We will let you live if you are willing to tell us all you know and join us against the Stone Spirit."

Vasil says nothing, and nods.

He lowers his spear away from her face to a less aggressive position.

Taft keeps his bow on the woman.

"I will promise you life if you return to Kallbacken with us. You will not be a slave; but you will not be a member of Kallbacken. You would have your freedom but you would be an outsider. It is the tradition of these parts. We take in those in need."

"If you stay with us long enough and show that you respect our ways, even if you do not understand them, we may grow closer together, after a time."

Taft points with his chin towards Vasil.

"This man was an outsider once, like yourself. But he has helped build our town, he participates in our ceremonies, and today he fought alongside us. I consider him my brother now, and I would help him in the same way I would help any person in Kallbacken."

Taft meets Vasil's eyes for a moment. Taft's expression shows that he considers his statement to be a solemn oath to Vasil.

He returns his gaze to the woman.

"So yes, we promise you live and freedom in Kallbacken. If you leave without notice, then you are left to your own fate once again. This is the way of our people."

Vasil and Taft begin to lead the woman back, able to keep their weapons trained on her as Winter’s Third Bite leads the way. In its head, the wolf hears "Come meet us at our range when you have learned what is here; congratulate the windspeaker and the firetamer on their hunt, and allow them to treat with us." in its head.

Before you get to the village, the woman stops, suddenly. "The banner that Friggr Sigrundotr left here. You should remove it before I step foot in its sight. I don’t know if you’ll be able to destroy it" she says, looking pleadingly at Taft. "Please do it; I do not want any of the Pillars to see what I have done.".

After a while, she looks directly at the Wolf. "It is the first time I have seen a beast such as you." she says "How did a tiny village such as this manage to tame one of the howling steeds of the brother killers?"

Vasil speaks for the first time.
"I do not like the banner. Will the flames of my forge be sufficient to destroy it?"

Vasil avoids eye contact with Taft, embarrassed by his kind words.

Shadow cocks its head, puzzled at the smith's words. "Surely the fire you light yourself is powerful enough?" It turns and fixes the woman with a reproachful stare. "Nobody rides a Spirit Hunter," it growls.

Vasil too is puzzled by the wolf's choice of words.
He had not communicated extensively with Wolves, but put this syntactic difference down to a difference in dialect. People spoke differently here, than where he was born, why should Wolves not?So, he disregards the odd phrasing.

Wait here, I will deal with it. He says.

As Vasil turns to leave, the wolf pads after him, speaking softly. "Vasil. Friend. Extinguish the fire and then light it again, not with flint and tinder but because you will it so. When you try, it will make sense. It is all connected."

Then, it stops, remembering its dominant's order. "Wait," it says to Vasil, before turning to Taft and speaking. "The Ancient Forest Wardens congratulate the windspeaker and the firetamer on their hunt, and invite them to treat with us... I can lead the two of you to our range when the time is right."

Taft nods to Shadow and Vasil as they enter the town.

"Until the banner is gone, I will stay outside the walls with... what is your name, woman? Once inside, I will introduce you to my household. Alva is the best baker in Kallbacken. We will find you a place to live."

He lowers his bow, but stands far enough away that the woman couldn't overtake him by surprise.

Vasil looks to the wolf, not entirely understanding. How can a fire be lit without flint or tinder? In his homeland, the Royals, the leading bureaucrats and the elite guard - as legend told - could create flame with only their hands. Vasil was not of gentle birth, and had no contact with those sorts. Time to time, one would see a street performer using fire art for a crowd, or a craftsman bending a flame to his will - but these were rarities outside of the Golden Gate, in which he had never set foot. Bastards and exiles of noble blood, untrained and weak of talent.

It was rumoured that if ever a common child was seen to display the talent, royal guards would take the child within the golden walls, leaving the parents a purse of gold, the child never seen again. But like most things, Vasil knew, rumours were usually just that.


Perhaps the wolf was mistaken. He knew where Vasil was from - and maybe assumed he had the talent? Kallbacken's workers of wind were far more common among the common folk - owing to Kallbacken's relative lack of a ruling caste, or class system. Vasil was common as dirt, and this was fine. The wolf was mistaken, but this too, was fine. Vasil found himself beginning to like the beast. It speaks with a gentle wisdom he likes. Vasil dislikes the anger within himself. Perhaps he could learn the calm way of this animal.

Walking through the streets of the village, Shadow trotting silently at his heels, Vasil comes upon the square in which the banner looms. He averts his gaze, attempting to ignore the unpleasant sensation he feels in its presence. A cold shudder like a body warning of illness.Vasil dons his thick metalworking gloves, and pulls the banner from the ground, letting it fall into the sleet. Approaching the rope knots, lashing the cloth to wood, he examines the knot briefly, before shrugging, and slicing the cord with his blade. Repeating this again for all ties on the fabric. Vasil works quickly, avoiding direct eye contact with the banner, where possible. He takes little care with the cloth, his boots tracking mud across the surface.

The cloth is rolled and carried along with the pole back to his forge.

Need I burn the post too, Wolf? he asks, examining the good, straight timber.