Tickling fish was an art, not a science, and like most art it took time, patience and repetition to truly call yourself a master. Faen had devoted none of the above to tickling, but he made up for it with his deft hands, a good eye, and a truly inspiring case of beginners luck. He found an underwater ledge in the shallows easily enough, a likely place for a trout to rest on it's journey up stream he figured. As usual he was correct, spotting a tail fin swishing in the water. With infinite care and a glacial lack of speed he crouched into the river, passed his hand with fingers turned up under the ledge, until he was touching the trout's tail. Then, as the merchant had taught him, he began to tickle the creature lightly with just his forefinger. 

The fish never swam away in a panic, as you might think it should. Instead it fell into a stupefied like trance, heedless to the peril it was in, allowing the Lokison to slowly trace his finger the length of the creatures belly. [I]Stupid beast, surrendering it's fate for a belly rub. Oblivious to the doom that awaits it, simply because a higher being offers it a modicum of attention. Gods, it's almost like looking into a mirror.[/i] 

It was a disturbing thought, realising he was just like that fish. Odin had appeared to him, speaking in riddles, and now here he was, wandering aimlessly with a ragtag group of other exiles, scratching out an existence one second to the next, no thought to his own future save that which the All-Father had placed in his head. It irked him to say the very least, to have his much vaunted intelligence and cunning reduced to dust in the face of a God. Hel, he hadn't even really believed in the God's before this, believing the red-haired man who slept with his mother and caused him so much pain being no more than an ill-timed philanderer. Now he wasn't sure of what was true and what was myth, if he was master of his own fate or merely a plaything for bored Æsir, a galling experience for a man who coveted both knowledge and freedom. 

His hand had worked it's way to the fishes head now, just under the gills. The trout's time was coming to an end, Faen grasping it tightly and pulling it from the water. The creature tried to struggle free from his grip, but it was far, far too late for that now. The Lokison threw the beast to the bank, were it flip-flopped pathetically. A sharp strike with the butt of his knife stunned the fish, ready for the gutting. A rather inglorious end, all things told. [i]And there, our similarities will end, Trout. I refuse to meet my end at the whims of some other being, higher or otherwise.[/i] 

There, hands covered in the guts and excrement of a dead fish on its way to the cook fire, Faen resolved to be master of his own fate. He had let others decide his path for too long, but now, at the onset of exile he made himself a promise that no longer would he be a plaything or a puppet for others. Maybe this life was game for higher beings to enjoy, but he was damned if he was going to play by their rules. All he needed was a plan. . .

To start he would need allies. Hardly going to become a force to be reckoned with by man and God alike on his own, and it made sense to start with those wretched creatures most like him, those with nothing to lose, his brothers and sisters in exile. He would have to level his considerable charm at his new compatriots, to convince them to rally to his cause. It would have to be a slow process though, as slow as and inexorable as a coming winter, to worm his way slowly into their trust and confidence. Nothing anyone hated more than a pushy stranger, especially one rumoured to be son of the God of lies.

Arudunar had been shooting him harsh glances all day, making Faen might think if that ship hadn't already set sail then the passengers were probably starting to board. Erika might be an easier nut to crack, but as he had little dealings with her he was still unsure of what her responses would be to him. [i]No, there is an easier path, one that can kill two birds with one stone.[/i] He carried his fish, freshly gutted and cleaned, across to Alva, once more whistling a merry tune, this time to gain the blacksmiths wife's attention. 

“May I borrow the flint, m'lady? I can feel the promised warmth of a fire and cooked meal calling to me, and I fear we best get it started now if we want the flames to take before the rain sets in.” He gestured to the gathering storm clouds, using the fish as a pointer, a slight grin playing upon his face.