Boots of calf-skin, worn and hardy from long marches, crunched through the first morning frost, the regular pace of a steadfast stride. The talismans rattled, bone on metal on stone, in Alfhild’s sack, the implements of her craft stowed from prying eyes and snapping cold. Her distaff joined it, slung across her back beneath blue, gem-studded mantle: in her hands, an ornate spear gleamed gold and chalcedony in the early sun. It was the gift of Charles, of the Franks, who judged her talents be rewarded by gift of riches and punishment of sword-forced exile.
She was weary, as she leaned upon the pillar of ash, pushed herself onwards. Her travels had been long, in need of an end. Her pale skin was glossed with sweat, her mane of raven-black hair unruly beneath her hood of black lambskin. Her youth made her desire to use the runes carved upon the ash of the spear, on the copper in her pouch, but she rejected the disrespectful action. A score of summers and six were enough to teach her respect of the Norns.
Her feet were guided to the Wight-Stone, at which sat a mug of ale. She could feel the cloying of the earth-spirits, though their call was faint: in their area her talents did not lay thick. She bowed, and let the ornamental spear rest on her shoulder. Long, clever fingers brushed along her slight, boyish frame, finding a skin of good Alban mead. She said prayers to Odin and Freya, her masters in the halls of Valhalla, and thanked the spirits for their service. As she sprinkled the mead, and laid the skin at the base of the colossal stone, cerulean eyes flicked to the smoke while offering the final chant of her closing prayer. Shelter, as required. A place to ply her trade and earn a keep, to hide from the snows and winds of winter. Or, a place to be cast out as evil, to be extorted by seax and wide-bearded axe.
The dice would fall where they may, she was their servant and guide only. She turned her back on the stone, and continued her feet-aching procession towards the long-house. Such was her fatigue that she was forced to rest, and chew on a strip of salt-cured mutton, before cresting the final hill. The workers gave her curious looks, none greeted her. She pulled her rich cloak tight over her narrow hips, her slender frame, and kept her face pointed towards the great wall, as though to broadcast her intent to those who might inform the leaders of this place.
She crested the hill, and stopped at the wall of the longhouse, not intending to so offend the family within by entering uninvited. With the butt of a spear she could not use, she rapped upon the gate twice, and after a light pause, twice again. Further attention was drawn, but Alfhild simply waited, patient as the great stone in whose fashion she stood in the early-winter air.
She was weary, as she leaned upon the pillar of ash, pushed herself onwards. Her travels had been long, in need of an end. Her pale skin was glossed with sweat, her mane of raven-black hair unruly beneath her hood of black lambskin. Her youth made her desire to use the runes carved upon the ash of the spear, on the copper in her pouch, but she rejected the disrespectful action. A score of summers and six were enough to teach her respect of the Norns.
Her feet were guided to the Wight-Stone, at which sat a mug of ale. She could feel the cloying of the earth-spirits, though their call was faint: in their area her talents did not lay thick. She bowed, and let the ornamental spear rest on her shoulder. Long, clever fingers brushed along her slight, boyish frame, finding a skin of good Alban mead. She said prayers to Odin and Freya, her masters in the halls of Valhalla, and thanked the spirits for their service. As she sprinkled the mead, and laid the skin at the base of the colossal stone, cerulean eyes flicked to the smoke while offering the final chant of her closing prayer. Shelter, as required. A place to ply her trade and earn a keep, to hide from the snows and winds of winter. Or, a place to be cast out as evil, to be extorted by seax and wide-bearded axe.
The dice would fall where they may, she was their servant and guide only. She turned her back on the stone, and continued her feet-aching procession towards the long-house. Such was her fatigue that she was forced to rest, and chew on a strip of salt-cured mutton, before cresting the final hill. The workers gave her curious looks, none greeted her. She pulled her rich cloak tight over her narrow hips, her slender frame, and kept her face pointed towards the great wall, as though to broadcast her intent to those who might inform the leaders of this place.
She crested the hill, and stopped at the wall of the longhouse, not intending to so offend the family within by entering uninvited. With the butt of a spear she could not use, she rapped upon the gate twice, and after a light pause, twice again. Further attention was drawn, but Alfhild simply waited, patient as the great stone in whose fashion she stood in the early-winter air.