[b]Cyninggraf, The Weald[/b] The Arch Priestess and High Priestess Mildburg sat side by side on the banks of small lake, not making a sound and simply meditating and taking in the sounds of nature. However the Arch Priestess could tell something was bothering Mildburg, despite her inability to see the younger woman's slight fidgeting. "What is the matter, Mildburg?" she asked, and before Mildburg could reply she added, "And do not say it is nothing; you have been at my side long enough for me to know when something is bothering you." "I... I just worry for the warband who left after the Eye. I mean, Ethea is far from here and I, well, I have heard stories of it," Mildburg replied, "Do... Do you think they will succeed, Æbbe?" "If the Gods will it," the elderly woman replied simply, "I would like to think so, but you know as well as I do that [i]Eorþe[/i] is a fickle master. His whims are beyond the understanding of mortals." "I, I know that..." Mildburg said, "But, um, but then why were they sent at all? [i]Eorþe[/i] is not a kind master, and, well I mean, he does not care for us." "Bah, [i]Eorþe[/i] cares not for the Weald because he cares for the world. And the Holder of the Eye, his Champion, is the instrument of the World's Will," Æbbe said, "I thought you would understand that, Mildburg. Have I truly taught you no better?" The High Priestess looked down into her lap, her shame obvious. "I, well, I mean, I, no..." she stammered out, before stopping to compose herself for a moment, "I just... I just worry for them. I mean, the Bannik told everyone of the Eye. It is so dangerous." Æbbe sighed and put her shoulder on Mildburg's shoulder, "I am sorry, I should not have snapped. I sometimes forget you have such a gentle heart." "I'm sorry..." "Oh no, there is no reason to apologize. It is a good thing to care so much," Æbbe said, smiling, "But sometimes you must look at the larger picture. Do you understand?" Mildburg hesitated for a moment before nodding her head, "Y-yes, Arch Priestess." The older woman smiled again, and then both went back to their silent meditation. Though now Mildburg's thoughts were preoccupied with what to come that night. ------ The night had fallen on the Weald once again, and once again Mildburg found herself alone with Princess Hild in the Council room. Though this time she had thankfully not been suddenly awakened in the night, which was always welcome. They were dressed much as before, with Mildburg in the plain robe of a priestess and Princess Hild dressed in an expensive night gown. But now Hild had her arms crossed, and was deep in thought. A far cry from her usual bored demeanour. "And you are certain?" she asked, "There is nothing you can do or say?" Mildburg nodded her head, "Y-yes. Of course. And I mean, she has always been stubborn..." "The bloody zealot," Hild said angrily. "I'm sorry..." Mildburg said nearly instinctively. "Stop that, the old bat's mind is her own business," Hild said, "But she is going to be a severe problem. Even more than I'd feared." Mildburg nodded her head in agreement, though her expression showed that she was clearly upset, "She, she doesn't care about the Weald at all. I hoped I could've changed her mind..." "She is a stubborn old crone and you are not exactly a great orator, Mildburg," Hild said before quickly adding, "And the next thing out of your mouth had better not be an apology." Mildburg stared with her mouth open for a moment, as she had fully planned on apologizing, "Well, um, then what should we do Princess?" "Well the woman is going to need to be dealt with one way or another," Hild said, and in reply to Mildburg's shocked gasp she added, "No, I am not saying we're going to kill her, just make her less of a problem. Less of a threat to me. And to the Weald and her people." Although unhappy about the turn of events, Mildburg nodded her head in silent agreement. Then Hild rose from her seat and patted Mildburg head, "Well, I think we need to sleep on this. Maybe I'll have an idea in the morning." Then she left, leaving Mildburg alone with her thoughts. ------------ [b]Ethea[/b] Ælfrige Bearsson stood tall amidst his band of warriors. Numbering a few hundred in all they had been drawn from all over the Weald, fanatics and zealots of every stripe had been drawn by the call of Cyninggraf's Arch Priestess. Many of them were nobility, both high and low, though there many churls among their number as well. Ælfrige himself was dressed fully prepared for battle, as he had for much of the trip. It was a dangerous trip after all, especially once they had entered the domain of the nomads. Thankfully it seemed their numbers had scared off any smaller groups and they'd managed to avoid running afoul any of the larger of their barbaric warbands. Not that there hadn't been casualties, of course. Many good men had fought, bled, and died in the few raids the horsemen had dared to attempt on the Wealdmenn. And Ælfrige cut an impressive figure. He was fully dressed in his long shirt of chainmail and wearing a helmet wrought in the shape of a mustached face, though blonde hair spilled out from underneath the helmet on all sides. Across his back was his great, round shield painted with a dark green tree on a black background and he had his longsword sheathed on his hip. Many of his warriors were dressed in a similar manner, though only the upper nobility wore the masked helmets and wielded swords. The others had to make due with axes and spears and bows, while the churls did not even have the chainmail or helmets at all, being dressed in boiled leather or even just numerous layers of cloth. And from his vantage point, Ælfrige could see his target. It hadn't been hard to find, truthfully, which made it all the more dangerous. Not because of the veritable horde of barbaric horsemen but because if the Wealdmenn had found it so easily then so would anyone else attempted to find it. And there would, without a doubt, be many of them. Ælfrige had to be constantly vigilant against any would-be attackers and had men watching the perimeter for any signs of any who may have spotted the warband. Thankfully the throng of nomads among the ruins hadn't seemed to have noticed them, yet, for they were still a distance away and they were most likely preoccupied with the ruin itself. But Ælfrige knew that even with the blessings of the Gods that it would still be a difficult fight and that many of the men he had spent so long traveling with would end their lives here. He could even be among them, he knew, but he did not fear death. For all that happened was by the grace of the Gods and he lived to serve them. But that didn't mean he was a moron; unless his hand was forced, he would wait until the moment was right to strike out with the fury of the Gods.