"I'm afraid we won't have much time to whip you lots into fighting shape," Hralding said. Though he wore a stiff, bitter countenance, his voice bounced about with playful inflections. As he walked he seemed to lack a destination, loosely circling what remained of the mead-hall's congregation. "Which of you have fought before?"

Of course he expected the worst: of those who could fight in a proper shieldwall, all were cowards and liars who could not be trusted to use their abilities in disciplined command. Nay, his crew was filled with those who had the talents but lacked the goodwill, and vice-versa: those eager to serve, obey, sweat, and bleed, but who would fall like sickled rye at the blade of the first decent warrior they met over there. Still, Hralding kept any pessimism to himself, for he had been given a task and it was not in his style to fail those who depended on him. He nodded with hesitant approval at any raised hands.

"And you all know why you're here," he continued. "I'll tell you forthright: I don't care if it's for the community, for treasure, or for your own fractured ego. So long as we agree that we are now a team, and I'm the leader of this team, all of you are welcome here. Whatever you fight for, fight obediently and we shall have no quarrel."[hr][center][i]Meanwhile ...[/i][/center][hr]As he walked, Hrífa gnawed his fingernails against each other, trimming them down without need for a knife or a scissor. He worried only as to what he would do when he had one long, sharp nail remaining, with no others to cut it. It had not snowed in some time, so what snow laid on the ground was much trampled down into hard, dirty roads leading through the village. As Adlif stopped him Hrífa turned antsy, feeling this dirt seeping through his shoes and into his woolen socks.

"Eh? Who?" He jogged his memory. "Oh; the girl! We spoke about trees."