Thorstein sat in the tent and greedily drank warm water from the skin, because he'd spent the entire day pitching the damned thing and cursing it. The weather did not look promising. The ground itself promised only to be troublesome in case of any battle, because of how damp the soil was, and precisely because of that it had taken a while for Thorstein and a few others to find a suitable spot and pitch the tent, because the pegs would not stick, and their feet kept slipping. Thorstein wished he had a bow and arrows: that seemed much more fun than drowning each other in mud in the front of the shield wall. But then again, he didn't even have a shield either.
 
Thorstein kept refreshing himself and looking out through the opening in the canvas. The chieftains had mostly finished setting up their booths and tents, however improvised, and groups here and there had already began conversing about what is to be done; but most of the warriors kept scouting the grounds and stalking the woods in the ever growing darkness. He saw Ivar just a stone’s throw away casually, one would say cheerfully sharpening his shiny knives with a whetstone while his slave cleaned his chain armor right next to him. [color=39b54a][i]What a lunatic. He probably doesn't care about any plans or strategies: he's just here to go in, attack those on the opposite side and get back. And he’s already whistling his annoying tunes like he did when he was a child.[/i][/color]
 
[center][color=fff200]Fair are the hills,
Heaths a-blooming;
And a stunning maid,
Strolling towards me.[/color][/center]

 
Finishing his stanza, Ivar disappeared into his tent. Thorstein spat, grabbed his axe, walked out and went to look around for himself, hoping to find something tasty in the woods if it wasn't too late in the day for that. But some hunters had already beaten him to it, however. He saw a group of them carrying a couple of deer strung up on poles much to the cheering of their friends. [color=39b54a][i]Ah, screw it. I’ll just eat cheese.[/i][/color] This turned his mind away from any hunting expeditions. [color=39b54a][i]I think I should find something better to do, or at least find someone important to give me a quick briefing. It can’t be too long before we move.[/i][/color]

Meanwhile, Ivar was mumbling in his tent in front of a table on which he was casting his runes. He knew no real magic, but he was well versed in poetry and convinced the rune lots showed at least a grain of truth no matter who should cast them, that being their divine nature. He knelt before the table and looked at the wooden Asa-Thor figurine in front of which a small fire was burning.
[color=fff200]‘Baldrs brother, troll-wives’ bane, you in whose head Hrungnir’s whetstone stands,listen to me, Ivar: sharpen my weapons, and give me strength against these your English enemies, and I swear a better ox will never be sacrificed to you than the one I have prepared brought over all the way across the sea.’[/color]

He got up and put the runes in the cup. He closed the opening with his hand and shook it. '[color=fff200]Come on, Allfather: show me what is to happen tomorrow or be damned, you stirrer up of strife!'[/color] The lots fell onto the table: [center][h3][color=ed1c24]ᚢ ᚦ ᚼ[/color][/h3][/center]

[color=fff200]'Three runes for the three sisters. Three for the three Norns. The ox is the first, it will give us strength in arms over the foe. There will be battle as Thorn has appeared second: giants' work for sure. But the last one... Hail. Hel's rune, curse her! A storm? A flood? Drowning? She's going to take many to her halls soon. A calamity for sure. What am I to make of this? Some disaster is at hand too. But for whom?'[/color]