The longship had cleared the bluff by the time Camilla regained consciousness. The wind as still whipping the sea to choppy grey white froth and an icy rain began to spit from the leaden sky. The Norscans, massive though they were, sweated and gasped for air from the effort of fighting the wind and the sea. She was tied to the mast, her arms bound behind her back and a noose around her neck, snugged up tight against the wind worn timber. No sail was flying in this wind though she could see the massive leather sheet rolled into a rough cylinder.

Gorn looked back at her from the prow with a feral grin. Sea spray ran down his powerful arms and for the first time he had a weapon, a large hooked axe tucked into the belt that wrapped his waist. Two prisoners, shivering Nordlanders knelt before him. Camilla guessed they were soldiers because they were well muscled and looked well fed, though their clothing was too ragged to betray any kind of uniform.

“Ah you are awake. I had plans for you but it seems the Dark Prince has greater ones. Don’t fear you may yet bear the children of Gorn Son of Gnarn,” the reaver laughed. Several of the crewmen looked nervously between Gorn and Camilla. One of them licked his lips, his tongue too pointed and prehensile to be entirely human. Gorn grabbed one of the men by the hair and hauled him to his feet. At full extension the man didn’t reach the Norscan’s shoulders. The soldier squirmed with pain but bit back any cry.

“You will go tell your Count that I, Gorn Son of Gnarn, have his daughter, and that if she doesn't forsake her weak southern gods, he will need to come to Norsca to see what grand children the bitch can whelp!” The reaver drew his axe and slammed it to the deck, severing several of the man's toes with a meaty chunk. The soldier screamed in agony as the Norscan pitched him into the heaving sea. Without further words he repeated the process with the second man, then gathered up the toes and tossed them over the side.

“Better swim fast, I’m told there are sharks!”

______________________

The shovel load of manure flew across the stable yard in a perfect ballistic arc. At the last moment, when it seemed fore ordained that it would splatter across the disheveled looking woman picking herself up off the cobblestones, a shield cut through the air and splattered the malodorous mass across the low stone wall that served as a barrier for horses in the inns carriage yard.  The missileer, a balding bartender in a stained leather apron scowled at the the shield bearer but obviously thought better of a second attempt. The shield bearer was a tired looking man in his late forties. He wore a patchwork of armor, some of which would have been old when the man as born and he bore a (now) manure stained bucker. His face as craggy as only a man who spent years out in all weather can appear. The woman finished getting to her feet. She was a slightly plump, if not unattractive red head, though streaks of pale blonde speckled the auburn locks.

“Good sir,” she began, speaking with the exaggerated precision of the very drunk.

“I find the hospitality of your establishment…”

“Get your lying thieving ass out of here witch, or by Sigmar we will burn you no matter what they say in Altdorf!” The heavy wooden door slammed shut like a thunderclap. The woman started and looked skyward though her drink dulled senses rendered the action seconds too late to be of any practical help.

“Lightning!” she declared and began to slowly topple over. The man sprang to her side and grabbed an arm to steady her.

“You just had to play cards didn’t you Dietz, we had a warm bed lined up and everything,” the armored man grumped.

“Why Yantz, a woman has a right to pursue her subsistence!” The older man rolled his eyes and turned her towards the snow crusted road by one elbow.

“Well pursue it without getting us tossed out of another tow…” the sentence trailed of as the formerly pliant woman went rigid. Yantz looked back in surprise to find her starting at the pattern of splattered manure on the wall intently.

“For Taal’s sake what…” The readhead made a series of hissing shushing noises as she examined the excrement.

“It is a sign!” she declared dramatically, finger outstretched towards some of the filth.

“See there, it is Windbighters Bay, I see a tall man and something..” she paused to hiccup delicately.

“Something about boats,” she concluded mysteriously. Yantz crossed his arms unenthusiastically.

“Deitz,” he sighed longsufferingly, “that is literally horse shit.” The red head was already striding away, determined but with a definite list to the left which would drive her into the side of the stable in a few more feet. Yantz cast his eyes skyward imploringly and then hurried after the departing woman, muttering curses.