The three of them were escorted northeast out of the forest bog and passed a land of fens, finding ground along encroaching low hills where rocks dotted the ground ubiquitously. Amal was so used to sand, it was difficult for him to tell one green from another, but after a long time of riding he found to his susprise they were on a beaten trail leading up into the hills, where another wooded area grew. Across their path they passed a cairn of piled stones, with a strange magical symbol writ in blood on its face. 

"Are those the waystones?" Brenly asked, on his haunches at the sight of it. 

"Noo, these are th' restin' places of oor dead." The lead woad raider answered. "The waystones are no' close to ar village, but we live behind the line of one. I cannae tell ye moor. Ahm no' supposed tae know such things. The truthsayers are the ones we speak tae." 

A fog had fallen over them once more and behind them Amal could hear rain, but it soon disappeared to his relief. It didn't seem to be chasing them, or it seemed to have been but gave up once they passed the cairns. The thought was not pleasing to him, as if the very rain had a mind of its own. He still felt some relief, as he couldn't handle such cold much longer. He couldn't understand how these men, if they truly were men, could ride upon a horse shirtless among such chill and wet.

A palisade wall of well carved timber rose before them over the next rise, the fog giving way to reveal the large village that lay across a rough, green plateau amid the rolling landscape. Gnarled trees clung together in copses without and within the wall and a small moat had been dug around the entire perimeter save the entrance walkway. The lead rider barked a command in his tongue, raising his spear and the two large timber doors swung open for the scouts.

"If the stones keep giants out, why do you build walls?" Amal asked. It was a sensible question but truthfully he never did like being enclosed in anywhere. 

"They keep th' giants oot aye. But no' the greenskins, or other clans fer tha' matter, ye ken?" The horseman in front of him said. 

The group cantered into the rustic village, an utterly alien place to Amal but something somewhat like what Emmaline might have seen before in poor Imperial villages. Children played or clung to their mother's skirts as the women walked along with baskets on their heads filled with fruit or vegetables. Some women chatted among themselves and their husbands or brothers chopped wood or fixed roofs that looked in disrepair. Looking further, it did differ from the Empire manner in a plethora of ways. Various stones were dotted about, and they along with the sides of homes had weird symbols of nature and trees, entwined in a way where Amal couldn't tell where the symbol began or ended. Very few homes were made of timber in any fashion that resembled your average house. Most homes were low huts of stone, their roofs skinned branches and hay and clay mixed together. Warriors similar to the horsemen watched them warily, armed with stone clubs and spears with heads of brittle iron. 

The villagers watched with open curiosity and some didn't hide their distrust. Amal had never seen so many pale people. Perhaps that was what happened when there was little to no sun, or maybe it was because of how wet the land was. Either way, they seemed even more fascinated with him. He hoped they didn't see his skin as a sorcerous sign of corruption. A few women of red and blonde hair boldly admired him, smiling slyly and smoothing their wool skirts. 

A flap was shoved away from a hut across the center of town and out strode a large man, red bearded and adorned with a strange skirt-robe of red, green, and brown colors. Behind his back, a massive axe was strapped to him. He had a bulbous nose that grew even wider when he scrutinized the newcomers, who had just dismounted with the riders. 

"Laird Mcdougal..." A rider said. 

"Who 'ave ye brought 'ere Douglas? Ye do remember we're in the midst of a bloody invasion, aye!?" 
[@Penny]