pugbutter

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

"Aye, another redcurrant bitter for me."

"Sorry. We're all out."

"A wild sour, then?"

"Coming right up."

"Another oatmeal ale for me, darling!"

"Me as well!"

Egeleht squirmed and side-hopped her way back to the cellars, remembering what orders she could. But they were many, and like when she grabbed too many tankards at once, at every step they tottered further from the grasp of her memory. She could not reckon it mattering much, of course. To men who had marched a month or more, liquor was liquor, and they all knew it far superior to the dilute they received with their flour and bacon.

"I can't believe this," muttered the servingwench, who hadn't even a moment to push away the bangs prickling her eyes, never mind to wipe down her apron or chat with the regulars, wherever they had sat themselves in this throbbing horde. Egeleht's fingertips were going pruny; blisters screamed from the insides of her knuckles. Nevertheless, a wry grin kept her cheeks afloat.

"And what are you so chipper about?" It was Ihdrun asking. She had limped in from the back stores-room.

"Nothing, ma'am, nothing at all." The server stared furiously at the spigot now, her smile sent away. Why couldn't it pour faster?

"Don't want to let an old hag in on your secret? Gah!"

"Are you all right?"

"Fine." Ihdrun had let out a yelp as she sat herself down on a quarter-cask.

"Your gout is flaring up again?" asked Egeleht.

"Something's always flaring up. Do yourself a favor: don't grow old."

The swelling and the spasms had not spared the rest of her body, either, the way pregnancy only swells the belly, and mourning only the eyelids. Ihdrun fanned herself with a soaked rag (the one which had never left her apron-string in all the years Egeleht watched her work the brewery). She was hunched over and heaving like a dog about to vomit, and the sweat was a drizzle from her moon-shaped face. The entirety of her had come up to the shape and color of a salmon egg, and that cask looked about the only thing stopping her from popping, one joint at a time, from the toes up. The vents in the roof should have been letting the evening breeze through, when it was angled just so against the rafters; they should have smelled warm yeast and barley germ wafting from the fermenting room. Instead the stale air carried only sweat and breath to the brewer-women's skin.

"Well, I need to get this out to the tables."

"Pardon me. We're still talking," said Ihdrun. "What were you smiling for?"

"Hah, uhm, it's just ..."

"I'm only curious."

"I've just never worked this hard before," Egeleht panted out. "What an incredible crowd!"

But Ihdrun had stopped fanning. Worse, she braced herself to stand, to torture her swollen feet once more. This sign never bade well, for Ihdrun could not shout, scold, or waggle her finger while sitting. But most egregiously of all, this done, she waddled to a cask to fill her own cup, having snatched it first from the wash basin.

"Ah, to be young again," she said between gulps, feeling the fresh foam as it sprayed her upper lip, clicking the pleasant bitterness against the roof of her mouth. "So what does he look like?"

"Hold on. That's not what I—"

"I know what you said. I've still got one good eye, sweet girl, and it can spot a lie from any hilltop in town." With two fingertips Ihdrun stretched out an eyelid til the pink showed.

Egeleht's reply was drunk. It stammered and stumbled from a slurry tongue, and it grasped for meaning with groping hands. Her proprietor didn't care to hear the half of it; insistence and excuses. These girls would have bedded any mustache that twitched at them if Ihdrun looked wayward for too long, an inevitability of living where there were more goats than decent lads. So she didn't take her good eye, the cloudless eye, off of them, and that had been an elegant-enough solution in the past. Now the soldiers had come, far too many soldiers, and the one eye was no longer enough. Scarred men, lean, wolfish men, men with beards and top-knots, braids and sideburns, a horde of leery glances and drooling grins. Ihdrun had to protect her flock; from themselves, and their own bad tastes. They couldn't wait for a Kerentanam or a Swutgerþ to sweep them off their feet when the attention this pack lavished on them was already so thrilling. Ah, Swutgerþ—Ihdrun had heard the name out by the hamlets some hours ago, so his master must have brought him along. Tell be true, she would have ridden that stallion til week's end. Not that the girls needed to know that she, too, had once been young.

"Whoever he is," Ihdrun sighed. "hope he's not much of a temper. We're closing early."

"What!" The news left Egeleht agape. "But there's so much we're yet to sell."

The old woman was still standing, still clutching her cup in a raisiny hand which stunk of wort. "No, dear, there really isn't."

"We're the only alehouse in town. I know they'll buy, no matter the price. You're the one always saying you wish you could charge 'tunic and trouser' for first fill."

"That's one thing when it's just old Argiz and Sifgir in here. Men like these, Egeleht, that'll go one of two ways." They embraced, the old woman and the young. "Trust your elders. You haven't seen it like we have—these 'soldiers.' When they run out of silver they draw iron. When we've got no more ale to hand over at swordpoint, they'll take other things from us, things far more terrible to lose."

Egeleht had no response for that.

"I'll tell them. You and the others start corking the bungs. Do not, do not, pour another drop for anyone, even if he follows you back here. We have to ration it, for as long as it will last."

"How long is that, Ihdrun?"

"That depends on our brave chieftain. Somebody has to tell these mongrels—somebody has to send them home."

---

---

Ah, Arlanna—the northstar of his heart, the cooling brook of his soul; douser of its flames, polisher of its sharpest stones. Doubtless the table could see her whispering, the breath warm against his ear, but Kerentanam could not but sit there and marvel at the gratitude he knew then.

What did you mean to gain from this gathering? He would ask her later, but her temperance, her virtue, already they had unlocked for him an answer of his own: something he now knew about Aedþel; something he would not have noticed blazing down the path he chose for himself, the scorn and the indignation both a blinding fog.

Any fool could see the priest could not swing his own sword, wear his own shield and mail, march his own miles. But these disciples—no, these slaves, drug along by the chains of dogma—when they weren't wiping his arse they even apologized for him, like humility itself would have profaned those withering lips. What Aedþel would not admit, or could not, from his own mouth, was that a true leader is responsible for the dispositions of his men. He alone burns away the laziness and the stupidity and fashions the goodly servant from the remnants. The dispositions of the men relay the dispositions of the commander ergo, and to behold what the high priest had wrought in his men, as they spoke out of turn, and derided each other, and trampled each other for the cheap approval of their lord ...

Thank you, Arlanna, said Kerentanam to himself, thank you again and always. Tomorrow I will show you what I have learned.

His mouth however said something else. It was curling up, pushing gleeful wrinkles up into the corners of his eyes. "No, no, I fear he may be quite right," said the chief of the Rhaeads, who pushed a skewer through his first morsel of beef. "But enough delaying. I must try this for myself."

I'm not sure what type of roleplayer I am

provided those are 2k words of substance

@Spambot

So like 7% of Advanced is actually Advanced lmao

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Character Application

Awyen Salt-Tooth

Name: Awyen Salt-Tooth, Chief of Svicnoc, Sea-King of the Vedatanni. Son of King Konall Golden-Forge.

Note: Sea King is a self-styled honorific, and in no way denotes claim over lands of the Vedatanni.

Age: 36

Personality: Awyen is quick to distribute loot, but he is also quick to claim that right. That is to say, he lacks the inhibitions that keep other men safe and on their throne. He is mercurial, spontaneous, and sensual. He seeks out stimulation from foreign cultures, foods, and experiences. He believes in swift and decisive justice, with or without mercy. But with his decisiveness comes impulsivity. Although perhaps not as foolhardy as he once was, Awyen has always been the sort to rush into things.

Appearance: Awyen is missing his left eye, his nose is crooked, and he seems to always squint. He has a broad forehead, and when he laughs he seems to do it all in one great “HA” that is cut short as spontaneously as it began. His eye is grey, his hair red. The nature of his profession robs his hair of it’s vibrance, leaving it a dull salmon orange. He is broadly built and wears a gut at the moment due to his high intake of sodium. By all accounts, he resembles an alehouse thug and not a king.

Allegance: Vows made, Vedatanni Peoples, Svicnoc Tribe, Gods and Demons.

Rank: Chieftain’s Representative

Skills and Talents: Organizing and Motivating men, Tactical and Strategic thinking, Adaptability, Sailing and Navigation. Also, he makes very good stew.

History:

The Ascension of Chief Konall

Konall’s family have never been warriors. Like many families in Svicnoc, they had started as humble merchants. Where Konall was different from his ancestors was that he had taken advantage of something they had not: credit. Inevitably ships would sink, crops would wither, and raiders from neighboring tribes would make away with precious silver. Citizens would petition Konall for aid in these times, and he would give it. When the time came to pay their debt either Konall would make his money back and more, or he would receive both slaves and land from the deal. As you can imagine this might make someone very wealthy, but it rarely inspires love or ideas of kingship. Therefore Konall handled his debtors with grace. While he claimed ownership of their assets, he let them retain their freedom. Moreover, he offered them a consistent salary in exchange for their service on their former land. For the average landowner, the security from a consistent income far outweighed the pride of independence, and in time, more and more landowners came to settle with Konall.

The chiefship of Svicnoc gradually became an honorific title. Konall had held a contract with the chief to collect taxes for years, a result of the young boy's fruitless wars and expeditions backfiring. Eventually, when the guards started taking pay from Konall instead of the chief, they replaced the young monarch in a bloodless coup. The adolescent, of course, rode away and vowed revenge. Nothing has come of him yet.

As a chief, Konall continued his commitment to stewardship, and his realm prospered. He paid off raider, hired professional soldiers, and organized an efficient system of tax collection. As his realm became more prosperous other chiefs sought him out. At first, they observed him at work, but they could not understand it. Soon they began sending their sons to learn from him. At the same time, many chiefs sought out his protection from the raiders he had earlier bought off. He had brought relative peace to his peninsula not with a sword, but with an abacus.

The Tale of Konall’s Sons

In time Konall had two sons and a daughter. Awyen, his eldest son, was born under the sign of the seer. Within the next ten years, Awyen was blessed with first a little sister, and then a little brother. His sister was sweet and full of life. She was gregarious and beautiful. She took after her mother, a member of the Rhaead. Her hair was a bright red and her eyes a piercing green. Awyens younger brother Faeolin was golden-haired with green eyes. He was quiet as a child, but like his sister, he was kind and handsome. Awyen was not handsome, as his mother did not come from the Rhaead, she came from the gutter.

Awyen's mother was not a concubine, not officially. Konall had a habit for taking young women of the tribe to bed with him. One of these young women, the daughter of a fishmonger, was Awyen’s mother. Awyen, however, had his father's eyes, grey with a light green tint to them. While one would think that being a firstborn bastard would carry significant risk, Awyen’s eyes proved that he was descended from Chief Konall. Whispers are a hard thing to stop, and the golden-haired infant boy born to Konall from the Rhaead had the town ablaze with rumors. Where had the golden hair come from? Chief Konall assured everyone that Faeolin was indeed his son and that the townsfolk should love him as his father does.

It was in that way that Konall reared two loyal sons.

Faeolin was a born charmer and the more affluent of the two sons. When he came of age he was often used by his father as a negotiator and diplomat. In one legend, when Faeolin was about sixteen and his elder brother was about twenty, they were both sent to settle a debt that a young couple had accrued while in their tenancy at one of Konall’s farmsteads. The young head of the household rebuffed any claim of Konall’s. While Awyen and the young husband argued about the debt, Faeolin took the young lady aside and explained that the debt needn’t be paid in full now and that any collateral could postpone its collection. The young lady gave Faeolin her silver locket. Meanwhile, Awyen and the young tenant had been about to come to blows in the yard. Faeolin informed them both that the disagreement had been settled, but only after Awyen let the young tenant throw the first punch.

Awyen was the more direct and headstrong of the two. While his honesty was appreciated by most of the hard-working Vedatanni that he interacted with, it got him into more trouble than his brother's charm could get him out of. Where Awyen felt truly at peace was on the sea. When he was a boy his father would take him sailing to Veluz or south along the coast. When he was a young adolescent his father gave him his ship that he could sail with a few unlucky courtiers. It seemed settled, at least among the townsfolk, that the boys would rule jointly with Faeolin directing his father's bureaucracy and Awyen leading his father's trade fleet.

That was until the war. While neither Konall or his sons were warriors by trade, they were nobility among the Vedatanni, and when Nhir attacked it was their duty to defend Thraxia. Awyen and Konall command and rallied to aid the Gisilbards. It was in this war that Awyen proved his worth as a leader of men. Perhaps had the war waited a couple of years Faeolin would have been old enough to handle the emotional shock before him, or had they come a few years earlier Konall may have been physically able to keep up with his army. However an invasion comes when it wants, and the only member of the noble family who was fit to command was Awyen. There were no winners in the last invasion, and no chief dared to march home demanding honors. But with every setback Awyen learned. He was too young a commander to truly make a mark on the war effort, but while serving under other elder chiefs and generals, his bravery and commitment to his men impressed both commoners and chieftains alike. According to one contemporary source he spent every night, no matter the weather, in the same condition as his least equipt man. Once, when sleeping under the stars a soldier from a neighboring tribe approached the warchief and commented that he had no furs to cover himself with when it grew cold at night. Awyen, in response, made a gift of his furs and vowed to sleep outside with nothing but his cloak to cover him.

Upon returning home he was met with betrayal. His brother Faeolin had paid tribute to their enemy. This was in itself not such an awful thing. After all, Faeolin was a boy alone without any army to defend his kingdom. Haven't they always settled things with coin and not with force?

Awyen responded as he always had when his family was irksome. He set sail, but not before declaring to his people that when Nhir comes for them, he will be ready. He found work hunting Nhirinize pirates from Velusian Blood-Barons and spent his time sailing from one exotic location to the next. He made friends along the way. Velusian mercenaries, Thraxian adventures, and Gwidlic raiders were all welcome on his ship. Although he never forgave his brothers betrayal, after a few months he did dock at Svicnoc again to resupply and take aboard new volunteers.
An albatross skull adorns the helm of his ship The Minnow, the mark of a man who has touched the four corners of the world. His ship has been beached on cursed sands and become stuck in ice floats. He has feuded with horse lords and slept in canopies high above the trees. He has sought out treasures and magic alike. It is said by some that he traded his eye with a demon to gain great power over mortals, others say that he sacrifices children to cruel eastern gods of the sea to command waves. Claiming to have seen disturbing visions of a man made of clay turning to iron and rusting, he returns home to consult with his brother about the welfare of the Vedatanni.

@Mercenary5

Accepted

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Kerentanam relinquished the higher seat, the more esteemed seat, to his darling wife, with a smile and without objection. He saw no slight there, or he saw no value in contesting it. That would have been the general in him, refusing to fight a battle in which the victory would bear fruits too small, too few, too sour. Just as well of course that he respect his host's wishes, and the lady's status in his heart and home.

But on that other gesture—the feast thus prepared, or unprepared, as it were—he chewed, he chewed with a tightening clench in his teeth like they struggled to saw through a tendon or a strip of gristle. Soon enough he tasted salt and iron gushing from the inside of his cheek. In a phrase, Kerentanam could not discern whether he was being insulted. This priest. This pale, boneless creature, another grub eating this rotten stump of a peace summit from the inside out. He had to have planned this: having Kerentanam, the inevitable, ascendant Kerentanam, choose between his favorite of two humiliations. Fumble about the fire and the spit with clumsy hands, by a warlord's natural dearth of domestic graces; or take his meat the way the dogs take it, thrown to the dirt a glistening bloody slab. The chiefs of the Rhaeads almost stood again, sooner a rude guest than the punchline to a joke as ill-conceived as this.

And he had to sit there and smile like an imbecile in unawares. "How quaint!" said Kerentanam, even, as he drew his dagger and gave considerable thought to how he might begin skewering the slivers of flesh. It looked like this, true enough, at the end of his spear, squirming and pulsating with every twist of the point. But of the spear no more finesse was expected than aiming, generally, at the heart, and striking fast and true as a punishing storm. How did the servants get the meat so tantalizing before it was brought to the hall? It glistened not with blood but with juice, oil, butter; its vapors were thin white snakes crawling up from the plate, still alive and dancing although the beast had been slaughtered hours before. The ends were perfectly charred under these servants' custody, the fat rendered to the hue of gold which melts betwixt the teeth, while the core of the cut remained succulent. Was their lord to achieve all this with but a wood flame and a frying pan, when his men knew him to burn ashcakes on their coals?

It was just as well that he was distracted with his abasement; in his peripherals Kerentanam slid glances at the cripple in charcoal rags, resisting the temptation to gawk at the tattoos and scars and pox marks, but waiting to see who he would address first, too; into what topic he would first dip his forked tongue. It seemed certain enough, from the invitation and the seating arrangements, that Aedþel would address the lovely Arlanna first, and though it bubbled his blood, Kerentanam had to accept that. He would play the role assigned to him—for now.

The Black Undeath

Actually, more so than adding and augmenting, I think some taking away is in order. I'd have been far more interested in the menagerie of monsters if it was presented in a more vague and mysterious fashion. Rather than "here's exactly what they look like and here's a comprehensive list of their strengths and weaknesses" ... a sense of danger, for me, is created through not understanding our enemy.

Plus, it makes sense on a mechanical level. The only way for us to know anything about these monsters is if people have survived encounters with them, come back, and told the tales. Which, if there are enough survivors to paint such a clear picture on how they fight, then how dangerous could they really be?

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

@Baron von Jobi Yeah, what @Sadko said. Welcome, btw.

If you're interested in being another player's retainer then you technically have four options right now ... although the Rhaeads are not lacking for players, and joining them would only further imbalance the game. I'd certainly recommend any of the other three factions, though, based on your compatibility with the player and his ideas.

What attracts you about an interest check?

Formatting: I have never opened a centered [youtube] song on Roleplayerguild.com and thought to myself "Gee, this song is both musically pleasing and fitting, I sure am glad they put this here." I also never dug GMs who put flavor text all over their interest checks and OOCs. A hackneyed philosophical quote by your header is okay, but anything more than that crosses the line for me.

@Moss

This one makes me salty. Everybody using the same damn modern Pop renditions of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and the same damn generic-ass Two Steps From Hell "epic" scores as their theme songs and thinking it makes their characters more unique

Put some effort into your brainless trend-following for God's sake

The Black Undeath

Cool, cool. I knew I didn't make him only to be able to write only two posts from his perspective

The Black Undeath

Will I already be accepted if I just repost Jethec, then? (Without an accomplice this time, unless one of the other players is enthusiastic to the idea again, and a little more loyal to the games he/she joins ...)

☀ THE DEVOURER CYCLE — Act I ☀

Unlike their friend, the men on the hill had nowhere to be; nowhere else but there, at least. Any wives and sons and soldiers were off seeing staunchly to their duties, which left the elders free to worry about none than their own, too. Indeed, their punctuality afforded them a rare opportunity, and they would not squander it by waiting til the morrow's war-talks to start sizing up any friends and allies they may need to start swaying early, and, inversely, any snakes in the grass. Swidda swiped little peeks at his master while the scene had the whole of the latter's attention. Whether he also aspired Swidda could not say, but that in itself was testament to the Acani chief's shrewdness. Many would behold him and see only the bearded chin, the sun-streaked mane, the body built for cleaving an axe through bough and bone. To search into that louring countenance they would hear nothing but like a whistle through the trees. Only the generous among them could fancy him a "thinking" creature, for his thoughts no doubt resounded of meat and beer and cunt and no further. But Gederik was watching. He watched the flags and the trumpets, and the grey of his eyes cut through this display, like the shriek of a winter wind, to watch the beating of the hearts, too.

His comment was coming true: this procession was not the whole tale, but already it proved a valuable prelude. How a man behaved under scrutiny and in secrecy; when his schemes bloomed and when they moldered; façades would fade and fall in the days to come. This moment, though some of these chiefs may not have known it, was the moment they made their first promises to these people, and to all the clayfolk waiting for news in farther places. Gederik and Swidda did not speak much as they watched the retinues lumber through. The retinues said more than enough.

Four gowned men came next, carrying a litter chair shrouded in lapis wool. Either of the Acani representatives could have conceded that they were intrigued for a moment, wondering what—who—the compartment contained. Yet this leader, whoever he was, had gathered a large party to guard him, and to chant his incantations. He hid his appearance, but not his arrival; the priests crooned and bleated, but from their lyrics alone no one could say who their God was or what He wanted. Either he had a lot of soldiers to show off or he had genuinely seen great perils in his future along the road and unto its destination. In equal turns ergo this man seemed strong and all too eager to appear as such. The mystery was the desired effect, an affectation. Swidda would have to reserve judgment for the leader who stepped out of the box; the teak planks themselves were worthless. He looked over at Gederik again, but could not discern whether he had gleaned something more from this show.

Kerentanam and his Black Lady needed no introduction and they knew it. They blared no trumpets, and wore no sigils or insignia but for the simplest of tribal colors. The guards walked in tight formation, but with spears and shields slung lazily over weary soldiers. An advisor; a manservant or two; a cupbearer; a quartermaster to keep them all fed. For most men this would have made for a dangerously sparse accompaniment. But any brigand captain who would attack Kerentanam in the passes would then have to dance with the gods who watched over him as keenly as the clayfolk watched him now. Yes, the serfs, the freedmen; this petty-king had nothing at all to prove to them, except that they were not his enemy—that they were not his uncle and the rest of his treasonous kin—at least, that they had given him no reason yet to think so.

The wife was as lovely as the stories foretold, if not lovelier, well deserving her handsome warlord in kind. But the old man on the hill could not relish her beauty for long, for the crows had gathered. The stories told of them, too. True enough, Arlanna could have bought their attention with a prickle of blood from her finger; maybe a fish or two, fat with eggs, thrown over the sacrificial hearth; a subtler effect than the man in the litter chair could muster. Then, the birds really could have been the children of Rūnla, one more goddess of two dozen said to be dabbling at Kerentanam's fate-strings. Swidda found it likelier, however, that they could smell the death on her. He did not know whether birds could salivate, but he swore they looked to be drooling, for a feast of flesh that the Black Lady was still preparing for them at her rune-bones and her bowl of fire.

The others on the hill had noticed too. The children clapped with glee as they will, easily amused by wild animals. However, their parents paid the sight a startled reverence. They wore shades of scowl and sneer, unsure as to who this portent favored, and what future it proclaimed for them. Swidda himself felt a cold shuddering up his spine; returning his attention to the Lady herself, he found that she was watching him back, and although he held her curiosity for a mere moment, in that moment he was as naked as a hare crossing a grassless field. His very muscles laxed when this huntress, this owl, passed out of sight.

"You felt it too."

Gederik was watching him. Swidda realized that the breath had gone hot and stale in his chest; he had not exhaled in some time.

"Yes," the old man coughed.

"Hmmm." The chieftain offered none of his insights this time, merely turning to watch the gulch again.

Yet while Kerentanam's aim was evident, he had not yet nocked and drawn; he was not king. And before that day—before Lubbo—neither of the Acanis' ambassadors could have claimed to have seen a king in person. They had seen him on ingots, of course, a caricature with fat wormy lips and with marbles for eyes. These little silver pocket-portraits regularly reached Ostoparda, and spread out from that city to its suburbs and the further countryside, where they were traded for coal and furs and lumber. Lubbo himself, though he now looked far more intricate than the arts of the moneyers' chisels, was still but a man under early surveyorship; a man with a nice hide-cloak and a strong sword, true, but a man still. He could have fit in well enough among the other chiefs, then arriving with the evening sun to their backs. But he had instead slipped into camp in the late-watches, or in the next early morn, when Swidda had long since retired to his bedding. When the sage next awoke, he was not met with the king himself, but with banners; a field of banners; a sea of them; hundreds, thousands of standards and streamers, the embroidery of battle. He was quick to dress; he heard shouting from his camp, a nearby tent. He could not see the whole of the army through the trees and the crags but the din of their own camps was both everywhere and unmistakable: the sizzle of bacon, the blacksmith's tin-tin, the pitching of stakes into soft earth. Overnight the ranks of Skeldefjarn had doubled if not more.

"What the fuck is he doing?" asked Aunstō. He and Gederik had already convened at the latter's tent. Allorn was not with them, probably helping her mother with the morning bread-baking.

"I don't know."

"Sage, get over here. What have the gods said to this?"

"I—I haven't, we haven't convened, I mean, communicated, in—"

"'I, I, I, I haven't, we haven't,'" Aunstō jeered.

"Leave him be," hissed Gederik, who watched warily at the mouth of the tent. A team of four men, a druid among them, worked hard just outside, sculpting wet clay into the idols which would watch over the entrance in the days to come. Until their completion and their sanctification, however, two warriors stood guard with shields and short axes. They pretended not to hear the quarrel at all.

"Not until he answers me this one thing." Aunstō was jabbing his finger at any sternum which stood still enough to take it. "Did you two old, trusting fucks lead me, and my wife and daughter—did you guide us right into the throat of another southern wolf?"

The colors had retreated from Swidda's face, although for now he did not fear their neighbor chieftain's blade, nor the hand it would so arm. His thoughts went back to the teak box for a time, that earliest of envoys; the question it had invoked. Was this simply Lubbo's perverse idea of a grand demonstration? But he was said to be shrewd, and a shrewd man would have known better than to invite such envy, and such enmity. No doubt it could be prudent to appear stronger than he was, to intimidate one's littler foes and so quash their mutinous thoughts; but Lubbo had to have seen how this would look to the villagers, and worse still, the rest of the petty-kings; who had come relatively unguarded, unarmed, and readier to tussle with tongues than with weapons.

The rumors could have been false. Lubbo could have been a half-fool, a mud-in-his-skull, fattened on the sweet flatteries of a sycophant court. But words did not oft travel so far on such brittle wings as that. Swidda could be as sure in that answer as he was in all the others, which is to say it still tumbled and jostled with the rest of them behind that sloped, noble forehead.

"I do not doubt that he comes as a conqueror. But if he is as cunning as they say," said Swidda shakily, "then he would not use an invasion, a—a civil war, at a time like this. I promise you, the tribes would never allow a betrayal of that scale, and he would know that."

Aunstō seemed moved for a time. "Big 'if,'" he murmured. "Try the taste of this one next: if you're wrong, and if my family is in danger here ..."

"You don't need to say it. I know."

"Good. Get out of my way." He was gone as soon as he had pushed past Gederik at the entrance, and the guards and toilers behind it. Gederik moved at once to place a steadying hand at the tremble of his friend's shoulder.

"Please forgive him, old friend. He is only passionate," said Gederik. "Even if the worst has happened ... we'd rather Lubbo as king than the Nhirian."

"He would not be the worst choice," Swidda conceded weakly.

"You should break your fast. Maybe calm yourself by the river again. I will call the horns for you when we're starting up the hill."

The old sage nodded, and took his own hand tenderly to the one which had been placed upon his shoulder. They squeezed, and departed in better company. Yet as Swidda looked over the hill, to the menhir, he felt weak under its shadow. The shadow itself looked feebler, too, flickering and trembling at its edges, where the war-standards fluttered by the light of sunrise. An army had come for Skeldefjarn, albeit far sooner than they had expected, and under unfamiliar colors.

It did not matter whether this Lubbo was a wolf or a dog, Swidda could not help but remark. The only difference between these beasts was how deeply they hunger before they bite. Maybe a hound had to starve first, but it would eat its master all the same.

But Gederik was right, too, that the babbling of the Grauglang would do well by Swidda's health, and so he embarked over the first of several hills, hoping that not too many soldiers had gathered there already to fill their canteens and wash their socks. He may not have been able to bear to know that other troubles were already stirring within the village borders; that they already strained to accommodate this new host.

At the community center, where the oven was built, old women crossed their arms and huffed in rows. For soldiers had pushed them aside to bake their morning ashcakes from their barley rations. Likewise, the whole of this village had subsided quite adequately, for many generations, on but a single well, dug not far from the same epicenter. The soldiers were here too, lashing ropes to their jugs and suspending them down the hole, that they may drink their posca and their weak-ale cold. So stuffed with jugs and bladders was this well ere long that no one could raise the bucket to draw water. The waits were long, the facilities few, the spaces tight (and tightening still), and the ground the hosts so carefully treaded grew more strained by the minute.

But the guests exchanged their first true blows at the outskirts. Whereas the earliest comers had circled their camps around the menhir hill, Lubbo's baggage train had no choice but to scatter through the woods, settling its tents and fire-rings wherever the foliage broke. Anyone coming behind him likewise had to make do with whatever free space could be scrounged: along the road, up the slick, mossy slope of a shadowed hill, under the roots of a fallen pine ...

A small host, quite ramshackle in appearance and decorum, had been moving through a few of the Bladetaker's camps when three soldiers of Lubbo's ran out and seized a goat, seemingly from among the new ranks. They claimed that it had belonged to them all along, but that it had escaped its restraints and ran into the ranks of the smaller party. The latter, of course, insisted instead that the animal was theirs, and that the Bladetaker's men were staging a pathetic burglary.

"What's more, by your own account," said one, "the goat has chosen us its shepherds, has it not?" This insult drew the first sword, and by the time an officer or two had caught wind of the squabble blood may already have wet the forest floor. Dozens of men were circling round to watch. A hand's-ful more ran for their commanders.

"Trouble, Your Majesty. There's been a disciplinary matter in the left van's camp."

"Lord Anabinpāl, an infantryman is reporting violence at the rear of the train. Someone was stolen from, apparently."