Editing Story:ROAD TRIP! (Warhammer High)/Part Four (section)

==Fenrisian Blood==

===The Lay of the Land===


Far above, Freya knelt before Bjorn in the hangar of the Fang.  “Eldest Bjorn, thank you again for your gifts,” she said.  “I will use them well.”

“I know you will, child.”  The two of them entered a gunship, and it rose from the hangar.  “Now…little pup.  Our destination is a very small outpost of the Krennir,” Bjorn explained.  “It is called Hosanger, and the money we gave you should work here.”

“Good.  What do I need to know?” she asked.

“There are fewer than four hundred souls in the place.  You will need to be somewhat cautious.  They will know you as a stranger.”  Bjorn sat back on the metal bench.  “I’d recommend you stay near the edge of the village.  We can cover you from there.”

Freya’s ears popped as the gunship sank through the air.  “When do I leave?” she asked.

“When you wish to,” Bjorn said.  “But I would leave before nightfall.  The storms tonight will be fierce.”

“All right, good.”  She huffed in the dank air of the gunship.  “I’m nervous.”


“Good.  Ours are a hard, uncompromising people.  They will not be kind to you.”  Born leaned forward and skewered the redhead with his ancient gaze.  “You should still see them as they are.”

“I want to.”  Freya crossed her legs and snugged her hood over her head.  “How do I look?”

“Beautiful, fear not.  And I would not know you if I had not seen you before.”  Bjorn eyed her gloves.  “I’m glad you like those.”

“They’re perfect.”  She flexed one hand.  “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, old man.”

“I should hope so.”

The gunship settled down a few miles outside their destination.  Freya walked down the ramp and shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun.  In the far distance, a thin column of chimney smoke wafted up from the collection of buildings that was Hosanger.  Three Wolves with slung rifles emerged beside her and jogged off into the snow, either to keep an eye on her or just for exercises.

Freya paused and squinted at the village.  The larger buildings were scattered around rather than focused at the middle, but other than that, it looked more or less like how she had pictured.  Bjorn gave her one last piece of advice as she began the trip across the snowfields.

“Little pup, remember this: your name is a last resort.  These people may not even know it.”

She nodded.  “I know.”  Without another word, she took off running.

Her hair flew behind her like a comet as she sprinted over the ice, leaving the gunship in her wake.  The cold air bit at her ears as she ran, and flurries of snow kicked up behind her booted feet.  Her new dagger clanked against her side.  She reached down to secure it as she tore through the air, faster than any human could be.

Freya slowed as she approached the little village, taking care to approach from behind a small building.  It looked to be made of mortared local stone, and the smell said ‘livestock shelter’ to her.  She walked up behind it, steeling her nerves.  “Okay, Freya…here we go,” she whispered.  She rounded the building and peeked down the pathway beside it.  The twisting road led into the heart of the little settlement, where crowds of people were moving about.  She took one last breath and stepped onto the road.

Freya walked up the pathway, taking in everything.  The air was light and breezy, even between the buildings.  The road was nothing but cartwheel ruts in the ground, with nary a paving stone in sight.  As she approached the square, the noise of people and animals grew louder.  She resisted the urge to look around for targeting lasers from the Rout that were watching her.  At that range, who needed a laser sight?

A trio of squabbling people walked past her, gesturing angrily and yelling in Juvjk.  Freya stepped aside to let them pass.  They walked right by her without a look.

She tugged her hood up over her bright red hair and followed, eyes darting around catching it all.

The group emerged in the square of the village, such as it was, being the only paved part of the whole village.  A large stage made of local stone filled one corner, but the rest was left open.  A few anemic-looking trees were dotted around one side.  A few were missing boughs, probably from when the winters got too cold and somebody needed wood.

Freya followed the group around the edge of the space, eyes wide.  Everything was so new!  The people were dressed in a variety of leathers and pelts, but also simple fabrics and textiles here and there.  Feathers decorated a few caps.  Everyone seemed to have headgear of some kind, in fact.

Weapons were everywhere.  Swords and simple axes seemed predominant, even on a few of the women.  One fellow in an odd uniform was carrying at least four weapons openly, in fact: a sword, a dagger, a crossbow on his back, and what sure looked like a few throwing knives in leather slits on his torso.  He had at least four more weapons hidden in his clothes, too.

Looking away from the walking arsenal, Freya spotted a few more men in the same uniform, and also armed, though none were as armed as he was.  A local militia, maybe?

A door swung open behind her.  She glanced over her shoulder to see a crowd of rowdy men emerge from a large stone building, clearly drunk out of their minds.  Freya eyed the sign over the door.  It read, in hand-painted Juvjk: ‘The Swollen Head Tavern.’

“Charming,” she muttered.

The smell of roasting meat caught her nose.  She looked across the square to see a small plume of smoke wafting from a building with a crude image of a loaf of bread on the sign over the door.  Two armed guards were standing on either side of the door, too.  Four men to guard a restaurant?


===Tour Guides===


Her eyes settled on a clear red stain on the stone of the stage.  An execution site, then.  How macabre, she thought to herself.
“Coming through!” a rough voice from behind her said.  Freya looked to see a man carrying a massive stone block moving quickly across the street.  She stepped aside and let him pass, wondering what was up.

An entire procession of men with bricks, stone, and mortar followed.  Freya watched them go, then discreetly followed.  Her thick cloak let her blend into the general crowd as she indulged her curiosity.

She wrinkled her nose in concern as she took a more careful appraisal of her surroundings.  The people around her were a mess, by their scents and sounds.  Diseases, injuries, all manner of defects.  Even hiver Terrans didn’t sound that bad, and neither had Nocturneans.  Then, those worlds had hospitals.

The convoy of construction material ended at a large square depression at the outside of town, where a deep pit had already been dug.  A basement with at least two floors had been built there, and the builders were assembling a ground floor now.

Freya stopped at the edge of the build site, mindful of traffic.  “What’s going in here?” she asked one worker.

The rough man turned to her and snorted.  “Haven’t you heard, woman?  Eisker’s place burned down.  He’s building another.”  He peered at her under her hood.  “The hell are you, anyway?”

Freya blinked, taken aback at his rudeness.  “Just a traveler.”

He snorted again, swaggering a bit.  “Sure you’re not here to take the edge off our labors?” he leered.

“In your fondest dreams,” Freya said darkly, turning and walking away.

Once he was out of earshot, she allowed herself a grimace.  “If that’s how my people greet strangers, this isn’t going to be a fun vacation,” she muttered.

As she left, another man stepped to her side.  “Did the thralls bother you, lassie?” he asked sternly.

“Thralls?” Freya asked.  She glanced back at the men, and noted with some distaste that they all had thick scars around their wrists.  The men were slaves.  “No, that’s fine.  I’m leaving anyway.”

“Mmm.”  The man turned away and cracked a whip over the offender’s head.  “Back to work, you lazy sodomite!”


Remilia snuggled into the thick blankets on her bed and closed her eyes, listening to the music on her slate play in the background.  She had made the requisite noises of approval at the puppy pictures and watched a few movies with Alex before Jake and Venus returned from the observation deck.  The two had both been a bit weepy, but Venus especially was also beatifically happy about something, so Remilia took it as a good sign.

Now, with lunch behind her and a lazy afternoon ahead, she relaxed on the bed and listened to the slow music linger in the room.  She read the messages on the slate – a delighted response from the Mechanicus station and routine announcements in the Fang – and opened an orbital map of the planet.

She scrolled around the 3D map, staring at the endless fields of snow and waters fifty times deeper than mountains on her homeworld.  Remilia tapped a rune on the side of the slate, and the view drew closer to the surface.  The Fang looked like a spike, emerging from the ground to impale the sky.  It stood alone on their continent, with no other settlements nearby.  A blurred spot on the map looked like it was probably a Wolves training camp, though.
Remilia noted the basalt pillars they had climbed the day before with a smile.  “They look even taller from here,” she chuckled.


Freya ducked into the place with the bread symbol over the door with a shake of her hood.  She pulled it back and let her red hair escape as she glanced about, taking in the smells, sounds, and sights of the place in an instant.

The place had a few open stone ovens at the back, where sizzling meat was cooking over wood and coal.  A rowdy gang of men with matching tattoos were squabbling over a large map on a table in the corner.  Small groups of well-muscled women and older children were picking through wooden and metal bins of uncooked foods around the edges of the room.

Freya walked through the large room, earning a few lingering stares with her appearance.  As she reached the back of the room near the stoves, she spotted what looked like a menu hanging from the ceiling.  She eyed it quickly, matching the amounts to the coins in her pouch.  She was in no danger.

A man with his sleeves rolled up to his biceps stood beneath the sign.  “What’ll you be having, lass?” he asked.

Freya shook her head.  “Just looking, friend, I’ll be back for an actual meal tonight.”

“No, you won’t,” the man said curtly.  “Not in that,” he added, gesturing at her clothes.

Freya narrowed her eyes.  “Explain.”

The man snorted in annoyance at her naïveté.  “You a traveler?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Then you’ll not be seen tonight,” the man warned.  “The warbands will be coming home tonight, and no pretty lass like yourself will be seen on the streets if she wishes to be safe.”

Freya reached down to the two-foot-thick stone countertop between them and pressed down, with most of her superhuman strength.  The mortaring audibly creaked.  “I’ll be all right,” she promised coldly.  She turned to leave after committing the menu to memory.  “See you tonight,” she said.


===Kindred Spirits===


She reached the door and turned, continuing her exploration.  A simple-looking building of wood and brick caught her attention next.  A wood building on Fenris.  How peculiar, she thought to herself as she wandered over.  The sign over the door read ‘House of the Kindred.’

Freya glanced through the door.  Four men stood within, pouring over a massive scroll on a wide tabletop against the far wall.  One, a burlesque old fellow with an axe-scar down his arm, noted her.  “What do you want, lass?” he asked, though not unkindly.

“I apologize, I’m simply curious,” Freya said, looking around.  “Mijagge kovness an?”

“Ah!  Curiosity.  A trait all too rare.  May as well come in,” he said.  Freya did so, taking stock of the man’s companions.  One was nearly his age, and had a ragged crop of grey hair atop his scarred head, while the other two were mere boys, no older than she was.  All four had some scars and cuts on their hands, but they didn’t look like war wounds.  “About what are you curious?” he asked, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“I’m a traveler from far north of here, and I was stopping in town for some fresh food when I saw this place.  I’d never heard of it,” Freya said.  “What is the Kindred?”

The second older man sighed.  “We, lass, are the last keepers of the thing that keeps the Krennir from falling into ruination.”  The first man glared at him in recrimination.

“Olag, show some respect.”

“Fine, fine, Aron,” the second man said.  He huffed.  “We’re the keepers of the records, lass, for the Krennir clan.”

“The records…of what?” Freya asked.  She pulled her hood back down and walked over to the fireplace in the corner, coughing on the rich scent of the coals.

“You are from far away, aren’t you, lass?” the second one, Olag, asked, peering at her.  “The records of the clan.  The old families are too spread out.  Nobody knows our own history hereabouts!  The least we can do is keep the stories alive,” he scoffed, tapping the massive scroll.  Beneath the table, she saw, were at least ten more just like it.

One of the younger men turned back to the scroll, rolling it shut a little and picking up a quill.  The other flushed bright red as he stared, completely unabashed, at Freya’s tight, muscled legs, luxurious red hair, and shapely curves.  Freya noticed and hid a smile.  Fenrisian boys, it seemed, were no different than Terran boys where it mattered.

“Have you found something more interesting than your job, Adric?” Aron asked drily.

The boy started and hastily turned around, scrabbling for a quill.  Aron chuckled and returned to his own works.

Olag dropped a chunk of wood on the fire and huffed on the embers.  “Ever try keeping parchment and deerskin dry in a glacier’s path, lass?  It’s not cheap,” he grumbled.

Freya smiled.  “No doubt, sir.”  The rolls of parchment under the table weren’t the only thing in the room, either.  The walls were completely covered in pelts and woven tapestries, flags and trophies.  A Thunderwolf head surrounded by over two dozen small scales from what looked like a Kraken decorated the space over the fireplace.  The rough-hewn wooden walls has splotches of some chemical or dye on them in places, presumably to close up gaps caused by rot.  “Would you be willing to tell me some of the tales you’ve stored?”

“Normally, yes, lass, I’d love to, but under the circumstances…we’re just too busy,” Olag sighed.  “Perhaps if you were to return in a few months, when the construction is finished, we could speak further?”

“What construction?” Freya asked.

“Why, the new building,” Olag said.  “These cordwood walls weren’t built properly,” he grumbled, poking the splotchy materials.  “If we unseal any of the scrolls, they could be damaged.  We’re only working on this one because it was already opened.”

“Ah.”  Freya glanced over the surface of the massive scroll.  “Hmm.  A recounting of a territorial dispute?” she asked.

All four men turned to look at her.  “Why…yes, it is, lass, how did you know?” Aron asked.

Freya awkwardly shrugged.  “I can read.”

“Well…good on you, lass, few others hereabouts can,” Aron said.

“My father said it’s one of the most important skills a person can learn,” Freya said.

Aron smiled.  “He was right.”

As Freya turned to leave, Olag posed a question.  “Lass, where exactly are you from?  I mean no offense, but I don’t recognize your accent.”

Freya paused, racking her brain.  “My father’s clan hails from Asaheim,” she said, naming the stable but barren continent to the far north.  It was technically true.

“The Highest Peaks?” Aron asked.  “You’ve travelled a far distance indeed, lass.”  He glanced over her unusual hair and eyes again, clearly looking at her in a new light.  “What brings you to our town?”

Freya spread her arms.  “I haven’t travelled much.  I just want to explore a bit.”

Aron crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head, staring at Freya’s face.  For an instant, Freya wondered if he had figured out who she was.
“Well…have a fair stay, lass, and fair travels.  May I have your name before you go?” he asked instead.

“Freya, daughter of Leman Hrodniksson,” Freya said.  Her father’s adoptive father, the king of the Hrodniks tribe, had been dead for over three thousand six hundred years, it wasn’t a risk to say the name aloud.

She may have overplayed her hand, however.  Aron’s eyes closed for an instant.  When he opened them, his hands were clenched tight.  “I see.  Thank you for visiting, Freya,” he said.  He turned back to the scroll without a word.

Freya left in silence, wondering with unease if she had gone too far in using her real name.  After a moment’s indecision, she shook the feeling away.  “No risk in a half-truth,” she said resolutely.


===Frozen Battlefields===


As the afternoon arrived, Freya wandered out to the outskirts of the little town.  Life was clearly a struggle here, but children were children all over the galaxy.  A massive battlefield in the snow outside the town bespoke a great conflict.  There was no discarded weaponry or crimson snow, however, and the only fortifications were little piles of snow, with unused snowballs behind them.  Mounds of icy missiles and the occasional outline of a fallen combatant littered the field.

Freya smiled.  “Can’t have a winter without a real snowball fight,” she chuckled.

A faint scuffing behind her alerted her to the arrival of several dozen children.  She stepped to one side of the road and watched as the throngs of kids – some no more than six, none more than fourteen years – ran past her, already calling challenges and insults.  Clearly, this was a well-practiced game.

Freya leaned back against the wall of the building beside her and watched the spectacle.  One group of industrious lads was packing snow into a wide ring, and fortifying it with more snow, dug from within the ring.  They were crouching behind it and packing snowballs when the others caught on, and the group vanished under a barrage of impromptu ice grenades.

The Wolf Daughter grinned broadly as they boys retaliated, knocking one of their attackers back over a pile of snow of his own.  The groups splintered and attacked, as several smaller kids wandered away to make snow Valkyries in the field outside or grew tired of the game and went back to wherever they had come from.

A harried-looking woman in thick grey robes and boots huffed up beside Freya.  “Sakes of the ancestors, I’m not getting younger,” she panted.  “Teach me for getting in their way.”

Freya drew her hood back up and nodded politely.  “Are you their teacher, miss?” she asked.

“Aye, one of them.”  The two women watched as a pair of girls packed a massive snowball between them and hurled it sideways into the melee.  It broke apart over another combatant’s back, and the girls ran off giggling.

“Enthusiastic, aren’t they?” Freya asked.

The teacher snorted.  “If only they learned the ways of war as easily.  When their fathers come home from the campaign, it’ll be back to real learnings.”

“Oh?  They have nobody to teach them how to fight or scout while the men are away?” Freya asked.

The teacher looked at her funny.  “Lass, I don’t know how it works in your kin-hold, but around here, the campaigns never last the year.  They just leave the poor things in my care while their fathers go off and hunt or fight.”

“And…their mothers?” Freya asked.

“They mend the homes.”  The woman peered closer at her.  “Where are you from?”

“Asaheim,” Freya said.

“Never heard of it.”  The teacher examined her a bit longer before a loud shouting from the field drew her attention back.  “Oh, come on…”

Two boys were going at it, fists flying.  The others stopped their snow fight to watch as a circle appeared around them.  One looked no older than ten, the other nearly a foot taller but a little younger.  They weren’t even fighting, this was a brawl.  One grabbed the other by the hair and tried to wrench it as the other clenched both hands around the first boy’s throat.

“What in the hell kicked that off?” Freya asked.  “They’re going to kill each other!”

“I don’t even know.  They’ve been at each other’s necks for days now!”  The teacher groaned.  “At least they’re outside this time.”

Blood splattered the snow as the taller boy managed to get a solid elbow strike into the shorter boy’s mouth.  The youth staggered.

“So…should you stop this?” Freya pressed.

“I should, but those lads would turn on me if I tried to stop them,” the teacher said wearily.

“Want me to?” Freya offered.  Her hackles rose – literally – as the taller boy pinned the other and started waling away on the prone one.

“Lass, if you think you can,” the teacher sighed.

Freya cracked her knuckles and crossed the battlefield unnoticed.  Just as the taller one reached back to punch the prone one again, Freya grabbed his wrist.

“Desist,” Freya said coldly.  “You’ve won.”

“Off me, bitch!” the boy growled.  He tried to pull his hand free and found it locked in an inescapable vice.  “I said GET OFF!” he roared, his voice breaking in anger.  Then, he was ten.

“That’s what I was going to say,” Freya bit off.  She pulled at the boy, enough to get him to rise, then locked her hand around his neck.  She wasn’t clamping hard enough to choke him, but he could feel it.

He swung at her impotently, his fists skittering off of her Primarch muscle.  “LET ME GO!  HE DIES HERE!” the boy ground out through clenched teeth.  The other boy slowly rose, nursing a bleeding gash on his jaw, his eyes pouring out liquid hate.

“For what?” Freya snarled, letting the barest hint of her canine legacy color her words.

“The whoreson insulted my father!  I’ll RIP OFF HIS SKIN!” the taller boy roared.

“Your father was caught cheating at skillbones and you call me a whoreson for pointing it out?” the shorter boy managed through a split lip.  “At least I know who my mother is.”

The taller boy screamed and tried to claw his way free, when suddenly Freya had had enough.  Putting more than a little of her superhuman strength into the throw, she hurtled the taller boy away.  He landed in a snowbank, sending snowy ejecta high.  She wheeled over to the other and swept the legs from under him, toppling him back down with a yelp of pain.

“I don’t care who insulted whom, who cheated whom, and who has both parents,” Freya said coldly over the gasps of the other children.  “You’ve no right to ruin everyone else’s fun.”  She glared at the two boys, who were both rising, dazed.  “You stupid children were going to kill each other.  You think the Wolves come to collect the souls of those who die in a pointless scuffle?  Play nice, or I’ll be back for you.”

She turned on her heel and walked back to the teacher, flexing her fingers to work the rest of her tension away.

The teacher gaped.  “Now…I may not be a saddle-maiden any longer, I haven’t raised a blade in many years…but that was no ordinary throw, lass,” she said, boggling at Freya’s compact arms under the cloak.

“Anger gives you strength,” Freya said obliquely.  “Maybe the shame of getting their dumb asses kicked by a girl will take the fight out of them,” she said a bit louder.  A few of the female children sniggered.

The teacher looked out at the slowly-resuming snowball fight as the two boys wobbled away.  “What did you say out there?  Something about Wolves?”

“Yes,” Freya said.  “Figured I may as well put the fear in them.”  She grinned tightly.  “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Fear of what?  Animals eating them?” the teacher snapped.

Freya blinked.  “What do you mean?  I was referring to the ones who come to collect the honored fallen, and take them to the skies.”

The teacher sighed.  “You mean the Dead Guides?”

“I guess we call them something else back home,” Freya said.  “What do your Dead Guides do?”

“They come amongst us in armor as black as night, with the heads of animals, and burning eyes, and take the fallen away, like you said,” the woman said suspiciously.  She was giving Freya a look not dissimilar to the one the scholars had given her now.  “Why?”

“Just curious.  My people tell the same tale.”  Freya shrugged again.  “Well.  I should go,” she said.  She brushed snow off of her gloves and walked back up the street.


===Dinner and Religion===


The rest of the afternoon, she wandered about the village, taking it in.  The architecture was exactly what she expected it to be in a Fenrisian village.  That is, durable, solidly built, pragmatic, and almost entirely stone.  Nobody would waste wood on housing unless it was really needed, on this planet.

As night fell, Freya walked back to the food market/restaurant she had seen before.  As she approached the square, however, her nose alerted her to a change.

She paused to sample the world with her senses.  A very faint vibration was beginning in the ground.  Hundreds of new scents were appearing.  The air flooded with faint whispers.

Freya glanced around the corner into the square and spotted a faint blob of something appearing in the snowfields outside.  “The campaigners return,” she muttered.

She hastened over to the eatery.  Pushing the door open, she found the place almost vacant.  She walked straight up to the counter she had visited before, hoping she could get her food before the place filled up.  The man behind the counter blinked as he recognized her.  “Bold one, you.  What do you want?”

“Just whatever you can make fastest.  You can see them from the square,” Freya said.

“Mmm.”  The cook started preparing something, pulling a strip of meat off of the beast on the skewer over the coals.  “Will you be moving on after this, lass?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I think so.  It was good to visit, but I should be going home,” Freya said.

The door opened behind her.  She glanced back to see Aron walking in, ushering a draft of cold air in behind him.  He spotted her and made his way over.  “Well, hello, Freya.  Looking to grab a bite before the warband returns?” he asked.

Freya nodded politely.  “I am, sir.  I’ll be out of town before too much longer.”

“I think you ought to just buy a room and stay the night, lass, it gets bloody cold out there,” Aron said.  He made eye contact with the cook, who started on another meal while Freya’s was cooking.  Clearly, the cook knew most villagers by sight and order, the skill of bartenders and cooks everywhere.

“I’ll be all right, sir, but thank you,” Freya said.

Aron was quiet while the food simmered.  When Freya’s was done, she accepted it from the cook and paid, with a coin denomination so high it raised both men’s eyebrows.  She turned and sat at a table in the corner, meaning to eat and leave as fast as she could.

When Aron’s food was done, he walked over and sat with her, giving Freya a moment’s pause.  “Freya, may I ask you something I didn’t ask in front of the others before?” Aron asked.

Freya narrowed her eyes.  “Why didn’t you ask before?”

“Because, lass, I wouldn’t want to impose on you.  Say no, and I’ll find another table.”  Aron sat and watched her, gradually digging into his steak.

Finally, Freya tilted her head forward a fraction.  “Very well.”

Aron eyed her, minding his words.  “Let me begin…by saying that you surprised me before.  And here, as well.  Your clothes are spotless…your accent unusual.  You can read, at your age, and you haven’t a scar on you, anywhere.  Then, here at dinner, you pay with a gold acert, which is enough to pay for both our meals with change enough to rent a room.”

Aron paused his recitation to down a sip of his mead.  “So…who are you?”

Freya looked at him for a long moment.  “I spoke the truth before.  I am Freya.  My father is Leman, his father Hrodnik.”

“How unrevealing.”  Aron cut off a chunk of steak and chewed for a moment.  “Lass, I meant more than the superficial.  Where are you really from?  Why do you come to our home?”

“I wasn’t lying there, either.  I’m from the Asaheim mountains.  I’m here for a day, then leaving forever.”  Freya swallowed a bit of her own food.  “As for my money, my father is the clan leader.  Beyond that, who cares?”

Aron sighed.  “Freya, please.  There is a reason I am the lore-keeper in a clan of over a hundred thousand souls.  You are hiding something from me, and I wish to know if it’s a threat to my people.”  His eyes and voice hardened.  “Are you a spy from your clan, looking for an easy target?”

“No!”  Freya stared at him, taken aback.  “I’m no spy.  I only found out your town’s name this morning!”

Aron’s face darkened.  “From whom?”

“What?” Freya asked, stalling.

“Who told you the name of our town?” the man pressed.

“My uncle, Bjorn.  We traveled together until this morning.”  Freya improvised her answers.

The scroll-keeper slowly nodded.  “Very well.  Half-truths, then.”  He sighed.  “All right.”  He cut off another chunk of meat.  “What’s your clan name, anyway?” he asked around a mouthful of meat.

Freya’s mental gears locked up.  She hadn’t even considered that question.  “…Russ,” she finally said.  The old man was clearly out-maneuvering her.
Aron’s eyes narrowed as he thought that one over.  Abruptly, his skin went white as paper.  He swallowed his mouthful of steak and fearfully tilted his head upwards to meet Freya’s bashful stare.

“…Freya…Russ?  The Russ?”

“I’m only aware of three,” Freya admitted.  “Keep it quiet.”

“You…the clan of the Wolf King?” Aron whispered.  “Here?  In Hosanger?”  His eyes darted around, as if the Death Guides themselves – clearly the local name for the Wolf Priests – were about to step forth from the shadows.

“I came as alone as I felt I safely could, scroll-master, fear not,” Freya said, dropping her imitation of the local dialect.

Aron squeezed his hands on the edge of the rough stone table.  “…Spirits protect me, are you here as a portent?” he whispered hoarsely.

“A portent?  What?” Freya asked, surprised.

“…You’re…” Aron swallowed.  “You’re the…the blood of the Wolf King himself…in…Hosanger…”  He screwed his eyes shut and opened them, as if willing reality to reassert itself.  It didn’t.  The pretty red-haired lass with the sheepish smile and divine blood was still sitting across from him, munching on a steak.  “…Have you come for the souls of the ones who fell in the campaign?” he asked.  His pupils had narrowed to tiny dots in his rheumy old brown eyes.

Freya felt understanding dawn.  He thought she was a Valkyrie or something, a half-human or some force of the Gods in their Fang that pierced the sky.  “Not yet, scroll-keeper.  I’ve come for my own ends.”

“For…my gods above, this is…” he looked a bit woozy.  “This is a lot to take in.”  He squinted at her in the flickering firelight.  “You’re really…did you say three Russ?”

“King Russ, his wife, Gairwyn, and their daughter.”  After a moment’s hesitation, Freya fell silent.  She didn’t want to frighten the old man.  If he was acting like this because he thought she was just some Valkyrie, how would he act if he put two and two together, and deduced her actual parentage?

“You’re…”  Aron sank back into his seat, pale.  “You’re a servant of the Wolf King?”

Freya shrugged.  “I am, to a degree.”  The deception didn’t sit well with her, but she would catch hell if she started a religious uprising in the middle of her vacation.

Aron stared at her a moment longer, before slowly starting back up on his meal.  “Well…Freya, please don’t take offense at my reaction.”

“I won’t, Aron,” Freya promised.

“To have the actual kin of the Wolf King before me…” Aron lowered his voice.  “For a moment, I thought you had come for my soul.”

“No,” Freya said with a faint smile.  “And…soon, I will be far away from Fenris for a long time, studying on the world of the All Father.  Midgard.  I will return, in time, and take my place amongst my family.  Until then…”

Aron winced.  “This feels…shamefully inadequate, Freya.”

“Oh?”

“To have such a revelation in a cookery…” Aron said glumly.  “These tales are related in clan halls, at the feet of kings.  It seems disrespectful to question you here.”  His embarrassment at his prior interrogation seemed to be welling back up.

“If anything, I admire the will you exercise to record the legacies of the clan in the middle of its ceaseless killing,” Freya said to assuage him.
Aron nodded, delighted.  A touch of color returned to his old visage.  “Thank you, Freya!  You’re most kind.  It’s vital work.”

“It is.”  Freya finished her steak.  “Your apprentices, who are they?”

“They are Adric and Colin, Freya, and they are the sons of my senior apprentice Olag,” Aron said.  At least he didn’t look like he was dying of shame.  “They are seventeen and eighteen years of age, by the reckoning of the moon.  Colin is the elder.”

“I see.  I’m seventeen also,” Freya said, though of course Fenrisian and Terran years could be wildly different for all she knew.  She finished the rest of her food and sipped at her drink.  The commotion outside was building.  “Do the words ‘Great Crusade’ have any meaning to you?” she asked.

Aron thought for a moment, his nerves returning.  “Er…no.”  He recoiled.  “Should they?”

“Mmm.”  Freya pulled the last of her thick mead.  The heady scent coiled around her nose, burning her sinuses clear.  “It’s not important.  Not to Fenris, anyway.”

“What is it?” Aron asked.

Freya set her thick mug down.  “Inconsequential, now.”  She rose to her feet and pulled her hood up.  “Fare you well, Aron,” she said, starting towards the door.

“Wait, wait,” Aron said, rising as well.  “I…forgive my impudence, but I must know.  Why Hosanger?”

“I wanted to see a place that would serve as a good example of the way my people live their lives,” Freya said, pausing and looking back.  “My…uncle, Bjorn, he recommended it.”

“Is he…of the Vlka?” Aron asked.

Freya nodded once.

Aron closed his eyes for a moment, overawed.  “…Does he watch over us?  As his Guides do?”


“I assume so,” Freya said.

“Good…that is good.”  Aron nervously glanced back at the detritus of their meal.  “Freya, if you wish to see our world, there is one place you absolutely should not miss.”

Freya looked back again.  “Oh?”

“Yes.  Have you heard of the Cave of Indulgences?” Aron asked.

Freya raised her eyebrows.  “…Sounds like a place of debaucheries.”

“Well, it may sound that way, but it is not.  In the caves to the north, the waters grow thin and hot.”  Aron looked out the thick, scuffed window to where the crowds of revelers and returning warriors were approaching.  “Directly north, less than an hour on foot.  The huge black rocks.  On the north face, there is a crack in the stones, by a pair of natural rises in the earth.  Go in and see for yourself.”  Aron bowed.  “Thank you for visiting us, Freya.”

“Thank you for having me,” Freya said.

“Dare I ask what your impression of your kin has been thus far?” Aron gamely asked as Freya slid her gloves back on.

Freya tugged the soft doeskin against her hands.  “Hmm.  Not sure.  Good and bad, I guess.”  She glanced back at him and grinned, quite deliberately flashing her fangs.  “But then, I wouldn’t want to hail from a people with no…diversity.”  She nodded a farewell as he paled again, and slid into the night.

===Hosanger Welcomes the Menfolk===


The square was a riot.  Hundreds of clansmen were milling about, waving trophies, telling tales, sweeping their women off their feet, scooping children onto their shoulders and generally making themselves at home.  Freya pulled her hood low over her head and tugged the drawstrings a bit, closing her face off from the world.  She slid the cloak a bit tighter across her chest, concealing herself.

Freya stepped aside as the first of the warriors entered the building, already hollering for food.  Many of the others were tromping off for the Swollen Head instead, and some dispersed amongst the houses with a reunion on the mind.  A few cheap and overworked-looking women on one corner simpered at the passing warriors, and some peeled off to follow…like bitches on a leash, Freya thought with disgust.

She turned away from the scene and marched around the edge of the square to the tavern, peeking in through the windows.  The room was flooded with people now, from a handful of alert-looking men with stone clubs in the corners to the reveling warriors who had come home.  The crowd that had gathered outside was breaking up, some dragging trophies with them.  Freya slipped into the building, making her way over to the massive bar.

She patiently waited for the harried barman to reach her.  “A glass of red mead,” she said quietly, sliding some of the change from her dinner across the table.

“Aye, lass, here you are,” the barman said, taking the money and sliding her a thick stone mug.  The scuffs on its handle showed that, clearly, it had seen use as a weapon more than once.

She nodded and lifted the mug, making for the door.  Once outside, she slid around the back of the building to find what she had hoped she would: a ladder, built into the back wall, no doubt for posting sentries in times of siege.

Balancing the mug in one hand, Freya climbed the ladder up to the roof.  She arrived at the top and sipped her drink as she walked up to the edge.  The alcoholic drink was so named because it was supposedly made with human blood, long ago.  Now, a cup of boiled mammoth blood was mixed in with the cask.  With her refined senses, she could taste it.

Freya sat on the edge of the building and let her feet dangle over the side, after wiping a spot clean of snow.  She looked out over the little town of Hosanger, and let its sights, sounds, and scents fill her.  She breathed deep of her people, and smelled their cooking and labor.

She listened to hundreds of rowdy warriors sing their war songs, and tell their tales of victory and loss.  She heard children cry as sergeants relayed news of their brothers and fathers’ deaths.  She listened as the warriors caroused and refueled themselves, got into brawls and swore their oaths, lay with their women and spoke of the next campaign, the next war, the next raid.

Freya closed her eyes and drank deep of her cooling mead.  She heard a few grown men weep as they sank to their knees before their wives and children and swore that that was the last time, no more fighting, home life now!  The sounds of breaking glass and roaring song filled her ears from beneath her as the entire town of Hosanger turned out to greet their conquering heroes.

Freya smiled and brought the mug to her lips.  “So…this is the part of Fenris dad loves so much.”

She drank the rest of the heavy mead and licked her lips.  The blood lent the drink a harsh, metallic tang.  This was the drink of a fighter.  “You were right, Dad.”  She climbed to her feet.  “That was worth my time.”

Freya turned her back on the square when a voice called up from below.  “Oi!  Red!”

She looked down to see a few warriors standing below.  “You looking for something?” one cried.

“No, warrior, just taking the evening,” Freya said.

“Well get down if you do not wish to freeze your tits off, girl!” he said, to the chuckles of his compatriots.

Freya threw her head back and laughed.  “I’m just fine.”  Without another word, she vaulted off the roof of the building and landed on her feet less than fifty centimeters from the startled warrior.  She rose and nonchalantly pressed the mug into his hands.  “Here, take this into the bar,” she said.  “I’m off to home.”


===Hail the Wolf Spirit===



Without another word, she took off sprinting, leaving the rest of the people in the square stunned at her speed.  She put all the strength she could muster through her two mugs of mead into the effort, until her hood pulled free, and her cloak billowed out from behind her neck like the tail of a comet.  The three intricate Fenrisian braids she wore from her left temple dangled loose as the rest of her red hair fell from the hood and waved in her wake.

As soon as she was beyond the light of the torches in the village, she slowed her progress, reaching down into her pouch for the recall beacon for Bjorn’s Thunderhawk.  As her hands brushed it, however, she paused.  She glanced to the north, eyeing the low, rocky hills.  “Hmm.”  She tapped her lip with one gloved hand as she came to a halt.  “…might as well.”  Adjusting her course, she took off again, her booted feet skating over the ice and snow like the passage of a bird.

When Aron had said ‘less than an hour,’ he had presumably referred to the brisk walk of a soldier on march in the winter.  Freya was superhuman, and ate up the distance in less than ten minutes.  When she arrived at the low hill, she scaled it, allowing the height to slow her down.  When she reached the downslope, she turned her eyes to the ground, wary of the cracks Aron had mentioned.  The sun had set completely, now.  The glorious stars had risen, and the huge red-and-white moon hung overhead.  With her eyes, she could still see as clear as if the sun were directly overhead.

She reached the north side of the hills and looked around.  She didn’t see anything that looked like an entrance.  Freya held her nose close to the ice and sniffed.  Sulfur…water…a small amount of methane…and lots of oddly misplaced heat.  She looked at the snow around her more closely.  Little ice clung to the vertical parts of the rocky hill, as if it had melted free, or never formed.  Was there a hot spring nearby?  Had Aron meant that when he said the waters grew ‘thin and hot?’

Voices.  Freya slunk into the shadows of the hill by instinct as a pair of low, excited voices emerged.  They faded again after a moment, and she walked up the hill a bit, trying to find their bearing.

There.  A pair of human footprint trails was plainly visible there, coming from the town.  They vanished into the wall of the rocky hill-face.  Freya silently moved over the snowy rocks, lifting her cloak in her hands so the pelt didn’t drag.

“I’m telling you, we should wait!  There’ll be a storm tonight!” a young woman’s voice insisted.  Freya silently tread up to the crack in the rocks from above, and perched overhead like a bird.

“Don’t be silly.  We can make it back,” a man replied.

“In less than an hour?  Against the blizzard?” the woman asked incredulously.

“The skies were clear when we arrived,” the man insisted.  Freya closed her eyes and focused.  That scent…one of the boys from the House of the Kindred?  Colin?

“I’ve lived off the game around here, I’m telling you that there’s going to be a storm tonight!  Why do you think the warband was racing home?  We should just wait.”

Colin scoffed.  “Nonsense.”  He emerged from the crack.  His hair glistened in the moonlight.  “See?  No wind.”

“Not yet!  Give it ten minutes!” the woman said from inside.  “I’m not freezing out there!”

Colin sighed.  “Fine.  I’ll head back by myself.  You can wait the night, if you want, Casse.”

“Colin!...fine.  Be stubborn.  You’re just going to freeze,” the woman huffed.

Freya licked her upper lip and tilted her head back, inhaling deeply.  Sure enough, the woman was right.  There was a strong blizzard on the way.  Not strong enough to ground a Thunderhawk by any means, but strong.  Enough to kill someone out on the plains with no arctic gear…and wet hair.

“Don’t,” Freya said.

Colin started.  The woman inside gasped.  Freya spoke again, pulling her hood back to let her braids hang free.  “Death comes on the wind tonight, Colin,” she said, her voice the bestial growl she only let out when she was enraged beyond human limits, or was indulging in a bit of theater, like now.

Colin spun around to see her and bit back a scream.  She had tilted her head to catch the moonlight on her canine eyes.  All he could see was the green lights of her eyes, silhouetted against the stars.  “Stay and live.  Leave and die.”

“Who…who are you?!” Colin gasped.  Casse emerged and spotted Freya, and she actually did scream, huddling up against Colin.  Colin wrapped a protective arm around his girl and stared up at the wolf-woman giving him orders.

“The one who wants you to survive the night,” Freya said.  Her voice was more animal than human.  “Get back into the cave and wait out the blizzard that comes…or have the flesh be torn from you in the ice storm,” she whispered.

“I…I will die if I go?” Colin asked, his voice shaking with fear.  Casse’s teeth were chattering, in terror or cold.  Neither teen was dressed for the night, either, both were just wearing leather coats over their day wear.

“As sure as the moon rises, boy,” Freya growled.  “Take refuge before I lose patience.”

“T-thank you!” Colin gasped, ushering Casse into the crack once more.  “Bless you for your mercy, spirit!”

Freya nodded once, then silently slunk away as the sound of their panicked footsteps faded into the cave.  As soon as they were out of earshot, she cleared her throat and grimaced at the discomfort in her voicebox.  “Ow.  How does Dad do that without straining himself?” she asked nobody, tapping the Thunderhawk recaller.