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

===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.