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

===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.