A few more coins and the captain smirks, “Don’t worry. I remember what it was like when I was courting my wife. I’ll have everything ready. You can leave the horses back here. If they make a mess, we’ll sweep it into the river.”
Emlyn wakes up the next morning and stretches. Preparing herself, she heads downstairs to find Kethas and Benger already eating.
“I hope you left me some,” Emlyn calls from the stairs.
“This isn’t your Temple, girl,” Kethas mock-growls, “I’ll feed you. Just don’t blame me if you get fat.”
“Hrmph,” Emlyn grouses, “if they’d let me train like I want to, that wouldn’t even be a concern.”
“How do you want to train?” Benger asks.
Rummaging in her pack, Emlyn pulls out several rolls of paper and starts peeking into them, then selects one and puts the rest back.
“Let me show you how my House trains.” Unrolling the sheaf of papers partly, Emlyn shows him some of the other things she wants to make, and Benger curses softly.
Kethas looks inquisitively at Benger, who waves a hand at the drawings. “This is a glimpse of my future,” Benger grumbles.
“All our futures,” Emlyn nods, “There are fights you can win simply because you’re in better shape than your opponent. We’re going to enter tournaments where we need to at least place well, if not win. Many of our opponents will be competing in these tournaments as part of their profession. They will treat winning as their job and work hard to make sure they do, since that’s how they earn their living. We will have to do things differently because this isn’t our primary job. One way to do that is to be, at least for now in Harito, inventive about how we train. What I’ve outlined is part of the reason that I and all my younger siblings were so successful in our national tournaments.”
“No wonder you’ve been so frustrated by your physical limitations,” Benger tells her, “If you were doing all this. Now I understand all that a bit better.”
“Understand what better?” Atres says, sniffing at the breakfast Kethas has laid out.
“Get in here and eat,” Kethas says, “and see what your girl has planned for you. You’ll need it.”
“Now I see why you kept pushing yourself so hard,” Benger nods.
Winging his way north into the cold is difficult for Fish Killer. His kind prefer the warmer, more southern climes than these frigid mountains, but he finally locates Snowhold. The wind lifts Fish Killer higher, his wings slicing through the cold air as he circles above the white-crusted world below. Snowhold lies nestled in a shallow bowl of land, its rooftops barely distinguishable from the snow that blankets them. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, a sign of life and warmth in the otherwise frozen silence.
From this height, the village is a cluster of sturdy cabins and longhouses, their walls dark against the snow. Paths wind between them like veins, trodden down by boots and sleds. The smithy glows faintly, its heat visible even to Fish Killer’s keen eyes. Beyond the village, the snow stretches into the forest, broken only by the occasional movement of hunters or dogs.
The mountain looms behind Snowhold, its slopes steep and unforgiving. Yet the village clings to its base like a stubborn root, resilient and proud. Fish Killer spots the smokehouse, the kennels, and the small shrine where offerings are left for the ancestors. The snow is deep, but the people move through it with purpose.
Fish Killer tilts his wings and glides downward, catching the scent of meat and pine. The dogs bark below, and someone waves, perhaps at Fish Killer, perhaps at the sky. Snowhold is quiet, but it is not still. It waits, like the mountain, for what comes next. Scenting the air, the people there all smell a bit like Kethas, so Fish Killer thinks he’s found the right place. Flapping and screeching, Fish Killer settles on the village well, which draws a lot of attention.
“What are you doing here? You’re a long way from where you should be,” one of the men says, quickly wrapping his blacksmith’s apron around his arm.
“Come with me and we’ll get you out of this weather. Maybe a bit of food, too, eh?”
Bobbing his head in agreement, Fish Killer lands on the man’s arm and is carried into the smithy. Taking up a perch on the big bellows for the smithy, Fish Killer spreads out his six feet of wings, soaking up the warmth from the forge.
“You stay here and warm up,” the man says to Fish Killer, “I’m just going to go get you something to eat.”
Sikre leaves the forge and jogs back to his cabin. Digging in the snow, he pulls out some river trout that he left to freeze. Mincing them up into small bits, he throws them in a bowl and grabs another bowl for water. Scooping up some snow on the way back to the smithy, Sikre heads inside and sets the bowls down near the forge where the heat will thaw everything.
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“While that’s thawing out,” Sikre says to the big bird, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here and looking for Clan Rothe?”
With a squawk of discontent at the delayed food, Fish Killer delivers Kethas’s message.
“Looking for a few of us to come help with this dragon-maybe-not-dragon, eh?” Sikre says at the end of the message. “I’ll ask the clan. We’d certainly be able to tell if it was a beast or something pretending to be a beast. Kethas certainly seems to think it was important if he sent you to find us.”
Fish Killer gives a disgruntled squawk, “Oh, I see. The fastest, eh? Maybe not the most suitable for this cold, though. Hmm… Paladins, Valkis, maybe other clans… It’s certainly intriguing.”
Fish Killer gives an unhappy squawk. “No, you can stay right here where it’s warm until I can give you an answer.”
Fish Killer gives another quieter, more plaintive squawk.
“Yes, I’ll make sure you have plenty to eat until then. Don’t worry. We don’t let our guests go hungry. This time of year, anything that’s not salted down or smoked might take a bit to thaw out, that’s all.”
Sikre heads to the clan mother’s cabin and knocks. When a voice tells him to come in, he enters. “Clan Mother, we have a message from Kethas asking for a few of us to come help with something.”
Clan Mother Nishelli frowns, “Kethas the prodigal who, despite having one of the strongest talents we’ve seen in a while, never took a mate to pass that strong gift on.”
“The same,” Sirke agrees, “I admit that his proposal is intriguing to say the least.”
Nishelli turns to face him, “You want to go.”
“Rothe would not be the only clan,” Sikre shrugs, “Valkis as well. Maybe others.”
"Hmm,” Nishelli muses, “If other clans are going, we should be represented. We can’t let them lord that over us. Very well. You and no more than two others. Not your assistant, though. We can’t be completely without a blacksmith.”
“As you say, Clan Mother,” Sikre replies, suppressing his grin. Waving him off, Nishelli returns to her book. Sikre hurries off to find a couple of men he knows will want to come with him to see Harito for themselves, finally.
Heading to the smokehouse, Sikre grins at Itre.
“What’s that grin for?” Itre asks suspiciously.
“Pack up,” Sikre laughs, “We’re going to Harito. The Clan Mother just approved it.”
“You’re joking,” Itre says, and Sikre shakes his head.
“Come and meet the guest currently sheltering in my forge if you don’t believe me. Kethas sent him here with a message to ask some of us to come and help. Since other clans are involved, the Clan Mother just approved it.”
“In that case,” Itre grins back, “Let me start packing so we can be gone before she changes her mind.”
“I’ll just go see if Banzul wants to go,” Sikre says, “I only got permission for the three of us to go.”
“Banzul has always wanted to see Harito,” Itre nods, “I’m sure he’ll agree.”
Sikre takes off at a jog to find Banzul. When he does, Banzul is sitting in a pile of straw and pine needles, playing with the latest batch of puppies.
“Banzul, do you want to stay here and play with those puppies, or do you want to come to Harito with me?”
Banzul’s head swings around, “What prank is this? You know that the Clan Mother would never allow it. Not after what they did to one of the Valkis. She doesn’t trust any of the cities.”
“She already has,” Sikre grins, “Now pack quickly so we can be off before she changes her mind.”
Banzul’s jaw drops, but he starts scrambling out of the adorably wriggling puppy pile. In short order, everything they need is piled into a sled with a few of Banzul’s dogs to pull it, and the three men are headed down the mountain. Perched on the sled and wrapped in blankets with a fire-heated stone, Fish Killer suffers the silent humiliation of being carried by humans.
“I took your advice,” Atres grins, “Milvara says that she’ll have a test fitting ready for you sometime in the next few days. I also stopped and set up a surprise for you.”
Emlyn rolls her eyes, “You’re as bad as Argonath. Now I’ll have to find someone to put my hair up in the traditional war braids.”
“I think,” Atres says, smiling, “that you will be quite fetching. What’s this about war braids?”
“I’ve seen how the women look at all of you wearing that,” Emlyn waves a hand at his clothing. “If all the men start looking at me like that, I’m going to end up punching quite a few of them. It’s only fair to warn them.”
“What makes you think that?” Atres frowns.
“Women tend to be more polite,” Emlyn shrugs, but Atres, Kethas, and Benger still look confused.
Sighing, Emlyn continues. “On the whole, women are generally too polite to get grabby,” Emlyn says darkly, “but there’s a certain class of man who isn’t. Much like Valgar. Did you know that he’d implied that I had been bedding my entire cohort? I let it pass because he was careful enough to say it in a way that I might have been misinterpreting his statements. That’s why I was trying to get away from him. I saw the archery game and was hoping I’d be able to shake him off there. That was before we went hunting. Then, when we came back from the hunt, he outright accused me of bedding all three of you out in the woods.”
“I had wondered what he said that made you so angry,” Atres nodded, “I only caught the last bit where you threatened to hang his teeth with the wolf’s teeth around your neck. I assumed he’d said something offensive. I didn’t realize it was that offensive.”
“I hadn’t realized he was that bad,” Benger frowns, “or I’d have never let him walk you around the fairground.”
“He probably wasn’t like that,” Emlyn shrugs, “with you or your brothers. If you’d had a sister, though, you’d probably have heard about him.”
“Don’t worry about it too much, girl,” Kethas says, “If you’re going out dressed like that, you’ll likely be in the company of more than just Atres. I can’t see Argonath, Korek, or any of the other King’s Guard tolerating that kind of disrespect to you from anyone. If something like that should happen, you won’t be the only one punching them.”
Looking for a more pleasant topic, Atres tries to redirect the conversation. “What would you like to do today? Do you want to go poke around a bit more in the King’s Guard Armory?” Atres asks, “Maybe see what other treasures you can talk Argonath out of? Or explore the city? Or start digging through old records? I am completely at your disposal.”
“I’d rather train,” Emlyn grins, “I feel like I’ve been slacking.”
Looking at Kethas, Emlyn grins, “Care to have a go in the ring, fy ewythr? I have a feeling that you’re a tricky one.”
“Let me just get a few things,” Kethas nods, “I think I’d like to see you in action, girl.”
Emlyn darts up the stairs to change. Dressing herself quickly, she’s got the chain mail reinforced gambeson and chausses and grabs the blunt weapons that she had Lokrag make for her. She pulls on the canvas pants and boots before trotting back down the stairs.
Boltir’s Atres Watch Current Count: 2 "Gentlemanly Ambushes" in progress.
Observation: "Not only is he planning a boat ride, but he’s also 'at her disposal' for museums or records. The man has no shame. He’s making himself more useful than a multi-tool! But then Nia—bless her steel-wrapped heart—looks him in the eye and says she’d rather train. She’d rather hit things than look at old paper! My beard has settled back into a calm, rhythmic thrum of respect. Atres might have the boat, but Nia has the drive of a siege engine. I’m docking Atres 10 points for the barge, but giving Nia a gold star for wanting to wrestle her uncle instead. That’s my girl."
Boltir’s Tip Jar Current Total: 19 coppers, a half-eaten river trout, and Snips (the crab) is currently trying to sharpen his claws on a loose thread from my sleeve.
Boltir’s Plea: "Did you see Benger’s face when Nia showed him those training drawings? He looked like he’d seen a ghost of his own future exhaustion. Toss a copper in the jar so I can buy Snips a tiny whetstone—he’s decided he’s the official guard of the copper stash and he needs to keep his 'pincers of justice' sharp. Also, leave a review if you think Nia should spend less time on boats and more time teaching Atres how to properly take a punch to the gut!"
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