Burgweard |In a forest that was ancient in itself, the Tree was a relic. A leftover of a time before the geat forests were felled. Before the Forgoil, when the Sea-Kings came from the West and felled the forests of the clans for their great fleets. This tree had likely seen their axes take down it's companions. The legend had it one of Wulf's ancestors died here, holding a great enemy at bay. But for all the ritual, magic and mystery of it, it was a good a spot as any for a meeting. "Prince..." Came the rasp of the pale-haired man as he rounded the great trunk, gloved hand trailing on the bark. "Is that you?"
Gryffudd stood amongst its roots. His bare hand was pressed against the bark, lovingly touching its wrinkles and scars. He had been silent, so still not even his maille rustled, listening to the silent wisdom seep up from the root-rich ground. "Forgoil," he said, turning over his shoulder at the man who was bold enough to dare expose his hair under these boughs.
Burgweard stepped closer. Even in the daylight, the air about the great trees was murky. "Glad you could make it." His tone was flat, quiet. "How were the rites?"
Gryffudd turned from his meditation over the tree and walked a ways down from it, lowering his voice. "Bittersweet." He motioned for the man to follow him as they walked. The Eorling might get the feeling that more than just birds watched them from the trees. "Any day of peace is to be mourned, knowing that days of war come after."
Burgweard | The man's lip curled, made hideous by the scar that already twisted it. "A day of peace is to be mourned, aye." He fell into step with the Brenin's son. "I spent the time over the other side of the river." He spoke nonchalantly, as if he were talking of a trip to the millers for fresh bread. "No celebrations that side, but there was a party of folk, none the less."
Gryffudd 's hand rested on the bronze pommel of his sword as they walked to stay the thing swinging. "I imagine they slept well that night," he said with grit in his bitter tone.
Burgweard shook his head at that, casting a look at the warrior at his side, peering through the hair that swayed to cover his eye. "You'd think so, but they're all kicked up like a hive of bees, just over the other side of the Isen."
Gryffudd 's hair stirred at his nape, causing the man to scratch where the boar-bristle met skin. "They will, as long as the Dragon keeps poking the nest."
Burgweard halted then, turning to face the man fully. "Not this time." His near whispered it. "See I had a little talk with a fellow riding for the Isen from Woodhurst, told me a few things you may find interesting." He raised a pale, scarred brow. "Might find it worth something."
Gryffudd turned to the man with whom he'd had little dealings, but for the simple fact of the matter that the strawhead whelped by the Dragon clan walked away from them gave him some reason to trust him. He hadn't yet decided how much length there was to that rope. "What sort of worth?" he opened, giving the man the full attention of two hazel eyes.
Burgweard managed a twist in his features that passed close to a smile. "How about I tell you some of it, you decide what it's worth and I'll keep telling you more of it?" He didn't wait for a reply, but spoke on, his voice like gravel sliding down a hillside. "This messenger was looking for Thorvall and the Oathsworn among others, turns out they've left Fréasburg, sitting tight in a fort pissing distance from the river." His eyes glinted behind strands of pale hair. "Turns out they're not sleeping so well on that side." He paused, a harsh cough, a chuckle sounding at the back of his throat. "The messenger went for a long sleep though."
Gryffudd named the man across from him with a nod. "Negesydd," he declared, "This messenger...would he find more value in gold, or in opportunity?"
Burgweard remained silent for a few long moments, his eyes narrowed a little. "Depends." He finally grunted. "Depends where the opportunity leads I suppose, but a man can't eat opportunity."
Gryffudd nodded. "No, but he can fill his belly at the fireside of comrades." So companionship was not what the man was after. Gryffudd read the scars left by wandering in circles around the Dragon Clan, avoiding campfires. The man drew out some heavy silver flakes from his pouch. They weren't rounded, or stamped with the head of any king—there was little need when currency in Dunland was melted down soon as it was traded—but they were true to their weight. "You say Thorvall and his Oathsworn. How many are they, now?"
Burgweard didn't reach, or react to the silver save a flicker of the eyes. "Comrades." He huffed another chuckle, folding his arms. They too were covered in scars, either won on the battlefield or the fighting pit of Avardin, where folk said that he had killed more men than winter. Not that fame there had put much food in his belly, save the nourishment to see him to the next bloodletting. "There's a score of fighters in the fortress, and I've counted at least six come and go with Thorvall, but took my leave as my chatty friend was sooner or later bound to be found."
Gryffudd parcelled out a child's handful of the crude coins, counting more for every detail shared. "They patrol the banks, I presume? They've had heavy rains their side this autumn. Any positions where their horses' hooves might not find sturdy ground?"
Burgweard pursed his lips as he thought on it for a second. "Plenty, naturally towards the marshes and a few spots near the fort, but if they've a mind to charge folk down they'll either hold you in the bog and fill you with arrows, or wait for you to starve or swim." He fell silent again. He wasn't one for prolonged conversation. "They're not planning a raid, as far as I can tell they've got it in their heads we'll raid them."
Gryffudd paused his shuffling of silver chips as he noticed who Burgweard meant by 'we.' "If you point me to their blindspot, I'll make sure that you stay in it." He gathered the worth of the man's information and held it out for him, along with that promise.
Burgweard looked down at the coins, then back to the man's dark eyes with his own, an icy blue in the fading light. "There's more." He rasped, unfolding his arms. "They're worried we think that they're taking the missing farmers, which has me thinking that they're not, or at least no one knows about it if so."
Gryffudd pressed the coins into the man's palm, not liking to be seen weighing his chips for long. "They better think that," he grunted. "As long as our kind think the opposite."
Burgweard took the offered money without protest or ceremony, gripping them tight. "It's got them worried."
Gryffudd turned to look up the tree, so wide he could barely keep it contained in one vision. "You know what else is bittersweet?" His hand returned to the bronze hilt of his sword.
Burgweard tucked his thumb into his sword belt. His other hand hanging by his own hilt but not with any threat to draw. "Go on?"
Gryffudd |"The only reason the size of this tree is remarkable..." he mused, the stretch in his throat aching his voice as he stared up into its twisted branches. "...is because of the size of the trees that border it." He turned around to gaze out into the forest. The thin pines scattered about them creaked weakly, easily bent until broken by stormless winds. The Yellow Pines and White Aspens of the Mountains that birthed these sickly children in the foothills were still nothing compared with the tree behind them, left to weather its days alone, the last of its kind. "Making them worried is not enough," he swore, shifting his hand from the pommel to the hilt to grip, like squeezing out a blood-oath. "We must learn to make them dread our very name."
Burgweard offered the man's back a wolfish grin. "If poetic words could make them soil their saddles you'd have them pushed back to the Entwade by now, Prince Gryffudd." He stepped alongside him once more, hand dropping from his belt. "I was always a piss poor poet, but dread, now there's something I know a thing or two about."
Gryffudd |Eagles had never learned to grin, and Gryffudd stared out into a forest with a fire in his eyes as if the forest on fire was what he witnessed. It would happen, one day, whether by his hand or despite it. "That is a smaller river to cross," he said of their ancient border, now deep in the gut of the enemy. "It takes poetry, sometimes. An easy enemy is one without imagination."
Burgweard |The grin turned lopsided. "I've always found an easy enemy is one that's not looking at you, but..." He trailed off, shrugging. "Probably a lack of imagination on my part."
Gryffudd stretched his fingers, keeping his thoughts that continued rock-skipping down the river to himself. He was fine at his enemy looking at him. He wanted them sleepless, wide-eyed, searching the shadowed corners of their rooms for him. "If they gain in number, send word. I want to know how quickly their marsh dries this winter. Keep an eye for this messenger..." He glanced down at the hand that held Eagle silver. "See he receives his share of the worth."
Burgweard raised a pale eyebrow once more at the prince. "He wouldn't accept anything less." Thumbing open a pouch hanging at his hip, he let the coins fall inside. "I'll send word within the week, you want me to come to your hall?" He glanced about him. "Or would you prefer the company of the big lonely tree?" He cast a glance behind at the living relic of another age. "Although as places for hushed, sordid little meetings go, this is a good one I reckon."
Gryffudd turned his head over his shoulder just enough to glance at the bark from the corner of his eye. "I do prefer it," he said, honestly. There were few companions with whom he spent so much time as their Tree of Tribute, when the woods were peaceful enough to have access to it, or when his clan had taken the upper-hand at securing the woods around. "Not my hall. There's an overlook south of Fréasburg. I will leave directions and instructions with my sister. You know to ask for Danhadlen, if you come by the town."
Burgweard nodded once. "Danhadlen, south of Fréasburg, I'll see you there then." With that the Forgoil turned, striding into the depths of the Gravenwood.
Gryffudd watched the man retreat until he could be sure other, hidden gazes watched further, for him. He palmed his silver-pouch, weighing it with his decisions and the risk of what was to come. He turned once more to the tree that was whispered to hold the spirits of all those who died for Dunland: a single tree, many branches, many roots, but still its own living legacy. He knelt on one knee at its base and pressed his knuckles into the dirt, wishing he could dig deep and uncover all the spirits that lived within its roots. He would join them, though, soon enough.
Chat Log: 11/09
