woodmen

The Woodmen have dwelled in the Vales of the Anduin, between the Misty Mountains and the great forest, since time out of memory. Even their oldest tales do not speak of where they came from before, only that they were kin to the other Men that dwelled in those Vales, like the horse-riders farther north. It can be inferred that they used to dwell mostly within the forest itself, if only because of the name in the common tongue, "Woodmen", that other peoples call them by. But long ago the forest became hostile.

"Come, Fang."

The hound broke off investigating the loam in case it had changed, and trotted after. The command was to come, and not heel or just being expected to follow along. That meant some sort of possible trouble. But it would be trouble for Mistress only, and not for a hound. His job would be to watch for other threats.

After a few weeks of being the nominal Chieftain of his tiny clan, Heriwulf still hadn't had a moment when the weight of that position fell upon him suddenly, startlingly, uncomfortably. On the contrary, he'd settled into that position quite easily, because it had really had very little effect on anything.

Kestrea spent quite a while in the woods – crouching and checking for tracks, following and stalking, over the last few days. Finally happening upon the Nen Harn, in the right moment and the right time. At first, observing from a distance and hiding, to see whether the woman was alone, but once that became obvious – she decided to approach. Openly, with the weapons sheathed.

After the moot, and after her little bit of extra chat with Ljota that followed, Hildegund made her way back to her hut. She mulled over some things as she limped along, not hiding it so much now that there was no one to see.

She wished that Home-Wright's joke about bride-price hadn't happened, or that it hadn't hit her so hard. It was still hard for her to think around the memories it had brought up. But nobody knew, and it wasn't anything but a jest. It had kept her from being able to say or ask some things with Snow-Hair and Ljota, but there would likely be other opportunities for those. And perhaps her thoughts hadn't really mattered, anyway. That seemed likely.

Surely the bottom is going to drop out from under me, Heriwulf kept thinking. There would be some moment where the enormity of recent events, of what had happened at the clan moot, would leave him shaking with realizations and perhaps horror at the consequences. The responsibility that was his now. The impossibility of how it had come to pass. The collision between regret for his mistakes and expectations for his future actions.

He had come prepared: his three hounds, well-trained, fierce, and utterly loyal, were in place; his spear was strong and its iron point and cross-brace sharp; his position was well-chosen with both the advantage of height and several options for retreat and advance. Still, staring down a wolf charging at you is never a time to feel comfortable, no matter how much subtle lore of bird and beast your ancestors were taught by Radagast the Brown, no matter how many times you had faced wolves, no matter how many you had tamed and turned into members of your clan.

Once her visitor left, Hildegund got out of her clothes and checked on her leg. It was, as she'd just told Faron, sore from all the walking, but it was only sore. There was no new bleeding, and no new redness. It just hurt.

It was still dark out, but that was expected. Both Fang and Hildegund needed a trip outside, and with that done, she prepared her gear and dressed for the day. After their tumultuous moot, she wasn't sure how much food was really left to their lodge, and her reasoning of the night before still stood, anyway. She was consuming, yet was recovered enough from her injuries to start contributing again.