The Saga of the Skrælings (1088) [Closed]

"Blasted storm" Alrik Wægmund muttered. The dark clouds were approaching and he had two choices. To pull aground or to continue on.

"Did Hróarr Loðbrók turn when he saw the tempest?" Hygelac Wuffingas asked, chuckling.

"Well Hróarr Loðbrók is dead and in the ground, and not here now is he?" Alrik scoffed.
"We'll run aground here."

"The shores are rocky" Hygelac shrugged.
"It's why the expeditions before went further south."

"And brought evils back with them" Alrik muttered.

"Sure, if you believe those tales" Hygelac replied.

"The shores here may be rocky, but they're lands we have not seen" Alrik said, having convinced himself. "And we will not be sailing into a storm."
"Go to land!" he called out.
"We'll camp for the night and explore the inland tomorrow" he added, speaking to Hygelac.

Hygelac nodded, even if he questioned his reasoning. King Vortgyn II himself had given Alrik command of this víkingur band. He didn't plan on disregarding the chain of command.
"Move! Row!" he barked, ordering the oarsmen to turn into the shore...

---

"Turn into the shore! We're landing here!" Wealþow Scylfing heard one of the commanders bellow. She wasn't expecting the order, to be sure. This was a stretch known for its rocky coasts. The expeditions sent out usually passed this area by for the more easily accessible southern lands.

She didn't have time to think about it though. She pulled with all her might, teeth gritting. She was a woman- only sixteen at that- and unable to pull as hard as even the boys her own age. Still she tried, and her efforts were acceptable enough that she was not going to be chastised. She was excited though. Yes, they were running aground earlier than she expected, but this was a chance to prove herself.

Wealþow was of House Scylfing, a cadet branch of the Royal House of Loðbrók. Her father, a cousin to the King, sat in his court as a trusted warrior. And Wealþow...well she had been destined to be married off at a young age to some other noble house's son, but she defied that almost from the day she was born. Being headstrong and assertive, and wanting desperately to learn how to fight from her father and older brother. Her mother and father, to their credit, relented. If she could pass the trials expected of young boys who wished to be become víkingur then she could become a shield maiden.
Shield maidens were rare- even rarer in the centuries since their people had conquered Prydansk- but they were valued. The prestige she'd bring to her father and her house was worth as much as if she'd been wed to some other house. Her parents understood that. So she took the tests, passed, and found herself here. She had a lot to live up to- her brother and father were both well-regarded warriors- but she was excited to meet her destiny in this new land. Land that, as far as she knew, her people had passed on because of its inhospitable shores.

"Wealþow, you should camp with me" Svafar Hrafnvartr smirked. Wealþow rolled her eyes. The younger warriors where the ones propositioning her like this. The older ones...well they were mostly married themselves. They paid her no mind, unless they wanted to see what she was capable of. The boys her age, like Svafar, were supposed to wait to see if they proved themselves on the field of battle. Svafar, however, was too excited for his own good.

"We're not even ashore yet" Wealþow scoffed as she rowed.

"Who knows what dangers lurk here" Svafar replied.
"We could each be dead by tomorrow. Why not be with each other?"

Wealþow just smiled as she turned, her helmet just slightly too big for her.
"If there's danger here then I don't intend on dying to it. And I don't see why I should settle for a 'man' who would assume he's not going to survive it himself." Svafar looked like an arrow had been shot through him and went to respond, only to be cut off by laughter.

"I like Torrad's daughter" Varin Arngrim laughed.
"She shut you down well enough boy" he remarked at a blushing Svafar. Wealþow just smiled and focused on her task rowing. The ships came upon ground soon enough.

She looked on as Alrik Wægmund stepped forward, planting a flagpole in a crack in the rocks, a víkingur banner baring the cross of the Kingdom of Prydansk. He and Hygelac Wuffingas looked inland.

"We are upon land we can not tent on" Alrik yelled, addressing his band, with all three ships coming ashore.
"We will settle here, and camp in the ships for the night. Tomorrow we will go forth into this new land that our people have not yet set foot in and seek glory. For ourselves and our King!

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!" everyone chanted in response.

"Looks like we'll be camping together after all" Svafar remarked to Wealþow, who just leaned in a bit, smirking as her blue eyes shown under her helmet.

"Try anything and we'll find out which one of us finds glory first" she said with a wicked smile before walking off to help others pitch tarps over the grounded longboats.

"Boy," Varin remarked as he placed a hand on Svafar's shoulder, "you're going to have to do more than talk pretty to win a shield maiden over."

"She hasn't even killed anyone in battle yet" Svafar rolled his eyes.

"Neither have you" Varin laughed.
"She's not some innocent damsel. She's here because she chaffed at that life. Prove yourself on the battlefield. And try not to get killed by her before then" he pat the boy on the shoulder before heading off to help with the tarp himself.

Wealþow looked on. She saw Alrik and Hygelac talk amongst themselves. Planning for tomorrow no doubt. She signed, looking down the rocky coast that seemed to extend forever. It was very different from the fertile lands of Prydania. The stark differences caused worry to bubble up in her stomach. What was this place? Why had her people always sailed south before making landfall? They were the first víkingur to set foot here, but what did that entail?

It would have to be a question answered tomorrow. Right now they simply had to survive the storm that was approaching.

---

A Portage to the Unknown by Turasis, 4:50

The tranquil blue sky surprised Wealþow as she suddenly awoke. Having been at sea in reckless weather for such a long time, it was blissful to see nothing but clear blue as the sounds of pelican's squaking joined with the crashing of the tides on the rocks. Her strength well-regained from her serene environment, she immediately shot up from her confining section of the longboat to gaze out at the sea. All the other men were still deep in their slumber, snoring about the ranks, and it amused her to think about going off to search the new lands they had found for herself. She imagined Svafar's beguiled face, as she came back from within the highland wielding a massive chest full of unusual and foreign treasures. 'No need to wake up, men, I'll take it from here!' she imagined.

All of a sudden, there was a crackling noise. It came from behind her.

Wealþow shot her head back, only to be startled by what she saw staring back at her. Perhaps in an equal counterpart to the Prydanian crew was a cohort of different kinds of men. Their skin was bronze and suntanned, painted in a variety of different fashions with red colourants. Some of them had iron armour-sets about them. They were damascened, and held together by pelt-straps. They had no solid chest-piece, but had metal sleeves, shins, and girdles, along with helmets that had been forged into the shape of a bird's face and beak. Those who did not don armouring were dressed in simple tunics or beige-pelt slacks, each with three feathers imbedded into their black braided hair which went down behind the ears and then came back around the shoulders.

"Alrik." She raised her voice, "Alrik, wake up!"
"Blasted... Shoutings..." Someone muttered as the crew began to wake.
"What... What is it, Shield-Maiden?"
"We have visitors."

This threw the newly-woken men into action, some of them quickly went for their weapons as they shot up to see the new spectators. Alrik himself was one of them, he slowly gazed upon the men who surrounded the longboat.

Chief Kisimo had heard about the terrifying noises that had groaned beyond the hill and near the Coast of Ancient Mischief. 'Monsters! Devils!' the residents cried. The Coast of Ancient Mischief was unfortunately known historically for terrible occurrences and wicked things. Although in the end, it was always where the town would meet the Tusacaway, the great ocean beyond. In an explorative party, Kisimo had organized several men to come with him to investigate the noises, including his two teenage sons, Kisitoweyn and Siwew. Along with them was also the Great Son of Yinisweyn, Napis. Their objective was purely to investigate the sounds and return to the village reassuring that there was no problem. Kisimo assumed the groans had only been a consequence of the storm.

Kisimo hated these sorts of trivial tasks. The effects of the Cruel Apowwen—his grandmother's war—had left the weary people of his nation in great fear of the unknown, a fear which even after one-hundred years had not been pacified. Nonetheless, it was his duty to maintain the calm in the village. Although, it wouldn't be calm for much longer.

Kisimo and his cohort marched over the highlands and peered over the river-outlet from above. In those few premature moments, he had no idea the volume of the discovery he would made once he looked over the rocks. There was a longboat there. The vessel was strange in craftsmanship, wielding a tall log over the deck that hoisted a folded-tarp made of red-and-yellow cloth held at the edges by ropes.

"Whoa." Kisimo let out.

The troupe stopped to observe the ship.

"What is that, father?" Kisitoweyn asked.
"I am... I am as perplexed as you are, son... Not in my thirty-seven years here have I seen something so strange."
"I know what it is!" Kisitoweyn announced, "It's evil!"

Kisimo rolled his eyes. His son had a thing about scaring people.

"Before you make such bold claims for yourself, child, you will need to find your pawakan. Until that point in time you will close your mouth and follow the instructions of the chief."

Kisitoweyn looked at his father and nodded.

Kisimo ultimately made the choice to descend down the valley into the rocks. With practiced stealth, the cohort of men managed to descend along the stones like mountain goats, jumping onto one rock after the other with their feet until reaching the bottom. They approached the foreign vessel carefully, now having a better look at the people inside.

"These are bearded-men!" Siwew came to mutter.
"Quiet, my son, I think one of them is awake."

The shield-maiden among the bearded-men, Wealþow, finally turned to see the Chief and his assemblage. Her eyes went cold, full of indecisiveness and anxiety. She called out something in a strange language, and suddenly, one by one, the other men around her began to awake and peer at the grouping with their equally cold eyes.

"There is a woman among them." Kisitoweyn noted, "A witch!"
"There are no witches, brother. These people are but travellers, nothing out of the ordinary." Siwew said.
"Well, I wouldn't be so confident, Siwew." Kisimo said, "Travellers come with stocks of food and wares, not weapons and shields. Let all of us stay here and stand our ground until these people make the first act. If they are comradely, we will be in the Manitou's good graces."

Napis, the Great Son, muttered something behind them. He stood among Siwew and Kisitoweyn, but at a watchful distance.

"Did you say something?" Siwew asked.
"I... I am surprised is all..." He said, breaking a sweat.
"You are the Great Son, Napis, look as such!"
"I know." He said.

After what seemed like deliberation among the outlanders, they began to disembark. Kisitoweyn was anticipatory of a fight and began to scowl, but his father, Kisimo noticed immediately that these people had left their weapons plainly in their sheaths and had their arms out in the open. They approached slowly, not breaking eye contact. These people were trying to be amicable. Kisimo held his hands back letting the others know to stay put. He approached the larger, older man, who sported a massive blonde beard. Kisimo identified Alrik as their leader. He had the greatest of all beards and his face was ripe with the markings of battle and the stains of grand tales to be told in a pothouse. Kisimo knew those things very well, and believed this was a man he could relate to.

Slowly, Alrik raised his hand in hand in the air as if to hail Kisimo.

"Halló!" He called out.

"Tânisi." The Chief replied.

In an imitative fashion, Kisimo also let up his hand and waved. Although after that, the two merely stared at each-other blankly, unknowing exactly how to communicate with each other. Suddenly, the man with the long beard began to point towards himself with his thumb.

"Alrik Wægmund." He said.

Kisimo believed he was sharing his name. He followed suit, pointed to himself and spoke, "Mistameka Kisimotosapowask"

Alrik raised his eyebrows and squinted like a pelican who had spotted a fish in the low tide, "Eh?"

Kisimo repeated himself slower, enunciating all the syllables, "Mista-meka Kisimo-tosa-powask."

The two stood and laughed for a moment, both unsure of themselves and each-other.


Several hours had been spent on the beach in the hot sun. The Mistamek and the Prydanians both had been busy in the attempt of trying to understand each-other's language. It was a painfully slow process that managed to bring together some of the Viking crew with the Mistamekan warriors in the art of sport. As the two leaderships were busy in deliberation, some of the two groups had gone up onto the highland to play lacrosse with each other. Kisitoweym was sceptical about all this, he was especially worried that what seemed to them as a simple game may be an actual competition in the eyes these new bearded men, the Prydanskur. He worried it might even be a competition with a penalty of death. Siwew silenced his concern. His optimistic presence always seemed to keep his brother out of something he would regret.

Eventually, it was agreed upon that the Shield Maiden, Wealþow would go with the Great Son, Napis, and try to create a written understanding of each other's language. However long this would take was unknown, but for the time being, the bearded-men were granted permission to pass over the highland into the town of Tawiscayew. In reality, the high cliffs that the vikings had seen all along were not massive valleys, but cliffs that shaped off into expansive prairie-land. Svafar became worried about Wealþow being alone in the company of these strange new people they had met, but Varik managed to keep the ensemble focused on their tour of the town.

Tawiscayew of course, was the capital of the Mistamek country. Below the hill, near the coast, was a massive sprawling community of tall tipis and some longhouses, constructed out of wide cedars. Smoke emerged from each structure, which hosted a central fire for warmth in the winter and for cuisine. It was obvious that the longhouses were the most praised constructions in the town since there was not a tree in sight, only the massive plain which stretched as far as the eye could see from above. Kisimo led Alrik and a few of his men straight into the heart of the village for a better look.

The tipis were constructed in rows, and looked permanently settled in the hard-dirt. Their walls were made out of pelts, stitched together and woven. They were then tanned and bleached in the light of the sun to achieve a beige-white upon which the canvases could be marked with paint. Alrik himself took a look at one of the indigenous residences and noted the blue-green-white patterns circling the conical house. In red paint, there was a depiction of an upside-down woman, plummeting from the crescent moon, surrounded by graceful sky-imagery. Below was a hermetic man sitting among bushes and trees, with pelicans, turtles, and whales, moving about below him. He carried on about the village.

Kisimo led the group into one of the central longhouses which had been constructed out of ancient tree-bark and embellished with hay at the top. Wooden logs pushed against the walls as supports whilst a pergola held up the roof-structure on the outside. Waving from the three longhouses around the central pavilion of the town were short purple banners woven with white thread in a continuous pattern. Alrik noted that the structure was extremely reminiscent of a mead hall, to which he then felt sudden excitement in exploring. Inside the house were a series of beds and tables, lined up next to each other and covered in pelts, furs, and game. At the far end of the hall was the mounted head of a massive bison, and at the other end was the mounted figure of a screech-owl, reposing upon a wooden stave whilst its wings unravelled to appear in flight. Alrik got the sense that this was the abode for the greater authorities of the town.

Finally, the ensemble stopped at another cedar lodge, which stood between the pothouse and a series of agricultural rows growing corn, beans, and squash, maintained by other citizens. The pothouse in Tawiscayew smelled peculiar—not like drunken fervour and brewing mead Alrik was familiar with—but like the incense of burning herbs during mass. The longhouse before them was the mightiest of all, and had windows constructed upon the slabs with shutters hinged with iron fasteners. The outside was decorated in several more of those purple banners, which Alrik was beginning to sense was the flag of their people. As the troupe entered with Kisimo, they found that this longhouse's interior was radically different from the others. This one had a red-woven carpet outstretched towards a massive purple curtain which divided the room in two. It was translucent, and the longhouse's fire could be seen smouldering on the opposite side. Kisimo stood idly by, watching figures move about behind the curtain. Suddenly, a beautiful woman emerged from the lefthand side of the room, with her dark hair tied about her ears in coiled braids like a patrician. She wore a massive feathered-headdress which trailed along behind her, and her purple dress was laden with embellishments. Kisimo then began to bow towards this woman, an action which the ensemble of Prydanians generally followed suit. Although this was more out of social awkwardness than true loyalty.

The purple-dressed woman was one of the Great Mother's ladies-in-waiting. These women were the consular authorities who acted as the Great Mother's instruments of delegation, and this one in particular was not very pleased with Kisimo. She approached him and lifted him from the ground by pulling at his braids. As expected he reacted in pain, and began a competitive yelling-match with the lady. It was a confusing and uncomfortable sight for the visitors who now felt completely out of place, but they endured the personal conflict until the very last moment when the lady-in-waiting pointed at Alrik himself, shouted something abruptly, and stormed back behind the curtain. Kisimo slowly turned around, glared at the vikings, and led them outside.

"Mihciyawêsiw." Kisimo spoke shamefully.

Alrik suspected this was their way of saying sorry.


The Tusacaway — "The ocean" in this context
Great Son — The son of a nation's Great Mother, the female equivalent being a Great Daughter
The Cruel Apowwen — A large multi-national conflict between the Mistameka, the Ayaskapiew, the Apithana, the Akimasca, and the Miapiskiew which is said to have begun in 984, leading to the exile of the Apithana
Pawakan — "Dream Spirit", a term used for the spiritual revelation one has during their spirit quests and sometimes for the spirit quest itself
Lacrosse — A sport involving the passage of a small ball between netted-sticks, indigenous to the Tusacaway
"An upside-down woman, plummeting from the crescent moon" — Reference to the Sky-Woman, the wife of the Manitou

The Coast of Ancient Mischief

Wealþow grumbled as Alric selected her to go with the one called Napis. She eyed him briefly before before turning her attention to Alric.
"I came to prove myself, not to try conversing with a boy over foreign words!"

Alric, however, was not impressed with the Shield Maiden's bluster.
"That 'boy' seems no younger than you. And we were sent by the King to explore. Glory means more than battle. Learn these people's words and we may be able to trade with them to enrich both of our peoples. You'd do us all a greater service with these foreign words than a sword."

Wealþow sighed but she was not going to disobey the expedition's leader. Not on her first voyage. Part of her wondered if a boy her age would get away with it, but she figured one wouldn't. She couldn't see Alric tolerating much defiance from Svafar either.

"Aye Stýrimaður*" she said, bowing her head respectfully. She may have been a cousin to the King, but she was a víkingur and Alric was her commander.

She removed her helmet. It was a secret relief for her, as her braided hair had been stuffed up against the back of her head.
Now, though, her golden braids fell freely over her shoulders. And the relief brought a smile to her face.
She approached the one who seemed to be called Napis, and smiled.
"Hello" she said in her language, holding a hand up, before pointing to herself as she mimicked what Alric had done.
"Wealþow" she said before heading off with him.

Svafar clenched his teeth as he watched Wealþow go off with these strange people, but he knew not to raise the issue. Alric had sent her off. He'd get nowhere arguing with the Stýrimaður.
He looked over at Hygelac, and sensed that the Skipstjóri* was a bit uneasy too.

---

Tawiscayew

Alrik found the settlement to be intriguing. It was like nothing he'd seen and yet familiar in ways. The longhouse recalled a mead hall, for instance.
There was also the use of animal pelts. The use of dried animal skins for shelter and clothing was not unknown to his people, but these people seemed to use the technique far more extensively.

"These Skrælingjar* seem friendly enough" Varin remarked. Alrik had left Hygelac behind by the ships with most of the expedition.

Alrik shrugged.
"Is that what we're to call them?" he asked as he looked up at the purple and white banner.

"Until we know what they call themselves? I don't know. It just seemed fitting. I haven't seen this much hide in one place since I last visited my brother-in-law, the trapper" Varin remarked.

Alrik just nodded, observing the settlement. Of course everyone was curious about the party. They must have looked as strange to these people as they did to them, but he tried to disarm any apprehension with a smile. He paid particularly close attention to the way they lived. Their tools, art, and clothing.

The one who seemed to be called Kisimo led them into a pothouse. The cautious but optimistic mood Alrik was feeling was at first amplified by the smell of incense.
The mood among him, Varin, and the men they'd brought, however, turned anxious as Kisimo and the woman in purple began to argue.

"You were saying about them being friendly?" Alrik muttered as he watched Kisimo be pulled up by his braids.

"She doesn't look very happy does she?" Varin replied.

"Mihciyawêsiw" Kisimo replied, looking ashamed.

Alrik looked at Varin for a moment before looking back at their host. He suspected he was apologizing.
He bowed again to his his host and said "fyrirgef mik*" slowly so as to make the pronunciation clear.

"I hope Wealþow has luck" Varin mused.

"She's a smart girl" Alrik mentioned, hoping that she would as well.

---

The Coast of Ancient Mischief

Hygelac found this game referred to as "lacrosse" to be fun. The rules themselves seemed self-explanatory and he found he could partake, at least in a bit of it, without much in the way of communication.

He returned one of the sticks to one of these new people- who seemed to call themselves "Mistameka"- and approached a group of them looking over the longship.

One- a sturdy looking fellow who Hygelac took for a warrior- pointed to the sails and said something that to Hygelac's ears sounded like a question.

"The sails?" he asked.
He held up his hand roughly parallel to the sail and blew into his palm, moving his hand forward to simulate wind blowing the sails.
The warrior fellow seemed to get it and smiled, nodding.

One of his compatriots pointed to the shields lining the outside of the ship. Hygelac had noticed that these people had shields, but they looked different from their own. He walked to the beached longboat and removed a shield from the side. It was round, the wood painted stark white with a single black line down the middle, intersected by two chevrons. He beat it with his hand to show off its sturdiness and handed it to the Mistameka warrior. It was a smart thing to do. If he was willingly handing over a shield of theirs then it would be a good sign that they weren't going to attack.

The fellow who took the shield held it, and then raised and brought it down, as if he were testing it. He spoke to one of his comrades and they seemed interested in it at the very least.

"Should you be trusting them with our shields Skipstjóri?" Svafar asked. Hygelac grunted softly. He was a cautious sort- people like him tended to be put second in command of expeditions to offer a sober second opinion to a daring and brave Stýrimaður. He had his doubts to be sure.
Yet Alrik had been clear. The Shield Maiden would learn the language, and he and a group would explore the village. Hygelac was to stay here and be friendly with these people. As best he could.

"We've come to explore. These people set upon us with an advantage, in our sleep. If they wished it we'd be slaughtered. That they didn't kill us in our sleep is a sign. We will show them peace as long as they show us peace.

"What of glory though?" Svafar asked. Hygelac just laughed. Young víkingur were always like this- himself included back in the day.
"Sometimes glory is found on the battlefield. Sometimes we return to the King with good relations and bountiful trade. Both reflect well on you, boy."

"Yes, but Wealþow..."

"You're worried about her?"

"She doesn't know this land. Or these people. And she is alone with one of them."

"Trust in Alrik to make good decisions...and trust in Wealþow to defend herself. She passed the same tests you did."

Svafar nodded as Hygelac returned his attention to a confused group of Mistameka. He laughed. He had no idea how that conversation had come off to them. He decided to repeat the shield gesture. He drew his sword slowly and handed it over.
The warrior he gave it to seemed familiar with bladed weapons, and used the sword to point at the stag head that formed the front of the ship. He then pointed to his own loincloth, which depicted a painted stag.

Hygelac nodded with a smile and patted his shoulder.
"Yes, the stag" he said. He pointed back at the carved stag on the ship and then made a circle over his head with his hands.
"Symbol of our king." He was unsure if any of that came across.

Hygelac muttered to himself thinking of a way to try and explain things. He waved the Mistameka and his own people over to a dry spot on the rocks and sat. Some of the vikings and some of the Mistameka did but some from both groups opted to stand. Hygelac didn't seem put out.

He began to move his hands in the shape of a man. The head and the neck, splitting his hands apart to motion his hands down to simulate the arms and hands. And then then the legs.

"Ymir" he said as he waved his hands in the shape of a man agin, and then pointed to the rock.

"Ymir was slain by the gods...and his body was used to make Jörð*" he explained. The víkingur knew this story, but it wasn't for them.
"Jörð" he repeated as he slapped the rock.

Hygelac began to trace the body of a man on the ground...Jörð is Ymir and we..." he pointed to himself, "come from here. The top..." he pointed to where he'd outlined the head.
"The north."

Svafar watched the Mistameka. Some were following along well. Others looked to their comrades for clarification, but they seemed interested at least.

He still felt on edge though. This land was strange. And he knew not what to expect.

---

*Stýrimaður= Steerman, leader of a viking expedition

*Skipstjóri= Skipper, right hand man to the Steerman of a viking expedition

*Skrælingjar= People of dried pelts, name assigned by Prydanian vikings to the people of the land that would become the Tusacaway

*fyrirgef mik= forgive me

*Jörð= Eras, soil, the world

---

Fields of Gold by Turasis, 4:35

It was nightfall. Incandescent logs were toppled onto a pit of flame atop a plateau by the rocky shore. Mistamek children came running among the slowly marching legs of the adults with twigs and feathers, tossing them into the bright red fire as well and seeing them be eviscerated in the lights of oblivion. It had been a week of tranquil cooperation since Alrik and his crew of seafaring-warriors landed near Tawiscayew, and since that point, the crew had constructed a small settlement on the highland above the Coast of Ancient Mischief. It included nothing more than a few modest wooden abodes crafted from a cedar bluff that was situated an hours' walk east of the town. During this time, Wealþow and Napis had made a great deal of progress with their language share. They convened in the town's pothouse for hours upon hours, exhausting themselves over words, grammar, and spelling—hardly a warrior's job! Although from a scholarly perspective, their work was absolutely splendid. Two dozen four-foot-long papyri had been filled to the brim with words, lexemes, syllabaries, alphabets, and even some histories. Using a strange technique involving dyed parchment, Napis then copied the works for both parties to keep.

Now that the vikings and their new companions had become sufficiently predisposed their languages, the Chief Kisimo had decided to host a powwow with a bonfire on the coast, along with a smoking circle. However, Kisimo had not intended this to be so much a celebration as a test. As the men and women of Tawiscayew hauled their treasured logs into the blazing pile, Kisimo and his two sons stood gazing from above the hill.

"Do you trust them, father?" Siwew asked.
"Do you distrust them, father?" Kisitoweyn followed.
"Oh boys..." He began, "Well, tonight I think you will find a good answer. In all fairness, I completely believe that the Prydansk are friendly and wholesome but... Well, there have been strange happenings of course."
"I thought you weren't so superstitious." Kisitoweyn said.
"I am not inclined that way, son, but I cannot understand something... I cannot understand why the Great Mother has been so... Flighty. We're talking about a woman who has allowed the oral traditions of her twenty-four-thousand year old ancestors remain in her conscience. She is wise although difficult to converse with, and she is always open to new information. This reclusiveness is unusual for her."
"Then why do all this? Why not just threaten them off, have them sent home?" Kisitoweyn asked.
"You think without proper insight, son. You have not the faintest idea what these people may be capable of and you have not considered that these people have shared with us many times that they are a fighting people."
"So?" He responsed.
"We are not a fighting people... Despite your glorious imaginings, son." He said.

Kisimo then set his eyes on Napis and the shield-maiden Wealþow sitting with their papyri, together on a rock formation. The one they called Svafar observed them every so often, poking his head out from his conversation circle to check on her. Alrik and his men also began to emerge from their small wooden homesteads to approach the bonfire as requested.

"I have switched out the ahpihc for cikâsipakwa." Kisimo admitted.

Siwew gasped.

"You... You did what?"
"The contents of the smoking pipe have been altered under these circumstances. Our Mitouyew will have me reprimanded later on this, but I am prepared to face that in light of the truth."
"I have... Never smoked the cikâsipakwa." Siwew said.
"You shall feel the luxury of it today, brother." Kisitoweyn snarled.

Siwew sighed and looked out at the manitou-constellation in the distance, the cross made from the five bright stars.

"May he who is holy pardon us."


The bonfire was now at its height. It soared into the sky like a pillar of the earth while the eternal darkness began to close in. All that could be heard from beyond was the flourish of the nocturnal loons and the hooting of the screech owls from afar. All the vikings had now gathered around. Napis, the chief, and his sons had assembled as well with other men and women from the town.

"Today is a day of virtue." Kisimo spoke in the elder language, "Today we celebrate the gift of speech. After having spent many days in a the oblivion of miscomprehension, we can now revel in our capacity to share emotions, knowledge, and history among ourselves."

Kisimo then procured a long pipe from behind the rock on which he was sitting. He held the bowl and the lip between two outstretched index fingers and then started to speak in makari.

"Visitors, this here is our ceremonial pipe. It is the ancient relic of the manitou's days here, treading before the vast tusacaway. When the time came for the manitou to rest, he came here to the Coast of Ancient Mischief to sleep. In his slumber, ten bison came from beyond the hill and trampled over him in uproarious vengeance for their jealousy of men. The Manitou awoke in great pain, having nearly been seduced by an eternal slumber, but quickly recovered from his attack. The manitou proceeded to grow to the size of the Shield Rock in contempt and thunderous rage. He took all ten bison and held then between each of his ten fingers and raised them to the stars, as to watch them fall to the ground below. As they crashed into the big plain, their minds and bodies grew weaker. They could not speak, nor see as well, nor think in the likeness of man anymore. The manitou warned them that if they were to fall and crash into the earth once again, they would lose all their senses and die. In response, the bison ran away, never to return."

Kisimo suddenly realized something as he recounted the story, a damning allusion that made him pause for a moment and look to Napis, who was now sweating profusely in fear. His face was full of that ancient oracular dread that Kisimo finally recognized as the reason for his quietude. Kisimo continued on however.

"This is the story of our land, and as a means of celebrating your experiences here, we implore you to draw from the pipe in approval of our friendship."

The mitouyew approached Kisimo with a tree-stick that held a burning edge. Kisimo gave the contraption to him and watched as he poked the blazing stick directly into the chamber and began to pull from the pipe to activate the embers. As he inhaled the contents and exhaled, his demeanour rapidly changed. He looked at Kisimo with venomous eyes and shook his head in disapproval. He now knew what he had done, but there was no stopping what was about to occur.

The pipe was passed to all of the Mistamek first, then to his sons, to Napis, and then to him. Once they had all taken from the pipe, it was passed among the vikings. The mitouyew finally came around to Alrik and took the pipe back from him. He was the last to consume it. There was a momentary silence as Kisimo began to deeply smile in some sort of adventurous intrigue.

"So... How do you feel, travellers?"


Alone. Wealþow was alone, breathing in the dark.

"Halló?" She muttered in a confused tone.

There was a slight haze here. It moved about the fringes of her vision. Purple threads began to clasp at her feet. The moon began to contort into a multi-spectral orb that illuminated so faintly the place beyond her. There were spiked-willows in the distance, though they shuffled around like droves of captive soldiers. Were they real or not?

Wealþow was alone.

"What is... What is it that is happening?" She demanded.
"Halló?" A voice called back.

But it was only her own. She somehow realized this even though the sound of her own voice had been so heavily transfigured that they were more reminiscent of a bear's roar than her own. She walked. Her feet went forward. They flattened the grass as she moved each leg one in front of the other, like knitting needs. Her hands were outstretched at the swirling void of red-blue-green in the distance and twisted like crochet.

"Tânisi!" She called out in the elder language.

She felt like she was releasing the thunder of Thor from her lips. Were these really words?

"Tânisi." A voice called back.

Who was it? Who was there? Wealþow felt herself turn around quickly, though her body trailed behind her head in a stuttering motion. She felt as though she was hovering through time, stuck up against a spinning board. When the rest of her made it, her eyes fell upon a vaguely familiar face. But it was not familiar at all, ancient red-and-black vines emerged from his face as a celestial ring of feathers fluttered behind his head like an angel. There was a shifting orange hue about him. The man's body was covered in galactic paint that moved in and out at Wealþow, provoking her to step back for a moment as the man's true colours emerged.

"Are you alright, Wealþow?"
"N... No..." She responded.
"I am bothered to hear that. Are you feeling strong at least?" The man asked.

Wealþow sort of heard the question, but she was too fixated on the weirding motions of the man's lips. They were white lines that twisted into themselves and then let go like tassels made of elastic pelt. His eyes trickled into his pupils, an endless waterfall of planetary bodies washed from out the eyelids and then within.

"What?"
"How do you feel?" He repeated.

She had forgotten the elder word for "furðulegt", so she just stood there in silence.

"Everyone is still at the bonfire, do you wish to return there?"

Wealþow believed this was Napis, but it took her star-struck mind several moments to regain the wherewithal to identify him. As she did, she found that his face became better illuminated around the purple-dark. Yes, this was Napis.

"Já." She replied.

An arm came out from somewhere, not from where an arm should come from. It approached Wealþow's arm like a snake and she had the instinct to immediately grab it by the neck and toss it far away. Although in plunging her hand into Napis' hand, she lost that instinct. Their hands were slowly becoming one. They folded into each-other like two books, and began to illuminate like some religious artefact. It was a union which had her full attention as they began to slowly walk through the grass again, back to the bonfire. Her body still lagged like like that of old Odin, she moved in waves, becoming faster one moment and then slower the following moment. Suddenly, the purple threads at her feet began to fly away in bicuspids, like butterflies. They had approached the edge of the hill where the grass met an eternal pit of luminous flurries. At the bottom, there was a flickering glass projection that spun around in place—the bonfire. Though it seemed to encapsulate a heavenly location. The white light painted a picture of mountains and swirling clouds. People stood about and danced at the foot of the fire. The place transformed into a massive hall of a thousand candles framed by a thousand multicoloured banners bearing the colours of ancient warriors. Was this the place she thought it was? Wealþow looked upon Napis and pondered with endless imagination if he could be her valkyrie. When she returned her gaze to the hall, a fearsome image followed her into a frightened pit of anguish.

"I am dead!" She exclaimed.
"No, no, Wealþow." Napis said, "Do not go there. Refuse what you are seeing."
"This is where I have come to die!"

Images of the dead began to plague her. Sharp blades began to surround her and blood waves crashed against her eyes and mouth, swirling around an endless lake. She was suffocating. There was nothing but blackness.

"Think about your home, Wealþow!" Napis said.

Suddenly, Napis grabbed her face. It was a refreshing sentiment that woke her up from the preliminary framework of a nightmare. His hands had seemingly plucked her from a garden wrought with festering demons and brought her back to the jörð. The hands anchored into her pores raised her up like the ropes of a sail.

"Think about Prydansk. Tell me what it is like there."
"Well..." She began, "There plenty... Plenty of deer."
"Ah yes, what we here call the caribou, tell me about the caribou." He said, grabbing her hands again
"They prance through the trees."

A flash of brown light quickly jumped from above Napis and landed behind Wealþow, it soared like an angel before disintegrating into the rock, melting quickly like a water-ice made from cherries. Although she never turned around to see it, the idea was very clear in her mind already.

"They are the animals we seek to hunt. They have... Venison." She said.
"Tell me, how does it taste?"

She could now taste it. Being at sea, far from her home, had forced her to go without the rich flavour of a tenderly cooked venison. The flavour of the steak accumulated on her tongue, her expanding mind reaching that feeling, the taste of the caribou. The flavour made her homesick. The question asked of her was long-forgotten now, an ancient text carved into the tombstone of a dead forefather. The hall of warriors slowly disappeared, and Valhalla receded away from her mind. She looked upon the flame again.

"So... How did I become so distant from the bonfire?" She asked.
"You ascended from the ground and merely walked." Napis began to chuckle.
"Oh dear, are we going down there?" She asked.
"I mean, that is where the bonfire is, yes?" Napis asked confusedly.

Wealþow gazed upon the rocks at her feet, their intersections crossed and combined like the interlocking waves made by two long boats travelling side-by-side. It was a disorienting annihilation that caused her vision to flicker black-white-black-white. Wealþow strangled the fear in her mind, and lowered one of her feet down onto the rocks. Feeling with her toes, they were porous and smooth. The small crevices on the stone offered Wealþow stability upon them, and she began to acclimate to her position. Moving with the scattered rhythms from the earth, she began to place one foot in front of another, hand still firmly waxed into Napis' evangelic grasp. Before they could reach the bottom however, Napis tugged on Wealþow to get her attention. His face was blue and purple, a sinking void that gave the impression of a lonesome wishing-well in the countryside. He began to speak.

"Please pardon me for sharing what my mother had said about you people.
"About?" She paused, suddenly remembered, "Oh... That."
"Not every oracle has come true, you must know. It is... It is just that it has troubled me this week. A testy saying that has given me grief, Anisco"

Wealþow did not really know how to answer him or soothe his melancholy. She was currently experiencing psychological difficulties of her own.

"We can discuss it later. Let us return to the bottom of the hill now."


"Using a strange technique involving dyed parchment" — To copy a written text, the Mistamek soaked parchment in blackberries and placed it underneath the writing paper and above the copying paper, a technique similar to carbon-paper
Powwow — Party or a celebration
Mitouyew — Medicine man, a cleric
Ahpihc — Cannabis
Cikâsipakwa — A psychoactive, entheogenic oil made mixing the secretions of the ahpihc leaf into a brew of plains centipede venom
Elder language — An older dialect of Tusacaw
Tusacaway — In this context, "Tusacaway" means "Ocean"
Furðulegt — "Bizarre" in makari

The Bonfire

Alrik, Varin, Svafar, and others sat around the fire as Kisimo passed the pipe to Alrik. He sniffed the air curiously and looked to Varin, who looked on encouragingly.
"It's as good a way as any to make friends without any mead" he said with a smile.

Alrik nodded, taking a draw of the pipe. He felt the smoke burn his lungs as he breathed out...he felt a certain calm come over him as he nodded, passing the pipe to Varin who began to smoke.

"I feel good...good to have met new people, glad that we've found people we can share much with. And I feel good because you have shared such a story with us. Our people value stories too. And as you have shared the story of the bison, I will tell you a story of our people. The Saga of the Ashen One."

He felt...light headed wasn't right. He didn't feel like that...but he felt a certain fog. It was a calming one though. He felt utterly untethered to...himself.

"We are from Prydansk" he began, "to the north. Our ancestors though, came across the great northern ocean from a land called Adriana." Alrik gestured to his side.

"Adriana was a wild place back in those days. More than Prydansk now. Or this land. It was in Adriana that our ancestors were attempting to carve out a meagre existence in that wilderness. There were wild monsters too, called Wendel! They were more than beast...and in many ways more than man. For they could tear a man's arms from his body. We could only claw out the most basic of existence before our salvation came."

Varin had finished smoking, fighting the urge to cough before he passed the pipe to Svafar.
"Smoke, boy" he said quietly as to not interrupt the story."

"Our ancestors were visited by Jægdar, the god of the hunt" Alrik continued.
"He showed our people the art of hunting. And how to hunt, without destroying the forests. He taught them how to not be terrified of the forests. There was one man among our ancestors though, who proved to be fearless, Æschere of the clan Loðbrók. His very name was touched by the gods; to them ash was purity. And Æschere emerged as a powerful hunter. So much so that they say the Wendel even feared him. Eventually our people became one with the hunt and the forests thanks to Jægdar's tutelage and Æschere's leadership."

"This incurred the wrath of the Wendel though. They made war on us, attempting to drive our people into the dirt. That was when Jægdar gave him a sword, Jægerblað. It was said the blade contained Æschere's blood and was tempered in a great oak tree, the holiest of trees.
Æschere himself pulled the sword from the tree and he used it to slay the Wendel. Our people found salvation through Æschere and his sword. We have, since that day, been led by one from clan Loðbrók. Our King, Vortgyn, is of that clan and carries Jægerblað by his side even today."

"Our shield maiden is of clan Scylfing, family to them" Varin added.
"Wherever she has gone off to..."

---

The Coast of Ancient Mischief

Wealþow held Napis' hand tight as they continued along the rocks. Part of it was safety. She was still feel very woozy. There was also a comfort to it beyond safety though. One that made her heart flutter.

Most boys back home were one of two types. They either thought she was a delicate thing to be "won," or they saw she was a shield maiden and wished to win her affection by beating her in combat. The latter was preferable, to be sure, but not by much.

Napis though...they had begun unable to speak to one and other. It had forced them to communicate in other ways. Was that a way to a deeper connection? Maybe...but once they could speak...
It was just nice to have a boy around who didn't seem to want to fight or "win" her. He spoke to her like she was a person, rather than an obstacle or prize. And she held his hand tight as the thought entered her still slightly hazy mind. She reached over with her other hand and undid her braids, letting her blonde hair fall freely over her shoulders. It felt good, especially given what she'd just been through.

"Napis" she says said as they walked towards the bonfire in the distance.
"Your mother doesn't understand that Prydansk and this place aren't so different. The beaches, the trees, the grass...the land is the same. I've learned a lot about your people. Our land is the same, and we're the same too, I think."

Napis chuckled.
"You're a clever one, shield maiden, but we seem different enough."

"Here" Wealþow said as she reached underneath her outer layer of leather armour and pulled out a pennant. It was an emblem, divided in half. On one side, a stag on a field of leaves. On the other, crossed spears over a shield.

"My family's crest" she said, finally letting go of Napis' hand. She told herself it was because they were on stable footing finally, but they had been for the past few minutes. She turned to walk backwards, facing him as she removed the pennant and haded it to Napis.

"Look. A stag, a deer. And the leaves of the forest. Like us our art looks different. But like us what our art shows is the same- we revere the land. I think that's why the gods sent us here. To find others like us."

"You thought your gods sent you here for that?" Napis asked, more curious than anything. He smiled too. He couldn't help but be amused by Wealþow's decision to walk backwards and face him as they spoke.

"What better people for us to find then others who revere land like we do?"

"Maybe you're right shield maiden" Napis grinned.

"Call me Wealþow" she insisted.

---

The Bonfire

Hygelac trudged back towards the campfire. He'd been ordered by Alrik to find some food.
Hunting had been scarce along the coast, but they'd spotted the large beaked birds. A unique sight to be sure. Such birds didn't frequent the coasts of Prydania. Some of his men had questioned the bird as descent prey.

"Too scrawny looking," "I bet it tastes like fish..." but after searching for options and failing, well...Hygelac had made his choice. He'd shot one, a large one at that, out of the sky. Surely it would be enough to be a decently-sized feast.

He carried his catch back, followed by his hunting party, smiling to see Alrik and Kisimo speaking to one and other.

"Halló" Hygelac said as they approached the fire. He wasn't prepared for what would happen next. Nor was Alrik.

The Mistameka rose abruptly, weapons drawn. Svafar was the first of the vikings to return the gesture.

"They mean to kill us!" he growled.

"Wait, wait!" Alrik bellowed as he stood himself. He didn't draw his sword, instead pushing Svafar away with one hand. The young idiot was going to get everyone killed...

"What's happened?" he asked Kisimo, who pointed towards Hygelac.

"What he's done is heinous" Kisimo replied.

"What?" Hygelac asked, more confused than anything.
"I've gotten dinner!"

"Dinner!?" Kisimo replied stepping towards Hygelac. That was it for Alrik. He had no idea what had caused this turn but he was not going to let his friend be threatened. He drew his own sword.
"Explain yourself!"

"You said your people revered the hunt! Then why does this one kill a holy bird?"

"A what?" Hygelac barked back as some in his hunting party began to draw their own weapons.

"I ordered him!" Alrik said firmly.
"I ordered him. To hunt and find us dinner."

"So this blasphemy is on you!" Kisimo replied, drawing his own weapon. Alrik grunted. Smoke or no smoke he was a warrior. And would fight like one.

"Stop!"

Everyone turned. It was Napis, being followed by Wealþow.

"What's happening?" Napis asked.

"They've murdered a pelican" Kisimo growled.

"All I did was shoot a bird from the sky!" Hygelac yelled back.

Napis turned to Wealþow with a shocked look on his face. Wealþow's expression matched it. She knew about the pelican, she had been pouring over Mistameka scrolls endlessly. No one else from her party knew though...

"No, Alrik! Stop!" Wealþow insisted.
"The bird is sacred to them! It's holy!"

Kisimo looked at Napis.
"Has this one desecrated anything?" he asked, pointing to Wealþow.

"What? No" Napis replied.
"Wealþow, what's happening?"

"My people don't know the pelican is sacred, and Hygelac's killed one!"

"Oh no" Napis muttered...
"They didn't know it was scared" he said to Kisimo. Maybe hearing it from Napis would make him more willing to believe it.

Wealþow, meanwhile, tried to calm down Alrik.
"It's a sacred animal. You're not supposed to hunt it!"

"Wish someone would have fucking told me!" Hygelac yelled.

"Savage!" Kisitoweyn yelled at Hygelac, only for Svafar to attempt to charge him, only being held back by Varin.

"Kisimo" Alrik said, keeping his hand tightly gripped around the sword hilt, but Kisimo was not inclined to hear anymore.

"We should run through you all now" he growled.

"You may try" Alrik replied, glaring at him.

"If what Napis and your shield maiden say is true though, we will let you live. But you must leave. Your blasphemy is not welcome here."

Alrik looked over to a worried Wealþow and then back to Kisimo. He weighed his options. Fight, talk, or retreat. Fighting was not ideal. Not while some of them were under the affect of the smoke. And Kisimo didn't want to talk.

"Very well" Alrik growled. He turned.
"To the shore!"

Hygelac tosses the dead pelican at Kisimo's feet and turned to walk off. The viking band looked over Mistameka with a sense of anger and worry, but all of them eventually followed their Stýrimaður.

Wealþow did as well, but not before looking at Napis, one last time. Sharing with him a worried and saddened gaze.

---

Immigrant Song by Angus Bolton, 2:38

The tension had not completely worn off following the trouble stirred during the bonfire. The crew of Alrik's viking band remained on the Coast of Ancient Mischief for one more day, making repairs to their craft, scavenging for more food, and sharpening their weapons as well as their wits. The prairie was blasted and hard to work, and the absence of logging was a serious problem. Despite the hostile separation, the vikings were not simply left by their lonesome on the beach. Every few moments, a group of Mistamek people would look over the highland and observe the vikings. Needless to say, Alrik and Hygelac felt extremely uncomfortable, and it was getting harder and harder to work whilst the boisterous fools who had crossed him peered over the hill. At some point, Svafar snapped and began to march up towards the people with two other young Prydanians, all the while hollering unpleasant words to the spectators.

"Hæ, you feathered fokk! I'm getting real sick of your stare." Svafar yelled.

Hygelac suddenly noticed the confrontation and poked at Alrik whilst he was in the midst of strengthening the longboat's hull.

"For the love of Odin, Svafar's going to get us killed."
"Oh leave the kid. I'm sure he'll give them a piece of his mind. Besides, those annoying little eyes of theirs are starting to piss me off as well."
"We're maybe thirty men and they're over a hundred here. I wouldn't be so cynical when we're in the middle of trying to go home."

Alrik grunted. The confrontation continued at the peak of the hill. One of the younger Mistamek men in the crowd stepped forward to receive Svafar directly.

"Your face reminds me of a grizzly. Bestial, untempered. All animals need to be watched."
"Well this bear's going to rip your face off!" Svafar shouted.
"I'm not too sure... Say, Costacwyan, how many bears did we slay last week?"
"Eight for sure." His friend added.
"That's right. Eight. Besides, it seems your scruff is the faintest among the others in your group. That's your measure of a man around here, right? Oh, of course I've heard about your fighting-woman, she obviously has none. But honestly, would she even consider a man with such an unkempt..."

Svafar suddenly hurled a powerful fist towards his adversary. Like a comet, it struck his stomach with incredible force and threw him out of the way. Immediately, the boy's friends commenced a fistfight, whilst the other observers began to flee the scene. It was a mess. Conveniently, both Napis and Wealþow had spotted the fight from their places within the hill and took the initiative to go and stop the brawl. At this point, the vikings began to cheer on from the coast, whilst more townspeople came to see what was happening. Napis quickly ran up to intervene.

"Stop! Stop it for goodness' sake! Can't you leave the bastards alone?" He called out.

Wealþow suddenly appeared, "Svafar! Svafar stop!"

Napis and Wealþow locked into eye contact. They nodded for a moment before going in to separate the brawl.

"What's gotten into you people?" Napis scorned.
"This pwâsta, who thinks he owns the place..."
"You wear armour forged like glass, I'll break it to pieces!" Svafar shouted as Wealþow tried to hold him back.

Napis tugged his compatriot away.

"If you ever instigate something like this again you and your family will be exiled. From every town, every village, I will make sure of it. Not even the bison will offer you solace."
"Ah... So you are in their ranks, then, Napis?"
"Don't beat a dead horse, Nistis. It's not something worth getting your arm ripped off."

Finally, the ruckus subsumed. The vikings went back to their toil and the townspeople returned back to their business. This incident was obviously the last straw in the strained relationship between the Prydanians and the Mistameka, and it became clearer than ever that it was time to leave. The two peoples couldn't even recognize each other at this point. Svafar was left in the care of Wealþow, who attempted to clean his cuts and bruises back on the shore. Strangely, Svafar kept his mouth shut as Wealþow was doing so.

"Aren't you going to boast about how you won?" She asked.
"Why bother anymore? I'm tired of this place. There's no pines... No cedars... No fruits or vegetables... Just bluff and godless prairie in all directions."
"These people are simply hardened by what they lack. It's what makes them so nosy... Survival."
"I'm sure you're right." Svafar muttered.
"Did you just say what I think you did?"

Svafar chuckled.

"I'm right... You said? That's a first from you."
"Yeah... Look, I know that I can act like a real rassgat when I have something to prove. But in all honesty, I'm not as daft as I look. And I'm charmed by everything you say."
"Oh please. Svafar, you would get me killed."
"You're a shield-maiden. If there's any lass who can defend herself, it's you."
"Do you honestly think I believe this?" Wealþow frowned.
"Believe what?"
"You're just saying this stuff to please me."

Svafar proceeded to frown as well.

"I'm sure you'd rather fall into the arms of that mama's boy then, what's his name... Napis?"
"What's your problem?" Wealþow pushed.
"You'd rather go off and be with that mongrel than any one of us strong, loving, warriors. I mean myself aside, you don't really like any of us, do you?"
"Listen here, Svafar. Maybe for once you could consider the fact that maybe the reason I like being with Napis is because he doesn't come on to me. He doesn't disparage me or offer random courtship after nearly getting himself killed in stupid, pointless acts of desperation. It's amazing actually, a man that exists on this planet that for once can keep his mouth shut and talk about things that are interesting. You're a simp, Svafar. You have been and always will be."

He proceeded to get up rapidly, pushing Wealþow onto the ground and taking her cloth.

"I'll tend to my own wounds." He scorned, storming off.


The matriarchal longhouse was filled to the brim with ambassadorial figures and eager chiefs from neighbouring villages, all having heard of the Viking inquiry rather quickly. It was evident they were going to remain in Tawiscayew until the Vikings left, especially now aware that they had violated base law. In an antechamber connected to the longhouse, the Great Mother Yinisweyn sat before a brass mirror, preparing her regalia before Napis. Her hands trembled as her adorned herself.

"Authorities from towns outside Tawiscayew have come to meet the Vikings. Only to discover that we are in a critical position with them." Yinisweyn said.
"They will be gone soon," Napis replied, "Once the Prydanians have departed we won't have to worry anymore."
"I know they will not depart, my son."
"How could you know this so vividly? Mother, you are shaking like a magpie with palsy. What can't you say to me?"
"You know that these Vikings will not leave and that they are barbarous—they've left no room in their spirits for empathy. You are the Great Son, feel within your heart what you know shall unfold."
"Perhaps I have been suppressing what is inevitable, but also what was unintended..."
"Also, I need to tell you that I am having you sent with Chief Atokeyn to Takipeyaw."

Napis shot a confused glance to his mother.

"Why? Mother if something occurs, I am expected to fight!"
"And I am expected to remain here in the city. You are still the Great Son. If I... Am lost..."
"Oh, Anisco! What am I expected to do in Takipeyaw?"
"My son, if needs be, I shall expect you to raise an army if the town is sacked. There is a garrison in Takipeyaw and I have commanded Chief Atokeyn to institute you there."

Napis and Yinisweyn both became white as ghosts. The pallor and fright of prophecy had left them both without much to say.

"And what are you going to say to the assemblage outside?"

Yinisweyn finished affixing a screech-owl feather to her shoulder. She turned to Napis and smiled.

"I will simply give them our information. There is nothing more to do but wait. Atokeyn will be attending you outside on horseback, I beg you to obey the Great Mother."

Napis nodded and proceeded to bow to Yinisweyn, muttering "Yes, Great Mother."

Yinisweyn ascended from her seat and blew out the wax candle illuminating the room. She proceeded to leave the small room, a purple and orange mantle trailing behind her as her ornaments dazzled in the light outside. Napis rose from his seat as well and turned before the bronze mirror, which was hardly transparent in the darkness of the room. However, within the reflection, he envisioned the bare figure of Wealþow's face. Perhaps it was a residual sight left from the greeting ritual, although Napis was certain he was projecting his own emotions.

"Such a waste of our work."


The sky became red-pink as the sun descended over the sky. The ships had been repaired, food had been secured for the long journey home, and the bitter end of the Viking expedition in the lands of the Mistamek was seemingly approaching. Alrik sat before the fire whilst the rest of the Vikings settled into their cots for the coming night. The slow, nightly chanting of the Mistamek in the town resonated over the rocky shores. The pulsing drum beat made every movement feel rhythmic. Suddenly, Hygelac appeared from without the darkness, holding a small cod. He threw a pike into it and set it up over the fire to broil.

"I better have some of that." Alrik joked.
"All you can eat around here is fish." Hygelac complained.
"Perhaps once we're back in the motherland, I can have some eplisvínakjöt made. There is a really dreadful lack of pork in this land."
"Pork... My oh my... Hygelac scoffed.

Eventually the Cod grew more and more cooked, gaining a crisped brown exterior. Hygelac wrung the pike off the fire with his hands and slid the fish onto a strip of wood. He sliced it open with a cutter and picked out the skeleton before sliding a piece over to Alrik.

"Thanks, brother."

As they began to consume their supper, the sky seemed to deepen in redness, casting a dark shadow over the ocean. Although Hygelac was certain that he could see something floating out at sea. When they finished with their food, he stood up and walked to the end of the coast to get a better view. There were no tricks, something was there out in the ocean, and headed for the Coast of Ancient Mischief. Alrik followed up behind him.

"Alrik, do you see that?"
"Its coming closer and closer. That must be a ship."
"Not just one, there's three ships trailing just behind it."
"Perhaps, I cannot see it too well. Do you reckon they belong to these folk?"
"No, no... Those are longships, Alrik!"
"Longships? Mistamek ones, no?"

As the ships finally came into view, it was apparent they had intricate red-on-white patterns in their sails. The bows were curved like bark and the faint sound of Makari could be heard in song from the distance.

"Those are Prydanians, Alrik!"
"Who are they?" Alrik smiled.
"I think I hear... No," Hygelac scoffed, "Ecgtheow Healfdane?"

Alrik quickly marched over to the crew of the ship and hollered at them to rise and greet the incoming Vikings. As they begrudgingly scrambled to their feet Alrik returned to Hygelac to find the longships now landing on the beach. Torches alight, the chanting men jumped out of their ships and approached the camp. The light in the sky was now almost completely muted.

"Ecgtheow Healfdane and Ulfberht Wulfgar. Of course they picked the worst rank possible to come to our aid." Alrik yelled towards the approaching men.
"Wægmund, you brute. We saw your flame from faraway and came to see if it was true. You have landed in a strange land, no?" Ecgtheow yelled.
"Too strange to summarize, Ecgtheow. Come here and let me see your ugly face."

Ecgtheow charged towards Alrik and gave him a good strong embrace. Ulfberht followed up from behind and proceeded likewise, although was much more casual and precocious. Off at the camp, the amassed crews came together in joviality. Old friends met up and greeted other old friends. Brothers, sisters, and cousins all felt the grace of seeing their families once again.

"Tell me, Bannerman, what is this place?"

Alrik and Hygelac summarized as best they could the events that had transpired the last few days among the indigenous Mistamek. The group then began to discuss returning home to Prydania tomorrow as a fleet. Their stay in Tawiscayew was evidently long overdue. As they chatted, Varin came out of nowhere and interrupted the conversation, indicating some kind of assemblage up on the highlands. Alrik turned around quickly to peer up, finding a great row of torches upon the hill. Each was affixed to a man, and the faces of dread peered down over the strengthened Viking force. The line of Mistamek grew and grew, eventually drawing the attention of the whole camp and forming quite an awkward situation.

Among the Mistamek torch-bearers was Kisimo, Chieftain of the Mistamek and his two sons, Kisitoweyn and Siwew. They were the first to dispatch down towards the shores with two other torch-bearers. As they came across the Viking leadership, Alrik noticed they now were donned in iron armour and seemed prepared for war. The tensity grew exponentially and some people by the camp had taken to arming themselves with weapons.

"Alrik... Hygelac... And your new friends, I see." Kisimo commented.
"What do you want, Chieftain?" Alrik asked.
"You have twice now broken your good faith with the Mistamek people. We demanded that you go and instead you have brought a second army with you."

Ecgtheow seemed very comically surprised, especially in seeing Kisitoweyn's face which was wrought with the most formidable disdain ever present on a man's face.

"These are visitors, Chieftain. They came to our assistance merely for our morning voyage."
"You have lied, Alrik. How am I supposed to take your word for the third time?"

At this point, Alrik was becoming impatient and grew tired of constantly needing to explain themselves. He made a firm stand.

"I am making you to take my word, Skræling. I am not interesting in your people's silly need to talk everything out. Leave us alone and we will be gone by the morrow."
"Liars! Liars and vandals!" Kisitoweyn screeched.
"Son, relax for a moment." Kisimo hissed.
"What can you expect from a child raised in this godless place?" Ecgtheow laughed.

Completely out of the blue, Kisitoweyn was driven into a fury. He took a blade and proceeded to rush straight towards Ecgtheow.

"Kisitoweyn! What have you done!" Kisimo scorned.

Ecgtheow saw the blade and drew his own rapidly. Unfortunately, before he could do so, an arrow came hurling through the air. Its sharp iron-tip shined in the moonlight as it flew like the screech-owl and landed right in Kisitoweyn's head. Although it was in the black of night, everyone had seen Svafar shoot it from the camp, and that action was undoubtably a mistake. The emotion precipitated was critical and relentless. Within just seconds of the incident, the wall of Mistamek warriors threw themselves down the cliffs in an attempt to slaughter the Vikings. The crew reacted by meeting the Mistamek halfway up the shore. Kisimo fell to his son's side while the two armoured men who had accompanied him pursued the swordless Viking leaders into the mayhem.


Pwâsta — "Shit-for-brains!", a highly vulgar and offensive insult used in the Tusacaway
Rassgat — "Asshole"
Takipeyaw — A town situated due south of Tawiscayew
Eplisvínakjöt — Cured or salted pork belly which is fried with apples, sugar, and thyme, served on rye bread