Heolstor rushed the hill with the bulk of his troops - sword bared, shield pumping back and forward in time with each loping stride as he charged. From the moment they crested the ridge he realized the skirmish must end shortly. Their enemy, as it was, could not hope to turn them back. Even slowing their assault seemed unlikely if Heolstor's force maintained its momentum and violence of action.

So, the Saxon pushed them to do so. He and his men could not match the terrible strength of Tugdual's aurochs... But they could follow behind, tearing through the scattered defensive line the beast had already thrown into chaos.

When it was over Heolstor gathered his men and brought them back into order to prepare for an assault down the hill against their objective itself: the barges. Petra's report was not wholly surprising. The enemy was trying to beat a hasty retreat - though their greed slowed them.

"We must act now." Heolstor directed as he march to the ridge's culmination, urging his men to immediate action. Then, to Petra and Tugdual: "If either of you know any tricks or cantrips that might slow them, now is the time."

Then Strang rallied his men, ready for the final plunge at this long campaign's ending.

Petra nodded at that request, and sought quickly for a suitable, small, rock.

Once she had such, she incanted and cast a spell of darkness upon it, and quickly placed it into an empty, ceramic flask.

Then she and Hermod winged out over the enemy, and she dropped that, at the densest cluster of Huns, or wherever the abrupt and sudden manifestation of a large sphere of darkness would cause the most chaos, surprise, or problems...

4. Heolstor has been fighting with the sword he lifted from a fallen Hun warrior at the Celibus.  It’s a fine weapon, and he’s certain it has a minor enchantment on it (It’s a +1 weapon).  It there is more magic woven into it, though, it is subtle- and probably that’s a good thing, as the Orc who had been wielding it didn’t seem to gain any special powers through it.

The troops take the ridgetop.  A few Orcs flee, one goes tumbling down the steep hill.

Moving down the slope towards the barges is tricky- there are patches of snow and ice, and if they move quickly there is a risk of slipping and sliding down, like the Orc did.  Sometimes, moving down over steep ground is as hard as moving up.

They cannot rush at the barges, and the Orcs down below are making haste.

Petra does what she can with a “darkness bomb” to cause confusion.  And then…

Heolstor’s group was not alone.  There were Elves on the move here also, and the assault by Heolstor on the ridge top allowed them to move around it unopposed, and take up a position where they could start sniping Orcs with arrows.

A view of the Moselle here, showing the ridge:

 

 Tugdual could not help a deep boisterous laugh when Heolstor asked whether he had a cantrip or two to slow them down...
  "Indeed I have, my Lord... may all of the spirits of the Moselle be with us, for the ritual I'm about to accomplish knows not who be Hun and who be Saxon...

 Follow through... but keep your distances."

 The large druid took a few quick step towards the steep slope, and without so much as a warning, he jumped down towards the river bank. Those who do not know him might think he would land on hard rock and ice, breaking every bone in his body... but Heolstor would expect him to have an other trick up his sleeve.

 In mid-air the Celt turns into a grey heron, and glides gently downhill to the river. His flight takes him a few hundred yards upstream before he starts calling on the powers of Icovellauna and Sirona, all-powerful sisters of the European rivers.

 The tip of his wings touch gently the surface of the waters, as it starts rising... and rising... seemingly not to be stopped. What started as a riddle soon becomes a wave, and the wave grows, and grows to reach dangerous proportions... the grey heron leads the way downstream, as if dictating his will on the waters. At this point, he is really just trying to get out of the way, for the tremendous force he had unleashed does not discriminate.

 The wave covers the whole width of the river, and spills widely on the dry banks. When it reaches the first barges it is more than twelve feet above the natural river level, probably the highest tide this river has seen since the great flood of 487...

 The druid will probably cause great mayhem in the villages and settlements on the river, downstream from there... but that does not seem to be his primary concern. As far as he's concerned, floods are part of the natural cycle and riverfolks have learnt to deal with it. Besides, nature has to reclaim what's rightfully hers from time to time, and druids are always there to help.

  I'm not sure how the spell Control Water is supposed to work in a river.
 Basically, Tugdual can raise the level of a body of water by 14 feet, on an area 140'x35', for 70 minutes.
 Now I'm assuming that this huge bulge of water will follow downstream, and last for up to 70 minutes or until it breaks against something (or loses its strength gradually on the riverbanks)

 Anyhow, I'll let Ben decide on how efficient it may be in wrecking the barges open, or parking them on the riverbanks, or sending one atop a ridge, or turning one or two upside down... and hopefully drowning a good share of orcs.

 This spell is extremely situational, but I'm it can do wonders when used right ;) 
This message was last edited by the player at 13:48, Tue 26 Mar 2013.

"Old gods be good," Heolstor whispered as he saw the river rise and undulate "Blinded by darkness, accosted by unnatural tides. I do not envy the Hun." But... The Saxon did not sheath his blade, did not put aside his fel intent. Their enemy lay before them: confused, tossed into a chaotic sea with no line to hold to. Strang's grip tightened on his blade's hilt til he felt pain shoot through his fingers, leather biting into his palm. In the elm boughs above Pwyll looked on interestedly - head cocked to its side, a single probing black eye looking downhill at the deluge therein.

Perhaps the crow knew what this meant. That this might be the last time steel was loosed on orc and man. There was an excitement to his stance, predatory and aware. He rustled his wings readily and leaned forward hungrily from the gray-brown branch that held him. He cawed eagerly, beak spread wide to display his pale tongue. Whatever comedy Pwyll might have held another day was lost - when he screamed, he cried for death. For hunger's sake.

If Heolstor's motives for bringing the hammer down on this orcish fleet were any different... If he sought to free this river valley of their threat, if he wished to protect his people and so many others from future incursions, it made no difference that both his desires and Pwyll's needs demanded the same thing: that these Huns be smashed, their ships crushed to driftwood, their warriors left laying in the cold snow til they froze stiff as stone.

Heolstor raised his sword as an extension of his arm, straight to the sky and perpendicular to the ground. Then, as a line of men at his left and right shifted with nervous steps... He swung it forward, pointing its bright red tip downhill. "Forward! Push them into the river!"

Petra's distraction covers the movements of the others, but he needs no cover himself.

He is a heron.  A perfectly ordinary inhabitant of Europe's rivers.  If they had nothing else to do, the Orcs might think: "Kill it!  Let's Eat It!" but they are too busy for such fun.  So a few watch, but the rest ignore him.

Besides, there's a lot of movement on the ridge.  That must be more important, right?

And there was a swelling in the river.

The natural inclination of all that water is to go downstream, and it does.

The barges in the middle of the river bob up and down like corks, but towards the banks, some are washed onto shore.  The river attack is something the Elves would never have done, having ecology woven into their souls, and maybe even Tugdual must find a way to atone for it, for the wave of water will damage not only dwellings, but the natural habitat along the bank for miles.

The enemy still has the numbers, but their disruption is complete- they are scattered along the river, and have no desire for anything but as fast as a flight as possible.

Down the hill Heolstor charged, intent on smashing the disorganized Hunnic force below. Pwyll followed - his wings spread wide to slowly glide in, like a dark shadow on the clouds, over Strang's head.

The Saxon would strike at the first orc unlucky enough to find himself in his path.

Warriors who fight battles experience an entirely different world from those who only read about them later.   As the stories will carry the battle of Beda, the attack on the barges was just a follow through, a last encore in a battle already won at the Celibus River.  It will be recorded simply- they breached the defense on the ridge, and then Tugdual's magic scattered the barges,  And after that, it was nothing more than small, frantic fights with a disorganized, routed enemy.  Just the final mopping up- the battle was already won.

Those chronicles would never carry the truth- that this last fateful hour was as filled with blood and sweat and savagery and fear as the first.  The Orcs surely knew they had lost and their cause was hopeless, but when small groups of them were pinned against the Moselle river, they still fought.  Heolstor's force lost two men in the last stage of the battle, one of whom had slipped heading down the treacherous slope.

Upstream and downstream from their location, the Elves attacked the barges lodged on the banks.  In all, less than half of the barges survive the attack and make it down river- and many of those were mostly empty, the Orcs leaving as soon as they could, not even waiting for their brethren to board.

 The wanton wave had brought mayhem and destruction. To the barges as expected, but to the riparian forest and dwellers as well. It would be a lie for Tugdual to pretend that he had not anticipated this destruction. Many a bird had lost its nest and many riverbank plants had been torn away... the druid however knows that Nature overcomes. It was neither mating nor nesting season, and come spring most of the river dwellers would come back twice as strong. And Tugdual would be there, taking care of those whose environment had been crushed by his command to the river sisters.

 At this moment he took an oath to Icovellauna and Sirona, that everything they had helped him destroy he would help reconstruct come spring.

 Most of the barges were ruined. The battle was over, or so it seemed. Nevertheless, the druid was not satisfied. Not yet. The Huns had to understand who the masters of the lands were.

 A grey heron he was no more. Ducking under the water, Tugdual was an otter. While a mere otter is no danger for the average barge, but this one had carpenter skills. Bending wood to his will through the use of nature's magic, the otter wrecked the hull of those barges that had managed to float through the tidal wave.

 While the druid does so, Vurambix tries his best to follow Heolstor and his men downhill. The massive aurochs is no mountain goat though, and it takes him time and some more to reach the riverbanks. When eventually he does, there is little to do but run after orcs trying to escape the wrath of the Saxon lord.

  using 3 Warp Wood, Tugdual can warp up to three "almost huge" objects. Effectively he tries to sink three barges if it can be done.

All that remains now is to clean up and go home.

Tired Humans and Elves line the north bank of the Meuse.  More than a dozen barges are grounded on the bank, a few others have split apart and sunk.  In the battle's final phases, though, Tugdual learned that the Huns had anticipated that the Elves would use "nature oriented" magic against the barges- they are warded against such things as "warp wood" and even seem resistant to more direct attacks like fire and lightning magic.

There are, once again, a great many dead Orcs.  Some of floating down the Meuse, which is already turbid with the mud churned up from Tugdual's Control Water spell. That kind of indirect attack the Orcs hadn't planned for.

Elves and Humans are picking among the ruin of the battle, checking the barges and gathering Orc remains for burning- no one wants to pollute the Meuse any further.

Here and there, a few Elves are recovered alive from the barges.  Even in the rush of their retreat, the Huns took the effort to move any Elves they had managed to capture.  Nothing is more valuable to them than a captive Elf.  A few of those Elves actually owe their lives to the protective spells the Huns had placed on the barges.

It is over, and there is relief everywhere.
And for the heroes of the battle, a new level for each.

 After his last stunt in small aquatic mammal shape, Tugdual heads for the riverbank and comes out of the water before returning to his human self. Despite the victory, there is a bitter expression on the druid's face.

 There's the destruction of a good share of riparian habitat, even though he can live with that on his mind. This was not the first and will not be the last sudden and catastrophic flood for the Meuse to experience.
 There are the elven prisoners, some of them might have drowned because of the use of a mass destruction spell... that would be harder to live with, he'll have to argue that it was for a greater good.
 There's also the realisation that the battle is over, and once again the druid has no idea where to go next. The war seems far from over, and he still wants to protect his land and that of his neighbours...
 Heolstor will know best.

 The druid brushes off as much water as he can, and uses an orison to protect himself from frostbite. That done he whistles Vurambix and tries to find the Saxon lord, wondering what he will do next.
 Unless he's offered a better alternative, Tugdual will chase the Hunnish survivors from the encounter at Beda and hunt them down. Starting with shamans and demonic spellcasters.

Winter, as soldiers know, is a bad season for campaigning.  Not only is the weather so much more difficult, and the hours of daylight so much shorter, but living off the land becomes nearly impossible.  And right when the cold weather means people need more energy, and therefore more food.

This is even the case for the Elves.  If they are going to muster any more effort with significant numbers, it will not be until spring.  Now, there are homes to return to, and in some cases, rebuild.

And the bridge at Celtanc to repair.

Now is not the time to pursue the Orcs any further.

All this, the Greenstags discuss when they regroup with Heolstor and his company, later on, at the river bank.

They would be guests of the Elves through the winter, of course.  It would be dishonorable to offer anything less.  But after that?

One thing the Greenstags learn from their Owl messenger network:  Theoderic, and a great many other notables, including Elves, have gathered in Lucimburic.  Expectations are high that some sort of plan for coordinated action will come out of that.  So, the Marquis of the Fifth Ward, Goylan Greenstag, does not wish to make further plans without hearing of the decisions made at Lucimburic.   He himself will not be going, he says.  Too many of his people are hurting, they need the presence of their leaders.  But he will have appointed emissaries.

 In the meantime, though, a few of Heolstor's troops bring some fortunate finds from ruined barges to the attention of Heolstor, Petra, and Tugdual.  Scrolls.  Orcs rarely make use of them, being mostly illiterate.  Even the best educated Orcs are generally barely able to read and write... except for the Shamans, and some key advisers.  But the scrolls do not seem to be religious in nature.  They appear to be instructions, for key Hun leaders, on how to coordinate with the forces of other warlords who were pooling their resources for an attack on the Ardennes, and how booty was to be distributed, to avoid the result of the last battle here, last year, which had some forces quitting early to safeguard the treasure and captives they had taken.
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:01, Thu 04 Apr 2013.

Petra participated in healing and mending wherever she could, after things were settled.  It had not been a protracted battle, for which she thanked Eostre and the other Gods. As well as 'Tugdual Bargewrecker!'

The scrolls were a good find. Insight into the enemy's workings and plans was always valuable.

Later, catching up with Heolstor, she voiced her own feelings that attending the gathering at Lucimburic would be well worth it. In the name of coordination and comradery with those other forces.  And then inquired what his own view and intent were, as regarded the opportunity.

They withdraw to the nearby Elven town of Celtanc to camp for the night.

Celtanc has been... in a word, desecrated.  Finding it abandoned, the Huns did what damage they could, in the time they had. Symbols of their Infernal lords have been cut into homes, and into tree trunks.  Anything that had been fashioned into a thing of beauty has been marred, defaced, burned, slashed...

And when the night comes, it seems very dark, and cold.  The twinkling magic lights the Elves use in their villages are gone.

The Elves return, just a few at first, by the middle of the night, the whole village.  For them, the shock of seeing the Orcish destruction is lessened by the joy that Elves who had been taken from Celtanc- those who didn't flee in time- were freed from the barges in the river battle.

Trees can be healed, and the bridge repaired, and the works of art restored.  But the Elves know they have a long job ahead of them.

Victory was not bitter to Lord Strang, but it did not taste so sweet as he had dreamed. Here he stood, at the hour of their campaign's final victory, and he could not relish their triumph. He could not think of what good would assuredly come of it.

He thought only of two young men, broken like a child's ragdoll. Here at the end, when the climax was so close, it didn't seem right for them to die. How close they were to their womens' arms. To growing old, telling tales as weaved with fanciful exaggeration as truth about the glory they'd won today, and dying fat somewhere in the woods of Burgundy.

Heolstor quit the field of battle early, departing for the Meuse's bank as soon as the last Hun fell. Pwyll did not follow - the crow contented itself by flitting on dark wings from orc to orc, pecking curiously at baubles dangling from necklaces and wrists. His Saxon handler had little interest in the dead or their loot. His footsteps drew him to the river's side, to a bend beside a gnarled old yew. Where once it had stood straight and proud it was now cracked and bent, riven from its wholeness by the flood. The dying tree still sheltered a shallow pool below it, roots wrapped about each other to form a latticed roof where soil had long washed away in the river's tides. Flotsam had caught in this hollow - wood from the barges, cloth, and other debris.

The bits and pieces of what had been a fleet bobbed up and down in increasingly calmed waves.

Then Tugdual came. Heolstor looked to him, forest green eyes thoughtful, but shared no words. He didn't judge Tugdual to have made the wrong decision in bringing's forth the river's wrath. Such things cycled with nature, life coming only with death. Creation only with destruction. It was a truth that all knew but few spoke. Some young tree that would have been stifled in the old yew's shade would come to sprout here. To feed a deer, or hold this bank in its own time, til it came to its passing too.

Tugdual would know this too. Heolstor did not pretend to understand the wilds better than the wizened druid.

Petra arrived sometime shortly later. He pulled her to stand beside him, offering the shelter of his own arm. Then, with the Valkyrie by his side, he broke his silence. The words came from his mouth with curious gentleness. Fire driven from him after the campaign as fury was driven from a river after the flood water passed. "That's true," Heolstor replied to Petra "It makes sense for us to hasten to Lucimburic. What council has formed there, I am not sure, but I am certain that words will be traded."

"Words that may decide how next the war proceeds. If it is to proceed." Heolstor said. "Which it must."

"I will go to Lucimburic. You should consider that road as well Tugdual - you cannot chase these Huns forever. You should not. There will be more when the spring thaw comes. Sharpen your claws, enjoy what time victory has won us, and be ready for what is to follow."

"We will make good time. With just ourselves to carry, in such a small number, I do not doubt we will make Lucimburic close on the heels of our allies."

Heolstor gave orders for the two men who had perished to be buried atop the ridge. Though, he did not leave the funeral detail to the men - he carried them up too, alongside his troops. If he didn't know their names Strang asked them... And he did not forget.

The Saxon looked over the scrolls briefly, absorbing what he could at first glance. Then he retired to an empty elven home having claimed it for Petra and himself. Its owner, dead or fled, did not mind. There Heolstor spent the darkening evening.

Once Heolstor had chosen the residence they would use, Petra went to work there.

He yet had rounds to make, various matters of compassion and concern, before he would return.  Which gave her some time.  Enough, she reckoned.

First things first; she double inspected the exterior, and found it free of any unwholesome markings or sigils. This one had been missed by the Huns, or simply neglected in haste. She asked pardon for any presumption, and then gave gratitude to the home's rightful owner, be they alive or departed –  and gone on to whatever Celestial glade or glen awaited the spirits of the Elvish dead.

Then, she unbuckled the metal-studded armor of leather that served to protect her after swiftness, sword-parry, or shield had failed to.  She was always glad to rid herself of that weight.  While it was goodly pounds lighter than the mail the men wore, it was equally, or even more, burdensome for herself.  Though she was in very good condition, her strength was still wanting compared to a robust, male warrior.  It was only the bolstering derived of Divine magic that enabled her to come through the close combats as she had.   Aye, and too, Elven-quick reflexes and agility hadn't hurt the odds, either.

She gave praise to Them for both these things, and that she again found herself both alive and unmaimed this evening.   And more so that the same could be said of the man who would join her here tonight.

For the moment, she left on the undergarments she worn beneath her armor.  She would change later, but only after she'd had a chance to wash.

Soon, Petra had a fire going, the home having had a decent store of wood remaining.   She set a pair of large kettles to boil, and then set about inspecting and tidying the place.   There did not appear to be any room for little ones.  For this she was thankful.  She would not have wanted to be left to contemplate what fate they might have come to.   She did not touch any belongings at all, where she did not need to;  respectful on the odd chance the owner, or any relative, would return here.   In more than one place, there was an icon of Arduinna.   Petra inclined her head reverently to the first of those she spotted, acknowledging that here She presided, and not Petra's own Gods.

Shortly food was delivered, by those in charge of its distributing, whom were instructed where their liege was lodging.  Because of the conditions of winter, there was no abundance, but Petra found herself in possession of several strips of venison, as well as some passable potatoes, carrots, and bread.  She had her own stash of herbs for cooking, and so there was prepared.  She went efficiently at the preparatory work, lightly singing a folk tune of her homeland as she did.

Once the vestiges of a stew were asimmer, it was time to tend to herself.   She took the other kettle of water for that purpose, and appropriated some snow from outside, to cool it enough to wash with it.   After she was clean, she changed to clothes that were equally so:

Warm, coarse wool, blouse and long skirt –  the former a dark indigo, and the latter a medium grey.  She brushed out her hair in front of an available mirror, and decided to ponytail it.   This might have produced the seeming of peasant woman, more so than not –– but there were incongruencies.  The first of those being that, with her hair so held back, the pointed tips of her ears were plainly on display.  Which served to make more identifiable the other traces of Elven ancestry in her face.   And ––  though she gave some thought to hanging it somewhere in reverent display –– she instead opted to put back on her necklace of sacred sigils.

Aye, and so.  Petra Faust was incongruent.   Heolstor Strang had doubtless already come to terms with it or, soon enough, would need to.

A piece of wood in the hearth burned through, and fell in half.   Petra jumped at that ––  battle readiness and reflexes apparently not yet shed, as had been armor and arms.  She made the symbol of Eostre above her bosom, and willed herself to relax.   Everything complete for the moment, she found a comfortable chair to help her do that.   And got to thinking.

Heolstor's mood, post-conflict, was plain enough. And it touched on feelings that were dichotomous, and rang together in discord within her heart.

Her religion –– the culture of which she was part ––  gloried valor and victory in combat.   Portrayed that there was little that was more worthy to live for.   And, that dying nobly in such conflict was its own reward; something for survivors to sing about, not weep over.  And, there was part of her that understood that, felt it ––

And, there was part of her that was horrified with it.  And wished fervently for some end.  Eventually.  Once the forces of darkness were finally, sufficiently, defeated ––

But when would that be-?   The Huns aside, how did one ever stop Demonlords, who like Gods, did not know age, would never relent, and had until Ragnarok to continue their fell plotting-?    Who would respond to the death of their expendable minions by simply seducing and recruiting more?

She was a minister, the Gods own representative.   Supposed to have answers to soothe and succor in the face of life's adversity.   But how to answer this-?  What to say to Heolstor, when she saw that look in his eye?    She wished suddenly that Kandralde were here to speak with.   Someone wiser and more learned than herself.  Perhaps Anakri –– but, no.   She couldn't very well go to the leader of their allies, and toss such religious and personal quandary at her feet.  No –– it was for her to come to terms with –– between herself and her Gods.

She had mostly ceased the brooding once Heolstor returned.   And the warm, tender smile she gave him was only authentic.  If no less so the unresolved feelings and thoughts that lay behind it.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:47, Sun 07 Apr 2013.

 Tugdual would give help reconstruct whatever was still to be saved. He offered his skill as a healer, even though the elves knew their bit at that. He organised the troops, those who were still able at least, so that they could help gather wood or fix shelters for the night. He put the tremendous strength of his aurochs to good use in moving fallen trees or rebuilding roofs in a haste.

 There was a task of utmost importance, and perhaps of sizeable urgency. Erasing the foul symbols of demonic lords that the orcs had scribed here and there. Tugdual used magic when possible, his ivory cutlass otherwise, even fire if it could help.

 The druid made a point of getting rid of these symbols. Whatever the orcs could gain from them, if only sapping the elves morale, it was worth ruining it.

 " I will accompany you to Lucimburic. I am not sure what place I can find in this war, but I sure cannot go back to my forest and wait for the Huns to knock on my door. Besides, I need to stick around the two of you... something tells me you might need my services sooner than not."

 When dark came, Tugdual shared his meal with the soldiers, before retiring to a barn with Hermod and Vurambix. He'll take on a wooly bovine shape for the night. That would keep him warm and help him recover from his wounds. The old druid had always appreciated the occasional wildshape nap, but the powers that recently grew on him now allow for a full night, and that's priceless.

There is a sense among Heolstor's small remaining contingent that they have reached a “payoff”.  It's over-this, now, is the tale they can go home with.  The best of  the best of Burgundy have proved themselves.

Heolstor is familiar their social structure.  It's common among Saxons as well, and among other people.  Every nobleman wants to surround himself with a circle of great warriors.  The quality of this circle helps the prestige and political power of the noble.  As a result, a young man not yet fixed to a permanent liege has a lot of choices if he has a reputation as a good fighter,  He will be in high demand, courted by the lords, and his future is made for him.  Campaigns like this one are the best opportunities to make these reputations.

(In some ways, not unlike modern day sports.)

But what it means is that while they were eager for battle, they are now just as eager to go home.  For most, there is no great moral crusade to go and continue the war until the last Hun is driven from Europa.  And most have little inkling of the Demonic forces that have directed the Huns.  Abigor was just a mighty general who led the Hun army.

It's not that they don't believe in the existence of Infernal Powers.  Everyone believes.  Their existence is self evident.

But to most Burgundian warriors it is not part of their world, and so it is simply ignored.
A warrior can' t do much about Demons, so its best not to deal with it.  (To drag our metaphor back into service, much like a professional football player might know that the massive lawsuit the team's owner faces is of much more concern than the game... but he can't do anything about that, so he just worries about the game.)

The reputation gained, and the stories they will return with, far exceeds the value of the modest loot they've obtained from the battle.  They know they'll probably spend half of it on he way home anyway.  In good cheer, the troops head back west, towards Lucimburic.

It is a three day journey back to Lucimburic, following the Moselle River for half the journey.

 Tugdual will follow Heolstor and Petra for now.

Heolstor came to Petra weary of body and mind. The weight of this latest campaign weighed on him still - how could it not? It was so fresh yet. The dead had not been buried but for a few hours. Still, the warmth of her welcome and sincerity of her smile did much to alleviate his sickness of the soul. To see something so familiar as a meal waiting for him... and Petra waiting for him, dressed for comfort rather than battle. It brought a wide smile to Heolstor's face.

He had not ever thought to wonder to himself if Petra cooked. The bow and blade came to her so naturally... and so the ladle too apparently. A tool that Lord Strang had never grown handy with. He could make a meal, that was so... but that was not entirely the same as cooking. Evermore she impressed him. Better to keep a list of what Petra could not do, then what she could. The latter would be tiresomely long to read.

Strang embraced his valkyrie, holding her tightly to his chest. "How are you real? A man could dream a thousand dreams and never come upon one like you." He let her go and made his way curiously to the stew, the smell too much for him to stifle his curiosity. Scents of venision and vegetables rose thick over the pot, wafting temptingly through the steam. "I've come to the edge of the Ardennes. To a fine meal and a finer woman." He reflected, before turning back to his golden-haired beauty.

Strang's green eyes searched hers as he closed the distance between them. Til there were scant but a few inches between them and his hands found their way to her arms, cupped around those delicate shoulders of hers. Not too tightly - not so tight as to hurt where chain might have chafed. He held her there for a long moment, looking through her. Past the beauty of her face. The curve of her. The enticingly exotic elven bent to her. Past the warrior who fought astride a pegasus. The priestess who gave strength and relief to those who needed it. Though it was difficult, past this all,  and through to Petra.

"I would have gone farther." Heolstor promised. Then he brought his eyes lower to her own rich brown eyes... and he kissed her.

Heolstor would spend the rest of the night in the comfort of their adopted home and the pleasure of Petra's company. For one night his triumphant troops could see to themselves.

The story can be “backdated” along the way home if need be, (and continue posting here) but I am going to assume the group returns to Lucimburic, so you can post there as well. (In the Merchant's Faire to buy things, the Clear Fountain Plaza to attend the wedding, etc.)

After several days they are back in Lucimburic.   The weather cooperated, allowing a few days of easy travel in the heart of winter, but there are already signs that this will not hold.  Being a Druid, Tugdual is able to read the signs of weather, and there will be a front coming through within the next few days.  He knows that a winter storm can blanket the area in snow, and paralyze travel.

The “barge raid” troops are the last contingent to arrive.  They find the town already stuffed with visitors- not only the troops Heolstor brought all the way from Lingones, along with the Elves and Dwarveds, but Ardennes Elves, Theoderic's Belgican, Frankish, and Gallic troops, Centaurs... yes, those are centaurs...and even some Halflings from the distant Nethershires.

The town is crowded.  There's no room at the inn.  Any of them. The troops have set up a series of camps, along the south side of the town, and it seems as if Lucimburic has sprouted a new suburb or two.

The ongoing festival is split between the events in the Clear Fountain Plaza, and the nearby Merchants' Fair, which sprawls across the plazas and streets of the central town.  When the reach the camp, they will find that the camp is mostly empty- most of the troops who have already arrived are off in the town, seeing the sights and enjoying themselves.

Petra found herself surprised, yet again. Tears welled in her eyes, though they were solely tears of joy.  In essence, she agreed with Heolstor.  Not of herself; while she possessed confidence, conceit was no part of her nature.  She was sufficiently self critical to stay from that vice.

No, the concurrence was to the fact that she too found their being together a bit surreal.  And, to her, that surreality also made the whole thing feel more than a little fragile.  The events that surrounded them being no small part of that.

"Oh-? And here I thought you were the one who had strode from out of the fable!  You know, the sort that most girls thrill to. That portray the dashing, valorous, hero -- who battles unflinchingly for the right, survives the impossible, to become a great lord. Which he has been in spirit, all along.  Then marries the princess. Which, as you know, I am not. But, I wager I do cook a better stew, than most of those."   

Her arms slipped about the back of his neck, and she returned the kiss in equal measure.  After which she paused a moment --  with a faintly quizzical look upon her features.  Shortly, she disengaged from him. And then took her necklace of sacred sigils off, and hung them on a spare hook over the hearth's mantle.  After which she returned to Heolstor's embrace, and smiled once again.

"Not a priestess, tonight. Not specifically, at least. Just a woman..."
* * *
And, then...to Lucimburic!
This message was last edited by the player at 02:25, Mon 15 Apr 2013.

 Tugdual wishes he could summon a warthog and a mongoose to sing in the background, unfortunately he has only ever heard of such animals...

 To ensure the priestess and lord some intimacy, the seasoned druid would keep the troop busy and take care of their needs an questions, to the best of his ability and knowledge. He would entertain them with fables of old, tales about fawns and unicorns as well as ordinary stories of peasants and cattle.

 He will get to know the soldiers a bit better during the few days to Lucimburic (even if he spent a good share of these scouting ahead and about, in avian shape). Given the chance he will try to convince some of them to stick around instead of heading back, to find a purpose and a reason to stay at war instead of going back.

 Truth be told, the old druid was not sure why he remained at at war himself... hopefully Lucimburic would brings answers.

Skimming the surface of Burgundian society, one might get the impression that war is the occupation of men.  During her time with the priestesses of Eostre, Petra learned that there is another level- one unseen by all but a few, mostly priestesses.

War is an expensive business, in lives and treasure.  But for the Burgundians, battlefield experience is essential, especially considering the world they live in.  The priestesses seem inclined towards peace but are not advocates of it.  None tried to dissuade Heolstor or any of the troops from this campaign.

Warriors will die, but they can be replaced.  Babies are born, the young take the place of the fallen.  As long as that can happen at a rate that at least makes up for the losses in battle, Burgundy will prosper, and the priestesses know this.  They will know that Heolstor’s losses will bring grief to some families, but they have not been enough to harm the nation.  On the unseen balance sheet kept by the priestesses, where warriors might as well be herdsmen’s bulls, Burgundy has come out ahead.

But that calculus hinges upon their getting home.   For Burgundy and other Germanic peoples, war is a seasonal thing.  They fight in summer and go home.  This has been a very unusual campaign.  Heolstor has gathered his captains and made his offers.  Even among the veterans, it’s a difficult choice.  Everyone expected they would spend the winter in a camp, and then head back home.  Now there is the possibility of continuing the campaign.  It can be costly.. but what is the goal?  Destruction of the entire Hun empire?   Is it even possible?  For those raised on stories about the evil of the Huns and the courage of the heroes fighting them, it is tempting.

In the camp, Gerolf, Heolstor’s most senior captain and commander of the company of heavy horse,  advises seeking out the leaders here- the King Theoderic everyone seems to be talking about.  If they are to press on… perhaps only a fraction need do so, if they can ally with the others and work together.  Then those who wish to go home can go home.

Heolstor is in agreement with Gerolf. He will speak to Theoderic as soon as the Frankish King can be found and brought to conversation. In the meantime though he asks that Gerolf help him make inroads with the other Burgundians. The Saxon will need men to safeguard Lingones, Tullum, and the springs that lay between.

The road, he believes, must be kept open if either city is to flourish.

Then there is the spa, ofcourse, which Heolstor plans to reclaim. With some effort, a few masons, and the favor of a peaceful road it might come to draw both travelers and settlers. The incomes and taxes from both, considering the magical power of that spring, potentially being very significant.

Someone, Heolstor suggests, will have to hold the title to that land to administrate it in the Saxon's name.