It is two nights before the Solstice, and it is very cold, and very silent, and very dark, and there is a light, icy snow blowing around.  The world is ice and shadow.

Quietly, a few Elves move around the camp, waking those who have volunteered to move east to attack the Huns at the Moselle river.  There are to be no fires, of course, but when ready, the group will slip out of the fort at the Albach ravine.  Anakri will not be going, but she is awake; she will use a Lower Water spell on the Celibus river ford, so the raiders can cross without getting their legs wet, which would quite possibly cause frostbite before they were halfway to their destination.

Ilsyan Greenstag, grandson of the Marquis of the Fifth Ward, is checking to see who is up and with him.

 Despite his eagerness to hunt down and kill the important orcs, shamans and leader on the run after their defeat, Tugdual understands that disposing of the barges is more important a mission at the moment.

 When the elves browse the sleeping camp for volunteers, they find a fully recovered druid snoring and curled up in the fur of his mighty aurochs. The two of them wake up, and start walking in silence with the elves. Despite its size, the large bovine can be rather silent when the ground allows him to.

 Knowing what they might be up against, the druid has adapted. The power nature grants him allow for great versatility, and this time he is ready to wreck barges.

Heolstor felt and heard the snow, silvery stiff with frost, crunch beneath his feet. The air was crisp - carrying with it the cold bite of the North, he thought. It burned his lungs in a way that made his chest feel clearer and deeper. The nip that came with each breath served a chilly reminder he was alive. Heolstor had been told he'd been born in the winter; this, he believed. Many dreaded the snows. Not so Heolstor Strang.

He shrugged his shoulders, shaking the length of his forest green cloak and letting its light coating of snow fall freely off.

In the bleak predawn gray Lord Strang had strapped a new and nameless blade, foreign to him, to his belt. He knew nothing of its title: one did not name a sword before they saw it cut, it was not proper. Likewise he bore a new shield. This one plain - absent of the obsidian raven that flew across Heolstor's banner and marked his other shield. Today would be a day of proving. Heolstor would not only test the mettle of this newly found equipment, but also his own.

It had been a while since he ventured forth in the company of anything but an army. To stalk the woods again, hunting and seeking out individual combat, it was something he found himself longing for. To only carry the weight of his own life, Heolstor knew, would be a far lighter burden than he had carried these last months.

The Saxon had not left without saying his farewells to Petra, if she were awake and did not intend to come. If she was still resting he might snatch a kiss from a sleeping valkyie - he imagined that would be something to brag of in Valhalla, when he should someday come to find himself there.

.... And so Heolstor made his way through the shallow snows and across a field covered in creeping shadow. Men stirred all about him, some preparing for just the same expedition that he was bound for. Others trying fitfully, best as they could, to remain asleep despite the crunching tempo of footsteps moving past their beds.

Heolstor met Tugdual along the way, greeting the other druid with a firm slap to the Celt's shoulder. Then he reported in to Ilysan, along with however many men Greenstag had asked him to procure for this mission. If that number was none then Heolstor, obligingly, came alone. If horses were desired Heolstor's force had more than enough fresh mounts.

Strang stood off to the side among the other infiltrators assembled for this raid. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as more warriors made their way over. Instead of seizing control, as he often did, Heolstor remained virtually silent. This was an elvish attack. He had been asked to assist, not to take charge. In order to be a good leader, which Strang hoped he was, one must be a good follower on occasion. He looked to Ilysan, his observant eyes telling the elf: this time you are in charge, I will follow you.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:21, Tue 26 Feb 2013.

 Tugdual rides alongside Heolstor and shares words of wisdom with him. The young Saxon lord being an initiate of the druidic arts, the elder considers it a duty to make sure he is up to date on his knowledge of nature and seasonal rites. For once the war leader does not have to concern himself with decisions and directions... the old man takes advantage of these precious moment to mentor him in the language of druids.

  "I have been watching you and Petra..." he comments after the boring lecture. "The two of you deserve a place in legends of our world. I hope one day she gives you a stout heir.

  Are you ready for it ?"

Despite their lack of traditional hierarchy and military structure, the Elves do know a thing or two about fighting in their forest.  Some of the “Elven Way of War” isn’t just tradition, it’s centuries of tradition based on learning.

Their insistence on small numbers for the attack, for instance.

The Ardennes forest is difficult ground with dense forests, rocks, and slopes.  In winter, it’s worse.  And at night, worse still.  There are good trails- and the Elves know where these are- but those trails are best used by groups moving single file.  And a single file of travelers is prone to getting stretched out over distances in conditions like this.  Each individual delay, each slip, stumble, or moment of extra caution crossing over a fallen log, gets transmitted down the line, and the last in the line gets the cumulative effect of all the delays of everyone in front.  And unlike straight, easy road, it is very difficult and sometimes dangerous hurrying to make up for a delay.  So over the long run, the longer the line, the more stretched out it becomes and the slower the movement.

Their usual tactic is to use several closely coordinated parallel lines.

Ilsyan Greenstag is well aware of the abilities of a Druid in conditions like this.  (Many Ardennes Elven clerics are actually Druids).  He insists Tugdual stay close to the head of one column, with Heolstor, five native Elf guides, a couple of Lucimburic volunteers who don’t want to miss out on the chance for more action, and a score of men, with their horses, from Heolstor’s Light Cavalry (Which is well rested, having had less action than most of the other groups during the Battle of Beda).

Anakri does as she promised, temporarily creating a dry crossing of the Celibus.

The snow is red stained on the far side, but in the darkness that’s hard to see.

Heolstor walked with Tugdual. He proved an able and willing learner - eagerly soaking up what Tugdual lectured to him. The secret rites and language of druids had never fully been taught to him. Fate, and his father, had put an end to that. This was an opportunity to correct that gap in his knowledge. Atleast, in part.

Tugdual's breadth of knowledge on the natural world, its workings, and inner secrets was impressive. If only there were more time to learn. He had only the march to the barges for now.

Then the question was brought up. Heolstor let the silence it heralded live for a few long moments. He considered what he would say, time stretching as they trudged through snow dark with shadows. "That is kind of you friend. I think there are many who have earned honor and deserve fame for what they've done these past weeks. Yourself included, Tugdual."

"Ready?... I do not know," Heolstor replied thoughtfully "Though whether I am ready matters less than it might. My position demands that I have an heir, one of my own blood."

"Even if I lack that choice, Petra does not. I cannot speak for her." He continued. "I think: it is likely, Petra doesn't even think on that demand. Most never need to. She is lucky enough to be able to choose; even if she doesn't yet realize that choice is there."

  "That is a complicated answer my young lord..." Tugdual thus philosophises.
  "You're most certainly right though. Whether you want it or not, feel ready or not, Cernunnos and Epona will likely bless you with a heir sooner than you can imagine."

 The old druid tries not to lose focus on his task as a wilderness guide through the tricky terrain. Vurambix the aurochs follows quietly, breathing loudly in the chilly air.

  "I was myself... blessed with fatherhood earlier than I had imagined I would," the druid resumes after a while. In his mouth blessed sounded a bit like cursed, even if he tried to disguise it. "I'd be honoured to help you make out the snares and pits in which I fell head first..."

 The offer was genuine and light-hearted. The druid smiled, but talking thus had cast a veil of bitter melancholy on his usually jovial face.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:17, Wed 27 Feb 2013.

"I had forgotten you were a father," Heolstor admitted apologetically "It has been sometime since we last talked." The Saxon's left leg stepped easily over a hollow log, despite its apex being made taller by drifting snow. The right came next. Both moved with a practiced simplicity that spoke of long days spent in the woods.

He felt Tugdual's switch in temperament almost immediately. There was some tragedy there. Or perhaps loss. Whether his own, or another's, Heolstor did not know.

"Your advice, I will take freely. I am always gladdened by the opportunity to learn from you. Perhaps I will manage to avoid some of those traps myself: though I doubt it, it seems nearly inevitable that I'll find myself with a noose around my foot someday." Heolstor said, eyes on the trail ahead. "And should a time come when you wish to speak more on your past, I will listen. Though I will not press you to speak on what you have not yet chosen to voice."