Re: On to The Barges
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.