# Harhall (updated 3/6)



## Sepulchrave II (Feb 17, 2007)

This thread was originally lost in the Great Crash of '06 - I thought I'd revive it, as it's a game which has been off-and-on revisited a fair bit. I've been picking at the SH but I haven't really grounded it properly in my head. I thought it might inspire me to write more, although it's hard finding time at present. 


**

*INTRODUCTION*

Sinir was cousin to Hakon, the Earl of Lade, and dwelt in the mountains south of Trondelag. Though he boasted noble blood, he held but little land of his own, and yearned for the rich kingdoms where many of his father's kinsmen – Vikings from Rogaland – had gained gold and glory.

In his twenty-fifth year, Sinir gathered a band to himself and sold his holdings. With three ships and eighty men, he left the fjords and joined Ivar the Boneless and the Great Heathen Army, determined to win wide estates in England. With him went his son Lek, a boy of eight years, and his wife, Arnve the Sly. Arnve had learned runes and _seithr_ from Varr of Halogaland and, in turn, Lek learned those secrets from her. After many battles, Sinir settled with his company near Repton and established a seat, Harhall. But Arnve's magic did not protect her from sickness, and she died of a fever soon after. For a long while Sinir avoided the company of all women, devoting himself instead to war and plunder. Lek became introspective – a quality which would remain with him thereafter.

In the year of the Battle of Ashdown, Sinir bought a thrall – a Welshwoman named Braith, with whom he soon developed a dark obsession. Captured in raids near Hereford, Braith was a witch with an evil reputation, whose charms sowed nothing but discord and treachery. She bore Sinir a bastard, Oter, and made designs to poison her husband, but her schemes were revealed by Lek before they could mature. Sinir had Braith maimed and cast out, but pitied Oter and took him into his household. Lek regarded his brother with suspicion, jealous of his father's love, but Oter's strange ways did little to endear him to Sinir. The boy was shunned, and took to his own company. He spent long days in the forest of Arden, and it was rumoured that he learned the language of wild beasts. 

After the defeat at Ethandun, Sinir – like many of his kinsman – received baptism. He took another wife, a Hwiccan noblewoman named Sefleth, and profited greatly from the union: Sefleth brought with her a rich dowry of land near Evesham. They had a daughter, Luta, who in time was sent to attend Ethelred and Ethelfled at the court of Mercia. Under tutelage from an early age, she learned the practice of swordplay and earned for herself a reputation of surpassing skill. At the age of twelve, Luta was gifted with a mail byrnie and a blade called _Thrimlich_, an Avar sword. Luta was greatly favoured by the Lady of the Mercians, as in her Ethelfled was reminded of herself: by disposition, Luta was restless and prone to fits of pique.

Time passed, and Sinir's fortunes grew, although his children troubled him: neither Lek nor Oter would take a wife, and rumours of sorcery clung to both – casting shame on Sinir's house. Finally, in his fifty-fourth year, Sinir sickened and passed on – bed-ridden and louse-infested. It was an event which Lek, who had held fast to his pagan faith, greeted with sadness: never in Valhalla would he and his father meet again. The estates at Repton were divided, with Lek taking two thirds and Oter a third. Sefleth – who held her stepsons in low esteem – returned to her ancestral seat at Honeybourne, south of Arden, and called her daughter to her. But Luta – now fifteen and marriageable – proved wayward and intractable. Confined at first to Winchcombe Abbey to protect her chastity while her mother sought for a suitable husband, Luta proved an unsettling presence, and the Abbess soon demanded her removal. She was promptly married to a local Thane named Dunn: a match which Sefleth deemed less than favorable, but necessary nonetheless. Their union was brief and childless, and within two years, Dunn was dead – stricken by an unknown malady – and Sefleth herself perished soon after. Those closest to their former mistress blamed the girl for the death of both; Luta, for her part, seemed unmoved by her loss. 

So it came to pass one November that news reached Luta of King Alfred's death. Within a fortnight she received an invitation from her eldest brother to join him at Harhall for Yule; sensing opportunity, Luta left Honeybourne forthwith. She took with her a dozen men and, after first ascending Bredon Hill alone, where she experienced a powerful vision of her destiny, she rode north through the forest. She arrived in Lichfield on the second Sunday of Advent, and at Harhall two days later, styling herself _Visna_, after the heroine of Bravellir. A blanket of snow – the first of what would prove to be a vicious winter – had already fallen.


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## gfunk (Feb 17, 2007)

First!!!


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## Bloodcookie (Feb 18, 2007)

I loves me some blood-feudin', troll-killin' Anglo-Saxons!


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## Jeph (Feb 18, 2007)

Bloodcookie said:
			
		

> I loves me some blood-feudin', troll-killin' Anglo-Saxons!




Me, I'm expecting more Anglon-Saxon killing Anglo-Saxons.


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## Quartz (Feb 18, 2007)

Ooh! I remember this; an experiment with some rather different rules, isn't it? 

An excellent setting of the scene.


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## Joshua Randall (Feb 19, 2007)

Shall we play the ever-so-fun "Who are the PCs?" and "Who's playing whom?" game -- I'll start.

In order of my relative confidence in my speculation:

Luta, played by Lombard (Eadric's player)
Oter, played by Nym's player
Lek, played by Mostin's player

?


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## Sepulchrave II (Feb 20, 2007)

*1: VISNA*


_Less than seven men shall be called thieves,
from seven to thirty-five are a band,
more are an army._

– Laws  of Ine


The hall was smoky, and stank of sweat and ale; a dull red glow from the firepit illuminated its beams. Casting around, Luta observed that most of the revellers – and more than a hundred were crammed into the place – were drunk. Athelnoth, her chief liegeman, whom she had instructed to remain vigilant, was snoring, his back against a mead-bench. She sighed.

Oter's head lolled. Drool ran over his beard and onto his shirt as he struggled to bring his chin up and focus his eyes.

"Christ," Luta groaned. She turned to Lek. "He's not going to puke, is he?"

"It is likely," Lek nodded. He seemed distracted.

"Tell me more of Ornolf," Luta said eagerly. She swigged mead from her horn, and dragged her sleeve across her mouth. "How far is his steading?"

"Four days to the northwest," Lek grinned wickedly, suddenly recovering his focus. "If we make good time through the Peaks. _Now_ is the time, Luta. He will least expect it. I will announce it later, when the men are drunk enough to back me without hesitation – if you agree to it. Say _yes_, Luta…please. We will never have an opportunity like this again. There are others – kinsmen from Hafrsfjord – who have settled nearby. They will rally to us if we can overcome Ornolf. He has been lording it over them for years. I have a legitimate vendetta – he owes me silver, and slew the warriors I sent to collect it."

"I'm surprised that you waited this long."

"Half of his company, led by his brother, have gone _í víking_. They are wintering in Brittany."

"How convenient. He has other relatives, I presume?"

"Many," Lek admitted. "But they are in Ireland. Or on Man. Luta – _Visna_ – this is an opportunity for glory. Wyrd has singled you out for this purpose…"

"Don't bother trying to flatter me, Lek. My destiny is in my own hands, and I'm quite aware of it. However, your answer is _yes_, without question. What of Ornolf's overlord?"

"Torf-Einar, Earl of Orkney."

"Will he cause trouble?"

"He's a long way distant," Lek shrugged, "and has his own concerns. If he does, then we'll deal with the problem when it arises. But I am confident. I know your ability, Luta – I have, at times, watched you with my inner eye…"

Luta turned her head away.

"Christ does not approve?" Lek asked.

"Christ and Odin be damned, Lek. _I_ do not approve. It makes my skin crawl."

"You should not be so quick to dismiss such an ally."

 "How many can we muster?" Luta quickly changed the subject.

"Maybe forty – if we move within a week. More, if we wait to gather our strength."

"We should set out in two days at the latest," Luta asserted, "and strike before Yule has passed."

"As you wish," Lek bowed, suitably impressed. "But don't you want to know how many we'll be facing? It's a reckless warrior who agrees to an attack without first gaining knowledge of the odds."

"I am that," Luta laughed, and drained her horn. "Tell me the odds later, when I'm drunk."


***


To slay, and to earn for herself a name among the great – not by the slow acquisition of wealth and power, but by brilliance in arms upon the field of battle – such was Luta's goal. If she shone briefly – but brightly – that was enough for her. She knew that she was an atavism; a throwback to an ancient ideal, a pagan dream. Rather than dissuade her from her fantasy, however, such understanding seemed to buoy her enthusiasm for war.

For two years, she had ridden with her mate against the Welsh marches. As a wife, she had demonstrated little affection towards Dunn, although, in time, she had come to respect his energy and strategic aplomb. But her husband had been in awe of her, for in all regards which mattered to him – her education, lineage and skill with a blade – she had outshone him. As an object of veneration, Luta felt disinclined to regard Dunn in any fashion other than as a worshipper: their marriage – never consummated – had been an expedient match, orchestrated by Sefleth to assuage a mother's fears. Luta had taken lovers where she would – an arrangement tolerated by Dunn, who had chosen to see only that which did not offend him. Luta, to her credit, had been discreet; her intention had never been to rile her husband, but simply to meet her own needs.  

After his death, Luta had descended with her retainers upon the towns of the Welsh border in a series of raids which wrought bloody havoc upon the enemies of Mercia. She had been instrumental in forcing a peace with Brochwel of Gwent, causing him to submit to Ethelred in humiliation beneath the foreboding mass of Black Mountain. With her mother's kinsmen, she had roamed for a season, relishing the freedom which the warrior's lifestyle afforded, slaying wherever she might and taking whatever she would. She grew up quickly, and assumed an air of easy command.

When she returned to her hall at Honeybourne, boredom quickly set in. Aside from rearing horses – twelve had been presented to Sefleth by Sinir as morning-gift, and they had flourished and multiplied on the rich floodplain – managing an estate held no interest for Luta. Suitors would arrive at regular intervals – young nobles eager to add fifty hides of prime land to their own – only to be rudely rebuffed and sent away. Ethelred, her liege, had suggested Luta's remarriage, perhaps to a Welshman, in order to consolidate Mercian influence. His wife, ever sympathetic to Luta's needs, ensured that such pressure never became a direct command.

Luta had pondered upon her heritage: three centuries earlier, her forebears had been kings and queens of a realm which had been later subsumed by Mercia. She recalled Sefleth's repeated admonitions to her: _Never forget your heritage. Remember these names: Eanfrith, Eanhere, Osric, Oshere, Oswald, Ethelheard, Ethelward, Ethelric, Osred, Eanberht, Uhtred, Ealdred. Uhtred was your great-great-great grandfather._ Luta's recollection of her uncle – who shared the name of her current Mercian overlord – was fragmentary at best: he had died when she was two or three. But he had been an Earl; the last to bear the title. The memory of his generosity – and ferocity – lingered as a phantom in her mind.

News of Alfred's passing and Edward's accession had been received by Luta with mixed feelings. The health of the old king had been in decline for some time, and many amongst the clergy and nobility had been jostling in anticipation of his inevitable demise. Edward was already a seasoned warrior, with a history of daring exploits to his name, and in the arena of politics outside of the battlefield he had demonstrated considerable finesse. The majority of the _witan_ had been in favour of his elevation, but within a week of his father's death a rebellion – orchestrated by his cousin Ethelwald – had focused all eyes upon Edward. Luta was sworn to Edward's brother-in-law, and eagerly awaited some sign of _his_ loyalties, but Ethelred was cautiously watching events unfold. Mercia – shattered in the wake of the Danish incursions of the past generation – was exhausted from continual conflict, and Ethelred was less than anxious to begin another war. At least, not before he knew which side would win.

She had greeted Lek's invitation with eager curiosity – it had been five years since she and her brothers had last met. Lek, she knew, was conniving and ambitious, though he hid his designs beneath a practiced façade. She had no doubt that he had some scheme in mind to increase his fortunes and, like other landholding thanes and earls – Dane and Saxon alike – would seize on the uncertainty offered by the transition of monarchy in Wessex to settle old scores. When, in the event, his target had transpired to be a Norseman living near Thelwall, Luta had breathed a quiet sigh of relief: if he had chosen to pit himself against a Mercian lord, she would have found herself in an uncomfortable position.


**


The company left Harhall three days after Christmas: grim men mounted on sturdy horses, which moved in single file beneath the bare birch trees. They followed the course of the Dovebrook towards the Peaks which shone, pristine, in the morning sun; frosts had hardened the snow and earth to the point where every footfall crunched loudly. Steam rose from the mouths and nostrils of horse and warrior. 

Luta rode in the fore with Oter, whose knowledge of the terrain was unmatched and, with whom, she was rediscovering her friendship – unlike Lek, the two younger siblings were close in age. Also, unlike Lek, Luta had yet to experience the full range of Oter's odd behaviour. Behind them came Athelnoth and Ragnald – a hulking, scarred Dane who bore a huge axe, and acted as Lek's enforcer; then Lek himself; then Radwulf and Radwine – brothers, and seasoned veterans, sworn to Harhall since Sinir's early days. Others included Badothin, a Kentishman who followed Luta; Garulf, who had once been a priest, but who found pillage and murder more to his tastes; Wilareus, a Thuringian cutthroat who spoke only haltingly in broken English; and Meurig, a Welsh mercenary who had thrown his lot in with Oter. In all there were thirty-eight of them: fourteen for Lek, twelve for Luta, and nine for Oter. It was as large a band as any that Luta had ridden with before, and one liable to raise alarm from the Five Burghs to the Wirral, once its purpose was known.

The lands all about were Harhall's: those dwelling there had taken oaths of fealty to first Sinir, and then Lek. There were pureblooded Scandinavians and English, but many of the younger folk were of mixed ancestry: the misbegotten bastards of war, or of unlikely love-matches, or of marriages which had been made to cement the peace – Luta herself was one of these. Lek, like his father, had owed service to Guthrum the Dane – King of East Anglia – and then afterwards to Guthrum's son, Eric, when the old Viking's failing health had incapacitated him. The influence of Harhall – built at a strategic crossroads where danger always threatened, but opportunity for trade and growth abounded – straddled the rich valleys of the Dove and the Churnet, and extended into the windy Peaks, where sheep farmers eked a mean existence. 

With sunken eyes peering from a gaunt face, Lek watched his sister keenly, alert to every nuance in her speech and posture. She seemed confident to the point of arrogance, and lacked the cynicism and guardedness which both he and Oter possessed – qualities which Lek, an expert in self-preservation, had come to value. That Luta and her chief retainer, Athelnoth, were lovers, Lek had no doubt – their exchanges seemed by turns either too awkward or too comfortable for their relationship to be anything else.  

_Poor fool_, Lek thought to himself. _He doesn't know that he's just as expendable as everyone else._

Luta was not beautiful – at least, in any conventional sense – but her presence was so compelling that it was hard to regard her otherwise. Her chin and nose were strong and well-defined, physical traits which both Lek and Oter had also inherited from Sinir. Her eyes, greenish or blue depending on the light, were wide-set, and even in winter her cheeks were freckled. Her hair, fine and fair, was cut to shoulder-length, but drawn back and tied in a tight braid, a style popular amongst young noblemen. She was flat-chested and rangy, with scarcely an ounce of fat on her frame: her shoulders suggested an archer or swimmer; her thighs, a rider. 

When Lek – using his arts – had observed her from afar, he had been astounded by her strength and determination in combat, and had known immediately that his half-sister would prove invaluable in any efforts he might make to expand and consolidate his own power: if she could be persuaded to join him. Lek shifted in his saddle. Her allegiance was questionable at best, and blood alone might prove inadequate to the task of ensuring her loyalty. 

By early afternoon, the pale sun was obscured by clouds and the wind had shifted, blowing down from the Peaks in freezing gusts. Fine snow began to fall, swirling in eddies which soon reduced vision to a hundred yards, and settled in beards and manes. The landscape was bleak and largely treeless now, with only the occasional rocky outcrop or copse of rowans offering shelter. Their progress slowed and, reluctantly, they chose to take shelter in a ramshackle byre, abandoned decades before. Guards were set, horses were fed and watered, and the company prepared for a cold and uncomfortable night.

"Tomorrow will be clearer," Oter grunted, settling against an old trough, and pulling his cloak about him. "I have a sense about such things."

"You said that yesterday," Luta scowled.


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## linnorm (Feb 23, 2007)

Very interesting, I'm eager to see this play out.  Any details on the experiment that spawned it?


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## The Forsaken One (Feb 27, 2007)

I'll be keeping my eye on this as well, looks promising and I really enjoy that kind of setting as it appears so far.

A touch of magic in it Sep or non magical?


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## Sepulchrave II (Mar 7, 2007)

*2: OTER*



Three hours before dawn, Oter roused himself and stood, drawing his cloak about him. The Moon – just past its first quarter – had set, but the sky had cleared and stars were visible through gaps in the roof of the cowshed. Dying embers cast a faint, ruddy glow. The smell of horses filled his nostrils, and men snored in a low hum. The air was still and frigid. He shivered.

"Going somewhere?" Lek opened an eye.

Oter kicked him. "Sorry. Didn't see you." He slunk outside.

By the broken doors of the byre, Meurig – the Welshman – stood in silent vigil, leaning heavily on his spear. He said nothing, accustomed as he was to the strange comings and goings of his master. Oter loped with a long, quick, stride North and West across the moorlands.

Lek rose, stood outside, and pondered.

As Mars arose in fire, the Ascendant's ruler – mighty Jupiter – set, afflicted by the Great Malefic; retrograde and exiled in the West. The katarche of the Chaldean Mysteries – of which he had learned much from Cordoban merchants – suggested violence in Lek's mind: Ares would soon act untrammeled. Oter, responding to some more visceral impulse, must have known it, and gone to seek it out.

_Tyr rides abroad tonight_, Lek knew.


**

It was generally conceded that Oter's magic – although subject to suspicion from all, and loathing by most – was somehow more wholesome than Lek's. Or perhaps it was the fact that Oter himself was less unctuous and more earthy than his half-brother, and demonstrated traits to which those who knew both siblings found it easier to relate: Lek's coolness and subtlety did little to engender comfort in those who followed him. Oter's passions were more transparent, although his actions were equally considered. He was eccentric, certainly, but less _sinister_; nor did he evince the sadism which his brother occasionally revealed in his dealings with those who had crossed him.

Oter came upon the tracks in the half-light of dawn, following an old Roman byway which bore Northward: he studied them intently. They were fresh: at least a dozen riders, likely equipped for war, by the weight of the hoofprints in the snow and mud. He briefly considered tracing the trail back to their camp of the previous night – it must be nearby – but rejected the idea. Oter reached down, picked a small clod of frozen earth, and pressed it to his forehead, muttering a rune. He began to move at an easy, swift jog.

_Must follow the tracks, only a few hours old._

Doubtless many other bands were abroad: it was a period of uncertainty, and old scores were being settled left and right. But twelve or fifteen was a threatening number, and whether they styled themselves _brigands_ or _retainers_ mattered little in Oter's eyes: it was their purpose which concerned him.  He quickened his pace yet further; the horses were moving at a walk through the hills. He was certain he could catch them within two hours; less, if they rested. In the event, only a quarter-hour passed, before Oter stumbled across them: he quickly used magic to obscure himself, and moved to within fifty yards. 

They were veteran warrors – battle-hardened Danes, who bore notched axes and travel-stained cloaks. Men loyal to Eric of East Anglia or to one of his thanes, maybe; likely riding from the Five Burghs. Oter could not clearly make out their conversation, but they seemed agitated, and in some disagreement. If he moved too close – even masked by a spell – he knew he might reveal himself, and he contented himself with skulking in a patch of gorse near the roadside, catching occasional words and observing their attitudes. Two of them – apparently of high standing, as both wore byrnies  – had dismounted and were close to open conflict with one another. Some dispute of honour, perhaps?

A sword rang out: Oter observed that the wielder – a greybeard who wore a close helmet of silvered steel and a purple-stained cloak of heavy wool – unsheathed and then struck with a practiced flourish. The blade bit through mail, into flesh and sinew. As the younger man – a ruddy-faced Dane with long plaits – screamed in pain and staggered backwards, groping for his own weapon, the other pressed forwards and landed two more blows, quickly felling him. He turned to the rest of the band, who had begun to assume a wide semicircle in anticipation of a fight which had proven to be, in the event, disappointingly short.

"Lest we forget our duty," his voice rose in a Norse dialect with a thick Frisian accent, and carried to Oter where he lurked, "we are not to butcher their priests, nor steal gold from their churches. Were that it was as in prior days, but it is not: this was made clear, ere we embarked. We will observe this peace. This is my last word on the matter, and as Kol discovered, my position is not flexible."

Murmurs of assent issued from the assembled party.

Oter watched as two of them – Kol's kinsmen, maybe – silently strapped the warrior's body to his saddle. As the band moved off, Oter waited. After they had disappeared up the trail, he scoured the ground for some memento of their presence, and after stooping and retrieving a strand of fibre, he ran swiftly South.

*

The company was preparing to ride, when Oter returned to the byre.

"Did you find death?" Lek asked. Inwardly, he was relieved that death had not found his brother.

Oter nodded. "Another band – thirteen of them. Danes from Stamford or Lincoln, probably. One was called Kol. Do you know of him?"

"I know no Kol."

"Nor will you; he is now dead."

"Alas for Kol," Lek said drily. "He met his end while you watched on?"

"An older man – purple-cloaked, with a bright helmet – cut him down. A Frisian. Some relic of the Heathen Army, no doubt."

"That may be Aki of Dorestad; one of Roerik's many bastards. He wears a violet cloak."

"He is good."

Lek smiled. "Oh, yes. He's good."

"You've met him, I take it?"

"He and Sinir were acquainted. Both were in Ivar's band. Aki went with him to Ireland, and stayed after the king died there."

"And now?"

"He has estates near Torksey. I have no idea why he might be abroad, before you ask."

"You are well-informed," Oter stretched his frame, and joints cracked. "But thirteen men with unknown purpose within two days of Harhall makes me nervous. The steading is little defended. Whatever their reason for riding, it is not innocent pillage – Kol was slain for some infraction regarding the murder of priests and the looting of churches. Perhaps, in his zeal, he struck down an abbot and stole his regalia: I must confess, I have been tempted to do the same. In any event, apparently the clergy are not to be targeted in Aki's schemes, despite the easy gold."

"Aki was baptized for political reasons in Ireland; he probably feels uneasy."

"You are _very_ well informed," Oter was visibly impressed. "They were riding northeast – I assume that Aki intended to return home by way of the roads. Unless he has outlawed himself. Maybe he was making for the forest. Is he loyal to York?"

"He is loyal to himself."

"I am against splitting our band over this," Oter said carefully. "And I say we press on, regardless. The opportunity is too great."

Lek nodded. "It is agreed; and I'm sure that our sister has no qualms – it is not her land which is threatened. But Aki has no quarrel with us that I know of."

Luta approached them, girding her sword. "They're ready. Let's move. Oter, you'd better share the news, or I'm going to be disappointed."

"Another company is close by," Oter said simply. "A dozen strong. We are assuming that their agenda is not related to ours, or to us."

"There will be a good deal of blood-letting before Edward asserts his power," Luta grinned, "and that may take several years. How long before we reach the headwaters of the Dean?"

"By tomorrow, if it stays clear," Oter grunted.

They made their way North and West through the peaks, along scree-filled valleys and over high moorland: no more snow fell, but the freezing wind cut through their cloaks and caused them to hunch in their saddles.

At dusk on the second day, they descended upon an isolated community – a steading with a longhouse, and a clutch of crofts – sending the farmers and their families into a frenzy of fear and uncertainty. Lek, seeking board rather than plunder, was careful to appease the freeholder – a suspicious man named Beorhtric – with more than enough silver to offset the ravenous appetite of his men. Only one fight ensued – between Badothin the Kentishman and Burhed, Beorhtric's son – and Luta was quick to come between them with her sword drawn. Badothin scowled, but swiftly backed down under Luta's stern gaze; jewelry changed hands in weregild. Beorhtric's ale might be considered fair game; his daughter-in-law was not. Luta, furious at her retainer's behaviour – and the ring that he had cost her – took him outside and roundly thrashed him. Badothin, with a bloody and bruised face, was charged with picketing the horses for the remainder of the night; after standing alone for five hours in a frozen paddock, he was relieved by Athelnoth, whom mead had rendered affable and benign.

Within the cramped longhouse, Lek and Luta probed Beorhtric for information regarding the current allegiances of the thanes on the floodplains ahead of them. Lek was surprised – and gratified – by his sister's ability to mollify their host; moreover, her capacity for charm involved neither subterfuge nor duplicity, something – Lek remarked silently to himself – that he might learn from. The intrusion upon Beorhtric's Yule celebrations remained exactly that, however, and despite the enforced discipline amongst the company, the atmosphere was strained and tense – the farmer and his family were both used to, and comfortable with, their relative isolation.

The next morning, as Beorhtric stood and watched the horsemen ride away, he turned to his sons with a grim expression.

"When they return – incensed with rapine and slaughter – their courtesy may be much diminished."


**


Now Oter ranged ahead of the warband, his eyes and ears alert to any sign of danger. His mount – a skewbald colt named Laski – was restless; sensitive to Oter's own mood. Left and right of the column – which moved in single file, following the course one of the Dean's many tributaries – Lek had also placed outriders: Wilareus to the North; to the South, Ecgfrith, a woodcrafty scout from Evesham, loyal to Luta.

It was still and clear, and by mid-morning signs of settlement had begun to appear again. Oter encourged Laski to a pace, then a tolt, forging ahead along the valley bottom toward a well-maintained hazel stand. His eyes caught a narrow plume of bluish smoke to the North, and Oter slowed his steed again and began to move directly toward it. From Beorhtric's description, these must be the holdings of Asgrim, a wealthy freeman sworn to Ornolf. 

Oter dismounted and tethered Laski, calmed him, and moved the last hundred yards through the coppice on foot, masking himself from view with magic. Crouching, he looked out across a furlong of open ground – a snow-covered field, broken only by a food-trough – to a turfed longhouse and its attendant outbuildings. Close to the dwelling, Oter spied a trio of men engaged in idle conversation beside a woodpile.  The faint aroma of roasted meats and nuts reached his nose. His hackles rose and blood began to pump in his ears when Oter heard sound through the trees to his left: a stone's throw from where he hid, an old man in a heavy cloak slowly gathered kindling, stooping painfully to gather hazel twigs and pausing frequently to catch his breath. Cursing, Oter silently withdrew through the trees, retrieved Laski, and sped South towards the main company.


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## The Forsaken One (Mar 7, 2007)

Ah so there is a touch of magic . Way to answer an question with an update!

I'm liking this alot, and wondering where it will lead to and when the real plot reveals itself. The characters seems interesting and I'm really really fond of very low magic settings.

And offcourse it's always a pleasure to see your writing Sep, quality as usual!


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## tleilaxu (Mar 8, 2007)

good stuff


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## Joshua Randall (Mar 9, 2007)

Ayee -- I'm going to need a scorecard to keep track of all the names.


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## Jeremy (Mar 9, 2007)

The Forsaken One said:
			
		

> I'll be keeping my eye on this as well, looks promising and I really enjoy that kind of setting as it appears so far.
> 
> A touch of magic in it Sep or non magical?




As I recall from the original thread, all the PC's are spell casters at some level, but the rule was no more than half your levels can be caster levels.  And one of them is a kind of Kensai variant modeled to this setting.  She slaughters some guy in an honor duel I thought.


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## Joshua Randall (Mar 9, 2007)

Jeremy said:
			
		

> And one of them is a kind of Kensai variant modeled to this setting.  She slaughters some guy in an honor duel I thought.



I think you are getting Luta/Visna (female human Ftr8 per the rogues gallery thread) mixed up with a similar character in the (lost) Divertimento thread. 

An understandable mistake, to be sure.


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## Jeremy (Mar 13, 2007)

I thought this WAS what was once called Divertimento.  ^_^


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## Eridanis (Mar 13, 2007)

Jeremy said:
			
		

> I thought this WAS what was once called Divertimento.  ^_^



Nope; IIRC, Divertimento was an Eastern-themed campaign. Definitely no Anglo-Saxons about.


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## Eridanis (Jun 1, 2007)

Sep - have you had a chance to write any more of this story?


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## Inez Hull (Nov 5, 2007)

bumpage


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