"Well, she, she did seem more interested in discussing the children of trees, now that I recall it again," Hrífa conceded. Though he did not run he was soon leaning back with a mousey timidity quite befitting his epithet. The man was crazed and perhaps at times rather oblivious, but far from stupid, and the dauntlessness of this threat did not simply wash over him like the tides drifting over the seaweeds stuck in the sands; not at least when he had no immediate means to combat it. Hexing him was not a feasible option, Hrífa understood, til the witch was out of range of the man's bear-like fists.

---

---

Had they nothing at all to say? No matter, Hralding thought. Maybe they feared him for now, but once they'd traversed a tempest in their proud little longboat, once they'd bled beside each other, once their hands grew the calluses of oars and came to resemble his own, they'd see him soon enough as just a sailor, albeit more experienced than they, and more grounded in northern manliness.

"What's everyone scared of? Well, Fjalfar has already discussed where we're going and why," yawned Hralding, "at great detail. I've little else to add, really. Tomorrow you learn how to oar til your arms fall off."

Goosebumps ran down her arms at the promise of hard work. Ásdís was so ready.

Recognizing the dismissal she filtered out of the mead-hall slowly, careful not to be caught staring at Hralding (though she definitely stole a few more glances his way) while meandering through the throngs of people. Her mind wandered to what it was going to be like, to be a Viking in reality rather than just name. She thought of the treasures she’d bring home and the heroic deeds to her name, a sweet smile coming to her lips as she finally felt the damp fresh air hit her cheeks.

Blinking in the watery sunlight Ásdís wondered if there were any more chores she ought to worry about before heading back to the farm. To pack! A skip to her step the red head started her way down the lane before spotting her father.

Surprised to see who his companion was Ásdís hurried along to meet the two men.

Adlif could see Ásdís coming out of the mead hall . She’d be with them very soon. His sharp eyes narrowed and he moved to grab the witch by the back of the neck. From afar this would look like a friendly gesture, pulling the man in for a confidential word. His grip however was not friendly.

“You stay away from Ásdís. You and your Children Of Trees. Ásdís has no business wielding spears of any sorts!” He growled.

Adlif hadn’t been sure if the witch truly meant they had been discussing weaponry or the man had been making some lude remark to his manhood. Either was an unacceptable answer for Adlif, but if he put his foot down about the man he was sure his daughter would be contrary.

Best to let her realize the witch was a weakling and a coward on her own.

A smile crossed Adlif’s face suddenly and he boomed with laughter as his daughter skipped up. Her green eyes moved between the two men uncertainly but she smiled all the same as it was good to see her father in such a bright mood.

“You missed it!” She cried, turning to her companion breathlessly. “Hralding gave a magnificent speech…Really got the blood stirring!” The dreamy look in her eyes said it all. Ásdís was in love with her future, unable to see anything but the glory it was sure to be. She sighed romantically and pushed a lock of her dark red hair away from her rosie cheeks.

“It will be splendid! We will sail, and raid and I will have many accolades to my name, and you yours my friend” she added generously to the witch, clapping him on the arm. “We’ll be true Vikings and no one will question our place in the tribe anymore…”

Ásdís started to go on down the path past her father and his friend, she needed to ready her things after all. She paused and turned with a cheery look. “And you can teach me how to wield your spear!” Oblivious to the alarm this proclamation might have brought to her father or her new found friend Ásdís went on her merry way.

Adlif’s hard eyes narrowed even more as his daughter sauntered off. Turning those hard eyes on the witch it seemed as if Adlif was considering right then and there to kill the man and save himself any worry while Ásdís was gone.

The spear in question was in terrible disrepair, no doubt from neglect, with wind and weather hacking away at the shaft and splitting splinters. Upon the iron blade, too, they spat acrid breaths, which turned it orange and flaky. Like a babe weaned too early from the teat it sat and rotted in the corner, useless in all the hermit's endeavors; it did not aid him in hunting or fishing, and as far as he knew he had entered no blood-feuds with another man's family. No one seemed particularly keen either about stealing his lands or the meager products he reaped from them.

But could a wolf truly outgrow fangs, or a stag antlers? Rather, when these things fell away, new ones grew in to fill the gaps. Warriors, similarly, perhaps could never escape their own tools of justice and survival; their antlers, too, found their way back into their hands. Eventually.

"Well, before she tries to wield my spear," Hrífa mumbled naïvely, "I'd better go and polish it. Good day." He did not want her getting splinters, after all. And he, too, needed to pack his belongings. He'd begun to compile a list of necessities in his grey little brain just as he turned away from Adlif, and attempted to scurry away to his solitude.

Adlif found himself watching the odd witch scuttle away with the strange sense of laughter coming to him. Had the witch just boldly ignored Adlif’s wishes? Implied that Ásdís would be his whether or not Adlif said so? Stood up to him in effect? Or was the man so devoid of human contact that he completely missed the possible meanings?

Or…Genuinely had no lecherous intentions? The thought that the Witch could be within the realm of reasonable men disturbed Adlif and his way of thinking and so he shook it off and turned to return to the farm where Ásdís was already detailing the events of the meeting to her brothers and mother with great enthusiasm.

“And Hralding is by far the most masculine, strong armed of the men I have ever seen. He will make a great leader and we will be vastly successful!”

Adlif held back the scoffing laugh he felt rising up. If this was his last night with his daughter he did not want her memories to be of disloyalty and derision.

“Yes, you will have many adventures to be sure.” Adlif agreed, settling next to his wife Aten. He settled a broad hand on her thigh, squeezing it reassuringly as he could tell she was greatly apprehensive for their smallest daughter’s wellbeing. Of course there was no shame in dying a warriors death, and ones death was a fixed point upon the time of their birth. Ásdís would die when it was her time and not a moment sooner and so if she were to parish on this first voyage it was the fate she had been granted whether or not her family sheltered her from it…

Still, to have birthed and raised, clean and fed a creature for as many years as they had Ásdís a parent could not but hope their efforts were not in vain. Looking at the gleeful smile on her plump lips, the wild look in her green eyes, her red hair smoothed from her face and falling straight down her back as the maidens wore it, Adlif felt the strong urge to keep his smallest one here by the hearth. Lock her away and keep her safe.

Sighing Adlif patted his wife’s leg and watched as Ásdís packed away her meager life’s possessions. She had to go, he knew it now. But that did not make it any easier for Adlif.

Of the few possessions Hrífa owned which could fill up a bed-bag or a small sleigh, fewer still would be of great use on a long seaward voyage. The first he plucked from the walls and the small piles of refuse was the spear, whose strength he tested against his knee, and by jabbing into scaly tree-flesh; and although it held up, he felt the give in it, and knew that it would not survive very many slams of a shield boss or strokes of an honed sword. He set it aside, resolving to buy a new pole in the village before they embarked, if such a pole existed. It would make a decent knife even if the shaft snapped.

Then he sifted through the debris. His old helmet, converted into a chamberpot by hammering the peaked scalp down into a flat bottom, was too far rusted and stained, and besides, it reeked terribly. Even the lowly seiðmann carried about him some semblance of Nordic dignity, albeit one rather distorted to the eyes of more assimilated onlookers. His armor, then, was paltry, for even his wrist bracers were boiled leather, not splinted with iron strips nor sewn in with mail; and he was much too poor for a mail shirt, as were most the villagers, though he could imagine the tribe's few warriors were lending out their weapons and armor to their friends. After all, the long winter struck the entire island, and every village upon it, so they needn't fear war and conflict with the locals, who also wished to conserve their supplies and their strength, turtling themselves up til they ate the very last of their stores.

Could he then persuade someone to part with their mail and helmet, that he might not look so fragile on the battlefield? Of course these "battles" were against helpless coastal villages and Christian monasteries, but armor was armor, and whether it was a proper sword or a desperate slave's reaping hook, Hrífa wanted something hard and protective between the blade and his viscera. Stealing was out of the question, even if he already had been indicted of it two dozen times that day around town; they wouldn't wait til they reached shore to toss him overboard. The witch preferred to wait til they landed before he would slip away into the night, to begin a new life in the Franks' lands or the Visigoths'.

He supposed, then, that he would have to rely on the gods after all. Playing by the brave, noble warrior's rules had been a nice thought to humor, but Hrífa could see he was ill-equipped to see it through. He glanced over to his bag of rune sticks, and decided on a whim to give them a throw. Reading the results in the bones, which landed face up or down, and overlapped in certain patterns, according to the will of those great beings in Valhalla and elsewhere, Hrífa translated their meaning, and the results astonished him.

The last night with her family had been a tiring one. They ate heartily (Ásdís wasn’t entirely sure where her mother found the extra stores but knew better than question her authority and instead was gracious in accepting the meal with thanks) and told stories of the raids and battles her father and brothers had been a part of in times before. Then wearily Ásdís bedded down and despite the fear she would lie awake all night dreaming of the morning to come she slept.

Another large breakfast and her bags slung over her shoulder Ásdís was surprised by the solid spear and leather armor her father delivered. They were good quality, at least to the villages standards and Ásdís was touched her family was suppling her so. With tears in her eyes she clung to her father fiercely, whispering she would be honorable and he had nothing to fear before severing their hug and rushing off to where the long boat would be waiting.

Cresting a hill she looked down at the shore and her future. A lump of fear rolled about in her belly but the red head shoved it aside. Vikings would not fear such a journey, no matter how far from home or how little they had ever traveled. And she was a Viking.

With a little whoop Ásdís started to run down the hill, her packs hanging from each arm and her spear gripped tightly in her left hand. It wasn’t until she was half way down the hill that she realized the momentum she was building was a bit too much. Trying to slow herself the smallest Bright Eye nearly tripped head over feet. In catching herself she veered drastically off course and found herself plummeting into a dune with an alarming thump!

Struggling to her feet Ásdís looked about to see if anyone had caught her shameful lack of grace, her cheeks redder than her hair.

Hrífa made no preparations in the way of patterns painted on his body with woad and yarrow dyes, and certainly no sacrifices offered to the golden tongues which licked voraciously at his firewood, knowing well that he wished not to taint his visions with biases; neither his own hopes nor the gods' favor then would skew them. Regardless, as he laid himself down that evening, he welcomed any dreams which might beset him from the great dark.

None came. Not knowing whether to feel relieved or dread-stricken, he chose not to dwell on it, trying, if rather in vain, to place his faith in the Weavers sat at the foot of Yggdrasil. Although they knew well what course the man's path would take, he, only a man, blind to their designs, could only worry, and wonder.

When he returned to the village, of the few who walked about (with no fields to till and no sports to play, enough men let their sleep carve well into the morning, and their women let them), most were gathered at the dock, and Hrífa wondered if they'd set off to the cheers and songs reserved for heroes. Would such songs be only for particular members? If Valhöll could hear these songs, would they Óðinn and his einherjar slice them up and distribute their blessings accordingly to the intended recipients? The witch hoped he would be near enough to these heroes to catch some of the residue which would splash off them if it was so; he knew no songs were sung for him.

He seemed assaulted by a great worm as he came forth, but it was his sleeping-bag, stuffed with his belongings and carried with a fist cinching the mouth. Encouraged by the sight of the village, he limbs were stuffed again with vigor, and he picked up his pace toward the ship, hoping to save one of the better seats for himself. Evidently one might give him a better view from the deck, or give his bum fewer splinters.

---

---

Hralding had climbed the ship's prow, carved in the semblance of a scowling snake, and as he devoted some lazy thought toward keeping his balance, the rest of him was down with the people, watching the goings-on of the land. He shivered a little, having shed his fur-lined cloak down in the hull; he watched in angry futility especially as parents pleaded with their children to come home. There were more sailors than oars, and he'd ordered that they work it out amongst themselves who would not be coming. He had "warriors" in excess, but of these abundances, few who could actually fight, to himself he sighed!

Trotting along the shoreline and onto the docks Ásdís seemed oblivious to the bickering between parents and children as she approached the ship. A perfect specimen of …Well…Ship shape ness the red head had only eyes for the prow (alright fine, her eyes may have also glanced over the other perfect specimen on the prow) and deck, the waves lapping at the wooden sides and the carvings along the stern. This ship would be her home for the months to come.

Sidling along the pier Ásdís found herself scuttling past the man from the day before. He did not look as cheerful as she felt and the redhead happily bumped against the tall man. “A wonderful day to sail out, don’t you think?” Peering up at the man Ásdís couldn’t help but hear the words of an angry mother behind her.

Of course it was not HER angry mother, but still, the sentiment was harsh.

“—already have too many hands, and you are but a lad. You will stay here and next season—“

The child in question protested even as he was being drug away. Ásdís looked about in fear, her eyes widening. Was it true?! Was Hralding making them choose who was to go and who was to stay? Were there too many volunteers?

The idea of going back to the farm, never even setting foot on the ship. It was too much to bear. Biting her lips until they were bright red and almost swollen Ásdís straightened her shoulders, lifted her head proudly and grabbed her friend by the elbow. They were getting on the ship and the voyage no matter what. Marching past the families still in disagreement Ásdís kept her gaze on the plank, on the entrance to her birth right. Her future. Her everything.

“We are getting on this ship.” She said with such determination it was impossible to disagree. If she had to cling to the side of the ship as they sailed through the cold waters she would.

Hrífa hummed in sprightly agreement, not stopping to lollygag and gape at the ship from afar. After all, he was convinced that there were "better" and "worse" seats on the ship, and he had to claim one quickly for himself. Walking past the squabblers, he smirked victoriously to himself; this, he could argue, was why being alone benefited people more than it harmed them! Smug, and smooth like a dense boiling cream, he hopped aboard, having no need for the nearby gangplank. Soon he was crouch-crawling along the hull's length like a crab, measuring the benches by some strange standard, dragging his sleeping bag along behind him.

"The wind is always near us. Always it licks at our ears and tousles our hair," said the bald-shaven witch. "Every day is a good day to sail, if the sailor is skilled enough."

Clambering aboard Ásdís let out a sigh of relief, reassured by the lack of angry shouts calling her back off the ship. Her place all the more firmer the red head carefully stowed her pack and belongings and started weaving down along the length of the ship, gaze flickering between her friend and the beautiful Hralding.

Nervously Ásdís smoothed her sweating hands down the front of her sturdy woolen tunic and leaned closer to the tall man.

“My Friend…” She murmured, careful to make sure Hralding was not looking their way. “You still have not given me your name…”

"Hrífa!" He had decided on a starboard bench, near the bow but a row or two back. Kneeling behind it, he dragged his sleeping bag over, he pulled one item at a time from it, beginning to fold these belongings neatly underneath. His spear protruded underneath the two benches on either side of his, but otherwise he defined "his" property on this boat in neat little lines, all his junk gathered in a squared pile. Ásdís smelled the saltfish even from where she stood.

"Hrífa the 'Rat-eater'?" The word had caught Hralding's attention. He had dropped his gaze to watch them over his shoulder, his broad, bony face cast down upon the deck. The wind played at his gilded mane, and as he jumped and slid down the prow, his long tunic flared out near his knees. "And this looks like Adlif's daughter. Though I don't know her name."

Ásdís felt the man's haughty eyes judging her; not for her own flaws but her companion's. She felt that when her shoulder rubbed against his, it imparted upon her narrow frame a níðingr's residue, which Hralding only barely did not scoff at. Why the offspring of one of the more respectable and modest men of the village, if also one of the meek and mild too, should ever have thought to consort with the witch—...

Nonetheless, the captain smiled cordially. He had promised them safe refuge on the ship (at least from his ire, if not the Franks'), regardless of their histories; and he kept his promises. Maybe the Rat-eater did too, and the rumors would be proven wrong; but Hralding waited to be proven wrong on that end.

“Hrífa?” She replied, the name was familiar. Ásdís watched him carefully as he attentively stowed his belongings. Her original thought that the man had been injured or ill and that was why he was considered undesirable for the tilling was confirmed. His belongings were maintained but old and even with repair some in disuse. Ásdís felt a pang for the man, had he no family to look after him? It was not right for a Viking to live so meagerly…

These thoughts were cut off abruptly by the voice of Hralding. Startled Ásdís jumped and looked about, catching his bright sharp gaze on Hrífa’s. His look was something of disapproval. The redhead looked back to her companion uncertainly. Had Hralding said Hrífa’s full name was Rat-Eater?

People with names like that were…well… Ásdís had never really been allowed to be around them. Undesirable wasn’t even the start of it, they were ostracized and not a part of the community. Most lived in little huts out in the wilderness with no tribe or neighbors to help protect them from the harsh world.

Realization sank in and Ásdís felt horrified. She had been consorting with one of THEM?!

Just as quickly did her feelings of horror fade to be replaced with confusion. But Hrífa had been seemingly a typical man…at least to her. He did not seem mad in the head, or sick in the heart… He hadn’t tried to harm her or turn her to his nasty shameful ways the way Ásdís had always been told his kind would… She had avoided the unmentionables and they had avoided her. Ásdís thought it was because they were dangerous and weak…But her tall companion hadn’t seem that bad…he was here now, wasn’t he?

Tentative in her feelings for Hrífa, Ásdís turned to Hralding who appraised her now. A blush covered her cheeks rapidly and she ducked her head in agreement. She was indeed Adlif’s daughter. “Ásdís” she supplied, both pleased that Hralding was looking at her at all, and embarrassed he was to see her with someone like Hrífa…

Typically a chatty girl, and certainly she had been with Hrífa, Adlif’s daughter stood mutely and uncomfortable while Hralding’s stoic stare was anywhere near her.

The moment he distracted by more new comers the redhead elbowed Hrífa and settled her own belongings near his. “Why didn’t you tell me you were one of THEM?” She wanted to know, her tone accusatory and curious all at once. Having never really spoken to níðingr Ásdís’ feelings of apprehension were easily replaced with inquisitiveness. “Do you really eat RATS?” She wanted to know, small pointed nose squishing up at the idea but a mere smile of delight tracing her lips.
If Hrífa was here now then it meant he had seen the error of his ways and wanted to step back onto the glorious, RIGHT, path. Besides, he was far less intimidating than Hralding. Surely there was no shame in giving him a second chance?

Nervously Ásdís looked back over her shoulder at Hralding, but he was still attending the various recruits. Scooting closer Ásdís murmured “He’s so… handsome…” Blushing she shook her head. “And strong. Precisely what I hope to be.”

"One of what?" As Hrífa the bench's qualities on his rump, he swung his gaze over his shoulder, watching the girl. But she was blathering again, and again drooling over the prettiest hunk of meat on the longship, he realized; not educated or even particularly intelligent, that witch, but neither was he blind! So not expecting an answer, he went back to his business. He realized he hadn't bothered yet to scrounge for proper armor, or for a shield to hang from the gunwale. Shields were cheap, he knew, so he reckoned he ought to at least find a shield a man could spare, if not a proper helmet or seax. As he stood again, wondering who his rowing-mate on that particular bench would be (on this ship there were two men to an oar), Hrífa poised feline-like to leap the gap between the wale and the dock, and as he landed, swung his arms back a little to hoist himself forward the last few inches. He had nearly fallen in, not that the occasional ice-bath ever hurt anyone. Besides, sometimes the nornir destined a man to fall into the water!

"You, sir!" Hrífa called to the first man he saw who carried a shield, and who was not standing near any adolescents ready to take it from his hands. "How much copper would you want to sell that oak-board for?"

Hralding meanwhile stood as gatekeeper to the gangplank, as if he was a net, siphoning the crew from the civilians, or amongst the would-be crewmen, the strong from the weak.

Peering over the edge of the ship Ásdís smiled back at her reflection before stowing away her gear and standing near Hralding as he was the final voice of who would join the crew. She felt entirely lucky and slightly satisfied with her place on board and tried to hide the smug smile coming to her.

The witch was hollering at him. The man in question looked about rapidly, almost as if hoping he had misunderstood and in actuality the witch was calling to someone else. As it were no such luck was to be found.

Frowning heavily the man with the shield wandered closer to the Witch. In reality he didn’t need the shield anymore but the idea of selling it to Hrifa was undesirable. Wrestling for the need for more copper in his pockets than a shield that would see no action this season the tribesman crossed his arms over his chest as if pouting.

“How much do you have?” He sneered back.

Ásdís was not entirely surprised to see the smallest and youngest of the children as well as the oldest or most loathsome of the miscreants were turned away. This would be a hodgepodge crew but certainly not a damned one. With pride Ásdís gestured to the various empty rows, directing the new comers with some self-inflicted authority as to where they ought to sit. When she caught Hralding eyeing her with interest and speculation the red head blushed but remained in place. She was no girl to be sent about as he liked. She would show him an iron will, the will of a warrior. And Warrior's did not quake in the gaze of their leaders. Sniffing she instead head her head up high.

The witch's mannerisms turned fidgety and frantic as he realized he had no coin to trade, nor the silver rings, both on the forearms and the fingers, which so many northern traders used as substitutes for legal mints. (Money they wore was more difficult for pickpockets to steal.) He did, however, have necklaces, mostly Þórr's-hammers, but also runes engraved into rectangles, and the odd crow or eight-legged horse; so many necklaces! Charms and wards were they, and most Nords deigned to wear one or two, as these were not magics wielded actively, but rather, passive ones worn.

Which one would he offer? Hrífa struggled with this thought: would a large copper one be enough? Brass, pewter? Or would the man demand precious silver instead? Nervously Hrífa picked and prodded at his neck, trying to untangle the thongs from which these clattering metals hung. Ah, and what if the man cared what type of charm Hrífa offered him? The witch resolved then to dig out a fehu rune pendant, meaning "wealth." He struggled for a time, looking more anxious as he continually failed, like the charm would wear away or worse, reverse, as it dangled longer from his scrawny neck. Eventually he drew his knife, a short broken-back seax rusty and grey with use, and just sliced at the leather. Meekly he held the pendant out to the man. "H-here," Hrífa said. He was not visibly sweating, though he looked clammy with how nervous he had become.

Pity and scorn crossed the man’s face as he watched the witch struggle with his pendants. The fact that he struggled so and seemed entirely discombobulated over the ordeal made the villager inclined to dismiss the witch and walk off.

But he knew the man was off to the ship for the sake of the village, and this villager in question did not need the shield weighing down on his arm. All the more he himself had young children. They needed people like the witch to go out and seek the tribes fortune.

So it was with an aggravated sigh of discontent that he took the pendant, wiping it off on his tunic before pocketing it and leveling the shield for the witch to take.

“May it serve you well…” He muttered begrudgingly and turned to go.

As men and boys alike stepped over the gangplank and upon the deck of the longship, many could not help but feel the captain's gaze scrutinizing them like an honed knife, slicing menacingly up and down their features in stark appraisal. Of these who paid him mind, the nervous and worried could be distinguished rather easily, with but a modicum of inference, from those more calm, collected, controlled; in a word, more experienced. While some acknowledged Hralding with a curt nod and proud bosom, others flinched from the intensity of his bright eyes. Of these, some blushed, feeling shame for having failed him so quickly by the quick-footedness of their courage, which retreated into some deep crevice of their hearts. While all knew his name and his face, the warrior appeared to hold few friends among the crew, as none let his name cross their tongues, and no lips deigned to smile in acknowledgement of his large, handsome features. He was a neighbor, and in time perhaps, a comrade, but not a confidant to any of these spoiled lots, from the youthful boys to the seasoned, stained criminals.

"Does this ship have a name?" asked a would-be soldier, rather young in the face but with long red hair braided immaculately in a wise style. His mail shirt did not fit him; it was much too large and baggy, so it probably belonged to the father or an uncle despite perfection glittering in its links. Whoever owned it before, he had polished it meticulously.

"Sjórheror," Hralding hissed. Sea-arrow. This wonderfully excited the young lad, who, like the witch, was quite particular about which oar would be "his" in just a few minutes, as he marched up and down the rows in search of this perfect bench. Hrífa meanwhile hopped back on board, averting the crowds near the gangplank through his daring. This time he nearly tripped as he landed, the shield's guige catching on some corner or other in his descent. Still, despite his waning grace, Rat-eater looked immensely proud of his new shield, which was both clean and roundly sturdy, the rawhide lining scarcely scratched, no less bitten into by sword or axe! On its facet was painted a gold eagle over a green field, its august wings curling like tendrils of fire.

Sea-Arrow. Ásdís loved it! Shift and deadly, cutting through the water, not sailing but flying. And an arrow had a bit of grace to it, not as a sword or axe with their brute force but instead a thing of precision and delicate skill. One time when her father had been too far into his drinks the red head had overheard her mother confiding in another wife that she rather fancied she was better with a bow and arrow than Adlif was.

“I exactly plan out each meal, each stich, each day. Whereas he plans out only as far as the next thing that needs tending to in front of him. How can you be a good shot when you cannot see long distances?”

The other wife had chortled and agreed, regaling Ásdís’ mother with a story of her own husbands foolery, but she had never forgotten the gleam of pride in her mother’s eye at finally admitting her superiority over her husband in this field.

Sighing wistfully at the memory Ásdís settled in her own spot beside the Rat Eater. She was a bit worried that he was so…Unclean but he looked more able to pull an oar than the few seats left besides small runty boys, and less likely to try to distract her with conversation as the more seasoned men with space besides them.

Glancing over to the Rat eater in question Ásdís studied his new addition with some approval. The painting was very fine. “A lovely shield…” She complimented before reaching to take the oar, testing her grip. The wood was solid but rough. Her hands were used to gardening and farm work, it wasn’t as if Ásdís was a milk softened maiden… Still she knew her hands would not hold up well. Would it be shameful to make gloves and wear them?

Shouldn’t she push through the pain? Be glad of the new blisters? Wear them as badges of her effort and merit?

"I like it too," Hrífa said, his bosom puffing partridge-proud. Though he did not take it particularly as a compliment; after all, it was not his handiwork. He did not craft this fine shield, nor any of its parts. He was quick to hang it by its guige from the wale, and others prepared their stations similarly, squirreling their weapons and mail shirts away underneath their benches, and their shields upon the ship's wide walls.

It was filling up. Looking over his shoulder, Hrífa was pleased that, although most their "soldiers" were rather too thin, and a rare few sported distinctly feminine curves underneath their thick wintry clothes, none carried their criminality on their sleeves! Through their tattoos, their bone charms and copper runes, their sex and their station, he could only speculate as to their crimes; they deceived his eyes, appearing to him as normal as he. Of course, he had been warned, and by the chieftain's speech, no less, about this queer little dread which rattled at the back of his mind. Indeed, because Hrífa knew that some of these men and boys were sure to be outlaws, and níðingar, and drunkards and second sons and his fellow witches, subconsciously, down in his frail little heart, he wondered which men he could trust, and which would attempt to steal his salted fish. The Rat-eater had noticed as the crowds gathered at the shore that nothing had been stolen from the ship, but he recognized that this was not a purity of spirit which stayed men's hands, but rather, their fear of retribution. The village, and its broad-shouldered king, surely would not have tolerated such a transgression as that, in their urgent hour.

While Hrífa pulled his oar out from beneath the benches, and petitioned Ásdís to help, Hralding meanwhile continued to sieve through the growing crew, searching for that man who was the most skilled and experienced among them, the man who would bear the great burden of helping him to raise and lower the Sjórheror's single sail. It was rolled up at that time, but with enough finesse and care poured into its handling, they could ride not the waves, but the winds, and spare themselves the callus-building drudgery or rowing for many pleasant hours.

Suddenly the gangplank had been yanked away, threatening to fall overboard as it was pulled upon the deck. Hralding was not moved by the dejected and crestfallen faces of those on dry land who had been too late to cross it; neither did he acknowledge the worries and woes of the crew's families onshore. In fact he seemed to nothing nothing but his crew, and their instruments of war.

"I'm not one for long speeches," he growled. "So turn to our left, and remember what you see. When your hands sting with salt and splinters, and your arms burn, and you're ready to give up—" he swept his arm out toward the village— "I want these to be the faces you remember. These are the people you are failing if you give up! All right. Let's get this ship moving."

Ásdís turned obligingly to the left as she peered across the shore. Her own parents had not attended having said goodbye to their smallest daughter the night before. The redhead took this as a sign in their belief that she would succeed and turned away with a security in herself. A child would always believe she could be fruitful if only her parents told her so. For they knew much more than herself and how could they be wrong? Their assurance in her great deeds to come more premonition than hopeful wishing.

Turning back to her companion the rush of confidence she felt was faltering already and they hadn’t even left the beach line.

“Do you think the splinters will be particularly bad?” She asked trying for light and teasing and falling short. More concerned and uncertain. The bright smile on her young face was at odds with the furrowing of her brow and the sidelong glances to their noble leader. His speed had indeed been short.

It was always daunting when your day dreams were not being met. Of course Ásdís had always thought of the riveting speeches she’d give and receive. Sighing she tugged on the oar at the command to get the ship moving. Even with the witch at her side the motion was unfamiliar and tentative under her hands. Too much pressure and she was yanking the wood awkwardly against her companion, not enough and the oar was not really moving in time with it’s companions.

Soon Ásdís was consumed with the task and doing her best to perfect her technique while shooting furtive glances at Hralding in order to ensure he didn’t know how terrible an oarsman she was.

For Now. Ásdís assured herself shoving the plank away from herself and bumping elbows with Rat Eater. She’d improve, surely!