FourtyTwo
LadyAmber
GubGar
Ersa93
Carlyle
MrSkimobile
udonoodles
Noctis
Damycles
Empty Promises
Covered by the veil of morning fog, a long and subdued procession of villagers shuffled along the trampled path westward. Despite numbering almost a hundred, the line of travellers was almost entirely quiet; beckoned to silence by the cold air, the early morning, and the rough road. In the distance behind them they could still catch glimpses in the mist of their old home, abandoned structures of wood, stone and leather and all else that could not be deconstructed and carried on their pilgrimage.
At the back of the procession, one couple struggled to keep the pace ahead of them. A worn woman carrying a mewling bundle, the pressure of recent motherhood scoring her otherwise ageless youth with bags and wrinkles, and a horned man fighting to drag packing to the collective rhythm of the procession trampling dirt and snow underfoot. The bundle offered a temporary complaint, and the woman halted further in her pace as she focused on her child - at least until those behind her threatened to bump into her with their presence. A few short heaves of breath to steel herself, she nuzzled her baby and hurried up alongside her husband. Breathless from the short jog in the morning sun, she pleaded with him. "Eirik… it's not too late to see reason," she pushed out between breaths. "We can go back to the others who stayed. We don't even know how far-"
Her husband shot out a sharp breath, shushing her with a frown and a glance. Hoisting the rope tying their packing together further over his shoulder, he fought a fury borne from hard labor before tempering himself enough to speak. "We have spoken of this already. Less than a dozen remain. I doubt they shall last two winters. Is," he paused to drag the large pack of supplies over uneven ground with a grunt. "Is that the life you want for us? For Ronja?'
She could not answer that with anything but a burning shame in her cheeks, staring down at the unknowing child bundled in blankets in her arms. Already small nubs were growing on her temples under the wiry white hair. Early horns were a sign of a healthy child, the shamans said.
"Besides," Eirik continued between struggling breaths of his own in the cold morning air. "Rurik and his lot may want to defy the gutakvínn and her message, but I am not going to invite that kind of doom into our household." Almost as if summoned by his words, a silhouette appeared above the front of the long procession, large beating wings dissipating fog and snow to reveal the winged, horned woman that led their excursion from the air.
"Eirik…" she breathed with worry and shame in her tone.
"Just walk, Kari. Promised land or not, we'll build a new home. We'll give Ronja the life she deserves."
The ruckus of new arrivals had brought with it nearly a week of debate. After the arrival of the Steinnvaetr tribe from the northeastern reaches of the snowy wastes - and they had reported a hard journey with no sightings of other kin along the way - discussion had begun to shoot through the peaceful settlement that no other tribes were coming. That the wait was over.
Kari stood in a ring of people in the midst of their valley-village, a fascinated three-year old Ronja hoisted up in her arms. For three years they'd argued whether to wait for more pilgrims before moving southwest towards the promised land, and people had begun to settle in. Only the gutakvínn pushed to keep moving - as she always had - but with every chieftain that had arrived, it was another voice against leaving this valley by the water. Now they had dragged the whole debate up again, with the chiefs and the winged messenger surrounded by the village as they debated publicly. With long horns coiling from her head, and wings of blue and gold able to spread in a wingspan beyond that of several men, she cut an imposing figure even before her height came into play. That had kept the chieftains in line during the pilgrimage, but now that they were assembled, they argued with her at every venture.
"There's just no way of knowing if more are on the way, hopeful of joining the great pilgrimage. It would do our kinsmen a grand disservice to abandon this meeting place," argued Chief Borgir, facing off against the winged and horned gutakvínn with the same undaunted arrogance as he always had in these past three years.
"Indeed," the elderly chieftain Torkil cut in to steal the word, leaning on his staff weakly despite looking as youthful as the rest. "To resume the search for the promised land could spell the doom for many hopefuls yet arrived, and uproot all we have prepared here. We are thankful for your effort in leading us here, Aveira of the Mother, but now we must trust in the song to tell us when to resume the pilgrimage."
Aveira, the gutakvínn, watched the two conduct themselves before her with disdain, but seemed more interested in the expressions of the assembled audience, and the hummed agreements their words captured. Before she could respond a third voice piped up to stack arguments against leaving; this time it was Chieftain Havardr, who had gone to the extra trouble of wearing his ostentatious reindeer helmet, covering his small horns with grand antlers. "This bay is perfect for our ways. The Song flows undisturbed, and the fauna are in harmony. To abandon it for another land would be folly, when our resources are so meager."
Kari frowned to herself, remembering when Havardr had demanded all new arrivals pay him half their supplies in tribute. To hear him speak of resources now was to spit on all things decent, and yet she agreed. She tugged Ronja up properly on her side. There couldn't be another journey so soon.
But the gutakvínn did not agree. When silence finally lingered save for some brief murmurs in the crowd, she took it upon herself to respond. Kari still hadn't adjusted to the booming echo of the divine being's voice, nor how her speech seemed to be in another language entirely, yet resonated properly in her head to give it meaning. "Your concerns are unfounded. Were we to depart, I would make certain that others of your kin were not lost. The promised land waits. All that it requires is a journey that shall only become easier the further south we travel."
A brief silence reigned as the stern, powerful voice echoed in the minds of the assembled, joined only by a few coughs and the quiet mewling of a newborn in the crowd. It was not to be, however, as old chieftain Torkil cleared his throat to warn of his incoming dissent, his staff wobbling unsteadily as he straightened his back in the crowd-circle. "Ah, it eases my heart that you would extend such a courtesy to both us pilgrims on this long journey, and our kin who have not yet arrived. What you did not account for in your assurances is the uprooting of all we have built here - the risk to families and children who have just begun to settle." Torkil gestured straight at Kari and Ronja in her arms where they stood in the crowd, casually using them to affirm his point. A strange sensation of primal fear rippled along her spine, and she felt the eyes of the gutakvínn linger on her for what felt like an eternity.
"But afore you argue this point, Aveira of the Mother," Torkil continued, dragging the winged woman's attention back to him. Kari released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "I propose before this council of peers and divine that this matter will not be settled by discussion - we must vote."
A hum and murmur of agreement spread through the crowd, and perhaps most importantly, among the seven chieftains crowding around Aveira in the middle of the circle. Aveira herself viewed them with what Kari would call open scorn, but still the winged woman relented, seeming to speak to the seven men - not loud enough for the crowd to hear.
"Wha's happenin', mama?" Ronja piped up softly. Kari sighed sharply and gently rocked her three-year old daughter gently. A sting of fear lingered in her heart, as she stared at the gutakvínn. Aveira glanced out over the crowd, and for just a moment Kari's eyes met with the unyielding and stern gaze of the winged woman. It was enough to rocket her heart into fear.
"D-Don't worry, Flower," she offered under her breath, looking down at the chieftain's feet. "We're safe here."
The quiet rush of water seemed to tantalize even the most restless of people with it's peaceful rhythm. The gravel-mixed sand on the beach rattled with a melodic uproar each time a wave washed up onto the land, hugging the bay in brief and fleeting moments. The sonorous rhythms of the sea followed as a natural accompaniment, each crash of waves and foam-touched wind settling in the powerful melody. Like a mastercrafted rattle snare rattled against fur, the strong ocean winds caught in the trees in the midst of their spring awakening and shook them to a gentle agitation. Eager to add to the chorus, the call of a few birds returning from the south mingled with unerring talent, completing the performance into a symphony that only nature could provide. This land had long been untouched, and the Song was strong here - so strong that even those like Eirik, who'd never busied himself with the Song, could pick up it's melodic notes with only a calm mind and open ears. The world was at peace here, in the valley that had become their home.
Judging by the impatient fidgeting, idle sniffles and murmurs among the assembled children however, not all appreciated the Song as Eirik did. He sat on the stump of the birch they felled last summer, watching chieftain Torkil try to lead the assembly of over two dozen youths in training, urging them to sit quietly and listen with extremely varied results. The two boys at the back - Roval's twins - wouldn't stop fighting over a stick, and little Embla at the front of the pack seemed more interested in whatever everyone else was doing. Rikkon's son seemed to be drifting in and out of sleep. Eirik scanned the crowd for his own daughter, and found her radiant silver hair and black horns poking up between a few shorter kids. She was sitting quiet, a determined frown on her face and eyes closed, nose scrunched up the same way as when eel hit the dinner table at home. Even at a mere eight years, Ronja was putting in an amount of effort most of her older peers did not, and it made Eirik's heart swell with pride. Even with the bustle of distracted children, he had no doubt she'd pick up the melody.
That is, until something rocked the symphony with a loud rush of wind that washed over his back, enough to drown out the Song and ruin his basic concentration. The beat of wings stiffened his back, and he knew what was coming even before the gutakvínn Aveira wandered into view to come standing beside him. Her horns coiled far longer than any merelli in Reginsvik, and she stood several heads taller. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of her first arrival, speaking of promised lands and free choice in a way that made it sound neither appealing nor like a choice.
He languished in a brief moment of tension before the gutakvínn broke the silence, speaking calmly so as to not disrupt the proceedings. Even so her voice shot through his senses like an arrow. "Which one is yours?"
Eirik hesitated until he caught her head turning towards him in the corner of his eye. Cursing himself inwardly, he gestured towards Ronja's silver head poking up in the middle of the crowd. "Ronja. She wants to be a shaman."
"A reasonable ideal. The song is a powerful tool to lead the pilgrimage forward." she returned with unyielding determination.
Eirik drew a short breath, allowing himself a glance towards the tall, winged woman. Her eyes were fixed on chieftain Torkil and the children, her features unchanged since first he saw her some eight years prior. Merelli were ageless, but she was untouched by all things. Like an ill memory that never shifted. "The vote is tonight, then?"
"Mmh," Aveira confirmed with a sharp tone. "Though I'm afraid I already know the outcome this year as well."
"Oh?" Eirik questioned with another glance at the statuesque gutakvínn. "The Mother has told you the outcome?"
His question awakened something in the woman, her nostrils flared and her eyes shifted to give him a proper look. "No. With the passing of chieftain Murla, and his successor's ideas, the votes to resume the pilgrimage are in firm minority."
"Oh," Eirik intoned, feeling a wash of relief come over him.
"But that is not why I am here. I came for you, as a matter of fact." she continued, and what measure of relief he had felt quickly drained away. "You are good friends with chieftain Torkil, are you not?"
Eirik blinked, glancing up at the winged woman before looking to Torkil weaving slowly through the crowd of children with his staff for support. "I suppose. I've known him for most of my life."
"I'd like to assist the community even if your leaders will not see reason. Perhaps I could lend my knowledge to the children, and prepare them for a life blessed with all the knowledge of the Mother."
"I…" Eirik breathed, thinking through the implications. A generation taught by a messenger of the gods. Whatever his own misgivings, it was an honor. "I'm sure he would love to hear that."
Eirik felt a hand grip down on his shoulder, and he turned his head to find the gutakvínn staring down at him. Her face was stiff and unyielding, a strange contrast to her supernatural and ageless beauty. "I think it would sound even better coming from you, Eirik. You want a prosperous future for your daughter, don't you?" she said, and her lips creased into an inviting smile.
Somehow, Eirik felt like he was being threatened.
Wood clacked loudly against wood, and painful vibrations shot through Ronja’s hand. She drew her wooden weapon back to defend against retaliation, but it was too late. From out of nowhere, a long stick swung at her from the right, and smacked her in the shoulder hard. It was enough to send her stumbling to her knees, suckling a pained breath, while the clacks of wood against wood continued in frenetic symphony around her. At once, a hand extended, Hakon abandoning his position to offer her help up. “Are you alright?” he blurted out quickly, and languished in front of her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was hitting that hard.”
She looked up at him as she tried to push away the pain that burnt in her arm. His square face made him look older than he was, a weird contrast to the small nubs that poked out of his forehead where his horns should be, despite his already having turned sixteen. He was a full year her senior, yet his horns were that of a newborn. That, along with his robust silhouette broadcast his heritage very clearly. He tried too hard, always said the wrong things, and swung his weapon like a dumb brute.. Still, his doe-eyed stare caught her off-guard as their eyes met, and she glanced away quickly. “I-..Idiot. You’re gonna get us yelled at again.”
Hakon retracted his hand, sighing. “I’m not going to attack you on the ground, Ronja. This… this isn’t a real fight.”
“Then you’ll lose!” she breathed sharply, and swung her weapon towards him. He danced out of the way easily, backing away back to his original position as Ronja clambered up off the ground with as much grace as she could. Her swing took too much out of her, and she nearly stumbled again when she attempted another assault. Her arms weren’t strong enough, her body wasn’t fast enough. At this rate, the Mother’s messenger would never take note of her. The botched display during last fall’s duel competition still lingered fresh in her mind. Aveira had seen her, and had been visibly disinterested. She would learn. She would push harder.
Hakon was a skilled opponent, and the two of them resumed their spar. Ronja knew that she would lose were it not for his faults, but his hesitation and complacency and her drive to succeed seemed to put them on almost equal footing. The clack of wood, sharp breaths and crunch of dirt around her seemed to fall into a rhythm as they danced in their mock battle, the cacophony of youths fighting their pitched battles in teams becoming a melody to follow, together with the mild rain that pitter-pattered around them. So it went for most of the afternoon until the winged watcher, Aveira, called for the proceedings to come to an end.
”Our time today is over. Those of you who excelled today, well done. That is all.” she concluded with the same matter-of-factly tone as she always did. Hakon gave Ronja a sheepish smile and nodded, and she felt compelled to nod back before he hurried off to catch up with his friends. Ronja caught sight of Finni and the other girls among the crowd, and was about to walk off when the presence of the tall avatar became clear. ”Ronja. I’d like to speak to you.”
A flurry of thoughts shot through her mind, fear and panic twisting her ideas before she dared respond. She would have to plead for her chance to remain, no doubt. She opened her mouth to speak but Aveira held up a hand. ”Tomorrow is the next vote for the pilgrimage to resume. I trust you understand now the need for your kind to seek out your destiny.”
“..Yes, Mistress. We must seize our chance at the promised land or be destroyed.” Ronja returned quickly, nodding with intent. Her hand gripped firmer around her wooden staff, unsure of what would come next.
”This is the twelfth vote. It should be increasingly clear to all who live here that no consensus to depart shall be made while the current council of chieftains remain in power.”
Ronja paled, watching the tall woman stare back at her with a face that belied the stern warlord she’d hinted at over the years. “So-.. Do… Do we have to-.. Replace them?”
That made the gutakvínn smile. ”Nothing quite so drastic. Power without wisdom is simply brute force. And brute force without reason is, what?”
Ronja wracked her brain, feeling her brow wet with cold sweat. Or perhaps it was just rain. “Uhm. Un-suss-tain-able?”
”Correct,” Aveira chimed in and smiled with a charming and friendly expression wildly contrasted to her usual demeanour. The divine messenger stepped forwards to place a large hand on Ronja’s shoulder. ”It’s time to prepare for a secondary path. I’d like for you to shoulder a new responsibility.”
“M-Me? I’m not-.. I’m not the strongest, though. And.. Finni is as good as me in your classes-...” Ronja argued, though she quickly quieted herself when she realized she was arguing against what she wanted. A churning in her gut built up, butterflies and strange feelings of elation.
”You’ll understand in time, Ronja, that conviction is as important as skill.”
”Behold, the path to your destiny.” Aveira boomed with an unbridled power, her voice carrying on the wind to cow anyone who’d dare question her intent once more. The sky crackled with anger, just as the ocean waves thrashed wildly and frenetically. The agitated water split and fell away, and from the depths rose three large and long ships of dark wood, inscribed with runes and symbols all along the wood. At the end of both aft and fore were large serpentine heads, with gaping maws to herald the power and people they would contain. Large black and red sails rolled from the masts, materialized in a simple show of the gutakvínns power. In short time, Reginsvik had a navy - warships unlike what their own minds could have conjured.
It had taken almost four years to prepare the plan and practice the ways of the sea beyond what her inherent merelli talents had given her, but it was worth it. Ronja stood at the end of their little dock, now wholly insufficient for the large ships that had appeared in the bay at the behest of the divine messenger. Aveira turned towards Ronja and the assembled youths, whipping her hand outwards to will her creative force unto them as well. Their roughspun clothes turned dark, and over their shoulders fell grand black coats of an oily, thick fabric. On their heads helmets of leather and metal materialized, capped with grandiose ram-horns to accentuate their regular horns. She motioned for Ronja to step forwards, and the white-haired girl did so without question. Another of the large coats materialized slowly in Aveira’s hands, this one bulkier, with a wide collar raised protectively. She hung it around Ronja’s shoulders with surprising reverence, and the thick material immediately weighed down heavily on her - fortunately years of martial practice and labor had trained her for this.
”Seize your destiny, children of Reginsvik. Until the day that the pilgrimage resumes, you shall find and prepare the promised land. The blessed peoples of the Mother shall overcome all obstacles. It has been seen.” Aveira shouted with a powerful voice, a beat of her wings bringing her up into the air. Ronja gently touched at the stiff fabric of her new coat, trying her best to remain stoic and push her heady feelings of giddyness down.
“Ronja..” came a voice from the side, quiet and unassuming. It was her mother, watching her with eyes that conveyed none of the pride Ronja had hoped. Instead, she looked scared, worried even.
Ronja frowned, and glanced away. Aveira had warned her of those without conviction, and as she’d grown up she’d realized just how degenerate her parents were. Cowardly, and dishonorable. Seeking safety instead of destiny. But the divine had decreed their success, yet nothing would assuage them. Not even now. Ronja sucked in a breath, trying to keep a level head. “I will find the promised land, Mother, and bring our people to paradise.”
