“It’s a deal,” Hawke said, not reacting when the young man surged to his feet with the sinuous and surprising quick grace of a snake. She’d spent enough time in the Wilds and enough time as a hunter to know how to hold herself still; it was sometimes the prey’s flinch which would turn a lazy predator to violence. Not that she was prey, and not that he was predator. But better to be safe, than to find herself very sorry.
She watched as his figure vanished into the darkness; so absolute was the night outside the circle of his fire that he was lost to her almost at once. The effect would be eerie if she were not already accustomed to it. The Wilds weren’t her home, not really, but they felt like a second one at times. Hawke cast a slightly wistful thought after Kazi, the young Chasind girl who’d taught Hawke how to walk these lands like one born to them. It wasn’t all Kazi had taught her, and a flush of heat touched Hawke’s body at that remembrance.
She wondered if this Nikos’s sister… sisto? … would be anything like Kazi. From the way the young man had spoken of her, Hawke somehow doubted it. Kazi had been carefree, bright, easy to be around, quick to smile and laugh, quick to call Hawke a stone-headed drylander when she was being foolish – quick also with a kiss or a touch, quick and unstinting with her affection. It hadn’t been love, not for either of them, but oh, had it been sweet.
Hawke quickly finished cooking her dinner over the flame. With a quiet huff, Huan flung himself down beside her, eyes big and pleading at the scent of cooking meat. He was well-trained, her dog; he’d remained in the shadows the entire time the stranger had been at her fire, waiting and watching for any signal from his partner’s hand. It hadn’t come, and so he’d waited there until she was alone again before coming in to join her.
“We have an adventure ahead of us, boy,” she told him, slicing off a hunk of cooked meat and dropping it at his paws. Huan whined questioningly and tilted his head at her; she nodded and jerked her chin in the direction that Nikos had gone.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Another guide job, that one and his sister. But out of the Wilds, not into them.” Huan’s tail thumped once and he whined again, jaws greasy from the meat he’d snapped up. She fed him more. “I’ll have to swing by home on the way,” she said reluctantly. Her mother wouldn’t like it, not one bit. Carver, neither. Bethany might understand. “I can’t just vanish, after all.” Huan yipped at her once, seeming to approve, and she sighed and scratched at the always-itchy place behind his ears.
An adventure. The world was a very big place, and finally, she was going out into it!
Nikoghos returned with the sunrise. Rather, he returned with the sunrise a few minutes behind him; it had barely touched upon the horizon when he returned to the small camp, a dark figure in the dusky pre-light of dawn. Behind him he led a stocky, shaggy-haired horse, laden with patterned blankets and a considerable number of packs, and behind them both strode a taller figure, made androgynous by the layers of fur and armour that they wore, but likely none other than Nikos’s sister.
Stopping a way from the camp Nikos turned to the woman behind him, and in low, guttural voices they exchanged words. The horse beside them stamped and snorted at the smell of dog, of fire, of unfamiliar human; subconsciously Nikos raised his hand to calm her, pushing his fingers into a mane that was as braided and charm-weighted as his own hair. His sister was agitated, clearly, speaking rapidly and punctuating her words with sharp hand gestures; but not once did Nikos raise his in return, though if the direction of his own gestures were anything to go by, it was clear that the subject of their debate was the guide that he had chosen from them. A debate that had lasted for the remnants of the previous evening, and the night, and the single hour that they had been awake for today.
Eventually the burst of debate seemed to end, or perhaps Nikos simply ended it when he turned his back on his sister, but even though his shoulders were still tense with frustration at his sister’s stubbornness, when he stopped ten paces from the camp his voice was considerately soft. “Hawk,” he called, hesitant to wake the woman if she still slept. They had made their acquaintance only the day before; it would not do to startle her by coming too close when they were still practical strangers. “We are here.”
“It’s a deal,” Hawke said, not reacting when the young man surged to his feet with the sinuous and surprising quick grace of a snake. She’d spent enough time in the Wilds and enough time as a hunter to know how to hold herself still; it was sometimes the prey’s flinch which would turn a lazy predator to violence. Not that she was prey, and not that he was predator. But better to be safe, than to find herself very sorry.
She watched as his figure vanished into the darkness; so absolute was the night outside the circle of his fire that he was lost to her almost at once. The effect would be eerie if she were not already accustomed to it. The Wilds weren’t her home, not really, but they felt like a second one at times. Hawke cast a slightly wistful thought after Kazi, the young Chasind girl who’d taught Hawke how to walk these lands like one born to them. It wasn’t all Kazi had taught her, and a flush of heat touched Hawke’s body at that remembrance.
She wondered if this Nikos’s sister… sisto? … would be anything like Kazi. From the way the young man had spoken of her, Hawke somehow doubted it. Kazi had been carefree, bright, easy to be around, quick to smile and laugh, quick to call Hawke a stone-headed drylander when she was being foolish – quick also with a kiss or a touch, quick and unstinting with her affection. It hadn’t been love, not for either of them, but oh, had it been sweet.
Hawke quickly finished cooking her dinner over the flame. With a quiet huff, Huan flung himself down beside her, eyes big and pleading at the scent of cooking meat. He was well-trained, her dog; he’d remained in the shadows the entire time the stranger had been at her fire, waiting and watching for any signal from his partner’s hand. It hadn’t come, and so he’d waited there until she was alone again before coming in to join her.
“We have an adventure ahead of us, boy,” she told him, slicing off a hunk of cooked meat and dropping it at his paws. Huan whined questioningly and tilted his head at her; she nodded and jerked her chin in the direction that Nikos had gone.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Another guide job, that one and his sister. But out of the Wilds, not into them.” Huan’s tail thumped once and he whined again, jaws greasy from the meat he’d snapped up. She fed him more. “I’ll have to swing by home on the way,” she said reluctantly. Her mother wouldn’t like it, not one bit. Carver, neither. Bethany might understand. “I can’t just vanish, after all.” Huan yipped at her once, seeming to approve, and she sighed and scratched at the always-itchy place behind his ears.
An adventure. The world was a very big place, and finally, she was going out into it!
Nikoghos returned with the sunrise. Rather, he returned with the sunrise a few minutes behind him; it had barely touched upon the horizon when he returned to the small camp, a dark figure in the dusky pre-light of dawn. Behind him he led a stocky, shaggy-haired horse, laden with patterned blankets and a considerable number of packs, and behind them both strode a taller figure, made androgynous by the layers of fur and armour that they wore, but likely none other than Nikos’s sister.
Stopping a way from the camp Nikos turned to the woman behind him, and in low, guttural voices they exchanged words. The horse beside them stamped and snorted at the smell of dog, of fire, of unfamiliar human; subconsciously Nikos raised his hand to calm her, pushing his fingers into a mane that was as braided and charm-weighted as his own hair. His sister was agitated, clearly, speaking rapidly and punctuating her words with sharp hand gestures; but not once did Nikos raise his in return, though if the direction of his own gestures were anything to go by, it was clear that the subject of their debate was the guide that he had chosen from them. A debate that had lasted for the remnants of the previous evening, and the night, and the single hour that they had been awake for today.
Eventually the burst of debate seemed to end, or perhaps Nikos simply ended it when he turned his back on his sister, but even though his shoulders were still tense with frustration at his sister’s stubbornness, when he stopped ten paces from the camp his voice was considerately soft. “Hawk,” he called, hesitant to wake the woman if she still slept. They had made their acquaintance only the day before; it would not do to startle her by coming too close when they were still practical strangers. “We are here.”
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Hawke took the stone curiously, weighing it in her small hand. It was heavy and more than filled the bowl of her palm but looked a normal enough rock, grey and rough and dense; but as she tilted her hand to examine the thing more closely, the firelight caught bright sparks off something crystalline and blue buried in the plain matrix of baser rock. A gem of some sort? It would take better light than this to tell just what it was she held, but Nikos quite clearly assigned some value to it.
“Ooooh, shiny!” she cooed happily. Hawke might be her name, but she was more a magpie by nature and inclination. Her pockets and pouches were generally stuffed with minor treasures which would likely seem trash to most. Some were as simple as acorns, glossy red-brown beneath their jaunty little caps; or little stones which had caught her eye, river-polished or bearing veins of white crystal banding their darkness, or the imprints of leaves or shells somehow preserved in them. She kept little feathers too, bright blue or red or yellow, soft as fluff or stiffly veined and elegant; and sometimes she dried flowers and pressed them flat.
Bits of broken jewelry or twists of metal, scraps of fluttering ribbon, water-smoothed shards of glass or pottery… if it was bright or shiny, it would catch her eye. She wasn’t ever quite certain why she felt the need to keep such things, except that in the moment they seemed charged with some significance. Or perhaps she merely wanted to, and that was enough for her. Not everything had to be so terribly complicated, after all.
She slipped the stone into one of her nearby pouches, nodding toward the Chasind man. She would examine it more closely by daylight, but for now, she was happy enough to accept it as some kind of payment. Not that she’d ever tell Nikos so, but she’d likely have accepted this assignment for nothing at all, just for the chance it offered her. Freedom, escape, adventure… what better payment could she ever ask?
“It’s a deal,” she told him then, feeling a surge of that wild excitement beating behind her breastbone. It was foolish, probably, to accept his offer with so few details attached. She didn’t know where they needed to go, nor why. She hadn’t even met the mysterious sister yet, for that matter! But details were for later; Hawke wasn’t much of a planner. She preferred to go on instinct; and right now, her instincts told her to take this path. “Unless your sister would object…?”
Delighted cooing was not the sort of response that a gifting of a skystone should have inspired, but Nikoghos did not correct the woman as to the right amount of respect, relieved simply that she deemed it a suitable trade. The stones were fiercely guarded by his tribe, gifted only to chieftains or to godspeakers—he himself had one, cut and polished into a bead the same colour as the dawning sky and speckled with stars, woven into his hair amongst the other bells and rings and trinkets. But she was enthusiastic, at least, and that was enough for him. Were he not already an exile he did not doubt that he would have been banished from his people for even thinking about gifting such a thing to a stranger, even uncut and unpolished as it was, but for him and his sister it was their way out of here, their way out of the wilds and into a new life entirely.
His sister. The Hawke woman mentioned her at the same time that his own mind turned back to his sibling, and he fought to hide his hesitance to return to his own camp from his face. “My sisko,” he said carefully, weighing his words, “will object whatever I do. But we must travel, and to this she cannot refuse. And you will take us.”
And he glanced at her, as if to reassure himself that she had definitely agreed. But she seemed happy enough, no doubt blissfully unaware that the siblings she would be guiding were cursed, cast out, and if he had any say in it then she would not find out at all about the bad luck that he trailed behind him.
“We leave tomorrow,” he said then, rising with surprising grace to his feet. One night to convince Isolfr that they needed a northerner’s help—it would not be enough, but it was better than bringing Hawke straight back to their camp without any warning at all. “I will come at sunrise. Is this deal?”
Handmade Swords: Villr — Cave Bear Sword
- Maker(s): Jake Powning & Owen Bush
- Measurements: overall length 28 inches (71.12cm)
This is a collaboration between Jake and Owen Bush. Owen forged the blade out of multiple complex pattern welded bars for a National Geographic TV show about the Staffordshire hoard called “Saxon Gold”. This is a very big blade and when the plans for the sword were made, they imagined this sword could belong to a warrior who would face a cave bear.
Both Owen and Jake are big fans of the British cult comic ‘Slaine’ which is about a legendary hero inspired by CuChullaine from the Irish myths. Jake designed the hilt and scabbard for this sword in the tradition of ‘Slaine’, but inspired by Anglo-Saxon myths and ornamentation rather than Irish.
Source: Copyright © 2016 Jake Powning
She did hear the difference, especially when he repeated the tricksy little sound by itself. The problem was, Hawke could hear it but was by no means certain she could say it. A stubbornness was in her, though; she would master it, she promised herself. And apparently she’d have plenty of time to practice!
A wild excitement bubbled up in her chest as she realized what she was accepting in taking on this job. Her forays into the Wilds had begun so casually, just little trips south to escape, to explore, to find a sort of nameless quiet some part of her heart ached for. It had been an adventure at first, or so she’d told herself secretly and not told anyone else, knowing it for folly. Adventure? That was a thing for storybooks, not something which would ever come to her. As much as Hawke had dreamed of leaving Lothering one day, becoming a mercenary or a dashing rogue like the Black Fox, she’d known, in her heart, it was a child’s dream.
The Wilds had been a safe way to pretend at being a hero… well, not safe, exactly; they hid many dangers. But the dangers were known ones, small ones, and always the family homestead had awaited her return, not so very far off.
But this! This man was a Chasind unlike any of the Chasind she had known. There was something beautiful and dangerous in him, and it drew her… as did the task he’d set her. Guiding botanists and hunters into the Wild and out again was one thing, but guiding this man and his mysterious sister out into the wider world – ! She would see things she’d always dreamed of seeing, do great tasks, walk new paths. It seized her imagination and she beamed with excitement, all but vibrating where she sat. If she’d had wings like her namesake’s, she might have spread them with the joy of it.
“She will, Nikos,” Hawke answered, flashing her teeth at him in a wolfy grin. “She will take you into the world.”
The woman’s answer—and her clear enthusiasm—struck Nikoghos through with relief, and he felt himself grin in response. Since leaving their clan lands, every day felt as though it struck him through with the futility of their journey; he did not want to have left, did not want to be here. But it was his fault that his sister had been exiled, and he knew that he would not be able to live with himself had he left her to suffer that exile alone. No; it was only right that he was out here with her. And if that meant striking out into the north, where he knew that they would find nothing familiar or comforting…
He did not want to think about it, really.
But the woman before him did not seem so bad, northerner though she might be, and something about her eagerness struck him through with a similar excitement of his own. How long had it been since an Astvio had been this far north? Had they ever? Perhaps the God would see his bravery and reward him for his courage. Yes, he reminded himself; this was a test. He would travel north, and take the God to those still blind to Them.
“Then, this is good,” he said, satisfied. He dug into a deep pocket in his cloak, producing from it a stone weighty enough to cup in his palm. It was rough-hewn, its edges grey and ridged as though it had come from a bed of slate or granite, but in its depths was a flash of blue and no doubt it would shine proudly if held up to the sunlight. He offered it to her without hesitation, knowing that he had more of such treasures hidden away for when he deemed that she had fulfilled her promise to them.
“This is for you,” he said, watching for her reaction. Would she think it a generous offer, or a mockable one? These gems were a sign of high rank amongst his people, but he had fast learned that things he viewed as valuable were often not considered the same in the Korcari wilds, and many of the things he considered to be junk he had managed to trade for far more than he could have imagined. Perhaps, if she saw the value of this one… “Another, when we say you are trustworthy. The rest when we are where we must be.”
He glanced at her, grey eyes meeting hers. They were hopeful, curious; perhaps even uncertain, as if she might dismiss his offer entirely. “Is this… good? Is this deal?”
“Nikoghos,” she said again, her pronunciation careful and, to her ear, accurate. Hawke was not unaccustomed to shaping foreign syllables; she spoke some little of the local Chasind dialect, and Leandra had hammered Orlesian words into her daughter’s mind like so many poncy little nails. Nikoghos was an unusual name to Hawke’s ear, but not an impossible one. She grinned at him, though, and added, “Nikos, then.”
She didn’t bother giving him the entirety of her own name; Hawke was more than enough, and her own general preference anyway. It was hard growing up in Ferelden with an Orlesian name – though she supposed the Chasind didn’t much care about such niceties as that. The drylanders were all much the same to them, and national borders and cartographic boundaries were worth less than the parchment they were drawn upon.
She’d not be fool enough to romanticize the Chasind way of life; it was a hard and hungry existence in the lean times, violent and bloody quite often. And, too, people were people, whatever their country or culture. But certain aspects did hold an undeniable appeal; there was a freedom to her days and nights spent in the Wilds. Perhaps it was illusion, and perhaps it was only because she was, in the end, a visitor who could at any time leave this place and this life and return to another existence altogether. Hawke didn’t know, and mostly, she did not think on it overmuch.
Well enough aware of Nikos’ curious gaze on her, Hawke returned the frank appraisal with one of her own. He had an air of quiet competence about him which was quite appealing, and his smile lightened his face into handsomeness. His oil-dark braids sparkled here and there with the gleam of metal and glass woven into them; the magpie in Hawke wanted to pick over the charms and see them closer, but if they were not yet to the petname stage, they were certainly not to the playing-with-hair stage! The dark tattoos which marked his flesh were interesting, but to her eye, more interesting still were the hilts she saw tucked here and there among his garb. Well-armed, was this amiable stranger! She liked what it was she saw of him, but trust… trust could wait.
She regarded him quietly for a moment after he’d finished speaking, considering what he proposed. It was very unusual, in her experience, for any Chasind to want to leave the Korcari. But then, he hadn’t said he and his sister wanted to go north, had he? He’d said must. Curiouser and curiouser… and just the sort of thing to snag her interest.
“I could do that,” she allowed. For a price, anyway. She looked again at those pretty charms…. And what an interesting role reversal it would be, to guide wilders in the north instead of northrons in the wilds! “Your sister, is she nearby?”
“Nikos,” he repeated, trying not to laugh at her attempts. Perhaps it was cruel to be so clearly amused by her speech, but his own sister was not one for humour, and these few brief hours away from her were surely to be cherished. The woman’s attempts were… admirable, if clearly foreign; her sharp consonants were made with her tongue, not the back of her throat, and he repeated for her, gesturing animatedly with his hands. “ǂKho. ǂKho. Do you hear difference?”
He knew that she studied him, and he drew himself up a little straighter self-consciously. He wondered, for a moment, what she must see in him—his dark skin was covered in scars and tattoos alike, hair elaborately braided in comparison to the short crop of hers, his clothing clearly made for colder weather even than this, the furs thin and old. He saw, too, her eyes drop to the numerous knives that he kept strapped to his person; each one was purely ceremonial, for he had left his main weapons at the edge of the camp, but he was certain she would not believe him even if he drew them to show her how delicate the glass and stone blades were.
Well, they did not need to trust each other, not immediately, and he was not inclined to unsheathe each one from its protective binding simply for the sake of proving to her that he was harmless. He wasn’t harmless, not entirely, but the blades he kept strapped to his skin were far too fragile to ever be drawn in a fight; should he be beset, he trusted in the strength of his own hands and feet to protect him.
He heard her agree to his request, and felt a weight lift from his chest that he had not realised was there. No doubt her services would not come cheap, not if she was to take them as far as they wanted to go, nor once she realised just how ill-equipped they were for blending in with the soft north. But they had wealth—he had the precious stones and coin that he had taken from the God’s temple, knowing that the God saw him do so, and approved of the quest that they would fund from the fact that he had not been struck down to die right there and then. Perhaps this woman, too, would approve of his offerings, and agree to guide them from here.
“She is close,” he agreed, loath to disclose just where they were camped until they had this woman’s word that she would take them. They had encountered the dangers of the Wilds not three days back, when wolves had found them in the darkness of night—and where they had set their foul teeth to his sister’s arm, Nikos had found that he was not so familiar with the plants of this swampland to aid in her healing. The wound had festered, and whilst she was so vulnerable, he would not willingly lead a stranger back to their camp until he held some spark of trust in them. “Close enough. Will the hawk take us?”
Blue fire opal knife, Crystal River
“Perhaps so,” Hawke agreed easily enough as the man finally breached that unspoken boundary line around her camp and came nearer. There was a sort of tension to him she misliked, a simmering wariness and a nearly hunted look to him. Perhaps her earlier guess of exile had not been so far from the mark. But he’d shown some respect for the traditions of hospitality and territory as she knew them; Hawke would simply hope he’d not deviate from them enough to attack her at her own fire.
And if he did, well. She wasn’t exactly helpless, now was she?
“Nikoghos,” she repeated after him, fixing the name in her memory. “Well met, Nikoghos. I’d ask if I could call you Nik but I’m guessing we’re not to the petname stage of our relationship yet.”
Leaning forward as he spoke, Hawke turned the spitted rabbit above the flames. Fat dripped and crackled, sending up a deliciously enticing aroma, and her stomach grumbled almost embarrassingly loudly. She quirked a rueful grin and patted it as she sent the Chasind man a sidelong glance as if to say ‘what can you do?’
But his request startled her. Hawke rocked back and regarded this Nikoghos carefully. “I am a guide, yes,” she answered him after a moment. “I bring northerners on merry little jaunts into the Wilds and try to make sure they don’t get themselves killed. This is what you want of me? I’d think you’d be able to do that much yourself already.”
The woman’s attempts at shortening his name seemed to amuse him, for his lips tugged at the corners, easing his frown for a bare moment and making him seem ten years younger for the absence of the expression. He could not blame her for trying; these soft northerners often found pronunciation difficult, unaccustomed to the guttural consonants and back-of-throat sounds that were such a base part of his language. “Nikos is good,” he said; an offering of trust, hopefully, to reassure her that he came here only for business and not to cause harm or upset.
Not that the woman seemed to feel threatened by his presence, if her stomach’s honesty was anything to go by; his eyes creased in amusement, and he had to wonder why she was here in the wilds at such a lean time of year. Hunting was not good while the deer and rabbits were still so gaunt from the harsh winter, and he would not be surprised if the creature over the fire now was the only thing she had caught all day. Impressive, however, that she had caught even that; from what he had heard of the soft northern tribes they were useless, heavy-footed things, softened by years of slaughtering doe-eyed farm animals and no longer familiar with the bow or the blade. His eyes shifted to the bow not a few feet from the woman, and he had to wonder where she had learned.
Aware that he was doing nothing to hide his curiosity, he pulled his gaze back forwards again, turning it to his tattooed hands as he warmed them over the flames. “… Yes,” he answered carefully, clearly turning the words over in his head before he spoke them. It was a hard enough tale to tell—even if he had wanted to tell all of it at once, even if he had been fluent in the language. With those things standing in his way, however, his words came slowly, each one turned carefully before it found itself spoken. “This, I can do. But, I require—my sisko, my… my sister—we must go north. For this, we must have a guide.”
Hawke sat up slowly when she was hailed from behind, careful not to make any gestures too quick, too hasty. Her bow and quiver were within easy reach should she need them, and her daggers also, but the man’s voice was thick with the Chasind accent and held no aggression.
She turned to see him standing at the edge of her firelight, beside a feather-hung pole which proclaimed her own intentions here benign ones. Her eyes narrowed a bit as she regarded the fellow; his voice marked him as Chasind and his features also, but his garb was unfamiliar to her, the signs and sigils worked into his thick leathers unlike the designs used by those Wilders she knew. From another tribe or clan entirely, then, and out of his territory. A wanderer? An adventurer? An exile?
It was impossible for her to judge, knowing far too little of the context here.
And so she only smiled tightly, without showing her teeth. Hawk she might be, and thus predator enough to know that a smile could too easily resemble a snarl. His question she considered carefully, as the look in the man’s eyes seemed to indicate her answer would be of some import to him. It would be easy to respond with flippant humor, as would be her wont. But the Chasind, while far from humorless, placed some value upon the formalities of greeting and hospitality – the ones she knew did, in any case. She felt it safest to assume this stranger did as well.
The Chasind she knew also valued a sort of confidence which verged almost on arrogance.
“I am the one they call Hawk,” she confirmed finally, dipping her chin once. She made a one-handed gesture, crooking her fingers like claws. “What I seek is what any hawk might – to bloody my talons, to spread my wings beneath the sun and to soar.”
With a sudden sharp grin, she let the affectedly formal poise drop. “And if I should happen to face down a dragon along the way… well, that would be an adventure worth the telling, even if I lost!”
She shifted her weight, moving to sit cross-legged and gesturing welcome. “My fire is yours, stranger, if you want it.”
Perhaps the man had not realised how stiffly he stood, but the woman’s joke seemed to lift whatever tension kept his shoulders straight and he sagged a little, posture relaxing into something a little more casual. “Perhaps this is why you soar into this land?” he said, inclining his head in gratitude at the offer of the fire and stepping properly into the boundaries of her camp. Only once he was within the halo of warmth about the fire did he remove his cloak—a thickly-lined thing that had seen better days, its no doubt once-grand fur edging bedraggled and thinning—and he sank into a hunker, holding dark hands out to the flames.
“I am Nikoghos,” he offered—he knew her name, and it was only fair that he should return the favour. “They say that you are often here,” he continued, after a moment of warming himself. He lifted his eyes to hers; he might have come closer to her, but there was still a hunted sort of wariness to the way that he crouched, to the way that he studied her. “In these lands, northerners do not come unless they must. But,” he added, turning his hands over to warm the other sides, “they say that you will show others. To… To…”
For a moment he seemed to struggle for the word he was looking for, and he clicked his tongue in frustration. “Guide,” he concluded suddenly, lips twisting in grim satisfaction to have remembered the translation. “You guide, is this so? If so, I come to you for this.”
Hawke made camp quickly; it wasn’t hard when traveling alone in the Wilds, without any of the parties of rich hunters or chattering scholars she was often hired to guide. Her own requirements were few. On this evening, she had found a good, sheltered place among the low hills to make her camp and the light of her fire would be unlikely to be seen by curious eyes.
Not that it would likely matter much if it was. She’d been visiting the Wilds for just under a hand of years now and knew it well; she was known to the Chasind who ranged over this territory. Even after all this time, Margaux thought they were rather more bemused by her than anything, a slightly unstable outlander who’d willingly decided to walk the Wilds. She rather fancied they had running bets laid amongst themselves on just when and how the Wilds would eat her alive; by now she hoped the odds were on the long side, at least.
But one way or another, they mostly left her alone. A few among them had become her friends; sometimes they sought her out when they saw her track in the peaty soil. Often, they didn’t. She’d never claim to know their ways well enough to know what decided which it would be. But she’d put up the markers around her camp, as they’d taught her. Twists of fur and feather hung from sticks thrust into the earth, markings scratched on stones. To those who could read them, the signs said clearly that she intended no violence, passed through these lands only briefly, would hunt for her own needs and no more, offered the hospitality of her fire to those in need, and would not offend the gods.
Settling in now, she quickly skinned the rabbit she’d shot earlier and spitted it to cook it over her small fire, a delicious aroma wafting up as the fat crackled and dripped into the flames. Hawke lay back at her ease, her head pillowed upon her pack as she counted the stars and traced out the constellations. There was Judex, and there Kios; that cluster was Eluvia, she thought. Waiting for the rabbit to cook through, she amused herself for a while, tracing out new shapes in the sky and creating her own constellations.
“And that one is the Hawk,” she told the night sky, contentedly. What a relief it was sometimes, to escape Lothering and her responsibilities, even for a little while.
“They say that the Hawk points towards the Dragon, because it wishes to capture and devour it. And that when it does, it will become the brightest constellation in the sky.”
The voice came from the edge of the camp, not ten paces behind Hawke. Half cloaked by the night, there stood a wildling; a man whose use of the common tongue was made thick and guttural by his accent, a slain wild gander hanging limp from his belt. Had he worn Ferelden clothing, he might have been entirely unremarkable to look at; he was of average height, of average build, with dark skin and dark hair and eyes the colour of a winter’s sky. Unremarkable in every way. Except, rather, the manner in which he dressed—his hair was braided back from his face in great, elaborate plaits, wound through with charms of glass and brass that chimed when he moved, and what parts of his clothing were not padded thick with furs were embroidered with thick, crass sigils and crude designs.
For all that his appearance was a wild one, he did not seem dangerous, nor aggressive; he lingered by a clutch of Margaux’s markers, and there seemed to be a hint of cautiousness, of trepidation on his face as he studied her. He had made the effort to seek her out, that much was true, but he was clearly not yet certain whether this woman he had heard tell of was a danger or not. The practiced way that she had marked out the intentions of her camp put him somewhat at ease—at least, then, she knew some of their customs—but he made no effort to come closer, his gaze flicking from her face to the rest of her camp. A cooking meal, a bow and arrows. Nothing to suggest that it was more than a typical hunter’s camp.
“You are the one that they call the Hawk,” he said eventually, observing her with a quiet, shrewd sort of curiosity. “Do you seek to shine bright?”
i n t h e e y e o f t h e g o d
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ℂhains in their ℋair, ßlood on their ∱aces
Nikoghos // Isolfr af'Astvio - WILDLINGS
28 & 32 years. | Godspeaker. | Warlord. | Exiled siblings & servants of the god.
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BLOG INFO
⊱ Nikoghos and Isolfr — indie oc blog
⊱ loosely based on the Godspeaker books by Karen Miller
⊱ multi-verse, multi-ship, cross-over friendly. open to new verses, plots & aus
⊱ definitely not sfw; gore, blood, ritualistic sacrifice etc
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While the two argued Malcolm held his tongue, though he may have come close to pressing his forehead against the ice in resignation. Thinking better of it was his first intelligent move of the day. When it seemed the Wilders — actual, in the flesh, Wilders — planned to help, he visibly brightened.
“Yes,” he called, voice echoing. “You have my full understanding.” After all, it would be counterproductive to be saved only to then get himself killed. When the rope came down he struggled to grasp it, teetering on literal thin ice, but he managed in the end; wrapping it round his wrist and up his arm, through loop after loop, to ensure it held strong.
Without even a say-so, he was hauled up, boots chipping away at the ice where he kicked. As he scrambled up onto the solid snow he let out a sigh of relief, but his front was soaked through and quickly he found the windchill extreme, chattering his teeth and hollowing his bones. “I owe you my life,” he managed, breath a visible cloud.
At last he could clearly see his rescuers, pair face with voice, but his gaze was quickly drawn to the man’s injured arm, held tight to his chest. There was little Malcolm could offer now, but after rest twould be an easy heal. He looked directly into the woman’s eyes and said, “I cannot repay you in gold.” His last sovereign was spent on the furs he wore.
“But I can help you. Allow me time and I can mend bone.” His gaze flicked briefly, then turned back. It was clear she was the one he needed to convince most. “Ask anything else of me and you have my word that I’ll attempt to grant it.” By now his face was drained of colour, shivering, with arms wrapped round himself in a failed attempt to keep warm. But despite everything, his eyes were sharp and determined; he had to hope that was enough.
Nikoghos could have pretended to be concerned for this stranger, but in all truth, his first thoughts turned to himself. If Isolfr wouldn’t pitch camp early for his sake, perhaps she would for this man…! He knew that he himself couldn’t travel much further, not without a proper stop to bind his injuries, but his sister would not wait just for his sake, and so he immediately jumped to the defense of this man in hope that it would be to his benefit also.
”Juu,“ he agreed quickly, his eyes lighting up hopefully. For a moment he chattered at his sister, in that strange, fast language of theirs, and the two exchanged heated words until at last the tall woman threw her hands in the air and turned her back on them, throwing some scathing remark at the man she travelled with.
Though their words might have been indecipherable to one not of their clan, the open relief on the man’s face translated just as clearly. He sank back on his haunches and offered the man a gloved hand to help him to his feet. "My sisko will help,” he said, his grasp of the common tongue a little more fluent than the woman’s. “We find shelter, we rest now. I am Nikoghos,” he added, by way of introduction; even their names were as rough as their faces, and the way that he spoke it made each consonant thick and guttural. “This is Isolfr.”
(Source: godspeaker)
