The silence in the forest was thick, the only sound Brynjar could hear being the pounding of his heart as he pushed through the deep snow between the trees. Steam rose from his breath in great clouds, quickly dissipating in the freezing air. His hood was pulled as far over his head as it could be, a scarf covering his mouth and nose, and a piece of bark with two slits in it covering his eyes against snow blindness. Around his shoulders was a new bearskin he had been preparing during the autumn, its heavy folds saving his shoulders from the piercing cold. Slung over his back were all the possessions he had. His pack, containing dried food supplies, his flint, and some other bits and pieces hung next to the long shaft of his Dane-axe, the steel head of which was sheathed in a leather covering. Forcing his wrapped feet through the snow, Brynjar had been walking for days, the conditions getting better as he had dropped down out of the mountains to the West. Now he could see his destination ahead of him, a few plumes of smoke, and rising above to the North, the slanted eaves of the temple. Every year he made this journey, from wherever he was, and he would continue to do so until he could no longer walk.

The sun reaching its height on the short winter day, Brynjar, avoiding the settlement for now, began to climb the hill towards the temple. Following the trail marked by branch-woven arches and hanging symbols laden with snow, he climbed further and further. Icicles hung from the trees, and jingled with a strange ethereal sound in the breeze, the silence of earlier broken gently by that and the faint sound of waves from the sea far below. Reaching the exterior of the temple, Brynjar reached up his mitten covered hands, taking the bark from his eyes and pulling his scarf down. The temple rose above him, its dark wooden eaves looming into the sky in stark contrast to the white trees that surrounded it. Stepping between two braziers outside the entrance, Brynjar entered with his head bowed. Little shards of ice fell from his beard as he raised his head and pushed back his hood, casting his piercing blue eyes around the dimly lit space. Carved statues of the gods rose out of corners, surrounded by their symbols, but there was only one Brynjar was interested in. Stepping forwards, his footsteps echoing in the high space, he walked towards the largest statue at the far end of the temple. Odin, the All-Father. Falling to his knees Brynjar raised his hands above his head, feeling every one of his scars pulse with the moment.

It was a while before Brynjar emerged from the temple, the sun already beginning its swift descent. He shrugged his shoulders to reposition his pack, now a little lighter than before, with tokens of his victories over beasts left before the altar of the All-Father. Casting his gaze round the forest before him, he pulled his hood back up and smoothed his beard with his hand, brushing more ice onto the floor. Wrapping his cloak around his forearms, he stepped off back down the track towards the settlement. Brynjar didn't like being around large numbers of people, but it seemed impossible to avoid them this time. He needed to buy a few items he could not make himself, and besides, he had felt something pulling him in the direction of Uppsala since before he had crossed the mountains from Hordaland. He did not understand, but for some reason he felt he was meant to be there, and long experience had lead him to trust these feelings. A movement in the corner of his eye caught Brynjar's attention. A raven. So that was who had pulled him here. But for what purpose? Time would tell.

As he descended Brynjar could see more of the settlement laid out below him between the trees. Uppsala was small, and hugged the coast below the temple. It consisted of a great hall and a few wooden huts, some turf huts spreading out from the centre. Pulled up against the small dock were a couple of longships, which, by their markings, Bryjar guessed came from Danemark. Smoke rose from the houses, and from the noise that rose up in snatches with the wind, some heavy drinking was in progress at the hall. Brynjar sighed. He would try to find shelter in one of the outlying houses, after he had seen what was going on at the hall. He wanted to be around the noise as little as possible. Hefting his pack and axe, he continued his descent, keeping an eye on the raven as it followed him from the treetops.

Silver eyes flashed, watching the man pass first on the way towards the temple and then back down towards the town. White fur lined with brown streaks was the perfect camouflage in the cold snowy woods and she was not worried that she might be spotted. He was interesting, or at least a break in the monotony of her wait. She had a feeling upon seeing him that it would not be her last. But she was not here for an old man. Her body was large and warm and she felt comfortable, despite the sheer winds and the dampness of the ground beneath her. The Tigress crouched low to the earth and peered out towards the town of Uppsala, prepared for a long wait. For one reason or another, her charge had decided to go down into perhaps one of the largest settlements she had ever seen. She felt a twinge of regret, she should be down there to protect her. She shook her head and snorted. Vilhjalma was a warrior, she hadn't been a child for some time, she could defend herself.

How they had got here, she did not know. Following lead upon lead they had traversed turbulent oceans, deadly weather and dire . . . folk, to put it nicely. It could have easily been quite an adventure if it was not for their paramount and secretive motives. To be completely honest Cwen of Wessex was no entirely certain when they first set off from their home far, far west that they'd pass as these quite frankly heathens.

However, fortunately for the party it wasn't the first run in they had had with these sort of people. They were 'neighbours' back in Wessex, kept at bay by the people of the land and under the king's rule. As they should be.

Cwen's idle musing shattered as she rolled the dice and an uproar erupted in the great hall.

"That's your bull, sowe and next I'll have the shirt off your back." She winked at Artair who'd she'd beat for the third time running.

"Horse shit!" Artair bellowed swinging himself off the table with his jug causing another ripple of laughter to rumble through the hall by his compatriots.

The eight of them had taken over the scarcely decorated hall. The seven of them had gathered around the trestles to rest, drink and warm up by the roaring fires. With grump Ekkhart deep in his corner tending to his blades. Cwen smiled as she glanced in his direction for a moment. He was a good man of few words.

"You've wicked luck lad." Magen winked at her as he swept up the dice.

Uppsala was a strange place. The cold and snow here was almost enchanting. The same weather back home could chill one to the bone. This place made the Lady wary.

"Your turn Acwel." Kill. A manly name. Her alias in this strange place where no one knew who or what she was, besides her men. It was safer to tie her hair up in a plait with armour and a helm and parade around as a man. She couldn't say it was liberating. Being a Saxon woman she had all the liberties and rights as a man. She owed land in her own right, she had inheritance, she could refuse to marry any man she seemed unworthy. As a consequence of this tumultuous journey, Cwen realised how lucky she truly was being a Saxon woman. Norse society was very male dominated. Cwen understood now why Magen has stressed she disguise herself as a man. A reason she had grudgingly accepted not knowing that the Norse women lived a very down trodden life compared to their Saxon counterparts.

This was a strange land. The Lady could not help but ruminate over and over again. The more reason to find Arlyss as soon as possible and head back to home sweet home.

The roads were not nearly as deserted as they should be at the onset of twilight. Where the northman feared the nights chill and ran for their lodgings or in their fears of elves and trolls and other wicked creatures that stalked the hills and gullies of their quiet, empty and desolate land, others had no such fear. Though they were feared in all directions, these Norsemen were terrified of their own home. But for the westernmen such a land held nothing but opportunities. Though true it was far colder than the lands so far far away, there was something about this land, which was so hard to farm and so harsh to those who failed to give it its due which reminded them of their own little patch of the world. Their little peninsular was not so different from the hills of the valleys of the Norse, and even here they did not fear the creatures that stalked the night, respected them, but did not fear them.

There was half a dozen of them, men from a distant land which seemed so similar to this one. Half a dozen battle hardened warriors and skilled veterans, led by one which seemed far too young for the accomplishments he had managed. Scars from dead men scattered across his body as a testiment to not only his skill, but also his ferocity as a fighter. Eyes slinked slyly as they darted across the open ground from hard won lessons of keeping aware of his surroundings. Ears pricked at every sound as the men around him laughed and joked in their natural tongue, always alert and always ready.

These six men made their slow and winding way across the open ground towards the settlement of Uppsala, though they had arrived on these distant shores aboard a powerful and large vessel, which they had stolen out from a band of Danes that had attempted to raid the lands of their leaders father and never returned to the sea, they had elected to avoid making port. Whilst normal travellers to these frozen shores would have taken the choice of a warm and welcome port these men were far more cautious. Their stolen longship had landed a handful of miles down the coast and the men had made a camp they could defend at their landing, provisions were drawn up and sources of local food set about to be found. Only after they were sure they were secure in this cold land did a small band willingly go out to begin the mission of recruiting young and hopeful men to their cause.

So these Cornishmen found themselves in a strange place, surrounded by people they did not know and customs they did not understand nor care to understand. Even here though they clearly stood out, they were all broad of shoulder and thick of skin with hair chestnut in colour and beards cut loosely from their chins. Short and simple swords hung from scabbards at their waists and close fitting leather and mail armour protected their chests and arms whilst boots of wool and leather guarded their feet from the mud. Yet despite their difference in appearance and obvious signs of being strangers to this place it was not hard for them to walk directly to the great hall and the sounds of obvious drinking. They would find the men they needed in places like this wherever they went.

They made no great commotion as they entered, but it was clear they had been noticed not long after they had stepped into the warmth of the building. It felt good to smell raw ale and the burning of a fire in the hearth, sensations that they had been clearly cut off from before on their long voyage from the south of their world.
"Kenver, now we're here, how exactly are we going to get anything done?" Asked one of the men next to their obvious leader in their natural Cornish. It was a funny language that was seldom heard and even less understood in these parts of the world and had an oddly jaunting, rise and fall when spoken in conversation. Kenver simply turned his dark eyes to look at the man to his right, his most loyal companion, Pascoe, was very rarely found anywhere but next to the man he had sworn his loyalty and fortunately for everyone in the band spoke small portions of other languages. Which was useful when Kenver spoke nothing but his native tongue.

"I get it, I get it." The man sighed dejectedly as the party split, one man going with Pascoe towards what they assumed was the bar of this tavern to get drinks and information on who would be willing to join their band in these lands, whilst Kenver led the rest over to one of the few free tables. His eyes constantly darted back and forth as he kept a close eye on everyone in the hall, a hand firmly upon the hilt of his own sword.

Smoke curled upwards in the distance as a lean figure plodded towards it. The traveler, Povel, watched it longingly, hoping to warm up at its source and rest his tired feet. He watched as the smoke’s path was shifted by a gust of wind. Wrapping himself tighter in his cloak, he wished that his father had given him more fur before his departure. The young farmer was no stranger to the cold winds of Svithjod but usually in the context of labor that took one’s mind off the temperature. Still, he thought while putting a hand to the purse tied to his belt, at least dad sent me off with some silver.

The great hall of Uppsala grew more imposing as Povel approached it. He looked at the building with awe, remembering the stories his father used to tell him of brave warriors who gathered in halls such as this. His awed joy turned to seriousness however when this memory reminded him of his purpose: to be one of those warriors. It had become an increasingly common job as harvests fell short in other villages similar to Povel’s. Despite a longing for finding treasure and glory while fighting in exotic lands, the young man was not here to follow his dreams. He knew that if he couldn’t find work soon, he would starve.

The door to the hall cautiously creaked open as the young commoner stepped inside, unprepared for the merriment within. Warmth, both literal and figurative, filled the hall. Men sang and joked as ale flowed. A fireplace filled the room with heat in sharp contrast to the bitter cold Povel felt only moments ago. He solemnly weaved his way through some drunken merrymakers to the bar where he ordered an ale. Leaning against a wall, he surveilled the crowd. It was full of men more fierce-looking and muscled than he, but he knew that he had something they did not. He had knowledge of the ways of commoners and a meager life. Being a stern (though starting to soften with drink) farmer, he was sure that he stuck out in a sea of drunken warriors. Taking sips from his mug, he scanned the crowd to learn their ways. For the first time in a long while, Povel felt hopeful.

Having already made his offerings at the temple farther up the mountain, Einar was once again playing guest at the great hall that stood at the base. He was awaiting his new traveling companion. She had desired to prepare for her journey up the mount and wished to make her offering personally and in solitude, and Einar was never one to intrude upon another's personal relationship with the gods.
So, as Vilhjalma wandered up the winter trail and paid her respects to the Allfather, Einar was enjoying the pleasures that the local Jarl had the courtesy to provide to all pilgrims.

He was sat on a bench near the hearth in the center of the room, a lovely warrior maiden perched on his lap. The pair had crossed blades at a small competition earlier in the day and had retreated from the dark chill together. She kept up with him in mead horns and was as liberal in tracing her hands along his neck and tattoos as he was in caressing her back and thigh. The pair laughed in general merriment, caught up in the delights of song, drink, and tales, and the boasts of battle as many of the others in the hall were either performing or enjoying as well.

One part of Einar wondered where his companion was and what was taking her so long at the temple, but he knew she was a strong and capable woman. The area in general was hospitable, and nearly impossible to get lost in. He had been here several times and knew it like the back of his hand.
He noted the presence of a game of chance nearby and made a note to see about joining in shortly. A few moments later, his bi-colored eyes noted the presence of a small, meek looking boy watching everyone else. He thought this curious, but his thoughts about everything were quickly dashed away as the maiden on his lap pulled him into a rough kiss before standing and shouting, "I would place my ship on none being able to match this man in a test of strength!"

Einar looked up at her in bewildered wonderment as she made this boast. Such things were common and boasts were especially well received, but he had been preparing to treat her to another test of strength and endurance, not be pulled in to another challenge by the inhabitants of the hall.

Seconds after the maiden's challenge had been shouted, a man clapped Einar on the shoulder. As the Norseman turned, a fist connected with his cheek. Some craven bastard had thought to surprise him and subdue him with a cheap blow. Einar possessed more mettle than that however. He stood to face the man, batting his next swing aside and striking out. He caught his assailant squarely in the jaw. He felt the mandible dislocate as his fist connected and the coward's eyes took on a glassy, dazed look. Einar didn't give the man a chance to recover. He viciously headbutted the man and fully picked him up and threw him across the central fire, and inadvertently sent him into the table the gambling group was seated at.