Mørkedrømevandrer

Listening quietly to the tales of the skald the Wanderer found his attention drifting to the ancient blade on his back, the weight of the metal weapon accenting the cultural weight of the weapon itself. The exchange with the dead king had come naturally to the nuk, a simple exchange that had only made sense to him in the moment. Now, the echoes of that trade and the connection implied there-in hold a portion his mind and he is troubled by it.

Looking across the offerings, the weapons offered fall short of the bow he himself had made and the barrow-blade at his back. Instead, he is drawn to a finely crafted shirt of steel rings that seems narrow enough to fit his body well without inhibiting his movements. With an abrupt nod he lifts the shirt and shakes it out, the subtle rustle bringing a smile to his lips.

~~~

It was a cold day that followed, the colder for the loss of a life and colder yet the eyes of a Wanderer who looked upon it. At his jarl's request, he simply nods and turns to the wind, tilting his head back and breathing deeply the air as he thinks on the vagaries of his new fame.

"Caves and shelters abound. In the hills, perhaps our quarry found. In the forests... this is an old forest, touched by the strange and the fey and the deep magics. Perhaps guidance may be found there, an opportunity to be directed to our enemies. But my words may carry the weight of stones or drift on the wind like the airy eagle. Take it as you will, I will hunt at your side."