woodmen

After so much struggle, so much passion, so many revelations, so much disaster, and still in the midst of so much uncertainty, the last thing Heriwulf should have been thinking about was the only thing on his mind: the question of a chieftain for the clan. (He'd given up trying to find smaller names for 'clan', or even 'chieftain'. There simply weren't any.)

After making the best of the night in the clan-lodge she could – and being glad of the rain that had kept her there, for all it made their upcoming trip less pleasant, since it was what helped her sleep – Hildegund rose at the first hint of light coming past the clouds.

It wasn't just the mead that had Heriwulf's head feeling a little too heavy, like his neck couldn't quite keep it up.

Even before Radagast's question had been read out, slowly and carefully by Hildegund at the clan moot a few days earlier, Heriwulf had spent a lot of his time thinking about what he could contribute to the small clan. (What should he even call it? It wasn't a clan, but it wasn't like anything but a very small clan. Without a chieftain.

A glance to her side as she thought she heard the start of a complaint from her hound, and the walker saw that, indeed, his hackles were raising. Then, she also started to hear the padding of the paws behind them. Why are the wolves…? Oh no! I forgot about the birds! Fresh-kill scent, and moving! Not that her thoughts were quite that ordered and verbal, but such was their meaning. She whirled as she heard one settle in to spring, and met it with her spear, cursing herself inwardly for her carelessness.

Fang would be fine in a sennight or perhaps a fortnight; this much Heriwulf was sure of. He'd removed the clumsy but effective field sutures, cleaned the wound thoroughly, put in cleaner sutures, and inspected the hound for lasting muscle damage, finding none. Hounds are smart and sturdy and they know how to take care of their own hurts better than men. And their injuries were less likely, at least while the hound was young, to fill with angry heat, the sure sign of danger.

The folk of Bree-land rarely visit the Chetwood that much, and most of those who do, like the hunters and trappers that Hildegund meets during her wanderings and scouting journeys, don't pay much attention to the small lodge that the Woodmen had built. It was easy for Heriwulf to think that it was somehow hidden, but of course, it was in plain sight to anyone who happened to cross the woods from the west, or the marshes from the south, or the hills from the northeast.

Act III, part II: The Woodman

Act III, part I: The Spider