---WOODROW---

The villagers of Kent circled the communal fire. Roasting over the fire was a pig of decent size, golden brown, its dripping fat causing the fire to spark. They greeted her, but Woodrow saw that they were all nervous. A glance towards the side alerted Woodrow to the hulking figure of Harlan walking towards them. He had eyes only for Agate.

“I welcome you to sup with me before the battle,” Agate said through gritted teeth.

Harlan bowed his head. “I appreciate your hospitality, child of our departed elder.”

It was a customary greeting, Woodrow observed. He saw from behind Harlan the men with him earlier. Their smaller communal fire was snuffed out.

Agate called out to the villagers. “No more hostility. This night, we feast as one village. Harlan and the rest of my late father’s men are welcome back into the fold.” Then, she looked at Harlan squarely in the face. “For after this night, things are settled and the village of Kent will have an elder that deserves to lead.”

Harlan held Agate’s eyes. To Woodrow, he looked sad. He hid his features well enough and led his men into the warmth of the fire. They sat together, Agate and Harlan, shoulder to shoulder. The rest of the men were wary of each other; he saw one shoulder bump into the arm of another and both men stared each other down. They offered thanks to Saint Edmund, and tore through the pig, Agate and Harlan ensuring that all had an equal share of the roast. During the meal, Harlan and Agate watched their village carefully. Woodrow thought they looked like parent birds watching over their hatchlings. Woodrow saw how they both stopped someone discreetly reaching for another serving of roast pig when they became too greedy. He saw how they offered another ale to one holding an empty wooden mug. They both took care of the villagers. They just did not watch each other doing it.

Woodrow missed the sounds of chatter over the fireplace, how voices became louder as the influence of a hearty meal and ale kicked in. The familiar jovial tune of communal supper; laughter, claps, jeers, taunts, differing pitches weaving together. Woodrow closed his eyes to it. He breathed. His stomach churned.

“Brother monk,” Harlan called out to him, offering a bowl of broth.

Woodrow smiled and raised his hand. “I am not hungry, thank you. And I don’t think I can stomach much food now that I know what is about to happen after this feast.”

Agate, next to Harlan, shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Woodrow pulled his attention away from the hunger stabbing his stomach and aching his muscles. But he was in his element, at least. The fire was welcoming. Hovering near them were faces of glee. Oily mouths dug into the meat. Slippery fingers held jugs and cups of ale. He even saw some of them kiss over the fire, hands holding and fumbling. Woodrow saw Harlan’s fingers twitch towards Agate as if controlling himself to offer her food or ale or a pat on the shoulder.

Woodrow’s other appetite stirred. His diet was different than the rest of his brothers. He had that common in Ryne too. The majority of his nourishment came from blood, but a small part of him needed something else from people. Their vitality. Their youth. Their affection. Woodrow closed his eyes once more as the laughter grew louder from Agate’s side of the camp. This kind of music was a prelude to a night of pleasure. Woodrow wanted to experience it again; his powers to activate and be replenished at the same time. Taking from another their warm breaths and bare skin and giving in return his green eyes and kisses with no promises.

Just one of them would do, Woodrow thought darkly. No one will be the wiser. I could excuse myself and take someone. Not enough to kill, but enough to quell this blasted hunger. The scout! Where is he?

Woodrow scanned the sea of faces and noticed that the scout was already looking at him. The scout looked away shyly but returned his gaze not long after. Him. Woodrow’s vision blurred then sharpened, focusing on the face of the youth. He bit his lip and tapped his knee. Woodrow was about to excuse himself to his host. But then there was a sudden pain in his chest. A strike of recollection.

The way he charmed the couple who got lost in the gardens of Fairstep monastery. Wilbur had told him that his green eyes glowed for three nights after his risky charm. And the villagers of Fairstep after the festival… husks afterward, senseless, laughing by themselves and sickling the air.

Woodrow snapped out of his hunger and forced himself to focus on the chatter instead. Maybe he can pick up some useful information about this village, and distract himself with other thoughts. But all he heard were the things already mentioned by Agate. The elder, the challenge for leadership, the great direwolf, the bandits.

And the familiar sound of a brawl happening some ways away.

Woodrow leaned in, tuning his ears to the sound. He felt the tension from somewhere. Anger and confusion. There were sounds of punching and wincing and swearing. Grunts and breaths were being knocked out. Woodrow stood and yelled. “Stop that!”

The villagers around the fire paused. All eyes were on him, their hands or cups pressed to open mouths. Then Agate stood and saw over the fire on the shadowy areas where some of the men were landing hits. Agate’s guards were fighting with Harlan’s men.

“I just said no fighting!” And she sped towards the group of men, Harlan close beside her. Agate felt him move and raised her hand. “No, you stay here and watch over the people. I’ll deal with this. I have some words for your men, anyway.”

Harlan slumped back, unsure. Woodrow was thinking if he should go with Agate and help placate the crowd. Even without charm, he can be very persuasive. But he had another idea. He must distract the rest gathered here from the tension being settled over there. The villagers were already looking at each other worriedly, standing up and hiding their bowls and mugs. Before he knew it, Woodrow clapped his hands to bring the attention back to him.

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“Who here has a round object or fruit on them?”

He cupped his hands in the air, waiting for something to land on them. He looked at the crowd expectantly. A ball dropped from the night air and he caught it. Barely making contact with his skin, Woodrow juggled it high in the air. “More,” he said to the crowd. “More!”

The crowd cheered and became lively once more. Their teeth shone with oil, and some even sputtered and coughed in the middle of their drink. They spat it out and laughed. Woodrow stuck out his tongue in concentration, eyes trained on the increasing objects he juggled: the ball, a pear, an apple, another ball, and a block of wood that was probably a child’s toy. And then Woodrow began to sing a familiar tune of drinking. The maidens squealed and the men chanted the words out, thumping their knuckles against their knees, pounding the ground with their fists. The woman clapped in time with the tune and Woodrow’s beautiful voice rang around the communal fire. He even caught a glance of Agate’s startled, but amused face, arms crossed as she reprimanded the men. The men themselves stopped their brawl and stared at Woodrow’s tricks. Woodrow called to them.

“Plenty of cheer here, folks, if you’re quite done fighting over there. Join in once you have calmed down.” Then Woodrow added, “Look at all your fellow men. You are supposed to be one tribe.” Then slyly, he winked at Harlan and looked steadily at Agate. “An elder knows to set aside differences for the good of their people. They know how to communicate well and not let emotions get the better of them.”

He had missed this, too, being in the communal fire, with all the people looking at him now with his hood off. Woodrow felt light. He smiled at the villages who stared at him. There were murmurs around and some of the maidens hid behind their hands and whispered and nudged each other. Some of the couples blocked their partner’s view from seeing him.

The villagers laughed in addressing the tension Woodrow had deflated. Agate, for the first time that he had seen her tonight, laughed. So did the men around her. And once the drinking song was finished, another one was called, and this time, Harlan led the song. But not before Woodrow caught all the objects in his hand neatly, winked, flashed a brilliant smile at the crowd, and bowed. Clapping and whistling followed, and he saw the scout relax. He winked at him again and the scout winked back, having gained confidence with the ale and perhaps emboldened with the song.

Woodrow saw the men clap each other on their backs and guide each other gently to the fire. They could not resist the good cheer, especially after being separated into two tribes, Woodrow thought. They just needed to be reminded of their camaraderie, that’s all.

But as the villagers chanted another verse of the drinking song, the energy that seized Woodrow left him breathless and wanting more.

The stares had made him feel powerful. As Woodrow pulled their attention, he felt it, that familiar delicious charge in the air, a chain of lightning, a spark in the chorus, of butterflies landing on petals. He felt the pleasure turn tangible. He felt the tension shift from being mildly apprehensive to becoming prickly and sensual.

Woodrow breathed in the smell of smoke and ale to calm himself. He watched Agate rejoin him. She was holding two mugs of ale.

“I’d offer you one, but I have a feeling that you would refuse it,” she said. “The lecture found its mark.”

“Good,” Woodrow said. “It was for you both. You, who seems to be hardheaded, and him who seems to be soft-hearted. Kind of like the scout who keeps glancing in my direction. What is his name, anyway?” Woodrow did not remember the name when Agate called him earlier.

“Jerome. Orphaned since he was a child. Parents killed by other outlaws while scavenging for food on a particularly harsh winter. He is frail for battle but his skittish nature is perfect for scouting.” Agate smiled a little on her mug. “I like his loyalty. He does not sleep until he is certain that there are no obvious signs of trouble. He checks the bushes and dark woods some nights just to be extra careful.”

“He seems to be anxious,” Woodrow commented. Agate only nodded gently. “Thank goodness you don’t give him a hard time for it.”

“We need to be tough in this village. It’s just our way. But community is equally important. A sense of belonging. We would work with our weaknesses and hone our strengths, and thankfully, Jerome has channeled his weakness into being… careful.” Agate took a sip of her ale as Woodrow observed Jerome. He was still smiling with his friends; some archers and some women. “Any other lectures for me, good monk?”

“Talk to Harlan now and be rid of this right-for-leadership nonsense. Talk using actual words to strike at the hearts of the other men. You all need to learn to quell your anger first before acting, especially you.”

Woodrow welcomed Agate’s rebuke but she sighed and accepted his words. Woodrow continued. “Harlan does not want to fight you, Agate. He seems to try to mediate between the men. He is unsure of how to approach you without causing you to be angrier and making things worse. What you should be doing is arranging your forces to deal with the immediate problems with bandits. The dark forest does not seem to prevent human threats but otherwise reacts to otherworldly, supernatural ones. Stop dividing your tribe and start working together. Imagine the strength if all your forces are united. You understand your people’s concerns. Now address them.”

Agate let that sink in. “You have a knack for leadership yourself, monk. If you were not wearing your monastic habit, I’d say you could be a fine soldier. Or general of a small group of soldiers.” Woodrow thought of Ryne and his message. Agate breathed. “I know what I must do.”

Agate stood and left for a big house beyond the reach of the communal fire, just as Harlan finished his song and sat beside Woodrow. He must have thought that she did not want his company for he looked at her retreating figure sadly. But then his eyes landed on Woodrow and he smiled.

“What good cheer, monk! I’d never thought that…” Harlan trailed off, shaking his head.

“What? That monks are capable of producing raucous cheer?” Woodrow chuckled. “Well, I’m the exception, I think. We… our brothers and I, that is, we run our monasteries differently. There are nights that I would join the villagers before and make sure to hear their grievances in a more… comfortable setting. I find that their true worries are revealed near the warmth of a fire with good food than inside our altars.”

Harlan nodded. “It suits you. You are handsome and easy to be around. It seems you can disarm them with a smile and if not that, then your party tricks.”

They chuckled together, and when Woodrow spotted him looking at the house where Agate disappeared, Woodrow said, “Oh, just go to her, man. Tell her how you feel about her and deal with her wrath afterward. Just be sure you state what you mean plainly before she kicks you out and slams the door right in your face.”

He arranged his face to act surprised, then confused, but when Woodrow simply stared at him with a knowing look, Harlan gulped. “How did you know?”

“I just do. Now go to her, and be done with this foolishness of combat. This is the same counsel I gave her.”

Harlan, all muscles of him, quivered as if what he was about to do was the scariest thing. He stood and was about to follow her when he snapped his fingers. “Wait! There are flowers she likes! Right near here. I tried to nurture a few just for these occasions. Follow me, brother monk. I’ll tell the rest of the men to watch the village.”