A voice, gone thin with age, broke the silence.
“The council will not approve.”
The answer came swiftly from a young man in his prime, and full of fire.
“Damn the council! They sit, and they talk, and nothing is gained.”
The old Skilpa stared at the young warrior, so eager for blood and glory. Slowly, he reached back with his staff to tap the large shell on his back.
“Count the scars on my home before you raise your voice to me, boy. You would not speak so lightly of the council if you had seen them roused.”
At this the man relaxed slightly, and seemed to be considering the words. He closed his eyes briefly and spoke again, with only an undercurrent of the previous frustration.
“My apologies, Honored One. You have always guided me well, but I grow restless. It was before my father’s time that our people last ventured for a Reaping. I see no future in our squabbles.”
Turning to the other occupant of the small hut, tortoise shell scraping against the large wooden chair, the wizened Skilpa tried a different approach.
“And you, what is your stake in this?”
The woman with light green skin and hair raised an eyebrow and answered in a voice that bubbled slightly, as if she needed to clear her throat.
“We’re both followers of Idumaa in our own way, are we not? I don’t worship her as you do, but still I am connected with the land and the water. I wish to see other lands, other waters. My people have helped the Drakkar raid for untold generations, but lately everyone is too focused inland. We need fresh hearts to show the way again.”
After a moment’s consideration the ancient Skilpa’s mouth opened wide, and a sound half way between a cough and a dog’s yelp emerged. The two companions looked at each other with concern for a moment, before realizing it was something akin to a laugh.
“Good, good. I have also seen this slow decline. The Winnowing grows stale, more shouting than bloodshed. Forgive me, I wished to test your motives before you threw your lives away on some foolish goal. Did you bring the offering?”
Opening a pouch at his side, the young man withdrew two items and placed them on the table, a vial of clear liquid and a small bundle of incense.
“Well done. Now, leave and I will commune with my goddess. We shall see what higher views than ours think of your plans.”
--------
Leaving the hut and walking out from under the treeline toward the beach, Skogr turned to the woman at his side.
“Tell me Beryl, what is it like to talk to your god?”
She snorted a laugh and shook her head. Her hair took a moment to settle, as if it were underwater instead of in the open air.
“That old Skilpa worships Idumaa, I merely respect her. My connection is to nature itself, not some god. However…” Her eyes unfocused momentarily as she dredged up a memory. “When I was a girl, before I found my true name, another Skilpa came through my village. A wanderer, as they often are. He said when he spoke to Idumaa, he was only talking to a messenger. He was not so powerful as Mogu.” she said, waving back toward the hut, now lost behind them in the trees.
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Skogr considered this briefly before shrugging and looking ahead to where their companions sat on a driftwood log looking out over the cold, dark ocean. As they drew closer, the sound of strings being idly plucked by clawed fingers drifted over the pebbled beach. A deep, silky smooth voice called out from the black scaled head of the reptilian Drekibern playing the lyre.
“What word? Do we have the blessing of Mogu?”
Skogr smiled and nodded at the Skald. “He accepted our offering and now seeks the wisdom of his god.”
The music picked up in tempo and became brighter “Then we’ll soon have glory, and fresh stories! The old ones grow stale, with every telling of the tale.”
Now it was the final companion’s turn to laugh, as she always did when Rangvald tried to rhyme.
“You’ll never inspire more heroes as long as you think rhyming is what makes it a good poem. Perhaps upon our return you’ll have something good to talk about for once.”
Rangvald hissed a laugh and the tune on his lyre changed, suddenly dark and sinister. “If only you would perform any feats worth mentioning…”
As he trailed off, the normally implacable Alvi seemed as if she were on the verge of tears. A moment later this passed, replaced with anger.
“Bastard! Casting spells during a bit of friendly banter? Do it again and you’ll wake up to a knife in the throat next time we camp.”
Rangvald quickly threw up his hands in mock surrender, the music finally coming to a halt as Skogr and Beryl chuckled at their companions.
-----
Once the younglings had left, Mogu slowly hefted his bulk and moved towards the table. He had sensed for weeks that something of importance would happen soon, and had prayed to his goddess to grant him the appropriate power. Examining the incense and holy water, all was in order, they had brought the correct gifts. Nodding to himself, he began a slow, guttural chant, his voice at odds with the previous wispy tones. Placing bits of incense in each of the cardinal directions and lighting them, the hut filled with a pleasant scent and heavy smoke. For over ten minutes, the chanting continued as the holy water was used to mark a complex, nearly invisible design on the table with a fine brush.
Abruptly, time seemed to stop. The swirling smoke stopped moving, and the chanting cut off mid phrase. A light formed over the table, a healthy sea green glow that illuminated the dimly lit interior of the hut. Mogu felt the presence of his goddess, paradoxically loving and callous. It was time to ask a few questions.
“Should the young ones start a new Reaping?”
The reply was immediate and strong, the low light of the burning incense flaring brightly.
“Are they ready to start a new Reaping?”
Again, a clear answer, the embers dimmed almost to nothing
Mogu paused to consider his final question.
“Is only time required for them to be ready?”
A voice came like a distant wave crashing.
“Time, and effort”
Mogu sat back in mild surprise as the spell collapsed and the light faded. Answers were supposed to be a simple affirmation or denial interpreted by the one casting the spell, which required the questions to be phrased correctly. For an answer to be anything else, much less contain actual words, was rare. It could signify importance, or perhaps the final question was an ignorant one. Sitting alone in the dark and the smoke, Mogu considered.
-----
After an hour of waiting, Beryl turned her head toward the hut.
“He’s coming.”
The group, now armed and armored, stood and turned toward where she was looking. The old Skilpa walked slowly, leaning heavily on his ornately carved, crystal topped staff. He stopped when he reached the group, and eyed them all for a moment. Speaking a short prayer under his breath, he traced something in the air around the top of his staff. Peering through the crystal, he scanned the group as they waited, the green skinned Aegir woman the only one who did not seem confused by his actions. Finished with his inspection, he addressed the group.
“Your journey is blessed.” Smiles came to the group. “However…” The smiles faded. “You are not yet ready.”
Skogr’s face began turning red with barely suppressed rage. The others looked at him with concern, but his voice was tightly controlled as he replied.
“In what way, are we not ready? We gain nothing here, living only on the stories of our grandfathers.”
Mogu nodded.
“You have done well so far, but the challenges that await you are too much for barely blooded hatchlings. In past times, you would have been considered veterans by your age. Ready to lead a Reaping, but the Winnowing has been weak and you are not yet prepared.”
Mogu paused, and from the way he stood it seemed that was the end of what he was going to say. The others looked at each other in confusion, but Skogr had dealt with the old hermit before, and knew to simply wait. Rangvald began to voice what the others felt.
“Perhaps…”
“Just wait.”
Skogr cut him off, still staring at Mogu. After several minutes dragged by, Mogu began talking as if there had been no interruption.
“You must hone your skills, yes. I’m sure you can find ways to do that. You also have no magic, no items of power. Even your mundane weapons and armor are second hand, leftovers from family who no longer care about them. Your group is too small. Even a small Reaping needs enough warriors to crew a longboat. So no, you are not ready, but with some time, and some effort, you will be.”