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Dyrling BridesConnor dropped from the tree landing lightly. With a quick hitch he settled his belted plaid more securely around his hips and eyed the Skoll with a bit of apprehension. The Skoll warrior was huge, standing well over six and a half feet, his blonde hair braided on either side. Connor stood a little straighter and waited for the Skoll to speak. Connor wondered what the man was doing so far south into Ceiki lands. The Skoll had little use for the Ceiki and often only traveled down to trade in the spring and summer, this one must be on some kind of mission. The blonde man put out his hands palm down and eyed the dark haired Ceiki in return. Connor stiffened at the greeting which said ... no violence for now. “I am Olaf Erickson, second son of the Ravenseeker Thane Eric Hammerheld, Northern Shire of Brackenhold, and I must speak with your Laird”. Connor relaxed his stiff stance at the formal words. He had been right, the Skoll warrior was on a mission and his greeting had not meant to convey intent to violence, but more so being unsure of his welcome. Connor was not surprised. The Ravenseekers and his own MacDowell clan had been at odds for over 20 years, ever since Becca Napier had chosen his brother Duncan MacDowell over the handsome and persistent Thane. Connor nodded once and motioned for Olaf to follow him, his thick burr rolling out ... “I’ll take ye to him then, follow”. Connor wound through the uneven ground of the high moors, his feet sure and quick. The Skoll warrior, more comfortable on the rocky path and thick snows of his homeland, caught his foot on the occasional tuft. Yet even when he seemed to have twisted his ankle quite badly, he made no noise, nor complained at the quick pace. Connor slowed down a bit, admiration for the warrior building. They rounded a hill and the MacDowell crofts spread out before them. The village was well kept, the walls freshly white washed and the clean thatch well tended. A few of the children saw him approaching and waved gaily from their perch on the fences. They walked through the village, the big Skoll warrior looking only before him, impervious to the stares of the women and children. Connor stopped at the courtyard before the small stone manor house of the Laird and called out to the lady in the garden. “Lady Becca, is me brother about?” An older woman turned to face them, and Connor felt Olaf suck in his breath. Even at the age of 50, Becca MacDowell was an incredibly beautiful woman. Her thick auburn hair fell loosely to her waist and her green eyes bored into the young warrior. She said with a slight smile, “Ye be looking just like your da. I’ll be getting Duncan right away.” With a twitch of her hips she walked into the house calling for the Laird. Olaf let out his breath saying with a touch of pride “She would have made a good wife for my father”. Connor replied with a laugh, “Oi that she would have, but then ye would have been sporting fine red braids like me nephews and no that washed out blonde ye have now.” Olaf stiffened and said, “Me father would have insisted on blonde bairns.” Connor barked a laugh at that, a broad smile creasing his face. The door opened and Duncan MacDowell stepped out, his chest bare. Tall and broad he still stood half a head lower then the blonde warrior in his garden, but it seemed to have no effect as he eyed the young man with a commanding look. “I am the MacDowell, what can I do for ye Erickson?” Olaf said shortly, “Some of our clan have joined with yours ...” The Laird stiffened at this. “They’ve gone areaving”. The Laird’s brow furrowed, he was still trying to grasp why those of his clan had teamed up with those of his arch enemy, and murmured confused ... “reaving”. Olaf replied, “Yes, for Dyrling brides”. Behind them, Connor muttered an oath, “May she pick the meat from their bones before we find them”. |
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