1.

When they ran ragged into Runeheim it was after dusk, with a ghost to greet them and undead on their heels. There was no time for arms lifted in Lion’s Paw greeting, no time for proper face paint and introductions, only confused kowtowing to a dead man from another land who didn’t have the decency to go haunt his own ancestor’s graveyards.

By the time Neccio and Katarina finally returned to the rented room to sleep, Embla had finished tying knots in straw pulled from the mattress and left them in a protective line across the threshold. The Hestrali stepped carefully over them without comment.

2.

The morning Embla leaves their camp outside Runeheim to go scouting, she prays. Kneeling in the field, the grass smells bright and earthy where her hands have dug through it and she breathes it in deep, like incense, like campfire smoke, once, twice. She puts a pebble in her mouth, lets the dirt coat her tongue and mix with her spit before tucking the stone into the pouch of her cheek. Grit rubs the back of her teeth when she speaks, the slightest slur when her words get stuck on the stone.

“White Benalus, lion of the desolate place, I submit to you in the wilderness.”

She bows her head, speaks her father’s words with her mother’s tongue, opens her eyes when she spits grit into the palm of her hand to mix with the fresh dirt already cupped there.

“Hide me from the eyes of bear and panther and evil men, save my courage for the dark.”

Embla smears the mud in two stripes from the corner of her eye to her temples, thick like gnarled tree bark, just another fir in the woods.

“Shine bright on running creeks so I may drink, and keep me from the desperation of still water.”

Clear water from her wineskin rinses off her hands, swirls cold as dew in her mouth and around the pebble. She spits the stone into her clean hand, dries it on her skirt, closes her first around it, breathes again, once, twice.

“By your torch alone will my feet be guided back to the hearth that knows me.”

She nods once, levers herself up, turns back to wait for the others to wake. The mud will be cracked and dry by the time they see it. The Hestralians will not ask, and she won’t offer. Oddny will not ask because she already knows.

When Embla hugs her cousin goodbye where the trail parts, she leaves the pebble in Oddny’s pocket and a smudge of dirt under her chin. The grit grinds in her teeth all day.

3.

The group of them stand around the midnight fire, Alma beaming and content with her strange Gothic oven next to her. Embla can feel the runes of deception painted on her hands, and is grateful for them even with an empty stomach. These outlanders come here, throw decadent parties on the eve of Disblot, draw the Old God’s jealous eye with no regard for the people who work the land who will suffer for it. They come here and bring their monsters with them, and now bring their evil relics with the claim they will feed the world, but forget to mention it is happy to let Njords starve.

It is a desecration of hospitality that takes Embla’s breath away. She will need to be a deceiver to take part in this “cleansing” ritual without losing her temper. The clank of armor and weapons in the dark around her is a constant reminder that even the most banal of rituals is done under the boot of foreigners these days.

When they ask for stories of meals, Embla speaks loudly of salmon and old men’s lies, tries to make eye contact with the young karls drinking across the fire pit. She raises her voice, as a Speaker, and wills them to hear the story under her story. She’s no skald, but she knows tales land like seeds in the hearts of Njords. It might take until next spring, but maybe one of them will grow.

4.

Acid roils in Embla’s aching stomach, partly the hunger and partly the rage. Oddny bumps against her shoulder as they both sprinkle ale over the six – no, seven – fresh graves they were leaving behind in Hrafnastali. Embla has already said her words, made her prayers, and now it is time for her and Oddny’s most sacred of traditions.

When they get back to the road proper, Embla grabs her cousin’s hand, plants her feet, and refuses to look back at Rennet’s shiny new gates. “Fuck this place,” she intones seriously. “And fuck these rich invaders.” Oddny nods, and they hurry to catch up with Katarina and Gren down the long road.