Here where the Lowland wastes met the cold and salty northern sea, a place where wild beasts outnumbered civilized folk and only the sturdiest of crops grew among the rocks and hostile shrubs, was where a large host gathered.
Warriors clad in steel of varying qualities, boiled leather and hides, sharpening their personal weapons, praying in low guttural tones and making sacrifices. The place smelled foul: the odor of improvised latrines, the sweat of horse and men alike, the rot of food that had not been properly handled. None of the rosey charm painted by the Ascalonian troubadours to be found in real war.
It was during the siege of Hunter’s Hold, recently taken over violently by thousands of the western followers of the greedy god, that these events would take place. Here where the famous fall of Óþyrmir had been immortalized by skalds and inspired Rathgarians from all over to gather, to heed his call.
The daughter of the self-proclaimed Emperor of Rathgar, or at least of part of it, was in awe as she walked through the large series of camps that made for a second city around the city, preparing to starve it should they not come out through the gates to meet their iron. And meet them they would, the western troops slowly entering formation by their own gates, ready to sally forth.
It amazed Rannveig to see Clandlanders jesting with their once rivals, the Hafniðr warriors; Lowlanders with their former enemies, the Rathgarians from across the Alnajaf; Ardalings side by side with their once estranged kin from the Thalis; and now her own huscarls, those of the Emperor, along with those that would deny him fealty.
For they all coveted some of the glory Óþyrmir had achieved, and honored the ties of kinship that bound them all, despite their differences. It was his song the one that echoed on the defender's walls, sapping their strength and emboldening the northerners.
And though the greedy sun of the west that demanded utter submission shone brightly, the cold winds of the north knew how to soothe its scorching rays, whispering many things, only for the ears of the wise ones to sense. Rannveig met the white-marred blue of the sky as she felt its breeze against her skin, and smiled. It was not really a whisper here, as it had seemed on her time warring in the south-western islands, but a quiet roar that stirred the heart and cast no doubt about its presence. One would have to be utterly deaf not to notice it.
She, herself, moved in blue-polished steel plate, on top of a white mare, surrounded by the personal guard of her father. A would-be-impressive sight that paled here in comparison with the larger assembly. Not the might of her small company, nor the diamond-like glint of quartz from hairpins on her reddish mane, flowing like flames on the wind, nothing from her or her companions stood out too much here and now, among this vast assembly. This day bore another man's name.