When one sets foot on foreign land, they must carefully consider how their appearance might alter first impressions. If one is there for purposes of war and plunder, then there is no reason to arrive in anything but their best armor and equipment. If one is there for more gentle purposes, however, then there is need to pick and choose what to take and what to leave behind.
A man in heavy armor and armed to the teeth is an implicit threat and, if you are there with peaceful intentions in mind, it could well be considered an insult. You would be declaring that you do not feel safe in the home and lands of your host, souring relations before they can even set out to sea. They may even decide to give you a reason to feel unsafe.
Likewise, a man without any measure of weapon or defense at all is a man to be concerned of. Why does he travel without any means to defend himself? Is he stupid or foolish—and, thus, a man of unpredictable action—or, perhaps, he was robbed? In which case, there are far greater concerns to worry away the mind with than the intentions of a weaponless man.
So, to make the best first impression on any would-be hosts, the traveler should dress themselves in their normal traveling clothes but take care to arm themselves with weapon and shield. Choice of battle-tool is of lesser concern, but a sword should be kept in its peace-bonds lest the naked iron cleave good sense from the minds of men. A bare sword is ready to fulfill the only purpose of its make; killing other men.
With the lessons of her past in mind, Halla garbs herself in black wool cloth and drapes her ash-spun cloak about her shoulders. From her belt dangles her sax, Ashen Kiss, while an iron-rimmed shield sits slung across her back. Sagaseeker takes his customary position in her hand as she and Abjorn—who walks with spear in hand, a thick sax on his belt, and a helm on his head—follow the tugging at her soul.
Up the coast they travel, fine leather boots made for day-long walks sinking lightly in the sandy shores. Clouds conceal the majority of the sun's ire, draping the travelling pair in cloaks of shadow while the sea blows cool breezes across their necks. It is a fine day for landed travel by all factors.
"You keep glancing at Asveig's amulet," Abjorn idly notes as he steps around a shock-claw crab's burrow, the beasts giving them little trouble after Abjorn snapped the biggest of the lot over his knee.
"Do I?" Halla says, quickly pulling her hand away from the iron circle.
"Nothing wrong with it," Abjorn shrugs before pausing, nostrils flaring as a raised hand signals stop. "Follow my footsteps, someone's left ship-bane here."
Halla winces as the words dreaded by all shipmasters floats through her mental sea. Ship-bane, a type of coral that violently explodes when met with enough force, is often buried on war-zone beaches to prevent hostile ships from landing supplies and/or men. Only rarely is the ship-bane dug up once the war ends, meaning that patches of beach all across the Norse world are no-go zones for the wise shipmaster. At least until the coral dies off, which can take a decade or more.
While ship-bane isn't normally triggered by footsteps, one can never be too careful when dealing with such dangers. So Halla follows her husband closely as he leads her through the field, only to pause as the tugging shifts ever-so-slightly.
"Tugging's changed," Halla says as she taps her Abjorn on the shoulder, "turning north."
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep whiff of the air, a deep frown soon creasing his face, "There's lots of men that way, I can smell their latrines from here."
'Lots of men, eh?' Blackhand notes as Halla and Abjorn turn north, making their way through the ship-bane field until connecting with the grasslands proper, 'And a ship-bane field... I reckon there's a warcamp over that-a ways.'
"Blackhand says that it might be a warcamp," Halla says as Abjorn nods, eyes locked to the shallow sweeping hills. "Could also be a city. Isn't Tonsberg supposed to be pretty big?"
'Probably Tanglehair's camp, I don't remember Tonsberg being in these parts.'
"You don't remember a lot of things," a scoffing grunt is Blackhand's answer as a cheeky grin crosses Halla's face.
"We're about to find out," Abjorn clicks his tongue as he nods towards the approaching hill.
Cresting the hill, Halla is met with a forest of banners and a sea of tents. Hundreds, if not thousands, of men mingle and linger amongst the cloth-boughs of their man-made woodlands. So great is the collection of arms and armor that Halla's eyes are forced to counter-spark the blinding light of the sun's reflections, even as clouded over as it is. Poor Abjorn can only shade his eyes with a hand, his pupils pinpricks through the slits of his eyelids.
There can be no mistaking such a sight; this is an army at rest, ready and willing to make war upon all their foes.
Amongst the woolen leaves, a certain branch catches Halla's eye. Fluttering in the wind is a banner of blue with designs of golden thread. The side view of a wolf's head sits encased in a wide swirl; the mark of the Ulfhednar, the warband of the Kings of Vestfold. This is Tanglehair's camp, no doubts remain in Halla's mind.
But, that is not the only banner to find her attention, for a foreign yet all-too familiar sight meets her gaze. Uncolored wool drifts with a design of a swooping raven on its face, its wings a collection of sword-like feathers.
"That our destination?" Abjorn asks as Halla's lips thin. The tugging is taking her in the direction of the warcamp, but is it leading her to the camp or merely through it?
"Maybe," Halla mutters as she considers her options. Any armed men approaching a warcamp are either friend or foe, there can be no in-between. She will have to be very cautious if she wants to avoid making any commitments one way or another. It may well be best to just avoid the camp all-together, but...
Those banners belong to kin and kith.
[ ] Avoid the camp
[ ] Enter the camp
-[ ] Approach the Ulfhednar
-[ ] Approach the raven banner
0~0~0
AN: This was pretty fun to write.
