Ljota

There is something about having a litter of pups that lifts the spirits. Perhaps that's true for everyone, but if so, it may be more true for someone like Heriwulf, who spends so much of his life's energy on the care of hounds that their spirits influence his. In the past he'd always found this cheering up to be welcome, for he tended to be a serious and sometimes dour fellow, his eyes fixed on the pragmatic needs of the day, his heart darkened by the tragedies he'd seen and endured, his outlook tending towards the pessimistic. Or so people told him.

It only took one time making the long hike from Staddle to the lodge, carrying two bales of hay, for Heriwulf to conclude that there had to be another way. Bales of hay don't weigh very much; surely carrying two over the few miles through the Chetwood would be no great hardship, particularly if he had the whole day to do it, two bales at a time over several journeys?

After a few weeks of being the nominal Chieftain of his tiny clan, Heriwulf still hadn't had a moment when the weight of that position fell upon him suddenly, startlingly, uncomfortably. On the contrary, he'd settled into that position quite easily, because it had really had very little effect on anything.

After the moot, and after her little bit of extra chat with Ljota that followed, Hildegund made her way back to her hut. She mulled over some things as she limped along, not hiding it so much now that there was no one to see.

She wished that Home-Wright's joke about bride-price hadn't happened, or that it hadn't hit her so hard. It was still hard for her to think around the memories it had brought up. But nobody knew, and it wasn't anything but a jest. It had kept her from being able to say or ask some things with Snow-Hair and Ljota, but there would likely be other opportunities for those. And perhaps her thoughts hadn't really mattered, anyway. That seemed likely.

Surely the bottom is going to drop out from under me, Heriwulf kept thinking. There would be some moment where the enormity of recent events, of what had happened at the clan moot, would leave him shaking with realizations and perhaps horror at the consequences. The responsibility that was his now. The impossibility of how it had come to pass. The collision between regret for his mistakes and expectations for his future actions.

Even before Radagast's question had been read out, slowly and carefully by Hildegund at the clan moot a few days earlier, Heriwulf had spent a lot of his time thinking about what he could contribute to the small clan. (What should he even call it? It wasn't a clan, but it wasn't like anything but a very small clan. Without a chieftain.

The folk of Bree-land rarely visit the Chetwood that much, and most of those who do, like the hunters and trappers that Hildegund meets during her wanderings and scouting journeys, don't pay much attention to the small lodge that the Woodmen had built. It was easy for Heriwulf to think that it was somehow hidden, but of course, it was in plain sight to anyone who happened to cross the woods from the west, or the marshes from the south, or the hills from the northeast.

Judging by the angle of the fading light, Hildegund was sure she was a bit early for the moot that had been called, but being late was unthinkable. She made her way up the hill to where they'd built the clan-lodge, watching her hound. He'd caught some squirrels not much earlier, and seemed like perhaps he wanted to nap. When she got almost to the building, she pointed to a likely spot in the leaves. "Stay, Fang. Wait." Needing no further encouragement, he sniffed at the place, turned around a few times, and laid down for a nap as the woman walked on.