Zel smiled at him.

“How’s this? You get to swing away at me for a full minute, and I won’t retaliate. If you don’t manage to even touch me in that minute, I get to take a swing at you - just one, and I’ll even let you try to dodge. If you still feel like trying afterwards, I’ll give you another minute.”

A short time later, Zel called the nearest druid over to deal with the unconscious man. His jaw was broken in three places; it was as if he had been smashed in the side of the head with an iron hand.

Early morning.

Zefaris used a combination of paper seals and Black Nails to seal the doors and windows to her and Zel’s, as well as Victor’s rooms.

“This ought to be at least on par with that composite seal on the elder’s quarters back home…” she said proudly as she shoved a Black Nail into the keyhole, its colour spreading out like eldritch tendrils across the door following the pattern laid out by the myriad seals plastered over it.

The sleds they used were mounted with immensely powerful lightgems, as were the harnesses for their driving beasts, which were tundra bears. Both groups departed from a hidden depot, nonetheless using the surface disguise of going out to scout a prospective starfall site, guided by Hulson-affiliated sled drivers. Jorfr stayed behind in part due to the ongoing celebration, in part to ensure at least one of the core party was present at the Hulson longhouse, and to look into the version of the Rite of Beast Chaining which previous Hulson berserkers had used, including Gunnar.

Meanwhile…

In her brief skirmish with Eisengeist after the corpse-retrieval expedition left, Red had managed to mould one of her constructs near-perfectly with one of the beast’s broken scales, using a subcore to monitor its location. It had worked quite well for a short while, allowing her to ensure that she received the first of several supply deliveries safely.

Now, however, she found the construct suddenly destroyed, the subcore returning to her.

Suspecting it to be more than just the great beast finally getting rid of the tracer, she followed the core’s return path through the jungle.

A day passed. Things had calmed down by now, mostly.

Fryg had taken Jorfr aside.

“I was… Wrong to treat you as I did. You’ve more than proven that with your actions,” she said to him. She was not lying or forcing herself; the honor system had clearly shown her to be wrong, and though it had been a shock, it was as undeniable a fact of reality as seeing the Seven Suns Equinox in the heavens.

Though he held it against her, Jorfr nonetheless did not hold a grudge against Fryg. He had held one mere months, even weeks ago, but the events that transpired upon his return to Borea had acted to dissolve; he hadn’t forgiven her, but there was nothing stopping him from accepting her apology.

Even if he did so coldly.

Another day passed.

Fryg, as was her habit, broke her fast alone, before other clan members came to the hall. She looked upon the March of God-killers, that magnificent carving which had ever been the centerpiece of the hall, and yet, she didn’t feel the same gnawing, bitter emptiness as it usually elicited. It was still woefully unfinished, and yet, she somehow felt that it may not remain so; despite knowing full well how impossible it was to so much as score a hair-thin line into that unfinished section. A fair number of guards from the affiliated non-ranked families milled about the longhouse, true, but she nonetheless had her peace and quiet in the great hall.

…Peace and quiet which was ruined for her by a moment of unpleasant foresight. Then, sleds in front of the longhouse, followed by the sound of forceful knocking and an all-too-familiar voice. Letting out a sigh, she opened the door.

A familiar and hated face awaited her, backed by a number of muscular individuals, exhibiting bestial traits to a man. The consequences of rushing ahead in any method of Beast Self cultivation.

“Kristina. What do you want?” she deadpanned.

Kristina Ramdall, head elder of the Ramdall Clan, a century younger than Fryg and nonetheless one of the few people she could call a peer, as repellent as that fact was to her. Her youth having coincided with the steep rise of the Pateirian Divine Empire in the wake of their war against the Three Kings, Kristina still clung onto faux-western aesthetics in her own fashion, sticking out wherever she went. The Ramdall longhouse hadn’t been spared her dubious sense of style, either.

Her face was painted with onerous gold-and-silver makeup, hair pinned with a tasteless brooch, an over-designed ivory fan folded up in her hand with which she gestured as if it were a baton.

“My niece returned and blood payment for what that Newman creature did to my son,” hissed Kristine, smacking her hand with the fan.

Fryg narrowed her eyes, hissing right back: “You have no right. Both holmgangs’ terms and outcomes were ratified beneath in the Revenant King’s gaze, in the holy grounds of Ginnungagap Arena. That we are in the right is as clear as glacierglass. If you dare to start a blood-feud…”

“You’ll what? Take your grievance to the council of elders? Or will your entire clan hide in the jungle until the Revenant King next wakes?!” the Ramdall elder cackled in a mocking tone.

For a moment, Fryg let herself slip. The temperature in her immediate surroundings plummeted to forty below zero.

“We will not need to. Heed this warning, and heed it well Kristina: You may start your blood feud, but we will end it, and there won’t be a Ramdall Clan left when we’re done. Do not let your unearned rank cloud your memory of why they call me the Ice Witch, or I shall remind you why the Smoke Witch still hides in that demon lord’s mansion, you feckless nidingr.”

“You dare-” seethed the Ramdall elder.