Ashes of Athenry

The black skies of Ériu wept mist as the scouts arrived.

Two riders crested the ridge at dawn, their horses soaked and steaming, their cloaks marked by ash and blood.

They bore no standards, only the gleam of wolf-tooth clasps at their throats, and the rune of Ullr stitched into their sleeves in thread blacker than pitch.

The guards at Ármóðr's camp parted without question. Word had already reached them: Vetrúlfr's eyes had come.

Inside the command tent, Ármóðr leaned over a table carved from driftwood marked with bone-pegs and blood-ink.

His captains stood in a half-circle; weathered men of war, silent but alert. The fire pit in the center hissed and snapped, smoke trailing upward into the hole cut in the canvas above.

When the scouts entered, they did not bow. They stood tall and removed their hoods; both were young, but hard-eyed and gaunt, their faces wind-worn and serious.