NEW TRADITIONS [ bloody flanks ]

The Ghost Knife had been a gigantic ship. Dwarfing even the mighty Trespasser that now wore her saw-toothed bow, Thigain's fabled vessel was spoken about more like a floating fortress than a boat, and was said to have carried two hundred raiders to the battle at Skeldr Town. Vidar wasn't sure if there was any truth to that particular statistic, but looking at her vast skeleton, beached now and deconstructed (reconstructed?) into the Bloody Flanks' great hall, he could have believed it. Half-submerged in the snow, cracked open like a god's ribcage and sealed with an insulating wall of ice, she looked like a dead giant, gutted by time.

Resources had been scarce, in the early days. All the clan had had to start their new life --in a time Gidal called the Sorrow when he feeling poetic, which wasn't often-- had been carried north in those ships. Eventually, the vessels themselves made up the town, broken down into lumber. Barnacle-crusted hulls offered waterpoof but inelegant shelter; the frozen earth offered none. It offered nothing at all.

The Ghost Knife herself had been the clan's proudest herald during their proudest era, and in their most desperate one she'd remained their only defender. It would have been a sad story, Vidar supposed, if it had ended there. But there was nothing sad about tonight.

He barely remembered those early gatherings, when the few surviving Bloody Flanks huddled together beneath the cavernous dark of the upturned hull. Tonight the structure's translucent ice wall was glowing with torchlight and dappled with moving figures. He'd never seen the Ghost Knife so full, nor the long tables so heavy with food.

Just years before, in the blight of winter, who would have thought that the Bloody Flanks would ever feast?

There was a cheerful roar when Vidar entered the hall, his crew hollering as he belatedly joined the celebration. The whole clan was gathered to send off their Raiders in grand fashion. Vidar's smile hesitated only a moment as he acknowledged the Trespasser crew's jeering. It seemed too soon to be departing again, but winter was close and before long the ice in the harbor would be too much for even the Trespasser to break through. He wondered if the Ghost Knife would have had an easier time. His eyes trailed up to the high ceiling. It loomed warm, full of golden light. At least winter didn't exist in here.

Shining fruits and vegetables from all over the continent loaded the tabletops, months of transport and slow rotting undone by a whisper of necromancy. Restored to gleaming, off-the-vine freshness, the bounty was signficant: some dishes were cooked, some seasoned with exotic spices foreign to Onea. The room was full to bursting with every dish and hungry stomach available, and loud with celebration. As Vidar moved to the head of the room to join his family, he was elated.

Gidal barely waited for Vidar to take his place at his right hand before beginning the prayer. While he thanked Kaia for their changed fortunes, for their glorious future, and for the might they'd needed to secure it all, Vidar exchanged sideways smiles with Astrid at his shoulder. Gidal asked the goddess to protect their raiders. Vidar followed Astrid's eye to a perfect pear set before him. When Gidal said "Praise Kaia" and the room echoed him, Vidar plucked the fruit she coveted from the plate and rolled it to her along with a look of mischief.

"I suppose I know what I need to bring you," he said of the pear, a rare find from the Sirith wilderness they'd paused to scavenge on the homebound voyage. He gave her head an affectionate bump with his own, and saw Gidal's eye turn his way. Their stern father was as inscrutable as always, but Vidar thought he glimpsed a line of disapproval by his lips. Leaning over the table, he looked past Gidal to Ansgar. His oldest brother towered at their father's side like a twin pair of mountains, emphasizing Vidar's slight frame and petite stature with every impressive breath. Vidar smiled when he caught Ansgar's attention, but knew that his charisma, as always, would run off of Ansgar like dew from a duck.

"Word is, the witch predicted a simple departure for you," Vidar said, rolling a fire-roasted ear of corn towards himself. "Auspicious, given the season. You must be pleased." Gidal seemed to approve of the talk; he departed from his place to join the elders, leaving a vast emptiness between the two captains. Vidar thought he felt a cold draft in his wake. "Have you decided between Sunken Hoof or the Broken Sea?" Vidar rarely ordered his eldest brother's vessel out; the Abaddon came and went at its captain's discretion, an arrangement that suited Vidar fine.

He always found himself treading lightly when he spoke to Ansgar, playing the part of the straight-laced commodore. Ansgar never seemed fooled by the game, but probably preferred it to Vidar's natural character. Vidar wondered, when Ansgar looked at him (the small, tattooed, impossibly foreign him), what did he see? Ansgar wore their father's legacy like a banner. Vidar admired his dedication, but simultaneously believed that it was a flag he would one day be wrapped in. Things that didn't bend eventually broke.

Vidar's eyes roved the gathered faces as the dense crowds dissolved into one another, wandering the room to converse. Children presented raiders with parting gifts, the clansfolk gave sailors their blessings, and, mingled with the joyous uproar, he heard the familiar chatter of his crew.

His gaze stopped on Alcippe, staring clearly at him from across the table. Ah, yes. His dearly beloved. He hadn't even acknowledged her in his father's presence; he was sure he would be scolded for bruising the charade. Tilting his head to produce the interested stare he reserved for their great pretending, he smiled gently into her chagrin. "Ready to set sail, my love?"

He knew it was impossible, but he almost thought he heard Vladimir laugh.