Winds of fortune: song of the lakefolk


Inga stared from atop the rocky outcrop, fishing spear held in hand, clutching her fur hood tight to her head. Though the skies were clear, a chill wind still blew and she shivered as it passed by. Behind her, her two dogs pulled the sled on which she planned to carry the day’s catch. Even now, in the dying days of summer and here in the far north, the Atkonaroq had not quite begun to freeze - and there was still good catching in the water. The stocks of fish were still high, and on a good day, you could expect to fill the sled’s panniers and carriers to busting.

It did not look like it was going to be a good day.

Some quarter of a mile away, on the northern shores of Atkonaroq, dark figures gathered in their hundreds. They looked liked people, clad in large, thick cloaks made of the skin kind of animal. They looked a little like Suaq… but Suaq would wear more than just a thick skin - and as she watched the skins shifted and she saw bare flesh below, muscular and strong. Their hands tightly held sharp spears. Where had they come from? She gasped as four more surfaced from the lake, the skins they wore wet and shiny from the deeps, dripping as they marched forward. Were they… were they swimming from the lake?

As she watched, she saw that they surrounded one central figure. Unlike the rest, he wore no skin - instead, he sat, shivering, naked in the open wind. He stood, arms folded across his chest, looking wistfully at the figures which surrounded him. The wind changed, and the sound of the beach was carried towards Inga - and she realised that he was singing.

He sung of theft in the night, of thieving hands who hunt and hurt. It was a song of fear and his pain, beautiful and terrible. He sung of his lost lover - and here he gestured out across the lake - of his depths in which he could no longer swim. And then his song began to turn to raiding, and war, and righting wrongs: and the figures around him raised a mighty cry.

The dogs began to bark, and some of the figures broke off from the main group and began to head up the hill towards the rocks behind which Inga stood. Swearing, cursing, she hooked the dogs back up, and jumped up onto the sledge. “Ride! Ride!”: the dogs barked and ran, fast and swift, across the snow. Inga glanced back. The dark figures watched from the hill, standing still, silhouetted against the clear blue sky.

No fish today, it seemed.

Unexpectedly, a small armed force of strangely-dressed hunters has started gathering on the northern shores of Atkonaroq, in the far reaches of Semmersuaq. From their camp on the northern shores, they have begun launching peculiar raids on nearby settlements - raids in which almost nobody is harmed and nothing of note is taken. They are by all reports quite determined, but refuse to discuss what is going on or who they are - and their numbers appear to be growing. You can learn what little the Empire knows about these mysterious individuals here → … e_lakefolk

The picture is by Becks (Sunset over Cold Lake) [CC BY 2.0 (], via Wikimedia Commons

The text and hashtags are from Wren Robson.

#bitnippyout #putafuckingcoaton #whoarethesefolkalldressedinskins #whatsanaethelingwhenitsathome