Title: Hun-Villsvin
Time Period: July 18, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Constance has a few things on her mind, and a spear in her hands.

It wasn't easy, getting Constance out here; a passed note here and there- even that was too much subterfuge for Jorn. Next time, he may just go up and knock for her, to be quite honest. He isn't made for deception. It is also nothing small, whisking a little Rowntree off. He should know- whisking a Ross off requires similar planning. In any case, the order of the evening was to fetch Constance and take her for a dusk hunt while her father kept busy elsewhere.

"Do you see this?" Jorn's voice, as they walk a deer path, comes abruptly and low pitched, during an era of silence, and the young woman following him. His cloak gives him away, visually, though they are as downwind as they can get. He pauses on the grassy trail, turning halfway so that he can point the toe of one boot to a deep hoofprint in the dirt. "It's fresh. But it is a boar, not a deer. See the bigger ones?" His boot points out the deer prints nearby.

"You did well on the tree, but this will move…" Obviously.

Constance will eventually have to just have a good talk with her father and convince him of the use of her current efforts in the woods. Her usual spear is perched in hand- she's not likely to change that weapon out any time soon. After all, it's already slain beasts when she wielded it. It's good luck.

The spear is gripped as the blonde makes her way after Jorn, carefully studying the tracks left by the creature. "There's a big difference, yeah. Deer have those skinny legs anyways, shouldn't be surprised they leave smaller prints." She peers around.

She may not change it out, but Jorn is at least of the mind to remind himself to ask if they can find someone to reinforce it. It won't matter how much she loves it, if it is actually inwardly brittle, and snaps in half. Won't do any good then, certainly.

"There, this is deer." He walks, only to pause again and point out a small pile of …leavings. There is a laugh in his voice. "A lot different from horse shit. There's a field this way, we can check it while we're here…" Jorn shifts from the path and steps off through the brush, bits of leaves and sticks crackling under his boots. He does, to his credit, try to be quiet enough; everything makes some sort of noise, however, and sometimes it is worse to be completely silent.

Following after Jorn, Constance has more than just tracking and hunting on her mind. "What do you think," she begins, "is the best way to bring up a delicate and entirely unexpected topic to someone?" She doesn't preface the question with any sort of indication who or what she's talking about. She creeps along in the brush behind him, eyes careful for any indication of man or beast about other than the tracks and droppings on the ground.

For now, it is still just the two of them. Jorn leads her along at an easy pace, and as they pick through saplings and litter, she can see the grassy field that he mentioned through the trunks of trees. The twilight gives them shadows in the trees, while the sun still catches the sky above the glade, as pinkish-gray light on the clouds. He turns his chin to glance down to her, the question coming as a curious thing. He can't expect her to be completely concentrated on the matter at hand, however exciting that Jorn thinks it is.

"I'm not sure. Sit them down and say it? You know that I don't like to pussyfoot…" That's probably a word he picked up in Dornie. "At least, with the unexpected part. Delicate needs delicacy. Is something the matter?"

"It's not the matter so much as I'm not sure exactly sure how to explain things to my father," Constance says, pursing her lips. She follows along, and though she does seem focused, the idle chatter doesn't seem to distract her too much. "I want to… explain things to him. I want him to understand what I want to tell him and I want him to take me seriously. I am not a child."

"Ah." Jorn's devout understanding seems to come out in that one moment of vocalization. He considers her words for a few moments, even after she has finished. The northman sniffs idly, scanning the field through the trees, and only deigning to answer Constance when it appears he may not answer at all.

"You could kill something for him." Perhaps she should have expected that. But as Jorn is Jorn, he says it with the utmost seriousness. "Nothing like dropping something fresh at the door and demanding he stop treating you like a fool." For some reason, he hesitates at the last word.

"The boar is out there, digging. I can hear him, not see him." And true- once he falls silent again, a distant, almost imperceptible huffling can be heard across the grass. It is probably digging at the roots on the other side, where the trees begin again.

"Do you think we can catch it by surprise?" And by we, she means herself. Constance is seriously considering the idea of a boar delivered to the feet of her father. It's a tempting offer. "I'd like to prove myself like that… it's kind of part of my vision. I think… I want to be a figurehead, of sorts. I've been thinking a lot on that, on my acting, on what my father wants, on what everyone other than me wants."

She lets out a slow breath. "Those children saw me as a hero… and that was when I saw me being like that. I want to be a warrior, I want to be someone who is looked up to… not feared like my father, but someone that people feel protects. There's the acting… I have to make myself appear and look a certain way for everyone who sees… does that make any sense?"

She falls into silence again, peering very carefully around in the direction of the boar.

Jorn watches her with those icy pale eyes of his, mouth unmoving. He looks out over the grass again, stooping and creeping around to Constance's other side, to begin making his way around the glade. Yet, he stops, and turns his head back over his shoulder.

"Why act?" Keeping his movements slow, he turns away again to keep onward. There's no better person that knows how to be a warrior- and Jorn Wartooth has not told Constance Rowntree that she cannot do what she wants to do. A good sign, in that such words are missing.

"Because I'm not strong enough. I have too many flaws. I can smooth things over the surface and keep myself presentable in all situations by acting. It's a role to take on. I want to be the hero of the story. The hero my father is not. Dornie needs a hero," Constance grips her spear, following after Jorn.

"I'm Duncan Rowntree's daughter. People don't know what I'm capable of. Hell, I'm just finding that out… he doesn't always see himself in me but there's still a lot there. I'm stronger than people take me for… I think I proved that well enough during the trip." Her words are serious, just as her expression. "You're a warrior Jorn. Do you think it could work? I'm willing to put the effort in. I'd much rather do that than listen to my father pair me off like one of Edmund's horses for breeding."

Jorn seems to dislike the idea of pawning off women just as much, if she goes by the wrinkle of his expression. Not to say it doesn't have advantages, but not when it isn't a mutual thing. He and Duncan disagree on many things, but somehow that makes whatever is there a little more solid.

"You are your mother's, too, so I hear." Jorn casts another look back at her, pausing every few steps to listen for the animal still digging. "You're right. It does. And if you want to learn how to look like one, I can help- but-" He stops again, craning his head to the clearing, and back to her. "It won't do, for us to go about skulking like this." One, people talk. Two, Duncan will find out eventually.

"Even if you ask some of the militia women, you'll need to tell him. Not everything, mind you." She can leave out the hero stuff, accordingly.

Constance nods slowly, keeping pace with the larger man. "I don't have a problem with telling him. I just think that it might be difficult for him to take me seriously." She lets out a breath. "And I don't want to just be a warrior who happens to be a woman… I want to be a woman warrior. There are all kinds of tales of women like that. I've read stories."

Her eyes go back to where the boar is, holding her spear up at the ready. "I want to take this one down."

Stories? Jorn has seen them. Fought against them, alongside them. The grittier world he came from didn't care about what did or didn't dangle. It mattered only that you could wreck something with efficiency.

"Yes. I've heard them too." The ones that Constance has likely heard. Morrigan, Badb, Macha, Scathach. Granted, he is more familiar with Shieldmaidens and everything north of here. The similarities are there. The tall man crouches down now, and they can see the bristly back of the pig, turned at them, nose digging in a tangle of roots.

"Remember what I showed you… you will have to get closer than me. Keep down. Freyja veilede din spyd."

"Right," Constance murmurs. She crouches low, spear gripped as hand as she recalls all of the instructions given by Jorn. Stalking forward, she looks entirely as if she were convinced she were born to be the one spearing down boars.