They were a decent people. Not proud, not proud at all, like the men who lived in the south and bore their crests with pride, beating their chests with pride. Not wealthy either, like the men who came from the sea in longboats, with spices and tanned leather and warm, downy blankets made from material that was unlike even the downy feathers of three-day-old chicks. Certainly, they weren't smart, like the sages who performed their rituals and analyzed faerie circles. They lived in dens of straw, the leaders getting longhouses of stone, and they grew, they milled, they lived. They weren't the best at anything, but their lack of a peculiar nature, lack of rituals beyond what they needed to do to survive the winter and winters to come, helped them grow into happy people, fat in summer and spring, lean in winter and fall.

Cullain was one of them, good at milling, but his hand was unsteady and slow when he threshed the wheat. He was quiet, and, while not necessarily unintelligent, he possessed a slow quality about him. Some joked that he was the distant cousin of a Troll, but only inherited some of the body and all of the mind. The opposite could be said of his dear brother, Santtu, who was pale, and had an odd knack for chatting with the traders, even the silver-tongued ones who brought many a hapless farmer to financial ruin with their clever talking. Some said he was a displaced member of the cold, studious people of the north. The two were strange, tall and short, skinny and strong, smart and slow, and, appropriately, as the two only bared the slightest resemblance to their father and mother in that they were both human, they were dubbed 'The Bastards'. Not the kindest name, but, as their talents were known, the name went from derogatory to a cheerful epithet. Everyone knew that one of the Bastards could get them a fair deal, and the other half could carry bundles of wheat on par with a well fed mule.

The two had finished their work for today, clay mugs of a straw-yellow beer moving from lap to lips as they watched the sunset, the longer summer days allowing them to stay up for a bit longer. Cullain leaned back against a tree stump, taking a sip and wiping his meager stubble of the foam as he glanced over at the colors again, yellow turning to orange, turning to red, turning to purple. He didn't necessarily understand the joy and ritual around sunset, as it was just a different set of colors in the sky. However, he knew his brother, who, at a glance, was analyzing the colors very deeply, had a tendency to wander if not directed, and so he was content with relaxing outside, letting the warm summer winds wash over him.

"There's smoke." Santtu finally said, breaking the silence.

"Mm?" Cullain got up, and, with a closer look, nodded. "So there is."

"It's not cold out, and it's well beyond time to cook."

"Maybe they just need the light?"

"Then, they'd light a torch."

Cullain recognized where this was going, and looked back to his home, then to the smoke wisping up towards the horizon. They had an hour, most likely, and he knew where Santtu was going with this.

"Maybe we should go see what's happening?"

Exactly.

Cullain got up, helping his brother up and nodding, starting to make towards the smoke, walking through the rows of crops, head to the sky to see that wisp curling and grasping towards the burning yellow sun, the colors bleeding and burning around it. He then promptly rubbed his eyes, looking forward instead, brushing away loose sprigs of wheat, until finally, the endless rows of wheat stopped, and they reached the edge of a plateau. Looking down, they saw the lower village, a bit swampier, they grew better barley. Cullain crossed his arms and looked down, but he could barely see through the smoke. People were out and about, certainly, he could see heads and legs running, but voices were deaf beyond a few incomprehensible cries peaking out from the crackling of the flames, spewing a thick, oily smoke which the summer winds lifted, and stripped until it was that one curling tendril the two had seen.

"Oh, my god." Santtu marked a cross on his chest, holding his heart.

"Perhaps a fire?" Said Cullain, unhelpfully.

"We should get help."

"Perhaps." Cullain recognized that this fire was certainly not just a job for the two of them. They needed more men, strong men.

At that moment, a spear, ugly, black, and cast-iron was thrown between them, making a tremendous sound as it cracked the air and slammed into the dirt with a plume of dust, and the source of it made itself known shortly after.

Raiders were uncommon, but by no means rare, however, the two had never seen one quite like the spear-thrower. Usually, they were a grim sort, more concerned with profit with weapons for show. Take the cattle and dried meat, with a few kegs for the road, and leave. Never, ever before had the two brothers see one that had been so furious. His hair was a dark red, and matted to his head with a sticky, dark fluid, his eyes wild and mostly pupil by that point. His chest was heaving, and on his back were several more spears just like the one between the two. Bellowing out a war cry that ended in a wheeze, he ran at them, which prompted the two to finally run into the rows, never turning back at the yelling and crackling behind them.

Soon, they'd reach the end of the rows, panting and gasping for breath as they take cover behind a neighbor's hut, Santtu holding a hand over his mouth in an effort to mute his gasping for breath, Cullain listening closely. A few steps, the faint sound of yelling, the crackling of dry summer wheat being trampled. A familiar sound rang out as a spear soared through the air, and then another crack. This time, the spear found flesh, a scream sounding out, echoing through the rows of grain. Cullain cracked his knuckles, his eyes going dull when that scream reached his ears. Santtu watched as his brother stood up, coming out from behind the thatch hut and staring the berserker in the eys. Santtu swallowed, and ducked away to the side of the house.

Cullain beat his chest, showing teeth as he approached the berserker, who let out an inhuman bray, grabbing another spear from his back, his fingers going pale as he gripped the cold iron hard, slamming the spear into the ground and kicking up dust. The taller brother frowned, gripping the spear in the fallen farmer, leaning down while keeping an eye on the berserker, touching the farmer's bloody shirt. No heartbeat. Grunting, he grabbed the spear, ripping it back out of the flesh and pointing the dripping end towards the berserker, who gave a wide, wide smile, gleefully charging the taller male, swinging the spear in undisciplined, but forceful slashes, the brother going back to his childhood days of pretending to be a proud knight to block the blows, sometimes pushing the lean berserker back with a shove of his spear shaft, to give himself a second or two to breathe. However, it seemed to be an uphill battle, the Berserker had boundless energy even as Cullain grew ever more tired, and he could likely only take two or three more rounds before he'd have to drop the spear. Cullain was strong, but he was no soldier.

The berserker himself was quite annoyed, however, he found that he had a better range of movement as his load was suddenly lightened, feeling as if his spear had fallen off. He only realized how wrong he was once one of his own spears pierced his belly, and then pulled up, gutting him and pulling him back, flailing, from Cullain. Santtu, summoning his meager strength, shoved the berserker back to fall and bleed out on the floor, the jagged, poorly forged metal acting like a serrated blade. The two smiled at each other, a short smile, as they immediately went in separate directions, running from row to row and warning families, farmers, urging them to duck into the forest, to cover themselves in leaves and straw. Wheat, they could replace. Houses, they could rebuild. But, without manpower, they had nothing. So they hid in the damp soil, pouring dead grass and hulls over themselves to keep themselves hidden from raiders. They kept like that 'till nightfall, sleeping in their makeshift blankets of dead plants, and, at morning, they awoke.

They were not brave, else they'd repel the attack with everything they had. They were not smart, else they would've hid earlier. They were not clever, else they'd have disguised their lands better. However, when day came, and their houses were shattered and their crops were slashed, their true quality came about. Hardly dismayed, they worked. They laughed, they joked, they smiled as they built back their homes, the community working together to get back into shape. It was summer, so long as they had a nice house before fall came, they were fine. Their determination, their stability, that was their quality, and the Bastards, Santtu and Cullain, who had kept calm under intense pressure, dispatching threats by working together by acknowledging their differences, represented the community best of all. They didn't ask for much, and they didn't get much beyond an extra mug of beer after the hard day's work, and a story to tell when attempting to pick up pretty girls.

So, the community lasted, and endured. Mere survival isn't a quality, but being able to thrive under duress, being able to bounce back after intense pressure, that was their pride.