Damp.

That was the word that lingered unceasingly in Unnvald Ursanel's mind as he trudged through the muddy glen, down a steep bank and up the next. Damp. Even with his brown fur-lined cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, the damp still crept through into his bones.

It had been 15 years since the night he'd met the snow-white bear, and in that time Unnvald had grown into a fine man. He had grown tall with a stocky frame, made sturdy from years of traveling and hard living. He kept his long beard braided in the style of his forefathers, and his ash blonde hair was kept short. He held in his hand a gnarled staff, good for traveling but also for his more unusual art, and a pouch full of runestones hung from his belt. 'Put some cloth over one eye and I'd look like the All-Father himself,' he thought amusedly, before his mind turned once more to the oppressive damp.

The Pictish boys had given him less trouble after the encounter with the bear, but that hadn't stopped the whispers and side-glances from people in his village. By the time he was of age, he'd had more than enough, and decided to live his life on the road. In spite of the dangers of beasts and bandits, Unnvald found he quite preferred the wilds. It was far quieter, for one, and gave him more time to think. The more he thought, the more he began to understand how to use his gifts, the ones the Picts had looked at with suspicion and fear. It had been difficult at first, having no one to teach him properly, but as he traveled he found inspiration in the trees and rocks and rivers of Britain. By day he weaved magic on the lands around him, shaping it to his design as a carver shapes stone. By night, he studied the stars, contemplating their mysteries and recording the ways they seemed to affect his magic. In a few short years, the magic he had long tried to keep hidden had become an integral part of him, no different than his hands or his feet.

The traveling life did have its disadvantages, though. The winters were far colder, and the springs far damper, without a roof over your head and a warm fireplace. And there it was, once again his thoughts had returned to the miserable damp. Damn.

As he crested the next rise, Unnvald breathed a sigh of relief. A well-trodden dirt road wound its way before him, curving down through the valley towards a line of trees. Normally he wasn't too fond of roads, as he'd had more than one unfortunate encounter with a highwayman on them, but today he'd settle for some firm ground to walk upon. As he made his way down the road towards the treeline, he noticed a human-shaped figure further down the road. His hand drifted to his pouch of runestones as he approached, just in case the figure wanted trouble. The closer he got to the figure, the more details he was able to take in.

She was a woman, close to his age, with long raven-black hair. She wore a simple traveling dress and a blue hooded cloak, with a pack slung on her back. She appeared to be a fellow traveler, hiking up the road towards him. Unnvald found this sight odd; even the fierce women of the Scotts rarely roamed far in these dangerous times, and never alone. As he was contemplating this, he noticed a glint of metal poking out from behind a boulder off the side of the road near the woman. A helmet.

Unnvald gave a shout of alarm to warn the woman. She quickly turned around as a group of men in tattered tabards and dented helmets seemingly materialized out of the mud on either side of the road — bandits. As Unnvald raced forward to help, the woman withdrew a curious stick from her dress and pointed it at one of the assailants. Instantly he flew backwards, propelled by some unseen force. Unnvald's eyes widened slightly as he witnessed this — the woman was like him.

As he neared the woman, she turned and aimed her wand at him instinctively, anticipating another attack. Before she could cast at him, Unnvald raised his staff and drew a set of glowing sigils with his free hand in the air, causing one of the attackers to shrink into a harmless duckling. The woman gave him a nod of recognition, before turning to another attacker who aimed a jab at her with a spear. Dodging to one side, she tapped the spear with her wand and caused it to dissolve in a shower of sparks.

"Witch!" one of the attackers shouted in Gaelic. "Kill the witch!"

"Try it and you lose your head," Unnvald snarled in his deep baritone voice.

Some of the bandits hesitated (primarily those nearest to the duck). The one who had shouted tried his luck and charged Unnvald. Unfazed, the Norseman reached into his pouch and cast a rune at the attacker's feet. Instantly blinding light erupted around the bandit, who brought his hands up to shield his eyes. The woman took that moment to hit him with a blasting charm, sending him careening into a distant tree. The few remaining bandits glanced at eachother for a moment, before running screaming for the hills.

"Well, that went easier than usual," the woman remarked with a wry smile. "I'm in your debt, sir…"

"Unnvald," he answered with a smile. "Unnvald Ursanel."

"Pleasure," the woman replied. "You can call me Rowena Ravenclaw."

"The pleasure's all mine, miss Rowena," Unnvald chuckled. "It's been a while since I've met a lady traveling these parts, especially one with your talents."

"Indeed!" Rowena laughed. "Me mam told me a proper lass had no business wandering, but she failed to account for my blasting curse!"

"It was quite effective," he nodded. "You must have had a good teacher."

"Only the best, " she confirmed smugly. "Me, myself, and I. Well, and the few books I was able to get ahold of from the local monastery."

Unnvald was impressed. Not only was she a talented witch, she was mostly self-taught AND literate. "Well that does beg the question, why are you wandering?"

"Curiosity," she answered vaguely. At his look of confusion, Rowena added, "the books only had so much, I figured if I want to know how the world works I should go and see it myself."

"I can relate," Unnvald laughed. "I left home for a similar reason. The villagers were never appreciative of my magic, so my parents thought it best if they didn't teach me. So I let the world be my teacher."

Rowena's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean you taught yourself magic? Those spells are your design?"

He shrugged modestly. "It's not so special. Magic is like an art for me, I channel the inspiration that strikes in the moment. I doubt I could do that duck transformation again any time soon.

She pondered this, pacing in thought. "Even so, that's impressive. I wonder if…" Trailing off, she paced a few more steps before coming to a stop and facing him. "That decides it, then. You're coming with me."

"Wait, just like that?"

"Why not? We're both traveling for the same purpose. Between my books and your inspiration, we should have no trouble unraveling all the secrets of magic!"

Unnvald considered this. He'd been used to traveling by himself, and he'd only met this woman a few minutes ago. But she seemed trustworthy enough, and they were both likely safer traveling together than apart. "Very well, we have an accord," he decided. "Traveling companions it is!"

"Brilliant!" Rowena clapped her hands together in excitement. "Come on then, I've heard there's a cave a few miles west of here, they say fey-folk have been spotted there. Could be we'll find something of interest!" And without waiting, she began to march up the road.

Unnvald had to scramble to catch up. He sighed. 'There goes the peace and quiet,' he thought. But try as he might, he couldn't help but like Rowena. She brought a fire and a wit that he already admired greatly. More than that, she actually appreciated his art rather than discouraging him. He smiled as they trekked up the hill. Perhaps this adventure would be a change for the better.