Long travel, long talks. [Closed]

Fraya signals her men to stop and drop what they are carrying, namely a rucksack each and a a hide tent. She turns to address the diminutive ambassador.

"There's the cold, for one thing. Cold like you've never felt, in your expensive houses, with your heating, and your, whaddyacallit, 'hextech'?"

Fraya stares off briefly to her left, as if remembering something.

"We lose people every winter to the cold. The lucky ones get off with losing a finger or an ear at worst, while others...others lose more."

While Fraya talks, the younger of her companions busies himself with striking a flint over a bundle of kindling, whilst the older one pitches the bundle of sewn-together hides that make up the Freljordian tent.

"And those that survive the cold have to contend with wild animals, starvation, and Avarosan raids. There's maybe a half-dozen families at most among us that haven't lost someone near to them within the last five years. With the recent Void invasion, things are only going to get worse for us. We have to work for our meals, and there's no usable soil anywhere near us, so we rely almost entirely on what we can kill. Sometimes food's scarcer than usual, without enough caribou or seal to feed us, and after fights with the Avarosa, well..."

Fraya grins slightly, making it difficult to tell if she's serious about what she's implying.

Fraya smirks, as if what Poppy said was humorous.

"All three have us have been hunting since we learned to walk. We'll have a nice, fat meal before us within an hour."

Fraya turns to the older of her two companions.

"Voll, string your bow and kill something so we can eat."

The man, who's name is apparently Voll, nods silently. He then removes an unstrung wooden recurve bow and a catgut string. He deftly begins stringing the bow. Fraya resumes conversation.

"Tell me, ambassador, if you don't mind me asking. Have you ever killed something off those League Fields. Have you ever consciously ended something's life, knowing that it's not going to come back?"

Voll finishes stringing, digs out a loaded quiver from a rucksack and departs into the woods. Meanwhile, the younger Freljordian is successful in lighting a fire. He dumps a bundle of rocks around the burning wood to avoid it spreading.

"Hammers ain't very popular where I'm from. Might be the scarcity of good steel, might just be how we fight. We favour weapons like this..."

Fraya removes her battleaxe from its position across her back, the intricate engravings on its surprisingly high-quality steel blades glinting in the waning sunlight. She grips the beautifully carved ashen shaft loosely, half-admiring the weapon.

"This can cleave a man in half, right through the bones. As Voll can tell you, he and I once went up against a very upset giant boar. Now, as you've probably seen, these things have tusks big enough to run you through five times over, and a temper that's twice as bad. So, it's charging me, and I think 'I'm gonna die, this is how I die', but then I lie flat on the ground, hold my axe above me, and the beast slits itself open running into it." The worst I came out with were a few fractured ribs and a broken wrist. The pig fed our village for days. All in all, not a bad day."

Fraya takes a whetstone from a pouch on her hip, and begins sharpening her axe's blades.

"Do most Yordles use hammers?"

Fraya seems intrigued by the rock-smashing capabilities of blunt weaponry. Meanwhile, the fire has grown to a more considerable size.

"That's quite the weapon you've got. I almost want bandits to come along to see it in action.

She stands up, gripping her axe without any particular zeal.

"Care for a spar?"

"It's not really combat if you're just hitting a bag of straw over and over again, but preferences, preferences."

It is at this time that Voll returns, carrying a doe over his shoulders. He dumps the carcass in front of the fire and begins flaying it with his rather large knife. Fraya's attention is drawn to the large pile of meat that has just arrived.

"They sure are fat here. Must be all the grass."

Fraya's tone takes a dark turn.

"My people and many in the Freljord value strength above all else. Where we live, only the strong survive. The weak freeze to death, starve, or are killed by those stronger than them. That is how it is, and always has been. Do not question our way of life, you cannot understand it."

Voll prepares a spit, impales chunks of deer meat, and begins roasting them over the fire.

"Very well, ambassador."

Fraya strings her axe across her back again, stands up, walks to the pile of bags, and begins rooting through them. The deer's flesh crackles from the heat of the fire below it, beginning to smell quite delicious. Suddenly, the sharp sound of a twig breaking in the nearby woods resonates through the makeshift camp. All three Freljordians get to their feet in an instant, hands on their weapons.