Later that day, Latgalay decided to master her connection to the raven. She focused on its vision, on its senses, on its position, which she could feel coming from off in the direction of the village proper, but further away, on the far side, it would seem. She needed a quick task to try and focus the raven upon, to test this mastery. And she did have an idea.

Morwen, she thought the poet’s name. Show me Morwen, she willed towards the raven.

In return, she sensed confusion. Perhaps the raven did not understand what she desired? Perhaps ravens were simpler than she had been led to believe. And as she thought that, she sensed irritation coming off of the raven. Perhaps the raven could understand her thoughts directly?

Then I command you, Latgalay thought, Find me the poet.

The raven gave her the sensation of an eye-roll. She even saw the world spin as he exaggerated the motion. The raven dares to roll his eyes and disrespect me? She thought angrily. The raven rolled his eyes once more.

This went on for what was an embarrassing amount of time; Latgalay attempting to command the raven, and the raven rolling his eyes and otherwise ignoring her commands. It was not until Latgalay thought to try tact, that she got anywhere with the bird.

Please show me the poet, Latgalay thought.

Confusion, the raven sent.

Latgalay felt glad that they were once more back to confusion, instead of the raven deliberately ignoring her orders. But despite this progress, she still felt annoyance that the bird failed to understand her intent. This time, however, before Latgalay tried and failed once more, the raven ‘spoke’ first.

Person? The raven asked. Man?

“Yes!” Latgalay said aloud, before thinking it, Yes.

Face? The raven asked.

What did the raven mean by that, Latgalay wondered. And then it struck her. The raven did not know what the poet Morwen looked like, nor where the poet was, so the raven could not find him. She thought of what Morwen looked like, and of the long house in the village. It took longer than the simple thoughts such as yes or no previously took, but eventually Latgalay felt the idea of Morwen’s face transfer across their bond.

Will find, the raven sent.

And the raven flew down from where it had perched in a great fir, and soared over the village until finding an opening in the long hall, where he perched in a shadow among the rafters, watching the poet Morwen.

Of note, was the raven’s patience. For the raven sat there unmoving for several hours, watching the poet as he spoke and gallivanted through the room, praising the chief, and dealing ruthlessly with all else. But after those hours passed, then she saw what she had been waiting for.

There in the hall, with the king, with the lesser feast, there was a strange woman in strange clothes, who must have hailed from Boldjay’s tribe. And as Morwen had described, the woman was fair, though not so beautiful as to drive Latgalay to envy. At her hip sat a short bearded axe, and she wore a long green tunic, and wore tall suede boots. This was a woman of at least some wealth and position, and Latgalay felt a sudden pang of worry. Perhaps, perhaps Latgalay had erred. But what was done, was done.

Morwen carried a horn of mead to this woman and toasted her. They drank, though the woman’s face shared little of the poet’s mirth, if any at all. If anything, the woman looked as though she were humoring the poet, and nothing more. In fact, minutes later, the woman scowled at what the poet had said. And knowing the poet, whatever he had said was offensive in all ways. But soon, soon that scowl faded, and her face slackened, and Morwen led her by the hand to a side room, partitioned off by cloth and mudded walls. Latgalay urged the raven to follow, and the raven did.

It should not be long now, Latgalay thought.

Morwen began undressing himself, first his belt, and then his tunic, before he forced the woman to kiss him. She tried to turn her head, but Morwen did not relent.

Had Latgalay done the disservice for which Morwen had requested, then Latgalay would truly despise herself. However, Morwen had been only the medium for which Latgalay’s intent was carried.

As Morwen groped the woman, this Hand of Boldjay, the woman jerked and shuddered, and a stream of vomit flew from her mouth and onto Morwen’s bare chest, running down his stomach and thighs. Morwen stepped back and shouted in disgust and surprise. As he tried wiping the mess off of himself, he was slow to notice that the woman was not finished. She continued jerking, continued vomiting, until only foam was frothing from her mouth. She fell back to the furs and continued to shake, until everything seized up in a rictus.

At this point, Morwen noticed. And unfortunately for him, others had noticed the cry as well, and a serving girl rushed in to find him, and the soon-to-be-dead Hand of Boldjay. From there, the chief was summoned, and the chief was most displeased.

Latgalay could not resist and she urged the raven closer to better listen in.

~

“Is she dead?” Jaxtos asked, not going near the Hand of Boldjay. The woman still twitched, foam still falling from her mouth, though her eyes bulged lifelessly. “Is it catching?” He asked, wondering if he need be concerned with others falling to this mystery illness. Jaxtos noted that his poet was stained and in a compromising position, though he was quickly dressing himself. Jaxtos began to feel unease, as the weight of the situation settled upon him.

“What have you done?” Jaxtos asked. It appeared Morwen had pulled the chaste woman aside, and had been there, present in her last moments. Which could open a grave conflict with Boldjay’s tribe, since the poet was the voice of the chief.

“I–” Morwen started to explain, but was interrupted when the Hand of Boldjay’s companions arrived. They ran to the woman’s side and quickly listened to her chest.

“She is dead,” The Hand’s warrior companions said. “Why?” The Hand’s warriors turned to the poet and to the chief. “Who did this?”

The chief looked to Morwen and Morwen coughed and looked to his boots.

“It was you?” The warriors said, one of them stepping towards the poet.

“Let us not be hasty,” The chief said, hoping to give his poet time to find a suitable excuse.

“Indeed,” the poet said, and a moment later, he found his words. “For the maiden appears to have been blighted by the spirits. Unless you think myself capable of such magic as to do this.” Morwen waved at the dead woman. “Were it by blade or blunt weapon, surely one of us could be blamed. But as you see, this is not the case.”

The warrior considered the poet’s words, and looked again to the dead Hand of Boldjay, uncertain. “It could have been poison,” he said.

The poet scoffed. “Do you think my word or rhyme potent enough to poison her such as this?”

“No, of course not,” the warrior said with scorn. “I meant a physical poison, not your words, though they be taxing.”

“While I may be most knowledgeable,” Morwen said, “I assure you of herbs and mushrooms I am not. I could not have done this. Only the spirits. Or one knowledgeable on such, which I am not. I assure you.”

It seemed a weak argument, but it cast enough uncertainty that the warriors refrained from striking the poet down and beginning a war. And it caused enough uncertainty that the chief could seize the argument and skirt the blame of this unfortunate happenstance.

“We will inform our druid and chief of this,” the warriors said. “And may Boldjay decide if this was in truth a spirit, or if in deed a murder.”

“Pass along our sympathies and sorrow,” Morwen said. “And please find what the Hand of Boldjay did to deserve such ire from the spirits, if only to prevent this tragedy from befalling any of us who survived this night.”

“We shall see,” the warriors said, and the two companions of the Hand of Boldjay departed, leaving the body for the chief to burn.

~

Later that night, once the raven tired of the long hall, and Latgalay grew drowsy from her watch, she went to sleep with a smile upon her face. She had both removed the Hand, who had been there to collect Latgalay for another seven years of servitude. And as an added delight, Latgalay had caused the poet shame. She cackled as she nodded off to the realm of dreams.