"Is vert' a try, ja? Mein mother, she heat vater for der midwife ven babies come too soon und dere is no time for der old-fashion vay." A sudden laugh, bubbling up from her very core, what must have been a bottomless well of bottled sunshine. "Ilse, mein seester, she tell me vunce dot ven Mama vos in labor mit Lukas, she," a subtle shift of her words, to indicate her sister's slightly different cadence, a lilting delivery in a higher pitch and tone, "knew der boy vos demanding from der start, und boiled der damn vater herself in moments." An amusing mental image, as it was accompanied by the knowledge that Sigrdrifa, brave, fiery woman that she was, had stared down at her newborn son and promptly labeled him as the cheekiest little tyrant in all of the villages of Brandr. Lukas had grown up sweet, but had never lost that impatience, that cocky precocious streak that marked him as truly his mother's son.
Imenry's opinions on the preservation of the land met effusive nodding and agreement. Aelric himself, her lauded father who loved the land as much as he loved his family, could hardly have stated it better! In the Anderfels, and especially in such remote regions as the outermost jarls held, the land was lifegiver and deathbringer in the same swift stroke. Overhunting of the winter elk and moose who dared the snowy peaks would kill them all just as surely as darkspawn; so would allowing the wolf-packs to multiply unchecked, that their hunger outpaced their prey and the wolves turned to human meat to fill their bellies. It had happened before, in years of scarcity, but Hilda did not hold a grudge against the predators for very likely eating some of her ancestors. It was the essence of a wolf to be a wolf. To expect them to behave otherwise was foolishness. "Dere ver a few of der Dalish at Amaranthine, ja? I deed no haff time for more den a reedle-contest or two before dey leaf mit der odders. I haff neffar met der Chasind or der Avvar, bot I vould like to, eef dey haff as moch luff for der land as hyu do, Imenry." She meant it as a genuine compliment, practically beaming at the other mountain-woman even as she leaned over in keen interest, watching Imenry prepare the sausages.
And then a question that made Hilda sit back and wash her hands clean of blood and herbs with a bit of precious water, her eyes intensely blue in the firelight, more knowing than any girl who had only reached majority on the road to Amaranthine had any right to be. How many lives did she carry with her? "All of dem," she said simply, touching her chest again, the tips of her fingers only but pressed featherlight to her heart. This was the truth of what it meant to be a skald - it meant knowing the kenning of every ancestor between her and that first rebellious Anders that had thrown off the chains of Tevinter control, speaking of each one of them as if she had met every single one and been present for every major event in their lives. It meant a heart wide enough for a whole world unto itself, a soul crowded to bursting with the hopes and dreams and successes and failures of people who had been dust in the earth long before Hilda or Imenry or anyone they knew had ever been born. It meant that one day, when Hilda must return to her people with Albrecht's ashes and his kenning carved out in her mind, that all the people she had meant along the way would journey with her - and then after her, with her apprentices and their apprentices after them, forever, until the world ended and the words were lost.