The Forgotten Battle of Jamtland

The Hibernian raiding party was encamped between the frozen twin lakes near Glenlock Faste. The sentries, stamping their feet in the cold, could just make out the Hildskialf road in the dim light. They were in Midgard, and, like most of their brethren, they longed for that green and pleasant land they called home.

There was a small group of Lurikeens gathered round a small campfire, slightly apart from their larger brethren of Celts, Elves and Firbolgs.

"How much longer till we hit the keep?" complained Twillim. The tiny Mentalist sat near the fire, shivering in his cloak, his teeth chattering.

"We are only a part of this grand raid", said Dorful in a stuffy voice. "There is a timetable to follow. The Captains will let us know when we act. After all, if everyone knew when and where, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, now would it?"

Twillim looked up in annoyance at the white-haired 'Keen Champion across the flames. "Dorfie surely is full of himself as usual today", he muttered to his cousin Astus sitting next to him. Astus snickered and looked for his wineskin.

"What was that now!" said Dorful suddenly. "Seems you two have some free time on your hands! How about collecting some more firewood before your sentry duty?"

Twillim stalked off grumbling, with the complaining Astus in tow. "What did I do?" Astus whined. "You're always getting me into trouble!" Twillim bent to pick up a dead branch on the ground when the first large, fluffy flake landed on the back of his hand, melting almost immediately. He
looked up in surprise.

The gentle fall of snow came down without a sound. It came down heavily; large flakes filled the very air, obscuring vision, clinging to everything they touched, shying away only from the campfires in a swirl of warm updrafts, to settle in some other more welcome spot. Soon, it was like a peaceful white blanket pulled over the land of Midgard.

The two gathered wood as the snow around their shoes got deeper. Strangely, Twillim felt lighter in mood, the wondrous sight of the accumulation filling him with mischief.

"There's a good branch over there Astus!" he exclaimed. Astus, looking slightly puzzled, shuffled through the snow, towards the stick laying on the ground. He bent down to pick it up.

Twillim had scooped up a big handful of of the mushy white stuff and had compacted it between his cold little hands, a silly grin covering his face.

As Astus grabbed the stick, an explosive impact smacked him in the buttocks, exposed from under his cloak by bending over. He uttered a small squawk and lost his balance, and, arms windmilling, he fell face-forward into the fluffy wet mass at his feet.

Those in camp heard a tiny bellow of outrage, followed by a high-pitched giggling. They looked up in wonder at the sight of a furious Astus, wet from head to toe, chasing Twillim, his red-cheeked face plastered with a huge smile.

Twillim ran circles around the campfire as Astus scooped snow up from the ground, flinging it in poorly-aimed rage at the pint-sized Mentalist. Other 'Keens cheered one or the other on, until Bibby the Enchanter made his own snowball, firing it across the fire at Freegus the Shade, who
evaded the globe with ease. "Dunno why I bothered dodgin' it, you casters don't do much damage to begin with now do ya!" piped Freegus as the others laughed.

Dorful came walking up to the fire. "Here now, what's this?" he asked, shaggy eyebrows arching. Everyone stopped what they were doing for five seconds- and then the air was filled with snowballs speeding at the dour little Champion. He raised his shield and blocked every one of the soggy projectiles, and, though he lost his helmet, he was unscathed. Lowering his shield, he grinned widely at the group.

Twillim bent down quickly and scooped Dorful's helm full of snow. "Looks like ya dropped something, Dorfie!" he exclaimed as he jammed the helmet down upon the older 'Keens noggin.

The look of absolute astonishment on Dorful's face was something that all the Lurikeens present that day would always remember with fondness. Before it was all over, the Little Folk had scurried towards the Big People in the raiding party and had bombarded them as well.

The old Celt Hero in charge of the party shook his head and laughed at the men and women of his command as they sallied back and forth, volleying snowballs at each other. It looked to him as if the Luris were getting the best of the Big Folk, as they called them. Perhaps this would be frowned upon among the Guildmasters of Tir na Nog, but he knew better.
"Praise the Mistress of the Grove, 'tis good to see a break from the killing" said Malthrig to himself, a small smile upon his face.

It was said that a Bard finally had to mezz Dorful to calm him down long enough for Twillim to run off, laughing with joy, among the trees.