A quiet grunt escapes the Halut-dan's lips as he feels the needle dig further into the back of his head. The quietly taps of wood echo throughout the longhouse, interrupted by the crackling of the fire, as his servant quietly goes to work with working the ink under his skin. A man sits across from him, seated upon sprawled out furs and with his white beard twisted together into a long unkempt braid.
"How many children surfaced, Rogal?" asks the chieftain, his wandering from the man to stare into the fire. "Less than half." Echoes the shaky voice, strained by age. "How many?" the Halut-dan asks again, looking back at him with a twitch of his brow each time the tattoo needle digs into him. The elderly Rogal's eyes shift downwards, "Eight. And one is the one with the side-ways feet.". The Halut-dan sighs, his brows furrowing. "It didn't drown? Odd. Maybe it traded walking for gills." He shifts in his seat, one leg rising to cross over the other. "Only eight, hm. That's less than the last two years.". The elder speaks up, "You're surprised? It was little more than two months that we arrived here. They were raised under sails, and food was scarce. It was a blessing we had as many as we did."
Rogal's words only seem to make the Halut-dan's expression sour even more. "The pickings for shamans are slim. And were the circumstances better, one of them is a reject that would've been left to be claimed by the tide." The Halut-dan rolls his shoulder, much to the frustration of the servant tattooing him. "I want them reading off of water grass within the month.". Rogal's brows rise somewhat, seeming confused. "The month? A month? We both know that's ludicrous-" The Halut-dan's hand rises, and by instinct the elder is silent. "The Fau are growing old. There is no guarantee that when winter comes they will walk among us. The times are dire, and without shamans there's no telling what lies ahead of us." The look Rogal receives is one he's familiar with. A stubborn, set mind. "A month." he says, and then his hand motions the man off.
A nod, a bow, and Rogal climbs up to his feet and readies his walking stick as he heads out. The Halut-dan watches him for a moment or two before he looks over his shoulder at the servant. The young man looks back, nodding before the Halut-dan speaks to him. "Find Hoki. Tell him to take two canoes of men and head down the river, and come back to tell me what he finds down there." The servant nods, sets his instruments aside and wraps them up in hide before grabbing his measly cloak and hurrying out.
Now alone in his hall, the fatigue shows on the Halut-dan's face, his left hand coming over to rub his fingers into the side of his head as he sinks back into his seat. "I beg you sea, make these days just a little bit easier."
The swing of his axe comes down with a sharp sound through the air as he splits wood. Hoki grunts, his right hand coming up and over to rub the sweat gathering at his brow, inviting the cold of the early spring air. He hears the calling of a voice come from behind him, and one of the Halut-dan's servants comes running along. There is a brief relaying of the message and orders, and with a nod Hoki heads off visiting a collection of tents gathering around the edge of the village. With every tent he visits and leaves, another body begins following after him.
Eventually him and a dozen others head over to a grand collection of canoes tied up at the coast- the work of some docks having begun as they pile into some and push out into the water. When they arrive, some supplies enough for a fortnight are set out for them, which they load into their canoes before heading down the river and inland to begin mapping it out.