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Saga
Jan 21, 2019 22:00:01 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 21, 2019 22:00:01 GMT
((This is a viking-inspired roleplay, so don’t expect everything to be 100% accurate. Anyone who joins is free to play around in terms of tradition and ritual, whilst their Gods are still the same other parts may be made up.))
The trickle of the stream was soothing, the water lapping gently against rocks of blue-green hues. The body of water ran busily down the hill and speared across a clearing, widening as it went. In the belly of the water, pebbles sheathed in moss took on the look of precious gems, but were soft to the touch rather than harsh and solid. Every now and again a large rock would break the surface of the water, reaching for the sky and providing resting platforms for the many dragonflies that skirted the water’s surface. The stream was teeth-achingly cold and crystal clear, and small fish could be seen flitting between rocks and into crevices, appearing to be streaks of quicksilver as the light caught their glistening scales. Birds could be heard amongst the trees, trilling gently in the warm afternoon sun, which poured through the gaps in the latticed leafy canopy like liquid gold, dappling light on the forest floor.
A low grumbling huff announced her presence first, but was soon followed by the great beast herself entering the clearing. She paused for a moment, and appeared to take in her surroundings, her wet nose lifted to the taste the air. Her jaw slack, she emitted a low whine, and promptly her cub joined her, ambling out from the shadows and completing the tranquil scene. They stopped to drink at the water’s edge, wetting their snouts as they greedily quenched their thirst.
Standing in the shadow of a nearby tree, the man watched.
He was tall and well built, his dark tunic relatively plain apart from an intricately hand-stitched design around the neckline and the sleeves. A thick belt that would normally hold a leather scabbard was for the moment void of such, as instead of a sword he held in his hand a bow, and strung across his chest was the strap for the leather quiver resting on his back. The bow itself was well-made, it’s limbs intricately carved with complex knot-work designs, and at odds with his otherwise simple clothing, which were purely practical, revealing him to be a hunter- the few embellishments intentional lest they capture the eye of his prey. His dark hair was long, twisted and braided in a way so that most of it was pulled away from his face, and his beard short. Perhaps the most striking part of his character were his piercing blue eyes, so light that sometimes they appeared almost grey. Besides him, sitting crouched in the long grass was a child, his small stature and attempt at remaining hidden meaning he may well have been missed at first glance. He was no older than 12, and yet he also grasped a bow and possessed the steely-eyed gaze of a hunter. His hair was an auburn colour, and matched the colour of his eyes. At the moment, the focus of both was clearly fixed on the beasts down at the stream. The man knew that the mother bear was aware of her small audience, he was clearly standing in sight, for one thing, but he knew that even if he were hidden, she would have already have scented his presence. Despite this, she had evidently decided that there was no threat to her here. And she was right, judging by the easy way that the man stood, one hand on the rough bark of the trunk of the tree next to him, watching the scene with interest but with no sign of lifting his bow. Thirst quenched, the animals continued lazily about their business, disappearing into the thicket from where they had come, and only when the mother and her cub had disappeared from sight and they could no longer hear her lumbering footsteps, did the two humans begin to move again.
“Why not the bear?” The child asked, as they began to pick their way down the rocks. For a moment the man didn’t reply, the water coming up almost to the neck of his scuffed leather boots as he crossed the stream with easy, wide strokes, walking in the opposite direction that the beasts had gone. When the man did speak, his voice was low and calm, rumbling in a way that commanded attention, and yet, with the edge of a tease to his tone. “We were not hunting a bear, were we?” his eyes flitted to the boy for a moment before returning to their path ahead. “If you kill everything that moves there will be nothing left to observe. Besides, the God’s don’t reward greedy hunters.” On the other side of the stream, he stopped, waiting for the boy to catch up, before speaking again. “Now. Where did your deer go?”
***
The two had been gone for around a week, and despite this, Turid had not feared for her son. He had left a boy and he would return a man, having faced all kinds of perils, learning how to survive in the wilderness alone, how to hunt for oneself and how to read the land. So, as the days had stretched on, she had kept her eye on the horizon, waiting for the moment when she would see their silhouettes against the setting sun. Now, she was sitting in the aged chair of her husband, watching the dying embers of the fire, twisting a lock of her auburn hair between her fingers. He too, was gone, but for a much shorter time than her son, having headed over to their neighbouring village. A low murmuring from outside broke her from her musings, especially when it changed to cries of excitement. She knew immediately what this meant, leaping to her feet and running to the doorway. However, she paused just before the heavy door, collecting and composing herself before pulling it open.
***
The boy had done well, from tracking their wounded quarry to dispatching it the way the man had taught. They had let a fair amount of blood run from the creature’s neck to whet the ground where it had fallen, and then the man had grabbed it by it’s ankles, swinging it onto his shoulders, it’s head lolling at his side and hitting his waist. It was a young buck, the antlers probably it’s first set, and the boy’s first decent kill, having only felled rabbits beforehand. A perfect climax to the week and a testament to what the boy had learned. The man carried it most of the way back, but upon nearing the village, had handed the creature to the child. Although the boy sank under it’s weight, a grin was splitting his face from ear to ear as he proudly and unsteadily walked back into the settlement. No sooner had he stepped foot on their lands had he been accosted by people, voices raising in praise at the sight of his kill and his return, hands slapping his back, such touches sending him stumbling stumbling a few paces with his heavy load. But even as he struggled, pride alone kept him from dropping his kill, taking it all the way to his house, where he was finally able to let the carcass drop to the ground, right at the feet of his mother, standing in the doorway.
That evening they feasted on the buck in the great hall, as well as all manners of foodstuffs. Most members of the village fit into the expansive building, free men and women as well as slaves, pitching in with good food, mead and wine. A great, roaring fire sat in the middle in a long trough flanked by two long tables laden with food. Here and there were small round tables and chairs drawn up wherever they could fit, torches burning merrily on the walls to relieve the gloom, and everywhere, rowdy men and woman, wine-fuelled laughter raised high and echoing off the wooden walls.
“Thank you, Fellbjorn, for taking care of my son.”
The man had been conversing with two others, their voices raised in laughter and a rowdy conversation that had ended in the man in question playfully shoving another away, with a strength that would have knocked anyone but such a warrior off his feet. Her words drew his attention immediately, and he fixed her with that mischievous smile so characteristic of him. “The little prince did well.” He replied, straightening up and raising his flagon towards where the boy sat, currently basking in well-earned praise. “He took care of himself.” He dismissed, raising the drinking horn to his lips, but Turid did not leave at his words, stepping closer for a moment, commanding his attention once more as he paused. “Yes, but he would not have been able to without your teachings.” She spoke seriously, wanting him to take her praise, to understand just how thankful she was for the man taking on the role that he had. Fellbjorn’s eyes twinkled then, and it was evident why as he next spoke, adopting a look of mock surprise. “Sister, are you… giving me praise?” At that she rolled her eyes, immediately regretting her words, and the other two men began to laugh as she pushed her brother away roughly, his face splitting into a boyish grin in response.
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Saga
Jan 22, 2019 2:24:11 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 22, 2019 2:24:11 GMT
The abbey lands were green this time of year, almost as emerald as the hills of his homeland. It had taken a year to be trusted with this, but it was well worth it. And abbey life was not the challenge it was so often seen as.
The stallion’s hooves beat at the ground in a steady rhythm, easily loping past the fields and earning a few bemused glances by the farmers that worked them. It wasn’t that uncommon a sight now, but envious glances were made at the magnificent grey that raced past. All in the name of caring for the animal, and keeping him strong.
It was the rider that earned a few wayward glances, his red hair flashing in the sunlight as it was whipped back on the near wild ride. Some of the looks sent his way were disapproving of the Celt, but some were curious still how such a beast could be controlled so easily without the use of a saddle, only the bridle. The Celt liked to irk the locals when asked about his riding, crediting the goddess Epona for his skills. It was only because he belonged to the monastery that he could get away with such quips. That, and the fact that he was usually on horseback when asked anyway.
Near the edge of abbey lands, the pair finally stopped for a break, drinking eagerly from the stream that flowed, a tiny rebel against the larger river farther north. The stallion enjoyed the exercise as much as the Celt enjoyed the freedom it brought and the memories of home. Once a warrior, a master of riding any horse, the still fairly young man was ideally suited to the tall stallion, with a wiry but solid build that belied his strength. His hazel eyes were sharp and he was quick to a smile as the stallion nosed him before resuming grazing, the Celt idly watching the clouds above as he rested against the cool grass. His clothes were simple, a sleeveless shirt and pants a size too big, held in place by a belt and boots that were clearly a donation to the monastery. Circling his left bicep, however, was the mark of a warrior - a blue tattoo, two bands over a series of knots that formed before traveling to the next. It matched the braids that adorned his hair, the top half swept back with a thin leather cord. A strong profile suited his young age, old enough to be a man without the weary lines that accompanied a lifetime of battle.
It had only been one battle for him, however, and already he bore the marks of it. What had gotten him captured was an injury that killed his own horse, a spear to the leg that still marked him, still marred his step despite his strength and age. On the back of a horse, this injury seemed to disappear, proving himself repeatedly as a natural with horses, and the grey stallion, with his pale grey coat, was no exception. They had bonded in a way that had been viewed as blessed by the Lord, although the Celt hadn’t exactly earned points by asking which.
Despite their shared connection, and their love of the open country, the horse and his rider couldn’t stay away for too long. After all, the slave was out caring for the abbot’s horse - neither could be presumed missing without serious repercussions.
As the sun peaked and began its long descent back down, the two raced back home, approaching the substantial gardens outside its walls. The fact that their time out was coming to an end didn’t lessen the joy of the race, the Celt even letting out a whoop before they were too close to the monastery. Nestled within the gardens was the workshop of the monk in charge of the many herbs and vegetables the abbey used, a greying man whose beard was considerably thicker than the hair that ringed his tonsure. As horse and rider approached, he looked up from his own personal garden spot, shaking his head and tutting at the pair. “You should know better than to go too far,” he scolded, rising to his feet as the rider dismounted, leading the stallion towards the monk.
Contrasted to the almost sour look of the monk, the Celt’s expression was still one of reclaimed joy from the ride, laughing a little at the older man’s scolding. “You are almost late! I don’t know why I convinced the abbot to allow you these rides, you risk so much every time you go! And do not forget, slave, that you can run too easily afoul of the sheriff’s men, or of bandits!”
Only Brother Ruald could use the word without making the Celt twitch, as it was used as a reminder, rather than an insult. “Do you forget, brother? How I came to be ‘ere?” he asked with a laugh, walking on as the stallion dutifully followed. Ruald shook his head, clasping his hands over his chest as he walked alongside. As one who worked with his hands so much, Ruald was an impressive figure, robust in form and strong for his years. He was well respected within the abbey, and unofficially held the abbot’s ear. How else could he have convinced the abbot to give him the lad? To then use his skill with horses to tame the grey?
Ruald was not one to be taken lightly, not by the man he had brought under his wing. “Of course. That is why I worry. You are too used to risking your life!” he continued to scold as they walked through the abbey gates, greeting the gatekeeper before returning to his lecture. “There has been news since you left this morning, Arlan. Reports of towns being ransacked by barbarians. What would happen if you were found by such men? You’d be killed! You are unarmed, and have only your recklessness to defend yourself with!” Putting the stallion in his stable, Arlan finally turned to face the man that was both keeper and protector, with the sort of smile that never seemed to end well. “We are but a poor monastery, kept going by donations of those able to pay for their souls to be saved. What interest could we be to such pirates?”
Before he could start to argue, Arlan turned back towards the abbey, the monk following him with renewed scolding for being so brazen in the courtyard of the monastery, for always being so reckless and leaping before looking. But the Celt wasn’t afraid of seafaring invaders. Life at the monastery hadn’t been an unpleasant one, and he had accepted that he might very well spend the rest of his life there. Brother Ruald was determined to convert the pagan and earn his freedom by joining the abbey as a brother himself, but such future concerns meant nothing to Arlan.
For now.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 0:09:57 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2019 0:09:57 GMT
“C’mere, you.” He grasped the girl by the collar of her tunic roughly, lifting her easily off the ground. She merely giggled, the man repositioning her quickly, grasping her instead by both shoulders and giving her a playful shake. “You’re coming with me, are you? Coming to raid? Where’s your sword?” The girl tried to utter some kind of response, but was reduced to fits of laughter instead as the warrior suddenly grabbed her ankle, flipping her round so that she was hanging upside-down, held only in one hand. He shook her again, her words coming out in hiccups and her cries unintelligible between her bouts of laugher. “What was that? You didn’t bring a sword? Then how will you fight?” the man teased further, poking her in the ribs with his free hand as she tried to squirm out of the way.
“Put my daughter down, Fell, I think she’s learned her lesson.” Turid’s voice was calm and tinged with amusement, but still it was enough to put an end to the playful scuffle. The girl look crestfallen for a moment, sensing a premature end to the game, and was about to pout before Fellbjorn poked her one more time in her ticklish spot, sending the child giggling all over again before righting her back on her feet. She immediately opened her arms wide to the warrior, asking to be lifted again, but a heavy stamp and growl in her direction sent her scuttling away with a shriek of laughter, perhaps hoping he would chase her. The twinkle was still in his eye as he turned back to Turid instead, “She wants to be a shield-maiden.” He commented, knowing the reaction that his sister would give. However, he was to be disappointed, as Turid merely gave him a sideways glance. “At six years old she can wish whatever she wants.” Fell laughed at her evasive answer, but wouldn’t be swayed so easily from the topic. “She would make a good shield-maiden, you know it. It’s in her blood, just like it is in her mother’s.” Instead of replying this time, Turid turned to him and placed two hands onto his shoulders, putting a little pressure into her touch, which was her hint at him to crouch a little, for he was much taller than she. He did so with an impish grin, and she kissed him on the forehead. “May Odin protect you, and may you bring back great treasures.” The words were merely uttered, and at them, Fell appeared to sober up as she removed her hands and he straightened up. There was a short pause between them as the turned to watch the men ready the longship that would be taking them across the sea to their spoils. “I see Earl Eirik won’t be joining us.” His comment left a pause between them, and was pregnant with heavy, unspoken words. Eventually, Turid did reply, but her voice was quiet. “…No, he will not. He has business to attend to.”
“It’s an insult to his men. This is the third time he has decided not to accompany us.” Fell’s voice was steady, but she could hear the anger bubbling below the surface. It was an unhappiness felt by many of the warriors of the raiding party, and she had no idea how to quell it. Only her husband could do that, and he was, as always, conveniently otherwise engaged. “I don’t know what else I can say to you.” Her words were sharp, defensive, and as she turned to leave he grabbed her suddenly by the arm. “Why do you put up with it, Turid? You are a free woman. You are strong, and he is weak. You would be no less admired if you left him.” Her progress had been halted, but she did not turn to face him straight away. As she did, her look made him relax his grip, before letting go altogether. Instead of dignifying him with an answer, she turned and stalked away.
“Fell, is this yours?”
It took Fell a moment to respond, watching his sister’s retreating form, but when he did turn to see whom had called him, he was met with a sight that easily drew a chuckle. It was his niece, once again hanging upside down by her ankle, and once again giggling incessantly. The warrior holding her went by the name of Balder, and he was grinning widely at his catch. Upon Fell’s approach, they switched possession of her squirming form, Fell throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes before turning to head back the way her mother had left, chastising her playfully. “Now, what did I tell you, shield-maiden? No sword, no raid!”
***
“Look at the position of the sun, we should have found land by now!” Balder had run out of patience, as had they all, but as always he was the most vocal, making his voice heard when others chose to be silent. It was this trait that had drawn Fell to him in the first place; for he valued the man’s judgement, and the two were pretty much brothers, if not by blood. He was an imposing sight, head shaved on either side of his head, leaving a strip of hair down the centre, which was braided all the way down to the nape of his neck. Curving around his left eyebrow and ending beneath his eye was a tattoo, faded with age, but taking on the form of a knot-work eagle. With a growl, Balder had leapt to his feet, crossing the ship in a few strides and grabbing another man by the scruff of his tunic, lifting him off his feet.
“Balder, leave the navigator.” Fell called over, sounding bored with the exchange, arm resting on the gunwhale* of the ship. The navigator, whilst a scrawny man compared to the warrior, to his credit met the man’s gaze. Balder paused, considered pitching the man off the ship, before dropping him angrily, and turning on Fell instead. “He’s led us to open water, the wool-brained dunga**!” A few of the men raised their voices in agreement, and Fell took a moment to regard them all before answering. “He’s never seen us wrong before.” A few murmurs could be heard here and there, neither confirming nor denying his words. Fell pushed himself away from the ships' side, walking calmly towards Balder, and placing a hand on his shoulder, he gave the man a playful shake. Only he could get away with such an action with the warrior, and not receive a hiding, something that Fell clearly knew, and liked to take advantage of. “Patience, brother. We’ll find land.” That knowing look was in Fell's eye, the one that annoyed Balder so, as it was the same look he used to tease. About to answer back, Balder was suddenly struck silent as a voice shouted out behind him. “Land!”
Balder turned, and both men looked towards the horizon, seeing the blurred outline of land slowly coming into focus. Turning back to Fell, he growled, roughly yet playfully shoving the other back. “Alright, smart-ass, you can wipe that smug look off your face.”
***
Coming to shore had been… uneventful. They could not see any nearby settlement, and no armoured men. It had been much the same the first few times they had raided across the sea, the people not seeming to know how to defend themselves, or else choosing to leave such treasure troves unprotected. The first such place had been one they had come to know as Lindisfarne, the name discovered only as it had been spoken by one of the priests before he was slaughtered. The settlement they had raided had been… strange. His warriors had approached it as any other raid, slaying all they came across, it was not till halfway through had they begun to realise that there were no reinforcements to come, and that truly, none in that strange place were armed. They had taken no slaves, but many treasures. This time, they were looking for both.
“There.” Balder had pointed, and they could just about see the grey silhouette of a settlement on the hill. Mouth quirking into a smile, Fell led, unsheathing his sword as he did so, holding an axe in his other hand. The rest of the men followed suite, a formidable group with light, leather chainmail covering their chests, bearing large round shields, heavy swords and axes. Here and there, could be seen the norse intricate knot-work designs on their leather armour and the hilts of their weapons, as well as ornamentation such as metal bands about the men’s necks or wrists. They started off slow, but as they neared and came into sight of the inhabitants of the place, they began to pick up the pace, until they were racing towards the stone buildings. The main building, with the bell-tower and the heavy doors were their target, sure that just like in the other places they had raided, there would be strange but priceless bejewelled artefacts of gold. The building itself was within a courtyard, nestled by small buildings and beyond that, farmland and stables. The first to die were the monks in the fields, slain as they raced towards the safety of the stone walls, the warriors easily outrunning them. Weapons came down decisively and without hesitation. The men met no opposition as they lay siege to the place, running into the open courtyard without so much as one armoured man to stop them. The bell was ringing now, announcing their arrival, but it was too late. Screams could be heard as men scrambled to get away, and the warriors split up, slaying men as they went.
Fell headed towards one of the side buildings, sending an axe across the chest of a man who tried to stop him, his blood splattering the warrior’s face. He kicked the wooden door down easily, the wood splintering at the frame as it gave way. Walking into a gloomy room, the shadows chased away by burning torches on the walls, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower light. It was a narrow space, rows upon rows of open books on dusty desks. He ignored them all, striding past the rows to make sure no-one was hiding in the recesses of the room… but was very suddenly aware of how eerily quiet it was in there, the thick walls muffling the sounds of chaos outside even with the broken door. He looked about himself properly then, pausing and noting the strangeness of this place, bare apart from the desks. Clearly, someone did not live here- why dedicate an entire space to desks? He picked one at random, and looked down upon the page of a book. He had come across these things before, apart from being good fuel for fire, he did not understand their purpose. But on this page, intricate lines constructed a scene, and colour bloomed from the parchment. Sheathing his sword, he brought a hand up to touch it, brushing his fingers over the page and accidentally streaking blood across the scene. Curious, he was about to flip the pages, to see if each leaf held similar images, when he heard a commotion outside. But these noises were different, instead of screeches from the monks, he could hear uproarious laughter of his own men. Snapping the book closed, Fell grabbed it and took it with him, grasping the heavy tome in one hand with ease, his axe ready in the other as he sought out the source of the disturbance.
((*Apparently, this refers to the side of the ship: www.vikingskip.com/norse-shipbuilding.htm **dunga means a useless fellow. ))
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 0:50:41 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2019 0:50:41 GMT
It had been the bells that drew his attention first, Brother Ruald deciding that returning to his studies was the perfect “punishment” for being so reckless. The book and papers were forgotten as he went to the window of his and Ruald’s corner of the dormitories, looking down with widening eyes. But only one thought crossed his mind at the scene below.
“Ruald…”
Without a second thought he raced out of the dormitories, ducking into alcoves as the invaders rushed past, killing all they came across. A sick feeling came over him as he recognized the faces of the slain, men who might not always have been kind to him, but were defenseless. In spite of the ache in his leg from the rush, Arlan raced down the corridors, whispering as loudly as he dared to find the brother, his chest tightening the longer he looked. With no weapons, he didn’t dare face down one of the invaders, only because if Ruald was still alive, he’d need the Celt to be alive as well.
He skidded to a stop when he recognized Ruald’s terrified voice coming from a hallway he had just passed, rushing down to the dining room. As he skipped down the stairs, he could make out the brother trying to reason with the attackers, slowly being backed into a corner of the room as one slowly approached with sword in hand. As usual, Arlan acted well before thinking of what situation he was throwing himself into.
With a war cry he launched himself off the steps and into the man, sending both crashing into one of the long tables. Their weight, magnified by the man’s armor and heavy weaponry, snapped the table in half as soon as they made contact, sending leftover wine into the air and across the floor. Having kept on top, Arlan pulled back too sharply and was gouged by a section of the table, hesitating long enough to give the invader a chance to look up. Grasping about for something to fight with, anything - even a damn wine goblet - his fingers touched one end of a candelabra, and without looking grabbed and swung.
This had been the initial cause of laughter from other attackers entering the room, watching their comrade be knocked cold by a candle holder. But laughter didn’t stop the next man from attacking, Arlan trying to block the sword before realizing his so-called shield was full of large holes. The sword slid in between the arms, however, and Arlen twisted hard before the invader could react to such a strange defense. The sword went flying, the Celt delivering the hardest kick he could manage to the man’s stomach, shooting him back as well. Still carrying his makeshift weapon, he turned to face the others, and quickly realizing he was very, very outnumbered. Candelabra held out in front of him, he stepped back a few paces, but a wine goblet on an untouched table gave him an idea.
Jumping to the side to grab the lit torch, he threw it down on the ground, sparks shooting off and igniting the spilled wine. The flash was enough to hide them, Arlan grabbing Ruald’s habit and hauling him to his feet. “Move, brother!” he growled, shoving him up the stairs that he had attacked from, using the distraction of the fire to try and hide their escape. It wouldn’t work completely, he knew, but it didn’t have to. It just had to work long enough.
“You reckless child! What do you think you’re doing, taking on armed men by yourself?!” Ruald rasped, running after Arlan, more out of breath from fear of nearly being killed rather than the running. Arlan scoffed, waving the candelabra at him before checking around a corner. “I’m a warrior - I AM the weapon,” he chided back, pushing a still shaken Ruald into the empty corridor as he checked behind them. The number of invaders to monks would steadily be increasing as they continued to slay the hapless men, but that would mean perhaps they’d be too busy pillaging to bother with the horses in the stables…
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 1:34:03 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2019 1:34:03 GMT
“All this was done by one man?”
Upon entering the scene, the perpetrator was already gone, leaving behind a room in disarray and one unconscious warrior. “Why are we standing around like fools?” Fell growled then, grabbing the nearest warrior by the collar and flinging him away, frustrated at the lack of movement. At his words, the rest of the men leaped back into action, spreading out to continue their search for treasure, but now, perhaps not so casual with their weapons knowing there was at least one fighter amongst the monks. Balder came to Fell’s side, leather armour spattered in blood, axe resting casually on his shoulder. In his other hand he grasped the habit of a monk, whom was trembling violently, hands clasped in perpetual prayer. “It’s the same as that other place.” He murmured, spitting on the ground, watching the flames lick away at the table with a grim expression. “No women, just men. And all this useless shit.” He kicked away a wooden table, sending it skirting away on the stone floor. Fell didn’t answer straight away, regarding the scene with a calculating look, playing back in his head what the warriors had told him had happened. It sounded like the man, unarmed as he had been, had merely had a lucky turn of events. Still, his actions had resulted in an unconscious warrior- that did not sound like just any old monk. He hoped in that moment that he might come across this man himself, before the others killed him.
Heading towards the stairs, he strode easily through the flames, which were too small as of yet to cause any real issue. “If it’s like the other place, then there’s treasure. Check that centre building, with the bell, oh,” He turned, chucking the tome towards the warrior, who caught it smartly, if quizzically, loosing the monk for a moment, whom was too frightened to move. “… and put that with the treasures.”
“What is it?” Balder asked suspiciously, to which Fell rolled his eyes, turning to the man as he walked backwards up the stairs. “Just put it with the treasures, will you? Why must you ask so many questions?” Then, he turned away, taking the stairs two at a time.
Eyeing the book dubiously, Balder tucked it under his armpit, and grasped the monk again roughly by the scruff of his collar, who sobbed and muttered in his foreign tongue as the warrior began to drag him out.
***
Walking along the corridor, Fell was again struck by how bare this place was. His people made homes from strong, sturdy wooden beams, the walls decorated with hand-sewn wall-hangings, or sometimes shields and animals hides. The main columns holding up the ceiling were often carved, complex pieces depicting norse raids and tales from sagas. This could not be a home… then what was it? He was certain that the main building would be the place that they worshipped, he had seen as much from the other settlements they had raided. In there, would be gold crosses and other such treasures. But what baffled him were the rooms such as the one he had found with the desks. What purpose did they serve? Coming to a door, he pushed it open, and discovered a small dwelling, complete with a handful of beds. This must be where the monks slept. Eyes roving over the room, Fell thought it plain and strange. And what about the priests? It had not escaped his notice that there seemed to be a hierarchy in these places, the monks wearing drab clothes, their priests wearing white habits lined with gold. They were so different from the holy people of his homeland, not just in belief and practice but also in appearance and aura. The priests from his home commanded attention,- just being in their presence was unsettling. The priests here were just phoney old men.
As he rounded a corner, he was not sure whether it was Odin’s intervention himself or whether he just about caught the sound of the weapon whistling through the air, but Fell’s arm lifted just in time for his axe to meet with whatever was striking towards him, his icy eyes flashing as they met with the perpetrator’s.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 1:55:08 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2019 1:55:08 GMT
The pair had been fortunate to not find many invaders in the halls they chose, although Arlan had to frequently drag Ruald along, ignoring the dead men they came across. A wise move had been to pick halls already filled with the dead, as they were already searched and unlikely to be harboring other looters. But Ruald’s gaze had to focus on the back of his young protector, silently accepting the help whilst wondering how such a tragedy could happen in their abbey.
His grief had stemmed his lecture to the young warrior, which was ideal as they could still hear shrieks and screams down other hallways, knowing that to go aid them was to likely get all killed. It had come down to a matter of survival. But Arlan slowly led the way as the halls became eerily silent around them, the screams and cries growing more and more infrequent. In his mind’s eye, Arlan mapped out their way to the stables, knowing the risk but seeing no other way of escaping. A few more corners, down the stairs, and they could possibly sneak along the wall, unseen, until he could open the gates and race out on horseback.
Taking their time for slow, careful steps, Arlan found himself pausing when he couldn’t account for one set of footsteps. Confirming his grip on the slightly bloodied candelabra, his tension enough to make Ruald stay behind, he crept up to the corner, raising his makeshift weapon before the footsteps came to the corner, whereupon he struck.
His luck ran out, apparently, as what his weapon met was an axe, and a set of eyes that were at a higher level than his own. Hazel eyes going wide with surprise, Arlan would later curse his hesitation at seeing the giant face to face and having that moment to reflect on the difference. But he recovered quickly in spite of his surprise, pulling back to give himself room to deal with this other. Was he taller than the other men? Possibly… but then again he had rather flung himself at the first from a short height, so who knew. But he wasn’t about to back down because of it.
“Brother,” he began in the monk’s tongue as soon as he moved back, slowly stepping to the side to act as a shield as he kept his gaze leveled at the intruder, “When you’re clear, run to the stables, get the grey.”
“Arlan-“
“Do as I say, or we’re both dead!”
The monk didn’t even have a chance to mutely nod at the warrior’s words as he finally attacked again, striking out with the candelabra while trying to keep some distance from the much deadlier axe. The fact that he was still the one attacking with such a weapon was striking, but it was enough - Ruald took off down the corridor behind Arlan as he tried to push the larger man back, just barely squeaking past and rushing towards the stairs.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 2:36:48 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2019 2:36:48 GMT
He hadn’t expected to come face to face with such a weapon, but it did solve one mystery- where the fighter from downstairs had fled. Eyes sweeping over his foe for a moment, Fell pushed forwards slowly, their weapons still meeting and forcing the man a step back. When he spoke, it caused Fell to pause as his attention drew to the holy man behind the red-head for the first time.
The warrior’s eyes flitted from the man to the monk as the latter began to move, and as he disappeared from sight, the red-head pushed forwards to strike. Fell lifted the axe again, meeting it easily, and then swung his axe-arm suddenly, sending the candelabra to the side for a moment, one of it’s many arms clashing against the wall before his foe quickly regained control. It was a taste of the strength the man could expect should he choose to fight the warrior. “Where.” Fell growled, in the tongue he supposed the man must speak. His curiosity of these new lands and their people, both his flaw and his strength, had led to him picking up a few words of their language. “Say where. You might live.” He ran the blade of the axe back and forth against the metal of the man’s weapon, the result a wonderful mix of a taunt and a warning. His eyes seemed to glint playfully, as if this were all a game, fiercely juxtaposed against his blood-spattered face.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 2:50:30 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2019 2:50:30 GMT
The axe came and nearly knocked the candelabra out of his hands, Arlen managing to swing it back in before the axe could cut in quite literally. The invader proceeded to slide the blade against the furthest arm of the candelabra, the sound grating to his ears. But as fear wanted to take over, he found his anger rising to fill the void. He thought his life had been over when he was captured and sold off like cattle. The abbey had been a second chance. One that was being taken away.
“You’ll find it hard to kill me,” he growled back, speaking in the same tongue that the invader had used, mistakenly assuming that it was his own language as well. But he had seen the dagger at the man’s waist, and with such physical strength was unlikely to predict a bodily attack. Arlan was lean but fast. For some reason, many of the monks’ words went through his mind, all uncertain of having a pagan in their midst.
“If I am going to hell,” he mused to himself aloud, softly while returning to his own tongue, “Then I might as well take you with me!”
Using the arm of the candelabra in a similar fashion as before, he hooked the outermost arm under the axe to try to shove it up. In the same move he slid forward, ducking down as his other hand went for the belt, and the dagger.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 3:04:52 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2019 3:04:52 GMT
Fell didn’t visibly respond to the man’s first words, unbeknownst to Arlan that this was because he simply didn’t understand what was said. But then he had muttered something that the warrior did understand, his eyes lighting up in interest for a moment at hearing words in his own tongue, when the man suddenly and without warning thrusted the candelabra up, yanking his axe upwards. Growing very quickly tired of the makeshift weapon, Fell grabbed its neck with his free hand, the man taking the chance to take a dive for the dagger sheathed at the warrior’s belt. In that split second, Fell lifted his knee up suddenly, sending it crashing unforgivingly into the other’s stomach. At the same time, he grabbed the candelabra and yanked it away, sending it skittering to the side as the man fell back, for the moment, weapon-less. He didn’t seize upon the chance to immediately cover the distance and bring his axe down, but instead, appeared to be regarding the man curiously, as if amused at his actions thus far, and interested in what he would do next.
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Saga
Jan 23, 2019 3:13:56 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2019 3:13:56 GMT
The knee… was unexpected.
Arlan could feel the candelabra being yanked from his grip, but coming down as he was the knee hit harder than even perhaps intended, sending him back and knocking the wind out of him. Coughing for a moment as he regained his breath, his eyes flashed back at the invader, retaining their anger.
While his pride seethed at the other’s study, taking his time before attacking again, part of him was grateful. Arlan’s eyes moved about as he took a few steps back for room, trying to see if there was anything else he could use as a weapon. He was in luck once more.
With gritted teeth, he quickly yanked a torch out of its holder on the wall, the hefty wooden post ending in a metal net that was licked by the active flames, designed to remain lit even in the drafty halls and so a more useful weapon than the candelabra. Given that the invader was now between him and the stables where Ruald was supposed to have gone, he didn’t immediately attack again, trying to think of a back way to the stables. But those halls were possibly full of invaders… here he faced only one, even if he was worth two.
What choice did he have?
Arlan rushed the other again, now having something dangerous at the end of his weapon to use to his advantage.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 0:02:09 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2019 0:02:09 GMT
Watching and waiting for the man’s next actions did not disappoint, as this time he chose a lit torch as his weapon. They stood there for a moment, each refusing to lower their gaze, when suddenly the man struck. Instead of lifting his axe again, Fell pulled back, the torch so close he felt the warmth of the flames as they passed his face. The man struck again, and again Fell dodged. His movements seemed to vex the other, as the third time he struck he put his full body into the movement. This time, Fell did bring his sword up to meet it, and they parried, a quick succession of strike after strike, the axe meeting the wood with a dull thud, each strike notching a chunk of wood from the man’s weapon. A quirk of a smile had formed on the warrior’s lips by now, enjoying the fight, as odd as it was. But then, the last strike by the man met with the neck of Fell’s axe. A twist of his arm and it became wedged, so that as he pulled back, the axe yanked out from Fell’s grip and went skidding across the floor to join the candelabra.
The surprise was clear on Fell’s face, the smile dissipating quickly. He wasted no time, however, as soon as he lost one weapon his sword was drawn. He had underestimated this man, his own overconfidence blinkering him. This time, Fell struck first, his movements impossibly quick, parry after parry until he saw his opening, and this time, the hilt of the sword came down rather than the blade, striking the man in the temple. It was quick, and the other was out-cold before he hit the floor.
***
Balder was pleased. The centre building, as foretold by Fell, had been laden with riches, and it was this they were now loading on board the long-ship. Gold, jewels, and even slaves- the raid had been a success, and his grin only widened as he saw Fell’s approach. “Brother!” He announced, waving his hand towards the men loading the ship. “Look at these riches! By Odin I’m glad we accidentally found this place!” He chuckled, hooking his thumbs into his belt, then, nodding his head towards the man slung over his brother-in-arm’s shoulder, added, “I’m guessing you’re claiming that one.” Fell merely smiled in response, “This man is our fighter.” He explained. Balder’s eyes widened for a second, before sneering, “You sure? He doesn’t look like much.” Fell gave him ‘the look’, before answering, “That’ll be because he’s knocked out, dear brother. He’s a good fighter, he’s certainly not a monk.”
“He’s dead, is what he is!”
Fell didn’t need to turn around to see who was approaching. Suppressing a sigh, he turned, a faux pleasant smile on his face. “Ove...” He paused then, taking in the man’s appearance, especially the black eye, and the blood running from his nose. It didn’t take him long to figure out what had transpired, no monk could have caused such injuries, after all. Feigning obliviousness, he spoke, “What happened to you? It must have been some mighty warrior to cause such wounds.” A comment which caused a ripple of chuckles from those nearby that could hear, and only serving to infuriate the man further. “I was caught off-guard.” He growled, dark gaze flitting away to their onlookers, before resting again on Fell. “By right, he’s mine to deal with for what he did to me.”
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 0:30:38 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2019 0:30:38 GMT
In all honesty, Arlan did better than he thought he would. Knowing the man’s sheer strength, demonstrated twice now, he tried to keep the focus on the flames, swinging it in the vain hope of setting the invader alight. Annoyingly, the other was a good fighter, perhaps better than he at least in such hand to hand combat, as evidenced when the axe came back into play and they parried blows. Then his torch caught on the axe, and out of concern for losing yet another weapon, he pulled back hard, twisting in the hope of untangling his weapon.
To his utter surprise, this sent the axe flying instead, eyes following it momentarily before trying to take any advantage he might have earned, hearing it clatter on the ground behind him as he moved in once more. Then immediately moved back. The torch was a solid weapon against an axe, but the sword could dart in much more easily, and he had to be sure he didn’t accidentally burn himself on his own weapon. Arlan tried to twist the torch towards the man once more when, suddenly, everything went black.
---
The next thing Arlan knew was that his head was throbbing. It was the pain that finally woke him up, even if only a little. His hands felt heavier than usual, and small attempts to move them proved impossible to separate them. The world looked rather funny, blurry and… what was that dark thing in front of him? And the light seemed… upside-down?
It was the ship that made him pause in his attempts to figure out what was going on, blearily staring past the dark shape at the ship that seemingly hovered in the sky.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 1:09:41 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2019 1:09:41 GMT
Fell, meanwhile, made no move to indicate that he would give the man up. After a short pause, he spoke again, shrugging his shoulder, slightly jostling his human burden. "It's not for us to decide what happens to him now, but Earl Eirik." At his words, Ove sneered, refusing to back down just yet. "Eirik! You know as well as I that we pick and choose who comes back and who dies, and I say..." Before he could finish, Fell interrupted him, "Well I say that he lives." Ove took a dangerous step forwards him then, but was halted in his progress as Balder's hand went to the sheathed weapon at his side, resting on the hilt. But at a look from Fell, he slowly removed his hand. The warrior did not need his brother's protection. Turning his attention back to the man, Fell spoke again, "Are you going to fight me, Ove?" His voice was calm, his gaze holding that of the man's unfalteringly. It was an open invitation, but was Ove really willing to draw blood over a slave? It seemed not, as the man, with a grunt of dissatisfaction, turned away then, striding instead towards the ship.
"Spineless bastard." Balder growled, coming in close to Fell and watching the other's retreat, spitting on the ground as if cursing the earth on which the man walked. Not for the first time that day, Fell merely looked amused. "Anyone would think you wanted us to fight, Balder." "Yeah, well it would have been about time. Dogs like him vex till they are put down." Fell didn't respond, making his way to the ship instead. Onboard, he looked towards where the slaves were seated, noticing a familiar face. Evidently, his 'fighter' 's attempts at protecting the monk had been in vain. Approaching with long-strides, the men visibly cowered before Fell as he stood over them, and he unceremoniously offloaded his human burden from his shoulder at the feet of the huddled form of that same monk. "A present, for you, monk." he spoke in his own language, knowing that they would not be able to understand.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 1:48:00 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2019 1:48:00 GMT
What was being said? Something about who lived and… and an earl…? His head was aching, and his already shaky vision began to swim. “Blageard…” he murmured softly, to no one in particular it seemed, but the one thing he did know was exactly who he was talking about. “Mhac na… galla…”
Then everything went black again.
---
Of the monks who were captured, all five of them, only a few had blood on them, and not their own. Once put on the ship, most had cowered as far away from the barbarians as possible, one clutching his crucifix, another the Bible. Only one kept his gaze firm, watching the invaders with disapproval, of all things. This stern gaze was what made the invaders laugh the most when they would look over at their slaves, more accustomed to the cowering, shrinking piles rather than one defiantly waiting for his death. In fact, it had been this acceptance of his fate, a strange sort of bravery, and solemn condemnation of the death of so many innocents, that had stayed another viking’s weapon. As far as he could tell, he was too “amusing” to be killed just yet.
Ruald’s dark eyes only dropped their scowl when he recognized the man walking up to him, as well as his burden. While the other monks tried to shrink as much as physically possible, he remained as he sat, watching with worried eyes as Arlan was practically dropped at his feet. Ruald frantically pulled the young man’s body into his lap, praying for signs of life. At the soft moan, the brother let out a silent sigh and prayer of gratitude, but then did something unusual for a monk.
His eyes went back up to the viking who had delivered Arlan, unable to understand the man’s words. But even so, he spoke, the first words he had uttered to any particular man since his capture.
“Thank you. For sparing him.”
Without waiting to see if the invader would stay or go, he turned his attention back to the Celt, using his own robe to try to stem the flow of blood from his injured arm, putting pressure on as he checked the head injury, knowing enough of medicine at least to know what needed to be done, if unable to do much at the moment.
---
It was several long hours later that Arlan finally stirred again, calmed by the fact that the first thing he could see clearly was Ruald’s face. “Brother… what…?” he began to ask, but was quickly and gently shushed, Ruald looking about at the invaders as the slaves had finally been quiet for the last hour. Young novice Tutilo had been sniffling from fright, and had finally fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion.
“Stay still, my son,” Ruald soothed, gently pushing Arlan’s head back down as he tried to raise it. His concerned expression quickly turned cold when another monk leaned forward, whispering loudly as he was used to. “Be quiet! Do you want to anger them?!” Ruald simply shot the man a dark look, lips pursed. “If you do not silence yourself, Brother,” he began, his voice genuinely quiet, “I shall throw you overboard myself.” Brother Robert’s expression changed to one of sheer fury, but he was cowed enough by their captors to lean back instead of saying anything more, Ruald grateful for the restored quiet.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2019 2:29:20 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2019 2:29:20 GMT
Fell had paused, thinking for a moment that he had recognized some of the words. But that would mean the man was thanking him, which didn’t make sense, so he had turned away wordlessly, to see to the ship.
The Vikings wasted no time in cracking open a barrel of mead to celebrate, the only ones not drinking being the thralls*, although they still shared in the evening meal, a privilege which was not extended to the new slaves. Distracted as they were, the sun was falling in the sky before anyone thought to check on them, and then, it was more by chance than design. A glance over towards the stern caused Fell to pause, the mead-laden horn halfway to his lips. After a moment he withdrew it completely, passing it instead to the man besides him, who was all too happy to take it. Standing up, he made his way towards the huddle of monks, who seemed to press closer together at his approach, all of course, except the one. The men thought this monk to be amusing, in the way he held himself, at odds to the way the others were. Fell did not think it to be amusing. Rather, he recognized the man’s mental strength and saw it as admirable. Although he disliked drawing the comparison, he could not help but think it was how a viking would act after being captured, there were certainly not many that could face up to such warriors.
Stopping before them, Fell’s eyes roved over the lot of them, before falling on the fighter. Then, without warning, he grabbed the monk by the scruff of his collar, lifting him roughly to his feet. A few of the men of weaker dispositions began to shudder at the action, and he thought he even heard a whimper of fear from somewhere. Ignoring them all, even the louder complaint from the fighter, he pulled a knife from his belt… and then suddenly dropped to a crouch before the monk. Grabbing the monk’s habit in his free hand, he used the knife to slit it about two inches from the bottom, tearing the rest of the cloth all the way around. Then, standing again, he pushed down on the monk’s shoulder roughly, seating him unceremoniously. Crouching again, Fell pulled Arlan towards himself easily, despite the man’s squirming, and began to roughly bind his arm.
He had noticed the wound properly shortly after their fight, but it had not seemed too serious at the time. By now it was bleeding profusely, although Fell had been able to see on his approach that the one monk had tried his best to stem the flow, judging by his blood-stained clothes.
((*Thrall- Slaves that row the viking boats and ships.))
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