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Post by Kelathi on Jan 20, 2021 2:11:50 GMT
She could smell burning because the village was on fire.
The child was eight years old. When the raiders had arrived she had hidden, as her mother had instructed. She had tried to be quiet, staying silent even as they dragged her mother out by her hair, and kicked her to her knees. The rest would be a blur to her in years to come, her mind blocking it out as it was too traumatic to consider, but the child knew that she was dead.
They had found her anyway.
The raiders had towered over her, hulking warriors with long beards, their hair in complex braids, interwoven with strips of fabric and leather. Their armour and faces had been spattered with mud, blood and sweat. As terrifying as they were to the child, they were nothing compared to the woman. This… creature, that seemed like a woman, but whose black eyes echoed of something not quite human, would bring her chills even in the years to come. Strange markings had scored her face, tracing over her eye and her mouth, and when she grinned, black tar dribbled down her chin, thick like blood.
“Are you afraid, little lamb?” She had asked, her voice quivering slightly, as if on the edge of a laugh, the madness glittering in those black, beetle-like eyes. The girl hadn’t answered, fear gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, reluctant to look into the woman’s eyes yet paradoxically unable to look away. “You will be.” The woman had replied, perhaps mistaking the child’s lack of an answer for defiance. Her grin widened slowly, revealing her black teeth, then she stood up to address the other raiders, who watched on curiously. “Touched by the Gods!” She mocked, pointing at the girl, referring to her mismatched eyes. It was a phrase the young girl had heard many times before, but never before had she wished that it were not so as now. Maybe if her eyes had both been a singular colour, rather than one brown and one blue, she would have been ignored by the raiders. Or so, her naive self had thought at the time- her older self knew better. The woman fixed her with her dead eyes again, her mirthless smile.
“Lets see how much they truly favour you.” She nocked an arrow onto her bow, a motion that the girl watched, as if hypnotised. Nodding towards the distant brush, the woman uttered only one word as she raised her bow.
“Run.”
So the child had obeyed, laughter and jeering cheers following her retreating form. This was sport. Something whistled in the air, imbedding itself at her feet. She leapt to the side, running in the opposite direction of the arrow. The woman fired again, missing purposely, toying with the child. “Run, little lamb!” She screeched, to another chorus of laughter. The arrow imbedded itself into a tree, just missing the girl’s head. She changed direction again, frantically, pumping her limbs as fast as she could, her blood roaring in her ears, tasting metal on her tongue and her mind fogged with an all-consuming panic.
The woman raised her bow for the last time. It was time to end the game. She aimed right for the back of the child’s head. She pulled the string taut… and sent the arrow whistling through the air towards her target.
Suddenly, the child dropped out of sight, the arrow whizzing harmlessly overhead.
The woman’s brow furrowed for a moment, surprised to be denied her kill. But then she merely laughed as a few comrades took out their swords, looking to make after her. “Let her go.” She waved her hand dismissively. “She can tell others of what happened here.” She spat on the ground, a glob of tar coating the charred grass.
“She can tell the world that Yrsa the Undying is coming.”
***
Annika awoke with a start.
For a few moments, it was silent, as if the world around her had yet to awaken, too. Then, steadily, noise began to fill the silence. Birds began to trill, welcoming the encroaching dawn, as well as the rising sound of crickets. It soothed her somewhat tumultuous mind, and she welcomed the sounds, letting herself fall into them, waiting for the dream to slip away. Whilst she waited, she stared up at the latticework of fern and branches that made up her ceiling. Eventually, the dream dissipated, but it left her feeling hollow. With a slow exhalation, she sat up, stretching the knots out of her back. Pushing the furs aside, she paused for a moment, regarding the motionless figure on the other side of the dwelling. A few, heart-stopping moments, and then she finally indicated signs of life, the other taking in a deep breath, the furs moving only marginally. Her pulse returning to normal, Annika began to dress. Lastly, she picked up her bow and quiver, and before she left, she draped her furs over the sleeping figure.
The air was crisp, but the cloudless sky promised a warm afternoon. It was quick, easy work to kill their breakfast, the two rabbits practically running into her arrows. Returning to the clearing, she began to restoke the fire that had burnt out since the night before, and busily got to work on skinning the rabbits. It was steady, mindless work, and it calmed her somewhat. Still, she felt on edge.
Her companion was eventually roused by the smell of cooking meat, and when he appeared in the dwelling opening, she thought he looked much smaller than he had a few days ago. The fever that wracked his body has weakened him greatly, and she knew that much of his bulk he owed to the furs he wrapped about himself. She worried about how much meat he truly had on his bones anymore, but she knew any comments about his health would be brushed off dismissively. Once a great warrior, the man was now old, his long dark red beard now streaked with silver. He had put down the axe to take care of her, and in turn, she had taken care of him as he had aged.
He offered a weak smile as he shuffled over, sitting next to her on the log. It seemed such a large effort to lower himself down, and she did not miss the wince of pain. When he sighed, she detected a rattle in his breathing, a tightness in his chest. “You look like crow-shit.” She commented deadpan, serving him his share on a flat rock. He chuckled, the rattle more noticeable, taking the food from her. “Ever the flatterer. Mead?” She passed him the bottle, and he took a large swig. He looked pale, and there was a sheen over his face, she could see he was still trying to sweat out the fever. They ate in silence for a while, watching the sky lighten, then a kestrel hovering above, dipping and diving.
“I’m dying, aren’t I?”
It wasn’t really a question, they both knew that. Annika didn’t reply, picking at the bones, though she was no longer hungry. She had smelt the coal a few days before, and it hadn’t been coming from the campfire. The scent of burning had plagued her for days.
“It’s alright, I’ve accepted it.” The man soothed, reaching out, resting his giant hand on her wrist. She paused, then grasped his hand in hers. “I don’t want you to go.” She spoke quietly, holding his hand tightly. “I don’t know what to do without you.”
“Yes you do.” He replied, and again, they both knew what he meant.
“I’m not ready.”
“Then don’t do it.”
She looked at him, her eyes pained, her brow furrowed. “You know it’s something I have to do.”
He smiled crookedly. “Then do it.”
“Ugh.” She exclaimed, looking away, but not pulling her hand from his. He infuriated her when he was like this, but as always, she knew he had a point. She might never feel ready, but what was the alternative? It was her fate. His hand came up to gently cup her cheek, his skin marred and rough, hers, soft and untouched. She turned to him again, and this time she leaned into him, letting him engulf her in his furs. “We’ll meet again in Valhalla.” He uttered into her hair, his grey eyes unfocussed and distant.
***
He died in the morning and she buried him soon after, building a cairn over the site. Then she burned down the dwelling, set up the boat, and sailed away, as she’d promised him she would. She took with her, her bow and arrows, and enough supplies for a week’s journey.
She didn’t look back as she sailed away from the shore, and into the unknown.
***
She remembered the day well, it was engraved upon her heart. She remembered how the ground had seemed to give away beneath her, how she had gone tumbling down a hill, seemingly without end. She had tried to protect her head with her arms, praying to Odin and Freyja and whoever might listen to spare her. Someone must have listened.
When she had finally awoken, she had looked up at the canopy of leaves, and been confused. It had taken a moment for her memory to catch up to her, to realise why she was lying here, dirt-stricken and sore. She had been too distressed to weep, and too tired to sleep, so she had picked herself up slowly. Something had caught her eye which caused her to pause, her stomach feeling as if it had dropped to her feet.
An arrow, not far from where she lay.
With shaking hands, she had picked it up, and studied it. The arrowhead was made of bone, not stone or iron, and the feathers on the tip were black. She knew at once whose arrow it was. The urge to throw the cursed thing on the ground struck her, but for some reason, she didn’t. Instead, she had snapped the shaft in half, and it had felt good. She'd left the broken shards behind and began to walk, but the bone she took with her, clutched tightly in her small hand.
***
The next time she awoke, it was under a canopy of stars. The night brought with it a chill, and a shiver ran through her, as she clutched the furs more tightly around herself. The boat rocked gently, ebbing steadily on a benign sea. She arose, sitting up to look over the railing. What had awoken her? There was no moon tonight, so she could not see if there was land nearby, or just an endless sea, stretching before her. She could see nothing amiss, and yet, she was anxious. After a moments thought, she grabbed her bow, docking an arrow.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 20, 2021 6:02:54 GMT
As it so often was, the longhouse seemed to rumble with the sounds within, even at a distance. The building was massive, larger than most and dwarfing the rest of the village by far, scattered down the hillside and surrounding the bay that was filled with boats. Torches lit up the night around the docks and around the longhouse, the only places where guards stood watch in the cold air. This was where the prized possessions were kept, the armor, weapons and transports. Food and gold were only secondary to these real treasures, for these were treasures of war.
The Red Wolf was restless. His men knew it, but they didn’t dare question their master. More than just Earl to these Vikings, and yet he often found himself apart from them, distant in mind and spirit, just as now. In the evening air, he sat atop the longhouse, drinking from a bottle of mead, staring off into the dark horizon as his men challenged one another below. Boasts of who had taken the most from a single raid were slung, of who had killed the most in a single night, or worse. Their sagas were bloody events indeed, as only that felt fitting for men whose histories were stained with crimson. Even their leader was shrouded in myth, rising from an abandoned, cursed child to command an army of ruthless men, a demon let loose among mortals. Some said that the red hair that gave him his name was dyed in the blood of his enemies, while others whispered that he was simply in an eternal bloodbath. A beast in human form, the wolf in sheep’s clothing. With such a ruthless leader, shows of strength were the custom, and more often than not it resulted in thinning numbers. But only the strong survived there. By thinning the numbers, they strengthened their army.
Ulfsune shifted a little on his perch, taking a thoughtful rather than guzzling swallow from the bottle before letting it hang once more before him. With his legs propped up against the beams that made up the roof of the longhouse, arms braced against his knees, he almost looked like a rebellious teenager taking in the night air in a precarious place. But this was no scrawny figure, closer to a bear in stature and size. Plaits held back the long, deep red hair that spilled down over his shoulders, which where in turn covered by the thick furs that kept the chill of the air at bay. Tattoos ran up and down both arms, decorated with bands of iron rather than gold. He looked more a berserker than a leader, except for the thoughtful, dark look to his grey eyes, like the ash left behind his raids.
While one hand held the bottle, the other had begun to rub against a particular design on his arm. It was a raven, with its wing only slightly outstretched, at odds with the rest of the designs that spiraled his muscled form. Had anyone seen the bird a few days prior, they’d have noticed that the wing wasn’t quite as open now. A reminder that time was running out. Once the raven could fly…
Suddenly he chuckled, head and gaze falling forward as he took a more aggressive swig of mead. His eyes were sharp and focused easily on the shadowy form on the hill, as if a person was missing where the shadow was standing. “Not today,” he growled, sneering at the form as it stared at him in silence. Ulfsune took another swig, once more falling into his bad humor, looking back out over the horizon, past the docks and into the darkness of the sea beyond. No, the figure couldn’t get to him yet… that was why Ulfsune still had time.
The raven hadn’t left yet.
---
The following day, Ulfsune had decided to take a ‘trip.’ Not a raid, but he needed the space from the island that his people held. Such whims were not uncommon in their temperamental leader, and several volunteered to support his journey with hopes that this meandering would turn profitable. Ulfsune took half of those volunteers, earning a raucous laugh when he said that such a ‘day trip’ would be too boring with too many hands to help. It was Bjorn’s turn as leader in his stead, a pick as random as when he’d grab a woman for the night. The ever shifting power dynamic kept the loyalty of his men, as it would be all too easy to take revenge upon another when picked as surrogate leader.
With the creaking sound of the wood against the waves the longship sailed out, smaller than their usual raiding vessel but swift and eager for the hunt. Ulfsune himself stood at the bow of the ship, watching the waves as they sliced through them, welcoming the spray of sea salt against the prow. Ahead, there was no ground, no shadows for the figure to be watching him, ever silent, ever inching closer. The further the wing raised, the closer the figure came. Freedom on the sea was what he needed… even if it came at the price of sailing into open water, where few Vikings dared to sail.
---
The wind had been good for some time, but as twilight fell the slaves they had brought along had been moved to rowing. The scraping sound of wood slicing through the water was calming, a lullaby with the shifting sails overhead as the breeze toyed with them. Ulfsune had barely stirred from his seat at the front, his men waiting patiently for him to decide what was next. Another raid after all? They were all as always armed to the teeth, as ready for war as they were for a drink. Or was this just another crazy whim of their Earl, seeking something that no one dared ask about. Even without Ulfsune’s latest weapon, to question him was death. To challenge him was a slow one.
The sea was calm, the starlit sky reflecting against the rolling waves like the most dazzling of treasures. But Ulfsune kept waiting, watching, certain there would be something to pique his interest. Or was this just the call of the wind, a slander against the warlord’s legacy by chasing ghosts?
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 20, 2021 20:55:03 GMT
She could not fall back into slumber, not after this sudden heightened sense of anxiety. So she sat up by the bow instead, overlooking the black water, feeling the gentle to and fro of the boat on the waves. One hand still grasped her bow lightly, whilst her other was empty, though her quiver was nearby and within reach. At one point, she thought she caught a scent of coal on the wind, but then it was gone.
Although she did not sleep, she did see a vision, yet another glimpse from her past, rising unbidden from the darkness.
***
“What are you doing?”
The air was warm and humid, the slight breeze filtering through the trees brought with it a welcomed respite. The canopy twisted overhead, letting the sun sneak in through gaps in the leaves, golden light that dotted the ground like droplets of paint. The boy was playing with a branch that he had stripped of leaves, using it to swat at the ground, the trees, anything really, as blind to the forest as most children are at his age. His sister, meanwhile, took a few moments to answer, inhaling through her nose calmly, her eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m listening.”
Was the simple reply. The boy snorted indignantly. “Listening to what?” the boy asked, bored.
She opened her eyes, turning to motion for him to sit with her. “Come see!” He wanted to refuse. Maybe pull her hair, to teach her for being so strange and serious all of a sudden. But he was curious, so he obeyed, sitting cross-legged in front of her. Her eyes danced with excitement. “Close your eyes.” She urged, and feeling a bit foolish, he did so.
“I swear to Odin, if this is some trick…” “It’s no trick. Just listen.”
They spent a few moments just sitting quietly. Increasingly, the boy began to feel a fool, and just as he were about to say so, his sister began to speak.
“Can you hear the birds in the trees?”
He nodded, and although she could not see this, as her eyes were closed too, she took his silence as confirmation.
“And the wind in the leaves?”
Yes, they rustled.
“And in the grass?”
He concentrated. Yes, he could hear the susurration of the grass.
A moments pause before she spoke again.
“Now concentrate on the ground. Can you hear the ants busy about their work?”
The boy’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t respond. He tried to listen, even though he knew it was impossible. He strained his ears. His mouth became tight-lipped.
“Listen to them scurry, the hairs on their little legs rubbing against each other. Can you hear it?” No answer, but she continued eagerly. “Now listen to the rabbit in that bush just behind you, hear it wriggle it’s pink nose.”
The boy was frowning, but still, he played along.
“And the fox that crouches low behind it still, waiting for us to leave so that it can claim it’s prey…”
Exactly as she uttered those words, he heard a twig snap behind him, and he jumped, eyes shooting open and whipping round to see what had made the noise. Then, angrily, he turned back to her. “You’re a liar! You can’t hear all those things!” He shouted, standing, feeling more foolish than ever, and angry at her, for she had made him the fool. “I’m telling mother!” he announced triumphantly. Her eyes widened, and she hurriedly picked herself up. “Don’t!” she whined, chasing after him as he raced up the hill and towards home.
***
She reached the shore by morning. A short, pebble beach that led up to a forest. She hadn’t expected to find land so soon, intending to sail as far as she could, but after the unnerving night on the water, it seemed sensible to leave the sea for now. She knew well enough not to ignore signs given by the gods, and the smell of coal had never boded well in the past. Dragging her boat up enough onto the beach so that it would not merely be swept away by an overzealous wave, she tied the bow of the boat to a nearby tree, and hoped that there would be no storm that night. Strapping her satchel across her body, she armed herself with her bow and quiver, at rest for now over her shoulder, and decided to explore the surrounding area.
It seemed she had struck gold. A bit of wading through thick brush later and she found a beautiful area, with a small waterfall formed from a natural spring. Overhead, the leaves parted enough to bathe the pool in sunlight, so much so that when she touched the water, she was surprised to find it quite warm. She needed no further encouragement.
A few moments later, she was bathing naked in the waters. She felt the coldness leach out of her limbs, and it seemed instead they were filled with golden light. For the first time in weeks, she felt at peace, if only for a few moments. All the grief from the last few days melted away for a moment, and her soul felt lighter. The scene would look almost ethereal to bystanders, with the warm sunlight filtering through the trees, bathing her in its light.
As distracted as she was, it probably explained why she did not immediately notice that she was not alone.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 22, 2021 5:29:56 GMT
It had been a poor choice of shelter, bad timing merging with bad luck. The eyes that looked at the ethereal scene were not mesmerized into stillness, but rather inspired into action.
There was no way to know how long the woman had been in the water by the time the foraging party came upon her, but it had been long enough to leave her weapon far enough from shore. The men only started to make enough noise to be noticed when one began to strip off his armor, the savage laugh that accompanied it dispelling any thought of a friendly encounter as they encircled the main part of the pool. Before the one man could wade in after her, an older grizzled figure had stopped him bodily, meeting his eyes.
“The Red Wolf will want her,” he stated flatly, the others offering a mix of jeering about obeying the warning, and eager expectations of praise for delivering such a trinket to the demon. In the end, the man who swam in after the woman dragged her along without trying anything more. In spite of the jeers, the promise of reward for turning in such a woman, there was an underlying current of what would happen if they didn’t.
---
It had been well after sunset when the longship had finally been led to ground, Ulfsune able to sense his men growing edgy with no prey in sight. So he had them land, make camp and hunt down whatever they could find to make food with. Magnus had stayed behind while most of the others had eagerly rushed off to whet their weapons on something, standing and watching his leader with a calm that belied the company he kept.
Finally, Ulfsune broke the silence. He had been staring out at the distant shore around the bend of where they had landed, glaring at the shadowy specter in the distance. But he could feel the questioning eyes at his back, one of the few who could get away with being so close… within range.
“It’s still there,” he rumbled, but scoffed instead of scowled before turning, knowing that the older man couldn’t see the figure. No one could. And yet, on the brightest day or the darkest night, Ulfsune could see it. He didn’t have to look for it, his gaze knew where to go as easily as he took breath.
When Ulfsune had first challenged the specter, he could see the question in the eyes of his men of his sanity. Things had been increasingly tense from this sense that their leader was beginning to go mad. Magnus was a leader in his own right, and was not so easily swayed, with a genuine loyalty to his Earl.
At Ulfsune’s words, Magnus had nodded a little, slowly, even though he couldn’t see for himself. “Has it come closer?” He asked, earning another scoff that was answer enough. Still as distant as last time, but closer since the first. Five uses of his new weapon, and already the Red Wolf felt loathe to want to use it again. A prize that had quickly developed into a curse. “It’s a waiting game,” Ulfsune sneered before turning from the shore to walk back to the fire, Magnus peering out into the dark before following. “We should find the witch,” he pointed out, offering a suggestion rather than correcting Ulfsune for his foolish trade.
Again, that dark chuckle broke the stillness, as morbid as ever. “It’s in the hands of the gods now, old man,” Ulfsune replied as easily as ever, smiling even as he took a drink from the bottle he was holding. His life had been about death, from his own family through his rise to power. How fitting that he would be stalked by death in such a manner. The old man wasn’t as amused, stroking his grizzled beard thoughtfully as he looked at the tattoo on the Red Wolf’s arm, concern etched into every line of his face.
---
By morning the men were already bored, so as the slaves tended to the makeshift camp Magnus had led the scouting party, seeking whatever entertainment they could find in these uncharted lands. It was this group that had found the woman bathing, greedily excited for some fun. If Ulfsune didn’t want her, he might pass her off to someone else, or have them fight one another for the pleasure. Magnus could still hear the whispers about the Red Wolf becoming a mad dog, questioning and challenging when there was less risk of such word getting to Ulfsune.
He had been the only one to think of grabbing the woman’s things as well, the only reason the bow and arrows hadn’t been snapped by the brawlers. Of course her bare skin had been eyed hungrily by the men, but Magnus’s warning had kept their hands at bay. Let Ulfsune decide first. As they marched into camp, jeers and cheers arose from those who had stayed behind, heralding their return. Magnus noted with concern that once more Ulfsune had been standing by the shoreline next to the longship, staring out with his dark, ashen gaze, once more drawn towards death rather than the living world. He had mostly ignored the welcoming cry from the others, leaving Magnus to walk up to him and gently draw him from his thoughts.
Given his own warning, the action looked potentially dangerous. Ulfsune was taller than any other man, broad and visibly powerful. Even without the massive battle axe in his hands, as he turned there was a quiet among the men, a breathless pause as he considered them. The man who had gone in after the woman stepped forward after a few moments, dragging her forward and pushing her to land nearly at Ulfsune’s feet.
“We caught quite the rare doe today,” he cheerfully announced, to a raucous laugh among the men. At first, Ulfsune seemed almost disinterested in the woman, a few of the men growing excited at the prospect. If Ulfsune dismissed her, she’d be open to claim. But he walked over anyway, his expression unreadable as it maintained that air of disinterest, a mild curiosity that could easily have hid darker intentions.
As their eyes met, however, Ulfsune had paused, once more lost in thought. Then he did probably one of the last things expected of such a feared warlord.
Unfastening his cloak, decorated by a thick, heavy pelt, he swung it about the woman in an almost chivalrous manner. Almost, as the company he kept marred the action. His men were dumbfounded, the laughter and smiles dying on their lips. Ulfsune straightened up, offering a wide-eyed look of almost innocent surprise. “Did you not see? This one is touched by the gods,” he spoke, an undeniable charisma to his voice and manner as he defended the woman’s honor, reaching down to lift her to her feet. He didn’t need her assistance in that, picking her up through the cloak. “She is my guest, and should be treated as such,” he went on, ignoring any look the woman gave him in favor of controlling his men.
The one who had dragged her out of the water tensed, taking a half step forward as he started to argue. “My lord,” he began before he had thought about it, but instantly regretted it. Ulfsune had stepped between him and the woman sharply, and even without the mane of fur about his neck and shoulders, his imposing figure made the other cow at the sudden proximity.
“Do you understand, Knut?” Ulfsune asked, the charisma replaced with a dark growl. Despite his own powerful frame, the man meekly nodded at the question, slinking away the instant Ulfsune turned back to the woman, motioning to the tent that the slaves had set up for him. “Let’s adjourn, shall we?” He asked, the charisma restored as if it had never left, Magnus watching silently.
Touched by the gods, eh? Such a sacrifice might indeed be what a cursed man needed.
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 22, 2021 9:44:04 GMT
She had whipped round the moment she heard signs of no longer being alone, her eyes widening on the beast-like men whom had suddenly surrounded her. How could such mountains be so quiet? She had no disillusion as to the precarious position she was in, and her mind suddenly raced with panic, every instinct telling her to get to her weapons. But they were on shore, it would mean swimming towards the raiders to get her bow. As the first brute began to wade in after her she began to swim away, but there was nowhere to go, she was cornered at every side. He took great pleasure in dragging her out, enjoying how every inch of her body was steadily exposed without the water to shield it from view. She didn’t cry out, but she did fight, her struggles clearly in vain against their strength- it was akin to a fly batting at them, her hits probably not even leaving a bruise, meeting leather and armour rather than flesh. Her strength had always been in archery, and with her tools taken away… what use was she?
She had fought most of the way back to the ship, her bare heels muddy from digging them into the ground, trying to pull away from the man’s vice-like grip. The jeers had only grown louder and more threatful, echoing through the forest, and heard long before the men arrived at the beach. In the end, the only thing that proved to slow her resistance was a well-placed strike to the face, which would have floored her had the warrior not grabbed her arm and pulled her bodily on. It was an action that had been harshly chastised by the man who seemed to be leading the party, and she inferred the admonishment was more about presenting her unmarked more than anything else. Dazed now, as well as terrified, she tasted blood on her tongue, and the action was sobering. Anger steadily overcame fear. She was furious to have been caught in such a humiliating manner, with no way to cover herself, or protect her dignity. Adrenalin spiked in her veins, spurred on by the injustice of it all. By the time they stopped, she had straightened, not quite accepting her fate, but determined not to cower like a frightened fawn. A rough shove was enough to send her to her knees, and ruin any hope of her maintaining a dignified air. They were presenting her, like some cheap slave, to the most imposing man she had ever seen.
She needed no introduction to this creature. She’d heard his name in the men’s dealings, but it hadn’t quite clicked until now. With hair as red as blood, built like an oak, and the scent of death all about him,- she had no doubt as to who it was that she faced. Instead of fear, although certainly that would rise again later, she met his eye with fierce stubbornness, her fury clear. If she was to die, or worse was to be inflicted upon her, she would be sure to at least mark the man that touched her. As the hulking figure approached, she tensed, readying herself to make true on her silent vow… when he had done the complete opposite of what she had expected.
He had covered her with his cloak.
Murmurs of confusion and disapproval had rippled amongst the men, Ulfsune calming them with cryptic assurances. Again, as before, she was unsure as to whether her eyes had helped her or would serve to condemn her, it was too soon to tell. But for now, they seemed to be working in her favour, the phrase too familiar to be attributed to anything else about her person. The murmurs lessened at Ulfsune’s announcement, some of the men not familiar with the concept and the supposed significance of her eyes, whilst most were, looking on with grimness at their loss of a prize. As Ulfsune reached for her, she wisely did not fight this time, confused by the switch in tone but, with no intention to resist it. Nor ability to fight it, as his grip was strong- it was like being lifted by a boulder. When he spoke to her again, it was indeed as if he were greeting a guest, his actions polite and, dare she say it? Even civilized. Ulfsune’s reputation as a fierce, cruel man preceded him, a fearless warlord that delighted in torture and maiming. The stories had not, however, mentioned his charisma, his ashen eyes, which, belonging to anyone else, suggested a gentle and thoughtfulness of character. They were much misplaced in such a being, he seemed a walking contradiction.
None of this soothed her when it came to a question of her fate.
But the tent meant at least a temporary refuge from the rest of the men, she would have to deal with just one monster rather than thirty. So she pulled the cloak about herself, and stepped lightly towards the tent, mind racing and heart pounding so hard in her chest, that it hurt.
He was protecting her, yes. But it couldn’t be for a good reason.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2021 1:12:12 GMT
Unsurprisingly, as Ulfsune led the woman to the tent, the slaves that had been working within quickly fled, leaving the three alone. Magnus had followed the warlord, making it quite obvious that he was trusted since he could stand with a weapon in his hands at Ulfsune’s back without raising so much as an amused eyebrow.
The weapon in question was, of course, the woman’s bow, but as he also carried her clothes Magnus laid out the lot on one of the chairs that had been set up in the tent. Weapons and furs lined the bulk of the space, almost an armory in its hoarding. Ulfsune was standing at the only table in the space, pouring mead from a bottle into two mugs. Civilized, indeed.
Magnus only studied the woman carefully, seemingly lost in thought even as he met her questioning look, turning to leave in silence. This seemed to suit the warlord just fine, as when he walked back he offered one of the two mugs to the woman, an easy-going smile softening his rugged features.
“Drink with me,” he offered, rather than ordered, not once seeming tempted to draw the cloak away once more. Instead he turned and sat down in one of the chairs that lined the room, with a casual posture that belied his reputation. With an inviting gesture, he directed her towards the chair beside him, with no indication of how he’d respond to her if she didn’t obey - whether he’d be amused, or show what the other men had feared his wrath would punish.
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2021 2:25:12 GMT
Annika had entered the tent, quickly turning to face Ulfsune as he followed, not wanting to have her back to him any longer than was necessary. As one of his men followed, her eyes flickered from him to the warlord, increasingly wary by his added presence. It soon became clear why he had followed, laying her things almost carefully down before taking his leave.
She considered the warlord’s words, watching him pour the drinks. After a few moments, she did something he probably would not expect. Meeting his gaze levelly, she let the cloak drop from her shoulders, revealing her lithe form in all it’s bareness. Her pale skin, marred only by the mud on her legs and the darkening bruise on her cheek. Without dropping his gaze, she approached him brazenly, slowly, like one approaches a wild animal. She stopped as she came to the first chair, and retrieving her clothes, it became clear what she was actually doing. She left her weapons, although they were in reach. They would be of no use to her here, they both knew that.
Only then did she break from his gaze, walking away, turning her back to him and putting some distance between them before dressing herself, at any moment expecting him to try and stop her, to prolong her embarrassment. This had to be some mind-game, after all. But he just watched, silently. Thoughtfully.
Once clothed, she met his gaze, and approached again, accepting the seat he had offered. When her hand reached for the horn mug, there was a tremor to it, showing that despite the confident air she had just held, she was indeed terrified. It was a facade, an attempt to claw back some dignity.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 23, 2021 3:22:33 GMT
Unlike the woman, Ulfsune had no fear of what she could do to him. Even without his new weapon, without his armor, even if she had been the one armed… he could take her down easily. And they both knew that.
It made it somewhat surreal, then, for him to simply watch patiently. The Red Wolf was a monster in human form, as well known for his patience as he was for his mercy. He’d watched her as she dropped his cloak to the ground, not even a trace of subtlety as he looked her over, no greed as he took in her form before she began to cover up again.
All her defiance had done was set a wolfish smirk on his lips, magnetic and yet dangerous. Or perhaps, in a way, because it was dangerous.
Suddenly he began to chuckle, not helping the woman’s unsteady hand as she gripped the horn mug, as it came from nowhere and had a dark edge to it, as if morbidly amused by something. He raised his cup to her, although it was hard to tell if the gesture was a jeer as he laughed, or if he laughed because of what she represented. “Drink up, little valkyrie!” he encouraged, downing his mug with one long draw. Reaching over to grab the nearest bottle, Ulfsune poured himself another mug, downing it just as fast and easily as the first.
Yet again he seemed slightly distracted, licking the drops of mead from his lips as he stared across the tent towards some of the weapons. A shield sat propped against a chair, the two reflected in its metal surface. He seemed to study this, that same wolfish smirk still dancing on his lips, in no hurry to make up his mind about what he was going to do with the woman.
The wait alone seemed tortuous.
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 23, 2021 16:38:49 GMT
The laughter was indeed unnerving, and she’d paused a moment, considering him warily. As he downed his drink, she lifted her own mug to her lips, the sweetness of the mead sharp against her tongue. With his eyes averted, she studied his face, as if it might help her better to read his intentions. It did not, of course, but when she followed his grey gaze to the weapons lining the wall, she thought she might have some idea. The thought sent a chill up her spine, although she managed to suppress the shiver. Cowards didn’t go to Valhalla. So she raised her chin slightly, mustering the courage to speak, as he seemed in no hurry to do so, apart from the occasional mocking small-talk.
“What is it that you intend to do to me?”
Her voice was steady, but her hands clutched the mug in her lap tightly. It helped to keep them still. When he met her eye again, she forced herself to stare back.
“I know who you are. The stench of death is all around you.” The last statement had not been planned, slipping from her lips unbidden. It was true, he reeked of coal, and although the smell had curiously lessened now that they were alone, it was still there, unmistakably prevalent. It was all about them, lying like a low fog, sinister and creeping.
She was letting him know that she knew the kind of man he was. If his civilised treatment of her had been to lull her into a false sense of security, he would be sorely disappointed. It probably was not wise to spoil his game, if that had been his intention, but she knew not how else to act.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2021 17:08:05 GMT
Ulfsune’s gaze finally slid back to the woman, still amused, but it was still unclear as to what. Her defiance? What his plans were? Or was he truly mad, and could be amused for no discernible reason at all?
Her last remark, however, did earn more of a response. His eyes lit up, interest again piqued, but the smile remained as it had before. Not quite menacing… not quite happy… but somehow, sincere.
Rather than respond immediately, he drained the last of the bottle before throwing this cup back, standing to walk back to the table, once more showing a strange sort of confidence that the woman wouldn’t be able to harm him, even with his back turned and a myriad of weapons for her to choose from.
“Death follows me like a dog chasing a wounded bear,” he suddenly began to speak, the morbid amusement still present. “It can’t help but dance about me, ever waiting for its chance for the final strike. But… who’s to say it won’t consume those around me while it waits?”
With a new bottle in his hand, he half sat on the table, pouring himself another cup as he finally answered her question. “I haven’t decided what will happen. I so seldom have the pleasure of… guests,” he began, this time studying the mead in his cup rather than downing it in one go. “It really depends upon you.”
Those ashen eyes flicked up, meeting hers with startling clarity. “As one touched by the gods… perhaps you’re useful in a way I don’t know yet.”
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2021 18:15:21 GMT
“It really depends on you.”
Those words, strangely familiar, hit her like an arrow to the chest. They drew her instantly back to another time, her gaze becoming distant, if only for a moment. Someone else had uttered those words, years ago…
It had been a breathlessly hot day.
“What should I do, Clemens?” She had asked desperately, feeling lost and seeking guidance. Every day it only became harder, the struggle intensifying rather than waning. Many a night she’d been wracked with nightmares, reliving the trauma that had happened so long ago, unable to push it away. During the day, she felt empty, simply going through the motions, the days and nights turning into an endless cycle that offered no peace nor sight of an end. Clemens had taken her in, sheltered her, nurtured her with attentiveness and care, and for many years, things had seemed well. She’s laughed and cried like any other child, and had grown into a young woman the man was proud to say he’s raised. But then one day, everything had changed. She’d become reserved, brooding, and it had soon become clear that the trauma she’d lived through had never truly left her, as it began to steadily resurface.
He’d looked at her then, sympathy in those ashen eyes, and his words had been poignant.
“It really depends on you.”
He’d paused, before moving to meet her where she kneeled on the ground, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. “What is it that your heart is telling you to do?” he asked quietly, gently.
“My… heart…” she paused, trying to find the words, eyes closed tight, her body wracked with tearless sobs.
“My heart… tells me I must find her. And I must kill her.”
The words of that final sentence were spoken with such sharp assurance, firm and unwavering, her eyes opening and fixing him with such a haunted stare, that it chilled him to the bone. But then the moment was gone, and he saw again the woman he considered his daughter, vulnerable and broken.
“If that is truly your heart’s desire, then it must be so.” Clemens answered quietly, somberly. “But know this- revenge does not bring peace. Only acceptance can provide harmony with oneself.” Her gaze well and truly lost its steely edge then, looking at him questioningly instead. How could she possibly ever accept what had happened? No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t! He could see this, and with a sigh, he stood up, offering her his hand, which she took. “It will not be easy to go up against such a warrior, and you are not yet ready. Find what you are good at, and hone those skills.”
So she had.
Back in the present, the strange look of recognition had only drawn across her face for a moment, and she came back to just in time to hear Ulfsune’s last words. “As one touched by the gods… perhaps you’re useful in a way I don’t know yet.” The phrase should have frightened her, there was a dark undercurrent to them, but instead, she found herself confused. Confused that such a monster, such a heartless, cruel beast, of all creatures, could remind her of her guardian. A man who was a merciful as the man before her was merciless, as kind and gentle as this man was cruel. It didn’t make sense, but still, she struggled to shake off the sudden familiarity about him, concentrating instead on his words.
“Only the gods know.” She’d responded cryptically. She could not think of any way that she might be useful to him, or at least, not in ways that she would desire. Even so, it did no good to admit that she might be useless, as she was in no rush to meet Valhalla. So she said no more, instead, raising the mug to her lips again. It was her turn to down it, the mead calming her somewhat, if making her head a little foggy already. She had not drunk in Clemens’ care, never really enjoying the taste, but it was a good distraction here. Her eyes drew to her bow, before moving quickly back to his. If there was anything to be thankful for, she reasoned, it was for the fact that she was clothed now,- it put them on more of an equal footing, even if they both knew that it was only by Ulfsune’s ‘good graces’. Any perception of equality, she knew, was illusion- he held all the power here.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 25, 2021 0:25:41 GMT
Ulfsune watched her for a few moments at her answer, seeing her gaze dart to her weapon without having to look himself. Downing the cup neatly as she had, he put both on the table before walking over to her, the weight in his step threatening. One hand put itself on the arm of her chair, the other tilted her chin up to face him, and for the first time he showed signs of enjoying the view of her. All it would take was one good rip of her dress, and he’d have full access to her. And they both knew she wouldn’t be able to stop him if he did.
His lip curled a little in his smirk, wolfish, bringing his face close to hers, as if going in for the unwanted kiss. But he hovered near her lips instead, his dark eyes meeting hers with a challenge.
“Surely the gods will let you know before it’s too late,” he nearly purred, in a tone that would have been seductive, had it not been for the implicit threat.
With another dark chuckle, he finally pulled back, grabbing his cloak before walking out of the tent, leaving her behind. A word to the guard outside, to not let anyone enter or exit the tent, showed she would still be watched. And with the threat of Ulfsune’s displeasure, they wouldn’t be careless in their vigil.
---
It had been days. The men were getting restless, wanting to go on a raid or go home. The only prize to be had was guarded by the ever taunting Ulfsune, occasionally bringing her out as if to parade her before the others, watching his men as if eagerly waiting for one to challenge him for her. Other times she’d be held in the tent as if jealously kept out of sight, eating his meals with her, answering any questions with the same tone: amused, morbid, dangerous.
There were times where he seemed ready to drag her into his bed, but he held off. Other times he’d be staring out at the distance, as if waiting for something. And always there was a sense of goading his men, waiting for one to turn on him. With men who only cared about their own glory and power, it was inevitable. Ulfsune enjoyed the risk, pushing buttons and acting innocent to his own actions. A knife’s edge was his sanity, at any moment ready to fall and break. But on which side was never clear.
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 1:22:38 GMT
She was walking on eggshells, something Ulfsune clearly enjoyed. Every time he approached her, she feared the worse, and she was certain he could see it in her eyes, because he used her fear against her. He seemed to go out of his way to come close at random moments, as if testing her reaction to him. He never tired of fixing her with his dark gaze, and if she avoided it, she found he was more likely to push her further, enjoying the one-sided game he had created by getting in her face, towering over her with often wordless threats, touching her face like a lover might. It was times like this she felt her adrenalin rising, ready to fight even though it might be hopeless, but he always pulled away before going any further. In these moments, she wondered how she ever could have seen any similarity between him and Clemens. He delighted in her fear, dangling temptation and the illusion of freedom before her by keeping her bow and arrows within reach, allowing her close proximity to the numerous weapons on the wall, as if goading her, waiting to see if she would try anything, every day pushing her further.
Yet, at night, she had her own space, a pile of furs much like his, on the opposite side of the tent. It did little to give her comfort, his very presence was a threat. It was like sleeping in the cave of a hungry bear.
The worst times were when he made her accompany him outside. There seemed no reason for him to do so, but he enjoyed having her by his side, and she realized very quickly why. When she left the tent, she felt the pressure of at least ten pairs of hungry eyes on her all at once at any one time. He was goading his men as much as he were goading her, flaunting his prize that they all desired, but could not have. She did her best to avoid their gazes, holding her head high, trying to keep her step steady. She felt daily as if she were walking on a narrow wire, high up in the sky, a great drop below her.
He outmatched her in almost all aspects. He had strength, the protection of his men, the benefit of his experience in battle. The only thing she could hope to save her was her cunning. So instead of concentrating on the pit in her stomach, her hopeless situation and the continuous threat that came with living with a wolf, she thought constantly about escape.
The night before, she’d had a dream, although it was more of a memory.
…in the warm cocoon of her furs, and on the edge of sleep, she heard his voice.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
His voice was quiet, almost seeming muffled by the heavy dark itself as it swallowed his words. But she heard it anyhow.
“I was jealous. I didn’t want to believe that you could hear things I could not. But what mama said was right.”
She rolled over then. She could only just about see the form of her brother in the dark.
“You are touched by the Gods. If you tell me one day that you can hear the wool growing on sheep, or the grass growing in the meadows, I promise I will believe you.”
She smiled then, and lifted up the covers, creeping out from her bed. She crawled across the floor and into his waiting arms. They fell asleep holding each other, one of the rare times they actually got on.
Tomorrow, no doubt, it would be back to squabbling, but for then, there had been peace.
She revisited the memory of this dream over and over the next day, replaying it, absorbing every ounce of comfort it could possibly give her, a memory of simpler times. That evening, Ulfsune once again had his slaves serve them food, as if she were indeed a valued guest, and not a prisoner subject to his ever-changing whims. All day he had had her by his side, for whatever menial task he pleased. At one point he’d even drawn her close, his hand about her waist, pulling her into him casually as if they were together. She’d struggled against the touch, and he’d let her go, laughing. Even though she had pulled away, she had not fled, preferring Ulfsune’s company over trying her luck around his men, knowing that however fleeting it may be, she was at least for now protected by his presence.
She was not so hungry, probably due to the fact that she was exhausted, having spent every day since she’d been there, on edge. The only respite she felt was at night, even if she fell into a restless sleep, it was still better than facing the day.
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Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 25, 2021 2:27:33 GMT
As the slaves cleared the bowls away, Ulfsune of course noticed how little his ‘guest’ had eaten. As always, his meal had been hearty, but also as always, he seemed perpetually on the verge of being distracted, still gazing out at nothing as he mused, almost sullen at times despite the morbid laugh that would escape him at those moments.
At last the two were alone, and Ulfsune found himself running his thumb over the surface of his cup. Finally he put it down, standing silently. His way of ending the evening’s conversation, stilted as it ever was between them. The woman, who had yet to even be asked her name, was perpetually tense around him. How easy it was to provoke her, to see a flash of anger mixed with fear in her eyes. She’d been learning to show defiance, as his teasing wouldn’t end until she returned his gaze. But that day he’d been feeling a little different. Something was about to happen, he could feel the tension simmering under the thin veil that was the men’s self control. They were infuriated by his mood swings, his temperamental testing of their loyalty and intelligence. It was as if, with no enemy on the battlefield before him, he had to find an enemy elsewhere.
Yet again he walked over to the woman’s side, watching her with a curious study that wasn’t quite lust, but wasn’t quite disinterest. A bundle of contradictions, this Red Wolf was. But this time he grabbed her arm, an almost gentle move were it not for the irresistible force behind it that lifted her out of the chair, forcing her to follow.
That night, she wouldn’t have her own pile of furs to sleep on. He tossed her into his own, removing the cloak and tossing it to the side. It seemed that he was about to make good on the threats that he had so lovingly planted in her mind, but as he laid beside her, arms firmly pinning her against him as he settled into the furs. Then, he simply…
Fell asleep, as secure a cage as any made of iron.
---
“Are you sacrificing her or not?”
The question came through the wall of the tent early the next morning, Magnus finally voicing his concern. Ulfsune turned to look at him, his own bow in hand with a quiver at his side. “If you’re going to sacrifice her to the gods to rid you of this… curse,” the man went on, his voice soft enough to avoid most from hearing, “Then you should do it tonight. It will be a full moon, the best time to deal with this.”
“Hunting first,” Ulfsune replied all too easily, but with the same morbid amusement that snuck into his tone so often. A curse? That would explain why he kept referring to her as Valkyrie with that odd laugh… at least, were he considered at all sane.
Magnus began to argue again, but cut himself off as Ulfsune left. He had made the decision early that morning to go hunt himself, leaving his terrified charge behind. Again the order had been to let no one in or out, and with so many vultures circling the tent, he wasn’t as concerned about her wanting out as someone wanting in. So he had made the order loudly, so that the few men who weren’t going with him were aware of what the consequences would be.
One didn’t think that the Red Wolf would be back anytime soon, and he was on good terms with the man on guard. So it was about an hour after Ulfsune had disappeared with the few eager volunteers that Knut stepped into the tent, his own toothy grin wicked but without the charisma Ulfsune held so effortlessly.
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Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 3:42:47 GMT
She’d looked up at him as he’d stood up, towering over her, meeting his gaze steadily as she had learnt. But today it seemed he wasn’t content with his normal games, instead taking her firmly by the arm. She was shocked as he pulled her to her feet, her expression one of confusion as well as alarm, one that turned to horror as he began to head towards his furs. That’s when she started to pull away, digging her already muddied heels into the ground, like she had days before when she’d first been taken, but he dragged her along effortlessly, tossing her down unceremoniously onto the floor and joining her soon after. Before she could scratch him or kick too hard, he’d wrestled her arms into submission, drawing her into an embrace that she continued to fight. As she had assumed, it was hopeless, her form weakening quickly as she struggled, like a fawn within the clutches of a beast. Her heart hammered so hard in her ribcage she was sure he must feel it, even though her back was pressed against his chest. His form engulfed her, his arms impossibly strong, unmoving against even her best efforts.
Eventually, she stopped fighting, exhausted. A new burst of fear laced through her as she realized that this had probably been his plan, she had wasted her energy, and he could do what he wanted with her now. But instead of taking the cue to make his move, he had remained as he was, his limbs loosening only ever so slightly, the only response to her sudden stillness. Even so, his arms remained locked around her.
Ulfsune, of course, was asleep long before her, or at least, she assumed he was by his even breathing. Every now and again her fight seemed to be renewed as she would test the strength of his arms again, but her movements were half-hearted. A few hours into this torture, of having to lie besides a murderer, in constant fear of what he might do to her; she had no choice but to give into the exhaustion that gripped her.
So, despite everything, she slept.
Needless to say, it had not been a restful sleep. As Ulfsune had arisen the next morning, she had remained still, doggedly keeping her eyes shut and hoping he would simply leave. Thankfully, he did. Exhaling gently, she sat up, immediately leaving his furs. She realized with disgust that she smelt of him, so although she was anxious to get away from his bed, he still seemed to follow her. She wished, not for the first time, that she could bathe, wash away the ills of the last few days, but she was not about to ask for such. She had no intention of getting naked around anyone here, much less Ulfsune, if she could help it.
She stretched, letting some of the tension release from her shoulders, listening to the sound of the camp moving about her just outside the tent. That was how she heard the voices, pausing as she realized that Ulfsune had not quite left yet. It took her a moment to register what exactly had been said, and what it meant for her. Despite finally hearing what plans Ulfsune had for her, she was strangely calm. It was almost a relief, not to be guessing at what her fate would be, and as strange as a silver lining as it might seem, it meant that the warlord would not be giving her up to the camp.
But what was this about a curse? True, there was a stronger smell of coal about the man than usual, it seemed to follow him perpetually. Could this curse be the reason for that?
Either way, if he did intend to sacrifice her before a full moon, it would all be over tonight. Either she’d live, or she’d die.
She never thought such a finality would give her peace, but it did. She knew there were worse things than death, and if she were to die as a sacrifice tonight, it was better than being kept alive for the amusement and pleasure of the men. Even so, if she was to come up with a plan of escape, now was her last chance to pursue such.
Unfortunately, the gods had other ideas.
Around an hour after Ulfsune had left, she’d heard movement behind her as someone swept open the curtain. She’d been admiring the weapons, wondering if she could successfully hide any about her person, and deciding that they were all too large and cumbersome to hope for such. She turned quickly at the sound, expecting the warlord, but finding herself faced with someone completely different.
It didn’t take a genius to work out what it was that he wanted, Annika’s first move to whip out an axe from the stand behind her. The man laughed, he could see she was not used to handling such a weapon, so he strode towards her confidently. She swung without hesitation, and he dodged, batting the axe away as it swept past, knocking it easily from her hands. She didn’t wait to see what his next move was, rushing for the way out, but he grabbed her around her middle, yanking her back flush against him. She stamped down on his foot as hard as she could, but he just laughed, turning and flinging her halfway across the tent. Her back slammed painfully against the table, but as he came for her again, she dropped down, throwing herself underneath the table. He grabbed her ankle, dragging her halfway out with one hand, and she sent her other foot sailing into his face. It was the first sound of pain he had uttered, loosening her to clutch at his face. This time she didn’t bother going for the opening to the tent, instead pushing herself further under the table, grabbing the edge of the tent and squeezing herself underneath.
Outside, she saw that the gods must be on her side, for although there were tents and campfires about her, there was not a man in sight, either inside their tents or behind her, on the other side of Ulfsune’s tent. She sprinted forwards, the floor dipping before her and offering its momentum, heading for the cover of the trees. It wasn’t long before she heard pounding footsteps after her, and she knew that she wasn’t free yet.
His strides were long, so no sooner had she breached the trees had he almost caught up with her. She’d pushed herself on harder, buying herself some extra time, so they were further into the forest by the time he barreled into her from behind. She yelped as they fell forwards, crashing into the undergrowth. Quickly, she spun herself round, knowing that she would be completely helpless if he pinned her on her front, and he threw himself on top of her, straddling her stomach. He grasped her by the throat, tightly, furious at how she had managed to make him bleed. Her air cut off, Annika’s immediate reaction was to grab at his hands, trying to claw them away. But just like Ulfsune, she was no match for this man’s strength, so with one hand she grasped around for something, anything to help her. Just as she started to see coloured spots in her vision, she was rewarded for her efforts as her hand clasped over a large rock. Bringing it up quickly, she slammed it into the side of his face, and he fell away again, cursing. Dizzily, she pulled herself out from underneath him, finding her feet, stumbling away, before losing her footing again. The conscious part of her brain beneath the pain screamed at her to focus, and as she looked up…
She smelt coal.
Ulfsune was nearby. She had to get to Ulfsune.
Instead of carrying on forwards, using the momentum of the hill to gain ground, she veered to the right, on a path that took her up an incline. He would soon catch up with her like this, but as she smelt the scent of coal grow stronger, she knew her best bet was to find the warlord. She’d seen the look in the stranger’s eyes, felt the strength in his hands as he’d strangled her- whatever his intentions had been before, he meant now to kill her, she was sure of it. The hill had a sudden decline, and as she ran, she felt herself overbalance, picking up more speed than she could control, just as someone stepped out in front of her...
And she went crashing into the warlord.
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