Ramundr nods at the skeletal being, steps forward. Having not fought someone with no real expression on their face, he felt slightly unsure of hit tactics. He suddenly realizes that a spear might not be the best thing to use against a skeleton, as there is no flesh to spear. Too late for regrets, he thrusts from the underneath of his wooden shield straight into undeath.
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A vision assails him. A wheel of ravens circle before his eyes, their beaks glistening crimson, their eyes plucked forth. Their caws stir his soul like the fingers of a bard plucking upon a harp strung with sinews. He shivers. Opens his mouth to protest, and feels himself sinking, deep, down into the darkness, under the earth, mouth plugged with dust and worms, limbs reduced to bones and ash. Sinks, and knows himself dead, if not now, then soon, a month, a year, a decade, nothing as the dead reckon time.
Soon he will be one of them, and nothing he can do will prevent it.
With gasp Otryggr opens his eyes and the ravens are gone and he stands with his comrades before the open barrow. Ramundr steps forth to do battle, and Vastaviklander's hand goes for this ax but it's too late. This isn't his fight.
Instead, he crosses his arms, hulking behind the other, looming like a cliff, brooding and stern as he watches the other man begin his duel with is death.
Doesn't he know that this is a fight no-one can win?
Ramundr steps into his thrust, the sharpened tip of his spear poised with practiced grace. His foe, despite the ravages of time, harbors in its uneasy rest the memories of one who has doubtless fed many ravens. Its sword shame born on muddied bone, it captures the strength of Ramundr's strike against the shield plate, adding yet another mark to the untold stories of its many battles.
May your fates soar through the ages.
Ramundr's eyes snap open. He sees the warrior raising his shield and so raises the arc of his spear, striking the warrior square in its skull.
Odin help me. as Ramundr feels faint of blood, and the fear of death stinks within him. He wants to retreat, to entreat, to let his heart beat on of flesh and blood.
A large portion of the warrior's skull is now missing, revealing only empty air within. The creature staggers, but does not fall, instead pushing back with strength that should not be and casting off Ramundr's spear. It skirts around , fainting with its shield up high, then cutting quick and hard with its blood-worm, stabbing at the Northman's thigh.
The blade emerges, glistening the dark, wet red of slaughter dew. It drips upon the earth. It seeps into the soil. It feeds the needful dreams of those who sleep below. Those for whom glories such as this are now ashen memories scattered by the howling northern wind.
Ramundr, realizing that this skeleton had very thorough armoring, this time adjusts his spear thrust, waiting for the right moment. He then steps backwards towards his friends. There is no honor in one on one combat with a dead dog like you.
"Ramundr!" Otryggr's bark is savage. "Finish what you began!"
Am I not the one out here? Ramundr barks back while feinting to the left.
But our goal is to get to Olafsdottirs, not die one by one for honor against the dead.
As the warrior shifts to keep pace with Ramundr, the Northman spots an opening and stabs viciously. The spearhead strikes the skeleton’s sternum, bursting through with the sound of broken branches. The skeleton’s bones begin to crumble, collapsing into an ashen cloud that coats Ramundr’s clothes and armor.
A moment passes, and another. As one, the undead retainers bow their skulls, then turn and shamble back toward the grave from which they climbed.
The forgotten warrior’s regalia, armor, weapon, and shield, battered and old, though perfectly serviceable, lie before you. The sword is very well crafted.
Ragnar: 10/10
Ramundr: 8/13
Otryggr 15/15
Signe: 12/12
Thyrnir: 9/9
Ramundr blinks, confused at the strange cloud before him.
As the warrior shifts to keep pace with Ramundr, the Northman spots an opening and stabs viciously. The spearhead strikes the skeleton’s sternum, bursting through with the sound of broken branches. The skeleton’s bones begin to crumble, collapsing into an ashen cloud that coats Ramundr’s clothes and armor.
A moment passes, and another. As one, the undead retainers bow their skulls, then turn and shamble back toward the grave from which they climbed.
The forgotten warrior’s regalia, armor, weapon, and shield, battered and old, though perfectly serviceable, lie before you. The sword is very well crafted.
Ragnar: 10/10
Ramundr: 8/13
Otryggr 15/15
Signe: 12/12
Thyrnir: 9/9
Ramundr takes a moment to thank Odin. The vision of the skeleton's sword splitting him open would not leave him..He felt sure Odin had intervened. Thank the wanderer.
He looks overs the warrior's regalia. He eyes the breast plate.
Cursed? Tag All.
Ramundr contemplates for a moment, then lays claim to the breast plate. Turning to Otryggr You are a brave and strong warrior. Please accept my chainmail as a token of our friendship. Ramundr looks fondly at the chainmail for a moment. I worked over a year for it, even sold my last milking cow.
No sooner have the warriors donned their armors than the ground tremors once more. With a loud crash, a stone rolls away from one of the barrow openings, revealing a gaping hole into darkness. Out of the shadows strides a long-dead hero from before the Northlanders first came to this land. His raiment is grand, clad in rotting silks and fine clothes, armored with a cuirass of bronze, and carrying a two-handed sword of gold-and silver-gilt bronze.
The undead king mounts a nearby barrow and raises his hands in a silent command, a command answered by the hordes of undead crawling forth from the surrounding Barrow Lands. The way ahead, toward the Tor, remains open, while the path back toward the forest is closed, for hundreds of decayed skeletons lurch forth from the cold embrace of the earth.
The king of the dead points toward the Tor.
The sudden appearance of the undead horde and the grand king of undeath, Ramundr feared that he had offended by claiming the spoils of his battle. But the way ahead remained parted, and the undead king pointed onward. He could not read the intention of the deathly king, but it seemed clear to Ramundr that he was not here to prevent them from continuing, but to stop them from turning back.
Ramundr, nodding his head in deep respect, steps boldly forward.
With the appearance of yet another undead warrior, Signe resists the urge to growl in frustration. Were they going to have to go through every single undead from here to the Tor? They just didn't have time for this.
But there was something different in the demeanor of this undead. He made no aggressive movements nor did he demand a trial by combat.
The ranger turned and saw the skeleton army amassing behind them, cutting off any chance of retreat - if that had even been an option. "They don't want to fight us. In fact, they're wanting us to get to the Tor as quickly as possible. They want us to intervene and stop what's happening."
Otryggr bows his head respectfully as Ramundr hands over the chainmail. "A fight worthy of the best skalds, Ramundr. I'll see to it that the jarl hears of your duel and the blows you struck when we return. My thanks, for this princely gift."
Then, as the land shivers and the undead king strides forth, Otryggr falls into a crouch, head whipping from side to side as he tries to keep the mounting tide of undead in view. An impossible task, and for a moment he feels a heady sense of liberation, an acceptance that his time has come, and all he need worry about now is finding a good death amongst this horde.
Then the king points toward the Tor, and Otryggr straightens up. Ramundr seems of like mind, and when Signe speaks her piece, Otryggr slings his ax.
"Then by all means let us intervene! Come! To battle!" And so saying, he takes off at a run, moving toward the distant Tor.
The fight had been awesome. And they had been judged worthy of proceeding, although Þyrnir wasn't feeling particularly worthy. What could he do, among these seasoned fighters, these wielders of spear and sword. He grips his shield tighter. Glancing at Ramund's leg, he opens his mouth as if to speak, but thinks better of it. They needed speed, yes, but that wound should at least be bound. But with the ranks of undead at their backs, urging them on, now didn't seem the proper time for that. Perhaps they can stop on the way and take care of it.
With uneasy glances over his shoulder, he starts walking towards the Tor.
Ragnar says nothing, as he sheathes the centuries old sword on his hip and straps the shield to his side. As the armies approach, he's way too concentrated on staring towards the storm on the hill to even ask himself why. But as Otryggr leads the charge, he nods at the words of Signe and Thyrnir. "Then let us break the storm and let them rest once more!", he shouts, as he moves up to try and catch up to the Vastaviklander.
It is nearly a mile to to the far corner of the field of barrows and the tall mound of packed earth known as the Tor. The undead follow behind, but hold back as you approach the summit, as though fear or magic keeps them away. It is over one hundred feet high and covers approximately fifteen acres. Crowning this hilltop is a ring of standing stones, tumbled down and long forgotten, built ages ago by the long-dead Andøvan that once inhabited what is now the Northlands. The stones themselves are cracked and worn with age; green lichen and moss cling to the lower surfaces and run up these fissures, contrasting sharply with the dark grey rock. The Tor is steeply sloped, and the slopes are covered with grasses, herbs, and bracken. Thunderclouds roil overhead and lightning flashes down to strike the few stones still standing.
Approaching the Tor from the southwest and northwest are two causeways that allow for easy access to its summit. Both are firm, wide, and slightly graded but long, each running for 400 feet. There is no cover, and approaching from the causeway would easily be seen from the summit, alerting anyone there to the approach.
Ramundr looks upon the slope. I can climb up, brace myself and let down a rope to assist in the climb.
Ramundr and Þyrnir unpack their coils of rope, estimating that, if tied together, the length should be just enough to get to the crest of the Tor. And even if not, it should still provide some help. Ramundr wraps both lengths over a shoulder and begins the unsteady journey up the side of the the Tor, guided only by prayers, for now the low-hanging storm clouds surrounding the Tor have obscured Narrah. Naturally athletic, and accustomed to such things, he makes slow but deliberate progress up the slope, slipping length of rope free as he goes. He loses his footing here and there, but though the weight of his armor and weapons threaten to cast him down, he manages to find a rock, or a branch, and grab on for safety. He reaches the top and disappears from sight.
About fifty yards away, a ring of ancient standing stones is at the center of the Tor’s summit. A few of the stones still stand as trilithons with posts and lintels ten feet high, but most of the stones lie on the ground or are leaning at precarious angles. The dark clouds above swirl in a great spiral seemingly only a hundred feet above the hilltop and are constantly illuminated from within by flashes of lightning. Other streaks of lightning flash downward in jagged arcs to strike the still-standing trilithons, and after each flash, the stones radiate a pale glow for a few moments as if absorbing the power of the storm. The flashing lightning is so bright here that the entire area glows like daylight .
At the center of the ring is a three-foot-high-by-twelve-foot-long altar stone. The area between the altar and the ring is open and covered with low grass. Roughly half of the stones are still standing. From here, you can see a crouched figure and what must be little Runa, holding their hands to the heavens and screaming out words you cannot hear to the swelling storm clouds. Inga and Fastvi are tied up next to the altar. Two men stand nearby, looking out toward the causeways.
However, one of the men casually turns your way. Perhaps it is the lightning, but something in your direction catches his eye, and he cups a hand over his brow as he looks directly your way...
You have your choice of multiple heavy stones and broken pillars around which you can secure the rope.
pass
pass
pass
pass (20ft)
pass
fail, no advancement
pass
pass
pass (40ft)
pass
pass
pass
pass (60ft)
pass
fail, no advancement
pass
pass
pass (80ft)
pass
pass
pass
pass (100ft)
fail, no advancement
pass
Ramundr arrives at the top, and with a nervous glance, begins to tie the rope to the base of a pillar, and throws up the rope. The man turns, puts his hand to his brow, and Ramundr curses under his breath. He squats low, hoping the accumulated mud from his climb could provide enough concealment in the dim light.
Ragnar taps his foot on the ground, eager to climb the hill. "Let us go. Our foes, our friends and the Andøvans are all waiting for us.", he says with a sense of unease in his voice. Is this how most heroes were? Led down a path and faced with victory, or death?, he ponders for a moment, just as the rope hits the ground. Strapping his spear to his back, he grabs on and starts climbing.
Ragnar has +7 (+6 from armour) to climb, so he should be able to climb easily. I'll take the -5 Penalty, since even that would only result in stalling, rather than falling.
Those were some pretty bad rolls. Ragnar would make it up there in a minute, rather than the usual two, although I think Otryggr has us all beat there.
Looking up the steep side of the Tor, Otrggyr watches as Ramundr ascends, arms crossed, brows lowered as he wills the other warrior on. When the rope comes tumbling and unspooling down, he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and tugs the chainmail up over his head, rolls it tight, then fastens it with rope and drops it over his shoulder.
Once he gains the top, he wedges himself into a cleft, legs spread wide to support his weight, and sets about unrolling the chain and struggling into it. His movements are sure and methodical, but anyone who looks closely will see fire smoldering in the depths of his eyes.
This couldn't be any harder than hauling buckets of water out of the well, could it? Some really big buckets of water... Þyrnir grabs hold of the rope, tilting his head up to regard the steep slope with apprehension. Then he begins climbing, wedging his feet in narrow cracks in the rock, and periodically making the mistake of looking down. About two thirds of the way up, his sweaty hands slip, and only at the last minute does he manage to wrap his forearm around the rope and stop himself from plummeting to the ground 70 feet below. Heart thundering in his chest, he wipes first one hand, then the other, on his homespun trousers before continuing the ascent.
Signe eyes the rope with trepidation. Maybe if she went up the main road, it would allow the others to arrive unobserved. But in the end she decides to follow the others. But she had never done this before. She had spent more of her time in the water or hunting when she was young than she had climbing. The others made it look easy so she didn't think she'd have a great deal of difficultly - how wrong she was.
The ranger could barely get herself off the ground. When she finally does, it is an agonizingly slow climb upwards. She makes the rookie mistake of looking down repeatedly which always freezes her blood with a momentary fear of falling before she manages to get herself going again. As if this isn't bad enough, a few times she slips during the climb causing her body to slam into the side of the Tor. She'd definitely be bruised in the morning.
Finally, sweating and almost fully spent, she makes it to the top of the Tor. She lays briefly on the ground on her stomach, letting her burning muscles rest.
The others climb up after Ramundr, some having a more difficult time than others. Signe slips several times, and on one occasion cracks her chin on the edge of a rock so hard she fears she’s lost a tooth .
About fifty yards away, a ring of ancient standing stones is at the center of the Tor’s summit. A few of the stones still stand as trilithons with posts and lintels ten feet high, but most of the stones lie on the ground or are leaning at precarious angles. The dark clouds above swirl in a great spiral seemingly only a hundred feet above the hilltop and are constantly illuminated from within by flashes of lightning. Other streaks of lightning flash downward in jagged arcs to strike the still-standing trilithons, and after each flash, the stones radiate a pale glow for a few moments as if absorbing the power of the storm. The flashing lightning is so bright here that the entire area glows like daylight . The group’s three horses are hobbled to this, the east side of the stones, and are skiddish.
At the center of the ring is a three-foot-high-by-twelve-foot-long altar stone. The area between the altar and the ring is open and covered with low grass. Roughly half of the stones are still standing. From here, you can see a crouched figure and what must be little Runa, holding their hands to the heavens and screaming out words you cannot hear to the swelling storm clouds.
But, having spotted Ramundr, one of the guards calls out to the others. The crone of a witch, who can be none other than Sibbe the Unkempt, twists her head, then cries out in rage, pushing Runa back from the altar with a wrinkled hand. She calls the men closer to her. As you approach, you can see them huddled together, a strangle purple mist suddenly creeping around their feet. And even before you are upon them, the men have grown twice in size. They race out toward the edge of the stones to meet you and prevent you from entering the circle. Giants of men, one wields an enormous greataxe, the other a shortsword. Both wear studded leathers.
Sibbe’s cackle burns through the night air. ”Sooo!” she spits with the undulating tremor of a hag, ”The wolf-hearts are come, believing they are to play a part in this, hmm? But their wound-sea shall only stain this sacred soil, emboldening the very magick they seek to stay! Njarni, Gufti! Do not allow them to pass the stones, lest they usurp the dwimmer! Kill them, say I! Do it now!” As though encosorcelled, both men advance.
_______________________________
Ragnar: 10/10
Ramundr: 8/13
Otryggr 15/15
Signe: 12/12 (4 NL)
Thyrnir: 9/9
Ramundr <--- Up!
Otryggr <--- Up!
Njarni
Gufti
Ragnar
Signe
Sibbe
Thyrnir
avg 14
avg 13.8
Shields about me! We'll form a line and march forward. Signe, break off and try to enter the circle. Otryggr, maybe try to circle around them and do what you do best. Ramudr suggests to his companions, then braces his spear against a charge.
Otryggr rises from the far edge of the Tor, muddied, hair hanging in lank strips about his face, his greatax held easily in one hand. Anger pulses through him. The sight of the cursed Alfar dwimmer before him fills him with disgust, with rage, with an overwhelming desire to stave in Sibbe's face so that bone and blood and brain are made one before the edge of his ax.
The lightning crashes above the Tor, and in that moment of blinding light, in that coruscating, world eating blankness, Otrygrr feels his heart leap, his pulse surge, sees a raven flying before him, flying directly at one of the giants, wings outspread, to sink into the massive man's chest.
Thoughts of Sibbe vanish before his desire to wreak slaughter. His cry is wordless, inchoate. It is a blood chilling roar, bestial and promising death. Otryggr breaks away from the group, leaving them behind. The fire in his blood carries him faster than thought. He is a wolf leaping at a giant aurochs, his ax descending in a shrieking cry at the broad chest.
The crack of lightning. Or is it bone? Otryggr flies into the air, axe raised overhead, and then is standing upon the broken corpse of Njarni, struggling to remove the head of his ax, buried as it is in the man's chest cavity.
With a cry of rage, Gufti launches himself across the field. Not at Otrgyrr, for that would be the honorable choice, but at the smaller man on the battlefield, the Southlander, who Gufti can see has not had time to gather himself for the battle
Gufti’s giant shortsword, nearly five feet long and sharper than a bear’s claw, spears toward Þyrnir's ribs. But Ramundr is ready, his braced spear impaling Gufti brutally, cracking and breaking bone. He yanks back the blade and Gufti's battle dew sprays all around, coating Ragnar, Thyrnir, and Ramundr in a crimson sheen.
Ragnar: 10/10
Ramundr: 8/13
Otryggr 15/15
Signe: 12/12 (4 NL)
Thyrnir: 9/9
Raymundr
Otryggr
Njarni
Gufti
Ragnar <--- Up!
Signe <--- Up!
Sibbe
Thyrnir
Ramundr grunts at the impact of the giant. Crimson explosions sting his eyes, coating his arms. The stout wood punches through the man's thick chest, up and out his muscular neck. He steps neatly away avoiding the body of dying man.
I know of you raper, Gufti the Clever. Not so clever now. I shall hew your head, and take it back to the Vale so it can get pissed on.
Signe immediately moves to the side as the large men rush them and doesn't see Þyrnir fall. As she goes, she nocks an arrow onto the string of her longbow which she fires at Sibbe.
As the two giants are cut down like summer trees in front of Otryggr's wrath and Ramundr's artful spearwork, Ragnar turns his glare at the wytch. "You've twisted the gift of Wotan, wretch!", he roars out, seeing the god's gift of magic turned to vile purposes.
His footsteps start splashing on the muddy rocks of the mountaintop, the wound-sea of the two giants mixing with the sky's tears. Gathering momentum, the tip of his rune-carved spear flashes with a spark of lighting as he twists his back, hurling the full-sized blood-icicle at Sibbe. The spear, as if blessed by the Valfather himself, flies true over the lightining stricken monoliths, finding its home in Sibbe's tattered flank.
Signe's arrow finds its mark, followed soon by Ragnar's spear.
Sibbe howls in rage, fury, and perhaps fear, clutching at the spear. Still, if she is afraid, she does not show it, hobbling forward several paces and casting her hateful gaze upon Otryggr. ”You..." she pants, "you shall make a fine servant to replace the groveling dogs you have slain!”
”Runa, girl! Aid me in the slaughter of your friends!” Runa, watching slack-jawed, suddenly springs to life, bolting in front of Runa to stand protectively. Then the little girl looks at Signe blankly, gestures, and screams unintelligible words. A bolt of white-hot lightning arcs down from the sky, threatening to strike the woman where she stands.
"Yes! Good girl!" the witch crows. "Burn them all!"
Ragnar: 10/10
Ramundr: 8/13
Otryggr 15/15
Signe: 12/12 (4 NL)
Thyrnir: 9/9
Raymundr
Otryggr
Njarni
Gufti
Ragnar
Signe
Sibbe
Thyrnir <--- Up!
[larger]RUNA! NO!"[/larger]
Þyrnir bellows at the top of his lungs, hoping the little girl will snap out of it if she hears a familiar voice.
"Fight the sorcery, my precious! Be strong!"
He runs forward, unslinging the shield with one hand, the other clutching the haft of the small axe at his belt. He didn't trust himself to throw it at this distance and not hit little Runa, so he hesitates, torn.
"Mother, guide your humble servant."
The stafr drawn on his shield flashes for a brief moment, the runes carved around the rim glowing with a soft light before subsiding. Those around the Southlander can feel renewed vigour enter their limbs, like a refreshing drink of water after a long trek on a dusty road.
Darkness come swirling down around Otryggr, and rage as he might he feels his limbs grow leaden, his eyelids droop. The rush and roar of the world fades away and the urgency of the moment grows numb...
Until something far greater than Sibbe's will intervenes, and the world explodes back into its vivid, lightning-lit madness. Once more Otryggr tastes his enemy's blood on his lips, once more he feels his whole frame pulse with a fury that can only be quenched by death.
Ax in hand, he tears around the standing stones and falls upon Sibbe, ax descending in a fell stroke.
Ramundr had been set to run at Sibbe, but Otryggr's mighty swing ended that. Instead, he searched the body of Gufti for some sure proof of his deed, lest he do as he threatened, hew Gufti's head from his shoulders and carry it back home. No doubt, Olafsdottirs would approve.
Sibbe continues to shriek, her voice infused with poisonous magic.
Sibbe’s plans for you are never told. Otryggr’s ax blade swings closely over Runa’s head, then hews the witch’s head from her shoulders. It spins lazily through the air, then lands at her feet, its features twisted in rage and judgment upon the Vastaviklander. Her body crumples beside it.
Runa faints.
Fastvi and Inga, bound nearby, awaken from their magical sleep and begin crying out in fear and joy.
Njarni carried: studded leather armor, a greataxe, 6 shortspears, a sap, and a pouch with 5hs
Gufti carried: mwk studded leather armor, a shortsword, a sap, a shortbow, 15 arrows, and a pouch with 23hs
Sibbe carried: a dagger with a pommel engraved with a fanged maw (radiates magic), a necklace of bones, dead roses, and a faintly glowing blue crystal (radiates magic), a ragged peasant’s outfit, a spell component pouch, a pouch with 33hs, and a chunk of amber with a large moth suspended in it worth 94hs
The sound of pounding hooves and the jingle of harness and armor rise from the Barrow Lands below. Below where stood the ranks of the dead who allowed you to pass to the Tor now can be seen a large party of armed warriors riding hard toward the hillock. In the flashes of lightning, you can make out the forms of the dead moving aside to allow them to pass without a fight. As the riders make hard for the causeway, you can see that though their harness and armor are mud-spattered and travel stained, the weapons they bear in their hands are bright and their faces grim.
These are men going to war, and riding at their head you can see the boar-headed helm of Jarl Olaf Henrikson himself leading three full hands of huscarls and warriors. They begin to ascend the causeway.
Runa is revived with a few gentle slaps. She blinks, looking fearful. She doesn’t remember anything after picking flowers in the meadow.
⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕
From the mud that grimes his armor and the blood that dries on his face, you can tell that Jarl Olaf has had a long night as well as he and his huscarls gather around you and the girls. Kraki Hallason is there, and Young Ljot, sour-spirited Berg Geirson, the surly Hauk of Vastavikland, One-Eyed Sven, and even Old Ljot. Hallbjorn also looks on approvingly, his helm clutched under one arm his eyes tired and bright. He smiles at Signe.
”It seems you young-spears have had a night of it too,” your jarl begins. ”At first I had thought that you were young and foolish, unable to oversee my girls, then I thought you defeated or your mind’s-worth broken by what strange signs we found at the Meadows when you did not return. But when we began to follow the trail to find the girls, we realized it was your trail that we followed, and we saw the signs of your fight to fulfill your sword-oath to me. You have fought and bled for my household, and in my mind that makes you a part of it.”
”Glad I am that you have saved my daughters from that evil witch, and happy I am to reward such warriors as you. When we return to Silvermeade, you shall eat, drink, and fill yourselves with good mead, for you have done well this day.”
Jarl Olaf then proceeds to remove several of the heavy golden bands that ring his arms. ”And here, in the sight of my own householders, the freemen among you,” he looks to Signe, Otryggr, Ragnar, and Ramundr, ”shall take from my hand these armbands that have graced my own arms since I slew the giant Hastral in furious spear-din.”
”Signe Oddvardottir, fjölskylda . You make me proud,” he says, placing a band into her hand.
”Ótryggr Grímsson. You are new to my household, but prove yourself this day. The legends of the bravery of Vastaviklanders are true.” he says, placing a band into Ótryggr’s hand.
”Ragnar Hedefødt. Some call you godwytch, but I call you friend.” He places a band into Ragnar’s hand.
”Ramundr Æiþorn. You too are new to us, but your courage speaks highly of the Vale. All of Silvermeade thanks you.” He places a band into Ramundr’s hand.
At last he turns to Þyrnir. ”And Þyrnir. Would that I could offer you a band of gold. But I have promised them only to free men, and you are but a thrall. Yet you have proven yourself as worthy as any freeman within my halls, and you have returned to me my daughters, who I love more than my own life. For this, Þyrnir, I grant you three things…”
”First, I give you freedom from the bindings of thralldom. This I grant to you in solemn recognition of your service to me and my blood.”
”Second, I give you this band, promised as they are to freeman such as you.” He places the final golden band into Þyrnir’s hand, then holds it with both of his.
”And third, I offer you my name, for you yet have none. Þyrnir Olafson you may be called, if you will have it, for you have showed me that you are bound to my blood. And you are not only a son, but truly a warrior of Olaf Henrikson.”
The storm has begun to dissipate, leaving a clear night sky over the Tor, with just a hint of spring-like wind from the south.
A freeman...? Þyrnir blinks slowly, cradling Runa to his side with one arm as he tries to make sense of the jarl's words. The jarl had been a good master to him, why does he cast Þyrnir aside now? What would Þyrnir do as a freeman?
...Oh.
He falls to one knee, head bowed before the jarl as he accepts the golden arm-ring. "You do me honour beyond measure, my jarl. I shall serve you faithfully. I will be the shield for your family, slayer of your foes, until the sword-sleep takes me. I will do this not for Frigg's thread or the mind's worth, but for the love I bear you and yours. This I swear by my new name and by my blood."
He then rises, unsheathing his seax and cutting a shallow wound across his shield arm, then thrusting the bloodied weapon into the air.
You honor us, Jarl Olaf. I am glad to serve you and your kin, and shall wear this band proudly Ramundr nods his head and deep respect. There is much we need to tell you, and soon, Jarl Olaf, of signs and portents of war. Þyrnir or Ragnar may best relate the Wyrding we witnessed.
Ragnar, exhausted from the spear-din, the climb and the chase after the girls, walks slowly to Sibbe's body, slight trepidation as he glances at the panting bearsarker!, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. "You have fought with the fire of a dozen men, Otryggr Grimsson.", he says quietly, as if urging the man to relax, a small smile crawling on his face. "And at least one and a half trolls.", he says, as he rips his spear our of Sibbe's battered, headless corpse with rage. "Hag.", he spits out, staring at the freshly bloodied spear, eyes glancing at the crimson tip. The battle-dew has flown in our tale. The dawn of the dew, but there will be much more before the dusk., he thinks as he unceremoniously wipes the tip of the spear in the wytch's rags for a moment, glancing at the sky-coloured gem at her side with an appraising look.
Hunching down to pick it up, he's stopped by the others staring in the distance at the stampeding horde of Jarl Olaf, and leans on his spear, the weight of the battle resting on his shoulders once more.
Staring at the golden ring, Ragnar nods deeply, but doesn't bow. "Family and friends stand above all, so says Wotan, my jarl.", utter Ragnar's lips after a small pause as he slips the ring around his own wrist, and gesturing towards the others. "And we have all been deemed blessed to gain many and lose none today, and to speak next to the raven's feast of our enemies.", he adds, before nodding with respect and gratitude once more. He stares at the beautiful sky, crossing his palms on his spear and remaining motionless.
Many centuries past, the demon-god Althunak, the Demon Lord of Ice and Cold, the Master of Cannibals, the Winter King, came to the North. Legend has it that he had ruled a vast empire around the Southern Pole of the world, and fell to the combined force of heroes and gods. Into the North he crept, and established a new home for his cult in the Far North where he created an icy waste and eventually forged a new empire based on his unholy Liturgy of Icy Death and Way of Hunger. He hoped to use this new base of power to cover the world in ice and snow. Fortunately, this did not happen, again due to the actions of mighty heroes--this time of the Ulnat themselves. They marched in all their might upon his unholy capital and overthrew the demon lord, constraining his living corpse at the bottom of the Lake of Frozen Screams. Still, the cult lingered on, and six generations ago a group of Northlanders led by a prophet of Donar traveled north to the City of the Lord of Winter and slew the last surviving members of the cult, as well as the avatar of Althunak.
Signe rushes over to Fastvi and Inga to untie them and to make sure that they hadn't been hurt. She offers both of the young women whatever comfort she can. She reassures them that their ordeal is over.
-----
When the jarl presses a ring into her palm her emotions are at war within her. Her face flames red as she feels both joy and guilt at the mighty gift. She bows her head low as she speaks. "You being proud of me and calling me family means the world to me and is a great honor. I gratefully accept this but I don't deserve it." She keeps her eyes downcast, "Your dottirs were taken on my watch. Of course it was my responsibility to bring them back to you. I have much to make amends for and so you will have my loyal service as long as you will have me."
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That sweet disconnection, that shiver of resistance than freedom as his ax cuts through the hag's neck. With a roar Otryggr steps through with the blow, the gout of the old woman's blood splashing against his left side as her body falls, but he's not done.
Roaring still, spittle flying from his lips, he spins and brings his ax crashing down upon her torso, severing her left arm. He yanks it free of the sucking mud and stones and hews at her again, staving in her chest. A third blow nearly cuts her thigh in two. The Vastaviklander is like a man possessed, bellowing his hatred and fury as he cuts the body apart, so that when he finally staggers back Sibbe is unrecognizable.
For a moment, when Ragnar touches his shoulder, Otryggr turns to stare at him with blank eyes. There's no recognition there. Nothing but bloodlust. His knuckles tighten around his ax, his lips writhe back from his teeth, but then the fire goes out from his gaze and he slumps, the all invigorating rage leaving him. His ax falls from limp fingers and he turns his face up to the sky, closing his eyes as the rain falls upon his heaving shoulders and pants for breath.
It takes Otryggr time to come back to himself. He lets the others comfort the girls, and instead spends what time they have cleansing his ax, wiping at it with a dirty cloth, striving to clean the gore and matted hair from its blade and haft. He's not yet finished when the jarl comes powering up the incline, and it's with obvious reluctance that he sets his ax aside and comes to stand at the back of their group.
When the jarl speaks his piece and lays the gold ring in his palm, the Vastaviklander bows his head low but says not a word. There is no defiance in him, but rather it is as if he's given too much, burned himself too deeply in his rage, and has no words left. There will be time later for pride and for boasting, for exultation and joy. For now, there is still only the aftershock of death, the bitterness left in his mouth by the fury, the ripples spreading still through his soul of the visions and madness.
Still, when the jarl rewards Thyrnir with his priceless gifts, Otryggr rouses himself enough to clap one blood-smeared hand upon the former thrall's shoulder. He gives the man a squeeze and a nod, then steps back. As the jarl's huscarls mill around, as Signe speaks her piece and the dottirs are tended to, Otryggr then searches out Ramundr.
"That was a fearsome blow," he says, voice a raw rasp. "You felled your foe with great skill." A second nod to the warrior, and then he moves to recover his ax and set to cleansing it before they ride off the Tor.
The joy and pride that Þyrnir feels at his change of fortunes and the praise of Ótryggr are overshadowed by worry as he thinks back on Sibbe's words and the foul deeds she had been planning. He speaks up, hesitantly, not wishing to steal the glory of the moment, but these tidings must be heard.
"Althunak is a name with dark wings. Dark wings, indeed. My jarl, the wytch spoke this name afore she died. As I am sure you know, that is the name of the demon-god who sought to cover the world in ice and snow. He has been defeated before by gods and heroes, but wicked men always seek to make use of dark powers beyond their ken." He pauses, drawing closer to the jarl and speaking in a whisper.
"And your daughter, Runa... When we were in the meadows, just before the girls were snatched... She spoke words that sounded like, like a vision. Or a prophecy. She spoke of a storm coming, and - forgive me - of your death by bloodied ice."
He watches the jarl anxious for his reaction.