Springing foreward with the other warriors of Ekkill's small army, Kyrrein brushes through the thick northern foliage without the howls of his brethren. In smooth circles, his hand reaches behind him to pluck black-fletched arrows from their quivver, alights them against his fingers at the deer-gut string, pulls back until the yew shook with restrained power, and releases only to rise again to the quivver.

His arrows were his warcry. The raven feathers were stiffer then gull or goose. They cut the air with a distinct keen, singing death to their targets. His aim is without fault; zipping over the shoulders of the charging vikings to sprout in savagemens' throats and chests.

Leaping a fallen tree, a savage only wounded shrieks and springs up, seeking to impale the archer on his crude spear.

Kyrrein spins nimbly, the stone tip rips deep into the bulk of fur and leather he wore, but only skips across his side. Gripping the spear with his right hand to momentarily keep his enemy from pulling back, Kyrrein thrusts his bow foreward. The curved tip jabs the savage in the soft of the throat, and he staggers back, chokeing in pained surprise.

The choke becomes a gurgle as Kyrrein rips the spear back out, hefts it javelin-like, and plunges it deep into his foe's ribs as the other had so recently sought to do to him.

Letting the body fall, he stands over his latest kill and knocks another arrow to the string as if it were all in a day's work.

__________________
Click the little hatchling to help him grow! (Opens a new window, no worries!)