Kyrrein skids down the backside of the ridge they'd just charged, his bow in one hand and his bloodied longknife in the other. The momentum of the viking's movement gave no time to pause. Not until they reached the edge of the open ground; cleared of trees at the perimeter of the village.

Sliding in the churned mud behind a ruined stone wall from some old sheep pen, Kyrrein plants his furred back to the clammy rock and pants for breath. Running a hand over his yew bow to rid it of any leaves, mud, or blood, he crans his neck to peer over his scant cover, eyeing the open field and the slight movement of archers in the village.

Throwing a glance to Ekkill, the younger hunter shakes his head slightly. To charge would be suicide. Not without a distraction. He would well know; the archers there in the village had the vantage that he, himself, would've taken.

----
Leita

The old witch of the mountain had disappeared at some point durring the battle; left behind as the Vikings of Ekkill had charged blindly foreward to satisfy their bloodlust on the hapless savages.

That isnt to say she wasnt participating in the fight, oh no. Standing in the packed clearing just behind the ridge, she was. Crouched in the earth and muttering to herself as she drew strange circles in the blood-fed mud before rolling a red leather bag upside-down.

Bones that looked almost charred and bits of wood carved with runes, even beads and a few feathers, come tumbling from the opening. Where they lay, she pokes and mutters to them, rubbing one or another in her gnarled hands as she hisses. Or they do; its difficult to tell where the noise comes from.

Regardless, the woman sweeps them up and stands again, the ramskull hood making her look like a hulking spectral beast as she croons to the horses that the vikings had abandoned for the fight. They knicker and flatten their ears, watching her as her hands move for their reigns....

Kyrrein gets his distraction, and the vikings get their oportunity. The gray kite that accompanied the witch sails out of the woods with an eerie keen. Being a beast of the woods, it is ignored by the savages. Perhaps simply disturbed by the battle.

But as it swoops over the thatched huts of the village, a black pouch drops from its talons. Within it, lit peat smoulders against the wet hay...smokes... and catches fire.

As if it were a signal, there is a thunderous, terrifying shriek from the forest. Horses, a half-dozen of them, the ones belonging to the vikings, thunder from the trees and through the feild as if Hel itself were on their heels. Behind them billow dry branches, blazing inferno where they bounce and sway from the leather straps dragging them behind the saddles.

The savages shout in confusion and scramble to send arrows at the beasts; but it seems the shafts fall short or beyond their weaving targets, or lodge harmlessly in the fur and leather the creatures are adorned in. They burst through the brittle stick fences that could hold back man but not horse; the fire they drag bursts and sparks fly.

Chaos. One could almost swear they heared cackling.

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