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Enraged, a young savage released his most bloodcurdling battlecry, charging Ekkill, warrior of twenty winters. Left arm raised and poised to cleave Ekkill's neck, he swung with haste, sloppily flailing about in a blind rage. Sweeping his left leg behind his right and twisting his torso, Ekkill flawlessly evaded the attack, letting the savage's blade pass cleanly by his side, dividing nothing but dingy, humid air. Wasting not a single moment, he plunged his sword into the savage's chest, dead center below the ribcage. Taking advantage of the stunning effects of the impalement, Ekkill fired his arm into's the young man's neck, gripping him like a vice.

Squeezing harder and harder, he began to feel the man's voice box collapse. Within two minutes, the green warrior's face had turned red and purple, blood drizzling from each and every orifice in his face. Still, Ekkill clamped down, until he broke the skin and held nothing but a lump of juicy flesh before a corpse as the skin gently seperated from the neck.

Still, this was not enough. Ekkill began to bring his sword upon the body like a guillotine, dividing the warrior into uncountable meaty chunks. Blood sprayed the interior of his home in blotchy strings, dotting every square foot of the house. His son lied in the next room, beheaded and dismembered, and his rage would not be satisfied until Ekkillson's murderer resembled a grapefruit squashed beneath his heels.

When there was nothing left but pulp and bone, Ekkill returned to his boy's room. Dropping his sword and sheild at the doorway, he fell to his knees before the mutilated visage that was once his fourteen year old son.

"Odhinn, All Father!" he cried. "Was this your plan for my son? It cannot be!"

Cradling Ekkillson's torso and head in his arms, Ekkill wept bitterly, gnashing his teeth. Mustering all of his strength, he rose from the floor, his boy in his arms, and lied him down on the bed. Tomorrow, he would build a grand pyre, and send his son on his way to Hel.

"Ekkill!" a voice called from outside the cottage. "The savages have fled! We are victorious! Hail Odhinn! Hail Thor!"

Ekkill did not feel victorious. As he gazed upon his boy once more, he began to feel rage in his heart. Livid, he released an earthquaking cry, shaking the very foundation of the house. They would all die; every last one of them. And he would have his son back from Hulda's cold grasp, if it meant going to Hel himself.

Sealed in Blood

Deep in the great forest ten miles north of the village, Ekkill laid down his sword and sheild, resting them at the base of the greatest yew he could find. He still reeked of his own son's burning corpse and the bodies of those who had fallen with him the night before. Dried and caked blood still clung to his body.

Nearby, a knee-deep creek flowed gently through the trees. Ekkill removed his clothing and waded in, then began scrubbing away the filth from his body. In the still waters, he saw his reflection. His long red hair and beard were matted with dirt and blood. Old scars from battles long past covered his body. Each of them had a story, all of which seemed like a distant memory to Ekkill.

Once his body was clean, Ekkill returned to the yew, fully clothed. He had been here before, many times. Carved in the tree were the symbols of his gods, Odhinn, Baldr, Freya, and Thor. He knelt before the tree, before the high gods of Valhalla, and began to speak his piece.

"All Father, my son has passed. He was just fourteen winters old, and the last to carry my name. I sent him on his journey to Hel, but this is not the end of his story! Before the AEsir, I swear that I will bring him back so that he may become a warrior, and have a seat in Valhalla!" Ekkill spoke triumphantly, removing his dagger and drinking jug from his belt.

"Odhinn, far-wanderer, give me wisdom, courage, and victory! Friend Thor, grant me your strength!" he cried, taking a large swig from the jug, then pouring a little before the tree. Ekkill then drug his dagger across the palm of his hand, clenched his fist, and let the blood drip onto the ground at the base of the yew. "And both be with me!"


"Friends!" Ekkill hollered about the rowdy crowd of merrymakers celebrating the crushing defeat of the savages in the king's hall and the passing of several warriors into Valhalla. "Tomorrow, I leave on a great quest!" he continued between large gulps of mead. "I have assembled twenty men who will ride with me to the savage's home! Those who we did not slay last night will die by fire and sword in agony at our hands! None shall live to speak of the slaughter!" he yelled, laughing rambunciously. Nearly the entirety of the hall cheered.

"From there, we head north to find the gate of Hel. I will bring my son back, so that he may become a warrior and carry on my name! If it be Odhinn's will, he will return alive! Hail Odhinn!" Ekkill preached, raising a king-sized mug of mead in honor.

"Drink and be merry, for we depart at sunrise!"



Please read the OOC thread. This thread will start with my next post, when Ekkill's party is departing. Thanks!

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Pounding hooves churned the mud beneath the melting snow, the horses keeping a beat for Ekkill's small army to march to. Not all the men rode, and that included Ekkill himself, who much preferred to walk. Scouts traveled ahead of the group, occasionally returning to report any suspicious activity.

It was Spring, and soon, the seas would be free from the ice that kept the Norsemen from traveling to new lands. Ekkill felt a tinge of excitement at the very thought of trekking across the seas, but he kept it to himself. His army had traveled a good fourteen miles northeast, making excellent time with no surprises. The village of the savages lied somewhere over the next hill on the eastern edge of the great forest.

"Ekkill!" a scout called from atop the hill. "Smoke!"

Experiencing a surge of rejuvenating energy at hearing those words, Ekkill bounded up the hill to see for himself. Indeed, the savage's village could not be more than two miles from their position. He began to devise a plan as he returned to the group.

"Warriors! The village of the savages lies just two miles ahead! We shall head due north, into the forest, and..."

A sharp bark and a bit of movement in Ekkill's peripheral vision cut short his words. As he turned to face the creature, it bolted away from the group. Is it wild, thought Ekkill. He wouldn't have to worry about figuring it out. A young man popped up over the hill, bow and arrow in hand, and stood dumbfounded for a moment, staring wide-eyed in absolute terror at the twenty men who had come to murder and incinerate everything he'd ever known.

"GET HIM!" Ekkill screamed. So much for my plan...

Taking flight, the boy tore over the hill, in pursuit by a mob of bloodthirsty Vikings. On the other side of the hill, the Vikings would find themselves upon a hunting party of five, who instantly hauled ass towards the village, some even dropping their weapons in horror.

"Don't let them reach the village!"

Should they stop the savages in time, they would still be able to enter the forest and attack by surprise from the cover of the trees. Should they let the savages escape, then they would be in for a long, bloody fight, and possibly defeat.

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----
Kyrrein

On a black, nimble beast, Kyrrein had followed his leader without hesitation on the grand scheme of a journey. The silent hunter had, indeed, acted occasionaly as scout; but his inability to speak what his sharp eyes had seen meant that he would more often remain at the fringes of the main party.

Armored in leather and draped with a short cloak of dappled fur, the man was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with the scars of his youthful accident threading up in a waxy ripple from collarbone to jawline. He emmited only the occasional painful grunt; more prone to useing his hands to describe what he wished to get across.

When the sound from the wilds interrupts Ekkill, Kyrrein stands straight on his beast's saddle, searching. When the boy is spotted, and the chase given, he kicks his horse into a run and strings, while moving, the yew bow lovingly carved and waxed.

Reaching back for a feather distinctly fletched with ebon raven feathers, the archer sights on the men who had so hastily abandoned their camp and foolishly exposed their backs.

He releases as soon as his eyes judge him in range, and the arrow sings an eeire keen towards its first victim.

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Leita

The old witch of the mountain pass beyond Ekkill's village had arrived on the very day that the man gathered his forces to seek his son in Hel; though none had summoned or told her of the events in the slaughter.

Draped in a ram's skin, the painted skull and horns of the beast settled over her own features to grant her an otherworldly vissage. Trinkets of bone, stone, and wood dangled and clicked softly with every movement, and the white Kite that sat atop her gnarled walking stick watched the impromptu army balefully.

She did not ride; but showed no weakness at the day's end traveling with the men on foot. An odd creature, to say the least, it was bad luck to chance her wrath. And besides; she was a decent cook.

Leita follows, but does not persue, when Ekkill gives the shout. The ruckus stirs her ghostly bird into flight, however, and the creature cries as it circles the persuing vikings.

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Rikard strode alongside Ekkill. Long since they had been friends along with many of the others here, and as always Rikard was always more then enthused too jump into the heat of the battle. Rikard was a massive man, he stood at the very least a good 7'4 with huge shoulders and arms, huge everything from the muscle of his Warrior's life.

He wore A long Scale mail tunic which reached too his thighs and went too his bicep, Metal Gauntlets and leather Boots completed the armor Along with the Tough leather leggings. Looking though the nose guard of his helm he saw the group begin too run off. "I give them 5 seconds.." he said quietly, the light shone into his helmet as he tightened the ties of the heavy black Fur trimmed cloak. When the light went through the Aegishjalmur rune on his face shown.

"Meili power my strides." The rune of the well named "Mile-stepper" was on his leg hidden from actual view. Though that didn't stop him as he ran a few steps then vaulted too land right infront of the escaping savages. Turning he struck out with the massive 5 foot shield, the spike on it driving through a man, as he took the spear in his free hand and stabbed through another that came running, a arrow flew by him and took another one of the three left out.

Turning he pulled the spear out. It was a massive thing about as tall as he was, more of a lance really. Its spear head added another couple feet too it. Long Red tassels dangled off from the spearhead and down about a foot and a half. The head itself was serrated. Turning he saw the others running out and hefted a spear, if no one else could stop them from the attack he would have to.

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There was a pair of clipped sounds as the men dropped, one with a throwing axe lodged in the back of his head and the other caught high on the spine and bowled over by the impact, stumbling over his own feet before landing in the ground face first, his arms outstretched as he gasped and groaned in pain. Making his way towards the pair of them without concern, Adalwulf stepped foreword to reclaim his axes.

He was tall for his age, though quite young-only three winters over the age of Ekkillson, who's death had started this march. Strong of body and brave of heart, it was still to be noted that of his family he was something of a runt-his brother, long dead, had been truly a massive warrior, and his father stood a head taller then he still, even in his age. Set loose on this quest to prove himself against even the gods and the rest of his family, he had left home with little but his brother's axes, which seemed much too large for him, and the pelt of the wolf he had killed long ago to prove himself to his father.

Stories were told of his family by firelight, rumors of their insanity, of their fearsome ways, and he heard what the men whispered at night by the fires when they thought him asleep-that he was dangerous to himself and others, not yet fit for battle, not yet ready to march to Hel. As he grasped the wooden haft of the axe in the man's head and jerked it free with a practiced tensing of his arm, his gaze came to rest on the other man, still struggling to rise from the ground. As his hand rose, the axe in it still red from the other's blood, he knew that he was ready as the sound of splitting bone once more came over the crisp air, and the man below lay silent.

His axes collected, he turned and made his way back towards the others of the group. "We'll have our ambush." he said, his voice strong and steady but crisp like cracking ice and slightly quiet, as though careful not to overstate himself as he slid the axes back into place for when he might next need them.

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Styrbjörn followed the other warriors at an easy pace, ambling on peacefully with his large, unadorned warhammer resting comfortably in the grip of his hand. Putting one of his rough fingers, calloused from years of hammers and nails, to the noseguard, he pushed his helm into a more comfortable position. It was little more than a steel pot, relying on his thicken, raven black hair for cushioning. The broad-shouldered warrior gave a faint smile as he watched the bodies of the slain savages, though his eyes - icy blue - did not light up in the slightest.

"We need three of ours to kill five of theirs nowadays? I'm disappointed", he stated calmly - still smiling, just as he caught up with the group. He was not yet old, but no longer young either, and liked to criticize the younger warriors and act like an old veteran when he could. His chainmail rustled as he let his warhammer switch hands. Thinking for a second of his horse, on the other side of the hill, he hoped the young 'uns he'd charged with the animals did their job properly. The horse carried all of Styrbjörns tools, food and weapons - which he tended to wear out quite rapidly - after all.

Crushed, the hunting party lie in pools of blood spattered outward from their lifeless corpses. Ekkill smiled. His men were eager for blood, and quick to jump in.

"We need three of ours to kill five of theirs nowadays? I'm disappointed", Styrbjörn stated calmly. Close in age and having known the man for a long time, Ekkill was familiar with Styrbjörn's disposition. He played along.

"Terrible, indeed. We should have let young Adulwulf kill them all," he grunted.

Staring out over the landscape between the warriors and the village, a flash of movement caught Ekkill's eye. It was the boy and his dog, making pace towards the village, and they were too far away to catch up to without attracting the attention of the village populace. Ekkill cursed under his breath.

"There!" he pointed at a dot in the distance. "We let the boy escape! Get back on the other side of the hill; out of sight. We must make pace into the forest! Should we move with haste, we may still catch them by surprise!"

From the other side of the hill, the village was completely out of sight, but they would still have to pass through a quarter mile of open plain to get into the woods. Ekkill moved swiftly. Now, there was no time to waste. He didn't suppose that the savages would send an army out to fight at the words of a terrified little boy, but something would be coming their way, and a wary eye would most certainly be kept on that something should they encounter any resistance.

As they reached the plain, two scouts on horseback could be plainly seen riding outwards from the village in the general direction of the slain hunting party. At this point, they were nearly three quarters of a mile west of their original position.

"Hold," Ekkill ordered his men. The gentle northern-curving hill that protected them from being spotted would also keep them out of sight from the horsemen if they waited long enough.

"Now, MOVE!" Ekkill screamed as the horsemen faded from sight. The Norsemen thundered across the plain, reaching the woods seemingly undetected. Something did not seem quite right, though.

"Quiet," he ordered. As if on cue, an arrow whistled through the air, striking one of his warriors in the gut. "SCOUTS!" he cried. "To the north!"

I should have known, Ekkill thought. The savages have sent scouts into the woods as well.

Shouts of many men could be heard. More arrows ripped through the brush and trees. More savages were joining the small scouting party at a fast rate, yet Ekkill still did not have a clear line of sight to the enemy.

"Kyrrein, find how how far away the savages lie! The rest of you, get ready to wet your blades!" he barked.

Ekkill drew his sword from it's sheath and tightened up the straps on his shield and leather armor, then pulled his wolf's head hood over his own head. Adrenaline began to pump through his veins, and he cracked a vicious grin. In a matter of seconds, they would be upon the savages. It was time to kill.

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Kyrrein makes a grunt at Styrbjörn's words, a wry smile twisting the younger man's face as he shrugs cheekily from atop his horse.

Then comes the threat of discovery, and the long flight across open ground.

As soon as they reach the woods; the hunter is as uneasy as Ekkill, hunching his shoulders to loom closer to his beast's neck. His dark eyes search the branches for what didnt belong.

He sees movement, and looks to cry warning; but all that emerges is a strangled gurgle, and one of Ekkill's proud warriors drops, screaming in pain.

He couldnt give voice to the curses he turns on himself, but it's clear on the grimace he wears when he nods once to Ekkill.

Dropping from his horse, the slim man vanishes into the forest like one of its own beasts. There would be a heavy price leveled upon the enemy for their ambush, and his steel the first bite.

One of the shouts from the woods turns into a bloody scream as Kyrrein encounters one of the archers, and the fur-clad scout emerges back into the midst of the party with his bloodied knife in one hand and the other palm-foreward to keep his own party from skewering him in surprise.

He hurredly guestures a hill, and then waves his hand at its finish. They were just over the next ridge, and ready for Ekkill and his warriors.

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"Good boy," Ekkill growled. "MOVE UP! Keep yourselves covered, and don't stop until they're ALL DEAD!"

Ekkill flew through the trees, a rain of arrows steadily pouring from atop the hill. The runes on his sword and shield strayed the arrows from his path, and he knew no fear as he dodged from tree to tree, steadily moving onward, bearskin cloak flowing behind him. His first victim would be a young warrior, bow and arrow in hand, that hadn't noticed his advance. He looked just like the savage from the other night. In Ekkill's eyes, they all looked just like the savage from the other night.

His arms outstretched, the savage was about to let loose another arrow. Before he had the chance, Ekkill grasped his left arm, twisted, and pulled outward. Instinctively, the man released his arrow into the ground, trying to free his arm to defend himself, but it was too late. Ekkill brought his sword down upon his neck, effectively severing the spine, and nearly removing the head. Gravity forced the head to flop forward, hanging by a thread before the savage's chest, his exposed carotid artery spurting blood up into the air with every pump of his dying heart.

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Adalwulf allowed himself to crack a smile for a moment at the chief's words before he stopped and went with the rest of them, bolting across the open ground when it was safe and making his way into the forest. Trees loomed above them, the pines of the north casting draping shadows across the needle-scattered ground before the sound of an arrow made it's way to his ears and one of the men dropped dead. Archers...Adalwulf loathed them, secretly, though he would never say so. A man on foot, with sword and shield, at least offered a worthy chance to best, to prove himself...but archers? At hundreds of paces away, picking their targets at random? He grit his teeth and bit back a short prayer of thanks before sweeping quickly behind a tree, pulling the two large axes he fought with from their holsters and setting them across his chest, ready to whirl and dice as he waited for his chieftain's signal. Either he or the savages would die today, and he would throw himself to the fight whichever outcome it may be.

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