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Astridr’s body twitch uncontrollably, a wave of euphoria, her chapped lips turned an upward curve as she grinned a maniacal smile. She smelled the fresh scent of spilt blood nearby, she stood peacefully as she wafted in the sweet nectar aroma.

“It’s been awhile.” She croaked to the wilderness around her.

She was a scavenger of sorts, only interested in the dead and their belongings. Her clothing, her weapons, everything that was covered with flaking dry blood, was scavenged off the dead. She had her name, the one possession that was truly hers.

Astridr, beautiful Astridr, with the magnificence of a goddess, unrivalled by any. If only that were true! She had no long marvelous silky hair just a bushwhacked short hair, her skin covered with scars and dry blood; she did not mirror her name. Astridr was just a dirty scavenger.

She would just wait, by the sidelines, for the battle to end. Then when all is finished, she would strip the dead clean. Leaving no thanks and carrying on as she always did.

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Everyone else was flying through the forest like a herd of crazed oxen. Styrbjörn heard arrows whistling through the air on all sides as the enemy archers started to panic. Styrbjörn understood them. Hitting a moving target with trees all around was hard, after all. He was not about to feel pity for them, however - they had been the ones to choose weapons, and if they were too slow to change, well... The aging berzerker did not spend much time thinking about it.

He'd have preferred to walk, but he knew he had to keep pace with the other warriors if he were to be of any use. So he ran. He flew past sticks and stones, not bothering to be careful or stealthy - there was little risk of anyone actually aiming in this confusion. As he charged through some bushes, came upon one of the savages, a raven-haired young 'un, bowstring drawn and arrow notched. The savage raised his bow, and Styrbjörn raised his maul. Styrbjörn charged with his weapon poised like a lance, and the weapons connected. The bow offered no resistance, but snapped like a dry twig. The maul caught the savage in the throat.

Normally, it would not have been a lethal blow. The savage might have had time to retaliate. As luck would have it, however, one of Freyr's birches was rooted firm behind the savage's back. If the bow had snapped like a twig, dryly and without resistance, the human neck went like a falling tree. Before Styrbjörn's shrinking pupils, the metal of the maul seemed at first to sink into the pale skin - rugged, and yet so soft by comparison. A ripple went through the skin of the throat and then came the thud, the fraction of a second during which the spine would put up a last desperate, futile resistance. A wet, muffled crackle, and the bones gave in, killing off the savage's dying gurgle as life forever escaped his bulging, green eyes. The head fell forward, its chin hitting the maul, and a small trickle of blood appeared from behind the berzerker's maul.

With a wordless howl, Styrbjörn tore his weapon from the lifeless savage, violently shaking his head to clear the red fog that was dawning on his vision. Forcing himself to look away from the corpse, he resumed his sprint through the forest. The battlerage was still a great temptation, even after thirty years.

Beginning to panic as the vikings trampled them, the savages quickly abandoned any sort of organization, resorting to chaotic staggering of their forces. Archers dropped their bows, resorting to whatever sort of bladed weapon they had on or around them. Reinforcements from the village had come in a large mob, carrying swords and axes, and jumping headlong into the fray.

Ekkill left behind the body of his enemy, turning and looking all about him. His brothers fought with all of their spirit. His enemies fought with all of their fear. Clashes of steel and screams of dying men rung in his ears, filling his heart with desire to cut flesh with steel.

All noise faded away as a savage rushed him, letting Ekkill hear his most fearsome battlecry, arms raised high gripping a large ax. These were not warriors; they had no technique and little experience. They always attacked with haste, as if to intentionally impale themselves on the spears of the vikings.

Little tact was needed to defeat them. Rush, kill, hold your ground, then advance over the pile of corpses. Too easy.

Swinging wildly overhead, the savage allowed Ekkill to sidestep the ax, just like the night when he had found one in his home. He plunged his sword into the man's ribcage, then put a heavy boot in his chest to free the steel. The savage staggered a bit, then coughed up a little blood as he fell to his knees. But before Ekkill could finish him, footsteps pounded from across his right shoulder.

Twisting to the left and taking a right step forward, Ekkill pivoted about just in time to catch a sword in his wooden buckler. Taking a step to his left then stepping into the savage with his right foot, Ekkill slammed into the villager, knocking him flat on his butt. He then cleaved diagonally downward, slicing into the man's shoulder at the base of his neck. A straight forward left kick put the man on his back, and a downward thrust into his chest finished him off.

Ekkill maintained his resolve, even as his heart pumped and his peripheral vision blurred. There were many more to slay.

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Gu n f i g h t (For no reason)

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.

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Rikard was right there with the army as they went into the woods to kill the savages and get into the heat of the battle. Where blood boiled and men could show their strength and their honor. There was more then battle of course, much more then battle but now this was all that mattered. So he put all that he was and all that he is into the battle itself.

Rikard didnt hide in the trees. The tattoo's on his face seemed to call forward people to look at him, to face him in battle. That was what he typically did in battle, he was the wall. "Savages! Come down from the trees! Fight like men!" His chest was exposed to arrows and he showed no fear to them as he stalked forward. The other men of the army ran around by him taking out men, distracted by him. As a arrow shot out he rose his shield and blocked the arrow. Raising up his spear he hurled it into the trees and it came back down with a savage on its shaft.

Immediatly he raised his shield again, it caught a few arrows right after he rose it. A couple flying by skimmed his coat. Though none of that stopped him as he walked forward. His hand went down to his large sword. Drawing it, the large Squarish bladed sword came out. The blade was covered in runes though it really didn't have any use it was just ornamental. I had no cross guard and its hilt was plain. Catching some more Arrows he stalked forward still. Grabbing the spear out of the corpse he looked around still black arrows, that the savages kept shooting at him.

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GT: Comandersnow
Song of Ice and Fire/WOT=Best book series EVAR!

Always forward, never back, Ekkill thought. He continued to plow a path through the chaos towards the village. Some of the savages began to flee, the vast majority of which ran for the village to take refuge in their homes. One brushed past Ekkill as he trod along, not even bothering to attack or even acknowledge his presence. Ekkill would return the favor. He knew where the savage was going, and he knew it wasn't going to save him.

"Finish those weaklings off, and get the torches lit!" He commanded.

A single arrow took flight from a port in the side of one savage's home, flying close enough for Ekkill to feel the wind beside his chest displaced. Ah, this game again. This time, however, the ground was much more open, and once the archers massed together, they would present a problem, at least until the torches set fire to the houses.

Taking cover behind a thick stump, Ekkill waited for his men to catch up.

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Gu n f i g h t (For no reason)

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.

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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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The clash of metal against metal, of battle cries and death. The sounds of battle were like that of birds in the morning light to Speyr, beautiful. He stood for a moment, savouring the sights, heedless of danger. The handle of his sword was gripped in his left hand and the blade was impaled down through a savage, all but 2 foot of it's 4 was buried down into the floor.

All of a sudden a new chorus was thrown into the sounds of battle, fire. The unmistakable and consistent crackle was a stark contrast to the inconsistent harmony of battle all around. His eyes scanned the village and sure enough the roofing had caught fire, but from what source this blessing came, he knew not. Spotting Ekkil taking cover and waiting for the band to catch up to his advance, Speyr yanked his blade from it's resting place and ran towards his position.

A savage launched out of the trees to his right, but Speyr was more than equal to the challenge. His sword swung around and knocked the savages blade clean from his grasp as he attempted to parry. Woefully unprotected, the savage turned to flee unsuccessfully and was cut down with contemptuous ease. Stepping over to the body, the blade was plunged down directly over the heart, to make sure the savage was truly dead.

Upon reaching Ekkil he motioned to the village, "Look, fire has come! We must strike now while we have the advantage!"

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Inquisitor Lord Fyodor Karamazov
"There is no such thing as a plea of innocence in my court. A plea of innocence is guilty of wasting my time. Guilty!"

Calm and easy, slow breaths and deliberate steps Leif silently chanted within his mind. He was slowly edging around a small building that sat just on the outskirts of the village. When the battle first erupted he had been scouting to ensure that a savage assault force could not come up on their flank while they were preparing in the woods. By the time the scouts had been dispatched and the savage force began to move into the woods the young warrior had already left his horse grazing at the forests edge, well beyond where the fleeing foes had emerged from. As the archers had begun to form themselves up to assault the vikings when they charged across the open field, Leif had reached the building he was now edging around and had taken a moment to prepare himself.

He was not the biggest warrior in the party, in fact he was more than likely the smallest. Standing only five foot ten and being only sixteen winters of age he was dwarfed by most of his companions in both height and experience. He was not a battle hardened veteran but a boy who took to the field to avenge his fallen father who had died fighting another tribe of these very savages when they had attempted a raid in mid winter. He had been given his fathers battle gear, most of which was too large for him and had to be reforged.

Now he stood behind a crumbling stone building wearing the steel hauberk, which bore the hammer of Thor in gold links on his chest, his father had once owned. Over the chain shirt was a tanned ox hide vestment hemmed with tufts of rabbit fur. His long black hair was tossed by a strong gust of wind, his head remained unprotected as he felt helmets defensive benefits were outweighed by their obstruction of vision. Slung over his back was the wickedly curved sword his grandfather had won in wars across the sea, and strapped to his waist were the weapons of his own craft - seven small, double edged daggers. Each designed with careful precision such that they would fly straight and true if thrown properly. Held firmly in his hands was a wooden buckler covered with deer hide and simple spear.

He knelt down and leaned around the corner to get one last take on the situation before assaulting the savages from behind. As he looked he found himself staring into chaos, the distinct crackling sound of the young fire that had begun to greedily engulf the village reached his ears. The parties steeds were charging through the mass of savages, trampling those too slow to react and scattering the rest. Trailing the horses was more flames, which leaped hungrily to the fences and wooden structures as the beasts of burden sailed through the village.

Leif didn't waste a moment, with a fierce war cry he charged from concealment into the mass of savages. Hauling his spear over his head he drove it hard into the chest of the nearest foe. A bearded man who was trying desperately to string an arrow against the viking boy. Not wasting time to remove the spear from the corpse, Leif reached over his shoulder and pulled his grandfathers sword from the leather rings that held it loosely to his back. He drove himself deeper into the mass of bodies, swinging his blade mercilessly.

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"Look, fire has come! We must strike now while we have the advantage!" Speyr called to Ekkill. It was true. Following the horses came a great wall of flame, setting fire to the majority of the village. A single kite flew above the inferno, and Ekkill squinted his eyes, trying to get a good look at it. I know that bird, he thought.

Just as the archers began to flee the faltering shelter of their homes, Leif sprung around the corner, impaling one with his spear, then proceeded to fly headlong into the mass of confused, terrified, soon-to-be-dead savages. The boy knows no fear, Ekkill thought ashe leaned towards Speyr, being sure that he could hear his words.

"You are right, brother. We move!" Ekkill thundered. Standing upright and turning to face the burning village, Ekkill howled, his cry eerily reminiscent of a wolf. Savages turned away from the young Leif as they heard the cry over the flames. Ekkill pushed forward, his feet pounding the ground like a charging oxen, followed by his herd.

Before the young Leif could be overcome by the fifteen or so savages left alive, the wrath of the Norsemen was upon them, pounding, slicing, impaling, and crushing them into raw meat. There was nowhere to run, no place left to hide, and no hope for victory. Ekkill let himself throw wild overhead swings, the poorly armed, disspirited savages weakly putting up their arms in defense, only to have them removed like a machete slicing through brush. Meaty stumps flailed about, spraying blood into a thick, red mist that hung around the battlefield.

Ekkill's laughter bellowed over the screams of dying men. "Finish them! Victory is ours!"

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Gu n f i g h t (For no reason)