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Kyrrein blinks at the horses as they scream past; the swinging branches behind them setting fire to whatever they touched.

...That would certainly work.

The archer leaps from his cover, hanging the bow from its quivver as he draws his longknife and charges behind Ekkill, spying young Leif at work already. The silent hunter grins. Only a winter or two older then Lief; he sometimes viewed the eager-to-prove himself youth as the younger brother he didnt have.

Vaulting the ruined fence, Kyrrein lands atop a running savage like a pouncing lynx; severing his throat with a single brutal slash and bounding off of the still-flailing corpse to deliver death to another.

Of course, it was inevitable when attacking a village that the screams of women and children mix quickly with those of the adult men. Kyrrein is aware only of movment around the corner of a mudbrick house - his knife darts foreward and into the gut of a boy younger even then Lief, a fishing spear of all things held in his muddy hands.

Both of them blink in surprise; though the boy's gaze quickly clouds over. Even so, he weakly jabs the spear foreward, and Kyrr makes no move to avoid it. The flimsy thing barely manages to peirce the cloth of his sleave, but the boy at least draws an enemy's blood before the life flees from his eyes. Kyrr lets the corpse drop and pulls the stick from his arm, tossing it asside with a grunt as he continues to move through the flames.

There werent many fighters left, now. The villagers were fleeing with little more then their lives into the dense woods; the fires and Ekkill's men would leave nothing for them here.

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"You are right, brother. We move!" The words acted like a trigger to Speyr and he was fired into combat. Screaming, he charged towards the village walls like a bolt of thunder. Unlike the rest however, he ran towards the wall itself. But a few steps from the palisade he drew back his sword and swung with all his might, cleaving through the stakes and creating his own entry into the village.

It was a technique Speyr had used on countless counter-raids against similar villages. Knowing the savages would run to the main gateway to provide whatever resistance they could: they wouldn't think of covering their backs, as in their minds the wall would hold. The first savage certainly had surprise etched into his face as he fell lifeless to the floor.

Three others turned to face Speyr in combat, each was armed much better than the ones sent out to meet them in the forest. The biggest carried two broadswords and had wild tattoos covering his entire upper body, face and all. He was obviously one of their oldest warriors and his skills with a blade made him a formidable foe. The situation was dire for Speyr, but he decided that surprise would win the day here.

He spun and dropped his shoulder, spinning his formidable blade around and launching it through the air at the dual-sword wielding warrior, achieving the desired effect. It swept straight through his defence and lodged in his chest. He dropped to the floor, blood pouring from the massive wound. It would have been a great moment but for the fact he was now unarmed, albeit against only two lesser savages.

The one carrying a spear thrust towards him, Speyr spun barely avoiding being skewered. The spear was thrust time and time again and Speyr was driven further backwards towards the wall behind him to avoid the blows, The spearman's sword wielding friend came along to aid cornering him, More fool them Speyr thought.

Eventually it was the wall he was driven back against that came to Speyr's aid. The savage was screaming and charging him with thrusts, driving him backwards, but he came too fast and wedged his spear in the palisade, Speyr took his momentary advantage and sent his forearm through the pole arm. The sword savage launched his own attack now, slashing down with his sword, he was met by the spear end. His surprised eyes locked with Speyrs, slowly they faded and the savage spluttered, blood trickling from his lips.

Pushing him away Speyr charged and stabbed the weapon into the leg of it's previous owner. The spear tip pierced through his thigh, smashing through the bone and seeming to sever the main artery. Thick dark red blood pulsed forth as Speyr ripped the improvised weapon out of his leg and stabbed it repeatedly into his chest until only a bloody mess remained.

Covered with blood, he stood, finally coming down from his rage induced battle lust and recognising the immediate need of his weapon. It was still wedged in the veteran savages chest and Speyr ran over to the corpse, pulling his trusted sword free. He petted it iwth a smile You never fail me. He turned, searching for Ekkil and the others: They had almost cleared the village now. Corpses of savages filled the pathways of the village and the fire was truly ablaze now, a thick black smoke bringing a darkness over the battle. He ran forth to find his comrades and more savages to kill.

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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!"

The air crackled as the fire gleefully claimed the village. The sky was filled with the orange glow of the flames, overlain by the thin mist of blood from the dying savages. The heat from the burning village was beating on the viking warriors like the sun hammers those who dare travel the desert. Savages collapsed all around Leif, their blood spraying from severed limbs and arteries and their screams of pain echoing in the hills.

The young warrior plunged his curved blade into the stomach of an unsuspected savage who was moving to attack one of the other Vikings. Leif brought his foot up and planted it along side his blade then hauled backwards while kicking out. The savage fell back to the ground as the blade pulled free. It took a minute before the savages slow moving brain registered that he had been stabbed and a few more seconds before death set in. His body jerked for a moment as blood poured from the gaping wound, then his eyes fell on his assailant and then they went dead.

Leif was already moving past the corpse. Seeking another victim but all he found were allies. His heart was hammering rapidly within his chest, adrenaline coursed through his veins. Surveying the carnage below his feet, he threw his arms over his head and let out a long, deep howl. Victory was theirs.

A loud crashing sound broke his warcry as one of the buildings within the village collapsed. Leif was brought back to reality and the heat from the burning village reminded him that he was not yet clear of danger. He sheathed his sword and quickly moved to the corpse of the first man he had slain, shouting as he ran, "The village is coming down!"

Retrieving the spear from the body he noticed that it had not been a man after all, but in fact a woman. The weapon had pierced through her wrapped breast and into her heart, her face was twisted in agony.

Spear in hand Leif retreated to where he had tethered his horse, another crack alike that of thunder echoed in the valley as yet another structure tumbled to the ground.

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Vali stood above several corpses he had slain and howled (get it Blackfire?) with glee. He was bought back to reality by the stench of smoke off in the distance. He ran back to the rest off the men and stood in the lines. He was just a regular soldier. No one special. He sheathed his long blade and grabbed a spear from one of the men he had cleaved and used it to stretch his arms.

The man next to him whispered a few words and he plunged his spear into his throat. "Never! Never speak of mutiny in my presence. Ekkil is the one I follow 'till the very end!" He kicked the body off his spear and kicked it aside. He took his sword and spear as well and sheathed the dead man's spear. Now in his hands, he held his twistedly curved sword and a long poisened tipped spear in his hands and howled with the men when the screamed a war cry. "Praise Ekkil! Free Ekkilson from the deapths off Hel!"

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Blood seeped into the Earth and dust settled as the sound of clashing steel and death rattles faded away. Only crackling fire and sporatic, victorious cheering remained. Ekkill looked to the west; taking note of the falling sun nestled between the mountains. Darkness would be upon them soon. They would sleep in the village tonight in the homes which had not burned.

"Men, gather the dead savages and lay their bodies out in the woods for the animals. Start gathering wood for pyres and campfires. We sleep here tonight," Ekkill thundered. Most of his men, even the young ones, already knew the drill. "Styrbjörn, let us find where they keep their mead!"

Ekkill marched off in the general direction of the largest structure in the village. It looked to be a place of worship, or possibly a meeting place of some sort. I'm going to be pissed if we burned the mead, he thought. His warriors had definitely earned their pints for the day.

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

Kyrrein grunts as best he can when the men of Ekkill's group raise their voices in cheer. Wiping the blood from his longknife and freeing the string from his bow, he moves swiftly through the villiage; assuring himself that no other savages lay in ambush.

Ducking into homes that still stood against the flames, he exits with baskets of food intended for the savages own table. Meager fare; but the bread and meats would be welcomed suplement to the salted foods the vikings had packed for their journey.

He sets to work, as well, policing the bodies; even able to salvage arrows from fallen archers. Not up to his normal standards, but they would work in a pinch until he could take the time to fassion more of his own, distinct style.

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Leita

Like a spectre of the forest disturbed by the bloodshed and fires, Leita crosses the open space between the village and the woods; the fur draped around her shoulders obscuring her true size and the painted skull of a ram giving her her usual otherworldly vissage.

But clutched in a hand decorated with woven strings that dangle wooden charms, she holds the reins of the very horses she had so recently sent charging into the village with fire on their heels. Far from terrified and skittish; even the foul-tempered viking beasts follow the witch as docile as puppies.

The kite has returned to her, settled on the shoulder of one of the horses, observing all around it with a distinct aire of disdain as it preens its grey wings.

Leita loops the leather reigns once around a standing post next to a dead savage and quite calmly makes for the larger town center. The bird departs the horse and sails to perch on the witch's shoulder.

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Styrbjörn had lagged behind, and he knew that he would miss most of the action. Regrettable, but not disastrous - there was certain to be fighting aplenty before the journey was done. The enemy's homes were in flames, so the archers would be less of a threat. However, there would be little loot. Styrbjörn sneered in disappointment and upped his pace, following the horses' smouldering trail in sprint. The sound of screams and clashes was dying down, and the aging warrior lowered his guard as he entered the village.

Strewn across the ground were the bodies of his enemies, dead or dying, and he could hear the chief cry victory. Sighing, Styrbjörn slowed his pace to a stroll. There was no longer any point to running, so he felt that he may as well look around. It turned out his looking around was successful, as he found that several of the dead savages had pieces of jewelry on their person. They must have raided a more advanced settlement lately - oh yes, that's why the vikings were there in the first place.

Picking his way towards the others, Styrbjörn arrived just in time to hear his chief's command. Relieved that he had not arrived ten seconds later, he raised his hand in an acknowledging gesture. "Aye", he called in response, and hfollowed is leader. They were thinking the same thing, the berzerker and the chief - Odin, don't let the mead be gone! Around his right arm, Styrbjörn wore the spoils he'd gathered, eight-or-so armlets, bangles and bracelets of bronze and silver, with the occasional inlaid piece of amber. No point in hiding them - you had to make a living, after all.

Nearing the place where he had left his steed he found a figure back facing him sawing at the reins with a small curved knife. Leif quickened his pace but as he got closer he became aware that the figure was in fact a savage female, and she was trying to sabotage his horse. He stopped his approach within three meters of the woman and spoke to her loudly in the Norse tongue, What are you doing?.

The woman straightened and slowly turned to face him. She was a bit shorter than the young warrior and was dressed in an ankle long animal skin skirt that had been hemmed with tufts of rabbit fur. For a top she had a simple cloth shirt over which hung a loosely fit mail sleeveless shirt. She had long matted black hair and her icy blue glare bored holes through Leif. She did not understand his language but that mattered little, he was one of those who had slain her kin and she would fight him to her death.

Leif saw the fire in her eyes, the fearlessness in her untrained battle stance. They way she gripped the knife, her knuckles turning white. She was out matched in both gender and skill, but Leif did not intend to kill her -- just yet. The heat of battle, scent of blood and fire and the traces of adrenaline pulsing in his veins all combined with the sight of this ripe woman who was no more than a winter Leif's senior brought up within him a great urge to be satisfied.

He moved towards her with deliberate speed and defenselessness. He let his spear drop when he was within reach of her arm, and as he expected she braced herself and swung wildly for him. His now free hand shot up and caught her wrist while the other shook off the shield and quickly found her neck. He pressed her up against the tree his horse was tethered too and squeezed her wrist until the dropped the knife. The hand on her neck applied enough pressure to keep her aware of who was in control but not enough to steal her life.

Leif's eyes met hers at the same time their noses nearly made contact. She stared at him, fearless but defeated. She knew what was coming and she knew it was pointless to resist. There was no one left to save her, and her screams would only bring more of these monsters who would surely desire the same thing this one did. No she would take it silently and pray to her Gods that he would slit her throat when he was done. She simply stared into his eyes, and though they did not speak the same language the body has a way of communicating not restricted by the tongue and Leif knew her thoughts.

He smiled at her and released her hand, using his now free appendage to pull at her skirt. She gently touched his hand and pushed it to the side, using hers to carefully untie the waist strap and allow it to fall to the ground undamaged. She gave herself over to him.

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The aftermath of this battle was an arduous affair. Having already battled through the savages, Speyr was one of the lucky few on this day who now had to haul the corpses out of the village to the forest, he couldn't suppress the jealousy he felt watching Styrbjörn and Ekkil go off to search for mead and kicked the nearest corpse in frustration. Still...he hoped them success, he'd want a drink after this.

He swung his blade across his back, lining up the vertical slot in the center of the blade to a metal hook that was used the hold the blade. He suddenly felt the weight of the blade upon his shoulders as the harness accepted the blade. It was crude, but at least he didn't have to hold the mammoth blade any more. He dipped slightly, grabbing the ankles of two savages who lay side by side, slowly he began to drag them down the burnt pathway the horses had lain down.

~Tsardel~

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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!"

Ekkill stormed through the doors of the large, central structure. His hunch had proved correct, it was a meeting place. Judging by the surroundings, it doubled as a place of worship. A fire pit sat cold and unused in the center of the building's dirt floor, and many crude seats and benches circled around it. In the back was a wall offset a few feet away from the back wall, barely concealing an entrance to another room.

Being more than curious and very thirsty, Ekkill strolled briskly across the room and into the next. There it sat, staring right at him. Ekkill could see the surprise on it's face, the fear of being opened up and it's contents spilled. But Ekkill would not do that just yet; he had urges to be satisfied.

He moved upon the keg with deliberate speed and defenselessness. Lust filled his eyes as he wrapped his arms around it, groping about for the opening. The keg remained silent, lest it attract more of the beasts who would surely want to do the same. Little did it know that Ekkill was wicked enough to pass it around like a plaything to all of his men, letting them each have their turn. With unspeakable horror and sorrow, the keg wished only to be burnt in the fires when Ekkill and his men were done with it.

"Styrbjörn! I have found the mead!" he called from the small room. "Let's haul it outside and crack it open," he grunted, trying to lift one end. It was heavy as all hell. Ugly, too. But urges had to be satisfied.

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