[i]collab between idlehands and Constable Walrus[/i]

[i]Night, Healing House, Trelleborg[/i]

Orran walked outside, watching quietly the interaction between the danes; He laid eyes on the young boy that Harald had brought out and felt a twinge of pity; I should have killed him, Orran thought had I known I would have it would have spared him the humiliation. He watched the savage display with a frown, the rumors did little justice to the savagery these people do to their own.

Pictish tribal warfare was long gone, but even when it was apparent it was never over politics, these men are fighting over something that isn't even theirs. he glanced at Loker as he approached and watched them talk as well; listening, watching, much like Anndrais taught him to do. and he rolled his shoulders waiting for the men to finish, none acknowledging he was there.

Loker nodded to both Hallerna and Svala, [b]"The halls doors are open to you, tell them only your name and you will be allowed in."[/b] 

He turned away, his tired eyes looking toward the healing house and he spotted the wiry tattooed Pict glaring down at them. Loker rubbed a hand down his beard and walked toward him. 

[b]"Orran?"[/b] he recalled the strange name of the warrior who travelled with the monk, [b]"I'd like to speak with you a moment. I was told you saved the children from those outlaws, what happened when they came, what was said?"[/b] 

He wanted to know more, to see if Harald was telling the truth about not ordering any attack and the only adult who had any knowledge stood before him. In their world, only free adults could give testimony, Orran was a foreigner and that would be a strain against the word of a Dane but at least he was a freeman. Svala's word would be accepted if she had been at least betrothed but none of the children would have had a voice. In the back of his mind he knew it did not matter, there was no Jarl to call a Thing and to pass judgement but he felt it was necessary to keep to their traditions and as close to normality as they could.

Orran looked at the man up and down; he did not care to speak with any but he nodded and said in his usual slow tone, trying to speak as best he could.[b] "Yes, it was me."[/b] He spoke plainly, he did not like discussing it but it seemed without the monk nearby he would have to.

He straightened himself and eyed Loker, [b]"They spoke of revenge, for the brother of one of them... I do not know your ways, but i'm guessing that the one called Ragnar is to blame..."[/b] He shrugged, [b]"He killed one, so in blood retribution they tried to kill the children, I thank God that the monk sent me when he did...those kids would have been tore to pieces."[/b]

Loker listened and tugged at one of the braids in his red beard. Ragnar had failed to mention it and it irritated him. He was already acting as if he were the Jarl of Trelleborg, just waiting for the moment to sit in the chair. Despite this he would still rather see the raider as Jarl than Harald. The man's casual cruelty toward the Ragnarson's slave, his beating of his own slaves and the beheading of the youth spoke volumes. The quality of men he hired was lacking if they went after children. Damn them both for their ambitions. It was the way of their people but it made his job that much harder not to mention putting people in harms way. He snorted, tugging his cloak around him. 

[b]"Thank you for that,"[/b] he said, [b]"They would have been slaughtered like lambs and you have my gratitude for protecting them."[/b]

He looked over the Pict, [b]"Did you happen to bring anything from the dead men?[/b] 

Loker was curious to see if they were strangers who came with Harald or if they were locals picked up to share in the man's desire for power, hoping for a reward if he was able to secure the Jarl's position.

Orran listened, the expressions and actions of the man's body language spoke volumes more than his words; Orran nodded "There is no need to thank me, I am the sword, Anndrais was the arm it was he who bade me to protect the children..." He glanced behind him then turning back to Loker he smiled.

[b]"Four heads, the boy was the last one..."[/b] He motioned towards the headless corpse now lying in the muddy ground.[b]"Three were my kills, one was the girl's... Svala's."[/b] He smiled suddenly "I'm quite impressed, at her..." It was a deep warm smile and he shook it off returning to that blank furrowed brow of a stare he always wore. [b]"Those are inside... And most likely the bodies are still lined where I left them... As is my armour for that matter."[/b]

He chuckled suddenly remembering how they viewed Christians as magical and superstitious "Though I doubt of you would touch the chest piece embedded with a bright red cross."

Loker nodded, [b]"Svala did well to protect herself, she takes after her mother. I've invited them to stay in the hall, the girls are of some help to the housewoman. They will be safe there. I would put no theft of good armor past any of man, no matter what is embedded on it."[/b]

He glanced at Orran, with a tired slight smile, [b]"We'll take a look at the heads and dispose of them. The bodies can wait until daylight. We're all exhausted, rest will be most welcome this night."[/b] 

The housekarl stepped past the Pict, entering the warmth of the healing house. His eyes fell on the cluster of bloody heads on the floor and he grunted a sigh. He looked away, spotting Anndrais next to a girl with a bruised face. Most likely Ragnar's slave. Sigrid was with her children and he gave her a nod of respect before he knelt before the heads, turning them to see the faces. 

He recognized none save one, the older man called Knut, he had occasionally raided with the Jarl's men but mostly he spent his time gambling at the horse fighting pens or drinking with his cronies. No great loss. He had once had a wife and children but the woman had divorced Knut when he turned out to be a drunken buffoon. It figured he would be one to tie his future to a man like Harald. 

He stood, wincing as his knees popped loudly, and spoke to one of his men to remove the heads.

Orran smiled again at the mention of Svala, he quite liked the girl had she been a year or two older he would have asked to court, but she is just a girl. And Orran brushed the smile away again [b]"She did very well, I was very impressed..."[/b] He motioned inside, [b]"It would not fit any of you Danes anyway, to small..."[/b] He did not smile at his own joke and simply nodded. 

[b]"Do not bother Anndrais, he is with the girl Tora, and he refuses to leave her side; I doubt you will get more than a yes or no out of him, he isn't in the talking mood at the moment."[/b] Orran watched the man walk inside and he rolled his shoulders feeling the cold; he wanted to go get his armour, but he would not leave until Anndrais sent him away, he did not trust the Danes to not attack again.

Nor did he wish to abandon the girls, or even the sons of Ragnarson...but especially the girls.

[b]"I would not worry too much about your armor, after that display it would have to be a big fool to steal from you something so precious," Loker commented. "Not to mention that there are not many Christ's men among us would be allowed armor. Thank you for your help, Orran. Let us hope tomorrow things will settle and allow us to get back to the business of surviving the winter."[/b] 

Loker nodded to Sigrid who sat with her children and his eyes fell on Hallerna’s youngest, the precocious redhead who had charmed him back at the hall. He gave her a warm smile as she played with the Ragnarsson girl. He scratched his head, things were more complex than he had dreaded, dogs all circling to snap at each others throats and still they had the problem of the draugr haunting the woods outside their walls. Winter was setting in and even if they could get the last boat repaired without a shipwright the sea would be treacherous. He watched the children for a few moments more, enjoying their ability to find simple escape in the form of a game. He thought of his own son and his eyes closed for a moment, shaking off the nagging worry. 

Faolan trudged around the back of the healing house, spotting the big Saxon filling in the grave. He was without a cloak and the bandages on his raw back were wet. He pulled his hood down, shading his dark features as he approached. 

[b]“That’s more than the whelp deserved,”[/b] he muttered, looking down at the freshly turned mud and the exertion on the face of the wounded thrall. [b]“Should have tossed him in the trash ditch. It is what they would do for us.”[/b] 

He referred to a common practice among some Danes to toss the bodies of dead slaves, particularly those killed in punishment or as sacrifice, into the pit of refuse where the discarded carcasses of pigs and sheep and waste would be thrown. He had seen it himself and had been threatened with it a number of times. No Christian burial or even Norse one for them unless they were well loved by their owners. And Faolan was never well loved by any of his masters. 

The Irishman gestured to Wilfred, [b]“Come on, Saxon, our mistress awaits. It’s not so bad, not compared to Harald’s treatment and I’ve had worse. Try not to get on Ragnar’s bad side and Sigrid is fair enough, we get fed and you’ll have better clothing.”[/b] 

In his way, he was trying to comfort Wilfred, whether he needed it or not. Despite the fact Faolan rarely bothered with anything outside orders, he did feel for the big Saxon. He bore scars that would never fade from the hand of a man as cruel as Harald. He hated being a slave and hated his masters, not because of who they were as individuals but as a whole, that they were Norsemen. The ones who burned and slaughtered, who pillaged and stole children and women from their families to be used. Who cared not for a soul as long as they had a strong back to work, they did not care if they ground the life out of them until they were empty husks. Faolan rubbed the stubble of his chin and contemplated for a moment about asking the former preacher for a prayer but scoffed. God had left him on his own when he was taken from that sheep pasture in Ireland, despite what the Pict and the monk said. It was easier for them, they were not slaves, they still could walk away from this place if they could.