ConstableWalrus

Loki's Laugh

Le nope :P Outside

Loki's Laugh

Orran nodded and walked back towards the front door, glancing at the children in Sigrid’s arms and gave them a nod; as he strode to the door he eyed Hallerna closely, his eyes lingering on her golden hair before making it towards the door and exiting back into the dusk.

Loki's Laugh

No he was about to exit remeber? He was heading outside when Harald showed up

Loki's Laugh

Uhh, i'm having a hard time figuring that out myself; Anndrais is still inside; and I do believe Orran had stepped out so he'd be with Loker/Ragnar ATM

Loki's Laugh

((Collab between igraine, idlehands, roadrash, and constablewalrus))
Orran walked past the Danes speaking a curse in his pictish tongue at them and smiled; not caring the insult involved in it. And went towards the healing house doors; opening them and stepping inside the heads still clenched in his fist by the hair. And he inspected the room carefully seeing all accounted for; He approached the two mothers and dropped the heads at their feet.

“Four accounted, one scampered away…” And he kicked the head of Geir away from the others “Three are mine, and one is the girl’s… She should be proud taking down a full grown man.” He glanced at the two women his chest still bare and he was soaked to the bone. He rolled his shoulders “The children are safe.” and he gave a quick look towards Hallerna.

Hallerna smiled softly, adrenaline and relief still flooding her though a wave of incalculable gratitude threatened to overtake all those emotions. When the painted man had offered to watch her daughters to Sigrid’s house, she could have never in her most hellish imaginings have conjured up of this moment. “They are, Orran,” she said with a nod of her head, her eyes falling to the ground for a moment to linger over the heads before rising once more to the Pict’s face, the magnificent whorls of tattoos. “Thank you… I don’t… Thank you Orran.”

It was Eyja though, in all her child’s innocence, who gave fuller voice to the gratitude of their small family without a single word. After all she’d seen to this day, the horrors from her farm to the supposed safety of Trelleborg, the sight of the severed heads barely registered at all in her mind. It was her painted man with Geri and Freki come to life on his cheeks, who had promised to teach her to draw on real paper, who filled her world - and he was still alive! Thank all the gods, but he was still alive and returned like her big brother never did despite his promise! She let go of her mother’s skirt, running to wrap her arms tightly about Orran’s waist, eyes squeezed tight to keep back the tears that big girls shouldn’t ever shed.

Sigrid entered the healing house, picking up Dagny who ran to cling to her skirt. She raised an eyebrow at the tattooed Christian and nodded again, “Of course the children are safe now, they’re with their parents. And you have our gratitude. We will see you compensated for your bravery.”

She kissed her daughter’s hair and for a moment her cool demeanor melted as she sat on the edge of Tora’s bed and her sons stood on either side of her. She murmured a prayer of thanks to Thor and Friga who guided the man’s sword to protect their children. She put her arms around them, squeezing them, and for once they did not squirm away embarrassed.

The young mother held her brood and watched the Pict before she glanced at the monk who still held her slave’s hand. Tora looked even more pale as she listened to the events unfolding outside and saw the children so frightened. Her eyes kept darting to the door, anxiety clear on her bruised face.

“Mistress,” she said softly through pained lips, “It was him, wasn’t it? It was Harald.”

Her voice was strained and the underlying panic made the children tremble. Sigrid held them and Dagny clung to her as she replied to the thrall, “It is uncertain but likely. But Ragnar and his men are at the door with swords and...Orran here has his blade as well.”

Orran looked down at the young girl with a smile, genuine and full, a smile not seen often from the Pict but the little girl had the knack of bringing it out of him. His hand reached down and patted her head gently. “I am very glad to see you are safe little one. When things get settled, I’ll show you how to draw those okay? Just don’t look at the things I brought in and keep your eyes on your mother.”

Eyja nodded her head enthusiastically, pale eyes shining with promise as her painted man turned toward her mother and her older sister. Orran bowed his head accepting the thanks from hallerna and wrest himself gently from the little girls grip; and he glanced at Svala with a smile “You mother must be proud of you Svala, you did fantastic. You should train with me sometime. Physical exercise is good, and we can work on some things. I’m very impressed.”

Svala’s grip on her hard-won axe tightened just a little, the pleased grin on her lips about ready to split her face in half as his pretty words once again stole her words away. She could not know if Orran’s promised offer was true or no, but the attentions and kindness nearly overwhelmed the young woman.

Orran rolled his shoulders and walked past the heads towards the monk and Sigrid’s family; he moved past them and stood beside Anndrais.

They spoke in the Gaelic tongue to keep the close Danes out of the conversation “So, you are back then…” Anndrais spoke pointedly, and kept his eyes down at Tora patting her hand. Orran huffed “Of course, you did not expect me dead did you? The children are safe and so am I.”

Anndrais sighed and looked up at him with a smile “I’m glad you are alright, so very very glad my friend… Prayer does wonders.” He chuckled slightly putting his gaze back downward to Tora; and Orran simply nodded “Well, I’ll be outside… Keep an eye on the children, and the poor girl.” Anndrais nodded “And you keep your eye on yourself around the Ragnarsson.”

Orran nodded and walked back towards the front door, glancing at the children in Sigrid’s arms and gave them a nod; as he strode to the door he eyed Hallerna closely, his eyes lingering on her golden hair before making it towards the door and exiting back into the dusk.

“Eyja, come away sweetling,” Hallerna called gently, Orran’s bold gaze not lost on her in the least, and she chuckled softly under her breath, one eyebrow raised curiously. She wrapped her arm around her youngest girl’s thin shoulders, beckoning Svala closer as well, eyeing her eldest from head to toe, still not completely convinced in her mother’s heart that all the blood really did belong to the dead man.

“I’m going to join Orran and the men outsi- … Svala, stop. There’s nothing to argue about now. You’re not the only one with an axe, little Swallow. Eyja, fetch me that bowl of water… There, that’s my good girl.”

Hallerna pulled her daughter to one of the few open benches nearby, tenderly prying her daughter’s fingers from around the axe handle, setting it to the side. She winced as she looked at the deep gouges in Svala’s palm, a long sigh escaping her lips. “An axe didn’t do this,” she said finally.

“No, it was the seax… I… That’s what I had to use to… “ Svala glanced up at her mother from beneath long, golden eyelashes, before she spoke again. “He said he was going to… He said he was going to make you a whore. That if I wasn’t ‘nice,’ he was going to give you to- “

“Shhh… Don’t fret little Swallow,” Hallerna whispered tenderly, her fingers tucking a stray lock of hair stiff with mud and blood back behind her daughter’s ear. “He won’t be doing anything wicked, ever again. You saw to that, and I am proud of you Svala. So very, very proud… “ Hallerna’s voice trailed off for a moment, studying the face of the woman her daughter had become. Love and concern in equal parts were writ large across own face, and she wished for perhaps the thousandth time this very day that Sven still lived, the man who’d been her love and her shield from the time she was Svala’s age.

A small breath of a laugh escaped as Eyja approached, oh-so-carefully balancing that basin of water in her two small hands, and Hallerna helped her set it to the ground beside them as she stood. “Well done sweetling, and here… “ Hallerna handed the little girl some of the precious bandages left by the seidrmadr, sure that Vigi would not mind so much the use she put them to.

“Help your sister clean up as best you can, and be sure to dress the cuts on her palm,” she instructed her youngest daughter, delighting in the proud light that shone in Eyja’s pale eyes. “I’ll be right outside the door.” Hallerna stooped to kiss both girls on the forehead before taking up her own axe, the woodsman’s blade leaning against the healing house hall and following Orran into the failing light behind the Thegn and his men. She lifted her chin proudly, dark blue eyes scanning the road ahead of them for whatever might come. She was still the head of her own family, however small and broken it might be.

Loki's Laugh

Continuation of Collab with ConstableWalrus, Idlehands, and Igraine

Limping he charged after her, snatching at her arm to try to catch her but also prevent another attack. “Drop the fucking knife or I’ll make sure we catch your mother too.”

He yanked her back, clutching at her waist and grabbing her slim wrist with his rough hand. “We need a new whore for the rest of Harald’s men.”

Unfortunately for Geir, it was exactly the wrong wrist, and precisely the wrong thing to say. Svala didn’t pull away this time, but shifted limber as Eyja’s kitten in his grip, her blood-soaked hand rising up, only to flash downward in an instant, the seax blade buried to the hilt in his neck. And as he slid to the ground beneath her, choking and sputtering on his own blood, Svala rode to the cold mud with him. Her little knife flashed again and again, the blade finding its sheath in his throat until he finally stopped moving, and then some seconds longer still, only to be sure. She had to be sure! Svala’s blood mingled with his as her hand slipped along the hilt, biting into her flesh - not that she noticed in the least.

Orran continued to approach the last standing men holding his blade outward and he kept his feet light making them shift and turn to him as he moved around them. He smiled. “Beasts wearing the skin of men, that is all you are.” He sniped at them trying to goad them into attacking “Dogs, a bunch of mongrel’s who can hardly hold a blade let alone take down a Pict, your false gods have abandoned you, and you will die here.”

Amund cried out at the crippling strike, feeling his leg crumple beneath him. He staggered, trying to get up onto one leg in the slick mud. He shoved himself upward, hopping on one foot and he still held his axe. He could not run nor would he lay there and wait to be executed, if he was to die then he would go to Valhalla. The two men who accompanied him stood back, not wanting to close in on the dangerous foreigner.

The crippled warrior hobbled out and waved his axe at Orran, “I want you to know something. I raided your lands and I raped your women. I killed your holy men. I fucked a nun until she begged for death. I took your gold and burned your homes. Come Christ’s man, send me to Valhalla!”

He laughed, his eyes shone with agony and fury.

Orran did not glance at him and kept his eyes on the two but he smiled “You will go to no such place, only torment and death await you, you might want to cling to what life you have left.”

And Orran ran his sword along the ground “Do you wish to join him in such torment!? There is no Valhalla, you will go nowhere but suffering eternal, and you will all deserve every last second of it you monsters.” He goaded the other two to try to attack “Your gods are weak, nothing… You cannot match the might of my God, your Odin is but a groveling dog to the almighty.”

Geir grasped his throat as the blood shot out and he gargled, his eyes wide with surprise and fear. He snatched at Svala, trying to grab her around her throat, but his life bled out quickly and he collapsed in the icy mud. In his last gasps he glared at her, frothy blood bubbling from his mouth.

Shaking, Svala rose to her feet, eyes wide as she stepped away, unable for a moment to tear her gaze from the dead man’s face. She’d killed a man. More dumb luck than any semblance of skill, or maybe it had been the grace of the gods - she’d never know. It didn’t matter. The sleet coming down plastered the blood-tinged lengths of stray hair to her face, giving her a wild, feral look in her blood-spattered clothes. Her blank, stunned gaze turned toward Orran, toward the painted man who had already downed two of their attackers, the other two warily eyeing the foreign warrior.

But there was no time no time to stop now, no room to fall apart. Svala couldn’t spare another moment for the dead man at her feet, her thoughts running only to the children who she could only pray were well beyond the animals come to kill them, to the keep and the Jarl’s men. Svala’s eyes swept the ground, ignoring the spear she could not wield and the shield she could not properly use beyond some clumsy battering ram, and fell to… The axe. The scarred man’s axe lay in the mud nearby and she stepped nimbly over his body, taking it up.

Svala might know nothing at all of swords and spears and shields, but a farmer’s daughter knew more than a thing or two about swinging an axe. Blood-spattered and grim, the young woman watched Orran and the two animals he’d left standing. Seasoned raiders both - she could tell by the look of them, the way they held their weapons, and Svala was torn. She hesitated, knowing full well she was no match for either, and yet nothing in her wanted to leave this brave man’s side.

Orran continued to move around in the mud away from Amund knowing full well there was no way the man could keep up with him; and out of the corner of his eye he spotted Svala bloody and he glanced quickly “Svala, go to the children, I’ve got these two… Run.” He turned quickly back to the men and moved towards the one with the shield quickly as if to attack.

She didn’t hesitate this time, not for a moment. The dead man’s axe still clutched in her hand, Orran had decided her mind for her, and Svala dashed after the fleeing children through the half-frozen mud, blood-stained skirts now spattered with long gouts of dirt as well.

The man with the spear shot a glance at the young woman who had just managed to stab Geir to death, but ignored her in favor of facing the menacing tattooed man. His cousin stood with him, a young man of only sixteen, he clutched his shield and his knuckles were white as he gripped his axe. They watched Amund limp toward the Pict, his axe held up and his shield discarded in the mud.

The boy stared in shock as Amund kept challenging Orran, despite being crippled. He was drunk but he seemed almost like a man touched by Odin. The spear bearer hesitated, he could step in and help but after watching the man fight he was unsure. They were not here to do justice for Amund’s brother, they had only come for possible loot and that opportunity was rapidly disappearing. The children had run and no slaves were in sight, pickings would be easy if the Pict were distracted.

Amund spat at Orran, his eyes wild now with pain as he lurched through the mud. He swung his axe in a wide downward swipe, aiming to split the chest of the Christian.

“You hide in your pretty armor,” he panted, his free hand yanking at the woolen tunic now soaked against his skin. “Odin’s men need no armor.”

Orran laughed watching the man “Neither do my people, if you ever took the time milk drinker, you might find that the Picts prefer to fight with little but they were born with.” Orran stepped back, reaching for the split in his leather pulling back to unravel it quickly, moving it off his chest with ease; The swirling lines went down from his neck and up his arms into brilliant patterns of blue.

Up his arms the lines swirled into less detail, but more bolder lines; some offshooting as they hit his shoulders and around his back into stag’s; but the largest feature was that of his torso, a wolf can be made out in the swirls, large its face heavily detailed with the space and it’s visage a snarl; Orran rolled his shoulders he was glad to be free of the confines of the armour.

“So now, are we done with the insults then? Is this what you wanted.” He glanced at the three moving quicker no longer so encumbered by the weight of the armour. His face scrunched up in a snarl, and he brandished his weapon towards the three.

Amund’s leg throbbed where the tendon’s had been cut, crippling him. If he survived he would be useless, rendered a beggar, it was better to die with his axe in hand. He wasted no more time and pushed off his good leg.

“Odin!” he shouted the battle cry and threw himself at Orran, his axe flashing in the sleet.

The spear bearer held his ground, his eyes widening at the sight of the strange markings that did not run in the downpour. What magic held the paint to the man’s body he did not know but it made him tremble. His young cousin too was awed by it, their war paint would wash off in rain or by sweat but Orran’s seemed to be a living part of him. He licked his lips nervously, perhaps he was even a shifter without his wolf’s skin. The markings on him seemed to leer and snarl as his lithe body twisted away from Amund’s strike.

As Orran twisted away from the reckless strike; he thrust his blade upward, piercing Amund through his gullet; Orran met him shoulder to shoulder as his strike ended and spoke to the man “It is over, may God have mercy on your soul, for I have none to give.” And he pulled the blade from him roughly and gave Amund a hard shove; Orran’s body tingled from the cold and the sleet and he let out a large breath, watching the mist with a stony gaze; the blood washed quickly off his blade in the heavy sleet as he stared at the two left quietly as the ice fell around them.

Amund gasped and met Orran’s eyes as the sword ran him through. He muttered through clenched teeth and smiled, “...piss on your mercy.”

His knees gave out and he slumped down, the fiery pain in his leg and guts spreading through his body as he groaned. Amund coughed and rolled his eyes, death was coming and he waited for his Valkyrie.

When Orran turned his body to stab Amund, the spearbearer saw his chance if he was fast enough. He aimed at Orran’s exposed side, seeking to run him through his liver. But as he charged forward but the ground was slick with mud and ice pellets and his leather shoes lost traction. He slipped falling onto his back; landing hard on the ground with a thud.

Orran wasted no time in rushing towards the fallen man taking advantage of the slip quickly, as he leapt on top of the spear bearer and sank his blade keep into the man’s chest. The spear bearer’s body twitched then went lifeless, the thrust just below his left breast managed to break through the rib and pierce through his heart killing the man instantly.

Orran has ripped his blade free and stood gazing now at the final standing his blade still coated with fresh blood that slowly was cleaned with the sleet and he eyed the boy and snarled at him loudly a challenge, a threat.

The boy gaped at the sudden realization he was the last one left, his cousin was dead in a blink of an eye. His knees shook as he watched the bloodied man. He never had been in combat, he only came because he needed new boots, for his own were worn down and torn. It was not worth it, he had not come on his master’s orders but on some drunken whim and he regretted it. Throwing down his shield and axe, he backed away. Shame made him blush but the fact was he did not want to die, not yet.

Orran watched as the boy threw down his arms and backed away slowly before turning quickly and sprinting back deeper into the fort. He smiled slightly as he looked about him, three corpses within a small square of area and a large trail of blood washing away from where Amund dragged himself into a frenzy. He walked over slowly to his body looking over it for a moment before dragging it next to the spear bearers; doing the same with Knut’s large form with some effort.

Having lined up all three, he stumbled around searching for the one the girl had slain. He mused to himself girl must be damned good with a blade, she was covered in blood holding an axe. Snooping around he eventually stumbled upon the body of Geir, and he dragged his corpse along with the others taking note the stab wounds in the neck. The girl must have fought like a cornered animal. His face darkened for a moment as if a sudden sadness struck him. She was a cornered animal he thought to himself, finally setting the corpse of Geir next to the others and gave the body a hard kick in the ribs before backing up.

With the four corpses lined in a grim row; he grabbed Amund’s axe and went towards them, chop by chop the heads were severed from their shoulders until Orran had heads severed and grouped; a grisly show but a needed one. His people were never above head hunting, it tended to prove a point although the practice had died out considerably. This he mused was a show for the Vikings, if the words of the children did not provide enough proof, the heads would plenty.

Orran grasped the heads by the Danes’ long hair and he went towards the healing house in a sprint after the children watching his footing to not slip, leaving his cloak and armour behind he had no time to carry them and be swift and would return for them later.