Igraine

World of Darkness (Boston)

Brigid's full, crimson-painted lips pursed with disapproval as her cold azure eyes fell over the assemblage in this dank and altogether disgusting 'meeting hall.' And while such distaste might seem an odd reaction from a creature whose vast fortunes were currently made indulging the tastes of the obscenely wealthy, whose proclivities leaned toward the uncomfortable and discomfiting? The truth of the matter was that Brigid Teague's personal "tastes" did not run toward being put out of sorts herself in any way.

Nor did she enjoy being underground. Stifling. Suffocating. Far too similar to the grave she was never destined to know.

And honestly, could the Archbishop possibly have chosen a more stereotypically campy place for the "vile, malevolent" vampires to meet? Brigid snorted softly through her nose in disgust, despising this hackneyed venue to the bottom of her exquisitely sensitive and artistic Toreador soul.

Even so, the loathing she had for the Archbishop's banal choice of setting was but a pale shadow to her abhorrence of the flea-bitten, tick-infested Garou, and the unleashed beast he kept to do his dirty work in particular. Yes, she supposed that attack dogs did have a certain usefulness, but that did not mean she would ever allow one in her home, to shed on the furniture or slobber on her clothing. No finesse, no artistry, no sense of the sublime depths that agony could inspire in their work. Not much more than bite. Claw. Rip and rend and roar, she supposed.

Brigid yawned. How insufferably dull.

The stacatto percussion of the four-inch heels of her charcoal grey Isabel Marant stiletto sandals still thrummed through the shapely muscle of her calves, ringing to powerful thighs and through a spine so perfectly poised she might have seemed to float across than merely stride the length of this great room. The preternatural grace of the body that beneath the curve-hugging slate-colored material of her Donna Karan dress was poetry for the eyes, supernatural or even the merely mortal. Her glacial blue gaze still drank in the motley assemblage, and though her more professional instincts were fully roused by the company, it was not until she caught sight of one uncommonly magnificent face that her crimson lips finally curled up into a genuine, almost playful smile.

Vasile.

If it still had a beat, her heart might have leapt at the sight of the Sabbat priest. Now here was a true artist, a vampire who whose vision transcended living flesh and bone, penetrating into the realm of the divine with the splendor of his darkly sublime vision. He was no mere creator of ghouls - oh no, not Vasile. This was a being who saw the true potential within the mortal confines of meat and marrow, just as a sculptor might see his creation in a block of marble long before he released it from those common confines. He was, in short, magnificent to her eyes.

Spite and malice had twisted her already vicious soul, to revile all her oh-so-tragically and ill-fated Sire ever embraced. Her loathing for the Camarilla was a visceral thing now. But it was the breathtaking skills of those like Vasile who truly reminded her, these dark decisions she embraced had led her true, that she knew kindred souls among the Sabbat. A single wave of perfectly-coiffed platinum blonde hair fell coyly over one eye as Brigid nodded in his direction.

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

This is so exciting! XD Cannot wait to hear from you too, Dot!

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

It was not Goemon's offer to escort Klara the remainder of the journey that troubled Galina in the least. If she were going to assume the man was trustworthy enough to coordinate this entire operation, considering all the layers of security he would have had to go through to find her and have her brought to the Empress in the first place? Well yes, she could allow him to remain Klara's escort to their destination, and her old friend did not seem to mind the proposition.

Rather, it was one tiny, almost insignificant statement made as he outlined his plan, and the circumstances surrounding the removal of the engineer from the Empress. No, her strange, sudden misgivings had nothing to do with the risk of course. Goemon could not possibly have been more on point - all doings of a spy held some degree of risk. And as he explained the plan, Galina nodded her understanding, her dark eyes never leaving the man's face.

Equal parts art and artifice, she truly did appreciate Goemon's admirable skill his craft. Yet that single sentence he spoke from the start, that almost... Well... In truth the words very nearly glowed in her mind's eye, brighter and brighter still, as Goemon continued without the least interruption from her. All the intricate details of this complex operation, and what seemed no small amount of precise coordination to be made on the Empress? Why, the muscle power alone that would be needed to see the two of them over the ship's rail to the motor boat below would be extraordinary.

Yes, Galina nodded and smiled so sweetly, her dark eyes flashing with something very like amusement now as she took another dainty bite of her most excellent meal, chewing and swallowing before she spoke. "My goodness, Mr. Goemon," she began mildly, her eyes wide and assuredly impressed with the young man's earnest rendition of his plan. "Are you sure you have truly brought the person you most need to bring Mr. Slevin along to his beloved heart home in Mother Russia?"

Galina rested her elbow on her forearm, folded over her belly. She let her chin fall to her fingertips, tilting her head just a touch as she regarded her 'fellow' spy curiously. "Oh yes, most certainly I can speak Russian, but considering my birthplace that should not be so extraordinary I imagine?"

She lifted her chin, freeing those long, agile fingers to wave in slow, lazy circles in the air before her. "But considering the precision that will be required to ensure we remain entirely unseen shipboard, and then? Then the manpower alone required to see us over the rail to the waiting boat below, over sea spray and waves and the ocean winds? I only wish I had half the brawn of my brothers, to do my humble part to carry this out. All that must be done - it simply boggles the mind!"

Galina frowned just a touch, though the light of genuine delight never left her dark eyes. "Such a shame, Mr. Goeman, that you 'came aboard alone.'"

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Good call, Mr. Despot - cannot wait to see this ;)

Loki's Laugh

(( collaboration between idlehands and Igraine))

Eyja looked to Ranulf curiously, pulling Loker's ring from its precarious perch on her shoulder to hold it in her small hands once more. "Mister Loker gave it to me," she said, offering this precious, beautiful thing to the young boy beside her to hold, with all the inherent trust that any child would give to her very best friend in the world. "He promised to bring Madir and Svala back with him... "

Thoughtfully, Eyja began to untie the small ribbon of green cloth that held her too-tight braid in place. Her nimble fingers unmoored the plaited tendrils of brilliant, fiery red hair, the long wild curls falling over her small, slender shoulders. She scratched her aching scalp, sending all her flaming mane back to its usual untamed and magnificent mess.

As she walked beside Ranulf, she pointed to the carved animals on Loker's ring, as if her friend couldn't very well see them for himself. Of course he could, but Eyja really wanted a reason to lean in close to him. "So this a warrior's ring?" she whispered, hoping neither Raudr nor his Madir overheard her question. Ranulf she trusted without a second thought, that he would never laugh at her for not knowing important warrior things, or feel sorry for her for being just a dumb, ignorant farm girl.

Eyja's fingers reached to the ring, intending to tie it to the shoulder strap of her small apron dress with the green ribbon that had, a minute ago, bound her hair. She really did not want to lose this beautiful, shining bronze gift from Loker. "What does it mean, a warrior's ring? It's pretty important, isn't it?"

Ranulf admired the ring, it really was a thing of beauty and held a significance that he thought he understood. His father had explained it to him and Raudr, both of them looked forward to earning their first ring, the one they would swear their fealty to their Jarl. He touched the bronze and smiled at her.

“A man swears an oath on a ring such as this,” he said, his grey eyes meeting her blue. “It means that he would die rather than break what promise he made. This is a man’s honor.”

Ranulf saw her intentions and handed it back, “Do you need help?”

Eyja smiled her thanks to Ranulf, not truly surprised but certainly relieved her very best friend - well, alongside Tore the kitten of course - would tell her the truth of the matter in a low voice no one might overhear, and then offer to help her secure Loker’s precious ring too.

“Yes, I do - could you kinda… Tie this for me… Up here? Thank you Ranulf.” Her shoulder seemed a good, safe place to keep it, where she could still see the gleaming bronze from the corner of her eye all the time, and even lay her cheek against the cool metal until Loker returned with her Madir and Svala - it was just kinda hard for her fingers to twist about just so, to tie it off tightly with the green ribbon like she wanted.

”That’s what Mister Loker said, you know,” Eyja continued quietly while Ranulf managed the tie. Her voice was subdued now not only with the wish to keep her not-knowing between the two of them, but with the weight of what it was her best friend told her about this beautiful warrior’s ring. This was Mister Loker’s honor, and even this little girl knew that was no small thing at all. ”He said he’d come back with Madir or Svala, or he would not come back with breath in his body… “

Eyja’s voice trailed off for a moment, maybe just a little awed at the enormity of the gift the man made for smiling, with the biggest, strongest hugs since her Fadir’s own, had given her. And then she looked to Ranulf, wondering for a moment too about her best friend, and his Fadir and all the rings on his arms that had a whole new meaning to the little girl now. ”Are you going to have rings too someday, Ranulf?” she asked, equal parts curious, and perhaps a little worried, impressed by the possibility and maybe even the slightest bit jealous too - even if she had screamed in fear on the way here, and had not beaten off the draugr like Raudr did.

Ranulf secured the ribbon, giving the ring a tug to check the resistance and looked at her solemnly. “Loker is a housekarl, a man who is sworn to protect, he will keep his word.”

He glanced at his older brother who was for once quiet, his belligerent nature seemingly quelled by the recent encounter with the draugr. Ranulf nodded, “We will both take the ring, swear fealty to our Jarl...with luck it will be our own fadir. Rings are awarded to a man for bravery, for service to his leader, and those that are...gifts.”

Gifts like the one that hung from Raudr’s belt, the saex taken from the Swede. The Norse used the word in a tongue in cheek manner, the gifts were often taken from the ones they killed. Ranulf felt it unnecessary to remind her of that and left it alone.

“A woman doesn’t get arm rings,” he said matter of factly but glanced over at his mother who was bouncing Dagny who was sniffling in tears over her Fadir leaving so abruptly. “She carries the keys and her box to show her husband’s wealth, Madir says a woman carries her honor in her actions just as any man would. It is just different, I guess.”

He shrugged his thin shoulders, pushing back his pale hair and smiled again at Eyja. “I don’t understand it all.”

Ranulf’s eyes fell on the crumbled paper tucked into her belt, “What is that?”

Eyja’s pale blue gaze followed Ranulf’s, and her sweet freckled face lit brightly with the sudden recollection. Of course she had meant to show her very best friend the small treasure she had helped create under the painted man’s tutelage, but she had simply been too frightened and worried to think on her drawing before. Besides, it was a much better subject to talk with him about anyway, since she didn’t understand the “different honor” thing at all, any better than Ranulf did.

”It’s a wolf! On real paper with ink and everything!” she piped up, pulling the paper from her belt and unfurling it best she could, holding it up in two small hands. Any other day, the little girl would have been terribly disappointed that her precious drawing had gotten so wrinkled and crushed and crumpled, but considering all she’d been through just to be here walking beside Ranulf? Eyja was just glad it survived the harrowing trek here at all.

“Mr. Orran brought ink and paper to dinner last night, and I wanted to make a wolf like Geri and Freki on his cheeks.” Considering that this was Eyja’s first ever foray into handling ink and quill, it was likely a good thing for the more kindly inclined that she readily identified the halting swirls that criss-crossed the paper’s surface, that may - or may not - have resembled a running wolf.

Or perhaps a rather ragged sheep. Interpretation was all, of course.

Ranulf touched the paper, feeling the fiberous parchment and he grinned, lighting up his pale features. "This is very pretty, Eyja...real ink, too."

He feasted his eyes on it, touching ever so lightly the curved lines and felt a twinge of envy. Something about the drawing made him want to replicate it, just as when he flipped through the decorative texts his fadir brought home after raids. They rarely kept any, as none of them could read the Latin, but Ranulf had begged for one in particular. A book with a heavy leather binding and wonderful gold trimmed pages, it had many drawings of incredible creatures and heroes from a place he did not know. It was a mystery that fascinated him and since it was not a Christian Bible, Ragnar had let him keep it. It was still at home, locked in a trunk and hopefully safe, the draugr did not seem interested in any loot, just flesh.

"You're so lucky," he said, sighing with a smile, "Keep it safe, there is still room to practice more. Do you think he can read?"

His mind was already jumping ahead, perhaps without Raudr's interference he could have drawn on paper, too. Ranulf was determined to make amends with the painted man and perhaps he would show him the secrets of the letters in his book. If he knew them.

Ranulf leaned closer to Eyja, "One day, when this is all over, I'll show you my book...I think you'd like it."

Eyja’s freckled cheeks flushed with unadulterated joy, for so very many reasons. Ranulf’s praise for her hard, earnest work meant the world to the little girl, as did the genuinely appreciative way his fingers traced over her haltingly rendered whorls of ink.

She tilted her head just a little when he spoke of Orran, her gaze turning thoughtfully from Ranulf’s pale face to her drawing. ”Thanks Ranulf, and you know? I bet Mr. Orran does know how to read,” she said with an affirmative nod of her head. If there were any good thing to think of their new painted friend, then Eyja would believe it with an unquestioning, dogged determination.

But even singing Orran’s praises could not keep the wide-eyed amazement from her face as Ranulf spoke of… A book!? Oh, she had known her best friend’s family was very wealthy, but she had never imagined he could have a real book of his own. She leaned in closer to him as well, her voice falling as low as his while she rolled up her own paper, to keep it safe just as Ranulf suggested.

“But I don’t know if he has a real book like you! Wow Ranulf!” she whispered as she tucked her drawing back in her belt. Eyja’s small hand reached out to take her best friend’s easily, giving it a squeeze as they walked. ”Yes, please - I should like to see your book. Is it far away from here? Can I bring Madir and Svala to come see it? And… Well, can Tore come too? I promise, he won’t scratch your book at all!”

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Wonderful start there Lil! I cannot wait to see all the brilliant solutions and plans from our lovely pool of talent!

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Thomas might have been quite pleased with himself, if he only knew how successful his early morning venture in subterfuge had truly been. Antonia moaned softly from beneath the snarl of blankets, arms and legs akimbo. Her thoughts were still thick and heavy with the lack of anything like a proper night's sleep, though her body knew well enough the sun had just risen beyond the windows of Thomas' cabin. One lithe, caramel-skinned arm snaked from beneath the blankets, her fingers searching for Thomas' warmth to wrap herself into, to anchor herself once more into the delicious sleep she craved...

Her heavy eyelids still shut against the coming daylight, the rogue pouted prettily when she realized she was all alone, groaning with disappointment when her fingers reached the mattress edge. A little breath of a laugh escaped her nose. No, of course Captain Lightfoot did not get to sleep in until he pleased, did he? Most certainly not on the day his beloved Skate was to sail.

And as drowsy as she was, Antonia knew she should not either, no matter how she longed to stay right there in her lovely man's bed. Because in the wee hours of the morning, Antonia ventured from the Skate herself, quietly slipping from Thomas' bed and, wrapped in the night's deepest shadows, made her way to the Parakeet.

What the rogue had to tell her oldest, dearest friends was a grim truth, and one she couched with not a single word of subtlety or false comfort. And Madeleine was every bit as furious as the rogue knew she would be, John just as inconsolable, and there was not a damned thing Antonia could do to make any of this better for them. No, there was not a single word she could say to these good people, who must choose to lose their only son for heaven alone knew how long on the high seas, or risk losing him to an obsessive madman. And she did not dare ply them with worthless platitudes and hollow reassurances about letting their boy, a mere child of eight years, sail with the Skate. Either choice was fraught with its own perils and pain, but only one promised the Spider’s protection, all the days he would be absent from them.

Madeleine's curses surprised the rogue not at all, nor did the hurt-filled vow that Antonia would never be forgiven. All the rogue could do was agree with every last furious accusation, knowing very well she deserved each and every profanity that Luc's Maman hurled at her. But it was genuine fear that made her humble, and Antonia begged. She begged for Madeleine's understanding. She pleaded with John to see reason, and to please please know Antonia would never suggest such a thing, were there any other choice...

Antonia left the Parakeet deeply troubled. She explained to both her dear friends that the Skate would sail at high tide in the morn, and that no matter their decision, she would understand and love them still. She had to. They were Luc's true parents, after all. What else could she do? Was there anything else left to say? No, she had told them all, and no matter her fears Antonia could not simply take their son from them! And so she could only pray that somewhere, somehow, in all these years, she had earned a small, precious measure of trust to cover all this hurt she brought them.

Defeated, deflated and uncertain, Antonia returned to the Skate knowing that only the dawn’s light – still a few hours away – would reveal her friends’ final decision. And it was in this state that Antonia returned to the Dusk Skate, and her sweet Silverfish’s bed.

Thomas never woke when she entered his cabin again and undressed, or at least not that she could tell. But when she crawled back into his bed, her lovely man pulled her close, in a gesture as seemingly natural as breathing, even in his dreams. Warmth for cold fear, comfort for anguish, his sure presence soothed her like little else could, every inch the distilled essence of those warm, calming waters they swam this past night. Though the anxious distress did not wholly leave her heart, her worries quieted in his arms just long enough for sleep to find her once again.

But it was those same worries woken with her, which finally forced open her eyes. She expected to see not much more than the grey outlines of Thomas’ crumpled bed linens and, beyond that, his Spartan cabin furniture. Antonia was unprepared for the delicately luminous sight that greeted her on the pillow.

Antonia sat up instantly, still mostly tangled in blankets, that wild mane of coiled ebony hair cascading in untamed tendrils past her shoulders to spill down her back. Her bare legs dangled over the edge of Thomas’ bed as she gazed at the Amazon lily held so delicately in her fingers, like a precious jewel. Her vision swam for the tears that spilled suddenly down her cheeks, but it was the wide, loving smile on her lips and the soft, slightly incredulous laughter that promised these were simply tears of joy.

**********

It was the Antonia that all the Skate’s crew knew best who emerged from the stairs of the aftcastle – well, in the main at least. That same oversized linen shirt, those well-worn brown pants belted at her waist and tucked into the tops of her hobnailed boots, her thick black hair pulled from her face and plaited into a wide rope of a braid down her back. But it was that alabaster lily perched over her ear, its stem woven securely into the plait, that fairly glowed with an otherworldly light against the onyx of the rogue’s hair and the caramel hue of her skin.

At her Captain’s call and his First Mate’s command, Antonia leapt with a preternatural grace to the rigging, a Spider once more in her web as she began to climb nimbly for the very best vantage point. She could only pray that Madeleine and John might yet see fit to bring Luc to the Skate, and she wished to keep a lookout for them until the moment the ship sailed. But as she climbed, Antonia could not resist a glance toward Thomas as he strode the deck, dangling easily by a single hand as she sought that copper gaze, to show him how she treasured his gift. Antonia grinned as she blew her Captain Silverfish a sweet kiss, giving him a playful wink before turning again to scale the mast.

Masques and Daggers (Derren Krenshaw & Igraine)

The emotion was genuine in Goemon’s voice, his chagrin at the circumstance in which he found himself. Galina could hear it clear as a clarion call, ringing true through and through – and yet…

And yet, there was still something she did not trust – would never trust – and it was far more than simply a spy’s quite-natural and often-lifesaving paranoia. She mulled over this odd intuition for several seconds as Goemon spoke, noting the composure in his every least movement, the apparent plausibility of his every word, the plaintive glint in his eyes as these admissions were apparently drawn from him, all again his will and an affront to his pride, however necessary.

And when he was finished, a thought occurred to Galina that lit her smile with a genuine, utterly unfeigned amusement.

Of all the people in this world, Goemon’s demeanor as he sat here, cool and composed – and yet evincing the most convincing display of emotion – reminded her most of only one person she truly knew. Herself. The young man reminded Galina of herself when she was entrancing one of her marks, or seducing a potential compatriot to see things exactly as she most wished he would.

Any nascent trust that might have seeded the corridors of her mind was turned over, the earth salted ever after in regards to Mr. Goemon. Even so, that did not mean her genuine appreciation and affection for the young man was not elevated by several very real and appreciable degrees.

“I do appreciate your candor, Mr. Goemon,” Galina said softly, without the least hint of irony tainting her words. “While I admit, I had not expected to be leaving the Empress at all – well, during our journey, at least? I should still prefer to travel alongside our new friend on the return trip to his new, most appreciative homeland.”

“Yes, I will do this thing - though I should wish for some reassurance that Klara will have proper company for the remainder of her journey.” Galina held her hand up for a moment, anticipating her old friend’s protests, turning to her with a smile. “This was as much well-earned vacation for you Klara, as work for me. I will not hear of you leaving the Empress before you have enjoyed every last moment of this magnificent voyage, on this beautiful ship.”

This exchange went on several long moments in their native Russian, though Galina cut it off short enough with a good-natured shake of her head, curt though smiling still, that indicated there would be no further discussion of the subject, and that she absolutely would have her way in this matter.

Galina’s attentions returned to Mr. Goemon, and nodded to him in apology. “Forgive me the rudeness of speaking around you – but yes, please. A proper companion if you would. And if I am not completely mistaken, it seems you have already scheduled the arrival of the ship that will ferry Mr. Slevin away? I suppose this truly only leaves us with a few more questions then.”

“What time will this ship arrive, to re-board our wayward engineer, and what kind of ship is it? And even more importantly of course: when will I finally meet our engineering friend? As you can imagine, I would very much like to make his acquaintance, speak with him myself concerning his intent, before we depart.”

“Will he be joining us for dinner tonight, or should we meet after we have had the opportunity to enjoy our wonderful meal, and our newly found company?”

Loki's Laugh

Well how could he not Kuro, with you and Idle and RR, Jinxer and Walrus writing here? SO much concentrated talent!

And thank you Heroes - you're the best, you know!

Loki's Laugh

Hallerna fought every last urge she ever had, to keep her axe lowered, to keep from beating that infuriating grin from Harald's face. Her righteous fury took her far beyond worrying what this nithskald might do, whatever retribution he or his men might take. Not when in her mind’s eye, she rained repeated blows with the haft of her axe in his smug face, until blood and teeth spattered the mud and snow scarlet and ivory. Oh yes, that would be a reaction both entirely fair and eminently satisfying.

But any furious retort that might have formed on Hallerna's lips, any justifiable urge to strike the false thegn as he so richly deserved, was washed away like foul mud in clean rain water when the kindly monk Anndrais – Orran’s companion, the man who was such a comfort to poor Tora – emerged with the little child she would have sworn was dead.

Vigi’s call sent her sprinting to the little girl, a mother’s instincts snapping instantly into place as she dropped beside that small, moaning body. She could not have seen any more than six summers, perhaps even less, just a slight little thing all buried beneath snarled lengths of dark brown hair. The black soot and pain on her thin pale face made those wide, frightened doe eyes seem larger still.

The furious snarl she had for Harald melted as if it had never been, giving way to a gentle, comforting smile. As she knelt beside her, Hallerna looked over the girl as carefully as the seidrmadr had, but this time looking for ragged black edges of the cloth of her dress, and angry pink flesh and blisters. All the while, she spoke in the softest whisper to the child, taking special care to find and note her injuries.

“Hello sweetling,” she said with a genuine tenderness, carefully brushing all that dark hair from the little girl’s face, and then hiding the sympathetic wince when she found a swelling red welt, running from the hairline at the girl’s right temple to her jaw. “I’m Hallerna… I just want to see where you’re hurt… “

It was not a difficult process really, to see where the flames had done their worst. If Hallerna had to guess, the child was likely thrown into a flaming, fallen beam while still agile enough to pull herself away. Red, hot flesh trailed in a more or less straight line down the right side of her face, with another streak of burn from shoulder to elbow, and then knee to ankle. Small blisters were already starting to rise.

“You are a very brave little girl. Why, there are warriors who could not be so strong!” Hallerna knew very well much of the girl’s silence was born of trauma: her parents’ death, her escape from the draugr with that poor Pict thrall, and then being hurled back into the flames once more. Still, the older woman’s words of praise managed to earn just the faintest of smiles, though the girl’s wide, dark eyes spoke volumes of her true pain and fear.

“What is your name, sweetling?”

“Una.” Those two syllables came out not much more than a whisper, but it was enough.

“That is a beautiful name, Una. I’m going to wrap your hurts… “

Hallerna’s head twisted over her shoulder, waving for Svala to join her. Her eyes swept over the well-assembled men, come to bring some semblance of order to the chaos Harald’s unwelcome arrival caused. A wide smile brightened her face when she realized the tall man beneath the helm and aventail, with his great height and that grand beard, could only be the housekarl Loker, the man who made near as much an impression on Eyja as Orran had, and who generously offered all that was left of her family sanctuary in the Hall. His appearance could only mean that Eyja and Raudr had made it safely to the Hall as well, and Hallerna indulged in a sigh of genuine relief.

For the first time in this endless morning, Hallerna felt a measure of peace. She nodded a small, silent greeting to Loker, though she knew very well he would like not see, his attentions wrapped up in matters far more urgent.

Hallerna tried not to seem impatient as Svala approached hesitantly, turning back a few times to the line of men and shields standing with Thegn Ragnar and Loker. Oh, she knew her daughter’s concern was for Ragnar’s man who’d been beaten so badly. But he had already risen to join the shield wall, and Hallerna needed her now.

For her part, Svala stepped back as Haakon began to stand, however unsteady he seemed. Even if she were a farmer’s daughter, the young woman knew it would be unseemly for her to protest a raider joining the shield wall - as if she had the least right to do so anyway. And so she joined her mother - perhaps not as swiftly as she ought, true enough - though her sense of urgency was kindled the moment she saw the little girl.

“Una, this is Svala,” Hallerna explained patiently when her daughter finally arrived. “Svala, I need you to get into our packs. I don’t know how many bandages the seidrmadr or the monk Anndrais might yet have, what with the rest of the rest of the bleeding and injured. Obviously the healing house and its supplies are a complete loss. Bring one of my shifts – “

Hallerna held one hand to Svala as she made to protest. “No, I know. Just do it. There’s no help for it. There’s my girl… “