Post by Morreion on Dec 5, 2008 1:45:42 GMT -5
This one had a really dark vibe going on. In DAoC I mostly played Hibernians or Albions, Midgard always seemed like 'the bad guys' to me, and some of that feeling carried over into this story.
Huldar sat in his chair, a haggard look on his bearded face. He had not slept for days.
She was dead.
He turned the small black dagger over and over in his hands. The blade still had a film of green iridescent ichor upon it, no doubt some eerie Hibernian witchcraft...
He heard sounds outside of his Great Hall: faint shouts, the familiar clang of worn steel upon steel...
They were coming.
For her. And him.
~~~~~
He had spotted her on the snowy battlefields of Odin's Gate. She was a lithe Celtic figure, dressed in bright colors, laughing- so unlike the Norse women that he had known. She was in a small group of Hibernian invaders,using her lute to cast the magic of speed upon them. She had looked up, and for a brief second, their eyes had met.
Right then, he knew he must have her.
The moment that their eyes had met lasted a long time in his mind. While his hands hefted his two-handed axe, his thoughts were drawn into her by some weird magic: he saw an image of her running through a field of flowers, a handsome tall Celt chasing her, laughing. He also saw the faces of several Norse women he had known briefly and had discarded.
The moment was over- the Bardess recoiled in shock at sharing eye contact and soul memories with him, and she yelled out to her companions, who arrayed themselves in front of her, their swords and spears flashing in the cold mid-day sun, their brightly painted shields raised towards the Sons of Midgard.
The battle was brief.
Huldar's carls had outnumbered the Celts, and one by one, they were struck down by axes. The last Celt left standing, a lad by the look of him, crouched in front of the Bardess, yelling over his shoulder in the strange sibilant tongue of his kind. She shook her head wildly, and continued to play her magic of encouragement to him, having mesmerized several of his men.
He gave a swift command to Snorri, and the powerful carl hooked aside the Celtic lad's shield and drove his axe into his chest. As the Hib died at his feet, Snorri slammed his shield hard against the Bardess, stunning her into unconsciouness. His carls quickly gathered their gear together, the Bardess resting limp over Snorri's broad shoulder. Huldar had tore off her helmet and had touched her raven hair briefly, then had given the command to move towards
home.
~~~~~
She had eaten nothing, drank nothing, locked in his room for two whole days.
Huldar stood in the center of the room, staring at her sitting in the very corner, the heated brazier giving off a faint red light. She was dressed in her tattered gear, having refused to even wash up.
She had haunted his thoughts too much...he had even overheard talk among his carls that he was bewitched by her.
Enough is enough.
He strode over to her and was about to seize her when she jumped up, a small black dagger suddenly flashing in the red firelight. He stepped back, but the blade was not meant for him- she had slid it effortlessly into her stomach, and, as she doubled over, handed it to him hilt-first, a wild gleam of triumph in her eyes, as she haltingly choked out a phrase in the Norse tongue: you will need this as well.
He drew away from her, as he could see the poison glistening on the surface of the blade. He had fled the room in a panic, and had not returned.
~~~~~
A few days afterwards, Snorri was found dead in the woods. An arrow had pinned a note to his chest. Huldar had found a Runemaster and had asked him what the note had said. The message was, 'if she has been touched, it will take you many months of torment for your soul to release'.
~~~~~
Huldar looked up, a wild gleam of despair in his eye.
He was alone in the Great Hall, but not for long...
A strange purple glow filled the room. Then the swords started beating upon the door, angry voices speaking in unrecognizable tongues.
He heard what sounded like her laughter echoing in his mind.
The dagger glittered in his grasp.
The door gave way, splinters flying, fierce Celts clutching bloodied weapons in their hands leaping through the doorway.
A tall, handsome Celt shouldered his way into the room, his eyes searching.
The black, poisoned blade fell to the floor from a lifeless hand.
Huldar sat in his chair, a haggard look on his bearded face. He had not slept for days.
She was dead.
He turned the small black dagger over and over in his hands. The blade still had a film of green iridescent ichor upon it, no doubt some eerie Hibernian witchcraft...
He heard sounds outside of his Great Hall: faint shouts, the familiar clang of worn steel upon steel...
They were coming.
For her. And him.
~~~~~
He had spotted her on the snowy battlefields of Odin's Gate. She was a lithe Celtic figure, dressed in bright colors, laughing- so unlike the Norse women that he had known. She was in a small group of Hibernian invaders,using her lute to cast the magic of speed upon them. She had looked up, and for a brief second, their eyes had met.
Right then, he knew he must have her.
The moment that their eyes had met lasted a long time in his mind. While his hands hefted his two-handed axe, his thoughts were drawn into her by some weird magic: he saw an image of her running through a field of flowers, a handsome tall Celt chasing her, laughing. He also saw the faces of several Norse women he had known briefly and had discarded.
The moment was over- the Bardess recoiled in shock at sharing eye contact and soul memories with him, and she yelled out to her companions, who arrayed themselves in front of her, their swords and spears flashing in the cold mid-day sun, their brightly painted shields raised towards the Sons of Midgard.
The battle was brief.
Huldar's carls had outnumbered the Celts, and one by one, they were struck down by axes. The last Celt left standing, a lad by the look of him, crouched in front of the Bardess, yelling over his shoulder in the strange sibilant tongue of his kind. She shook her head wildly, and continued to play her magic of encouragement to him, having mesmerized several of his men.
He gave a swift command to Snorri, and the powerful carl hooked aside the Celtic lad's shield and drove his axe into his chest. As the Hib died at his feet, Snorri slammed his shield hard against the Bardess, stunning her into unconsciouness. His carls quickly gathered their gear together, the Bardess resting limp over Snorri's broad shoulder. Huldar had tore off her helmet and had touched her raven hair briefly, then had given the command to move towards
home.
~~~~~
She had eaten nothing, drank nothing, locked in his room for two whole days.
Huldar stood in the center of the room, staring at her sitting in the very corner, the heated brazier giving off a faint red light. She was dressed in her tattered gear, having refused to even wash up.
She had haunted his thoughts too much...he had even overheard talk among his carls that he was bewitched by her.
Enough is enough.
He strode over to her and was about to seize her when she jumped up, a small black dagger suddenly flashing in the red firelight. He stepped back, but the blade was not meant for him- she had slid it effortlessly into her stomach, and, as she doubled over, handed it to him hilt-first, a wild gleam of triumph in her eyes, as she haltingly choked out a phrase in the Norse tongue: you will need this as well.
He drew away from her, as he could see the poison glistening on the surface of the blade. He had fled the room in a panic, and had not returned.
~~~~~
A few days afterwards, Snorri was found dead in the woods. An arrow had pinned a note to his chest. Huldar had found a Runemaster and had asked him what the note had said. The message was, 'if she has been touched, it will take you many months of torment for your soul to release'.
~~~~~
Huldar looked up, a wild gleam of despair in his eye.
He was alone in the Great Hall, but not for long...
A strange purple glow filled the room. Then the swords started beating upon the door, angry voices speaking in unrecognizable tongues.
He heard what sounded like her laughter echoing in his mind.
The dagger glittered in his grasp.
The door gave way, splinters flying, fierce Celts clutching bloodied weapons in their hands leaping through the doorway.
A tall, handsome Celt shouldered his way into the room, his eyes searching.
The black, poisoned blade fell to the floor from a lifeless hand.
