Post by Corothius Encinosa on Apr 15, 2012 11:19:42 GMT -5
((This is a log of some play between me and one of my better female cohorts I play with online. In summary, it is Corothius and a ship of men who come amid a storm and pilage a small village, and take some of the women with them. They make their way to their hideout in the jade isles but the story didn't continue after they began weaving through the isles themselves. There is a warning posted before the adult content begins and ocne it does begin it continues through the remainder of the posts. Though there are more plots amidst the adult content.))
The rocky coast swept all the way down to the sea and Tan Tirnach perched atop the bluff like a gargoyle keeping watch from the fields to the sheep's run to the fishing boats and shacks that lined the harbor. The sea was blue and endless for miles, and from Mara's vantage point was an infinite haze that blurred the edge between water and sky. Today, though, that sky had turned hazy and the sea roiled with internal strife. A storm was coming, as they often came this time of year. It would be quick and gone,
but it would likely shake the rafters of Tan Tirnach. Mara had been a foster daughter in this Keep since her twelfth year. Now, entering her twentieth, she was still unaccustomed to the weather. She sighed and came inside from the balcony. The storm would interrupt the preparations. Something always interrupted the preparations. Her foster-sister was getting married come Samhain, which meant that she would return home. She had chosen to return to her father's holding rather than accompany her foster sister
to her new home in Rathcroghan. The young woman walked through the halls without seeing them. The dismal grey of the day made her listless. She pretended not to hear the first person calling for her. But when she heard her foster mother, she called back, "I'm riding to the village. Fionn has something for Maire's wedding." That had been her excuse all year for doing anything she wanted to do-- something for Maire's wedding. And it always worked, too. So the young lady made her way out to the stables, where
the stablehand saddled her roan stallion. He was all too helpful to get her into the saddle; it was an excuse to put his hands around her slim waist. A teasing joke was always made about the way her waist was so small and her hips broad. The teasing joke was always deflected with a sharp word softened by a smile. Today he tweaked the reins and watched her a moment longer than usual. "Be careful, Mara," he said. "Dont' get caught in the weather-- if it hits us, wait in the village till it passes." She nodded
and offered him a pretty smile for his trouble. Then she rode off towards the village, wearing a simple dress that didn't fit her form too closely; it was embroidered about the hem and the neckline with geometric shapes, and covered over with a fine cloak of linen. The cloak had a hood that covered her long dark hair, and left her green eyes in shadows. There was something dark about the girl, something darker than her strange ephemeral beauty. Maybe that was why she was keen to get home-- she had never fit
in here, never at all.::
‡ Amidst the storm a low wielding ship procastinated in reaching the shores taunting them upon the horizon for more than half of the evening that they had remained anchored and patient amidst their brothers in arms and kin amidst blood. At the head of the ship the head of a scaled wooden dragon brightened with the illuminating cast of lightning that streaked through the skies above with wicked revelations. Marred paint aglazed with a sheen of water that rivuleted along its carved structure. Behind it's towering height was the deck itself which was manned by only a good two dozen or more men who were becoming just as soaked, nor minded such in the least amidst their wordless silence. There was only the roughened huff of surging muscles in work as the anchors were being pulled free from the muddy bottom of the watery depths beneath them.
The skies had remained dark and foreboding of a storm for the later half of the day as they had arrived in the region. The village was a mark that was ripe for the takings, all the moreso made easier amidst the concealment of the storms threatening power that would conceal them, and the noise of the attack that was planned to be quick and lethal to ensure that they could return to the waters before aid from the keep further inland would arrive. It was to such a purpose that as the anchors lisped free from the waters, and the men thre began fastening it back into place at each side of the boat that oars would scrape against wooden portholes as they were dispersed into the waters. Heavy arms weighed with muscles and lacking in fatigue began to exert themselves in their plight to row themselves to land. Quick and light was the vessel upon the wavering waters. Able to be set adrift upon nearly any shore. Yet, the rocks were a known hindrance further beyond, and to be weary of even before they reached the shore itself.
At one the oars was a man barren of his furred cloak. Bronzened flesh allowing him to be as dark as the waters beyond the ships rail mere feet off to the side of the bench he was working upon with another who shared the sturdy length of an oar within their fists. Their weapons and equipment were within reach, Their loot and depleted food sources were further behind them amidst barrels in need of restocking. Lengths of dark thick strands were soaked to his neck. Banded strips of cut leather woven amidst such locks bit lightly into his flesh as they rested against the turgid strength of muscles that rippled and smeared amongst one another beneath flesh as he worked. Leathers were soaked further below where they clung upon his loins and further along his thighs which were bare and receiving a rinse from the rain of the dried sweat that had been upon him for the past few days that had been shy of storm or a local to bathe in.‡
The blacksmith Fionn was indeed waiting in the little coastal village called Knock-a-Brea. But he didn't have anything for Maire's wedding. He was accustomed to Mara's visits, as she had struck up an unlikely conversation and then an even more unlikely friendship with the blacksmith's wife, Devora. He didn't know what the ladies talked about in the little house, but it might as well have been a million miles away from the village for all their secret society. When Mara at length left the house, with a kiss
on the cheek for the old blacksmith, it was already beginning to drizzle. The blacksmith pointed to the sky with his hammer, his face on one side a maze of scars where an eye used to be. "This is not a day to be stirrin' about in, lass," he said in his grave, calm voice. "Why don't you have a stay till it passes?" Mara hesitated. She thought she could make it back to the Keep before the storm broke. But she did have one more stop. "I have to stop over at Tamred's," she said. "If the weather turns by the
time I get back, I'll stay here till it passes." Fionn seemed mollified by that promise, and saw the young lady off with a wave of his hammer before the steel started to sing again. She made her way through the village streets, little more than a few thatched roofs around a common granary, corral, and fishery. The scent of the day's catch was heavy in the air down towards the docks, and Mara crinkled her nose in distaste. The occasional scent of salt was a welcome respite from the stench. She came to
Tamred's house and knocked on the door. "My brother isn't home," said a man's voice before he even opened the door. "Oh, it's you, Mara-- what are you doing out on a day like today? Tam's not home, but you better stay a while--" The rain was falling now, and the lightning breaking in the distance. She could hear the crash of waves against the rocky shore. There were watchmen posted, of course, because there was an old saying that a grey sea and sky was a dangerous thing for the Vikings to hide in. But that
was the trouble....it was hard to see through the fog, especially once the wind and the rain kicked up. And so Mara was chatting idly by the fire with Tamred's brother and his mother, the young man in question nowhere to be found. She heard the wind and rain lashing the little cottage, but didn't worry too much about it. These storms always passed, after all.::
‡ It was such a fog that silhouetted their progression towards the rocky shores unseen. As if a ghost of a god was overwatching them, and cradling their ships entirety as it bled inland deeper and fuller as it ate away at the rocks and all that led towards the village further beyond. Lightning continued to streak with piteous reason as it cast it's reflection upon the village itself. Even setting ablaze a distant tree that erupted in bark and splinters perhaps within earshot of the cottage that a particular green-eyed lass was seated within most comfortably. An eruption of light from the casting flames began eating away at the gall of the tree that would no doubt continue throughout the night unless the rain doused it first.
The ship ceased its approach as the rocks were heard causing the ruckus of splashing and the thrashing of waves against their bulk over the surge of the storm around them. Anchors were again cast quickly from the sides of the ship to keep it in place and from smashing against them. Men in turn were pulling in their oars with the crescendo of wood scraping weighingly against wood. Arms were taken up and secured upon their persons in all the personal implications that they had learned in their years since youth. One of them in turn was Corothius. His lumbering form of prideful muscles wore shimmeing rivulets of water upon his upper torso. Leather sheathed blades were strapped onto his back whilst buckles were tightened against his near adamantium wall of a chest where the thickness of muscles cushioned the tightness the strap was pulled to make.
Boots thundered along with the intrepidation of the storm high above as the boards beneath briefly echoed his movement against the waters the vessel floated upon further below. A splash soundly erupted as his body collided with the threatening waters beyond. They would become fish in moments following, or so it could seem. Their bodies adept swimmers that sought the rocky crags just beyond to crawl upon. Seizing hands fiercely contacted the broad spectrum of a boulder that jutted before him as lightning again erupted and illuminated their surroundings in what seemed the nick of time to reveal the threat. Palms fiercely fought the current as he awrily pulled himself up along the rugged surface where moss had already been thrashed away from prior waves. Sinuous muscles lithed and streaked with rain began to ascend the cliffside easily enough with due practice and the ease of strength.
Bodies would begin to be silently left behind as throats were slit and pools of blood would be washed away to join the ocean floors below before warning cries could be spared.‡
The lightning crash interrupted Mara's cheerful conversation. Both the older matron by the fire and the young lady jumped, and Tamred's brother had some fun at the expense of them both. "You make a fine jest," Mara shot back, pointing her finger at him like she was hexing him. "But you jumped, too." Laughter replaced the nervous tension, and all inside the close and warm cottage were quite unaware that a different storm was breaking against the shore. "I wish Tamred were here," Mara said after a moment,
pacing nervously to the window. Her hooded cloak was hanging neatly from a peg near the door. She touched the tip of an antler hanging near the window, and then the wooden haft of a well-used axe. "He shouldn't be out in this weather." The matron clucked her tongue and motioned for her younger son to put another copper kettle on. "He's a fisherman, dear," the matron said. "They're out in all types of weather." Then she joined the younger woman at the window and guided her back to a seat nearer the
fire. "Storm like this, he'll ride it out-- his da always rides it out farther offshore. They'll be back tomorrow, I wager-- And you won't be leaving till morning, that's a certainty, not in this weather. You're apt to fall and break your neck." Mara had to agree, and the matron brought out a dark bottle filled with a home brew that made Mara's belly burn. Everyone in the keep knew where she was. She spent more time in the village lately than in the Keep. It wasn't just Tamred, though there were rumors the
two were courting in spite of the vast gulf of station between them that suggested the contrary. No, she just felt more comfortable here. And no one in the Keep or Village was so high or mighty they didn't recognize their kinsman on either side. "Alright, Sian," she finally said. "I'll stay the night." And the lightning crashed again so loud that the ladies laughed and the young man had another joke at their expense before stirring up the fire again.::
‡Many of the vikings were upon land easily enough with practiced ease. Like a haze of monstrous beings that arose from the rockface that was nearly impossible for most anyone to traverse. Such an angle was used against those guarding the village, a path that was most unlikely to be put to use. The docks for example would have been the easiest to take out. And was in turn the judged most defended part of the village. Thus they began their raid. Sentries were sought by the faster of their lot to take them out before warnings could be made. Others were thriving for the huts themselves. Axes drove through doors with a frenzy of crazed ferocity that alerted occupants inside that would be soon enough silenced as bloodletting would begin. Loot to be gathered as well as occupants in turn being put to use, or at least the few young enough to be discerned as fit to participate in such lewd matters. Perhaps cries and shouts would begin, even if they were shortlived.
Others made their way for the docks, to clear it of guards and sack it for wealth and food to be gathered and prepared. A few remaining boats on the dock becoming theirs to transport their growing loot to their ship beyond. It though, was just a village, and there would not be a great deal of such. Nor would a great deal of time be spent searching for the same. The keep was an everpresent warning against such further inland.
Corothius approached a particular cottage that was cast upon by the dancing flames of a nearby tree. The hefted weight of an axe was wielded within one of his palms. A curved sword shimmered briefly in the thrall of a lightning strike off in the distance as a door opened at a home he was passing by. An edge of a blade was lethal as its' weight was whipped forth into an arce to snag into flesh before bone would crunch and the weight of a body would slow it's further progress onwards. He was left having to pry the newly acquired corpse free with the pommel of his battering sword as a scream further within met his ears. The door was rushed open with the heel of a leathered boot. Revealing the wife of the recently killed further within. The swivel of an axe sent through the air made a true coarse as it stung into flesh and silenced the screams that were shortly lived, yet streaked heavily with fear and the loss of a long time loved one. Eyes of a feral amber depth were sent leaping about the room as he entered it to retrieve his weapon. Seeking prizes to snatch up or return for in those dire moments that were taken to clear the village.‡
t must have seemed like hours to those caught up in the first wave of the raid, but it wasn't long before the occupants of the thatched cottage became aware of sounds that were not thunder and were not lightning. Screams were short lived but they traveled even through the fog; the crunching of wooden doors and the sickening crush of metal against bone would travel, too, though not as far. Mara jumped to her feet almost in time with the young man in the house. Panic and chaos reigned in the village now,
and some of it infected the occupants of this house. Mara felt a strange calm descending in the midst of the chaos. "Faolan?" she asked. The young man stood with the worn axe in his hand. "Faolan!" Mara snapped, tugging sharply at his sleeve. "You have a crawlspace?" To run outside was death; there was no question. To hide seemed unnatural when the instinct was to flee, but it might keep them alive. "Hurry!" She grabbed the sharp antlers off the wall; the youth was urging his mother into the crawlspace,
little more than a cool place between the dirt and the kitchen floor used to keep vegetables fresh as long as possible. There wasn't room enough for all of them. Faolan was a man, and therefore there was no question who would go in. He helped Mara in after the matron-- "Mara, Mara what if they set the house on fire?" he asked. Mara didn't know what to say. She just knew they were wasting time. "Go," she whispered fiercely. "Take Fionn's field-- my horse is there-- hurry, Faolan, go--" The intention of
course was to have both women hidden and the lad out the back door before the Vikings came crashing through. Even so, a cheerful fire was burning. A rich cloak was hanging by the door. Several cups of tea and a more bitter brew were strewn about the fire. And anyway, who knew if Faolan could leave the house and be gone before the Viking crushed his way inside? Mara didn't know; maybe her gods didn't know. She covered the older woman's mouth and whispered close to her ear. "Not a sound, no matter what you
hear."::
‡ Corothius was still looming within the the neighboring threshold as matters were perceived in the active abode nearby. His bloodied axe was yanked from the softer flesh of the woman before him, too aged to regret killing, yet the fresh scent of spilling blood matted upon the floor and neared his boots. A reminder of the time that was ticking by as he looked about at the poor assemblage of owned property within. Clay pots and aged ceramics were of little use. Dried potatoes and uncooked vegetables weren't too appealing to his eye in turn. It was perhaps the more distant sound of one of the other men hollaring forth at another before the sound of hooves would perhaps erupt in the farther distance. Lightning struck quickly through the skies and the sound of a bow or twos tightly twined strings being released could barely be discerned then after. Whether they struck their mark or not was unknown as Corothius left the abode. His attentions instead sent to the next.
A few moments would pass before the door would finally be open. Perhaps the same that was used to escape by the man of the house moments prior. Heavy footfalls would quake upon the floorboards above the duo below as he entered and began to stride about the room. The richer scent of the drink afforded him a means to look further into thing. The sound of the hooded cloak being pulled from its hanging instrument caused a sudden thud as the same furniture slammed into the floor with lack of care for civility. A few sniffs were taken of the cloth as he drew in her scent. A depthed rumble escalating from within him that breathed into the air of the intoxicating lure of a woman that fetched his liking.
Further cries and roarings of laughter began to ebb into the night beyond the walls he began to find himself drying within as the other men pillaged and had their night of fun whilst the storm raged. Droplets of water began to splatter upon the floor below as he walked about. Warm and laced with sweat that might seep into the floorboards by mere chance. His booted falls would continue to pace the room as he began to search about. Knocking over one thing or another with the end of a blade.‡
Mara could feel the older woman quaking as she held her closer. It wasn't fear for herself, Mara knew, but fear for Faolan that made it so. The heavy footfalls of the intruder shook little quakes of dust and rainwater down through the wide cracks in the floor. Mara had never noticed just how wide the cracks were, and they seemed unbearably so now. She fancied if the Viking ever looked down, he might see her green eyes staring back up at him with an entirely deceptive calm she did not feel. He banged about
the house, and the girl was left to piece together his movements-- the furniture he overturned, the cloak taken down, the tankards upended. Rainwater dripped down to her forehead and against her cheek. And something darker, too. It was blood from his boots that made the old woman give a muffled sound of horror, though Mara quickly clamped her hand tighter over the matron's mouth. Blood dripped to Mara's highborn features, the haunting symmetry of her face. It lingered against her full red lips and wound its
way along her jawline towards her ear. She prayed to every god she could name that he hadn't heard the sound the old woman made. Then, too, there was the matter of her perfume, the exotic scent that followed Mara wherever she went. He had smelled it on the cloak; the crawlspace was filled with it now, reminiscent of a world far away from the blood and terror of it all. Mara forced herself to breathe deep and even, muffling the old woman's horror with ruthless precision. If they meant to get out of this
alive, she thought, she had to keep Tamred's mother alive long enough to see his next shorefall.::
‡Such a scent was one only becoming of a woman. One rich and worthy to be kept alive. Perhaps for ransom. Perhaps for other purposes that wove a hunger within him ever stronger as her perfume was not only remnant upon the cloak he had hefted for a few moments earlier. Having doused himself in its wanton aroma, he had put it to the side to take with him before his leave. Knowing well it would be worth at least a few coins elsewhere. It was as he strode about, and the brief sound disrupted the otherwise peaceful silence within the hut that his attentions would descend to the floorboards below. It was then that he realized that the aroma still luring his senses with a wanton drive to find the woman who owned it was discernable to be not left in the air before him, but was still adrift and resonating from beneath his very feet.
It was then that his eyes would chance upon the white of at least one of her eyes. The stark green irises discerned as he concentrated and merely stared at with an unresponsive air of thought as he released a bountiful sigh. His voice would shatter the silence a moment later as it rumbled forth from a throat In need of having his thirst quenched by more than just the rain.
“...Come out and you may live longer than if my axe is needed to dig through the floor..”
Such was said with that thick accent of a viking warrior. One not asking at all in a polite manner. But commanding and demanding in the same decisive tone that was enlaiden with strength and anger that there was such a woman here, hidden, and unable to be touched. As if there was suddenly a postponement to something that needed to become his, and his anger was not to be questioned, but responded to, quickly.‡
Mara breathed a curse into the small space above her. She had another decision to make, and this one was not quite so easy. Clearly she couldn't wait for him to start swinging his axe. And if someone had to emerge, it would have to be her. She was worth something to someone; Tamred's mother was quite dear to her, and to Faolan and Tamred of course, but there was nothing in this house or three others together worth as much as the torcs around Mara's slender wrists or the silk sash that fell low over her
hips, much less the woman herself. And so it was that Mara cursed again, then said in a voice that (to give her due credit) was far steadier than she was afraid it would be. "I'm coming out-- please don't kill me--" And the voice confirmed what the man must have already known. She was young, and had an air of the highborn in her accent. She pushed the crawlspace door to the side, and then emerged from her hiding spot. Her fine dress was stained with dirt and soot, and her face was streaked with blood from
his boots. But she kept rising, all the way to her feet. She didn't replace the door of the crawlspace. She thought it would make him suspicious about who else might be there. He was terrifyingly large, and right in front of her now, and she clutched the antlers tight in her hand, her only weapon. And that mostly psychological in nature. "Please don't kill me," she said again.::
‡Such an awaited moment. One that his eyes pursued as she revealed herself. A natural pique of an eyebrow took note of the crawlspace and the hidden door that his eye did not catch upon. His attention then derisively became concerend with her sash, and how it hung so upon her curves. Further looking her over with the appeal of a man sauntering upon a woman for those carnal purposes that were not necessary to mention. That hunger though remained hidden whilst his provocative prescense loomed before her. The matter of his size compared to her own determined and gving him an air of supremacy as his dual blades were for a brief moment hefted up and turned about at his sides between them as he regarded her antler.
Another moment and his sword was sent to bat away at the pointy structures in her grasp. Taping at it lightly a time or two before he'd guide it away from its protective place infront of her. Perhaps a quick witted smack would even become necessary to disarm her of it's use to send it clattering against furniture and wall alike before it'd distill upon the floorboards beyond. His eyes not bothering to pursue it. But remaining upon her with a vivid sense of honesty that he was to have of her.
“...one such as you would be a waste to kill...I will show you why...”
the sword was sent into the sheath at his back. The axe in turn was deftly sent to strike into a nearby chair where it would be allowed to lodge in place for the chance of needing to use it in later moments. Boots would then consume the distance between them in the blithe of mere seconds before he would lash out. The gruffness of his fist finding the slick material of her sash within its' capture. A pull was made with the derisive strength that surged and filled the entirety of his arm that tightened and clenched with ferocity that forced her towards him, and turned her about in a matter of a breath so that enfolding arms secreting a vivid extent of strength and dominance would claim his own prize about her waist, and upwards along her chest to matt the material of her dress against what was to be discovered beneath.‡
The antler was guided away from her body with the point of the sword, but the flat of the blade would be necessary to dislodge it from her grip. Not out of any keen desire on her part to keep it, but because the fear had quite petrified her to the point where her white-knuckled grip on the horn was absolute. She flinched when he knocked it out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and she couldn't move her eyes away from his form long enough to see where it fell. She was a rabbit eyeing a wolf. She thought
that the only thing keeping her alive was her ability not to provoke him to further violence. She flinched back as he tugged her sash. It tightened not about her waist but about the broad flare of her hips, pulling her towards him. Then he spun her and it tangled briefly around her small waist. She bit her lip to stifle a sound of terror, of disgust, of protest, as he caught her in strong arms that might as well have been iron shackles. But he hadn't killed her, and it didn't sound like he would. At least
for now. As long as she was alive, there was hope. His arms as they caught her pressed her dress to her form, falling in the valley beneath her breasts and above her abdomen. Her breasts were full; heavy flesh that was still too firm to have suffered children. Her dark hair was wound once in a braid about her head, then fell freely over her shoulders, so that it tangled with his arms. The man behind her seemed carved in stone; the woman in front of him was something wrought in softness, in feminine curves
and sweet flesh. She was not as tall as the women of his homeland, nor as broad or strong. But her flesh was every bit as voluptuous, in spite of her petite stature. Again she froze, determined not to fight him as long as it meant staying alive. "Two men will pay good gold for my release," she whispered hastily. "My father and my foster will pay a king's ransom for me."::
The rocky coast swept all the way down to the sea and Tan Tirnach perched atop the bluff like a gargoyle keeping watch from the fields to the sheep's run to the fishing boats and shacks that lined the harbor. The sea was blue and endless for miles, and from Mara's vantage point was an infinite haze that blurred the edge between water and sky. Today, though, that sky had turned hazy and the sea roiled with internal strife. A storm was coming, as they often came this time of year. It would be quick and gone,
but it would likely shake the rafters of Tan Tirnach. Mara had been a foster daughter in this Keep since her twelfth year. Now, entering her twentieth, she was still unaccustomed to the weather. She sighed and came inside from the balcony. The storm would interrupt the preparations. Something always interrupted the preparations. Her foster-sister was getting married come Samhain, which meant that she would return home. She had chosen to return to her father's holding rather than accompany her foster sister
to her new home in Rathcroghan. The young woman walked through the halls without seeing them. The dismal grey of the day made her listless. She pretended not to hear the first person calling for her. But when she heard her foster mother, she called back, "I'm riding to the village. Fionn has something for Maire's wedding." That had been her excuse all year for doing anything she wanted to do-- something for Maire's wedding. And it always worked, too. So the young lady made her way out to the stables, where
the stablehand saddled her roan stallion. He was all too helpful to get her into the saddle; it was an excuse to put his hands around her slim waist. A teasing joke was always made about the way her waist was so small and her hips broad. The teasing joke was always deflected with a sharp word softened by a smile. Today he tweaked the reins and watched her a moment longer than usual. "Be careful, Mara," he said. "Dont' get caught in the weather-- if it hits us, wait in the village till it passes." She nodded
and offered him a pretty smile for his trouble. Then she rode off towards the village, wearing a simple dress that didn't fit her form too closely; it was embroidered about the hem and the neckline with geometric shapes, and covered over with a fine cloak of linen. The cloak had a hood that covered her long dark hair, and left her green eyes in shadows. There was something dark about the girl, something darker than her strange ephemeral beauty. Maybe that was why she was keen to get home-- she had never fit
in here, never at all.::
‡ Amidst the storm a low wielding ship procastinated in reaching the shores taunting them upon the horizon for more than half of the evening that they had remained anchored and patient amidst their brothers in arms and kin amidst blood. At the head of the ship the head of a scaled wooden dragon brightened with the illuminating cast of lightning that streaked through the skies above with wicked revelations. Marred paint aglazed with a sheen of water that rivuleted along its carved structure. Behind it's towering height was the deck itself which was manned by only a good two dozen or more men who were becoming just as soaked, nor minded such in the least amidst their wordless silence. There was only the roughened huff of surging muscles in work as the anchors were being pulled free from the muddy bottom of the watery depths beneath them.
The skies had remained dark and foreboding of a storm for the later half of the day as they had arrived in the region. The village was a mark that was ripe for the takings, all the moreso made easier amidst the concealment of the storms threatening power that would conceal them, and the noise of the attack that was planned to be quick and lethal to ensure that they could return to the waters before aid from the keep further inland would arrive. It was to such a purpose that as the anchors lisped free from the waters, and the men thre began fastening it back into place at each side of the boat that oars would scrape against wooden portholes as they were dispersed into the waters. Heavy arms weighed with muscles and lacking in fatigue began to exert themselves in their plight to row themselves to land. Quick and light was the vessel upon the wavering waters. Able to be set adrift upon nearly any shore. Yet, the rocks were a known hindrance further beyond, and to be weary of even before they reached the shore itself.
At one the oars was a man barren of his furred cloak. Bronzened flesh allowing him to be as dark as the waters beyond the ships rail mere feet off to the side of the bench he was working upon with another who shared the sturdy length of an oar within their fists. Their weapons and equipment were within reach, Their loot and depleted food sources were further behind them amidst barrels in need of restocking. Lengths of dark thick strands were soaked to his neck. Banded strips of cut leather woven amidst such locks bit lightly into his flesh as they rested against the turgid strength of muscles that rippled and smeared amongst one another beneath flesh as he worked. Leathers were soaked further below where they clung upon his loins and further along his thighs which were bare and receiving a rinse from the rain of the dried sweat that had been upon him for the past few days that had been shy of storm or a local to bathe in.‡
The blacksmith Fionn was indeed waiting in the little coastal village called Knock-a-Brea. But he didn't have anything for Maire's wedding. He was accustomed to Mara's visits, as she had struck up an unlikely conversation and then an even more unlikely friendship with the blacksmith's wife, Devora. He didn't know what the ladies talked about in the little house, but it might as well have been a million miles away from the village for all their secret society. When Mara at length left the house, with a kiss
on the cheek for the old blacksmith, it was already beginning to drizzle. The blacksmith pointed to the sky with his hammer, his face on one side a maze of scars where an eye used to be. "This is not a day to be stirrin' about in, lass," he said in his grave, calm voice. "Why don't you have a stay till it passes?" Mara hesitated. She thought she could make it back to the Keep before the storm broke. But she did have one more stop. "I have to stop over at Tamred's," she said. "If the weather turns by the
time I get back, I'll stay here till it passes." Fionn seemed mollified by that promise, and saw the young lady off with a wave of his hammer before the steel started to sing again. She made her way through the village streets, little more than a few thatched roofs around a common granary, corral, and fishery. The scent of the day's catch was heavy in the air down towards the docks, and Mara crinkled her nose in distaste. The occasional scent of salt was a welcome respite from the stench. She came to
Tamred's house and knocked on the door. "My brother isn't home," said a man's voice before he even opened the door. "Oh, it's you, Mara-- what are you doing out on a day like today? Tam's not home, but you better stay a while--" The rain was falling now, and the lightning breaking in the distance. She could hear the crash of waves against the rocky shore. There were watchmen posted, of course, because there was an old saying that a grey sea and sky was a dangerous thing for the Vikings to hide in. But that
was the trouble....it was hard to see through the fog, especially once the wind and the rain kicked up. And so Mara was chatting idly by the fire with Tamred's brother and his mother, the young man in question nowhere to be found. She heard the wind and rain lashing the little cottage, but didn't worry too much about it. These storms always passed, after all.::
‡ It was such a fog that silhouetted their progression towards the rocky shores unseen. As if a ghost of a god was overwatching them, and cradling their ships entirety as it bled inland deeper and fuller as it ate away at the rocks and all that led towards the village further beyond. Lightning continued to streak with piteous reason as it cast it's reflection upon the village itself. Even setting ablaze a distant tree that erupted in bark and splinters perhaps within earshot of the cottage that a particular green-eyed lass was seated within most comfortably. An eruption of light from the casting flames began eating away at the gall of the tree that would no doubt continue throughout the night unless the rain doused it first.
The ship ceased its approach as the rocks were heard causing the ruckus of splashing and the thrashing of waves against their bulk over the surge of the storm around them. Anchors were again cast quickly from the sides of the ship to keep it in place and from smashing against them. Men in turn were pulling in their oars with the crescendo of wood scraping weighingly against wood. Arms were taken up and secured upon their persons in all the personal implications that they had learned in their years since youth. One of them in turn was Corothius. His lumbering form of prideful muscles wore shimmeing rivulets of water upon his upper torso. Leather sheathed blades were strapped onto his back whilst buckles were tightened against his near adamantium wall of a chest where the thickness of muscles cushioned the tightness the strap was pulled to make.
Boots thundered along with the intrepidation of the storm high above as the boards beneath briefly echoed his movement against the waters the vessel floated upon further below. A splash soundly erupted as his body collided with the threatening waters beyond. They would become fish in moments following, or so it could seem. Their bodies adept swimmers that sought the rocky crags just beyond to crawl upon. Seizing hands fiercely contacted the broad spectrum of a boulder that jutted before him as lightning again erupted and illuminated their surroundings in what seemed the nick of time to reveal the threat. Palms fiercely fought the current as he awrily pulled himself up along the rugged surface where moss had already been thrashed away from prior waves. Sinuous muscles lithed and streaked with rain began to ascend the cliffside easily enough with due practice and the ease of strength.
Bodies would begin to be silently left behind as throats were slit and pools of blood would be washed away to join the ocean floors below before warning cries could be spared.‡
The lightning crash interrupted Mara's cheerful conversation. Both the older matron by the fire and the young lady jumped, and Tamred's brother had some fun at the expense of them both. "You make a fine jest," Mara shot back, pointing her finger at him like she was hexing him. "But you jumped, too." Laughter replaced the nervous tension, and all inside the close and warm cottage were quite unaware that a different storm was breaking against the shore. "I wish Tamred were here," Mara said after a moment,
pacing nervously to the window. Her hooded cloak was hanging neatly from a peg near the door. She touched the tip of an antler hanging near the window, and then the wooden haft of a well-used axe. "He shouldn't be out in this weather." The matron clucked her tongue and motioned for her younger son to put another copper kettle on. "He's a fisherman, dear," the matron said. "They're out in all types of weather." Then she joined the younger woman at the window and guided her back to a seat nearer the
fire. "Storm like this, he'll ride it out-- his da always rides it out farther offshore. They'll be back tomorrow, I wager-- And you won't be leaving till morning, that's a certainty, not in this weather. You're apt to fall and break your neck." Mara had to agree, and the matron brought out a dark bottle filled with a home brew that made Mara's belly burn. Everyone in the keep knew where she was. She spent more time in the village lately than in the Keep. It wasn't just Tamred, though there were rumors the
two were courting in spite of the vast gulf of station between them that suggested the contrary. No, she just felt more comfortable here. And no one in the Keep or Village was so high or mighty they didn't recognize their kinsman on either side. "Alright, Sian," she finally said. "I'll stay the night." And the lightning crashed again so loud that the ladies laughed and the young man had another joke at their expense before stirring up the fire again.::
‡Many of the vikings were upon land easily enough with practiced ease. Like a haze of monstrous beings that arose from the rockface that was nearly impossible for most anyone to traverse. Such an angle was used against those guarding the village, a path that was most unlikely to be put to use. The docks for example would have been the easiest to take out. And was in turn the judged most defended part of the village. Thus they began their raid. Sentries were sought by the faster of their lot to take them out before warnings could be made. Others were thriving for the huts themselves. Axes drove through doors with a frenzy of crazed ferocity that alerted occupants inside that would be soon enough silenced as bloodletting would begin. Loot to be gathered as well as occupants in turn being put to use, or at least the few young enough to be discerned as fit to participate in such lewd matters. Perhaps cries and shouts would begin, even if they were shortlived.
Others made their way for the docks, to clear it of guards and sack it for wealth and food to be gathered and prepared. A few remaining boats on the dock becoming theirs to transport their growing loot to their ship beyond. It though, was just a village, and there would not be a great deal of such. Nor would a great deal of time be spent searching for the same. The keep was an everpresent warning against such further inland.
Corothius approached a particular cottage that was cast upon by the dancing flames of a nearby tree. The hefted weight of an axe was wielded within one of his palms. A curved sword shimmered briefly in the thrall of a lightning strike off in the distance as a door opened at a home he was passing by. An edge of a blade was lethal as its' weight was whipped forth into an arce to snag into flesh before bone would crunch and the weight of a body would slow it's further progress onwards. He was left having to pry the newly acquired corpse free with the pommel of his battering sword as a scream further within met his ears. The door was rushed open with the heel of a leathered boot. Revealing the wife of the recently killed further within. The swivel of an axe sent through the air made a true coarse as it stung into flesh and silenced the screams that were shortly lived, yet streaked heavily with fear and the loss of a long time loved one. Eyes of a feral amber depth were sent leaping about the room as he entered it to retrieve his weapon. Seeking prizes to snatch up or return for in those dire moments that were taken to clear the village.‡
t must have seemed like hours to those caught up in the first wave of the raid, but it wasn't long before the occupants of the thatched cottage became aware of sounds that were not thunder and were not lightning. Screams were short lived but they traveled even through the fog; the crunching of wooden doors and the sickening crush of metal against bone would travel, too, though not as far. Mara jumped to her feet almost in time with the young man in the house. Panic and chaos reigned in the village now,
and some of it infected the occupants of this house. Mara felt a strange calm descending in the midst of the chaos. "Faolan?" she asked. The young man stood with the worn axe in his hand. "Faolan!" Mara snapped, tugging sharply at his sleeve. "You have a crawlspace?" To run outside was death; there was no question. To hide seemed unnatural when the instinct was to flee, but it might keep them alive. "Hurry!" She grabbed the sharp antlers off the wall; the youth was urging his mother into the crawlspace,
little more than a cool place between the dirt and the kitchen floor used to keep vegetables fresh as long as possible. There wasn't room enough for all of them. Faolan was a man, and therefore there was no question who would go in. He helped Mara in after the matron-- "Mara, Mara what if they set the house on fire?" he asked. Mara didn't know what to say. She just knew they were wasting time. "Go," she whispered fiercely. "Take Fionn's field-- my horse is there-- hurry, Faolan, go--" The intention of
course was to have both women hidden and the lad out the back door before the Vikings came crashing through. Even so, a cheerful fire was burning. A rich cloak was hanging by the door. Several cups of tea and a more bitter brew were strewn about the fire. And anyway, who knew if Faolan could leave the house and be gone before the Viking crushed his way inside? Mara didn't know; maybe her gods didn't know. She covered the older woman's mouth and whispered close to her ear. "Not a sound, no matter what you
hear."::
‡ Corothius was still looming within the the neighboring threshold as matters were perceived in the active abode nearby. His bloodied axe was yanked from the softer flesh of the woman before him, too aged to regret killing, yet the fresh scent of spilling blood matted upon the floor and neared his boots. A reminder of the time that was ticking by as he looked about at the poor assemblage of owned property within. Clay pots and aged ceramics were of little use. Dried potatoes and uncooked vegetables weren't too appealing to his eye in turn. It was perhaps the more distant sound of one of the other men hollaring forth at another before the sound of hooves would perhaps erupt in the farther distance. Lightning struck quickly through the skies and the sound of a bow or twos tightly twined strings being released could barely be discerned then after. Whether they struck their mark or not was unknown as Corothius left the abode. His attentions instead sent to the next.
A few moments would pass before the door would finally be open. Perhaps the same that was used to escape by the man of the house moments prior. Heavy footfalls would quake upon the floorboards above the duo below as he entered and began to stride about the room. The richer scent of the drink afforded him a means to look further into thing. The sound of the hooded cloak being pulled from its hanging instrument caused a sudden thud as the same furniture slammed into the floor with lack of care for civility. A few sniffs were taken of the cloth as he drew in her scent. A depthed rumble escalating from within him that breathed into the air of the intoxicating lure of a woman that fetched his liking.
Further cries and roarings of laughter began to ebb into the night beyond the walls he began to find himself drying within as the other men pillaged and had their night of fun whilst the storm raged. Droplets of water began to splatter upon the floor below as he walked about. Warm and laced with sweat that might seep into the floorboards by mere chance. His booted falls would continue to pace the room as he began to search about. Knocking over one thing or another with the end of a blade.‡
Mara could feel the older woman quaking as she held her closer. It wasn't fear for herself, Mara knew, but fear for Faolan that made it so. The heavy footfalls of the intruder shook little quakes of dust and rainwater down through the wide cracks in the floor. Mara had never noticed just how wide the cracks were, and they seemed unbearably so now. She fancied if the Viking ever looked down, he might see her green eyes staring back up at him with an entirely deceptive calm she did not feel. He banged about
the house, and the girl was left to piece together his movements-- the furniture he overturned, the cloak taken down, the tankards upended. Rainwater dripped down to her forehead and against her cheek. And something darker, too. It was blood from his boots that made the old woman give a muffled sound of horror, though Mara quickly clamped her hand tighter over the matron's mouth. Blood dripped to Mara's highborn features, the haunting symmetry of her face. It lingered against her full red lips and wound its
way along her jawline towards her ear. She prayed to every god she could name that he hadn't heard the sound the old woman made. Then, too, there was the matter of her perfume, the exotic scent that followed Mara wherever she went. He had smelled it on the cloak; the crawlspace was filled with it now, reminiscent of a world far away from the blood and terror of it all. Mara forced herself to breathe deep and even, muffling the old woman's horror with ruthless precision. If they meant to get out of this
alive, she thought, she had to keep Tamred's mother alive long enough to see his next shorefall.::
‡Such a scent was one only becoming of a woman. One rich and worthy to be kept alive. Perhaps for ransom. Perhaps for other purposes that wove a hunger within him ever stronger as her perfume was not only remnant upon the cloak he had hefted for a few moments earlier. Having doused himself in its wanton aroma, he had put it to the side to take with him before his leave. Knowing well it would be worth at least a few coins elsewhere. It was as he strode about, and the brief sound disrupted the otherwise peaceful silence within the hut that his attentions would descend to the floorboards below. It was then that he realized that the aroma still luring his senses with a wanton drive to find the woman who owned it was discernable to be not left in the air before him, but was still adrift and resonating from beneath his very feet.
It was then that his eyes would chance upon the white of at least one of her eyes. The stark green irises discerned as he concentrated and merely stared at with an unresponsive air of thought as he released a bountiful sigh. His voice would shatter the silence a moment later as it rumbled forth from a throat In need of having his thirst quenched by more than just the rain.
“...Come out and you may live longer than if my axe is needed to dig through the floor..”
Such was said with that thick accent of a viking warrior. One not asking at all in a polite manner. But commanding and demanding in the same decisive tone that was enlaiden with strength and anger that there was such a woman here, hidden, and unable to be touched. As if there was suddenly a postponement to something that needed to become his, and his anger was not to be questioned, but responded to, quickly.‡
Mara breathed a curse into the small space above her. She had another decision to make, and this one was not quite so easy. Clearly she couldn't wait for him to start swinging his axe. And if someone had to emerge, it would have to be her. She was worth something to someone; Tamred's mother was quite dear to her, and to Faolan and Tamred of course, but there was nothing in this house or three others together worth as much as the torcs around Mara's slender wrists or the silk sash that fell low over her
hips, much less the woman herself. And so it was that Mara cursed again, then said in a voice that (to give her due credit) was far steadier than she was afraid it would be. "I'm coming out-- please don't kill me--" And the voice confirmed what the man must have already known. She was young, and had an air of the highborn in her accent. She pushed the crawlspace door to the side, and then emerged from her hiding spot. Her fine dress was stained with dirt and soot, and her face was streaked with blood from
his boots. But she kept rising, all the way to her feet. She didn't replace the door of the crawlspace. She thought it would make him suspicious about who else might be there. He was terrifyingly large, and right in front of her now, and she clutched the antlers tight in her hand, her only weapon. And that mostly psychological in nature. "Please don't kill me," she said again.::
‡Such an awaited moment. One that his eyes pursued as she revealed herself. A natural pique of an eyebrow took note of the crawlspace and the hidden door that his eye did not catch upon. His attention then derisively became concerend with her sash, and how it hung so upon her curves. Further looking her over with the appeal of a man sauntering upon a woman for those carnal purposes that were not necessary to mention. That hunger though remained hidden whilst his provocative prescense loomed before her. The matter of his size compared to her own determined and gving him an air of supremacy as his dual blades were for a brief moment hefted up and turned about at his sides between them as he regarded her antler.
Another moment and his sword was sent to bat away at the pointy structures in her grasp. Taping at it lightly a time or two before he'd guide it away from its protective place infront of her. Perhaps a quick witted smack would even become necessary to disarm her of it's use to send it clattering against furniture and wall alike before it'd distill upon the floorboards beyond. His eyes not bothering to pursue it. But remaining upon her with a vivid sense of honesty that he was to have of her.
“...one such as you would be a waste to kill...I will show you why...”
the sword was sent into the sheath at his back. The axe in turn was deftly sent to strike into a nearby chair where it would be allowed to lodge in place for the chance of needing to use it in later moments. Boots would then consume the distance between them in the blithe of mere seconds before he would lash out. The gruffness of his fist finding the slick material of her sash within its' capture. A pull was made with the derisive strength that surged and filled the entirety of his arm that tightened and clenched with ferocity that forced her towards him, and turned her about in a matter of a breath so that enfolding arms secreting a vivid extent of strength and dominance would claim his own prize about her waist, and upwards along her chest to matt the material of her dress against what was to be discovered beneath.‡
The antler was guided away from her body with the point of the sword, but the flat of the blade would be necessary to dislodge it from her grip. Not out of any keen desire on her part to keep it, but because the fear had quite petrified her to the point where her white-knuckled grip on the horn was absolute. She flinched when he knocked it out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and she couldn't move her eyes away from his form long enough to see where it fell. She was a rabbit eyeing a wolf. She thought
that the only thing keeping her alive was her ability not to provoke him to further violence. She flinched back as he tugged her sash. It tightened not about her waist but about the broad flare of her hips, pulling her towards him. Then he spun her and it tangled briefly around her small waist. She bit her lip to stifle a sound of terror, of disgust, of protest, as he caught her in strong arms that might as well have been iron shackles. But he hadn't killed her, and it didn't sound like he would. At least
for now. As long as she was alive, there was hope. His arms as they caught her pressed her dress to her form, falling in the valley beneath her breasts and above her abdomen. Her breasts were full; heavy flesh that was still too firm to have suffered children. Her dark hair was wound once in a braid about her head, then fell freely over her shoulders, so that it tangled with his arms. The man behind her seemed carved in stone; the woman in front of him was something wrought in softness, in feminine curves
and sweet flesh. She was not as tall as the women of his homeland, nor as broad or strong. But her flesh was every bit as voluptuous, in spite of her petite stature. Again she froze, determined not to fight him as long as it meant staying alive. "Two men will pay good gold for my release," she whispered hastily. "My father and my foster will pay a king's ransom for me."::
