[Logs] Raids

The wedding ceremony was lovely, everything had been so simple and elegant, as was the English way. Spring flowers of white, pink, yellow, and purple were arranged around an arch by the river. The bride had never been so beautiful, nor half as excited. Ecgwynn had been fortunate to catch the eye of Wynstan. He was a kind and generous man with lands and a prospective title, she would be well cared for. Truth be told, it was nothing particularly exciting, but Ecgwynn’s disposition had not been crafted by the Lord with excitement anywhere in mind. She was a perfectly dull girl with a perfectly dull wedding, but it gave Étaín the opportunity to escape the land of eternal wind and winter. Despite being native to Alba, she had never been inclined towards the biting cold that lingered inescapably over the land day and night for two thirds of the year. At least in Northumbria, the land of her mother’s kin, there was some respite during the day before that wicked wind rolled in from the North of Hadrian’s Wall. 

Still, despite how uneventful the ceremony had been, the night that followed it was slightly more of a hard left than she would have ever asked for. Then again, the poor unsuspecting Dane that burst through her window in the dead of night had probably had a worse time of it than she did, courtesy of a candelabra and a mean right hook, not to mention the Tasmanian Devil that was her cousin and bedmate. They’d beaten him more than halfway to death by the time his friends showed up and pulled them off him. Next thing they both knew everything went dark again. 

It all seemed like a fever dream until she moved to roll her aching shoulder and found that her hands were bound behind her back, not only that but she was sitting somewhat upright on the cold ground in a dimly lit tent. Her body shivered from the cold, clad only in her linen nightgown and thick woolen socks. Such attire was only helpful for warding off the cold when placed beneath layers of thick furs and silken sheets. The pounding in her chest was immediate and nearly took her over before she forcibly stilled her breathing and took the time to assess the surrounding area. Judging by the lighting in and around the tent, which was little but present, it was nearing dawn. Moving her hands, she discovered they were interlaced with those of another and tied to a pole wedged into the ground. “Oh Genevieve, thank God!” she whispered to avoid drawing any unnecessary attention. 

From what she could tell they were alone inside this particular shelter—that was good. There wasn’t much cause for concern regarding her family, for after the ceremony she and Genevieve, along with their companions and guards, had rented cottages in a neighboring village. God be praised, her kinsmen had been spared a raid on their own village, she and Gen had not been so fortunate. Immediately she shimmied her shoulders and arms lower down the wooden stake, grabbing at its base to test the security of its placement in the ground. She had deduced by the lack of straw or furs on the floor that they were in a hastily assembled camp, and when she tested the beam, it wiggled ever so slightly. “Gen! Gen! Wake! We need to get out of here! Hurry, while the camp’s asleep. If we both press against this pole with our backs and push up, I think we can free it from the ground.” With what little grasp she could muster she pinched a piece of her cousin’s hand between her fingernails sharply.

A boring wedding in Northumbria with her darling cousin was leagues better than being at the castle of Scone with her step-mother and step-brother. The two of them had started lurking more and more, her step-mother pushing harder and harder to marry off the brown bastard daughter. Thankfully, her father was extremely picky and he had the counsel of her uncle. A blessing and a curse, Genevieve could have very well ended up a spinster if the two hulking men were left in charge of her love life.

Once the wedding had dwindled down to stragglers, Etain and Genevieve had returned to their quaint accommodations outside of the estate. Because of the length of her thick curls, it took her much more time to become ready for bed. By the time she had shifted her fingers to the bottom of her nearly floor length plait, Etain was already in their large bed, snuggled under a mound of thick blankets. The hearth crackled quietly and there was a soothing chatter coming from the cottage; guards and workers no doubt.

It felt as though, her head had only just touched the pillow when ruckus jolted her upright. A large stranger had broken into their room by way of the window, an axe in each hand. However the weapons had served him on a battlefield before, they failed in the presence of two small women with no desire to be captured. His blood arched over her shoulder, staining her nightdress just as the fellow members of his raiding party burst through the door. Both women were prepared to continue fighting but were overwhelmed leaving them both in the dark silence of blunt force trauma to the head.

The next thing she knew, Genevieve was squinting into a half lit room and there was a pounding in her head and the taste of blood in her mouth. A shuddered ran through her from chilly breeze sweeping in under the tent. Neither woman was dressed for this chilly, quickly thrown together tent but the chill served to clear her mind of the painful fog that lingered there. Still her head hung, petite body slumped over against the pole. Even as Etain called out to her, the woman could barely gather a groan to let her cousin know she still lived. It had been a very long time since she was last konked on the head, training or otherwise. Slowly her head lolled to the side, stretching her swan-like neck only to find a new ache. Etain shout-whispered orders, and Gen's put her strength into straightening against the pole and turned her hands down to grip the base as well only to be rewarded with a sharp pinch to her palm. Hissing like a cat, her hands turned over and smacked that of her cousin. "Save your talons for our enemy! On three."

There was a moment's pause as Genevieve blinked against the pain in her head, squared her shoulders and gathered her legs under her so they could stand. There would have been just enough time for the other woman to do the same. Then she began a slow count. Both women jolted upright, the thick stake teetering between them. They were free --- well of the ground. It would be just their bad luck that at that moment a man ducked into the tent. The women needed only to share a look before they charged him, piercing his broad half naked chest with the dirt end of the stake they had been bound too. Taking him down to the ground, Genevieve pressed her woolen sock against his mouth to keep his screams from alerting anyone else. When the light had gone from his eyes, she lifted her foot, in a feat of graceful flexibility and pulled the blood and dirt covered sock from her foot with her teeth. With her toes free, she was able to pull the dagger from his hip and reach it back to their hands. Etain would have to take the blade to free them, but she could trust the woman to do so.

One, two, heave! The stake was free and they were both standing upon the cold dirt. There was but a moment's relief before they were joined in the enclosure by one of their captors, and fight won out over flight. These men were dealing with the descendants of Boudicca not some Northumbrian peasant whore. Before the man could sound the alarm, he was dead on the floor, impaled by the very means he'd used to imprison them. Quickly, Etain took the knife from Genevieve's toes and began to saw at the bindings about their hands, careful not to cut too deeply. Snap! The rope fell from her own hands, and she finished removing the other end from her cousin's wrists. 

Patting along the dead man's sides, she collected another blade and passed it, "Here, take this." Time was of the essence, hopefully this one was simply charged with guarding the captives and was not a sign that the others too were rousing from slumber. Centuries were to be expected, but it was far more preferable to deal with one or two alert men than a camp full.  Moving to the entrance of the tent she pulled back the flap to peer out, it was clear. The only sounds were those of the forest and the tears of another woman she assumed had not been so fortunate as to be tied up and saved for later. 

It hadn't particularly phased her to watch the man die by their hands, for it wasn't the first time she'd seen a man die. Her father was the king of Alba, and a brute to match. Executions were a routine event at Scone Palace; however, she knew it was only a matter of time before the rush of adrenaline wore off and they both came to the realization of what they'd done. She'd watched her brothers empty their stomachs following their first kill once they'd come down from the high, so moving quickly to have that breakdown in a more secure location seemed the safest bet. 

Assuming a crouched position she slipped out of the tent and waved a hand to signal for her companion to follow. The initial slap of the cold night wind on her face nearly stole her breath away, but she had braced for it. It was warmer still than that of Alba, and at least there was no crunching snow to contend with. Knowing it was a risk, she lifted her head to peer over the tents and assess the best route. They were in a small clearing just off the river but nowhere near the town where their cottage had been. Crossing the water was a death sentence, but going the opposite direction meant passing through the camp's entirety. The positioning of their prison had been intentional. It was the only way. 

Tiptoeing and avoiding squishy mud that might produce an audible sound, the pair traced their way through the encampment, keeping their heads low. There was a fire in the center, which they avoided like plague to keep from casting shadows, no matter how much they craved its warmth. Etain gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering and her skin was pricked with gooseflesh. At long last they near the camp's edge, but as she'd predicted there were two men standing watch. 

Etain pulled readied the dagger she'd been given and nodded for Gen to do the same, they'd have to take one each. The thought of it made her tremble, but she forced those feelings aside and shot up behind the one on the left, cupping a hand over his mouth and dragging the knife deeply across his throat, just like she'd been taught by her brothers. She continued to hold his mouth shut and lowered him to the ground as he clawed at his neck and eventually gave up the ghost. The man's blood stained her torso as his comrade fell gulping beside him. 

Reaching around, she unpinned the man's cloak and threw it over her own shoulders, drawing the dark hood over her copper hair and pulling the furs tightly about her breasts for warmth. Checking to be sure Gen was well enough, good would be a stretch, she shot off through the forest as quickly and quietly as she could manage. Blood pounded in her ears like the steady beat of a drum, hoping to get just far enough away that they could take a moment to collect themselves before surmising a real plan. Escape was enough for now. They didn't have much longer. Someone would notice soon.

Eyvaldr could never sleep the night after a successful raid. Unlike his brothers and sisters who would sleep well with smiles on their faces in congratulations, the adrenaline continued to thrum through his veins for far longer, well into the night. It was a running joke amongst the others that he didn't sleep so that he could avoid the nightmares, soft pretty boy that he was. But that wasn't true. He had gotten over the nightmares long ago. This was something else entirely, something that he couldn't name. The warrior had stopped trying to years ago.

Regardless, seeing as he had a lot of free time on the nights after raids, he developed something of a ritual. Instead of uselessly trying at sleep that would never come, he would instead explore. He would take a piece of parchment and some coal and he would explore the area immediately around wherever they had chosen to settle camp. He would make notes of unknown flora and fauna, any natural or manmade landmarks that caught his eye, or any intriguing star arrangements that lit up the night sky, to name a few. Just anything new or interesting enough to catch his interest. Sometimes he would find little. Sometimes he would have to head back to the camp to retrieve more parchment because he would found so much.

On this night, after such a bountiful raid, the luck didn't seem to persevere. He was in the forest close to the camp, and it was a night sparse of many interesting sightings or findings. He had to admit, he was a bit disappointed. His policy was, if he didn't find too many things in the first two hours of exploration, then he would head back to camp. It was reaching about that time, and he didn't want to head back to camp. He didn't want to have to wrestle restfulness. It was boring and, not to mention, a losing game. It would always escape him. Regardless, he wasn't one to buck personal policy. With a sigh, he turned and began to pick his way through the forest back to the camp.

As he walked, his mind turned to the two women that had made their raid so bountiful. They were certainly fiery, if the welcome they had extended to poor Halldor was any indication. The man had been beaten more than half to death before Snorri and some of the others had arrived and gotten the two firebrands under control. Still, Eyvaldr had to respect it. They didn't go easy, and there was strength in that, strength that was commendable. He just wished that they wouldn't be too much trouble to contain. It seemed it was more likely than note that they were going to be a headache. He wasn't looking forward to that admittedly. Though, if he were to be honest, the pair had far more reasons to be angry, considering the whole kidnapping business. Hopefully the ransom would go through and everything would go smoothly.

Just as he had the thought, he was jolted out of it by the sound of someone or multiple someones hastily making they way through the forest. Without pausing to think, Eyvaldr smoothly slid to the side, concealing himself behind a particularly thick trunk of a tree. The sound was heading in his direction, and he needed to take stock before deciding on anything. Sliding to the other side of the trunk, he peeked around in the direction of the noise, and the source, or should he say sources, made him want to curse. The two noblewomen had gotten loose, and from their attire and weaponry, had most likely killed some of his kin to do so. The thought put a bitter taste in his mouth and made his chest heat up with anger, but he pushed that to the side for now. He had to recapture the pair.

It sounded like they were nearing his position, so without a thought, he drew both of his blades, each about 90 centimeters in length. That, combined with his considerable height, would give him superior reach if this came down to a fight, which he was really hoping to avoid. It would be better for the ransom if both of them were unharmed. With that thought in mind, he stepped out from his position behind the tree, revealing himself to the two hurrying women, his blades held downward in a sign of peace.

Before either could speak, he beat them to the punch, blades still lowered. "I do not wish to hurt either of you." His voice was low in both pitch and volume, but it still sounded throughout the quiet of the forest quite well. "But I need the both of you to return to camp, preferably without me having to carry you kicking and screaming." He could do it. He was sure that he was strong enough. It would just be a hassle. With a blade, he motioned to their cloaks and blades. "I assume you caught those men unaware to obtain your supplies." He shook his head. "If you're thinking of trying to take me, be assured, I am not unaware. This fight will end very differently. So to save us all the hassle, please drop the blades." A second's pause, and then, "You can keep the cloaks, if that sweetens the deal any." He kept steady brown eyes on the both of them, awaiting their next move.

Genevieve had never slit a man's throat before. She had never taken a life. Well, aside from the brute who had jumped into their window and to be fair, he was still shallowly breathing when the others came in. Stubborn bastard. She, however, dreamed and daydreamed of slitting a man's throat, a very specific man, many times over. Her vigor for violence was derived from that longing and was serving her well, or so she thought. After all, she had not hesitated to do what needed to be done when Etain signaled to take the spare dagger, or dispatch the two brute loitering around their only logical escape. Of course, the shorter of the two would be designated to the taller of the two men. It would be hard to imagine either of the men being welcomed to their treasured Valhalla having been murdered by foreign women, but it would have been even more of a slight that the man in Genevieve's arms had caused the small woman to rise to her toes to complete the task.

Under the her small, soft hand, the man had sputtered blood, thick rivers of it had run down his chest and coated the other hand as she lay him gently to the chilled earth. Though she hadn't looked toward Etain until she had stood upright again, Genevieve too, uncliped his large, heavy cloak and threw it about her slim shoulders. The thick wool and fur nearly swallowed her up, the excess dragging along behind her as they hurried through the woods toward freedom. It looked as though they would have made it had it not been for one pesky Viking who stepped into their path. There was no time to do anything else but steel herself for the next confrontation. The moment the large man who shared a similar hue to herself, Genevieve flipped the dagger in her hand so the blade ran along her forearm, widened her stance and pushed Etain behind her smaller frame. The woman behind her was just as much of a fighter, but they were so close to freedom that at this point, Genevieve had made the silent and quick decision that if at least one of them could escape it would be the princess and not the brown bastard.

Glancing at Etain, the two women shared another knowing look, as the Viking attempted to become less threatening while he spoke. Nice try, pal, but no way in anyone's hell were these two women going back to Viking camp without a fight. He might not have wanted to hurt them but they were determined to carve through him if it meant freedom. Aware, unaware, they were too close to give up now. Genevieve pulled her arm in front of her blood stained body, blade facing him and squared her small shoulders under the heavy cloak both righting herself and adjusting for the heaviness of the cloak. Her pink tongue whipped across her cracked lower lip and his question to their surrender was answered by blood stained spit striking the dirt before his feet. Just as the spit struck the ground, the women would have lunged at him. Genevieve took the low road, moving to get inside of his reach and slam her padded shoulder into his hip and hook her arm around his leg to swipe the blade across the tendons along the back of his knee.

Together they had hastened through the woods on swift strides, trying to stick close to the river for guidance and to avoid being caught by anything worse than their former jailors on the main road. Unfortunately, they only managed to make it less than a half-mile from the camp before they chanced upon the tallest man Etain had ever lain eyes upon. Her heart sank to the bottom of her abdomen as he spoke and identified himself as one of the very Vikings from which they had only just escaped. Lady Fate had apparently decided that it was their destiny to remain with these marauders, but neither woman was particularly keen on bending to that ruling just yet. 

Before she could truly gauge their enemy and their surroundings to determine the best course of action, Genevieve was on him like white on rice...or brown? No matter. There would be no negotiations today, not that it was something the Scots were known for. The Roman Emperor Hadrian himself could not be bothered to deal with the ravenous North of Britain, and so he constructed his famous wall across the North of England separating the two lands. The reaction of the two women's fathers to the news of the abduction would likely be the same. A hoard of howling savages was likely en-route now. 

"Aim for the soft spots. Hit 'im in the mommy maker and git outto there. Don't play hero," famous words of her older brother Kenneth, with whom she was closest. While her training had never been so extensive as what the boys were subjected to, her trio of older brutish brothers had seen to it that their baby sister was at least semi-aware of how to defend herself if push ever came to shove. They might have left out the part of how to charge an armed opponent who was nearly a foot taller, but now wasn't the time to dwell on it. Following Genevieve's hot pursuit of the man's legs, Etain charged like a brahma bull for Goliath's testicles, fists poised for repeated impact. Once they had him down, she could worry about prying off Gen long enough to make a run for it. 

Why the fuck hadn't they just searched for a bow? She could have shot him in the head well enough and never had to approach his big ass. When life gives you lemons, squeeze that shit and make lemonade, I guess.

As soon as he saw the two women exchange that knowing look, he knew that he was fucked. He didn't know why he expected anything different. They were fiery rebellious when they nearly beat Halldor to death, why would they listen to reason now? Still, he held out some semblance of hope. And then that hope was promptly obliterated as he watched the shorter, darker woman shift her stance, squaring her shoulders and widening her base. That was a combat pose if he ever saw one. So he guessed they were going to do this the difficult way then. He was in the middle of sighing in resignation at this realization when her blood tinged spit soared through the air to land at his feet, telling him exactly what the pair thought of his offer. Eyvaldr didn't watch it. One of the first things he was ever taught, never take your eye off your opponent. Good thing too, for not even a second after the spit landed, she was charging, her companion not too far behind her.

Eyvaldr kept his head and watched her quick approach with keen eyes. As soon as she went low, her shoulder leading the charge, the Viking leaned and stepped to the side in a smooth, quick motion that belied his size, allowing her to sail past him. Before she was too far, however, he would strike out with the pommel of his blade aimed at the space between her shoulders. He was looking to knock her off balance and onto her front on the hard ground below rather than seriously hurt her.

Without pausing, he would turn his head to bring her friend into view once more, who was close and from the path of her eyes, looking to abuse a very sensitive spot with her raised fists. Eyvaldr allowed her even closer before stepping forward and jolting his leg upwards in a vicious knee aimed at her midriff with enough force to raise her off of her feet. He hoped that her momentum would make the impact that much more effective.

Horns were blowing. People were shouting. Haakon lifted his head from between the soft thighs of a willing thrall and sighed. Frustrated, he reached for the thrall to his right and used the woolen blanket she had wrapped herself in, in a fright, to wipe his mouth. "I fucking knew it. I knew the moment I saw that red hair and that brown girl this was gonna go to shit." He said, though it was more to himself than the blank, frightened stares of the three women who probably didn't speak his native tongue. Pushing onto his knees on a pallet of fur and wool, the Jarl scrubbed a hand across his hairy face and looked down at the wasted stiffness between his legs. 'Sorry pal.'

The three women huddled together, staring expectantly at him as he settled onto his haunches really debating whether or not to just let them run into the woods or go out and deal with this. Was it worth it? On one hand, he had already lost one man to the two women. On the other hand, he had already lost one man to the two women. Halldor had died on the stretch back to camp, his face nearly caved in. Facts though, it was probably better that way. Valhalla didn't discriminate on how you died in battle, but gossipy motherfuckers did. Getting your ass handed to you by what Viking perceived as prissy little bitches was not a good look. After uncomfortably stuffing a hard cock into a pair of pants and going out to see what the ruckus was about (although he had a fair idea what it was about), Haakon would come to find that three more of his men would be lying about how they got to the gates. Can't you just see it? Four over six-foot men that had seen battle after battle on foreign land hastily trying to get their stories straight and exaggerating the caliber of their opponents in the eyes of Thor?

Tsk. Tsk.

The Jarl shook is his disheveled head and couldn't help his smile.

A few tents before the mouth of the encampment, Haakon kicked a stool out from under one of his men. Snorri, aptly named, was sitting up against the side of a pole, arms folded, head lulled, snoring loud above the commotion. Bitch. Who sleeps through chaos? This moron. The bulky blond man jolted awake when his useless ass hit cold ground.

"Busy?" Haakon asked, knowing the answer.

Snorri blinked rapidly then hustled to his feet. "I just fell asleep, I swear!"

Uh-huh. The master of the camp pointed to the two dead men laying at the mouth of the camp, throats slit. "Right, right."

Snorri sucked in a breath, eyes wide, darting from Haakon to his fallen comrades and back again.

Shaking his head, Haakon waved Snorri along behind him and headed for the escape route. Arms folding over his bare chest, bare feet wiggling toes in the mud, the man watched as others rallied around him awaiting orders and a few pulled dead bodies out of the way. Wasn't a good look having corpses guarding your camp. That was basically a neon sign of "hey, come fuck with us because we suck". Not the image he was tryna project. The blood of his men was basically black against the dirt, thick pools quickly congealing in the cold, holding his focus while voices filled his ears with information from the women's escape. They empaled a guy and slit the throats of two others. High key impressive but also very fucking worrisome. These were women and if these women were any reflection of the men in their lives, he was stroking a fire that would quickly become a blaze with a single wrong move. So again, to chase or not to chase.

Then the scout came back with an out of breath report that the escapees were attacking Eyvaldr in the woods. To fucking chase. No way he was letting those dual wild cats maul one of his oldest friends and comrade in arms. Throwing his weight onto the back of the scout's horse, a sharp whistle cut his lips, signaling for his usual five back up dancers to follow him down the half-carved path through the woods. The others ran full tilt behind him, and they all came skidding to a halt about three feet from the fight. It was interesting to watch the women in action. Whatever fear they might have held was thrown to the wind as they attacked a man taller and larger than even himself.

It was a sight that held all the men in a moment of awe until the Jarl scooped his arms through the air. "Well..." He huffed, "Help him."

Because the man before her was so insidiously tall, Genevieve didn't have to tuck too low in order to angle towards her target, at least not initially. The cloak about her shoulders, while providing a padding, was much too heavy for her to move as quickly as she would have desired in a blitz attack but she managed. However, the man before her was used to his bulk and shifted out of her way as she began to level out for maximum impact causing her to teeter a bit and drive further forward than was intended. The pommel of his blade struck her in the shoulder. With a grunt against the pop of pain, Genevieve wobbled and dropped to her hands and knees behind the behemoth.

Sharp pebbles pressed into the palms of her hands; the momentary focus of her anger as she pulled her breath back to steady. It was better to have tension trembling up her thin arms from the force of falling than through her chest leaving her more vulnerable. At least she still had the dagger in her hand. Jerking her head around, the long, tangled braid on her head lashing out like a whip, Genevieve's eyes narrowed in on the back of his knee just as he flamingo'ed to knee her cousin in the chest. Her right foot shot back aiming to slam the heel of her foot right into that soft crevice. Drawing her foot back to herself, she used the momentum to propel herself to her feet, sweeping the heavy cloak out from under her as she wheeled around to lock her arms around the man from the back. Having already cut one's man throat tonight, she found the act simple and effective. What damage it would have on her psyche she would deal with in due time.

But it seemed as though the tall, dark Viking was destined to live, for as she turned to continue her attack others had arrived. Two thick Viking arms swung under hers, scooping the little woman right off the floor, feet swinging --- kicking--- and all. Genevieve let out a roar of frustration and rage and threw her arms up. She looked like a child throwing a tantrum but throwing her arms up and becoming limp, allowed her to slip out of their grasp and back to the ground. One of the men wrapped his arm in her long hair, jerking her back, but the other was left weaving away from her lashing dagger until he got control of her wrist.

"Ooof!" He grunted, taking her small feet to his lower stomach a few times before he managed to lock those tiny ankles between his large fingers. "Almost had the goods, there girl!" He laughed, wholeheartedly amused by the attempt to fight back.

Stretched between two men like a pig on a spit, Genevieve continued to thrash and scream. With considerable effort, the men carried her back toward the camp, often adjusting their grip to keep her arms and legs under control.

Predictably so, the man moved to deflect the incoming impact and take some defensive action of his own. Etain watched as Gen tumbled to the ground behind the hulking man's feet, and only just managed to swerve to the side before his knee could slam into her own chest. She flipped the blade in her hand to attempt to swipe at his lateral obliques but felt the grip of arms wrapping around her chest and was suddenly jerked backward. She used the sudden drawback to kick her right foot swift and hard in the direction of her former target, perhaps hard enough to cause injury to herself but enough to make it count. If it did connect and do so she would have time to focus on the pain later.

From behind the howling ginger, Bjorn had managed to tightly embrace her in a bear hug, pushing her arms down by her sides and pulling her firmly against his chest. She kicked and thrashed against him, even attempting to wield the dagger she'd snatched off one of the boys back at camp against his hip, which he narrowly dodged before one of the others was able to apprehend it. "Fucking hell, you mean bitch! Stay still or I'll crack you in the head again," he commanded before forcefully squeezing the life out of her in swift compression-like motion. In response she wheezed and spoke what he could only assume were obscenities in some guttural mess of a language.

Accepting the loss in acknowledgement of being completely surrounded by battle-hardened machines of men, Etain stopped resisting and switched to silent calculation mode. With her chin raised in arrogance, she allowed the men to escort her back to their camp. Her blue-green eyes cut like daggers at the dark stranger in the forest that foiled their initial escape plan and then to the one giving orders from horseback. The massacre that her brothers, let alone father and uncle, would make of them was enough to calm her storm. 'The Eagle,' or so the Danes called it, was getting off easy compared to what awaited these men.

If no other good thing had come of their failed attempt at freedom, the crudely made fur cape was a welcome change. Her hands and feet were so cold from the night air they'd have to knock her out again to reclaim it. Surprisingly so, the killings had affected her far less than she thought they might. Of course her heart still pounded, but the queasiness and regret never came. Perhaps it made her a bad person, but she lacked the capacity to give a singular fuck at the moment.

Eyvaldr had approached the fight with the mentality of using the least amount of force possible to apprehend the escaped duo. He was beginning to regret using that mentality. The two weren't offering him much quarter. The giant of a man grunted in annoyance as the taller of the two swerved, narrowly avoiding his knee. He shifted, preparing to counter the inevitable attack that was heading his way, but suddenly, he was buckling as he felt a foot slam into the back of his knee. Landing heavily on his knee, he instinctively raised his hands so that he could intercept any attempts from the smaller woman to wrap her arms around and slit his throat, just as she had done with the sentries. No such attack came, however, for a second later, she was being scooped up by his newly arrived brethren.

Just in time. Simultaneously, the foe in front of him was flipping her dagger with killer intent. Before she could follow through, more of his brethren were there to detain her as well. Eyvaldr caught her final kick his way in the giant palm of his hand, and then she was being dragged away. Releasing a weary sigh, the Viking got to his feet, all the while wiping debris from the knee of his trousers. He turned to regard the two women, one kicking and screaming and the other calmly furious, as they were escorted back to camp. Well, he stalled them long enough for them to be recaptured, so he considered it a win, even if his knee was aching a bit.

He approached the familiar figure of his old friend on horseback as he shot him a knowing look of derision. He spoke as he stopped in front of the horse, "Gee, thanks for the assist. Couldn't hop down from your pretty horse to help me yourself?" At the mention of the horse in question, he reached out and scratched the beast right under the ear, winning him a satisfied rumble. With a jerk of his head, he motioned that the two should be on their way back to the camp. As he walked and his friend rode, he spoke again. "Those two are a piece of work, eh? I assumed they killed a few on their way out?" At Haakon's confirmation, he nodded, the corners of his lips tugging down in a frown. Death was an omnipresent part of the life they led, one they had to confront often. But being cut down in such a surreptitious way, it wasn't a proper death.

Eyvaldr glanced up at his friend. "We'll have to review security arrangements to ensure this doesn't happen again." A pause to flip over the idea a few times in his head, and then he was offering, "I'll watch them, if you allow me." It wasn't that he didn't trust anyone else to do it. They had good people in their party: reliable, experienced people. He just trusted himself most. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about the women. Especially the small, dark one. At first sight of him, she had pushed the taller one behind her back without thought or hesitation. He could appreciate the loyalty and protectiveness. And even when they had been captured, she had continued to fight with every bit of herself. But even the other one was interesting as well. The imperious way she looked upon all of them, even while captured... She wielded power, and she did it with familiarity. Dangerous.

Lazily, Haakon crossed his arms and lay them across the broad neck of his horse and leaned against them watching this mess play out with half lidded eyes. He even yawned when Eyvaldr almost took a foot to the face. It was a boney foot and would have hurt like hell, but quick reflexes meant only the palm of his hand would be stung by the blow. His vision slithered to the side of Eyvaldr's sullen face and watched that cold wind that was Princess Etain as she was led away. Led, not dragged. Her decorum wouldn't allow her to be hauled off like a wild cat, not like the other one who didn't seem to care what she looked like one bit. A lazy smile took his lips as he swirled a finger in front of his face from his lax position of laying on the back of the horse, finally looking to his friend. "Be happy I came at all for any of this. I should be cumming into a whore right now. You know that brown one, with the black hair and black eyes? She tastes like spiced wine and smells like incense."

Haakon stretched like a house cat and finally sat up, "Besides, I was doing the work of three men before this. I'm tired and upset." He actually pouted as he turned about on the horse heading back to the camp, "I do not know how I'll ever muster up the strength to finish now. Riding with a hard cock is not comfortable."

There should have been laughter from the crowd. Even Haakon chuckled to himself with that one. He thought he was hilarious and that's all that mattered. Laughter or silence, a beat skipped between the men before Eyvaldr spoke again, dragging his attention to the women once more. Once more, his eyes lingered on the red-headed one. Arrogance was sexy. Probably because he was self-centered, arrogant little prick himself. Well, not little, but you know. She strode with her chin high, jaw locked in defiance. The cloak only gave him a hint of the sway of her hips as she walked, but he was into it. So much so, that he only nodded to the taller man's question before a grunt cleared his throat, "Three." Hazel eyes cut to his friend with a mischievous smirk, "Almost four." Then his face sobered a bit. "Gryndr took the stake they were tied to through the heart... and all the way out the back end." It was worth mentioning how much strength the two smaller women could conjure up if pushed.

When one of his closest friends offered to watch the little hell cats, Haakon tried to conceal the twinge of discomfort he felt at the thought and shrugged neither confirming nor denying the offer. These two women had killed three men, all of which were alive and alert when it happened. They could move in shadows and coordinate attacks. They needed polishing around the edges but still, the more they tried to escape the better they would get at it. Eyvaldr could certainly head an operation but right now Haakon was thinking of knocking off a jailor's wagon just to be safe. Chains and shackles. The jarl started to hum, as if the words chains and shackles had come with a melody in his head.

Two new men were standing watch at the entrance of the encampment. They cut weary side-eyes to the two women as they were brought back. Yeah, bruh, be afraid. Still humming a song he made up about shackles and chains, Haakon chuckled to himself, waving his forefingers back and forth to the tune. The men watched him with the same look of derision that Eyvaldr had and shook their heads. Once they were further into the camp, the little brown one still hissing and growling, the red one with a sneer in her eyes, Haakon hopped down off the horse, humming a few more bars before singing loudly, "SHAAAAAAAAAAACKLES AND CHA-EEEEE-AAAAAAANS."

His large bare arms dropped, slapping his thighs with his hands. Bending at the hip, it almost looked like he was gonna take a stiff bow to the princess but simply met her glower with his bright, happy hazel orbs and fluttered his lashes at her. "I suppose this is what I get for not coming to greet you sooner, eh?" Though her native tongue still felt foreign in his mouth, awkward, he managed. An anticipatory smirk shadowed his mouth to see how she would receive his grinding up her language and spitting it out. Haakon stood up, glancing at her panther partner and then fisted the front of his pants to keep them from falling lower.

By now the men would have managed to get her arms lightly behind her back. They were holding her close enough to have time to react to any sudden movements but also not hold her tight enough to enrage one or the other. The other, though, they would probably still be trying to get a steady grip on.

Wind whipped the long strands of her free-flowing hair like a wave of molten copper through the air as the Northmen led the princess and her kinswoman back to the site of their imprisonment. Looks of varying disdain and disapproval pelted their backs like rotten fruits thrown at sinners during a walk of atonement, but neither flinched for the gathered crowd. The lioness rampant of Alba did not cower before the raven. The casualties of the escape were reflected upon the captors, not the imprisoned. Furthermore, their lives meant nothing to her, whereas her own still held apparent value to them.
 
Despite how cold her body was at this moment, her blood ran colder—with icy rage. The walk back had only allowed time for it to chill further. Her outward expression was one of rigid serenity, lacking the unrestrained fury that Genevieve still thrashed with. The loyalty she displayed endeared her further, and she only hoped that one day she could repay it in kind. Their bond had been instantaneous upon their adolescent introduction, in which the smaller female had been made a member of the royal nursery as companion to Etain, who was only a few days older. They’d done everything together, and along with the rest of her siblings, Etain had always viewed her as more a sister than a cousin. This only added to her outrage.
 
Just then, as they arrived at whatever point their jailors had deemed a worthy stopping point, the apparent leader of this group of raiders was facing her eye-to-eye, which required that he stoop forward from his superior height to meet her gaze. The sound of Gaelic sputtering from his lips, albeit with an accent, took her aback; however, the only acknowledgement of her surprise lay with the arching of her left brow. In fact, it struck her so much that her attention was momentarily pulled from examining the camp to plan another getaway to examine the man before her. It did not aggrieve her spirit to admit his face was a handsome one, what with its finely sculpted features, bedroom eyes, and the soft brown curls that adorned his chin and crown.
 
He was just another pretty face…and body. Before she could respond to his inquisition with one witty remark another took its place. The motion of his hand to gather the cloth of his pants pulled her eyes further down, tracing the lines of him. They rippling muscles looked as if carved by God. There was a primal urge within her to carve them herself, though with a knife. The movement of women approaching from the side, emerging from a tent clad only in bed linens, managed to pull her attention from him if only for a moment. “It would seem you were too preoccupied with…lesser matters…than to greet your betters.” With that she gestured to the fading stiffness between his legs and the buxom brown woman with lush onyx curls falling around her shoulders and her two companions.
 
The sound of sex had been noted from all over the camp as they’d crept past and slaughtered the guard. It wasn’t something she was wholly unfamiliar with. The Scots were nowhere near as prudish as the English; although, as daughter of the king it wasn’t something she’d experienced at great length. Still, with three older brothers and a whores for a father and uncle, she understood the jist of it. Of course, she’d bleed the sheets when the time came, but there were ways around such things. What happened in corridors with guards or loyal bannermen was her business. She leaned forward, not so much that she’d be further restrained or alarm the brute holding her, but enough to push her breasts slightly forward, barely past the trim of the heavy garment about her shoulders, “Of course, I expected nothing less—Northman.”

Genevieve managed to get a foot free of the man in front of her and given it back to him in the form a hard kick to the stomach. The moment her little feet touched the floor, she threw her body forward flipping the man behind her over her head. A new Viking rushed her, but Gen turned on him, her normally bright eyes, dark with murderous intent, and he faulted. Luckily enough the man who had taken the hit to the stomach latched her small arms behind her and was rewarded with more rage filled screams and thrashing.

Truth be told, at this point she wasn’t so much mad at the Vikings or her current predicament, save for the concern of her cousin’s safety, as a switch had flipped inside the bastard royal. Years of a hellish existence under the thumb of her step-mother and step-brother had come flooding to the surface with each life she’d taken this night …. And she wanted more. Two more to be specific.

The women had been recaptured. For the moment, all thoughts of escape had fled her and pure rage and frustration but mostly the zeal of having taken not one but two lives, was burning through Genevieve and it needed an outlet. That outlet was any one of these raiding savages to get close to her. By the time the little caravan had returned to camp, she was panting like a wild animal. The man behind her had forced her to double over, keeping her head down, the floor length braid dragging alongside the stolen cloak she wore. Yet, she still thrashed, throwing her weight through her arms and shoulders. But once they had stopped, her feet planted flat and sturdy a moment before she pushed up and threw her head back.

CRACK.

“Oh! You fucking bitch!” The man hollered, cupping his hand to hold back the flow of blood coming from his nose.

When the small woman made no move to run or really move at all, all eyes shifted to those in charge for direction. There was less than a foot between Genevieve and Etain now, the smaller woman cutting a side eye to her pale cousin as she interacted with the man who had come down from the horse. The two women were closer than close. They shared everything, well almost everything. Genevieve would keep the secrets of her cousin’s little trysts until the day she died. She held her own secrets as well but that was mostly to spare her father. In any case, even in the sim fire light of the torches around them, Gen could see the twinkle if fleeting interest in Etain’s gaze, especially when it traveled lower.

In all fairness, he was a handsome barbarian. As was the taller, darker man beside him who had foiled their escape but he was covered up, leaving it all to the imagination where as the other one was literally only wearing pants. A jovial, musical savage, this one was just as keen on Etain as the woman would have been on him under different circumstances. If she played her cards right, which she almost always did, Etain could use this budding infatuation to her advantage. Still though, this one was not only charismatic but there was a clever, mischievous lilt to his smile that reached intelligent eyes.

Shifting her weight from one hip to other, Genevieve watched the exchange tentatively, but as things began to get more civil the weight of her sore muscles and the cold was starting to become more apparent. "If we are going to be stuck here, I want a bath." Abruptly, she switched from their native Gaelic to Latin, "We might as well wait it out. Your father and mine are going to string them up from their intestines anyway."

A slender ginger brow arched at him. Haakon smirked at the princess. She was damn good at managing her expressions, but he still managed to startle her. Point him. Of course, if he hadn't been literally in her face, he might have missed this minute change in her porcelain features. Satisfied with his win, Haakon had stood up only to preen a second victory as her blue-green eyes scanned over him. He couldn't help but extend his forefinger and idly scratch along the bulging line of muscle that elongated his pelvis and created a bold separation from his hip.

Haakon's head snapped back, his deep rumbling laugh echoing against the circle of tents that surrounded them. The pure acid dripping from the princess when her gaze shifted from him to his nights conquest and back again was nothing less than what he expected. Knuckles pressed into his hip, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other and shrugged leisurely, moving his gaze from the red head to the raven-haired woman standing in front of his tent. The flap jumped twice more, and his other two snack flanked her. "What can I say? It was a long trip, and I was hungry."

"Oh! You fucking bitch!"

The jarl's head slowly shifted toward the sound of shouting. The small, feisty brown had made her way over but not without breaking the nose of one of his men. He waved a hand, releasing the tension in the square. They weren't going anywhere not one without the other it would seem; thicker than thieves these two. Hazel eyes watched their brief exchange the darker one switching to Latin on him.

Haakon sighed dramatically after a moment of silence filled air. His hand flourished through the air as if he were conducting an unseen orchestra but thankfully before the music in his head crescendo'd his attention was pulled back to reality as his snacks were ushered away from his tent. Then his arm swept in front of his fur dusted abs as he bowed signaling the woman to move through the entryway. "By all accounts, you have had earned at least a bath." When he stood, his gaze shifted to his men and his orders were given in his native tongue for them to return to their posts and bring him hot water. He was met with frowns and groans but no arguments.

Ever the barbarian gentlemen, the Jarl held back the flap of his tent for the two to enter. All of the accommodations for a raid were simple, made for picking up and fucking off quickly. Only Haakon's tent and the prisoner tent was fully enclosed. He had pallet bed plush with furs and a chopped barrel for bathing, there was a pile of confiscated weapons on a slapped together table and, under the pile somewhere, a map.

Once they were inside, the Northman threw himself down on the bed and laced his fingers behind his head, stretching out. "So, tell me princess, how far down the line are you? How much do you think you're worth?" Not wanting to get up, his foot smacked the edge of a silver platter shooting an apple in his direction. It clapped into his palm as he watched the women in his tent. The flap would move again and again as food was brought in, a change of clothes and the women he was previously intent on fucking had the duty of bringing in hot water.

The cracking of bone was a familiar sound to the princess of Alba's fair ears, so much so that she hardly batted a lash or removed her focus from Haakon as Genevieve joined alongside her. The man's cry of pain and following outburst were indicative enough of what had transpired, and ultimately she wasn't that concerned. The act was her father's method of choice for bending unruly subjects to his will, though he tended to prefer arms or shins to noses, made it easier to still recognize them after. Her uncle Maldoven was even less amicable to those who dared offend the royal house. Brutality was simply a part of life. 

"Indeed, though I think I'd like this one's head left in-tact and on a silver platter to admire. Do you think father will gift it to me? It would be such a waste otherwise," the princess clicked her tongue and responded in the holy tongue. On the leader's instruction the grip around her arms and tight presence of guards was loosened. "Your shortcomings do not interest me, Dane," she retorted to his mention of unsated lust before leading the way into his tent as he ushered them inside. 

The accommodations were modest, though a stark improvement upon the prison where she'd been bound up without a safe word. The piling of bedding upon his pallet did wonders for the growing hatred she bore him while she stood there freezing her ass off in dampened linen and wool socks, all wrapped in an oversized cloak made for a man twice her size. The overall warmth of the enclosure was a relief still, though she could scarcely feel her fingers. Cupping them she brought them to her mouth to breathe on them. 

The smell of the food being brought in twisted her stomach in a knot. All that running had worked up an appetite, so she plucked a piece of bread and cheese from the tray and nibbled at it while the other women carried in pitchers of warmed water, mixing it with cold so that they wouldn't be scalded. "Fifth, unless my sister-in-law survives the birth, though I rather doubt it. Such narrow hips do not bode well for her future. We do not produce small babes." The second part of his question caused her to smirk, "My former intended did not balk at my worth. Unfortunately, he didn't live long enough to enjoy it, God rest his soul. Though, if it's great wealth you're hoping to amass you should have kidnapped King Ælla's daughter instead." 

Reaching up with her free hand she unclasped the heavy cape, letting the dark material clunk to the floor, and approached the tub. The damp linen nightgown clung to rounded curves of her body, half hidden behind the sheet of copper waves that fell to her buttocks. Biting the remaining morsel of food, she removed the thick woolen socks from her feet and slipped the nightgown over her head. What remained of her 'reputation' would be ruined by the fact she'd spent time in a Viking camp regardless of what she did or did not do, so stripping bare in front of the stranger and submerging her freezing limbs in warm water seemed the most comfortable option for everyone involved. There was room enough for both women, so Etain scooted to one side to allow for Genevieve to follow. 

Her fingers and toes stung from the delicious warmth of the water, causing the blood to begin flowing back into her extremities. Gooseflesh adorned the tops of her breasts which envied the lower half of her body, so she scooped handfuls of the liquid up and over her shoulders to let it warm her fully. "What is your name?" The way she sat in the tub was facing her captor, who reclined lazily upon his pallet bed like the statue of Mars compared to her Venus. She offered neither thanks nor acknowledgement to the other women coming in and out of the room, not particularly interested in their existence beyond the filling of the tub. They should have been flattered enough to be waiting on not one but two royals at once.

Genevieve almost giggled at Etain's retort, only to simply smile and reply, "Mouth open, tongue out."

Even while mocking him in holy tongue, Genevieve regarded this leader of the savages as a very dangerous creature indeed. Men who wielded enough power and strength to appear this lax all the time were the most dangerous of all. This one was not only lax but uncharacteristically feminine at times; the way he slunk around like a cat and moved as if waltzing to a tune. He wasn't even the largest of the brutes and yet his rule seemed absolute, at least so far. Of course, his ease could be due to the fact that they were women and not soldiers and he felt no threat from them at all but from the disgruntled and suspicious reactions of the men around him, Genevieve would bet his behavior was not so discriminatory.

Nevertheless, neither woman hesitated to be swept so ceremoniously into his tent where they were greeted with a rather simplified version of the luxury of rank but most importantly, warmth. It was a far cry better than what was now the blood-soaked prisoner's tent they had woken up in. It was almost comical to think that attempting to escape and murdering his men had been the key to getting better service around here... and food. Ever the carnivore, Genevieve snatched (not plucked like the delicate hand of her beloved cousin) a moist piece of meat from the platter brought in and devoured it in greedy nibbles like a starving chipmunk from under the heavy folds of her stolen cloak.

While Etain spoke with the leader, Genevieve shifted, turning her back on the two and looking around the meager tent, watching as the women, who had gathered outside dressed in nothing but the furs from the pallet bed where the man now laid, filled the bath amongst other things. His tent wasn't as fortified as the prisoner tent, which had only one way in and one way out, they could easily slip out of this one from under. However, after a warm bath and food let the day's events sink into their muscles, it was more likely they wouldn't be making any escape attempts again tonight. Mr. Lax knew that. She was sure of it.

For a moment, the little bastard sucked her thumb, savoring the taste of the meat. As if they functioned on the same wavelength, just as Etain unclipped her cloak so did Genevieve. Both heavy furs fell to the floor in unison and were followed by mud soaked socks and blood stained linen. While much shorter than Etain, Genevieve was an appealing mix of buxom and lithe, slim through her waist with rounded hips and shorter, muscle formed legs. Her back to him boasted a shorter torso and narrow shoulders but with the slight shift of her long hair, betrayed the lighter, softer colored scars that wove through her caramel flesh. The only difference in their movements was that Genevieve took a longer moment to enter the water because she brought an entire platter with her. Her long braid remained outside of the barrel, so they would have ample room to move around and the tray could float between them. There was enough fruit for both of them, enough meat for her, and enough bread and cheese for Etain.

Genevieve let out a shuddering sigh as she settled into the warmth of the water with her dear cousin. As predicted, the day's event began to settle into her muscles as her internal temperature equalized in the water. The only thing keeping her awake was the conversation around her and, of course, the food.

"I am sure whatever his name is, it sounds as if a goat is heaving." She giggled in Latin.

"You wound me, my love." Haakon said, pressing his hand to his chest as Etain passed him with her acerbic comment to his sex life and his manhood. She had no way of knowing this and thankfully only she and her companion would have heard him, but he had never referred to anyone before has his "love" not even in jest. The moment the words left his lips his normally cheeky smile strained a bit around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

'The hell was that?'

He shrugged it off. It didn't mean anything. Right?

Fast forward to him lounging on the furs, munching on an apple, watching the Highland Princess try to warm up her pale fingers. His gaze kept flicking over to her little friend but always returning to little miss power herself. She saw fit to answer his question but the way she saw fit to do so caused him to arch a brow, taking the half eaten apple from his lips and resting his wrist on his chest. As if by her command his eyes dropped down her frame to her hips under the cloak and the linen. A frown nearly took his idle smirk, all that shit was covering up his curiousity. He took another bite of his apple, ears twitching and pulling back at her follow up.  

Oh word? Her last suitor died? Fucking noted.

Still though. Haakon was back to smirking, "You're worthless to me if you choose to stay, my love." Goddamn it. Again? While his mind caught the slip his features didn't faulter. "But you would hear no complaints from me to be your intended." To punctuate his sentence, his eyes locked onto hers, his tongue flicking out against the corner of his mouth for a stray piece of apple before passing slowly over his tongue. The moment was broken by his uproarious laughter, the depth of which caused him to almost curl into himself, abs bunching at the effort. "If King Ælla's daughter is anything like him, she'd be worth a long boat in gold!"

As the Viking reigned in his laughter, his eyes shifted to the other one again. Suddenly they were both undressing. His brow went up again, partly because they seemed syncronized though they were not facing each other but mostly because they were noble women and from what he knew of noble women they were not so... liberal.

Crunch.

The apple stayed close to his mouth as he chewed, eyes glued to the marble beauty with the hair like hot bronze. From his periphirals, he could see her companions petite frame as well. The scars on her back pulled his gaze completely away from the princess long enough for him to miss the show of her getting into the tub. Why the fuck would a noble girl have whip marks? Before he knew it, Haakon was sitting up, his arms resting on his thighs as he hunched over and stared at the two in the tub. They were a strange pair as if two sides of the same coin yet so vastly different.

Etain's question pulled his thoughts back to the moment, those mischievous hazel eyes refocusing on her face with his usual twinkle. They switched up on him again, back to that slick language and the little one found whatever she said funny as hell. Fair. He thought he was fucking hilarious too. Smiling, he pushed off the pallet and took the last bite of his apple before tossing it into the hearth that kept the tent warm. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, the other fisted into his pants at the hip again. "I am Haakon Olofsson, Princess Etain. I do not think your servant girl likes me much." Dropping to his knees in front of the bath, long arms loose in his lap, he went on, "Perhaps you can tell her, as your intended, I intend her even less harm than the pleasure you would incur on our wedding night."

The fuck are you doing, Haakon?

There was chaos…and then there was its aftermath, and like a moth drawn to a flame, a dark haired traveller sat a few miles away, carefully putting out the remaining embers of what was once a fire thick enough to provide the comfort of a night’s sleep to two lone auras. The pair of sisters had been traveling for quite some time now, tracking a group of merchants. Merchants almost always led to villages, which meant opportunity, which meant a means of survival and for Rhaeya this was enough to transform into the human equivalent of a blood hound. Though the past two weeks had been just weeks, they felt like eternity for the younger of the pair. Alara had done her fair share of complaining as the older of the two dragged her (painfully) slowly through the thick of the woods, pausing to point out half eaten deer—or worse, half-fresh human shit—just to prove that they were on the right track to what could very well be their next settlement.

Things had been going relatively well…until they weren’t, of course. It was on the second week that something in Rhaeya changed. The dark haired warrior had muttered something along the lines of ‘something has happened…’ when the trail of merchants suddenly veered far off track. It was almost as if they had ran away or were warned to turn a different direction. And like a moth drawn to a flame, Rhaeya had investigated and found groups of fresh boot prints, more arrows needed for a merchant’s group to carry, and fresh human blood. Nothing screamed ‘this is a group of warriors on hunt’ louder than signs of a quarrel. Pumped up testosterone tended to lead to friendly bloodshed, Rhaeya had quickly learned. 

And so, against her better judgment, Rhaeya decided that it was in their best interest to change course. If the merchants had showed sign of a trading camp or small village, then these warriors showed signs of something much bigger; they showed signs of establishment. And what Rhaeya needed more than anything, was to find some sort of establishment. Not for herself, by any means, but for the younger dark haired pea that was part of her pod.

“What are you doing?”

By now, the fires had been put out to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Rhaeya was currently in what was very much a downwards facing dog, focused on stretching out her limbs and joints in the case that she needed to defend herself and her sister. After all, these men could be dangerous. There was a 90% chance they were, and would try and harm her family should they find them. Any average person would be looking at Rhaeya in utter shock, most likely shaking their head in disbelief that the loner would follow something she knew was nothing but bad news. But, you know what they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, if Rhaeya had survived thus long….well, I’ll let you decide what that could mean.

“Stretching.” The answer was as obvious as it was short. Bringing her right leg up in the air, Rhaeya would pause for just a moment before she brought it between her hands and got into a low lunge. Her piercing green eyes bore into her sister for a minute before she repeated the movement, this time with the other leg. “I told you to sleep in the bushes. I spent an hour setting up your bed and shelter.” Rhaeya’s voice was eerily calm, a sure enough signal that she was angry. Not that it mattered to the younger of the sisters.

“You’re setting off to spy, tell me I am lying. Goodness—you look barbaric.” Alara had her arms crossed over her chest. Alara’s long hair was tucked into a hunters cap and she wore a tunic and pants. Her body was tightly wrapped and just the right amount of dirt had been smudged on her face (by Rhaeya) to make her *almost* resemble a young boy. The barbaric look she referred to was the smudged black paint over Rhaeya’s eyes, a trick she had learned to make her appear more intimidating than she actually was.

A small smirk turned the corner of Rhaeya’s lips as she quickly and gracefully came to a stand. “Good.” She leaned over, picking up her bow and arrow before she secured it over her shoulder, tucking it into place with the light armor she sported. There were several daggers attached to her body—yet her swords remained hidden in the bushes, in the case of emergency, for Alara to use. They would have been far too heavy and far too loud if she were trying to spy, anyways. “Get back into bed. I will be back before sunrise. If I am not, you know what to do.” Rhaeya said firmly, walking over to her sister. She knelt down, placing her hand behind Alara’s neck, pressing her forehead into hers.

“You need not worry, little mouse. I will be back. I always come back.”

——

Though it had taken convincing, Rhaeya had eventually managed to get Alara back into bed. It was only until she was a mile into the dark of the woods, following a river, that her tough mask had dropped. In reality, Rhaeya was scared shitless. Who wouldn’t be? But as mentioned….desperate times called for desperate measures. So she subdued her internal panic, squared her shoulders, and crept deeper into the woods, following the sounds of distant screaming and the trail of smoke from what could only be a burning camp (or people, one could never know.)

It was about thirty minutes into her trek that she found what she had been tracking. The trees began to thin out and she could make out what seemed to be a makeshift camp in the distance. As she would creep closer, she would crouch down into a military crawl and then duck under a pair of overgrown bushes—just in time as a pair of men turned the corner. They were doing patrol, but Rhaeya could smell alcohol. It must have been a raid, and the men patrolling must have been part of the raiders. She would have bet all her money that they were part of the group she had been tracking. The dark haired Assyrian held her breath, her right hand clutching her dagger as she waited for them to pass.

It seemed that years of sneaking around had served its purpose and they passed without noticing her. Narrowing her eyes, she wiggled around until she got better view of the scene unfolding before her. It seemed that there was a lot that happened. She could make out figures…two females, one with bright red hair and one with skin as smooth and soft as freshly powdered cinnamon. She could tell these women were prisoners—on instinct, her fingers tightened around her daggers.

‘You cannot help them.’ Her voice repeated again and again in her mind until all her impulsive thoughts and plans vanished from her mind. She could see men standing around them, and she instantly recognized the leader of the men. From his loud arrogant tone and commanding demeanor, Rhaeya instantly knew that he was most likely first in command. There was another, who seemed to be almost….bored. But she would refrain from making any assumptions on people she did not know. Keeping her breath steady, Rhaeya pressed closer to the ground as she watched the scene in front of her.

The term of endearment with which the warband's leader chose to address her did not go unnoticed, though she conjectured it to be some form of condescension, reminding her that he was the captor and she the captive at his mercy to do with as he pleased. For the moment the men were choosing to consider their value for trade rather than simply enjoying the spoils of their looting. He held the power, at least in that sense--there were other forms. The way his own eyes returned the sentiment of assessment and perhaps frustration at the coverage provided by the stolen accessories told her there was an opening if she were willing to work the angle. 

Finally able to feel her fingers and toes once more, Etain reached for the linen rag that had been lain along the side of the tub and began to wipe the muck and blood that soiled her skin, starting with her face before moving to other areas of concern. Getting her hands dirty didn't rank particularly high on the royal agenda and needless to say was a task she often overlooked if she could at all help it. Genevieve was the more outdoorsy of the two of them, the very scars on her back were accredited to a mishap involving her being injured while riding. Her uncle's wife, Lady Brida, had told Queen Otha the story when questioned as to why her newest ward came to her marred. 

Etain's own skin showed only recent evidence of injury, and it was entirely superficial. The ropes used to bind her wrists had left red indentions and there were scattered purple bruises from the first and then second abductions. She was always finding a new bruise, whether it be from bumping into a table or even rolling over and hitting the frame of her bed while sleeping. It was the price one paid for being practically translucent. 

'Choose to stay?' As his intended? Perhaps his understanding of the Gaelic language was limited. It was arguably a difficult one to learn. The mere concept was laughable. It would be a frigid day in hell before King Alpin would even consider negotiating a marriage contract rather than a ransom with a Viking warlord. The Scots loathed the Danes. Any Scandanavian with a sound head on his shoulders knew it was a death sentence to step foot on the shores of Alba, where barbarity would be met with cruel and unusual savagery. The Romans themselves had not wanted to engage them. Hospitality was a more English virtue. The occasional bride-stealing did occur, but nowhere near the volume experienced by the Irish. Dealings between them were typically limited to carefully arranged trade agreements. 

"I don't recall offering," she said flatly in Norse, a clear challenge; however, she supposed being his bride would be better than washing floors in his longhouse, assuming he had one, or tending to sheep. Wives had rights, and so did their sons. The thought of making those sons with him wasn't a wholly...unpleasant... notion, but she quickly cast the image of his rippling biceps braced on either side of her while that line that dipped with his waist was flush against her ....'no, stop that.' She felt an involuntary muscle spasm and went back to wiping herself down to hide any reaction. The heat that rose up her neck and cheeks could be accredited to the bath and contact from the rag. 
 
Mention of Ælla's daughter set him into hysterics, and Etain couldn't help but chuckle as well; however, it was more the thought of the Northumbrian princess being bound up that amused her. Poor girl was an utter twit on a good day, but she'd fucking piss herself and die of a panic attack if she were ever captured by this horde. Not to mention the yellow horse teeth. She reached over to the floating tray to pick a grape and another slice of cheese while exchanging a knowing look with her cousin. 

There wasn't even time to become flustered by his proximity, when the name he gave was exactly what Genevieve had predicted it would be, laughter burst from her lungs! Her whole body shook as she giggled uncontrollably, leaning forward towards where he was now kneeling. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her stomach ached from the abdominal muscles flexing so tightly. It was a good minute before she could even manage to compose herself enough to properly introduce her companion, "Oh my God, I've never in my life! Mary, Mother of Christ!" Again, gone. 

The hair she'd intentionally positioned over the side of the tub to keep from getting it wet had trailed in behind her when she leaned forward so abruptly and was now floating along the water's surface and turning a deeper red as it absorbed the moisture. "Lady Genevieve is my cousin and a member of the royal family, not a servant. Her father is my father's brother." Attendants were expendable. While exposing both their identities wasn't necessarily the safest option, it was the only protection they had. Women of high birth would often be left in-tact in order to preserve their value. A servant girl could be fucked by the whole camp and no one but the girl herself and maybe her family would care. Maybe. "Haakon Olofsson," saying the name was both sensually and comically satisfying, so she found, "and I am not your intended."

Genevieve had picked the floating tray nearly clean of all the things that made her stomach happy before she choose to pick up her own linen rag and begin to sweep herself clean of muck. She and Etain were very close, almost as sisters rather than cousins, but bathing together was one thing they did not do often. It was only when the lady bastard began to wash away blood and dirt, that she began to feel a bit self-conscious in the small space with her porcelain cousin. She had many more scars than the ones stumbled upon after the wily hands of a bush pulled the high collar of her dress. Genevieve was not so quick or easy to lie to the ones she loved but her step-mother had been on the ball that day.

Keeping her scars carefully hidden under her hair and under the shimmering surface of the water became a side task to keeping her cousin's mind from wandering to far into a dirty fantasy land she spoke with the Jarl who had captured them. Etain's voice betrayed nothing, it was flat and cold and dismissive, but Genevieve knew that tell tale sign of pink running up her neck to flush her cheeks and barely detectable shift when a twinge hit you between the legs. Clearing her throat roughly, Gen elbowed Etain, a motion that would go undetected by the man in their midst because he was dying of laughter at that moment. Genevieve stole that moment to stare down at her cousin; a look that said, don't you do it. It was one thing to explore passion in the castle with the guards who could be beheaded if they even attempted to sully her good name, but this was a Viking. They were tainted enough just from being captured and if anything further befell Etain it would be Genevieve who paid for it, even if her cousin enjoyed it.

Just as she parted her lips to whisper something, the man's full presence weighed in on the side of the barrel and he coughed up his name in the manner with which Genevieve had predicted. She lost it. Even covering her face with the soaked through linen cloth couldn't properly muffle the wild laughter that rang from her chest. She had to turn away. Half hanging out the tub on the other side to catch her breath, the thing that halted her laughter instantly were to be his last words if she had anything to say about it.

Servant?!

Genevieve whirled in the tub, sloshing water over every said as she snatched a discarded chicken bone from the floating tray and threw her weight over the shoulder of her cousin, who was now leaning in front of the man, gently but firmly correcting his assumption. "I will show you a servant when I put your head on a platter for your gods, you Northman piece of shit!" She shrieked in his tongue, driving the half chewed end of the chicken bone toward his eye.

As she peeled away the layers of dirt and grime with the cloth, Haakon found himself more and more mesmerized. Skin like milk, hair like fire, cold green-blue eyes watching him like a hawk. Even the speckles of bruises marring her didn't truly mar her. He should have been offended by the uproarious laughter the women shared when he told them his name but instead, he folded his arms on the rim of the tub and watched the woman with even more curious bewilderment and a sort of dreamy infatuation.

Every part of his being was being drawn into the princess by the sound of her soft, though loud laughter. His eyes slowly roamed her face, following the lines created around her mouth, the way her eyes pinched and they went from cold to bright and warm. The pink warmth that hand tinged her pale skin from the hot bath darkened as she heaved with laughter. The laughter shook her entire being, so much so that the copper tresses had fallen into the water and clung to her body. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Haakon knew he was acting a damn fool, like someone who had never seen a woman before. And while her companion was just a more petite, brown beauty, there was something intangible about the princess.

For the moment the ice in the air had thinned, but suddenly both women had turned on him. While Etain returned to spitting ice, the Lady Genevieve tried to gauge his eye out with a damned chicken bone. Thankfully, though, Haakon was able to blink himself back to reality before getting to seriously damaged. Leaning back, the sharp, knawed end of the chicken boned sliced his cheek and he fell onto his hands, kicking the tub over to keep distance between them. Grunting, Haakon jumped to his feet.

Goddamn, she was fast. And easy to piss off.

Touching his hand to his bloody face, the Jarl shook his head with a laugh that creased the dimples in his face. "Aren't ladies usually more..." He couldn't think of the word for demure in Gaelic. Waving his hand in the air around Etain, he tried to demonstrate the stark contrast between the women. "Fuck me." He said, looking to Genevieve. "I wasn't trying to insult you."

Calamity and clatter had ensued for a mere moment when Haakon almost lost an eye and the barrel flipped over. The actual servants and thralls had frozen for a moment before scrambling out of the tent. Their absence was replaced by four men, weapons in hand. Tension rolled off the men holding weapons, their eyes taking in the mess of the tent before falling on Haakon, who shrugged sheepishly as if he had been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Maybe it's time to take the prisoners back?" One of them said.

Haakon shook his head, smearing the blood from his cheek on his pant leg. "I've got everything under control." Met with skeptical looks, he went on, "They need something warm to sleep in." Knowing that his demands would be met no matter how ridiculous they seemed, Haakon went to cautiously approach the two women he had knocked over to help them up.

Do you remember, dear reader, once a very long time ago when you were just a wee lad/lass/or something in between walking along the waters of the beach when all of a sudden your body was overtaken and knocked back by a wave taller than you were? Minding your own business one moment and then suddenly laying flat on your back while the waters rushed over your face and up your nostrils? Well, that's precisely what Etain was experiencing in this exact moment. While she herself had curtly corrected the heathen on the matter of semantics, Genevieve had used the bone of a small bird to attempt to impale their captor, and suddenly a Tsunami rocked them both backward. Thankfully the surface they tumbled upon was a large linen tarp and not more mud. 

Initially she was too stunned to say or do anything really, so she just laid there and pondered the meaning of life. Soaked auburn hair haloed around her, turned darker by said soakedness. There was a semblance of relief in that they'd at least been splayed onto a linen tarp and not more mud, but the feeling was fleeting. She shot up straight spraying water out her nostrils and coughing up the pint she'd managed to swallow. "What the fuck? Have you lost your goddamn mind you stupid fucki..." more coughing and choking. She pushed the heavy strands of wet hair back over her shoulders and out of her face as her vision cleared. "I'll see you flailed for that!" 

Her hand swatted at Genevieve's bicep like lighting, "And don't you ever ruin another bath like that. Wait until after. Manners." Haakon's words snapped her attention back to him again. He was fortunate to not know the Gaelic translation of the word he was searching for or he wouldn't have to worry about a ransom. The cool fire behind her furious gaze surely conveyed that message, "Be quiet. Get me a towel." Again, King Aella's castle would have been a right turn, and his piglet of a daughter would have proven to be every inch the proper lady he'd been hoping for. 

How the towel made it to her hands she didn't particularly care, but she used it to immediately begin drying her face as she hauled herself to her feet. It was going to take hours for her fucking hair to dry, not to mention Gen's unless she'd managed to whip it out of the way fast enough and keep her head away from the wave. The cloth had only just covered her naked body before they were swarmed by more of the Neanderthals. Her facial expression hadn't changed in any way but direction, and soon enough a blue velvet gown...stolen from her fucking cottage was brought to her, as well as her own ladies' boots, and a shift. 

Assisted by the whores he'd been bedding during their ensconce, she was dressed, her hair wrung out and twisted up in another towel to dry like an Ottoman's turban. The same assistance would be offered to her lady cousin, if she'd take it. Etain had recognized the women from the village they'd been captured in and had previously paid them for the service they were now performing under captivity. A curt nod was her only offering of equal parts thanks and dismissal from her immediate presence to do whatever their master bid of them.

As the victorious campground burst into life, Rhaeya found solace in the darkness that concealed her presence. Half-melted torches, combined with the heat emitting from celebrating bodies, painted a dimly lit scene of people gathered in small groups, drinking ale and boasting about their victories for the day. All the while, a raven-haired outsider found her place tucked into the shadows that only the thick of the night could provide.

The number of men patrolling and guarding the camp was enough to re-confirm that they belonged to an established settlement of some sort. As for the fate of the two women that our Assyrian had taken keen note of? Rhaeya stuck to her conclusion that they would be held for ransom or taken in as trophies of whatever conquest had been made. Either way--it was none of her business.

---

As her time under the bush ticked by, Rhaeya had figured out the exact number of those patrolling. There were four groups of two men, each passing by Rhaeya’s hidden spot at increments of precisely 12 minutes. From her hiding place to the tent closest to her, she figured it would take 4-5 minutes to get inside it and grab whatever she could get her hands on. The occasional breeze that lifted the tent’s curtains to the side every now and then was more than enough to let her know that it was, indeed, perfectly unoccupied.

It was practically beckoning her, inviting her eyes to feast upon and take a look. She knew that she would be cutting it close, but she was curious and wanted some sort of prize for her time spent spying on the group of ruffians.

Just as the next set of guards neared her corner, a high-pitched shriek came from one of the tents. Rhaeya’s head whipped to the left as she pinpointed the sound of a woman yelling. The shriek, and string of curses, came from the same tent she had seen the two women of importance be escorted into.

This is not your problem. The words rang in her mind as she reminded herself she was just here to get more information on the group (and maybe steal a few items to trade.)

The shriek was enough to alert the entire camp, much to Rhaeya’s convenience. Raising an eyebrow, she watched as the guards stopped in their tracks and quickly sprinted over to the tent, drawing their weapons in the process.

Jumping to her feet, Rhaeya sprinted forward and with a few quick strides, she was inside what she thought would be an empty tent.

Instantly, she wished she had stayed in the bush. The dark-haired warrior was filled with sick dread upon the realization that she had been wrong. This tent was not empty. As a matter of fact, there was a Northman snoring lightly on a blanket. He was entirely naked and next to him was a young wide-eyed maiden. Her hair was blonde, her eyes big and blue. She, too, was naked. There was dried blood that coated her thighs and it did not take more than a few seconds for Rhaeya to realize what had happened.

This was the way of war. If a woman or girl of lower status was captured, she belonged to whoever got their hands on her first. Rhaeya felt her stomach sink as she quickly pressed a finger to her lips as a gesture for the girl to remain silent. The blonde-haired girl stared back at Rhaeya, wide-eyed before she slowly sat up. The pitiful excuse of a man stirred slightly but he remained asleep, his snoring increasing. Rhaeya’s hand had dropped to the dagger fastened in her belt and she stood frozen in anticipation of a fight that would never come.

He continued to snore.

‘Help me’ The young woman mouthed to Rhaeya. The dark-haired Assyrian stared at the girl with a blank expression before she gritted her teeth and glanced around the room. Grunting under her breath, she grabbed the discarded metal shield on the floor next to the makeshift bed and crept over to the sleeping warrior. As she came up to his side, she nudged his arm with her foot, waking him up in the process.

As he stirred awake, he barely had time to register Rhaeya’s face (still concealed with war paint) before she brought the shield down onto the crown of his head, effectively knocking him out. While the blow was not hard enough to kill him, she doubted the man would be able to remember much when he awoke. The closer she was to him, the more disgusted she felt. This was a rather large and old man, who knew what kind of horror he had put the small girl through…

The blonde-haired girl jumped to her feet just as Rhaeya began tossing her clothes at her. “Get dressed, quickly,” Rhaeya whispered before she crept to the edge of the tent. She peered out from the corner, her eyes scanning the area.

The coast was clear enough for Rhaeya to make her way back to her spot in the forest and run--but there was no way she was bringing this girl with her. And if she left her new accomplice here--well… the small blonde’s fate would be far worse than death.

“For fuck’s sake, tell me you know where they keep their horses.” Rhaeya whipped around to face the girl, her voice practically a hiss.

The girl began to stammer before tears began to spill.

“I…I do not know!” She breathed out between hiccup-ridden tears. Rhaeya’s eyes softened before she grabbed the girl’s shoulders and shook her gently, bringing her closer in the process. She could not even imagine what the girl was experiencing, but she certainly could relate.

“You mustn’t cry. What has been done cannot be undone, but you can decide whether you want to fight and see another day or pity yourself and invite death.” Her hazel eyes bore into the girls, engraving her aura into her mind as a tattoo of sorts. “You cannot avenge if you are dead. You need to think…you must have seen or heard horses” Rhaeya urged, her voice still barely above a whisper. The girl stared at her for a moment before she managed to pull herself together and nod, swallowing as she quickly wiped her eyes. “I think…I think I saw a few horses tied up a few tents west of this one.” She whispered.

“Can you ride?” Rhaeya asked. The girl’s feeble nod was all the reassurance Rhaeya would need.

Rhaeya grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her quickly behind her, crouching behind the tent just as one of the men crossed the front of it. Rhaeya looked at the girl and put a finger to her mouth once more before she waited for the footsteps to fade. Creeping forward, she peered around the side. She could see the horses--two tents down. One of them was tied to a tree at the edge of the forest, the others were closer to the man guarding them. Change of plans--they would not be hopping tent to tent.

“When I say run for the forest, run as quickly as you can,” Rhaeya whispered to the girl. The girl nodded. Minutes seemed like hours--but finally, the coast was clear. “Run!” Rhaeya whispered, sprinting forward with the girl following. They had to hurry--she had no idea how long the man would remain knocked out--Rhaeya was sure she only had a few minutes to spare, but the seconds were ticking by.

Once they reached the forest, Rhaeyra grabbed the girl’s hand and practically dragged her to the horse, stopping a few short feet away from it. Her hand was extended to ensure she would not startle it. Luck had been on her side because the mare was a friendly one who took a few steps closer to Rhaeya, thinking her extended hand held an apple or some sort of food item.

Using her dagger, Rhaeya quickly broke the rope that confined the mare to the tree and quietly lead it deeper into the forest. By the time she was ten yards in, she could hear the voices of men growing louder, with a greater sense of urgency.

The blonde-haired girl had stuck by Rhaeya’s side, finding comfort in saviorship. She relaxed as Rhaeya helped hoist her onto the mare.
“Ride East. Do not stop riding until you get to a small merchant’s group, they have women and children and will feed you. If they catch up to you, use this to slit your throat. Death will be better than any punishment given to runaway.” Rhaeya whispered before she handed the dagger to the girl.

The girl stared at Rhaeya, her eyes begging for more information. “I am Mildreth…What is your name?” She asked, hoping to receive an answer. But the only response she got from Rhaeya was an urgent ‘Go’ before she lightly smacked the horse’s rear, setting it into motion.

As soon as she sent the teenage girl off, Rhaeya began to run west. If the men gave chase, they would chase the sound of the horse galloping East through the forest. Besides--if Rhaeya was anything, she was fast. She was not called the Viper for no reason. She had full confidence she would reach her hideout without being caught or even noticed.