Prelude: A novel based upon the MOD "Nord Invasion" PG 13 + (adult content)

[Birdtalon]

Adult content isn't 13+? More like 18+ you mean.

[freiwulf]

Name: Friewulf

Class: sniper

Gear "looks": Old shaggy Grey hair covered with an Open Trooper Helmet
battle worn body clad with a red tattered tunic over mail shiny self crafted black whisby gauntlets and a well worn highlander boots

Age: 39 but due to constant battle looks to be like 60 which works well with unsuspecting filthy nords

Gender: male

House *if applicable: was recruited into the order of the scarlet blades when he was young and honed his skills with a bow untill he was one with it

Personality: old, wise, experianced and very deadly if you cross him

Requested Literic Role *Good guy, bad guy, stagnant, dynamic etc. etc.: hidden hero taking the nords down at a distance helping the main heroes when they are in a dier situation

a small bio off myself :
Friewulf Born into a middleclass Swadian home to a high ranking Military father and Sibling to an older Brother who through Friewulfs early years had protected and defended him against the town bullies and rabid dogs.
He often faught with his brother in constant attempts to surpas his already military distinguished brother who had led a small group of men after his commanding officer was struck down in an ambush during the great first war with the nords.
Then disaster struck when he turned 19 when the Men from the north or nords as they are most commonly known descended onto swadia in a blood thirsty rage and when his village was attacked it was his own Brother that commanded the garrison that held off the waves of encroaching nords whilst he attempted to get his mother and the other villagers to safety when they finally camped a distance they thought safe a lonely swadian soldier wondered into this makeshift camp with an axe lodged deep in his back and simply said we have failed before hundreds of Nords swarmed the camp killing and raping everything in there path Friewulf tried to help his mother but was Knocked unconscious by the back end of an axe.....when he awoke he saw what he can only comprehend as hell as bodies were scattered around him

Twelve weeks later he finally reached a distant land where he hid untill he was noticed stealing food and chased by the local town guard thats where he met him the man that would forever change his life the name of that man was Clickeverywhere yet his men seemed to call him click he was a tower of a man he hid me from the guards and took me under his wing when i asked him why he simply said we need all the help we can get that was when i found out about his troubled past and his home being destroyed by the same vermin that had swept through mine like it was nothing.

Now 39 and back in his swadian homeland fighting for suvival with his brothers and sisters taking back one bit of his homeland one fight at a time the years have been rough to him but like his fellow scarlet blades he fight now only to deafeat the seemingly endless nord invasion


Thank you for reading

[Shaman Oren of Staghelm]

part one of four

Mourning...

    Joseph vane had been riding now for three days.  The body of his fallen companion limp against his back.  The thundering of his charges hooves echoed through the craggy foothills around him.  Wind blew through his hair as his eyes looked ahead to his goal.  Through rains and snows he had traveled with a heart of mourning.  There was no speed adequate enough for his flight thus he spurred his horse till he himself could barely stand that coursing speed.  Hill's passed with rolling clouds, the fresh scent of spring rains filled his nose, dreams of his beloved as he slept in dark camps, tending the fallen he had found.  His armor shone brightly like a beacon across the plains for those three sorrowful days.  Many a tear and prayer came from him to descend up on the ground. 
He finally neared the war-camp and stopped his horse, dismounting and pulling the body of Jason vane off of his horse... the man formally known as wolf's blood.  His hand was gentle and heavy tears fell from his eyes as he brushed swampy hair from the mans eyes.
“Sleep brother...”  Joe looked down at him and leaned in to kiss his forehead.  Wolf's body was pale, wet and smelt of the dark marshes.  He pulled his black glove from his hand and held his brother's face in his hands before letting out a piercing wail of agony, leaning down onto his body and heaving with laborious sobs. 
“Why now!  My blood has left me!”  His voice cracked as he leaned back up to stair up into raining skies.  The knights blue tabard blew back in blowing winds as his black hair whipped about his face.  The stinging tears did not cease, even when his wife Marne had appeared before him; staring at her brother in law lying upon the ground... darkness in his eyes.  She fell down to her knees there in that place;  the gravely ground welcomed her as her hands met her brother in laws chest, grasping his leather plates in agony.  There they wept, a noble knight and maiden over the lifeless body of a hero.  Joe could not contain the agony now howling in his heart.  He wailed, and wept and let loose the waves of his tears.  Leaning back in to face his brother he spoke with a burdened heart.
“Don't leave me... Jason.. please... don't abandon me...”  His hands tugged and gripped Jason's armor tightly as he let loose a cry of frustrated anger sobbing and cursing as he buried his face into his elder brothers armor.  The loose wolf's bane flower still clung to the fallen man's hair and blew in the rainy winds that beat down upon the three.
Broken-hearted and overwhelmed; Marne clung to her husband who now was curled into his brothers chest.  She pet Joe's hair and tried to console him, a futile effort as her own anguish was welling.  The men of the camp were weary, the invasion and slaughter was taking it's toll.  No consolation would mend the sundered heart of a man who had lost his last family... a brother who had lost a brother.  Her long red hair lie soaked against her back as she pressed her rosy lips to her beloved's neck.  Continually laying her hands upon his hair.  She pulled his eyes to meet hers, those blue orbs of love staring into his black eyes, now pinned with searing loss.  His wet hair curled down, soaked upon his shoulders. 
“Love...”  was the only word that she could muster as he held him, the two crossed and leaning over their family members body.  With great sorrow she let her lips hold his, and there they remained... family... torn apart by the vast ocean of war.  Though they were together... Joe had never felt so alone and alienated from his brother whom he loved so dearly.  He kissed his wife as the spear of pain in his heart continued to bleed him.    Her gentle touch, the scent of fresh rain and her body, her kind warmth... it was all that could remedy such a catastrophic loss. 
It had only been hours since Wolf Blood's death that his body was found.  Pursued by Joseph himself... he was too late.  The marshes had cleared, allowing him to spot the body and pull it from the mire, thus he drug his brother to land and wept.  Having recovered the last of his family, he mounted and made his way back.  It was the dead of night upon Joe's return and his cries of pain had awakened the entirety of the camp.  Marne was the first to find her lover, hunched over the body of a hero, his horse spooked and tired.  Slowly those of the camp made their way out to witness the true face of war... pain and loss were all that was left in the wake of such things and even the young came to know this through Joseph.  Hearing the commotion; Asgrim and his brother came out of the camp.  Their eyes fell low and hearts sank to see another hero claimed by death.  Truly such losses would only breed sorrow and depression in the hearts of those who still trudged on through the Nordic winter...  With the people following suit in mournful crying Joe was lifted up.  The aria of their cries reflecting all of their burdens. 
the loss was devastating; even the Jarl and his brother were touched at the core by such tragedy.  Asgrim, having been saved by this man would not forget his name or his heroism.  The arrow had been halted by the warnings of his voice, he drew away the assassin with his determined pursuit, and he had died in the name of his Jarl 
Back at the camp they lifted the body of Wolf's blood high in honor.  A procession of mourners gathered and his body dressed and placed upon a wooden slat.  They lit torches in the fields and carried them up to the mountains.  In that place the dead were close to the living, graves and memories spoke loudly to those who drew near.  Thus with mournful hearts and torches ablaze the procession ventured high to the tombs of A'lo tharen.  With reverence they entered the catacombs in the side of the mountain, traveling deep into its dark recesses.  The torches lit grim and downcast faces as Jason Vane was laid to rest in that place.  His body put upon a stone altar in the middle of the room.  Prayers were uttered, tears fell, cries echoed amongst the dead.  Amongst this choir of broken hearts was the shattered gaze of Joseph William vane, Knight of the Rhodok realm, Son to a murdered father, brother to a hero...  Tears fells silently down his rugged cheek as he watched breath no longer grace his dearest brother's lips.  The mourners left, the torches were dowsed, and the people returned to their needed sleep... all aside from one... One torch, one soul remained amongst the dead.  Joseph clung their, unwilling to move...
“Brother...  I... rest... I miss you.  I will never be strong without you brother... My only brother... Don't abandon me in this bereaved land of sundered hearts and be-sieged lives... do not abandon me to a world sick with war and treachery... I beg you...”  Joe's voice echoed quietly in the tombs for the duration of the night as he kept vigil over the fallen.  Hour after hour passed and his burning eyes found restful sleep.  In his dreams he wandered that forsaken swamp that had claimed his elder brother's life.  Thus through pool and pond he wandered, brushing bushes aside till he came to a clearing with a bright light.  Standing there was his brother and father, smiling with open arms.  And upon that clearing he was reunited with his family, holding them with flowing tears.  He could hear their voices, feel the capes blowing around them as they spoke.  In his dream his father unsheathed the sword of Vane... an heirloom said lost when his ship was sunk...
“carry it well my son... it will need you and you it before the end.”  Joseph Vane spoke to his son sir William Joseph before fading into the shade of dreams.  Thus he awoke, dry pained eyes seeing nothing but the darkness of the musty tomb about him.  He had fallen asleep upon the chest of his brother.  Brushing his slick black hair from his face he oriented himself and groped around for his torch and upon finding it struck it alight.
Joseph's eyes adjusted slowly to the dancing flames.  He allowed himself to sit there, his heavy mail and tabard burdensome upon his body as he looked around.  The dead nobles of many nations lie in this dark place.  Repose and rest finally taking them from the hardships of the living world.  It was utterly silent, cold, loose sand covered stone floors.  Scooting his foot back, Joe managed to stand himself up after some time, wiping his face with a gloved hand before looking around, his green cape twirling at his ankles as he oriented his way.  Just before he set forward to leave the tombs, an odd sound echoed behind him, the rasp of a blade in its scabbard... then a clatter.  Joe quickly drew his sword and turned at the ready, before him was an open coffin, standing on its end.  The corpse inside was still dressed in courtly garb and its sword had finally been loosed from its decaying scabbard.  He knelt and looked over the blade which was in a surprisingly good condition compared to its former owner and sheath. 
He brushed the blade with his glove and removed the dust from its breadth.  As the torchlight came over the engravings of the sword his eyes widened and mouth went agape.  Upon the blade read the words
“The sword of Vane... defender of the destitute...”  These words held Joe in in shock, the golden hilt and silver quillons shining dimly below the torchlight.  Thus with a shaking hand and confused mind he reached out to scoop up his birthright.  He stood and looked to his fallen brother; speaking with a heavy heart.
“I'm leaving now... rest well brother.  Your name will be my battle cry... your face will be my remembrance.  And with our father's sword which has appeared to me in this sanctified tomb... I will avenge your spilled blood.”  he knelt down to kiss his brother's face once more before taking the light of life with him, stepping out into the mountains that still coursed with rain water and slick mud.  He lifted his face to listen to rolling thunder, took in the fresh scent of rain, the cool winds blowing about his face, whipping his hair and cape about.  There was work to be done... and he would honor his brother in death till he was reunited with him. 
Slowly he made his way down the path, fingers exploring the hilt and pommel of his father's blade.  The weight was unfamiliar, it was new, strange... something he wanted to get to know.  Looking down the path Joe could see the camp below him.  People were just arising from sleep and fires dotted the scene here and there.  Smoke arose and passed his nostrils as the sound of crunching wet gravel made him think of what was to come.  It was chilly and wet and he tugged his cape close to his body, clothed in gambeson, mail, and blue tabard.  His wet black hair hugged his shoulders and jets of warm breath escaped his bearded mouth.  It was cold... gray... there was not happiness nor joy in the sky and the earth was unyielding and harsh to those who now tread upon her surface. 
Joseph made his way into the camp.  People looked grim and winded from the tasks of their lives.  Even putting food in their bellies was weighted with painful memory.  The tents were soaked and the people shivering.  The smell of warm food, hot ales and meads, confections and fire smoke was everywhere.  Beneath his boots was cold hard mud, soaked earth.  This was a miserable place... with miserable motives.  He made his way now to his tent where his wife was still asleep.  Slowly and quietly he pulled his mail over his head and let it come to rest upon its rack, he placed his heirloom into a sheath hanging from the tent walls and pulled off his pants.  Crawling into bed with his beloved, Joe started to drift.  Her body was warn, inviting, soft... with perfect breasts and a toned stomach.  She was a perfect red rose in his mind, lovely and kind to him.  His lips slowly met the back of her neck as he slipped into a restful sleep. 
Outside of his tent and down the way a gathering of nobles was occurring, men of Swadian birth, Rhodok, and Nord.  Discussing their intent for passing the tall mountains that now stood stalwart in their way.  They had to get passed, they had to find the shoreline beyond.  Thus Asgrim and his brother Oren sat and listened.  They would not pass above nor around, it was not their way, the Nordic way.  So they listened, and listened and listened... after hours of deliberation a young girl in black leather spoke, approaching with a bow slung around her toned back, and an axe about her curvacious hips. 
“through the mountains... that is the way.  Passed the tombs is a passage that will lead you to the lakes of Isyr Thane.”  her full lips smiled as she proposed her route to the Jarl.
“Isyr thane... the frozen grave... I know this way brother”  Oren spoke as he looked from his spot near the fire.  “It is a dangerous way... but opens a pass clear and close to the shores we seek... it could work”  Oren cautioned, yet spoke on behalf of this choice.
The girl, tall with black hair and dark eyes grinned, her way was being had without trouble...
“So be it... we go by the way of the frozen graves at sun up.”  The Jarl commanded without recourse.  His mind was resolute and their path decided.  Thus the men went about their way and sheltered themselves from the rains.  This place had not been kind, the skies vengeful and the earth harsh.  It was not a place of joy... this was a land of mourning...

[Shaman Oren of Staghelm]

Collapse...

    Barreling thunder and howling rains made the night before their descent far worse than any before.  Tents flooded, horses were let loose, and supplies were ruined in the wake of this mighty storm.  Yet the people endured this as any other task that was placed upon them.  The banging of thunder and crash of lightning soon becoming common to their thoughts in this place known as the valley of drums.  Throughout the night the winds howled and many were unable to sleep as their thoughts wandered to dark places.  Life was hard and unforgiving in this place and it's trials many and difficult.  Yet still they forged on.  Fires were smothered, their supplies salvaged, and gear packed for the deep dive into the earth that would take them many a night to complete.  As with all deep places of the earth, there were rumors... rumors of evil things and beings hungry for the flesh of humankind.  Word spread of trolls, born of ice and mud that lurked in the dark and forgotten realms of the world.  Fears of the monstrous beasts that would drag you away in sheer blackness where no man could see.  That their very presence would smother torches and plunge the entire army in the abyss. 
The rumors continued to spread, of Isyr thane the frozen graves, where the dead would arise and attack the living to steal their flesh as a suit that they may walk among the living without being discovered.  These rumors grew and grew and got dark... morbid and grotesque.  Soon they reached the ears of the Jarl and His brother, their now trusted Knight Joseph William and the Pandion Knights who guarded them. 
“These rumors will poison the people and cause panic Jarl... they must be quelled before they become an inferno of lies...”  Oren pleaded with Asgrim as he donned his light plates.  The Gothi had traveled many places of the world and knew of the abominations birthed by darkness and sin...
“I agree... this must not continue”  He nodded to the woman commonly called “hench'girl” the one who had shown and suggested the path they now took.  Her real name was Victoria Lionel, a renowned mercenary of the far south.  She nodded and her raven hair bounced with a  sheen before she spun on hard leather heals toward the camp, her legs long, hips taught and curvy.  Her body was a testament to feminine beauty with supple breasts and ivory skin. 
“I don't like this woman... She smells of suspicion...”  Artisia looked up at her lover Oren with a worried expression.  It was not jealousy that drove her to dislike the new woman, merely the way she carried herself.  A stride and jaunt that resounded of prideful secrets.  Art looked back at her other lover Murrow and frowned.  Murrow, now in full commitment to the couple returned the look, worried for Oren's trust and Art's stress.  She had come to adore the camp, falling in love with Art and letting go some of her barriers.
“Arti... just... keep an eye on her.  I don't like her, she seems the kind of woman who would put out for a sweet roll... she's a snake...”  Murrow sneered as she watched Victoria disappear amongst the camp to perform her duty.  Having let her hair grow out, Murrow seemed now a bit more lady like, much to the chagrin of the stray hand that found her backside... leading to a swift broken finger or tooth knocked loose.  It was common knowledge, the moans and squeals of the two women becoming part of the normal camp noises at night.  Their love was something of fairy tales, devoted, never satisfied, un-compromising.
Oren watched the two women prepare Dawn-stride for the journey.  He himself was still unused to the situation in his life.  They both loved him without question... they both wanted him and no other man, yet still they gave themselves to each-other.  His mind had never grasped such a thing where two women gave themselves fully to a man and woman without conflict.  He did not object to their devotions, neither to him nor each-other.  He couldn't imagine the reprimand and mockery he would be subjected too if he did not truly enjoy being fucked by two women near nightly...  As he pondered his thoughts he was approached again by Murrow.
“Listen to us... we know this type of woman and she's bad news Oren... Please, don't listen too much to what she says, alright?”  Murrow leaned forward to kiss his lips as he thought, her warm tongue snaking into his mouth to play and tug at his...  With a gentle nod he acknowledged her, the feeling of her lips always welcoming and soothing to his burdened mind.  She tugged him forward roughly and grabbed his ass before popping her tongue out of his mouth and snickering.
“I expect someone with a heart like you to listen to the women that love him...”  Murrow spoke with a snide but consoling voice to those who could hear it.  Her leather clad body turning with a wink at him before strolling over to her pack.  Nearly everyone had packed up entirely and was ready to move out and Oren couldn't help but wonder what darkness lie ahead of them.  Was it the lack of light... or the howling dark in the hearts of men that they should fear.  His worse thought was of the Isyr legend itself... the beast that had been sealed down in the depths long before man had tread upon this forgotten ground.
Soon the caravan was entirely packed and began their walk to the mouth of the tunnel.  It was a long path, down into the earth that would lead them under the mountain and out the other side to a frozen land near the ocean.  It was fairly straightforward without any detours or delays.  As the caravan approached the entrance they lit dozens of torches and clung close to their loved ones.  The rumors and tales had grown wild and terrifying and even the Pandion knights were reluctant to put themselves in such a place.  Yet onward they strode, slowly moving hundreds of people into the dark maw of the earth, swallowing them hole in blackness till not a soul remained in the valley of drums. 
There they stood, looking down at a slow descent into the mountain.  Torchlight flickered and slowly began to play tricks with the shadows as gremlins and goblins darted between stalagmites sticking up toward the cave entrance.  It was cold, stagnant air that smelt of earth and torch-smoke that filled their lungs, crunching gravel beneath their feet.  Moving forward the caravan seemed uneasy, whispering dark nonsense that only fueled their minds growing torture. 
“I'm not letting that bitch out of my sight...”  Murrow whispered into Artisia's ear as she sat snugly behind her in the saddle.  Victoria had been riding next to Oren for quite some time as they spoke, just out of ear shot.
“If she touches him I'll take the hand... don't you worry”  Art responded jealously.  She did no welcome the thought of a buxom woman drawing Oren's attentions from her.  She knew his business was regarding the army and not her body, yet still she couldn't help her jealously protective nature. 
“I should just fucking shoot her right now...”  Murrow growled, fingering her bow slowly as she entertained the delicious thought over, and over again.  Both women went silent for a bit as they watched, wishing they could hear the conversation.  It was likely regarding the cave ahead of them, even they knew this, but they didn't care... she seemed threatening for some dark reason that they couldn't understand...
While riding next to Oren, Victoria kept a sly smirk hidden under a polite smile.  Her voice was a velvety smooth song and seemed to keep the older brother of the Jarl well attended to her words.  She kept the topic slow, almost dull, to be sure that he would speak more instead of listening.  Her eyes however kept glancing ahead.  It had been seven hours since they started in and they were nearing her destination.  Oren did not notice the suspicious behavior, his thoughts trailing to the bedside from the night before where he was sent into wiles of blissful orgasm time and again by his lovers, all the while in cadence with the thunder and lightning. Thus she did not worry about him noticing her bright blue eyes darting ahead, her raven hair flickering in the torchlight with slight turns of her head. It was all perfect... her plan was finally coming to a head.
The Jarl rode at the head of the formation, Oren and Victoria a dozen yards behind.  The spacing was her own obstacle, easily avoided. 
“Excuse me Gothi, I have words for Asgrim”  She smiled and with a turn of her head she trotted forward, whispering into Asgrim's ear before secretly sliding a hand up his leg.  He grinned and nodded back to her and the pair road toward the back, Asgrim winking all the while at his brother.  As they passed Oren sighed with a shake of his head, urging Art and Murrow to ride next to him and talk.
“She's... odd... boring really”  Oren confessed to them after they had inquired of their conversation.  He smiled at them in the torchlight and continued.
“She struggles to really keep my attentions at all.  My mind could only think of the thunder in...and out of our bed last night...”  he grinned while nodding to them from the saddle.  They in turn snickered, Murrow pinching Art's waist from behind playfully.
“However, my brother will put himself inside anything wet and warm... as what appears to be happening soon with him and this new woman...  He doesn't tend to ask questions when his cock is grabbed in secret...”  Oren shook his head knowingly as he stared forward, terrified to see what may be transpiring behind him.  Thus onward they rode, the rumors still spreading, Oren and his two companions trading loving looks, and Asgrim near the back, trying to disrobe while astride a warhorse.
“damned... cloak...”  Asgrim grunted as he struggled with it.  He had been embarrassed as he fought his own clothing for freedom, attempting the clasps time and again while steering his horse forward.  Victoria rode next to him with a mirthful grin, laughing inside as the Jarl struggled to get naked for something to simple as a quicky from horseback.  Her smile hid only bane however as she glared at the target she had failed to slay with her bow.  It was disgusting to her that she had to use her own body as a means to kill what was in her mind, a simpleton. 
“Its easy Asgrim... just do what I do...”  She spoke seductively to him as she leaned forward and allowed her breasts to peek out from a  loose fitting shirt.
“see... just let it out sweety...”  She grinned, watching his eyes stare down at her chest. 
“allow me to show you the way”  She reached over and placed a hand over his manhood before drawing a lace from his pants.  The Jarl closed his eyes and sighed with happiness at what was to come, all the while she secretly tied the lace to the saddle, binding him by the seat of his pants.
“Mmm this is going to be tasty...”  she moaned into his ear as she slid a knife from the back of her saddle.
“Don't open your eyes... imagine beautiful things Jarl...”  She continued to whisper as she readied her strike, luring him into a sense of peace and calm.  Her eyes, still darting forward, spotted the white stone she had placed on her way past and she halted their horses.
“I've never sucked on a Jarl before... I'm going to dismount so I can do this right...”  Her words came as honey, masking poison.  Thus she dismounted and dowsed her torch.  He could feel her warm hands moving into his pants, then a sharp pang of pain in his groin.  His eyes shot open and he reached down to feel a knife I his belly, he heard an evil cackle then the thundering of collapsing stones.  Back at the front of the caravan the roar of the cave in could be heard, Oren spun his horse and galloped back toward the darkness, finding Victoria running half naked with tears in her eyes.  She threw herself onto his leg and wailed with cries of mourning. 
“I was... relieving the Jarl as he commanded me too and the cave came down upon him as he undressed behind a spire!  I ran as fast as I could but its sealed off!”  She frantically cried and wailed.  The caravan was halted and immediately a search began to find the body of their beloved leader.  Hours passed and soon they realized the dire nature of what had happened.  This was solid rock that had come down... they had neither the strength nor torches to last long enough to dig... The Jarl of Stag-helm was lost...
“We cannot stay here to dig... we will run out of torches and energy and all die here if we do not press onward!”  Oren spoke to the people,their combative arguments and complaints working against him as he tried to reason.  After some time of arguing they relented and the caravan urged forward.  Time passed and soon after they found their way out of the tunnel.
Daylight now spilled over the people's faces, dirty and tired from the long trek through the tunnel.  They now found themselves at Isyr Thane... the frozen graves.  And when they had all emerged from the tunnel they all saw the reason why this place was called thus.  All about them lied the frozen bodies of men and women, children and horses who had not been able to find their way from this canyon.  It was a graveyard of standing people, frozen in time as they had succumb to the chilling ice all around them.  For the cavern walls were themselves a glacier,  the air frigid and dry.    Bright sunlight reflected off of the cavern walls and allowed no detail of the grotesque place to be hidden. 
Onward they marched.  Through statues of frozen men, their faces mournful of their own deaths, downhill between the walls of frozen waters.  It was excruciatingly freezing for the men, their skin crawling to find warmth.  Even the air itself bit and cut the throat and lungs.  It was truly miserable, trudging through deep snow, past such a horrific sight.  The woman Victoria, however, seemed nearly un-phased by the mannequins of death surrounding them all.  Her dark hair and catlike body carried themselves in the same fashion, she seemed almost content, accomplished in her mind.  Dusk came over the frozen wastes and the people began to wonder if their destination would be achieved before they joined the faces of the dead.  Fear again crept into the peoples hearts, hoping to claw its way in.  yet just as the sun winked out over the horizon a scout spotted the navy of the Rhodok kingdom, moored just off the coast of the icy shores.  Cries of triumph resounded throughout the Swadian resistance as they raced toward the coast.  The sound of gentle waves and the site of the powerful naval force was an inspiration.  They found hope renewed as their eyes settled upon their salvation. 
The cold winds whipped about Oren's shoulders as he feared the recourse of losing the Jarl.  Command needed to be taken and the army assured of its continuity.  His heart sank, pushing out mourning till he was able to rest.  Thus he sat upon the cold gravely beach, watching as Rhodok schooners ferried the survivors out to waiting warships... Their trials had just begun.

[Shaman Oren of Staghelm]

Part 3:  Loss and love
"Why now... of all times, now..."  Oren's mind raced hard with an ache that could only be matched by the sight of her lifeless body.  It had been a long trip North from the shore and illness had taken root in the ranks of what remained of Asgrim's army, now in the hands of his older brother Oren.  The shaman's eyes burned, his face seemed haggard.  For a day now he'd been sitting alone in the bottom of the ship, holding the Body of Artisia Dyria in his arms.  She had taken the worse of the illness, a flu that seemed to chill to the very bone.  Her death was slow, painful as she expelled everything from her stomach over a few hours.  This vomitting had slowly turned to dry heaves, until finally the blood came.  The fever burned her and caused dillusions that eventually got the young woman locked in a cell where she began to chew on her own tongue from pain and the growing insanity of the deadly illness.  Within a day she had passed from dehydration and blood loss due to this, Frozen plague. 
Oren had watched every moment of her decay, watching the beautiful young woman he had come to love wither away and lose all that made her unique.  His pleadings with the ships captain had gone largely unheard, sitting out before his cabin in the biting, howling winds as the ship slowly creaked up the coast with the rest of the fleet.  The winters of this land were harsh, unforgiving, and lethal and even the ship seemed to shudder under the burden it carried.  Snow's fell gently, however... almost mockingly upon the frozen armies as they tried to pass the time, huddling around deck fires and stomaching what brews and broths they could.  It seemed the only sounds in this ghost sea was that of a dying woman and her lover, begging with God and man to be empowered against it.  Yet still, the day passed, the sun rose on the trudging fleet and soon overcast skies gave way to the realit of her death.  Below the decks Oren continued to stare into her lifeless face, no more tears came from his burned eyes, no more shakes and callings of her name.  He now only stared, her body lying in his arms as he sat on the ships bottom floor, the lanturn nearby swaying with the movements of the frozen voyager that carried them on a sea too shallow to contain his sorrow.  "Wait for me... wait for me for I cannot bear breathing without you drawing air from the same sky... seeing when you no long can see the beauty of day... I cannot bare to live when you no longer sing..."  Oren's thoughts grew more and more bitters as her face grew cold, her skin pale.  Only the touch of her soft brown hair could comfort the stinging pain that was taking root in his heart. 
As day turned to night, the ship's crew approached the storage where Oren had taken hold, cradling the body of a woman who had once saved his life. 
"Lad... time t'throw it over board.  No reason for us all to die."  The man who entered the door spoke, wearing a heavy fur, his bearded face shadowed by the dim lanturn that seemed to be winking out in the presence of such a burdened soul, drawing all light and joy from the room in an attempt to keep from succumbing to crushing loss.  "Give me the body..."
"I will not let you take her from me... I can't lose her..."  Oren's hoarse voice spoke in the dark, the lanturn winking out as though his very words had commanded it's silence.  He looked up to the doorway, daylight spilling in from the deck above.  "I can't lose her..."  REpeating himself, the shaman seemed mindless, as though she were simply sleeping. 
"Take the body... he seems to be in dillusions..."  The man spoke behind him, his words muffled by the wind above and wood that cried out with the broken man's soul.  On que two men walked in, lifting her body from the man's arms.  They swiftly carried her away, lifting the frozen, decaying body up the stairs.  As they began their ascent, Oren too stood and carried his body begrudgingly toward the stairs. 
Back up on deck, the soldiers and sailors had moved to a side, and a veil prepared for the dead woman.  Three men lifted a stretcher that she had been placed on and moved toward the southern rail, preparing to release her into her watery tomb.  Oren could do nothing but watch as her face, pale and peaceful as the fresh snow, moved from the wind, taunting his shattered heart.  Despite his exhaustion and dehydration, another tear slipped from his eye, racing down his cheek to kiss at the cold skin, pulling his mind back to the nights spent with her.  He closed his eyes, feeling the wind whisper her name in his ears as the sound of a splash heralded the dead into her frozen tomb. 
"Artisia!"  Oren screamed finally, his voice more of a bloodied rasp than that of a man.  He rushed to the side rail and watched as her beautiful hair wreathed a pale face and white gowned body, slowly sinking into the deeping sea, surrounding her with frozen blue stones that would seal her from him for the eternity of his being.  "My love... My..."  He cried out, falling to his knees on the deck as the rest of the crew and army watched, sniffling and quiet cries besetting many of them as their Jarls replacement was stung with the cruel blade of loss.  "Rest... my love, and wait for me..."  Oren's mind prayed in place of his broken voice, closed eyes picturing her smile, one last time.  With opened eyes, he then stood and looked about the crowd.  They in turn looked to him, as if clinging to him for some form of reassurance.  Perhaps they thought that the death of even his lover could be an omen, or perhaps that he would die in the night of grief. 
"Oren... take heart, you will see her again."  Joseph vane spoke to him quietly, stepping forward from the crowd.  Behind him stood his love, Marne, who watched him with deep brown eyes.  Her red hair stood out from the crowd despite it's frozen and mired state.  As she watched Joseph she seemed to will upon him a soul of consolement and wisdom to offer the shattered and vexed leader that the frozen armies now desperately looked too for guidance.  "No long does she suffer this war, pain, or watching your hurt... as she looks down for you she will see your strength and happiness.  She will wait for you, above, hoping for you again to see her face." 
Oren listened to the man, though he was young, his heart was true.  He could sense the pain that Joseph had felt not long ago, experience and wisdom grown in fields of love and the will to uphold those that were crushed so painfully below the heel of despair.  As he listened he couldn't help but feel that belief was the only weapon now that could fend off the jaws of his sorrow.  Thus, with a nod, he offered his hand up for joseph to take, watching the young knight's eyes with a renewed sense of inspiration.  "His part in this tale has yet to be seen..."  Oren thought to himself as Joseph helped him to his feeth, brushing snow from the Shaman's fur's. 
"The people look to you, Oren of Staghelm... our Jarl is no more, they need hope."  Joseph continued, his dark brown hair blowing in the wind as he looked out over not only their own boat, but the fleet that seemed to silently glide on the sea of glass beneath them.  The win itself even ushered in a feeling of loneliness, as though the boats were loud intruders in a long undisturbed graveyard.
With this, Oren turned to face the crowd.  Many of them shed tears of their own, loss and pain having run rampant amongst the people, wreaking death and decay amongst their ranks.  They huddled together, clasping blankets and their loved ones close as though they might be taken by specters from the mists that seemed to follow the boats.  "You look to me... for strength, resilience, and reassurance in un-assured times...  yet no man is a mountain upon wich he can shelter the nations of the world.  No man is a bastion against the howling wolves of death and loss.  I am but a man, a man you all look toward for faith and comfort in this... frozen hell.  I tell you this, now, that not one of us is out of deaths reach.  Cling to eachother, find hope, faith, and love where you can and with that light flames to ward away the creeping darkness that crowds around us...  If we cannot come to bind ourselves together in hard times... then we are nothing but snow to melt away in the spring."  Oren's words came from a heavy heart, urging them to look to eachother for strength, not one man.  Wisdom in spite of agony.
With those words he turned, facing away from them as the wind pushed at his furred cape, giving him the appearance of a ghost.  He walked toward his own cabin on the ship, pressing frozen finger tips to the chilled door before striding in with a heave of his broken heart.
“Oren, wait!”  Murrow called to him from behind as she pressed out of the gathered people.  Her footsteps thudded heavily on the deck as her leather clad body emerged from the crowd and ran after him, rushing into his cabin before he could close the door.  As she came in, a small gust of wind pushed snow about her, swirling around her young form and giving her an ethereal appearance.  “Oren... wait... please, do not give in to this.  You know that you are not without hearth of love... you have me, your Murrow...”  She stepped to him, taking him firmly in her arms as he chest came to press against his.  Her cherry lips met his and the creak of frozen leather filled his ears.  He could smell the lavender oil that she had always worn, feel frozen buckles and straps that held the leather armor to her body... her small breasts as they kissed at his chest, as though trying to comfort the heart that took blow, after blow.  Thus she continued to embrace him, even if he tried to get out of her arms, she held him there and let her lips express what she felt her words could not.  The feeling of a warm body, the gentle caress of a lovers tongue, all of these were medicines he needed and that now only she possessed in this frozen prison.
As night fell upon the boat the people bed down, resting after a long day watching their new leader suffer loss.  Inside of Oren's cabin, however, a new love was sparking.  Murrow had lied him down and now pulled at the sash holding his tunic.  “Relax... not all things are evil in the frozen dark”  She breathed her words into his ear, her warm breath teasing at his skin.  Soon, his sash gave way to her prying and found it's way to the deck floor.  She then sat up, straddling his waist and looked down into his eyes, looking at those dark green orbs so full of pain,  her hands then moved up from her thighs and under his tunic, pulling it up as they made their way along his belly and chest.  Murrow could feel the scars of her lover, how the steel of his enemies had come so close to their mark, but were made to wait upon the day that the fates would see Oren hewn from the world.  Thus she continued, slowly sliding her warm, soft hands up his form until she could pull his tunic up and away from his body, pushing his arms back down while she leaned forward to kiss him again with a fiery passion that would threaten the very ice bergs of the ocean around them.  He could feel her thighs tightening around his waist, the wait of her small body as she pinned his arms down, his tongue tasted at her lips as they remained locked in that loving kiss.  “Rest... there is much stress to be undone.”  Murrow's young voice again drifted to him through the dimly lit room, her chestnut brown hair tickling at his bare chest and neck as she spoke.  Within moments of her words, Oren heard the clink of brass buckles, the moan of stretching leather, and the thud of a chest piece falling to the floor.  It was too dark to make out intimate detail, but he could see her milky skin, fresh and smooth like a fine cream.  Her body leaned back again, almost as if begging him to look, to take in every inch that he could see.  Even Murrow's hands played a part in drawing him away from his stress and toward something new, something that would heal him.  She took up his hands in her own, moving them over her soft, trim belly, slowly having him paint waves on her skin with imaginary brushes, before cupping them over her breasts.  She held them there, watching his face as she did.
“You know how I feel... and I know you feel the same... Honor that love, Oren.  Don't be ashamed of me.”  She spoke quietly, using her grip on his hands to have him massage her tender orbs, her hips ever tighter as they hugged his legs, the leather pressing firmly to his woolen trousers 
It wasn't shame that held his heart in a cell, it was embarrassment or some feeling of time needed to heal.  He was simply, in shock from the events that had stolen love and family from him.  He could only look up at her, young and full of potential, dangerous yet so loving. 
“I never took shame in you, Murrow... never...”  Oren finally spoke while closing his eyes to attempt to clear his mind.
“Good... after tonight you will know all of me... and hopefully your word will remain as so.”  Murrow's lips spoke quietly to him, whispering words she intended only for her lovers ears.  As she did she scooted back, lifting her backside up to slip off the leather riding pants and drop them to the floor.  In turn she reached ahead, stretching out like a cat as she pulled Oren's pants away from his legs and dropping them to the floor as though they were a nuisance.  After she let them go, she turned her eyes back to him, taking in every inch of his body.  “His skin is a tale of it's own...”  Murrow's eyes nearly widened at the tapestry of scars that covered him, her fingers drew in even more as they slowly moved up his thighs, stopping between his legs as she began to comfort and relax him slowly.
“Just relax... I don't like being on bottom...”  She giggled as she bit her lower lip, pulling and pushing at him gently.  So he did, closing his eyes and lying into the fur bed as Murrow's lips slowly made their way up to her hands, continuing their work while her hands massaged his tense muscles, holding his hands after a short time and clinging to them.  Oren could here her quiet moans, the sound of the bed groaning as she moved with his now shuddering form.  All the while his heart raced, mind swam, and beads of sweat rolled off of his chest as tears of relief.  For a long while she continued, her eyes closed, picturing him from when they had first met, remembering his smiling face, how his hands would hold his spear or bow.  It as love truly love that drove her, made her mad for him. 
After what seemed like hours, she took her mouth from him with a wet pop, laughing quietly as she drooled slightly onto the bed. 
“Now...it's my turn”  She whispered, sidling up his legs until her warm waits cradled his own.  Her body again leaned forward, pressing her bare chest to his in order to allow her kisses to reach his lips.  Then, locked lip with lip she reached down and slid him inside of her with a gasp that played at her arousal.  Slowly, back and forth Murrow began rocking her hips against his, gasping and breathing in deeper, and deeper.  Her hands would not leave his, her lips frequently finding his in the dark as though they would perish if left vacant for too long. 
“Oren... tell... me... of your love...”  Murrow gasped, her hands curling into his chest as her back arched.  “tell me... of your... mhh love for me...”  Again, she attempted her request, mingling speech with gasping and curling digits and toes.
“I... never wanted ill for you... you've always been kind... and for this I've felt drawn to you... as the flower yearns for the sun in spring... or the moon chases the sun in the heavens... I will... chase you...”  Oren's voice cooed in the dark, his gasping and breathing labored from the sensations that held him firmly, erasing stress and anguish from his mind and body.  After confessing the depth of his feelings he opened his eyes, looking up at the young girl, her soft breasts bouncing with her labored and hungry grinding, her cherry lips pinched between her teeth as wave after wave of stimulation ran up her spine over and over.  She could feel her mind numbing as pleasure mingled with his words of love, giving her what she had wanted to hear from the day she met him.  Over and over a tingling tide of sensual ripples shot up her spine.  Gasping and curling her fingers against Oren's shoulders, Murrow felt herself nearing the end, thus she leaned in pressing her erect nipples against the breadth of his chest to whisper as she released in union with her lover.
“I love you Oren...”  And with that Murrow gave out, her body clamping around his flesh as the two clung to each-other, releasing as their love was realized.

The sun seemed to rise brighter the next morning.  A warm wind had carried the fleet fast during the night and they were within eyesight of the port they had been making way for.  Not a cloud lingered in the sky, no flakes of snow, and no biting winds to chill or shake the passengers.  They had made it, and it brought to them a great sense of relief.  Ice and snow dropped in large chunks from the ships as they made their approach and the faces of the people seemed to drop their haggard and defeated looks.  Soon they would have warm food, warm beds, and a chance to collect themselves.  On the flagship, Oren's ship.  Joseph vane, his lover Marne, Oren, Murrow and many others were already feeling a renewed sense of ambition.  Ready to take on the world once more.
“Oren, we're approaching the docks.  The people will be relying upon you for strength, leadership in this hard time... are you ready?”  Joseph asked, putting his hand on the shaman's shoulder as he looked out from the bow of the ship.

“Aye... I am.  I wouldn't be, however... if I didn't have such people to lead.”  Oren's response was accompanied with a breath of fresh air.  His eyes lit up as he looked upon the Nordic houses of the dockyard.  The wooden and stone keep just on the hill, wreathed in a blaze of the morning sun.  He was truly ready for what must be done, ready to lead, to fight and to die.

“Oren, dearest.  I'm so sorry to hear of Arty's passing... Surely you're not too distraught?  If so, I can offer you some... comfort if needed.  Just ask honey pot and I'm here for you...”  Suddenly a voice spoke from behind he and Joseph, it was a sultry voice, almost dripping with over exaggeration.  Yet at the same time this voice was absolutely sincere.  As he turned he noticed the raven haired woman that had only recently joined their party, just before the passing of Jarl Asgrim in the tunnel.  Victoria, still wearing clothing unfitting of decent company, stood leaning on the mast of the ship.  Her dress seamed to scream for attention as he breasts clung desperately to the inside of their silken bindings, her legs wound tight in a black garment.

“No, Victoria.  I will not take comfort in my... in the Jarl's woman.  And it was the Jarl you took such interest in, is it not?”  Oren Ashwood of Staghelm had regained his keen intellect and drive and stood ready as she approached. 
“Aye, it was... but only because I like men with... power.”  Victoria’s hand had made it's way to Oren's belt-line, quickly drawing the burning gaze of Murrow who was preparing horses for the docks.  Despite her violently protective nature, she watched.  Oren, knowing that this was not normal, stepped back and furrowed his brow. 
“Your attempts are misplaced.  I have my own woman, now please... take your desires elsewhere.”  Oren spoke disdainfully as he turned to Murrow, shedding light on his love for her again through this display of resolution to her.

“My desires will remain where I please, Oren, Brother of Asgrim... My enemy...”  Victoria glared at him from her place by the mast with eyes darker than that of the black widow.

[Shaman Oren of Staghelm]

***Reserved for next piece (Pt.4)***

[Shaman Oren of Staghelm]

This space is dedicated to a visual aethetic used to portray the characters in the novel, thus better vivify the minds eye when one reads.  We will start with a few bio's and I will add more as I come across fitting pictures and can clearly see the actors on stage  as they appear in the book.





Jarl Asgrim of Staghelm

[Image: maxi_149178.jpg]



Oren Ashwood of Staghelm

[Image: joeledgerton_kingarthur.jpg]




Artisia Derya

[Image: Kahlan+20.jpg]




Sir Joseph William Vane

[Image: KOHInternetPic2.jpg]




Marne Vane

[Image: isla-fisher-3-sized.jpg]




King Ragnar

[Image: 4123570_gal.jpg]




Murrow

[Image: kristenstewartsnowhite.jpg]




Wolf's Blood

[Image: tristan__king_arthur_by_mrahn.jpg]

[Legend]

ah i see ^^ , so youre identifiyng your char with some of the LOTR actors? and wolfs died? , btw let some people die makes this really going deeper imho,. good work!

[Wolfsblood]

I DIED!!!??

[Jarold]

Oh no murrows the annoying twilight girl! BAN HE!