28-07-2012, 05:45 AM
This piece is still a work in progress. However after 3.5k plus words it gets tiresome haveing to read ye olde wall of text. enjoy and stay posted for the next addition to this scene 
Resounding.
“Breathe Oren... Don't you dare let go...” Artisia Derya's voice pleaded from her tent in the stag-helm camp. The tall granite walls of the surrounding mountains caused hers and the many other voices about her to echo in the night air. Soft snow and tall pines blanketed the slopes and halted all voices before they escaped the valley and a pale moon shone down to light the surrounding woods with an eery and near spiritual glow. A chilly wind blew through the camp, rustling furs and canvas flaps as it made its way through. Fires and cold men fought against the elements as they huddled near to each-other, weathering the effects of the past snow storm just a night ago. Ambush after ambush had heightened the senses of the men, new companions, and familiar enemies have made their flight from Praven interesting now that they had nearly reached their destination. New comers made their way about the camp; three men renowned for their highway banditry and nicknames, a battle hardened Nord missing three fingers and adorned with a golden claw, and a young couple... Marne and Joseph William vane have all found themselves walking toward the same end as the stag-helm mercenaries. Along with these were also two survivors from the siege of Praven One of them, a dark and secluded man; called himself wolfs blood The other, constantly drinking and subjecting himself to a powerful herbal narcotic was known as Gashy; the tale he told was from his childhood, having received the name from a bloody accident had in a street brawl. These two men stayed secluded and on the outskirts of camp; their business their own aside from the familiar enemy... the Nordic empire. Some months now have passed since that day when Jarl Asgrim of Stag-helm had crossed steel with King Ragnar of the now Swadian empire... Some months since Swadia had announced claim to Nordlund and bastardized both kingdoms. The Jar was weary, his friends few and enemies many. Even his lifetime friend and personal Shaman, Oren, was battling a vicious disease... an onset side effect of the assassins blade. The very assassin who now lied in a ditch below Swadia's walls, a mass of bones and torn clothing, his jaws still open from his pathetic screaming as Asgrim himself slung him over the walls before the siege. He suffered greatly now, the fever and pain clawing and biting at him as starved Worgs to tender flesh. The Khergit slave woman, Artisia, had grown now into a lover of the Gothi. She never left his side and attended every waking and unspoken need of the man with loving adoration. Word was spreading through stag-helm that soon there would be a makeshift wedding... finally a day to celebrate light in what the entire countryside of Calradia viewed as a great time of darkness.
Back in the Gothi's pavilion the pleading voice of his love could still be heard. The guards in front of the tent kept their eyes busy, staring at nearby blazing braziers as they listened to her painful begging.
“This is not where you are to leave... your spirit must remain for me love... “ Her hand continued to stroke his face gently, dipping and wringing a rag with warm water to dab upon his face as he slept... viewing feverish dreams sent by gods above. His body lied upon a bed of rope and wood that held a soft mattress for him to rest upon, his head lying upon a linen and feather pillow. She kept stroking his hair back, resting one of her soft hands upon his as her brown eyes watched him and waited for any sign of progress. Her night gown was thin, too thin to keep out the cold and she shivered lightly now and then as chills of cold winds and nervous worry came over her. Her long brown hair was let down for once, not tied up into a Khergit styled topknot as per usual.
“I am here waiting for you Nord... Do not make me wait long for you... do not leave me alone in this foreign land of false kings and broken oaths...” her voice cracked as she began to tear for her beloved. Leaning in to rest her gentle face upon his chest she began to cry, clinging to his sundered body as she wept for salvation.
“He's a tough bastard that Shaman... Not once have I seen him take a blow that he cannot weather. He's much like the world tree... the tree of life itself. Deep rooted and firm. Do not fear for his life woman... just care for him and heal his body. We will need him soon.” A sudden and gruff voice spoke as Asgrim strode into the tent. His hair was tied back over his head in true Nordic fashion and he was adorned in a Nordic lords tunic and caplet. They did not fear ambush attack in this place for even the “Nords of Praven” as they were called mockingly; would not go to a dark and rumored place like the black valley. He sat, mead-horn in hand and weathered look in his eyes.
“take... drink...” He spoke again to the still stunned woman. Her eyes were wide and stared forward as the honorable Jarl spoke to her as though she were his equal; even offering to her a horn of his own mead. With a nod and a deep sigh of stress she took the horn and guzzled its contents without hesitation. Her lips tingled at the Nordic drink and she came to find that she loved its taste and feel.
“its... good” She spoke sheepishly, her Khergit accent thick and exotic to those who were not of the country.
“Jarl... this fever, it eats away at his body as ravenous wolves. I cannot stand to lose him. I cannot bear such a wound...” The poor girls eyes filled with hot tears as she gazed down at the one man she had come to love in this wretched land. Her soft hands continued to caress his face, glistening with beads of sweat as the fever continued to run its course. Behind his closed eye lids danced weary eyes, viewing dark dreams and prophetic waves. He could see her in his dreams, he could feel her touch, hear her voice. In his dreams he wandered a dark wood and sought after this woman. Despite his searching efforts he could not seem to close the distance.
“Is this my fate... to wander the shade till my body and mind are consumed... will I not ever speak of my love to she that has claimed it?” His thoughts continued to race. In his dream he came to a grove, sanctified and holy in its place. Upon this grove sat a dark Raven, looking at him with only one eye. This raven held in its talons the banners of Nordlund and Swadia
“yes.. I understand...” He spoke to this messenger of the Aesir. Sitting in his spot he waited for her embrace to come to him...
The Jarl looked at her with weary eyes. His face was strong, decided, firm. Yet despite his north-wind hardened countenance he still betrayed his weakness for this possible loss. He and Oren had lived their lives together. Learned to fight as children under the same thane. Learned of drink, of women, and of the pain of loss as brothers. And brothers they were, few knew of Oren's blood tie to the Jarl, but many viewed them as close enough to be born from the same womb. He was older, Oren, and wiser. His eyes had seen much and learned many lessons in his twenty five years and it had made his mind his most valuable tool. They both were present when their father was slain by a Rhodok quarrel. The sight of blood flowing so freely from a man they thought indestructible was a shaking and powerful lesson.
“All men bleed...” Their father spoke as he looked at his sons... tired and bloodied from war. This lesson... All men bleed, was their greatest strength and darkest fear.
“He is strong, woman. His blood flows through a resilient body. His daylight will not end in this valley. I've seen many spears and swords attempt his life... but they have not succeeded... he will not die a thanes death. For it isn't steel that has the power to claim his life.” The Jarl tried to speak consolingly to her. He knew of her love; they all did. And this love that she held for his brother would keep him strong in the dreams that Asgrim knew he was dreaming. The shaman of the Nordic religions chose their wives carefully for it was the soul that they found beauty in and many years would pass before any Gothi could find someone who's soul sang the same song as their own. Asgrim stroked a hand back over his tied hair and then ran it down to scratch his beard as he watched his brother resting in his bed. Could the assassins knife still be causing such damage. His fever was deep and rooted, perhaps this foe would continue to bane them even after being slain and humiliated... Asgrim's thoughts raced in his head as his eyes looked on.
“Continue to look after him. I don't want you to leave this tent unless it is commanded. If you need anything, ask a guard and it will be granted without question.” With a grunt of frustration Asgrim stood and walked out of the tent, giving his orders to the guard to do as she commands unless his word over rode it. As he walked through the drifting snow back toward his own tent he passed the new young couple and eyed them momentarily. The man was of average height and build with long wavy black hair and fair features for a man. His name was Joseph William vane and he was known throughout Calradia for his skill with a lance from horseback. His wife, a shy and submissive woman was of a small build with a smaller chest and long fiery red hair. Her lips had a uniquely rose flare and her eyes a soft and kind expression, Marne was her name. Asgrim continued on to his tent crunching through wet snow and mud as he looked forward.
The camp was lit by torch and brazier, banners of thanes who had defected now flew near their tents as they gathered together near hot fires and warm kettles. The snows continued to drift down quietly and even the overcast sky had a feeling of rest about it. Their flight from Praven had lasted months. King Ragnar himself had lead several expeditions far past Swadian lines to attempt to catch Asgrim the “traitor” a title only recognized by the Nords of Praven The ambushes had been many, all had failed. The losses of stag-helm, though few and far between, were all deeply felt in the camp; each life lost a coal added to their growing blaze of determination and hatred. This camp now was not a camp of rest for the weary, it was a temporary halt on their march for vengeance.
He came upon his tent with the Stag-helm banner flying high and proud and stepped in with a sigh of frustration. Throwing his mead-horn hard at the far wall he let out an angry roar, cursing the name of Ragnar and his underhanded blades-man With fury in his heart he tore through his tent, the sound of clattering armor and steel resounded through the valley as the Jarl's rage boiled over. This was his last family. His own brother... strong and beautiful, being scourged by a pathetic excuse for a corpse. This was unbelievable... such treachery reaching out so far into the wild... His rage subsided in time as the camp began to bed down, men sleeping deeply as the winter storms continued to assail them. Joseph and Marne, both Swadian birth, had never wintered such extremes and found themselves blanketed in seven layers of furs. This truly was a storm of note. As Asgrim lied upon his bed, hands over his face, he thought deeply. His prayers lifted up to the Aesir in confusion and anger.
“Why do you flog me with these trials. Has my faith to your ways not served you well? Has my brother not bled for you and your rituals? Why do you allow this bastard king to sit upon a throne and wield your name with such vile filth in his heart?” The prayers came throughout the night, even the guards noticed their Jarl's restlessness, calling in a pair of camp maidens in to sooth him. Thus in due time the women of the night did their work and the camp went silent, even the mighty Jarl slept now, nude women on either side. The howling winds and freezing snows continued their way down to the earth and despite their biting bitterness, did not assault the camp as harshly as they were... gentle winds blowing from the far north had directed the worse of the storm west.
The following morning woke slowly. The sun rose over a frozen camp and the voices of the men came slowly with the songbirds in the trees. Fires were stoked, meals cooked, and laughter began to come forward. For with this rising sun came a new day and new life. Many rumored that the Aesir were indeed strong tale wide and that they had brought a healing wind down upon their camp. That there was no place that their prayers and cries were not heard. For with this new sunny morning, shining bright off of the tall pine graced slopes, descending upon a bright valley rumored to never see the sun, was a new start for the sick and deathly. Rumors spread, and spread, growing smiles and joy as they made their way to the Jarl's ears. Disbelief filled his mind until the voice of Artisia Derya Cried out with elation, a squeal of resounding happiness. Asgrim pushed the nude women from his side and dashed from his tent, not but trousers upon his body as beard and long hair blew in the wind. His bare feet froze in the slush and mud as he made his way to the tent where his dying brother lie.
“Show me this miracle of the God's!” He cried out as he burst into their tent. He froze, bare chest heaving as visible breaths billowed into the cold morning air. His beard and blonde hair hung ragged about his face as he stared in disbelief.
Resounding.
“Breathe Oren... Don't you dare let go...” Artisia Derya's voice pleaded from her tent in the stag-helm camp. The tall granite walls of the surrounding mountains caused hers and the many other voices about her to echo in the night air. Soft snow and tall pines blanketed the slopes and halted all voices before they escaped the valley and a pale moon shone down to light the surrounding woods with an eery and near spiritual glow. A chilly wind blew through the camp, rustling furs and canvas flaps as it made its way through. Fires and cold men fought against the elements as they huddled near to each-other, weathering the effects of the past snow storm just a night ago. Ambush after ambush had heightened the senses of the men, new companions, and familiar enemies have made their flight from Praven interesting now that they had nearly reached their destination. New comers made their way about the camp; three men renowned for their highway banditry and nicknames, a battle hardened Nord missing three fingers and adorned with a golden claw, and a young couple... Marne and Joseph William vane have all found themselves walking toward the same end as the stag-helm mercenaries. Along with these were also two survivors from the siege of Praven One of them, a dark and secluded man; called himself wolfs blood The other, constantly drinking and subjecting himself to a powerful herbal narcotic was known as Gashy; the tale he told was from his childhood, having received the name from a bloody accident had in a street brawl. These two men stayed secluded and on the outskirts of camp; their business their own aside from the familiar enemy... the Nordic empire. Some months now have passed since that day when Jarl Asgrim of Stag-helm had crossed steel with King Ragnar of the now Swadian empire... Some months since Swadia had announced claim to Nordlund and bastardized both kingdoms. The Jar was weary, his friends few and enemies many. Even his lifetime friend and personal Shaman, Oren, was battling a vicious disease... an onset side effect of the assassins blade. The very assassin who now lied in a ditch below Swadia's walls, a mass of bones and torn clothing, his jaws still open from his pathetic screaming as Asgrim himself slung him over the walls before the siege. He suffered greatly now, the fever and pain clawing and biting at him as starved Worgs to tender flesh. The Khergit slave woman, Artisia, had grown now into a lover of the Gothi. She never left his side and attended every waking and unspoken need of the man with loving adoration. Word was spreading through stag-helm that soon there would be a makeshift wedding... finally a day to celebrate light in what the entire countryside of Calradia viewed as a great time of darkness.
Back in the Gothi's pavilion the pleading voice of his love could still be heard. The guards in front of the tent kept their eyes busy, staring at nearby blazing braziers as they listened to her painful begging.
“This is not where you are to leave... your spirit must remain for me love... “ Her hand continued to stroke his face gently, dipping and wringing a rag with warm water to dab upon his face as he slept... viewing feverish dreams sent by gods above. His body lied upon a bed of rope and wood that held a soft mattress for him to rest upon, his head lying upon a linen and feather pillow. She kept stroking his hair back, resting one of her soft hands upon his as her brown eyes watched him and waited for any sign of progress. Her night gown was thin, too thin to keep out the cold and she shivered lightly now and then as chills of cold winds and nervous worry came over her. Her long brown hair was let down for once, not tied up into a Khergit styled topknot as per usual.
“I am here waiting for you Nord... Do not make me wait long for you... do not leave me alone in this foreign land of false kings and broken oaths...” her voice cracked as she began to tear for her beloved. Leaning in to rest her gentle face upon his chest she began to cry, clinging to his sundered body as she wept for salvation.
“He's a tough bastard that Shaman... Not once have I seen him take a blow that he cannot weather. He's much like the world tree... the tree of life itself. Deep rooted and firm. Do not fear for his life woman... just care for him and heal his body. We will need him soon.” A sudden and gruff voice spoke as Asgrim strode into the tent. His hair was tied back over his head in true Nordic fashion and he was adorned in a Nordic lords tunic and caplet. They did not fear ambush attack in this place for even the “Nords of Praven” as they were called mockingly; would not go to a dark and rumored place like the black valley. He sat, mead-horn in hand and weathered look in his eyes.
“take... drink...” He spoke again to the still stunned woman. Her eyes were wide and stared forward as the honorable Jarl spoke to her as though she were his equal; even offering to her a horn of his own mead. With a nod and a deep sigh of stress she took the horn and guzzled its contents without hesitation. Her lips tingled at the Nordic drink and she came to find that she loved its taste and feel.
“its... good” She spoke sheepishly, her Khergit accent thick and exotic to those who were not of the country.
“Jarl... this fever, it eats away at his body as ravenous wolves. I cannot stand to lose him. I cannot bear such a wound...” The poor girls eyes filled with hot tears as she gazed down at the one man she had come to love in this wretched land. Her soft hands continued to caress his face, glistening with beads of sweat as the fever continued to run its course. Behind his closed eye lids danced weary eyes, viewing dark dreams and prophetic waves. He could see her in his dreams, he could feel her touch, hear her voice. In his dreams he wandered a dark wood and sought after this woman. Despite his searching efforts he could not seem to close the distance.
“Is this my fate... to wander the shade till my body and mind are consumed... will I not ever speak of my love to she that has claimed it?” His thoughts continued to race. In his dream he came to a grove, sanctified and holy in its place. Upon this grove sat a dark Raven, looking at him with only one eye. This raven held in its talons the banners of Nordlund and Swadia
“yes.. I understand...” He spoke to this messenger of the Aesir. Sitting in his spot he waited for her embrace to come to him...
The Jarl looked at her with weary eyes. His face was strong, decided, firm. Yet despite his north-wind hardened countenance he still betrayed his weakness for this possible loss. He and Oren had lived their lives together. Learned to fight as children under the same thane. Learned of drink, of women, and of the pain of loss as brothers. And brothers they were, few knew of Oren's blood tie to the Jarl, but many viewed them as close enough to be born from the same womb. He was older, Oren, and wiser. His eyes had seen much and learned many lessons in his twenty five years and it had made his mind his most valuable tool. They both were present when their father was slain by a Rhodok quarrel. The sight of blood flowing so freely from a man they thought indestructible was a shaking and powerful lesson.
“All men bleed...” Their father spoke as he looked at his sons... tired and bloodied from war. This lesson... All men bleed, was their greatest strength and darkest fear.
“He is strong, woman. His blood flows through a resilient body. His daylight will not end in this valley. I've seen many spears and swords attempt his life... but they have not succeeded... he will not die a thanes death. For it isn't steel that has the power to claim his life.” The Jarl tried to speak consolingly to her. He knew of her love; they all did. And this love that she held for his brother would keep him strong in the dreams that Asgrim knew he was dreaming. The shaman of the Nordic religions chose their wives carefully for it was the soul that they found beauty in and many years would pass before any Gothi could find someone who's soul sang the same song as their own. Asgrim stroked a hand back over his tied hair and then ran it down to scratch his beard as he watched his brother resting in his bed. Could the assassins knife still be causing such damage. His fever was deep and rooted, perhaps this foe would continue to bane them even after being slain and humiliated... Asgrim's thoughts raced in his head as his eyes looked on.
“Continue to look after him. I don't want you to leave this tent unless it is commanded. If you need anything, ask a guard and it will be granted without question.” With a grunt of frustration Asgrim stood and walked out of the tent, giving his orders to the guard to do as she commands unless his word over rode it. As he walked through the drifting snow back toward his own tent he passed the new young couple and eyed them momentarily. The man was of average height and build with long wavy black hair and fair features for a man. His name was Joseph William vane and he was known throughout Calradia for his skill with a lance from horseback. His wife, a shy and submissive woman was of a small build with a smaller chest and long fiery red hair. Her lips had a uniquely rose flare and her eyes a soft and kind expression, Marne was her name. Asgrim continued on to his tent crunching through wet snow and mud as he looked forward.
The camp was lit by torch and brazier, banners of thanes who had defected now flew near their tents as they gathered together near hot fires and warm kettles. The snows continued to drift down quietly and even the overcast sky had a feeling of rest about it. Their flight from Praven had lasted months. King Ragnar himself had lead several expeditions far past Swadian lines to attempt to catch Asgrim the “traitor” a title only recognized by the Nords of Praven The ambushes had been many, all had failed. The losses of stag-helm, though few and far between, were all deeply felt in the camp; each life lost a coal added to their growing blaze of determination and hatred. This camp now was not a camp of rest for the weary, it was a temporary halt on their march for vengeance.
He came upon his tent with the Stag-helm banner flying high and proud and stepped in with a sigh of frustration. Throwing his mead-horn hard at the far wall he let out an angry roar, cursing the name of Ragnar and his underhanded blades-man With fury in his heart he tore through his tent, the sound of clattering armor and steel resounded through the valley as the Jarl's rage boiled over. This was his last family. His own brother... strong and beautiful, being scourged by a pathetic excuse for a corpse. This was unbelievable... such treachery reaching out so far into the wild... His rage subsided in time as the camp began to bed down, men sleeping deeply as the winter storms continued to assail them. Joseph and Marne, both Swadian birth, had never wintered such extremes and found themselves blanketed in seven layers of furs. This truly was a storm of note. As Asgrim lied upon his bed, hands over his face, he thought deeply. His prayers lifted up to the Aesir in confusion and anger.
“Why do you flog me with these trials. Has my faith to your ways not served you well? Has my brother not bled for you and your rituals? Why do you allow this bastard king to sit upon a throne and wield your name with such vile filth in his heart?” The prayers came throughout the night, even the guards noticed their Jarl's restlessness, calling in a pair of camp maidens in to sooth him. Thus in due time the women of the night did their work and the camp went silent, even the mighty Jarl slept now, nude women on either side. The howling winds and freezing snows continued their way down to the earth and despite their biting bitterness, did not assault the camp as harshly as they were... gentle winds blowing from the far north had directed the worse of the storm west.
The following morning woke slowly. The sun rose over a frozen camp and the voices of the men came slowly with the songbirds in the trees. Fires were stoked, meals cooked, and laughter began to come forward. For with this rising sun came a new day and new life. Many rumored that the Aesir were indeed strong tale wide and that they had brought a healing wind down upon their camp. That there was no place that their prayers and cries were not heard. For with this new sunny morning, shining bright off of the tall pine graced slopes, descending upon a bright valley rumored to never see the sun, was a new start for the sick and deathly. Rumors spread, and spread, growing smiles and joy as they made their way to the Jarl's ears. Disbelief filled his mind until the voice of Artisia Derya Cried out with elation, a squeal of resounding happiness. Asgrim pushed the nude women from his side and dashed from his tent, not but trousers upon his body as beard and long hair blew in the wind. His bare feet froze in the slush and mud as he made his way to the tent where his dying brother lie.
“Show me this miracle of the God's!” He cried out as he burst into their tent. He froze, bare chest heaving as visible breaths billowed into the cold morning air. His beard and blonde hair hung ragged about his face as he stared in disbelief.