He was the first to make her feel welcome in a town impregnated by filth and desperation. Bree hadn't given her anything to admire, at least not at first, and she often found herself wondering when she would be taking off again. With a voice as calloused as his hands, he sought her conversation when no one else dared.
Vallen | Fingers pick at her shirt before flattening out a few apparent wrinkles, though her attempts didn't work. She sips the wine and subtly licks at her bottom lip.
Alfknutr regards Vallen over the rim of his tankard with quiet thought. 'Do you wait for someone, my lady?'
Alfknutr rotates the tankard in his hands whilst he looks down and contemplace with a grim countenance.
Vallen seems suprised that she was spoken to and it took her a moment to respond. "My brother... I should be accustomed to his inability to be on time by now." She laughs a little to herself before facing the stranger.
Alfknutr looks up from his reverie and musters a swift smile at her reply. He takes a moment to regard her features and face.
Alfknutr says, 'It is an ill thing that a maiden be left stranded by Men, even if they are kin. I am Knot, my lady. It is a pleasure.' Alfknutr offers out his hand in kindly greeting.
Her eyes, the colour of blue and green, stare at him intently. Her own hand, though much smaller in size, would slip into his. "Knot... I am Vallen."
Alfknutr shakes gently and inclines his head with some etiquette. 'Vallen....Vallen...I enjoy that name, my lady. It rolls well from my tongue.'
A name was given, a strange nickname of sorts, that she would learn to call him until his true name was revealed. Her boots had tasted the dirt of many different lands but not once had she seen a shade of hair so red, nor a cloak so dusty. An image of three wolves howling to the moon would taunt her every time he walked away while skillful fingers would smooth over rope at his waist every time he greeted her.
Alfknutr necks back the last of his tankard and swirls the dregs around at the bottom. He considers her words thoughtfully with pursed lips, until a faint smile appears. He slowly reaches to push his dusty cloak aside from his thigh, revealing a coil of rope hung from his belt. 'I would think it ill to regret the meeting of kindred folk. I enjoy you, Vallen. You have been fair company I could not have hoped for.'
Alfknutr winches the rope free and gently starts running the reems through his hands. 'If I should return...'
Alfknutr starts deftly, and with some skill unlooked for, tying several complex knots into the rope, betraying his life's hobby and trade whilst he speaks. '...I shall give you this rope to be in your care.'
Alfknutr says, 'These Knots few men are capable of undoing. If Béma smiles upon us both, we shall meet again. And I shall show you how to undo them.'
Alfknutr smiles warmly at her and finishes the knots before offering out the coil to her as a gift.
Vallen gently receives the coil in both hands, fingers immediately tracing along the intricate knots made. She thought it unusual and very intriguing. "You surprise me..." She is clearly impressed with the fast tying. "I may surprise you yet." She wonders about undoing the knots herself.
Alfknutr barks a laugh and pushes himself from the counter gently. 'You may put my name to the test then, ere I return.'
They would meet again to tell tales to one another, some of pure imagination while others could only be spun by a truthful tongue. Never did he pass judgment or make her feel any less for being what she was.
Vallen licks the rim of the mug quickly and clears her throat. "The tale of my childhood begins with a scrawny girl and a face full of freckles." She already looks embarrassed but she continues without even taking a breath. 'I was teased often for not wearing skirts and lovely blouses like the other girls... the boys were the worst!'
Alfknutr leans forward with his elbows propped on the table. His hands embrace and the fingers overlap into one another. He peers into her face, framed by the hair, and set by the green eyes thoughtfully. He imagines her at the time of the story with the ghost of a smile.
Vallen glances down at her hands that grasp the mug. 'My mother told me often of how beautiful I would become. I wished to look like her... hair dark with soft curls that grew down well past her shoulders. She had fair skin and such wisdom...'
Vallen says, 'Children can be rather cruel.'
Alfknutr creases his brow with a pang of pity, and yet he stays silent, ever regarding her.
Vallen shakes her head once and looks up with a smile. "It was not until I met my brother many years later that I learned to use a blade. It is not a skill that I share carelessly... I understand how uncommon and... unbecoming it is."
Alfknutr says, '...show me your hands, maiden.'
Vallen returns her gaze to him with a questioning brow. Both hands slide forward along the table.
Alfknutr tilts his head back with an idle frown. He tentatively reaches over with his own hands, rough and worn. He gently scoops her fingers into his palms, and smudges his thumb over hers with inspection. He nods gently in a thoughtful manner.
Alfknutr pushes his wet hair back over his face and regards both the maid and the rider. He then smiles swiftly upon recognising the latter.
Vallen clears her throat gently and tosses a very short rope at his feet. It looks as if the ends were roughly cut as they were frazzled and worn out. She has a grin on her face like she had just won a game of wits. 'No more knots, see?'
Alfknutr drops his gaze to the rope and regards it levelly for a moment. Suddenly he barks a loud and mirthful laugh in concession. 'Well won, maiden Vallen! I see that your hands are cunning. Ha!'
Vallen tilts her head downward at the compliment, her grin never fading. 'Cunning among other things. You have not left yet with your companions!'
Alfknutr says, 'Ah so it is that we have not yet done so. My companions are flung far, and my word does not reach them as quickly as I had hoped. But the time is drawing nigh that we strike for the road. Whither are you bound on steed this night? A ride in the meadow under the stars?'
Alfknutr smiles swiftly as he regards her posture upon the steed. It seems to him confident and assured, as one used to horses perhaps.
Vallen pats the neck of the beast as she looks to the Man. "We were actually going to ride to Combe. I have heard... interesting things about the Inn there. My curiousity is rather overwhelming at times." She shakes her head and goes to speak again.
You say, 'Might there be room in your company for me on this new expedition?'
Alfknutr perks his brows and looks down thoughtfully whilst smudging his rough hand over his damp mouth and beard. Eventually he spreads a warm smile over his wayworn face and looks up again.
The expedition. She had not known what she was getting herself into... not when she asked. They shared something strong and beautiful, a feeling of wanderlust that could not be stifled - of course he had allowed her to come. Their path would lead to the Misty Mountains, a journey that would require no short amount of bravery, persistence, and skill. She would meet the rest of the company and become easy friends with some... while others needed time and proof of her character before trusting her.
'Have you any more of it?' Vallen looks over at him, indicating his war paint.
Fridbjorn procures a measured frown, and walks over to Vallen, not going to raise his voice amongst the sleeping. 'That I do, from the woad plant. It will last a while even after moisture.'
Vallen holds her gaze as she asks her next question, her tone curious and sincere. 'Would you mind?' She lifts a hand to touch her face, indicating her desire for him to paint her.
Fridbjorn says, 'Come then.' He turns around and swiftly picks the pot from the backpack that rests by the trees, as it was the last object he put in.
'Atop the bridge? Perhaps the view will inspire you...' Vallen suggests.
Fridbjorn says, 'As you wish. Before all, do you acknowledge that is no mere decoration. But a sacred right?'
Vallen steps onto the edge of the bridge and sits. His words intrigue her and she only nods.
Fridbjorn unsheathes his langseax, a sharp, lean dagger worn horizontally on his belt. 'A part of you must be sacrificed, and given back to nature. It is common that this is the hair, as I would not wish to cut your limbs.'
'My hair?' Vallen considers this and wonders how much he would take. 'Do you wish to shave one side?' Vallen smirks at the idea and then seriously considers it.
Fridbjorn says, 'That is up to you.'
Vallen | Her hair was wild with long waves of dark strands and in a quick decision, she had made up her mind. She turned her head slightly and ran a hand through her hair, parting most to the opposite side and giving him her left side to work with. 'You may, Bjorn.'
Fridbjorn kneels beside her, reaching with his free hand for a remaining few plucks of hair to expose their root well. With a brief nod to announce his beginning he brings the sharp seax to her temple and from there on cautiously scrapes past her skin. Here and there there may be a small cut, but in a few strokes the hair would be shaven. He would continue until the hair running from her ear to neck was cut short.
Vallen does not dare move as he works with his hands and her eyes barely dart lower to see the locks fall around her. She winces only once at the first cut that stung, for she hadn't expected it. 'How does it look?'
Fridbjorn does not spare a reply, his icy hued eyes tell her that he needs to be silent. He lays aside the seax and now pops the lid from the pot of cooked, mashed woad roots that form a dark blue goo suitable for painting quite permanently - for over a week certain, before it would fade. He eyes her again, sternly asking her his questions. 'As your companion, I am honoured to grant you this gift, Vallen. With this sign of fidelity you swear to believe this heathen ritual, and the protection of myself and the gods?'
Vallen remains silent as she listens, her intrigue building with every word spoken. Eventually, she nods. 'I swear.'
Fridbjorn says, 'Then Béma and the Allfather they call Eru, I speak: blótmónaþ, forðon úre yldran, ðá hý hǽðene wǽron, on ðam mónþe hý bleóton á, ðæt is, ðæt hý betǽhton and benémdon hyra deófolgyldum ða neát ða ðe hý woldon syllan.'
Fridbjorn spoons two fingers into the pot and reaches to smear the blue paint on the shaven, somewhat bloody, side of her head.
Vallen stares forward and begins to feel the rain on her face. She breathes evenly as he begins to paint and eventually, her eyes close.
Fridbjorn trails his paint-coated fingertip across her cheekbone and finishes his little design with a traditional symbol. - Given a closer look, it would seem like two lines that surely represent something. Underneath this, on her cheek and cheekbone there are two ravens. »Til árs ok friðar, for a good year and frith.« He raises himself to his feet, and with his clean hand, as his shield is indeed on his back, collects her hair and stands on the edge. Water pours in his face but he murmurs more words in his native tongue as he releases her locks of brown hair, giving a certain - unequalled part of her back to nature and the wind.
Vallen seems without words as he finishes the ritual and she opens her eyes, feeling very different all of a sudden. It is a strange feeling and she stands upright to breathe in the smell of the rain.
Fridbjorn says, 'Then I will name you Vallen hárfagri, Vallen fair-haired. I now end this ritual, and ask only your forgiveness for my doubt and distrust. Allow me to speak with you as a person, not a mere companion.'
Vallen places her hand on his shoulder and smiles down to him, her curls soaking and clinging to the right side of her face. The blood washed from her scalp but the blue held true. 'Thank you, Bjorn.'
Fridbjorn bobs his head briefly in reply, smiling genuinely after all. 'I consider you a kinswoman now, I will bleed for you when the time requires that.'
He would bleed for her, and her for him... there were many dangers on the road to the Mountains and the time would come where she would have to think quickly and demonstrate what skill she had in order to protect herself and others.
A very large and particular ugly orc lifts his gaze to the hilltop, snarling: 'Whot's tha'? Tha' a bird? I loike birds...'
Skjalddis let herself roll down the hill and hid in a bush, covering herself quickly with brushwork and dead twigs.
Threland widens his eyes, feeling insulted at the same time that an orc shares the Bree-ish accent..he ducks down quickly.
The orc stood and drew the attention of the other two who instantly stopped clattering swords, only to start up again without much interest in this 'bird'.
Skjalddis slowed her breathing. She lay dead-still. Hearing into the surroundings, hoping the rain that softened the ground would cover their smell.
Vallen crouched low at the top of the hill and kept her head down, her gaze looking between Threland and Skjalddis.
The large orc took a deep sniff and followed it with a snort. One of the others did the same and called out indifferently: 'Doesn't smell loike bird... smells loike... loike...' The clattering stopped as the orc's eyes went wide in his discovery.
Threland blinks and sniffs his armpit. He shrugs and keeps his body tensed, ready to jump up at any moment.
Skjalddis cursed under her breath. She rose up with a roar, drawing her axe from her girdle and hurling it against one of the fiends. Hoping to take them by surprise, she followed the flight of the axe and assaulted them with wide swings of Nothung's blade.
Threland grimaces and jolts up, joining in the shouting and slashing with one sword, unsheathing the other as he attacks an orc next to Skjalddis.
Vallen stood as Skjalddis did and watched with her blade out and ready as her friend took one down in a single shot. The other two charged at her after crying out in anger and hunger.
Skjalddis trusted that Treyland would be able to stand against one orc alone. She swung her sword at the second foe, aiming to behead him.
The one closest to her suffered a deep slice across the face but it didn't stop it from swinging it's own steel low towards her belly. The second growled and dove towards Threland, teeth ready to bite the poor lad's flesh right off his face!
Threland throws the pommel of his blade into the orcish face, sending a kick for the abomination's crotch.
Meanwhile, a fourth orc that was hidden to them before emerges from the trees behind Vallen and lets out a nasty growl.
Skjalddis shifted Nothung's blade instantly to bring the orc's weapon off course. She bend her hips back, evaded only by the breadth of an hair. She send a kick to her foe's chest.
The orc could only spit out at the Man as the harsh kick causes it to double over, the wretched thing crying strange noises as it suffers pain in its face. The orc reaches to grab at the Man's ankles with hopes to cause him to fall.
The orc after Skjalddis was clearly caught off guard as it went flying backwards and took a moment in struggle to get back up. It's blade now laid far to the left of them.
Skjalddis was over the orc and she covered the beast like Ancalagon once darkened the sun! Nothung descended in a tremendous strike to cleave the orc in two.
Vallen spun around at the noise and followed the orc's charge with one of her own. Her sword is drawn and at the very last moment, she ducks and makes a slice to the filthy legs of her opponent. It cries out and falls, swinging it's blade wildly.
Threland widens his eyes as he hadn't seen it coming, landing on his back. he grunts lowly as he kicks his leg, sending a slash for the creature's one arm, hoping to chop it off by the elbow.
The last sight the orc would ever see would be the wild hair of the Snow-drake. It bared it's teeth as it was sliced quickly into two and no more sound came from it, save for the squirting of blood that would splash upward.
Skjalddis lost no time. She turned to shield-brother Treyland. Her lungs were filled with air. Then her lips formed a roar that one could think it was the thunder in the sky. She swung her sword against the Orc that beset Treyland.
Vallen | The orc had clambered onto it's stomach now as it pulled Threland's boots, it's teeth still gnashing. Even after his arm was cut, the dangling limb seemed not to bother him but the blade of Skjalddis took him by surprise - but only for a moment as he was quickly beheaded, the head now rolling back down the hill.
Threland presumably gets released by the headless creature and rolls off the slope involuntarily.
A filthy leg lifted to knee Vallen as she succeeded in slicing it, the blood spurting forward to dirty her face. She groaned out from the sudden pain but was able to swing her sword once more in an attempt to drive it across its neck.
Skjalddis sprinted to support Vallen, but would she make it in time?
Threland gets up quickly, swords in hand as he looks around quickly.
The ugly thing bared it's teeth as it turned its back to her companions to climb atop her, the blade hitting the target right now and through the neck of the orc. It's face turned sour and it quickly dropped onto her, trapping her beneath it's dead weight.
Vallen lets go of her sword as it stays within the orc's neck, the beast now heaved onto its back beside them. She breathes out heavily, blood staining her face and neck as she pats down her body as if only trusting her hands to find any source of a wound, not the pain she would feel. 'I am not hurt... help me stand...'
A pair of wargs, one visibly malnourished while the other only doing slightly better, tread through a thicket with their snouts high in the air. They were far to the left of the Fridbjorn and Vallen but it only took a matter of seconds for wargs to spot the couple. The rain washes their scent and mixes well with the mud now created at the bottom of the hill.
Fridbjorn lifts the axe from the weapon ring on his rugged leather belt. He holds it out by the nearest end, offering her the handle. 'Dreyrugr-øx, I named it. The stained axe.. for the sacred tree from which he hung was stained with blood.'
The stronger warg was quick to growl out and likely to alert the pair of his hunger and desire to feed. The other straggled behind, eyes keen on the larger of the two. They raced towards them, jaws snapping.
Vallen lifts a hand to feel the handle and she grips it tightly, eyes roaming over the axe for an inspection. Her head turns suddenly though at the frightening and abrupt sound of the cry of the warg.
Fridbjorn eyes the bearded axe, it would not be too special, a few engravings ornamented the wood and, as the Jarl had no sword, Jótunvall was likely to be just a village - not of great wealth. Friðbjørn is immediately alerted by the growl and slings off his shield, grasping the wooden handgrip that was placed behind the domed iron boss to protect his fingers. He would reach for his axe, but leaves her with the weapon. Instead he draws his langseax, which would still function well for a terribly lean and lengthy dagger.
The rain continues to fall and the ground becomes slick, the steps of Man and warg alike were surely unable to move quickly without slipping. The first, while still very skinny, reached the Man but was unable to keep its footing along the hillside and it collapses only a few feet away, getting ready to stand and lunge.
The second warg found speed as it neared the targets but was also unable to steady itself and it tumbled onto its side in an attempt to stop. The beast's back would just hit Vallen enough to send her sliding down the hillside along with it.
Fridbjorn twirls the seax in his palm, shifting his footing as if he'd expect the warg to jump his shield. Protectively he side-steps blocking the line of sight between the warg and Vallen. »vindöld, vargöld, áðr veröld steypisk..« he murmurs, and then notices Vallen's fall. With brief hesitation he took the gamble and leaped down the slope, caking himself in mud and slurry only to reach his friend with the possibility of having a warg following him. Would he reach her, he would ensure to land atop of the warg, bashing the shield on its ribs.
Vallen cries out in surprise as she is flung backwards down the hillside and onto her back eventually near the water. She reaches for the axe with a groan and grips the handle, eyeing the warg that now slid downward towards her, teeth bared and snapping.
The weak warg was unable to get upright fast enough to avoid the bashing to its ribs and it cried out in pain. It snapped its mouth pathetically towards the Man's legs.
The mightier warg went for the target it deemed weakest, the female still upon the ground. In a slippery lunge, it came toward her with the intent to pin her into the mud, its heavy paws desperate to break her bones.
Fridbjorn kicks his heels up, aiming for the eyes of his attacker. Once he regained some senses after his leap he attempted a swift stroke with the langseax, using its length to his advantage to somehow invade the fur and flesh from underneath his raised shield. »Vallen, swing the axe!«
Vallen did just that, the sharp blade of the axe fortunately imbedding itself into the side of the beast's head. There was a sharp cry and a sudden thud as the beast landed beside the woman, it's head resting and bleeding onto her stomach.
The head of the alive warg snapped back as the Man's heels stole a force too great for the beast to avoid. With a bloody mess now running down its face, it scrambled to get proper footing but the skillful swing of the langseax cut deep into the back of its neck, bringing a slow and painful death.
Vallen groans as she tries desperately to remove the weight of the warg who still laid partly upon her. The blood stained her tunic and her skin, though the rain was quickly to wash most of it away. 'Bjorn!'
Fridbjorn retrieves the blade from the sinewy flesh. With a roaring groan he kicks once more at the lifeless skull and rolls the corpse over. He dropped both shield and seax and rushed for Vallen, seeking to push the other broken body away and cup his hand underneath his friend's head, shushing her if needed. 'Are you wounded?'
Vallen shakes her head and looks down at her body for any blood that did not belong to the warg. Her tunic had ripped and her hands moved to feel her stomach. 'I am not wounded...your axe...'
The axe was deep within the warg's head and would take a strong arm to remove it.
Fridbjorn says, 'Steel is of little worth compared to my sworn friend.. now, let me help you up.'
Their journey was not over yet - many days would pass before they would reach their prize: the Beorning mead. She held onto the trust of her companions dearly and would grow closer to them as a series of extraordinary events would come to pass.
To be continued.
