One, two, three dead orcs.
The wind in the hair, the green of the Mærc running under the hooves of Fram.
My sister is delusional.
I already knew she was obsessive, but really she's pushing this too far, now. She thinks I'll forget that hissy fit in the Mead Hall, when she accused me to have returned home in the Riddermark on a chase for her fiancé.
Seriously...
The chase continues: another orc falls dead, I feel alive. Alive like I never was before.
Ceorlgar doesn't worry, he thinks it was nothing; he thinks she regained her wits and now everything is fine. She has regained her wits, yes: she has realized that it's much better if she stays put and pretends it was a jest.
At least, until the marriage is fully consumed and confirmed and he can't run away anymore. Then...
I do not know what she's up to, but won't do any good, or I don't know my sister anymore.
Let them talk. Let them mock me for not being wed. There's no man that makes my blood boil and run like a ride for death and glory. No man, ever. And Ceorlgar is an excellent companion in battle: we complement each other perfectly. And behind our tracks, only ruin and mayhem - like a fire roaring through a forest.
Why am I concerned? Ceorlgar is more than old enough to know better. What am I, his nanny? In the end of the day, what I care for is that Ulcwyne is happy, after all, not a stranger.
Five. Five orcs dead so far. Nothing better than a sound slumber with such feeling of accomplishment.
Ten gold coins that she isn't sleeping, devoured by jealousy, thinking that I am on a quest to seduce her fiancé, in spite.
Oh, by Béma...
