The Kindled Fear

It has been a season pass since the ill event occured. The birds chirped once more, though it sang no cheers and joy but sorrow and lamentation for the dead, the winds howled from the north as a sound of despair, the sky was brightly red. Blood has been spilled, and never little it has been. South from Burg Forbyrnan, lied an abandoned hut that hasn't been abandoned for nearly 6 months old. The hut was accustomed of peasant's make, a Ceorlfolc. Yet the hut hid a burden of dread, and the air wept in sorrow, as it cried with shrieking howls. The crops were bent as if a heavy burden weighed on them, and the stocks shouted no moo nor any cockcrow. 

A maiden lived by the hut, said the Wind hailing from the north. A maiden once fair and proud, now fell in a terrible despair. Her face was pale as death and a dark shady over her eyes, like an omen of evil. And her skin was cold, though she was not dead nor slain, for she was still breathing.

Under the thought it dwelled a dark spirit, haunting her spirit like moths, uncounted and unnumbered, a spirit of contriteness and rue. It was a great evil as it reminded the horror of her past, a vexation of death. Burg Forbyrnan was but Stangard itself. Where the Ceorlfolc sowed and reaped, and the riders secured the land. A fair and wilful maiden, innocent by mind. Eohilda lived her days as a Scieldmaegden who bore valar and an untamed bravery which she put most high on her trait. Alas, for that day the trait was no more but fear struck her heart deeply. 

The enemy laid many before the city, their wild hatred of men resounding her ears like dreadful drums, and all was lost. The maiden fled as they stormed in, took any women and children, slew the able men with swords and butchered the incapable riders. That day was grey and the sky filled with darkness, there it grew a thick grey fog, blocking the passage for the poor maiden. She bore no sword nor spear for she was unable to wield arms, fearing death might overtook her early-life, only she bore a shield to protect herself from harm and her weak heart that has been corrupted of fear. She used it to storm the fog, but not without a doubt she braved it, but with great fear for what great evil may slew her if she tarried too long. The walls of woods cracked by the hot ember, glazing through them and it fell and crushed as the enemy marched in like moths. 

They pillaged and burned the city, Eohilda saw this afar from the high hills once green and bright, now wretched and vile. She grieved the day and called it Burg Forbyrnan, The Burned City. She believed that the burn was so great that it smoked to the highest, yet there were no horn sounded from the South, no clops of horses with riders shouted their cries, no banner of green that fluttered in the dark sky, nor any hope that day. And she sang her pain and lamented of the dead, yet she suffered no loss for she cared none but herself. Stangard was lost that day.

In the absence of her friends and allies, she fled alone, barely living with only a single breath that caught her running. Yet the enemies were no blind, Eohilda found herself chased by 3 man armed to the teeth, she was in great peril and ran faster until no more as she fell and her legs drooped. She stood on her last defense, with a wooden shield half covered by grey shaded ash. The men were fierce and shouted dreadful cries, they were able to strength such blows with the maiden almost to her death when her heart thronged with great fear and doubt, she mustered her strength and fury, slaying the men with sharpless shield, yet one of the corpse went decapitated, for her fear of death was stronger than this strength of men. Her ears still clinged of their cries that she left the corpses toungeless, and kept the tounges as her yearning of quiet. 

Fear still fogged her mind, she decided to ransack of what's left to the armed men. There she found a sheathed sword, unused by the enemy yet for it remained new, but crude of making, a refinement however would don the blade well. She took an interest of the blade and named it Wundenmae, a Curved Blade. And she sought the great war-axe for her liking. Though it was decorated in ill measure of the enemy. Later she replaced and carved it's own pommel a shaped horse, picturing Gytha, her loyal and trustworthy mane, a last gift by her uncle whom now lost, and she wept for three days, carving another pain in her heart.

She travelled far from Burg Forbyrnan, crossed streams and many rivers along the way till she found a hut, justly abandoned and almost fell into despair. Equipped with a once-crofter's hand she adjusted and managed to repair and thatch the hut. And ever since she lived in the hut, yearning her pain and suffering. The sorrow in her grew deeply it touched the foundation of her soul, making her skin grew cold and pale. And everyday she sang the lamentation and mourned her misery till it grew into a terrible ill sickness.

But one shall never know what hope that lies in the injured heart of a maiden...