Faerhild

Faerhild lies in the bed, pale as milk, her face decorated by a thick layer of sweat and a collection of violet bruises. She trembles in fever, although it is evident she is awake as she hums an ancient lullaby. The one they sing to children to ward off death during nights. Her voice trembles in the tunes, although she seems persistent on continuing. Perhaps afraid of dying.

Faerhild laid on a bed once owned by someone else. The pain prevented her from actually falling asleep, aside for the moments when the fever stole her consciousness. However this was not one of those blissful moments.  

No. She laid awake, even if her eyes were shut in her plan of pretending sleep. She did not wish to talk with the man who laid wounded on the bed next to her.

Régnwald has been lying in the bed for some hours now, eyes closed; though no one would say where his thoughts were riding, 'twas a mere darkness for him. Until now, hazel green eyes of the warrior opening halfly on this bloodstained dawn. Aching waist unflinching as his hand ran with a sudden pain to hold his face, finding a worn rag hugging his forehead. A bare deep sigh escaped him.

Aeschere charged the first orc with an insane fury. He bashed his face with his shield, knocking him out of his way. He then clashed his sword with the other orc, breaking his sword in half and slashing his flesh. He swings and bashes as the orcs throw themselves against him, only to be hewn aside with missing limbs and gushing blood.

Faerhild charged against one of the orcs, bashing him with her shield, to block him from seeing her incoming sword that went to study his black guts.

The company of warriors was lead deeper within the mountains, through a small ravine. By the path that Faerhild unfailingly followed ran a small stream. Soon though the road ahead would become steep, requiring to climb up the frozen now formations of the rocks. It's been a good six hours of hiking and climbing up the mountain until the company made it to the top of the mountain. No sun would shine and the sky was grey, it should be noon soon. As you peek around the last of the trees a wide plateau is revealed in front of you.

A winding path laid ahead of the band of Eorlings, following the route to a frozen now little stream. One could not see much of its final destination but it would take them up hill and toward the mountain. Recently fallen snow has made passage even more difficult, their steps more unsure, as unstable and treacherous terrain awaits hiding under a piles of pure white snow. Trails or tracks were also covered under the snow.

FORLAW / JAIL / NIGHT

''They'll come.'' spoke the fiery-haired man, named Hondscioh, with a solemn air about him.

''They will.'' answered the leader of the war-band, man known in times son of Régn.

Hondscioh stared toward the gates, waiting for a sign and he turned, squeezing Régnwald's shoulder before he walked to his corner.