Fable - Ask Enga Miskunn!

[Skad]

Vagakh, Blightlands

The Dark Gods held a wicked sense of humour.

A singular green eye surveyed the steady ebb and flow of The Blighted Sea as the haar lazily rolled into the docks. Its murky depths had now claimed all but the dregs of the raiding party, with their vessel now no doubt resting upon the wanting seafloor alongside the majority of her Warband.

When they had set out from the small port of Aith on the Lost Isles they had been twenty strong, a collection of iron-tempered men and woman more than prepared to fight, fuck and fetter their way across the larger continent and Skad had been at the helm. Vicious devotion was the badge she wore to combat any dispute that might have been made in regards to her youth and inexperience for such a voyage. Her axe had provided a greater reason, craving craven flesh of dissent and doubt, spilling the crimson to silence such heresy.

The storm, however, had seemingly appeared from the ether and had taken the entire vessel by surprise, tossing bodies overboard like they were the most insignificant tribute of all. Those who had the fortune of clinging on were eventually dashed upon the rocks like the wood that splintered and sank.

The scant few of them left had clung to the cliff face with their remaining fortitude barely in tow, all the while freezing, bleeding and weighed down by their sodden furs and steel. Those who had the will and strength to climb ascended, and those who didn’t, well, those were the lives plucked only by the cruellest members of their pantheon, withstanding the many perils of the sea only to be broken by the very shores they sought in the first place.

Only four remained by the time they trudged their way to the small port town of Vagakh as the very last who could no longer go on met a swift and violent end at the hands of Skad herself.

There was no tolerance for the weak-willed.

A silent tension was born from the disaster, with dagger-like eyes piercing the woman’s back as if she were to blame. They knew better than to say it out loud, Kin-Slayer was not a decorative title.

In no fit state to raid the lands, the three split off from their ruinous party leader and straight into the waiting arms of a local tavern leaving Skad alone to her contemplations. The woman did not mourn nor did she feel any sense of sadness or regret; there was a small annoyance at the loss of her battle-worn axe but nothing more than that.

This was meant to happen, it had already been written.

An open gash sat proudly atop her right temple, and a great number of bruises were beginning to show beyond the initial swelling across the Nordwiir’s face and form. The simple cloth that acted as her eyepatch had been lost in the catastrophe, leaving the grim display of an empty socket on show for all that dared to look.

Feel like shit. Look like shit.

As her feet had carried her to the docks, the raider’s mind churned with the next move. Going back would be fruitless, an embarrassment regardless of the divine storm. It wasn’t an option. What could four Nordwiir really accomplish here? Enough to satisfy individual bloodlust perhaps but that wasn’t enough.

What did they really need there and then?

Hot food. Rest. Weapons. Supplies.

A ship.

 

[Gal]

“Tut’ qel gel pui se foutit’.” Gal kicked the mast and watched with grim satisfaction as the webbing of frost shattered under her boot.

Not that she’d been expecting any better. It wasn’t her first eastern voyage; that one had been along the south coast of Epressa, and with al-Kamah at the helm besides.

She spat over the gunwale. Good fucking riddance.

This time around she had only herself to blame. Granted, she’d taken the safer route – through the Allirian strait, ‘round the Eaglehead, past Teth and the Gulf of Ryt. The Blightlands. Half her crew was going to feel right at home, descendants of their orcish kin as they were. Useful for negotiating with the locals.

Gal was stubborn, not dumb.

“Mahto, venni qui,” she raised her voice above the creaking of the lines as they began their last tack into the harbor. At a snail’s pace, too, what with the fog crawling thick over the sea like someone had taken a real hard hit from the pipe on their first try and coughed up the smoke with watery eyes.

Her throat itched. She licked the back of her teeth and pinched the inside of her thumb to stave off the craving. Did it ever go away?

“Qe volet’, Capitain?”

Gal turned to her First Mate. A welcome distraction. “Ready da men for weighin’ anchor. Poi pick da quatri orci qi come wit’ me for negozzir. One gotta speak the lang of them o’ da Blight, da rest I need for da strong arm.”

The pale man gave a quick nod and rushed off to collect her party. The lest of the crew she would give a well-deserved shore leave. If for nothing else, the arduous tacking into the Vagakh port alone was worth an ale or ten in the local watering hole.

And whatever passed for a whorehouse in these sad parts.

It took them another candlemark to make the wharves, the said trio of them barely jutting out past the muddy coast. She watched her people abuzz on the deck with quiet pride as they brought the ship to port through the dirty fog without a scratch. She hoped al-Kamah was turning in his merdet’ bed, wherever he lay now.

Flanked by two (oddly tanned) Blight orcs, the nazrani descended the plank and marched up to the first being loitering about the docks. A tall woman with more bruises than Gal after a decent tavern brawl, a fur coat that looked damn warm and, conspicuously, without an eye.

Was this really the best they could post for port authority? Maybe she ought to have picked a different city to peddle her services.

Oh, well.

Gal waved at her translator, and the orc grunted his Blighted Greetings at the blonde.

 

[Skad]

Skad’s single eye blinked as foreign words interrupted her silent contemplation and her hand instinctively travelled to the empty space where her axe should have been. Perhaps it was now a small blessing that the weapon was lost, for everybody’s sake. Her head travelled to meet the voices as the lack of a full field of vision had forced the Nordwiir to adapt to measures that others never considered.

All she could do was stare, an empty expression affixed upon battered features as she witnessed the foreign creatures approach.

The Nordwiir were not scholars, no, in fact, the majority could not read nor write and Skad was no exception to this rule. Living and learning were done through tales that over time eventually transcended to myth and so while Skad had heard of other species, she had never borne witness to them with her own eye.

Two of them were completely alien to her, both dense and imposing she imagined that it would take a few axe swings to fell such beasts. Impressive. Would it be untoward to recruit such behemoths?

The other, the woman was not so dissimilar to the raider in base features but held peculiar darkened flesh in the stead of Skad’s own northern complexion. Gilded like a foreign shrine, she was intriguing to look at but no matching emotion was shown by the raider, who ran her tongue across the back of her teeth in her continued hollow stare.

What colour would they bleed?

More importantly than this, however, was their vessel. It was as if the Gods themselves had provided divine answer to her question of what to do next. She wanted that ship, and it would be taken, preferably by force.

Finally, Skad made a gesture, her hand swatting around her own mouth as the blonde shook her head in what was common code for ‘I don’t understand.’ Of her remaining party, there was one still among them who held a smattering of the common tongue and he had imparted a few important words on the long voyage but it sounded nothing like the beastly shite that emerged from the mouth of the talking creature.

Another universal gesture, the drinking of an invisible flagon that indicated the wetting of beaks and with that the Nordwiir turned on her heel and marched for the tavern.

She would need numbers for this.

 

[Gal]

Her boot had begun to tap a bored rhythm into the muddy ground by the time the blonde had stopped gawping and reacted.

Clearly this post wasn’t something the locals valued. A pity job, perhaps, to compensate for her impaired fighting ability. What she knew of the Blightlands had mostly been filtered through a hundred foul mouths and rum-rotted brains, but their propensity for war seemed… on point.

Those were some grisly scars.

“Mi pensat’ ye spoke their lang, Taugh?” Gal asked as she watched the one-eyed woman make for the watering hole. No flagons were crashing through the windows yet, so her crew probably hadn’t started drinking properly.

Yet.

“Amn’t sure the bird’s from here, Capitain,” replied the tallest of the Blight orcs in her entourage, nose wrinkled in confusion. “Barrin’ she’s a new slave dragged in from the north, but they don’t allow them to gallivant ‘round all free-like. Oughta be put to work in the mines.”

“Pensi we’ll find us propres locales in da tavern?”

“Reckon so. Barrin’ this here’s a whole port o’ slaves or sumthin’.” His broad shoulders rose and fell in a short shrug. “An’ then we gots us some free goods, ne?”

Gal snorted. “Allora let’s find out.”

They marched in fast on the heels of the blonde, the door barely swinging closed before they shoved it open again. The heat and sweat and the stink of stale ale hit her like a punch, straight in the nose. Swirled together they produced the familiar eau de shebeen that she knew and loved across the width and breadth of Arethil.

Home sweet home.

She raised four fingers at the swarthy barkeep, then kicked the nearest empty chair out from under a table and took up her new throne.

In time, the important people would emerge from this roiling tapestry of alcohol, lust, and violence. And that’s when she would strike.

 

[Skad]

As she walked Skad attempted to decipher anything that was said behind her back. Out of the flurry of foreign words, there were precisely two that the woman could pick out from what little knowledge was garnered on the trip over. Bird and tavern. Tavern made sense in context, but why were they talking about birds?

Did it really matter?

The raider felt the slightest sense of disappointment that this was how things were currently unfolding. This port town should have been ablaze by now, with enough blood spilt by their hands to turn the very tides red in tribute. Inwardly the Nordwiir pined for it but knew that it could only be a matter of time before both she and Dark Gods would be sated.

Upon striding into the tavern it didn't take the blonde long to spot the sparse remainder of her crew. Not exactly a challenge to spot the only people not enjoying themselves in the pursuit of hedonistic debauchery, even with one eye. The way they looked away as soon as they laid eyes upon Skad was more than enough indication of their prior conversation. Faithless fucks.

With every minute that passed the plan was changing. Despite her great fervour for battle, even she knew that this was not the moment. Although attempting to slaughter an entire tavern with only a skinning knife did tempt the causes most close to her heart.

<”Tala!”> Skad bellowed above the din in her native, guttural tongue, <”I've found us a ship! Come here and translate!”>

The promise of a ship was at least enough to rouse the experienced Nordwiir, as he slowly rose from his chair and trudged over, flagon in hand and a worn haggard expression covering his own battered features. She gestured to the fourth chair in an emasculating manner that implied that Tala was a princess that needed to rest his precious bottom.

<”You've really found passage home? What do you need me to say?”>

Passage home. Were they really so fucking yellow? Skad chose to ignore that part entirely and continued laying out exactly what she wanted from him.

<”Let them know that we will work for them aboard their ship.”>

<”And if they say no?”>

He was an older man, by Nordwiir standards, in his late thirties and very much looking on the wrong side of his forties through wear and tear. The makeshift translator's greying hair was unkempt and matted, resembling dreads that seemed to mesh into his proud beard. Upon closer inspection, one could see the evidence of hand-carved symbols creeping just beneath the man's hairline.

Pale blue eyes looked across the table to the dark-skinned woman and Tala raised his drink to her in what was the politest gesture their people could muster. Skad hovered over him, her head turning from belt-to-belt across the entire room to see just how well-armed everybody was.

“Tala,” he pointed to himself before thumbing behind him at the one-eyed blonde, who gave a sharp nod upon being roughly introduced, “Skad.”

“We want work on boat,” the man said awkwardly as he reached into the depths of his exhausted mind to find the right words, “for you, no pay.”

 

[Gal]

Her brows shot up as her eyes dipped down.

At the chair. The chair that another befurred brute just claimed for his hairy arse. As she flicked her gaze to her crew left and right, she could read similar colors of disposition towards the uninvited guest.

Decidedly frosty, overall.

She locked black eyes with Tala and Skad in turn. Common, she could wrestle with on her own. And besides, it was better to maintain the illusion that her orcish crew were as dumb and slow as everyone assumed them to be.

“Hard to give da ordres to da crew dat don’ comprend me lang, ne?” She twirled her finger at the four of them. “An’ you don’ comprend me lang.”

“D’ailleu’... is da propre ship del sud, ne a boat.” Gal finished off her tankard and slammed it back onto the table. “Addesi avaunt.”

 

[Skad]

Tala's weathered face crumpled into a thousand lines of confusion as the swarthy woman spoke, there were words there he knew but all sense of context for them were lost in the swirl of the rest. It wasn't like any common tongue he had ever heard before.

Behind him, Skad stood, ignoring words and instead observing her body language, that same one-eyed empty stare not oblivious to the meaning of a tankard being slammed into a table. Hardly a great success.

In truth, this was what the raider really wanted. The chance to abolish reason and logic for the sake of violence. She was not a negotiator at heart, and while the responsibilities of leading a Warband might have called for level-heads and open dialogue in more difficult times, that avenue was fast expiring.

“I sorry,” Tala spoke with a frown, taking a hearty drain of his own drink as a skinning knife was drawn from behind his back, “I not know what you say.”

Skad closed her eye, muttering silent worship as she ran the blade across her palm, her fist closing around the metal as it bit into calloused flesh and drew sweet, exalted crimson. From her prior observations, the Nordwiir was very aware that the numbers were not in her favour within this foreign tavern, and that if the end was coming, it was coming now.

“We want go home,” Tala pleaded of his own accord, going off the script of his young leader and hoping that the truth of his purpose would perhaps garner mercy, "please."

Home.

She understood the word that spilt out from her yellow companion as the raider continued her ritual, smearing her now-bloodied palm down beaten features to grant the crimson mask of tribute.

<”And you will return home, Tala.”>

Before a response could be garnered from the makeshift translator, the knife flashed across his throat and as it did Skad's expression finally found meaning in a satisfied, toothy smile. Another tribute to the Dark Gods. Her eye, now brimming with violent purpose looked to the mud-skinned woman as the vitae gushed forth from Tala's throat like a divine river.

“I work. I fight. I kill."

 

[Gal]

Awareness.

Her celebrated career as a corsair would’ve sunk weighing anchor without it. It had kept her alive in a hundred other dumps just like this one. It pricked her skin and sent shivers down her spine when she caught movement out the corner of her eye – an arm moving behind a broad northern back, the soft whisper of a blade against its sheath.

She sprawled a bit further in her chair, crossing her boot over her knee for easier dagger access. Her crewmates shifted in their seats, following their leader’s instincts as they thumbed their own weapons free.

Then One-eye brandished her knife, and they were all of them drenched in warm crimson.

Deathly stillness seized the tavern. Only two voices disturbed the silence – Tala gurgling and Skad boasting.

Gal added her own with a broad, toothy grin. “Congrats.”

The spell broke and everyone jumped to their feet at once. A chorus of scraping chairs and banging flagons erupted as a score of drunk, sweaty bodies tried to make haste for the exit and crashed like a wave into another score just as eager to stop them. Steel flashed in the crowded space; men and orcs bared their teeth only to have them knocked out in the next breath by the nearest elbow.

Bargren was knocked off his chair before ever getting his knife out. Arheid stood and flipped the table in one swift motion. Taugh drew his sword, took a step towards the blonde, and was tackled to the floor by Tala’s crewmate. Gal yanked out her blade, dragged the bastard back by his matted hair, and opened his throat ear-to-ear.

And Skad?

Skad was getting all the violence she could ever want.

 

[Skad]

In the exchanged set of teeth, Skad's choice of action was only emboldened. Who needed words when all could be communicated in the language of violence?

The merriment all turned to shit in a blink, with furniture and bodies alike suddenly bursting into action in perfect chaos. Hundur barrelled out of nowhere, perhaps foolish in his choice of a target as he too suffered the swift fate of an opened throat. The blonde Nordwiir didn't care, relishing the opening to take carnage to where she deemed fit.

Which was strangely enough, the exit.

One could have been forgiven for thinking that the raider was deciding to flee after a sudden moment of madness but once she leapt upon the backs of brawling bodies with her knife in furious repeated downswings one really needed to reconsider what they knew.

She was diving to slaughter those who tried to leave.

The presumption of most would have been that Skad was a member of the Nordenfiir, she certainly checked all of the right boxes. Tale, broad, pale and dressed in furs and leathers. They were known across the realm and as warriors to boot. The bear people of meat and mead. Strong and proud, a Nordenfiir would have charged their direct quarry in glorious battle, not rushed for the non-combatants.

But the Nordwiir were different, they were a scattered people far less known due to their habit of killing each other rather than anybody else in tribal dispute. The Dark Gods were the cornerstone of their society and such worship came intertwined with macabre offerings, exactly what their chaotic patrons desired.

Self-mutilation, blood ritual and sacrifice.

The more souls that fled meant a lesser tribute, and that was frankly not acceptable to Skad, who seemed to ignore the pain of blows that caught her in the flurry of ruthless aggression.

Eitur, the only other remaining member of the doomed Warband had more reasonable priorities. Namely vengeance for the lives of both Tala and Hundur. She was no fan of their supposed leader, but at that moment the main target set before her was the dark one and her monsters. However, with weapons lost at sea, Eitur had to resort to charging the gilded woman with a wooden chair which she sought to crack over her head.

 

[Gal]

If she were any less busy not dying, Gal would’ve stopped to appreciate the sheer fucking savagery of the blonde. She’d put some of the wild predators on her home islands to shame with how viciously she lunged at the feeling masses, her knife sinking again and again into exposed flesh.

But as things stood, Gal currently was too busy staying alive, and thus paid no mind to the brutality of the Nordwiir.

At least not that one.

The problem with charging lay in the fact that it was blatantly obvious to anyone with eyes. In which case Skad might’ve struggled, but Gal didn’t – she boldly stepped forward into the raging chair assault and kicked the cunt in the, well, cunt.

And that’s how she ended up tangled in a close-quarters, knife-on-dagger wrestling match in the middle of a fucking tavern brawl. Which – like anyone with half a brain and as much experience would tell you – was a bad place to be.

The nazrani counted herself among their rank, and resolved her pickle by burrowing her blade to the hilt in Eitur’s kidney.

(Best enjoyed fresh and sweet with a little whale oil and a heap of spice, none of which she had at hand in these barren wastes. Fucking pity, that.)

Thaug appeared at her side soon as she’d extracted her dagger, spattered crimson but otherwise his usual cheerful self. With a quick glance they locked backs and began to carve their bloody way towards the exit.

 

[Skad]

For a few moments, Skad managed to surf upon the backs of the brawlers, one hand stabbing downwards at any and all glimpses of vulnerable flesh, the other pulling at hair and clothing to keep herself atop of the violent melee of sweat and fists.

Eventually, however, the woman seemed to be swallowed into the cluster of battling bodies and from the outside, she seemed to disappear into the chaos.

It was even better in the midst of it all as her frenzied blade plunged into bellies softened by years of ale over and over again in a manner so feral it might have been considered possession. The force of such violence began to mark the Nordwiir’s furs with familiar splatters of crimson, her grip upon the hilt growing slick and loose in the process.

She took a few blows for her trouble, some elbows and a few boots that would only make themselves known in tender flesh the next day and eventually an errant fist knocked the skinning knife from her hand.

When more bodies were strewn in front of the door than remained standing Skad improvised, choosing to wrestle a man who had the misfortune of being upright despite his crimson-stained abdomen. It was a flurry of arms and legs, the limbs interlocking awkwardly as the raider went for the side of the man’s head, her teeth ripping and tearing the flesh of his ear away which was promptly spat on the floor.

Soft, southern blood was so sweet.

 

[Gal]

“Fuckin’ grab ‘er!” Gal yelled over the din of dying men, herself fending off a pair of drunkards with her dagger and the remains of a chair as her shield.

Her being the maniac who had set this carnage into motion, of course. Presently rolling on the floor with a bleeding slave like a pig in a sty.

It was Bergren and Arheid that obeyed her orders, barreling into the unarmed nordwiir like a battering ram. For her part, the nazrani finished off the last remaining… fighters, then began picking her way through the sea of fallen bodies (dead or close enough that it didn’t matter). There was no need to wipe her blade – it gorged on every drop of blood it shed like a thirsty man in the desert.

When she made it to the door – blockaded, no shit, by no fewer than seven corpses – her crew had wrestled Skad into submission. Or the nearest thing, anyway.

The thing was still spitting and struggling in spite of the four hundred pounds of orcish muscle pinning her to the last upright table in the establishment.

“Ye got spirit, ye mad cunt,” Gal said with a snort and picked up a functional chair to sit on. “Wanna say porqe ye gon’ an’ massaqret’ ma biznis ‘fore I kill ye?”

 

[Skad]

With a frankly unsettling level of fervour, Skad continued to use teeth in lieu of her knife. Logically, it was the next sharpest tool available to do damage with but in a sense of hygiene, it was completely demented.

Then she got blindsided by a pair of boats.

Which, as it turned out, was actually the swarthy woman's beastly entourage. Were Skad's divine blessing the strength of a dozen men then she might have had a fighting chance to out-wrestle them, but that was evidently not the case. Sterkur could have had he not fallen off their boat when the storm battered them without mercy but fuck him, what kind of self-respecting Nordwiir drowned?

Choosing to be as difficult as humanly possible, the raider thrashed and surged like the proudest berserker in the land. With her arms held there was a lot of violent leg movement as if the woman was attempting to do the rowdiest backflip ever seen by man. Of course, this too was brought to an end when one of the pair wisely opted to restrain her legs too.

Eventually, Skad's unbridled bucking simmered down to a more generous test of attention every few moments once she was pinned to the table. An errant surge of a shoulder or a leg to see if the brutish creatures relaxed their grips any.

They did not, which gave her reason to believe they weren't as stupid as they looked.

Conversation finally resumed after Skad's red respite, and the word cunt was immediately recognised (swears were the first words that everybody learned in a foreign tongue, after all) and while the rest was absolute nonsense, she took the other woman's body language and tone as a more positive indication than before.

While it might have been hard to swallow, the Nordwiir still had a plan, albeit one that had changed several times in what was about fifteen minutes.

Skad had first wished to ambush them in the tavern and steal their ship but found the odds too unfortunate in the setting. This had turned into the secondary ploy that involved Tala translating their wish to work aboard their vessel, where eventually they would have attempted to slay them all and hijack the boat. This was now the third plan, which involved sacrificing the dead weight of her remaining Warband to once more, get upon that ship, albeit with the new intention of actually joining the crew instead of murdering it.

And all through the language of violence.

“I work!” Skad reiterated proudly with the baring of bloodied teeth, taking her ex-translator's useless words and putting her own sense of actual fighting worth into them, “On boat! For you!”

 

[Gal]

Those coal-black eyes were inscrutable as they pinned the nordwiir to the table more securely than either of the hulking orcs behind her.

Gal leaned back in the chair as she studied the blonde and her fierce words, playing with her dagger all the while. It seemed unnaturally given to balancing on its point, as if there was a source of invisible weight hidden inside the blade.

Finally, she flipped it back around and caught it handily by the grip. She leaned close – too close, maybe, considering how readily she’d seen One-eye tear into flesh – but then she had fangs of her own.

“I like havin’ me ordres followed, Skad.” Her voice was rough from years of pipeleaf when she dropped it so low. “An’ you don’ follow ordres.”

“Send da regards to Kiva qand t’arrives,” Gal said and opened her throat up in one smooth motion, swift and clean.

 

[Skad]

It would have seemed that she had still not done enough to sway the woman's mind, her decision on what to do next seemingly balancing on the tip of a dagger.

Skad's single mossy eye stared back, the violent gleam a far cry from the vacant expression held before the chaos had erupted. Her chest heaved from physical exertion, swelling in almost violent rhythm as the gilded one got ever closer, intimate enough to smell the copper on bloodied breath for every heavy exhale.

Since those foreign words meant nothing, Skad had to discern from body language that either they were going to fuck, or she was going to die and neither option was taken as a deterrent.

The blade bit deep in precise fashion and unleashed a sanguine torrent that pissed forth from the Nordwiir's throat, painting all that stood in its way a rich, deep red. The blonde gasped in what was an automatic response, the next hearty breath gargling red that was spluttered outwards in subsequent coughs.

With an assured death sentence at hand, Skad was no longer pinned to the table by monstrous strength and rolled off and onto the floor in what was a presumed last act of defiance.

On hands and knees she watched as the pour of blood lessened to a drizzle and eventually stopped entirely as severed flesh, muscles and vessels knitted back together in barbarous fashion, leaving behind fresh and prominent scar tissue.

<”I am the chosen of Haraudur,”> Skad croaked upon the ground, her faith placed within the Blood God not having faltered for a single moment.

She could feel her blessing in her veins, her flesh a monument of searing devout flame as once more in her short life the Nordwiir had defied death itself. She was indomitable, unyielding, ignited. Her absolute fealty in tribute had been returned as it always had been, solidifying the woman's brutal execution of faith. She was alive.

As the raider slowly returned to her feet, she was forced to grab hold of the table to steady herself as the spilling of her throat reduced her legs' usefulness to that of a newborn calf, the woman's visage now a ghostly white even compared to before.

“Fuck!” the Nordwiir exclaimed in the common tongue with a delirious and hearty laugh, slamming a fist down upon the very table that was helping keep her upright.

She'd never had her throat slit before. What an experience.

 

[Gal]

The satisfaction of a good kill was fleeting. Not out of some grand moral lesson, but for the simple fact that the blonde bitch refused to play by the fucking rules. Didn’t collapse onto her face. Didn’t bleed out in a pool of her own blood. Didn’t even have the fuckin’ decency to keep the wound.

Gal took a step back as she watched the flow of blood slow down to a trickle. Her shiny, untarnished dagger suddenly felt a sight too short. Years of self-preservation instincts honed between sea and battle dictated she keep One-eye at cutlass-length at least.

The nazrani merrily ignored them for the opportunity to dance with death.

She did, however, meet the wide eyes of her orcish crew. Just in case. She was a daredevil, not suicidal.

Dragging two of her fingers through the crimson left cooling on the table, Gal painted a double line from bottom lip to chin. A shiver ran down her spine as she tested the taste on the tip of her tongue. Raw, full of iron, salt, and…

Interesting. She tilted her head to the side with a faint smile.

<What are you?>

 

[Skad]

A small blessing that the immediate response from the swarthy woman wasn't to try again as even a gift such as Skad had its limits. Not to mention that a substantial amount of the blonde's own blood was decorating the tavern like abstract fucking art.

The raider observed in a glorious light-headed stupor as the other woman took to what seemed like a familiar ritual, marking her face with vitae just as Skad had done prior to killing Tala. Although the woman from the north wasn't in the habit of tasting it, that was more in Kol's realm of sorcery. She just kept it flowing.

There was a small pause as suddenly the guttural words of her own tongue left the foreigner's lips. An outsider speaking Wiir was unheard of. Was she delirious? How much blood had she lost?

Ah, but why question such good fortune?

<”I am Nordwiir,”> Skad replied, turning her head to look the other woman in the eye, her hands remaining planted upon the table as it helped her remain upright, <”and we are a people blessed with gifts by the Dark Gods.>”

She stopped and gave a hard snort, hawking up the remainder of crimson and spittle still caught in her throat from before and spat it upon the table. Upon reflection, she preferred being mortally wounded in battle. She felt like shit.

<”Tala could not be drowned,”> she continued with a nod to his corpse in the presumption that this was the explanation wanted, <”nor Eitur poisoned,”> another body, another nod as her neck swivelled again to find the final corpse of her Warband, <”and Hundur...”>

What was his gift again? It wasn't worth remembering now that the fucker was dead.

<”...once tried to fuck a boar, the dirty cunt!”>

Skad found this, quite frankly, hilarious which was odd for the woman because usually when not in the act of violent tribute she was rather stone-faced. This could also be attributed to blood loss.

<”And what are you and your crew?>

 

[Gal]

Gal listened intently to the words that finally made sense to her southern ears. Though she remained coiled to strike in case the blonde tried something. Not that she seemed capable of doing anything, but the nazrani could hardly trust her instincts with someone who openly defied death.

Best keep the dagger close.

<I’ve never heard of the Nordwiir.>

But then the pirate hadn’t heard of many things beyond the Spine. Ask her to provide a detailed list of the best watering holes along the Liadain coast, though, and you’d be set for years.

<Who are we?>

Gal walked her kohl eyes over the grim faces of her orcs, then painted in the remainder from memory. The nazrani had lost more crew to the sea, battle, and portside fuckery than most Captains commanded in their lives.

And she hadn’t yet seen her thirtieth summer to boot.

<We’re businessmen.> She snorted. <And women. People, weapons, ships… for the right price, we can bring you the crown of a kingdom.>

She wasn’t lying neither, for a change. That blockade down in Baleri… Kasmetros didn’t make it out unscathed, and it was all thanks to the meddling of a greedy pirate and an honest man.

Her mouth split into a wide grin, fangs and all.

<But mostly, we’re pirates.>

 

[Skad]

It was no wonder that the woman had not heard of their kind, the reasons were plentiful as to why the Nordwiir were one of the land's unintentionally best kept secrets but could mainly be boiled down to exactly two.

The first spoke of academia, or rather a lack thereof. They were an illiterate people who shunned the written word with little further thought and therefore there was nothing to discover of them. No great Nordwiir writings to ponder and pontificate over. Everything was held in spoken tales, passed down from generation to generation, providing they survived, of course.

Their very nature was the second. A tribal people who hailed from a barely habitable tundra, weathered by desolation and blood, it was so often that they fought amongst themselves that scant few in recent history had even made it this far to raid.

Until now.

Skad listened in turn as the businesswoman explained the who, her lone eye staring down at the vast pool of crimson that still dripped from her support table.

Impressive boasts. The raider saw no need to care if they were true or not, given that she was not in the market for either crown or kingdom. Skad's own stained teeth flashed in brief heady amusement at the summary of what they did. Pirates were just raiders with extra steps.

Now that they could communicate properly, it was time for a better pitch.

Pushing herself off the table, Skad staggered backwards to what seemed to be the only chair left upright in the entire tavern and dropped onto the seat. As she leaned back the Nordwiir took a moment to run a hand down the fresh scarring upon her throat, the hardened pads of her fingers fully exploring the freshest mark of tribute.

<”My Warband is dead,”> the blonde said plainly, fingers still appreciating fresh scar tissue as the feeling of light-headedness refused to shift, <”most at sea, and the rest...”>

Tala, Eitur and Hundur.

<”...the fucking yellow cunts, right here.”>

Finally, Skad shifted, her back stooping over as elbows rested upon knees and painted hands clasped together. That lone eye looked to the swarthy pirate in prepared proposition, tongue running over front teeth to clear the scarlet tint.

<”But I am not ready to return home just yet, it is not time,”> she continued, the nature of her purpose upon southern shores left entirely up to the Dark Gods, <”I want on your ship. I work hard, won't bitch and I will happily kill whatever you need dead.”>

 

[Gal]

A bitch that could kill her own when they started weighing her down? She could respect that.

Dangerous as all shit, sure. But useful as fuck too. Couldn’t buy that kinda fear-inducing murderous rage for no amount of coin. Had to be earned through fervor – through reverin’ some hungry spirit that asked for one thing and one thing only in sacrifice.

The spirit of life.

Not that Gal could fucking judge. The dagger on her hip was her own little blood god, pragmatic and portable and always at her side.

Whether she wanted it or not.

So what was a little risk in the face of eternal damnation? What was a little gamble?

The pirate looked Skad up and down again, from her crimson-soaked head to her crimson-splattered toes. Her gaze lingered on the raw, red scar knitting itself into shape on her throat. Her scar.

<You will join my crew,> she spoke at length, rising from her chair to whisper in her ear. <But betray me, and I will watch you drown a hundred times under the keel of my ship until your gods forget you,> she ran a finger across the raised tissue of the scar, <and you never come up for air again.>

With that, she pushed off and chucked a few coins onto the counter of the deserted tavern. “We done ‘ere.”

 

[Skad]

A fair threat, worth its weight in intent as Skad bared further teeth in celebration of their agreement.

<”Not a problem.”>

There was almost an expectation of betrayal that hung heavy in the air alongside the stink of fresh copper as if it would one day sing true that either of these women would be responsible for the death of the other. It might have been, but fate was tricky, and there was never just one path to tread.

Skad, Kin-Slayer could be found more than guilty in the court of Nordwiir slaughter, but it was not treachery, it was just. They were unworthy and had been found wanting. Those men and women were better tribute than they ever were faithful to the Dark Gods. Never betrayal, but a pious duty.

It was not her place nor concern to meddle with the affairs of ashen-skinned foreigners, they were not chosen, at least not for one-eyed judgement.

The Nordwiir had to dispense effort once more to stand, legs still drunk from lack of vitae, her brain still fogged by an intoxicating haze of weightlessness. It really banished her regular stoicism from the scenario. She staggered after the Captain of her new crew, who in what seemed to be their own custom, paid the dead with gold.

<”Please tell me you have food, I’m fucking starving,”> Skad enquired, considering that it might be more prompt to try and use their common tongue instead, it would be a useful skill in future raiding parties.

 

[Gal]

The street – if the muddy thoroughfare might be called that – was deserted as they stepped out of the tavern. Smoke was still pluming treacherously out of the chimneys of the houses either side, but the doors were closed and the shutters drawn shut. A lone cat held watch from atop a pile of empty crates, its yellow eyes glinting in the torchlight.

All was quiet as the rough group marched along the trampled path towards the harbor.

Too quiet.

Gal held up her fist in the universal sign for pause. Her orcish companions thumbed their belts either side of her, the blood not yet dried on their blades as they drew them again. The pirate hoped the Nordwiir had the sense to do the same.

<Prove your worth now,> she muttered under her breath, gaze never leaving the bend in the road, <and we will soon feast on fresh meat.>

With a sideways glance to her companions, the nazrani pressed a finger to her lips, then motioned for them to move into the shadow of the longhouse blocking their view of the docks. For her own part, Gal uttered silent thanks for the overcast sky as she mounted the crates and held out her hand for the cat. She invited the feline into her arms with a careful caress, gutting it arse to neck with a swift motion of her knife before it had so much as purred.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as the animal twitched in her grasp, painting her arm black up to the elbow, and then opened them again narrowed into thin slits. Her lips curled into a smile as she saw the world around her in a new light. Laying out its corpse, Gal vaulted onto the thatched roof with her dripping dagger still in hand and crept up to its ridge.

True to her suspicions, a band of incensed locals were waiting on them on the docks, pressed flush against the crates and barrels littering the jetty. A good place for an ambush – with the cold northern sea nearby, they could have quickly taken most of them out in one fell swoop.

Could have.

Gal splayed her fingers twice to indicate ten opponents, then gestured for her crew to round the back of the longhouse.

Nothing like backstabbing a backstabber.

 

[Skad]

The woman's crew halted at the signal, Skad among them. Raids were her people's bread and butter and silent communication more often than not had a vital part to play. Not every battle could be won with a fearless charge and a hoard of rampaging abominations (although the latter certainly did help).

Although the Nordwiir really hadn't anticipated being thrust into battle on an empty stomach and with half her vitae currently outside of her body.

These pirates clearly didn't fuck around with their initiations.

They moved into the shadows as instructed before the captain made short work of a local cat. Skad's head tilted, her sheet-white face tinged with nothing but curiosity at the apparent blood magic on display. For a moment the sight reminded her of Kol and of home but the notion was quickly dispersed as it was deemed nothing but a mental hindrance.

There'd be time to discuss that later, unless Skad's passage to Heidur was about to come with this skirmish.

Ten. There was ten southern bastards between the warrior and a good fucking meal. Not impossible, but certainly a challenge in her current state. Even still her head swam with airy intoxication as they crept around the back of the building to counter the ambush. At least she wouldn't be alone for the fight, a boon that meant that she could take an approach that was more her known style.

Let the big fuckers take the charge and hold back for the runners. A dishonourable tactic but one that suffocated voices that would go on to tell tales. Fuck heroics. Fuck glory. Not one tribute to her Dark Gods would run free. That was her duty.

Although, said duty was reined in until the rest of the crew made the move, it was not Skad's place to take this charge.