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Arnor Skuldsson

Arnor Skuldsson

The Axe of Knottington
Nordenfiir
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I am a poor...
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One of the nicer things about Vel Anir, for the most part, was that it constantly had lines of carriages going to it. Ferrying all sorts of goods. Most traveled by way of sea, but the sea was unpredictable, and piracy had picked up near several coasts. So, Arnor had managed to catch a carriage convoy that was going from Elbion to Vel Anir. The empty carriage- a cargo carriage, was to move large items that were too heavy or too expensive and risky to lose by sea. The empty carriage he was on- rather a large wagon, more like, was going to be used to haul back....

He forgot when they told him. He just wanted to go to sleep.

They had a long journey- several days ride. Part of the deal was that Arnor got to ride for free- but his food was to be paid for out of pocket, and more importantly, if trouble arose, he was to act. Swiftly, decisively, yadda yadda...

A bump in the road jostled him awake. He'd been asleep for several hours, by the looks of it.

"Bugger."

He said, slowly sitting up, resting his hands on his knees. He was stiff. He was getting older- not entirely old, but old enough that sleeping on wooden slats on a pack wasn't comfortable anymore. He sighed, then coughed, looking out the slowly-trodding wagon. Joyous. He thought to himself, noticing that he was looking at....

Trees.

Just.

Trees.

And fog.

And dying trees, at that. Frost was coming in.
 
Pissing cold fog and mud. Miran couldn't wait until she was out of it and back in warmer climates.

The caravan drew closer and closer. She could see the flickering lamplight and torches of its sparse guards.

Ripe for slaughter.

Her hand gripped tighter on the dark shaft of her axe. Even in this swampy gloom, the silverite blade of her axe caught some light, glowing like a crescent slice of Pneria, the hungry moon.

She sniffed in the damp air. Her fellow mercenaries were a motley lot - pack of scum and scoundrels, the lot of them. But their client paid them fat coin to harass and raid the caravans between Vel Anir and Elbion. Some scheme of raising tensions on the border, no doubt. She cared not for the politics of it.

When she felt confident her fellow bandits-for-hire had surrounded it, Miran stepped out from beneath a weeping willow, axe on her shoulder, not only its weight tugging down on her, but its hungry presence as well.

A thirst for gold was not all she hoped to satisfy today. Blocking the road with her towering frame, wrapped in a woollen cloak black as midnight, Miran stood as a physical block before the carriage, a fan of sellswords in similarly grimy boiled leather encircling her.

"Halt. We have you cornered. Lay down your arms, and we might let you walk with clothes on your back and bones unbroken."

Straight to business. No theatrics, no preamble. She had done this so many times it almost turned into routine.

Arnor Skuldsson
 
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Thud.

Went the ground as Arnor dismounted. He had a sword in hand. A longsword, steel, finely made. Long enough, heavy enough. It was a sword for cleaving, for cutting, for chopping- for fighting. He held it at his side, taking a deep breath and examining the ragamuffins that had stopped their wagon. The other passengers cowered in fear, the driver settling into shaking rather than saying anything.

He was Nordenfiir, that much was obvious.

He was good at what he did- no mercenary, no sellsword had thet equipment he did, in the shape that it was, without earning it. He just had the look about him.

"I am Arnor, son of Skuld. I am the Axe of Knottington."

Another deep breath. Annoyance. Not preparation. He clicked his teeth and looked around. He had a reputation, years and years of mercenary work in the Spine- and the fact that at any given moment, he could turn into a giant, ferocious bear at will. He set the tip of his sword down by his toes, holding it tightly.

"Pick which ones die first, if you intend to rob us."
 
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An eyebrow cocked like a coil-spring on Miran's brow. She sized up this Nordenfiir warrior with the professional appraisal of someone who had often stepped into the ring of battle. A man of similar height as her, his northern roots favouring him with much bulk below his leather and plate. She noted the way he held his sword, much like a craftsman might hold a favoured tool - a natural extension of himself, a long, steel claw - no more, no less. She had no doubt he could cleave through a few bodies in one blow.

After her assessment of this foe, one side of her mouth cracked into a small smirk, hard as iron. Whereas her tones had been rudimentary before - near droning boredom - here, she saw a proper challenge. It practically reinvigorated her from the lethargic drain of her weapon.

The Axe of Knottingham. She could swear she had heard the name somewhere. Well, not that he carried an axe now, but if she could claim a name of repute in her victory, then so much the better.

Unfortunately for this famed warrior, he seemed to be on his own in defending the carriage. So be it. What better way to test his mettle than to throw the general fodder his way?

As the most experienced among her raggedy bunch, Miran held some sway over them. Well, as much as anyone could command a pack of convicts, deserters and other outlaws, at least.

"Oh, I like you," she drawled lowly, a private note, before raising her voice. She pointed at him with her free hand, finger jutting with finality, much how the leaders of Cerak At'thul pointed out those destined to die in their arena. "Mouthy one, aren't you? First one to skin his hide claims it - must be worth something, shifted or not!"


With that bet on the table, the dozen or so cutthroats charged the lone mercenary with unrestrained glee and near reckless abandon, attempting to flank him with their hodge-podge of spears, axes, clubs and the odd sword. In cold calculation, Miran hung back, approaching at a much more leisurely pace, allowing her greedy companions to strike first - or be struck down. That way she might gauge his skill and strength, all while weeding out more cretins that would share in the booty.

Besides, it was bound to be an interesting spectacle.

Arnor Skuldsson
 
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"So be it."

And thus, the dance started. It started off cruelly- the first man to step forward was not cut, was not slashed. He was cleaved in two- the arc swinging downward, catching him at the shoulder. His sword, steel from far from here- cleaved him diagonally, splitting half of him onto the ground.

He had been here before. Battlefields, sieges, bad jobs. The trick to many enemies was that they could only attack so much. The idea that they only had so many avenues of attack- especially without ranged weaponry. There were some more experienced than others in the less-than-dozen now, and they stayed close, trying to prevent Arnor from gaining an edge with his longsword.

However, they forgot that Arnor was.. him. A cudgel coming forward, down, high. He pushed the pommel up, deflecting, not blocking. He pulled his elbows in, slicing across his belly. A scream. He pivoted, throwing his body down, then gaining crucial space.

Another came forward. He lost an arm at the elbow, shock taking over and a scream unable to escape beyond his throat. Arnor let him fall to the ground, bleeding.

He stared at the woman, while they reconvened, repositioned, backing off. Trying to form a plan. He was violent. He was capable. And he wasn't even winded, he had done everything in just a few moments. He was efficient as much as he was a killer. A true mercenary. Did everything the best, simply to make the most while doing less.

"You're all going to die here."
 
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One, two, three. Three fighters already bleeding, the roots of the swamp drinking up their sanguine life.

The rest turned wary, now huddling together. Scared. Her dark eyes met an ice-blue gaze, cold and merciless as winter, taking their time to allow enemies to run into their death. She felt energy coursing through her, the heady rush of engaging with a dangerous foe.

Her long wicks and the bangles in her hair clinked, as she shook her head.

"Pffth. Amateurs."

Then, from her slow walk, she exploded into movement. A large hand seized a spear from the first victim. The shaft was tossed upwards in the air, before she caught it again with a wet smack in an inverted grip, then flung it, the pointed tip catapulting for his chest as if shot by a ballista.

The other thugs could only gawp, while she charged. Nearly catching up to her thrown weapon, Miran didn't waste any time pressing the attack, the silverite axe-blade slashing in controlled arcs, using the motion of each strike to lead into the next.

She saw a fellow mercenary who knew not to waste a single beat or an ounce of kinetic force. And whether the spear had hit or not, it would serve her all the same as a distraction. Miran fought dirty - raised to fight in pits and streets, where anything was allowed to win.

But something strange. In their flurry of exchanges, strands of blood would coil and seep from the victims so far, tracing crimson tails after each curve and slice of the axe, consumed by the vague outline of skulls in its steel.

Arnor Skuldsson
 
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Arnor was a practiced swordsman at this point- and one thing he learned was to not let the enemy anticipate what he was going to do. Which is why charging, outside of being a giant fucking bear- it wasn't smart. The thrown weapon, a spear, or at least, something, came barreling towards him. He only had to turn his body slightly- the air rushing by his face, the metal skirting along his cheek. A splash of blood littered the ground. His face was bleeding just below his cheek.

Close call.

But the charge that was still coming-

Was usually not the move he'd make. It made things too easy, too simple to predict. Her choice of weaponry also only allowed for a few approaches to attack. Slashing, with no stabbing. A weapon for crushing foes in a siege, a raid. Breaking armor.

But not very good in a duel. He was able to parry, block, his heavy sword blocking, parrying. She was fast. She was good. But he was at an advantage- for the moment at least. Something evil, however, lurked. He knew that much. It was here, it was dark. And not just the lighting, no. Something was wrong. He pushed the thought aside. He had a fight to win.

He stopped into a fool's guard, deflecting another heavy blow from her. With the opening she had, he couldn't slash as much as he wanted to. She was close to him now. So- He drove the heavy, studded pommel of his sword upwards, heading violently towards her chin.
 
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The pommel impacted with a crunch, a splinter of a tooth flying from her mouth along with a spurt of blood. The metal end barrelled into her chin with such force her teeth painfully smacked together, nearly clipping off her own tongue, and flinging her off her feet to land prone on the ground with a heavy thud.

To lose your footing usually meant death. Hence why she had often seen to tripping the opposition. Unfortunately, that lesson might well be turned against her now.

But to her luck, the remaining bandits had regathered their courage. Seeing the harder struggle he had had with her had emboldened them into thinking they now held a higher chance of winning. Or a chance at all.

A last push. A quick attempt at ending this spree, before they would all rout or perish. After all, he was only one man, for Astra's sake.

Some took inspiration from Miran's throw, flinging a spare dagger or two his way, before they engaged again. This granted her a window to crawl back, wiping her bloody mouth with the back of her hand, spitting rust-red phlegm on the ground. She had maintained a stangle-hold on the axe, bringing it with her - and even now, she could see the drops she had spat out slowly lifting, drifting into its axe-head like moth to a candle.


It seemed she might well have met her match, finally. As only a true warrior could determine, she could now instinctually assess his skills and how they stacked up to hers. There was a high chance she wouldn't win this fight. Especially if he now made mince meat of her remaining gang.

Miran had no intention of dying today. She planned to die old - in a bed - in a house full of pampering servants and endlessly flowing wine, living on a diet of succulent eggs and other exotic foods from all corners of Arethil. Not as a half-frozen corpse in this middle-of-nowhere swamp.

It was time to take more drastic measures.

Springing to her feet, Miran sprinted past the current fray, her ears catching the battle-cries and shrill screams of injury, as she approached the carriage. There, her fingers seized the collar of the first, cowering passenger she could find - a young woman in her second decade, screaming in fear. She held her thirsty axe to her neck, lifting her face up by her chin to direct her pleading eyes at the Nordenfiir warrior, who no doubt had finished off her remaining henchmen.

Only a noble heart would take on the liability of protecting a carriage single-handedly. Such chivalry. It was time to use it against him though. If her axe couldn't cut through his guard, then his own conscience might.

"Oy! Bear-man. Drink this in."

She gave a bloody smile with her fractured jaw - cruel, vengeful and full of deadly intent - pricking the woman's skin with her blade. A long string of blood trickled down from her neck to her collar.

"Throw down your weapon or you'll have her head on a platter. My treat."

Arnor Skuldsson
 
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The other bandits, rogues, and ne'er-do-wells came.

And then they went. A flourish, a strike, a stab. A cleave. He was outnumbered, they were outmatched. It was that simple. He flicked his blade, rinsing the blood on the ground. Curiously- it went towards her axe, almost. It was coiling, twisting in the air.

Filthy, foul magic, curses.

He stopped when she held the blade to the woman's neck. He stared, still holding onto his blade. He was silent, staring, eyes narrowed, covered in her blood, and her friends, and only a few scratches and a lucky slash across his forearm that broke his armor to show for it.

He let the silence fill the air. A tense, uncomfortable silence. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He didn't say anything. He learned it from the west- sometimes, the silence was more powerful to use in the moment than words.

"And then?"

It was cold, and it seemed more like a genuine question.
 
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Miran's brow furrowed, her smile turning into a sneer. A subtler soul might have gotten the implication. She didn't.

She pressed the axe closer to her hostage's throat, its cursed kiss licking up the slightly spilled blood.

"Up yours! Weapon down, *now.*"

Her eyes measured the distance between them. She ought to be able to reach him before he could pick up his weapon again, if she was quick. It might turn into a wrestling match, if he managed to catch her axe, but perhaps she might hold the advantage then, once the battle reduced to knuckles and knees.

Arnor Skuldsson
 
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