Fate - First Reply The Burning Hills

[Halldór]

Gulf of Ryt - Town of Polt

Halldór crouched in the bottom of his longship, slowly drawing through the swampy mire all around them. The air here was thick, the ocean breeze cut by the humidity which seemed to stick all around them.

Many of his fellow raiders had stripped themselves of furs and armor, the heat taxing and the weight only more so. Sweat beaded down some of their brows, but none complained. The Nordwiir were not known for their protestations, particularly those who risked leaving the Lost Isles to raid the Summerlands. The danger presented by crossing the open seas near their home was enough to make most men balk, those who did it regularly were considered either fools, or fearless.

The Flayed did not know which side of that line he fell upon, he knew only that he had heard the calling of his debt.

Likami wanted her flesh returned.

Halldór glanced down, flexing his fingers upon the haft of his ax. Watching as the rune-scrawled skin on the back of his palm seemed to shift and move with the press of his grip. I will not waste your blessing.

He told his goddess for the thousandths time, knowing it was only by her will that he had managed to survive for so long. Ten years among the wolves was no small feat. Hunted by those who had slaughtered his family, and sought by those who chased myth. Halldór knew better than most the luck he carried, and he would not forsake it now.

"Hal." The shipmaster whispered as he shifted the rudder of the longship. Allowing the vessel to drift closer towards the left bank of the river. To anyone watching the boat would appear empty, each of the Wiir within crouched low and hugging the bottom of the vessel. Holding themselves low so they would be thought adrift. "Take Groie and Tullamir. Set fire to those fields."

Halldór's eyes flickered up, looking at hill in the distance. It was covered in some strange beige crop he had never been before, but that did not matter; the Summerlands burned easily.

His head dipped in a nod, and he motioned to Tulla and Groie to follow along with him. Slowly the Flayed picked himself up, eyes darting over the edge of the ship first, before slowly he grabbed the railings edge and hoisted himself over. With only a small splash, the three Nordwiir slipped into the river, heading to the shore to complete their task.

Polt would be less defended if they were trying to save their crops.

 

[Ubnara Debadn]

The heavy pottery mug thudded against the wooden plank table. It was accompanied by a hand that lifted high. A singer finger, tipped by a thick sharp nail crusted in dirt, raised and lowered, the signal for the mug to be filled again. A portly woman in a soiled apron waddled over, tilting a pitcher over the mug, allowing the amber ale within to flow. The tavern server eyed the surly woman with a mix of fear and repulsion as the orcess grunted in gratitude. In silence the wench returned to the bar.

Ubnara upended the mug to her full lips, drinking deeply. A trickle of the swill escaped to run from the corner of her mouth to her chin, where it was caught and wiped away on the back of a battered leather wristband. The orc mongrel resented being in the village on the ass end of Epressa. It was the end of the line for the merchant caravan she helped escort from Bhathair to Belgrath, with only a couple sellers making the trip to Polt. Ubnara stayed only because the coin was offered to do so.

There was little chance of meaningful work in the village, and otherwise only piss poor reasons to stay. She would stay the night, then make the trek back south on her own coin. The tavern was the only worthwhile past time, without even a town whore to keep her warm.

Downing the contents of the mug, she plucked a few coins from her purse and tossed them next to the empty mug. Rising from the stool, the tall, bulky orc mongrel made her way outside and down towards the fields, where she had made camp in a copse of trees. It was then that she saw the curious vessel down by the river. The design of the craft she did not recognize, but the intent of three men skulking from it suggested they were up to no good.

She owned nothing to Polt, but she was curious. Jogging to the trees, she took up her bow and quiver and watched the three men from the shadows.

 

[Halldór]

Halldór moved as quietly as he could, though the same could not be same for the two oafs besides him.

The Nordwiir were not a people used to ‘stealth’. Their raids were more often than not centered around tactics of simple brutality. They would use their gifts to carve and cut through whatever and whoever stood in their way. It did not matter the losses, for every body lost was simply another man whose share did not have to be paid.

This shipmaster was different though.

He was smarter than most others, and although Halldór doubted that he held much acclaim for the life of his fellow Wiir, the man had a goal. He had not shared it with any of them yet, but it was clear that there was a design to this raid, something greater than looting the town of Polt for all it's gold and silver.

Likami did not care though, and neither did he. The song his goddess had sung had brought him to the shipmaster long house, and that was all that mattered. He was here to carve away the flesh of those who stood in his way. He was here to repay the gifts of Likami. ”Take the fields to the left.”

The Flayed commanded the other two Wiir, not wanting to be stuck with the fools at his side.

Both of them grimaced for a brief moment, as if considering rebuking his command, but neither bid to challenge him. A grunt was all the answer he received as the two departed Halldór shaking his head as he broke right, not noticing the shadow which was now lurking behind them. As he climbed the tall hill, he began to dig into his pack, pulling free a long torch bundled in oil and cloth.

 

[Ubnara Debadn]

She knew next to nothing about the people of the farflung Tundra, let alone what they looked like. All she knew was that the three men were well armed and armored and carried themselves in the manner of warriors. They certainly didn't move like thieves or spies.

Narrowed emerald eyes watched them split, two and one, towards separate grain fields. The farther loner paused to pull out a torch. Burning the fields. Was this vengeance, or was it more? It may have been the herald of an attack. It was also a slim chance she could stop all three intruders before they set the fields ablaze. There would be no need for her to go warn someone then, the smoke would bring the villagers out.

Regardless of her indifference to the fate of the village, something about the sneaky firebugs irked the orc huntress, and she set an war arrow to her bow and raised it. The thick bow creaked as she pulled back the string, taking aim at one of the two closer warriors and let loose the arrow.

 

[Halldór]

He did not hear the snapping of the bowstring, nor did he hear the arrow fall.

But he did not need to.

The Orc’s shot was perfectly placed. The arrow cutting through the air, it's tip burying directly in one of the two Nordwiir’s shoulder. The momentum of the shit bucking him to the side as he let out a startled cry.

A cry, which quickly turned into a roar.

Each Nordwiir was born with the ability to take a blessing from one of the Dark Gods. Though they did not hold it from childhood, each of them endured a trial. A trial which named them and brought forth their gift. The power of the God's whom had so long reigned within their society brought forth to heel.

Halldór’s gift was that of rejuvenation, but the man who found an arrow now buried in his shoulder held a far less subtle talent. As pain lanced through him, his Blessing was brought forth. His skin tearing, ripping, and pulling apart as his bones were reset and shifted. Turning from man, to a wolf, standing tall on its hind legs. It's mangey and broken skin peeling from the flesh of the man who had just been standing there.

A roar escaped the skinwolf’s throat, echoing out across the fields as he turned and charged towards the Orc.

Halldór shifted, his gaze sweeping down the hill as he heard the howl from his fellow Wiir. A click of his tongue and a shake of his head was all he had to offer. His torch beginning to set the fires.

There was still a job to do before he could claim his pound of flesh.

 

[Ubnara Debadn]

Ubnara bared her sharp teeth as she watched the arrow streak to his mark, thudding into the big warrior. A low grunt from the orc's throat followed when she saw it was a shoulder hit, no organs struck. She may have been hasty in popping off a shot at the men. It was not her fight, until she made it so. It was the orc blood that made her do such foolhardy things... like fighting...she loved a good fight.

A grim smile touched her lips as she saw the man bear the thick orc arrow, not like a whining dog, but like a bear. No...not a bear. She crouched lower as she saw the gruesome transformation. Crap. She didn't know what magic drove the strange wolfman's change, but Ubnara felt a irking pang of jealously. Were she to have continued her studies with the tribal shaman, she might have been able to become her spirit animal, the panther.

There was no avoiding it now. The great beast was moving fast, faster than she could run. But not as fast as she could fight. With a blur of movement, Ubnara plucked another arrown and nocked it, sending it flying at the charging wolf. Immediately, the bow was tossed aside the sword and ax were snatched from her belt. With her own howling scream, the big, muscle bound she-orc planted her boots, crouched low and waited for the wolf to drawn close enough to strike.