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Post by dietmountaindew on Dec 9, 2018 1:39:06 GMT -5
{Lit! I think I may make a human servant/slave (someone who was captured on a raid once) and maybe a valkyrie if I'm feeling like it. It's kinda late and I have final exams so I probably won't get started until tomorrow.}
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ℊℓоω
ɴᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙᴜsɪɴᴇss
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Post by ℊℓоω on Dec 9, 2018 2:21:41 GMT -5
Grimsdalr Tryg lowered himself into a seat beside his companions. A young man, too young to fight, offered him a bowl of stew. Too hungry to ask or even care what was in it, the prince dug in. What he felt was a mixture of invigoration and exhaustion. He could cut down ten more foes or just as easily sleep for two days. The next few hours would decide. Either the enemies would return for more bloodshed, or they would retreat to summon more forces.
As he, his twin, and their companions ate, graves were prepared for the fallen. A few men gathered wood for a pyre. It would be built on the nearest hill to send off the oldest and bravest of the deceased warriors. Their bodies would be scattered to the winds as their souls ascended to Valhalla.
Strima bustled around giving orders, likely trying to find some poor animal to sacrifice. Tryg watched him from afar, thinking on what he had said about overconfidence.
Soon he felt a loving hand on the back of his head. His dark eyes flicked upward to find his mother standing over him. In her gown of deep blue and silver, she was as formidable as any warrior. Though her soft hands would not suggest it, she had once wielded a sword of her own. But that was long ago, before Tryg and Kjorn were in her belly. Now, though age lined her skin and paled her hair, her eyes were unendingly fierce.
"You fought well, my son," she congratulated. Then she reached for Kjorn, planting a kiss onto the top of his head. "My boys were born with fire in their blood." She refused an offer to sit, choosing instead to stand between her sons. "Fire, I fear, that will be tested again soon."
"Don't worry," said Tryg. "In all likeliness, they'll already have fled for their ships. It could be summer before they circle back again."
"Not according to Strima," said Ragneid. Her dark blue eyes flickered toward the seer. "If his visions are to be believed, the battle of Grimsdalr is far from over."
"I think he's an old fool," said Tryg. He looked to his brother for support.
"A fool he might be," said Ragneid, a harshness to her tone, "but his visions have been correct so far. He foretold your father's death and the outcomes of all the subsequent battles. His latest prediction is that our enemy king is to kill one of his own children in an effort to win the favor of the gods."
Tryg paused, brow furrowing. "When did Strima tell you this?" he asked.
"Last night. And that is not all of it. Apparently one of you must stop the sacrifice from happening if we're to be successful in the w-"
Tryg stood, tossing his bowl onto the ground. "And that shriveled bastard didn't think to tell us this sooner? I'll toss him in the river for his stupidity! We stood on the battlefield with Strima for most of the morning. He didn't think it was important to mention that our success depends upon saving someone who may or may not be boarding a ship at this moment?" His hand fell upon his sword as he stormed in the direction of the unsuspecting seer.
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Dec 9, 2018 4:31:08 GMT -5
( I will reply tomorrow)
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Dec 10, 2018 14:44:54 GMT -5
( I got distracted )
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Post by dietmountaindew on Dec 10, 2018 16:14:48 GMT -5
{Long story short I cut my thumb really badly and had to go to the ER last night, putting me really behind on sleep and studying so I'm not really sure when I will be able to get a post up.}
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ℊℓоω
ɴᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ʙᴜsɪɴᴇss
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Post by ℊℓоω on Dec 13, 2018 1:55:32 GMT -5
The forest, 3 miles from Grimsdalr
Coming from the belly of her father's tent was the sound of men in the midst of a heated discussion. Yri paused at the door, straining to hear what the voices were saying.
"--without the men from Shryka, there is no way to capture the port. It would require choking the river and then driving the Svenson forces upstream. In order to do that, however, we would need at least ten ships."
"There are other means at our disposal besides ships." This voice belonged to her father, baritone and raspy from a night spent shouting orders. He sounded tired, though his tone was never without a familiar firmness. Now was her chance to go inside and demand that their efforts be redoubled. Her father was worn down and his advisers and timid as usual. Her voice, a strong and decisive one, was required. Just as she was stepping toward, she felt a light touch on her back. Hjalburn, the warrior from the forest, had appeared at her side. His finger was held to her lips, indicating that she should be silent. Yri scowled, preparing to demand what he was planning, but before she could do so, he disappeared into the tent.
Yri contemplated striding into the tent after him. She would have her piece heard by her father and all his advisers. But something compelled her to stand there, just beyond the flaps of the door, and listen.
Her father and his advisers, she heard two, greeted the warrior as he entered. She heard Hjalburn mutter something polite, then request the conversation continue.
"What I mean to say is that all is not lost in Grimsdalr." It was her father again. Yri's heart, sensing he was about to suggest they return to the battlefield. "I've had an interesting conversation with the seer, Myhrkra. There has been a prophecy from the gods, one that pushes the odds of the war..." his voice became too quiet for her to hear. She leaned in, ear pressed lightly against the canvas of the tent.
"--is the prophecy, then?"
There was a moment of silence. Yri's breathing halted, not even risking the sound of air in her filling her lungs as she attempted to hear.
"The cost is great, but the gods have guaranteed our victory against the Svensons."
This time it was Hjalburn who spoke. "And what cost is that?"
Her father's voice was stronger now, and she no longer strained to hear it through the walls of the tent. His words were as clear as the sounding of a war horn, ringing in her ears long after he ceased speaking. "The gods require that one of my children be sacrificed to them on a burning pyre."
She could no longer feel her hands. It was several seconds before she realized she was staring at them, gazing at the deep purple dye that stained the lines of her palms. Her fingers blurred, multiplying and drifting out of focus. And then she was walking backward, breath caught dangerously in her throat as she stumbled away from the tent.
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Dec 13, 2018 20:39:58 GMT -5
( I’ll reply this weekend after my last final and after I’ve become a hermit playing my game for 14 hours )
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Dec 18, 2018 6:42:40 GMT -5
Heckin distracted
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Post by 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖊 on Dec 19, 2018 18:25:33 GMT -5
( home for break. Yay )
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