NiTessine
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Here it is! And I still have a good... eight or seven minutes to spare!
Bitter Wind from the North
Conor Coldrage glared across the battlefield at the Norsemen. Once more, the men of Midgard had poured westwards into Albion. Last time they visited his town, one of their shamans slew his brother, Adhar, by fell magic. This time, he would be avenged. This Conor swore, even if it meant he'd have to personally decapitate every berserker in the raiding party.
When they'd last descended upon his lands, eight months ago, the Norse had fought the Celts in this very same field, on the beach of a small lake. Adhar had fallen then, fighting honourably to the last. He'd been cornered on a tree log, its top branches in the water (pic 4). It had been winter then, and the water deadly cold. Standing on the log, with nowhere to run, Adhar had sent five of the Norse to their cold death in the waters, staining the ice and snow red and making the log slippery. Finally, they'd overpowered him, and dragged him from the cold waters to a shaman waiting on the beach, who performed the ceremonial sacrifice to power his magic. Conor had then sworn to slay the shaman, but the coward had fled on a chariot afore he could get close enough to plunge two feet of iron into the man's bowel.
Perhaps a thousand men in total stood on opposite sides of the great field. On the eastern edge, there were the Norsemen, fearsome warriors and raiders from Midgard. Conor fancied he could see a few of them biting their shields with a bug-eyed, mad expression. Smiling, he slid his thumb over the sharpened iron rim of his own shield.
"We will see them chew on this," Conor remarked to his companion, Tathal. Tathal was a large man, and his blonde hair was formed into spikes with grease. He struck a stark contrast to the smaller and darker Conor.
The larger warrior grinned, and shook his iron sword, banging it on his shield.
"And this!"
The rest of Fir Domain's proud Celtic warriors took up the shield bashing, drowning out the screaming of the Norsemen in a terrible metallic din. The men of Midgard were not to be outdone so easily, however, answering with a great scream of their own. The Fir shouted back, through their growling shields, and as this deafening noise reached its crescendo, the sky was suddenly blackened with a thousand arrows, as the Norse bowmen unleashed a volley. Their bows were short – Conor had seen some when he last fought them – and were not efficient over long distances (pic 3). The Fir raised their shields above their heads, blocking the black rain of death, and as the last shaft fell from the grey sky, the bellowing hordes of half-naked men charged.
Conor picked his first foe, one of the drooling berserkers. The Norse warrior, clad in furs, raised his axe over his head to deliver a great blow, which the nimble Celt easily evaded. The next blow he took on his shield, the sharp iron sinking into the wood with a dull thud. Conor smiled as he twisted his arm and yanked the shield and axe away from the raider's hand, and jabbed up with his short sword, plunging the blade under the chin of his foe, and into the brain. The froth on the berserker's lips turned red and his eyes rolled back in their head as he died.
Drawing his sword free, Conor looked about. He knew he'd have to break through the lines of the Norsemen to get to their druids. Weak in combat, they stayed back, channelling the power of the Earth Goddess from afar.
Waving Tathal and a few other Fir tribesmen to follow, Conor began the long and arduous task of forging himself a path through the Midgard warriors. His shield and sword ran red with blood, and numerous gashes and wounds graced his skin when he cut down the last Norseman charging him, and saw the shaman.
The man was tall, even for a Norseman who usually stood a head taller than the Celts. He was clad in furs, the great pelt of a white bear covering his shoulders and back, its head resting on top of his own. His face was painted in a visage of death, and he held a corn dolly and a small staff in his hands (pic 1). As the shaman and Conor locked gazes, the bloodied Celt knew instinctively that this was the one he was looking for, the slayer of his brother. The shaman's expression changed into… fear? It was difficult to tell with the face paint. As Conor charged, the Norseman pointed his staff at him and shouted in a strange language.
The Celt felt as if an icy cold hand was reaching into his chest, enveloping his heart, and squeezing. He couldn't breathe, and stumbled, falling into darkness, the sounds of battle fading around him. But then, he took the next step, tasting the blood in his mouth, the pounding of bloodlust in his ears, the clash of iron on flint and the screams of the dying around him. He closed in the distance between himself and the shaman, and with a terrible roar and a single sweep of his sword, took off the Norse shaman's head. As it flew through the air, trailing gore behind it, its face was frozen into an expression of surprise.
Conor, the proud warrior of the Fir Domain, raised his shield and sword into the air, shouting triumphantly. It felt good to slay the killer of his kin. The Celt picked up his fallen opponent's head and stuffed it into his backpack, to be made later into a tathlum*.
* * *
It was evening as Conor Coldrage made his way back to the village. He bled from many wounds, had two broken ribs, and had cracked a tooth when a berserker head butted him in the face. He was coated in blood and the mud of the battlefield. It had been a good day, and Danu had been with him.
Conor pushed aside the wolf pelt that served as a door to his hut. He saw his wife, Sugyn, start. She had been on her knees, burning candles before offerings made to the Earth Goddess in order to ensure the Fir warriors would be victorious on the battlefield (pic 2). When Sugyn saw his face, she smiled.
"You've returned alive, my husband," she spoke.
"Yes, Danu was with us today. We were victorious," Conor answered, stepping into the hut and letting the wolf pelts fall over the doorway once more.
* Tathlum: a thrown weapon, made by mixing the brains of a slain enemy with lime. Said to be blessed by Danu, the Earth Goddess.
Bitter Wind from the North
Conor Coldrage glared across the battlefield at the Norsemen. Once more, the men of Midgard had poured westwards into Albion. Last time they visited his town, one of their shamans slew his brother, Adhar, by fell magic. This time, he would be avenged. This Conor swore, even if it meant he'd have to personally decapitate every berserker in the raiding party.
When they'd last descended upon his lands, eight months ago, the Norse had fought the Celts in this very same field, on the beach of a small lake. Adhar had fallen then, fighting honourably to the last. He'd been cornered on a tree log, its top branches in the water (pic 4). It had been winter then, and the water deadly cold. Standing on the log, with nowhere to run, Adhar had sent five of the Norse to their cold death in the waters, staining the ice and snow red and making the log slippery. Finally, they'd overpowered him, and dragged him from the cold waters to a shaman waiting on the beach, who performed the ceremonial sacrifice to power his magic. Conor had then sworn to slay the shaman, but the coward had fled on a chariot afore he could get close enough to plunge two feet of iron into the man's bowel.
Perhaps a thousand men in total stood on opposite sides of the great field. On the eastern edge, there were the Norsemen, fearsome warriors and raiders from Midgard. Conor fancied he could see a few of them biting their shields with a bug-eyed, mad expression. Smiling, he slid his thumb over the sharpened iron rim of his own shield.
"We will see them chew on this," Conor remarked to his companion, Tathal. Tathal was a large man, and his blonde hair was formed into spikes with grease. He struck a stark contrast to the smaller and darker Conor.
The larger warrior grinned, and shook his iron sword, banging it on his shield.
"And this!"
The rest of Fir Domain's proud Celtic warriors took up the shield bashing, drowning out the screaming of the Norsemen in a terrible metallic din. The men of Midgard were not to be outdone so easily, however, answering with a great scream of their own. The Fir shouted back, through their growling shields, and as this deafening noise reached its crescendo, the sky was suddenly blackened with a thousand arrows, as the Norse bowmen unleashed a volley. Their bows were short – Conor had seen some when he last fought them – and were not efficient over long distances (pic 3). The Fir raised their shields above their heads, blocking the black rain of death, and as the last shaft fell from the grey sky, the bellowing hordes of half-naked men charged.
Conor picked his first foe, one of the drooling berserkers. The Norse warrior, clad in furs, raised his axe over his head to deliver a great blow, which the nimble Celt easily evaded. The next blow he took on his shield, the sharp iron sinking into the wood with a dull thud. Conor smiled as he twisted his arm and yanked the shield and axe away from the raider's hand, and jabbed up with his short sword, plunging the blade under the chin of his foe, and into the brain. The froth on the berserker's lips turned red and his eyes rolled back in their head as he died.
Drawing his sword free, Conor looked about. He knew he'd have to break through the lines of the Norsemen to get to their druids. Weak in combat, they stayed back, channelling the power of the Earth Goddess from afar.
Waving Tathal and a few other Fir tribesmen to follow, Conor began the long and arduous task of forging himself a path through the Midgard warriors. His shield and sword ran red with blood, and numerous gashes and wounds graced his skin when he cut down the last Norseman charging him, and saw the shaman.
The man was tall, even for a Norseman who usually stood a head taller than the Celts. He was clad in furs, the great pelt of a white bear covering his shoulders and back, its head resting on top of his own. His face was painted in a visage of death, and he held a corn dolly and a small staff in his hands (pic 1). As the shaman and Conor locked gazes, the bloodied Celt knew instinctively that this was the one he was looking for, the slayer of his brother. The shaman's expression changed into… fear? It was difficult to tell with the face paint. As Conor charged, the Norseman pointed his staff at him and shouted in a strange language.
The Celt felt as if an icy cold hand was reaching into his chest, enveloping his heart, and squeezing. He couldn't breathe, and stumbled, falling into darkness, the sounds of battle fading around him. But then, he took the next step, tasting the blood in his mouth, the pounding of bloodlust in his ears, the clash of iron on flint and the screams of the dying around him. He closed in the distance between himself and the shaman, and with a terrible roar and a single sweep of his sword, took off the Norse shaman's head. As it flew through the air, trailing gore behind it, its face was frozen into an expression of surprise.
Conor, the proud warrior of the Fir Domain, raised his shield and sword into the air, shouting triumphantly. It felt good to slay the killer of his kin. The Celt picked up his fallen opponent's head and stuffed it into his backpack, to be made later into a tathlum*.
* * *
It was evening as Conor Coldrage made his way back to the village. He bled from many wounds, had two broken ribs, and had cracked a tooth when a berserker head butted him in the face. He was coated in blood and the mud of the battlefield. It had been a good day, and Danu had been with him.
Conor pushed aside the wolf pelt that served as a door to his hut. He saw his wife, Sugyn, start. She had been on her knees, burning candles before offerings made to the Earth Goddess in order to ensure the Fir warriors would be victorious on the battlefield (pic 2). When Sugyn saw his face, she smiled.
"You've returned alive, my husband," she spoke.
"Yes, Danu was with us today. We were victorious," Conor answered, stepping into the hut and letting the wolf pelts fall over the doorway once more.
* Tathlum: a thrown weapon, made by mixing the brains of a slain enemy with lime. Said to be blessed by Danu, the Earth Goddess.
