Gromar Lion-Fang skulked among the heavy treeline atop of the embankment. Below, his allies were slaughtering and being slaughtered by a swathe of Aquilonian mercenaries, heavily armed and well prepared for such an assault. He took a deep breath and held it as he aimed his bow and loosed the nocked arrow. It found its mark between the heavy mail and steel helmet of his foe. The man fell with a spurt of blood and a gargle, but not before plunging his spear into the ribs of the Pict ahead of him.
Three mercenaries remained and only two Picts, one of which was Gromar. The rest lay dead or dying, their parting groans horrifically clear from the treeline. Lion-Fang went to draw another arrow as the Aquilonians surrounded his remaining ally, but felt nothing save for an empty quiver. He unleashed a guttural and bestial roar, a tactic commonly used by the Picts to instil fear. Two men turned, and with rapid and tiger-like reflexes he hurled his firststeel hatchet, landing with a death-dealing crunch in the 'Y' shape of his enemy's helmet.
The final Pict fell as the mercenary plunged his blade through her chest. Yet her spirit did not wane. She drew the steel dagger that hung from her belt and thrust it into his eye. He screamed in agony whilst she laughed maniacally. Together they fell in a solemn embrace to their death.
Gromar and one man remained. The mercenaries' eyes scanned the treeline as prey would search for their predator, to no avail. A Pict could go unnoticed, unseen for as long as they wished in the woods of the world. But he knew he was there. Come out and face me you dog, the man roared with a confidence that belied his fear. Lion-Fang happily obliged.
From the forest he came, a hulking predator bare chested and painted in white. His arms spread wide and death in his eyes. Atop the slope he was a giant among men, a primitive and savage beast with a lust for blood. In an instant he charged with a speed like no other, only enhanced by the steep decline. The Aquilonian had barely swung his blade by the time he was tackled; helmet flung from his fragile head. Gromar struck with his right, then his left. Two thundering blows that cracked and killed the mercenary.
He stood from his killing frenzy, his scarred form marred with fresh blood, sweat, and smeared paint. His eyes darted about the battlefield, at the numerous dead, both friend and foe. Twelve had come through the Bossonian Marches in his warband yet only he remained. Gromar's eyes darted to the carriage and he trudged through the dead and flung aside the richly decorated door. He tilted his head to the side, his long ponytail adorned with copper and bone circlets flailed beside him. He grinned and began to laugh at his discovery.<|im_end|>
It had taken her so long to convince her father to let her travel from Venzia to Lireigh. Close enough to the western sea, Arianne had always wanted to see the snow of Vanaheim. Her father had been against it, naturally. His only daughter, her mother lost in childbirth, his natural reaction had been to shelter his little desert rose. Months had been spent wearing down his resistance, while soothing his fears. What if they were attacked? They could hire mercenaries. He would have hired them normally anyway, right? They could hire a few more.
She couldn't help but feel bad, pushing at her father the way she did but Arianne felt stifled. Who she saw, the parties she went to, all were curated by her father. The world was vast and she desired nothing more than to see it, both in its beauty and brutalities. Sheltered, she was far from ignorant. Arianne had early on taken to reading everything she could, desiring to be free of her gilded cage. Her father meant well, Arianne knew and it was hard to blame him for the way he restricted her.. It didn't change her own desires however.
The carriage rocked back and forth lazily and Arianne felt the motion along with the warmth of the day lulling her to sleep. The heavy weight of her flaxen hair had been braided, in hope of relieving some of the heat that the carriage seemed to trap as it traveled beneath the sweltering sun. Occasionally her guards would allow her to ride a horse, allowing the breeze to cool her ivory skin. Today though, as they traveled adjacent to the Alimane river. She'd seen from the small window the reason for concern. Along the right hand side was a rise, dotted with trees. A perfect place for an ambush, she'd been informed. Shifting against the cushion, her back pressed to the corner of the carriage, Arianne fought and failed to keep her golden eyes open. Lazily her lashes lifted and fell, once, twice..
In her dreams, she was weightless, unbeknownst to the dreaming maiden, she was for a moment as the carriage tipped. The scream of a frightened horse was the first thing to pierce the haze of her dream, and the impact of her small body slamming into the wooden paneling of the carriage. The shock was the only thing that kept her silent, not that anyone would have heard her cry as the Picts rushed them and swords were drawn. Carefully, she rose, though not foolish enough to leave the relative safety of the carriage. Desperate, Arianne wished to know what was transpiring. An innocent, sheltered maiden, she'd never heard the sound of another dying a brutal death, and though muffled, she heard it now. The gurgle as blood spilled from mouths, the raspy last breaths.
A shout, one of her men. A flicker of hope surged through her. They were still alive! At least one... The shout giving her more information that she'd a moment ago. Perhaps they were the only two? The guard and the 'dog' he shouted to face him? The battle was brief and she heard a body hit the floor, the thud muffled but clear. However, there was no call that it was safe. A frown pulled at her pretty mouth. Perhaps they were checking to be sure? The door above her head opened and her pale face turned upwards. Sun blinded her for a moment, bathing her features in golden light.
Features carved in delicate perfection. A celestial nose, graceful arching brows, high cheekbones and full, pale pink lips. Thick lashes shadowed eyes of honey, flecked with gold. A face filled the doorway and it wasn't her guard. The Pict took in his prize and a spike of fear laced through her moments before he began to laugh. Shifting, her frown curled along her lips, her brows drawing upwards. Shifting, her dress shifted, showing the supple length of her thighs, the creamy flesh warmed by the sun.
She'd heard tales of what happened to captives... A virgin, she knew nothing of the touch of a man and Arianne had little desire to be raped. Options weighted, she moved again, hand slipping from view. Something black and gold could be seen a second before a flash of silver as she lifted the blade, hand shaking. Dark lashes fell, the intent clear. She'd take her own life before allowing him to touch her. She should have moved faster, hesitated less... Arianne didn't wish to die. To leave her father heartbroken and filled with grief... yet what other choice did she have?<|im_end|>