Xanfel
01-05-2006, 02:50 PM
<center>The Chronicles of 'Blood'</center>
Chapter One
The Beginning...
Crunch, crunch, crunch… The sound of footsteps beating heavily against the snow, rapidly, but clumsily, leaving footprints that any would-be hunter could follow. The women who owns them, seemingly to be in a desperate state, hardly fit to care, and yet every minute, she turns her head to see if anyone is following, and every minute there is nothing but the white tundra and her own footprints to gaze at, leaving gaping holes in the blanket of white. Her sweat freezes as soon as it has formed, forbidding her from forgetting the cold to the burning within her body. She has been running for the longest of times. She has run until her legs can no longer move, until her feet has blisters that seem more like terrible wounds in her feet, until her toes are blackened and ready to fall off. This has continued for two days now, her bloated stomach not due to Nurgle’s corruption, or her own gluttony, but due to that of the child within. Indeed, one has to wonder how it is a child can bear such an ordeal… or if it even has. She stops now, and takes a breath, lying on the ground, and consuming some of the snow to regain what little moisture she can before she must take flight.
She rubs her chest to try and keep warm, her meagre furs barely enough to stave off the cold, but they keep her warm enough to survive two harsh days in the tundra of white. She stares bitterly at the myriad of white flakes that continue to fall from the heavens, that continue a slow and drawn out torture on her skin, made brittle already by the freezing cold. A hand is outstretched, catching a few of the beautiful white flakes, and she watches them with a cold hatred that would be enough to make them ice. But they melt… and melt quickly. Her hands are warm from the rubbing, and the water than comes from them seeps into her skin, rejuvenating what little it can with its moisture. She checks various parts of her body, to see how they cope, and groans in dread when she inspects her toes, black and revolting to look at. As beautiful as this white carpet is, it carries a painful warning to any who would try to brave it unprepared. However, the extent of the damage is minimal, miraculously, and only her smallest toes have felt the bitter chill yet. She knows what she must do, but hesitates… dreading what is to come. Her hand wavers over her knife, but she calms herself, speaking in a soft, Norsecan accent to herself. Soothing herself, and reminding herself why she is doing this all… for the child... She pats her belly twice, and feels a kick in return, smiling warmly at the response before taking the knife from its sheath, which sticks for a moment or so. After the brief struggle with the sheath, it comes free, and she holds it over the right toe.
Hesitation, again, becomes apparent, and for the briefest of moments her hand stays hovering above the mass of black flesh as white snowflakes try to hide it beneath their white bodies, but melting into it anyway. Finally, with a prayer to her Gods, she drops the knife quickly, and sobs to herself as the blade slices through the black skin of her toe, and through her bone. She is lucky, the blood no longer flows there, and all she loses is a lump of blackened flesh, which rolls off her sandals and into the powdery whiteness she lies in. The snow quickly consumes it as it continues to fall down lazily from the black clouds, and the woman steels herself for the second time. She has done it once, and convinces herself that after doing it once, it will not be so harsh the second time, commenting on who the throbbing pain at least lets her ignore the cold for the slightest of moments. The blade falls again, and another toe is amputated roughly, rolling into the white carpet and being buried under it. She bites her lip this time, and draws blood, but does not cry out.
She speaks to herself, a wry comment on how ‘If they could see me now, they would think me no weakling!’ and laughs at her own musings. But the thought of ‘they’, whomever they may be, suddenly makes her alert, and before she has collected herself, she is already back on her feet and running, as though for her life. Indeed, she may well be, for that is the desperation that oozes from her like a sickly aroma, fear… desperation, and the animals, they can smell it. She curses to herself as the hunting cry of a wolf, more like a melancholy moan into the blizzard, rises from a hill to the east. The woman thinks it is to her left, to the north, and does not see the pack of wolves that crest the hill to her back. She does not hear the muffled sound of many paws through the snow, thanks to the howling wind that suddenly picks up, and she does not smell them either.
Visibility is low, eventually the distance melds into a black haze, and the wolves are beyond her human capabilities of sight. Luck gives her a chance, and she finds a cave. With nowhere else to stop, and the blizzard outside becoming more horrendous by the second, she thinks nothing of racing into it. She stops momentarily at the mouth, seeing an already lit fire, and a man taking his own shelter. His hands are put as close to the fire as they can be without burning themselves, and he has a warm smile on his face, despite his gaunt features. How he has survived the tundra escapes the woman, and she is cautious to approach. The cry of the wolves hastens her step, and she speaks out to him as she approaches the glowing red and orange mass of heat. Her body almost sighs with relief as the heat caresses it, and she collapses where she stands. Trying to get up seems futile, so the woman tries to make herself as comfortable as possible, while inching ever so slightly towards the fire. The man flings her a boar, to use a pillow, and speaks softly, with a voice that strokes her mind and soothes her weary thoughts.
“Now, now, Freya…” He croons, that gaunt face still smiles that warm smile of his. “I don’t want you dying… Not yet… Not until you’ve had that child of yours…” Freya tries to look up in alarm, at how he knows her name, but the energy fades from her. Her eyes start to become heavy, and she finds herself drifting into sleep. The man walks up to her, his heavy furs swaying as he moves, and his long cloak billowing in the wind that comes from the mouth. He leans up to her ear as he gets onto his knees, and whispers softly in her ear. “You may sleep here for the night… this blizzard will stay your pursuers until you have set foot outside of this cave. From then, you must run, until you can run no more, and until your feet cry with the pain of a thousand tormented souls.” Freya is already in deep sleep, but he knows she will hear him. Never the less, he checks to make sure. “Repeat what I just said, Freya daughter of Greldan.” His voice seems to get harsher, and she frowns in her sleep, rolling to her side, and groaning slightly. He waves a hand to her feet, and they are well again, and with a last act of compassion puts some food in her mouth. She swallows it without realising.
“Sleep… here.” She mutters, the way one does when talking in sleep, low pitched and quiet. “Run, until no longer… can…” He nods in satisfaction and gathers his things before heading to the mouth. He stops in mid-stride, however, and turns back to her, his eyes full of contempt, his warm smile replaced by a scowl, and slight sneer at the same time. He speaks, in a much harsher tone, and much louder too.
“The child… must… be… born!” He says slowly and forcefully, and with that he leaves, his cloak billowing in the wind as he disappears from view, melding into the black haze of the outside. Freya doesn’t wake that night… not even when the sounds of wolves attacking emulate from the outside when the man has left. She just turns over, and sleeps; pulling her small cloak tighter around her body as it shivers in a desperate attempt to create heat for itself. The fire crackles in its small stone ring, and the flames lick the ceiling of the short-roofed cave, leaving a black stain on the spot directly above it. Only one odd thing can be said about the setting… that no smoke comes from this fire.
The night rages on, and the blizzard gives and unrelenting barrage on the earth, sending flake after flake to mound up on its surface, and make the snowy tundra even more inhospitable and cold for the following morning. Freya sleeps throughout the night, and the fire never extinguishes, not until her eyes open at the first rays of sunlight to hit her face. It simply disappears back into the ground, with no ashes or burnt wood to mark its place. Freya doesn’t notice, she leaps to her feet, and walks outside the cave, and squints as the sunlight makes a blinding display of the white carpet. No clouds adorn the sky, and no wolves stalk the area, no footprints mar its flawless blanket of snow, but Freya notices the furs that lie on the ground not far from her feet. They are untouched, and no blood marks them, but she knows them to be those of the man who helped her last night. With a perplexed look, she takes the furs, and wraps them around herself; the biting chill of the air dispelled as she dons a third layer of skins.
A familiar order replays in her mind, however, and spurs her to run as fast as she can: ‘This blizzard will stay your pursuers until you have set foot outside of this cave. From then, you must run, until you can run no more, and until your feet cry with the pain of a thousand tormented souls.’ And she runs, and runs until she can run no longer, until the pain in her feet stops her from even moving them at all, and she collapses in the snow. Her trek throughout the day is arduous and long, but the miraculous recovery of her feet make running much easier than it has been, and with all that she has endured, she has come to ignore the pain, to an end. For twelve whole hours she does run, as if spurred on by the Gods themselves, and for twelve hours she checks to see if her pursuers are nearing. She thanks them each time her path is shown clear, and her trail the same.
She speaks not, and she does not stop to drink or eat at all. Sated still from the meagre amount of meat she was given yesterday, she begins to contemplate what really happened that night, but does not slow in the slightest. Thinking of it helps her further to ignore the pain, but she is no longer running through the snow, she is stumbling through it. She knows that she cannot keep it up much longer, and at the same time thanks the Gods for being able to run for so long, and to be able to go without food for so long a time. But she tires, eventually, and her stumbled steps become more and more strained, her face contorting with the pain of a thousand tortured souls… still she goes, spurred on by the thought of letting her baby live, goes until she can move her feet no longer, until she can barely lift her legs anymore.
Eventually, she trips on a hidden rock, and falls to the ground. Too pain ridden to move, she feels the contractions happening, as they have for a time, and knows that the child is on its way. She laughs with mirth, and waits… waits until it is ready to come, until she can deliver her child into the world. Blood streams from her wounds, from her nose, and from her mouth as she finds she has pushed herself too far. But the warm liquid helps to keep her warm as she waits, caressing her body with sweet warmth that the wet furs can no longer provide. She smiles with contentment, and waits… and eventually, she fades from consciousness. Her mind frantically reaches out to stay awake, knowing that to go now, would mean the death of her child, but she is powerless to stop it as her entire body slows to a halt, and her eyelids become too heavy to support anymore. Blackness fills her vision, and eventually even her mind slows to a halt. No more thoughts, no more worries… Just… bliss.
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“Bliss…Bliss bliss bliss bliss blisssssssss!” The mocking voice in the emptiness startled the essence of Freya, mocking her very state of being. “You enjoy this bliss?” The disembodied voice questioned mockingly. “I’m sure you do… Now, how on earth does someone like you deserve this bliss?” It continued, seemingly angry. “We gave you a simple task: bring that child into the world. We heal your wounds, we sate you with food, and we give you warmth and sleep. We halt your pursuers, and what do you do? You step outside, and you halt the blizzard. You don’t stay in the cave until the child is born, do you?” The answer was rhetorical, and Freya’s spirit cowered before the mighty entity that berated her. How could she have known? She was told to run. These thoughts raced through her. “How could you have known?” The voice growled. “We told you that the Blizzard would halt as soon as you left the cave… We expected you to have more wit, Freya daughter of Greldan. You were born under the name of a great warrior, and we had great plans for his grandson. But you have ruined it, ruined it with your idiocy. We told you to run when you had left, presuming that you would have the child in tow, but NO! You leave, while still in labour, you leave when you could have stayed. The extra robes weren’t for you, they were for the child!” A steady growl came from the blackness of this hell, and Freya was terrified. The voice spoke again, definitely the same one, and yet… different.
“Calm yourself, we can resolve this matter. She is about to have the child. This whole matter can be saved. But her life will not be spared.” The voice was calm, and collecting, but Freya was very afraid of the unspoken threat. The voice spoke once more, to her. “You will return to your body, and will deliver this child. Do this for us, Freya daughter of Greldan, and we will spare your soul the torment of eternal damnation. Do you understand?” Freya wanted to nod, as emphatically as she could, but she had no body. She tried to speak, but had no voice. “Good. Then you will return, and do not forget what is at stake here, Freya daughter of Greldan.” The voice was warm, yet frighteningly threatening at the same time. It was the voice of the man she had met. And then, she feels as though she is being sucked away, and the blackness gives way to light… intense white light…
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Freya gasps for the air as her spirit returns to her drained body, and her consciousness returns to her. She realises that her right cheeks is lying in the powdery snow, and as cold as ice. She wants to scream in pain, but she hears voices… familiar voices. She begins to sob silently, and hide herself as best as possible, but they come closer, following her trail as well as any tracking animal. In a way, they were… in a way they were not. Their heavy Norsecan accents powered through the air as their incensed cries of anger, and one man’s threats of death to Freya rung out from a slight distance away. Hidden behind a snowy bump as she is, she will still be seen easily… and she will be butchered just as easily. She has no strength to fight back, not that she would have stood a chance. Her partner is one of the greatest warriors in the tribe… and he hats her with every fibre in his body. Freya shares the same sentiments, yet she cannot take out her frustrations on him… he is far too powerful, both physically and as his status within the clan. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she sees the end draw near, and as her contractions continue. It would not be long until the child was ready for deliverance. She curses her foul luck, curses the Gods for not being clear… In her anger she curses everything that she can, alerting the Norsecans to her presence.
A quick conversation between two of them, and the rush of six pairs of feet come pounding towards her with menacing intent. She screams for them to leave, but it only strengthens their pace, and they are upon her before she can speak again. She cries, tears streaming down her face as the partner faces her. He smiles a sickly smile of malice, and his carving knife is in his hand, which he fondles with in clear sight. He speaks in a menacing tone, his eyes shining with glee at what he is about to do.
“My dear Freya…” He says in a thick Norsecan accent, his furs swaying in the breeze, and his heavily muscled arms reaching for her throat. He bends down, and grips her neck, sneering at her with contempt. She tries to release his grip, but it is no avail, his grasp is too strong, and she feels her life ebbing away for a second time. Tears roll down her cheeks like fountains, and she is unaware that she had so much water left in her. “In the camp, it may have been very bad for me to kill you… dearest partner of mine.” He spat at her, his eyes still glinting with a sick anticipation. “But here, I can kill you, and say that the snow claimed you… and my… eugh… child.” He seemed repulsed at the idea of having a child in her. His knife darted, slicing into her stomach, as he killed off his only son. Blood found its way through the blade’s wound, and trickled down her body, underneath her damn furs. Walking away in disgust, he motioned to the other ones, indicating that they have free reign with the body. “Oh… but do make sure to make it a sacrifice to our great God.” He added, taking a comfortable position on his heels so that he could watch her mutilation.
Her cries could be heard for a thousand paces, and the wolves cried out with her. Every puncture of her skin was met with cries of agony, and of grief. The father was impressed, however… He had expected her to be weaker than she was… and she was still sobbing and retching dryly as they etched the symbol onto her chest, the symbol of Khorne, the God of Blood. Pleased with the handiwork, the Norsecans took their leave, with one curious enough to question one of the father’s orders.
“Why do we not take the head, brother?” He inquired, making the father laugh raucously as they disappeared, and making the Norsecan laugh nervously. He was not sure whether he was about to be cut to pieces or not by his ‘brother’.
“Because, as annoying and frustrating as the wench was…” The father said mirthfully… “She really was a pretty woman.” They all laughed with him, this time as they melded into the white haze. Another blizzard was starting up, which hastened their step considerably. No one wanted to be caught in this sort of weather… No one, but the dead.
Freya didn’t dare breath until she was sure that they were out of hearing… but when she was, she gutters horribly, blood erupting from her mouth, one of the few places in her body not mutilated by their axes, or beaten by their flails. It was the time of deliverance… and she pushes. She uses all of her strength, pours it into this one last task, before she dies. She grunts with the effort, but still she pushes, even as the last of her blood is taken from her veins by the hideous wounds. The snow turns dark with its tainting, but slowly and surely, the child is being born. The head comes out badly, sealing her fate, if there was any doubt that she was going to end, and one of his feet tears her insides open badly. But still she pushes… she must. And a child is born, bathed in the warm blood of his mother. He cries out, but is heard by no one, and Freya lies dead in the snow now… Her head finally thumping into the ground as her neck goes limp. He will be kept warm for a few minutes by the blood of his mother, as a last act of caring from her.
Luck is on the child’s side from the beginning, as it rolls down the hill, able to move from the accursed spot. But his travel is not long, the umbilical cord still attaching him to his dearly departed mother. He cries out again, but he is heard this time… by something that he would have wished hadn’t, if he was aware of it. A skinny wolf limps into view, obviously near death with starvation, his tongue hanging out like a dog’s as he pants for breath. Seeing the child, its ears perk up, and it sees its chance for a meal. It makes its was towards the child, and salivates menacingly as it eagerly awaits the tasty morsel, moving slowing towards the newly born snack. With teeth able to rend a grown man into pieces, it is very capable of killing this child in one bite, and its intentions cannot be mistaken. It looms over him, and leans down to take a bite, its mouth open. But it has not the strength, and collapses less than the child’s hand away from taking a bite. It falls onto its side, and its teeth clamp over something soft and somewhat cylindrical. Tasting the meat, it bites harder, breaking the umbilical cord, and letting the baby go free. The wolf will get its meal, following the umbilical up to the tainted mother, but it will be corrupted by the mark of Khorne, and will surely change into something… more.
The child rolls down the hill, and even as it hits flat ground, the momentum is enough to keep it going. It rolls for but a moment before it falls down a hole that was covered by snow, and right onto a strange looking old man in black robes, and with a large white beard. He curses in a tongue that was not meant to be uttered by mortals, and looks at what has falling onto him, covered in blood as it is. To his surprise, he finds it to be a child… and it seems to his amusement as well. A brief moment of arrogance names the child a gift from the Gods to him, for his hard work… as an apprentice, when the age comes of him. And so… he will take the boy under his wing… and only the Gods know what will happen to him from there…
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“So… what is to become of the child then?” An impatient voice rang out in the darkness, Freya’s spirit lingering there, as though by force. She felt no bliss here, it was the same voice that had berated her the first time, and she did not like it. “Will it become a Sorcerer, a Warrior… a Perverse? A Corrupter?” He truly did not know… all they knew was that, they latest interest would be an amusing one… The feeling oozed from the entity and bathed Freya, making her want to laugh.
“Ah, yes…” Came the calm voice, speaking to Freya. “You.” His voice was calm, but also menacing. He had the potential to be the most ruthless, or so Freya thought. “You have done as well as a mortal could. You will be reborn, Freya daughter of Greldan, but you will have no memories of what happened in your previous life.” His decision seemed finality itself, and Freya was happy to accept.
And this, is where I step in… “Do not be so hasty to decide your fate, Freya.” I speak to her, as a compassionate and understanding voice, and it soothes her. “You may also remain here, and become one with your God…” I am amused at her reaction, surprise, excitement, and wariness. “Which do you choose?” I know the answer; I smile as she thinks it but cannot say it. Freya, daughter of Greldan, will choose the wrong answer… and we will give her her memories of the past. And she will, in time… be forced to try and kill her son. And she will be made aware of it.
“Very Well…” We say in unison, the four of us, writhing in amusement. The mortals are our playthings… every once in a while we need some amusement from them. “You will be… reborn.” We continue. “May you enjoy being what you now are, and think not on what has happened to you previously.”
And yet… We have doomed her, all for the sake of amusement.
OOC: Comments welcome... Yes, any! :roll:
Chapter One
The Beginning...
Crunch, crunch, crunch… The sound of footsteps beating heavily against the snow, rapidly, but clumsily, leaving footprints that any would-be hunter could follow. The women who owns them, seemingly to be in a desperate state, hardly fit to care, and yet every minute, she turns her head to see if anyone is following, and every minute there is nothing but the white tundra and her own footprints to gaze at, leaving gaping holes in the blanket of white. Her sweat freezes as soon as it has formed, forbidding her from forgetting the cold to the burning within her body. She has been running for the longest of times. She has run until her legs can no longer move, until her feet has blisters that seem more like terrible wounds in her feet, until her toes are blackened and ready to fall off. This has continued for two days now, her bloated stomach not due to Nurgle’s corruption, or her own gluttony, but due to that of the child within. Indeed, one has to wonder how it is a child can bear such an ordeal… or if it even has. She stops now, and takes a breath, lying on the ground, and consuming some of the snow to regain what little moisture she can before she must take flight.
She rubs her chest to try and keep warm, her meagre furs barely enough to stave off the cold, but they keep her warm enough to survive two harsh days in the tundra of white. She stares bitterly at the myriad of white flakes that continue to fall from the heavens, that continue a slow and drawn out torture on her skin, made brittle already by the freezing cold. A hand is outstretched, catching a few of the beautiful white flakes, and she watches them with a cold hatred that would be enough to make them ice. But they melt… and melt quickly. Her hands are warm from the rubbing, and the water than comes from them seeps into her skin, rejuvenating what little it can with its moisture. She checks various parts of her body, to see how they cope, and groans in dread when she inspects her toes, black and revolting to look at. As beautiful as this white carpet is, it carries a painful warning to any who would try to brave it unprepared. However, the extent of the damage is minimal, miraculously, and only her smallest toes have felt the bitter chill yet. She knows what she must do, but hesitates… dreading what is to come. Her hand wavers over her knife, but she calms herself, speaking in a soft, Norsecan accent to herself. Soothing herself, and reminding herself why she is doing this all… for the child... She pats her belly twice, and feels a kick in return, smiling warmly at the response before taking the knife from its sheath, which sticks for a moment or so. After the brief struggle with the sheath, it comes free, and she holds it over the right toe.
Hesitation, again, becomes apparent, and for the briefest of moments her hand stays hovering above the mass of black flesh as white snowflakes try to hide it beneath their white bodies, but melting into it anyway. Finally, with a prayer to her Gods, she drops the knife quickly, and sobs to herself as the blade slices through the black skin of her toe, and through her bone. She is lucky, the blood no longer flows there, and all she loses is a lump of blackened flesh, which rolls off her sandals and into the powdery whiteness she lies in. The snow quickly consumes it as it continues to fall down lazily from the black clouds, and the woman steels herself for the second time. She has done it once, and convinces herself that after doing it once, it will not be so harsh the second time, commenting on who the throbbing pain at least lets her ignore the cold for the slightest of moments. The blade falls again, and another toe is amputated roughly, rolling into the white carpet and being buried under it. She bites her lip this time, and draws blood, but does not cry out.
She speaks to herself, a wry comment on how ‘If they could see me now, they would think me no weakling!’ and laughs at her own musings. But the thought of ‘they’, whomever they may be, suddenly makes her alert, and before she has collected herself, she is already back on her feet and running, as though for her life. Indeed, she may well be, for that is the desperation that oozes from her like a sickly aroma, fear… desperation, and the animals, they can smell it. She curses to herself as the hunting cry of a wolf, more like a melancholy moan into the blizzard, rises from a hill to the east. The woman thinks it is to her left, to the north, and does not see the pack of wolves that crest the hill to her back. She does not hear the muffled sound of many paws through the snow, thanks to the howling wind that suddenly picks up, and she does not smell them either.
Visibility is low, eventually the distance melds into a black haze, and the wolves are beyond her human capabilities of sight. Luck gives her a chance, and she finds a cave. With nowhere else to stop, and the blizzard outside becoming more horrendous by the second, she thinks nothing of racing into it. She stops momentarily at the mouth, seeing an already lit fire, and a man taking his own shelter. His hands are put as close to the fire as they can be without burning themselves, and he has a warm smile on his face, despite his gaunt features. How he has survived the tundra escapes the woman, and she is cautious to approach. The cry of the wolves hastens her step, and she speaks out to him as she approaches the glowing red and orange mass of heat. Her body almost sighs with relief as the heat caresses it, and she collapses where she stands. Trying to get up seems futile, so the woman tries to make herself as comfortable as possible, while inching ever so slightly towards the fire. The man flings her a boar, to use a pillow, and speaks softly, with a voice that strokes her mind and soothes her weary thoughts.
“Now, now, Freya…” He croons, that gaunt face still smiles that warm smile of his. “I don’t want you dying… Not yet… Not until you’ve had that child of yours…” Freya tries to look up in alarm, at how he knows her name, but the energy fades from her. Her eyes start to become heavy, and she finds herself drifting into sleep. The man walks up to her, his heavy furs swaying as he moves, and his long cloak billowing in the wind that comes from the mouth. He leans up to her ear as he gets onto his knees, and whispers softly in her ear. “You may sleep here for the night… this blizzard will stay your pursuers until you have set foot outside of this cave. From then, you must run, until you can run no more, and until your feet cry with the pain of a thousand tormented souls.” Freya is already in deep sleep, but he knows she will hear him. Never the less, he checks to make sure. “Repeat what I just said, Freya daughter of Greldan.” His voice seems to get harsher, and she frowns in her sleep, rolling to her side, and groaning slightly. He waves a hand to her feet, and they are well again, and with a last act of compassion puts some food in her mouth. She swallows it without realising.
“Sleep… here.” She mutters, the way one does when talking in sleep, low pitched and quiet. “Run, until no longer… can…” He nods in satisfaction and gathers his things before heading to the mouth. He stops in mid-stride, however, and turns back to her, his eyes full of contempt, his warm smile replaced by a scowl, and slight sneer at the same time. He speaks, in a much harsher tone, and much louder too.
“The child… must… be… born!” He says slowly and forcefully, and with that he leaves, his cloak billowing in the wind as he disappears from view, melding into the black haze of the outside. Freya doesn’t wake that night… not even when the sounds of wolves attacking emulate from the outside when the man has left. She just turns over, and sleeps; pulling her small cloak tighter around her body as it shivers in a desperate attempt to create heat for itself. The fire crackles in its small stone ring, and the flames lick the ceiling of the short-roofed cave, leaving a black stain on the spot directly above it. Only one odd thing can be said about the setting… that no smoke comes from this fire.
The night rages on, and the blizzard gives and unrelenting barrage on the earth, sending flake after flake to mound up on its surface, and make the snowy tundra even more inhospitable and cold for the following morning. Freya sleeps throughout the night, and the fire never extinguishes, not until her eyes open at the first rays of sunlight to hit her face. It simply disappears back into the ground, with no ashes or burnt wood to mark its place. Freya doesn’t notice, she leaps to her feet, and walks outside the cave, and squints as the sunlight makes a blinding display of the white carpet. No clouds adorn the sky, and no wolves stalk the area, no footprints mar its flawless blanket of snow, but Freya notices the furs that lie on the ground not far from her feet. They are untouched, and no blood marks them, but she knows them to be those of the man who helped her last night. With a perplexed look, she takes the furs, and wraps them around herself; the biting chill of the air dispelled as she dons a third layer of skins.
A familiar order replays in her mind, however, and spurs her to run as fast as she can: ‘This blizzard will stay your pursuers until you have set foot outside of this cave. From then, you must run, until you can run no more, and until your feet cry with the pain of a thousand tormented souls.’ And she runs, and runs until she can run no longer, until the pain in her feet stops her from even moving them at all, and she collapses in the snow. Her trek throughout the day is arduous and long, but the miraculous recovery of her feet make running much easier than it has been, and with all that she has endured, she has come to ignore the pain, to an end. For twelve whole hours she does run, as if spurred on by the Gods themselves, and for twelve hours she checks to see if her pursuers are nearing. She thanks them each time her path is shown clear, and her trail the same.
She speaks not, and she does not stop to drink or eat at all. Sated still from the meagre amount of meat she was given yesterday, she begins to contemplate what really happened that night, but does not slow in the slightest. Thinking of it helps her further to ignore the pain, but she is no longer running through the snow, she is stumbling through it. She knows that she cannot keep it up much longer, and at the same time thanks the Gods for being able to run for so long, and to be able to go without food for so long a time. But she tires, eventually, and her stumbled steps become more and more strained, her face contorting with the pain of a thousand tortured souls… still she goes, spurred on by the thought of letting her baby live, goes until she can move her feet no longer, until she can barely lift her legs anymore.
Eventually, she trips on a hidden rock, and falls to the ground. Too pain ridden to move, she feels the contractions happening, as they have for a time, and knows that the child is on its way. She laughs with mirth, and waits… waits until it is ready to come, until she can deliver her child into the world. Blood streams from her wounds, from her nose, and from her mouth as she finds she has pushed herself too far. But the warm liquid helps to keep her warm as she waits, caressing her body with sweet warmth that the wet furs can no longer provide. She smiles with contentment, and waits… and eventually, she fades from consciousness. Her mind frantically reaches out to stay awake, knowing that to go now, would mean the death of her child, but she is powerless to stop it as her entire body slows to a halt, and her eyelids become too heavy to support anymore. Blackness fills her vision, and eventually even her mind slows to a halt. No more thoughts, no more worries… Just… bliss.
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“Bliss…Bliss bliss bliss bliss blisssssssss!” The mocking voice in the emptiness startled the essence of Freya, mocking her very state of being. “You enjoy this bliss?” The disembodied voice questioned mockingly. “I’m sure you do… Now, how on earth does someone like you deserve this bliss?” It continued, seemingly angry. “We gave you a simple task: bring that child into the world. We heal your wounds, we sate you with food, and we give you warmth and sleep. We halt your pursuers, and what do you do? You step outside, and you halt the blizzard. You don’t stay in the cave until the child is born, do you?” The answer was rhetorical, and Freya’s spirit cowered before the mighty entity that berated her. How could she have known? She was told to run. These thoughts raced through her. “How could you have known?” The voice growled. “We told you that the Blizzard would halt as soon as you left the cave… We expected you to have more wit, Freya daughter of Greldan. You were born under the name of a great warrior, and we had great plans for his grandson. But you have ruined it, ruined it with your idiocy. We told you to run when you had left, presuming that you would have the child in tow, but NO! You leave, while still in labour, you leave when you could have stayed. The extra robes weren’t for you, they were for the child!” A steady growl came from the blackness of this hell, and Freya was terrified. The voice spoke again, definitely the same one, and yet… different.
“Calm yourself, we can resolve this matter. She is about to have the child. This whole matter can be saved. But her life will not be spared.” The voice was calm, and collecting, but Freya was very afraid of the unspoken threat. The voice spoke once more, to her. “You will return to your body, and will deliver this child. Do this for us, Freya daughter of Greldan, and we will spare your soul the torment of eternal damnation. Do you understand?” Freya wanted to nod, as emphatically as she could, but she had no body. She tried to speak, but had no voice. “Good. Then you will return, and do not forget what is at stake here, Freya daughter of Greldan.” The voice was warm, yet frighteningly threatening at the same time. It was the voice of the man she had met. And then, she feels as though she is being sucked away, and the blackness gives way to light… intense white light…
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Freya gasps for the air as her spirit returns to her drained body, and her consciousness returns to her. She realises that her right cheeks is lying in the powdery snow, and as cold as ice. She wants to scream in pain, but she hears voices… familiar voices. She begins to sob silently, and hide herself as best as possible, but they come closer, following her trail as well as any tracking animal. In a way, they were… in a way they were not. Their heavy Norsecan accents powered through the air as their incensed cries of anger, and one man’s threats of death to Freya rung out from a slight distance away. Hidden behind a snowy bump as she is, she will still be seen easily… and she will be butchered just as easily. She has no strength to fight back, not that she would have stood a chance. Her partner is one of the greatest warriors in the tribe… and he hats her with every fibre in his body. Freya shares the same sentiments, yet she cannot take out her frustrations on him… he is far too powerful, both physically and as his status within the clan. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she sees the end draw near, and as her contractions continue. It would not be long until the child was ready for deliverance. She curses her foul luck, curses the Gods for not being clear… In her anger she curses everything that she can, alerting the Norsecans to her presence.
A quick conversation between two of them, and the rush of six pairs of feet come pounding towards her with menacing intent. She screams for them to leave, but it only strengthens their pace, and they are upon her before she can speak again. She cries, tears streaming down her face as the partner faces her. He smiles a sickly smile of malice, and his carving knife is in his hand, which he fondles with in clear sight. He speaks in a menacing tone, his eyes shining with glee at what he is about to do.
“My dear Freya…” He says in a thick Norsecan accent, his furs swaying in the breeze, and his heavily muscled arms reaching for her throat. He bends down, and grips her neck, sneering at her with contempt. She tries to release his grip, but it is no avail, his grasp is too strong, and she feels her life ebbing away for a second time. Tears roll down her cheeks like fountains, and she is unaware that she had so much water left in her. “In the camp, it may have been very bad for me to kill you… dearest partner of mine.” He spat at her, his eyes still glinting with a sick anticipation. “But here, I can kill you, and say that the snow claimed you… and my… eugh… child.” He seemed repulsed at the idea of having a child in her. His knife darted, slicing into her stomach, as he killed off his only son. Blood found its way through the blade’s wound, and trickled down her body, underneath her damn furs. Walking away in disgust, he motioned to the other ones, indicating that they have free reign with the body. “Oh… but do make sure to make it a sacrifice to our great God.” He added, taking a comfortable position on his heels so that he could watch her mutilation.
Her cries could be heard for a thousand paces, and the wolves cried out with her. Every puncture of her skin was met with cries of agony, and of grief. The father was impressed, however… He had expected her to be weaker than she was… and she was still sobbing and retching dryly as they etched the symbol onto her chest, the symbol of Khorne, the God of Blood. Pleased with the handiwork, the Norsecans took their leave, with one curious enough to question one of the father’s orders.
“Why do we not take the head, brother?” He inquired, making the father laugh raucously as they disappeared, and making the Norsecan laugh nervously. He was not sure whether he was about to be cut to pieces or not by his ‘brother’.
“Because, as annoying and frustrating as the wench was…” The father said mirthfully… “She really was a pretty woman.” They all laughed with him, this time as they melded into the white haze. Another blizzard was starting up, which hastened their step considerably. No one wanted to be caught in this sort of weather… No one, but the dead.
Freya didn’t dare breath until she was sure that they were out of hearing… but when she was, she gutters horribly, blood erupting from her mouth, one of the few places in her body not mutilated by their axes, or beaten by their flails. It was the time of deliverance… and she pushes. She uses all of her strength, pours it into this one last task, before she dies. She grunts with the effort, but still she pushes, even as the last of her blood is taken from her veins by the hideous wounds. The snow turns dark with its tainting, but slowly and surely, the child is being born. The head comes out badly, sealing her fate, if there was any doubt that she was going to end, and one of his feet tears her insides open badly. But still she pushes… she must. And a child is born, bathed in the warm blood of his mother. He cries out, but is heard by no one, and Freya lies dead in the snow now… Her head finally thumping into the ground as her neck goes limp. He will be kept warm for a few minutes by the blood of his mother, as a last act of caring from her.
Luck is on the child’s side from the beginning, as it rolls down the hill, able to move from the accursed spot. But his travel is not long, the umbilical cord still attaching him to his dearly departed mother. He cries out again, but he is heard this time… by something that he would have wished hadn’t, if he was aware of it. A skinny wolf limps into view, obviously near death with starvation, his tongue hanging out like a dog’s as he pants for breath. Seeing the child, its ears perk up, and it sees its chance for a meal. It makes its was towards the child, and salivates menacingly as it eagerly awaits the tasty morsel, moving slowing towards the newly born snack. With teeth able to rend a grown man into pieces, it is very capable of killing this child in one bite, and its intentions cannot be mistaken. It looms over him, and leans down to take a bite, its mouth open. But it has not the strength, and collapses less than the child’s hand away from taking a bite. It falls onto its side, and its teeth clamp over something soft and somewhat cylindrical. Tasting the meat, it bites harder, breaking the umbilical cord, and letting the baby go free. The wolf will get its meal, following the umbilical up to the tainted mother, but it will be corrupted by the mark of Khorne, and will surely change into something… more.
The child rolls down the hill, and even as it hits flat ground, the momentum is enough to keep it going. It rolls for but a moment before it falls down a hole that was covered by snow, and right onto a strange looking old man in black robes, and with a large white beard. He curses in a tongue that was not meant to be uttered by mortals, and looks at what has falling onto him, covered in blood as it is. To his surprise, he finds it to be a child… and it seems to his amusement as well. A brief moment of arrogance names the child a gift from the Gods to him, for his hard work… as an apprentice, when the age comes of him. And so… he will take the boy under his wing… and only the Gods know what will happen to him from there…
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“So… what is to become of the child then?” An impatient voice rang out in the darkness, Freya’s spirit lingering there, as though by force. She felt no bliss here, it was the same voice that had berated her the first time, and she did not like it. “Will it become a Sorcerer, a Warrior… a Perverse? A Corrupter?” He truly did not know… all they knew was that, they latest interest would be an amusing one… The feeling oozed from the entity and bathed Freya, making her want to laugh.
“Ah, yes…” Came the calm voice, speaking to Freya. “You.” His voice was calm, but also menacing. He had the potential to be the most ruthless, or so Freya thought. “You have done as well as a mortal could. You will be reborn, Freya daughter of Greldan, but you will have no memories of what happened in your previous life.” His decision seemed finality itself, and Freya was happy to accept.
And this, is where I step in… “Do not be so hasty to decide your fate, Freya.” I speak to her, as a compassionate and understanding voice, and it soothes her. “You may also remain here, and become one with your God…” I am amused at her reaction, surprise, excitement, and wariness. “Which do you choose?” I know the answer; I smile as she thinks it but cannot say it. Freya, daughter of Greldan, will choose the wrong answer… and we will give her her memories of the past. And she will, in time… be forced to try and kill her son. And she will be made aware of it.
“Very Well…” We say in unison, the four of us, writhing in amusement. The mortals are our playthings… every once in a while we need some amusement from them. “You will be… reborn.” We continue. “May you enjoy being what you now are, and think not on what has happened to you previously.”
And yet… We have doomed her, all for the sake of amusement.
OOC: Comments welcome... Yes, any! :roll: