Post by Ragnvalder Jorghansson on May 9, 2011 10:34:27 GMT -5
Dawn. The gale behind them now, it had left them sodden and yet not weary, they were masters of the North Sea, ater all. It had been a easy start, as men and ships gathered into the fleet, the long slow sail south punctuated by a handful of raids, none so richly successful to fully appease the raiders, nor stymy their yearning, either. A bunch of attempts, that had netted them ale, some ham, a little silver, a lot of slaves, none of those slaves, which he thought worth keeping. He toed one now, awake, snarling to get his sorry self to oars. Enough resting!
Most of them he'd sell, and not worry twice over. Farm folk, they rowed like prissy nuns, no better than ballast. Cold dark eyes swept over the fleet. Finally coallescing again after a few days harrying the coast south of Alba, they were fully under sail, and on their way south, into the frosty Cornish waters, in search of fatter plunder. The last few raids had been a series of proving a well known point. Nothing but bare butts, and bare hills in Alba, nomads and sheep tenders, the occasional paltry farm. It had shaken the rust off of the men of Orvik and Keir though. And if people had wanted raw rock and scrabbled clumps of heather as their be all, end all, farmstead, well, they deserved to be put out of their misery, ja?
Only one hostange on this boat was worth anything, personally, or professionally speaking. She rowed with the others, when it was her turn. She ate with him, the same aleskin and flat bread and bacon, she scouted the shoreline with him when he ran ahead, seeking a new village or homestead to harrass. She shared his furs at night. She did not complain. She was small, and muscled and dark and like all of them, slightly damp from salt sea spray. Her hair hung wild and ringleted and misbehavingly had a mind of it's own. Tiny black feathers on leather cords, adorned her dark motley locks, adding to the sheen she had about her. She seemed a woman with much freedom. No petticoats, no cooking fire to tend.
Only her collar said otherwise.
This woman was owned. Solveig the Alban witch, taken as prize of conquest. He dared own a witch, and it earned him respect, and long hard looks. She threw the bones, knew the runes, could read the skies. It was no small thing, her magic. It was said she could make a man's bowels run, and his blood boil, and his skin flay off.
If that was true, Ragnvalder must be immune, for he had never felt healthier, nor more eager for war, all in the name of misbehavior, and glory, and coin. He' barter, trade, and take, this trip, along with his kinsmen.
The one thing he'd not sell was the witch. She was his charm. His good luck token. His hand found her dark hair, and fisted it, dragging back, to force her to look up, see her master. She was dainty, and fiendish, and all poured into eyes that saw far to much; eyes that most avoided, he stared into. His thumb traced down her throat, the delicate skin over her fragile windpipe carressed. She had no leverage. He gave her none.
We're close. Cornwall. You stay near me, Solvy. No wandering.
It was not a request.
He looked from her, as her hands gripped the warm, warn oar, and her back bowed, arched, leaned, worked. He never smiled, a sober man, sly and hawkish and fierce, he was. He kept close rein, and guard up, and sought his brother, three ships over, tall and braw and sandy brown hair....there was cousin Trygg, a few ships ahead, dark wayward curls almost as unruly as Solveig's were. A whistle pieced the foggy air as the last of the rains moved south, and the faintest outline of land rose on the horizon.
Cornwall.
He felt his attention to it grow.
Ripe for the plucking, she was, a fair land, and some of her bounty? Needed 'liberating'. Eyes twinkling, with a galing sort of intensity, he let Tryggr guide them in, in the creak of wood, the flight of oars, the luff of sails, the beauty of boats made for speed, to a deserted windswept port, their banners hidden, their ships formidable, and their men, numbering enough to scare the sane.
Most of them he'd sell, and not worry twice over. Farm folk, they rowed like prissy nuns, no better than ballast. Cold dark eyes swept over the fleet. Finally coallescing again after a few days harrying the coast south of Alba, they were fully under sail, and on their way south, into the frosty Cornish waters, in search of fatter plunder. The last few raids had been a series of proving a well known point. Nothing but bare butts, and bare hills in Alba, nomads and sheep tenders, the occasional paltry farm. It had shaken the rust off of the men of Orvik and Keir though. And if people had wanted raw rock and scrabbled clumps of heather as their be all, end all, farmstead, well, they deserved to be put out of their misery, ja?
Only one hostange on this boat was worth anything, personally, or professionally speaking. She rowed with the others, when it was her turn. She ate with him, the same aleskin and flat bread and bacon, she scouted the shoreline with him when he ran ahead, seeking a new village or homestead to harrass. She shared his furs at night. She did not complain. She was small, and muscled and dark and like all of them, slightly damp from salt sea spray. Her hair hung wild and ringleted and misbehavingly had a mind of it's own. Tiny black feathers on leather cords, adorned her dark motley locks, adding to the sheen she had about her. She seemed a woman with much freedom. No petticoats, no cooking fire to tend.
Only her collar said otherwise.
This woman was owned. Solveig the Alban witch, taken as prize of conquest. He dared own a witch, and it earned him respect, and long hard looks. She threw the bones, knew the runes, could read the skies. It was no small thing, her magic. It was said she could make a man's bowels run, and his blood boil, and his skin flay off.
If that was true, Ragnvalder must be immune, for he had never felt healthier, nor more eager for war, all in the name of misbehavior, and glory, and coin. He' barter, trade, and take, this trip, along with his kinsmen.
The one thing he'd not sell was the witch. She was his charm. His good luck token. His hand found her dark hair, and fisted it, dragging back, to force her to look up, see her master. She was dainty, and fiendish, and all poured into eyes that saw far to much; eyes that most avoided, he stared into. His thumb traced down her throat, the delicate skin over her fragile windpipe carressed. She had no leverage. He gave her none.
We're close. Cornwall. You stay near me, Solvy. No wandering.
It was not a request.
He looked from her, as her hands gripped the warm, warn oar, and her back bowed, arched, leaned, worked. He never smiled, a sober man, sly and hawkish and fierce, he was. He kept close rein, and guard up, and sought his brother, three ships over, tall and braw and sandy brown hair....there was cousin Trygg, a few ships ahead, dark wayward curls almost as unruly as Solveig's were. A whistle pieced the foggy air as the last of the rains moved south, and the faintest outline of land rose on the horizon.
Cornwall.
He felt his attention to it grow.
Ripe for the plucking, she was, a fair land, and some of her bounty? Needed 'liberating'. Eyes twinkling, with a galing sort of intensity, he let Tryggr guide them in, in the creak of wood, the flight of oars, the luff of sails, the beauty of boats made for speed, to a deserted windswept port, their banners hidden, their ships formidable, and their men, numbering enough to scare the sane.
