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Archive 22 / lofotr
Triggers: TW: BDSM, slavery, violence, blood, death, dubcon, more tbd
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tiefighter96 16-Nov-22 02:20 AM
TW: BDSM, slavery, violence, blood, death, dubcon, more tbd
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 16-Nov-22 03:51 AM
Their fur cloaks had long ago been taken off and moved to the seats of the benches, making some sort of padding while also alleviating the men and women of the thick heat-trapping articles of clothing. They had been useful when they set out from home, and even in the short stay in Normandy. But here in the rivers of Spain, they served as nothing more than misery bringers. The idea of leaving for a raid with winter approaching had been a strange one to most of the men aboard the ships around them, but when the chieftains of the lands called them to arms with promises of wealth, they answered as they always would. Shouts encouraging the death of Christians and the honoring of their own gods, claims for future glory and challenges of who would earn the most fame, and hunger for more wealth to line their pockets and afterlife with. It was a warm October, much warmer than any of them had been used to surviving, and the Mediterranean air over the Iberian Peninsula had blessed them with a good tail wind. Their sails were full even as they sailed up the river that they had found, their guide calling it the Guadalquivir River. 54 longships carried their human cargo along the waters of the river, their oars finally striking out as the wind from their rear shifted and became less predictable. The men and women scrambled quickly to tie up their sails before joining their comrades on the benches to row their way onwards. There were warriors that stood and walked along the deck of the ship, their eyes trained outwards as they were looking for signs of enemy combatants or towns that could be raided. They had stopped along the coast and ransacked several towns, their longships already carrying the weight of several chests worth of gold, silver, and other riches. .
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The sides of the ships were adorned with the rowers’ shields, measures taken to protect them from missile threats as they had come to the internal waterways. Several of the ships had intricate figureheads on their bows, showing terrifying images like dragons, grinning imps, or roaring beasts. One longship with black and red sails tied up in a bundle on the main yard had a growling bear as the figurehead. Black in color and with red blood detailed to be dripping from its maw, there were five ships with matching sails and color patterns, though only one had the figurehead. The others had figureheads of the more traditional kind: a black dragon, a red and gray eagle, a black crow, and a gray wolf head. These ships came from the same port and carried the fierce warriors of northern Norway, the land many deemed too cold or inhospitable to stay in. These features of the land carried into the warriors a spirit of deadliness and faith to their gods that many others in the fleet were wary of and saw as a worthy cause of fear. Only the Vikings from Trondheim could look in the eyes of the black and red warriors for longer than a moment, and even those fiercely renowned warriors would eventually shift their gaze. The men and women of Lofotr brought with them rumors of magic and death, sacrifices that were too heinous for even the most devout to repeat. The truth behind these rumors was debated behind closed doors, but when the opportunity to ask about them was brought up face to face, the rumors hid with those that carried them. For why would you test your fate by poking the figurative, or not so figurative, bears of the north? .
03:51
Each ship and crew had their own ways of preparing for conflict when they saw the city on the horizon, with some starting to pray or chant loudly to the gods while others busied themselves with brewing concoctions that would bring them into frenzied states of bravery and blood lust. The crews of the ships from Lofotr continued on their course, the rowers pushing harder against their task as their ships picked up speed and started to pass those of their comrades. They made their way to the front of the fleet as the warriors began chanting low prayers and calls to their gods for a bountiful harvest. Paint trays were pulled from beneath benches and dipped into the rushing water to gather the hydration they needed to be worked. Thick red and black pastes were mixed with the water of the land, a symbol that issued the final disrespect to the people of the land as they were aiding in their own destruction. The paint was taken to each member and applied liberally to their faces and exposed flesh, painting designs and magical wards onto each other. Each ship carried with it one holy person from their port, and she would make the marks on the flesh of her warriors and Vikings, blessing each of them with the strength and hardiness of the animal of their choice. They were a nature driven clan, and each member of the band had an animal painted on their shields that they attributed themselves to. Some wanted the wisdom and cunning of a raven, while others wanted the speed and slyness of a fox. There were those that called to the wolves of the world for strength and power. One man stood behind the prow of the lead ship with his hand on the head of his bear figurehead, and as he turned to lay his blue eyes on the völva standing before him, he smiled and lowered his head for her to reach his face. .
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He stood a head taller than the average man on his crew, breaking over two meters easily with his height reaching even slightly further. He was blessed with strength and ferocity by Thor himself, and he carried that power in everything he did. The shield on his back held the image of a black bear staring straight at the viewer, its teeth bared and blood dripping down the brown face of the shield. The völva added her wards over him as she whispered softly about how he would find much glory in this battle to come, going so far as to say that he would soon be blessed by the gods with a belonging worth more than gold. Closing his eyes and accepting her words of wisdom and prophecy, the warrior allowed the black paint to be applied to his forehead and cheeks before red was applied over his eyes and down over his nose and mouth. Torbjorn opened his eyes and nodded his thanks to the völva before reaching down to his side and grabbing hold of the two-handed axe that he had leaning against the inner wall of the ship’s hull. Raising it in one hand over his head, he shouted loudly to get the attention of the men on his ship as well as those rowing near them, “Warriors of Lofotr, lend me your ears!! The day will be ours and it will end in victory!! The gods have not stopped smiling on us, and they will not change their minds now! Ready yourselves and stay hungry, Odin has quite the meal waiting for those of us fated to fall in Valhǫll!!” .
03:52
As he finished, each of the five crews from Lofotr began a slow and rhythmic chant while a goat was brought forward from the back of each ship and a similar scene was played out. Torbjorn knelt down and held his axe across his thighs as he watched the völva bring the goat up to him with a long sacrificial dagger in her right hand. She squatted down and forced the goat to sit as well before holding the blade to the side of its neck. Torbjorn watched as the woman slid the blade across the throat of the animal, silencing its pained bleats as its blood jetted out and painted his chest, face, and arms. Opening his mouth and closing his eyes, he whispered softly, “Odin, bless us with your wisdom so that we might bring these Muslims to heel under your power. Tyr, grant us your blessing so that we can go forth and kill all that would claim their false god. Thor, my father, gift us your strength and guide our blows so that you may be known across these lands.” Opening his eyes with a low growl, Torbjorn reached forward and dug his fingers into the open gash on the goat’s throat. Pressing his hands down and pulling apart, he ripped at the chest and ribs of the animal as he felt the bones breaking and separating from their cartilage. Spreading its chest open, he took hold of its heart and ripped it free from the connecting tissues and arteries. Taking a bite out of it and chewing quickly before swallowing, Torbjorn stood with a bellow before pointing towards the shore. He finished the heart in several quick bites while the völva processed the rest of the sacrificial goat, his eyes quickly drawn to the fast-approaching shore and the green fields beyond that lead to the unwalled city of Seville. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem🍰 BOT 16-Nov-22 05:54 AM
Zaira stood on the balcony outside her bedroom and squinted at the sun while it rose above the horizon. She watched the golden light crawl over the stone and sand colored city towards her like a heated scourge, warming the hardy trees in its path. The trees swayed slightly with the winds coming from the ocean up the river Guadalquivir, as if they sighed in pleasure with the brief fresh air caressing their leaves. Inspired, she closed her eyes and allowed the winds to breathe their refreshing scents against her own cheeks while she sighed silently as well. Many scents from the city came with it; vanilla, spices, and sandalwood, mostly imported from elsewhere in Al-Andalus. Zaira inhaled the scents with delight. On mornings like these, she could embrace life and every little joy in it. But her daydreams rarely lasted for long, and hearing sounds behind her within the house, she sighed and turned away from the view, considering the present, the future, and what it might have in mind for her. Her father had behaved strangely these last few months, more irritably, and he suddenly took a great deal of interest in his eldest daughter’s life. Zaira had overheard conversations between him and his wife, Dana. Her stepmother often suggested that Zaira was ready to marry, at which point her father just as often snapped in return that indeed she was, and he would take care of it. To Zaira’s discontent, Dana had begun hovering. While she did not outright dislike her stepmother, she likewise held no close feelings for the woman. Dana had never tried to take a nurturing role towards her stepdaughter during her childhood years, and she had mostly ignored the girl in her teens. Nevertheless, somehow, the woman had gotten it into her head that the stepdaughter needed to learn about married life and what was expected of her.
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Smiling secretly, Zaira sat down at the dressing table in her bedroom, imagining Dana’s rage if she ever learned of her stepdaughter’s disobedience. Zaira had been allowed some amount of free rein during her childhood, when her father and his new wife were gifted with children of their own. They had no idea that the eldest daughter of the household took the freedom to a rebelling level. Not only did she go into town by herself, but she had also managed to convince the elite guard of their household to train her moderately in self-defense. “Oh! You’re awake!” a sour voice behind her commented, waking Zaira yet again from her daydreams. Her jade green and harshly painted eyes lifted up into the mirror, meeting the gaze of her younger sister. Indira stood in the doorway behind her, lofty and with the straight demeanor of someone who was well-aware of their own importance. Even though Zaira was four years older than her younger sister, Indira had grown to a height that threatened to outgrow even her own mother. “Father is leaving soon, but he wants us to eat together first.” Zaira had little patience with her sister and snapped back. “I’ll be there shortly. Now leave, so that I may dress myself.” Indira hurriedly closed the door and ran with noisy steps down the hall. When Zaira eventually saw it fit to emerge from the bedroom and join her family around a low dining table situated within many silken pillows surrounding it, she did notice and subsequently ignored the admonishing glare her father sent her way. His temper was well known, at times short and explosive, at other times endless with patience. But it was always unpredictable. He did not comment on her negligence with household rules or time schedules – not at this time, and instead shifted his attention to one of Zaira’s younger brothers practicing his reading skills.
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After the meal, Zaira helped her brothers with their rucksacks, readying them for school. They were only six and seven years old, but both had been in school for a couple of years already. Qadir El-Hashem was an influential Muslim within the city of Ishbiliyah, a tax collector who held the lives of many in his hands. He had wanted his sons well educated and tutored, to make sure the family stayed in good fortune and reputation with the Caliphate. Unlike Zaira and her sister Indira, the brothers attended a moderately large school not far away from their home. It was a private institution, reserved for boys only, and very expensive. During her childhood and teens, Zaira had received tutoring from a teacher who came to their house three times a week to give her private lessons in her father’s library. Indira on the other hand, had only received the most necessary lessons, learning to read and write a little. Where Zaira pined for knowledge, Indira cared very little about such things, focusing more on craftier arts; like sowing and embroidery. When both boys were ready and presentable for school, Zaira followed them there - before she turned her wandering towards areas she was not supposed to traverse on her own. Zaira was busy admiring a jewelry box at the market, disguised with her hair covered by a shawl over her head, and wearing a loosely fit tunic. The shawl was wrapped around her head so most of her face remained hidden, making her look like one of the lesser citizens of mawali, or even Christian or Jewish. The tunic was a simple, grey dress that made her look ordinary and uninteresting, complimenting her unassuming presence. The merchant in the stall grabbed the jewelry box with a jerk and moved it away from her.
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Zaira stared in bewilderment at his indignant face while he placed the box on the other side of the stall - safely away from her – before looking her over in a condescending way from top to toe. Zaira shook her head and turned away, moving towards another stall. She could afford a dozen of those boxes if she wanted to. Suddenly, the echoing sound of horns blowing from the ports and throughout the city caught everyone’s attention, and Zaira shortly after found herself whisked away by the mass of people rushing off in different directions; some fleeing to their homes, others sprinting towards the river ports to see what was going on. In an inattentive moment, a man running past her knocked her into the corner of a building and she felt her forehead turn sleek and warm. Steadying herself against the wall, she located the direction of her home though the crowds and began moving towards it. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 19-Nov-22 09:52 AM
Horns blared from each of the forward ships, signaling to those behind them that they were beaching here on the riverbank. The city was just on the other side of the field, and as Torbjorn stood at the bow of his ship, he could see people in the ports scrambling to react. Some ran out to greet them, not recognizing the threat and hoping to make contact with these people that they assumed to be merchants. Some ran towards them with weapons raised and ready to repel the would-be attackers, though with clear doubt in their efforts as they could not group up appropriately. Many more ran towards the interior of the city in search of some safety while others still simply stood rooted to the spot and watched as the Vikings leapt from their ships and walked up onto the field that stood between them and their prize. Holding his two-handed axe in his hands as he walked up the riverbank and onto the grassy field, Torbjorn shouted wordlessly while raising the axe in the air, only to point it forwards as he started striding confidently towards the enemy. His long blonde hair was pulled back on the top of his head and braided with bands of brown leather with gold inlaid thread spaced down his braid to keep it tight. He was wearing a pair of black trousers and a dark blue layered fabric tunic, but over it all he wore a chainmail hauberk that reached down to his knees and down his arms to his wrist. Leather straps held the mail tight at his wrists and cinched it in around his knees to keep his protection in place, even though his natural flesh was generally protection enough. His gift from Thor made him largely impervious to most weapons, but he would not turn down the protection of mail should there be a mystical weapon drawn against him. He wore a tan belted tunic over the mail, the belt holding the sheath of his sword and his one-handed axe in place. .
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Pulling on his helmet with a strip of armor over his nose that attached to cheek protection, he felt the mail dangling from the back of the helmet lay against his neck. Growling deeply as he strode forward slowly, he waited until he could see his comrades in his peripheral vision before charging forward. His ship had off-loaded, and he had thirty Vikings at his sides, men and women alike that were from his home and seeking their treasure and glory in the eyes of the gods. Pulling his shield around his left shoulder but keeping the strap over his body, he held his axe’s shaft near the head as he ran with the shield raised slightly against arrow fire. Feeling a couple of arrows slam into the shield while he saw a few others land in the grass around him, Torbjorn looked over the edge of his shield and saw a dozen archers working their bows while there were two dozen men approaching with shields and spears. Pointing towards the archers, he looked over his shoulder at his own archers that were following behind the initial rank of Vikings. Seeing them nod wordlessly before drawing their bows back and firing, Torbjorn turned his attention back forward and watched the archers take fire from his own. Several fell to the incoming missile threats, but those that stayed standing turned their gaze to the Norse archers to try to eliminate them. Confident now that the arrow threat was elsewhere, Torbjorn brought his axe over the face of his shield to snap the two arrows that were embedded in the thick wood. Slinging his shield back onto his back, he gripped his axe in both hands and sprinted forward, driving out front of his men and forming their line into a V. The men and women alongside him sped up to keep up with him, and as he approached the line of Muslims in front of them, he could see the shiver of their spears as they were not prepared to be rushed by the enemies on their doorstep.
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Behind Torbjorn, several other ships had landed, and the others were turning in to disembark as well, dispelling hundreds of Vikings that were excited to lay waste to the enemy before them. The Muslims were not going to be able to hold back these numbers and they knew it, causing some of them to panic and turn back from the line. Their feet carried them back into the city, creating gaps in the defensive line that was trying to hold its line. What had been two dozen soldiers was quickly dropping down and now only had just over a dozen as Torbjorn reached them. Swinging his axe at the spear in front of him, he knocked it aside before taking another step and kicking the shield of the man in front of him. Slamming the shield backwards with enough force to cause the man to stumble and fall backwards, Torbjorn continued forward and brought his axe down in an overhand chop to the man’s head. Splitting his helmet and head open, he turned his attention to the open flanks of the Muslim to his left. Stepping off the dead man and bringing his axe around in an upwards cut, he caught the man in the mail on his back and felt his blade slice through the metal slightly before the force of the blow simply broke the man’s spine. Hearing him cry out slightly before he started to fall, Torbjorn left him to be finished off by the Viking in front of him. Sprinting forward to the next man, he grabbed the back of his helmet and yanked his head back to cause him to stumble backwards. Bringing his axe around from the left, he drove his blade into the man’s exposed throat and took his head off with an easy effort. The other Muslims had fallen or fled by the time the man’s head hit the ground, blood spilling from the wound as he stared in surprised awe at the number of Norse feet that strode past his corpse. .
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Watching three of the infantrymen fleeing back to the city with two archers, Torbjorn smirked and felt the draw to chase after them but first he turned his attention back to his warriors. Three were downed by arrows, but they were already being helped back towards the ship to receive medical attention back at the base camp. Nodding and looking to the amassed Vikings from the ship under his command, he pointed into the city and screamed, “Forward!! You will find your treasure and glory within those buildings, so let’s move.” Nodding and letting out an excited cry, Torbjorn turned and sprinted towards the city, his eyes glancing towards the port where other Vikings were advancing. The Muslims that were still there were cut down without a chance to plead for mercy, their blood pouring out on the wood of their docks while their crates were opened and searched for anything of worth. Seeing a pen ahead of him with a couple of goats in it, Torbjorn jumped over the fence and slammed his foot into the door that led into the building it was adjoined to. Seeing a man with a knife standing in front of a woman and two young boys, Torbjorn smirked and swung his axe at the man, cleaving through his raised left arm and into his collarbone. A second quick cut cleaved the man’s head off, at which point Torbjorn looked up at the wife and boys, her husband’s blood sprayed across the front of his tunic as well as her white dress. Swinging the end of his axe’s shaft around, he slammed the wooden end into the woman’s stomach to force her to double over before bringing his knee up in a fierce blow to her face. Watching her fall over, he snarled at the boys and gestured to the side and reached out to shove them towards their mother. Seeing them fall down beside her groaning form, Torbjorn started to quickly search for any obvious signs of wealth. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 22-Nov-22 03:26 AM
She heard horns blare from the river, echoing through the city with a strange and foreign baritone, stirring up already frightened civilians into a frenzied panic. Zaira had not yet seen the visitors but judging by how alarmed many of the people that came running from the river were, she understood they were not there for peaceful trade. Some shouted ’Rus!’ as they rushed past her, and it gave Zaira pause while she tried to navigate the narrow streets to find her way home, wiping the blood off her face to see better where she was running. Rus were people she’d only heard about in rumors, but they were described as tall warriors from distant countries who pillaged every city and village they came across. Zaira picked up her feet and ran, darting in between people, buildings, carts and crates and many booths though the network of utter chaos arising within the city. Her family’s home was located not far from the riverbanks, and she hoped with bated breath they were alright. As soon as she had managed to navigate her way out of the narrow streets and closely assembled houses, she saw them; catching glimpses through the chaos of giants with fair skin fighting the city guards with large axes, swords, and spears. Zaira saw the guards fall, even trained and seasoned warriors could not withstand the ferocious blow of an axe half their own bodyweight. She quickly ducked her head and darted in between the many larger villas adorning the riverbank, making sure she stayed out of sight and clung to the gardens and shadows of trees while she ran towards her own home.
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As soon as she reached the walls of her home, Zaira climbed the outer wall to the gardens with moderate difficulties, toppling headfirst into a bush on the other side and back crawling into a small form there while she listened for signs that the foreigners had reached her home. She heard a man roar in anger and pain, and then a woman scream. Perhaps it was an irrational instinct to try and help or perhaps a need to find safety in her home, Zaira wasn’t sure, but she quickly found her footing again and rushed through the gardens and into the house, entering from the lower balcony door and right into the living room of her family. Her heart leapt up her throat in a suffocating lump when she saw the blood trails leading out of the living room. Potted plants, jars of wine and decorative wall carpets were toppled, ruined, or crushed from what had clearly been a fight. Zaira could only hope it the guards had been able to defend her family and chased off the intruders. Her father had many in his employment, and there were always a handful of them watching over his house when he was out doing his work. She walked on silent and soft feet through the house, following the blood trail until she found its source; one of the pale invaders, dead on the floor lying in a pool of his own blood. A bearded man with brown hair and freckled skin, slightly burnt from exposure to the sun. Zaira stepped around him carefully, now hearing the guards shout at the front of the house while fighting more of the intruders. Seeking to locate her sister and stepmother, Zaira darted up the stairs towards the bedroom wing on silent feet, praying that she would find them unharmed and hiding. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 01-Dec-22 07:06 PM
The house had little in the way of true wealth, with no shining gold pieces that Torbjorn could obviously see in his first glance around the building. There would be an opportunity to search the home more thoroughly once they had made their way through the city and secured it, but right now continued aggression and violence of action was more important. Looking down at the boys and growling to keep them still, he opened the front door of the house and made his way out of it. Torbjorn’s eyes saw several dead Muslims, citizens and warriors alike, with a few dead Vikings beside them. Smirking as he started striding down the street, he looked around and could smell the spreading blood and adrenaline moving throughout the city. The most intoxicating scent of all would be the fear Torbjorn smelled from the residents; a cent that brought tightening to his trousers as a sadistic chuckle rolled from his throat. He enjoyed chasing and hunting terrified prey, and this was only going to satisfy that urge. Seeing a door close ahead of him, Torbjorn sprinted forward and slammed his shoulder into it, knocking it off of its hinges and falling down onto it. Rolling up to his feet on the other side, he smirked as he saw a trio of young men holding swords in nervous grips as their eyes flicked from him to the bloodstain beneath the door. In his movement of breaking down the door, he had crushed the man that was guiding these three boys. His blood spread from beneath the wood, but Torbjorn moved his eyes back to the young men and saw that they still held onto their swords. If they had dropped them and ran, it would have saved their lives. Swinging his axe in a waist height slash, he cleaved one of the boys in half just below his ribcage, causing his arms to go slack before he fell back and into two different pieces. .
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Keeping the axe in motion, he swept it up through the chest of the second young man, cleaving through him and out through the side of his neck. The last young man stood rooted in fear, his eyes wide as his trousers grew wet in the front from the inevitable piss that soaked him out of fear. Shaking his head in disgust, Torbjorn picked him up with his left hand around the man’s throat. Holding him up in the air and squeezing, he growled deeply in the young man’s face before squeezing his hand and crushing his throat and neck at once. Feeling his body go limp and dangle in his grip, Torbjorn chuckled softly and tossed the body to the side before looking around the building. The first thing that came to his attention was a table covered in swords and axes, then a couple of tables covered in various sets of chain mail. Recognizing that he was in the armory, he smirked before knocking the tables over in an attempt to slow down any other person that followed behind him to try and organize a defense. As he was looking over the swords scattered on the ground for any that looked worth anything, Torbjorn heard a set of heavy steps approaching the broken-down door. Glancing over his shoulder as he knelt down to pick up an ornately jeweled sword, Torbjorn saw the broad shoulders and youthful face of one of the men that came with him from Lofotr. The man had sailed on a separate ship from his, but he recognized the short hair and scruffy beard easily. Seeing the worry in the man’s face, Torbjorn narrowed his eyes before standing up and approaching the man. His axe was held in his right hand as he reached his left hand out to take hold of the man’s collar before speaking in a gruff tone, “Audun, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, what is it?” .
19:07
The young man shook his head as if to clear out of the fog that had fueled his sprinting. He had been forward of Torbjorn, following behind several Vikings from other ships that had chased down a man with fat pockets. As they grabbed him, they were set upon by a group of soldiers that were not easily broken. Looking into Torbjorn’s eyes, Audun reached his left hand out to grab the fabric of the larger man’s tunic at his chest before speaking, “The Muslims have gathered and are defending deeper in the town. We need to break through them to keep up the pressure. Can you aid us?” Nodding slowly, Torbjorn waited for Audun to step out of the way so that he could step out into the street. Lowering his left hand to grab at the horn that hung at his hip, he brought it up and blew two short notes before one long bellowing one. It was a message for his boat to gather on him when they heard it and moments after the sounds echoed through the streets, the footsteps of over two dozen Vikings coming to gather in front of him. They had lost five in the initial attacks it seems, but that left him with more than enough to confidently confront whatever it was that Audun had found. Turning to the younger man, he patted him on the shoulder before following him through the streets. It didn’t take them long to find the scene of the ambush, but by the dead Vikings and Muslims lined against the buildings on their approach, Torbjorn knew that the ambush had lost its steam. They had had initial success, but in this continued fighting against over fifteen hundred Vikings, they had to fight a delaying action to retreat. Continuing along behind Audun, he glanced over his shoulders and motioned for his men to start flanking through the streets around them to be able to attack the group of Muslims from multiple directions. @shadowcat_rp_love
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fiory 20-Mar-23 05:34 PM
Hi there! @tiefighter96 @shadowcat_rp_love We noticed this roleplay has been inactive for 30 days or more. Please reply to this message so I am pinged if you would like to keep this roleplay open. In addition, roleplay must begin within 7 days, otherwise this channel will be moved to our archives. All archived roleplays are uploaded onto http://rphq.me/ and can be viewed there. 💜
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 26-May-23 07:35 AM
When Zaira reached the upstairs of the house, the silence that met her was a sharp and harrowing contrast to the sounds of battle outside. Thankfully, from what she could tell by the neat arrangements of the furnishings, the dead man downstairs had not made it up here before the household guards had slain him. “Dana? Indira?” she called out, her tone hushed while she walked on trepidant feet down the hallways, peering into each and every room that she passed. It was quiet, enough to make the hairs on her arms stand in shrill discomfort by what it could imply. Scents of the rare lilac blossoms wafted through the air, deceitfully lulling her in a false sense of safety as it was a scent she had come to associate with home. The lilac had been a rare, small and unassuming shrub when Dana planted it so many years ago, but now it had grown into the size of a healthy tree, and Dana always kept its fresh flowers in the house. She passed Indira’s room, and then her brothers’ room, before coming to the room her father and Dana shared, and then her own. From the hallway, she could glimpse the view from her private balcony, and beyond it, the masts and sails of foreign ships along the shore of the river. The sails were large and square, colored in bright and vibrant shades. The sight was oddly frightening, and she backpedaled away from it, aiming to turn and head back downstairs. Through the thick stone and marble walls, the sounds from the battles outside had grown louder and more intense. Zaira could now make out distinguished sounds of men bellowing orders in languages familiar and foreign alike. She could hear steel clash against steel, men grunting, heavy feet pounding against the bricked streets as they ran. Yet still she could smell the lilac and still she eased herself back down the stairs, confident that her sister and stepmother were not in the house. The household guards were gone, which meant that hopefully her family had gone with them. Leaving her alo
07:35
ne. It suddenly felt foolish. The thrills of breaking the rules and going by herself into the city now felt like heavy rocks in her belly, sinking deep into a pool of regret and a sensation of abandonment she had not been acquainted with before. Foolish, silly girl, she scolded herself, hearing her father’s voice in her mind as if he was present beside her. What would happen when they found her here, alone? What would these invaders do once they came through those doors with weapons drawn and the blood of her people soaking into their clothes? Zaira’s imagination jumped between one scenario to another, all images born from recent memories of the battle. Fresh wounds to her otherwise sheltered existence. Just as she reached the main floor of the house, a loud crash of wood from the ground floor balcony had her startle and yelp. She whirled to face the source of the sound, heart beating painfully with thunder in her chest while her face and skin felt numb and immobilized. She stared, and she knew she was staring for a few seconds too long, for had it been anyone else but her father stepping through the balcony door, she would have been dead. Qadir El-Hashem swiped the interior of the living room with his gaze, before spotting his eldest daughter at the far end hallway. The turban on his head did nothing to brighten his face in any favorable expression, and he marched towards his eldest daughter with swift strides. Zaira had time to blink, time to notice that his yellow tunics were covered in deep dark red splotches, and that he was clutching his ’saif’ in his right hand – a sharp sword that had been the bane of many opponents’ existence before, and evidently this again day. He grabbed her upper arm with his free hand and shook his stoic daughter, hard enough to shake her out of her petrified state.
07:35
“Come. Here is not safe,” he said, and promptly proceeded to drag her along with him back the way he had come. Zaira followed along without protests. “Where are Indira and Dana?” “Safe, for now. We must hurry.” Despite his prompt to hurry, he paused at the balcony door, opening it slightly to peek outside towards the gardens. Many seconds of silence passed, seconds where Zaira could not see, but hear the commotion outside. Men running past the halfway closed door, the sound of steel against steel, grunts of pain, a slashing and tearing sound that sent cold chills down her spine despite the high noon sun and the scorching heat in the air. Qadir’s hand tightened slightly around her arm before he turned to look at her, and his face was set in a grim and hard expression. Deep within his eyes, there was a gleam Zaira had not seen before. It had her frown slightly, trying to recognize it, and failing with confusion. “Do as I say, and nothing else.” Zaira managed a meek nod before he pulled her closer to the half-open door, allowing her to see through the hand-wide crack. He pointed. “You run towards the garden walls. Do not look at anything or anyone, understood? You run, Zaira. When you reach the wall, scale it. Do not hesitate. I will be right behind you. Repeat it back to me.” Zaira’s jade green eyes focused on the wall at the opposite end of the garden, trying her hardest to not let them wander and drop to the lifeless body not too far from the door, or the movements outside of her field of focus. Red. There was a lot of red, a color of life, of passion, of… death. The pink blossoms of the lilac tree swayed above, a calm and well-scented contrast to the otherwise frightening scene unfolding in front of her. “T-the wall,” she repeated when her father’s hand shook her slightly. “Run to the wall and climb it. Do not look at anything else.” Behind her, Qadir nodded. With his ’saif’ rested along his lower arm, he reached out and pushed the door open fully
07:35
. With a final, almost reassuring squeeze from his hand on her arm, he then released her with a sharp and forward jerk. “Go! NOW!”
07:36
@tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 27-May-23 03:56 AM
There had to be something important about the family that lived in the house they were approaching. Tofbjorn had passed by a multitude of other homes that were completely undefended or only protected by one or two men. They had been cut down or scared into running off with little to no trouble. This home, however, had nearly two dozen men protecting it. Torbjorn and his forces that he brought with him had pushed through the initial ambush site with ease, most of the fighting having devolved into one-on-one grappling matches by the time he had arrived. A quick slash of his axe here or a kick to someone’s knee to throw them off balance had been all that was needed to get the momentum back in favor of the attackers. They needed to move with speed and aggression to stay on the offensive and keep the defenders on their heels. If they were given time to steady themselves and rally, the ease of the attack would be dashed, and they would have to consider their options. Glaring at the collection of men standing opposite him with small shields and curved swords in their hands, Torbjorn growled as he recognized the first signs of the defenders finding some purchase. His gut told him to bypass these holdouts and keep with the overall momentum of the attack, but he knew now that that was not an option. His men would see his turning to leave as a display of cowardice, and he was not going to give them any reason to doubt his bravery or capabilities in a fight. Narrowing his eyes as he adjusted his grip on the haft of his two-handed axe, he turned and issued a quick order to the men and women on his right, “Scale the walls and move to flank them from behind. We’ll keep them occupied as you go. Move!!” -
03:57
Two women and three men peeled off to the right, using the Vikings around them to cover their movements as best as they could. It seemed, however, that the move had been seen by the man that stood behind the two ranks of soldiers. Torbjorn could only assume what the words shouted in the foreign language meant as he saw six soldiers peel out of their ranks and move to what he could only figure was an unknown alley. The tall man stepped forward with a low growl as he lifted his axe and pointed it toward the man with the yellow tunic wrapped around him. Standing several inches taller than his men in the Viking shield wall, Torbjorn knew that he would be seen by the other man that he recognized as the commander of this small element of resistance fighters. It wouldn’t be long before more Vikings arrived that could let them just outnumber and overpower this defensive formation, but Torbjorn’s pride would not let him rely on backup. Stepping through the lines of his forces with a loud roar to shake the confidence of the men across from him, he was rewarded with seeing a couple of the ones directly across from him stepping back slightly. They were quick to recover as their comrades did not move, but that was sign enough to Torbjorn that it was time to strike. Sprinting forward and swinging his axe in a wide sweeping motion, he watched as two of the soldiers stepped back to avoid the strike before one raised his shield to catch the blow. Drawing his axe back and turning it so that the haft would strike the edge of the shield, he made to swing his axe down in a left-handed chop when he felt a blade strike his right flank. It bounced easily off the chainmail hauberk there, but the aggression was enough to show Torbjorn that this fight would be worth his time. Stepping back and squaring his shoulders, he smirked before shouting, “Forward!!” -
03:57
The shield wall advanced forward to protect his flanks, their swords and one-handed axes immediately striking at the Muslims in front of them. Focusing on the soldier that had stepped out of line to strike him, Torbjorn swung his axe in an overhand chop at him. His blade was caught on the man’s shield, but he repeated the swing again to start battering the man’s defenses down. Seeing an opening, he slammed the blade into the shield again before sliding the blade forward and over the rim of the shield. Catching the beard of his axe on the edge of the shield, he pulled back to bring the shield away from the man. The Muslim was quick to swing his sword at Torbjorn’s chest, but the Viking was quicker and slammed his axe forward. The top of his blade dug into the mail on the man’s chest and pushed him backward. Following the blow by stepping closer, Torbjorn turned the axe in his grip slightly so that he could slash the blade over the man’s exposed throat. A jet of hot blood sprayed over him as the man stumbled back, clutching at his throat, and Torbjorn allowed the geyser to fuel him forward. Stepping forward and placing his booted foot on the man’s groin, he pressed down as he felt a slight resistance give way into nothingness. The man’s gargled scream was silenced by a quick chop of Torbjorn’s axe into his chest, cleaving through the mail and killing him instantly. The blade of his axe got caught in the mail as he went to wrench it free from the man, but Torbjorn was quick to react. Dropping his hands to his belt, he drew his sword with his right hand while his left pulled his one-handed axe out. Blocking a swing from one of the curved swords with the haft of his axe, Torbjorn thrust his sword forward toward the man to pierce his throat with the point of his blade. -
03:57
The thrust was blocked by his shield, but Torbjorn did not slow down and instead struck forward with his axe. Catching the rim of the shield and pulling it down as he had with the other man’s, he slashed his sword across the man’s chest. The mail held up well, only letting a few links burst under the force of the blow. Growling as the man moved to bring his shield back up again, Torbjorn stabbed forward again, driving the tip of his sword through the mail on the man’s chest. He felt the blade sink into his chest and smirked as the man’s face turned from a confident smirk to a fearful grimace. Torbjorn stepped back to let more of his warriors fill the gap that he had caused. His eyes looked over the line of the Muslims, and he noticed the man in the yellow tunic stepping back from where his curved blade had just struck down three of his warriors. Growling as he looked down and saw the haft of his two-handed axe nearby, Torbjorn sheathed his sword and put his axe away before taking hold of his larger weapon with both hands. Wrenching it free and hearing the corpse’s chest crack under the force, Torbjorn released a rage-filled bellow before turning his gaze towards the yellow tunic again. To his disappointment, the man had disappeared. Scanning quickly, he saw the man and a few other soldiers scrambling over the wall that they stood in front of to defend. It didn’t take much to figure out that there was something valuable beyond that wall, and Torbjorn wanted to take it for himself. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Qadir El-Hashem BOT 28-May-23 04:22 AM
Qadir knew he should have scolded his eldest daughter for not being with Dana and Indira when the guards had evacuated his family. But now was not the time for parenting or stern debates. Later, when they were safe, he would address these liberties the girl thought she was taking in secret. Little passed his attention in their household, and she better be aware of it. But right at this moment, all he cared about was getting her away from the fighting. The slow, steady thrum in his chest stuttered and leapt as his daughter dashed forward upon his instruction, straight into the gardens, into danger, potential death. Qadir was close behind, his movements measured and focused while his mind slowed into a hyperactive state where he perceived everything all at once. It was a familiar state of mind, one that allowed him to more efficiently plan and react to incoming danger. It was a state of mind honed to perfection through years of training, though he had admittedly not needed to keep it sharp for a long time. Dark – almost black eyes darted away from Zaira’s slender form for no more than a second, his saif firmly in his hand as he ducked an incoming blow and swung into a backwards arc while gaining momentum on the return to swipe upwards across the large brute’s neckline. The cut was just deep enough to cause a significant slash. Under normal circumstances, Qadir would have taken the time to observe as the brute staggered forward, lowering his axe as one hand came up to clutch the wound in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. His saif was sharp, incredibly sharp. The man would bleed out and die.
04:22
Qadir moved on and away from the brute, a sneer on his face in contemptuous concentration. Zaira was still running, but too slow, likely frightened by all the commotion and movements around her. His guards were fighting the barbarians that had followed them over the walls. They would, hopefully, keep them occupied while he got his daughter to safety where his wife and other children were already being held. Seeing that another brute came at them from the side, unarmed yet with clear intent to grab the woman, Qadir’s pupils narrowed, and he leapt. Efficiently lodging himself between the brute and his eldest daughter, he exhaled and softened his own limbs to absorb the impact that would surely have knocked the very senses out of the smaller female. The man was of a stocky, heavy frame and he was glad that his lungs were already emptied of air. No sound came from him when the two men tumbled to the ground. Rolling with the momentum instead of fighting it, Qadir adjusted his grip on his blade just enough so it rested along the outside of his lower arm. The long sash around his waist got entangled in the scuffle, and when the two men came to a stop Qadir was on top, but the loose end of his sash was trapped underneath the brute. He moved to push his lower arm underneath the brute’s chin, watching for a second as the saif dug hard into the exposed tissue underneath. “Father!” Zaira’s voice was sharp with panic and Qadir quickly stood to back off and away from the brute, pulling his sash free from the man’s dying weight.
04:22
“Keep going!” he bellowed, though the girl had stopped and was staring wide-eyed at him. A cold hand snaked around his heart, squeezing it tight. No! He could not allow that fear to take over, no matter how much the jade green colors of the frightened gaze upon him was a painful reminder of a love long lost. Instead, he frowned and grabbed her, pushing her forward again so she would continue to move. “I said DO NOT LOOK! Go!” But it was too late and she had already seen, seen what he had hoped to protect all his children from. That detached stoicism returned to her eyes, her limbs stiff and unable to move as he intended when he pushed. She stumbled and only by the hard grip still around her arm did not fall. Qadir straightened her quickly and took the lead while practically dragging her with him. Not enough time. The measured steps in his jog were balanced and rigid, ready for incoming attacks at any given moment. The tension had increased, yet he remained fluid in his movements and managed to pull the girl to an abrupt stop when another brute suddenly blocked the path to freedom. Qadir quickly tucked Zaira behind his back and held his sword out, leveling both his blade and a darkened gaze at the brute. “Move.”
04:23
A simple command, but one he was sure the man in front of him did not understand. The brute, a barbarian, stood there with a sneering grin on his face while his knuckles whitened around the haft of his axe. Qadir’s gaze flicked to the reach of said axe and very gently eased both himself and Zaira outside of it. “I said, move,” he repeated, slower, giving the brute a pointed stare to see if he understood at all. The man was tall, dark haired, smeared with blood that looked like it had been painted on his skin in intricate patterns. It made the blue coldness in his eyes more prominent, bright and crazed. Qadir acknowledged the danger he posed, that a barbarian unafraid of death was three times as deadly than a man who had much to live for still. A man such as himself. “You need not die here,” he murmured despite knowing that even if the man understood, he was unlikely to care. Still holding the brute at the sharp end of his saif, he very gently and gradually eased away and around him, shielding Zaira behind his back to hide her from view. Finally, the brute said something, spoken through clenched teeth and a chuckle. A chuckle that revealed an unnervingly toothy grin with far too many teeth. The words that came from him were foreign, even if his tone had a rhythm to it not all different from Qadir’s own language. He recognized the rolling r’s, the sharp pause, the fluid continuation. But none of it made sense. What did make sense, however, was the way the man raised his axe and shifted slightly, one foot taking lead ahead of the other. Qadir’s movements were equally subtle, yet it did not go unnoticed by the brute. He flexed, small twists in the exposed flesh of his arms were Qadir’s only cue. He quickly pushed Zaira away from himself and raised his blade to block and deflect the incoming swing of the man’s axe.
04:23
It was a sideways swing that had not gained much momentum, to which Qadir was glad, for it allowed him to redirect the blow with a simple swing of his own blade, downward and away from himself. Following through with the movement, he let his blade continue down and then into an overhead swing, coming sharply back with enough momentum to break the brute’s guard and lodge the blade into his shoulder. Qadir was sure the blade would have severed many muscles and perhaps even the man’s collarbone, yet the man shook it off and forced Qadir into a quick retreat so he would remain out of range of his axe. Blood pooled down the man’s arm, sleek and warm. Within the next few seconds, the man’s attacks were more timed, and Qadir used his own leverage of speed to slash little wounds here and there, always dodging the heavy blows from his axe but also keeping himself between his daughter and the immediate threat. His vision tunneled while he focused on the man, shutting out the sound of Zaira’s cries. The man was bleeding from many superficial wounds, and Qadir took note when he saw that it was having the intended effect. His hands were soon coated in blood, and it made the man’s grip on the handle of his axe less firm, slick, prone to lose control over the weapon. The next swing came in fast and hard from the side again, but this time Qadir allowed himself to muster a jarring block that rattled his teeth. His saif slid along the axe handle until he had wedged the blade behind the head of the axe. And then he yanked on it hard.
04:23
The brute’s hands lost strength with the natural lubricant of his own blood. The axe was promptly ripped from his grip and landed many feet away from them both. Using the time it took the brute to register the location of his axe, Qadir was already coming back with a swing attack that wedged the sharp blade deep into the side of the man’s chest. He would die slowly, Qadir knew as much when he retreated from the incapacitated man and collected Zaira. His eldest daughter was crying, shaking, close to hysterical. She clung to him as he grabbed her. Seeing that his guards had managed to get the upper hand on the remaining barbarian, he took note that this could be the only opportunity they had to get out of there. Qadir dragged his daughter along to the far end of the green bushes and urged her to climb over the bricked wall that surrounded their property.
04:23
@tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 31-May-23 10:09 PM
The idea of his prize getting away from him was sickening, and that was the title Torbjorn had assigned to the man in yellow and whatever he was trying to protect. The man held considerable talent from the little bit of fighting that the Viking had seen, and he obviously held a rank that allowed him to rally such a defense. Growling at the last of the soldiers that had accompanied the man but remained on this side of the wall, Torbjorn glanced around to get a good measure of what was before him. The Muslims had fifteen soldiers to his surviving two dozen, so the fight was all but won. Especially if they were careful and only attacked when safe opportunities presented themselves. However, such a slow attack would give the man in yellow time to get away with Torbjorn’s prize. Gripping his axe with both hands, he bared his teeth in a vicious snarl while looking at the Muslim man in front of him that cowered behind his shield. Raising his axe above his head with the end of the haft directed at the man, Torbjorn lunged forward and slammed the base of the haft into the man’s shield. The man stepped back under the force of the strike while raising the shield to protect himself from the overhead strike that he assumed was incoming. Smirking as his plan worked, Torbjorn lowered the axe just enough to slam the end of the haft into the edge of the man’s shield. Knocking it high and causing the man’s arm to lift higher than he expected, the Viking slammed the end of his axe handle forward in a nose-crushing blow. The Muslim man stumbled back reflexively, bringing his right hand to his face. Using the moment of distraction, Torbjorn swung the axe down quickly in an overhead cleave. The blade blew through the chain mail on the man’s shoulder and carved deep past his collarbone. Kicking the man in the chest as his last breaths left him, Torbjorn snatched the blade free and swung it in a wide sweep toward the Muslim on his left. -
22:10
Catching him in the lower back, the blade failed to penetrate the layers of chain mail and padded armor there, but the force of the blow was still sufficient to cause grievous damage. The Muslim’s legs gave out from under him as his spine was broken, and Torbjorn brought his axe up and down in a quick chop that cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders. Snarling as he used the momentum to continue to his right, Torbjorn saw the Muslim on his right blocking a blow from one of his Vikings while stealing a glance towards him. Smirking as he saw the man preparing to swing his mace, he jabbed the end of his haft forward and caught the man in the ribs directly under his arm. Feeling a cracking sensation where he struck, Torbjorn stepped forward and to the left while reaching out with his left hand. He took hold of the shaft of the man’s mace and snatched it from his hand with a sudden jerk. Turning the weapon in his hand quickly, Torbjorn slammed it into the side of the man’s head with a satisfying crunch under his helmet. Dropping the mace and growling while standing in the gap in the lines that he had created, Torbjorn pointed to the wall and shouted, “Up and over!! Your glory awaits you!!” He watched as eight Vikings surged forward immediately, the others working to take out the last of the Muslims. He waited and helped boost any up and over who could not make it under their power while ensuring that none of the Muslims broke loose and tried to attack their flanks. Once confident that they were all over, he waited a moment to see if any others would join before stepping back from the wall. Holding his axe in his right hand, he sprinted towards the wall and jumped so that his left foot planted into the middle of it. Finding purchase while his hands grabbed the top of the wall, Torbjorn vaulted himself up and over the wall so that he landed in a flowerbed. -
22:10
Crushing several plants under his boots, he looked up to see a few Vikings chasing after the man in yellow and another figure with him. Snarling and stepping towards them, he was blocked by five of the soldiers that had accompanied the man over the wall. Growling and looking at two of the Vikings that had come over with him, he directed them to give chase after the man in yellow. He would handle these soldiers and soon catch up with them. The other Vikings had been struck down or pulled back towards the wall to nurse wounds inflicted by jumping over the wall and being caught off guard. Torbjorn narrowed his eyes at them, partially blaming himself for sending them over the wall without knowing if it would be safe for them. However, that route of blaming himself stopped when he remembered one vital thing: these were mainly battle-hardened warriors that should have known better than to attack carelessly once over the wall. Rolling the haft of his axe in his grip so that the blade twirled around, Torbjorn looked at the five Muslims standing in front of him. Two had curved swords with no shield, one had a spear and no shield, and two had maces with shields. Narrowing his eyes as he switched his grip on his axe a couple of times to orient the blade to the left-hand side or right, he stopped with his right hand choked up on the blade while his left hand extended down the haft to control it like a spear. Seeing the spearman approach while the others took up positions on his flank, Torbjorn nodded and lunged forward while thrusting the base of his shaft forward. Knocking it against the spear shaft, he stepped to the left and brought the top of his axe forward in a thrust against the man to his right. The man moved to block the blow with his sword, giving Torbjorn the deflecting momentum to swing his axe handle forward again. -
22:10
He struck the spearman in the face with the base of his axe handle before stepping back and bringing the weapon down in a proper overhead blow. Stepping back had gotten him out of range of the other four, and his blow landed with a devastating effect. The spearman’s helmet was cleaved in two, and he fell to his knees before the others had even realized their compatriot was dead. Torbjorn pulled the axe free and swung in a downward chop from the left onto the swordsman to his right. The man’s reactions were too late, so the Viking’s axe broke through his block with no effort before his blade sunk deep into the man’s shoulder next to his neck. Pulling the axe free as the man fell backward, Torbjorn brought his axe sideways to catch a sword strike on the haft. The two mace wielders behind him were reacting quickly, and before Torbjorn could turn to block, one of their maces struck him in the right shoulder. Grunting under the weight of the impact, Torbjorn snarled and wheeled around quickly with his axe in a left-handed strike. The mace wielder blocked it with his shield, but the axe blade bit in deep and became wedged in the wood. Torbjorn released the axe, allowing its weight to pull down on the man’s arm and open up his defense. Reaching forward with both hands, he grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him up into the air while squeezing his throat. The man tried to swing his mace at his head to stop him, but the Viking squeezed and ripped his hands to the sides, tearing the man’s throat in half before he fell to the ground headless. Growling and snarling at the mace wielder now facing him, Torbjorn sprinted forward and lowered his shoulder as he got closer. The mace swung at him and glanced off his helmet as he closed the distance, but Torbjorn’s arms still wrapped around the man with his shield crushed against his chest. -
22:11
Picking the man up with a snarl, Torbjorn could hear the man muttering a prayer to Allah as his canines started to extend. The scent of blood and fear were starting to get to him, but Torbjorn knew he needed to keep a handle on his fury. Growling and throwing the man to the ground, Torbjorn reached down and grabbed either side of his helmeted head. Turning his head fiercely to shatter his neck, Torbjorn stood and saw the last swordsman standing before him, albeit with a distinct wet stain running down the front of his pants. Walking over to the shield that bore his axe, he put his foot on the shield while gripping the axe handle and snatching it free. The Muslim shook where he stood, and Torbjorn stood with his axe in his right hand with the end planted against the ground. He watched as the man slowly shook his head before seemingly gathering himself as he tightened his grip on his sword and nodded. Smirking and shaking his head, Torbjorn kicked the end of his handle forward as he lifted his axe, letting it swing into his left hand as he charged forward. Blocking the man’s swing with the shaft of his axe, he slammed his handle forward to strike him in the chest with the end. As the man stumbled back, Torbjorn swung the axe around and buried the blade deep within the side of his neck. The only thing that saved the man from being decapitated was the thin veil of chainmail that fell from the side of his helmet. Watching the Muslim fall to the ground, Torbjorn nodded and turned toward the direction that the man in yellow and his prize had run off to. Growling as he heard the other Vikings climbing over the wall, he pointed at the wounded few and spoke quickly before taking off after the man in yellow, “Take care of the wounded and loot the house. This home will have many riches.” @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 01-Jun-23 05:54 AM
Zaira climbed the wall with the boosted support of her father, her delicate sandals slipping slightly against the smooth surface of the bricks when she tried to use it for leverage. She grasped the upper edge with stiff and cold fingers. Her pulse had risen to a frantic level, heartbeats hard and fast in her chest as the adrenaline surged through her and threatened to steal her strength away. Qadir was urging her to climb faster, pushing from below with his unarmed hand on her back. Glancing down on him, she could see he turned every few seconds to swipe the gardens with his gaze, making sure no one would come to interrupt their escape. Using as much strength as her panicked state would allow, the muscles in her arms screamed when she hoisted herself up onto the thick wall, panting while trying to swing one leg on top and over it. She couldn’t even manage to sit upright, clutching the wall between her thighs and arms, shaking with strain to keep a hysterical panic at bay. Her jade green eyes looked down upon the streets on the other side, seeing the remains of the bloody battle between barbarians and many guards. Several guards wore the armor and colors of the El-Hashem household, now stained with the unworthy deaths they had faced there. Tears inadvertently stung her eyes, and she blinked them free. Even if she had not known the men personally, the sight was upsetting and difficult to take in. The various states of mangled and crushed the bodies were in brought nausea and renewed fear into her chest.
05:54
“Father?” she asked, her voice much thinner and more vulnerable than it had been before. But no reply came, and she gazed down into the gardens, only to see that her father had been cornered by two new barbarians. One of them was already swinging a powerful axe. Her heart leapt again, her arms and legs frantically searching for purchase against the wall in an attempt to… do what? Jump back down? Roll away? Help? Flee? She wasn’t sure, and the weight of how useless she was and nothing but a burden to her father in that moment came crushing down on her. “Zaira!” Qadir’s voice whipped through the air, his tone far more urgent and commanding than before. He dodged the axe and glanced up at her, and this time she caught that strange expression again. The one she had seen earlier but been unable to discern. This time, she understood it. Fear. That one, short second where his attention was on her and not his attackers was enough to topple the standoff in the barbarians’ favor. Zaira screamed, scrambled to move, only to lose what precious balance she had gained on top of the wall. Falling into a roll, she ungraciously met the ground on the opposite side of the wall, landing in a heap that was softened only by the dead bodies lying there. A hollow whimper left her as the air was forced from her lungs on impact, momentarily incapacitated by pain. Behind her on the other side of the wall, she heard the clashes of steel and the grunts and snarls of fighting.
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Qadir El-Hashem BOT 01-Jun-23 05:55 AM
Pain surged through his ribs, breath fleeting and short while he staggered to compose himself in the jarring aftershock of the impact. Qadir had only been able to twist away from the sharp edge of the axe, but not enough to prevent the weight of the haft from colliding with the side of his body. He’d been forced to step closer in his evasive maneuver, closer to the man wielding the axe. He grabbed its haft with one hand while the barbarian tried to simply sweep him off his feet, following through with the motions with as little resistance as possible. Seeing that his attempts had failed, the barbarian pulled his axe sharply back, and Qadir was again forced to evade the sharp edge as it was this time coming from behind him. With little range of movement, he simply ducked. Though ‘ducked’ was perhaps a kind way to say that he just simply fell. Fell onto his back where he rolled once and came to a halt, kneeling when he found stability beneath him and quickly slashed his saif into a sweep towards the barbarian’s feet. It cut deep into the man’s calves, slicing through layers of tanned leathers. He saw blood. It gave him enough time to perceive the other barbarian’s overhead chop coming from above, forcing him into another evasive roll. Qadir’s heartbeats were still steady, his movements still precise even if a little more frantic. This was no spar with honorable warriors, and as such they deserved no honorable death.
05:55
Qadir had been able to glimpse that Zaira had fallen from the wall. Though he was glad to have her away from this fight, the unwelcome ideas of what could be facing her on the other side gave him the strength he needed to finally stand and take a quick measurement of the distance between himself and the wall, and then the distance to the barbarians and how fast they could try to intercept him. He flipped the blood off his blade with a flick of his wrist, attentively watching the brute’s movements as they tried to corner him again. Qadi’s muscles primed themselves to fight, hidden strength ripping through them and pushing all pain and concerns away. Then he saw three more come rushing from the gardens, aiming for him. The resolution to fight them off left him and he turned, favoring both his own safety and the safety of his child. In three quick long steps he leapt and grabbed the top of the wall long enough to use it as leverage to continue the momentum. Then he swung himself over and landed next to his daughter on the ground. Her scarf had fallen into disarray around her head, she was crying, huddled against the wall away from the dead bodies. There was no time to consolidate her. With one hand he pulled her to her feet and pushed her into a run ahead of himself, looking back up at the wall to see if the brutes would follow. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 02-Jun-23 12:08 AM
Torbjorn and two other Vikings were moving to support the two attacking the man in yellow, but as they got closer, he knew what he wanted to be done. Reaching out as the man clambered over the wall, he gripped the wounded warrior by the shoulder and looked down at the slice in his ankle. Shaking his head and sucking on his cheek to make a clicking sound, he gestured towards the home where the others were beginning to loot. Seeing the man glance towards the wall that the two had escaped over, Torbjorn lifted his hand and patted the man on the side of his helmet before speaking in a firm tone, “Set up a medical aid station in the garden here and gather any that have fallen or are wounded. We are still on the offensive, but we can take time to care for our wounded. Don’t worry. They won’t get away from me.” Turning to the others and nodding to indicate that they should heed his words, Torbjorn exhaled slowly before stepping towards the wall that the man in yellow and the other had disappeared over. He reached up and pulled himself up so that he could glance over the side and ensure there was no trap or more soldiers waiting for him. Seeing nothing but a pile of dead bodies, both Muslims and Vikings alike, Torbjorn lifted his gaze and growled when he saw the man and what looked like a woman running down an alley away from the house. He noted the man looking back and smirked when he made fleeting eye contact with the man. Run from me, please, little Muslim. But don’t wear yourself out too much; I want to enjoy our fight, Torbjorn thought to himself as he hoisted his weight up and over the wall. Landing on a couple of torsos and using them as a cushion, he pushed off and took off at a measured jog after the fleeing soldier. He was fairly taller than the man, and seeing how the two of them were running, he knew he would catch up without exhausting too much energy. -
00:09
However, as he gained on them, he lowered his shoulders and sprinted. He had no intentions of letting them get away from him, and too many turns in a city where he was at a disadvantage would cause just that. Snarling as he closed in, he narrowed his eyes and noted how the man moved in such a way as to protect the woman that was with him. He could not tell her age from this distance, but it was clear that she meant something to the man in yellow. Wife, sister, or daughter, it did not matter. He would take her from him, and with any luck, the man in yellow would see it all before he bled out and died. Closing the distance and slowing his pace so that he did not blunder into a strike from the man, Torbjorn brought his axe up over his right shoulder with his hand choked up on the axe blade. His left hand controlled the shaft again, and he held it out to be prepared to block or parry any strikes. He might have been bigger and used a similar weapon to his brutish brethren, but he would not make the same mistakes. Speed was the name of the game with the curved sword in the Muslim’s hand, so Torbjorn was not going to be caught unawares. Smirking, he lunged forward with a jab from the butt of the shaft toward the man’s chest. Before it could land, however, he would pull back and step back with his lunging foot while swinging the axe blade down in a fast slash from his right shoulder. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Qadir El-Hashem BOT 02-Jun-23 02:56 AM
Zarira was panting, stumbling ahead of him as he led her into the narrower streets of Ishbiliya. He had caught the gaze of one of the barbarians in pursuit, having seen the massive man jut out above the rest of his warriors earlier. Qadir fought the tremble in his breaths as he pushed his daughter to run faster, guiding her into sharp turns left and right to try and lose the man. But her legs gave in, panicked and frightened beyond measure, she just couldn't keep going. He abruptly stopped when he heard the heavy footsteps close in on them from behind, pushing the girl ahead and away from him before turning to face the man - sword ready. He could tell this would be a hard won fight. But the narrow streets also gave the larger man less maneuverability with his axe, preventing wide sweeps and swings from the weapon. Small blessings that just as quickly could turn into a death trap is he wasn't mindful of its range. He backtracked away from the feigned attack to his chest, narrowly dodging it before the shadow of the axe head's overhead chop eclipsed the sun. Time felt like it slowed to a crawl, and with no space to move left or right to circle the man, Qadir did the only thing he could think of and quickly stepped in with his leading foot, sword jutting upwards in a sharp stab aimed at the man's armpit. His free arm raised to grab and redirect the haft of the axe, to steer it slightly away from his body but not aiming to slow its descent. If successful, the brute would impale himself on Qadir's saif. He met the man's gaze for a second, and sharp and stabbing tricke of desperation ran down his back upon seeing the untamed and feral bloodlust within them. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 02-Jun-23 05:01 AM
Torbjorn allowed his eyes to glance beyond the warrior in front of him and to his prey that stumbled before turning to look at them. Something about her jade green eyes and the wide terror they held pulled at his hunger, and Torbjorn knew he would be taking her for himself. He would be collecting riches in gold and materials in this raid, but with her before him, he knew he would have to have her. The only thing standing in his way was this man in his yellow tunic. He had recognized the man’s skill and abilities, so he knew this was no simple soldier that he crossed blades with. He was a warrior amongst his people, and Torbjorn smiled with that knowledge. Killing a soldier was a task, almost a chore. Crossing blades with a warrior and fighting them was a true joy, and Torbjorn intended to get the most out of this. He had expected the man to step back from his feint, giving him room to swing his axe down in a devastating blow. However, to his joy, the man had stepped in to make a fight of it. Feeling the blow redirected, Torbjorn released his hold of it with his right hand and let the axe swing wide from its original course. This action, however, gave him the freedom to reach down with his right hand and take hold of the blade of the saif that was being stabbed toward his armpit. The chainmail caught the tip well before bending slightly, but the steel made no progress in cutting through his gambeson or flesh beneath. Turning the blade to try to wrench it free from the man’s grip, Torbjorn loosened his left hand’s hold on the axe handle to let it slip through his hand slightly. Choking up on the axe blade so that it rested just above where he gripped it, he brought it forward in a jab towards the Muslim’s face. He could smell and taste the fear in the air, and with a smile, he tried to slam the flat of the top of the axe forward to knock the man back rather than outright killing him. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Qadir El-Hashem BOT 02-Jun-23 05:24 AM
The trickle of desperation Qadir had felt before intensified to a roaring defiance when he caught the man’s eyes glimpse towards his daughter. He knew that look, knew the sinister glint in his eyes; the look of a man who had no good intentions. He jerked on his saif hard, aiming to slice into the man’s hand that was so boldly gripping the blade. Perhaps this brute had not understood the razor sharpness to the blade, something he would surely become familiar with as the blade did indeed slip outwards from his grasp when Qadir pulled it free. Unfortunately, despite trying to pull himself free of the man’s lumbering frame, as soon as he had released his grip on the axe handle, Qadir was unable to deflect or duck the blow to his face and took it squarely, clenching his jaw to power through the pain. It did not matter. What mattered was to stay firmly rooted between this barbarian and his daughter. He dug his heels into the stoned ground beneath and refused to budge, despite his frame being of smaller composition than his opponent and as such of weaker muscle. He swung his sword, again using the man’s towering height to his advantage and came in from below and beneath the man’s general area of defense, aiming for the muscles in his thighs. If he couldn’t land a killing blow, he would at last make sure the man was slowed down enough to allow Zaira escape. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 02-Jun-23 04:21 PM
Torbjorn glanced down at the blade being pulled from his hand and smirked when he felt the edge of the blade glide over his flesh. He could feel the steel trying to find the purchase it needed to slice him open and leave his hand a bloody mess, but it found no success. Grinning and flexing his hand as the axe blade hit the man squarely in the jaw, he pressed forward with his attack. He should have been more careful; he never knew when an enemy might have heard of his kind and armed themselves with a magical weapon that was fitted to harm him. However, this was not the time to contemplate what he should have done. The blow at his legs was completely ignored, as Torbjorn knew now that there was no point in blocking something that would do him no harm. The worst it could do was slice a hole in his chainmail, but as the blade skipped over the rivetted rings, no hole would be made. Stepping forward and throwing his right hand forward in a fierce punch, Torbjorn aimed to land the blow on the man’s nose. It was not a fatal wound in any way, but Torbjorn was not looking to kill the man in front of him just yet. His prize was clearly in view, and there was something of a connection between the man in yellow and the jade-eyed beauty. Whatever connection there was, Torbjorn planned to shatter it with the reality that this man could not protect her anymore. Whether or not the punch landed, the Viking would quickly follow it up with a punch from his left hand. However, this punch bore the weight and blade of his axe. Aimed at his chest just in from the man’s shoulder, the blow would be crippling to keep the man from being able to use his sword with his right hand. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Qadir El-Hashem BOT 02-Jun-23 05:44 PM
When Qadir had finished what he thought to be a slice into the large barbarian’s thigh, he quickly and with the expertise of someone who has been in many brawls and never spoken about it sidestepped the punch aimed at his face. Dragging his saif along the front of the man’s body in a long and gutting movement that ended at his jaw, he twirled it backwards in his hands once to reposition it behind himself for more leverage and another attack. It was then - at the corner of his eye - the steel glinted with the reflection of the sun. He saw, and with a frightening realization fixated his eyes back onto the brute, dark gaze flitting across the man’s frame so quickly it went by as a mere afterthought. His saif had been coated in many barbarians’ blood this day, but it all had dried up by the time he went toe to toe with this man. And there was no fresh blood on his blade now. He moved his targeted shoulder backwards out of mere reflexive instinct, not even aware he was doing it. But the second heavy punch hit him on the outer side of his shoulder none the less. It did not hurt, even it if was enough to send him skittering backwards many steps from the man before he could compose his balance and regain himself. Having inadvertently gained distance from the brute, again his gaze flitted from top to bottom of his lumbering form, and he paled beneath the turban on his head. Measured steps pulled him into a more calculated retreat, leading foot following the other slowly while his mind reeled to try and find reason and comprehend the situation. Sure, the brute was clad in chainmail, but his hands were not. Unbloodied hand that flexed their fingers into a tight grip on the haft of his axe. The soft space between the chainmail collarbone and the man’s chin – basically the front of his throat – should be sliced and bleeding yet it was not. Swallowing, Qadir frowned at the unnatural reality of whatever demon he now was facing.
17:44
“RUN, Zaira,” he ordered with a sharp and bellowing voice, not once looking away from the barbarian. He remained rooted there in the narrow alleyway between this man and his daughter, shifting and realigning his priorities to stay alive for long enough for the girl to flee. He heard her cry out hoarsely in a blubbering nonsense reply. His frown deepened and he met the large brute’s gaze. “¿You shall not touch her¿ (Arabic). Then he lunged, stepping forward with his leading foot and swinging the saif from left and right in speedy and slashing attacks towards the brute’s face, shoulders, hands, arms, and stomach. If nothing phased the man, then perhaps it would at least keep him busy. @tiefighter96
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 03-Jun-23 03:20 AM
Zaira had stood there dumbfounded and entirely useless while her father fought the large man who had pursued them. The fight had been quick, yet something about it felt… prolonged. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what made her feel that way. Perhaps the look in the brute’s eyes the short second she had met his gaze? Perhaps the fact that he was grinning as her father sliced into him? Zaira had not seen what her father had seen, not noticed the lack of wounds on the man. A cold, terrible hand snaked into her chest and grasped inside her heart when Qadir bellowed his order for her to run. She… couldn’t. Leave him? No! But what else was there to do? The sharp tone of rage and panic in his voice was different, new to her, another reminder that her father was known for his unpredictable mood swings. But this… sounded like a reflection of the fear she had gauged in his eyes earlier. And that fear now came back to her in a crashing wave that had her recoil and stumble backwards from the men, yet still unable to heed the order and will her legs to move. “Father, no! Please!” She cried, stuttered something nonsense, unable to breathe with how tightly her chest seemed to be constricted by this numbing fear. Perhaps it was instinct, then, that even if she couldn’t turn away and run, she kept backing away slowly with fumbling footsteps. (edited)
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 12-Jun-23 04:17 PM
Torbjorn’s eyes flitted between the man in the yellow tunic and the woman behind him. He enjoyed seeing the fear in the man’s expression and a similar yet greater fear across the woman’s face. However, he was not so foolish to think the man was defeated. There was a new reserve of fury in the Arabic man in front of him, and, immune to steel or not, Torbjorn refused to let this man get the upper hand on him. He used the haft of his axe to block the flurry of blows from the man while stepping back slowly. Torbjorn needed to regain control of the situation, and he saw his opening incoming. Stepping forward quickly and kicking forward at the man with his right foot, he caught him in the thigh and caused the man to stumble back before preparing another flurry of attacks. Torbjorn used the temporary opening to lift his axe and slam the base of the shaft forward toward the man. Catching himself before he fully committed to the attack, the Viking watched as the other man brought his sword up to block and redirect the strike. He took no time to smirk or gloat over his successful feint. Slamming the shaft forward and crashing through the Arab’s weapon as he had begun dropping his hand to swing at him, Torbjorn felt his weapon crash forward to plant firmly against the man’s forehead. Seeing the man in yellow stumble back, Torbjorn followed it up with a swift slash of his axe across the man’s chest. There wasn’t much power behind the blow as he had focused on the speed, so it failed to cleave through the man’s chainmail under his tunic. It had the desired effect, though. Knocking the saif down and out of the way, Torbjorn continued forward and dropped his shoulder down to slam it into the man’s chest. Releasing his hold on his axe with his right hand, he wrapped his arm around the Arabic man’s waist before lifting him off the ground. -
16:17
Turning and slamming the man’s back against the wall of the alleyway, Torbjorn dropped him and brought his right hand to the back of the Arab’s head. Bringing his right knee up in a fierce strike to the man’s face, he grunted as the man’s arms moved up to block him. Looking down as the man struck out at his groin with his left fist, Torbjorn let out a low groan as he stumbled to the side and dropped his right hand to cover his sensitive areas. Holding his axe out with his left hand as a warding measure to keep the Arabic man back, he watched as the other shuffled up to his feet and moved to retrieve his sword from where it had been knocked from his hand. Growling in a rage and opening his mouth, Torbjorn allowed his sharpened canines to be on pure display as he surged forward to step on the blade of the curved sword. Holding it down, he swung the axe in a sweeping strike, catching the man in yellow’s left hand. Feeling the satisfying sensation of the blade cleaving through flesh and bone before coming free, Torbjorn was rewarded with a short shout of surprise and the rush of the coppery scent of fresh blood. The look on the man’s face made it clear that he had not expected Torbjorn to react and move with such speed, but there wasn’t much time for Torbjorn to revel in the victory. A dagger was drawn with the man’s remaining hand before he lunged forward at the Viking’s knees. Grunting and falling backward as he felt the steel bare into the side of his left ankle before his leg was lifted, Torbjorn dropped his hands back to try and catch himself on the sides of the alley and, eventually, the stone floor. Narrowing his eyes as he kicked at the man to try and get him off, Torbjorn growled as the Arab man continued to scramble back up to weigh down his legs and keep him on the ground. Shouts in their foreign language were delivered by the man as he glanced back at the woman, and Torbjorn could only guess that they were instructions to flee. -
16:18
Shaking his head, he kicked down one final time with his right leg toward the man’s face, and to his satisfaction, he heard a soft grunt and a satisfying cracking sound. Seeing the man slump backward as his nose erupted with blood, Torbjorn pushed away and brought his axe forward while sitting up. There wasn’t much force behind the blow due to his seated position, but the weight of the axe, in combination with his strength, gave it the needed power. The blade sunk deep into the man’s back, just below his left shoulder, cleaving through the shoulder blade. A short grunt of surprise came from the man as Torbjorn pushed himself to his feet and wrenched his blade free. Stepping forward as the man’s right hand held tight to the dagger, he shook his head as the man continued to try to swing the weapon at him despite the bloody bubbles flowing from his lips. Torbjorn reached down and grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand before pushing his hand down to the ground. He did not strike his hand against the ground with enough force to disarm him, as he did not know the man’s customs, and he had proven himself enough of a warrior to deserve such a death. Standing over the man while moving his left foot forward to brace it on the man’s wrist and keep his hand down, Torbjorn spoke in a low voice, “You fought well, but now you die. She will be mine, for you have failed.” Bringing his axe up and down swiftly, he cleaved the man’s head off with one chop. Watching it roll away from his shoulders as his body went limp, Torbjorn turned his gaze to where the jade-eyed beauty had been. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 25-Jun-23 04:29 PM
Zaira watched in stunned, choking silence while the barbarian advanced on her father. Her bones froze with a chilling terror when she saw his guard break, saw the brute swing his axe. Suddenly the other sounds from the city faded into the background only to be replaced by the sights and sounds in front of her tenfold. Her heartbeats thundered in her chest, each blow to her father painful and hard as if the blows were hers to take and not his. Shuddering and continuously backing away from it all, her right hand fumbled the building wall beside her for support. Warm, hard, gravel and slight sandy stone offered the support she needed. Meanwhile she still watched, jade green eyes wide with horror and dark with the looming realization that this was not a fight her father could win. She should run. A rational twist in her muscles tried to command her limbs into action. Yet the will for self-preservation was not quite there yet. Qadir couldn't die. He simply could not! He was… her father. A seasoned fighter who had taken part in many conquests in the name of his people. His sense of duty and honor had always been high. Even now, facing certain defeat, he refused to back down. Zaira heard his pained cry, heard the angered refusal, words spoken in a sharp Arabic tongue that ordered the barbarian to "back down and leave". Qadir could have chosen to back away himself - to save himself for the better of his other family, for his people, to live and fight for the sons he so dearly cherished. Yet he did not. Disbelief washed over her, seeing the pillar of strength in her existence crumble, fall, fight back even if toothless and futile. And it was for her.
16:29
She watched while Qadir attempted to collect his sword again after a humiliating disarming measure from the barbarian, but then a sharp cry of pain emitted from him. He repeated his command to Zaira the very same moment that a feral, unnatural and almost beast-like human growl echoed through the narrow alleyway. Looking past the form of her father, she spotted the cause of his alarm. What manner of beast was he? Djin??? Impossible. Zaira scurried backwards far enough that she lost the support to her right hand and crashed into a wall behind her. A T-section in the alley. Blood was already pooling on the stoned pathway below the two scuffling men, but none of it belonged to the intruder. Zaira straightened herself from the wall at her back, blinked, exhaled… Then she gasped as if her heart had stopped. The sound of fleshy thuds filled the air as Qadir's severed head came to a rolling stop. For a breathless second, she couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Could not think. Not until her eyes filled with tears and her gaze lifted, meeting the gaze of the barbarian for a moment too long. A moment long enough to understand he had similar or worse intentions for her. The aforementioned lack of self-preservation suddenly kicked itself into life, roaring through her limbs with the fright of a trapped animal. She swiftly turned on her heel and fled into the crossing narrow alley. No thoughts crossed her mind, no plan, no direction. Only RUN. Run as fast and far as humanly possible away from the murderer behind her. Her small feet took her through the alleys at a surprising speed, familiar enough with them that she didn't need to think about where she was heading. Zaira ran like she'd never run before, expelling all her energy all too soon and feeling her muscles scream in protest. But she did not stop. Sharp turns left and right brought her deeper towards the center of her city, but it wasn't enough. She glanced behind herself to see if the man was in pursuit. <@
16:30
@tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 26-Jun-23 10:45 AM
Lifting his lip in a snarl as he saw the woman turn swiftly to dart into the corridors of the town, Torbjørn turned to follow her but was stopped when he heard a familiar voice behind him. Seeing Audun standing with a spear in his right hand and his shield in his left, Torbjørn glanced back toward the direction the woman had fled before bringing his attention to his fellow Norseman. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, but Torbjørn had been too engrossed in the fight to hear him. Raising his left hand beside his head as if cupping his ear, he waited for the man to repeat himself. “We’ve taken control of the port, and the others are beginning to push into the interior of the city. I was seeing if you were going to join us or what you wanted us to do.” Audun’s response came as the young man looked down at the headless body before his leader. Glancing toward the direction Torbjørn had been looking, Audun tilted his head to the side before smirking, “Chasing a prize, are we?” Chuckling softly and shaking his head, Torbjørn pointed in the direction of the house they had taken, “Keep the wounded there and leave a few to guard them and the spoils. Take our strongest and join the initial attack; I’ll join you with the rest soon.” Audun nodded, bringing his spear across his shield in a brief salute before turning and running back to the garden wall. Not bothering to watch the young man climb the wall, Torbjørn knelt beside the headless body and yanked his yellow tunic off. Stained in blood as it was, it did not carry much economic value, but he knew that the warrior had been worthy of his respect. Such a trophy would show his triumph over the foe. Tucking the fabric into his belt next to his sword’s scabbard, Torbjørn released a low, rolling growl that would travel through the alley and into nearby corridors. He wanted to find and capture the woman who attempted to escape, and playing with her fear would help close the distance. -
10:45
The alleys tightened around him as he chased the woman through them, using his hearing to track her footfalls. It became difficult at times due to the chaos engulfing the entirety of the city, but focusing on the closest sounds allowed him to keep track of her. Straight paths were his forte, with his speed allowing him to cross the distance in the blink of an eye before he took the turns with a meaty hand gripping the wall to aid in turning. He had long since adopted a one-handed grip of his axe, wanting the speed of moving with both hands free as well as recognizing the tight confines of the corridors. The weapon was too large to fight with in the traditional sense, and he knew that this would not be an area that would be easy to take on multiple foes. However, he was not preparing to fight anyone unless the woman he was chasing intended to raise a sword at him and make her near future that much worse. The tight turns of the corridors started to aggravate the man, especially as he recognized how far this was pulling him from the rest of his men. He could likely fight his way free if he was ambushed here, but that was not the case for the men and women that were counting on his leadership. They were all capable. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been brought for this voyage, but that did not mean they needed to be left without him for the remainder of the engagement. Growling deeply as he heard the footsteps of the woman close at hand, Torbjørn threw himself around the corner and narrowed his eyes when the jade-eyed beauty was seen in front of him. Pointing his axe at her with his right hand, he bellowed in an aggressive tone, making no attempt to hide his sharpened canines, “Stop where you are. Make me chasse you further, and I’ll fucking kill you!!” He was aware of the language barrier here, but he knew one language that she would easily understand. It hung from his belt, drenched in the blood of the man that once wore it. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 03-Jul-23 06:26 AM
Had Zaira possessed better fighting skills, more courage, or even the will to stand up against these barbarian invaders and subsequently die protecting her people, she would have stopped her frantic flight. Maneuvering through the narrow alleys, she keenly spotted many locations that would have been good for an ambush. Tight spaces with heavy scaffoldings or even cargo hanging from above could have been fatal for anyone blissfully ignorant in hot pursuit. Yet she had no time to stop, nor did she have any desire to die that day. The echoing sound of her small feet against cobbled alley streets barely covered the sound of her strained breaths and occasional frightful whimper. And faintly yet growing unnervingly closer by every heartbeat passing by, there was the heavier sound of that monster behind her. She dodged and ducked quickly around every corner, sharpening her turns painfully so as not to crash into any opposite walls. The shawl on her head was a disgraceful mess at this point, and when she turned her head again to glance behind her, she quickly adjusted it away from the side of her face for better peripheral vision. And there he was - the sound of his foreign language somehow only accentuated his alien, monstrous appearance. Her eyesight was good - excellent in fact - and she did not miss the sight of sharpened canines at the corners of the man's mouth when he shouted at her. There was a short and frightened pause in her breaths, straining to regain control over herself while their gazes met in a moment that would forever be etched into her mind. She was not all too familiar with wildlife, but the image of a petrified deer staring down at a large carnivorous beast came to mind. Zaira gasped a deep inhale to remind herself to breathe, her chest heaving for air as her jade green eyes dropped to the yellow, blood stained tunic hanging from the man's belt.
06:26
Arabic "¿Leave me alone!" she shouted back at him, eyes darting around his form in an attempt to avoid looking towards the evidence of her father's demise. Eventually they landed at his armed hand and axe, the most obvious and imminent threat at the moment. Zaira wasn't even aware that she had stopped running, staring with wild anticipation at the man and trying to find a manageable escape. Seeing several stacks of crates and barrels resting against the wall to her left, she quickly grabbed them and pulled, toppling the stack and creating a ripple effect where other stacks began to sway threateningly away from their supported position. She jumped back as they fell with loud crashes in the space between herself and the man. It was enough for her, enough to hopefully slow him down, and she didn't stay to watch how he would tolerate the weight of them if they fell on top of him. Instead, Zaira quickly turned and darted off into the nearest pathway as fast as her already exhausted feet would carry her. Survival instinct was a wonderful thing, but fear and adrenaline can and often will cloud a person's perception of speed, time - and direction. This, she soon realized when she saw the path she had taken was one that looped back around towards where she had just been. The alley would take her to emerge behind the barbarian instead of further into the city like she first had planned. Disoriented and much aware that the man was either still behind her or going back to where he had come from, she searched her surroundings for a place to hide to avoid running straight into him. As soon as she saw another stack of crates and barrels, Zaira quickly glanced behind her before she ducked into a small space between the crates, scooting as far back against the wall as she could get. There, in the shadow and semi-hidden, she curled up and made herself as small as possible, daring only to breathe in small gulps of air. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 04-Jul-23 02:32 AM
Seeing the Arabic woman stopping in her place to turn back and look at him, Torbjørn allowed his confidence to grow as he slowed down to a slow, stalking stride. He was not winded, but he could feel that too much more running could leave him sucking down air. He was not afraid to run that hard after this prize that continued to elude him, but he did not want to be caught in such a state by any defenders. Especially not if news of his arrival had prompted the emergence of any holy weapons. A sneering smirk played across his lips as he got closer, listening to her yell back at him in her foreign language. Shaking his head, he prepared to lunge forward at her when he saw her hands move to grip the crates and barrels to her side. His eyes narrowed as he watched her, his brows furrowing for only a moment as she wrenched against the crates. Growling and baring his teeth at her, Torbjørn surged forward and slammed his right shoulder into the barrels as they fell. Splintering one and giving him a moment to watch her dart into a pathway before the rest fell, he stepped back and released a low, rolling growl. This diversion would be enough to buy the woman time, but by the time he was clear of it, his temper would be a boiling rage that was frothing over the sides of the metaphorical cauldron. Kicking at the wooden mess before him to see if it would fall apart, Torbjørn grunted in aggravation at how lodged they were against the clay wall they had fallen against. There was some acknowledgment of the woman’s quick thinking, but he would not let that turn into admiration. Try as she might, she was only delaying the inevitable. Once Torbjørn had marked something as an object that he desired to have, very little would get in his way. Least of all scraps of wood that spilled out over themselves. His feet carried him forward while his hands moved to push and pull at the wreckage, giving him the purchase to climb over and land on the far side. -
02:32
Snarling as he looked at the pathway that the jade-eyed beauty had gone down, he rushed over to it and closed his eyes. He could hear faint footfalls down the corridor, but with the rising din of battle all around them, his hearing was quickly losing its efficiency as the best method to track her down. Looking around, he held his breath for a moment before taking in a slow inhale. There was the natural stench that came with most cities, but there was a particular scent that he had felt tickling at his nose with every breath he took in the fight and subsequent chase. Honing in on that scent as it was likely belonging to his prey, Torbjørn tore down the corridor with his hands and arms pumping quickly to speed up his progress. He had wasted enough time with the wreckage he climbed over, so he needed to make up time. He knew his heavy boots would likely give away his approach, but there was something about this woman’s scent that he enjoyed. The fear and adrenaline were delectable flavors, and he could detect more of the delicacy with every loud footfall and growl he released. He did not know the city well enough to know where he was following her, but his recent memory served to be a tool enough. Seeing the broken crates and barrels strewn about where he had pushed them around and climbed over them, Torbjørn smirked and let his feet slow their approach. Standing still with his axe held in his hands, he closed his eyes for a moment to focus on his hearing. The sounds of battle were ignored as best as he could, but try as he might, he could not hear the footfalls. Of his prey. She had either gotten away from him in this chase, or she had elected to use her familiarity with the area to hide. -
02:33
Torbjørn looked around as he slowly paced along the corridor, his eyes looking around for any hint of the woman. The chainmail he wore bounced with every step, filling the air with a light tinkling sound that gave him away. It did not mute the area around them, though, and Torbjørn could hear the faintest of breaths being drawn in. It was not loud enough to lock onto the woman directly, but he could tell that she was nearby. Her scent betrayed her, and Torbjørn slowly walked in front of the shelf of crates and barrels that hid her. Pausing to the side of it, he breathed in deeply with a grin before releasing a low, rolling growl. Snatching out towards the shelf, he pulled it over to cause the crates and barrels to fall, exposing the woman or causing her to fall with the shelf. His face turned towards her with a smirk as he growled his words to her, “I found you!! Now stay!!” @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 04-Jul-23 04:29 AM
Pushing her entire body weight back towards the wall behind her, Zaira stared into the empty air with wide eyes. Her ears practically burned with how intently she was listening for the man. At first she had heard the growls, the loud sound of his heavy footsteps echoing in between the alley walls. But the closer the sound drew, the more silent and stalking his feet turned. Her mind didn't simply reel with the fact she had just witnessed her own father decapitated at his hands, but also the fact that there was something glaringly unnatural about him. Jinn was a concept mostly thought to be myths, and nothing about this creature resembled the mystical descriptions she had ever heard. He looked human, but there had been an animalistic sneer across his face that had caught her off guard. Inhuman, with teeth no human she had seen before. Was it a cultural thing? Did his people file their teeth into sharpened points to better rip the flesh off their enemies' bones? The very notion sent cold shivers down her back, imagining such vile acts of devouring the flesh of another man. But none of the barbarians she had seen had tried to… eat… anyone. At least not yet. And she had not had time to study them enough to know if all had of them such teeth. When she heard the man's feet slowly creep closer, accompanied by the slight metallic clinks of his chainmail, Zaira forcibly held her breath by silencing herself with one hand over her mouth. She pushed herself even harder against the wall, watching with vibrating heartbeats the shadow of someone very large walk towards her hiding spot. 'Keep walking, keep walking, don't stop…' her inner voice begged as she hunched down to make herself even smaller than before.
04:29
She heard the low, barely audible growl on the other side of the shelves and crates she hid behind. She could hear him inhale deeply, and then she shrieked loudly as everything was ripped away from her in a blur of motion and the tumble of crates and barrels. When the shade was removed so abruptly, the sun outlined the large hulking man in an aura of light that blinded her. She heard him bark something in his guttural, sharp language, but Zaira was not inclined to wait for violence. Bolting sideways in a difficult maneuver from her hunched position, she scurried along the wall in an awkward attempt to avoid him. But there were no more crates to hide behind, and in her frantic attempt to flee yet again, her desperation caused her to grab a small crate that she turned to fling at his head. Then she grasped the nearest wooden object she could find, fingers wrapping around what she assumed was a plank of sorts, and she turned to swing at him. Arabic ¿"GET AWAY FROM ME!" @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 06-Jul-23 05:13 PM
Seeing the woman fall forward from her hiding spot brought a sneer to Torbjørn’s lips. He watched her as she looked up at him for a moment before stepping forward to reach out and grab her by the shawl that was wrapped around her head. He looked into her jade-green eyes and was struck by their beauty for a moment, but he quickly shrugged off the focus and turned his attention back to what he needed to do. This woman and the man in yellow had distracted him away from the effort that he was supposed to be a part of, and with every passing moment, he could nearly feel the opportunities for glory and loot drying up in this raid. His people from his ships would collect and share most of their loot, with a few exceptions based on rank or the value placed on certain objects. This woman, scrambling to try to get away from him, would be one that Torbjørn would claim solely as his with no possibility of her being doled out. He had spent enough time to earn that claim, chasing her down and cornering her. Now, all he had to do was make good on that claim and actually grab her. His first grab missed as she scrambled sideways, trying to stay out of his reach. Narrowing his eyes as he glanced up the corridor, he nodded slowly as he reasoned that he could easily catch her if she tried to turn and run. The corridor was a straight shot, leaning in his favor, and she would have to get up from the ground. As he turned his attention back to the woman, he saw the small crate that she sent flying toward his head. Raising his left hand in a fist and bending his arm at the elbow, he lowered his head behind the shielding arm and let the crate crack off his arm and skitter to the ground in a deflection. Smirking as she continued to grab for some form of safety, Torbjørn slowly stepped forward as though toying with her. Sure, he needed to get back to his warriors, but he was going to enjoy this and make the woman pay for the chase she led him on. -
17:13
Bringing his axe forward and blocking the swing of the plank with his haft, he laughed loudly before shouting at the woman, “You’ll have to try harder than that!” Pushing the plank away and swinging his axe forward, he extended his grip so that the blade would miss behind the woman. If the blow landed and the hat of his axe collided with her side, he would lower it immediately to hook at her legs with the beard of the axe to try and bring her to the ground on her rear. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 06-Jul-23 11:44 PM
The barbarian's deep voice when he shouted at her this close sent new shivers of fright through Zaira's limbs, making her quickly drop the makeshift weapon as soon as it collided toothlessly against his axe. The heat and blood drained from her face as the man countered the attack with one of his own, swinging the dreadful weapon at her. She was no warrior and had no way of telling that the man missed on purpose, perceiving the attack as potentially deadly and capable of separating limbs from body. In that fraction of an eye blink where she expected to feel pain - cold - blood - something, her eyes shut themselves hard in a childish hope that she was just dreaming. She hoped, in that very short moment of expectation of pain, that this was all just a bad dream and if she blinked really hard she could force herself awake from it. She had instinctively raised an arm to protect her head, face turned slightly away as if it would make any difference at all against the carnage she had witnessed these men were capable of delivering. The moment ended abruptly when she felt none of the things expected, instead feeling her feet yanked forward in a pull that made her topple backwards. Though it was not painless, a hysterical idea screamed at her that she'd lost her legs. Her eyes opened and she caught herself while falling, landing on her rear against toppled crates and splintered wood. It was not pretty, gracious, ladylike or even smooth in any way - most likely a rather comical display for a person with sadistic intent and humor. But she recognized none of those things while quickly assessing herself, crawling backwards with the realization that her legs were still intact.
23:44
Zaira's shawl fell more off her head during her scrambling, revealing portions of thick, raven black hair that were in a tangled disarray underneath the fabric. With no time to care, she turned on her hands and feet and stumbled while trying to get her bearings enough so she could stand and run again. In a tiny part in her mind, somewhere hidden deep, she was aware that her unassuming clothes and appearance could either have been a death sentence or a savior - had her father not stepped in to protect her. The tunic and shawl she had disguised herself in when going into the city alone earlier that very morning were made to look like she was of lower class. But beneath it all, she was still wearing the finer robes, silks and jewelry of her household. These barbarians would either have discarded her as someone of insignificance and perhaps even let her live, or outright murdered her for that very reason. But Qadir had stepped in, drawing attention to her - marking her as relatively important. It had certainly drawn the attention of this man. Arabic "¿Please, leave me alone!" Pleading would do nothing, for how could he possibly understand? Yet those words fell from her lips in a desperate cry while she got back onto her feet, limping slightly as she steadied herself against the bricked wall to her left. The impact of his axe had not been painless at all, but only now did the full pang of the blow hit her. Zaira's side and the rear side if her legs hurt, throbbing in fierce protest to a pain that was a foreign and new sensations for someone who has lived all her life sheltered by many guardsmen. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 08-Jul-23 03:26 AM
If he had had time to remark on it, Torbjørn likely would have stopped his attack and poked the woman in her forehead when he saw her squeeze her jade-green jewel shut as though closing her eyes would shield her from his blow. Instead, he simply let a smirk play across his lips that grew into a chuckling smile when she freaked out and fell backward. The hysterical scream hit him in the stomach with his humor, and as he pulled his axe back, he let himself lean on its shaft for a moment as his laughter rolled through him. However, when she lowered her hands to start to stand, he brought his left hand up to wipe at his eyes and cut back his laughter. Narrowing his eyes as he saw her crawling back away from him across the broken and scattered wood splinters, he stepped forward slowly, stalking her almost. He could have surged forward, thrown himself on her, and done as he pleased. However, watching her scramble back cluelessly, he found amusement in it, much like when a group of farmers watch a newborn animal try to find its footing. Stepping forward as she turned to scramble away from him, he lowered his left hand and brushed her shawl down the back of her head to grip her hair. It was not a hard enough grip to stop her. He wanted to feel her raven-black hair between his fingers, and there was the added sadistic value of the shout of alarm that such a move would likely elicit from the woman. He let his fingers fall away from her hair, slowly sliding down her back along her spine. Torbjørn smirked as he watched her trying to crawl away, his eyes able to see the figure of the woman before him due to how her clothes hung off of her. Biting his lower lip as he felt his attention drawn to the curves of her hips to her rear, he nodded slowly before speaking in a deep voice, “Don’t worry, little one. I’m not going to share you with my men. You will be kept all for me.” -
03:27
Smiling as he watched her move to stand, he waited to see what she would do. Any attempt to run would receive another trip from his axe. He ignored the words she screamed at him, unable to understand her. He enjoyed the sound of her voice, though, and he felt his excitement mounting as a sneer broke over his lips. Torbjørn stepped forward quickly when she braced her hand against the wall, his left hand finding her throat and turning her so that he could press her back against the wall. He lifted his hand along her neck, feeling her smooth flesh and the edge of one of her necklaces under his pinky finger. His index finger and thumb pressed against her jaw as he pressed up, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes to avoid being choked by his hold. Bringing his right hand up, choked up on the haft of his axe, he pressed the edge of the blade against her chest. Settled between the mounds of her breasts, he was edging it to the side to find the flap that would uncover whatever she was or wasn’t wearing underneath these outer garments. Before he could fully investigate and satisfy his curiosity, a recognizable horn blew closer and louder than he expected. It was a note that signaled the need to regroup and was largely used to firm up the lines when there was a danger of being routed. Snarling at the woman in annoyance of having his fun ruined, he pulled her away from the wall only to turn her and press her front against the wall. Torbjørn stepped forward, allowing his body to press against the woman as he bent his knees, his lips next to her ear as he growled. His left hand gripped her throat from the back, pulling her head back and controlling its movements, “You’re coming with me. Now, walk!” Jerking back and pulling the woman with him, he shifted his grip to hold her by the back of her neck with his axe in his right hand. He started to guide them through the corridors toward where he would leave her with the rest of the loot. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 09-Jul-23 03:18 AM
Zaira's surprised inhale at the sudden grip on her throat was quickly choked down into a pathetic and panicked sound when the brute turned her and almost lifted her to her toes. At first she looked everywhere but at him, frantically searching for supporting purchase along the wall behind her back. But his face was too close to ignore, the large meaty hand closing around her throat rough against the smooth texture of her skin. Her heart leapt into an uncomfortable rhythm, painful within her ribcage with every rise and fall of her short and shallow breaths. Her hands gave up their search for purchase and instinctively gripped around his arm, trying to pry him off to no avail. The terror rippling down her spine only intensified when her jade green eyes finally adjusted to his face, his eyes cold and still filled with mirth at her weak attempts to flight him off. One of her hands released from his arm to try and push away the axe blade as he brought it to her chest, pushing below its sharp edges. She had not understood a single word he'd said this far, but this needed no words for she understood the intention all too well. Whatever panic had surged through her before now rose into a violent tremor. Arabic "¿Do not touch me, you filthy mongrel." Where her voice would normally hold command and poised indignation, it now was more a pathetic whimper than anything else. Zaira was already aware of her disadvantage against him, the bloodied tunic of her father a sharp and yellow reminder where it still hung from the man's belt.
03:18
Then there was the sound of a horn, close and echoing further into the city. She heard bellowing shouts coming from around them, but her attention was on the man who's grip on her neck seemed to tighten in annoyance for a second, before he released her abruptly. The slight flicker of hope in her heart briefly flashed and then snuffed out the same moment she found herself face-first pushed against the sharp bricked texture of the wall. She barely managed to catch herself on it, pushing away from the wall only to find the man's large frame far too close for comfort. His breath when he spoke close to her ear smelled of… herbs and alcohol? And something else she could not put her finger on. "¿No, please!" While she was no warrior and had limited insight into the significance of a horn call, Zaira still understood it had to mean they were being called back to a rendezvous point to regroup. Her legs, still hurting from his axe and weakened by exhaustion, stumbled when he grabbed her neck to push her ahead of himself, steering to march her in front of him. Perhaps her stumbling annoyed the man, her shorter legs unable to keep the pace he required. He pulled her upright harshly, the grip on her neck flexing tightly into her skin. In a brief moment, the image of a kitten being carried by the skin on their necks came to mind, and she would have laughed had she not noticed he was steering her back towards the way they'd come - her home. "¿Noooo," she exclaimed and dug her heels into the ground to stop their progression, stumbling yet again as he growled harsh words in his foreign language while he pulled her up straight again. She would bruise from his grip, she knew as much. If she survived this, her dignity and purity would be questioned. But by who? Her father… her only male caretaker, laid dead somewhere ahead. Tears began coating the outline of her eyes, both by pain very real and tangible, and emotional.
03:18
The fast pace would take them back within minutes. Zaira searched for escapes, wiping furiously at her eyes while they studied the alleys and narrow crossroads up ahead. She knew the city well, but he did not. Perhaps… in his chase to catch up with her he had lost his way and could be steered astray? Experimentally she relaxed her walk a little, feigning surrender while he pushed her forward. As soon as they reached the crossroad of more narrow pathways between the stone and brick buildings, she simply turned towards one as if it was the natural path to take. A sharp word and another jerk from his hand roughly pulled her back, this time accompanied by a prod into her back by something hard - his axe, no doubt. Zaira swallowed the lump in her throat, fixating her eyes ahead and seeing how far they had gotten already. Then she spotted the last thing she wanted to see, and her heels dug in again.
03:21
Up ahead laid a lifeless figure in a pool of blood, mangled yet recognizable all the same. Zaira did not need to look twice to see who it was, and her tightly reigned and dwindling self-control evaporated. Crying out, she pushed back against the man, tears now running freely down her cheeks in refusal to continue. Words were useless against the man holding her, but she must have muttered something nonsense anyways because he replied with a short, evenly spoken command with a deep voice. It didn't sound cruel, but how could she know the difference? It made no difference, because he continued to march her forward at the steady pace he had kept so far. Zaira steered herself frantically away from the lifeless, headless, corpse of her father, stepping as far out of the path as she could, trying to not step on or over him. The brute allowed it, somewhat. Zaira looked away from it, her face scrunched in grief and tears still freely running down her face. She couldn't bring herself to look and grasped the wall beside her for leading support so she wouldn't stumble again. Then the man yanked her back on track and she assumed they had passed her father's corpse. She blinked with deep, grieving breaths and fastened her eyes ahead at the street they would emerge on. Beyond that street was her house, and she could see many more of the tall and pale barbarians up there. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 10-Jul-23 10:14 PM
Torbjørn moved them with purpose through the corridors, thwarting the woman’s attempts to drag them down the wrong path. Even if she knew the city better than he did, she did not have the benefit of a strong sense of smell like he did. Every corridor that he had sprinted down after her carried his scent where he had brushed his hands or arms against the wall to maneuver and mark his scent. Now, with every attempt to mislead him, she was making it worse on herself. His roughness, though, seemed to fall away slightly as they entered the corridor where the fight with the man in yellow had gone down. Torbjørn had no way of knowing what the man was to the woman, but it was clear that she meant something to him. Why else would he fight so valiantly to defend her? There were signs of aging on the man’s face that made him curious whether he was a lover or relative to the woman, but that did not matter at this moment. Feeling her press back against his insistence as the got closer to the body, Tobjørn allowed some freedom in her movements by directing her on a wider path, his words coming in a smoother tone, “He fought well; do not weep for him. You do not have to look.” Once they were past the corpse, he pulled her back from where she had been walking along the wall, not wanting to waste any more time in getting her back to the villa where the loot was being kept. Up ahead along the corridor, he could see the wall that lined the garden and several of his warriors collecting their weapons and seemingly discussing tactics. Seeing Audun standing with one of his trusted advisors Finnr, Torbjørn sped up slowly to see what the two men had been working out. Finnr was a Finnish slave that they had captured in a raid in southern Norway, and in the time since, he had shown himself to be a level-headed, trustworthy man that Torbjørn could rely on. -
22:15
With long black hair and a long black beard that hung from beneath his helmet, the man was taller than many of the warriors around him, but he still stood several inches shorter than Torbjørn. Pushing the woman past them as he glanced at the others, he saw nods from Finnr and Audun before their eyes turned toward the loot that he had chosen. Narrowing his eyes for a moment as some of the other Vikings turned to look at him, he spoke quickly in a harsh tone, “She is mine, and none of you will touch her. Understand this, or lose your hands.” Seeing nods of understanding and approval, he walked her along the wall until they found one of the gates that had been opened and was being guarded by four warriors. Entering between them, he looked around the garden and saw the changes that had come over it. Several flowering plants had been flattened under blankets that bore wounded warriors that were being treated or had already been helped. Some of the trees had been chopped down and were being turned into makeshift stakes that were being put in place to build defensive fortifications around the home. The attack was still going, but this would be where he and his men rested their heads when they were out of rotation on the front. Working on defenses early was better than waiting to do it with Muslim counterattacks underway. Walking toward an area that had two large blankets laden with gold, Torbjørn kicked the back of the woman’s right foot to cause her to stumble before pushing her to the ground. Lowering his axe and holding the blade at her throat, he glared down at her before looking around and bellowing, “Channing!!! Get over here now!!” -
22:15
Moments later, a monk ran over, his hair disheveled and his black robes torn at his elbows. A gash on his forehead drew Torbjørn’s attention, but the man spoke quickly in a meek tone while wiping at it with a cloth, “There were more Muslim soldiers that attacked the flank as Bjarga was bringing me from the ships. He slew them, but one hit me with his sword. I am fine, though; how can I help?” Narrowing his eyes for a moment, Torbjørn shook his head before looking down at the jade-eyed woman that was on the ground beside him. Looking over her features for a moment, he spoke in a low voice, “Find out what you can about her. Name, age, class. Anything useful. Oh, and find out who this was.” Removing the yellow tunic from his belt and slamming it into Channing’s chest, he glanced at the man before speaking, “Take care of that, and then see to it that she is taken care of. No others can touch her, but get her food and drink as she needs. Bjarga will be watching.” Looking over his shoulders at a tall, lean man with long blonde hair and an axe in each hand, Torbjørn nodded to the man before receiving a similar gesture in return. The job of rearguard was not one that could bring much glory aside from protecting from counterattacks, but Bjarga was not one to complain. Earlier in the raiding season, he had led the vanguard in attacks on other Iberian cities, so he was willing to let others have an opportunity at glory now. Torbjørn looked once again at the Muslim woman, his eyes narrowing as he squatted in front of her. Reaching out his right hand as he balanced his axe across his thighs, he took hold of her face and spoke in a harsh tone, “Stay here. Run, and I will find you. You are mine, now.” Looking at Channing, he tilted his head and waited for the man to translate the Norse into Arabic. Waiting for her reaction, he smirked and finally released her face before standing. -
22:16
Nodding again to Bjarga, he moved to go through the gate again, aiming to meet up with Audun and Finnr to question the horn blasts he had heard before. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 11-Jul-23 07:15 AM
Zaira ducked her head in a futile attempt to hide her tears, her face, her hair, as the barbarian gripped her neck harder to steer her towards his fellow men. She avoided meeting their gazes, yet as their eyes fell on her form she could feel the uncomfortable prickle on her skin – sense their evaluation and curiosity. Again, the unwelcome notion that they might be cannibals crossed her mind, unable to hold her gaze lowered her jade eyes lifted to throw them looks of contemplative fear. She startled hard when the man holding her by the neck suddenly barked something, his voice sharp and hard around their strange language. Zaira quickly averted her gaze and focused ahead on the walls around her home. Her father’s villa. Seeing the disarray of the garden brought her more distress than she anticipated. Zaira slowly inhaled the scent of the blossoming lilac to try and find comfort within the terrible situation she found herself in, only to have her eyes sting with new tears instead. This garden, with the lovely flowerbeds and the still intact lilac tree adorning the center had been her stepmother Dana’s pride. Many hours of diligence lay behind its arrangement, hours spent grooming and facilitating a healthy growth for all the greens. Many trees had been haphazardly chopped down or bore signs of partial destruction. The flowers were all crushed and sprawled underneath wounded men, blankets of loot and sprayed with the crimson evidence of a battle - it looked nothing like home. Her legs still hurt, and when the man kicked the back of her foot, she yelped and stumbled with little force from him. Catching herself on her hands and knees, he gave her no time to recover before turning her around. Zaira immediately tried to rise but stilled when he directed the axe blade to her throat. Frozen in mid-motion and not daring to take her eyes off him, a new ripple of anxiety trickled down her back when he barked more commands, this time to someone she could not see. **
07:15
**
07:16
Only in her peripheral vision did she register the figure approaching with quick strides, and her eyes remained fixated on her captor during the exchange between the two men. However, she noticed the other man spoke slower in a more timid manner, not quite able to roll his r’s the same way the barbarian did. When the man who had captured her squatted to crouch in front of her, his frame looming over hers, she edged herself backwards and away until his hand grasped her face. The grip was firm, and even if it was not enough to bruise it was enough to still her. She understood he was addressing her directly when he spoke, his eyes scrutinizing every part of her face as if memorizing it. Zaira blinked in confusion, staring with wide eyes in return, uncertain of what to do. “He is saying, you should not run,” the other man said slowly, stuttering slightly with an accent that clearly was not accustomed to the Arabic tongue. His pronunciation was accurate for the most part, albeit much slower than that of a native speaker. Zaira’s eyes shot over to the man with surprise, only now seeing him fully and realizing he was not one of these men. The man was wiping at a wound with a piece of cloth, holding the cloth to the gash on his forehead to stem the bleeding. He looked… strange. Different from the others and different from anyone she had seen before. Short and somewhat stocky, with soft features and possibly a disposition for plumpness that was barely visible underneath his loosely fitted robes. The man met her gaze with an almost apologetic expression, and continued. “Do not run. He will find you. You are… his, now.” He nodded once towards the man holding her, and Zaira’s eyes invertedly shifted to look up at him as well. Whatever reaction he had waited for, she could not possibly know. Everything in her expression reflected the fear and grief he had brought her.
07:16
When the man released her and stood, she exhaled slowly a breath she was unaware she’d been holding, watching him walk away without further words. As soon as the large brute had left the garden, the robed man took a tentative step closer to her, wringing the yellow tunic in his hands slightly while looking down at it. Realizing it was stained with blood, we folded it gently with a slight grimace and let it hang from his arm instead. “My name is Channing,” he gestured to his chest with a slight bow. “I am here to help you. What is your name?” Zaira pulled herself up to sit fully upright, quickly redressing and adjusting the fallen shawl around her head. She tucked her raven black hair into it and pulled it around her face while throwing quick and wary glances around the garden. Beside her, on the blankets of loot laid many items she recognized from her own household, including her own and Dana’s jewelry, and her sister’s embroideries. They had taken everything that looked like it had value, finely crafted pots, cups and plates in addition to silks and fine cashmere imported by trade. In the midst of the pile, she recognized the saif her father had been given as an honorably token of gratitude for his long-standing service to the Umayyad Caliphate. It was a beautifully crafted weapon, adorned with jewels and precious gemstones around the hilt. Bile rose in her mouth, and she turned her head away from the sight, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Zaira of Qadir El-Hashem,” she replied, her voice croaking slightly around the name of her father. Lifting her gaze, she looked at the strange man. “How do you know my language?”
07:16
The man spent many seconds to simply look at her before replying, his mouth forming silent words in what she assumed was a mental translation. Sweat trickled down his forehead, mixing with the blood from his wound. He had a slight sunburn threatening to break out on the bald top of his head. “I learn many languages in the monasteries of my homeland – including Arabic. But you a speak different…. dialect? I beg you to speak slowly.” “Monasteries?” her eyes flitted across his robes, realizing he was most likely a Christian. “Yes… they are like, homes for religious students.” Zaira simply nodded and looked away again, this time sweeping her eyes over the many wounded or resting barbarians. There were a few females amongst them, but it was clear the males were overrepresented in whatever culture they belonged to. Not far behind Channing stood another man, the one her captor had given a nod earlier. He looked slightly younger than the others, lean, with wiry muscles and a lithe build. The man was watching her and the Christian monk carefully but did not approach. Not until Channing turned to follow her gaze, addressing the man. Words were spoken in that hard, strange language of the barbarians, and the other man replied with a short word and a nod, before walking off. “You must be thirsty,” Channing then said as he turned to look at her again. The same apologetic expression as before came over his features. “Torbjorn said you could have water and food if you wished.”
07:16
“Who?” Zaira saw the lean man return with a clay flask of what she assumed was water from a nearby well. She hunched down slightly as he approached, but instead of giving her the flask, he gave it to Channing. “This is Bjarga,” he gestured to the other man and spoke a few words Zaira didn’t understand. The man gave Channing the slightest of nods before backing away. Channing then slowly approached her, moving to crouch in front of her, but Zaira quickly scooted away from him with a scowl of distrust on her face. Channing did not pursue her, instead holding the flask out in expectation for her to take it. “Water. Please drink some.” “Thorbjrn?” she repeated questioningly, accepting the flask with gentle hands, watching Channing retreat to a distance she felt more comfortable with. “Torbjorn,” he corrected slowly. “El-Hashem? Is that your family name?” Lifting the flask to her lips using both hands, Zaira drank many slow mouthfuls, nodding slightly in a wordless response. Channing waited with his next question until she had lowered the flask again. “Do you live nearby?” His eyes roamed the gardens and neighboring villas, all well-kept and much larger than simper domains. It was a part of the city reserved for loyalists and the wealthy of Išbīliya. Qadir had commissioned the construction of his private villa right before marrying Zaira’s mother. She hesitated, understanding that the ordinary tunics she was wearing worked well as a disguise. It was as she had intended it to be, and even though the situation now was vastly different than earlier this day, she was uncertain if she wished to let these men know they were resting within the gardens of her home. She did not want them to know she had more riches on her person, or that she knew where more was hidden within the house. Shaking her head in dismissive denial, she lowered her head and curled up where she sat, tucking her knees close to her chest.
07:17
“I do not.” Channing took his time replying, again most likely forming the translation in his head before speaking. He gingerly lifted and unfolded the bloodstained, yellow tunic from his arm. It caught Zaira’s eyes, and they filled with new tears that she stubbornly hid by looking away. But this time Channing was watching her more closely. “The man who led you here. He wanted me to ask you… Who does this belong to?” Biting her lip, she shook her head. “No more questions, please.” @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 15-Jul-23 09:28 PM
Torbjørn wanted to stay and hear the answers from the woman, but he knew that his duties needed him elsewhere. Leaving her in the capable hands of Bjarga and Channing, he approached the circle of warriors and nodded in acknowledgment when recognized. Audun, Finnr, and a few others were knelt over a crude drawing of the city that one of them had drawn in the dirt. Taking a knee beside his Finnish advisor, he looked over the drawing. Audun pointed at a few corridors with his seax knife before speaking, “Good of you to join us; I was just catching everyone up on the details. Our forces have engaged the Muslims along these pathways, but they’ve put up defensive barricades and archers to harass us the entire way. I pulled our men out before they could be led into that grinding battle of attrition, and now we are planning a way past them. What say you?” Seeing the faces turn to him, Torbjørn nodded slowly before setting his axe down behind him and leaning forward to see the map clearer. It showed three roadways with buildings drawn in harsh lines, and at the end of each roadway was a deeply dug ‘X.’ The buildings had dots drawn poked into the dirt to show the positions of enemy archers. Tilting his head to the side before glancing in the direction of the sounds of battle, Torbjørn nodded before speaking quickly, “And I assume there are no other roads that lead inland?” Finnr gestured beyond the borders of the drawn map before responding, “None that are suitable for battle. The other paths are alleys that would restrict us to fighting side-by-side with only two men across. Other ships have sent warriors down those paths to keep us from being flanked, but they are not a way for us to gain an advantage.” -
21:28
Nodding before exhaling shortly, Torbjørn looked at each of them and shrugged before speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “If we are failing to push through and cannot go around, then we must go over. Take the fight to the archers so our brothers do not have to worry about being shot in the back while they assault the barricades. With any luck, we’ll break through the archers and then down onto the barricades to clear the path for the others. Let them remember that they need Lofoten.” Seeing smiles and nods from the others as he mentioned bringing recognition to their land, Torbjørn picked up his axe and stood while looking down at the map. Holding his axe with both hands near the blade, he drew one mark at one row of buildings, two at another, and three at the final one. Looking at Audun and Finnr, he tapped the respective numbers as he spoke, “Audun take one; Finnr, you’re on three. I’ll go up the middle. Remember to have your archers support their flanking units. Fifteen men each.” Lifting his gaze to a man with long blond hair and a similarly colored beard that was braided to his collar, Torbjørn nodded before continuing, “Halvor, keep the rest in reserve. Once you see one of these roads clearing as we’ve broken through, I want your troops at the vanguard. Seek out glory, treasure, and slaves.” Seeing nods of confirmation from each man that they understood their assignments, Torbjørn moved to where his warriors had massed to prepare for the fight ahead. Looking over them and selecting eight men and women with shields and swords, he also selected seven archers. Looking at the two-handed axe in his hands, he shook his head slowly before walking into the garden once again. He could see Channing offering water to the woman, but he made no move to interrupt him. Instead, he handed his axe to Bjarga with a nod before speaking, “Keep them safe until our return.” -
21:29
Looking over at the jade-eyed woman, he strode confidently out of the garden while pulling his shield from his back and taking his sword in his right hand. Smacking the flat of his blade against the shield face to get his warriors’ attention, he took off at a jog towards the building that they would be assaulting. A fierce kick threw the wooden door from its hinges, and Torbjørn rushed in before the two men inside could react. Stabbing one in the left leg with his sword, he blocked an incoming blow with his shield before ripping his blade downwards. Slicing the man’s leg open, Torbjørn brought the edge of his shield forward to smash against the man’s face, causing him to stumble back with his hands lifting to his face. Catching his comrade’s sword strike on the edge of his own sword, he brought his shield forward to slam the steel boss against his chest. Creating a slight opening as the man exhaled and stepped back, Torbjørn struck with his sword in a slashing blow at the chainmail on the man’s chest. It glanced off as expected, but he used the rebounding force to adjust the sword in his hand and stab upwards through the man’s throat. His blade pierced through his throat before emerging at the base of his skull, causing the man’s legs to fall limp. Freeing his blade as the body fell forward, he turned to the man he had stabbed and saw that he had been finished off by one of his axe-wielding allies. Giving the woman a thankful nod, he turned and looked around the room until he saw stairs that led upwards. He lifted his shield to block any projectiles as he made his way up the stairs to the second story of the building. However, rather than finding another room, he saw a door that granted access to the roof. Smirking, he kicked it down but was immediately met by three arrows striking him in the chest. Two glanced off his chainmail, but the third pierced through the mail and was embedded in his gambeson beneath. -
21:29
Smirking as he growled at the archers that prepared to draw more arrows, he reached up and snapped the arrow shaft so that it didn’t get in the way of him using his shield or sword. He could hear his comrades coming up the stairs, so he rushed forward to make room for them. Keeping his shield raised to block most of the arrows, he felt their impacts against the wood until one of the archers wisened up and adjusted his aim. The arrow ripped through his breeches and skidded across his shin before ripping through the other side. It clattered to the ground as he stumbled slightly, feeling no pain but being startled by the blow to his leg. Narrowing his eyes as he pointed his sword toward the archer, he lowered his shield and sprinted forward. His movements were faster than the archers expected, evidenced by their inability to knock another arrow before he had leaped from the roof he had been on to the one they were now on. His warriors were nearly thirty meters behind him, but his feet did not slow down. They would catch up; he was confident of it. Torbjørn’s sword sliced through the bow and hand of the closest archer, lopping off his left hand. He brought his shield up to block an arrow fired at close range before the archers dropped their bows in favor of their curved scimitars. Hacking his sword through the thin leather armor of the first archer, he sank his blade several inched deep into his ribcage. Letting the man fall down from the roof onto the shorter one he had been on before, he met the next archer’s blade in a ringing clash of steel. Pushing against his blade and then pulling back to follow with a quick thrust, Torbjørn lifted the man slightly by the force of his blad stabbing through his stomach and into his chest. Releasing his grip on his sword as it lodged deeper than he intended, he braced his hand on the inside of his shield to block the last man’s blow easily. -
21:30
Seeing him rebound slightly to collect himself for another blow, Torbjørn shot his free hand out and grabbed him by the throat. Squeezing tightly and digging his fingers in, he allowed his nails to sharpen into claws before ripping downwards. He held the man’s throat in his hand, feeling blood dripping from his fingers while the man reached up to try to hold his throat. There was nothing to hold, and Torbjørn stepped forward, kicking the man’s chest with a savage force that caused him to lose his footing and fall to the ground below. The Vikings on the road cheered and finished him off with a sword to the chest before pressing further up the road. Dropping the piece of flesh in his hand, Torbjørn wrenched his sword free from the second archer and turned to see his warriors stepping up onto his roof from the lower one they started on. Turning to look at the length of the rows of houses and buildings they were on, he could see several archers spaced out and ducking behind shields before firing down on his comrades below. The walls were too tall to be easily scaled, and the firing angles were too steep to let the men and women on the ground fire back in response. It was up to the raiders on the roofs to clear out this danger, and he was prepared to lead the charge. @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 17-Jul-23 02:58 AM
“Miss El-Hashem, it would help if you talked to us.” Channing said and gently folded the yellow tunic in his hands again, gingerly tucking it back to hang over his arm. His hands moved with a slow, almost respectful manner, glancing down at the garment with a look reminiscent of sadness. Zaira watched in suspicion, her jade green eyes narrowed slightly at the act and not trusting the sincerity of it. Then her eyes snapped back up to look at the man’s face. “Helpful to who? It does not matter.” Aside from not wanting to give these invading barbarians any more spoils for their raid, she really did not see why it mattered who she was or who her father was. She set the flask down on the ground beside herself, resuming to fold her arms around her knees in her curled-up position. “Helpful to me, and Torbjorn who brough you here. And to yourself.” The Christian monk replied slowly, moving to place himself upon a log from one of the many chopped trees in the garden. He sat down slowly on it, mindful of his robes and adjusted them around his legs with an almost feminine gesture from his hand. Zaira remained silent and simply glared at the man in contempt and distrust. He cleared his throat and watched her in return, the silence between them stretching on for an uncomfortable number of seconds in a stark contrast to the otherwise loud sounds of combat just beyond the walls of this garden. It was not lost on her that those sounds had picked up since the man called Torbjorn had dropped her off here and then left again, and Zaira could only vividly imagine, yet trying not to, the carnage happening to her people. “Did they do this to your people as well? Invade your homes and killed every man in their way?” she asked and eventually broke the silence between them. Her voice had dipped to a lower tone.
02:58
“Yes,” was the immediate and equally lowered response he gave. That one, simple word spoke of pain and heartbreak beyond the stoic and somewhat submissive appearance of the Christian man in front of her. “I was younger and much more…. Ambitious, you can say. I had traveled with brothers from my Monastery to many lands, spreading the word of God, learning of different cultures and many languages. I studied ancient texts, translated many, and took many more back with me to England.” He paused, shifting a little, clearly uncomfortable with the memories flowing in his mind. The wound on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but Zaira had noticed a very distinct scar going from the corner of his mouth and in a half-moon curve up his left cheek. “The Vikings came with the early fog of dawn, silently on the rivers. We had heard of other villages being attacked, but we did not think they would come that far inland. Their smaller ships are able to pass very shallow waters. It was…” he looked around again, presumably searching for the right words in her language, or perhaps mentally comparing this attack on Išbīliya to the attack on his Monastery. “Just as bloody, though only men and young boys were found at our Monastery. No women.” Zaira remained silent, though he had caught her interest enough that she was listening intently. Behind Channing, the younger blonde man stood like a vigilant watchtower, his eyes every now and then sweeping the perimeter of the wall surrounding the garden while he shifted the weight from one foot to another. Channing continued: “They spared me, took me back with them. They saw use for me as a translator. When I am not accompanying them on… travels… I work hard on the fields and help brew their ale and mead. In return, I get to sleep under a roof and they teach me their beliefs.”
02:59
“You’re a slave?” The words fell from her harshly and with a direct promptness that seemed to take the man back a little. He shifted again, locking his hands in his lap. “I am.” It dawned on her then, as her jade green eyes moved back to the pile of collected loot on the blankets beside her. They did not eat people. They took slaves. Similar to the conquerors of her own people, just with the difference they did not stay to claim the lands conquered and returned to their homelands instead. Zaira’s chest constricted with the newfound understanding, realizing that her situation might be far more dire than first assumed. She stood, suddenly and with swiftness in her movements that had her head swim with dizziness. Her abrupt and unexpected movement startled Channing, and the young blonde Viking behind him snapped his attention sharply to her. “Then how does it help me, you, or anyone else for me to say who I am? I will be transported somewhere else like cattle to be sold off on some barbaric market regardless. Becoming property. I. will. not.” She spoke quickly and stubbornly stomped her foot with each last word, glaring in anger at Channing who had also stood up. The monk paled and turned to hold a defensive hand out towards the younger man, speaking quickly in their strange, harsh language while he glanced and gestured towards her. It was possible Channing had not understood every word she’d said, seeing that she had spoken much quicker than before. The young man replied in equally quick and far harder words, his pronunciation of their language much more elaborate. One hand rested on the haft of his axe, and he glanced towards her while Channing spoke to him. She understood that the monk was trying to prevent the young man from deciding if she needed to be subdued or not. During their exchange, she stepped backwards and away from them, slowly and with intent.
02:59
“Zaira,” Channing eventually said and turned to her again, noting with wide eyes the distance she had created between herself and the men. “Don’t do anything you will regret. They will make you regret it. I am here to help you. I translate, I help people understand their… captors. I help them… settle, into their new roles. It is my responsibility.” “Traitor,” she spat, narrowing her eyes at him. “You betray your own people, you help these savages obtain their slaves. You are a disgrace.” His eyes dropped a little and he nodded in agreement, though his movements were minimal. “Yes. But it is how I survive. It is how you will survive. Please, just s-stay here.” He stepped forward a little, stuttering around the quick response in her language when he saw her take more steps away, holding one hand out to her as if he was approaching a wild horse. “Don’t try to run. You will not get far.” Behind Channing, Zaira saw the younger Viking move, his axe still in one hand while he began circling them to flank or get behind her. She immediately adjusted her backwards path to prevent it. The Viking stopped and lowered his head a little, looking directly at her and speaking. It took Channing many heavy seconds to translate the words to her with a deep sigh. “Bjarga says… You do not need your ankles to be of use. Please, just… Come back here. Don’t force his hand.” There was a flash of a pained expression in the monk’s face, and Zaira understood that such threats of violence were not just empty words. They were real, and she could only imagine how many people they had placated by permanently crippling them.
02:59
Forced to think quickly, she met the young Viking’s gaze steadily and sneered a response. “You can tell him that if he plans to break my ankles, he first will have to chase me through a city he knows nothing about. I am far more likely to run into my own people than be caught. And when I do, they will gut him like a fish and string him up for all your barbarian friends to see.” Channing’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I am not translating that. Please, Zaira. You need to believe me when I say this. Torbjorn will find you again. And he will not be happy.” The young Viking’s gaze snapped to Channing, speaking a few words, to which Channing replied equally curtly. The Viking smirked and moved to rest his axe on his shoulder, brushing his gaze down her frame and back up. He gave her a small nod and spoke again, and Channing translated. “He says… You can run. But you will not stay hidden. He… enjoys the hunt.” “Who?” Zaira snapped, her eyes moving between the two of them. “Torbjorn. He leads many of these warriors. He enjoys the hunt.” Nausea rolled in on her, keenly aware that the large beast of a man who had chased her in the city would be difficult to outmaneuver. She had been well hidden, yet somehow the man had just known where to find her. Furthermore, their little standoff had drawn the curiosity of many of the other resting or wounded warriors in the garden, and those able to stand and walk had drawn closer to the trio. They watched with a mixture of confusion every time Channing and Zaira spoke, then humorously when Channing and Bjarga spoke. Zaira swallowed thickly, feeling the anxiety and fear return and numb her limbs, stealing whatever precious strength she would need if she was to try and run.
02:59
If she was to try and run, she would have to get either past them all to the gate or try and scale the wall behind her without them grabbing her and pulling her back down. And beyond the wall, there was still the sound of fighting. Though more distant now as the fighting force presumably were working their way deeper into the core of the city. Towards where she would have to flee to find her people. She could try to circle the fight, but it would take a while and who knew what stragglers she might encounter and what they could try to do to her. Her own father had been defeated, though not easily he had still fallen to their blades. Zaira had no weapons on her, and she was alone and a much weaker fighter. Perhaps… there was one more option she could take. But she would take it only as a last resort. Her eyes moved to her family’s villa behind all the people, knowing where more treasures lay hidden within it. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 18-Jul-23 09:44 PM
The archers were not oblivious to the approaching threat that was Torbjørn and his warriors, but they did not realize the true scale of the danger they faced. Forming up a three-man wide and three-row deep box, Torbjørn took up the middle front row with his shield level with the two warriors beside them. Seven of the eleven archers in front of them turned their fire to the approaching shield formation. Satisfied that they had their attention, Torbjørn glanced at the neighboring approaches led by Audun and Finnr. They were not as far along the houses as his advance was, but they did not have the luxury of his vanguard. He smirked, remembering Finnr’s words one drunken night around the fire. “If I was impervious to steel like you, I’d be the king of Finnmark. Just you wait until we encounter the dwarves armed with silver, and you are humbled like the rest of us. I look forward to the day.” Chuckling to himself, he pointed his sword toward the archers ahead of Audun and Finnr’s advances. He yelled over the din of battle, knowing his archers would hear his command, “Focus your fire on the enemy archers!! We must take them down!! Unless you wish to return to the ships, take them out!!” Hearing affirmations shouted back to him before the twanging sounds of their bowstrings, Torbjørn nodded and turned his attention forward. His shield held several arrow shafts embedded into it, but the thick wood and steel boss had protected him. Growling and narrowing his eyes, he gestured his sword forward before speaking in a commanding tone, “Advance! Leave none alive!” Pressing forward with his shield brothers beside him, Torbjørn sprinted toward the archers on his row of roofs. The satisfying sound of their arrows smacking uselessly against their shields filled his men and women with courage, and he poured on speed to form a slight wedge formation with their lines. -
21:44
He met the first archer and slammed the flat of his shield against the man, causing him to stumble and fall backward under the force of the blow. His feet came crashing down on the man’s legs and chest, with the warrior behind him stepping in much the same way. The final row of their formation stopped long enough to sink an axe blade into the man’s forehead, ending his gasping for air under broken ribs and punctured lungs. The first two lines did not slow down in their rush, meeting the next three archers quickly. Two of them dropped their bows to reach for the scimitars they held on their hips. The warrior to Torbjørn’s left lunged out, cutting through the bow before following through with a thrust at the man’s throat. The archers were not as heavily armored as their compatriots on the ground, so their cloth armor offered little resistance. Torbjørn swung his sword at the closest archer, catching his sword in a weak block. Bringing his shield forward to crash the edge into the man’s knuckles, he weakened the archer’s grip on his sword enough that his next slash against his sword knocked it from his hand. Seeing the man’s eyes widen, Torbjørn lunged forward and drove his sword deep into his chest before wrenching it to the side and tearing it free. Seeing the man fall to his knees, clutching at the wound on his chest, he kicked him in the side to force him to fall over so that he and his warriors could easily advance. His other warrior had taken care of the third archer, though it seemed they had suffered a little more from the engagement. Seeing a bleeding gash on their left leg, Torbjørn grabbed their shoulder and pushed them back against the shield of the Viking behind them. The unspoken command was clear, and there would be no disputing. The wounded man fell to the rear of the formation while the other two moved forward, putting a female warrior on Torbjørn’s right flank. -
21:45
The archers from Finnr and Audun’s advances had been able to do much the same as his, and by the time he looked up, the remaining eight archers had been whittled down to only four huddled behind their firing shields with swords in hand. The shields were used to give them something to stand behind while reloading, and now they had been turned to block or delay the Viking vanguard’s rush, hopefully. Torbjørn smirked as he saw the panic in their eyes when he and his warriors did not stop their approach. Looking to his warriors, he issued one command before sprinting forward, “Follow me.” The shields were braced with kickstands and sandbags that helped them stand on their own and absorb the impact of arrows, javelins, and spears thrown back at them. They were not braced enough to withstand the force of a grown man slamming into them with purpose. Lowering his head and tucking his shoulder against his shield, Torbjørn slammed into the joint where the two inward-most shields were pressed against each other. Splintering the wood at first before the shields simply collapsed inwards and fell over, he pressed on his advance and slammed his shield into the chest of one of the defenders. His sword moved quickly, thrusting through the man’s mouth and out of the back of his head. Torbjørn used his shield to push the corpse back, allowing it to fall before he focused on the two archers to his right. He could the sounds of the woman that was beside him rushing through the gap and throwing herself at the single archer at his rear with her axe and shield in hand. Pressing his advantage, he blocked one blow with his shield and redirected a thrust with his sword. -
21:45
Kicking forward with his right leg, Torbjørn caught one of the Muslims in the right knee, breaking his leg and sending him to the floor. Blocking another swing with his shield, he slashed his sword down at the back of the man on the ground, killing him before he brought his sword up. Pushing the last soldier’s sword high and out of the way with his shield, he brought his sword up in a thrust into the man’s chest. With the archer threat ahead of them neutralized, Torbjørn commanded his archers to focus on supporting the other two assaults before taking up positions on the roof to fire down on the Muslim defenders. Walking to the roof's edge and seeing a few dozen Muslims standing back from the barricades fearfully, he nodded and gestured his warriors forward before moving to the ladder the archers had used to get up there. Jumping down and landing with a deep grunt, he flourished his sword as the Muslims looked at the man that had been brave or foolish enough to jump down in front of them alone and unsupported. He could hear his warriors coming down the ladder quickly, and he yelled out his command, “Clear the barricades and continue the advance!! We need to regain the upper hand!!” Seeing a couple of spearmen approach him, Torbjørn used his shield and sword to block or knock aside the thrusts that came at him. He didn’t want to invest in the melee waiting to kick off until one of the barricades was cleared. This was not a lack of confidence in his abilities to take them on but more a need to ensure they did not try to flank him and attack his warriors as they were busy with the barricades. Hearing a victorious shout before a thunder of feet as one of the pathways was cleared, he lifted his shield when one of the spears was thrust at him. Dodging the spearhead, he lowered his arm over the shaft and kept it in place before lunging forward and stabbing the man in the throat. -
21:46
With the other Vikings now joining him, the attack could resume. The Muslim line was quickly set upon by a force of Vikings that outnumbered them three to one easily. Torbjørn pushed his way to the front, dispatching enemies with sword slashes and thrusts until he heard a quick report from Audun’s horn. He recognized it as the blast that would signal a rallying point, and he lifted his head to look over the assembled men pressed together. Seeing the warriors from his ships assembled and on the left flank of the attack, he pressed through the Viking lines to join them in their push against the Muslims. They were able to break through quickly, opening the Muslims’ right flank and causing them to pull back and consolidate on themselves. Pulling to the rear as his warriors hacked into the Muslims, he walked up to Audun, Finnr, and Halvor. Audun held a piece of parchment that they were all looking over. Coming up and looking at it as well, he recognized it as a map of the city, but it was marked with symbols in another language. Assuming it was the language of the people, he recognized additional markings that were hastily added and matched the location of the barricades. “I pulled it from the body of one of the archers on my rooftops. I believe he was their leader, and I believe this map shows where there are other concentrations of enemy forces. Look here, at this round building. Plenty of open pathways around it, so it must be important. I’m thinking it is a temple of sorts, but there is a mark made that must be enemy units.” Audun gestured at the map as he spoke before finally resting his finger on a symbol that looked like a bullhead. Torbjørn nodded slowly before gesturing at the map as well, “I think we found where we are needed. Audun, you have the map, you lead the way.” @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 19-Jul-23 12:54 AM
The blonde young barbarian stood there in silent assessment of her, still resting his axe on his shoulder and watching Zaira with a humorous glint in his eyes. Every now and then, his eyes flicked between her and the wall, and when she looked past him to her family’s villa, he turned to follow her gaze in that direction. He might be from a foreign land very far away, his culture very clearly different from hers. But what she could read on his face needed no cultural understanding or words to be translated. A question formed in his eyes, eyebrows raising slightly in anticipation for her to do something, then a squint and a smirk that had his eyes take on a mocking challenge when she failed to move in any one direction and act upon her instincts to flee this place. Temporarily rooted in place by her own indecisiveness, Zaira’s shoulders deflated slightly with a defeated exhale. She broke eye contact with the man, trailing her gaze to watch the other barbarians both wounded and resting, and eventually settled them to look down at her own hands where she wrung them together. The barbarian said a few words and turned away to resume his position to watch over the gardens in general. Zaira heard the monk reply, a few short words that sounded strange and slow around the barbarian language. She heard footsteps approach slowly, and her gaze lifted again just in time to see Channing reach out to her shoulder, pausing mere inches away from her as if uncertain whether to touch her or not. The look in his eyes wasn’t unkind, but it also was not any kind of comforting. If anything, he had the look of someone who wished to tutor an apprentice, lecture and admonish. Zaira very discreetly shied her shoulder away by turning slightly, giving the man a slight frown that had her delicately arched eyebrows knit in disapproval. Channing redirected his arm to gesture back towards the blankets where she had been sitting, inhaling deeply before he spoke again.
00:54
“Please, stay. Sit. I will try to help you if I can. You are not alone. There are… will be… many more like you.” Perhaps he had intended his words to be of some comfort or reassurance, but to Zaira it sounded like an ominous threat. A threat to her people, not just her own freedom and life but many others as well. She bit her lip, looking off into nowhere in particular, hoping that Išbīliya’s defenses would prevail and push back these barbarians. Kill them all, or at the very least force them to retreat. Punish them for the many deaths of civilians they had killed this day. Punish them for the death of her father. Tears stung her eyes, and she stared without blinking while trying to suppress them, only somewhat successful as a few painted pale lines down her cheeks when she was eventually forced to blink out of mere reflex. “If you obey, no harm will come to you,” Channing continued slowly, hesitating on the word ‘obey’ as if he was unsure if that was the right word. It was. There were many other words he could use; surrender, comply, submit. But obey was the right word for this situation. She grimaced as if someone had forced something foul down her throat, shaking her head. “You ask me to just give up? Give up my freedom, as if I accepted slavery without question?” Channing gave her the smallest of nods. “You are trell to them now. But it does not mean your life ends and everything will be terrible. Not unless you make it so. It will end if you fight them.”
00:54
Zaira met his gaze for many silent seconds, still hearing the fight deeper in the city but trying to not think too much about it. She swallowed the lump in her throat. With her father gone and her only male – hopefully still alive – relatives both little boys and underage, she had no one to protect her or take care of her. Dana would have to remarry or move to stay with her own brother. Indira and the boys would follow her. But Zaira was not Dana’s child or responsibility. Perhaps Dana could convince her brother to accept Zaira as his charge, but he was in no way legally obliged to do so. They would at best arrange a marriage for her, quickly and with anyone who showed interest. Such a trade deal did not seem much more favorable than this, aside from the fact that she would still be here, in her homeland and city. Her jade green eyes wandered the area again, again drawn to her family’s villa. The thought from before reemerged in her mind and became more and more a viable option the more she thought about it. Before she could think about stopping herself, her mouth opened and spoke on its own. “Can I bargain for my freedom?” “Bargain?” Channing echoed stoically, clumsily repeating the word in her language. The monk’s face revealed confusion. Biting her tongue, worried she might be revealing more than she wished, Zaira hesitated many more seconds before she eventually clarified. “Yes. Slaves can be traded, sold, and bought. Can I purchase my own freedom?” “That…” the monk paused and blinked, tilting his head at her slightly. “Is not unheard of. But it is not for me to say. Torbjorn brough you here, it is for him to decide. “And if he does not return?” she probed, feeling a tiny, small flicker of hope in her chest. “If he falls in battle?”
00:54
“Then I believe it is for his second to decide. But I am not sure. Your question is… unusual.” He closed his mouth and regarded her, looking over her unassuming appearance and clothing, his hand stroking absentmindedly over the bloody tunic still hanging from his arm. Zaira could feel the unspoken questions in his eyes, repeating the same questions he had asked before. Who was she? Who did the yellow tunic belong to? Was she important? Rich? Poor? Before he could give them voice again, she shook her head. “I can pay. Do not ask any more.” How she was going to reveal her knowledge of many riches while simultaneously having her freedom guaranteed, Zaira had yet to figure out. But she had to try, even if it meant she had to lie. She knew it was the only way she could possibly escape this situation unscathed. Beyond the walls came the sound of a horn, echoing from deeper within the city. Zaira was not trained to assess the distance of sound, but it sounded like the barbarian invaders had made progress and were heading in the direction of the Ibn Adabbas Mosque. The notion had her shake, outrage, fear, and worry all blending within her gut into an uncomfortable knot that tensed and refused to let go. The Mosque would likely be a point of defense for her people, a place for people to gather and huddle for protection by the city guards and soldiers. They were running out of time, and in extension, so was she. The sooner the barbarians returned here the sooner she would have to face that monstrous man again. Behind Channing, upon hearing the horn, the blonde younger man smiled triumphantly and spoke a few loud words, causing the other barbarians in the garden to laugh. Some stood from their seats and pounded their chest, shouting, clearly celebrating whatever victory their comrades had accomplished. @tiefighter96
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Torbjorn Steinarson BOT 24-Jul-23 05:24 PM
The path to the mosque was easy to follow, especially with the aid of a map. There weren’t many Muslims on the roads to offer resistance, with most having fled, died in the initial attack, or taking refuge and hiding. Those that were hidden would likely be found eventually when the attack was declared over, and the proper looting could begin. Not many ships did as those from Lofotr, looting as they went and dedicating areas that they would use as a base of operations. Individual warriors might snatch up pieces of gold and slip them into their carrying sacks as they go, but the pursuit of glory and bloodshed drove them forward most. Under Torbjørn’s leadership, there would be more readily available loot for those warriors from Lofotr when they could focus and work together to amass and defend loot. There was always a chance of counterattacks, but Torbjørn had seen the results of greed in raids along the English and Frankish coasts. Vikings that felt they had missed out on the most excellent opportunities for loot would try to take from the camps of those others they deemed careless or overflowing with loot. He had had to defend his spoils on multiple occasions, striking down a warrior from a southern clan only to have to reason with the man’s leader that it was an act of self-defense. The claim was generally honored, though there were times that he would have to give some sort of gold as payment for the family of the slain. These actions of betrayal by their fellow Vikings had led Torbjørn to this defensive mindset, and it was also why he left strong warriors that could be a difference at the front behind at his camp. Warriors like Bjarga were meant to protect from enemy counterattacks or selfish looters. -
17:24
As they closed in on the mosque, Torbjørn could hear the uneasiness in the tones of some of his warriors. They had left the main invading vanguard and were moving on their own. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for their forces to operate separately, but being in a city like this cut them off from the others. He was not ignorant of this, but Torbjørn also knew that with enough aggression, they could defend their flanks by action. Besides that, if the vanguard did as they ought to, they would catch up and provide them with their flank support sooner rather than later. Rounding a final street corner, he held his shield high and saw a couple dozen Muslim warriors standing before the mosque. Rather than the others' simple chainmail and padded armor, these men had steel plates over the mail on their chest and shoulders. Their shields bore similar markings to one another, and it was easy to tell that they were an elite force. The opening salvos of arrow fire from Torbjørn’s archers found no gaps as the men formed up behind their shields and defended one another. Nodding and grinning as he approached, Torbjorn slid his sword back into its scabbard and pulled his one-handed axe from his belt. Slipping the sheathe from the blade, he twirled it back and forth to loosen up his wrist before looking at the men and women around him. Giving a shrill whistle, he called out quickly, “Audun, Finnr!! Take the left and make entry into the building. Halvor and I will attack the center and right!! Go!!” Striding forward with a force that outnumbered the defenders by nearly four to one, Torbjørn watched the enemies looking from each other to the line of Vikings approaching them. They collapsed in on themselves, forming a line three deep and eight across that would let them take the force of the advance easier. Nodding as he noticed the way they moved back toward the mosque, Torbjørn looked to Audun and shouted, “Take the building. Ignore them. We’ll handle them!” -
17:24
Seeing Audun’s forces nod before grouping on him, he looked back to the enemy forces they were slowly striding towards. Each step gave them time to solidify their defense of the mosque, and time was of the essence. Growling as he tightened his grip on his axe, Torbjørn shouted, “On me!!” Sprinting forward with his axe forward to defend himself from any arrows fired by the defenders, he pulled away from his forces by several meters. The thundering footsteps of the Vikings behind him could be heard, but his focus was on the men in front of him. Seeing their eyes glancing from him to the warriors at his rear and then back to him, Torbjørn poured on the speed to close the distance faster. He needed to shock the enemy and bring their focus to him, not the force that Audun had moving to the doors of the mosque. Slamming his axe across the front of his shield, he gave a primal roar before slamming the face of his shield into the shield formation in front of him. The force of the impact caused the two men he hit to stumble back against their comrades behind them. Bringing his axe down on the second rank as the two men fell to the ground, Torbjørn ignored the men to either side of him. Before they could strike him, his forces had caught up and slammed into them with their shields. His axe bit into a shield, but he pushed it up along the face and then hooked down on the top of the shield. Yanking down and clearing it out of the way, he bared his teeth and let his lengthened canines show. The man’s eyes widened before he lifted his sword to stab it at Torbjørn’s face. Turning his head and allowing the blade to skip off the armored nasal spectacles of his helmet, he brought the axe up and down in a swift chop at the side of the man’s neck. The Muslim’s chainmail stopped the axe’s blade, but it did nothing to stop the force that blew through and broke his collarbone beneath. -
17:25
These soldiers and their armor gave a more substantial resistance to his troops as they refused to rout, but Torbjørn’s force wholly outnumbered them to the point where they had them surrounded. Recognizing their situation, the soldiers threw down their weapons after over a dozen had fallen to the Viking weapons. Standing before six soldiers that were kneeling with their hands clasped in front of them, Torbjørn felt his lip curl in disgust before he looked at Halvor. Gesturing at them as their warriors started to drag away the dead to strip them of their weapons and armor, Torbjørn spoke in a harsh tone, “Do with them what you will. If you think we can get information, we’ll take them back to the camp. Otherwise, kill them all.” Seeing Halvor nod before screaming at the men to move them to a staging area, Torbjørn slipped his axe back into his belt and let his shield fall onto his back by its strap. Audun had gained entry into the mosque, and within were civilians and guards that had thrown down their weapons when they saw a large number of Vikings busting down the doors. Seeing various items of gold and silver scattered around the building, he whistled to get Finnr’s attention before pointing at the riches. It was an obvious cue to have his squad start ransacking the building for its wealth while he moved over to Audun. Looking down at a trio of older men that sat in defiant ignorance of the towering Vikings, Torbjørn lowered his right hand and grabbed one of them by their beard. The man winced, but there was no other reaction given to the large pale monster that stood over him. Chuckling softly, slightly impressed by the man’s devout stance to ignore those that trespassed on their holy soil, Torbjørn looked to Audun and spoke in a gruff tone, “Round them up and prepare them to move. I want to get back to camp before the others get here.” -
17:25
Seeing nods from the warriors around them as his own squad joined Finnr’s in ransacking the building, Torbjørn moved to leave the building when he glanced back down at the man he had grabbed. He smirked as he grabbed the man by the back of his neck and lifted him to his feet. Ignoring the panicked sounds of the other Muslims in the room, Torbjørn walked to the exterior doors with the man forced to follow. Pointing out at the dead guards, including those that had been put to death by Halvor’s axe, he spoke in a deep growl, “Pray all you want, but your god has failed you. Tyr guides my axe while Allah cradles your dead.” Throwing the man to the ground, Torbjørn growled before bringing his right foot down in a fierce stomp that crushed the elder’s skull. Hearing screams from the others in the church as the man died without so much as a pained grunt, he drew his sword and pointed it at the closest man that was being directed toward the door by Audun’s squad. Pointing down at the corpse and then up at the man that approached, he made grabbing motions with his free hand, signaling the man to carry or drag the corpse. Torbjørn smirked as the man obeyed, pulling the corpse up onto his shoulders before carrying him the entire way back to the compound. The Vikings had moved quickly, finding no other resistance and avoiding the advance of the vanguard so that there was no question of where this loot had come from. Some might call it an unfair venture by the Vikings of Lofotr, and Torbjørn did not want to have to fight them off again. Returning to the street around the garden, he motioned for the human loot to be moved into the garden while the gold that was being carted back was taken into the home to be counted and collected. He was aware of Channing trying to talk to his slave as he directed the warriors and their loot, but other than a passing glance toward the woman, he couldn’t give them much attention. -
17:26
Though, once everything was settled, Torbjørn would move closer to his slave of choice. Retrieving his two-handed axe from Bjarga, he asked the man, “Have there been any discoveries or cooperation?” Bjarga shrugged, his hands finding his hips as he looked at the loot that was being brought in. His eyes came back to Torbjørn before shifting to the woman, his words coming quietly so as not to be overheard, “She told Channing her name is Zaira El-Hashem, but nothing else. We don’t know who the yellow tunic was.” Nodding slowly, Torbjørn patted the man on the shoulder before walking over to Channing and the woman. Squatting down beside the monk with his axe balanced over his legs, he looked at the woman and spoke with a smirk, “So, Zaira, who did I kill? Father, brother, lover? Why did he protect so fervently?” @shadowcat_rp_love
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Zaira El-Hashem BOT 25-Jul-23 07:30 AM
The monk kept her company, irrefutably attentive to her and hanging onto every word she spoke. It was almost comically obvious how he was still trying to get information from her. He had walked away to fetch bread and cheese – from her own household, and returned with it, asking permission to sit with her by the blankets. Zaira did not deny him to sit, but she scooted into a comfortable distance, so he was not encroaching on her personal space. Offering the food to her, he spoke: “It is not much, but it is better than hunger. Please eat something.” Zaira shook her head in refusal without looking at him. Though the yellow tunic still shined brightly with crimson discoloration in her peripheral vision. Eat? Now? No, she could not. With a sigh, Channing broke off a piece of the bread and laid it with cheese on the ground beside her, then he slowly ate what he had kept for himself. At least he was a quiet eater, chewing in silence and observing the gardens alongside her. This, she could appreciate. It felt like hours. Maybe it had been. The monk asked questions every now and then, about buildings he saw in the distance, about the city, its inhabitants, if she knew how many Jews and Christians resided within it. Zaira answered most of his questions with vagueness, humoring his curiosity. He even asked if she knew where there would be written records kept. Records of the city’s history, perhaps journals written in the hands of conquerors and renowned leaders. She did not know this, and she feigned her ignorance by claiming that she did not know how to write. A lie, pray Allāh forgive her.
07:30
Channing looked wholeheartedly disappointed by her answer but pried no further about the matter. Zaira gave the man a sideways glance, surprised he would look to expand his own personal and scholarly knowledge on a raid alongside barbarians that wasn’t even his own people. She wanted to inquire about his faith, if he believed that his God was the same as hers, Allāh. She’d always thought that it was, and many more had the same views. One, almighty God that transcends humanity. The difference between Islam and his own people were that the Islamic nations were all united under the same banner, both in faith, politically and military. It was why the conquests had been so successful, why many converted to join them. But she voiced none of her questions or thoughts, tensing her jaw and staring ahead with nothing solid to fixate her attention on. The sun was hanging low on the horizon by the time she heard heavy, many footsteps approach beyond the walls of the garden. Tensing and steeling herself, her eyes fell upon one very tall figure amongst the barbarians who returned, conflicted emotions between relief and absolute dread swelled within her on seeing him not just alive – but entirely unharmed as well. If Channing spoke the truth, then this man was the key to her freedom. But he was also the reason for her lack of it. “If you have more to say, Zaira, say it now,” Channing said with a lowered voice, speaking quickly and stuttering around the Arabic words. “He wants answers.” She could see the monk nod in the direction of the tall man, the man he had referred to as Torbjorn.
07:30
But all she could bring herself to do was bend her knees and hug around them where she sat, one hand quickly and needlessly adjusting the headscarf around her hair to secure it. Her eyes followed the man’s movements around the garden while he organized the other warriors carrying large bags of loot, leading captured and bound slaves. She masked her scowl when she saw they were using her family’s villa as a safehouse for it all, inhaling slowly while still mentally preparing herself to offer her proposition and how to do it. The man felt less intimidating while he had his attention elsewhere, though he looked no less menacing. His clothes were more bloodied than before, no doubt from unfortunate people he had slain on his way through the city. “Where will you sleep?” she asked, eventually tearing her eyes off the large man, and looking towards Channing beside her. “Nightfall will be here soon. Where do they sleep?” Channing offered a slow shrug. “Wherever is safe. They will feast and drink if they find any. Some will stay watch; others will sleep wherever they can lay their heads.” She swept her gaze over the gardens and the many barbarians within it, her sense of dread rising again at the prospect of sleeping out here among them. But her reverie was interrupted when she spotted the tall man again, heading towards them. Her shoulders tensed and she had to mentally will herself not to scurry away from him when he lowered himself to his haunches in front of her. His lumbering frame shadowed the setting sun.
07:30
Listening to his foreign words carefully, she recognized her name spoken in it. Then Channing translated for her, slowly. Her eyes unwillingly darted to the yellow tunic that Channing had laid on the ground, respectfully folded. Her knuckles whitened around her knees when she looked back up at the tall man, steeling herself to meet his gaze. “What difference does it make who he was? He is dead.” Beside her, Channing spoke in that foreign harsh language, hopefully translating her words. But before Channing had finished, she spoke up again. “You want riches.” Her hand forcibly freed itself from the other, gesturing to the piles of things taken from her home. “Fine crafted things, yes? I am no slave. Not good to keep as slave. Not valuable. I will pay riches if you let me go.” In her mind, she hoped that she could convince the man that her value as a slave would be far less compared to the value she could show him in simple riches. @tiefighter96
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