It had been a long hard battle. Bodies now lay sprawled out on the sand. One figure sat tall, atop their Slepinir. It’s fur as black as the night sky, a Norse rune had been branded in to its flank. The rider was dressed in thick black armour and a hood covered their hood but all that could seen were tendrils of gold. Tiny braids littered their golden mane and were decorated with bones and beads, their cloak fell over the rear of their beast. They gingerly rode through the blood flooded battlefield, the viper tattoos on their arms also visible.
Their beast threw his head up and stamped his hooves impatiently. “Easy boy,” they said and ran a hand down their horses neck. Just as they were about to turn tail and leave they heard the wheezing of a survivor, they walked to the cliffs edge where they saw an injured warrior. His long red hair soaked with crimson and his leather armour tattered. The rider dismounted with one swift motion of their leg over their horses head.
They landed with a thud, their boots sinking into the wet field.
They began to chant while taking their axe from their back, as they finished they swung their axe down into the warriors chest. He bit his tongue and didn’t make a sound as he slipped away into Valhalla. “May you be free brother,” they said and mounted their Slepinir once again and rode off. But just as they were leaving another figure emerged they had been hiding from her. Once the hoofbeats were no more and she disappeared.
Bjorn, the young chieftain. The sides of his head cropped short the rest of his long brunette hair was tied in a tight braid that slithered down his back. A thick beard was decorated with beads and was finely groomed. His armour dark brown, worn and blood stained. His axe blunt and chipped. His shield bent and broken, he threw it to one side and looked around him he was now the only survivor. A great wound poured from his shoulder, he clasped a hand over it and winced.
The cold wind bit into his being even his muscle was no match for the cold.
He stumbled across the empty, silent battlefield and to the camp that was now filled with the cries of the suffering. He walked into his tent that was at the very end of the camp, his shieldmaiden was waiting for him. “Bjorn!” She exclaimed, “I didn’t expect you to be in such a state.”
“Nor did I,” he sighed as he collapsed down on the stall in pain. She began to unbuckle his armour and slide it off gently, she took the caldron off the fire and grabbed a cloth and cleaned his wound. He hissed every now and then.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she said and kissed his lips gently, he looked away for a second ignoring her words. “You saw her didn’t you?”
“Her?” He inquired.
“The Maiden of Death,” she said.
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