Expansion War in the North: Hands Blood-Drenched [KOE expansion into Dal Arad]

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

"He is no lord, Ulfbitenn" Samhradhan hissed. "He is a weasel in a wolf's hides... And one who would not dare accept a worthy blade's challenge. Is that right, Valragn?"

"Denying it how it works won't change anything, Samhradhan." Valragn shook his head. He had lost interest in the O'Scand's threats ever since he had seen the man carved. He was no longer the formidable warrior he once was. With half his vision and perhaps half his strength, Samhradhan was a tool to Valragn's sadistic liking, being yet another of the Southerner nobles brought low before his Northerner feet. It was also not him who he was most interested in.

Even if the O'Scand had reached out in what could only be described as a unique opportunity for the O'Carbal, they were the ones who had fallen in the war. The armies of Belcarrick and Rathgord were unmade by the Ulfbitenn allies, the Rosbathadh, and their once prestige in Fiathyne had diminished, with many rebelling nobles now gaining the upper hand, as the Ulfbitenn gradually consolidated their new regime, picking among the other houses over who would get to rule in the O'Scand stead as if they were feeding treats in famished hounds, before a hunt.

The O'Carbal had lost a significant number of troops, and yet, Valragn in particular was still confident. It was not a war he anticipated, after all. He had a whole different plan at the works for the soon to be dominant Ulfbitenn. And that plan required leverage, which he found on the newly captured Yelena Ulfbitenn....

The sharp tongue of Yelena caused Valragn's head to tilt, and a wide smirk to form on his face. In truth, he did not know exactly what he was meant to anticipate from the Ulfbitenn she-warrior. A Lady of the Court she might have been, the line of the Hound of Roadren was renown for not sticking to the laws of many. Besides, the woman hailed from a long line of warrior-women who had marked history with their achievements... Blath, the Iron Lady, Afrianna, the "Blind Seer", Caetilyn, Eimhir. In a way, Valragn respected the Ulfbitenn for abiding to primitive traditions they themselves had never known. Traditions, he too could respect, having known the Nordur practice of Shieldmaidens, carried on by the Northerner peoples in Eirelunn.

"An Ulfbitenn's tongue is sharper than a Fomorian blade, I see." he nodded. "Aye, I like that. At least I know I am not talking with a soft-skinned whelp, like the rest of the Southerners...!" Valragn picked his clay cup and drunk, before gesturing towards the woman.

"I have no interest in your codes of ethics and whatever it is that makes your kind susceptive to deceit and weakness, O'Scand... One does not survive in the North by believing in fairy tales and magic words." Valragn was not as amused when addressing the noble man.

"Honour. That is the word you are looking for, Valragn. If only you know the first thing about it..."

Valragn inhaled. His contempt for Samhradhan becoming audible in his mannerism.

"Oh, cast it to the sea..." Valragn replied with a Nordur saying. "You and your little father are who lost in this. The sooner you admit it the better. Now, me?" He pointed to himself. "I am looking to the benefit of my side, which -you- dragged into your little game of thrones. So do not lecture me on honour, Southerner, I know much more than you do... At least, my warriors do not forsake me in the moment the arrows start squealing."

Valragn's eyes jumped from Samhradhan to Yelena.

"And you... Ulfbitenn. Your blades do not shine as much in Dal Arad. You have gotten yourself quite a few enemies who are more than willing to join -my- shield wall than your ranks. You have fought the O'Scand in Fiathyne, the Island-Lords in Manna, the Nordur in Gerth, Cummanscach's Goidels in Talmharre... Do not believe I am just a savage, Ulfbitenn. I have been keeping an eye on your little wars. So yes, it will be silver, and alot of it, that will take for you to return to your Red Angel. You would do best to act according to your place, Ulfbitenn. You are a hostage in the North. Nobody likes your kind here. So, to me, it feels I am the only protection you will be getting, in Dal Arad... Remember that. Besides..."

Valragn gestured his hand towards his now empty clay cup. One of the slaves behind him rushed to refill the ale, before withdrawing once again.

"I hear you Ulfbitenn are quite familiar with how prisoner exchanges work..."

He then extended his hand over the freshly seasoned meat on the plater that lied between him and Yelena. A wide smile forming on his face; A sinister smile, in his mind, observing his otherwise flawless plan unfolding in perfect synchrony with his mind's estimation.

"Your blade is already on the way to Belcarrick, for your kin to know you are here. As of your well-being, given my riders return unharmed, I shall allow an embassy to come and see you. If my riders do not return... Then I will be forced to provide a more convincing message to your father."

Valragn's tone darkened as he laid down the custom perhaps all too well known to Yelena. He did not do this to familiarize her with it, for he could only assure himself she knew exactly how it was meant to work. If the hostages were unharmed, then their House negotiated a ransom for them to be released. If the House refused, then the prisoners lost value... And thus, more often than not, fingers; A taunting warning of what would befall them should their kin did not ransom them in time...
Oh no, Valragn knew this wasn't unknown to Yelena. Yet the mere thought of intimidating an Ulfbitenn caused his very blood to pump ever faster in satisfaction of the most wicked form.

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

Protection?

If she had the energy, Yelena would have laughed until her lungs burned. But the absurdity of this entire situation had drained her of any trace of humor.

Unlike most noble women among the houses, Yelena had never desired the delicate flutter of a fan or the gentle grace of fine gowns. Her hands only ever felt at home gripping the hilt of a sword. Whether it was due to her father’s influence or the harsh mentality she’d been born into, she could never be sure. But from an early age, all she ever wanted was to be clad in a uniform, not lace and silk. Her father, far from discouraging it, had embraced it—if anything, he himself ruthlessly shappping her into a weapon.

By the time her own weight could bear the heft of a true sword, Yelena had long since cast aside the notion of protection. It had never been offered to her—nor would she have accepted it.

A fleeting image of a back standing in front of her flickered through Yelena’s mind, but she forced her focus onto Valragn.

"You must not know my father very well," she said, her voice laced with bitterness. "If anything, he will kill them the moment he notices them coming toward him, just to teach me a lesson in what it means to get caught. Might as well melt my blade while he is at it."

She let out a low chuckle, dismissively waving her hand. "Besides, sending your men to certain death? Not exactly a strategy the Ulfbitenn would consider smart—let alone wise. And that doesn’t leave a good impression, no?"

There was always the chance that her father, ever prideful, would spare Valragn’s men, not for their sake but to avoid the shame of her carrying a permanent mark of failure. Perhaps he’d indulge them, returning the men unscathed, just for the opportunity to understand what this charade was about. But there was a critical difference between her father and Valragn.

One of them had the resources to offer something of value. The other? Only hollow threats.

The Ulfbitenn didn’t seize control of vast lands by recklessly wielding violence alone. While they relished the bloodshed that followed in their wake, they were calculated, cunning, and always several steps ahead of their enemies. That’s what set them apart. Those who fell beneath their boots—like the O'Scand before her, and Valragn as well in a way—lacked what the Ulfbitenn possessed.

Ferocity. Intelligence. The willingness to abandon sanity of today for a greater tomorrow.

They were simply better.

Yelena’s finger—hell, her very life—meant nothing in the grander schemes of Ulfbitenn ambition. If Valragn thought he held leverage, he was sorely mistaken. Threats and blackmail didn’t work on them. This was why men like him were little more than savages—brutes unfit to lead.

An offer, though... that was different. Deals could be made. But it had to be something worth the blood they were willing to spill. But Yelena had no intention of sharing these thoughts with Valragn. Some lessons had to be learned through failure, and she was content to let him stumble into his own.

Relying on Valragn for protection was as foolish as throwing oneself off a cliff and expecting to fly. Pointless. If anything, in this situation, Yelena preferred the idea of someone pulling her back from that edge rather than letting her fall.

She placed both palms flat on the table, her fingers spread wide as if anchoring herself. Her gaze flickered over each digit before settling on the O'Scand standing across from her, eyes focused solely on him.

“One doesn’t survive under Ulfbitenn rule by tossing threats over a bloodstained table,” she said coldly. “Even honour has more value than whatever game you're playing, Valragn.” Her eyes shifted back to the Northern lord, a scornful smile curling her lips. “My enemies don’t hate my name—they fear it. The moment they recognize true power, they squirm like little mice. It would be easy for them to hide behind weaker fur when they know they’ll betray it the first chance they get. But the moment they realize all you can do is sever fingers—more bark than bite—let’s see whose shield they cower behind then.”

With that, Yelena finally sank into her chair, her fingers curling around the cup in front of her. She grabbed a nearby jug of ale and filled the cup herself, downing it in one swift motion. Like a beast unleashed, she reached for a piece of meat with her bare hands and tore into it, forcing herself to chew and swallow the near-raw flesh, even as her stomach churned in protest. Strength was what she needed now, and if this was the way to get it, she would endure.

Her gaze lifted to the O'Scand, a thin line of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it away with the back of her hand before licking her lips clean. He looked shaken, stuck in some inner turmoil that had paralyzed his will to fight. With the defeat his family suffered and the recent events, it was no wonder. But she needed him to snap out of it, to reclaim the strength and pride that seemed to have slipped from his grasp. He had to rise—not just for himself but for both of them.

Whatever had passed between them before, the choices made, the betrayals buried in their shared history—they had to be cast aside, at least for now. In this twisted turn of fate, her only option was to align herself with him.

"Sit," she said coldly, yet her voice held a certain intent. "Might as well enjoy whatever time we have left before we find our own fingers on the table."

She took another bite, chewing with slow, deliberate force, but her attention drifted to the empty chair beside her. Her jaw froze mid-chew, a sudden flash of Uallach swaying in the carriage surfacing in her mind. Something unspoken tightened in her chest.

Her voice softened as she spoke again. "Was there another Ulfbitenn— a woman—found near me? Did you take her as well?"

 

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

The one-eyed glare of Samhradhan remained fixed on Valragn. Part of him revelled in the fact that he knew what awaited him and the O'Cerbal, after the Ulfbitenn realized the grave attempt of blackmail that Valragn had orchestrated. Ruthless, opportunist and determined as the O'Scand could have been, even under Lord Lothal's command, they never truly sough a direct confrontation with the mighty Houses of Dunwyn, less so, Ulfbitenn themselves.

The model of rule established by the Ulfbitenn was something that had always fascinated Edrik, "The Red" O'Scand, Samhradhan's uncle and once ruler of Belcarrick. Charismatic and much better an advocate than his brother, Edrik had attempted many a time to convince Samhradhan about the virtues and prospect the Southerner regime heralded.

"We are rivals, for the Eilean Shores and Eirelunn alike" he used to say. "But never cast a rival's virtues over their sins. The Sins will grant you the opportunity to defeat them. The virtues, will offer a way to use them. Any a challenging foe can prove valuable, if their values can be used. To exterminate is to stand alone with no friends. And when the times come, a great foe finally emerges, none shall seek your protection. A liege punishes as harshly as he forgives."

Once, these words rung as little more than concealed admiration towards King Harrul and his Ulfbitenn dynasty, to Samhradhan. It was his father, Lothal, after all, who always retorted that a wounded dog shall bite regardless how much one tries to feed it. If you strike, it must be fatal. A mentality he bludgeoned on both his sons through years of trials, deceit and continuous criticism. Harsh, and cruel, yet Lothal proved to his sons that he was nothing more, or less, than the world around them: Harsh; And Cruel.

As Yelena and Valragn exchanged black words and promises of ill-intent, Samhradhan's mind whirled to Edrik's words, once viewed as wishful thinking, now suddenly fountaining again, through the unexpected and, by many a view, needless reconciliation of the O'Scand to the Ulfbitenn regime. The two families were almost a perfect match on their cruelty, and yet, the Ulfbitenn had strangely adopted to views that were once considered but a weakness.

Sichfrith "The Cruel" Ulfbitenn, Harrul's own father, had driven the entire realm of Dunwyn and the surrounding domains in a bloody civil war for his denial of compromise. But Harrul, after his victory through the vengeful hands of the Rosbathadh, he offered a pardon. The term, still, to Samhradhan, remained disgraceful, yet it was far less than what could have been if the tables were turned. In a way, there was a strange grace in the otherwise cruelty of the peace arrangement.

"I actually have heard of your father, the Hound..." Valragn's statement summoned Samhradhan back from his momentary trans. "And so have I about your brother... And I look forward meeting them, indeed. I am sure we can spend some time exchanging cultures..."

He was a fool. The very conception of such a plan was plagued by the many echoing sins the O'Scand would have never tolerated, and of all their despised acts, never performed. And here was, Valragn, of the O'Cerbal, who had already felt the weight of the Royalist blade in the near complete annihilation of their cavalry.

Nevertheless, with his army bloodied, and his own father dead, the actual Jarl of the O'Cerbal, who had not fallen to any battle wounds, as far as Samhradhan could recall, Valragn taunted on his impossibly bright fortune of not having been targeted by a retaliatory incursion, after the truce with the O'Scand. Did he think he could best the now Royal army in the field? Did he think that holding houstage an Ulfbitenn could ever end in any possitive way? Samhradhan shook his head, grasping the ale jug and pouring ale to his clay cup, seemingly following Yelena's example. He offered her a gaze. His eyes hinting to his mind's renewed vigor. They were rivals, after all. And they would remain so up until one of the two finally perished. He could not change that. And yet, just like many a time in Dunwyn, or in the North, Houses of the New Nobility were forced to shake hands and put aside their differences, to face off darker, much more sinister threats from the West. In this case, that was the O'Cerbal.

Deriving from Northerner tribes and other savages, the O'Cerbal had adopted Eastern customs very selectivelly, leaning more to the barbaric ways rather than the civilized. The league forged between them and the O'Scand was an achievement of years of diplomacy and on occasion, conflicts between the two. But now, after such a foul ploy? Samhradhan could not, should not; Would not, in his right mind, stand idle before such corruption. According to the chivalric codes embraced by the Northern Counties, the O'Scand were part of, to hold a noble captive after a battle was symbolic, expected to be exchanged in case allied nobles were held from the enemy. If that was not the case, it was almost certain that they would be released within few days, unless they required treatment for their wounds. A practice that balanced the favour between warring houses, and distinguished them entirely from the barbarian neighbours, who went as far as ritualistically executing captives.
Capturing a noble like Valragn had done? Attacking a caravan, or a contingent unprovoked, in the middle of the night, like brigands? That, was unacceptable. To offer any support, or even remain neutral, was far beyond Samhradhan's limit. This wasn't ransom. This was kidnapping.

His eye fixed on Yelena. His mind sinking in his thoughts, who urged them more and more to a side he could not believe he'd favour. She was the rival; Yes. But they had little else besides that between them, and even then, if the foul act had not been undertaken, Samhradhan would have stood besides Yelena, to see her kin and his own in marriage. His brother-

Well... He would have... If he still drew breath. Something that he reasoned the Ulfbitenn were yet to learn about, judging by the fact they pursued the arrangement.

"You have forgotten, Valragn." he declared, with a renewed determination, his one-eyed gaze jumping to the Northerner. "We fought a war. We lost. And now we suffer the consequences. You kidnapped one of the Ulfbitenn -and- an O'Scand..." his lips finally cracked into a wide smile, chuckling. "What do you think will happen next?"

Valragn shook his head. Regardless the impossible situation he got his own self into, he seemed to not falter from his state of being. In his mind, it seemd, he kept the control, of whatever foul play this was.

"You take me for a fool, Samhradhan, old friend..." he admitted his thoughts. "But it is the fools who live the longest in the Alblish courts, is it not?"

"It seems to me, you act like one. This is not Albion, though. This is Eirelunn. Courts have no use for fools, Valragn. Or should I call you Jarl?"

Valragn smiled widely, picking his cup and lifting it to a silent toast, before drinking.

"Soon, Samhradhan. Soon."

Samhradhan exhaled in disbelief. He brought his hands over the plate, as he forked a piece of the meat and placed it before him. The initial tension had gradually passed, for him. The new reality had been unfolded, and now, there was no time for resentment, or mourning. This was the time for actions. A champion he was, Samhradhan did what he knew best: A battle plan. He did what he was bred to do.