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

[Dreadheart]

@Yelena Ulfbitenn​

Dal Arad, Eastern Talathair,
Eirelunn, Early Autumn...

The northern wind carried the sea's breeze past the high cliffs that stood high as primordial walls over the rocky coasts of Eirelunn, caressed by the loud tides of the Eirish Sea. It was a tradition tracing its roots in antiquity, Druids upheld, during the first days of Autumn when the rain cried her blessings over Eirelunn for three days without the sun's radiant gaze on the harvested fields, and when the seagulls first fly in colonies deep, towards the Highlans. The Druids gathered to a place holy and ancient, for the Ubhagán, the spiritual leaders of the Circle of the Bear, to reach out to their patron Beithioch, and offer their respects for the harvests apleanty, the fair winds and the absense of plagues.

The roads of Dal Arad, past the Inisdun crossing and the port of Caercull, already carried the effect of the weather's shift, with much of their extent having turned muddy, making the carriage difficult to cross, while on other parts, the sharp stones once burried in the dirt, now bared as the rain carried the mud away, caused the vehicle to bounce. Hardships indeed expected, yet never accustomed by the folk of Dunwyn.

The escort consisted of some twenty mounted men-at-arms, of which five were mounted Coisarmortrum; Nobles of Dunwyn, clad in plated armour and brigandine. Their heads were covered by a tuppete or chaperon, choosing to not wear their steel helmets hanging from their belts, as the long hours on the road were far more comfortable without the metal. The outfits of the knights and Coisarmortrum were far more expensive than the simplistic chainshirt or brigandine and iron kettle hat worn by the rest of the contingent, most of whom had chosen to take them off over a gugel or bag hat, which were far better against the rain.

The road after Inisdun, the Long Bridge between Dunwyn and Fiathyne provinces deteriorated, but not as much as it did when the contingent reached Rathgord. The comforts of a road network in the likes of Dunwyn or Laighin were unthinkable so far to the North. Unlike Dunwyn, which saw drastic changes under the rule of @Harrul Ulfbitenn, the now Eirish King of the Ulfbitenn, the North had never been established as a trade centre, and thus remained to the old ways of war and tribalism, regardless the efforts of the Northern Counties for modernization. A two-day stop in Rathgord was met with a contained feast by the Nobles who held sway over the port city. It had been months, ever since the late Spring, when the war unfolded, since Amlet Ulfbitenn, son of Euric the "Hound of Roadren", had been given command of the city after its conquerors, House Rosbathadh, withdrew their claims over it. Alas, Amlet had been away to the East for several months, when the contingent rested at the city...

By dawn, on the third day, the contingent once again departed, having been gifted with supplies and ten additional men-at-arms, this time Knights from House O'Daire, which had played a tide-turning role during the war and was for that rewarded with favour by the Rosbathadh. They, unlike the rest of the contingent, knew well the paths of the land, and could easily navigate the vaguelly carved roads that led to Belcarrick, the destination of the contingent.

The lands of Fiathyne still carried the painful reminder of the war. Occasionally, the contingent would stride nearby or through ruined settlements, or stumble upon burned fields the rain had yet to wash the ashes from. On a darker day, the view of hanged skeletal remains, victims of the brutalities that had seemingly passed, would rest uneasy by rotting ropes, half-feasted by crows. Eventually, the more the days striding northwards, the more these sights turned fresh, and the more the stench, under which the locals went by, quick to rush in their hovels or grasp their spawns in fear, as the crimson flags of House Ulfbitenn were seen held by the bannermen of the contingent...

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

The wind howled through the carriage, seeping through the cracks of its wooden frame as it trundled along the roads. The sea’s bitter breeze carried the salt of the Eirish tides, mingling with the earthy scent of wet soil and the stench of decomposing corpses. Much like the naked trunks of the bent trees outside, so did Yelena sit rigid and stiff, her green eyes staring across the confined space at the woman who would soon become the bride of an O’Scand.

The carriage jolted over another uneven patch of road, causing the ever-enigmatic Uallach to sway slightly, though her posture never broke. Long red hair, like fire against the muted grays, tumbled loosely over her shoulders, with only a few delicate braids woven through it. The vibrant strands cascaded down onto layers of fine, dark fabrics of her gown, the rich textures a stark reminder of her standing amidst the bleak surroundings.

The rumors and stories, as well as the purpose of their journey, clung to the air between them like whispers of ghosts.

Yelena had no use for mysteries. Her role, much like always, was simple; protect, do not betray, and if all else fails—bleed. Nothing less. Whatever games or schemes Uallach harbored in her mind were not her concern. But as she sat across from her, Yelena could not help but feel a prickling unease. Uallach's stillness was unnatural, her calmness in the face of such a fate—a marriage to an enemy, a weakened house—seemed almost inhuman.

Her pale grey eyes, as cold and unfeeling as the winter skies of her homeland, met Yelena's briefly before drifting away again, as if Uallach found no more interest in her presence than she did in the passing, grim scenery outside. The carriage rocked once again, and Uallach’s thin, pale fingers traced the embroidery on her dark gown absently, her thoughts seemingly elsewhere. She had always been like this, even in the rare moments they had crossed paths in their youth—quiet, inscrutable, and detached from the world around her. Yet Yelena felt, beneath that stillness lay something venomous, sharp and poised, like a spider waiting in its web.

“You don’t seem concerned,” Yelena finally said, her voice sharp, breaking the oppressive silence. “Most would be angry, being played like a pawn.”

Uallach’s gaze flickered towards Yelena once more, her expression unreadable. “A pawn’s role is crucial, if one knows how to play the game,” she replied softly, her voice as distant and cool as her demeanor.

Yelena narrowed her eyes, irritation scratching her skin beneath her composed exterior. “And you believe you know how to play it, then? What do you hope to gain from marrying into a broken house?”

Uallach’s lips curled ever so slightly, a ghost of a smile that never reached her eyes. “Broken things can be mended, Yelena. Or reshaped.”

Yelena had never liked Uallach. Though their families were often compared as two sides of the same coin, the difference between them was tangible. Yelena preferred straightforwardness—people who cut to the core, leaving no room for secrets or ambiguity. She needed solid ground beneath her feet, a clear sense of where she stood. Uallach was anything, but that. Like the heavy clouds above, she was drifting and impossible to read. One could never know where the rain was going to fall the heaviest or where thunder might strike.

Unpredictable.

Yelena shifted her gaze to the landscape outside, the passing corpses and hollow-eyed folk blurring into shadows in her vision.

“Do you… see anything?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended, as if the words themselves might bite.

Suddenly, cold skin brushed her palm, and Yelena nearly jolted out of her stiff uniform. Thin fingers, as delicate as the branches swaying in the rain, wrapped around her hand with a soft yet unyielding grip. Their eyes met, and for the first time in hours of silent travel, Uallach was truly looking at her.

No—through her, perhaps.

“A storm.”

Before Yelena could respond, Uallach’s gaze flicked back outside, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, returning to the inscrutable woman she had always been.

“We’re close,” Uallach murmured. “You should try wearing a better expression. Smile, Yelena. It’s a wedding.”

 

[Dreadheart]

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The droplets escaped the surface of the leaf, descending to the shallow lake formed by the rain of the past days under the pine tree, a guardian of the dense forest that spanned to the West, dressed in a perpetual cloak of mist, dotted by birds and shadows of unknown creatures travellers were wise enough not venture through the woods to identify. As the wind calmed, the humidity settled, all the more, as the Sun trailled his own descend to the Dusk, masked by grey clouds and stormful culumonimbus that crowned the sky.

Rats ran from the well, abandoning the scarce feast found near its stones, in fear of the chain-clothed knight that approached with a hide flask at hand. His chainmail tailored armour covered his body, while over it he wore a tabard with the strapped heraldry of House O'Scand, protected by the weather's lashings by a thick brown gabardine. The Blue Orle around his helmet signified the man's social standing as one of the O'Scand.

"Have the men rest, Ailerán" the man spoke in a voice that gave sound to the fatigue accumulated after a long day of riding and navigating across the land, which was by all means still hostile to his name.

Some ten paces behind the man, the mounted sergeant tipped his kettle hat to the command and reined his stallion back to the rest of the contingent that waited at the hamlet's mouth, where four roads bound on a trident path. Unlike the rest of the horses, the one without a rider was caparisoned with the colours of the O'Scand, marking him as a noble's mount, now held by a young squire, anticipating his master's instructions.

"Alright, lads, we set up here for the night." the aged sergeant declared to the troops.

"What about the Reds?" one of the knights inquired. He received a shrug in return, from the sergeant, who slid from his saddle and drenched his boots in the thick mud.

"Master's orders..." he reasoned. Although loyal enough not to question the order, the aged sergeant had lost faith. After the war, the resolve of the line of Lothal, a liege he had served ever since he could remember himself, had depleted. The situation in the province had remained unstable for months, and the inability of the O'Scand to save face after their defeat had led many to rebellion, which further destabilized the already tattered lands.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The pale feminine fingers caressed the leaf, gently sharing the weight of the gathered humidity that had now grown to watery drops balancing against the weakened northern wind, until they finally gave up and fell down the muddy lake formed by the pine tree's roots. The little light of the sun that managed to pierce through the gathering stormclouds was almost spent, by the time the O'Scand men-at-arms had set up a handful of tents and got two campfires started, to salvage their bones from the grinding bite of the night's humidity.

Centipedes and worms, sensing the foul stench of Tiarnadorch's spawn, crawled towards the thick boots, reaching out to taste the wicked being only to dip their teeth in lifeless animal hide of the footwear. Red blood marks formed vertical lines on the otherwise pale lifeless face, marked like a canvas with primal glyphs of Eirish magicks. Eyes blank, emptied of all flame a soul's vessel would carry. Yet the rage of the abysal taint trapped deep under her skin reverberated in a silent chorus of ill-intent sensible to any creature unlucky enough to behold her.

Her braided hair turned solid by the layers of dirt and pulp substances applied to them, held together by strings made of twine and a fabric bandana cannibalized from a tribal banner, or sheet, baring the mark of Beithioch. She stood amidst the trees, shrouded by the thick mist that engulfed the woods. Pairs of yellow eyes gleamed from behind the darkness, all fixated on her motionless posture.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The droplets poked the lake in the mud. Undefinable shapes of red formed as for each three or four waterdrops, yet another crimson befell the water, further polluting it with the world's most valued currency but alas unseen by most who possessed wealth:

Blood.​

The logs cast into the campfires were tainted black, consumed by the flame that was now extinct, leaving ashes and remnants of roddens yet uncooked, impaled by thick branches. One of the campfires was covered almost completely by the entrails of the steed that lied slain some three paces away, marked by several deep cuts of the axe. Traces of the hooves on the muddy soil hinted the path of the horse from over the campfire, before meeting the gruesome end.

Beyond the fallen horse, deep marks leading to the woods told a far dreadful tale of the rider who was dragged away. His sword half-burried under the mud. The pommel, carrying the ornate symbol of the O'Scand, yet to be covered, left elevated by the thickness of the hand that still held onto it, even if a lake of gore marked the place over which the limb's body should rest...

Another helmet had fallen against the trunks, stained with blood that now soaked the blue orle wrapped around it...

As dusk settled, the hamlet became visible by the Ulfbitenn contingent. Two riders were sent forth to scout, while the rest of the troops shook off the fatigue of the marching and prepared to make contact. If they were fortunate, by tomorrow, they would march into O'Dal territory, a house that although small, had always been a close ally of the Ulfbitenn, and now held significant influence in the province. They had vowed to pick up the Ulfbitenn guests of honour and see them through to Belcarrick. Of course, such an act was strongly opposed by the O'Scand heir who wished to be the one, as per tradition, that would see his bride-to-be safely across the province. In utter disrespect to the O'Scand, the O'Dal refused to allow any of their former enemies to cross their domain armed, adding yet another humiliation to the already grovelling House that once held sway over the province...

The knights of the contingent were restless, and seeing none in their surrounding area caused a feeling of unease. The presence of peasant folk, or passing commoners or merchants trying to reach out, irritating as it might be, offered a sense of normality that the forsaken lands of this province, blend in with the destruction left by the war and the continuation of violence after, did not. It was the tranquility that allowed the whispers of the devils to sound louder in the troops' minds, causing a chained reaction that befell the contingent with silence.

The scouts returned.

"All clear forthride, sire." one of the two reported back, resting his cavalry lance on his shouler. "The storm is heading South." he then continued, nodding towards the towering clouds that had turned dark, heavy with trapped rain. "We should be dry until dawn."

"Dry..." the knight repeated, with a grimache giving weight to his frustration. He wasn't old, having lived for barely over three decades, and yet his face carried deep scars from which one could heal only through the use of Druidic medicines, yet remain deformed throughout the rest of his years. He spat on the ground. "Have the men set up camp." he instructed. "We rest here for the night. Sentries at the village alight. I don't like this place..."

"We fly the red..." one of the O'Daire knights rode near the knight captain and expressed himself. "Brigands would dare not attack an Ulfbitenn..."

The captain shook his head and reined his horse around. "Did your masters not stand with the Northerners, in the war... And then cowered back from the fight?" he taunted the knight. His attempt quick to yield results, as the other, much younger knight locked eyes with him to the sound of the insult. He looked down to the red tabard the captain wore, signifying his allegience to the House Ulfbitenn. He openned his mouth to retort to the captain, but found no courage to do so.

"I thought so..." The captain shook his head. "Keep your opinions to yourself, fisherman..."

The captain rode closer to the carriage, where he took off the tuppet and bowed his head, daring not to pick inside from the window.

"My ladies, the night is upon us. We are camping by the woods for the night. If you would so wish, a stride to relief your feet from the journey's time. I can have guards to escort you, though I suggest not pace beyond the campfire's light. These are treacherous lands yet."

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

The captain’s voice filtered through the carriage window, carrying with it the damp, heavy air that clung to every breath and every strand of hair. Inside the carriage, the humidity seemed to press against them like a wall, as though even the air itself had been stolen away. Uallach sat unmoved, her eyes half-closed. Yet her eyebrows stood knitted together, forehead wrinkling as even she, normally so composed, showed faint signs of weariness and fatigue of the long journey.

Yelena felt the exhaustion too. Her uniform clung to her skin, suffocating and feeling like it became a part of her. Strands of chestnut hair glued to her neck, tangled like they were caught in a web, with cold sweat tracing its way down her back. She couldn't rest, not on this journey, not with the burden of responsibility that weighed on her shoulders—not with the thoughts that plagued her mind.

And that, more than anything, drained her.

The rustling of heavy fabrics filled the small space as Uallach slowly leaned forward, her gaze drifting up to the overcast sky before settling on Yelena. A glimmer of something unreadable flashed behind them, as if the two of them shared a secret only they could understand. The thought of it made Yelena’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

Without a word, Uallach rose and moved to exit the carriage. Yelena hesitated, frowning as she watched her companion step down onto the wet ground. The mud barely clung to Uallach’s delicate leather boots, almost as though the earth itself recoiled from her. The mist rolled down from the darkening woods like a ghostly shroud, casting a muted glow over the road as the first campfire flickered weakly against the deepening night.

Uallach drew a slow, deliberate breath, her chest rising, and Yelena knew her senses were filled with the damp smell of earth and pine. The moisture clung to Uallach like a second skin, settling into the folds of her dark gown, her fiery red hair catching the mist as though it had been spun from the very fog that surrounded them. The wind had stilled, leaving only the faint sound of swaying trees and the soft squelch of horses’ hooves in the mud as the men settled in the camp.

“I’ll walk. But I need no guard.” Uallach finally spoke, voice laced with that familiar chill.

Yelena simply shrugged, “Perfect, for I am no guard.”

Her words met no response, Uallach already beginning her slow stride away from the carriage. Before following, Yelena’s gaze shifted to the captain, her voice slipping into the familiar tone she had inherited from her father, whether she liked it or not.

“Have the scouts make rounds every two hours.”

The captain moved back enough to narrow his eyes at her. “My lady, the scouts have already confirmed the path ahead is clear. We’ll have guards on shifts patrolling the camp—"

Yelena interrupted, her voice dropping to a firm whisper that seemed to blend with the surrounding fog. "We spilled blood here. We butchered people like animals, made the earth beneath your feet drunk on the color we carry. If you believe a single round is enough to secure this place, you'd be considered a fool in my family. Or worse, beheaded." Her eyes flicked to his neck, a silent but potent warning. "Have the scouts make another round in two hours. I will return within an hour with the lady."

Leaving no room for further discussion, Yelena took her stride to catch up with the already drifting Uallach strolling just on the border of the road further up. The woods around them were silent except for the occasional drop of water falling from the trees, landing with a soft plop in the puddles below.

Yelena kept her senses alert, scanning the darkness for any sign of danger, though Uallach seemed utterly indifferent to the world around her. The woman moved with an eerie calm, as if the mist and the shadows were her allies rather than threats.

“You don’t fear the dark,” Yelena murmured, more to herself than to Uallach.

“The dark holds no more secrets than men do,” Uallach replied, a faint smile woven into her words, as though the comment amused her. “It’s not the dark we should fear, but what walks within it.”

Yelena frowned, her mind working to understand Uallach’s cryptic responses. She had never been able to fully grasp the woman’s thoughts, whether she spoke of the now or something up ahead in time, and she suspected that was intentional. Uallach was a mystery, wrapped in layers of protocol, and Yelena had a feeling that was how she preferred it. Yet, there was an edge to her tonight, something that felt more… unsteady.

Their pace was slow, but they were already passing the border of the camp. Behind them, the flickering glow of campfires blurred beneath the veil of fog, and thin silver beams from the rising moon timidly pierced through, casting faint reflections on the damp earth at their feet.

“And yet, here you are, walking into the dark, not knowing what might be lurking.”

Uallach gaze shifted slightly as if to measure the shadows around them, but her expression remained unreadable. “Perhaps I already know what lurks, Yelena. And perhaps it’s better to meet it halfway, rather than wait for it to come to me.”

This caused Yelena’s attention to flicker awake, her mind jumping to all kinds of conclusions.

"You can’t always walk alone," Yelena pressed, her tone growing more firm. "One day, you’ll need someone at your side."

Uallach glanced at her, a fleeting smile—if it could even be called that—passing over her lips. "Perhaps.”

Uallach gaze fixed to the side, where the mist was thicker, the shapes of the trees blending into one another like shadowed sentinels. "There’s always an end to every path," she said eventually, her tone becoming distracted. "But the path itself is what’s important. It reveals more than the destination."

Yelena had about enough of this mystery. They were drifting dangerously far from the safety of the camp, and the frustration building inside her finally broke the surface. With a sharp breath, she quickened her steps, moving in front of Uallach to block her path. She couldn't understand her companion—perhaps she never would—but it infuriated her. Uallach’s indifference, her lack of concern, her calm in the face of so much uncertainty—it gnawed at Yelena’s resolve.

And the secrets—the lies Yelena was certain were hiding somewhere—that made her furious.

“We’re not on some philosophical journey, Uallach,” Yelena bit out, her voice strained with barely-contained anger. “We’re marching into an alliance none of us can trust! And you act as if you don’t have a single worry. This isn't just about you or your family. Consequences will affect us all.” She stepped closer, her figure towering over the bride.

“That worries me. This journey, these roads—you. It worries me.”

Uallach met her gaze, unflinching, her tone as soft as ever. “It’s the unknown that you fear.”

Something snapped inside Yelena, her patience wearing thin. Before she realized it, her hand had reached out, gripping Uallach’s wrist, the sudden touch catching both of them off guard.

“I don’t fear anything,” Yelena said slowly, each word thicker than the one before.

And with that, the world around them fell silent.

Too silent.

 

[Dreadheart]

"This isn't good..." one of the knights voiced the concern of the entire contingent, in the view of the two women walking beyond the limits of the camp.

"Keep your eyes open, men..." the captain uttered in reply, too unwilling to mask the obvious hazards the situation brought. Alas, both Uallach and Yelena were daughters of the Ulfbitenns, and the Cigoerne, of whom the latter had kept her mother's name, signifying the union of the Houses which, in their case, was embraced as an honour, not diminishing act. Every few generations, the Cigoerne married in to the Ulfbitenn in what they called a "manifestation of their loyalty". The male spawns of these unions were named Cigoerne, while the females, as the Ulfbitenn tradition had it, were named after their mothers, Ulfbitenn.

To speak against such spawns was to invite horrific repercussions, many discarded in favour of the small probability of someone knowingly attempting to harm these nobles, who spared no effort ensuring their status or position would be recognized from afar. The Captain saw no point in contraddicting the wishes of the ladies, instead, he instructed two men-at-arms to begin patrolling around the camp, and although from a distance, keep a line of sight to the women.

A rat poped from underneath the half-rotten deck of the thatch roofed hovel, abandoned to the elements and the animals that made its new inhabitants. The rodden moved quickly across the square, towards the walls of the well, climbing in determination to taste the humid air elevating from the hollow. The surrounding area bore strong signs of abandonment, with several of the hamlet's structures having collapsed within themselves, either by fire, or by the weight of rot and rainwater.

As the two women moved closer and closer to the treeline, the night's shroud gradually dyed the cloudy skies above, drenching the surrounding lands in darkness, save for the three campfires set by the contingent, several dozen paces away from the women. The sound of chirping birds was spent, over the distant howling of the wolves and the crackling of beasts lurking deep in the woods.
Chimeras, fay, leprocons and other monstrous beings were rare in the East, due to the eons of efforts of the Men of the East to rid Eirelunn of them. The farther west, however, in what was considered the less... civilized, Eirelunn, sightings of more and more dreadful beings were common enough to restrict most men from venturing into the woods.

From behind the treeling, an ooping sound could be distinguished, far closer than any other source of disturbance. A wolf whelp, large enough to fit within an embrace, not old enough to make its first howl, sniffed its way peaking out of the woods. Its weak young state strongly contrasting the devastation and harshness dominating the landscape.

To the approach, the whelp would rush into the woods, pulling several meters back before turning from cover and peaking to the potential danger that neared, only to repeat the act should the distance was again closed...
Beyond the treeline, towards the village, the nostrils of a snarling horse became audible, seemingly hidden farther back beyond the women's line of sight.

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

For a moment, the two ladies stood in silence, gazing at each other like distorted reflections in a mirror, opposites in every way. Then Uallach pulled her hand free from Yelena's grip, breaking the moment. Yelena stepped back, her boots squelching softly in the damp earth.

“We need to go back,” Yelena said at last, her voice weary. She was exhausted, just wanting the day to end and the journey to be over. But as she glanced at Uallach, she noticed that her companion’s attention was fixed on something behind her. Yelena turned, following Uallach’s gaze, and through the thick mist, faint shapes of buildings began to emerge.

A few paces ahead, half-collapsed buildings stood like the skeletal remains of a forgotten time, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of rot and neglect. Yelena frowned, irritated that the scouts had failed to mention the hamlet in their reports, regardless of its ruinous state. She stepped closer, her gaze falling to the ground where familiar signs caught her eye—footprints, disturbed earth, and stones arranged in the telltale shapes of long-abandoned campfires. Someone had passed through here recently.

The place was deserted, yet a creeping sense of being watched gnawed at Yelena.

Uallach remained silent, her attention now drifting toward the treeline. Just as Yelena was about to repeat herself, a faint sound broke through the stillness of the night. Her hand instinctively moved to her sword, her senses heightening. But what appeared from the shadows was not what she anticipated—a wolf pup, no older than a few weeks, stumbled clumsily out from the cover of the trees.

Yelena frowned. “Stay back,” she warned, but Uallach had already taken a step forward, her hand reaching out.

“Don’t,” Yelena hissed, moving in front of her. “Where there’s a pup, there’s a pack.”

To Yelena’s surprise, Uallach’s usually impassive face showed something close to concern. Her brow furrowed, and her eyes glistened as she looked at the pup. “It’s scarred.”

The small wolf, sensing Uallach’s approach, darted back into the shadows of the woods, peeking out only to dash further as they drew closer. Only to come back a second away, its body low and cautious as it stared at whatever it was pushing it out of the forest. Yelena felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, unease settling in her gut like a stone. Something wasn’t right.

The faint sound of a horse’s breath caught her attention, its nostrils flaring in the darkness. Yelena stiffened, eyes scanning the treeline. The horse was hidden, but the sound was unmistakable. A snarling horse, not far from where they stood, still not visible.

“Uallach,” Yelena whispered, her voice tense. “We need to go back. Now.”

The mist, like a veil being drawn back, began to thin and retreat, revealing a scene that unraveled before them like the opening of a grim tale. Yelena’s eyes caught sight of something to their right—a few paces away but far enough to remain unclear at first. There, half-buried in the earth, stood a sword, gripped by a lone hand, the rest of its owner long gone.

Though faint and washed, the familiar blue and yellow stripes remained visible beneath the stains.

The sharp and cold zing of metal pierced the air as Yelena drew her sword, the atmosphere around them shifting as her instincts took over. She had no time to waste.

"Back to the camp," Yelena ordered, stepping in front of Uallach. Her tone left no room for argument. "Inform the guards and have them come here."

When Uallach remained unmoving, Yelena sharply turned towards her, seeing Uallach’s eyes fixed on the hand dangling from the abandoned sword. “Now!”

The heavy fabrics of Uallach’s gown rustled through the air as she finally turned and rushed back toward the camp. Yelena moved quickly, positioning herself between the forest and Uallach until the woman was out of sight, leaving only Yelena and whatever lurked in the woods. The wolf pup yelped once more before darting across the road.

The mist grew thicker again, curling around Yelena. The shadows cast by the trees seemed to stretch endlessly, pulling her toward the treeline like a silent invitation—and Yelena accepted it.

 

[Dreadheart]

The knight captain sat against the scrolled bag resting over the bedroll. He cracked a piece of the ever more solid breadpie. Around him, the men-at-arms had already set up most of the camp; A fine circle around the two main campfires that flickered some few steps away from the carriage which was placed in the camp's centre, covered with enough fabrics to allow the two ladies some privacy during the course of the coming night.

Some of the sentries leaned on their spear, keeping their shield strapped on their back. It was growing dark, yet the secluded area they had picked for a camp did not have any dense terrain within some fifty to hundred paces from it, to allow any ill-intent to lurk near without them seeing it. Later, at night, it was expected to become harder to recognize danger, and thus the sergeant planned to enforce better discipline to his men. For now, alas, some rest was all the troops craved, and little was there to deny them such.

CAW CAW CAW

The crow landed ahead of the Uallach's path, casting its wings as if its muscles refused to give up the flight's effort, for a breath or two. Then, the black eye of the crow turned to the Ulfbitenn, offering what could only be described as a gaze. A silent heed; It was two, perhaps three the steps Uallach had to stride to stumble on the crow, some seventy perhaps, to reach the camp again. The flickering of the camp fires already conjuring crowns of yellow aura, hinting the perimeter of the camp and blackening with shadows of contrasting light the silhuettes of the pacing sentries.

The crows were beings holy, for the Beast Druids; Believed to be heralds of their dark primordial patron, Tiarnadorch, with many in Eirelunn believing him for a dark god rather than a spirit of nature the Fialdorchan Druids considered him to be. Alas, with such ties to the divine, it was not a surprise the crows were believed to have supernatural powers, always serving as angels of Death over battlefields and mourning circles. It was such a creature that landed as an obstacle to Uallach's path.

CAW CAW CAW

Regardless the thickness of the mud covering the soil, or the myriad of rotting branches, stones and fell leaves, a layer proper that denied any attempt of stealth or silent pace, omening one's coming from a dozen if not meters away, the pacing of the female figure was lost in the caressing of the wind that felt as if blowing to her wimp, forming whirls of unnerving cold blight that befell the body to marrow. She made no effort of concealing her arcane nature, more so, the Abysmal aura cast by the blackness of her septic heart quick to invade Uallach's mystic senses that grasped the scent that caused the unexplainable tightening of the stomach, to the witch's approach.

She halted her pacing when she almost reached Uallach's own hand's reach, her hollow glare continuously fixated to the Ulfbitenn she-noble. Few breaths were spent in motionless declaration of intent, neither side requiring words to express or comperhend the situation. Neither side doubting, or attempting an escape from the inevitability that dominated the interaction.

The sudden screams of horror coming from the nearby camp caused nesting birds to fly in murders, dominated by instinctive fear. The she-witch did not flinch, having anticipated the well-orchestrated evolution of the night's horrors yet to start. Uallach, never forsaking the characteristic cold air of tranquility that gave life to the many conspiracies and fears voiced by those who met her, turned her gaze to the distant camp, from where the screams continued for several breaths, before a heavy air of deathly stench harrowed them into silence as suddenly as they had been sparked into their horrific existence.

Murders of crows took off from the distant woods, blackening the mist, as Uallach's gaze returned to the she-witch. A slight tilt of the head followed, by Uallach, aimed towards the woods where she had hailed from. The she-witch, after preserving her cold near-ethereal stance for thusfar, offered a twist of her lip to the side, forming a half-smirk, followed by a hollow chuckle, finally giving physical expression to the immaterial of her flawlessly crafted control over the many around her, acting as little as marionettes, to the grand scheme that unfolded before them, yet beyond their comperhension, during times in which it could made a difference.

The whelp shook in a blend of fear and pain, as its webbed tinny feet losing their balance as the young creature succumed to spasms that tormented it uncontrollably, protesting them in squeezed high pitched noises from its lungs. The more Yelena approached, now farther behind the treeline's shrouded border, the screeching sounded less and less bestial. Its teeth cracking into tinny squares, while the pelt died off its hide, giving way to tan skin underneath. Its legs twisting, extending farther than they would considering the wolf's anatomy, explainable with reasoning that was sourced in knowledge beyond the medicine or zoology that held nothing but awe, before such a transformation.

The incomperhensible presence that beckoned Yelena deeper and deeper to the woods grew stronger with each passing step to the calling. The air grew thick, causing a pain to the lungs upon each inhale, in a sensation that joined with the already strong feeling of unease and faceless fear, could only be attributed to some foul arcane, conjured by the denizens of the feral lands that had yet to embrace the civilization the Ulfbitenn and the Northern Counties preached.

A medalion of silver, with the black blood of a Faerith; A Flayed One. Monsters that lurked the darkest woods of Eirelunn, fallen abominations that once walked the Isles as Fae, then brought low to a cannibalistic possession that fouled them to their core, turning them from the savages they once were, to the skinless manifestations of the Eirish grim magicks that Euric Ulfbitenn, above all, had vowed to purge. He himself had once faced one such monster, during the civil war that nearly drove the Ulfbitenn to oblivion. A pack of Faerith had attacked Euric's contingent, while he moved in pursuit of his own kin, Ronal Ulfbitenn; The Wolf of Dunwyn, and first of the two Ulfbitenn who had turned against their own kin, a sin most vile, to the family, in support of the Secessionists.

Many viewed the Faerith attack against Euric an act of divine judgement, taking place few days after the first confrontation between the two cousins. Of the hundred men-at-arms, only Euric survived, having claimed the black heart of the monster he dragged to Roadren, his fiefdom. He crafted two medalions of the finest silver, blessed by mystics and worn by his two offsprings. Amlet. And Yelena. A connection which, according to Euric, reminded the two of their unbreakable bond between the Ulfbitenn kin, and the grim horrors that only them could stand up against.
The medalion turned freezing, unnaturally unaligning itself with the weather around it. A sign of arcane energy surrounding it.

"Not 'e best nih, ae?" the dry depraved voice of the man broke the silence in the woods. His face a statement of his years, neglected of shave and scarred, with his head having many parts exposed, where the black hair once grew. His cloth rugged, with a breastplate made of animal hide, branded with patterns of druidic nature, marking the man as a Highlander, from the Heithhenn mountains, or the lands beyond them.

It had been barely a year ever since the barbarian hordes of the Goidel tribes of the West had been broken under the flail and the blade of the Cigoerne, many captured only to be sent back blinded and noseless; A reminder of the Cigoerne's most powerful warrior caste, the Raven Guard. Ever since, raids were conducted along the Western side of the Heithhenn mountains, yet the Ulfbitenn Duke, at the time, denied the Cigoerne reinforcements to commit a full fledged invasion Westward, as the Ulfbitenn fought a war at the same time, against the Island-Lords of Manna and the Eilean Sea. By the time violence gave way to a promised period of calmness, the bloodlust of the Ulfbitenn and the war sparking between the O'Dal and O'Scand families in the North led to the new frontier that the results of were beheld throughout the day's journey of the contingent.

What that barbarian could possibly seek so far to the North was anyone's guess. Many among the broken armies of the Goidel king Cummascach fled after their catastrophy, with many carving a path Northwards, as brigands.

The Goidel's blue eyes lowered, sparing a moment to behold the silent carion of the young child that lied bled out, where the whelp once was.

"Ye, she tol'ye be laced by'e. Now giv'up, ye?" he nodded, gesturing to the wooden club held at hand, on which bent nails were hammered half way in, making for a rather cheap yet painful weapon. His other hand held onto a Goidelish blade, shortsword, to the eyes of a more advanced culture like that of the Ulfbitenn, adorned with tribal bronze designs that hinted to its origins.

Sudden screams echoed from the distant camp, loud enough to cast the nesting birds from their branches up to the skies in swarms. The brigand lifted his eyebrows and offered a wide smile to Yelena.

"Noice, ae? Now, be a goo'lass and make no bruises on ye pre'y skin, ye?"



@Yelena Ulfbitenn

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

I don’t fear anything.




That’s what Yelena said—and she truly meant it. For death, pain, or bleeding for a cause were not things she feared. She had never been haunted by nightmares of looming, dark forests or the many malevolent spirits and creatures said to inhabit them. The tales of his deeds her father had etched into her mind were like grim scars—vivid and unshakable, but no, they were not designed to make her fear the dark or death.

Yelena didn’t fear anything—except failure.

And that medallion, the only symbol of affection she ever received from her father, no matter how twisted it might have been, did not weigh around her neck merely because of the icy cold that pulsed from it, nor of the meaning said sudden shift carried. It weighed heavily because she knew that failing him was not an option. Euric never failed—and neither could she.

So, when the transformation before her eyes occurred and the fog parted as if to reveal the stage for the play to start, Yelena felt a shiver run down her spine and tingle her skin. But more than that, she felt her grip on her sword tighten and her Ulfbitenn blood boil. The red of their sigil, like a flag unfurling before her, blurred her eyes. In a vision of her every moment and every step she was to take, she saw blood spilling from the skies onto the man—the creature—standing before her.

His words, like a passing echo, reached her ears and faded like a summer breeze. No, fear was not an option. Failure was even less so.

If she were ever to return home, this man had to draw his last breath here. His blood, like an offering to a well with no end, one that Yelena long forgot why she was even filling, had to be given and fed to the ground—much like the many that have died on the very path Yelena was on now.



Like the first beat of a battle drum, her front leg lifted and slammed down, grounding her into a familiar battle stance she so often took. The man’s words were difficult to decipher given the thick accent, but their meaning was not lost, marked by the sudden shift in the air, the stench of death that now enveloped them like a wall. The echoes of screams reached Yelena, briefly painting a grim picture in her mind before she refocused on the man before her, the reality now tinged with red.

She had no intention of retreating. The guards, the captain, and all the men—she didn’t need to wonder; they were dead. And if by some miracle any had survived, given these foul creatures were traversing so openly on these lands, they wouldn't be breathing for too long.

As for Uallach…

Yelena wasn’t sure. She had a feeling, a hunch, that despite her own inability to handle the girl or fully grasp her nature, Uallach might be capable of handling herself in this situation. She thought that perhaps some of the stories, the stories of her own abilities, the rumors of the unthinkable things she might have done—that some of it was true. No matter how not fond she was of those stories, right now, she truly did hope they were true.

Uallach was fine. And somehow, she had a feeling she was right.

But she knew it wouldn’t last forever.

“You’re on the wrong side of this story,” Yelena finally spoke, lifting her sword. The blade’s gleaming tip pointed directly at the old man’s chest—not a threat, but a promise. “I see only one way this is going to end, and…”

...

Her words faltered, her knees trembling ever so slightly. For a moment, Yelena thought she might have imagined the sensation, yet there it was—lingering in the air.

This scent.

Faint, like a delicate brush of pale yellow against the grey backdrop surrounding them. Sweet, tender, and warm like the first morning of spring. A ray of sunshine.

Her vision wavered, but only for that brief instant, and she steadied herself quickly again. She regained her battle stance, her sword poised to strike at the slightest movement. “Tell me your purpose or—”

The scent returned, this time carried on a stronger breeze. More potent, sweeter—almost overwhelming, like a beloved flower you can only smell once before it turns sour. Her vision wavered again, but now she could almost pinpoint the source of the familiar aroma. It reminded her of a pallet of colors and the scene before her merged into a swirling blend of red and black, a faint chuckle echoing through her mind.

The smell intensified, and Yelena could have sworn a giant crow, as large as a wolf, flew across her vision. Or was that another wolf—transforming again into another person? Another one of those wretched things! No, they seemed to be merging… and growing, and oh, melting into this twisted form, changing so swiftly Yelena could barely follow or see into what it was turning itself. First a man, then a hand holding a sword, then a horse with no eyes, and then…

Or…

Was she hallucinating?



Her hands suddenly felt icy, wet and numb. She found herself on the ground, on her knees, unable to remember when or how she even fell, breathing so heavily she could feel the damp air coming back into her sweat-drained cheeks. Her vision grew even more blurred and as her eyes found her hands, her fingers seemed to twist and coil into snakes around her wrists, anchoring her to the damp earth forever. Shadows—no, tendrils of black—crawled over her skin, making it feel as though it was burning and melting.

She heard echoes of more screams. Perhaps, the voice reminded her of her own.

The center of her chest blazed with pain, as if it were on fire. The medallion!

A crack, distant yet deafening, echoed in her ears like an explosion went off.

The black tendrils crept up to her throat, and her cheeks grew damp. She was completely laying on the ground now, the once sweet floral scent had turned into a nauseating stench, a vile poison that Yelena thought she would choke on any second now.

However now, she could truly recognize the smell.

The tendrils parted like a curtain, revealing a pale face—eyes like the Moon obscured by thick mist. A spider's web curled around her.

Uallach.

The wretch.





Yelena’s vision faded to black, and her world fell silent. For a moment, she welcomed the darkness, yearning for a brief respite from the loud reality. Perhaps in a dream, somewhere far away, her endless well isn't being fed by blood and death, but by something much, much warmer.

 

[Dreadheart]

Cold. Icy cold; Deprived of all sentiment but envy. Envious of the body's warmth. Envious of the fiery life's spark. Envious of the inexplicable of human emotion. Envious of Life itself.
In its primordial state of depravity, the blackness consumed. Cold, sticky sweat covering the grey of the skin, as muscles resulted to spasms in a desperate attempt to shake the body into life again, now long banished into the dark.

CAW CAW CAW

A murder of crows swarming in, an ethereal manifestation of the hideous powers that were set in motion. Biting in, yet their peaks delivering no pain, nor blood, as the black whirl that surrounded her was quick to swallow them in her tendrils of corrupt, abysal embrace. A vision of maddening hallucinations, or the work of foul magicks that banished her into the Beyond? Alas, that answer who could truly speak? And, in her state, who could truly heed any words spoken still?

CAW CAW CAW

The clacking of the chains like maws, biting against the wrists in their thist for the blood that flowed beneath the skin. Clank, clank, clank, they lashed, in a dance against the spasms, as the sudden all too earthly a sensation melted the nightmarish blackness into flickering flame tongues, the more the warm liquid dripped from her lips. The words like venom, farther into Yelena's system, as each and every made their way true to her mind.

"Y̶̨̮͈̹̿̌̉̆̒͆o̷̪̘̩̺̎ú̶̡̟͎̟͖̌ ̴̘͔̲̭͋̓͘ẘ̵̧̄̿i̷̱͕̕͜ļ̷̝͇̉͛͛̀l̵̗̟̣̣̙̣̓̄ ̴̻̗̝͎̈́ͅĺ̴͉̮͇̕î̴͔͛͆v̴̦̆́̊̑̈́͘ë̶͖̳̑͆̈̕̚." said Uallach. "B̴̧̞͂̽̌u̵̘̪̥͎͋t̵̢̝̺̆̓͒͜ ̶̡̛̫͒̔ń̷̦̩̤͊o̷͎̍̍͐̊t̵̝́͌̀ ̶̧̎̀͑͠f̵͚͑̑ö̶̼͌r̴͓͍̼̂̀͋̚e̵̛̩͚̓̂͗v̴̪̈́̆͌̐ę̸̳̉̚ṟ̵̯̟͖̆̂̌͌."


The stone was wet by humidity invading from the night's reign through the large glass window adorned with Goidelic patterns, left openned near the thatch bed. The fireplace was large, bordered by ancient stone carved with a number of glyphs and symbols, while above hanged the head of a stuffed stag with four antlers that resembled the spreading of wings rather than any ground-dwelling beast. Its antlers indeed reached almost as high as the ceiling, at least two men in height, and some seven paces wide, the extend of the circular room barred by a heavy wooden door.

The scent of metal was still lurking in the mouth, as the senses gradually graced her body with life again. First came the Touch, as the many thorn-like thatch filling the bed popped through the thick sheet and pierced the neck. A bedbug roamed on the wrists, who still bore the marks of tight restraints, yet now were freed. Then came the sound of the dancing flame and the rain that wet the distant unknown land beyond the room's hold. The aroma of the chicken soup within the clay bowl placed besides the thatch bed flooded her nostrils. It was fresh.

Sight, most treacherous of all senses, came last, to reveal the tall figure who stood next to the fireplace, feeding the ravenous tongues yet another piece of fuel from the nearby stack. He still wore the brown gambeson, braced now with no belts or weapon laces. He wore no boots, his bare feet against the cold stone.

His brown hair cut short, a warrior's haircut, while his lower face unshaven; A beard growing in anarchy and neglection for what could be speculated two or so weeks of uncaring. His forehead and right eye were covered by a thick bandage wrapped around his head, carrying the stench and greenish colour of the herbal pastes used on battle wounds.

"Took you awhile, Ulfbitenn..." his voice carrying a shade of criticism and distaste, sparing not his gaze to behold her, while he adjusted the wood in the fireplace. "Steel and spite makes little descrimination between yours and anyone's blood, does it...?"


@Yelena Ulfbitenn

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

Like being washed ashore from the deepest depths of an ocean, Yelena gasped for breath, each inhale long overdue. Drenched in cold sweat, her vision blurred into vague shapes and colors as she swayed on the rough, thatched bed. Every single muscle in her body ached, tightening and releasing as if slowly waking from a long slumber.

The ocean—thick, black, and plagued with something so wrong and foul—receded like a retreating tide. Along with it, the nightmare she swore had consumed her, drifting into the recesses of her mind. The memories and feelings lingered, haunting her, and she knew she needed to remember, needed to know—but for now, she wished only to forget.

What concerned her more was the biting cold she couldn’t shake, the uncontrollable shivers and trembling that stirred her whole body. A groan escaped her dry throat, parched as though it had been coated in ash. The burning red tongues grew and continued to go on up high—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be consumed by it or have them vanquished for good. The smell wafting through the air made her stomach churn, threatening to make her vomit, so she squirmed in her laying, burying her nose into the more neutral, grassy scent of the bed beneath her.

Her arms ached the worst, and as she writhed on the bed like a fish out of water, every movement sent a searing pain through her body, forcing a sharp cry from her lips. A headache pounded like thunder behind her temples with each motion.

Darkness clouded her vision, and the ghostly shape of a wolf slowly shifted, compelling her eyes to focus. The form blurred, morphing into the silhouette of a person, gradually gaining more detail until the figure of a man finally fully emerged.

The voice that followed grated against her sensitive senses, so sharp and irritating that she wanted to throw whatever she could reach just to silence him. But there was no strength in her for such a maneuver. All she truly wanted was to close her eyes again, if it weren’t for the threat of those haunting memories waiting there for her. Despite feeling utterly lost and disoriented, Yelena clung to the hope that this was still just a dream—that if she closed her eyes for just a second, the carriage would jolt, she'd hit her head, and wake to Uallach's ever-stoic expression.

Uallach...

Damn it.


She shot up so quickly that her mind spun, like the world had just tilted off its axis. Bad decision. Her head fell into her hands, face buried in her palms as another groan escaped her lips. Slowly, her eyes adjusted, finally taking in the details of her surroundings. The crackling fire, the stone walls, the bowl of food, the man, her bed, and the small window. Then her gaze landed on the tattered cloth, folded so neatly by her side. Three colors stood out.

Blue. Yellow. White.

She stopped trembling. Her gaze snapped back to the man lounging by the fire. Despite her weakened state, her hand instinctively flew to her waist. Nothing. Where her sword and belt should have been, there was only empty space. Down to her feet—no boots, no dagger. Her fingers brushed her thighs, but even there, the familiar cold steel of her throwing darts was gone. Shifting her weight to her left leg, like an animal caught in a trap, she crouched awkwardly, her right leg stretched out, her left hand gripping the floor for balance. Yelena’s glare burned weakly into the man’s back.

“O’Scand,” she spat, her voice raspy, like gravel being crushed beneath boots, as they exchanged house names like insults.

Though in a fleeting moment, for just a second—a thought that came and went as quickly as it surfaced—Yelena found herself oddly relieved that the man sitting by the fire wasn’t a stranger; not truly, at least. After the nightmare she still struggled to accept as real, she wasn’t sure she could bear suspecting another person of transforming into wolves or crows.

Though, with the way things were, one could never be too certain.

Her eyes darted around, searching for anything she could grasp—any weapon, anything to hold onto. Stripped of all her own, she needed something, anything, to give her a sense of control, to ground her, to remind her that she was still alive. Still herself.

“W-what—where… how long—and who…”

Her voice felt weird, distant, and she winced as the combined effects of her headache, fatigue, hunger, cold, pain and everything else overwhelmed her, forcing her to sink back down. She wished to throw herself into the fire and drift off to sleep, even if just for a moment longer.

But rest would have to wait. She needed answers.

She took only a moment try and settle as much as she could. Through the fingers pressed against her face, she shot glares like daggers at the man’s back, and though he was yet to look at her to see, she was certain he undoubtedly felt them.

“Tell me. What do you know?”


As a true Ulfbitenn, she didn’t ask. She commanded.

 

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

The one-eyed gaze of the man remained fixed on the flames of the fireplace. He could not have wished for anything less reassuring than an Ulfbitenn, less so, in Yelena's state, to share chambers with. The fact there was only one bed, a further mockery to his honour and tolerance, now at the verge of breaking. Every part of him wished to kill. Every part of him manifesting all the ill-tidings and misfortunes of the O'Scand, a House that once ruled across the Northern Counties, now brought low, to the woman's face. An Ulfbitenn; A sword-Ulfbitenn, to make it worse. A lady of honours, or a noblewoman, would at least pollute Samhradhan's mind in thinking she had no say in any of the events that tied the two bloodlines so harshly. Another lie he had to repeat, knowing the wickedness that tainted their blood.

To offer even a moment's glare to Yelena would be to lay eyes to the one who drenched the O'Scand dead beneath the mud, offering their fallen warriors to the barbarian allies they had brought with coin and promise of bloodletting, to defile and dishonour the way they saw fittest. A grand blasphemy, for all civilized Eirish the Ulfbitten prided themselves being. All this, his mind recalled, each time he laid eyes upon an Ulfbitenn.

The reasons why the two Houses had been driven to this abysmal hatred were immaterial to him. The O'Scand had indeed been cruel to the rebellious vassals and defiant feudal lords that held sway over territories in Dal Arad and the rest of Talathair the O'Scand pushed claims to. They too, just like the Ulfbitenn, had punished rebellion by the blade, and defiance by the flame. The geographic location of them, and the near-perpetual conflicts with Northerner tribes as well as Marauder warbands piercing through from the West, had the O'Scand survive, yet never consolidate their domain. The Ulfbitenn had enjoyed some three hundred years of existance on Eirelunn, twice as much as the O'Scand. So, how could they be allowed to enact such brutality and remain unpunished by the Divine, yet Samhradhan's own blood had to suffer?

He pushed his mind, entertaining the thought of some divine judgement and perhaps favour of foul powers the Ulfbitenn were rumoured to consort with, but he did not believe any of this to his core. Darkness would always be repaid in Darkness, he reminded himself; Words spoken by his own father, Lothal, when Samhradhan had returned with his elder brother, Lothal the Youngest, victorious against the Northerner clan that had invaded from the West.

"Well done" his father complemented his eldest son, that day. "You have made your family proud." Perhaps the few, if not only, words of affection the two had received for years, if not a decade whole. Even so, Samhradhan was not accounted in this transaction, and as his brother later confessed, nor was he. The two believed, if the nobles of the court were not present that day, neither would have received anything more than a nod of acknowledgement, or criticism for the troops lost in the endeavour.

The same harsh criticism Samhradhan received, when he returned to Belcarrick to reveal his father the body of his firstborn lied amidst the dead, denied of proper burial as he was mawled perhaps beyond recognition, by the time the corpses were counted. As if there was no weight of failure, nor guilt for the loss Samhradhan was quick to account on himself in his grief, Lothal did not spare any foul flavoured words to farther his son's descend in self-hate.
Such were the thoughts spinning in his mind like a flail's spiked star, craving for a metal plate or shield or beast's bone to bludgeon through, with flesh serving as too soft a victim.

"It took you little more than a full day." he retorted to Yelena's broken inquiry. "Didn't waste a moment without coughing or mumbling about birds..." Although violence was a path he reasoned both were pretty much incapable of following, and the window's too steep and high a drop, he could at least preserve the little honour he was left with. The hatred he stored for the Ulfbitenn were not in any way masked in his speech; Indicating his true feelings buried behind a cloak of chivalry.
"Eat. Sleep. By dawn your stomach will stop squealing." he shook his head, finally coming to terms with the new reality he had to face. If anything, the two were at war no longer. To exchange insults would serve no purpose, especially given the circumstance.

He abandoned the flames, moving towards the Ulfbitenn, where he picked the bowl of soup and offered it to her. His motions restrained, and not gentle. He could not know her skill, or purpose, or quest that brought her here. But to acknowledge her standing as a lady of the court, was something he would not grant to the Ulfbitenn, less so, given their current intertwined fate. She was as much a hostage as he was. Under these circumstances, they were equals. Deep within him, he knew such would infuriate any an Ulfbitenn, who by his thinking fancied themselves chosen among the Eirish.

"The food's good. Either of us dies, we worth rust... They just have us banjaxed to stay put."

Although not intentionally, his words carried a sense of reassurance. Deep within, he too was in shock, buried beneath an armour of hate and a sword-captain's self-inserted certainty to carry forth the troops; A habbit that had taken enough root in him his tongue acting more on muscle memory than on intent, and his mind casting them often enough to pay no heed when spoken.


@Yelena Ulfbitenn

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

The moment the man finally stirred up, the firelight danced along his frame, the flames flickering and twisting in ways that made Yelena's heart race. His silhouette seemed to merge with the shadows, and for a brief second, morphing yet again into shapes Yelena so desperately wanted to chase away. Just a glimpse of a shadowed snake swirld around the O’Scand’s wrist and Yelena realized a sensation was slowly seeping in, one so foreign she barely recognized it at first—panic.

Something about her felt wrong—terribly wrong. Thoughts that didn’t belong to her seemed to creep in, shoving aside her own reasoning, her own instincts. It was as if her blood wasn’t her own, like a stranger’s pulse thudded beneath her skin, a force so alien and invasive she couldn’t shake it off.

Yet, even through all of that, she knew she couldn’t let it take her. Whatever was happening inside her—whatever madness was clawing at her mind—she couldn’t break. Not here. Not in front of him. Not now.

As he came closer and offered the bowl, Yelena blinked and quickly turned her gaze away, willing the swaying shadows that danced in front of her eyes to fade into the distance. It might have looked like she couldn’t even bear to look at him, but the truth was far less simple.

‘Move.’

Like pins and needles, her father's voice echoed through her mind—always there, carving itself into the forefront of her thoughts, as cold and cruel as the man himself.

‘Bleed.’

Oddly enough, she was grateful for it. His words had always been what jolted her out of whatever dark spiral threatened to pull her under. And now, just like all those times before, paired with the pain of bitting her lips till they bled, the harshness of his voice chased away the shadows swirling around her mind, snapping her out of the momentary madness that had threatened to overtake her. It was like one monster—bigger, more terrifying—had come to drive away the smaller demons that had no place in her head, that couldn’t—shouldn’t weaken Yelena.

Her eyes fluttered open again, almost shyly drifting toward the man's hand and the bowl of soup before finally settling on his face. This time, the figures and shapes of him seemed to click into place, her vision sharpening with each passing second.

She knew those lines, those eyes—or in this case, the single one still intact. She had seen those features scattered across the faces of the O’Scand family, a mosaic of traits that bound them all together in some unspoken way. And when she searched her memory, she found that one face that perfectly matched the disheveled one in front of her, and soon her recognition settled in.

Samhradhan O’Scand.

They had crossed paths only but a few times among the higher echelons, not enough to make a lasting impression, but enough for his voice to stay somewhat remembered by her ears. She hadn’t yet seen recognition in his face, but she could only imagine how different she appeared now compared to their previous encounters amidst golden tapestries, red carpets, and towering castle walls. Her skin on her face felt tight and dry, likely still smeared with the dirt from rolling in it—most likely bruised in places as well. Her hair, usually felt tight and high, now brushed against her neck and back, loose and wild, with only a few half-braided strands remaining. Although she didn’t remember fighting or sustaining injuries, her body ached, especially her neck, arms, and legs—likely bound or beaten into submission during whatever nightmare she had endured.

Yelena took a shallow breath, her stomach twisting painfully, reminding her of how empty it was. Hunger gnawed at her, and though her mind registered they way all the court manners had failed Samhradhan’s lips and her pride screamed at her to refuse, the ache in her belly overpowered everything else.

Slowly, she reached for the bowl, her fingers curling around its edges. The warmth seeped into her palms, offering brief comfort and the smell that before threatened to make her vomit, settled into something that almost promised to taste edible.

As her eyes followed his hand, the grim image of a sword attached to it flashed through her mind. She drew the soup towards her, mimicking the awkward and abrasive movements. Glancing around at the small room and the single bed, she spoke without hesitation.

“It’s just us,” she said with a dry voice, making it clear she didn’t need to ask. “Your men are dead, aren’t they?” She didn’t bother softening the blow, yet still returned an almost understanding glance.

“Mine are, that I know.”

She took a tentative sip of the soup, the warmth sliding down her throat and settling in her stomach like a heavy stone. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to steady her and restore some color to her pale skin. As the soup began to take effect, her thoughts cleared, and her mind started focusing on her next steps.

‘Destroy.’

The Ulfbitenn blood within her roared like a hungry hawk. Despite feeling fragile and vulnerable, she sensed that, given their mutual weakness, she might still be able to take him on. She could make him bleed, feed the endless well. The wedding, clearly, wasn’t going to happen any time soon, so theoretically, they weren’t united—not yet.

But strangely enough, amidst the cold, stark walls, the meager soup, and the shared nightmare they had somehow survived, Yelena found her heart strangely unmoved in the familiar way. Though her mind craved, her heart refused to ignite the anger and urgency she felt was her right.

Somehow, that hand which offered her food, like a brush, swiped the line between foe and ally, blurring it into the ground. And without admitting their standing in court outloud, their names, their self—it made them stand on the same ground, made them both feel equally human—equally possible to break apart.

Yelena was certain something was terribly wrong with her for giving way to thoughts like those, yet she was not yet realizing that the more she stared at the O’Scand, the less panic ached her mind.

She set the empty bowl down beside her, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Green eyes found a single shadowed one and a silent truce was called forth from Yelena’s side—a temporary one, at least.

“You expect us to stay here till dawn? I didn’t think an O’Scand would take to being held captive so easily,” she shrugged and rolled her shoulders, "I'd rather wouldn't want to wait and find out why they want us to be put."

To be fair, she really did try playing nice—after all, she did say 'us'...

 

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

The word slipped Samhradhan's mouth like spat dirt. It was ever more sickening to him each time he recalled the event in his memory. Whether it was the treacherous act, pulled in a moment of weakness, or the knowledge of yet another mark of failure and death on his name like a blood stain on a tabard, he could not decide. It was apparent to him that the sun of House O'Scand had already set, now only for the dusking light fading in the dark horizon of servitude and hopeless struggle in store for the future.

Such were the thoughts that plagued his mind, as he spoke the word that, to him, described perfectly what had happened to his contingent in the otherwise simple task they had been given.

"Butchered"

He could elaborate further. Although haven't witnessed the entirety of the slaughter, the bleak promises and bloodcraving of the she-fiend that brought the blackness upon him and his men hinted to what followed after his mind was cast adrift, giving in to the blood that flowed from the head wound.

In a sadistic irony, Samhradhan felt this was little more than the dog days that awaited House O'Scand for the evils they had inflicted upon the Northenr Counties. A well-earned match in brutality and sin for their Ulfbitenn rivals from Dunwyn, that had now, after decades of contest, bested them in almost every way.

He held his head in his palm, shutting his eye in search of a moment rid of the pain caused by the bandaged wound. The heat of the fireplace had attributed to the slow healing, with his blood refusing to turn sticky, instead continuing to soak the bandages. A self-inflicted torment, this was. He knew well of how this could stop, and yet, something within pushed him to perpetuate his suffering in hopes of... well... something. A change; A rough awakening from this dream, all, perhaps. Alas, it never came, once again reminding him this was the realm of reality, not dream.

"-Us-?" he inquired; The very nerve of the Ulfbitenn to imply a joined effort was outrageous to him. Was it not them who had brought this storm, this upheaval to the province in the first place? First were the O'Dal; Petty house of no strength but one: Their ties with the Ulfbitenn. And oh, they made good use of that, didn't they? They were the first who invited the Golden Eagle and its crimson hordes to the North; Followed by the O'Maine, who Samhradhan reasoned they had already started regretting their decision, given the fluidity of the situation.

"You are a fool if you think it would be so easy." His voice a mixture of criticism and envy, drown in a cold thrust of reality. "Its over ten strides jump, Ulfbitenn. Regardless how much it may please me, I wouldn't suggest taking your chances while the stone is moss slippery by the rain..."

It had been over a century since the Ulfbitenn held sway over Dunwyn. For the most part, they had grown accustomed to the ways of the locals, and perhaps an occasional raid of the Goidel tribes from farther West. Even in the highlands, the Cigoerne had proven themselves far more brutal than the enemy could conceivably be. By all accounts, the Ulfbitenn were masters of their realm, holding strong even after an eight-year long civil war that befell them by the mindless cruelty of Sichfrith, the Cruel; The father of the now so-called "King of Eirelunn"; Harrul Ulfbitenn. The fact he hardly controlled half the island and yet claimed such a title was an irony, for Samhradhan. An irony, nevertheless, befitting their red kin.

But alas, this wasn't the case here, in the North. Talathair was a much different world; One in which the O'Scand had never managed to match the foeman's hellish wickedness.

"This is a Northerner Keep, Ulfbitenn." he declared. The shaking of his head signified the gravity of the situation. Unlike the Goidels, natives of Eirelunn and descendants of the first Men who claimed the feral isle from the Fae, and the New Nobility, the last remnants of the Imperial colonists who, to their dire luck, found themselves stranded in the Isles after the collapse of the Old Empire, the Northerners were in all respects irrelevant.
Last of the Men in Eirelunn and never kin enough to be considered "Eirish", the Northerners were Clans of the Nordur raiders who had been pillaging the shores of the Isles as a whole for centuries, finally settling the north-most parts of Talathair and Caldinea, gradually becoming distinct among the Kraken Sea pirates, known to the Isles as "vikings". The Northerners believed in no Eirish deities, carrying with them pagan idols and foul pseudo-rituals.

The sense of chivalry, regardless how corrupt, the O'Scand and the Ulfbitenn had in common, regardless how much they both denied it, was completely foreign to the Northerners, who adhered only to animalistic laws, in the eyes of the Eirish.

Samhradhan moved to the window. His one-eyed gaze journeyed to the distant stormy sky, illuminated momentarily by lightning tendrils that snatched life from the drenched land beneath, even craving for yet another moment of existence before being consumed by the storm's dark. His mind struggled, as whispers of reason crept in the more he recalled the voiced realities spoken to Yelena, urging him to act. Regardless the hours that had passed in silence, almost fully giving in to whatever fate was beset for him, after speaking aloud, he could hardly endure the fact he had became so weak in resolve and flesh alike. Was he deserving of the black fates befalling him? Was he the reason all this turmoil continued? His father's harsh words of criticism begun echoing in his head.

His whilring thoughts were interrupted, as noise came from beyond the heavy wooden door. Steps. The clanking of metal rivets hinted the unknown figure behind the door wore chainmail, while the heavy steps soon formed two distinct rhythms. Samhradhan, almost instinctivelly, stepped forth and moved between Yelena and the door, without speaking a word. The noise of the antiquate iron lock twisting followed...

 

[Yelena Ulfbitenn]

Yelena might have felt like a fool for being so easily deceived and trapped by none other than her own kin—yet when it came to the now and their current situation, Yelena wasn’t so naive and blind to see they had rather little chances of survival here. She understood the gravity of their situation and knew it wouldn’t be as simple as escaping through a window and finding a path to freedom. Not in these parts, in these woods—not north. Her awareness of the stakes was precisely why she had even allowed herself to think of and use the word 'us,', despite an O’Scand being the other party involved.

Admitting their predicament was one thing, but waiting passively for death to knock on their door was not an option. Yelena had to convince herself she was at least making an effort—looking for a way out, thinking of the hows and whens, searching for that one slip, one single crack for them to grab onto and hold. Even if she needed to fool herself brave, to stand and remain grounded.

She took in the man in front of her, the half-torn shell that remained after whatever events his eyes witnessed, whatever butchering he saw his men sumcome to. Yelena almost felt guilty she herself hadn’t been there when her own men fought whatever had attacked them. After all the bloodbaths and the slaughtering she herself had seen—and done—one would think she’d be at least allowed to see her own men fall under someone’s hand and be gifted with the chance to carve the face of however did it deep into her mind.

Perhaps, though, given even the O’Scand seemed more than shaken by it, it was better this way.

For now, amidst the many visions of the faces that remained remembered for a purpose, one stood out above the rest, one that shouldn’t be replaced by another—a face framed by flames. That face would remain etched in her memory until the moment she gets to extinguish those very flames herself.

There were other things she needed to attend to first. One being herself; her physical state was deteriorating, her mental one questioning. If she were to even consider a path of freeing herself, she’d need to heal fast and good. The other matter was the one of healing the other half in the ‘us’, the man whose one eye was currently nonfunctional and who’s very own resolve seemed to be wavering too close to the edge, at least for Yelena’s taste.

The Ulfbitten nature in her almost got irritated with the way the bandages were so haphazardly applied to his face. Blood continued to seep beneath the cloth, doing little to aid his eye. If left untreated, she feared he might become an impaired ally, and that was something she certainly didn’t want.

She grumbled and scowled, as if already annoyed by whatever decision she’d made in that moment, and her hands leisurely gestured towards Samhradhan.

“It’s a miracle you can even decipher which keep it is with that on like that. Let me have a look—”

The sound of steps cut her words off and her eyes filled with the picture of Samhradhan’s back as she followed his quick movement to the sound in front of the door. A fleeting, buzzing sensation she couldn’t quite place washed over her, quickly replaced by a surge of irritation and a primal urge to tear something apart. Like risen from the dead, albeit clumsily and unsteady, Yelena quickly rose from the bed and crumbled closer to the door, standing side-by-side with the O’Scand, eyes locked on the door, fists clenched as if gripping a sword—and waiting.

 

[Samhradhán O'Scand]

The willingness of the Ulfbitenn to tend to his wound was a surprise to Samhradhan. Of all things the Ulfbitenn were renown for, trickery was never one. Then again, it was their peculiar situation that had brought them before realizations and decisions that could only defy or outright taunt their believes. This was no ordinary encounter. This was no ordinary interaction. By all means, he wished for all this to be a dark dream; A laurel fever, gone by dawn and milk's vomit. But this was not meant to be. The chains of his mind kept him bound to the ever-worsening situation he could naught but admit as his new reality...
Samhradhan openned his mouth to speak, only for the creeking of the wooden door after the twist of the key to block any words from being spoken.

From behind the door emerged a familiar ghastly figure, still deprived of any luxury that might be known in the East. Unshaven, partially bald, the Goidel openned the door. His aged gaze quick to befall the two inside it. He carried no torch, lantern or wax candle to illuminate his path in the dark dwelling. His eyes, it seemed, had grown accustomed in the dark; Or he reasoned carrying anything but his hand axe, passed by his hip and held onto by his hand would be too much a risk, considering the two hostages he had to herd. He may be a Western savage, in their eyes; But he had enough wits and sanity in his mind to know the uncontrollable chaos two such prisoners could spread if allowed an escape. Worst of all; His own fate, after such a failure was revealed. Considering he would not be killed in the process, of course...

"C'mon, ye two." he snarled, tightening his grip around the axehead. He did not close in. "Me lord wan'ta see ye. No funny busness, ye! Be uglier then!" he warned, pointing to each of the two in a warning gesture.

"We go nowhere unless you tell us what's going on, barbarian scum!" Samhradhan declared.

We?

The word struck him enough to cause confusion. Had his tongue betrayed him with words he did not wish? This wasn't a group effort, and it it were, he could vow that the Ulfbitenn would not be on his side... Alas, although a truce was agreed, there would be no alliance, nor vows of servitute nor talks before the wedding was conducted. So... Who's that "we", anyway?

"Dinna, ye bollock of a lord!" the Goidel snapped him out of his internal whirl of confusion and contraddiction. "Me lord and lad'e wan'te feast. Invited, ye two..."

The codes of chivalry among the New Nobility, of which both O'Scand and Ulfbitenn were part of, little was shared. Although the folk of Dunwyn viewed knighthood as sworn champion of a noble, and aspiring leader of their people, sapring little regard on any duties towards the lesser folk, the likes of O'Scand, in the North, considered knights to be champions of valor and warriors that protected the lands against the numerous horrors and monsters and hordes that sough them harm... The latter, after all, were peoples who had no past to hold onto, in the early years of their existence, unlike the Ulfbitenn, and the Dunwyn folk who wrestled to preserve the old Empire's ideals and corrupt ways that were later named "code of chivalry".

Alas, the Northerners, barbarians to the core to anyone's account, they never truly embraced any of this. They latched to a caricature of their old warrior pantheon and shamanism. Samhradhan pushed his memory to recall any incident of a Northerner Tribe respecting an Eastern custom, especially when it came to the treatment of their hostages, and found nothing... Which made him all the more worried.

"Your lord... Wants to -dine- with... us?" he asked again. A redundant question serving only to voice his confusion.