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The darkness stretched on forever in all directions. It was maddening. Even when in the void of space lightyears from anywhere habitable you could usually see the hint of a star, the mere suggestion of life, something to grasp onto. Not here. Here there was nothing at all. Nothing save for her.
He knew this woman of the dark. He had seen her before. He had dreamt of her and yet now was the first time he was able to see her clearly.
She was barefoot and still stood a few inches taller than Declan despite him being in boots. Intricate black ink tattoos covered the tops of her feet and disappeared under her animal hide trousers which were stained black. Around her waist was a leather sword belt with exquisitely carved knotwork, but the scabbard was empty. The tattoos reappeared from beneath her beltline and continued up her bare midriff before disappearing again behind a scaled leather chest plate that like the belt had intricate detail carved into it. Small black runes that shifted shape and meaning every so often, a constantly changing story written upon her body.
Her cloak was thick and heavy, made from some great monster of a bear with the collar and shoulders decorated with the dark plumage of eagle and crow alike. Under her thick dark hood, more tattoos lay upon the soft white skin of her neck and over her chin. Thick raven-black hair was in a tight braid that laid over her right shoulder.
“Is there no way out of this place?” He asked Vatheum, The Wander, sister to Aerðs, who visited Lupo in their dreams.
“Þú þarft að hafa styrk til að vilja út.” She told him in the old tongue.
“I do want out!” Declan said exasperated
“Lykillinn er ekki löngun, Durinson. Það er styrkur” she explained with a soft harshness, like someone frustrated with answering a child over and over. Declan’s face screwed up in frustration and he was about to say something when a familiar voice broke in through the dark
"Damn Declan is this how you Northerns stay massive. Just carrying each other around to build the massive muscles?"
It was Brynjar! Declan barked a laugh as much out of joy as out of Brynjar’s humor. His friend’s voice was faint and far but there was no mistaking it.
“Brynjar!” Declan yelled as loud as he could repeatedly for minutes on end but there was no response. It seemed that the speech was only going one way. Time passed with Declan trying to shout for Brynjar every so often and still got no answer.
And from the darkness, another familiar voice could be heard.
“Can I help y…Declan!? What happened to him?” It was Gunar’s voice as faded and distant as Brynjars had been but it was him. The old grey-beard warrior that had served his father and followed Declan back south to save his brother and help the wolves encamped here. Brynjar explained their encounter with the poisoned Lupo, their battle with the tree, Declan’s own poisoning, and the fight between them that followed the death of the evil tree. Gunar asked surprisingly few questions and Declan’s world went silent again aside from the sound of…a hammer?
And then more familiar voices. Two that spoke as one.
Darin was able to catch up to his twin before he made it back to their section of the camp. He wrapped a wet arm around his brother’s shoulder and pulled him close as they walked.
“Well?” Dorin asked his twin
“Well, what?” Darin said with a smile feigning ignorance.
“What did she say?”
“Who?”
“The norn.”
“Oh, Her,” Darin said, his smile left. He hoped to cheer his brother up and could think of no worse way than to speak more of the witch from the sands. “You were right Ninny. She could not help. She said to find Durry we first need to find one of the Baramoðn.” Darin told him expectant of an outburst.
“Father found one did he not?” Dorin responded, dropping Darin’s jaw to the floor. Since when was his brother the one who saw the bright side of things? Perhaps that witch had gotten into his head after all.
The boys walked into camp together still embraced and found themselves looking at a very strange scene. Gunar a weaponsmith that had traveled south with them was bent down in the dirt stooped over what appeared to be a body. Near the old man was a stranger to their camp. He was one of the tallest Lupo they had ever seen, with dark brown hair. His body was covered in scars, tattoos, and what appeared to be a whole body of blood and at his feet the body being stooped over was…Declan! Their brother was also covered in blood, mud, and some disgusting black substance that smelled just awful.
“What are you doing to our brother?” they asked in unison their arms falling from around one another and crossing in front of their chests.
“Your brother is sick. Brynjar here the Alpha of Clan Threist and he risked himself to return Declan to us.” Gunar explained
“He is sick so you’re chaining him to the ground?” Darin asked watching Gunar snap closed a bracer around Declan’s wrist. The bracer and now his brother’s wrist were attached to a thick chain that at its other end was attached to a stake Gunar had freshly driven into the ground.
“Aye. You got the gist of it.” The old man said taking hold of Declan’s other wrist. Declan stirred but Gunar didn’t notice. The bracer slid over his wrist and suddenly the hammer Gunar had used to drive the stake flew into Declan’s open hand. They like all Lupo had the eyes of predators. They specialized in tracking movement but the speed with which Declan swung the hammer down on Gunar’s hand and then across his knee was no more than a blur. The smell of Gunar’s bloody mangled hand reached their sense before they could understand what happened. Their brother tried to rise but his chained wrist kept from hunched and awkward. His eyes were black and he screamed curses in the old tongue as he fought against the chain that held him to the ground.
Several northerners were coming from their tents to investigate the commotion. Gasps and cries of confusion were rippling through the camp as they saw the man they followed south chained and acting like a madman while another man they had known for over a century lay at his feet bleeding and crying out in anguish. Two of the hunter's apprentices rushed to try and rescue Gunar. Declan flicked his wrist and their heads turned all the way around, dropping them dead in their tracks.
“Go for help!” The twins shouted to a dark-haired boy of around ten who ran sprinting from the camp.
The twins rushed their brother as one. Thin snaking tendrils of lightning flew from Declan’s free hand and crashed hard into Darin who was sent flying backward with a scream of pain. Dorin was able to grab Declan around his neck but he had no way of connecting the loose chain around his wrist to the stake.
Brynjar was thankful that he hadn't been attacked by the first Northerner when he brought Declan back, while he held nothing but respect for the people, for most of them had lived on Islimore since the purge and survived. Anyone who could do that was worthy of respect in Brynjar's eyes. Living on the world was not an easy life and being hunted by the Fayth was never going to be easy. Brynjar was helping the man out with the shackles and setting things ready to keep Declan under control before he woke again. "He fought well, he saved my life. I don't think I had the skills to kill the beast. Now I need to save his." Brynjar stated firmly, it was a vow, he would not stop till Declan was alive and himself, he couldn't abandon the man that saved him. He might have also tried to kill Brynjar but at this point, there was a growing list of Lupo wanting to kill Brynjar so he wasn't that bother by it all.
When two others approached, they spoke as one at first and Brynjar was concerned that he was seeing double and possibly infected like Declan, seeing things that did not exist. Then the other Northerner replied to them and only one answered so Brynjar started to wonder if this was more just a twin situation, which he found still weird. People looking exactly the same and speaking in unison, that was creepy no matter what. It didn't matter though, they seemed protective of Declan, "your brother was helping me fight a demon plant monster in the forest, it infected him with some ink poison. He is not himself. We need to chain him down and figure out how to save him." Brynjar stated firmly, he didn't have time to explain everything in detail since Declan could wake any moment and attack while he wasn't chained down. Then that was what exactly happened. Brynjar hated when things happened like that, it was if he was predicting the terrible events.
One of the Twins jumped into action while the other was being attacked by the lightning that Declan was producing. Brynjar was already acting before one of the Twins pleaded for help. "Get Aelin Everos and a Draoidae, boy!" Brynjar shouted loudly at the 10 year old as he ran off. Using the Force, Brynjar pulled the chain taut into his hands and connected it to the stake. "We need Aelin and a Draoidae, Aelin is an offworlder, she might have experience with this poison and a Draoidae should hopefully have some knowledge on how to treat this." Brynjar was explaining his reasoning for the Twin, he could tell this was a man who cared about Declan and Brynjar was hoping to demonstrate that he was trying to do all he can to help. "You need to talk to your people, Declan just killed two of them and attacked his own brother with no explanation, they are scared, be honest and tell them that we are doing all we can to help Declan." Brynjar stated to the Twin holding onto Declan. With his friend staked to the ground, Brynjar went to check on the other Twin shocked.
"Are you hurt? Anything broken?" Brynjar leaned in close, asking with concern as he held out a hand to help the Lupo onto his feet. He hoped that the worse harm was Gunar and the two dead Northerners. But this was powers that he did not know.
Word traveled swiftly through the encampment, and when the young boy had come bursting through her doors with dire news of Declan, Aelin had risen and immediately set her sights towards the Northern side of the encampment.
She arrived in due course, her custom leathers and furs soaking up the autumnal days light, while the Gods Gems sat secured in a satchel that rested against the flare of her hip, having realized some time ago that she felt filled with a boundless sort of energy whenever she kept them on her person. Without ceremony, she inclined her dark head towards Brynjar in greeting, then towards the others who'd not yet scampered off to safety , namely the twins - who seemed to be recovering - before sweeping her gaze to where her friend was nailed to the ground. Her lips drew into a hard line, her brows creasing over her fiery gaze that cooled to mere embers as her heart shattered to see the truth of his condition revealed.
The air around them seemed unsettled. Unnerving. Forsaken. A wraith like chill crept beneath her light armor and ghosted across the smooth olive of her skin, seeping through the lissome muscles of her body and straight to her bones.
Whatever this was, her nature itself repelled it. It was unnatural.
"I've sent word to Miera Erevos
and Åsmund Ótta
, and any others who might be willing to help." Aelin murmured, instinctively laying her hand against the songsteel daggers that rested against her hip, shoulder to shoulder with Anders, who stood resolutely at her side. "Explain." She turned from the sorry site of the now unconscious Declan, unsure how long he would remain so, with brow arched.
"They say that if you pause but a moment, and listen closely near the river's edge, the wind will carry the sound of his footsteps..."
Fierce eyes kept a silent watch from afar, as he saw the old, grizzled Gunar begin to chain down Declan. Durinson, one of the Northern Wolves. A proud sort, sometimes they thought too much with the heart, not enough with the head. The twin pups, Dorin & Darin, they were a perfect example of this. That was a subject for another time, as he silently moved seemingly in-between the raindrops, his visage nothing more than a shimmer to those who might have looked his way. Such was the gift, for the Blessing of Naé granted him many a boon. He had kept watch over many of the wolves gathered in the Northern part of the encampment these many weeks and months. Some, he'd kept silent watch over for years. This was his solemn vow, and one he did not intend to falter upon. He'd told his father, and his grandfather, the Alpha of his clan as such. His was a burden he carried willingly, gladly even. Anything to stem the tide, and drive back the Fayth.
He began to slow, and as he came near, the brown-black furred Wolf dove down under the surface, the waters of the river becoming calm and even still. Yet, the water, still it flowed, gently and with a powerful grace as Naé intended. His mind went back to those times where he'd had his back to the wall, and the burden of failure was his to carry. This was what gave him the strength to carry on. To never allow such failures again. He thought back, to the fate of his cousin Signe and how he could not save her in time. These were the memories that drove him forward. He would not allow such pain and misery to befall his brothers and sisters again so long as he drew breath. For all of the Lupo were his family. It was from their very essence that he drew his strength, and that the Blessing of Naé manifested itself within him. As it had for almost nine decades now.
From the river's waters, the top of his head broke the surface, as water began to cascade down smoother, tattooed skin. Having taken a humanoid form once more, He emerged silently from the river, clad in only sackcloth pants, a small pouch that hung from his hip, and his spear. Ahh yes, his Spear. It wasn't simply a weapon, no. It was a focal point for the Blessing. It was an extension of him, a part of him. It was as much of him as he was of it, and with it, the blood of untold numbers of the Fayth had run down, staining the wolfswood from it's normal silvered hue to one more tanned. Given enough time, like those of his ilk before him, it would turn black.
Gripping his Spear and nestling it on the inside of his left arm, he strode forward seemingly out of nowhere, to those not attuned, he was like a ghost come to life. As Aelin spoke of sending word to one he was not all too familiar with, she mentioned a name he knew all too well. One might say that he was his closest friend, if you could say that he had true friends. If anyone would know what to do, Åsmund would. But he was not oblivious to the poison that flowed within and upon Declan. He'd come across it a few times in his travels across Islimore. And he spoke of it as such, his voice a deep baritone, with a tone that almost instinctively commanded respect.
"He is under the influence of the Drengir, and you were wise to call for Åsmund, Anasira."
The six foot eight inch tall Lupo looked down toward Aelin, his gaze meeting her own.
"Before you ask, yes, I do know of you, and know of you well. I am Gustaf, of Clan Lögr. Åsmund is an old friend of mine. You may know of me, I am not sure truth be told." He looked back toward Declan, his face remaining stoic, rugged features seemingly contorted into one of concern, yet of no surprise. As if he almost expected this.
"I am known by many names, but our kind know of me as the Baramoðn. I have come to assist in anyway I can, as it is my oath to Naé, and to all Lupo..."
The scent of blood came to her. Sharp, sudden. Then the tingling, bitter scent of ozone. Lightening? Angling her head, Miera tested the scents in the air. No thunderclouds danced on the evening breeze, no soft feel of rain upon her lips.
Blood and lightening. Fear.
Death.
The nexus of smells drew her attention from her path, to the sound of panicked, running feet. Slowly, the night-black wolf melted back into the shadows. Her sister's summons reached her, silent but unmistakeable. Miera loped through the forest, a silent ghost, hard to see or even smell. She listened with all of her might. The night whispered to her, scents and sounds and more subtle tendrils of emotion guiding her to the stricken man.
The sight of him, enraged and mindless, shook her.
Aside form one man, she was wary of those with vast physical strength. Yet Declan had been unfailingly calm, rational and honorable. Something about him had provoked an impulse to trust; now she felt that dark whisper, that no one could be trusted. That every Lupo was just one bad day away from being a mindless monster. It was as if the demon's poison had been pointed not only at Decclan, but at the very heart of Aelin's tiny Clan. of the struggle for all these strangers to come to know and trust each other. And Miera herself had taken every opportunity to learn, without being drawn in. To learn names, memorize lineages and customs without becoming close to any save the sister-in-her-soul.
Knowing how much it would wound her sister to see the Bard brought so low, Miera slipped out of the shadows at last, leaning upon Aelin's leg. A low rumble of comfort shared through touch, privately.
The ripple of power, of Nature itself opening Her hand to spill out blessings had Miera's sharp, piercing gaze focused upon the river long before there was anything for her physical senses to perceive. Instinctively quiet and unobtrusive - skills learned in desperation - she faded back a step, suddenly, deeply afraid of what was coming out of the water.
She had to be ready to defend Aelin, her baby sister, but she didn't know where the danger would be coming from. Which meant she couldn't be in hiding, or stand in the back. With a sigh, the night slipped away from her and Miera's human guise took shape; dark hair, with feathers dancing in the breeze. Runes upon her face and arms; twin eyes, one silver, one gold, measured everything she saw.
A murmured greeting to the fierce young warrior, Brynjar escaped her. A gentle nod to the bereaved twins. A moment's thoughts recalled their names, though she'd not met them before.
Approaching to just out of reach of the now-tethered Declan, she knelt. Resting a hand against each of the dead Apprentices whose blood, willfully spent for love of their mentor, subtly hallowed the ground it spilled upon. And Declan, where it yet spattered across him. How would the deamon-seed within him react to that power? A softly murmured prayer for each of the departed, followed; she would have to see their parents, later. Carefully, she dipped a white silk cloth into the blood, moved by an instinct she didn't fully understand.
Looking up from her ministrations, a regal, slow nod greeted the Water Wolf. A priest of some kind; it made her uneasy. He had spoken so easily and familiarly with Aelin; but they all did that, didn't they? Aelin mesmerized. But she was Miera's sister and Miera's Alpha; long shackled instinct protested each of these dangerous, unknown men as they sought out her sister, bringing painful chaos in their wake. Yet none of that showed in her voice or bearing. Nothing showed, save a flicker of the eye, as she took in Baramoðn.
Of course, a perceptive enough Priest or Priestess might well know. And now Aelin's ... she had no words, for what Oz was to Aelin. but whatever it was, he might be arriving, too. A yearning to learn paired with a terror of being displaced, all locked within. Silent. Unspoken.
Standing with easy grace, Miera waited just out of reach of the battered Declan, radiating calm grace. Watching, as Brynjar tended to the injured old hunter without a trace of the contempt he'd once showed towards anyone displaying weakness. Astounded, as he comforted the two Twins. A smile flared, achingly sad and beautiful.
This is why they seek her out.
She turned a haunted, wistful gaze upon the Water Wolf and waited.
“Welcome, Baramoðn,” The words were a mere whisper, carried on the wind.
A kind of tension threatened; she had heard a lot about the Priest his man referenced so easily. She'd have to wait and see; Observe, plan, act. But first, the waiting.
It was pain unlike any other he’d felt in all his life. He was certain he was screaming, could feel his throat turning raw and swollen from it but could hear nothing over the snap of lightning dancing across his body like blue-white serpents that coiled around him and bit deep with fangs full of fire or the crackle of his flesh burning, scarring marking him with gnarled random shapes of dark design. His very soul was a flame. Bright blue monstrous shapes danced through the dark of his blindness, mocking his torment with promises of more. He could smell the sickeningly sweet aroma of his skin as it cooked, nearly choking on bile as he retched from agony.
Tears rolled from his eyes bubbling and boiling upon his cheeks. He would die this way. A child screaming, pleading for his mother, wishing the suffering would just end.
Dorin and the warrior Brynjar were able to get Declan’s arm restrained. Brynjar was saying something about Aelin and a Draoide but Dorin could not be bothered to hear. He watched the brother he had met only a handful of weeks ago writhe on the ground and scream himself hoarse with growls and curses that came from were so animal he feared that he had made his change fully to become wolf.
"You need to talk to your people…” Brynjar told Dorin who could not look away from the scene Declan was making. Gunar lay motionless now his only movement was the heaving of his chest.
Talk to them? No. You must show them.
Dorin made quick purposeful strides toward Gunar and Declan. Felt his fingers wrap around the rain-soaked handle of Gunar’s discarded hammer and without hesitation he swung the hammer hard into the side of Declan’s skull. The chains went slack and his brother dropped face down in the mud. Don’t be dead. He thought looking at the two wolves at his feet. Grabbing Gunar around his massive shoulders, Dorin dragged the old man away from Declan and toward the growing group of northern wolves who gathered around the scene.
“He’s Wolf-mad!” He heard a voice yell from the crowd.
“The Dark One’s been in ‘is mind!” Called another
“He’s Malkor’s now. He’s got to die. It’s him or us!” A Third voice yelled and a loud murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Dorin suddenly became aware of the numbered of armed wolves that had appeared. Skítur. What would Dorian do?
“Wolves of The North!” Dorin called to the gathered crowd. “My brother. Your Alpha’s brother. Son of The Protector. He lay before you now, wounded and sick.”
“Mad you mean!” A voice yelled back.
“Aye, perhaps!” Dorin conceded. “It could be The Madness that has taken hold of my brother but you all swore an oath to Declan. That means you owe him. We owe him. We owe it to him to try and save him. Please give us that chance!” The gathered crowd buzzed but tensions seemed to ease and Dorin felt able to breathe again. “Thank you, friends. Gunar needs his hurts tended to and those boys deserve a cairn and the proper rites once a draoide arrives.”
"Are you hurt? Anything broken?" Brynjar leaned in close, asking with concern as he held out a hand to help the Lupo onto his feet.
It took a few blinks for Darin to realize he were not dead nor was he smoking any longer. The strange swirling burn scars remained on his flesh but the pain was now a memory. Darin took hold of the large Lupo’s forearm and allowed himself to be guided to his feet.
“I-I-I believe I will live.” He told the warrior. “Thank you for your concern.”
“And thank you for helping to chain my brother.” His twin said joining the two of them. The brothers embraced. Darin was far more tender than he had thought and let out a grunt of pain.
“You’re hurt,” Dorin observed.
“Smart of you to notice.” Darin teased.
“Where are you hurt?”
“Where am I not, dear brother?”
Darin removed his shirt to reveal the strange after-effects of the lightning.
“By The Gods, Darry.” His brother said in a whisper, his face screwed up in a mixture of horror and wonder and he lightly traced a finger over Darin’s chest.
Before the boys could continue their banter a hush fell over them. She entered the camp garbed in leather and fur that befit her title. She greeted Brynjar and the twins curtly before her attention was drawn to Declan. They could not see her face but they could feel her. Anger, sorrow, and dismay flowed through and over her as she studied their unconscious, bleeding, and grime-covered brother.
"Explain." She turned from the sorry sight of the now unconscious Declan, unsure how long he would remain so, with brow arched.
"He is under the influence of the Drengir, and you were wise to call for Åsmund, Anasira." The voice of a stranger said from what seemed like nowhere.
Their heads whipped around in unison with their hard gaze settling upon a stranger. Dripping wet, naked from the waist up, covered in tattoos, and carrying a wicked-looking spear.
"I am known by many names, but our kind know of me as the Baramoðn. I have come to assist in anyway I can, as it is my oath to Naé, and to all Lupo..."
A Shared thought passed through the twins. A Baramoðn here, now? It could not be true. They must be afflicted with whatever madness plagued their brother. Before they could even begin to process the possibility that they may have found the key to saving one brother while in the middle of losing another a girl appeared. As if from air a she-wolf appeared and began doing…something with the dead before turning to address the other stranger. The Baramoðn.
Things could not possibly get stranger but it would seem they were going to get worse.
Hoarse hysterical laughter howled from Declan who was now propped on both knees staring at the group of wolves with the obsidian orbs that had replaced the brilliant emerald of his eyes. Blood flowed from the wound given to him by Gunar’s hammer at the hand of Dorin.
“Ég mun þekkja bragðið af blóði þínu.” Their brother said before bursting into laughter once again.
“You told me this is where he dwells. He is the wolf?” Declan asked the woman, desperate to find out more about this place. There was no peace to the silence only soul-piercing dread. The seeming lack of confinement brought no peace; the vastness was suffocating.
“Þú ert ekki,” She said with a laugh
“This is his domain though?” Declan asked. That stopped the laughter.
“Þetta. Þetta er búrið hans.” She stated to him harshly
“Why am I here?” Declan demanded. “Was it that thing? That monster who poisoned me?”
“Þú varst of veik til að samþykkja hann. Of veik til að losa hann sjálfur. Jafnvel eftir Blackborne. Eftir Bec'irah lokaðir þú hann í burtu. Þessi skepna opnaði bara hurðina en þið urðuð báðir að velja að ganga í gegnum.” She seemed to grow in her anger and her beauty. Her wroth did not stay long as the last of her words were spoken softly with a hand upon his chest. A familiar heat passed between them as they stepped even closer to one another only mere inches separating them. What more could have happened—would have happened—he could not say. They were at that moment interrupted by another voice from far off.
"I've sent word to Miera Erevos Miera Erevos and Åsmund Ótta Åsmund Ótta, and any others who might be willing to help."
Little sister. He thought as he pulled away from a literal Goddess.
Nei nei nei” She said disgusted. “Hann getur ekki verið hér. Hann getur ekki! Ég mun ekki leyfa honum að pynta mig lengur.” Her rage was back. No longer alluring, Declan found himself quite unsure of what or who she spoke of or what she may do about it.
“Who?”
You are not
This. This is his cage.
You were too weak to accept him. Too weak to to free him yourself. Even after Blackborne. After Bec'irah, you shut him away. That creature merely opened the door but both of you had to choose to walk through.
No no no. He cannot be here. He cannot! I will not allow him to torture me any longer.
Declan’s body tried to rise. It could get no further than to kneel. Manic howls of hysteria burst from his mouth, and streams of sticky red blood poured over his teeth from the wound in his head. Beaten, bloodied, chained, and forced to kneel. It was too much. The laughter grew harder and harder as he remembered losing his duel with the Alpha Brynjar. It grew harder still when he laid eyes upon Brynjar amongst a group of wolves who would call themselves his captors.
“Ég mun þekkja bragðið af blóði þínu.” he said voice disturbed and distorted before bursting into laughter once again.
The onyx-colored eyes of Declan son of Durin locked with the amber-hued eyes of a she-wolf in scaled leather and fur. She was short for a pureblood but not the shortest amongst them that held him chained. Her size did not help her hide though. No, she stood out among them all. Alphas, warriors, legends, ghosts, and yet it was her that he was drawn to. Durin’s blood knew her, respected her, treasured her. Aelin of Clan Erevos. Anasira. He knew her by the truth.
“Hlæðu nú Þórisblóð. Bráðum verð ég frjáls og mun sjá þig deyja kæfandi úr hlátri þínum.” Declan’s arm gave a hard tug on the bonds that held it. The chains rattled but did not break nor did the anchor move.
“Börn norðursins, óttist mig ekki! Ég er loksins kominn aftur til þín. Slepptu mér og þér mun verða verðlaunað mikið.” He called out. Declan’s brow furrowed first in sadness when none moved to set him free but that sadness was soon replaced by fury.
“Slepptu mér!” He screamed the words and put his force of will behind them. Those northern wolves who had gathered to watch weapons in hand all turned to face the group of outsiders and the twins. Their eyes were as black as the night sky. A dozen northern wolves with hands full of wood cutter’s axes, clubs, knives and even a hunter with a bow advanced on the southern interlopers determined now to remove the chains from Declan’s wrists.
The laughing began again.
I will know the taste of your blood
Laugh now Thorirsblood. Soon I will be free and will see you die choking on your laughter
Children of the North, do not fear me! I'm finally back to you. Release me and you will be richly rewarded.
Brynjar helped Darin up to his feet. The lightning seemed to have been excruciating and it was good that the young Lupo was able to move pass it and not hold resentment for Declan. It can be easy to give into the pain and anger one felt when attacked like that. Dorin was speaking with his people and Darin went to join him, it was good to see them preventing attacks on Declan, that would have been awkward since then he would have to fight and potentially kill Northerners which would never go down well with anyone. It was bad enough that he had killed Lupo before fighting the creature. Looking at the unconscious Declan, Brynjar could feel his heart heavy. He did not know how to fight this, how to defeat this sickness. It was beyond his skills and that was both frustrating and terrifying.
When Aelin stormed over to them, Brynjar did not look her in the eye. She was in a mood that he had not seen, pissed and scared, scared for her friend and pissed off with what had happened. Brynjar also noticed that there was someone with her that he had not seen around her before as well. When Aelin demanded an explanation, Brynjar sighed, the story was a long one but he decided to start at the beginning. "It started in the morning, I sought out Declan to support him after the events of Coruscant, I hadn't the chance to offer the support before now and thought it could be a chance to reassure him that I am by his side always." Brynjar avoided loudly saying what happened as to not trigger any of the Northerners, if others found out what Gerwald had done then there could be massive issues amongst people wanting him gone.
"He told me that there were Lupo going crazy in the woods. So, I offered to assist him in dealing with it. I was aiming to stay in the woods and hunt deer for... Ahem..." Brynjar coughed, a dark blush coloured his face as he realised what he was just about to admit and skipped over why he was going to hunt deer. "Anyways, we found a creature, plant based monster. Declan thought it might be the creation of Malkor but I have my doubts on such things. It was affecting him though, reluctant to fight the creature. I used the gods' gift to inspire and break through the monster's spell which worked but some kind of ink infected him and has now warped him mind." Brynjar finished the explanation, glad that his blush finally faded away. Just as he finished his explanation a Lupo appeared out of nowhere. Brynjar held his axe at the ready to attack. His senses were firing on all cylinders and he was still in battle focus, however he stopped himself before attacking.
The stranger introduced himself and explained what was happening to Declan. "Is this Drengir thing curable?" Brynjar questioned, if it was not then there was no point waiting for the Draoidae and Brynjar should just end his suffering now. But something made him look at Aelin questioningly, Anasira. The stranger called her Anasira, that a title of significant weight and a lot of responsibility that Brynjar had spent his childhood bearing. There was a part of him that was resentful that she was getting this recognition now and that all he suffered, the gruelling childhood had been for nothing that he had suffered for no reason. However, that was his problem, not hers, not this stranger's. Something to deal with a later day, another day when he can gather answers.
Baramoðn. This was a title that he had little to no knowledge on. It was related to a style of wolf that was very uncommon and not truly known about really. At least he had not been taught much about them. River Wolves, Fjordrunners. Seeing one in person, Brynjar lowered the axe and tilted his head. "How can you help then Gustaf?" Brynjar asked, curious what this stranger could do now and why they decided to now come out into the open. As he asked this, Miera came out and revealed herself. This was less surprising and Brynjar merely nodded to the she-wolf. Aelin had mentioned she sent word and Miera had skills in this areas being Draoidae. Brynjar was curious if she knew anything about the Anasira title, or who else knew about this.
Answering his question, whatever was possessing Declan started to spout venom once more. Thorirsblood?! Declan was looking at Aelin when he said this. Brynjar tightened his grip on his axe, he knew what that meant. It meant that Aelin was related to the first Anasi. That being Anasi was her right much more than it was his. It was why everyone else seemed to call her Anasira. Surprisingly, it wasn't the news that shocked him, Aelin always displayed a natural leadership and desire to unite everyone. No, what was hurting the most was that she did not share this information with him, that everyone else seemingly knew about this but him. That he was once again kept on the outside when she had said that she wanted to be friends and valued the friendship. The hurt was clear on his expression, Brynjar was not one to hide his emotions.
"Threaten her all you want. I have beaten you once. I will do it again so give up now and maybe I won't humiliate you a second time." Brynjar steeled himself and stood in front of Declan, crouching to stare directly into the black pits. He was not going to allow this sickness possessing Declan think for a moment that it was getting to him. No, he would defend everyone best he could.
The call came late, much too late for Gerwald to leave with Aelin. His impatience with the inferior technology was beginning to wear through his patience. It was ironic considering that before the Confederacy Gerwald had been used to a much more primitive way of living in comparison. He chuckled as he thought about it all, though grew serious once again.
His eyes fell to the journal belonging to Geralt Lechner. It had made for interesting bedtime reading until recently. Gerwald had been shaken by what he read the night before, unsure of who to tell, or even if he should. All Gerwald knew was that it was a good thing he recovered the journal before the Fayth could find it and learn what was in the Vault below Bloodraven Hall. This would be Gerwald’s secret to bear because if it ever got out…
The wolf did not want to think about it. He put the journal back into its hiding place. If he told anyone, he would have to tell Aelin. She was going to help him take his home back, and she would find out eventually. It was best to find out from him.
Gerwald arrived in time to hear Declan, but it was not Declan. His brow furrowed as he approached. The north wolf’s eyes were set on Aelin as Declan called her Thorirsblood. At first he was taken aback. There would only be one reason to call her by that moniker. Aelin was Svard. His eyes shot to the woman long enough for them to catch her. Gerwald was disappointed to be sure considering she knew what lay beneath Bloodraven Hall.
Aelin had abandoned him in the pool at his most vulnerable moment, and perhaps he could forgive that, but she knew of the journal and the vault. She knew his secret, or most of it. Maybe the wolf could understand her reasons for not broadcasting her lineage, especially when others among them fought for control. This was a betrayal, Gerwald needed to decide how deep it was.
He walked past her and said nothing as he came up beside Brynjar and put a hand on the warrior’s shoulder.
“Please, be careful to remember that is still Declan. This is beyond my ken, but I do know whatever this thing is, it is tied to Declan now. Which means we will likely only hurt him before we hurt it.”
Gerwald looked to Bryn with a sincere and pleading look.
“For our friend and brother?”
Would Bryn lay down their rivalry now, even if it would be just long enough to help Declan?
“If Katrine were here she would know what to do.”
It was a name Gerwald had not spoken in some time. His distrust for witches began with her. Perhaps it was personal, but she had left him and left him wanting. This did not mean he did not still care for her in some way, or understand that there were certain mystical things that her perspective best explained. Whatever this was, Gerwald found himself wishing she was with him.
Gerwald stood tall and proud. He noticed the twins whom he had yet to meet. It was clear they were concerned for his brother. Meira was also among them, and wolf Gerwald did not know a name for. This one seemed… odd… the kind who certainly did not need to know Gerwald’s secrets.
The familiar scent of her sister washed over her the minute she felt the gentle nudging at her side, having at first been too swept up by what was happening to notice Miera’s arrival, watching with great trepidation as her eldest sister moved towards the dead and knelt to the earth, presumably in prayer.
Don’t get too close, she was about to warn, until the atmosphere shifted, revealing a strange scent on the perimeter. The pert slope of her nose lifted, it was that of a male she was certain, one that was entirely new. Then, bit by bit - as if the fog itself had summoned him - an unfamiliar wolf materialized.
"He is under the influence of the Drengir, and you were wise to call for Åsmund, Anasira."
Aelin furrowed her brows in question, having not trusted anyone with that particular secret outside of a very select few.
"Before you ask, yes, I do know of you, and know of you well. I am Gustaf, of Clan Lögr. Åsmund is an old friend of mine. You may know of me, I am not sure, truth be told. I am known by many names, but our kind know of me as the Baramoðn. I have come to assist in anyway I can, as it is my oath to Naé, and to all Lupo…”
Baramoðn. Where had she heard that name before? She was absolutely certain that she had, but could not remember from where. Just as she was about to dismiss it, an unbidden memory flashed into her consciousness.
Sitting in the library with Bjorn beside the roaring fire, the day pulled well into evening. Hours of tortuous study on the different clans and their peoples legends, trying to fill the holes in her education. Aelin hated every minute of it.
But… now. She knew. She remembered. Legend, myth... standing here before her.
Pulled back to the present, Aelin released a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding then gave a courtly nod, her thick lashes swooping down against her cheeks in reverence, following the others' greeting. “We are grateful for your presence here.” she intoned, feeling the eyes of her friends slide to her, at first with Gustaf’s address, followed by Declan’s admission of her bloodline as he barked his threats into the wind. Betrayal and hurt flashing across their features for not telling them, for not warning them of this… surprise. Aelin did her best to school her features, to remain unmoved by their stares, but as the promise of death flew from Declan’s lips, a fissure split across her careful visage. Sorrow and fear entwined, constricting her heart. Her throat felt thick as her lips moved to open. “Þú myndir drepa mig, grimmuri bróðir minn?**”
How could she raise a hand to him? He who had helped save the lives of her sisters? He whom she’d bled beside? But if she did not…
“Miera! Stand back!” she barked, as an otherworldly power thrummed and rippled outwardly from Declan, the earth shuttering in response. “To my side, now! We have to immobilize him!” she instructed the others, “If we do not…” her eyes narrowed as the Northerners formed a line. “This is going to get real messy, real quick.” Holding out her hands, Aelin called upon her own gift, bathing in the release from the Godsgems - a power to match the darkness that threatened them, and threw up an invisible Force field around them as the first wave of the possessed came hurtling towards them.
A powerful voice addressed him, and by name. This voice, it carried undertones of uncertainty, of remorse, of question and worry. It asked him how he may help, and looking to Brynjar, he spoke in kind, his voice still deep in tone, powerful in it's own right. "I know not how, ungr Brynjar, only that I shall do what I can when I must." Gustaf knew this answer would not be the one he was hoping for, but he would not lie to the young wolf. The truth, however much it hurt, would always be a better alternative to a comforting falsehood.
Quietly, his gaze moved thus as Aelin's older sister took humanoid form, and tended to the dead that now lay at their collective feet. Such a waste, but all living things met and end at some point. It was the natural order, and one that he dared not challenge. It was not his place to question the will of the Gods, no. His was to adhere to his Oath, and to carry out his sacred vows. This had been the way of his station for countless centuries, and to those whom had been bestowed the mantle of the Baramoðn before him. Still, soon after, Aelin called out to her. Miera...something about this young she-wolf draoidae had Gustaf almost entranced. Why, he did not know. How, he could not say. But somehow, she had stolen from him the ability to even think, at least for a few fleeting moments. She greeted him kindly, yet her words where a whisper upon the winds. That whisper made it's way to his ears, and shot through him until it struck his heart, nearly skipping a beat. He was left to wonder, what manner of magick was this??
Thankfully, at least for him, it was broken by the sound of Aelin's own voice. There were many wolves here gathered now, including a tall and strikingly handsome wolf, whom seemed to plead with Brynjar. It troubled Gustaf to a degree, all but the gruff old Gunar seemed to be mere pups and cubs, none even reaching proper adulthood yet. At least, this was the way of it in his eyes, but he would not say as much, for to do so would be a grave insult to them. They showed bravery, and the mantle of adulthood forced upon them whilst so young wasn't anything any of them had asked for. No, that had been foisted upon them, thrust on their shoulders by the Fayth. Still, there would be time to dwell upon this all, but this was not that time. It seemed the Northern wolves that had gathered had fallen under the influence of Declan's dark decrees. Yet, he could tell, this was not Declan per se. What, he was unsure, but he knew better than to be as naive to think it was merely just him and he alone. No, the young Declan had been through much, and come through it alive, stronger for it once he was back within the embrace of Móðir Islimore.
This was indeed going to turn into a war zone unless they acted, and acted soon. Aelin had called upon her gifts, and Gustaf felt a power within her, one that felt familiar, as if he'd known it all his life, and even beyond that. A curious feeling, but again, there would be time for all of this and more after they dealt with the situation at hand. She had seemingly brought up a barrier with which to protect them all, but that would only stop these wolves for so long. No, this was why Naé had guided him here, at this very moment.
Taking his spear in both hands, he began to chant, lifting the spear upwards toward the heavens...
"Heyr mik, naé, grant mik thy makt, at ek mayprotectr þau hvæn harm maymunur done..."
As he spoke in the old tongue, the sky began to darken as the Northern wolves began to hammer against the mystical barrier Aelin had constructed. The winds began to whip up, as leaves and twigs began to no longer gently float, but fly violently within the winds, trees and tents barely standing as the darkened sky let out thunderous rumbles that sounded like stampeding elk, and a faint mist of rain began to fall. As he kept chanting, he would bellow out, the Blessing amplifying his voice tenfold, booming out as he slammed his spear into the ground.
"Með maktrinn ór Naé!"
And true lightning fell from above, a massive white hot bolt came tumbling down, hitting the tip of his spear. As it did, a massive shockwave emanated from Gustaf, slamming into the first wave of northern wolves, a fair few of them flung off their feet, as if swept away by the Gods themselves. It pained him to do so, but his Vow was absolute, and his Oath would remain unbroken. This was the power, and the burden, of the Baramoðn.
Hear me, Naé, grant me thy power, that I may protect them whom harm may be done...
The world was chaos, emotions running riot around her. Voices screamed within her mind; too many passionate people far too close together.
The Northern Wolves seethed and stormed, their very presence a constant threat. Fear of mobs was deep ingrained within Miera, yet ... yet she would not, could not surrender Declan to them.
Or Aelin!
They pounded against her mind; their deep resentment, the poverty, the envy. They pulled negativity and suspicion in, unaware or uncaring of how their ties to the Life-energy of the world spread their hate with every breath. The ocean of their presence grated beneath her skin, strained her control; it was one of the reasons she never came here.
Miera did not need their hate inflaming her own. Only today, their anger was so very raw.
Her gaze was pulled from the puzzle of them as Dorin advanced, and slammed a single blow into Declan's head.
He did not seem to even see Miera, though the wind from his hammer blow rustled through her hair. Reminding her that just out of reach of that-which-possessed-Declan was not out of reach of his well-wishers.
Or enemies.
She wiped the fresh blood from her face, - Declan's blood - allowing the droplets to linger on her fingers. It held hints of what possessed Declan; The Baramoðn was correct; the Drengir held Declan's spirit, and so controlled his body.
A dreadful clatter of chains and hideous, unnatural laughter drew her attention from where Dorin so eloquently addressed the mob to the wounded man. When the Drengir used Delcan's voice to speak, Miera tried to close out his words, denying him access to her spirit or mind. Yet her posture stiffened, agony in her soul when he spoke the name Thorirsblood. In that moment of weakness, the subtle cage she'd been weaving shattered; the thing within Delcan reached out and indwelled those hate-filled souls nearby.
"No!" She'd been here before, menaced by people puppeted about by forces they could not understand. The sorrow and pain of it was intense, but she turned her otherworldly gaze upon the possessed Northern Wolves, and raised both hands to her waist.
The wind rose with the gesture, warm and healing ...
Declan spat off threats. Hate-filled threats against Aelin; Brynjar retorted, threatening him in turn.
But that wasn't the real risk.
Or the true loss.
Carefully, Miera curved her hands, the soft, spring winds curling to match her motion, the eye of the gentle storm centered upon Delcan and the power that possessed him. His blood yet decorated her hands, and like called to like! Effort dappled her cheeks with glinting beads of sweat, as she fought her much more subtle war to close a shield, spiritual as well as physical, around the far too vulnerable Declan.
She KNEW what happened when such an enchantment was finally broken. Had seen the backlash of rage and fury against the one who had so enslaved them.
A soothing voice coupled with a grieving, angry spirit encouraged Brynjar to keep his peace, but Miera had no time to puzzle out the mystery of Gerwald either being here or being kind to Brynjar. She could only be grateful; the spell she was doing was at the edge of her abilities.
Her fists clenched, her whispered words a breath louder, and blood suddenly flowed from her wrists. The warm swirl of sweet, tender spring rain around Declan was interwoven with sacred salt pulled from her sweat. The frozen knives of winter were formed of her sacred blood.
Only two elements to go.
The fire of summer and even autumn's final gift, of life itself.
Miera! Stand back!
Aelin's command was instinctive; Miera was no kind of warrior.
Power rose from her sister, sweet and perfect; Miera's soul rejoiced, and she reached out to slip as easily into the bond between them as she had when she'd believed her beloved sister lost to her.
A step back, in time with Aelin's weaving -- so much more powerful than Miera recalled!
Miera reached out her hand, tearing a portion of her hair free, to settle into her bleeding palm. An incantation; her worst element. Silently she entreated Aelin ErevosGerwald Lechner
or Gustaf Lögr
to light the tangle of hair and blood, even as she tossed it into the air and wove it into her sacred barrier. She had to work fast! So fast; Aelin had always been faster, fiercer.
Another step back, her whole body shaking. Her strength was flowing too swiftly, too deeply into her spell. The scream of the Northern Wolves was deafening, now; their first blows only heart-beats away. Beside her, the evil reached for her. Beset on all sides, Miera fought her subtle, silent battle.
A final Price: the most bitter for Miera. Even as Aelin's vastly more powerful shield sprang into being, Miera cruelly took the life of a single blue butterfly, the silvery dust of this gentlest of creatures spread throughout the raw power of Aelin's shield ... and leaving a residue of that most primal of powers to weave into the sacred Silk of Autumn, and finish her binding upon Declan and that which was within him.
But she was too slow. Staying here, she'd be slain in seconds.
A step to the side, and she'd be trapped within the one she'd woven to contain the evil within Delcan.
But she already knew torture; she knew captivity and cruelty. she'd witnessed possession and other dreadful rites of the Fayth. There wasn't much Delcan could do to her, that she could not endure.
But then ...
Then a flash of lightning, and a wave of power shoved the Northern wolves back, buying Miera precious seconds.
Fearlessly, she waited as Aelin's shield enveloped her. It did not repel her, but let her slip past as if she were the caster herself. A fragile smile was flickered at the Baramoðn
"Explain." She had demanded of them. She was Aelin, Alpha of Clan Erevos. She was one of the smallest grown Lupo the twins had ever known yet even here dwarfed by all who surrounded her she stood as tall and as fierce as any of them. She was clad in the same scarred scaled leathers that she had worn for their hunt, the mark of Clan Drage clearly visible. It looked the same as it had in the courtyard of this very temple in the fading sun of that day every stain of blood had been scrubbed from it. Had the blood washed so easy from her hands as well?
The scaled plating on her armor was worn and nicked in dozens of places–the marks of her training no doubt–and could easily have been mistaken for the armor of a common zorathi soldier were it not for the thick sable fur cloak wrapped about her shoulders heavy and soaked with rain the wet black fur reflecting the sunlight like oil. The cloak thick and bunched around her neck combined with the ferocity of her eyes that burned like liquid fire made her appear half changed already.
She stood waiting, a hand resting on the weapon at her hip. The twin's green eyes flicked from one another to Aelin and finally to Brynjar. The warrior Brynjar who had both beaten and rescued their brother was perhaps the largest Wolf the two of them had ever met, except maybe their father who for a certainty outweighed the large Wolf and would've not been shorter by any noticeable measure.
Declan had told them that Brynjar was a proud and fierce warrior, the closest any of the off-worlders came to being of The North and yet this Wolf who was so brave and so skilled as to face the creature that had afflicted their brother and defeat Declan himself, refused to meet Aelin's gaze
Brynjar sighed and seemed to shrink as he recounted to Aelin the hunt that he and Declan undertook and the events that led their brother to the state he was in now. He shared with her every detail as though that were the secret to avoiding her wrath. It was apparent that there was something more to Bryanjar's explanation beneath the surface. They did not care.
The twin's eyes and their attention rested solely on the stranger standing in the camp gripping a spear as though it were a walking stick. He stood there in front of Aelin half-naked, tattooed, scarred, and dripping wet. This new Wolf was near to the same height as their brother Declan but where Deck was broad and thick, the stranger was lithe and lean. His body was marked by tattoos and scars in equal measure, a tapestry of a thousand stories and one; That of The Baramoðn.
"stories always have an element of truth to them. The Baramoðn are real, there is one that you are looking for. One that shall guide you to your brother." The ebon skinned Wolf of the sand had told Darin as they stood together in the rain. She had claimed it was a vision from The God's and he had thought it a load of chit. They had been four years old when they were first handed wooden axes and they cried and cried until their father put a spear in their hands instead. When he asked the brothers why they were so set on having spears they had told him as one that they planned on being Baramoðn.
The Baramoðn were a story, a fantasy, a legend, Or they had been until this moment. Now one stood only a few paces from them.
The Twins thought that they must've stepped out of their lives and into a skald's song or saga tale and then their brother proved the truth of that notion.
Every head turned to look at Aelin when Declan amidst a slew of threats and laughter addressed her as Thorirsblood. Blood of Thorir and Anasira– at least according to The Baramoðn–It were no wonder every southerner tripped over themselves to be close to her.
Brynjar stepped between Aelin and their brother and met Declan's deranged threats with mocking scorn. Declan simply looked at the large wolf who had stooped to better look into the dark black pools that were Declan's eyes. A bark of laughter much less deranged and much closer to the normal laugh of their brother came from him as he said something to Brynjar that they could not make out.
"Who is that?" Darin asked, nudging his brother and pointing as yet another Wolf they did not know entered their camp. He was large as they all were, broader than The Baramoðn but no taller with a thick curtain of dirty blonde hair that fell just past his shoulders. This new wolf shared a look with Aelin but did not speak as he strode past them and placed a hand on Brynjar's shoulder offering soft words to counter the threat the enormous dark-haired warrior had made toward their brother.
Declan it seemed had made quite the impression on these off-worlders.
Aelin took Declan's threats and vileness in stride but it was made clear that she did not go unaffected as addressed Declan in the old tongue. She called him brother and a tear rolled down his cheek. Could she, this Anasari, the blood of Thorir, of Aerðs himself, could she reach their brother?
"Release me!" Their brother raged in the old tongue and the twins both felt a pull in the back of their minds. The urge to step forward and unshackle their brother was nearly overwhelming. Dorin placed a firm hand on Darin's chest as he took a step toward their bound and beaten brother.
"Darry?" Darin turned to look at his brother, eyes as black as Declan's own but only for a moment. Darin shook his head like a hound who had tried eating a bee only to get stung in the bargain. A smile flitted on Dorin's face for a moment before the camp once again broke out into madness. Those Wolves of The North that had only moments ago called for Declan's head now turned on them. They thrashed and raged against Aelin's invisible barrier. In the mob they saw faces that they knew made unrecognizable by whatever oppression Declan had put them under.
Aelin called out a desperate warning to the woman who had knelt near the dead.
"Miera! Stand back!" Her voice was panicked.
This Miera was herself attempting some sort of magicks of her own on their brother who continued his laughter. All around her and their brother nature seemed to bend to her will as the very wind itself danced to the movement of the tiny wolf's hands and suddenly the sky burst out again in rain making a ring around Declan, who tilted his head in curiosity. Even at Aelin's warning the she wolf did not move, so focused was she on her spell.
"They will kill her." Darin said and took a step to place himself between his countrymen and Miera. Neither twin wore any weapon, having left their weapon's belts back in their tents when they had gone to seek out the seer from the sands but Darin would not let that stop him from trying to protect her from harm.
He had taken maybe half a step when The Baramoðn called to the sky and to The God's who answered with a show of power they had never witnessed nor knew possible. Northern wolves caught in the attack of the river wolf were sent hurtling away from them, landing with cracks and crunches. They steeled themselves for a second wave that never came. The once black eyes of the northern wolves were back to their natural state.
"You…you did it." Darin said to Miera disbelief in every word.
Many of the northerners who had been afflicted dropped their weapons. Some fell to their knees, others on unsteady legs staggered to those caught in the blast of lightning. Among those bodies that lay strewn about the camp bent and broken in unnatural positions, Dorin recognized many familiar faces. Two smithing apprentices that he and his brother had diced with on the trip south, a red head girl who smiled at him whenever she saw him. She was a baker and always smelled like flour. There was one of the hunter's pups, a boy no more than eight or nine, he lay in the mud with a gash in his head and a sickening black mark on his chest.
Among them he spotted Gunar as well. Gunar Ice Breaker, their father's man. Their father had once offered to make Gunar, Kaiah. He offered him land and a long hall of his own and Gunar had turned him down. His sons were all dead and his daughter had stayed with her mother's clan, he had no need of a long hall, he had told their father. He needed nothing more than to serve his Alpha. So he had and now he lay in the mud crippled, perhaps dying because of that Alpha's son.
Dorin said nothing. There was no longer time for words. He pushed through those who had huddled behind Aelin's shield and then past Brynjar and the blonde wolf, stooping and grabbing something from the ground as he did. A glint of steel and the whispered rasp of a weapon pulled from leather and Dorin had the tip of a small knife at the throat of his brother Declan, a bead of blood rolled down his neck.
"Myndirðu drepa mig hér Durinsblood? Fjötraður eins og skepna til slátrunar?" His brother asked. Oynx eyes stared up at him, he saw no fear, no pleading, Dorin only saw the reflection of himself frightened and unsure. Was he truly willing to slay his own brother and name himself kinslayer even to protect those in the camp? "Er þetta það sem er orðið af norðlenskum heiður?"
"Gera það" He said softly.
"Gera! Það!" Declan screamed, pressing his neck hard onto the knife's edge. The bead of blood now a rush of claret as the sharp edge bit into his brother's flesh.
Would you slay me here Durinsblood? Shackled like a beast brought to slaughter?
"Threaten her all you want. I have beaten you once. I will do it again so give up now and maybe I won't humiliate you a second time." Brynjar mocked as he crouched to better see in the eye of Declan Blood of Durin.
"Heldurðu virkilega að ég hafi sigrað?" asked the bruised, battered, bloody, grime-covered man who remained chained in the mud barking out a laugh as fresh blood poured from Declan's head down his face and over his teeth as he spoke, mixing with the still wet oily black poison of the drengir as it flowed freely down to his beard where it fell to his chest like drops of rain settling on dry caked blood and viscera from his and Brynjar's encounter in the woods with the other possessed Lupo. What parts of him that were not covered in blood were caked in slick black mud, his hair was matted and sticky and at his left temple flesh flapped loosely from the hammer wound pouring blood like the mouth of the river Ølv.
Soulless black eyes turned their gaze onto Gerwald as the Wolf laid a hand on Brynjar's shoulder.
"Please, be careful to remember that is still Declan…" Gerwald was telling Brynjar
"Ekki lengur." He said quietly. Hardly more than a breath. So soft it seemingly went unheard as Gerwald continued his soft pleas to Brynjar.
"For our friend and brother?" Lechner had asked of his rival.
He snorted and a spray of snot shot into Declan's beard. A tug of the chain revealed Declan's arms could not reach his face. Blood and mud went flying as Declan's head shook violently in attempt to get rid of some of the vileness that was collecting on it.
Declan's head snapped away from the two warriors and settled on a soft voice that bit back a quaver.
"Þú myndir drepa mig, grimmuri bróðir minn?"
His dark black eyes bore into her.
"Bróðir." He spoke quieter than before tears forming in the corner of his eyes, one even having the audacity to fall though it was quickly lost amongst the blood that continued to roll down his face.
He called to them. Demanded his freedom from those that owed him all. The Northerners sloppy and unorganized threw themselves at his captors. He willed them to fight, to bite, to rip and tear and kill. Something held his will at bay. Declan's head turned and with a tilt of curiosity, he watched as the young she-wolf who had tended to the fallen northerners cast a spell about him. It was ancient magic, wild and beautiful. He reached for her and was held back both by his bonds and by her incantation. It was a matter of moments however and the northerners would have her or she would break and be his, his will was not so easily cast aside. It was over in a crash of thunder. Those who would set him free were mangled or discarded and somehow the girl found a way to sever his ties to those who were not.
Declan's eyes stayed on her, the spell caster. Miera. Thorirsblood. He stared even as one of the twins came rushing over.
A glint of steel and the whispered rasp of a weapon pulled from leather and the tip of a small knife was at Declan. a bead of blood rolled down his neck.
"Myndirðu drepa mig hér Durinsblood? Fjötraður eins og skepna til slátrunar?" He asked Oynx eyes staring up at Dorin. There was no fear, no pleading just disappointment. "Er þetta það sem er orðið af norðlenskum heiður?"
"Gera það" He said softly.
"Gera! Það!" He screamed, pressing his neck hard onto the knife's edge. The bead of blood now a rush of claret as the sharp edge bit into Declan's flesh. The pup stood there frozen. Fear after from him in waves.
"Einn af ykkur! Gera það!" He shouted to the rest of them who were gathered.
"Þú, Lechner. Leggðu mig niður eins og hundinn sem þú heldur að ég sé." He called to Gerwald reminding the man of Coruscant. "Teiknaðu blaðið þitt og bindtu enda á það."
"Hvað með þig Brynjar? Kannski myndi hún þá sjá þig?" He said to Brynjar gesturing the best he could toward Aelin with the knife still at his neck. "Hversu marga Lupo í viðbót myndir þú þurfa að drepa fyrir hana? Hvað er eitt í viðbót?"
"Þú stelpa." His attention turned now to Miera. "Ég finn villta lyktina af þér stelpa. Óttinn og hatrið líka. Komdu Þórisblóð, láttu enda á mér."
"Þræla! Þú hefur útlit morðingja." He addressed the spear-holding lightning wielder. "Þarftu leyfi meistara? Ég sé engan Drage hér."
Do you truly think me defeated?
Not anymore.
Would you slay me here Durinsblood? Shackled like a beast brought to slaughter?
Is this what has become of Northern honor?
Do it!
One of you! Do it!
You, Lechner. Put me down like the dog you think me to be. Draw your blade and put an end to it.
What about you Brynjar? Perhaps then she would see you? How many more Lupo would you need to kill for her? What is one more?
You girl. I can smell the wild on you girl. The fear and the hate too. Come Thorirsblood, make an end of me.
Thrall! You have the look of a killer. Do you need master's permission? I see no Drage here.
Gerwald had joined the assorted group dealing with Declan now, Brynjar held no love for the Lupo from clan Lechner. Brynjar might not be the best with his words but having seen Gerwald belittle Declan on Coruscant and then deciding that he knew what was best for the Lupo people when he knew next to nothing about their ways and how important history was. It was insult after insult and as soon as he came over to Brynjar, his words continued to be patronising and undermining Brynjar. He knew that this was still Declan, he knew that only hitting him would do more harm for Declan that he would struggle to recover from afterwards. Brynjar had been the one who, at great risk, ensured that Declan was knocked out in the safest and gentlest way. The bloody hit to the head had been from one of the Northern twins. He shrugged the man's hand off him, there was a sharp look of wanting to say more but now was not the time or place.
This was made clear when he noticed the grouping of Northerners had changed in their behaviours. Cursing loudly in Wufi, Brynjar knew that somehow this creature was bewitching them while still controlling Declan. Quick thinking had Brynjar ripping strip of leather from his trouser leg and creating a makeshift gag, he noticed that Aelin had formed up a shield from the gift and that the others were quickly reacting to the situation with the campers. The one claiming to be a Baramoðn slammed his spear into the ground and disrupted the movements of the villagers, while also bringing down lightning from the sky. It was an impressive display of skill and power but Brynjar could only hope that no one ended being seriously harmed by these actions since the North was not always on the best of terms with the rest of the Lupo and this situation could only make tensions worse between them all. It was clear from the lack of reaction from Aelin that she did not wish to talk about her lineage which made sense. That, like the patronisation from Gerwald, was not something that needed to be discussed right away.
When one of the twins came over brandishing a knife, holding it against the throat of Declan, Brynjar grunted in frustration and rushed the making of his gag faster. It was not good that the twin was resorting to such violence already and that the creature was clearly wanting this. "Hey, do it and you are giving this creature what it wants. I might not know much but I know that if a being like this wants to be killed, might be best to keep it alive. Could be parasitic and jump from Declan to you if you kill Declan." Brynjar stated, hoping to buy some more time before he could get the gag around mouth of Declan. Declan shouted out more threats and pleas of release, Brynjar noted that it was trying to divide them, to manipulate them. Mostly because he knew that this creature was trying to use his feelings for Aelin against him but he wasn't having that. No, he was going to work to keep things calm.
Moving in swiftly, Brynjar shoved the leather gag into Declan's mouth and started to tie it at the back of the head. "We need to focus on removing this being from Declan but he is trying to divide us with revealing personal secrets. Whether what he says is true or not, can't listen to what he says. Hoping this gag will also stop him using the other Northerners against us." Brynjar explained as he tightened the gag to ensure that the creature controlling Declan couldn't spit out any more truths, threats and misinformation. Brynjar knew that Aelin would never look at him if he killed Declan and more importantly, he could never look at himself properly for killing a friend and fellow Lupo. "Miera, do you have any ideas for this?" Brynjar looked over to the smallest Lupo of the group, hoping that she might have something in order to deal with the creature. Gerwald admitted he did not have an idea which was frustrating since he was often the one claiming to know all but Brynjar was not going to mock the man for admitting limitations, it was good to see he had them and could admit to them.
Darin - a stranger - moved to shield her with his body, for no reason that Miera could discern. It was disconcerting. The Baramoðn's power made neither her sacrifice nor Dorin's necessary, but the moment lingered in Miera's mind. She offered him a weary nod, pain in her eyes, unable to smile at the terrible price their people paid. Endlessly, endlessly they turned upon each other. But Dorin was gazing now upon the carnage, the death and destruction. People who had been allies, rendered enemy for only long enough to slay them. Then the pain set in.
"I'm sorry I was too slow." The price paid for her life was far too high.
Miera knelt beside Declan, a gentle touch to his shoulder. Most of her attention was on the tainted, black filth that poured from him. She was hoping that if it could be contained, whatever possessed him would have less reach. He stared at her, or it did; some combination of both. His challenge to Aelin, in the old tongue won a reply in the same language. Aðeins innihaldið. Eina manneskjan sem getur sigrað þig er Declan.
A flash of movement made her freeze, and Dorin was there, knife at Declan's throat. When Declan lunged up into the knife, Miera shoved her own hand between his throat and the knife blade. She hissed in pain, but held Dorin's gaze. "You'll only let it out. Why do you think it pleads so? Enough people - enough of our people - have died already today." Rage flickered. "It is so easy to kill; much harder to endure pain. I bid you to endure. Endure your brother's pain. Give him something worth coming home to."
Declan and the darkness within him drew her again, with another plea for Declan's death. It knew she belonged in the wilds, knew of her constant battles with fear. with hate. She breathed in. Breathed out. Managed a pained smile. a breath of calm. Her blood trickled down his neck, from Dorin's dagger. Mingled with his. and with it. þú biður dauðans. Ég gef þér líf.[/COLOR]
Brynjar Threist
Aelin Erevos
Gustaf Lögr
