Regnwald

Darkness fell in the winter forest. Mist lying beyond the small band of Eorlings, among the trees low. Régnwald slowed the company to a halt. He instructed, "We shall camp here in the woods for the night. Let a fire be built and a guard posted." As the order was sealed with a firm nod, he dismounted his horse and his feet found the ground, leaving a hard song of clinking battered war-nets as he paced onward. Régnwald finally took off his helmet, and he would be at least equally fast to shed the iron-welded gauntlets he was wearing.

The snow was falling in frightening masses from the starless sky. Régnwald furrowed his brow as he looked back the way they had come earlier, his fingers subconsciously working the collar of the heavy leather cloak with the cape of wolf-fur over his shoulders, tightening it around his neck. It was cold, and the wind was further picking up. It was no storm yet, but it would soon become one. No weather to make for the narrow pathway to the hills, least of all by night.

        The howling wind, burdened with the burning snow of the northern mark, grazed the ridge before the plains. Nine shadows stood tall, nine pairs of keen eyes looked at the open plain and the hill upon the center, on it the fortress of heaps of stone and iron standing guard. The tall, young earl took heavy steps down the hill as he gazed upon yonder.

THE PAST...

''A mighty man in byrnie are you, of proven bravery, bold in battle. Into my war-band will you come, to serve as warrior and counsel wise words?''

Warrior: Aye!

Régnwald opened his eyes after what seemed like winters to him. A grim, worried expression growing in his lined features as he turned to gaze upon the maiden. What has she said, he thought. A hand finding the moisted rag embracing his chest, and he once attempted to study his wound, a deep sigh of pain following, which would mayhap be enough for Faerhild to wake up if she had not.

Faerhild lies in the bed, pale as milk, her face decorated by a thick layer of sweat and a collection of violet bruises. She trembles in fever, although it is evident she is awake as she hums an ancient lullaby. The one they sing to children to ward off death during nights. Her voice trembles in the tunes, although she seems persistent on continuing. Perhaps afraid of dying.

Faerhild laid on a bed once owned by someone else. The pain prevented her from actually falling asleep, aside for the moments when the fever stole her consciousness. However this was not one of those blissful moments.  

No. She laid awake, even if her eyes were shut in her plan of pretending sleep. She did not wish to talk with the man who laid wounded on the bed next to her.

Régnwald has been lying in the bed for some hours now, eyes closed; though no one would say where his thoughts were riding, 'twas a mere darkness for him. Until now, hazel green eyes of the warrior opening halfly on this bloodstained dawn. Aching waist unflinching as his hand ran with a sudden pain to hold his face, finding a worn rag hugging his forehead. A bare deep sigh escaped him.

Aeschere charged the first orc with an insane fury. He bashed his face with his shield, knocking him out of his way. He then clashed his sword with the other orc, breaking his sword in half and slashing his flesh. He swings and bashes as the orcs throw themselves against him, only to be hewn aside with missing limbs and gushing blood.

Faerhild charged against one of the orcs, bashing him with her shield, to block him from seeing her incoming sword that went to study his black guts.