Curse Of Blood: Gods & Monsters

Chapter I - Aila

kyrtill - A man's overtunic

Draugr - The equivalent of a Norse ghost, or zombie, or vampire, etc

Drakkar - viking ship

Five years earlier...

She often thought about the wolf. 

Wondered sometimes if it had lived despite its deep wounds. It had been right here that she'd found it. The day her mother had died. Its breathing had been stertorous as it lay on its side at the edge of the very precipice she now occupied.

At first she'd been too frightened to approach it. Perhaps if her misery had not so consumed her — had not left her so hollow, even of prudence — she'd not have done so at all; but she had done. She had paused only a brief moment before maneuvering over the jagged rocks to the creature's side. Mayhap she'd even welcomed death that day.

The wolf had been far larger than any wolf ought to have been. Its coat had been almost as black as the massif to the north, save for the grizzled tips around its head and back. Nevertheless, she had continued forward. Its eyes, she recalled, had been piercing, a glacial sort of blue, and it had fixed them to her all the while she'd moved closer.

The snake bite, for that, she'd soon discovered, was what had laid it low, had left two suppurating puncture marks in its matted fur. By and by, emboldened by the creatures stillness, for it had uttered no warning growl, Aila had set to work, eager to distract her mind and heart from their sorrow.

With celerity, she'd collected clay and herbs, mostly lavender, and had made a paste to smear over the bite mark. Still, even when she'd touched the animal, it had remained inert, seeming to sense her purpose, watching keenly as she administered the ointment.

When she'd returned the next morning it had gone. Whatever had become of it, she liked to imagine that the beast had survived. However, it had more than likely perished and fallen over the bluff into the sea.

And now, today, Death had struck again.

The sun sat low on the horizon, but, Aila knew, it would descend no further; not for many days hereafter. Whether Sol did that in deference to the grief that lay like a thick miasma over the valley, smothering the people with its gloomy wreaths, or as a consequence of the season, was of little import. The caprice of nature, and the gods that presided over all, were nevermore clarion than today. 

Their chieftain was dead.

His drakkar was now only an immolated speck over the slate waters of the Istyrr, the flames towering over the waves, the red sail long since devoured. And with him had gone all his earthly possessions, his trinkets, his horse, his weapons, and whatever other impedimenta he might require on his journey to Valhalla. Even his slave girl had willingly followed him thence, their bodies no more than scorched ash and black fumes.

Aila had taken herself to the cliffs that overlooked the settlement below and the ocean that stretched beneath the mottled, grey sky. The eye of Sol watched from the mountains behind her, the stellated rays winking across a sky slashed with indigo, red, and yellow.

She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and into her lap to study the gilt threads, the glass beads anchored amongst them, her eyes wearied by the smoke on the horizon. And what must Harald, Ragnar, and Gudrun be feeling? No doubt what she herself had felt when her mother had passed into the otherworld.

Sverre had been a fine chieftain, and his death inexplicably sudden, but it would now be Harald's turn to lead his people. No small feat, even for a man that was already the giant his sire had been, and this great duty was now settled on him despite his youth. Aila, who was younger by six summers, had not failed to notice the boy had long since become a man.