From the Land of Ice and Snow (Novocaine & Jolie)

[Sleepercell]

Daybreak. The first rays of sunshine crept along the cliffs that surrounded the camp of Thorvald Eriksson. Under the cover of darkness their longboat had taken them ashore the land of northern England. The ground was covered in a soft sheen of frost, as it was the early days of spring and the time for their plans had come. Despite the early hour, the camp was bustling with movement. They were Vikings, the lot of them. 50 men strong and they were here for one purpose only. To raid.

Thorvald surveyed the site with intensity in his clear blue eyes. he had given orders to pack lightly, food and supplies would be procured on site. Having lived on nothing else but fish for the last two weeks while at sea, he had developed a craving for meat. Theirs was not the first force to disembark on foreign soil, two years prior his father and clansmen had raided settlements in this area, British maps had been procured as well as crude versions of their own.

Moments prior the scouts he had sent out to make sure they were on the correct course returned. Much to Thorvald's satisfaction, they had located the small town nearby that was to be their mark.
Standing at six feet tall, clad in a chain-shirt wrapped over a blue linen tunic and leather breeches. Filling out his clothes nicely, Thorvald had the physique of someone who spent a large amount of his waking hours training for combat. He was lean and fit without being overly bulky or swelling. He was designed for the brutal finesse that was viking combat.
Like everyone else of the men, he held a round shield and gripped a battleaxe as if they were part of his own limbs. Along his neck hung a heavy iron symbol of a hammer, Thor's hammer, believed by all of Nordic descent to protect you in battle and bring honor to your ancestors.
In truth, the only thing that differed him from the rest of the men, distinguishing him as the son of a powerful Jarl, was the rich embroidery of his garments. That, and the fact that he kept his beard well groomed. The shields were marked by the symbol of his clan - an eight legged horse named Sleipnir.

Nimbly, Thorvald climbed up on a set of round rocks and bellowed in a deep voice across the basin. "Men! Gather round!" He took the time to look in the eyes of several of his men as they congregated below him. "Finally we have arrived, finally it is time to do what we were BORN to do." He made a pause before continuing. "Beyond these cliffs lies a town ripe for the picking, it is waiting for us. Let's not make it wait any longer! And if ANYONE is over the wall AFTER Bjorn..." With a wide grin he pointed his axe towards the largest viking he had ever laid his eyes upon, "... That man will forego any claim to the loot or women!" There was a bustle of laughter, except from the abnormally large viking named Bjorn.

Picking up his pouch of supplies and heaving it over the shoulder, his men followed suite. "Now, let us go and take what is rightfully ours. And what do we do to any who would oppose us?"
The basin roared in response, "KILL! KILL! KILL!"
With a wide grin, Thorvald leaped down from the rocks and jogged out of the landing. The sound of a hundred boots against pebbles followed.

 

[Jolie]

When the alarm from Cluain-Tarbh Monastery sounded, Caoimhe (prounounced Keeva) Cassidy was tending to her mother, Briana Cassidy’s gravesite. She liked to stop and tend to the grave early in the morning after she had gathered herbs. Picking up her basket, the five-foot four inch girl gathered up her skirts and ran toward the monastery. She didn’t know why the Abbot had chosen to ring the bells. But doubted it could mean anything good.

From the top of the monastery walls, Aaron Scotus, the Abbot of Cluain-Tarbh watched as the Viking long ships made landing just north of the surrounding village. He crossed himself and stared down as his seventeen-year old illegitimate daughter came running toward the monastery gate. He smiled sadly. Her mother had been taken slave by the Vikings in her youth and had taught her daughter the rudiments of the Scandinavian language. Staring back toward where he knew the savages now disembarked, he would likely need that skill if he hoped to save any part of his charge.

“Father,” one of the senior monks addressed him. “Shall we flee.”
The abbot shrugged. “Flee if you want brother, but I cannot leave the monastery. God will provide. Tell the monks and villages to offer no resistance, it will only inflame the brutes.”

“Yes father,” the monk replied.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to where the Abbot stood, Caoimhe struggled to get past two monks blocking the passage. They made no attempt to move aside. The fact that the Abbot had an illegitimate daughter was an open secret. But while they forgave the abbot, they had never forgiven Briana Cassidy or her spawn for leading the much-older abbot astray.

Caoimhe slipped between the monks, dropping the basket of fresh herbs she had gathered earlier that morning to do so.

“Father,” she cried out. “What’s happening? Why is everyone in a panick.”

He opened his arms and she flew into them. Holding her for a second, he wished he had married his young daughter off last year as he had intended. Now, it was too late. “I’m going to need you to translate for me. The Vikings have come.”

Caoimhe’s light brown eyes widened and fear flickered. “We could run.” She had heard stories of Viking raids, the horror of them, but no raids had taken place in her lifetime. When her mother was much younger, she had been enslaved by the Vikings and only returned much later in her life, leaving behind three children that she had born while enslaved. Caoimhe was the passionate result of Briana’s love match as the Abbots mistress.

“No. We must trust in God. You’ll translate for me and hopefully the savages will spare us if we do not resist. Later, when the king returns the wars, he might smite these godless heathens with his armies.

The younger girl nodded, not sure if her father’s plan made any sense. “I think God would want us to fun father.”

The Abbot frowned down as the young girl. “Do not dare to presume what God would want child.”

“They are coming,” a terrified cry rang out.

The Abbot, holding his daughter around the shoulders worked his way downstairs to the front gate. “Do not resist.” He called out in the same tone he used when preaching Sundays. As they reached the open gate, he saw the first Vikings. Saying a quick prayer, he instructed his daughter to use her crude language skills to tell them they would not resist.

Her accent was atrocious. But she managed to say, “Peace! Take what want. No hurt.”

The Abbot’s arm tightened around the girl. “Did you tell them?”

“Aye father,” she replied, her face very pale. She felt faint. Surely they could have fought back or tried to run.

 

[Sleepercell]

Before every battle, every skirmish, a warrior experiences a state of heightened senses. According to the older vikings, it was the presence of Odin they felt. To die gloriously in combat is the highest honor a viking can achieve, to be called upon by the Valkyries and allowed passage into Valhalla. Imagine then the sheer disappointment Thorvald experienced at the sight that greeted him. Men and women of all ages, all unarmed, all rounded up like cattle. The bells that had tolled at their advance had fueled their lust for battle, and there was no outlet to lash out at.

The townsfolk had chose wisely, fleeing might allow a few of them to escape, but there would be deaths. Unnecessary deaths.
Thorvald motioned for his warriors to encircle their prey,

 

[Sleepercell]

As the town came into view for Thorvald and his band, they were greeted by the sounds of tolling bells. For a moment he entertained a thought that this was the defenders battle song. With this in mind, his lust for battle only grew. With the promise of battle came heightened senses, the greatest glory a viking could achieve was to die honorably in battle. As eldest son of a powerful Jarl, Thorvald was charged with the upkeep of honor of his men, perhaps he could grant some the greatest glory today.

Imagine then his surprise to find the gates opened, where he had expected a rain of arrows instead. And a greater surprise to find an old man and a young girl standing in the middle of the gates as some sort of gatekeepers. It was at that moment Thorvald realized this was not some sort of elaborate trap or cunning scheme, they had chosen the way of the cowards. Lust for battle was replaced with intense contempt, there was one thing vikings abhorred and that was cowardice. No Northling man or woman would ever choose to surrender in front of a superior force, they would all die with or without weapons in hand if need be. Vikings did not have 'surrender' in their vocabulary.

Coming face to face with the would be guardian duo, Thorvald gazed them both deeply in the eyes. Widening ever so slightly at the frail girls call for peace - spoken like a child just barely learning how to talk - Thorvald spat on the ground. He was in no mood for this, the surplus rage demanded an outlet. With stride in his steps, he approached the pair, snatched the girl by her thick braid and yanked it harshly. She barely reached up to his chest, and even less so as Thorvald threw the thing backwards into the grasp of one of his men. In the same instant he put all his might behind his fist and delivered a fierce blow into the old mans face.

The old man staggered and fell backwards, crashing onto the ground as Thorvald pinned him down with his leg placed on his rib cage.
Pointing his axe to his victim's face. "I know what you are, worshipers of the christian god. Where is he now I wonder? Where is he to protect you? NOWHERE!"
Thorvald paused and wiped his mouth, he was breathing heavily and not due to exhaustion. "He's abandoned you. Left you like cattle. Because that is what you are now."

Not a moment was spent on wondering whether the priest could understand him, Thorvald turned to his men who waited in anticipation.
"Round them all up and bring them to the center, all of them. Search every house."
His voice firm and commanding, as if there never could be a hint of protest to his words. With that said, the vikings welled into the town like a broken dam.

The man with the bloodied nose wiggled beneath his boot as the girl who knew Thorvald's tongue was ushered inside the town again by a viking who had more beard than face, Leif Siggurdson, who also happened to be Thorvald's second in command.
"Tie these two up, they're wearing too fancy clothes to be part of the common rabble. They can prove useful." Thorvald said and pierced the girl with his eyes as Leif pulled out rope from his pack and got to work.

 

[Jolie]

The Abbot had prayed that Saint Paul would appear in a flash of light and protect God's Monastery from the Vikings. He had let slip into his mind the possibility that God would simply strike them dead as he had the entire cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. It wasn't to be. Before he even had the presence of mind to flinch or cower, he found himself lying on the ground, blood from a torn cheek flooding his mouth and having trouble breathing from the weight of the barbaric foot pushing down on his chest.

He wanted to answer back the Viking's mocking of his faith and his God, but terror seemed to have frozen his vocal chords. He knew he was about to die and while he liked to think he was noble, he was only able to focus on his own terror and eminent demise.

As the Vikings began to obey there leader's orders, Caoimhe cried out and fell to her knees before the Viking leader. "Please spare my papa," she begged. "He is a good man. Tears sprang to her eyes as the Viking leader pulled her to her feet by her long, thick braid. She had never cut her hair, because she had learned in the weekly lessons by her father and other monk's that a woman's glory was in part found in her long, beautiful hair. To have a man touch her hair and control her by it made her feel ashamed and helpless. But as her whisky colored eyed stared helplessly over at her father, tears falling from her copper lashes, she suppressed her natural instinct to lash out or scream at the man holding her. Instead, she trembled and forced herself to stay still.

It wasn't as if resistance would have helped. Instead, very conscious of his hand holding tight to her braid, the way her body was pulled next to his, she tried to appeal to his humanity. "Papa good man," she said. "Me do anything to help papa. Please spare papa." Thank God, her mother had taught her the language that she had learned during her period of enslavement. It had always seemed stranger that her mother would insist on this, but then her mother was not just a healer with great knowledge of herbs. The villagers had oft whispered that she must have the second sight and perhaps her mother had known that one day, her daughter would need this skill. Her hand reached up to her braid, where the Viking's calloused hand held her. Resting her hand on his, she looked away from her father and up to the man who held her. "Please." She said again.

Even as she spoke, the man called Leif lifted her father bodily into the air and then sat him down and began to tie him. It was like her father's weight was a mere feather pillow compared to the viking's strength. She had no particular thought of prayer as her eyes stayed locked on the leader's gaze, begging him silently with her expression as words failed her, "Show mercy on my father."

Behind her, she heard screams from the monks and the villagers as they Viking dealt with them individually. She could smell smoke. A fire had broken out in the monastery. Perhaps a lantern had been knocked over. It began to spread as the valuables of the church were dragged out and piled in front of the Viking leader along with animals, women, and whatever coin the simple villagers had.

 

[Sleepercell]

As far as beautiful scenery goes, Thorvald could name a few that had imprinted a powerful mental image. The heights of the rocky mountains back home held a special place in his heart. Not to mention the first time he had undressed a girl. And then... There was this. A ruckus of pure chaos had been unleashed upon the village, no viking would slay an unarmed man unless provoked but Thorvald saw no need in elucidating this fact for the villagers. They were here for two things; Honor and valuables. There was little glory in conquering a village that made no resistance, so the quest for valuables become more prominent.

Turning his head to the frail girl who he had successfully ignored until now. "You speak our tongue but they sound alien in your mouth. A viking never begs and you've done nothing but that from the start." Attaching his axe to his belt, Thorvald faced the pleading girl and gave her a stern look. A moment later he lashed out, slapping her over the cheek with a loud smack. The noise got drowned out in the commotion around them but Thorvald's message was clear. Holding her heavy braid firmly, he fixated her in place, "Enough with your wailing. You'll speak when spoken to from now on. Do I make myself clear?" Thorvald's tone held a hint of barely constrained wrath, threatening to boil over at any moments notice.

Surveying the site with a less than pleased countenance, Thorvald stood in the center of it all with the girl as his men subdued the villagers in all manner of ways. A few feet away from them a viking kicked a monk to the ground, right next to them a viking had captured a woman who seemed to have lost part of her clothing, exposed chest and torn sleeves. Smoke emitted out from a large building, no doubt the whole town would burn to the ground unless addressed. Such things would normally pleased the son of a viking warlord, but he couldn't escape the feeling that they had yet to prove themselves worthy before Odin.
"Oi! Girl." He shook her briskly. "Make yourself useful. Tell your people to put out that fire. Or we'll sacrifice them to Odin." Just as he had finished he bellowed out to his men to release a handful of captives. Never had it been or ever would be viking tradition to make human sacrifices to the gods, but he thoroughly enjoyed the shocking countenance of his captivating captive.

Like a man leading his horse, Thorvald yanked the girl's braid with every turn as he paced around the village center. If her hair tore it was because it was weak, and Thorvald didn't spare a moment for weaklings.
The sun had come up, creating an illusion of warmth as it cast it's drape over the once peaceful village. Scanning over the faces of the men and women that had not rushed away to put out the fire, Thorvald laid his eyes upon a youngling - not a day over nine Thorvald wagered. By that age he already knew how to kill a man.
Turning his loathing gaze to the girl ensnared in his firm grip. "How far is it to the nearest town?" The grin on his features grew with every passing moment as his plan formed.

 

[Jolie]

Caoimhe's heart felt squeezed in a vice. Her face had gone pale, causing the thick scattering of freckles to stand out againsa the simple beauty. She whimped as the Viking's hands painfully snagged in her long red hair. All around her, she heard the sound of the Viking language gutterally ringing out in the cold-crisp morning air. Her Scandinavian language skills were marginal and unless she focused, she rarely grasped everything word. Instead, it was a terrifying cacaphony of threatening words. Oh why hadn't her father told her to flee, she thought frantically. Why hadn't they fought back.

They would have died, but it would have been a death fighting against enemies. Now, she knew in her heart that she and the other women would end up enslaved and she knew the kind of savages these men were. They would probably torture the men and she'd heard that some Vikings even ate babies. The though had her gagging as she heard the man saying something above her. She looked blindly up at him trying to grasp what he had just said. He had spoken faster and with more heat this time.

"Yes," she said stalling for time. He gave her a stern look and slapped her across the face. The blow left a copper taste of blood in her mouth and snapped her head back, pain articulating out like jagged spears of pain. She cried out in pain, gasping, "Please!" His grasp on her hair when her head rocked had sent more pain through her scalp and left her feeling utterly helpless. "Shut up," was how she translated his words. Her golden eyes widened and she nodded fearfully staring up at him.

"I quiet." She said and then clamped her lips shut as if she feared he would hurt her again. Her entire body felt like it was going into shock as she saw her friends, her neighbors being mistreated. The monk on the ground had helped teach her to read and write. The woman being stripped, a thirty-year old widow with three children knitted wonderful sweaters and sold them when merchants would pass by the village surrounding the monastery. Leaving the chaos and mayhem, Caoimhe's eyes sought out the barbarian's who held her and she wanted to spit in his face and tell him what a monster he was. What had anyone here ever done to them? What glory was there in killing and burning out simple peasants and monks?

He ignored her spiteful look. "Put out fire, put out fire," she cried out as loud as she could. "Bad men kill you if you don't put out fire." She kept feeling like she was going to be sick, but she forced her nausea down wishing the man would loosen his grip on her hair. Around her, people tried to obey her instructions.

She could see some of the Vikings looting homes further off and imagined other barbarians would soon be sacking the monastery with its religious relics and icons and gold candle sticks. Her thick braid didn't tear, but she felt long a dog on a string as she stumbled behind him, crying out from time to time, tears staining her face, terrified.

Peter, the oldest boy, of the widow woman was starting at the man holding her by her thick red braid, slack-jawed, his eyes wide. When she was asked where the nearest town was, she tried to focus on him. "Never been," she said. "Two days travel by cart." God, she hated his vile grin. He was probably the kind of man who loved inflicting pain. She expected he would soon butcher children like Peter and her father. Such a man could never respect the elderly and their wisdom or the future of a village like this in its children. One slender hand reached up to her braid, her face grimacing in pain as she stood up on her heels trying to ease the pressure as he stopped to look about him.

 

[Sleepercell]

There was a moment of silence as Thorvald contemplated his move. His brows frowned as he studied the half terrified boy, at least he met his gaze, there was an ounce of courage in him - a lot more than could be said for the villagers. Nodding to himself, Thorvald didn't look at the girl next to him but issued the order out loud. "Tell him to run for help."
The boys eyes darted from Thorvald and the girl like a fish trying to escape the nets closing in on both sides. What little patience Thorvald had was soon spent. Drawing a breath, he aimed a kick that landed perfectly on the monk cowering next to the boy. Blood splattered from the broken lips and up shot the boy like someone had stuck a needle on his behind.

Thorvald couldn't help but to grin as he watched the boy dashed away from them, he would make it. The question was if the people of the next village would muster the courage to face them? The title of liberators from the fearsome vikings would no doubt taste good on these weaklings lips. Come you cowards and face us. With that thought floating away, Thorvald threw the girl down harshly onto the ground, irrelevant for now.

"Bind them all. We stay here and use up their supplies. Odin's willing, there will be company to be had." Addressing his men before folding his arms and watching the villagers get their hands bound behind their backs. When it was the translating girl's time, he calmly held up a hand "Not her. She has other duties to attend."