A Goddess in all Regards

Konrad was troubled. He had been quite unable to find solace in sleep, despite the warm and suitably well furnished room of the castle. To his mind it was entirely too comfortable, and his body was much better accustomed to life on campaign, camping in tents meant to accomodate It was late, and there were no advisors, generals or lieutenants bustling around him for orders, or barking challenges or complaining of how their honorless foes refused to face them on the field of battle. This war had been building for the past decade, as the southeners had taken every opportunity to slight himself and his thanes, through negotiations, trade agreements and wringing from them every copper possible, all the while flattering and bowing and scraping and speaking of 'mutual gains'. It had come too far though, and his people had demanded justice, and he had taken up the crown as every holding geared for war. A war that had not as yet been going well.

Early successes had drawn their armies into the borders of their foes, and his generals (overconfident in their sucess) had continued despite his warnings of consolidation, only to find themselves cut off, ambushed and harrassed by forces who refused to fight on the open field. And what was worse was the constant threat of the enemies mages, from their accursed towers and academies, who inspired unnatural fear, or raised monsters or even turned the winds and weather against his armies, leaving their advance spluttering and miserable and expended, and his own authority called into question. He slammed his fist down onto the table in anger, cursing the gods that his proud and noble warriors and their families honor and work might be trampled under the connivings and witchcraft wrought by foreigners with not an honest bone amongst them. He cursed again and shucked off the heavy furs from around his broad shoulders, pacing in his breeches and tunic across the cobble stone floor as he pulled at the short beard adorning his rugged features, well aware that this war had begun just slightly to gray the temples of his thick, blonde hair. He was still a prime example of his people's strength tough the raw strength of youth was now tempered in him with a discipline born of her veterancy, and there were few who could still best him in contests of strength, though he fancied himsell not quite so agile as the callow youths and riders, who had seen the most success of any of his troops.

He gritted his teeth, thankful only that his son was the chief marshall of their horsemen, and the best rider and warrior amongst them (and therefore in the best position to cut at his own authority), and not some hot headed firebrand, intent on cutting a bloody swath into the southern nations, that would likely destroy any chance of victory, though sating the neccesities of honor. Still, their were other generals who might take it upon themselves to overthrow king and son alike, should his efforts not produce some fruit in the coming weeks, but with the constant threat of sorcery and ambush, he could not possibly remount the campaign as they had before, as they had for centuries. He felt trapped by the bonds of honor, of tradition of all that he had to live up to, and yet without a proper force against which to apply his strength. It was maddening, and all of it wreaked of magic, and of god's who had abandoned him and his people to their fate.

War, the one constant in the history of men. War is a part of an endless cycle, one that never fails to repeat itself over and over again. War,peace and revolution. Life, death and rebirth. Valrisa has seen the cycle for an eternity. She influenced them many times, but fate never fails to ensure the completion of the cycle. Fate, even the gods themselves bow down to fate. Valrisa however is no god. She isnt even a deity..yet. The cycle of history never fails to come full circle because men will always die, but what if an immortal enters the cycle? The answer is unknown for now, but as she descended from the heavens to the frozen country below, Valrisa knew that the answer wont matter as much as the fact that she is going to enjoy this journey.

To rule the world as an immortal queen, Valrisa would need many things, first and foremost is an army. To obtain said army, she has in her possesion the ultimate currency, not gold, not land, certainly not honor, but power. All men wants power, and as sad as it is to admit, men are the ones who run this world for now. Valrisa didnt mind. She liked men, loved their taste and scent, but she loathed the ones without power. She doesnt need powerless men in her world, for only those men who can provide her with what she wants, be it power or pleasure, are the ones worth keeping alive. King Konrad is one such man. He is a paragon of martial strength among the worshippers of the northern gods, and his army while unorganized, is one of raw strength and ferocity. His land, Midderand, is also a vital location. Midderand is located at the Axis of this plane, making it a gathering place for magical leylines, one that Valrisa is eager to drain.

She entered the room as silent as death, the guards stationed at the door lies dead, their own hands strangling their throat. The two were an example of men she doesnt need, and their death were insignificant. Flames flickered in the fireplace the second she entered, raw cosmic energy sparkling in her blood red eyes. Everything about her is blood red, her eyes, her waist length straight hair, her nails and lips, a fitting colour scheme for a demigodess who roamed the world to witness war.

"King Konrad, you may simply bow in front of me, rather than kneeling and kissing my feet." She commanded with her seductively wicked voice. Her thinly clothed body swayed ever so slowly as she walked towards the giant of a man. Despite their size difference, Valrisa had a pressence that cannot be ignored, especially not for a man who worshipped the Northern gods. She is a sight most of them long for in the end of their life. A choser of the slain. A Valkyrie.

Konrad spun as she swept into the room, wrenching a knife from the oaken table he narrowed his eyes as he faced off against the perceived interloper, as no servant would be foolish enough to disturb his master this late in the night, and the guards had been instructed to his privacy. Upon hearing the door open and the fire crackle with the sudden draft, he assumed the presence of an assassin or spy, whether the enemies' or a rival warlord's, it mattered not, he was in no mood to be trifled with. Greeted as he was then by the sanguine, haughty beauty who's radiance filled his visage he was stunned, and his grip on the knife tightened till his knuckles turned white. Her words barely reached him through the flood of thoughts as he tried to guess her place, her purpose in being here. He was skeptical of course, of any woman so beautiful coming to him in the dead of night, getting past his guards, and it would be just in keeping with the dishonor of his opponents to believe they could seduce him with a female assassin or spy.

Or a sorceress! That thought caused him to brandish the knife menacingly, as he realized the gorgeous radiance of the woman wreaked of powerful magic, divinely powerful magic, and her presence here could only be magical. It was only a vague memory from his childhood that stopped him from lunging forward with his knife before she could begin some enchantment; the memory was recalled to him by her haunting beauty, her seraphic features, her power and majesty . . . seconds seemed to drag on for hours as he wrestled with his mind, his skepticism, till finally his heritage and the power of her presence overwhelmed the rationale part of his mind and he saw her for what she was. She was a creature of magic yes, but one he had long ago given up on ever seeing, having seen so much death in war and battle and never finding any divine reward.

His hardened, rugged features lit up in awe as he stepped forward, towards her unthinkingly and bowed, not particularly deeply, but in clear deference considering the effort it took him to tear his eyes away from hers.