Vinland (Jokerama og JanÅgeSolstad)

A longhouse made of timber and thatched with uneven square bits of wood and the heavy green branches of pine trees. He'd only caught a glimpse of it before the hood was forced over his head and he was shoved inside. Then his arms and legs were tied to a thick support beam.

And then he was beaten.

And then he was left there, all alone, for he didn't know how long. No food, no water, no light, nothing, not for he didn't know how long. Whatever sunlight may have trickled through the minuscule imperfections in the house itself were completely suppressed by the hood, and so, in time, time itself lost meaning.

For a time, he planned his escape. But it was pointless. When they'd taken him, the dark skinned savages with their straight black hair and foreign tongue, they'd disarmed him. And they'd beaten him, of course, so much so that he was still sore even now. Without food or water, it was a wonder that he was still alive, and he was in no state to fight off a horde of enemies alone. He doubted that he could still stand at this point; he hadn't tried to in... he didn't know how long.

It was supposed to have been a simple raid. Just another extended tour to Vinland, the continent on the other side of the world. There was jewelry there, and enough food to last the entire clan through even the worst Scandinavian winter, and there were slaves to be made. The best thing was that the natives of Vinland were simple and unorganized, and their weapons and tactics were cut rate. Pillaging and plundering on that continent was almost too easy.

They had made good time to the new land. They arrived with the night and so their leader, a stout upstart who had been given his rank because of who his father was, had hesitated to send out scouts. We'll send them out in the morning, he had said, it's too late now; if we all get a good night's rest, we'll be the better for it in the long run.

He had disagreed with the idea, vehemently so as he recalled. But as was his convention, he kept his opinion to himself and sat down with the last of his salt cod and set about to making more arrows. He had done that every day of the journey and, in his opinion, he still didn't have enough arrows.

They had made all of the difference that morning, when dozens of the savages had set upon them. Some were mounted on horseback, some were on foot, but all were armed, angry, and better organized than any other skrælingjar they had ever heard of. The Vikings had fought back--valiantly--but, dramatically outnumbered and outflanked, they hadn't a hope. He had watched as the savages had killed each of his comrades, one by one, sometimes taking souvenirs from their bodies, sometimes not. And still he hadn't stopped shooting them, not until they had climbed up into his perch and dragged him down.

He was the only one they'd taken alive. What they intended to do with him, he couldn't conceive. Torture no longer seemed likely, not after being left alone for so long. Perhaps they had some ritual that they needed him for, perhaps they'd sacrifice him to appease one of their strange gods. But that didn't frighten him, not after what he'd done. After killing so many of his enemies, his seat at Valhalla was guaranteed, and he'd meet his Gods with his back straight and his head high.

Ah. Sunlight. The door was open, it seemed, and several skrælingjar were entering the house. He raised his head as if to greet them, but one of them yanked his hood off and struck him across the jaw. He fell into the dirt, and the next thing he knew, he was being carried--dragged, really--out into the sunlight for the first time in... he still didn't know how long.

More of the savages were gathered there, and not just men. There were women and children, too, aligned in two great parallel rows to watch him and curse at him. Where he was going, he wasn't sure, but an upraised platform some distance ahead of him seemed like a likely destination.

So. They meant to kill him after all.

When he realized that, he felt neither fear nor trepidation. Merely a sense of... was it relief? No, not quite. Certainty--that was it. A small part of him regretted his inability to avenge his comrades and to wipe the entire Vinland scum off the face of the planet, but that couldn't be helped now. All he could do now was to go to his death his his back straight and his head high.

With that in mind, he suddenly struggled, freeing himself from the grasp of his captors. Then he walked on his own two feet. He swaggered, really. They could curse him and kill him as much as they liked, but still, he was Kjartan, son of Erik. His hands were still bound, else he might have wiped some of the stringy uncut yellow hair out of his face. But still, even after days without food or water or sunlight, he was taller and stronger and a hundred times the man that any of the savages were.

We had waited patiently for this day. Hunting the Ktunawai rebels had not been an easy task. They were good and they cleaned up after themselves to leave little to no trace. Trailing was often difficult. Luckily, we had a break when we came upon a bloodbath of white men. These creatures were strange - different from our own complexion. I had always heard of these pale-faced travelers, but I had never seen them until we found their graveyard. The way of their deaths made it obvious the Ktunawai were responsible. Though, instead of cleaning up, they abandoned the bodies in a forested area. Their bodies came to a shock to our clan. These white men were said to be demonic warriors. How could they lose a battle against people of our kind, when they had previously murdered us? This served as proof that the Ktunawai were strong and getting stronger. Their technique was improving. Or, perhaps this group of white man served to be too vain, and not cautious. Perhaps the Ktunawai would make the same fatal mistake. The bodies were fresh, which meant we were close. Closer than we've ever been before. I could smell them. I could taste the victory. This was their fatal mistake. One's trash is another's treasure - this was a prime example. The bodies would lead us right to them.

And so, they did.

Our biggest advantage would be a surprise attack. Without knowing of our coming, we stood our best chance against them. As I hid behind the bushes, I motioned for the clan to stay low, and stay quiet. They all complied, and my eyes turned to a large native male. He was tall, extremely muscular, and armed with a bow and arrow. His stance was strong as he pulled the arrow back - ready to fire. This was my cousin Kwatoko. His eyes locked on mine, and I turned to my other warriors. They matched his position - they were ready to fire. Turning my head to face the enemies ahead, I smacked hard the ass of a steed. The horse huffed and soared into the open field where the Ktunawai were congregating. The Ktunawai men where instantly distracted by the seemingly wild, stampeding horse. And it was in that moment of sudden panic, that I made a light clicking sound with my tongue. The arrows were fired.

The Ktunawai were quick to realize they were under attack, but it wasn't quick enough. Within a second of the arrows being fired, it was a full blown battle. My native brothers of the Howahkan tribe rushed to battle. With two rows of my men: One row stationary by the trees, firing arrows - and the other row of warriors who emerged from the woods with axes, to fight the Ktunawai dead on. This was an ambush.

I was among those warriors. The only female in the fighting clan, I ran towards my enemies with no fear. Strapped to each one of my thighs was a leather strap holding a row of different knives and axes. I had little armor on my body to protect myself - but perhaps that was a product of my own thriving vanity. I refused to allow that to be my fatal mistake. With nothing but determination in my smokey silver eyes, I wielded an axe in each hand and threw myself into battle. My first victim stood no chance. Upon contact, I launched the axe straight into his skull, and back out again. As my hand drew back the axe from his head, I was instantly encountered with another enemy. Without skipping a beat, I used the momentum from the first strike to spin my axe around and slash the neck of the second opponent. Two down, and I could already taste the spray of blood that painted my face.

It was only a dozen of my men versus twice the amount of theirs. But it didn't matter. I fought like a swan - my body dancing across the field in swift, fluid, enchanting motions as I swung each axe to terminate my competitor. I was fierce, but the spinning movement of my small, thin and flexible body was somehow elegant. It gave me an advantage to my male tribe brothers, who were broad and stiff, and could not move as quickly and as freely as I could as a petite yet stoic woman.

It was only moments before the scene turned into an horrific blood bath. But among all the chaos, my eyes were drawn to a different man. Not an enemy of choice, but a man of potential value. Tied up and clearly dis-shaped, I had found my first living pale-face. I had set eyes on you, And I wanted you alive. Quickly changing directions, I avoided a near-fatal blow by ducking and swiping my axe for the back of the native's ankles. They severed and he fell to the ground, leaving no Ktunawai to stand in my way of the white man. In the corner of my eye, I could see another Ktunawai native headed straight for your head. In one impressive leap, I lunged towards you and knocked the man's weapon from his hands. The blow dislodged my axe from its handle, leaving me with but a stick in my hands. I put it to use, and ran the handle right into his crotch while simultaneously grabbing for a knife on my thigh with my free hand. I flung the knife over my head and into his neck. He fell to the ground, and I turned to grab you. "Move!" Spinning you around, I slashed the ropes from your wrists and hands and freed you.

But there was no time to chat. The Ktunawai tribe was fighting back hard. Another one of them came raging for me. Without much thought, I grabbed your hand and flung it to my leg. "Take!" I yelled, expecting you to understand and grab a weapon from my band of knives strapped to my thigh. In the heat of battle, I had forgotten that we were different. The same moment, I threw my blade towards the Ktunawai warrior coming at us but was distracted and missed my target. That would prove to be a deathly mistake, as he swung his arm around - armed with a large rock - and struck me on the side of my head. Having tried to dodge his strike, the blow was not fatal, but it was enough to knock my smaller frame to the ground.


VOCABULARY:
Ktunawai: Rival tribe of my character - also the tribe that killed your character's men and captured and tortured him. Meaning: None, made the name up!
Howahkan: Tribe of my character and her people. Meaning: "of the mysterious voice".

Kjartan found himself surveying the unfolding chaos with an unveiled expression of distaste on his features. So, the skrælingjar couldn't control their own horses... or their own people, for that matter. Some sort of civil war had broken out, and half of the savages were fighting the other half. That was nothing if not uncivilized. No wonder his people had been able to enslave and dominate the skrælingjar since time immemorable. Even when this rebellion was crushed and he was killed, it would make no difference. In time, more of his proud race would land on their shores and put them in their place, and... and...

For the first time, it occurred to Kjartan that just as there were different Viking clans, there might be different skræling clans. True, Vikings rarely fought with one another--they directed their destructive energies towards the others and the outsiders--but wars had ravaged their motherland before. Perhaps this was no pathetic uncivilized rebellion, then. Perhaps Kjartan was watching an honest-to-God skrælingjar war breaking out.

What that meant for him ought to have remained to be seen. Kjartan might have taken advantage of the chaos and run, perhaps freeing himself with the weapon of a downed warrior on the way, but fate, it seemed, forced his hand. Intent on finishing his ritual, one of the skrælingjar who had been howling for his blood leaped on top of the wooden platform, raised his axe, and--was violently disarmed and then killed by the first female skræling he had ever seen at a close distance.

He had heard of them in the past. Tough, vicious, skinny little beasts who didn't learn to shut up and take it until half of the teeth had been knocked out of their heads. They weren't like the women from home, with their stout builds and broad shoulders; no, this woman was lithe, and fast, and deadly. Kjartan was too malnourished and dehydrated to do much more than keep his feet as she freed him, and when she threw him around and engaged another attacker, he couldn't even manage that.

Kjartan stumbled back and nearly fell, but seeing his savior struck down awoke a certain bestial strength in him. He might have gone down, but in the process, he'd armed himself with a blade from her thigh. It wasn't big--barely as long as his index finger and weirdly broad and curved, but it served its purpose. Before the Ktunawai could finish his task, Kjartan took a step forward, ducked to coil up the powerful muscles in his legs, and then launched himself forward.

He struck his enemy directly in the chest, stabbing him through the rib, the heart, and the back, so hard that the two of them were knocked forward by several feet. Kjartan managed to withdraw his knife and avoid tumbling off the edge of the platform, at which point he did a quick analysis of the situation.

There was still fighting. There was still chaos. Skræling was killing skræling and he had no idea which was which or who was on his side or if none were on his side after all. He might well be better served simply by running--no, that was no good. Alone in a strange land, barely a step ahead of the next skræling, in that state... he wouldn't last an hour. He had only one option.

There was a shout from behind him. Kjartan turned, with malevolent lethargy, and began to walk toward the man bearing down on his savior. His stride lengthened, and then quickened into a jog, and then, just as the man raised his ax, he shouted. This caused the slightest distraction, the briefest hesitation, and then, for some reason, the man was as if frozen solid, his hands clenched on his still upraised weapon. When Kjartan finally strode toward him, he put his boot on the man's thigh and wrenched his blade--and the man's eyeball--from where it had struck.

He spared a glance down at his savior. Then he returned his eyes to the situation and offered her a hand to help herself up. He wasn't talkative, never had been, and now wasn't the time to talk. The tide of the battle had turned, and it was time to fight if they wanted to have a prayer of survival.

I took the hand that offered itself to me. And I took it with pride and without hesitation. I had entrusted in this stranger the moment I set him free. You could have turned right around and killed me. You could have taken my own hand-made weapon, and slight my throat with it. But you didn't. Instead, you chose to fight my battle - along my side. And for that, I was eternally grateful. But now was not the time. There was still a battle ahead, and I wouldn't read until it was over. Straight from the ground to my feet again, I lunged forward into battle - slaughtering the last Ktunawai to stand in my way.

Before long, I stood tall - my eyes wandering the once green grass, that had now turned to red. Bodies lay before me, but two were missing. Kwatoko had come running closer to me, but stopped to raise his arrow at another situation. Out in the distance, two Ktunawai men were fleeing the scene. As the two escapees ran from the bloodbath, I stared off into the distance - watching them run. With a completely blank expression, I asked my clan-mate, Kwatoko, "Tell me, Cousin... How many men does it take to deliver a message?"

Pulling the arrow back, Kwatoko grinned sadistically and replied. "One." Firing the arrow, he strikes one of the running natives in the neck. The man drops down, and not a shred of movement came from his body. That man was dead. With only one messenger on the run, the attack would appear to be a mass-murder. What better message to send, than a message of death?

The rest of the small clan of natives began to saw away at the necks of their victims. Each body was to be decapitated, and so, they were. One by one, the heads of our enemies were removed; defaced from their respective bodies. "This is war." I stated in the dead of momentary silence. My eyes fell upon the remainder of the corpses. "Cut them up into pieces. We will leave a trail of blood and body down to the river. There, from the tree by the water, we will hang their heads." It was clear immediately that I was no farming maiden. I was a killer; a savage. And I knew full well how to send a message. "Let it be known that the Howahkan tribe will not stand down. We will fight for what is ours!" The men around me cheered, and followed my command.

"What about Pale Face?" Kwatoko glared at you with raging eyes. It was as if he had fallen upon a poisonous snake – that snake being you. "Why did you not kill him? What am I to do with a white rat?" He circled you cautiously, staring at you up and down to analyze every aspect of your strange appearance. He strode behind you and grabbed the long blonde hair on the back of your head and pulled it back. “Kneel, demon!” He shouted at you, kicking the back of your knees to send you to the ground. He twisted your hair without mercy, clearly empowered by his position and authority over your fragile condition. "I will take his hair and use it to keep my balls warm. Bilagaana!" The native man screamed in a sudden fit of rage. He flew his backhand against the side of your face. Bilagaana, he had said. It meant "white person".

"Kwatoko!" I sneered at the native, quick to your defense. I shouted a name and swiftly lunged an axe at him. As he jumped back, I hissed, "No hands will fall upon this man." I waved my axe to point and gesture towards you. "No hands but my own." I raised the axe once more, pointing and waving to everyone around me. It was a territorial defense. It was clear - I was claiming you as my property.

Everyone else in the clan kept quiet. The only battle here was between Kwatoko and I. Man versus the head of a woman. He would surely lose. Kwatoko angrily dismissed me, losing his temper and grabbing me by my arm. He aggressively pulled me towards him and leaned his face into mine. “One day you will be mine and you WILL obey me.”

I hawked back a wad of saliva and spat it right into his face. Snatching my arm back away from his grip, I stepped back. “I am no wife of yours. I am promised to no one.” As woman of native origin, this independent identity was nearly unheard of. My role as a woman was to serve my man, but I seemed to be the stubborn exception. I had chosen the path of a warrior, and the only reason I had succeeded was because of the stature of my ancestors, and my chieftain father. “I am a werowansqwa. And you will obey ME.”

Knowing he had no power here, Kwatoko's demeanor settled and his attitude altered. My father was a werorance – the head of the Howahkan clan – and I was his sole remaining kin, which made ME the position of royalty and power. Still bitter from the dispute and failure, Kwatoko added in dismay. “What difference does one man – one SAVAGE – make in our battles?”

My eyes were narrow - fixated on him without but a single blink. "It only takes one bug to infest a crop." He looked at me as if he didn't understand - with a deep look of confusion. Without hesitation or reaction, I continued. "Put one bug, and others will follow." His eyes widened slightly; he was finally starting to understand. "We can use his anger to build an army with his kind, and finally dispose of the Ktunawai." I added, slowly moving my glance to peer upon your battered frame. "The Bilagaana fight good." Returning my eyes to Kwatoko, I reiterated. "They are vicious warriors. We can learn. He can teach."

Kwatoko instantly turned around - finding that statement complete blasphemy. He shook his hand and turned his back to me. Storming off, he muttered, "There is nothing to be learned from the spawn of the devil. Nothing!"

I shook my head lightly. He never failed to disappoint me. I looked over to my men and waved them away. They complied, and everyone turned their attention away from me and back towards their duties. They were to conjure the bodies, as well and head back to camp. Night time was falling - and everyone needed rest, especially you.

I rose my finger and thumb to my lips, and emitted a deep whistle that echoed in the sky. Out from the woods came the same steed that had once been out of control. It strode towards me and tended to my side. The stallion was calm, and loyal to my ownership. "Warrior." I looked over to you, still unsure if you understood any of the words I spoke to you. "Mount my steed." To ensure I was being understood, I positioned my horse so that its back was available for your mounting. I patted the back of the horse, motioning you to climb on. "You. Rest. Camp." I pointed towards the outskirts of the woods. There lay our camp, and I was inviting you to stay. "Food?" I made an air motion with my hand to my mouth - pretending to eat. This was a primitive way of communication, but it was all I could offer.


VOCABULARY:
Kwatoko: My character's cousin and clan-mate. He is one of the clan's best archers. He is also trying to get my character's hand in marriage, but to no avail.
Bilagaana: The native american word meaning "white person".
Werorance: The native american word for "chief" - usually refers to male chiefs.
Werowansqwa: The native american word for "female chief". Female chief's are also a rare phenomenon in native culture.

There was a list Kjartan had kept since he was a small child. He had never written down, he'd never needed to; he knew each one of its members forwards and backwards. He always liked this list to get shorter, and, as he'd made his way through life, he'd crossed one item off of it after the other. First his father, then his older brother, then his uncle, then a few cousins who had seen fit to embarrass him one night in front of good company.

Of late, this list had grown short. But now it had one more member: Kwatoko. One more list entry, one more name, one more person to kill.

It might not be tomorrow, Kjartan thought, as he spat out a mouthful of blood and ignored pain. It might not be for a week, or a month, or a year, or more. But someday, Kwatoko would die, and, by the will of the Thunderer, it would be Kjartan who did the deed. It didn't help that Kwatoko saw fit to bully his savior, though she was fortunately able to stare him down and assert her dominance in the eyes of the group.

Someday, Kjartan thought, someday soon. He--Kwatoko--would die.

The words the skrælingjar spoke were strange to him, but not entirely. He had paid attention, close attention, during both the recent battle and the melee in which he had been captured. The result was that he could catch the gist of some commands, and when they were coupled with body language and hand signals, he very nearly had a chance of understanding what was being said.

And so when the only woman among the victorious bunch of skrælingjar spoke to him, he paused--and then, slowly, he obeyed. Retaining some of his dignity, he managed to vault to the back of the horse unassisted and set off toward the outpost, where--he hoped--he'd find food and water. But before he left the scene of the battle, he turned, locked eyes with his savior, and extended a thumb toward himself.

"Kjartan," he said. And that was all.

I had never heard a white-man speak. I had only heard mockery of their language - that it was ugly, harsh, and unkindly sound. But to me, language was language. It didn't matter what it sounded like - it had to have meaning and beauty it in somehow. I had found myself suddenly overwhelmed with this mysterious pale-faced human before me. Curiosity - the biggest flaws of man-kind as told by my father - was deadly to the beholder. But I found myself infatuated, and incredible curious. I wanted to learn more than anything, and I had grown bored with my own existence. I craved adventure; something new. Perhaps I could find that with you.

As you rose your finger to yourself and spoke, I could do nothing but smile. The smile grew to take over my face. I looked down in sudden embarrassment as I tried to contain my excitement. You speak, and you had even given me a name. Still beaming from ear to ear, I did not respond. I did not even have the courtesy to introduce myself. No, instead, I whistled once more - this time the call was different. And like the first time, out came another wild mustang. This stallion was large, all black, and muscular from head to toe. Not the type of animal you would want charging toward you. Oddly enough, this horse was did not have any markings, nor any sort of riding apparatus. It was bare-back, and free of any decorations. This black beauty... this was my horse. And I only rode her free.

Prancing onto the back of the stallion, I stood tall and proud on my befriended mammal and kept watch on you. I gave a slow and gentle nod, acknowledging your introduction, before I raised my hand to smack the arse of the horse you had mounted. The white horse, covered in tribal paint, set off towards the distance. Releasing a sort of howling sound from my mouth, I kicked the sides of my stallion and took off after you. My stallion, bearing much greater strength and speed, raced past your steed.

Kwatoko, who was with the other men dismantling and gathering the bodies of the fresh kills, lifted his arms up and yelled in disapproval. We had only taken two horses from the camp to this journey, and now, the two horses were gone - hogged by myself and the most-unwanted traveler. Completely ignoring the profanity he cried out, I let out a victorious yelp and held out my hands high up in the air. This was a symbol for freedom. Because I was free. Free from anyone's control.

The white painted steed followed my stallion automatically - without requiring any sort of direction from the rider. This was how trained my animals were; they were under my command and my command only.

I had set off to a trail into the woods - I was leading us back to the camp. I had left the other members of my clan to do as I ordered with the bodies. Surely, they would return to camp on foot, but it wouldn't be until nightfall. It was a rather short journey by horse-back - but it wasn't short of beauty. The grass was as green as could be, the trees smelt of pine, and the air was crisp. This land was mostly untouched - it strived on nature alone; for we lived off the land... it did not live off of us.

I led us soon out of the woods to an open field with canyons up ahead. I slowed my horse to a soft gallop as we entered a sliver of space between two canyons. The space was tight and rocky, requiring the steeds to move slow and with caution. It was almost as if I was leading us to death - the space was cramped, dark, and this passage did not seem to lead to anything habitable. But it did. After a few minutes of rocky path, there was an opening at the end - a beam of light. As I pulled my horse through the opening with the light - there lie, beyond that point, and unbelievable sight. The small passage had lead us to an open land, and just ahead, a river as clear and fresh as air. A couple miles ahead, near the edge of the river, was the small temporary camp of my clan. There were cone-shaped tents - teepees - 5 of them huddled in a circle around a fire pit. There were also several other horses that were tied to trees during our time away.

As we approached the camp, I hopped off my stallion and let her roam free. I turned to you and motioned with my hand for you to come; to follow me. "Come." I did not wait for you to dismount before I made my way to the edge of the river. I crouched down and knelt at the water, taking a puddle of it in my hands before taking a drink. I glanced at you over my shoulder, water-in-palm, and explained. "Water. Drink." I brought the water to my mouth once mother and drank it in. The water was fresh, clean, and it glittered in the sunlight. "You must drink to get better... to heal. Do you... understand?" I looked over at your frame - surely you had been mistreated, perhaps even tortured. I wondered when was the last time you drank or even ate.

Most men tied their hair back to keep it out of their faces. Others opted for braids, others kept their hair functionally short, and others still opted for more extreme solutions. Kjartan had seen them all, from dreadlocks, to wax, to colored bits of cloth with names or slogans dyed into them. What he had never seen was another man who did as he did and simply let his hair grow long and straight and trust it to stay out of his eyes.

At the moment, Kjartan's hair reached down to the middle of his back. It might get longer still, but at a point, even he found it unfunctional--it might impede the use of his deadliest weapon, the bow.

That thought made him remember that he was next to alone and unarmed in a strange land. True, he still had the knife that his savior had given him, but other than that, he was on a strange horse going through a strange chasm to an unknown destination. He was a single mistake or miscommunication from death. And this death would not be one worth voyaging to Valhalla over.

With renewed caution, Kjartan scanned the area ahead. But Vinland was harmless. Picturesque, really. It wasn't hard to bite back nostalgia over the grand fjords and ice cliffs that defined his fatherland when vast expanses of green forest were displayed before him. Vinland was good country, he could tell just by looking at it. The grass was green, and that meant it rained frequently. The trees were tall and strong and that meant that there were few environmental catastrophes to flatten or weaken them. All of this meant that hunting in Vinland had to be fantastic--and apart from that, Kjartan realized, it was almost winter. Whereas at home it was snowing and freezing cold already, Vinland seemed to be enjoying a warm sunny spring day.

Incredible.

He found himself dismounting from his steed at the words of his savior. Water was a welcome sight, but Kjartan was nothing if not reserved. And so rather than rushing forward and diving in, he took his time stripping off his shirt and folding it up, before adding the rest of his clothes and shoes except for a brief undergarment, as if with dignity, before wading into the stream. He waded in so deep that soon he was in up to his head, at which point he waded back out. Then, and only then, did he drink.

Evidence of his maltreatment was on his back. The gashes weren't terribly deep, but there were many of them, and some of them still looked painful. The good news was that they didn't seem to be infected and that Kjartan was moving with a considerable mount of agility and strength, all things considered. He didn't swagger as much as he was accustomed to, but at least he wasn't on death's door.

After he drank, Kjartan knelt and spent a moment washing his face and hair. He then turned to look at his savior again, his face impassive. He seemed to be analyzing her, or perhaps memorizing every last detail of her. At least his gaze wasn't sexual, at least, not obviously.

A moment later, he indicated to himself and said his name again. Then he extended a hand toward her and gave her an inquisitive look, as if asking her for her own name.

I could sense the caution in your stance. But I watched carefully. I too was analyzing with great detail. Having only heard of endless stories of the sun-haired pale-faces - I could have never imagined any white man would have looked anything like you. It was true. Your skin was cold and your hair uncolored - but something about your foreign appearance was ultimately appealing to me. You were exotic, nonetheless, and I was absolutely infatuated and curious of your existence.

As you stripped down your clothing, I did not have the sense of decency to look away. If I wanted to look, I was sure as hell going to look. There's was no sense of shyness, or embarrassment on my part. I stared at you with a straight face, even cracking a smile as I watched you. You were just another near-naked man, nothing new, nothing different. Except for your complexion. Though, my eyes were more interested in your build. But soon, my eyes were guided to the wounds and mark on your back. My smile soon faded. Many clans were cruel, and did not treat these foreign travelers like human beings - but animals. This saddened me. Although I more than anyone new - we were all animals here. As much as I'd like to demonize my enemies, I know that my clan is not any less cruel. More than anything, neither were the whitemen. They had not failed to demonstrate their cruelty. Certainly, we were not so different after all.

Watching you dip into the water, I moved from my floor crouching position. I removed by mocassin slippers and left them on the sandy shore. Still relatively low to the ground, I crawled over to a large rock on the shore. The rock was one of many trailing boulders that lead into the river. I stepped on one at a time - barefoot - before I had landed on a large boulder that poked out of the water. I sat perched on the top of it, ensuring my safety from the wetness as I overlooked the scene. My eyes could not stay away from you, though. Soon I found myself staring at you again - my piercing silver eyes peering intently at you.

As you approached and gestured towards me, I understood your name. I looked at you curiously, and smiled lightly. "Kjartan." I repeated, as I extended my arm to lightly graze my fingers briefly on your chest. I reeled my hand in back to graze my own chest. "Liluye." I paused to smile. Extending my arm once more to you, I reiterated. "Kjartan..." I removed my hand from you and touched my chest again. "Liluye." I paused, "My name... is Liluye." Slowly, I rose from crouching on the rock, to standing tall on top of it. Towering over you as I looked down at you, I grinned and unpinned my skirt from my hip. The skirt can loose, and I pulled it from my body. Underneath the garment, was a leather and beaded breechcloth. The native-style underwear tied at each edge of the hip, and was used primarily to cover the genitals. And it did... mostly.

Tossing the skirt over to another near-by rock, I lowered myself and placed my hand on your shoulder. "Kjartan." I repeated. Using your shoulder as support, I lowered myself slowly into the water, which was only about hip-deep. Facing you, I smiled and took your hand in mind. Softly placing your hand on my chest - as if you show you my heartbeat, I repeated. "Liluye."

Not letting go of your hand, I turned around and held your hand behind me. "Follow me." I said as I pulled you slowly deeper into the water. "Liluye will show you the way." As I moved foward, my back to you, it became increasingly evident just how little the breechcloth actually covered. Front the front it did a decent job of covering - but from the back, the leather panel barely covered my rear. My plump behind was in clear view, especially as the water pushed the panel further up.

I lead you further out into the river; further from the shore - although the water was not getting much deeper. I knew these waters inside out. Where to eat, where to drink, and where to step. I continued to grasp on to your hand as I lead right to the edge of the river against the wall of a canyon. I glanced at you from over my shoulder. "Follow." I repeated. I pulled you into an opening in the canyon - a wedged space that barely fits two people side by side - which shortly lead to a water-filled cave. Although it was fairly dark - there were just enough opening to allow light to hit the water and create an breath-taking sparkle. There was a sound in the background - it sounded muffled, almost unrecognizable. But as we approached another opening between rocky walls, just out of the dark cave and around the corner - was a scene unlike any other. An oasis of springs - a waterfall that fell from the powerful boulder walls of the canyon. That sound - it was the sound of beating water as the spring flowed from its heights to crash against the stillness of the calm river.

(OOC: The black arrow on the waterfall image is the opening in which Liluye and Kjartan came out from.)

VOCABULARY:

Liluye: My character's name. Pronounced - "Li-lou-yey". Meaning: "Singing hawk that soars".
Moccasin: A moccasin is a shoe, made of deerskin or other soft leather, consisting of a sole and sides made of one piece of leather, stitched together at the top, and sometimes with a vamp (additional panel of leather).
Breechcloth: A breechcloth is a long rectangular piece of tanned deerskin, cloth, or animal fur. It is worn between the legs and tucked over a belt, so that the flaps fall down in front and behind. Sometimes it is also called a breechclout, loincloth, skin clout, or just a flap. (http://www.native-languages.org/breechcloth.htm)

Liluye. So that was her name. It was as foreign to Kjartan as Vinland itself, but the way it rolled off of his tongue wasn't unpleasant. There was something very feminine about it, and, for a moment, Kjartan reflected on the names women often adopted in his homeland. Sigrid, Freyja, Bertha... in comparison, Liluye was rather exotic. Exotic, and pleasant. Her dainty fingers touched his chest so lightly that it was as if they weren't there at all, and yet they left a lingering sort of warmth that took Kjartan a moment to recognize.

Of course, her near nudity and the way she clung to his hand and walked just in front of him with her waist just a few inches above the water... that certainly helped to guide his mind where she seemed to be leading it.

And then they entered a scene that might have shamed Asgard itself. A waterfall in a canyon that had been carved, over the eons, but the river itself. It was warm and sunny enough that Kjartan's pale skin was already starting to redden; he solved this by stepping into a shadowed section of the scene. He raised his hands to his face to splash himself with another palmful of water, and then he straightened his hair again.

It was hard to imagine that it had only been forty-some days ago when he and some two dozen of his village's finest had left their fatherland, and their wives and their children. Kjartan, of course, had neither the former nor the latter, so the decision to go had been easy, and he hadn't sympathized with those who humiliated themselves by shedding tears in the embraces of weaker people. Nor had he felt homesickness other than a lingering sort of nostalgia for the fjords, even when the storm's treacherous waves had tossed and turned their ship.

And then, of course, they had alighted on the beach and, except for him, fought a battle to the death with hordes of the skræling scum. Only he had lived, and that was only because of more skrælingjar...

But even then, the alliance was not set in stone. He had seen the look that clumsy oaf had given him, the one who had knocked him to his knees. What a glorious warrior, Kjartan thought, to dare to knock him to his knees after days of dehydration, fasting, and torture had weakened him. In any other state, he would have turned on his heel, glared, and then separated the upstart's head from his shoulders. Perhaps he still would, given time.

But for now, he had to shore up his allegiances. and there was no mistaking the way this female skræling, this warrior, was looking at him. Even the way she walked was seductive. And all of it, he knew, was intentional. And so he too acted with intention.

He fixed his gaze on her. Deep azure blue, evocative, convincing, and they'd never failed him before. He had only to take a step toward her to touch lips with her, and then, he knew, she was his.

As I lead us out of the shrub area - the stream lead to a bigger pool of water. The pool of water was supported by a large waterfall. The waterfall plunged over the cliff of the canyons and poured into the water that lead through all of the canyons in this area. It was a truly breath taking sight. It was a hidden area not clearly accessible to the general public, if there was even a public to tend to. The water here was untouched, undisturbed and crystal clear. It was water and nutrition in its cleanest form. Not plagued with parasites, and not riddled with filth.

I had always wandered off on my own, since a very young age. I would scavenge the areas; everyone I went too. It was a deep desire to explore - a dangerous curiosity that always lead me to places like these. I was a hawk, after all. Named after the finest flying creatures - a title given to me for my remarkably clear grey eyes. An eye color that was mostly rare in our heritage - said to have been gifted by the spirits for meaningful purpose. What that purpose was, I had yet to figure out. But I knew I was destined for something great; something different.

This natural sanctuary was indeed was a heavenly place - one that only I knew. And I hadn't shared it with anyone... Until now. Why I had brought you here, I had no idea. Why you of all people? These were the questions I didn't bother asking myself - I just followed what I felt I should be doing - and it lead me here... With you.

Just as I softly let go of your hand, I undid the prices of string that held my hair in braids. I ran my fingers through my hair several times over before all of my crimped hair had fallen well past my shoulders. I turned around to catch you looking at me, and smiled. That smile slowly diminished as I noticed the gaze in your eyes. As you leaned closer towards me; your face inching forward to mine - I stopped breathing momentarily.

What was this strange pale man doing? Was he so thankful that he would devote his lips to mine?

As your kiss brushed me - I was at a loss of breath: unable to fathom this interaction. Perhaps this is what the spirits wished me in my destiny - I was to bond with a foreigner, and mend the rivalry between us.

My two index fingers snaked lightly around the rim of your under garments - using it was leverage to pull you closer to my body. I sank my lips into yours, embracing the compassion I was receiving, completely. I was yours.

For the briefest sliver of a second, Kjartan sensed her hesitation, her trepidation. What if she rejected him? What if she did to him what she had done to the oaf who had dropped him to his knees? Would he be alone in Vinland again? Or worse, would she just do to him what the other group of skrælingjar had done to him, and do it right?

And then he felt her melt into his grasp. His arms wrapped about her body, petite and lithe and limber, yet rippling with strength and life. She was everything a woman ought to be: sweet, and soft, but deadly, dangerous, and wild. He'd never hold her, he knew, not really, but he could have her for just a few moments. Just a few moments.

Her hands undressed him, and in a moment, his hands undressed hers. He spent a moment feeling her, holding her, as their kisses deepened, and then he lifted her into his arms so that her legs were wrapped around him, and then he entered her. It had been so long since he'd had a woman, and so harsh were his sufferings, and so beautiful was she that Kjartan could only like for a few moments. Just a few shallow, hot up and down thrusts, and he was spent. But he held her for a long, long time afterwards, and kissed into her face, her hair, her lovely little neck if she would let him.

When he finally released her, they were on a sanded bank at the side of the canyon. Breathlessly he leaned over her and shared a few final kisses with her, his hair disheveled, running down the side of his face. And then--impossibly--he began to speak to her, in her language.

"Liluye," he said. "Future... I be better."

His words were crude and his accent made him difficult to understand, but he had picked up enough of their language already to make himself understood. And the way he continued to look deep into her eyes, told her that there would be many, many times in the future, when he would show her just how good he could be when he was rested and well fed.

(In order to drive up the drama and interpersonal conflicts, shall we have your character's gentleman of a cousin watch them, and report back to his fellows about her impropriety?)