The Land Where The Dragons Rule the Sea(AntigoneXTmcJagger)

[Antigone]

The air caressed the soft, auburn curls of Roisin’s unruly mane. It carried with it the sent of a storm just past and the tint of freshly disturbed earth. The rising sun brought with it a biting chill. A dreadful time to leave the comforts of one’s bed for, but the perfect ungodly hour to gather a crop of carrots before the monotony of the morning chores once again devoured her time. A hastily woven basket sat beside her, already filled with a handful of fat, orange carrots. Her porcelain hands now freckled with the dirt, dug skillfully against the soft, dark brown soil. Her grey eyes searching the dirt for signs of the beloved treasure.

“You call this lovely?” Her cousin, the honeyed haired Aoife countered, “Elbow deep in a mixture of cow shit and mud while the rest of the town slumbers.”

A small smirk crossed Roisin’s face as a comment danced upon the tip of her tongue. It was a horrid habit she had inherited from her mother before her untimely passing. Unlady-like though a devilish smirk maybe, years of stern smacks upon the back of the head had taught her that comments as such were meant to be saved beneath the guise of a demur smile. With only her and her cousin around a retort would fair easily without a smack to her head.

“I’ll take cow shit any day over being suffocated by a fire place,” Roisin countered.

A resigned grumble from her fair-haired cousin was the only response she received in response.

A moment of silent fell upon the pair, save for the occasional interruption of a rustling wave of leaves and long arms of the green grass that surrounded them.

“You know-“Aoife started only to be interrupted by a sharp scream from the large town that lay just beyond the fog from the quaint cottage that they shared with her aunt.

Abandoning their beginning harvest the pair spared weary glances at one another, a pair of pale green and dark grey eyes mirroring a gaze somewhere between that of fear and confusion.

Tearing away from one another, they settled again upon the outline of the town. Waiting, though they were unsure just what for. Rising from her position upon the ground, Roisin inched closer towards the distant town. For a moment, the pair was met with a haunting silence. A louder, more panicked scream pierced the air once more, accompanied with the clanging of metal against metal and the cries of men.

Jumping with the suddenness of it, Roisin backed closer to her cousin grasping at her limp hand. For comfort or for the preparation to flee with her was unknown to her. The pair watched wide eyed as the screams of the towns people and the clanging of the metal rubbed away what peace had hung in the air mere moments before. Fear and shock bolted them to the soft ground beneath them.

“Aoife, Roisin. Run!” Roisin’s aunt’s shrill voice was what broke the trance that had settled upon the girls.

 

[TmcJagger]

In the world of Øxheimr, there were tribes of Vikings running rampant all over the world just for the pleasure of slaughter, taking few to none prisoner. This was no different for the village of Gufua. They were a Viking village that prospered on raiding and pillaging any and all villages they could. Their chief, a strong warrior named Iric Sigehelmsson had ordered his men to raid a nearby village that was starting to prosper. They had been left alone due to their size before, but now they're starting to raise up and could eventually pose a threat to them.

Iric had decided to travel with his men to this village since it had been a while since he left home for any sort of excitement. Standing at roughly 6 foot tall, he was a large man but his muscular body made him seem larger. He didn't earn Chief by sitting on his ass, he fought his way to the top through ruthless combat. His long brown hair flowed down behind his head as it rested on his shoulders in a shaggy but clean (At least to a viking) mess. His bright blue eyes could pierce anyone's soul and sees into who a person really was, what they were thinking and what they felt at that very moment. He didn't wear much; felt it would hinder his movements too much. A simple iron helm to cover the top of his head and protect his forehead. A wolf pelt around his shoulders with straps wrapping under his arms to hold it in place. Around his waist was a bear pelt being held in place with a large leather belt. Wrapping his legs was a simple cloth but on his feet were more leather straps until they ended in what appeared to be leather boots.

As his men started to attack the village, Iric held back himself as he chose to avoid conflict right now and instead let his men relish in battle, for if they fall today, Valhalla awaits them tomorrow. Women, men and even children were screaming for their lives as they fell like cattle to the slaughter. Making his way through the village, the middle aged man saw what looked like a house on the outskirts of the town and saw what looked like was at least three young people were there.

Gripping the iron sword sheathed on his left hip, he drew the sword which at total length reached nearly 42 inches long and made his way towards that lone house. Along the way, he heard someone yell for someone to run. His eyes went wide as a teeth baring grin came across his mans burly face as his knotted beard swayed in the wind. "Good. I was hoping to find some excitement here today." The old Viking chief says to himself as the sonds of the ground breaking under him was nothing compared to the sounds of the screams behind him which were like music to his ears.