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VelvetWhispers
Planetoid
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2024
- Location
- Paris
The biting wind whipped across the sea, carrying with it the scent of salt and impending storm. The Viking longship cut through the rough waters with relentless force, its dragon-headed prow snarling defiantly at the grey sky above. Synne huddled against the cold, the heavy chain around her wrists clinking with every shudder of the ship. The other captives, fellow Saxons, huddled together like sheep awaiting slaughter, their eyes hollow with fear.
She didn't share their outward despair, though inside, she felt the same gnawing terror. Yet, Synne had always been different—an outlier among the devout, a nun by oath but a rebel by heart. Even now, as they sailed further from the shores of her homeland, she couldn't let herself succumb to hopelessness. There was always a way, and she would find it.
The Viking who led this raid, Sigurd, towered over the rest, his presence as imposing as the fierce waves crashing against the hull. His long, unkempt hair whipped around his face, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through the very mist. Synne had caught his gaze more than once during the voyage, and each time, it felt as though he was studying her—trying to unravel the mystery of a woman who wore the habit of a nun but carried herself with a warrior's resolve.
It made her uneasy.
As the ship rocked violently, the other captives muttered prayers to whatever saints would listen, but Synne's eyes were on the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering—ominous, roiling masses that promised no mercy. The ship lurched again, and a few of the women screamed, clutching each other as if their closeness could protect them from the sea's fury.
But it wasn't the storm that worried Synne.
Sigurd had been watching the skies too. He barked orders to his men in their harsh, guttural tongue, and they responded swiftly, securing the oars and adjusting the sails. There was a change in the air—a palpable tension that rippled through the Viking crew. They weren't afraid of much, but even they seemed wary of what was coming.
"Storm's closing in fast," a voice rumbled close to her. Sigurd. She hadn't even noticed him approach, his silent steps betraying none of the predatory grace that belied his size.
Synne didn't respond, just met his gaze with a steady one of her own. She knew better than to show fear, especially to a man who seemed to thrive on it.
"Think your God will save you from the sea's wrath, nun?" Sigurd's voice held a mocking edge, though his eyes were serious.
"My faith is my own," she replied, her tone even. "But I don't expect miracles."
That seemed to amuse him, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "You're different from the others. Not like the frightened sheep who cower and pray."
Synne held her ground. "I've seen too much to be afraid of a little water."
Sigurd's gaze sharpened, his interest piqued. Before he could say more, a sudden gust of wind hit the ship, throwing several men off balance. The storm had arrived.
The next hour was chaos. The sea roared in fury, the waves rising like dark mountains around them. The ship creaked and groaned under the onslaught, its wooden frame straining against the elements. The captives screamed, clutching the sides of the ship, their prayers now desperate pleas.
Synne found herself thrown against the railing, the cold spray of the sea stinging her face. She struggled to maintain her footing as the ship lurched violently. The chains around her wrists felt like lead, dragging her down with every motion of the vessel.
"Hold on!" Sigurd's voice cut through the storm. He was nearby, his powerful frame braced against the mast, shouting commands to his men.
Another wave crashed over the deck, and Synne was nearly swept off her feet. A sudden, powerful hand grasped her arm, pulling her back from the edge just as she felt herself slipping. She looked up, her heart pounding, to see Sigurd standing over her, his grip firm and unyielding.
"Stay close!" he ordered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.
She nodded, too shaken to argue. The storm was a beast, and in its jaws, there was little room for defiance. Sigurd released her arm but kept close, his presence a shield against the raging elements.
The ship battled the storm for what felt like an eternity, every moment a struggle for survival. Synne could see the fear in the faces of even the hardened Vikings, their bravado stripped away by nature's wrath. But through it all, Sigurd remained unshaken, his eyes focused, his movements precise. It was as if the storm only fueled his resolve.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the storm began to ease. The waves subsided, and the wind, though still fierce, began to lose its edge. The ship, battered and bruised, held steady as the crew worked to assess the damage.
Synne slumped against the railing, her body exhausted, her mind reeling from the ordeal. The other captives were in various states of distress, some weeping openly, others silent and numb.
Sigurd approached her again, his eyes scanning her face. "You're tougher than you look, nun."
She managed a faint smile. "I could say the same about you, Viking."
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to lighten the air around them. "I've been called worse."
Their eyes locked for a moment, and there was something in his gaze—something more than just curiosity or amusement. It was a recognition of sorts, a spark of understanding between two souls who had seen too much, endured too much, to be ordinary.
But before either of them could speak, one of Sigurd's men called out. A sharp, urgent tone.
"Ships on the horizon! To the north!"
Sigurd's expression darkened instantly. He turned, scanning the horizon where the man pointed. There, emerging from the mist, were dark shapes—ships. And they were heading straight for them.
Raiders. The storm had brought more than just danger from the sea. It had brought enemies.
"Prepare for battle!" Sigurd roared, his voice commanding and fierce. His men scrambled to ready themselves, weapons drawn, eyes narrowed with the anticipation of bloodshed.
Synne felt a cold knot of dread in her stomach. As if the storm hadn't been enough, now they faced another threat—one that wouldn't be satisfied until they were all dead or captured.
She glanced at Sigurd, who was already moving, his axe in hand, barking orders to his men. For a moment, she wondered if this was it—if fate had brought her this far only to see her life end on this ship, at the hands of marauders no different from the ones who had taken her.
But as the first enemy ship drew near, as the battle cries echoed across the water, Synne felt a surge of determination. She wasn't ready to die, not yet. And if she had to fight to survive, then so be it.
As the enemy ships closed in, she moved to the side of the ship, searching for a weapon—anything to defend herself. She could feel Sigurd's eyes on her again, but this time, there was no time for words. Only action.
She didn't share their outward despair, though inside, she felt the same gnawing terror. Yet, Synne had always been different—an outlier among the devout, a nun by oath but a rebel by heart. Even now, as they sailed further from the shores of her homeland, she couldn't let herself succumb to hopelessness. There was always a way, and she would find it.
The Viking who led this raid, Sigurd, towered over the rest, his presence as imposing as the fierce waves crashing against the hull. His long, unkempt hair whipped around his face, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to cut through the very mist. Synne had caught his gaze more than once during the voyage, and each time, it felt as though he was studying her—trying to unravel the mystery of a woman who wore the habit of a nun but carried herself with a warrior's resolve.
It made her uneasy.
As the ship rocked violently, the other captives muttered prayers to whatever saints would listen, but Synne's eyes were on the horizon. Dark clouds were gathering—ominous, roiling masses that promised no mercy. The ship lurched again, and a few of the women screamed, clutching each other as if their closeness could protect them from the sea's fury.
But it wasn't the storm that worried Synne.
Sigurd had been watching the skies too. He barked orders to his men in their harsh, guttural tongue, and they responded swiftly, securing the oars and adjusting the sails. There was a change in the air—a palpable tension that rippled through the Viking crew. They weren't afraid of much, but even they seemed wary of what was coming.
"Storm's closing in fast," a voice rumbled close to her. Sigurd. She hadn't even noticed him approach, his silent steps betraying none of the predatory grace that belied his size.
Synne didn't respond, just met his gaze with a steady one of her own. She knew better than to show fear, especially to a man who seemed to thrive on it.
"Think your God will save you from the sea's wrath, nun?" Sigurd's voice held a mocking edge, though his eyes were serious.
"My faith is my own," she replied, her tone even. "But I don't expect miracles."
That seemed to amuse him, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "You're different from the others. Not like the frightened sheep who cower and pray."
Synne held her ground. "I've seen too much to be afraid of a little water."
Sigurd's gaze sharpened, his interest piqued. Before he could say more, a sudden gust of wind hit the ship, throwing several men off balance. The storm had arrived.
The next hour was chaos. The sea roared in fury, the waves rising like dark mountains around them. The ship creaked and groaned under the onslaught, its wooden frame straining against the elements. The captives screamed, clutching the sides of the ship, their prayers now desperate pleas.
Synne found herself thrown against the railing, the cold spray of the sea stinging her face. She struggled to maintain her footing as the ship lurched violently. The chains around her wrists felt like lead, dragging her down with every motion of the vessel.
"Hold on!" Sigurd's voice cut through the storm. He was nearby, his powerful frame braced against the mast, shouting commands to his men.
Another wave crashed over the deck, and Synne was nearly swept off her feet. A sudden, powerful hand grasped her arm, pulling her back from the edge just as she felt herself slipping. She looked up, her heart pounding, to see Sigurd standing over her, his grip firm and unyielding.
"Stay close!" he ordered, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.
She nodded, too shaken to argue. The storm was a beast, and in its jaws, there was little room for defiance. Sigurd released her arm but kept close, his presence a shield against the raging elements.
The ship battled the storm for what felt like an eternity, every moment a struggle for survival. Synne could see the fear in the faces of even the hardened Vikings, their bravado stripped away by nature's wrath. But through it all, Sigurd remained unshaken, his eyes focused, his movements precise. It was as if the storm only fueled his resolve.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the storm began to ease. The waves subsided, and the wind, though still fierce, began to lose its edge. The ship, battered and bruised, held steady as the crew worked to assess the damage.
Synne slumped against the railing, her body exhausted, her mind reeling from the ordeal. The other captives were in various states of distress, some weeping openly, others silent and numb.
Sigurd approached her again, his eyes scanning her face. "You're tougher than you look, nun."
She managed a faint smile. "I could say the same about you, Viking."
He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to lighten the air around them. "I've been called worse."
Their eyes locked for a moment, and there was something in his gaze—something more than just curiosity or amusement. It was a recognition of sorts, a spark of understanding between two souls who had seen too much, endured too much, to be ordinary.
But before either of them could speak, one of Sigurd's men called out. A sharp, urgent tone.
"Ships on the horizon! To the north!"
Sigurd's expression darkened instantly. He turned, scanning the horizon where the man pointed. There, emerging from the mist, were dark shapes—ships. And they were heading straight for them.
Raiders. The storm had brought more than just danger from the sea. It had brought enemies.
"Prepare for battle!" Sigurd roared, his voice commanding and fierce. His men scrambled to ready themselves, weapons drawn, eyes narrowed with the anticipation of bloodshed.
Synne felt a cold knot of dread in her stomach. As if the storm hadn't been enough, now they faced another threat—one that wouldn't be satisfied until they were all dead or captured.
She glanced at Sigurd, who was already moving, his axe in hand, barking orders to his men. For a moment, she wondered if this was it—if fate had brought her this far only to see her life end on this ship, at the hands of marauders no different from the ones who had taken her.
But as the first enemy ship drew near, as the battle cries echoed across the water, Synne felt a surge of determination. She wasn't ready to die, not yet. And if she had to fight to survive, then so be it.
As the enemy ships closed in, she moved to the side of the ship, searching for a weapon—anything to defend herself. She could feel Sigurd's eyes on her again, but this time, there was no time for words. Only action.