forum “And she is not a woman — by God, I swear it on my life!” // one on one // closed

Started December 24, 2023 by @Mojack group

tune

“..she’s not a woman, but something else!”

Those are the words landing themselves upon almost every tongue in Wessex, Anglia, Mercia and all the kingdoms beyond that. Even Vikings speak of her, a woman of curious words (if you get the chance to hear her), but in battle, she is said to bring fire with her (whether it is literal or not is to be determined).

When the stories of her first came up a few moons back, they were at first just seen as jokes and stories, for who would believe a woman is some sort of force to be reckoned with? But with news of entire villages and farmsteads, scorched to the earth, and the few witnesses that had survived reporting shakily of her, she suddenly became taken much more seriously.

If not by the king, then by the people, though have no doubt that the king is listening and watching. He has eyes everywhere.
Ironically it was a movement began by the Danes, adopted by the very people who more often than not fought against them, Saxons and whatnot. It was a hunt, against the fire woman, or demon in some iterations. Men, boys (and occasionally women) picked up their weapons and set to the trails, though there was one small tidbit most had forgotten to mention thus far:

She was in the service of a warlord, of sorts. A Viking, but a rogue one called Bjarki, and by proxy, in his protection. The woman was said to be powerful but Bjarki had an army, and she is but one woman, supernatural or not.

When that knowledge came to light some turned back or doubted, but others moved on forwards. Some however, changed their mindset. Instead of killing her, they would kill this Bjarki and seize this woman for themselves.

Let it be known that the cat does not concern itself with the aims and thoughts of the mice.

You have found yourself amongst this great hunt, whether you be a new or old warrior, one willingly coming along or one who was forced — dragged there by a companion or commanded by a leader. One a man, or a woman, or perhaps something else. Does not matter, none of that does, for unfortunately, you seem to have the worst of luck, as your group was ambushed, and you almost found yourself killed.

Perhaps you do have a bit of luck. Time will tell.
You find yourself in the company of Danes when you wake up, and whether or not you are a Dane is unimportant, for it is well known that Danes will fight Danes. But these are not just any Danes. These are Bjarki’s men. The unseen Bjarki, though the state of his men do paint quite an image (strong, aggressive, eager for battle), the holder of the woman of fire.
And you hear one of them whisper her name —

Helski.

When the room falls silent, and a young looking man descends the stairs of the hall with a red haired woman garbed in sorcerer’s garb, you understand now that this can be none other than Helski, the woman of fire. And you also understand now, that her sights are on you.

Only you.

She approaches.

—-

A historical fiction rp by yours truly, telling the tale of a mysterious woman who may or may not be something else than what her appearances shows — and you, originally on a hunt for this very woman, willingly or not.

It’s a historical rp — exact year, uncertain, century is in the 9th century, and place is the England (while the island itself wasn’t really called England, if you do a bit of reading England is still a known idea at this time). I have decided that the king of Wessex during this rp is King Alfred; which still doesn’t give us an exact year but at least gives us a timeframe (to make things like researching easier. however note that this is historical fiction; not everything has to be completely accurate. the way i see it, if it’s cool or funny, it can be inaccurate as a treat) and Danelaw is established, meaning it is at least after 878.

Your character may be Scandinavian, or Saxon; whatever works so long as it is somewhat realistic for the setting (albeit there is certainly ‘magic’ in this world, i do not wish to stray too far)
as i just mentioned, magic exists: though it is not an everyday thing. the Vikings have seers which may or may not work, it is not a confirmed thing by the people in this world, the results are often unclear — for example a man may be cursed to die, and is killed the next, but it is revealed that the person who killed him had a long standing blood debt against him. one could go two routes — it was the curse, or, it was the blood debt. strange things do happen however so it would not be uncommon for someone to whisper that the devil walks among them or whispers in their ears.
on that note; beliefs: two major beliefs reign in this time; Christianity and Paganism. however, you can choose if your character abides by any of those faiths, or is undecided (perhaps no gods at all?). create a character that is of interest to you to play.
yes, your character can be of noble blood; trueborn or a bastard, or you can be lowborn, famous or unknown. As i said before, make your character however they are, as long as they are of interest to you.

Notes

• in summary, no exact year is set in this RP, but after 878, meaning Daneland(law) has been established and exists, although it also takes place during the reign of King Alfred in Wessex, meaning peace has not been completely established between Viking and Anglo-Saxons.
• no parameters for your character aside from age which will be mentioned in the character sheet
• historical fiction, with some supernatural elements to it. things that are not natural will happen within this RP. things do not have to be 100% accurate as i have said.
• the opening of this RP will be taking place in Northumbria
• if it helps you build your character; the main character i play is Helski, a woman who is asexual but demiromantic. ‘Bjarki’ my secondary character, will have a minor role for now, but he is demisexual biromantic. on that note, if you happen to seek a bit of romance, are they both an option someone might wonder? yes 😏 but it is perfectly fine if you do not want to seek that either!

Rules

1. Ask before joining — if I do not know your writing style, I will ask for a writing sample with dialogue. Please have one at ready! Do not be offended if I deny you; I am most selective with my limited RPs compared to group RPs or character chats (least selective; open for everyone usually).
2. Activity is not a must. I am not active myself as I am now a college student (times fly by, huh?) If it appears I have forgotten to respond, I may have thought I did, when in reality I didn’t. It could also be possible that it has been a long time that I feel awkward about replying in case the other person doesn’t have the motivation to continue. Please note this before joining!
3. Cussing and violence are expected. Note that as is everything, there is a time and place for it.
4. Good grammar and punctuation appreciated, but I know that everyone makes mistakes, as I certainly do.
5. Mature RPers preferred as a preference. Any sexual content will be a fade to black sort of deal.
6. All notebook.ai rules apply.
7. One paragraph minimum, or at least four sentences. No one liners. At the very least, give me something to work with and I’ll try to do the same for you.
8. Any questions? Ask!

Template

Name:
Age: (21-27)
Gender:
Pronouns:
Orientation:

Appearance:
Clothing:
Personality:
Background: (elaborate how you wish; can be brief, can be long, can be point form, etc. keep your secrets or share them; there shall be no metagaming in this RP)

Other: (anything else — fun facts, notable relations, conditions, likes, dislikes, whatever extras you can think of goes here)

(Gotcha! Whipped this up super quickly on a whim so I hope it's all right. If not, totally okay too. …..I got very carried away, terribly sorry for the length.)

It really shouldn't be so hard to figure out how a man died.

Logically there are only a certain number of ways for someone to shuffle off the mortal coil. Sure, you could pretend to get creative with it, but there is only so much before you loop right back around. Natural causes usually came from the shut down of major organs, lack or over abundance of something important, like blood, air, or nutrients, and murder could usually be summed up with blunt force trauma, bleeding, or some combination of the already listed options. Really the human body was a fragile thing, held together only by willpower and a good dose of luck. At any moment the brain could glitch out, a major artery could quite literally explode, or in extremely rare cases, spontaneous combustion for no discernible reason.
And then poof. No more you.

For Cheyenne, this random chance was comforting, a mark of pride knowing that at any moment, for no reason other than the roll of the dice, she could drop dead. And there would be absolutely no reason, motive, or thought behind it. She made it her career, forensic pathology, to figure out how people died. One final good deed for someone beyond the grave. It was fascinating what you could find out about someone from their body. Eating habits, years of scars, medical history, which hand they favored. You found out the most intimate things about a complete stranger, someone you will never be given the chance to know. Cheyenne learned things about people that even their loved ones didn't know. The color of their bones (which were colors other than white a startling amount of the time. Minocycline was common enough that Cheyenne didn't even blink at green bones anymore), the placement of their organs, and most importantly of all: cause of death.

Which is why the cadaver in front of her right now was so utterly mystifying. Cheyenne looked through the charts on her desk, the frown marring her face only increasing the more she read. No medical history, no issues, blood pressure, sugar, oxygen, and blood cell counts were all excellent. Lab reports showed no sign of poisoning, heart rate had reportedly stayed steady for three minutes after confirmed death. Normal brain function, no sign of damage, the body was perfectly healthy. But he very clearly wasn't alive. So maybe 'perfectly healthy' was a bit of a stretch.

Cheyenne had been three cups deep into a coffee pot when the man had been brought in, and he'd been sitting in their freezers for a week since. Complete John Doe, no ID, no name, no records, nothing. His crow black hair matched her own and that's about where the resemblances stopped. The corpse had green eyes, Cheyenne had brown, he was right handed, she was left handed, he was 6'0" and tanned, Cheyenne was lucky to be 5'4" in heels and was pale, he had no pulse, her resting BPM was 85. Police had found the guy slumped in an alleyway, a concerned passerby calling 911 after they got no response, figuring him to be another junky. Lab had cleared him three days ago, full clean system. Cheyenne was left with a mystery on her hands.

Normally there would be something, anything pointing to how someone would give up the ghost, Cheyenne prided herself on finding it. From a hypodermic needle needle prick to a collapsed heart artery, there had to be something. It ate at her mind when she tried to go home to sleep, theories popping into her head when she was microwaving a dinner of cup noodles, nipping at her thoughts when she tried to work on other cases. So, Cheyenne decided to look over the body again.

The rooms were cold, as would be expected of a room full of fridges filled with cadavers, so Cheyenne wore a jacket over her normal uniform. The rows and rows of metal plates and drawers, each one a person with a history and a life. They had three John Does right now, with a Jane keeping them company on the right, but Cheyenne knew exactly which one she wanted, J2, second drawer on the left. The bodies were kept on long metal sheet, like a hotel dish pan with handles. A person could slide the tray out of the drawer and onto a wheeled table with ease if you had the practice. Cheyenne had the practice.

The body looked exactly the same as it did last week, perhaps paler, but it still made Cheyenne frown. The fridges between 2-4C to help slow decomposition, but there should have been visible signs after a week of no internal functions. She frowned deeper at the dead man, furrowing her brow to a near scowl.

"What is wrong with you?" Speaking out loud helped with the silence of the room, normally the pathologist would listen to music, or she'd have an assistant to chat to, but speaking to the bodies wasn't entirely out of the norm. How was it any stranger than a person talking to a table they'd kicked or a stuffed animal? Same level of aliveness, really. Still, Cheyenne was usually nicer to her charges, but this one had been taking time out of her sleeping schedule and there wasn't much love lost.

There was never, ever an expectation of a response. That would be like… The sky falling, or your dog suddenly looking you in the eyes and saying in perfect English "You know Susan, I really do not think purple is a flattering color on you", or wearing white after labor day.

So it isn't much of a surprise that Cheyenne promptly faints when her John Doe responds:

"Oh, just a couple things."

Name: Osgar Eormengild
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Pronouns: He/Him
Orientation: Demiromantic bisexual (Though deeply religious with the dogmatic faith of a new convert, so zealotry might make this tinted with delightful shades of denial).

Appearance:Osgar looks as young as a man in this time period can, with fair skin marked and smudged with the wear of living outside. A few freckles, he doesn’t tan well at all.
Dirty blonde hair leaning more towards the brown end of the spectrum is lightly wavy and reaches collar level at maximum, at an even length all around, no bangs. No beard, not including stubble, but a mustache (which is the most period accurate style I can find at the time for Christian Saxons. Correct me if I'm wrong?) His hair is well maintained to the best of the possible ability, so it is of a coarse, almost sandy texture.
His eyes are too pretty for him. They’re too green, like new leaves, and the whites are too white, making the rest of his skin look darker in comparison. Dappled slightly with dark gold specks near the pupils.
Osgar is a large man, broad shouldered and built like an ox. This is a guy who does a lot of physical labor, making him less dextrous and instead pure strength. Tall and physically intimidating, which doesn’t match his face or demeanor, it’s slightly off putting in a way that's hard to put one's finger on. He has the hands of a soldier, but the calluses of some kind of craftsman. His voice is slightly crackly as if from disuse and his accent is a mix of the cultural dialect and slight irish tinges.
Clothing: Osgar wears relatively simple clothes. A tan linen shirt underneath a dark and well worn grey tunic which goes to about the upper knee and trousers underneath. A dark blue cloak made from a rectangular cloth and dyed with woad is clasped over his right shoulder, with a hood. Firm, leather ankle boots are worn and weathered, but still holding sturdy. Gloves too, though these have definitely seen better days. Osgar wears two belts, which is where he has pouches and knives, for eating and for stabbing (separate knives, we’re not savages). He also carries a sword with him, this one definitely for stabbing.
The clothes are all practical pieces, made for versatile use, whether it be worn underneath armor, traveling, or living. At the moment, Osgar is presumed stripped of his armor. Notably keeps a string of prayer beads with a crucifix attached to the end looped around his belt, the rosary is made of salmon vertebrae and alternates between black and white, with a small red tassel at one end.
Personality: Osgar is a quietly intense man. Despite his large size, he’s not someone that stands out in a crowd, when he stands he hunches his shoulders, when he speaks he ducks his head. It’s easy to let your eyes just pass over him. However, he has the most intense eyes, vibrant and clearly showing thought and emotion that it becomes hard to ever imagine this man as meek. Osgar holds to beliefs deeply and firmly and, unfortunately, instantly. A dog has nothing on his loyalty, once given. He trusts his gut more than reason, but is more than willing to sit down and listen to someone lay out all the facts, consider them, and let them settle into his soul. He’s quiet, speaking only when he feels it is necessary, but feels emotions so strongly that when he has outbursts they are noticeable. Passionate to a fault.
Background: Osgar was once a craftsman. His name also was once not Osgar. He was a carpenter by trade, working in finer details as well as making basic, sturdy furniture for the quiet village he lived in. He worked with his father, whom he deeply respected, and was quietly content with his lot. Then at around the age of 16, his life was changed. Danes had hit Ireland, where distant relatives lived and promptly fled. Some came to live with his family, bringing their beliefs with them, notably, Christianity. His great uncle had been a monk whose monastery had been sacked for its golden religious ornaments and Osgar took to the new teaching life a drowning man given a glimpse of water. Something about it just resonated with him in a way he could not explain nor understand. Osgar is… Devout. For a man who can not read nor write and only hears conflicted teachings second hand. He changed his name, got baptized, and learned to fight. He’s essentially on his own private crusade, though for what reasons, I’ll keep hidden for now.
Other:
-He loves bread. A lot.
-Deuteropania and heart arrhythmia
-He learned how to juggle to impress a girl once.
-Adores dogs
-(Idk what else to put here really, I’ll add any I think of-)

((love him! I’ll get working on a starter soon))
Name: Helski is the name which she responds to, if that is truly her name at all. There is no other known name for her, other than her title as the woman of fire.
Age: 26
Gender: Cis-adjacent woman.
Pronouns: She/her, has been occasionally referred to as they/them by Fraech
Orientation: Demiromantic Asexual

Appearance: For the woman of fire, she has hair like it; red, striking hair that makes it hard for her to blend in. Her skin is pale that it suggests she comes from a region that gets little sun. She appears as a relatively young woman, her features devoid of aspects some might consider imperfections, save for a mole under the left side of the lip. Her eyes are notable; dual heterochromia in them. The left eye appears a soft, not so striking blue, while the other is more of a green, like grass under the shade of a tree.
For the most part, she wears her hair naturally. It is somewhat long; going down to just below her collar bones at the longest when fully undone. However, she also commonly wears a ‘half up, half down’ braid style, in which it avoids her hair being in her face.
Body wise, Helski is around 5’8”, making her rather tall for most people she frequents, women at that. Her frame is not the sort of shape to expect of someone who fights all the time; she does have a bit of athleticism to her but not overly so — as to be expected, as she spends lots of time moving around either way.
Her voice has a sense of firmness to it. It’s clear, easy enough for most people to hear. While firm, it is also calm; not necessarily calming however.
Clothing: Clothes typical of a Viking shaman; her garb is dark green for the most part, and a hood covers her features unless she lowers her hood. A warm furred brown cloak she also wears to protect herself from the elements; aside from that her clothes were evidently fashioned by a skilled hand. Perhaps not a rich one, but skilled; leathers also give her protection and basic comfort from a variety of things. A few pouches she carries almost constantly; one full of runes, the other, perhaps poison.

Personality: The character that she displays is someone that is always watching. By those with the pleasure or misfortune of interacting with her (not necessarily speaking) Helski is described as unpredictable. She moves slowly, with grace, but at the moments notice could turn towards you with a sharp blade at your throat. She is reserved on her words, but when she does speak it is not short, and it is with meaning.
She does not hide who or what she is. Helski does hide things, but her identity is not apart of that which is hidden. She will look at you when you speak or have caught her interest; she is not expressionless and will smile when amused by something. Whether or not she explains it is up to her, and that is the type of person she is — her own. She swears to no lord, no king, no one. She is herself and maintains that sort of control, much to the contrast of those who want her powers for themselves.

Background: Helski is not from Denmark, nor is she from Norway, but instead from Iceland. Her life in the volcanic isles is seldom known, but she lost her parents at a young age, and was taken in by a man who saw something other than a young girl. A seer perhaps, someone more in tune with the workings of the world.
From a young age, Helski was used by others, who may or may not have known the person beneath. But Helski found comfort in the beliefs of her fellows. She would not say she manipulated their beliefs against them, but rather, through a long period of self examination and learning, had came to the own self realization that this was not where her fate would lie. No, not here.
Her story did not end on Iceland. Perhaps it was through luck, or perhaps Helski is truly connected to the gods. For whatever she had done, people began to believe in her, and before they knew it they were not the ones vying to use her — no, they vied to serve the red lady. Her group at this stage was by no means large, but she sailed to the isles anyways, taking her believers with her.
She’d eventually come into contact with one Fraech Mac Con Uladh, a man of Ireland who like her had an interesting journey. The two had met under captivity, but in that time Fraech saw something in her, and deemed it his current and remaining purpose to tag along with her, make sure she lives. During the process that led to her capture, most, if not all of her believers had been lost, leaving only her and the newly acquired Fraech. Fraech however, was a man to be reckoned with, not just in battle but in words as well.
Helski was quietly thankful for the fates bringing this man to her, for multiple reasons. Without him, her life in England might’ve ended prematurely.

Other: She may occasionally walk with a decorated staff. Helski, to the surprise of few, also possesses extensive plant knowledge. In both their dangers, but also helpful utilities.

———

Name: Fraech “Bjarki” Mac Con Uladh
Age: 24
Gender: Cis male
Pronouns: He/him
Orientation: Biromantic demisexual

Appearance: By all means, Fraech appears younger than he is. He’s on the shorter side of things at 5’3”. His facial features are a bit youthful, but he does have a slight stubble going on, and a faint small scar on his left chin. His eyes are more of a dark hazel, but under the sun flecks of amber can be seen. Hair is dark brown, with some curliness to it, but not overly so. He keeps it longest at the back, where it goes down to just above the mid-neck.
To his companion, he is not as clean as she is, but he isn’t messy, either. His build suggests one who does lots of climbing and running around, which is all true. He could not immediately be placed as muscular, but he is relatively athletic. His skin is not extremely pale, perhaps a sienna colour, as he has spent much of his time outside.
A few whip scars line his back. They appear to be a few years old. He is also missing a finger, specifically the ring finger on his right hand.
Fraech speaks with a sense of looseness or casualness usually only heard in the ill disciplined. He’s usually got a smile upon his face, but a good judge of character will realize he rarely ever genuinely smiles.
Clothing: Like a good amount of people, Fraech sometimes bears a cloak for travel, a hood to obscure himself if need be, to not stand out as much.
The armour he wears is not metal or chain, for that would be too loud, too restricting and would take much too long to get on as he describes personally. It is more of a boiled leather, with a few cloth adornments to assist in movement, rather than completely be covered in it. Usually covered by a cloak, he bears two short blades — ‘daggers’ — in combat, though these blades have a most unusual design, being slightly curved in form.

Personality: Contrasting his companion, Fraech is much more open with his words. But he is just as cunning as she is, if not more; at least within the realms of men. Fraech knows what it is like to have been seen as something lesser. His current self may be seen as some sort of a manipulator. Fraech would only smile if you told him that — do not sleep, lest you not wake in the morning.
Hiding behind all the smiling and staring is a creature not to be underestimated. Fraech can be very, very brutal at times. But in his own words, he prefers not to kill unless absolutely necessary, for we all only have one life. Still, it is best not to make an enemy out of him. For depending on what you did, Fraech may decide to make an example out of you.
In a world like this, Fraech is surprisingly respectful of people seen as ‘lesser’ by the status quo. This does not mean you can walk all over him; but it means he will see you as an equal, even if you are not the typical man.

Background: Born in Ireland, Fraech was orphaned at a young age, taken in by the church, though he seldom took to the lessons he was taught. He was a thief as a child, sometimes stealing simple things to survive but eventually moved on to more important things that perhaps he did not need. Things that would eventually land him caught, but let off with just a scratch instead of a more harsh punishment.
The church’s teachings never caught on with Fraech, and his outgoings became longer and longer until one day he decided to move on to different towns. Within recent time, though, Viking raids would occur, and Fraech would perhaps fortunately find himself alive, but not so fortunately taken as a slave.
The details of his life under them are ones he usually keeps to himself. But, he could not deny that he had learned a lot whilst in captivity. Some things interested him. He did his job for the most part, perhaps for once in his life. And he was eventually freed by chance when chaos erupted and Viking and Saxon blade met, and through it Fraech fled and did not look back.
Gaining allies in the Kingdoms came easier for Fraech than it did most folk, once he realized where he was. He did not turn back to Ireland but instead set himself up in England, finding — and often manipulating — somewhat likeminded people.
He would eventually meet the woman of fire in temporary captivity, and decide to devote his current purpose to her. It was with her he helped spread rumours and myth, made it hard to tell the reality from the lies.

Other: His accent has a tinge of Irish to it. Still, he seems to take on new accents quicker than most people, based on who he’s hanging around with. It always has the hint of Irish to it, that perhaps any Irish person could detect.
He possesses a falcon (not exactly possess, for this bird comes as it goes) named Itan. He at some point discovered the bird, wounded, before he met Helski.

Oh, the men were celebrating tonight.

Even a deaf man could tell, if not through the singing and voices, the occasional thumps where one got up, doing gods knows what down there. Helski brushed a comb through her hair, taking her time as she peered into the glass. Though he said no words, Helski knew that the man was still in the room with her. Standing at an angle that the mirror could not see, leaning against the wall, arms folded; Fraech, a longtime companion of hers. And despite that, there was so much that she did not know about him.

Likewise, she supposed. Likewise, for she seldom shared anything about herself either.

“They have caught a man, yes?” She does not need to speak loudly with Fraech. Fraech takes a few moments, perhaps nodding, before giving his own response.
“Aye, and they seem mighty happy about it. Of course, it could also be all of the loot we got as well…” Fraech drifted off, as if in thought. “What do you say they’re more happy about? A prisoner, or new stories to tell of battle?”

Helski sets her comb down. “I don’t know, Bjarki,” she turns around on the bed and while his head isn’t fully facing her, his dark eyes are still on her own. “What would you think?”
He takes a moment. “I reckon the stories and good food. But we’re interested in the man, aren’t we.” Not a question, but a statement, which Helski nods either way, before Fraech adds on — “Or, at least, you are.”
Fraech never claimed to understand Helski’s mind, a wise thing indeed. Helski had a feeling she fascinated him, for why would he follow her along so much with very little demand of her? He was interested because she was, because he wanted to see what all this was about. Helski stood up, brushing a hand down the linen of her clothes.
“We’d best get down, then. Before the men get too excited and try to play around with our prisoner.”

Officially, Helski and Fraech — or Bjarki, as he was known to the men, had no main stronghold. No castle, but instead a plot of land that they did mostly tend to frequent. Thus any designated holding spot for prisoners was usually on the spot. This spot did not have a prison it seemed, and so the prisoner was to be held in the main hall, under the eyes of a variety of men, but most of whom were celebrating the successes of the day, or socializing with each other. This did not stop the hall from briefly pausing when the stairs creaked as Helski and Bjarki appeared at the top of them, but ‘Bjarki’ raised his hand, and lowered it, and the men continued to talk.
“They are very devout, aren’t they?” Helski comments to ‘Bjarki’, who simply smirks, but lets it fade as his eyes turn to one of the corners of the room.
Helski follows his gaze, and finds herself seeing someone she hadn’t exactly seen before. Yet there was a sort of familiarity to it, perhaps one of her dreams — no matter, there would be time to discern it all. When her eyes landed on the prisoner all the way back there, she could determine he was man on the larger side of things. She briefly pondered the tale of how the men had managed to catch him, before shaking her head and descending the rest of the stairs, Bjarki trailing behind her.
Not once did her eyes leave the man, and she kept looking at him all the way until she stopped just short of him, looking down at the bound prisoner, stripped of weapons and armour, though she knew even those imprisoned should not be underestimated.

Saying nothing, Helski crouched down, eyes still looking into his green ones, and more a moment a bit of recognition flashed in her eyes — before saying, “Yes — you are the one I saw.”

Her voice is just loud enough to be heard by the prisoner and Bjarki, whose arms are crossed, who only tilts his head towards her, then him, but otherwise remains standing.

The first thing Osgar could hear was laughing.

The sound was loud and boisterous and full of the promise of something more. A joke to be let in on, a warm fire to sit by, or perhaps food to be consumed.

That was the second thing he noticed. The smell. Meat, alcohol, sweat. All familiar smells. Osgar had figured out long ago that things were much more manageable when you sorted them into chunks, like smaller pieces of wood waiting to be slotted together into a whole. So first came sound, then smell, pain being a distant fourth or fifth on the list, a dull throbbing in his head.

Third should have been sight, but instinct told him not to open his eyes just yet. He was not alone in this area, wherever it might be, and feigned unconsciousness would be a tool only a fool would give up without more information first. The voices around him were loud and full, some speaking words he could not parse. So third was given to the more patient touch. Osgar felt light, less weight around the waist and shoulders, and a subtle shift only confirmed his suspicions. He was unarmed and unarmored, bound, not an enviable situation to find oneself in.

It could be worse. The small voice in his head comforts him. He could be dead like his companions. A small mercenary group that had been travelling in the same direction he had wished to go. The extra, uncomplaining hands were not turned away when he offered them. Not that it did them much good.

Osgar finally relented to opening his eyes, feeling a twinge of pain behind his eyelids as he does so. A cursory glance of his environment revealed he seemed to be… The only prisoner. Osgar quickly shut his eyes again, lips moving through a silent prayer. A priest would have made a better appeal for the mercenary's souls, but he tried his best. The familiar dull fire rekindles in the pit of his stomach, a low, burning rage. It makes the large man antsy, he wants to move, to strain against his binds, but what good would it do? He was surrounded by enemies.

For that is what they were. Vikings. Enemies. Blasphemers.
Osgar stays deathly silent, watching what seems to be a celebration, men cheering and laughing, boasting and singing. Cheering for the death of good men. Animals the voice in his head snarls.
He does not dare move, not even to try to shift the dirty blonde hair from his face, several strands of it stuck to his cheek from where he lay, so he glowers at the assembly through the curtain of hair, grown just slightly too long for his tastes.

Only the more observant notice the prisoners consciousness and Osgar tenses as he sees glances thrown his way, followed by smiles. He inhales, though for what he's not sure, when the vikings still. All eyes go to the top of the stairs. Two figures stand at the top and Osgar loses whatever breath he had just managed to regain. One was a man, Osgar couldn't care less who it was, his eyes trained only on the figure with the fire red hair. It makes sense now why the hall had fallen into a hush. They had been bewitched. The voices resume after the brief pause at a wave from the man and the witch speaks to him. And then Osgar locks eyes with the woman.

Helski

The sorceress.

The fire in his stomach burns into a dull roar, pounding in his ears as she looks at him with eyes that speak lies. For they show recognition. And that was a lie.

Osgar does not speak, he doubts he could if he wanted to, with his teeth clenched to the point that at another time he would be worried they would crack. His green eyes are intense, boring into the witch, unblinking and unwavering, all of his muscles tensed as if he's preparing for a fight, that if he looks away for even a second his life would be forfeit. A face that speaks of utter, unadulterated, loathing.

The prisoner does not speak immediately. And that is to be expected. Helski holds his stare for a while longer, taking note of his features — tense, ready, despite whatever wounds or aches he must certainly have acquired during the previous struggles. After a while of mulling in her thoughts she pulls away, but keeps her eyes on him as she speaks to the man next to her, known only as Bjarki to most people in this hall.

“Get him up.”

Most notably does Helski not switch to another language, even though she knows she and Fraech speak a few other than Anglo-Saxon. It was perhaps due to her current role in this situation; she did not care what the prisoner heard at this stage in time. She was only giving commands, after all.
The man next to her — Fraech, or Bjarki, steps forwards. He’s noticeably a bit shorter than her, but as he moves the cloak he bears sways slightly, and a good eye would perhaps notice the glint of metal; what looked to be daggers attached to his person. Not typical for a Dane, but time and time again they did often surprise people, even each other. Though Fraech and Helski both knew neither were Danish.
Fraech leans down and despite his smaller size is clearly still a strong man, though he could certainly be overpowered by someone larger than him. As he leans down, he speaks, his accent carrying a distinct yet subtle Irish aspect to it. “Bright fellow, aren’t you?” He whispers, just enough for the prisoner to hear as he gets him up on his feet.
Fraech stands next to the prisoner, and looks at Helski. “Leaving while the celebrations are still on, are we?”

“They will not notice our absence.” Helski responds, before turning with a gesture of her hand, motioning for Fraech, and likely the prisoner, to follow. Fraech remains by the prisoner to ensure said man continues following, doesn’t try to do anything. Helski does not walk quickly, but she does so quietly, and outside she leads them. Most of the men are still in the main hall. Though there are a few outside, standing guard or doing whatever it is they do, when they realize just who it is — Helski — they go back to what they were doing.
The night air is decently chilly. She appears to be walking in direction of where some horses are stabled.

Osgar's eyes briefly flicker to the man standing next to the witch. His green eyes shift off the red haired woman for only a fraction of a second and his whole body tenses. He waits a second, then another, and an expression of visible confusion clouds his face. It seems he genuinely thought something would happen if he stopped watching the witch.

Knowing now that it wasn't deadly to not try to ward off his untimely demise by sheer force of concentrated staring, Osgar feels mildly safer to inspect the other man. His eyes rake the man's figure up and down, lingering on the daggers around his waist and his face. For a long moment, Osgar's expression is unreadable, but the moment of recognition followed quickly again by anger and disgust is unmistakable. And maybe just the tiniest twinge of pity.

Osgar wouldn't have been able to recognize Bjarki normally, he'd never met the man, and only heard through exaggerated rumors anything about him. But he'd heard. And learned. And internalized. The witch's thrall, leading the Danes in the room. Osgar watched silently as Bjarki followed the witch's command and the pity evaporates, leaving Osgar to narrow his eyes, pupils massive.

The whisper of words as he is helped up throw him off for a second. Osgar remains stubbornly silent, feeling his lip curl upwards at the close proximity to either of them. His heart beats in his chest rapidly like a bird trying to peck its way out, fluttering slightly at the rapid pace.

It would be unwise to struggle or fight now, despite being so close to his goal. He would not let it be in vain. So Osgar follows passively, his shoulders moving upwards towards his neck in a defensive hunch more as force of habit than anything. He barely pays attention to the words they speak, too busy looking around while keeping his head down, the gears in his head clearly turning as he tries to figure something out.

The sound and smell of horses make Osgar stop in his tracks. The Saxons eyes go wide again and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. For a wild moment he considers biting his tongue and bleeding to death here and now, it would be a more merciful fate than the ideas passing through his mind right now. But a quick glance at the witch makes him reconsider. They had magics, unnatural and strange, would death even be effective? He didn't know. He just didn't know.

His legs feel as if they had been placed in thick mud. He can not move. He will not move. Osgar stares between the Witch and the Warlord, setting his jaw as he straightens his shoulders again, shifting his stance to be firmer.

"No." Is all he says. Voice cracking from disuse. When was the last time he spoke? Was it to the mercenaries? Or in the town before that? Osgar couldn't remember.

When the prisoner speaks for the first time, Helski pauses — she does not turn around, but she stops walking, just as Fraech does. Fraech, whose eyes slightly shift to the man next to him, some thoughts swirling around in his head. He looks back in the direction of Helski but he can only see her red hair, as she’s yet to say anything or turn around.
Fraech silently looks back at the prisoner, then decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Oh, come on now.” Fraech sighs, walking forwards, moving in front of the prisoner. “We’ve still a bit of a ways to go, and my Lady doesn’t have all night,” he explains in a slow drawl, referring to Helski as the Lady. “Now why don’t you pick up those boots and keep moving?” His dark eyes are on the prisoner the entire time, boring into them.
He remains silent afterwards, keen to wait for a response. All the while Helski still keeps quiet, and hasn’t moved much from where she was before.

"I do not exist to make your lives more convenient." Osgar speaks in a low tone, his voice crackly in places and his diction could use some work, but it is understandable through clenched teeth.

He raises his head, chin held up defiantly, stubbornness clearly visible in his leaf green eyes. His opinion of his male captor only sinking as Bjarki refers to the witch as his Lady. Any man who degraded themselves by following a creature so unnatural was no man at all.

"If you are to kill me, kill me now. If I am not to die, then I will not move until I know where." Osgar knows his words are mostly bravado. He could, with effort, be forced to go anywhere, it would be inconvenient for them, time consuming surely, but not impossible in the slightest. But as the saying goes: What did it hurt to ask?

The chill of the night and mud starts to creep up his legs, reaffirming his staunch position, fixed as firmly to the ground as a statue. He can feel the mans eyes on him and it makes his neck prickle with danger.

Fraech listens to the man speak, eyes on him the entire time. He’s about to respond, mouth briefly opening — then closing, as Helski gets there before him. She’s turned around now, her eyes moving across the ground, then up towards the prisoner again.

“You are not fated to die here, not by any of our hands,” she says, and her dual coloured eyes momentarily flick to Fraech as she says that, who had been looking at Helski. He steps away slightly and nods quietly.
After that, she looks back at the prisoner. “I take you not far from here.” She informs him. “To a small camp I have set up.” Which was truth, though she knew full well that she could not make the prisoner believe that. It was up to him in the end, as were many things for all of them.
“I will tell you right now that I have no intentions to harm you. Bjarki can attest to it. Perhaps you might be a free man by sunrise,” she adds, watching for a reaction. She knows that the prisoner is wary, not just of the people he’s faced with but the situation itself. Unfamiliar territory. Customs. Intentions. She could only hope that the prisoner realized she was honest in hers.

Osgar hesitates briefly. He has the low, creeping feeling he has narrowly avoided a fate much more human in nature. The words all made logical sense, in some twisted sort of way. Why go through all the effort to keep him alive, unlike the mercenaries he had been travelling with? That didn't rule out that he was being led to his death like a lamb to the slaughter with only the gentle words of a deceitful shepherd to keep him docile.

But… Didn't witches sell their ability to lie for power? Osgar wracks his brain, trying to remember any kind of tales or mythology he learned when he was younger. He scorned much of those stories as he aged, first finding them a waste of time, and then heretical. The nagging feeling he was getting something mixed up was there, but it was a comforting lie to tell himself.

Osgar hesitates a moment longer, before nodding sharply. He would see soon enough if they were oath breakers.

"Very well." He says softly, and resumes walking. Now that he wasn't making a stand, his shoulders started to hunch again, eyes kept straight forward, head tilted down. Quietly intense rather than openly. He finds himself glancing at his captors, wondering a fraction of a second the story there. An odd mix to be sure, but- None of his business.

The prisoner seemed to have come to a conclusion, temporary or not. Perhaps Helski’s words were enough to provide that conclusion. Fraech had always been the more talkative sort, but Helski was the one who knew what end she intended to get to. And Fraech only knew a little bit of that at a time, but it was enough for him to follow her anyways.
When the prisoner resumed walking, so did Fraech and Helski. Fraech remained silent this time, and it was instead Helski who spoke as they approached the horses.

“I should like to know your name, if you’ll give it to me.” It wasn’t a demand, but a surprisingly gentle question. One that captors usually did not ask in such a way, if at all. “In return, I will give you mine.”
Fraech tilted a head up at that, a bit curious, but said nothing else, waiting to see how Helski would deal with the prisoner. Approaching the horses, there were three in total — a white horse that appeared to be Helski’s, a grey horse, and then a brown one. It seemed that the prisoner would ride on a separate horse, though someone — like Fraech — would hold the rope that kept the prisoner’s horse from wandering off.
Helski got on her horse with little issue.

The wind was loud tonight, but it had stiff competition if it were to drown out the sound of the three of them making their way to the horses. Osgar especially was loud, making no attempt to soften his footfalls or avoid stepping on leaves or twigs, in the darkness he was doubtful he could, even if he wanted to.

Osgar tilted his head up so he could inspect the horses. They were fine beasts and seemed normal enough, no trace of unnaturalness about them as far as the young man could see. Good horseflesh, well kept manes, cared for animals. He raises his palm up to the brown horse, pausing to see if he would be stopped from mounting. With no opposition offered, he got on the brown horse, murmuring lowly to the creature to soothe it. He'd ridden before, though not frequently enough to be a grand equestrian, but Osgar liked them. Something about the large intelligent eyes and the powerful frame, they were things to be respected rather than owned.

Safely on the horse, Osgar raises his head, already a tall man, now about five foot higher. He regards the witch, his head inclining to the side as he considers her question. For a moment, taller, head actually held high, hair out of his face, Osgar looks thoughtful. Then his expression clouds and shutters closed once more.

"And what would I do with your name?" Osgar replies, only just keeping the bite out of his voice. The question offered him had seemed good natured, he would not degrade himself by being snide. It was the barest attempt at being civil. Osgar chews on the inside of his mouth for a moment, then nods at the horses, then at Bjarki.

"Good horses."

“Names have power,” Helski responds, her tone even. “There would be an offset of balance if you were to get nothing in return for giving me your name. As for what you would do with it, that is up to Fate.” Her eyes flick forwards and Fraech gets up on the remaining horse, the grey one.
He gives it a slight scratch behind the ears as he faces the same direction as Helski, holding the rope. They’d move at a slow pace, not a gallop. The camp was not far, and the journey would be easier on the horses that way.

“Should thank Deorsa for the horses,” Fraech comments to no one in particular; perhaps a simple reminder to himself. “He was the one who got them to begin with.” Helski glances towards him, a slight smile on her lips, and nods. She looks back to the prisoner, then forwards, as the horses begin to move.
Frankly, with how the men talk, Helski wouldn’t be surprised if the prisoner already knew her name. But names have power, as Helski said. And there was always something different about hearing the name from the lips of the individual whom it belonged to, rather than the shadows that rumour and gossip.