RP:A Knight's Loyalty Paid in Blood
Part of the Silver Oaths Unrelenting Arc
Frostmaw Forest
Hildegarde and Sabjorn had elected to go on a patrol after the events of the festival, in an effort to make sure the land was at peace and there were no signs of the raiding party of ‘Jarl’ Anbjorn rising up again. “Shame you took a hit to the head, Hilde, or else you might well have stood a chance in that bout,” the giant said, in an effort to make conversation, while offering her a little smile. “Truly, I shall never look at an imp again without realising how pesky and savage things actually are!” she laughed, shaking her head at the thought, “It was more upsetting knowing they wrenched my weapon away than anything else. But I am grateful I was not alone in the ring, for I dread to think what might have happened elsewise!” Sabjorn nodded in agreement, continuing to stroll along the western region of Frostmaw at a slow and calm pace; as if going for nothing more than a relaxing walk. “Aye, well it’s over now! At least you can return to your duties and so on. I still can’t quite believe you’re wearing that cloak. It’s lovely, but I know you are at odds with it…” he commented almost sympathetically, having come to know the dragon well during their time together and their battles. Battle often forged the best bonds and the knight had found a confidant in the giant, as well as a loyal, steadfast friend.
“It is beautiful, Sabjorn, of course. But I… I don’t know, I am uncertain that I am deserving of it. A knight is cloaked because of their deeds, because of their worthiness and because they are well-reputed as being a powerful and mighty knight. I am neither of those things,” she said with a shake of her head, “as much as I might wish to be.” The giant looked at her with a frown, shaking his head after a moment. “Hilde…” he started, before the snapping of what sounded like a twig caught his attention. Battleaxe drawn, he turned and demanded to know, “What was that?” but his answer was not one he enjoyed! With the sound of a rope tightening and becoming taught and the sudden ‘woosh’ of movement, the giant was ripped from his position and turned upside down: suspended from a high and strong tree by his ankle. “Trap!” he cried, trying his best not to sound too distressed, but it was difficult to control. The knight slipped into a defensive stance, looking around for any signs of raiding giants, poachers or anyone who may well have set up this sort of trap. “We do not have long,” she told him, assuming the trap would have been rigged to alert those who set it or that whoever set it would presumably return soon to see if it had caught anything or anyone. But, of course, for this to have pulled something up the size of a giant, it was rather high up and not at a height the humanoid form could reach easily. “I’m cutting you down!” she told him, as she slipped her halberd into the sheathe at her back and ran for the tree. The knight was surprisingly adept at climbing, but that was a skill she had learned from her brothers: she had to be able to climb to join in on their games as a child. Sabjorn was struggling against the rope, meaty fingers attempting to reach for it and sever it, but he couldn’t. He either had no energy or found it too painful, perhaps he was too panicked to actually do it, which seemed a bit more reasonable.
Arms extended out gracefully as the knight stepped along the thick branch carefully – and as quickly as she could – to try and reach the rope that had so ensnared her giant friend, “Sabjorn! Stop struggling, that is an order,” she commanded, waiting for him to fall still before she drew Oathkeeper and steadied herself while readying her arm. “On my mark of three, I shall cut you down,” she told him, waiting for him to nod or give her some kind of signal that he was ready or at least comprehended what she was saying. “One!” her fingers flexed around the hilt of the blade, “Two!” she touched it to the rope and drew it back in preparation, “Three!” she swung the blade and sliced through the rope, allowing the giant to drop with a mighty crack and ‘oomph’.
The knight had no time to safely and slowly climb back down the tree, so she simply leapt off and landed near the fallen giant. “Injuries?” she asked him, being met with a grunt, “Only my pride,” he said with a low and irritated mumble. She smiled, punching him lightly in the shoulder, “Sabjorn, my friend--” her sentence was interrupted with a ‘thud’, as the base of a battleaxe cracked against her skull and then did the same to Sabjorn’s forehead to render them both unconscious. “Take them!” the exile commanded, watching as a giant easily lifted the knight and the other two dragged Sabjorn through the snowy ground.
The Silver woke to the stink of blood and a pounding headache, groaning as her eyes blinked open and she understood what just happened. Her hands were bound at the wrist, attached to the top of the wooden post, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes if she wanted to stand at all. “Sabjorn,” she breathed, looking around franticly for her partner, her friend. She needed to know he was all right, she had to know that he wasn’t left for dead.
“Frostmaw!” the giant cried, as he cracked his forehead violently against another giant’s in an effort to escape from their grasp, but it was to no avail. Sabjorn was overwhelmed by two giants who joined the original one’s effort, pinning him to that wooden post as his hands and feet – even his neck – were bound to that post. “Sabjorn!” the knight cried as she struggled against her bonds, only to receive a mighty blow to her gut. It was the blow to her gut and how hard it hit that made her realise that she had been stripped of her armour, being left to her clothes.
“You killed Anbjorn. Your Ice Witch of a Queen pitted my sons to the death,” the man seemed to swallow hard, finding it difficult to continue, “and made them kill one another in the pit. Do you know that there is nothing more dishonourable than kinslaying?” he asked her, looking at her with a deep sadness in his eyes. “The other killed himself. They will… They will never join us now in the halls of Aramoth for they will be cursed. They are too stubborn to leave the other outside of the hall; they would rather both be out of it than separated.” He chuckled at the thought, feeling nostalgic. “They were sweet boys. Such sweet boys! Strong and promising, but you all stole that away! Your Ice Witch and all you false warriors. No woman is fit to rule. No woman is fit to be a warrior, either.”
Hildegarde raised her head to look at her suspected captor, feeling a sudden and intense guilt at the thought of being responsible for the death of his sons. “I… I’m sorry,” she offered him feebly, but there was heart and meaning in her apology. “Not good enough!” he howled angrily, curling his fists to try and stay his hand from striking her again. “They are dead, my Jarl is dead and now I must lead my people. I promised them revenge, revenge for their murdered sons, brothers, husbands. You killed them, as well as our Jarl, you and your friend there. I could do with a warrior like you, but a woman’s place is not the battlefield.” The knight fell silent, staring at the ground as the Frost Giant went on. But as quick as a cobra, his fist lashed out to strike her square in the chest with a mighty ‘whomp’ of force.
If the post was not quite so restricting, she would have doubled over with the pain of the strike. Alas, she stifled her cry of pain into an angry growl instead. But the new Jarl continued speaking to her: “There is a fire in you, although you are a dragon of frost – oh we know all about you, girl. A fire in you that is made to kill; a fire that consumes all other life, the same fire in every killer. You’re just like them, girl. If I had not promised my people revenge, I would offer you a place amongst our ranks. You may be a woman, but you do have some fight in you so it would be of use. It’s almost sad.”
The Frost Giant drew a dagger – what was presumably a short sword or even a longsword to some races – and cut her bindings. “I promised my people revenge and we only have two of you. As their Jarl, I have promised them a new dawn and a new age of happiness and prosperity. I shall give them joy, through you,” he said, taking hold of her shoulder and directing her to what looked like a rather basic sort of pen. Keeping his hand on her shoulder, he summoned his warriors, “We have been prepared for you,” he told her, as he shoved her forward and towards the waiting warriors. She half expected a fight, which is why she tensed and slipped into a defensive stance only to find herself manhandled by the powerful giants; with what seemed like a horse collar thrown over her neck, save for the great dagger like spikes attached to it. “We know what you are, girl,” the warrior intoned, “Jarl Hakkon there was wise enough to make this. If you change… If you do whatever it is you beasts do, it’ll kill you. You’re stuck like this, girl,” he grinned, while his companion shackled her ankles with what seemed like blue iron. Moving was difficult.
Jarl Hakkon addressed her, “You bear the burden of many deaths, but can you bear the burden of the death of one friend?”
She tensed, looking quickly for Sabjorn to see if he had been harmed. But she was already being roughly shoved to the middle of the pen, where the strong branches of another high tree reached out. Thick-set, heavy rope dangled from the branch, a noose wrapped around the neck of Sabjorn. “No!” she hissed angrily, attempting to clumsily run to him but tripping over her own shackled feet in her effort. The warrior lifted her up and stood her in front of Sabjorn. “Bear the burden of his life on your shoulders and you may both live,” the Jarl told her, as the other warrior hoisted up Sabjorn to a degree – the rope going taut and already choking the giant – before the original one shoved Hilde beneath the giant. They slowly eased the rope down until Sabjorn’s feet rested on Hilde’s shoulders, causing her to groan ever so slightly and wrap her hands around his feet to try and steady him.
“I will stand here day and night,” she warned them, knowing full well that she would do whatever it took to ensure his survival but the Jarl smiled at the remark, “That is what I am counting on.”
That said, a warrior shoved a blunted sword into her hand before walking away. “Hilde, walk away,” Sabjorn told her, feeling as though he would sentence her to death by having her try to protect him. “No,” she refused stubbornly, before a loud and angry squeal drew her attention to an overgrown boar that had been shoved into the pen. It already seemed agitated and hostile, so the sight of two strangers – one armed – was not exactly helping! With another angry squeal, the boar charged forward for the pair, aiming to gore the knight with those tusks.
As the boar charged, the knight tried to swing the sword out in a downward arc but by doing so she put Sabjorn’s balance off. The boar ran back to take a second charge at the pair, tusk goring her side and forcing her to drop to a knee. Sabjorn spluttered as the rope constricted his throat, before the knight rose to her feet and steadied him once again. She twirled the blade in her hand, the point facing the ground as the boar charged again in an effort to end the knight, but she held fast. She waited for the board to get closer, squealing and screaming angrily as she roared with the plunge of the blunted blade; using enough force to break through the skull and tear its brain to bits.
“We can do this!” she told her companion, as she watched the exiled warrior step into the pen with a menacing grin. Sabjorn knew it would be an impossible fight, for Hilde needed to be able to move around to face such a mighty foe and supporting his weight took that away from her. “Hilde, you have to let me go!” he growled, only to be met with a stubborn yell, “No! I will not leave you to die,” she told him, eyes settling on the advancing warrior.
“Name’s William,” he told her, heaving his warhammer up to get a better grip on it, “’n’ I don’t like t’fight women, but I ‘ear ye fight like a man. Time t’ put ye in yer place, eh? Back t’kitchen ‘n’ that!” he said, much to the amusement and cheers of his fellow exiles. The knight, however, did not seem as amused, if at all. She simply settled her gaze on the exile and readied her blunted sword, “I am a knight of Frostmaw,” she told him and herself, knowing she needed every inch of confidence and self-worth to win this fight.
William laughed, though, not finding much meaning in her words given that he and his companions did not agree with Satoshi’s rule, thus ruling out any supposed knights or symbols of authority. The exile stepped forward, slowly but surely for he knew his opponent could not – or would not – run given her situation. He swung his warhammer lowly and to the side, aiming to crack it hard against the ribs of the knight and more than likely toss her aside to let her friend hang. Instead, she swung her blunted sword to parry it, hand pressed hard against the blade to lend it what strength she could but the sheer force of the warhammer had bent her sword inward some and it was a struggle to resist the sheer might of the giant! “Hilde, leave me!” Sabjorn told her, to which she replied, “Never!” and twisted her sword into a circular arc, forcing the warhammer away from her for a very brief respite.
Although William was a warrior and loved nothing more than to fight, he could not get a fair fight with the knight being so concerned with Sabjorn. He had to draw her away from him but that would be an impossible task, but taking her away from him would be a bit more manageable. That said, the exile stepped in again and slammed the base of his warhammer down as if he were going to smack her in the gut with it, only to change direction and slam it down hard against her toe. But that was not all he had for her: he swung the warhammer around in an effort to catch the knight and drag her away from Sabjorn, swinging her across to the other end of the pen.
The force against her toe made her want to kneel, but she stood strong only to be swung away from her friend by the sheer force of the giant’s warhammer. She was sure she had heard a mighty ‘crack’ in her chest, but it was more the sound of the rope pulling taut that caught her attention. “Sabjorn!” she screamed, scrambling to her feet in an effort to run to him, but those heavy chains weighed her down; made her clumsy and unable to properly run to him. He choked and spluttered as the life went out of him ever so quickly, William standing between him and Hildegarde.
Sabjorn stared at her as he died. Stared at her without any anger or hatred, only sheer compassion for he knew that only one of them stood a chance of leaving here alive and he was too loyal to her to let it be her who died. He had sacrificed his life so that his friend might just live to see and fight another day.
“No!” the dragon howled as she watched her friend hang, as his limp and lifeless body dangled from that branch. She shuffled as speedily as she could towards William, swinging that blunted sword against his leg but it was to no avail. He even stood there and laughed before kicking her squarely in the chest.
The Silver fought animals of all sorts: boars, bears, an imp or two, even some sort of arctic lion, it only served to please her exiled captors, who watched and revelled in the fights. While Jarl Hakkon enjoyed his fights, revelled in humiliating his foes or those who had wronged him and his people, he had a certain level or code of honour. Stepping forth into the pen, he held the sheathed short-sword that belonged to Hildegarde, announcing to his people: “Our sport is growing tiresome, watching some girl battle beasts and our brave, great warriors with nothing more than a toy sword! I believe in allowing our foes honour in death – which this one granted ours – and thus I give her the sword she carried. Perhaps she will prove to be much better sport with it,” he said at last, leaning down to pass the sword to her before departing from the pen.
“Thank you,” she replied meekly, hugging the short-sword close to her body as if her very life depended on it but the sword was dear to her: Kirien had forged it, after all, and it had been with her through thick and thin. However, the Silver had no food offered to her and what animals she killed in the pen were taken away from her, to keep her weak and obedient. Calhoun, however, had taught her that she could suck water – or some moisture – from the snow, if she was ever stuck in such a desperate scenario. So the knight suckled from the snow in the night, when the giants were sleeping or it was too dark to see what she was doing for the sake of her survival.
Days turned to nights, nights turned to days, all melding together into a bloody blur that became impossible to tell how many days had passed. Was it only two or was it a month? Was it only a week or was it a year? It was impossible to tell in these situations, time moved so differently. But the knight was patient, patient enough to formulate some kind of escape plan and her escape might have been made possible with her sword being returned to her. After all, it was blessed with some terrmantic gifts which might prove useful.
Hildegarde waited until the dead of night, understanding that the watch party consisted of two younger giants who preferred to drink mead and gossip about a girl they liked than actually do their duty, given that they felt relatively safe. Perhaps it was the folly of youth! But with them being on the watch and all the other giants resting, it would make her escape a little bit easier. The giants encampment was surrounded by many high trees, blanketed in the white of the thick snow.
She unsheathed Oatkeeper and pressed the tip of her blade into the snow blanketed ground, drawing a small version of the camp that she could see into the snow. The knight knelt to the ground and whispered quietly – addressing the earth and the blade – presumably looking like a madwoman as she did, “Please, help me,” she whispered like a prayer. The Silver was certain she needed the help of the gods to get out of here with her life!
With her small map drawn in the snow, the knight drew smaller circles in the encampment with the tip of her blade; wiggling lines that looked more like a rippling effect upon water than anything else. Taking a knee, the knight twisted her blade so the point faced skyward and the pommel was ready to touch the ground; that roaring, golden lion ready to touch the snow blanketed ground. “Please,” she whispered again, before slamming the pommel down hard against the earth five times in succession.
Time seemed to slow as the knight waited for a reaction, holding her breath as if it might help her situation. But then it came: the low and dangerous rumble of the earth as it succumbed to her request, sinking inward and pulling a few tents and pieces of the encampment with it and sending many of the exiles off screaming, howling about witchcraft or being upon cursed grounds. The women and children fled, along with some men. Many more were confused and bewildered, attempting to salvage their goods and to take what valuable they could lay their hands upon: leading to fights between brethren, as they claimed – and even looted – what valuable they could find within the camp. Hildegarde was already climbing out of the pen when Jarl Hakkon spotted her, “Treachery of women!” he hissed, long legs carrying him over to the pen quicker than the Silver would have liked!
A meaty hand clutched for a weapon at his belt, but he had none given that he had been so rudely and unexpectedly roused from his sleep. He growled but pushed onward, hand snatching up a hot iron from the large camp brazier; clutching it tightly in his hand as the tip – and then some – seethed with an angry orange, with steam curling away from it as it met the cold air.
The dragon had just slipped over the edge of the wall of the pen, landing in the snow with a heavy thud as she was weighed down by her heavy chains. The Jarl snarled at her, “You did this!” he accused, fingers curling ever tighter around the poker as he raised it to strike her over the head; cave in her skull and just be done with her. His hand extended to keep him on target, but the knight swung her sword defiantly and with a cry of anger: slicing two fingers and a half clean off. The giant howled with pain, “You’ll pay for that!” he screamed, lunging forward with the point of the poker aimed for between her eyes.
With a battle-cry, the knight surged forward and threw her arm upward to thrust her blade into the chest of the lunging giant as best she could. Her blade sank into his meaty chest, as the searing hot poker pressed through her left eye and demolished the soft and fragile flesh of her eye. She could not tell if she or the wind was howling so loudly, her world felt so strange in that moment: nothing felt quite so real, her ears were ringing, the giant’s hand upon her felt like a feather slipping off her rather than attempting to heave her down with it. She pulled her sword towards her as if she were in a haze, glancing at the blood that dribbled down and stained the snow on the ground.
The woman staggered forward, drawing in a shaky breath as she attempted to gather herself yet everything felt so strange. Her skin felt as though it was crawling, yet numb. Her foot lumbered forward, pulling her forward and out of the camp at a sluggish pace; chains clinking with each step as the blood dribbled from her eye and sword alike. She had to find Sabjorn's body. They would come home together; they came here together, they would leave here together, she had sworn it.