Hostages at Forthbrond [Early April 3010] {Dunlending/Eored}
Nov 27, 2018 19:16:49 GMT -5
Post by Fiachra on Nov 27, 2018 19:16:49 GMT -5
Fiachra screeched the same as her crebain as the ranger’s knife drew along the skin of her arm, and her pale eye flashed bright as a summer’s storm as the shrill sound morphed to a feral hiss. Around her, there was more screaming; the Dunlendings had not stood idle. Blades, crooked and now coated crimson drew along the length of pale necks, and all around gurgles and sharp calls resounded out from the gathered hostages.
“Mama!” A boy was shouting, tears streaming down his face.
Fiachra listened, finding the fear palpable and sweet. “You’re a fool!” She growled to the ranger, and she, too, drew her blade along her hostage’s neck, shoving the now gurgling, life-losing body forward and against the ranger’s chest. The boy beside her screamed. “How do you like this, Captain!” It was his plant, after all, that had defied their very clear orders.
The young woman took a few paces backward, clutching her arm now close to her chest. It stung, but it would heal—unlike the scars now left on this pathetic town. It was said that blood made the grasses grow; if that were true, the lands here were to be ripe come harvest once more. She looked to Ceolmund. “You think you are above us, but you’ll see! You’ll all know what you did to my people—one town at a time.”
Kill the hillmen. Yes, it was all they knew to do. The order resounded in the quiet, though the thunder that followed it seemed quiet. Fiachra backed away, swinging her blade at the dark-haired man as she went, though soon shifted her attention back to her men. Some yet stabbed and slashed at the Eorlingas, others turned to the hostages in a sweep of fury and blood that spoke of their desperation and madness, others looked to her now for guidance. “Aistrímid!” She called to them above the fray. We move. They began to gather, to coagulate as blood and slink from the large estate, fighting off the Eored as they went. Fiachra lifted her chin in defiance. “This isn’t over, Captain. When you get back to your precious capital, don’t fail to mention that all this blood? It was because of your men. Don’t get the blood on your clothes,” she smirked over her shoulder, stooping to pick her bow up, hissing faintly in pain from the pain of her arm. “It’s hard to come off—like it is when it’s on your hands.” A flurry of black feathers swooped to land upon her shoulder, and with the rest of the Dunlendings, Fiachra took off to steal into the night.
“Mama!” A boy was shouting, tears streaming down his face.
Fiachra listened, finding the fear palpable and sweet. “You’re a fool!” She growled to the ranger, and she, too, drew her blade along her hostage’s neck, shoving the now gurgling, life-losing body forward and against the ranger’s chest. The boy beside her screamed. “How do you like this, Captain!” It was his plant, after all, that had defied their very clear orders.
The young woman took a few paces backward, clutching her arm now close to her chest. It stung, but it would heal—unlike the scars now left on this pathetic town. It was said that blood made the grasses grow; if that were true, the lands here were to be ripe come harvest once more. She looked to Ceolmund. “You think you are above us, but you’ll see! You’ll all know what you did to my people—one town at a time.”
Kill the hillmen. Yes, it was all they knew to do. The order resounded in the quiet, though the thunder that followed it seemed quiet. Fiachra backed away, swinging her blade at the dark-haired man as she went, though soon shifted her attention back to her men. Some yet stabbed and slashed at the Eorlingas, others turned to the hostages in a sweep of fury and blood that spoke of their desperation and madness, others looked to her now for guidance. “Aistrímid!” She called to them above the fray. We move. They began to gather, to coagulate as blood and slink from the large estate, fighting off the Eored as they went. Fiachra lifted her chin in defiance. “This isn’t over, Captain. When you get back to your precious capital, don’t fail to mention that all this blood? It was because of your men. Don’t get the blood on your clothes,” she smirked over her shoulder, stooping to pick her bow up, hissing faintly in pain from the pain of her arm. “It’s hard to come off—like it is when it’s on your hands.” A flurry of black feathers swooped to land upon her shoulder, and with the rest of the Dunlendings, Fiachra took off to steal into the night.