Laid between the protruding roots of the large tree sat a figure in pale linens. Face obscured by long, golden hair woven into tangles by sweat and dew, knees bent, the creature appeared almost to have grown out of the ground on which she sat so ungainly. Ostri allowed Death Giver to slide down the tree, scraping a line in the moss as the blade descended. Ordinarily he would have sheathed his sword by now, realising he had no further need of it, but he was hypnotised by the crumpled intruder to their camp.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Mist curled through the ferns at Ostri’s feet as he watched a doe nuzzling the gnarled roots of a nearby tree for its bark. She hadn’t seen him, for he stood so still. Ostri wondered, himself, whether he would be able to move when the time arose for action. It had been a long night on constant watch and all he could feel was the weight of his mail shirt, wooden shield and baldric. ‘Death giver’ sheathed cosily in fleece and hanging on the latter, had not been drawn once. He ached for its use, his gut wrenching at the thought the enemy would pass him by without so much as a glance, or the tip of a spear. He wanted combat, burned inside unbearably to pierce the flesh of the accursed Danes.