Jonten Tribes

Gudrik had ridden half the day to reach his brother's hold for the winter solstice. His Bearskin cloak was pulled tight against the cold. He was a squat heavily muscled man of 25 stone and almost 19 winters. His long black hair was matted and unkempt. His skin was dark and leathery from long years at sea. His horse wasn't anything special, one of the draft animals from Norfall's stables. It was better suited to pulling a plow than carrying a rider. And he was no more suited to riding than the beast. His place was on the rolling sea with a ships deck under him, or in his longhouse in Norfall. The only reason he consented to ride was to make it to his brother's wedding.

It was almost nightfall as Gudrik reached Volthiem. It wasn't anything special compared to the great cities of the Ezrian Empire, it had only a few hundred acres of farmland around the town. Tonight the town was awash in the light of dozens of bonfires, in the square a fire twenty feet blazed as servants bustled to the trestle tables with roasted meats and fresh bread and flagons of mead.

He slipped down from his horse and handed the reigns to boy with orders to take it to the stables. One of his brother's retainers came forward to meet him as he entered the square, leading him to the high table. At the center sat Tholarg, Jarl of all the Jonten. Were Gudrik was squat and dark, he was tall and fair. His golden hair shown in the firelight and around his neck a silver torc gleamed. In defiance of the cold he wore nothing above the waist but his iron arm rings and woad markings. He smiled broadly when he saw his brother approach the table. He stood up in an easy fluid motion.

"Brother you've missed the ceremony." He closed the distance with a handful of strides. At 7 feet Tholarg was at least a head and a half taller than Gudrik. "By the warden, it's good to see you again." And with that Gudrik was wrapped up by his older brother in a massive bear hug, lifting him into the air despite his protests. His feet were still dangling when Tholarg chose to loose his grip.

The shorter man landed on his feet and gave his brother a solid shot to gut, winding him. "How many times have I told you not to do that. Now where's this pretty wife ya been bragging over for weeks?" His brother simply laughed and lead him to a pale young woman with raven hair. She just came to Gudrik's shoulder and had an easy smile with perfect white teeth. A rarity amongst the Jonten. Gudrik had lost three teeth to a shield across his jaw when he was 18. Her dress was Grey Ezrian silk cut in an elegant style with wide sleeves and high bodice. She was the daughter of one the lesser thanes, master of the hold fast of Yern. He gave her small bow before taking a seat at his brother's right. "It's seems that for once brother your boasts were not empty."

Tholarg threw himself in to his seat laughing, his wife taking her seat more demurely. "We'll have find you a wife of your own soon. My sons will need cousins to grow up beside. Let's face it you aren't getting any younger."

Gudrik caught the Surudian man in the knee with the axe in his left hand. He felt the resistance when it reached the joint and wonderful crackle of the sinew and ligament giving way. His prey gave a ragged scream and tried to crawl away. They had been raiding along the coast for almost a week burning communities up and down Surud's coast. The man at his feet shuddered and collapsed as his other axe slammed into his skull. All Gudrik could smell was fire. The smell of burning timbers and grain, more like incense than abrasive. But under that he could smell charred flesh and singed hair, the horrid stench of bodies engulfed in flames. He turned around to see the last pockets of resistance being swept away. His hand axes returned to their home in his belt. Several farm houses were being emptied and in front of one their was a crowd of raiders.

Apperently the family that had lived there had been blessed with five daughters. His men were taking turns at them and a few had started betting which of them would fight the longest. From what Gudrik could tell the youngest was the favorite. She had fiery red hair and when he drew closer he saw piercing blue eyes that screamed to the world that she would make them pay for her indignities. Gudrik knew better. He wasn't here for slaves, only goods. The villagers would be butchered before they left, so that if the lords of Surud did send men they would find no hope. Only corpses.

"Finish them off." Gudrik felt they'd lingered long enough and his men went to work. It was no different than any other time. But a cry came from the farm house where his men were having their sport. He ran to see the red head with a sword in her hand and two dead raiders at her feet. Before he knew it his axes were in his hands and he'd closed the gap. She was fierce and determined, but that hadn't kept the sword in her hand when he'd hit her with the flat of his axe. She crumbled under the blow only to be forced to her toes when he lifted her by her hair. "What happened, how did this slip of a girl kill two Jonten?" he shook her sharply for emphasis.

"Thekki was pulling up 'is trousers when she grab'd 'is blade. Gutted him a'for he knew what happened and Bovik tried to grab it."

Idiots, thinking they could relax their guard because the one holding the sword was a woman. "What's your name girl?" She spat in his face. He shook her again and pulled her face level with his own, her saliva still running down one cheek. "Your. Name."

"Shira!" The defiance in her voice was steel.

"I'll remember it." And Gudrik plunged his knife into her heart. Then he cut her head from her shoulders. Later on his ship he would boil the flesh from it, cut the crown off and place gold bowl into the opening. Sapphires were set into the eye sockets and the name Shira was carved across the brow.