Grook
New Member
Yrsa Falkenberg shook a silent fist at the sky as a murder of crows passed overhead, an omen reflecting what was to come. A storm would be rolling in soon, and it brewed on the horizon like a trap as a few mocking rays of sunshine bled through the charcoal clouds. Cold winds blew from the north, chilling her even despite the deerhide which adorned her shoulders. She gritted her teeth and shivered, trying not to appear too impatient. The trial proceedings had only just begun, and they were far from over. Light was ebbing away from the sky, and a gathering of people had arranged themselves ceremonially on a high sea cliff above the crashing white wave-caps.
A wizened elder stepped from a tent where a small council had collected, surveying the general crowd with disdain. At the center of the gathering, laid upon a mound of stones, was a body draped in fine fabrics and furs. The body belonged to a once-great clan leader, now reduced to pale ashen finger tips clenched in a desperate hold, the result of rigor mortis. Yrsa stared at the hand which peeked out from under the rough cloth, waiting with bated breath for the village elders to expose the body and for the healers to analyze what had happened to him. Despite the seriousness of these proceedings, Yrsa simply could not wait to get the ritual over with. The funeral ceremony had lost its luster a long time ago, and she’d seen many an elder be draped in cloth and sent out into the ocean, never to return again, as torches blazed on their makeshift rafts. As if in response to her thoughts, a crow landed disgracefully upon the chest of the corpse, picking at it absently.
“Oye!” The elders shooed the creature away, alarmed.
She shifted, trying to get a good look at the cadaverous appearance of the deceased; whether it was out of morbid curiosity or eagerness to see what had truly happened, Yrsa herself could not pinpoint. She reached hastily into her pocket, feeling for a protective rune only recently given to her by one of her clan’s priestesses. They were nameless and faceless to her, with features covered by dark veils and wickedly long and knotted hair. But despite the priestess’ warnings, Yrsa felt little fear regarding her future. If futures could be read so easily, she figured, couldn’t they be changed easily, too? But this was a thought she kept to herself.
At last, the cloth was lifted. A collective gasp ensued, and Yrsa tipped her head upward, still vying for a better look. At long last she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, eyes narrowed and slim at the gruesome sight. The man’s face was weary, cut by lines of resignation and exhaustion etched permanently into his final expression by death itself. His face was left pristine for the most part, although the grime on his hands and knees suggested some foul play at work. Most horrifyingly though was the massive tear in his chest, jagged and ugly, a wound which ripped apart his form. Yrsa grimaced. Even she had some sympathy for a rival clan. I serve my interests and the interests of my clan and gods only, she reminded herself, suddenly realizing she’d been grinding her teeth nervously. There was nothing to be worried about. She wasn’t responsible for the murder. But in an instant, she could assume who was. An elder named Frigg began to speak, and Yrsa tuned him out, already formulating what she would say next.
“On this day, we celebrate and mourn the life of an Ingedottir, who valiantly led one of the clans of this island. May his name and semblance be blessed by the gods, and may the fruits of his labor not be squandered. And the body…. according to the healers, it appears he was slashed by a ragged knife, or perhaps even the claws of a beast!”
Another round of gasps. Yrsa let out a dramatic sigh.
“Get on with it,” she murmured, perhaps a little too loudly. “I think I know which coward did it.”
A wizened elder stepped from a tent where a small council had collected, surveying the general crowd with disdain. At the center of the gathering, laid upon a mound of stones, was a body draped in fine fabrics and furs. The body belonged to a once-great clan leader, now reduced to pale ashen finger tips clenched in a desperate hold, the result of rigor mortis. Yrsa stared at the hand which peeked out from under the rough cloth, waiting with bated breath for the village elders to expose the body and for the healers to analyze what had happened to him. Despite the seriousness of these proceedings, Yrsa simply could not wait to get the ritual over with. The funeral ceremony had lost its luster a long time ago, and she’d seen many an elder be draped in cloth and sent out into the ocean, never to return again, as torches blazed on their makeshift rafts. As if in response to her thoughts, a crow landed disgracefully upon the chest of the corpse, picking at it absently.
“Oye!” The elders shooed the creature away, alarmed.
She shifted, trying to get a good look at the cadaverous appearance of the deceased; whether it was out of morbid curiosity or eagerness to see what had truly happened, Yrsa herself could not pinpoint. She reached hastily into her pocket, feeling for a protective rune only recently given to her by one of her clan’s priestesses. They were nameless and faceless to her, with features covered by dark veils and wickedly long and knotted hair. But despite the priestess’ warnings, Yrsa felt little fear regarding her future. If futures could be read so easily, she figured, couldn’t they be changed easily, too? But this was a thought she kept to herself.
At last, the cloth was lifted. A collective gasp ensued, and Yrsa tipped her head upward, still vying for a better look. At long last she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, eyes narrowed and slim at the gruesome sight. The man’s face was weary, cut by lines of resignation and exhaustion etched permanently into his final expression by death itself. His face was left pristine for the most part, although the grime on his hands and knees suggested some foul play at work. Most horrifyingly though was the massive tear in his chest, jagged and ugly, a wound which ripped apart his form. Yrsa grimaced. Even she had some sympathy for a rival clan. I serve my interests and the interests of my clan and gods only, she reminded herself, suddenly realizing she’d been grinding her teeth nervously. There was nothing to be worried about. She wasn’t responsible for the murder. But in an instant, she could assume who was. An elder named Frigg began to speak, and Yrsa tuned him out, already formulating what she would say next.
“On this day, we celebrate and mourn the life of an Ingedottir, who valiantly led one of the clans of this island. May his name and semblance be blessed by the gods, and may the fruits of his labor not be squandered. And the body…. according to the healers, it appears he was slashed by a ragged knife, or perhaps even the claws of a beast!”
Another round of gasps. Yrsa let out a dramatic sigh.
“Get on with it,” she murmured, perhaps a little too loudly. “I think I know which coward did it.”