Brun - Pt. 1
The ships came from the sea like foam upon the wave. Thirteen their number, each proudly bearing fearsome visage after visage. Dragon and Leviathan, Troll and Amaroc the Dread Wolf, grimacing their blood lust. Scarce had the sand settled ‘neath the bows of the ships that they came. Reavers and Raiders all, all wicing.
The last villages they had visited had been too strong for steel, so glibnes and wit had been barred, and a profit had been turned, but the men’s blood was hot, and it was high, and this village would pay in blood what the others had in gold.
The village had not yet woken, but already flames licked hungrily at the thatch of one of the hamlets. The first screams echoed, rising above the grunts and roars of the raiders, as women were pulled from the houses and men butchered in the streets.
Artos was the leader of the raiders, it was his promises of plunder and his golden armbands of friendship that bound twelve other captains to his word, to his will. He stood on the prow of his ship, hand resting gently on the carved raven head at it’s prow, it’s wicked beak and beady eyes gorging itself on the slaughter before it.
“You shall drink, oh thunderbird, a just reward for having led us to this plunder. Fat and weak they are, and you shall slake your thirst afore we sail again.” He whispered.
“My captain! My brother!” Hailed another man, looking up from the beach. “You led us here, and yet you stand aboard your ship as if to let all the plunder be taken by others. Some might call it cowardice!” A playful smile danced over his lips as he said these words.
Artos leapt down from the bow of the ship, his byrne jangling under the heavy furs as he landed heavily in the sand. He laughed, clasping arms with the other man.
“Bor, were you any other man, were you not born of the same womb, I would cut you down where you stand for that insult. Come, the temple will be where the true wealth is kept.”
“I have seen it. It is a stout keep of stone and carved wood. It will not be easy to break.”
Indeed, once they stood before the doors, the task of breaking them seemed impossible. Artos knocked on the heavy oak, mailed fist gently tapping a rhythm. Grinning widely, he stepped back, and spoke “If we cannot open it, then they will have to open for us.”
Artos reached a gloved fist into one of the ornate pouches on his belt, from which he drew a globe, all of gold and red glass. Raising it to his lips, he spoke words of power, songs of the sidhe and the fae, unbinding some of the shackles that the Angaguk had woven over the Jotun within. As he sang, the globe shone with, and an acrid smoke billowed from the red glass. This was the most dangerous part, if he faltered here, the beast within would be free of it’s decades long imprisonment, and it would be hungry. Though it was but a Spark, the weakest of the Jotun kindreds, it would still easily best two warriors unskilled in the arts of the wise if given the chance.
Artos reached the last lilting syllable of the songs, and the glow faded, even as the smoke redoubled. Reaching back, he threw the globe through the high slit windows of the temple. Within minutes, a dark smoke billowed from the high windows, and the door cracked open. A fat man in dark blue robes lined in gold stumbled out, coughing. Bor’s sword cut through his throat, staining the cloth with blood.
Artos pulled open the door, whistling a sharp four note refrain. The smoke churned, an angry maelstrom, before he whistled again. Instantly, it withdrew back into the sphere, which flared with a ghostly image of flame, before turning dull.
Bor laughed, a full throated laugh. “The number of times that toy has done well by us.”
Artos grinned again, pocketing the sphere. “Look around, there fat on that priest, you know he was hiding the good stuff away.”
“Stay away! Keep back!” The voice was high pitched, young, tremulous, and defiant, though neither Artos nor Bor could understand the tongue. Standing guard in a doorway stood a young boy, seven of age at most, short sword in hand. He was shaking, but the sword remained steady.
Bor laughed. “Guarding the holy treasures, are you boy? Step aside, there’s no shame in bowing to those stronger than you.” He raised on hand, and stepped towards the boy.
Quick as a flash, the sword struck, and Bor cursed.
“Bastard cut me!” With a growl, he cuffed the boy across the face, knocking him senseless. He clutched his right hand, which was now short the top knuckle of the pinky.
Artos laughed, and picked up the stray piece of the digit, tossing it back to Bor, and knelt next to the boy. “I like him. He’s strong, brave.”
Bor growled “Well, he’ll die like the rest of his kin, no matter how brave or strong he is.”
“No.” Artos stood. “I will take him. He will be raised in my household alongside my sons, to be their boon companion. His name will be Brun, and he will be the most true of my huscarls.”
Brun - Rank 2 Sage
Brun is a blind older man, hunched and bowed, though the stories say that in his youth he was a brave warrior and leader of men. In his hubris, it is said, he challenged the gods themselves, and they struck him and his house down, robbing them of their lives and he of his sight. He dedicated himself to them in penance, and has sacrificed much more than just his vision for the sake of wisdom. He is now one of the foremost Angaguk, and when he speaks, his words are listened to.