While you slept ...
Twenty-eight.
That was their number including Olin, though others might argue if he really counted as part of the Warband. So one would have to suppose then the actual sword count was twenty-seven. Even so, Olin stuck out like a sore thumb.
Olin was by no means short, standing at six feet, however, compared to the men of his tribe he was nearly a head shorter and half as wide. He wore no shield and bore no weapons. Most of the men had varying shades of blond hair and blue eyes, their skin sun-kissed from a life of raiding and scarred from fighting. Olin in comparison was pale, his hair jet black with green eyes. In a way, it made him somewhat exotic, had he been a female that would have played heavily in his favor. He kept the hair out of his face like any man in his tribe with a multitude of braids and glints of silver and gold decorations.
The Warbands of his tribe traveled the land of Midgard and some of the nine realms doing what Vikings do best. Pillaging, killing and taking slaves. Now here they were in Niflheim. This was the third or fourth time that he walked these frosty paths.
To say this realm was cold would an understatement of the century but it was his family’s legacy of rune magic, embedded in talismans each of their numbers carried, that enabled them to tolerate the bite of perpetual winter. It was still bitterly cold. It just wouldn’t kill you … right away. That being said they all were decked in there winter wear, layered in thick furs, leathers, and cloaks.
The Warband marched, trudging through the snow in two columns, Olin bringing up the rear when they came to a sudden halt. Olin didn’t need to be called by name as his feet moved without him willing it so. For all the things he did, all the magic he performed for them he still hadn’t earned an ounce of respect or trust back for something done as a child.
He found himself standing next to the leader of the Warband looking up waiting for whatever the hell he wanted from the warlock.
“What do you smell?” The Viking rumbled pointing to the mess of tracks in the snow.
‘A bunch of assholes on elbows.’ Olin was about to snap but was unable to say so. He trudged forward looking at the tracks in the snow, the mess of blood and other fluids frozen in the snow. He squatted taking a breath his nose twitching as the breeze turned to favor him.
Olin turned back and parsed out the information in a way the dumb shits could understand. “Ten or eleven, some weird … stuff … happened …” Olin explained. The smell was unmistakable in regard to the odd colored stuff frozen a distance away. “ … they went that way.” He motioned to the sepulcher.
Olin long learned their fearless leader didn’t care for too many details in regard to his skills. As much as he griped about their general stupidity ... in terms of warfare and battle, even Olin couldn’t deny their prowess. Magic though? The intricacies of the spell’s remnants left fading in the cold of the snow? Only Olin was interested in those details. But par for the course, it would remain a mystery while under the geas.
The Warband leader grunted with a nod in regards to the explanation. Pleased apparently. He made a few sharp motions pointing out several men to investigate. With the practiced of a well-oiled machine, they broke off shrugging there shield from there back to their arm and drew their swords. They moved silently in formation storming the sepulcher.
From the outside, Olin could only hear a slight scuffle and the all too familiar dull thud of someone being shield bashed. It wasn’t long before they whistled the all clear. The Warbands leader walked in, Olin flanking him, the scene before them causing somewhat of a stir among the men. Olins’s green eyes flicked to the man they had ambushed as he was laid out groaning face down on the ground. The warlocks gaze then drifted to the nine bodies and massive winter wolf covered in frost, laid out on the stone tables. One would simply assume them frozen corpses but not everything was as it seemed in Niflheim.
“Skratti. Check.” The Warband Leader commanded with a thrust of his chin.
Olin moved forward to the nearest frost covered body. He brushed a bit of the frost off the woman’s face to get a closer look … to anyone else, they might as well be dead. To Olin though he could see the barest trace of life. He leaned forward parting the women's lip to sniff her cold breath.
The Skratti snorted, wrinkling his nose. He checked a few others, their breath all had that same foul undertone to it. Olin turned to give his findings only to find most of the men crowding around a stone table like a bunch of gossiping women!
“Un-fucking-believable!” Olin groused his voice a low grumble. The Skratti walked over tot eh edge of the crowing and whispering warriors. He cleared his throat unwilling to elbow his way through. He had cleared his throat again louder this time.
The ones closest to him finally got the hint as the sea of Viking flesh parted. Olin was not nearly impressed as his superstitious Warband. Still, it was a sight to behold … how often did anyone get this close to a force of nature?
“Does he live?” The Warband leader asked.
Olin examined him as he had with all the others and the result was the same. “He lives …” Olin started but was interrupted when the Warband Leader turned and shouted. “HE LIVES!” The Warband all hollered back, slapping their swords to there shields.
“When will he wake?” The Warband Leader asked.
“They are all under the same spell. The hearth fire burns but no ones tending the flame so to speak. The go where no living mortal can go … it is less about when and more of an if they return.” Olin explained.
The Warband all looked expectantly to their fearless leader for a final decision.
Olin though already knew.