2020-11-08 - Welcome To Northumbria

The hosts of the event have spent a good portion of the morning clearing the battleground of the early snowfall, shoveling it off the pasture to form neat walls that define the limits of combat. There are perhaps a thousand men and women packed into the field, divided into a pair of opposing armies with a few scattered heralds and onlookers in between. They are just starting to inch together now, with pikes at the fore. The Norse group has gathered together behind their round shields, Sigurd having declared that it's too piss-ass cold for even him to fight as a berserker. They are just to the right of the center cluster, where the general of the center can keep an eye on them. Sigurd is not a leader, deferring to an older man who goes by Ivar during the battles, and so he and Signe can just worry about each other in the fighting. As the lines close, Ivar starts hammering his sword onto his shield -- it's less fierce-sounding that it might be, considering his sword is wrapped in padding, but even the dull thumping has an effect, an increasing of the heartrate. It gets picked up by the rest of the relatively small group, Sigurd using the back of his padded axe to add some solid noise to the chorus. The first pikes begin to spar and test one another, and then the general of the center gives a wave.

The charge of the Norse contingent comes in stages. First they cluster tighter under Ivar's orders, forming an honest-to-Thor shield wall, and then the begin to advance one step at a time, stepping together with a clatter of weapons on the backs of shields and a shouted count. It draws eyes, it draws attention, and it obfuscates just how quickly they advance -- until Ivar gives a shout in Norwegian, Sigurd gives Signe a fierce smile behind their shields, and they whole group charges. Padded pikes go bouncing off round shields, knocked up and out of the way, and then the Norse are amongst the poor bastards, splitting out of their tight form to punch a hole in the line. Sigurd is at the front then, knocking over a man in knightly armor with his shield, fending off a sword-thrust with his axe, and then hammering his second attacker back with three quick blows -- shield, arm, and chest -- before the man raises his hands in defeat and slumps carefully to the ground.

Signe is lithe in battle, her strides long and loping like a wolf which has earned her all kinds of accolades on and off the battlefield. Her braids whip about her head, but the forelocks are tightly woven back to keep her hair out of her eyes without losing style. As the shield wall tightens together, her thin-soled boots kicks up snow and mud as she skids across the freshly shoveled and trodden ground into the lower section of the wall. The vibrations of impact course down her arm, but still she holds steady even as shouts go up. Her dark eyes dart up to meet the pale, blazing gaze of Sigurd, and she flashes him the same wolfish grin. Then she peels aside, giving a doorway for the charging warriors. She waits until Sigurd is through the wall before she's rolling up to her feet and charging after him. The knight falls, and Signe is sweeping toward a lady footsoldier who is unprepared for the lashing attack of her padded sword. The two women cross blades, with Signe putting the most of her strength behind the blows. The other woman's sword strikes her once across the shoulder before she gets her shield up to guard the next blow, it thumping loudly against the painted, reinforced wood.

Sigurd may be wearing a heavy tunic, his armor, and a cloak, but when the knight falls and the other man struggles to get back to his feet after the shield-bash, the tall young man bellowing aloud, "Come on then! Come on!" And they do. A poleax from a back rank swings down at him and he catches it on his shield. Another swordsperson attacks, and he twists away, clearing the way for Signe and the others. His axe strikes a shield, the sharp, wedge-shaped blade peeling a splinter of hardwood away from the round circle. Something feels wrong, but there's another man in armor coming at Sigurd, and he lashes out with the edge of a shield no longer padded, clipping the man's shins out from under him and sending him tumbling aside. The axe comes down again, and bright blood sprays. There is cold mud underfoot, but no snow around them, and the bright colors of the SCA have faded into dirty, muddy tunics of red and yellow. And that blood, that's real, as are the screams and cries of the two-hundred warriors fighting around them. Marius stops for a moment, looking in shock as the coppery tang of blood fills his nostrils. He turns his wide eyes to Astrid, about to ask what the hell is going on -- and then there's another of the men in red and yellow charging him with a spear and he has no time for questions.

Signe turns sharply toward the woman as she slams her sword one more time into her shield. She's barreled into the ground, the mud slipping under her feet so that she lands on her back. The cold mud slicks her leather armor, clotting her braids in dark, wet grime. She holds steady to her shield as another blow, harder than the last rattles her shield so forcefully it numbs her arm for a moment. Then she's squirming out from under her shield, abandoning it so she can get to her feet with her sword raised. When she looks up, it isn't a woman who is staring her down, but a man in red and yellow with a sword in hand. Her eyes widen in surprise at this sudden change, and she's about to ask a question in confusion before he swipes at her with his sword. She catches the blade with a clatter, but the second strike lands, slicing open the side of her arm with a sudden sting of pain and numbness of surprise. She's backing up quickly, and suddenly instincts kick in-- someone's instincts. A Shield Maiden's instincts. She storming forward, sword up to cross blades with the Saxon.

The pair do not fight alone, as men -- and a few women -- in mail and thick tunics struggle and hack at the men in red and yellow. Marius recovers from his shock -- somewhat -- quickly enough to knock the spear aside, off to his right, but it's a delayed reaction, and the spear clips his shoulder on the way by, parting cloth and skin, but not much more. Then the spearman is close, and Marius chops down with his axe before he can think about what it might do. The weapon buries itself into the man's hip, drawing a welter of blood and a scream from the victim. "Astrid!" He turns to look for her, finds the muddy, fierce shield maiden charging a man, and he backs up to cover her back. Their rampage draws more attention, another wave of the men in red and yellow coming charging toward them. Thankfully, more of the vikings come charging in as well, meeting them halfway, and Marius finds himself back to back with Astrid, defending against a swordsman with more skill than he expected, taking the entire effort of his attention to keep the blade from his lightly-armored flesh.

Astrid throws her weight into the sword, thankful for the amount of work that the residents of 9 Oak put into their daily workouts. She manages to hold her balance as the sword strikes hers hard, and then she cuts the man at the shoulder, the sharp blade severing tendons and veins in a spurt. She gasps a breath, turning toward Marius with wide eyes. "Marius!" She turns toward the man trying to take out the young Viking, and she barrels forward again to dip low and cut him at the knee. Then she glances toward Marius and around the killing fields. The Saxons are being driven back by men and a few women who look remarkably similar, and yet so different to the Vikings at the SCA event. It may not be snowing, but her breath is foggy and the air cold. "This is insane! Where are we!"

The figure-eight eyepiece of Marius's helmet is splattered with blood, and more of it washes across his costume and armor as Astrid's blow to his attacker's knee cuts deep. The man cries out in pain, and Marius slams the butt-end of his axe's haft into the front of the man's helmet, sending him rattling bonelessly to the ground. "I've got no id -- " but the tunics are familiar, especially the blazon on the man Astrid and he just felled, "Holy shit. That's the arms of Northumbria." They are behind the lines for now, although there are a few viking archers following behind the raiders, looking for clear shots past or around the melee, "What the hell's going on?" He hasn't even noticed the wound that leaks at his right shoulder, but he notices her bloody arm, "Are you alright, Ast?" One of the men following behind blows a horn, and calls out in Norwegian, chivying the stragglers back into combat. Sigurd looks about the battlefield and laughs, giving Signe's unwounded arm a shove, "Get your shield, definitely-not-a-Maiden. We still have work to do!"

"Northumbria?" Astrid's breath comes in hard, but she fights to settle her nerves. "As in Aelle? As in, Vikings!?" Then she is ducking low at the sound of arrows blazing overhead. He asks the question that is at her own lips, but she doesn't have time. The blow of the horn and the call all tingles her ears, and suddenly Signe is snorting at Sigurd. "Who says I am not a Maiden!" Then she is fighting across the mud, picking up her sodden shield with dribbles of blood and wet dirt. She is smeared with the same, and she darts a hot, fierce look at Sigurd before she darts into the fray again, calling out, "I'm earning my keep tonight! Are you?" Then she ducks out of the hiss of a sword over her head just as she buries the tip of her own into the gut of a Saxon soldier. She shoves him off the blade with her shield, turning to catch sight of familiar blond hair of one of her fellow Maidens. She rushes toward Freydis's side, and part of Signe wants to call her Ingrid, but it is a strange and alien thought that dissipates as soon as it invades.

"My cock says," Sigurd crows, and he waits until she has her shield, and then goes charging in beside her. At her question of earning his keep, he adds, "I have four of them already!" Somehow the victories of the SCA field and of this muddy field are blurring together in his head, and he slips his shield in beside Freydis at her other side, covering her side from an axe-stroke and then forcing his way into the mass of shoving, pushing men and women, "One! Two! Three! PUSH!" The vikings shove on their shields, and a few of the Northumbrians slip and fall, vulnerable there to weapons of the Norse following behind the renewed shieldwall. A spear thrusts over the shields, clipping Sigurd's helmet and gashing his cheek, and he responds with an overhead blow of his axe, reaching back to catch the spearman's arm and send him tumbling back. "Signe was claiming to still be a maiden, Freydis." Laughter fills his voice as he shoves again at the Northumbrians on the other side of their shields, the blood and mud doing absolutely nothing to limit his merriment.

"Suppose if you have a skinny cock," Freydis chirps, and Signe is too busy driving her sword into the upturned neck of a fallen Saxon to actually give more than a snorting response. She pulls her sword out with her boot pressed onto the dead man's face, and then she turns her head as another horn blow goes up. She turns sharply toward Sigurd, and she gasps out a sharp sound before she's charging her lover. "Kneel!" It's a familiar move that lets Signe climb up his knee and launch across his back to slam her sword into a pike, only to collide with its bearer so that both woman and Saxon collapse; Signe keeps her feet while the Saxon does not, leaving him to Sigurd to deal with while Signe finally explains that, "Sigurd is cock shy."

"Do I look like I have a skinny cock?" Sigurd looks up at the new horn blast, trying to track the status of the battle from his height -- but then Signe is ordering him down. He drops one knee into the mud without hesitation, leaning forward and aside to keep his shield up, but to allow Signe to vault him. The poor fallen pikeman gets an axe to the neck. "Or that I'm cock shy? I am not shy of anything!" He leaves the axe in the man's throat, fending off an attacker with a spear using his shield, and takes the time to pull down the front of his pants and show off the referenced body part. There's a reason the man is usually a bare-chested berserker. He's crazy. Laughing loudly, he slams his shield into the spearman's face, then pulls up his pants again and retrieves his axe. "They're breaking! After them!"

Sigurd flashes the Saxons, and Signe scowls at him. "There is nothing I can keep for myself!" Then she turns her head at his call, and she nods to him and then Freydis before they are lunging into the fray after the Saxons. They get a score of feet before Freydis lets out a low, sharp cry and she hits the ground with an arrow buried into her back. Signe whips her head around, but is unable to spot the offending archer. She grabs Sigurd's arm. "She's earned her way." And will be mourned later. Something nags the back of Signe's brain-- people die here. But that's all she can think through before she's charging the line of Saxons that are beginning their retreat.

Sigurd's shield clashes against Signe's as they each turn in response to the arrow from behind. While Signe looks for their attacker, Sigurd checks Freydis, clasping her shoulder and shouting her name. She doesn't respond immediately, and he grimaces at Signe's pronouncement. The shield is dropped, and Sigurd takes up Freydis's sword as well, bellowing wordlessly as he charges forward alongside Signe. The retreat turns into a rout, with a few Saxons stopping to fight before they get hacked down or impaled on spears. Some of the runners are feathered by arrows, but more of them escape, and then the viking warband is left to lick their wounds. Marius breathes heavily, blood trickling down his cheek and arm, his eyes wide enough to show white all the way around, and he pants, "Was that... was that Ingrid?" Or just an echo in their memory, brought into the Dream. He looks down at the bloody axe and sword in his hands, and he drops them both, looking horrified.

A strange quiet falls over the battlefield, punctuated by the cries of dying men and women. Astrid stands there, slowly turning around with her shield still braced on her forearm and her sword still in her opposite hand. She has blood on her skin, and mud tinging her lips. When she turns back to Marius, her own eyes are wide. "I... no. I don't think so." But there's a worrying in her eyes as she tries to decide if it might be. "Ree... this is a Dream. So, all we have to do is stay alive, and then we will wake up. Everyone here... they're just part of the Dream." She steps forward, sheathing her own sword in the impressive hand-tooled leather scabard. She grabs his hand, squeezing it. She can see the panick, the horror seize him. "Ree... We didn't kill anyone." But Astrid isn't too sure, even if she tries to keep that uncertainty out of her words. She steps in closer to him, slinging her shield onto her back in an almost habitual, second-hand motion; muscle memory of someone who is also occupying this body. She swoops down to pick up his axe, holding out the haft to him. "Dream blood. Dream gore. You and I... we're real. We just need to survive this." She repeats that, hoping to hammer it home.

Marius's breathing comes quickly, his eyes still wide as he watches her, listens to her words. Finding a patch at the back of his pants that is neither muddy nor covered in metal, he wipes his right hand off, smearing blood around and cleaning some of it away. He doesn't look down or away, his eyes staring through the bottom half of her face, even as his newly-cleaned hand comes up to wipe the mud away from her lips. "Stay alive. Dream blood. Dream gore." His hand clamps down on her unwounded arm, tightening sharply, "We're real." He nods slowly, his spangenhelm catching the dim light filtering through the northern gray. He looks down to the weapon being held out to him, and for a moment he just stares, and then he carefully takes up the haft, sliding it into the loop at the right side of his belt and then looking around, "How do we survive that again?" And something perhaps just a little hysterical breaks through his shock, and he chortles, "Well, at least they weren't fighting like they had boffers. That shit was real."

"We did okay." The encouragement is feeling a bit flat, but she tries to force energy into those words. "Maybe we just... let instincts take over. It felt... a bit like when we get really into the fighting, like we're being who we pretend to be." She sucks in a breath through her teeth. "Sigurd and Signe." Then her eyes close tight; her heartbeat is a mad thrum in her ears. "You were complaining about the boffers," she points out. Then a call goes up from behind them, and a woman who looks strikingly like Mamma Thea stands with her own battered shield and bloodied sword, her blond braids twisted with mud and leaves. "Signe! We're taking the wounded and returning to camp!" Signe grabs Sigurd's forearm, squeezing his wrist. "You're filthy," she tells him smartly. "We're going to wash you in the river before I let you follow me into camp." She flashes him a sharp, relaxed smile before she nods to the other woman. Not Thea, but Halla-- Signe's mother. Signe steps past Sigurd, and she hesitates as she passes Freydis. Something draws her to her knee beside the woman, and she reaches to touch her shoulder. There's a flood of warmth as her palm presses into the back of the woman's neck, and Freydis suddenly gasps in air. Signe's hand leaps back, gasping, "By the Gods!" She looks to Sigurd. "She's alive!"

"I know... it was real. Like, that was the biggest rush. Knowing they knew." Marius draws in a sharp breath, nodding his agreement at the description. "Yeah. Just like that." The familiar features close by gets a double-take from Marius, but seems perfectly normal on that second glance to Sigurd. He returns the squeeze at Signe's forearm, drawing her close a moment for a sharp kiss before he lets her go, "You just want to get me naked. And cold, so I look small, like other men." He lifts a hand to Halla, "Don't worry, I will make sure that nothing eats Signe's tender flesh while we wash, Mother Halla." His laughter is bright and bold, only cutting off at the gasp by Freydis and the matching one by Signe, "Odin's blood! She did not move when I touched her in battle." Crossing over to the two women, he leans down, reaching for Freydis's hand, "Were you taking a rest, Freydis?"

"To spare you from having to turn down another shield maiden tonight," Signe says slyly over her shoulder. But then she's looking down at Freydis, and her hand closes around her shoulder again as she helps the woman up. The blonde reaches behind her, tearing the arrow from her leather; it has blood, but there's no wound to be seen. Confused, Signe looks at Freydis who blinks to Sigurd. "Must have gotten the wind knocked out of me." Then she reaches to Signe or Sigurd, or both, to help her up. With a heave, the woman gets to her feet, and then Signe gives her shoulder a shove. "Go now... we're heading back."

Sigurd leans down to haul Freydis to her feet, returning the woman's sword to her and scooping up his shield, "They don't ask anymore. I think you've been talking to them, telling them lies about me to keep them away." He laughs and slings his shield, then wraps his arm around Signe's shoulders, "You are dirty, Signe. Go ahead, Freydis. Keep the arrowhead as a reminder of the time you almost died." Looking back to the brunette, he adds, "You think you can get me into the stream without getting in there yourself? Show me the stream, and we'll see who gets wet."

Signe lingers back as she watches a dazed and confused Freydis take the arrow, and then start to drift back to the group. When she looks back at the pair, something feels unfamiliar about her features. Then she's starting toward Halla with a trot, called for across the killing fields. The brunette turns to Sigurd, smiling casually up at him. "You've lost this battle before, and you will lose it again, Bull." Then she starts to walk away, leaving Sigurd to follow after her as they start toward the woods that rise up around the battle field.

Sigurd watches Freydis go for a moment, and then turns his full attention back to Signe, stepping quick to catch up with her, "And yet, you always end up wet." Mischief sparkles in his blue eyes, and he snaps his teeth short of her cheek, looking to tuck his arm around her shoulders again, "Some day that knee maneuver is going to get you impaled on a spear -- and not in the good way. But it no doubt draws the eyes of the Gods until then."

Signe slams the heel of her hand playfully into his blood-spattered chest. But then she sinks into him; her own teeth flash with her grin. They walk over bodies-- some dead, some still dying. Already Odin's ravens settle over the bodies no matter their path toward death, pecking and biting up mouthfuls of flesh with little noises in their throats and feathers fluffing and ruffling in the chill. Signe looks up at him now, twisting in his arm so that she may walk backwards as if they were walking the bare streets of Kattegat instead of the still-warm fields of battle. "And the stories that will be told of my death if that is how I go." Then she turns to step into the woods, leaving the field behind her. The woods are colder, denser, and they are not the only ones transversing them at their careful pace. The stream is not far off, but far enough to bring a sense of safety.

Sigurd lets out a loud 'oof' at the impact, staggering a moment and then wrapping his arm around the front of her shoulders instead of the back when she turns to walk backward. "And until then, stories will be told of your life, if only about your nights, and if only by me." Sigurd laughs loudly, as if that might excuse the words, and then ducks down to press a kiss to her brow. Even he would not boast of particular exploits in bed, only of general ones. When the reach the stream, he disdains the cold by pulling off his shield and axe-belt, and then stripping off his shirt to reveal the sparse, matted fur on his chest. "We should switch some time. Let me jump off your knee and fly through the air."

Signe's eyes close to savor the warmth of his lips against her brow, and then she smiles a lazy, affectionate smile up at him. "I will hear you tell stories of me. You are a great storyteller." Then she is there to take his belt and shield, setting both down on the ground with care. She glances up at him as he strips off the shirt, and then she starts forward to settle her seat on a rock near the edge, grazing the sole of her foot against the water that bubbles by despite the cold. She snorts out a breath that turns into a laugh at his suggestion. "And then you can break my knee and leave me to die on the field." She looks over at him as she starts to work her braids loose, collecting the leather straps so they don't get lost. Her dark hair, matted and bloodied, but not from her blood -- or at least not much of it.

Sigurd watches her as he pulls off his boots and peels out of his pants, tossing them after his shirt onto his shield. "You are stronger than that, Signe. Or are you saying that I am fat as an earl?" Naked, he steps straight into the stream, flopping back into a relatively deeper pool with a little yelp at the cold. Marius pushes up out of the water, "Jesus!" Shaking his hair free and wiping his face of the blood and mud, he scurries out of the water, but that's not much better. "That's cold as hell. Why couldn't it have been a damn hot tub."

"Fat as an earl." Signe leans forward in her seat now, and she watches with interest when the bold Sigurd fearlessly takes to the water despite its chill. Her warm smile suddenly turns to eye-widening laughter at the sight of Marius scrambling back onto the stream's shore. She hops off the rock, scrambling toward him. "Forgot your instincts," Astrid points out. Her smarts really do get in the way sometimes. She hands him up his tunic, and then his fur cloak. "We're... in Northumbria. I don't think they have hot springs here." She searches around the forests, and then starts to wrap him up in his cloak. "What do we do, Ree? Come on. You're the history nerd."

Marius hesitates for a moment, and then grasps the tunic rather than the cloak, pulling it over his head, "I'm a damned idiot, apparently." The cloak comes second, and only then does he go for his pants and boots, pulling on the heavy, stained clothing. "So, um. Historically, this could be right after Lindisfarne -- " he narrows his eyes a little and adds, " -- Ragnar's time, for pop culture nerds like you. In which case we're just little raiding parties up against all of Northumbria and we've got to stick and move or we get crushed." He shivers, "I need a Roman bath. Damn it's cold." He steps close, rubbing his arms, "Or we could be around the attack of the Great Heathen Army -- Bjorn and Ubbe and Ivar and all that. I guess we could be anywhere in between, too, but those are the most likely. If that's the case, we've got serious numbers, and we're going to do the stomping."

"Damn. I guess I'm not leaving you for Ragnar." Astrid's lips twitch, before she gathers her arms up around her, breathing out a foggy exhale. "Bjorn Ironside? That'll be okay, then. He's just a bit hotter than you, so I can upgrade." She's joking, but it's all a defense mechanism to avoid the actual threat that surrounds them. She huffs out a breath, shifting on her feet to look back up at Marius. "Okay, that's good... at least we're on the strong side. We're in Northumbria, so still on someone else's home turf." She looks down over him now that he's dressed; then she breathes out a short breath, looking around. "Come on... let's get back to... wherever we're supposed to be."

"Sorry babe. Lagertha'd kick your ass. And I know you're no Aslaug anyhow." Marius sits down to haul on his boots, grimacing as he does. "I don't know when we are. Bjorn could be a little dude with a bad haircut now. I mean, we could ask, but I'm pretty sure that'd make people really confused. And I'd have to remember how the Norwegians tracked years. I... almost remember, but not really." He licks his lips, standing up and starting to pace back and forth, "We've really got to figure out some way to get out of this Dream, Ast. This is like, really bad stuff. People die all the time on these raids." He nods to her shoulder, and his own, touching his cheek in turn, "I mean, that was one battle." Still, he seems agreeable to the suggestion that they head back to the camp. "You don't want to wash your face at least, Ast?"

"I'd let her kick my ass," Astrid points out. Then Marius points out the actual realities versus the History Channel depiction. "I guess I'll keep you then... just in case." Her lips press together, and she looks around the woods before she sets her gaze back on the strapping Viking. "Okay. So... we try to get out of the Dream. There's always some kind of trajectory... so, we follow the trajectory. Keep to the story, right? But also, like... not die." Then she grimaces at the mention of her face, and she pats at her skin that is caked in blood and mud. She sighs out a breath before she kneels down to the stream, and gathers water in her hands to scrub at her skin, closing her eyes to wash away the grime and to also feel the sting of the cold water.

Marius accepts that with a nod and a nervous chuckle. "Yeah. Even old Lagertha is hot." He has his breathing mostly under control now, and he rubs at his own face as Astrid washes hers. "Okay. Okay. Follow the story. Find the out. But not die." He offers out his hand to Astrid to help her back up before bending down himself to collect his shield and axe again. Taking one more deep breath, he leans down to press his brow against hers, murmuring, "I got your back, Ast. Always." He presses his lips in the place of his brow, and then hitches up his gear, stepping away from the stream to walk alongside her back toward the camp. Sigurd reaches down to grab Signe's backside, "I think those were most of the next 'lord's' soldiers. Think there'll be any real riches in his town? I could do with my weight in gold and silver."

"Right. The not die is real important." Astrid looks up at Marius, her skin dripping wet, but cleaner. She brushes her fingers back through her now loosened hair, only to then comb it into three thick strands so she can braid it in smooth passes. Then she ties it tight with a leather thong. Only once she's settled does she stand to grab hold of his hip as his brow settles onto hers. She breathes out a short breath, and then her smile lifts at the kiss. "Yours too. Always." Then she falls into step with him, and when Sigurd grasps at her backside, she turns into him with a laugh. "Hope you have some English to carry it," Signe remarks wryly. "I have no desire to haul both you and your weight in gold and silver."

Sigurd shakes his head, "Of course. Comely slaves and strong ones. For carrying our treasure, and perhaps more as well." He squeezes and releases, and then he pushes through the last of the brush before the encampment, "Who has killed more than us?" The call is met with cheers and jeers alike, and then laughter and calls of numbers from here and there across the near part of the camp. This is no one or two-ship raid. This is part of an army. "I have a thirst! A mighty thirst and a mighty hunger!"

Signe leans up on one foot against him at that squeeze and then she is striding boldly forward at Sigurd's side to enjoy the sating of thirst and hunger with the rest of the warriors. In the back of her mind, a quiet and thoughtful woman looks out through her eyes and waits to see how this story plays out. For Signe, it is just another night with her brothers, sisters-- her viking family.