Thread: Acid and Ice (Traveler and Vi)

A trance was easy to achieve in the deathly stillness. No bustling villagers made noise, no children's joyful shrieks to distract her. Herja ate a small meal of salted elk and a handful of sweet berries, dried to black pebbles that stuck to her teeth. The texture was a mildly irritating reminder of other winters, more pleasant winters... They had spent the dark week not too far from this burned out village in a comfortable cavern. The hot springs were scalding but glorious, even if the other women made snide comments about her stunted body. A bitter wind sliced through the ruined building and Herja would have given her left hand to be in those springs again, warm and carelessly drunk. Soon enough. She mumbled the foreign tongue awkwardly, the words sticking even worse than the berries had. Her clansmates had thought her stupid for bothering to learn the barbaric grunting that these southerners called a language. Thank the spirits that she was so stupid. Sighing softly, the white-haired woman squared her shoulders against the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. This little valley was not the only one left a burnt husk. Between the invaders and the Mage's desperate gambit, there were no more jolly little towns. There were no more people... The only survivors were scattered, fleeing like fish from a net that had already closed around them. That first night, Herja had sought out the living in her visions. She saw a boy scarcely old enough for a beard charging the Nightspawn that threatened his wounded comrade. She watched the bile foam from his mouth and saw him form his mother's name as he died screaming. She saw the last Matron facing into the void only to die when her Called creature slipped it's leash. She saw too many others in the flames, but the tears did nothing to blur this vision. The last she had seen that night was a bearded southern man, fleeing with so many others. He was wounded and covered in filth, staggering over the tundra in darkness. Nightspawn pursued Gaelan in numbers that turned the witch's stomach but he dodged their claws with surprising skill. Herja found herself silently cheering him on, praying that this one would live. Invaders or not, no one deserved the agony that these horrors brought. And with that thought, Herja sinned. She doubted very much that it was a sin to defy the rules of war when the warriors were all dead, but she couldn't help but wonder if her gods would see it the same. Reaching through the flames, she felt for the cold burn that the Nightspawn carried at their centers. It was far too much to take them all, but she could turn one or two away. So much effort... Herja collapsed without even knowing if her 'pet' had survived. He was easy enough to find in the morning, trudging silently through the wasted remnants. She had watched him through the fire and formulated a plan. Or perhaps the spirits had given her the plan it was far too mad for a mortal mind, and yet it seemed to be the only option that the fates left to her. And so the little woman found herself waiting impatiently for the soldier. She lit her fire and watched him through trance-blacked eyes every day, stopping only when he found a moment to rest. She watched him now cresting the hill and surveying the town. She watched as he spotted the smoke from her fire and staggered closer. She watched the way he cradled his wounded arm as he pushed at her door. She watched as he saw her, unmoving at the fire. Was that really her? Hunched and shivering with those horrid dark circles and sunken cheeks? She could not move, but Herja heard her own voice as if from the vision and not with her ears Kill me and you will die. Follow me and be made a king. The words echoed through her skull, breaking the trance abruptly. A heachache spiked through her, fading as quickly as it had come. I have prepared herbs and clean bandages for your wounded arm.