Moonkiss

Vera seemed amused at his appreciation for the food. Her blue eyes sparkled when she looked at him - as if her mere presence was suppose to give him strength. On the other side of the tent, the pudgy woman Nila was bringing food to her own chosen mate, whom Rhycard suddenly noticed had lost an eye in the previous battle. The wound was recent - a deep gash just under the eye, causing it to fall into his left cheekbone, giving him an ugly deformity, and Rhycard realized his own brothers in arms must have been the ones that maimed him. But the young knight found it interesting that the man had still been chosen despite his clear lack of a handsome appearance. He must have made for an exceptional warrior.

Once Rhycard finished his meal, things suddenly got awkward. "I have to.. Make water," the knight announced. His bladder was nearly bursting.

Vera nodded at that, a gentle smile on her face. "Aye. Let me help you, future husband." She wrapped a hand around his shoulder, gently supporting him as he made his way across the tent on unsteady legs, and towards the wooden bucket placed near the entrance. It felt nice to move around a bit, despite the ache that soared through him. But he couldn't possibly go about his toilet business there, in front of an entire audience - with Vera and Myrja watching him, and Nila and her sworn mate in the corner, though at least they seemed to pay him no mind.

"Isn't there.. Somewhere more private?" he complained, though his voice was hoarse and dry. "I must not... do it here!"

She shook her head at him. "Don't mind the others. You are wounded."

But Rhycard gave her a stern look - his knightly pride balking at the idea. "No," he said. He did his best not to sound intimidating, though his frown spoke volumes.

Vera seemed shocked by his attitude - or perhaps she was merely taken aback - but quickly composed herself, raising an eyebrow. "When you were unconscious for days in a row, ya pissed yourself more than once, and I cleaned up after ya, demon-man." She huffed, her pale cheeks darkening ever so slightly, clearly embarrassed by her frankness. "So don't be shy. Both me and the Gods have already seen your cock."

"... But Myrja hasn't-"

"Myrja has," The blonde woman interrupted, referring to herself in third person, and grinned widely. "You've got a nice, thick cock." She giggled to herself, clearly amused, and Vera rolled her eyes at her sworn sister - but didn't seem offended.

Rhycard gritted his teeth and let out a deep sigh. His patience was wearing thin - not only with their uncouth behaviour, but because of his predicament. If Vera could be this blunt about bodily functions, just how uncivilized were these people? He certainly wasn't keen on explaining the ways of toiletry to barbarians. "I cannot-"

"Stop making a fuss," Vera snapped. "You're dressed in nothing but bandage rags and some undergarments. Ya can't go outside like that - you'd catch a cold. In your current state, that could be devastating for yer recovery."

Rhycard gave her an incredulous look, and paused for a moment to mull over her words. "So bring me my armour and-"

Myrja interrupted her again. It seemed the women were not going to let him speak. "You were dead. More or less. It is no longer your armour. It belongs to the man that cut you down." She stood up and went about the room, rummaging through wooden chests full of medicinal herbs, reagents, and surgical equipment - throwing them about without much regard. At last, she pulled out a roll of bandage cloth - and proceeded to tie it around her face, covering her eyes, blinding herself. "There. Happy?"

Rhycard blinked once. Then he swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He was injured, he was trapped, and these barbarians... these savages...

"Now be a good demon-boy," Vera said softly, with a caring lilt to her voice, "... and do your business." She still held onto him to keep him steady. "Want me to hold it for ya?"

He winced at the suggestion, then quickly shook his head. "No.." The knight frowned, feeling defeated, then grimaced as pain shot through his abdomen. "I can manage it on my own." The shame of it all was almost unbearable, but eventually he did nature's calling into the - thankfully empty - bucket, Vera watching him through her peripherals the entire time. The sound of his piss pouring into the wooden receptacle made his cheeks burn red in embarrassment. He had never been seen - or heard - in such a lewd manner by a woman, and the experience was humiliating.

When he was done, Vera helped him back to his cot without saying a word, and Myrja removed her blindfold. "I'll empty that," Myrja said with an impish grin - and just as Rhycard sat back down on the cot, he saw her pick up the bucket, dip a finger inside, and raise it to her mouth with a wink. His jaw hung open, speechless. She did it all whilst maintaining eye contact. Thankfully, Vera didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps she would not have cared either way? Then, the barbarian with the short blonde hair left the tent with the bucket in her hand.

"W-What do you do with the.. Waste?" the knight asked reluctantly, hoping that Vera would not find the question rude. But she gave him a disappointed look.

"We get rid of it, of course. What else? We're not the savage folk you think us to be." The northerner bit her lower lip, looking part annoyed and part amused. But then she looked at him ponderously for a moment. "Tell me about your land. Is it all sand and blood?"

Rhycard chuckled. "No, you must be thinking of the sand realms. Where I am from, we have towns, cities, villages, and farms. Vast plains filled with grains and flowers, rivers that flow through green lands, forests full of life, and lakes which stretch for miles." He suddenly realized how homesick he felt. He had been away from home for far too long, engaged in battles and strife. His mind wandered off into memories - a clear sky filled with clouds of cotton, birds of song flying far overhead, the rustling of grass as it moved in the wind, the crisp smell of dew-drops on wildflowers. And the great wonders of man - castles and temples and great estates, built atop the fertile lands. There were no men like Rhycard in this land, he realized. Men of iron and steel. Refined, educated, courteous. He was a stranger in a strange land.

Vera leaned back on the cot, sitting by his side. "We have people, and dances, and drinks. Great traditions and greater stories." She shook her head at him, but smiled softly - a curious look in her eyes, which twinkled with reflected light from the lantern. "I will show you when you feel better. It will be exciting." Her smile widened, her expression bright, then she planted a kiss on his cheek. It was quick, chaste, a gentle brush against his skin that sent a shiver down his spine - but he knew that it should not have happened, and his cheeks were red in shame. He should not have allowed it. He was playing right into this woman's hands, falling for her dangerous charms.

But Vera seemed content. "You must get some rest. You have a long road left until ya recover fully, and I have errands to take care of." She rose to her feet and picked up a coat, andThe knight watched her go - suddenly feeling lonelier than ever - but at least now he could get some peace and quiet to rest in, and the sleeping cot to himself. That was what he wanted. Right?

--- 6 ---

Later that afternoon, after Rhycard had rested for most of the day - his body still needing to heal - Vera returned to his side, a blade in her hand. "Time to shave that facial hair of yours, demon-man. I'll do it for you." But Rhycard eyed the sharpened knife in her grip suspiciously, and Vera noticed. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle. Have I not kept you alive all this time?"

"That blade seems hardly the most appropriate tool," the knight replied, his dark eyes peering into her icy blues with an intensity that made her swallow hard.

She gave him an uncertain smile, clearly unsure of how to proceed. "You need to trust me, future husband. This knife has been sharpened at a bevel angle and grind suitable for removing facial hair. My people know how to do this. Now, don't move," she warned him with a slight smirk as she drew closer. Rhycard gave her a nod, and closed his eyes - allowing her to start by rubbing some type of ointment across his face - her touch gentle but firm, her hand holding onto his head with careful precision. But he realized in that moment that the razor-sharp blade was next to him, within his reach. He had an opportunity to arm himself. To fight against his captors. But is that what they were? Was he a hostage?

He didn't have the heart to do it. And yet, when the razor returned to her grip and touched his skin, Rhycard felt as if every hair on his body stood up in response - almost as if a chill ran through him. Would she cut his throat? No. Not Vera. Surely not? The raven-haired woman seemed to be adept at shaving - and her technique was precise. She carefully drew the knife across the surface of his face, scraping off the layers of facial hair with one smooth stroke, causing him no pain. And soon enough, he found himself clean-shaven again, which he strongly preferred.

"Thank you," he mumbled - and Vera looked at him as if he really was a strange man from a faraway kingdom for the first time, eyes wide.

"The demon-man knows how to be thankful?" She gave him a smile - a mischievous smile, one that seemed to say she didn't believe what she was hearing. "You like me doting on ya, hmm? Saving ya. Keeping you warm at night." She rose to her feet, rinsed the knife and placed it back into a wooden box next to the cot, then sat down in her chair and stared at him with a newfound curiosity. "I think you'll marry me in the end.." she mused out loud - without any hint of hesitation, and without regard for Rhycard's thoughts on the matter. She appeared so brazen! So sure!

Before the young knight could object, Nila entered the tent with Myrja in tow, their expressions serious and grim. "Elder Solvin wishes to see you," Nila began, looking directly at Rhycard, her voice sharp and her stance even more so. Vera's eyes widened slightly at those words, but she remained silent - though he could see a sudden fear grip the small woman's heart. "Vera, you're coming with."

Rhycard swallowed hard. "And what does that mean?" He didn't like the sound of it - though he had not long since woken up, his whole body felt exhausted and he found himself in need of additional rest. He could barely stand on his own two legs, even with support.

Vera turned towards him, and the Fylja frowned slightly, then she spoke. "Ya cannot refuse an Elder." That was all she said, but there was a glint of worry in her eyes.

Rhycard frowned, but nodded. That, he understood. It must be similar to refusing the attending the audience of a Lord that had summoned you for official business - a higher authority, a person in power. Someone who was in a position to kill you if you declined.

Nila gently pulled him to his feet, her soft touch reassuring him as his feet touched the hardened mud floor covered by carpet. "We'll guide you, Sir Knight. Come with us," she spoke. Rhycard still had a hard time looking at her without picturing her face twisted into orgasmic bliss, as her barbarian man pumped into her rear end with gusto. "But first we must dress you."

Rhycard raised an eyebrow as they brought fourth their savage clothing - but he nodded, and remained silent. A thousand questions ran through his head as they dressed him in the northerner's classic style of clothing, all furs and leather. It felt strange wearing such garments. The type of clothes his enemies wore. The shoes were made from deerskin, and was at least one size too small. It would take some getting used to, for sure.

The tent flaps parted - and for the first time since he arrived at the encampment in an unconscious state, Rhycard stepped out into the light of day. His heart dropped like a stone in water as he saw the gathering of barbarians from the northern warbands in front of him - far larger in number than he had assumed they were when inside the tent. All eyes turned towards him as he emerged - hundreds of men, women, and children staring at him, their mouths hanging agape. They stared at his injured torso, his short-cropped hair, and his slightly darker complexion with bewilderment. "Demon," some of them whispered. But instead of the anger he usually saw on their faces on the battlefield, there was a cold sort of acceptance. Like a foregone conclusion. Perhaps because he walked forth with the help of the Fylja.

The sun shone in the sky, but the winds made the weather feel rather chilly - colder than he had expected. Some banners quivered in the wind, much less refined than the ones he was used to, and significantly less colourful. They were brown, and basic, with a simple symbol adorning each: A talon. The savage tribes of the north would not seldom fight against each other, but united when greater foes threatened their way of life.

On unsteady legs, he was led through the mud - between tents and campfires, past people cooking fish over open flames, sharing bread with each other. He passed by an elderly man who looked at him with disdain, then spat on the ground, and gave Rhycard a hard glare - but the knight remained silent, attempting to keep his head held high. Young girls were signing a song, the tunes strangely beautiful - and both teenage boys and girls were playing at war with sticks. Before long, they would dance with death on the real battlefield.

Eventually they came to an open space in the middle of the camp where Elder Solvin stood. The tall man with a white beard was adorned in flowing garments, decorated with gold thread. The white wolf fur which hung around his shoulders almost made him look like he had a cloud behind him - distinctly different from the other tribespeople. Behind him, a large pyre - unlit as of yet - rose high, the tip of it stretching towards the sky. Despite his considerable age, Elder Solvin was undeniably strong - a large battleaxe, so great in size that most men would have found it impossible to wield efficiently, rested in his hand as if it belonged there and nowhere else.

"Today, man must burn," the Elder spoke, in his deep and booming voice. Rhycard couldn't tell whether he was angry, or merely stating the facts. He took a step forward, then placed the side of the axe against his own chest. "But you are no mere man," the old man proclaimed, then gave a deep nod towards the knight, a sign of respect. "You.. Are a warrior."

Sir Rhycard didn't know if he was meant to respond or not, but he bowed his head slightly as if to say thank you - his blood pumping through his veins, feeling the same adrenaline that always seemed to wash over him before the start of a battle. There was something about the situation, with a large gathering of savages staring at him in disbelief, or perhaps in awe... it sent a shiver down his spine. He had a bad feeling about this.

"You killed my cousin. Thunderscorn, we called him. A fierce warrior. Younger than you, and fearless." The Elder glanced towards Vera, whom reluctantly let go of the knight, forcing him to stand upright without any support. His legs felt wobbly, and his back ached with pain.

"Your kind have slaughtered us since the dawn of our days, Sir Knight. And now, repentance is at hand. But we will not punish you for your demonic deeds. For you are strong. You.." He paused for effect. "Are a survivor." The Elder nodded, seemingly to himself, as if his words made perfect sense.

"... What is it that you're planning to do with me?" Rhycard asked, his tone harsh but inquisitive. He had never been addressed in such a fashion by the northmen before - usually they just rushed at him with their swords drawn or axes brandished, attacking in unison, trying to cut him down one blow after another, without concern for their own lives.

Solvin gave him a deep nod. "Do not be alarmed, Sir Knight. Man must burn, and you shall bear witness." He turned around and nodded towards a couple of what Rhycard assumed to be guards, who then went inside a nearby tent - and came back out a few moments later with a bound man, a thick rope around his neck. The guard took hold of him by the rope, and began dragging the bound prisoner forward, out into the middle of the clearing.

Rhycard frowned, then squinted his eyes. It was difficult to make out details at a distance, but the prisoner seemed familiar.. The knight's blood ran cold. "No.. no.."

Elder Solvin turned to face the knight again - and noticed the look of shock on his face. "Oh?" He asked, a certain excitement in his voice. "No, you say? Even though this man left you to die? He called the retreat and ran from the field of battle. Abandoned you and your fellow warriors!"

The guards dragged the bound man all the way up to Rhycard. The man's face was battered, bruised, swollen - his eyes were red, his whole body was covered in dirt and dried blood. But there was no mistaking him for anyone else other than commander Vole himself, brother to Lord Donovan Ambyrr's wife, and leader of the southern infantry line.

"I will not let you punish this man with an unworthy end," Rhycard growled, baring his teeth like an angry wolf. If commander Vole could hear him at all was not clear. He was so badly injured, the knight doubted the man would survive even if set free. "Release him from his shackles! You cannot put this man to the stake and burn him to death. He is a wounded soldier."

The Elder frowned deeply at that, and shook his head. "He is a coward. Instead of dying alongside his brothers, he called the retreat, knowing that those of you at the front would not be able to escape. He sacrificed you, and many others. He is no hero. He is no warrior!" Solvin spoke with conviction - and the words themselves seemed to enrage him. "He is nothing."

Vera, Myrja, and Nila stood behind the knight with their eyes wide as the eggs of a heron. The three women had never seen anyone challenge the Elder before, and Sir Rhycard was clearly in no position to fight. Yet, the young knight did not back down. "We all knew what we signed up for," he said - his voice raised, his temper growing more obvious. "And the battle was lost. Retreating was the correct strategic choice."

"Strategic?" The elder said mockingly. "To flee instead of dying by your brother's side? And you claim that he is a warrior." His eyes wandered to the rest of his kinfolk, who stood watching, unmoving - it was clear that they had not expected this kind of outcome either. They were caught off guard by Rhycard's defiant attitude. "There will be no discussion about this," Elder Solvin announced. Then he took hold of the man by the rope, raised the axe high in his hands, and turned around towards the pyre. "THIS COWARD SHALL BE CONSUMED BY FIRE, IN HONOUR OF RUTH-EROS." He threw the bound man upon the pyre, the collection of sticks and hay ready to be ignited by a nearby torchbearer.

Rhycard pushed himself forward - despite his weak legs - and the guards rushed towards him, though with less haste than he would have thought. "At least give the man a warrior's death," he demanded.

The Elder turned to look at Rhycard, an annoyed look on his face. "Are you afraid to witness it?"

"If you burn a bound, beaten man.. You are the coward," he spat. The whole crowd seemed to become alive in that moment, whispering to each other, glancing at Rhycard with mixed expressions of wonder and terror. The Elder considered the young knight carefully, before slowly nodding his head - like one who finds it impossible to disagree.

"Very well," he said - though there was no warmth in his tone. "Are you prepared to take his place, then? Die in his stead? Not to the flames, but to my axe."