"The Shieldmaiden" (closed)

"The Shieldmaiden"

(closed)​

Ilga slashed her sword through the air, cutting open the chest of the man rushing her, then spun to look for a new target. But, there was none to be found. She searched all about herself, the adrenaline of battle causing her heart to pound, but ... the battle was over.

She scanned the Vikings still standing until she found Lothbrook. She met his gaze and nodded to him, acknowledging their victory. His victory, her mind reminded her. He will see it as such.



The sun had fallen over the battle field. The village's dead had been gathered and taken to their homes to be cleaned and prepared for their trip to Valhalla, while the enemy's dead had been stripped of their arms, armor, and all other valuables and tossed upon a pile of dry wood where they were burning without ceremony. Thus was the only end suitable for invaders and criminals.

In the long house, the local Earl sat on his throne, looking out upon the warriors who had come to his village's rescue, gathered in a semi circle about their Master and his Lady. The Earl looked nervous, as he should. His village had been attacked repeatedly over the months, with most of his Warriors and Shieldmaidens killed, seriously injured, or captured and taken away. Without the timely arrival of Lothbrook, Ilga, and the men and women serving under them, the village surely wouldn't have survived this final attack.

With the help of the strangers, the Earl's place on this throne had survived another day. The question now -- as he faced the fierce-looking Lothbrook and the deviously smirking Ilga -- was whether his place here would survive another night.

He praised the two leaders opposite him, as well as the fighting force behind them. He saluted them with a raised stein of thick brew, which caused the others to call out victoriously and raise their own steins often between drinking from them or, even more often, sloshing their contents upon one another recklessly.

Finally, he met Lothbrook's hard gaze and donned a serious tone, one that Ilga sensed had a touch of fear in it as well. "Lord Lothbrook. How can I repay you for keeping me in power. What can I offer you ... your lovely and courageous Shieldmaiden ... and the fierce warriors who fought and, tragically, died along side you?"

Ilga, who had been slowly pacing to and fro behind Lothbrook, stopped behind and slightly to the side of him, waiting for the response that he'd already told her would come.

"I will be Earl of this village," her lover said simply. Lothbrook gave the man before him a moment to consider his options, then essentially reduced those choices to one. "The enemy would have taken your village this day ... killed your men and a great many of your women ... enslaved the rest of your women and the children ... for their mines ... their oars..."

Lothbrook looked directly to the Earl's two daughters, sitting off to their now trembling father's side as he added, "...their beds."

He looked back to the Earl and concluded, "You will retire in safety to the mountains with your family. You will be cared for, by me and mine ... but you will renounce your rule over this land."

Lothbrook took a more cavalier tone, advising the Earl, "Take it easy. Sit back ... enjoy the warmth of the summer sun and the beauty of the winter snow. Eat, drink, be merry ... fuck often and hard..."

Again, with a knowing and leering glance, the victorious warrior looked to the Earl's young, beautiful daughters. Lothbrook may have told Ilga his plans for the Earl, but he hadn't told her of his plans for one or even both of the man's virtuous, as-of-yet untouched daughters.

"And if I choose not to retire to this easy life that you suggest, Lord Lothbrook?" the Earl asked, gripping his hands to the arms of his throne in an attempt to hide their gentle shaking.

Lothbrook gave the ruler a long, hard stare, then said simply, "You have no choice, m'lord."

"Yes, he does," Ilga said from above and behind her lover.

Lothbrook turned his head to look up at his woman with a hard, disapproving expression. It was not her place to interrupt such negotiations, and while chastising her -- and likely punishing her with a brutal fuck -- would have to wait until later, he could at least make his anger with her known now with a hard look.

Of course, none of that mattered, for even as he was turning to look up at her, Ilga was reaching the knife out before his neck, then -- with its recently sharpened and glistening blade pressed against his throat -- withdrawing it again with enough force to cut him all the way back to the spine.

The Earl's wife and daughters and other unsuspecting villagers assembled for the ceremony gasped or screamed or turned their heads away as Lothbrook gasped through the thick blood filling his throat and reddening his armor and furs. He reached up instinctive to Ilga, grasping the blade hand and the chain mail over her chest. But any attempts at either defense or offense were fruitless, as he tilted away from her and fell to the thick planks ... dead just seconds later.

And while there was horror amongst the villagers and Earl's family, there was little reaction whatsoever from the Vikings of Ilga's Clan. They had long seen this coming, thus there was little surprise amongst them.

As she looked down at the now-still man, Ilga wiped the blood from the knife with an index finger and smeared it down her face, from forehead to chin. She repeated the gesture with the other side of the blade and the other side of her face, then looked to the Earl whose confusion was conspicuous.

"You will keep your lands, m'lord," Ilga said with a subservient tone and a slight bow. She looked behind her to the left, then the right, then back to the Earl and continued, "We came here to serve you ... not replace you. We ask only for a boat and provisions for the long journey ahead of us."

The Earl studied Ilga for a long moment before looking back to the dead man on the floor. He wasn't sorry to see Lothbrook dead, but he was very shocked at the way his death had come. What history surrounded this murder? And, seeing the acceptance of the Warriors and Shieldmaidens behind Ilga, how could this man have been so unaware of the danger that had just ended his life?

"You will have your boat, m'lady," the Earl said. "And your provisions. Anything you ask for is yours."

Ilga glanced to the Earl's other side, to the young man standing behind his father. Ilga hadn't been unaware of the glances -- the ogling -- that the Earl's son had given her through the three days her clan had been present, preparing for the battle. With Lothbrook now dead, Ilga would need a new lover, and there wasn't an appropriate one to be had from her own Clan.

"We will need a translator when we arrive at our destination," Ilga said.

"Where is it that you are going, m'lady?"

"West."

Ilga's answer may have sounded vague to the uninformed, but the Earl knew that the Shieldmaiden meant England. And, glancing toward his son -- who had been taught the language of that distant land by an enslaved priest for whom the Earl had traded a homestead and a hundred sheep -- he knew precisely who Ilga meant to have as his interpreter.

He looked back to her, then to the body laying in a pool of still expanding blood. His answer to her was not in fear of what she might do to him if he said no, but was in appreciation for the Vikings keeping him in power today and for Ilga keeping him in power tonight.

"You shall have your interpreter, m'lady," the Earl said, again glancing to his son to see his reaction. He couldn't read the boy's expression. He'd expected either excitement for the imminent adventure or despair over learning he would be leaving everything he knew for unknown parts ... and unknown dangers. The Earl looked back to Ilga, then to the other saviors. He stood, offered out his stein again, and announced loudly, "You will have all you want for your journey tomorrow! But tonight ... you will have all you want for your pleasure!"

There was a loud cheer, lots of crashing of steins, a multitude of hugs and pats on the back and groping of body parts of the opposite sex -- with no particular care as to which woman or man to whom those parts belonged -- and the celebration began...



It would actually be six days before the Clan departed for the West. They spent that time tending to their wounded, armor, and arms; preparing the boat for the long journey; and, of course, making sacrifice to the Gods and sending their dead to Valhalla upon a night-illuminating pyre.

In the meantime, it was the second morning after the battle that the Earl's son came to the building in which Ilga and her attendees had made themselves home. The Shieldmaiden gestured the young man forward, asking, "Tell me your name."

(OOC: This is a closed role play.)

To say he was a craven would be an inaccurate statement. To say however that he was unexperienced with battle, blood, death and gore was an accurate statement. Or—at least—that had been true at one time. That had changed since the invaders first darkened the soil of their peaceful village with the spilled blood of their first raid.

Since that time a handful of seasons ago, Gareth had become acquainted with far more violence than the bookish scholar had imagined possible. With gentle hands and a quiet disposition, he was not suited for leading the defenses of the village, rather the boy—nay he was a man now, that had come 2 seasons ago—had found himself apprenticed to one of the healers. He had taken to the art of it just as he had to learning languages. Herbalism was a science, just as navigation via the stars on the see was, and Gareth had learned both at the hands of the many slaves owned by the village.

It was one of those talents in fact that seemingly was going to change his life. The fact that he spoke at least 3 languages fluently, aside from his native, and could converse in a couple others to lesser degrees had made him the perfect choice for his new role. His fit for the part did not make him any happier about it though.

His father had not exactly made a pact with the Viking warrior woman that stated in exchange for saving my life and that of my village I promise you a ship, a month’s supply of food and my first born son, however essentially that is what it boiled down to. It was one of the few times Gareth stood up to his father—in private of course. “How dare you barter me away like that!” he had raged, almost apoplectic so great his impotent anger. It was one of the few times his typically gentle father had struck him leaving a bruise on his typically pale cheek. He had covered his cheek with one hand, so surprised that the anger had fled him. His father had proceeded to cut him down verbally, telling his son that as he was he was never going to be fit to rule even a small village like this one and perhaps going with these people, this shield maiden that he would toughen up, grow some stones and become a true man.

Gareth had eventually gone along with it, because it was just easier that way. He was not weak, but he was not a fool. It was illogical to continue fighting a battle that he could not win. It would be better to prove his father wrong, prove to himself and his father that he would not die in the first week with Ilga. He saw himself as water; he would rather flow around obstacles rather than through them. At least, that was what he strove for when he was in his adult mindset. There was still a part of him who could give into the petulant rashness of youth, and the bruise on his cheek was a stark reminder of that.
He came to her 2 days after the battle. Ostensibly he was ordered there so that Ilga could get to meet him, and he could become acquainted with her band. However he found he would have come to her party anyway for two reasons. The first was it was in his calling to do so. He had really taken to being a healer, and she still had wounded he was helping to tend. The second was less noble. These were men and women who were not from his little village, they were exotic and beautiful, far more appealing than the drab farmer’s wives He was used to, especially Ilga. She made him react unlike any other woman he’d seen and like insects to a flame, he was drawn to her.

“My name is Gareth M’lady.” He said standing awkwardly before her fidgeting with his long-fingered hands. He was son of an Earl, but she was a powerful warrioress, did he out rank her, she him? He hoped the next few seconds would help assure him of his place with her.

Alice2015 said:

"Tell me your name."

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The_gladiator said:

“My name is Gareth M’lady.”

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Ilga had been informed of the noble's desire to meet with her, and she had wanted to leave an impression upon his young mind. So upon his arrival, a servant had been tightening the leather thong that crisscrossed her back and pulled her blouse tight about her belly and bosom. The effect was to dramatize her hour glass figure and firm breasts, something she hadn't been able to do for Gareth's benefit much while she'd been more often than not wearing her chain mail and war leather.

"Ow!" she growled as the younger slave pulled too tightly on the gown's ties. Ilga slapped in the air at her helpers hand, then ordered, "Undo it. It need to be altered."

It didn't, of course. The blouse was perfectly sized for Ilga, but she simply wanted to shed some layers to give the young man a better look at her as she explained to him what she wanted from him.

"Your father has volunteered you to go to the Western Lands, as an interpreter," she began. "I do not speak their language, which will make my negotiating with them a bit difficult at best."

She asked him about the variety of languages he spoke, then asked him to give her an example of each, simply so she could hear them spoken. She recognized the German, of course. The Danish Vikings had had a great deal of interaction with the tribes to their immediate south. The French made her laugh. It sounded so silly to her, even though she thought she recognized some of the words as being similar to her own and the German both.

The other languages he demonstrated were totally foreign to Ilga, however, including the English and Latin that he told her would be present at their destination.

By the time Gareth was done demonstrating his linguist abilities, the servant had manage to get her lady out of her outer garment. Ilga stood before the young noble in only her full length under dress, and with the bright, crackling fire behind her, she knew that her shapely figure would be silhouetted to Gareth almost as if she were gowned in semi-sheer linen.

She did nothing to remedy this inappropriate view, of course, only turning a bit this way and that as her servant brought her a stein of beer and worked on removing the braids from her hair. In this way, she offered Gareth alternating views of her hour glass shape from the front and her rounded breasts and buttocks from the side.

When she was sure she'd teased him enough, she walked toward him slowly until she was standing but a foot away from him and asked, "Will you be able to take orders from a woman without complaint or contrariness?"

Gareth was ushered into the tent where its crackling fire was roaring, pushing back the autumnal chill. He removed his long black cape with its wolf’s fur collar and laid it on a chair and then stood before the woman. He clasped his hands behind his back, in a fair imitation of a soldier’s parade rest posture, to avoid fidgeting.

Although his body was still, his eyes were anything but. They were locked on her. When He walked in she was in a tight blouse which for the first time truly highlighted her curves. They were certainly not the largest breasts he had ever seen—nay, the butcher’s wife had that honor—however Ilga was extremely well proportioned. Her body resembled the shape of an hourglass.

However, this was only the beginning of the sights Gareth would see in this situation as she removed the outer garment, leaving her in a dress which highlighted her body even more, tantalizing and hinting at what her satin skin might look like without the single layer of cloth separating her flesh from the air.

Gareth somehow managed to demonstrate his linguistic abilities despite his mind’s distraction. These languages came naturally to him and he enjoyed the chance to show someone his skills. It seemed so long since he was wanted for something other than a pair of hands to stitch wounds or mix herbal remedies.

After seeming to pass her inspection silence fell in the room and his eyes continued to follow her movements. He watched her approach and stiffened, in more than one way. He cleared his throat following her question, “I have spent my life taking orders from a woman, or have you not met my mother? Don’t let the delicateness fool you.” He was trying to lighten the mood a bit. However he was not lying, he did not share most of his people’s traditional views about a woman’s place. “I assume that I will have the same trouble taking orders from you that I do anyone else, male or female. So many orders are not thought out, do not make sense and more often than not are rather self-serving on behalf of the order giver.” These were some rather bold words for him but he did not want to come across as the craven his father accused him of being. “Give orders that make sense and I will not hesitate to obey them M’lady. I do not unthinkingly obey orders, and do not take them from those I do not respect.” It was in seconds like this that he showed the spine he could possess with some coaxing and training, however at this time it was fleeting and she could see the tension in his posture and hear it in his voice that indicated he was not as confident about his words as he acted like he was.

The_gladiator said:

“I have spent my life taking orders from a woman, or have you not met my mother?

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Ilga couldn't help but smile at the young man's comment. She had, indeed, met his mother -- in private, without his father's knowledge -- and she'd learned that the woman was intelligent and strong willed enough to run the village on her own if ever she had the chance. But, alas, women didn't lead Viking Clans ... did they?

Ilga continued her slow encirclement of Gareth as he continued. When she was before him, she kept her gaze upon his face, showing her undivided attention on his words and the seriousness with which he spoke them. But when she was to his sides or behind him, her gaze dropped to the slight and yet still fit and delicious body that came with that obviously intelligent mind.

“Give orders that make sense and I will not hesitate to obey them M’lady. I do not unthinkingly obey orders, and do not take them from those I do not respect..."

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"Very well, then," she said, turning and heading purposefully toward a table upon which were laid out a number of objects, from weapons to scrolls to the one to which she turned her attention, a map inked upon the inside of a roe deer hide. As she pointed to various points upon it, she explained her goals for the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

"We are here," she said, pointing to a mark on the Danish coast. She traced her finger across an open expanse in which was drawn a sea dragon in typical Viking fashion. "And we are going here ... to the Western Lands."

The sea upon which they would sail would someday be known as the North Sea, and the land to which she desired to sail was the disputed territories of the people who would ultimately be known as the English and the Scottish.

The map was very rough and equally inaccurate, as well as horribly unfinished. There was no Western coast line for the English Isles as the Vikings hadn't yet ventured that far, or at least as far as Ilga's Clan knew. The jagged line indicating the Eastern shoreline of the Isle ended east of a mark that was labeled London Town. It wasn't, of course: it was Norwich, but the Vikings didn't know that yet.

The European coastline was more accurately depicted, but as Ilga explained their goals to Gareth, it became obvious that she had no interest in what would someday become The Netherlands, Belgium, and France. She pressed her finger to the English coast again and looked up into Gareth's eyes with a serious expression.

"We will go here. And once there, you will tell the Kings there that we want land and the right to live upon it undisturbed. We offer them peace. We offer them trade and political alliance."

She leaned forward, and rested her opened hands upon the table -- more specifically and emphatically upon the sword to her left and the dagger to her right -- and asked, "Can you speak to these people in their tongue and make them understand that this is all we want...? And ... if they refuse ... can you adequately make them understand that to deny us would not be in their interest?"

Gareth felt a tad like the sheep that was cut out of the herd by a wolf, and was now being toyed with before becoming its next meal. Oh, she seemed intent on what he was saying, but something about her aura suggested the grace of a hunting animal.

To his boldly stated words she simply responded very well, before gesturing him over to a table. His eyes dropped to the map. It was crudely drawn in the young man’s estimation he was certain that it was drawn in haste, with no attention taken to detail, to the beauty such things could be. However, the map was as detailed by way of information as he had ever seen, she possessed as much information about where they headed, or did she. He wondered where she planned to restock food, if she did not plan to starve. However he was not so confident as to ask her that.

His eyes watched her hands as she drew a line on the map with her finger, indicating their expected course, her plans for the future. Her hands were surprisingly delicate despite the strength he knew them to possess. Part of him wondered what else those hands were skilled at. He mentally schooled himself, how could he think of such things. He had watched her kill a man in cold blood. He should dislike her, should want nothing to do with her, what had gotten into him?

Then he was poignantly reminded of one of the reasons as she leaned forward flat on her palms her face moving to less than 2 feet from his. This lean also had the effect of causing the top of her dress to fall away from her neck, giving him the slightest tantalizing glimpse of her upper chest. His breath caught. Fortunate for him his reaction could easily be explained by her proximity and the vehemence with which she spoke her words. Her words reminded him that no matter how delicate she appeared she was anything but and was tough as nails. He fought not to take a step back as he felt her gaze bore into him.

Clearing his throat he found his voice, “I can speak the language, but speaking the same language does not automatically translate into understanding.” He said. “Just because people can share words does not mean they can share meanings, but if you are truly as set on peace as you say, then I see myself being able to communicate that to them.” He spoke with a confidence he did not really feel, because he knew that’s what she wanted to hear, and her hands on her weapons were not just to emphasize the threat to the Celts, but to him, this was a woman who would not lightly tolerate failure. In those seconds, he hoped that the language lessons he had been given by the slave, his father paid so dearly for, had been enough.

The_gladiator said:

“I can speak the language, but speaking the same language does not automatically translate into understanding...” “Just because people can share words does not mean they can share meanings, but if you are truly as set on peace as you say, then I see myself being able to communicate that to them.”

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Ilga studied Gareth's face for a moment, wondering whether his confidence was feigned or earned. And while the young noble may not have felt the confidence deep down, he convinced Ilga enough for her to say with a firm and pleased tone, "Good. Very good."

She turned away from the map and circled around the table toward Gareth, explaining, "We will leave in a few days, after the rest of my injured are healed enough to survive the trip. And..."

She took hold of Gareth's arm and turned him, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as she led him toward the Guest House's exit. She continued, "...I want to thank you for your assistance in this, Young Gareth. My Medicine Woman would never admit this, of course, what with believing that only she can tend to the health and recuperation of my people ... but the others say you are responsible for saving the lives of a handful of my fallen. You will be rewarded for this."

Ilga's servant opened the door at the nod of her head, indicating it was time for Gareth to depart. The Shieldmaiden looked him in the eyes and said, "We will talk again soon. Dinner tomorrow eve, perhaps?"

They made their farewells, and Ilga returned to the table and the map. She studied it, recalling the three raiding missions in which she'd partaken. The most recent had been last season, and the one before that two years prior. The first had taken place when she was barely bleeding age. She thought about Gareth's education and wondered whether or not he was aware that that first mission had been the one in which his Western Tutor had been captured.

The connections between Gareth's father and Ilga's now deceased father went back to the days before her own birth, though very few people still alive were aware of this fact. It was the reason Ilga had convinced Lothbrook to aid the struggling village. Of course, it wasn't the reason Lothbrook had agreed. He had only cared about taking control of the community once they'd destroyed the enemy. Ilga had supported him in this fallacy, knowing all along that she'd be cutting his throat open afterward.

Ilga was tired of raiding the Westerners, though. And she was tired of the struggles her people faced in this Gods forsaken land. The West, with its milder seasons and richer lands was the future for her people. All she needed was the ability to negotiate with the current rulers of that great land. And now she had it ... or him, that was.

"Gora!" she called out. From outside the Guest House, an attractive slave girl hurried inside and struck a subservient pose before Ilga. "It's time, girl."

"Yes, m'lady," the beautiful teen said, nodding her head before backing, turning, and departing. A handful of minutes later, after crossing the village square and requesting entry to the Earl's house, she stood before Gareth with a message from Ilga. She pulled her dress from her shoulders and dropped it, revealing her nude and shapely body. "M'lady wishes to thank you for your service to our injured."

Her voiced approval was only a few simple words, but even that was enough, for some reason her approval pleased he and he found himself flushing just a tad. Evidently his feigned confidence was successful. Successful enough to convince her—for now.

He watched her round the table and approach him. He felt his cheeks flush just a tad more as her hand touched him, slid into the crook of his elbow. However it was a benign touch, as she led him to the door. He bowed his head to her and murmured that it was good to meet her and that he had done nothing more than his duty and her people had been in need.

When outside the tent he did not immediately make his way to back to his father’s compound and his sleeping chambers. He moved through her tents, making his rounds to check on his patients. Some simply needed a gentle touch on their shoulder, reminding them they would be fine for the journey, for some reason, they would accept comfort like that from him but not their fellows. He supposed it had to do with warrior pride. It was just seen as a part of his healing to him. For others, he provided medicines, to aid with sleeping, to bring down a fever, and one even had contracted a venereal disease. Ilga probably would tell him he deserved it for sticking his cock where it did not belong. Gareth on the other hand, after clinically examining the poor fellow, gave him some medicine and warned him to stear clear of the town’s one brothel; they had had an epidemic of late. One of the previous raiders had infected the prostitute population.

The worst injury he was still tending was a man who had been sliced to the bone along his ribs, Gareth was keeping the wound clean, and making sure it did not become infected as it healed. The man cursed and swore at Gareth when anyone else was around, but when they were alone, he clutched at Gareth’s hand begging him to help him, he knew he would be left behind; his wound would not be suitable for a long voyage. He knew this had to be shattering to the fellow. Gareth gave the man’s hand a squeeze and promised him he would ask his father if the man could have a position as an officer in the small group of warriors left in the village guard.

It was almost 2 hours later when Gareth finally returned to his chambers. He was stripped to the waist, washing himself in a small basin of water, when there was a knock on his door. “Come.” He called, expecting his mother, sister or perhaps one of the slaves to bring him something.

The latter proved to be true; however it was not one of his family’s slaves. As the woman spoke his eyes widened. “Lady Ilga wishes to thank me in what way?” he asked of the woman, who appeared to be a couple of years younger than him, 18 or so. She said not a word but let her gown slide from her shoulders to puddle at her feet. Where Ilga’s dress had suggested that she wore nothing beneath it, Gareth had really had no way to know. When this woman dropped her gown, Gareth was left with no shadow of a doubt that she was naked. He gulped and raised his hands in surprise almost as if to ward her off, even as his eyes were glued to her form.

“I was just doing my duty.” He mumbled, not really sure what to say or do.

(Only got a moment, but I wanted her to say this.)

"I was just doing my duty.” He mumbled, not really sure what to say or do.

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The young servant moved forward to Gareth and reached to the belt at his waist. She said softly, "As am I, m'lord."

She began undoing his trousers, and -- assuming Gareth did nothing to stop her -- the woman would strip him and make love to him with the skill of a much older woman.

(OOC: Take this how ever far and in what ever direction you wish. I will be home soon to reply.)

Gareth could not believe what was happening to him, was he in an alternate reality or something? He was not completely inexperienced. He had some small groping, some kissing but never had he experienced something like this. He knew that some women could be bold and take the initiative that he lacked in his shy naivety, however he had in some ways thought stories about them were just that—stories. However, bold as day she approached him, without a stitch of clothing on and dropped to her knees before him.

Deft fingers untied the belt at his waist, and began to unlace his trousers. He was almost shaking. “You don’t need to do this.” He murmured. However she reached up and laid her gentle fingertips over his lips.

“Let me M’lord, you will enjoy it I promise.”

“But I…” the woman’s throaty chuckle cut his words off and she let him know that she was well aware he’d not done this before.

He felt her hand press against his chest forcing him to recline slightly even as her hands again slid up his inner thighs to his waist. When she moved her hands back down she took the pants with them.

Gareth could not believe this was happening, but his eyes were glued to her as her hands moved toward his shaft, which was already more than swollen with his excitement.

As the servant girl rose tall upon her knees between Gareth's thighs, she smiled to him politely and informed him, "My name is Gora, m'lord."

She only gave him a moment to reply in his way before she lowered her head into his lap ... and took his now rock hard cock into her mouth. She could tell from his reaction that he hadn't expected this, so she lifted her head and said softly, "It is okay m'lord. Please ... enjoy."

She lowered her head again, taking much of his shaft into her lips as one hand cradled his tight, twitching ball sack and the other grasped the lower portion of his cock, stroking it in time with her mouth. This wasn't her first experience with oral sex, of course. The Clan's sexual servants -- mostly slaves but indentured servants as well -- were taught this form of pleasure to ensure that they could continue to service the Clan's warriors when they themselves were in their moon. After all, no one wanted a pregnant servant, and the herbs that terminated unwanted pregnancies didn't always work, so mouth service was always a valued alternative.

Gora's assumption that Gareth had never partaken of such activities was proven to be truth when, after only a couple of dozen bobs of her head over his cock, he exploded and fired shot after shot of warm, thick seed into her mouth. She persisted in her duty until he was done, then lifted away from him and licked his shaft clean of his discharge.

She stood before him and asked politely, "Would m'lord like to fuck me as well?"

“A pleasure to meet you Gora.” He said with a blush. Although this was not exactly how he typically made introductions to someone. He felt her cool hands touching his shaft for the first time. He had pleased himself by hand before, but it did not feel anything like this.

As good as he felt with her hand stroking and exploring him lightly, when she slid down and put her mouth on him he felt his fists clench into his bed furs as he bit his lip. This was so new to him that he was almost embarrassed at how short he lasted. He panted as she took all of his seed into her mouth, and he was astonished that it did not reappear. She had to have swallowed it. His eyes widened at that.

It was only a few heartbeats later that she offered to let him fuck her. He shook his head, “I want to, but I never have. I would not be able to please you and I do not really wish to fail you, I already proved my inexperience.”

Gora only smiled as she rose before Gareth, saying, "I am here to please you, m'lord. If you please me ... which I'm sure you will ... then I shall thank the Gods."

She directed the young noble back further on the bed, crawled atop him, and led his still hard cock inside her. It wasn't nearly as simple a feat as taking him into her mouth had been: despite being a play thing for the Clan's other Warriors, she was still young and tight and -- having had no real foreplay -- was still a bit dry to simply take Gareth inside her.

But, eventually, she was rocking her hips to and fro above him, taking his full length deep inside, out again, and deep inside. She watched his expressions intently, desperate to ensure that he enjoyed himself. She would have to report her failure or success to Ilga later, and while she was pretty good at fucking, Gora had never achieved an ability to lie.

Despite his inexperience, Gareth was doing just fine in pleasuring the young servant ... or ... Gora was doing a good job of using the young noble's weapon in a way that caused her pleasure. Either way, she was soon moaning, then crying out softly, then letting loose with a high pitched whine as euphoria swept through her smallish, fair skinned body...

He hadn’t gone soft partially because of his youth, and partially because her hand had continued to stroke him, maintaining his erection. He watched her climb atop him, and it was not long before she was bouncing on his cock, her breasts swaying above him as she rocked back and forth.

Her moans boosted his confidence. Even though he knew he was not ultimately the one responsible for the success of this experience, she had a way of making him feel like he was doing it to please her. She had done everything right up to making him cum once with her mouth so he would last long enough to aid her to orgasm while he was inside her.

Gora slowed her rocking atop Gareth only long enough to enjoy her own orgasm, gasping as her body trembled and twitched so noticeably to the man below her. When she'd begun to descend from that peak enough to truly think about it, she was surprised that she'd cum at all. She was only a sexual servant to the men of the Clan, not a true lover. Her pleasure was never of concern to the Warriors who, more often than not, simply pummeled her from behind until they came, then pushed her aside to allow them to sleep in peace.

Surprised or not, happy or not, Gora had a mission. And once she'd regained her senses and body control, she returned to rapidly and forcefully rocking atop Gareth, driving him to a second orgasm deep inside her. She watched his every expression, intrigued: she'd never been a man's First before, which -- despite this being an act forced upon her by her Lady -- left her pleased with her work, a feeling she had never enjoyed before.

When she was sure that he was coming down from his peak, she lowered down to Gareth's torso, pressing her breasts against his chest, her belly against his own. She kissed his neck, his shoulders, his clavicles. Then, when she could sense that he was relaxing on his way toward sleep, she asked softly, "Do you wish me to leave, m'lord?"

Gareth lay there panting as he experienced his second orgasm not caused by himself in less than a candle’s length of time. To be honest it had not even been a notch of a candle’s time.

He enjoyed when she lay atop him, his hands coming up to run over her back, sliding absently through her hair. “No.” he whispered, “Please don’t leave. He was supposed to be a tough as nails male and show no emotion, but that was truthfully not him, so he showed more emotions than most males. He wanted a softer touch wanted to not be left alone so quickly after his first time.

She simply nodded and curled up next to him her head still on his chest and slept that way with him the whole night until he rose, pleasuring him one final time with her mouth before she left him to prepare for his day.

Gareth again spent the majority of his day with Ilga’s wounded, as well as helping to secure provisions and materials for them. He had a bounce in his step the whole day and did not why.

True to his word to Ilga’s most wounded soldier, he asked his father for approval for the man to stay on in their village. Permission he was granted and Gareth made sure he would talk to Ilga about it over dinner, before he mentioned it to the soldier.

At the appointed hour he approached her tent again, with a little more confidence than the day before. He had worked hard that day and felt like he had accomplished a lot to assist Ilga. He was still not thrilled about having to leave his homeland for unknown places, but he never did things half way, if this were to be his duty, then he would do it right.

He wore a fancier black tunic and pants similar to the ones he’d worn the day before but more formal, in preparation for dinner. As he stood outside her tent, he wondered what he would say. Had the woman from the night before told her anything about their time together, would Ilga ask him about his experience?

(OOC: I think Gora might become a more important character, so I picked a pic for her. Hope you like her.)

Gora heard the knock at door and Gareth's polite announcement that it was he. She looked to her Lady and, getting a nod of approval, went to the door to greet the boy she'd ushered into manhood the previous night.

"G'ev'ning, m'Lord," she said, bowing politely and, backing away, gesturing Gareth inside. She gave him a knowing smile as he passed by her, then closed the door and scurried off without another word to return to her tasks.

"Young Gareth," Ilga said with a joyous voice, "Please, do come in ... sit." She gestured to a large wooden chair made soft with hides and wool pillows. She clapped her hands in the direction of the three servant women -- Gora included -- who were preparing the meal around the roaring fire in the hearth. "Food! Drink! Do not leave our very important guest waiting."

The women scurried in, placing a number of platters, bowls, cups, and steins all about the wood plank table. Ilga chose a chair at the side perpendicular to the one Gareth was at, putting her nearer to him than if she'd sat in the one across from him. She made small talk about the food, pointing out that his own village people were responsible for the freshly killed rabbit and still warm bread.

She waved the other two servants out of the Guest House, then requested that Gora bring in a back up stein of thick mead. As the beautiful redhead leaned over Ilga's guest, filling his smaller stein and keeping her eyes down in a subservient manner, the Shieldmaiden asked bluntly, "Can I assume, Young Gareth, that my girl here pleased you last evening? If not, I can have her beat and send you another tonight?"

Her tone sounded serious, and the sudden widening of Gora's eyes -- from both fear and embarrassment -- might have made someone who wasn't using all of their senses think a lashing was imminent. But Ilga's lips spread just a bit in a knowing smirk as she waited to hear the young noble's response to her blunt question.

Gareth finally took a deep breath after looking up to the setting sun—as if to gather strength from it—and announced his arrival.

He was greeted by the sight of Gora, the woman who had spent the night with him the previous evening. He kept his face as neutral as he could, giving her a formal and polite nod, fighting not to smile or to blush at the look she gave him.

He swept into the room and was greeted warmly by the lady Ilga. “Thank you my Lady.” He sat in the offered seat surprised again at how welcome she was seeking to make him feel. Perhaps joining her party would not be as painful or a burden as he had thought, especially with rewards like he was given last night.

“The woman on the corner made this bread.” He commented, “I can tell based on its flavor. “I do honestly not remember her name though.” He actually looked embarrassed he did not know it. So different from most village leaders, most who could not care less what their subject’s names were.

She sat close to him and he found himself distracted not just by Ilga this time but Gora who stood behind him, her red hair brushing against him as she bent over to refill his glass with the rich mead. “This is good.” He commented after his second glass.

When Ilga turned the subject to Gora and the night they’d shared together Gareth voiced a strong protest without thinking, “Don’t harm her. She was just fine. I mean she was wonderful. I was uh well you know satisfied.” His cheeks now did redden as he stumbled over his words setting down his knife he was eating with so she would not see the slight tremble in his hands. “I thank you my lady for sending the lady Gora to me last night, although it was not necessary. Your men were in need, and I only did what I could for them. In some cases that was enough, in others nothing I can do is enough, although I keep trying.”

Ilga's lips remained wide with a knowing smile as Gareth talked about his evening with Gora. She was enjoying his youthful nervousness, and she did little to hide that fact. When he was finished, she ignored his attempt to swing her attention to the reason she'd sent the girl to him and looked up to the young servant, whose fair skinned face was now almost as red as her hair. "And Gora ... how did you enjoy your evening with the Young Gareth? Did he fill you up well enough?"

Gora dropped her eyes to the dirt floor, desperate to hide the explosion of color in her cheeks, neck, every where. When the servant didn't answer, Ilga exploded in laughter, then asked in Gareth's direction, "I think that is a yes, do you not...? Makes me wonder what I'm missing."

Ilga gestured the redhead away, telling her she was free for the evening, then immediately launched into a discussion with Gareth about the adventure ahead. She told him about her previous three trips to the Western Lands -- at age 13, 24, and last season at 26 -- and how they had each been able pillaging alone.

She asked him dozens of questions about the people, the land, even the animals. Ilga was thoroughly intrigued with his answers, but she was also thorough intrigued with Gareth himself. He was the most learned man she'd ever known, even more so than the Clan's Seer or the priest her father had sold to Gareth's father so many years ago.

Ilga was an interesting woman in that while she respected a brutish, strong, large man for the amazing things he could do with his body, it was the mind inside the skull of that body that drew her attention more. There was so much to be learned about the world, particularly if one -- her -- was to become a powerful ruler within it.

Long after the sun had disappeared and the Wolves had gone quiet with a new found meal of their own, Ilga stood and very bluntly ended the evening with, "Please, Young Gareth. Come again tomorrow so that we can finish this conversation."

They exchanged some more pleasantries, and as she turned away from him to head for her bed, she stopped and -- only half glancing over her shoulder at her guest -- said, "One day I may invite you to my bed, Young Gareth. I have a suspicion that inexperienced as you are now, by that time you will surely be able to do right by a Shieldmaiden."

She disappeared beyond the tapestry that divided the Guest House...

Single-minded was the word that most readily came to Gareth’s mind to describe Ilga’s pursuit of the details of his night with Gora. Between the two of them, in between blushes they both managed to give her enough details she eventually let the subject drop.

Gareth did eventually get to explain what he had done for the soldier with the severe slash to his ribs. Ilga however did not really seem interested; something that Gareth found frustrating to the extreme. It was however, so typical of most of the leaders he had ever met. They only really cared about their men when they saw value in them. Once that value was removed, such as the near mortally wounded soldier, they were discarded. However Gareth knew that his analysis of the situation could have been flawed. She might have been truly saddened to lose that man; however she was focused on departing, on moving forward. She was not one to live in the moment.

Oh, she lived in the moment, she enjoyed her each and every breath or so he had seen, with sword in one hand and foaming mug in the other. However there was a profound difference between living in the moment and living for the moment. She did not take the time to stop and enjoy the simple things. Like she could probably not identify the shape carved into wood just with her fingertips, it was a sort of awareness so many lacked. She could not see the undertones beneath some of her troops that were angry. Some were not angry, but anger was the only way they knew to express it, some were hurt, lonely, etc. Again, Gareth knew he could be wrong in his conclusions; however he was only going on what he had seen so far. And with his train of thought for the first time He wondered if perhaps he didn’t have something to teach this warrior woman, as much as he knew he had to learn from her. She said she wanted to make peace, did she know how to make peace, truly? Gareth suspected she did to some extent but her battle lust would eventually draw her off of the path of peace. Maybe they could complement one another.

He mentally kicked himself, was he suggesting some sort of alliance between he and Ilga? He gave a mental shrug, the logic was there, they could benefit one another.

“I will be sure to learn as much as I can from the lady Gora, so that I will be ready for you m’lady should you ever decide that having me is what you want.” Gareth said. Glad that She had missed the slight shy smile he’d shot to Gora.

Learn from the servant girl he did. He learned the pleasures of taking her in many positions. Learned to touch her, even learned to do something that she said the French servants would do but Viking men never did. It was similar to what she did when she took his cock into her mouth, but involved licking her opening and a sensitive bud higher up in her slit. Gora assured Gareth that if he ever went to Ilga’s bed, or any other woman’s that they would come back to him again and again if he got good at that skill.

The girl was not just valuable for fucking; she was a wealth of knowledge about Ilga, her party, and other lands outside his own. Gareth never passed up an opportunity to learn. He believed he could learn from anyone no matter who that was. He learned more from some than others, but learned from everyone he could.

Gora was in no small way one of the reasons that Gareth stopped fighting his coming departure. This probably had been Ilga’s goal to some extent, to use Gora to soften him up. That first day she had tried to tantalize him with her own body, but then had sent Gora to him. Gareth was still highly attracted to Ilga, but there was almost some sort of relationship developing with the servant girl, and Gareth found himself a little less moved by Ilga now. Especially when Ilga was just a hint of sex, a possibility, when Gora was the real thing, with access to him every night. What was the saying? A bird in the hand was worth more than 3 more in the bush, or something to that effect.



The morning of their departure dawned filled with sheets of rain and lightning. When Gareth arrived at the camp where Ilga’s men were all breaking camp to load the last few things on their new long ship, all he could hear were mutterings about bad omens. Gareth was not particularly suspicious, but even his inexperienced eye could see that they would dare not put up a sail in such weather, so it would be a long hard day of rowing for their initial day of voyaging.

Gareth got his first look at the crimson Maiden as he neared the shoreline and the few docs that had not been destroyed. He was surprised, and also yet not surprised that his father had given them the maiden for their voyage. He was not surprised because it had been the flagship of a marauding band of pirates and thieves, meaning it cost Gareth’s father almost nothing to give it away, and also let him rid himself of a reminder of their startling defeats at the pirate band’s hands. However he was surprised because it was the largest long-ship that Gareth’s father controlled. But even though this might dictate to Gareth that his father should keep the vessel, his father did not really have a crew fit to man such a vessel. It was a heavier, long-ship one designed to also be able to raise a sail from a mast in the center, which could also come down in times of bad weather. The ship had from Gareth’s guess 5 or 6 oars to a side, and he knew it could get a fair amount of speed on oars alone. The ship’s namesake was on the front of the ship, the figurehead which also functioned as the ship’s ram. It was cold iron, slightly rusting in the damp giving it a slightly red color. It was fashioned into the shape of a dragon head thrust forward as it swam over the waves. Someone along the way had decided that this particular dragon looked feminine and jokingly named the wicked looking creature the crimson maiden, giving it a name that now ironically fit, for it was commanded by a woman, who was as tough as she was beautiful.

Gareth, finished admiring the ship looked for Ilga, to see what his orders were for him.

By the time the day of departure arrived, Ilga's people were getting antsy. The Crimson Maiden had been stocked for three days, with the men armed, the women and children packed, and the stock animals in pens and cages, just waiting to be stuffed into the boat's hold. Repeated, Ilga had been asked when the Clan was going to leave, by both members of the Clan and members of the village. Her answer had always been the same: "When it is time."

Only a handful of Ilga's people knew exactly what would make the time right, and they kept that information close to the chain mail, as instructed by their Shieldmaiden. She'd even noticed a bit of anxiety in Gareth, though it seemed to be easily tempered with another night of energetic, sweaty sex with Gora.

Finally, the evening of the fifth night after the battle that had changed so much for so many, a horn sounded from the ridge above the bay, followed by a Guard in a watch tower pointing out into the fjord and calling out, "Boat...! Boat!"

"M'lady," Gora said as she rushed in from doing wash at the stream that provided the village with its fresh water. "He's here."

Ilga stood quickly, but then did not move. She was both excited about and at the same time disappointed with the arrival of Rangan. She gestured Gora out of the Guest House, commanding, "Help him find his way here."



The next morning, even before sunup, word spread quickly through the village that the Crimson Maiden would be leaving before high sun. The village came alive, and not a single man, woman, or child wasn't somehow involved in the excitement taking place at the dock.

Ilga had her own tasks, too, of course. Countering Gareth's assessment of her concern for her injured, when he made his last visit to the house in which the remaining Warriors were bed ridden, he found her on her knees at the edge of the bed of the Viking with the slashed chest. With their hands clasped and their faces painted in blood from a sacrificed goat, they prayed to the Gods for a save journey, a secure village, and a quick path to Valhalla.

As she finished and stood to leave, Ilga said nothing to Gareth except for a polite greeting. She knew not of his earlier thoughts of her apathy toward the fallen, so she had nothing about which to be offended or apologetic.

Eventually, at the docks, the departing were gathered for their last farewells with those remaining behind. The Crimson Maiden -- which was already riding low in the water from the crush of supplies, goats, chickens, and piglets aboard -- sank even further after the 23 men, 14 women, and 18 children boarded her. Ten men sat at the oars, while the others stood about the deck, handling the lines or simply continuing the farewells. The women and children went below deck, having to huddle down due to the hold's maximum height of just over four feet.

The Dragons Heart saw its hull sink almost as much as the Crimson Maiden. It was a smaller boat with one eight oars and a less tall and less long hold, so there were only 10 men and another 14 women and children aboard her.

The last two people on the dock left to board were Ilga and Gareth, who was engaged in farewells with his parents and others. It was only after he was ready to get underway that he noticed the absence of a certain someone.

"She's not coming," Ilga said as she caught sight of Gareth searching for Gora.

Gareth found himself wrapped up in lengthy, somewhat tearful good-byes, given no orders at the moment. He hugged and kissed each one of his little sisters. Offered his mother an embrace that was more formal, yet still loving than that he gave his siblings. He then was faced with the awkward departure from his father. “I will do you proud, sir.” The older man merely grunted. But finally he grudgingly commented that he was sure he would. Gareth could tell that his father could not completely remove the sarcasm from his voice. However, Gareth accepted it and did not make a fuss.

He and Ilga were the last two to board the Maiden. He looked around, surprised. His situational awareness had not told him that Gora had gotten on either ship. He shot Ilga a questioning look. He did not say anything, however apparently she guessed his meaning. “Why is she not coming?” he asked, the words coming out a bit more harshly than he had intended. “She too is one of your people,” He did not need to say that he was also quite fond of her, but that sort of was self-explanatory if she had deduced what his simple look around the ship had meant.

“Why is she not coming?” “She too is one of your people,”

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"She was," Ilga said without hesitation or emotion, simply a matter of fact statement. She knew that would not be enough for the man who had spent so many nights entwined with the girl. She stepped closer to him, looking up into the slightly taller man's eyes as she explained, "She is of no value to me anymore, Young Gareth."

A pair of small children rushed down the dock and directly between Ilga and Gareth. Their hands were full of what she thought were just early spring flowers but were in fact a local edible herb that, when eaten dry, aided with sea sickness. She laughed as they cut through, then looked back to Gareth and clarified, "Gora's duties include keeping a chosen number of my Warriors happy. I'm sure you know what I mean by this. I had no issue with her spending the past several nights with you and you alone. The women of your village more than made up for her ... distraction. You are a highly valued member of my crew now, so I was happy to allow her to single in on you. But--"

The children rushed by again, this time without the flowers and waggling little copper coins before them instead. Once they were gone, Ilga continued, "But a pregnant sex slave is of little value you to me."

She gave the young noble a moment to absorb what she'd said, then explained, "Gora has not been taking care of herself after her nights with you. You understand, yes...?"

Ilga wasn't entirely certain that the young man who had lost his virginity to Gora only days earlier understood the intricacies of herbal remedies for preventing pregnancy. But she wasn't going to explain it to him either. Instead, she glanced toward the Guest House where she had left the sobbing Gora, then simply continued, "Gora is in her moon ... and it is very likely that she is carrying your child, Young Gareth."

Gareth’s jaw clenched as she began to speak. His fists knotted at his sides and it took serious restraint not to strike the ships commander. It was probably only the children running past that prevented him from making such a mistake. “She did not tell me she was in need of moon tea.” He snapped, “I would have provided it to her had she only asked.” He of course was naïve by her standards, but as one of the village healers, he was well familiar with such herbs and had brewed it for the local Brothel, for one of them got pregnant it meant she lost her way of life.

“She may have no value to you, but she does to me, especially if she bares my heir. All your vaunted talk of peace, you think you would want a woman who will soon bare a child to give more population to your small colony.” He snapped. With those snapped words, Gareth spun on his heels towards the rail of the ship. The children running through indicated to the young man they had not gotten under way. He would go back for the girl, either she would come or he would not go.

Gareth was so angered about Ilga leaving Gora behind that he did not even address the fact that she so casually talked about how the woman was a sex slave and worth nothing to her. As tended to happen with young men, Gareth was finding it difficult to separate feelings of lust and true caring; they were mixed in a jumble. The young man was sure that he was falling for the young Gora.

As Gareth marched away toward the Guest House, Ilga couldn't help but smile with pleasure. She been testing the young man, wanting to know his feelings toward the young servant. Commenting so bluntly about just one of her many important duties -- fucking Ilga's Warriors and keeping them happy -- had struck a chord with Gareth, and Ilga was happy with the note that had sounded.

Gora had been just a mere six years old when she'd been sold to Ilga's father as a house slave. She'd served Ilga's mother initially, but after the matriarch's death, the indentured servant had come to directly serve Ilga who, by then, was a skilled Shieldmaiden and well respected figure within the Clan.

Ilga had always treated the nearly decade younger girl with respect, yet at the same time, she'd always kept in mind what she was: a servant. When Gora came of age and, coincidentally, Ilga's time to begin taking more control of the clan came as well, the servant was put to parting her thighs for a few of Ilga's key Warriors.

The young woman's ability and feigned willingness to serve had made her very popular with a half dozen Warriors over an equal number of years. And, of course, that had made Ilga popular with those very same Viking fighters. It was part of the reason that a week earlier Ilga had been able to slice open the neck of the Clan's nominal Earl, Lothbrook, without so much as a surprised expression. Lothbrook had never gotten any of these fierce Warriors laid, had he?

Ilga had been considering freeing the servant prior to the Clan's departure for the Western Lands but hadn't when she saw an opportunity to deploy her to Young Gareth's bed. As she'd told the noble, Ilga hadn't had an issue with Gora focusing her sexual energies on him. But she had had an issue with the servant allowing herself to most likely become pregnant by the Earl's son. It was a complication Ilga didn't need at this moment.

It was also the reason why when Gareth entered the Guest House and found the still sobbing Gora sitting in the middle of her Lady's former bed, he found her with a growing bruise upon one cheek where Ilga has slapped her so hard as to knock her onto the floor.

Gora looked up at Gareth, then turned quickly to hide her shame. She'd failed her Lady, allowing herself this fantasy of carrying Gareth's child. She didn't truly know whether or not she was pregnant, but the odds were good. She wasn't sure what exactly she'd been trying to accomplish, but it was done now.

"You should leave, m'lord," she said, her back to Gareth. "The boats are loaded. It is time to begin your adventure."