In which Rotagǫll fights the people she raided.

Rotagǫll stood, chest heaving against the heavy fur pelts she wore, boots sinking into the sand. Her right hand gripped her axe, the blade of it just barely brushing the pebbles on the shore. Blood spilled down the left side of her face, the gouge in her flesh digging deep, blinding her eye, ripping open her brow and her cheek. It dripped off her jawline, splattering into the soaked earth beneath. Water lapped at the back of her heels. 

The Christians stood across from her, stopped now that she and a few others had turned to ensure their siblings got aboard the ships safely. The large chest stolen from the church would take several to heft into the boat, and they would need to be kept safe. 

“Sister,” called a sibling to Rot’s left, who stood with broad shoulders and a large, stolen sword clasped in their left hand. Grein Ingsun, who was neither man nor woman, and wore the pelts of slain christian pets. They nodded to the christian who wore leather armor over his fabric shirt, and grasped a longsword. His blond hair was matted and greased, tussled from waking in the middle of the night. The moon’s glare reflected in his blue eyes, like the glint of murderous desire.

Rotagǫll dipped her head in understanding. The other Christians stood behind him, holding a few of their weapons, but only the blond man had a chestpiece of leather armor. He was their leader. If he died, the others would likely scatter.

“You will… what you stole, heathens,” the man spat. “I… you in the name of God to… down… weapons and… that chest.” 

Rot tasted her own blood, the iron flavor coating the corner of her lips. She used her forearm to smear it across her cheek, staining the wolf pelts she wore wrapped around her body. Her grasp on his language was incomplete, but it seemed he wanted the chest back specifically. 

“Name?” Rotagǫll asked. “What is your name?” 

The man looked to her, eyeing her before sneering. “My name is Thomas Blacksford. I am the… of this… the… you stole from.” 

Rotagǫll snorted. He thought of himself highly, that much was clear. He seemed to confirm he was the leader, and with a glance to her right, to her sister Mallymkun Tyrsun, it seemed that they had all got a similar impression. Rotagǫll stepped forward, and Thomas gripped his blade tighter, lifting it towards her. 

“I am Rotagǫll Rakvisun,” Rotagǫll said. She pressed one hand to her bloodstained chest. “It is…” she searched for the right Christian word. “Death hour.” 

Thomas scowled. “You heathen shit.” With a lunge, he stabbed his blade at her, a blade Rotagǫll knocked upwards with a swing of her axe. She stepped into his guard, and spun her blade down where his shoulder met his neck. With a choked scream, the man dropped his weapon and collapsed. Rotagǫll kicked her axe free. She looked at the other Christians.

“Death for you?” She lifted her hand to point to someone on her left, keeping the eye that could see facing the rest of the crowd. “Take chest?” 

There was hesitance. And then there was anger. Such fury Christians seem susceptible to, unable to control their violence when victims of it themselves. The Christians howled as wild animals and rushed forward. Rotagǫll stepped back, readied her blade, and met them with the cold blade of her axe.