A/N: Credit for inspiration goes towards SissyHIYAH. This idea would never have even crossed my mind if it hadn't been for her.
Updates will follow a regular pattern, weekly most likely. This should be short and sweet, a few chapters at least, I'll try not to get too bogged down in fancy plot twists, there really isn't that much plot to twist so it should be easy to avoid, chapters will be a max of 10,000 words tops.
Prologue.
"Platinum warriors that attacked alongside their men, tattooed faces and hair braided down their backs, all beautiful bloodlust and savage beauty; these women were what made the world tremble before they realized the power of the Sorceress." – SissyHIYAH, Cards and Questions, Chapter 13.
She had been thinking recently more and more about how she was going to die and it was becoming more and more apparent that she was going to die a slow and most likely painful death. The chartreuse eyes currently flirting with her blue certainly didn't suggest anything else anyway; they were cold, hard like malachite and sharpened by the adrenaline coursing through him. He held her gaze between the trees for barely a second before breaking away to decapitate a woman to his right. The woman's battle cry died on his blade as her oesophagus split around the metal and her head bounced once, twice, upon the ground. He started through the trees towards her and she towards him. Several men and women unfortunate enough to get in the way were torn down, their blood adding to that already spattering the leaf scattered forest floor.
He was spinning his sword in his grip as he strode and the muscles in his jaw were flexing. She scoffed inwardly at his reaction. A warrior shouldn't be afraid. They shouldn't be nervous. Especially not when they were almost certain to win. She spun the axe she had in her left hand and cracked the whip she held in her right. She wasn't nervous because she knew how this would pan out, she had planned how it would end over the last few days and this was the time to carry it out. She only had to make it look believable.
She cracked her whip across his cheek, turning his head, splitting the skin and brought her axe up to parry the sword he swung down at her. The blow made shock waves run up her arm and she grimaced as he brought his sword above her again for another downward chop. She struck him across the belly with her whip, catching nothing but the bones of his armor and parried with her axe as he struck again.
They danced around each other, circling among the trees, looking for openings and watching each other's eyes. It was clear on his face that he wasn't enjoying this, but he didn't suspect anything either. To him, this was probably just another battle in the trees, slipping on the pine needles, circling around trying to make it look as though the hatred between them was real. She was fairly sure – else he wouldn't be engaging with her if he knew – he had no idea that this was the last.
Snow crunched underfoot, compacting beneath his boots as more of it gathered around his feet, blown there by the cold breeze that swept through the forest. The trees were thin here and leafless, the wind blew through them unhindered, curling his cloak around him, ruffling the fur on his collar. At his back lay a deer, felled by his arrow. It had been grazing out on the tundra, in plain sight of any predators and he – as a predator – had taken the opportunity without much thought. The animal hadn't bled much, but that wasn't what he was worried for it had run for the cover of the trees and there-in lay the problem. He didn't care about attracting other creatures, wolves or bears. He could fend them off without too much of an issue. It was what was waiting for him in the trees that curdled his blood.
He stood barely 30 meters from the treeline and beyond that was the open plains, currently caught in a still moment where there was no blizzard and hardly any wind. If he were to drag the deer out of the trees he would be in plain sight of any predators in the vaccinity, or any other creature with eyes, but he was in as much danger – if not more – in the cover of the trees.
He took out a flint knife and began to strip the useful parts of the deer, carving out the still-warm eyes – stuffing one in his mouth and tucking the other one into his glove for later – skinning the beast quickly and efficiently, keeping half an eye on the surrounding trees and an ear pricked for sounds of movement – the crunch of snow perhaps or the scrape of an arrow on a bow. He bundled the skin up and stuffed it into the horse's-head bag he had attatched to his belt. It almost didn't fit. Next he cut off its head and its hind quarters, dragging them away from the body some three feet, working feverishly to complete the task before he was discovered. Upon splitting the belly open he bathed his fingers in the warmth still lingering over the organs, digging into the guts that poured about his knees. It was a rare thing to be able to find warmth out in the frozen north and at first his fingers seemed to be burning, complaining at the sudden change in temperature, but they warmed up quickly.
The liver and kidneys – which were the only things he really wanted from here – he ate on the spot, skarfing the lot down as quickly as possible, ignoring the bitter taste of the kidneys and the terrible smell. It wasn't uncommon for a carcass to arrive in the camp with no innards, they were the best bits and every hunter took advantage of that, devouring the richest items rather than sharing them with the tribe. He was no different in his preferences although where once he could have savoured the fatty flavour of the liver he had no time for that today. The heart was plucked out and stowed away inside his clothing and he set to work on stripping the greater portion of the meat from the skeleton, bringing his knife around the neck, carving out the shoulders and then – taking hold of the mounds of flesh in both hands – stripped the whole thing along its back and off at the tattered remains of its behind.
Looking at his plunder it was probably enough, he would struggle to carry this much as it was and the deer was very nearly useless now anyway, but there was that hunk of meat on the chest that was always rich in flavour and tender and was really nice as a roast... And it was his favourite part... He crawled over to it and pulled out his knife, it wasn't that much more to carry after all. The last thing he removed was the windpipe, a tube that proved useful for many things, but today its purpose was that of a rope. Cutting through the sheet of skin between the deer's hind ankles and the ligament, he posted the windpipe through and tied it in a loose, slippery knot. He slung the legs over his shoulder and set about fixing the chest-meat to the back-meat with a number of arrows before attempting to drag the lump back towards the tundre. Too heavy to go very fast.
He had barely made it beyond the treeline, about a meter or so, when a green fletched arrow thudded into the leg of the deer on his back. They were here. Or someone was. He dropped the meat and pulled his bow and an arrow from their quiver, crouching down in the snow so as to be less of a target while he sighted along his arrow, scouring the trees for movement. He saw nothing. This was the reason not many hunters came back with sufficient food, only little rabbits and stringy hares could be caught on the tundre; if you wanted something bigger you had to venture into the woods. It was dangerous territory if you valued your life as much as he did.
There! Movement! In the trees some 200 meters away! He loosed his arrow and fixed another to his bow before he'd even thought about it. A figure toppled out from behind a small cluster of trees, the arrow stuck in their shoulder. He dropped the deer legs and advanced back into the forest, making a wide sweep with his weapons from left to right. There was no other movement than that of the writhing figure in the snow. As he advanced he saw they appeared to be struggling with something on their hip, tugging at a horn or a- Fuck. That was why he hadn't been stuck full of arrows the second he blinked; there was really no one else in the forest, just him and this person. They were a scout, or a hunter or something, working alone. But if they blew on that horn it wasn't going to say that way for long.
He broke into a run, powdered snow flying in all directions as he crashed through the drifts that had banked up between the trees. The figure had just got the horn to their lips and the faintest whisper managed to escape the horn before he tore it from their mouth, falling to his knees at the side of them as he fought to take the horn away. In the struggle the figure's hood fell back and a long, thick braid fell out, golden yellow and shining like the sun. Momentarily it dazzled him and he recieved a kick in the ribs from who now appeared to be a woman. A very beautiful woman with four little blue dots tatooed under each eye; the mark of their tribe. He wrestled the horn from her hands and threw it away while she struggled, trying to pull a dagger from her belt, spouting what he assumed were probably insults although he couldn't understand her.
He tore her belt off and threw it away, fending off one-armed punches until he could straddle her and grab hold of both her hands to hold them still; if you wanted to tame a wildcat first you had to remove the claws. This little wildcat would do very nicely as an informant, all claws removed, if he could get her to speak the lingo.
"Stop struggling." He commanded in his tribe's native tongue, squeezing her wrists when she ignored him and proceeded to shout for help – presumably, "Or I'll break your arms."
"Fuck. You." She spat with a thick accent, jerking her good arm roughly in his grasp.
"You speak our tongue." He said, more of an observation than a question, shooting a cursory glance over the surrounding terrain just in case her cries for help had been heard – she couldn't be all alone out here after all, what with there being a war going on and all.
"Fuck. You." She repeated and spat at him catching him on the cheek.
"You know what?" He spat back, grabbing the arrow lodged in her shoulder and giving it a wrench to the right. She screamed in pain but he clapped his other hand over her mouth, smothering her with a handful of snow as blood began to bubble up through the hole in her parker. She pushed frantically at him as he continued to twist the shaft. "Maybe you should stop suggesting it, or I really will fuck you. How does that sound to you, eh? Savage."
Teeth closed in around his hand and bit into his knuckles, forcing him to tear his hand away from her face. She spluttered and coughed the snow from her throat, glowering at him from under the hair that had plastered itself to her face, dragging across from one side to the other like a golden spider's web.
"I'm not the savage one." She said, voice weak and pained; he still had the arrow caught at a funny angle. "You've murdered our people, you're burning our houses, destroying our homes, our families. You're the savages, not us."
"Looks to me as though you can't see the forest for the trees, savage," He replied, giving the arrow a yank. She let out a sob as he lifted her injured shoulder off the ground with his pull. "We burn your houses because you burned all our crops, culled all our seals, slaughtered all our women."
"Well who's slaughtering a woman now?"
He barked out a short, sharp, mirthless laugh, "How rich," The grin he shot her was nothing but teeth, yellow with the remains of the blood that still coated his chin, cheeks and nose. "The Snow Witch considers herself a woman! Would you like me to put that to the test, 'Woman'?"
A/N: Once again I must point out that credit for the idea goes towards SissyHIYAH and for those hard-nosers out there, I have her permission to use the idea.