Death was everywhere. It hung in the rain filled clouds above, lingered in the blood-soaked snow below and howled in the death throes of felled warriors. It lay silent over the still bodies of the already departed and snuck around the healers' legs, stealing lives whenever they looked away. Death was in the cries of the ravens and crows as they feasted and in the blood-soaked weapons littering the ground. Death was in the blood splatters across the white field and in the steam rising from the cooling dead.
Death was everywhere and Sweden had never felt more alive. He overlooked the endless maze of death before him and fought a grin. His greatsword was stained and wet still, and Sweden ran a naked finger over it, shivering unnoticeably as the lukewarm liquid touched skin. He rubbed the cold steel, smearing the blood across his hand further. He relaxed against the boulder he was leaned on, gazing proudly at the sight of his victory. Silly Rus, thinking they could attack the Northernmen. Their representative must be in pain somewhere from his people's idiocy. The thought made Sweden smile.
He could hear Denmark somewhere behind him, laughing manically as he released a prisoner to hunt down and kill in the snowy forests. He'd been invited to join but declined. Later he'd find his own prisoner to either hunt or torture in some other way, but for now he was content to simply relax and revel in the death and pain.
Death wound around Sweden like an affectionate cat begging food, and the Norseman was more than willing to feed it.
