It was a four day march from Eitrivatnen to the Walled City, all of it through open country and sloping hills until distant mountain peaks rose up towards the sky to break the horizon. Mount Ignis sat nestled within the range that separated Ashfeld's warm climate from the Myre's vast marshlands and swamps. Its smoking peak rose high up into the sky, like an angry dragon bellowing its fiery wrath to the world. Even before the sun set at the end of the first day of marching, the volcano could be seen far off in the hazy distance, as if beckoning the horde to finally come and face its fabled might.
The Viking horde wasted little time in their endeavor to reach the volcano. So vast was the barbaric host as it marched forth from the conquered walls of Eitrivatnen that it covered the land for miles like the great World Serpent surrounding Midgard. It snaked and coiled its way through small patches of trees and rising hills, trampling the earth under marching feet until a great cloud of dust heralded its coming along with the clamor of steel, war songs and galloping horses.
There was no helping any who were caught in the horde's path, as with each lonely farm and homestead that stood between the harbor and the volcano was swallowed up like prey devoured up by a voracious beast.
Marcelo frowned as he looked out across the grassy fields to this newest farmstead in sight of the march, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut as the mass of riled up Bilrost Vikings made their way to the small cluster of homes. It had been decided back in Eitrivatnen that the Lion Flame would once again be divided into three groups for the march, each remaining with the same clan they had sailed with across the lake to take the harbor. Surprisingly, he didn't mind remaining under Jarl Herleif's command. The northern ruler seemed a fair enough man for a heathen savage, and it was clear that he was well respected by those that followed him. If only those warriors, the wild Berserkers in particular, could show more restraint when dealing with those who had the misfortune of simply being stuck in the middle of their war.
"Do you think there is a chance of convincing them to leave this farm alone?" he asked Priscilla as she stood next to him, the rest of their party just behind.
"You are no fool, Marcelo," she said in a quiet, but biting tone. She had been in a foul mood since their departure from Eitrivatnen, and the time spent marching had done little to soften her edge. "The Vikings will take what they want from this place, and we will be there just to make sure no one plays a hero and tries to stop them. Same as the last farm, and the one before that." She had been put back in command of those Knights marching with Herleif, but there was some talk that she was allowed to remain in such a position purely by Jarl Erik's command, not Lady Judith's. Tension between the Warden commander and the secretive Peacekeeper had only mounted since the fall of the Eitrivatnen, and the rest of of the legion was beginning to take notice of how Priscilla was being even more reclusive then usual.
"I guess you have given up on heroes now, haven't you?" he said, not bothering to try and hide the dissatisfaction in his voice.
Priscilla's head turned towards him ever so slightly, but whatever spiteful or indifferent look she gave him was hidden behind her helmet. She walked off towards the farmstead without saying a word, gesturing for the other Knights to follow, with Coal quick at her heels. Marcelo was not surprised.
The organized column of marching Vikings that had left through the gates of Eitrivatnen had barely lasted into midday before it had spread out into an unruly mass of rambling warriors, so even though Herleif's clan made up the tail end of the horde they covered a wide span of area, acting like a net to catch any farm left untouched by the other two clans that had gone before them. Marcelo and the other Lion Flame Knights fanned out as they approached the farmstead, keeping a wary eye as they became mingled with the more jovial Vikings eager to strip the farm bare of whatever bounty they could find.
"Keep pace!" he called back over his shoulder to a few Knights who were lagging behind. It was important that they were present when the Vikings came into the small farm, to try and keep the peace between anyone who might fight back and the savages who would undoubtedly welcome the challenge with steel.
Suddenly he was hit by a sturdy weight from the side, his head yanked downward before he could look to see who it was as a strong arm came around his neck and held him tight. "Afraid to miss out on the looting, lion boy?" came Ragnar's excited voice, followed quickly by a loud bark of laughter as he knocked his knuckles on the top Marcelo's helmet.
"Unhand me, sir!" Marcelo grunted, pushing at the wild man until he finally got himself free. He stumbled backward, fumbling with his longsword before deciding to point an accusing finger in Ragnar's face instead. "We are not here to loot! But we will make sure that you and your horde don't cause any unnecessary damage, mark my words!"
Ragnar leaned back, unperturbed by the threat as he simply turned and squinted across the field at the farmstead ahead of them. There were many Berserkers that fought under Herleif's command, but none had proven to be so wild or bothersome as Ragnar and his vicious sister, along with that uncanny Shaman they were always around. He blew air out between his lips, clearly unimpressed with what he saw. "This place hardly seems worth the trouble. Probably not even a cup's worth of gold coins in the entire place."
Marcelo looked to the farmstead as well, feeling much the same if he was honest. The few buildings that made up the houses and barns were small, but looked well made. It was likely that the people who lived here were relatively new to this area, come to work the land after suffering one hardship or another in this war-torn world. They might have some wealth hidden away in their homes, built up over a generation or two, but it was to the land itself that Marcelo looked for the farm's true value.
Removing his helmet, he slipped it under his arm and wiped back some of his blonde hair that fell down over his brow and ignoring the feeling of Ragnar's eyes on him. Getting down onto one knee, he dug his fingers into the ground and easily scooped up a clump of dark soil to show the Berserker. "This is good land," he said, holding the dirt to his nose and taking a smell of the rich earthy scent. "We are close enough to the volcano that the ground is very fertile. These people have done well to farm this spot. I am sure that their fields are always full and the crops well grown. They should have have more than enough to spare for our march to the volcano." He tossed the clump of dirt up to Ragnar, who snatched it out of the air and took his own deep sniff, leaving specks of dark soil in his beard.
"What would a Knight know about farming?" he asked somewhat suspiciously. "I thought all of you shiny bastards were rich lords? Far too stuffed-up and noble to do peasant's work."
Marcelo grinned, a small swell of pride warming his chest. "My father was a farmer," he said softly, looking fondly over at the farmstead. "He had a farm much like this, growing barley and wheat. I helped him for a time when I was young. He taught me much of how to work the land, which fields to plant first and how to judge when was the best time to start the harvest. It was quiet, but a fine life." His voice trailed away then, the pride he had first felt overcome now by sadness as he thought back on the past. After a moment he realized that Ragnar was just staring at him, waiting for him to finish, and he realized that he was actually afraid he might cause Ragnar offense by telling him the truth. That thought made his feelings change yet again to anger and shame. "Until he was killed by a Viking raiding party," he said boldly, his eyes holding Ragnar's. "I was only twelve at the time, but I can still remember. He and a few farmhands tried to fight them off, but he was no warrior. He still fought though, long enough for me to make a run for it and escape. Long enough to make sure that I would live."
Ragnar's face was hard to read, neither apologetic or cruel behind the metal face plate he wore. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short as his eyes darted towards someone else approaching. Marcelo turned just in time to see the man's sister, Ragna, as she came up and knocked him aside with her shoulder while she moved past. Along with her came the Shaman as well, her eyes fixed on Marcelo even as she took the handful of dirt from Ragnar's hands and gave her own sniff.
"What a pathetically heartbreaking tale," Ragna growled, circling around to stand at her brother's side. "Funny though, it reminds me very much of another story that I've heard. Can you think of it, brother?" Ragnar said nothing, only glowering at his sister as if he was just as displeased to see her as Marcelo. "No? Let me think then. Oh yes! It was when our mother was slaughtered during one of Ashfeld's daft holy crusades into the north," she sneered, spitting the words. "Only we were still just little babes then, with no fine memories of farming and rolling in the dirt to look back on. Not that either of us give a flying fuck." She took a step closer to Marcelo, baring her teeth. "No one cares for your bleeding heart, Knight. Its just one more farm. Such a little, forgotten thing. What does it even matter anymore?"
Marcelo held her gaze, jaw clenched and lips tight. He wanted to tell her that it would always matter to him, that for as long as he still breathed and could wield a sword that he would always defend those who could not do it themselves. But he knew at the end of the day this farm would be stripped bare and the people sent to join the others in Eitrivatnen. Ragna looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
She gave him a grunt of disgust, then turned sharply and snatched Helge's hand in hers. The small Shaman gave a short laugh as she was pulled along, looking up at Marcelo with wide blue eyes. "Pretty," she said, looking back at him over her shoulder as she and Ragna walked hand in hand to the farm they would plunder together.
Marcelo was left frowning harder then ever as he watched them go, feeling unsettled and demoralized by the brief exchange. He felt hurt, wounded somehow, like Ragna had cut him in a way he hadn't been expecting. "She's always been angry," came Ragnar's voice then, soft and unsure. Marcelo blinked at him, not sure what he was getting at. "My sister, she has trouble with her anger," Ragnar continued. "She is a Berserker to be sure, but her strength comes from more than just Odin's power and spirits of the wild." He stared at the ground, shrugging his shoulders and kicking at the ground where he stood. "I was angry too, when our mother was killed. But Ragna, she holds onto it. I don't think she knows how to live without it anymore."
The discomfort Marcelo felt gave way to a cold numbness that washed over him, his heart aching for both himself and the heathen beside him. It was as if he understood Ragnar's meaning, but felt all the more awful for it. "I suppose we all have some pain in our past. All been hurt in ways that seem impossible to heal. Here in Ashfeld we call it a casualty of war, and pretend that there is glory to be found continuing with our feuds when there is only more pain instead."
Ragnar gave a small nod, his eyes flicking up to Marcelo for a brief moment then back down. "Do we wish to hurt each other now?"
Marcelo sighed, looking towards the farmstead. A number of Vikings were just now making it to the collection of houses along with a few Knights. There were four houses and three barns, most covered with thatched rooftops and whitewashed walls. It looked to be a simple, quiet community, and he could already see some of the farmers stepping out of their homes, some with weapons in hand. This could very well just be another farm pillaged and burned, people's lives destroyed or left scarred forever. Such was the way of things between the people of Heathmoor. No matter how terrible things became, there was never any change.
"No," he said at last, returning Ragnar's nod with one of his own. "Now is not the time to make new enemies by opening up old wounds." Ragnar managed to give a comforting smile at that, and together they continued on across the field to find what wealth or danger awaited them at the farm.
By the time they reached the farmstead the commotion of looting and chaos already filled the air. The warriors of Bilrost swarmed the farmstead like flies to a corpse, forcing their way into the homes and barns and driving anyone they found out into the open. Sharing a look between them, Ragnar broke off to join up with his sister and the other Vikings in ransacking the farm houses, while Marcelo went with the other Knights to deal with the farmers who had gathered together in the farmstead's defense.
"It matters not how long you have been farming here. Tell everyone to gather what they can carry and prepare to depart for Eitrivatnen," Priscilla said firmly to a tall man of middle years as Marcelo approached the group. The farmer scowled down at her, clearly trying to put on a brave face even though he had a sword in hand. No doubt standing face to face with a Peacekeeper, a Knight more akin to an illusive specter than a noble warrior, was an unnerving experience for a simple farmer.
"What exactly are we supposed to gather, my lady?" he asked her, pointing over towards the houses that were currently being ransacked by the Vikings.
The sound of belongings and furniture being upturned and thrown around could clearly be heard coming from within the homes. A few Vikings were already moving in and out of the houses carrying crates full of loot to be taken back to the horde, gathering everything together in a pile to be sorted between what would go back to their ships and what would be needed on the march. There were the usual fine treasures, any silver or jewelry, rugs and clothing not already taken by the Pyre. But there were also crates of tools, plates and cutlery, simple goblets and warm blankets piled high. Nothing seemed to be off limits, especially given the march and siege that lay ahead of them.
"There will be nothing left to take," accused the man. "Are we to be destitute in a big city that cares not for us the moment we arrive?" Behind him cowered the man's family, a wife who clutched onto a daughter tightly, along with a son who scowled as if he wished that it was him holding the sword. There were other families as well, and what looked to be a few haggard looking farmhands who stood alone. Some of them were armed with weapons that looked too fine to belong to a simple farmer, longswords and well crafted knives. Some looked to be injured as well, the bandages they wore looking fresh. "This is our home, good lady. You can't expect us to give up everything we have and just go?"
"It will not be forever," Priscilla told him, refusing to concede, "just long enough until the Pyre is dealt with. Once they are defeated the Vikings will take their leave, and you can return and live out your lives peacefully again. You just have to give us time."
The farmer hung his head, running a dirty hand over a balding head. "I already told you miss, we've dealt with the damned fire worshipers ourselves. You coming here and letting a pack of heathens to drive us from our homes and steal our possessions hardly makes you our saviors now."
Marcelo again looked to the sword in the farmers hands. It appeared to be well made, and even had a few small nicks along the edges from recent use. He looked around to the faces of the men and women, seeing the tired and weary look of battle in their eyes. Clearly they had seen some harsh days, most still living with dark memories fresh in their mind. "That is a Warden's sword, is it not?" he asked the farmer. The man averted his gaze for a moment, but then nodded. "Where did you get it?"
The farmer turned back to the men and women behind him, all sharing a look of some hesitation before silently settling on some sort of decision together. "Over here," the farmer said, gesturing towards a nearby barn before leading the way. Marcelo, Priscilla and the other Knights followed after him, until the man took hold of the barn door handle and pulled it open. The scene of blood and death that lay inside was something that Marcelo had actually been expecting given how the farmer was acting, but seeing it tucked away in this quiet little place like a guilty secret still took the breath from him nonetheless.
"They came for the farm three months before the legions retreated back to Waterstop and Brute's Bend. We've been toiling under their rule ever since. Taken almost our whole harvest this past year for themselves, to feed their mad followers back at the foot of the volcano," said the farmer, gazing sadly into the barn where the still corpses of four Pyre Knights lay in a row. They still wore their dark armor, dried blood caked thickly between the plates and mail where the farmers had managed to land their death blows. "Nearly worked us to death, they did. Coming into our lives calling themselves our masters, demanding that we bow down in worship to their holy mountain. Punishing us if we did not. I admit, I said prayers that I did not believe in and filled my heart with shame. I'm not proud of it, saying those things just to save my own neck from the edge of their swords."
"You killed these men all on your own?" Priscilla asked him coldly, almost as if she didn't quite believe the farmer.
"These cold-hearted bastards got what they deserved!" shouted the farmer, his wizened face scrunching up in a rush of rage and hate. "Two days ago one of their riders came from the harbor. He spoke not to us but got this lot all riled up in some sort of frenzy. Now I know it was all because of what you did. They started to round us up, fixing to take us to the Walled City I think. But something happened before we could be off." The man's burning rage slipped away, his resolve faltering as he took in a shaky breath. "My eldest son came out of one of the barns, covered in blood. He looked scared, so scared, but they didn't care. When they checked the barn they found one of their own dead, stabbed in the neck. I don't know how, but they blamed my son, so they came for him. Came for us." His voice grew quiet and meek, eyes red and brimming with tears. "We had to fight then. They were going to kill us all. Burn us alive they said, after all we had done for them. I had to fight, for my son... oh, my son. My poor boy..."
Marcelo caught the farmer by his shoulders just before he collapsed, managing to keep him on his feet. "Steady man. Steady," he urged softly, trying to console the man as he wept. "You have suffered as no man should." He looked then to the Pyre bodies in the barn, and listened with rising anger as the farmer's sobs mingled with the clamor of the Vikings ongoing pillaging behind them. "This will not be just another farm. I swear it. On my oath as a Warden, I swear that the pain you have suffered will not be cast aside and forgotten."
The farmer looked back at him, some light returning to his eyes, but it was clear that by now he was just tired and broken from trying to be brave when there had been no on else to depend on. It was the duty of all Knights of Ashfeld to fight for their people, but there had been no one to stand for this man and his family. Now not one, but two armies were taking what they wished from these people, and Marcelo could hardly bear the shame.
Helping the man down to the ground as easy as he could, Marcelo let him lean up against the barn door to rest. The farmer's stolen sword lay idly in his limp hand, but Marcelo bid him to hold it tight once again, squeezing the rough farmer's hands around the smooth leather of the grip and bringing the hilt up to the man's chest. "This sword is meant to be wielded by Wardens who have sworn to defend those who cannot defend themselves," Marcelo said softly. "But for the betrayal that the owner of this sword committed, choosing tyranny over service, I say that it belongs to you now without question. You have protected your family and your home with honor, good sir. This sword is yours to hold with strength and pride, always."
The farmer's jaw clenched tight, more tears rolling down his wrinkled face. But he managed to hold his chin higher, giving a confident nod as he held Marcelo's gaze.
Marcelo smiled and nodded, squeezing the man's shoulder warmly. "Make sure that this man and his family are cared for," he said to his fellow Knights, rising to his feet. "Once the Vikings are gone, help them back into their homes. No one will be forced to leave here today." He waited until he was sure there was no objection to his command, and was pleased to see how quickly some moved to carry out his will, with two of them already taking a knee to console the farmer. He turned away to head back to the houses, intent on dealing with the injustice that had gripped this place for far too long, when he was stopped by Priscilla grabbing his arm.
"What are you doing Marcelo?" she hissed at him. "This is not the plan."
He yanked his arm free and continued on, simply calling back over his shoulder. "What we should have been doing all along. The right thing."
Leaving Priscilla behind him, Marcelo marched on the the cluster of houses, longsword held at his side. There was a small part of him that feared he was making a mistake, putting himself in danger and causing more problems then solving them. Their deal with the Vikings had been made out of desperation, and they would have to live with the consequences of those actions when this war was done, but that did not excuse sitting idle while good people suffered one cruelty after another. His oath as a Warden wouldn't allow it, and as far as he was concerned anyone who believed that the end of this war justified the means on which it was won could rot in Hell with the rest of the damned cultists.
Approaching the closest house, Marcelo ran into Ragnar yet again just as the man appeared from within, holding a small bucket full of cutlery in his arms. He smiled to see Marcelo outside the door, proudly showing him what he had found. "Those Pyre dogs have already stripped this place good and dry of most anything shiny. But look," he said, giving a wide smile as he held up a small fork like some sort of grand prize, "A whole bucket of food spears! Perfect for stabbing little bits of meat!"
"Put that down. Or better yet, put it right back where you found it," Marcelo said, trying to put some sense of authority in his voice. It scared him to think that Ragnar might actually feel nothing for killing him over a bucket full of eating utensils, and the savage power of a Berserker's wrath was surely enough of a reason to just turn and walk away. His hands were shaking, making him hold onto his sword and helmet tighter to hide it, but he convinced himself in the end to stand his ground.
Ragnar's smile quickly slipped away from his lips, replaced by a confused and rather displeased frown. "Why?" he asked suspiciously, hugging the bucket of forks and knives to him like some sort of spoiled child not wanting to give up a toy. "They're mine, I found them."
"You did not. You stole it, and you know very well that none of this belongs to you," Marcelo retorted with a nod towards the pile of loot that had been gathered together. "These good people have suffered enough, and fought hard for what little they have left after the Pyre took control of their lives. It would be wrong to take anything more from them now. Cruel even."
From the look on Ragnar's face, the man was clearly having trouble following that train of thought. "But this is a raid," he said hesitantly, truly trying to give it some thought. "We need to return home with loot and treasure to show that we were successful on our raid. Otherwise how would people know that we went on a raid?"
"I did not come here to see my people suffer." The edge came easier to Marcelo's voice this time, but it was clear from the way that Ragnar's eyes flashed that he had taken a step closer towards choosing violence. Pressing his lips tight in frustration, he took a breath and tried again. "I gave these people my word, Ragnar. A man has lost his son. They fought the Pyre on their own here, and won. We cannot take anymore from them after all that has happened here. I refuse to allow it."
"But this is our way," Ragnar said pointedly. "We are Vikings."
"I am not Viking!" Marcelo shouted harshly, unable to control himself as his anger flared. Ragnar took a step back, but quickly gave a snarl, eyes flaring as he bristled with his own growing fury. He still held the bucket of cutlery in his arms, but his fingers clawed sharply at the wooden surface, the muscles in his forearms tight and bulging beneath his skin. Marcelo saw the fight in him, knowing that this was the last moment between peace and blood.
Taking his longsword, he lifted it up and drove the blade's point into the ground before him, leaving it upright in the earth as his hand rose to rest gently on Ragnar's shoulder. "But I will still fight by your side, no matter what devilry the Pyre throws against us." He looked deep into Ragnar's eyes, opening his soul to a man who would have once been his sworn enemy, a man who's every belief stood against his own. "I will fight with you, as one warrior stands beside another. This I swear. So please, please Ragnar, help me protect my people now."
Ragnar blinked at Marcelo in surprise, his lips parted with silent uncertainty. Glancing at the hand on his shoulder, the rising anger that had threatened to take hold of him seemed to fade away, like a growling pet put at ease by a soft and familiar touch. "You would fight me over this?" Ragnar asked, looking back at Marcelo.
Marcelo felt his face grow hot, his heart gripped by cold resignation that there might be no other way past this other then coming to blows. Drawing his hand back, he slowly slipped his fingers around the grip of his sword again, drawing it free from the dirt with a jerk. "It is not what I want," he said, voice flat but firm, his gaze hard and unwavering. "But if you stand against me on this, I will fight you."
The silence that lasted between them seemed to stretch on and on. Marcelo's fingers tightened around his sword, the metal plates of his gauntlet clicking faintly as he looked hard into Ragnar's eyes. The Berserker stared right back, gaze unflinching, hands tense around the bucket he clung to. For a man that seemed to twitch with wild agitation all hours of the day, Ragnar stood incredibly still now, putting Marcelo even more on edge for any movement that might spark off a confrontation.
Then at last Ragnar suddenly relaxed, the tension just slipping from his body like water poured from a bucket. "I do not think I will fight you, lion boy," he sighed, calmly turning to set the bucket back inside through the doorway. While his back was turned, Marcelo released the breath that he had been holding, his whole body feeling relieved of some unseen weight bearing down on him. "It is strange, but I feel it in my heart that Odin does not wish us to fight. I do not wish it. I know that you do not believe in the Allfather's love, but somehow that does not seem to matter right now," Ragnar said, looking back at Marcelo with a tight smile.
"Perhaps not," Marcelo said with a grin, so incredibly relieved that he had come to an understanding with a Berserker of all people. "But I know how it feels to do the right thing. To stand and fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. To put those who trust in you, rely on you, before yourself. Or at least I try to, in all aspects of my life. That is what being a good Warden, a good man, means to me." Sticking his sword back into the ground, sure now that he had no need for it, and set his helmet over the pommel as he stepped forward to extend an open hand to Ragnar. "Whatever beliefs you hold are yours to have. I do not seek to change them, not after all that has happened. I am just glad that we can come together now in this moment as good men."
Ragnar let out an amused bark of laughter, ignoring the offered hand entirely and clapping both of his own against Marcelo's cheeks. "I do not know about any of that," he said with a bright smile, "but I know that I am glad to be here with you now. You are a funny little man, Marcelo, but indeed I think you are a good one. I have never met a Knight who's company I have enjoyed so much before, but for a farmer's son you are not bad. We will kill many other Knights together when we reach the volcano, I am sure."
Marcelo blushed as Ragnar cradled his face, feeling the rough palms and fingers against his skin. "Oh, well, thank you. We will do what we must to put down the cultists, of course," he said. Ragnar laughed again, releasing Marcelo's head and squeezing his shoulders instead. Marcelo laughed with him, and felt all the better for it.
The sharp crack of a door being kicked open abruptly caught their attention, their heads turning in unison to a small house across the way. Ragna had appeared from within, carrying a small chest and wearing a wolf's grin. Helge followed after her, cradling a number of small pouches in her arms. "We found their hold! These dirty peasants were swimming in treasure the whole time!" Ragna shouted with glee. The other Vikings all gave a cheer, forgetting their own unimpressive loot for the chest. "They buried it deep beneath the floor to hide it. Those volcano worshipers don't know how to raid a farm properly it seems."
"Too busy with their heads up their own ass, searching for their shitty god to look for anything else," laughed Helge, bouncing her arms to make the pouches full of coin jingle and clink.
The sight of the two women reveling in their plunder made Marcelo's heart drop into his stomach. A cold wave of apprehension washed over him, fearing that the small truce he and Ragnar had settled would all be undone. Habit made him reach once again for his helmet and sword, but before he could shout out a declaration of challenge, Ragnar stepped forward.
"No!" shouted the wild man, holding up a hand to halt his sister and Helge. "Leave it be! We take nothing this day!" All eyes turned on Ragnar in puzzlement, not that he seemed to notice. Ragna's eyes locked onto her brother, a look of surprised anger gripping her face.
"The fuck?" she shouted back, marching towards her brother with the chest and Helge in toe. "What do you mean we take nothing? Its just laying here! What weak little sheep fucker said so?" Her enraged eyes were already darting towards Marcelo, making him take pause before drawing his sword.
"Marcelo said so," Ragnar smiled, earning a hateful snarl from Ragna. "And me. I say so too. We are being good men today." Ragna's murderous gaze switched over to her brother in an instant, making Ragnar shrink back to Marcelo's side. "Uh, and women. Men and women. The point is that we shall all be good. That is what we have decided."
"You would let this spineless whelp fill your head with this shit?" Ragna groaned, rolling her eyes. "Brother, you do not need to agree with every man that lets you plow their backside. Just forget him and lets do what we came here to do."
"I beg your pardon?" Marcelo piped up, his eyes going wide, but Ragna ignored him.
"You know our traditions. We take what we want and kill anyone who gets in our way."
"It's not like that this time," Ragnar retorted with a small shake of his head. He and Marcelo glanced at each other for a moment, only to quickly look away. "There will be no killing now. We leave the loot and move on to the Walled City, where the true treasure waits."
"It is a lot of heavy things to carry," Helge offered up, her wide eyes darting between the three of them as she jingled the coin pouches in her arms. "To be honest the voices don't care much for gold anyway. You can't eat it, can't bleed it. Can't rip its soul into a thousand pieces to suffer for all eternity..."
"That is not the point," Ragna hissed, rounding on the smaller woman.
Marcelo saw that as his moment to cut in, standing up a bit straighter next to Ragnar. "The point is that we will leave these people be and focus our efforts against the enemy that truly deserves to be put down." Ragna slowly turned to face him, a glowering, unamused frown on her face as he spoke, but Marcelo would not be deterred, no matter how frightening the she-wolf was. "The suffering of my countrymen ends today. Take what treasure you like from the vault of the Walled City, but these good folk will be thrown into the dirt no longer. We take what food we need for the march and we go. That is all."
Ragna remained eerily silent for a long moment as she stared at him and sneered, making Marcelo worry that the noble words that had managed to make her brother come around would not have the same effect now. "What did I tell you about your bleeding heart, tin man?" she growled at last, taking a threatening step forward that made Marcelo draw his sword from the earth. But before things could take a turn for the worse Ragnar put himself into his sister's path, shoving her back and getting right up in her face with wide, manic eyes.
"I said no, Ragna," he grunted sharply, teeth bared beneath his braided mustache and beard. Ragna quickly recovered from the shove and snarled right back in her brother's face, the chest pressed up tight between them as the metal faceplates they wore clinked together while they butted heads. They growled at each other like feuding beasts, each trying to intimidate the other into backing down. "I said no," Ragnar said again, tendons flexing in his hands as he reached down to the twin axes at his side.
Marcelo watched on in stunned amazement, wondering whether their sibling bond would win out in the end, or if he was about to witness something terrible happen right before his eyes. Helge looked unsure of what to do as well, wearing a strained look of distress as her two lovers appeared ready to start going for each others throats at any moment. Neither of the twins backed down, and for a moment Marcelo actually contemplated letting them keep the gold if they would just settle down and walk away from each other without any harm caused.
In the end it almost didn't even register with Marcelo that Ragna turned away, not until she let out her unbridled frustration with a single sharp scream that echoed up into the sky. Spinning on her heel, she took the chest full of locked away treasure and hurled it at the house she had found it in. The solid wood and metal framed box soared through the air and slammed into the small house, smashing a chunk of white plaster from its wall and tumbling to the dirt. A heavy silence fell over the farmstead as all watched on, threatening to strangle them all in the growing tension fed by Ragna's anger. Then Helge took the pouches in her arms and tossed them up into the air, giving a little jump like a girl throwing flower petals into the sky. She gave a short laugh and watched the purses hang weightless in the air, until she had to duck out of the way before all they all tumbled back down to knock her on the head.
Stepping over the fallen purses, Ragna snatched Helge's hand and began to pull her away, grumbling terrible curses under her breath as she went. Marcelo couldn't say that he was sad to see her go, but he was glad that they were parting on at least somewhat peaceful terms, if not good ones. He spared a look of appreciation towards Ragnar for intervening, only to realize that Helge had resisted Ragna's summons and was gazing up at him with a thoughtful grin. He blinked back, unsure if this was some sort of Shaman's trick to catch him with her strange and savage beauty before attacking and biting out his throat.
"You..." she said, slowly drawing out the word as she reached up towards his face with her hand. Marcelo leaned back, but Helge wouldn't relent, stretching her fingers upward until they gently curled into the long locks of his golden hair. "...have a good heart. I like that." Her smile grew wider, more playful, her fingers falling to lightly caress his crimson hued cheek before slipping away. Marcelo stared dumbly back down at her, too stunned to say anything as his lips remained parted with bated breath.
Ragna looked on too, her displeasure growing with each passing moment. She yanked on Helge's hand again, pulling the Shaman from where she had been rooted before Marcelo. Helge gave a little stumble, but followed her lover away from the forsaken pile of loot, leaving the farmstead behind them to rejoin with the rest of the horde still on the move. Helge looked back over her shoulder as they went, giving that same playful smile before turning away for good.
Marcelo watched her go for longer then he might have liked to admit, the heat on his face only growing as he realized how captured he had been over the simple touch of a savage woman. "What was that?" he asked Ragnar softly, trying his best to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but felt the awkward twitch they gave as he failed.
Ragnar looked back at him with an amused glint in his eye, his smile much more jovial and free as he let out a long breath. "Could be that she likes you, could be that she wants to rip out your heart and eat it. Could be both, who knows?"
"I want to know," Marcelo said with an exasperated laugh. "I would very much like to know which it is!" The two laughed together then, Ragnar clapping Marcelo on the back. "Thank you Ragnar," Marcelo said with a smile, his spirits soaring for the first time in what felt like countless months. "This means something to me, and I will not forget it. Savage though you may be, you are a warrior I will be proud to fight beside when the time comes."
Ragnar pressed his lips together and gave a little nod as he watched the rest of the Vikings leaving the farmstead as well, the pile of loot they had gathered sitting out in the open and abandoned. "It is no easy thing to do this, but I understand that we fight together for a greater purpose now. Odin will deliver us a great battle for this sacrifice, one that will put our names into sagas all over this land. Mighty warriors will sing of our deeds, and raise their horns to the heroes that brought the volcano worshipers to their knees!" Laughing again, Ragnar regarded Marcelo with an amused smirk and reached up to gently pat the same cheek Helge had touched before. "Call me a savage again though, and I will teach you a whole new meaning of the word, lion boy." he grinned, patting Marcelo's cheek again with a bit more force before walking off to join his clan, chuckling as he went.
Marcelo felt his face tingle from the feeling of Ragnar's calloused but warm hand, raising his own metal and leather covered fingers to touch at his skin. How strange it was to think that after so long seeing the Viking clans of the north as a terrible enemy to fight and defend his home against, such things couldn't be further from his mind now as he watched Ragnar walk away. "As you wish, good sir," he said softly to himself, smiling like a fool. "As you wish."
Letting out a rather happy sigh, Marcelo noticed the rest of the Lion Flame Knights approaching with the farmers. The sight of the Vikings leaving their homes and belongings behind must have been a strange sight to them, perhaps even giving them a sense of hope that they had never expected to feel. Did they know how close things had come to that hope being dashed away? Or what bonds of fellowship had been made all from coming across this small, insignificant little farm? He supposed that it didn't matter, not to these people. All that mattered was that good men had stood up for them when they needed it most, and for Marcelo that was enough.
Raising his hand in greeting, he and his fellow Knights set about settling the farmers and their belongings back into their homes.