It all started innocuously enough. Toot Toot, travelling troubadour and blood-soaked berserker, met her future companions at an official gathering organized by the High King of Wherever the Fuck they all happened to be (Ceolbert, being the good boy that he was, carefully noted every bullshit name Hunwald threw their way, but Eivor was not so fussy about details). Things had—predictably—gone to shit when a magic-induced explosion had torn through the hall, killing a number of important dignitaries as well as the king himself ("Did you steal that idea from Dragon Age of all things?" Oswald had asked, which had prompted Hunwald to redden and sputter, "S-Shut it, will you!")

Toot Toot and her fellow adventurers had been tasked with finding the culprits behind this terrible incident by the Royal Chancellor, who also happened to be the Archmage of the king's court ("Oh, that guy is evil for sure," Eivor had commented. "A politician as well as a wizard? Rotten to the core, I tell you.")

For days, the party had followed the same lead, which had gone from fairly warm to frigid as a nun's wet farts. As they dicked around in search of more clues, Toot Toot and her companions met an increasing number of people on the road; refugees fleeing the arrival of a great army, it seemed. Even as Hunwald described in great purple prose the depths of their misery, the horror of all they had witnessed, Eivor found herself sporting a madcap grin, pounding her palm with one fist. "Finally, some action!" she—or, more precisely, Toot Toot—had cried out. "My blood needs warming up for Chrissake—er, I mean, for Bahamut's sake."

"For one more day, you trudge through the throngs of travellers," said Hunwald (Sweet baby Jesus, but that alliteration; boy seemed proud of it, smug, even.) "The farther you go, the more the roads start to clear. The people are gone; the surrounding villages are empty. Where have they gone, you wonder? Then, in the distance, you hear a strange commotion…" He made the sound, a soft, drumming-like kind of noise. "Scipio, you might remember what it is… if you manage your history check, that is."

Ceolbert rolled his twenty-sided dice. "A fifteen," he told his brother.

"Then it is easily recognizable to your soldier's ear. That is not one, but two armies on the march. And they are very close indeed…"

"I can go ahead to scout," said Hytham. "I have to make a… er, what was it again?"

"Stealth check," said Ceolbert, as helpful as ever. "Followed by a perception check, if I'm not mistaken."

"I've got twenty-two," Hytham announced. "And… seventeen?"

"You easily make your way forward," narrated Hunwald, "unseen by any prying eye. Safely hidden atop of the hill, you spot your quarry: two great seas of soldiers spreading as far as the eye can see, amassing over both sides of a river. You recognize the standard of the army that is closest to you: that's the two-headed eagle and three golden crowns of Mercianglia. And across from them, you see…" He made a dramatic motion with his arms, loudly announcing, "Why, but a great horde of Orcs are facing the brave warriors of your kingdom! Filthy, screaming Orcs by the thousands, thumping on their shields loud enough to drown out the thunder rolling over the horizon! You feel the blood leaving your cheeks, your mounting dread leaving you frozen on the spot. By all the gods, but you've never seen such an armada!"

"Maybe they're not our enemies," Eivor said, with a shrug. "Maybe we can all hold hands and dance and sing Kumbaya together."

"Orcs are Chaotic Evil by nature," Ceolbert explained.

"Well, that's stupidly reductive, innit?" Eivor shot back. "And goddamn racist." Then, with an evil grin, she said, "Well, c'mon, we shouldn't just stand around, limp dicks in hand. Let's go kill the bastards."

"We can't just rush in," Tewdwr sputtered; for some reason, he always sputtered whenever he was around Eivor, as if her very presence made the words all jumble in his mouth or something. "That would be suicide."

Randvi steepled her hands together; she must have been about to use that great big brain of hers to concoct some genius strategy. Nice. And very, very sexy of her. "There must be a bridge, yes?" she said. "If we make the river overflow, that will force our enemies through a choke point. That will remove the advantage they have through superior numbers."

Ceolbert raised his hand. "I can control or create a certain amount of water, yes. Oswald, do you have anything that could help? Usually, druids have that kind of spell too."

For some reason, the latter was fiddling on his phone, eyes glued to the screen. Eivor cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, "Earth to Oz boy! Bertie asked a question, you dolt."

"Wh-what?" Oswald squeaked, so startled by her shout that he damn near yeeted his phone over his shoulder. His cheeks were a brilliant shade of pink. "O-Of course, yes, I can cast water spells, I-I can help, yep, yep, yep…"

"Good," Randvi said. "Then that's settled. I will take the front with Eiv—Toot Toot while you boys handle the river. Akhom, you will provide ranged support. Myradin… keep an eye out for wounded, will you?"

Everyone the table met her gaze, before nodding to give their assent. Ceolbert was looking at Randvi with one of his rare, faint smiles. "Randvi, that was a brilliant idea. We might have a chance yet, thanks to you."

"Keep that praise coming," she said, and Eivor immediately thought, oh yes, oh yes I will.

"Then your strategy is decided?" said Hunwald. "Alright, alright! Time to roll out that battle map!"

The 'battle map' was a nightmare that harkened all the way back to those geometry classes Eivor had hated so fucking much in primary school. It was like someone had taken graph paper and decided, 'oh, hey, make it span the whole of a table, huh, why the fuck not.' With washable marker pens, Hunwald drew the outline of a river, then placed a number of tiny figurines on each side of it. "There are your allies," he said, pointing at one group, "and these are the Orcs currently stuck on the other side of the river."

"Is it time to roll initiative?" asked Ceolbert.

"Patience, young padawan, patience!" Hunwald motioned at six figurines huddled in a corner of the battle map. "Your characters start here, at the top of the hill, some hundred feet away from the rest of the battlefield. You will have to run if you want to reach your allies in time." After a slight pause, deliberately added to rack up the tension, he announced, "Alright, people, roll for initiative!"

Ceolbert and Oswald were up first, which was lucky. Together, the lads made the waters of the river surge with nature's fury, blocking the advance of the Orcs, who instead were forced through the bridge, as Randvi had predicted. Then came Hytham's turn.

"Akhom," said Hunwald, "you're at the back of the group, still hidden from view. What do you want to do?"

"Can I spot the commander? Or at least whoever seems to be in charge of the Orc army?"

Hunwald had him roll a perception check. It was a success. "Why, you can't miss him. The Orc leader is twice as large as the other ones—and as twice as mean-looking too. With some horror, you notice that he wears the skulls of his enemies around his neck in a grisly trophy, and that his face is smeared with the still fresh blood of the innocent. Why, but he seems a formidable foe indeed!"

"I wanna fight him," Eivor said, and Tewdwr rolled his eyes, because of course he did, the tight-arsed wanker. "In an epic duel, man to—Orc to teeny, tiny lizard lady. How can I get to 'im?"

Randvi turned to her. Her grin was most decidedly un-Randvi-like. "I could throw you over the river with my shield. Like in that first Wonder Woman movie—you know, at the beginning, when the Amazons are fighting against those German soldiers?"

Of course Eivor remembered. Of course she did. Who the hell could ever forget that shot of Robin Wright in the air, shooting three blokes in one go like she was some bonafide Greek goddess put on film for glorious posterity? Eivor was dumb, but she wasn't that dumb.

She bounced her eyebrows, making finger guns at Randvi. "I like the sound of that, I do."

"Eivor, you're probably half his size," Ceolbert countered, ever the sensible one.

"Make me bigger, then. You still have that Enlarge spell, right?"

"Then Randvi wouldn't be able to throw you, Eivor, she's strong, but—"

"You cast it just as I jump from the shield. Bam, problem solved."

"That wouldn't make any sense, physics-wise," said that wet blanket Tewdwr. "You'd drop down the moment you would grow bigger. Your additional mass would simply drag you down to earth! It won't work."

"How aerodynamic is your lizard, Eivor?" Hunwald asked, sounding genuinely curious.

That got the table going. After a few savant calculations, courtesy of Hytham, Hunwald was giddy with anticipation. Eivor's strategy was sound, real-world physics be damned.

"It doesn't make sense, and it's dumb as all heck," he said, rubbing his hands together in glee, "but I love it. Throw that lizard, Randvi. Let her rip."

The lizard was thrown, grown to gigantic proportions by the touch of magic. Eivor thrust her greatsword forward, hoping to cut through the air, wink, wink, nudge, nudge (again, Oswald gave a cute snort at the bad pun, pure soul that he was). That prompted Hunwald to say, rather cheerfully, "Oh, it's just like that Shooting Stars meme with Palpatine!" and he started to hum the tune in question. Oswald played the video on his phone, wriggling his shoulders to the beat while Eivor and Hunwald flat out showed their best moves. Randvi was stifling her laughter. Hytham, poor soul, seemed utterly mystified. Tewdwr, of course, was on the verge of having some sort of conniption. Apparently, he hadn't been given the memo that the best D&D games all happened to have impromptu karaoke sessions.

While Toot Toot soared through the air, making her pterosaurian ancestors proud (at this point Ceolbert helpfully reminded everyone that pterosaurs weren't really dinosaurs, which brought back fond memories of his tiny, teeny five-year-old self, who had been utterly obsessed by the topic), Hytham asked, "Can I run over the railing of the bridge, parkour style? I want to get on the other side without, er, getting squashed in all of that fighting, you see?"

"Parkour!" Hunwald exclaimed. "Like some kind of super stealthy assassin from a video game. I love it! Roll me a dex check to see if you make it without getting hit or falling into the river."

Hytham succeeded with high colours, and fleet-footed Akhom ran alongside the railing, evading the mass of warriors entangled on the bridge. By the time he had gotten to the other side, Toot Toot was making her… not-so-graceful descent toward the Orc commander. Everyone grew very tense for some reason. Eivor scowled, wondering what had gotten them so tightly wound up.

"You'll have to roll an acrobatics check," said Hunwald. Seemed like he was enjoying himself a bit too much, the wee bastard. "See how you fare on the way down…"

The others waited with bated breath as the dice bounced—slowly, too slowly, as if it was mocking her too, the piece of plastic trash—across Eivor's tray.

It landed on a one.

"Oh," said Hunwald, with a stupidly smug smile. "Bad luck."

Toot Toot came at the Orc commander like a scaly, smelly cannonball. Thankfully, she slammed sword-point first, skewering him like a particularly nasty-looking kebab. But that was not all; thanks to Hytham's precise mathematical figures, they knew Toot Toot would crash into the Orc commander with a force equal to her mass multiplied by the universal gravitational constant and the speed she had gathered over the graceful span of her flight.

Simply put, the poor bugger was skewered like a kebab, squashed like a bug and sent yeeting in the form of a great big puddle of gore.

That meant a lot of dice throwing to calculate the damage dealt both to Toot Toot and her unfortunate victim. "Oh, shit!" Hunwald exclaimed. "He's not dead yet! Our boy is down to one HP…"

Hytham shyly raised his hand. "Eivor is still beside him, yes?" ("Yes, in pieces herself," Hunwald confirmed, "but she is there, in mangled body if not in spirit.") "Does that mean I have the advantage to make a stealth attack?"

Hunwald stared at him. Hytham stared back. This went on for a few precious seconds. You could hear a pin drop right now.

"That's," Hunwald said, his brows rising up to his hairline. "That's overkill, dear sir."

Hytham continued to stare, hands folded primly in his lap; how could anyone ever say no to that sweet, innocent face, Eivor wondered? The guy was good, that much she had to hand it to him.

"Alright, shoot," Hunwald said, with the weary sigh of someone who had spent too much of his spare time preparing a battle encounter, only to have his players mowing through enemies the way he and Eivor scarfed down fresh brownies made by the ever-suffering Oswald. "Do your damage. Spare him from his suffering. Poor bugger…"

The world held its breath. All eyes were on Hytham. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He threw his dice.

He rolled a twenty.

Critical hit.

"So," narrated Hunwald, "after suffering the indignity of taking in damage nearly all of his health points (that he didn't even have any more, courtesy of one Toot Toot Boop McSnout) through one single knife wound, the Orc commander draws his last breath, choking on his own blood as he struggles to hang on to the thread of his life. Still, the horde remains, ever so wary now that—"

"I cast Fireball," said Ceolbert, while Oswald announced, at the same time, "I cast Flaming Sphere."

Hunwald made a sound like a wheezing kettle. His epic army took nearly 86 points of fire damage in one go ("Isn't it like using napalm? Wouldn't that be a war crime?" Hytham asked, to which Eivor shrugged.) "I guess they all burn to a crisp, then," he said, almost surly. "But wait! Eivor—I mean, Toot Toot—you feel big, greasy hands taking hold of your battered, broken body. A survivor, singed but not out for the count yet, has managed to crawl over to you. Before you can move or utter a sound, the Orc hurls you into the air, toward the raging river—where you will surely drown if no one is there to catch you!"

Randvi took this as a challenge. "I rush toward her," she said, blue eyes ablaze. "I use every ounce of the strength still present in my body to run and get to Toot Toot in time. Once I am close enough, I leap through the air, arms open and ready."

Eivor could imagine the scene all too easily. The sun peering out of dark clouds, just to halo Sigrún's golden mane at this very moment. Her muscles, swollen from the effort and glistening with sweat. Her lovely face twisted with righteous fury, mouth open in a defiant roar as she raced against time, against death, to protect one of her precious battle-companions.

At the very last moment, Lady Sigrún's powerful arms clasped around Toot Toot's bloodied figure. The would-be Valkyrie brought her wounded companion close to her heart, shielding her body as she met the ground in a practised roll. Then, Sigrún was on one knee, holding Toot Toot in her lap. Their gazes met. Sigrún's hair caught in a breeze, like a trail of gleaming gold behind her head. The world seemed to have come to a stop, if only to give Sigrún and Toot Toot a moment to breathe, a moment to contemplate the sheer gravity of what had just happened, a moment they could share between themselves and no one else—

"Do you," sputtered Tewdwr, pointing back and forth between Randvi and Eivor, "do you have to play-act like… this… in front of everyone? I mean—it should—I would think—"

Hunwald was not so flustered. In fact, he seemed impressed. "Sigrún," he narrated, "you hold in your muscled arms the frail, fragile form of Toot Toot, the hero of the hour…"

"Wait, isn't Toot Toot bigger than usual right now?" Ceolbert pointed out.

"…Sigrún, you are utterly crushed under Toot Toot's formidable weight. You, er, you might need medical assistance as well, now that I think about it…"

Thankfully, someone had been bright enough in the group to choose a class capable of casting healing spells. Myradin Grymbeard went around the battlefield like a vertically challenged Jesus, (inappropriately) touching people to magically cure their wounds (did he even asked for their permission, Eivor wondered?) Once he was done, the group gathered together to nurse their wounds and discuss what to do with the few surviving Orcs.

"They might have something to do with what happened in the royal capital," mused Ceolbert. "It can't simply be a coincidence that the king is murdered just as an army comes marching at the city's gates."

"But how do we get them to talk?" added Oswald.

"Easy peasy," said Eivor, crossing her arms over her chest. She'd worn a sleeveless t-shirt today, despite the slight chill in the air, and so her tats and biceps were on full display. She hoped Randvi enjoyed the show. "We beat them up until they start coughing answers."

"That would be war crimes!'" Tewdwr said, deepening his voice. Chap was particularly fussy about doing character voices, he was. "'I cannot let you harm these prisoners!'"

Eivor snorted. "What, the Geneva Convention exists in this world or something?"

"Eivor," Oswald hissed, "you're breaking character."

"Well, I sure want to break their bu—"

"What will you do with these prisoners?" Hunwald repeated, a bit more insistently. "Some of them are in a pretty bad shape."

"Wait, Tewdwr," Eivor said, "I've got the best idea ever. Use that 'Spare the Dying' spell of yours to stabilize them. Then I can punch these chucklefucks a coupla times to get more info outta 'em. And when they die from all that punching, you cast that spell again so they come back to life. It's foolproof!"

"That's a terrible idea!" That wasn't the Myradin voice; Tewdwr really was full on miffed. Eivor fought the urge to smirk at him like a total tool. "Why would I do that?!"

"I kneel beside one of them," said Randvi, "and I tell the Orc soldier that we will tend to their wounds and treat them fairly, as fellow soldiers met in honourable battle on the fields of war. But they must tell us who they worked for. More is at stake here that they'll ever know. We must succeed in our mission or else chaos will overtake the land."

"Roll me a Persuasion check," asked Hunwald.

Eivor grimaced; Lady Sigrún was a total unit of a woman, but for some reason, that didn't necessarily translate to a high Charisma score. Now there was something stupid if Eivor ever heard one. Just by the simple act of existing, Lady Sigrún warranted perfect scores everywhere, in her honest opinion.

(She was a lot like Randvi in that regard, really.)

Randvi rolled her dice. Again came that sweet, satisfied smile as it landed on a fourteen. "That's fifteen in total," she told Hunwald. "Does that work?"

Hunwald nodded. "You have shown honour as well as courage on the battlefield, Lady Sigrún, and so he agrees to speak, if only to keep his life. You learn that—"

Eivor wasn't listening, not really. She had come down from her high, and now she was wondering… what did it all mean, truly? It had been a few months since that dreadful night at the bar; there, she and Randvi had shared a few drinks after the coppers had taken that bastard Gorm away, and they'd talked and laughed the night away. But then, nothing, nada. Eivor didn't want to make the first move—didn't feel like she could make the first move. That was her brother's ex she was in love with. What the fuck would Styrbjorn and Rosta—would Sigurd—say if Eivor were to bring Randvi back to dinner as if she was some random girl she'd picked up from the nearest drinking hole? Styrbjorn—well, he would say nothing, because that's what he did whenever the goings got rough, he just shut down even as Eivor screamed and begged to be noticed, to be seen. As for Rosta… Eivor felt a cold dread coiling in the pit of her stomach. No, she couldn't disappoint her mother again, not after all the shit she'd put her through in those years that had followed her second marriage to Styrbjorn.

(Eivor briefly wondered how Varin would have reacted to the situation. It pained her that she did not remember her father well enough to know.)

She was still mulling over these thoughts even as she left the boys' flat, Randvi and Hytham in tow. These two were speaking together, laughing as if they were the closest of friends. Eivor felt a surge of heat in her blood as she imagined the two of them togeth—no, she told herself, don't go there, Varinsdottir, you stupid, stupid bitch. Hytham was a nice bloke—one of the nicest she knew, really. They would be good for each other. He would make her happy. Already Randvi was looking at him with such a sweet smile that—

"Eivor?" came Randvi's voice, taking her out of these gloomy musings. "Are you listening?"

"Wha?" Eivor said, turning to face her and Hytham and— "Oswald? Wait, what? Why the hell are you following us around? Don't you live here?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Oswald replied, brows furrowing. "I just said that I'm going to the flicks with a friend of yours. She's just finished her shift at work." As Eivor turned to goggle at him, he sputtered, "Er, she wanted to see that new Spider-Verse movie, and she hadn't anyone to go with her, so…"

"'She'?" Eivor said, amused and baffled in equal measure; now there was a curve ball she hadn't expected… "You're going on a date with—"

At the same moment came the shriek of an engine and the screech of wheels against asphalt. A motorcycle had just swerved by the sidewalk, its driver clad in a leather jacket and tight jeans. The newcomer removed her helmet, revealing a familiar face: piercings lined in both ears, blue eyeshadow darkening her lids, black hair shaved in an undercut by the side of her head.

Oswald waved. A little too enthusiastically. Jesus H. Christ, but he was wearing a cardigan over his buttoned-down shirt. Eivor wished she'd had the time to set up an intervention. She felt like she was letting a poor little lamb march into the wolf's den.

"Good evening, Valdis," he said, taking the spare helmet she was handing over to him. "How was work? That pesky co-worker of yours didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

Eivor raised her brows. Oh, so they'd already reached the stage of exchanging work-related gossip? Interesting.

"It was fine," Valdis answered with a shrug. She nodded toward Eivor. "Good to see you, Eivor. Had fun with the lads tonight?"

"Always," Eivor said, stifling a smirk. That explained why Oswald had been glued to his phone all night; there had been a pretty girl writing him back, of course that took precedence over everything else. "Take care, you two. And be safe on the roads. That's my baby cousin you're carrying in that death machine of yours, Valdis."

Oswald glared at her. Considering he looked like he'd been dressed by his mam for a date with a girl he met in church, he seemed about as threatening as, well, a sheep wearing a cardigan.

A playful smile showed on Valdis's lips for a fleeting moment, her teeth slightly showing. Goddamn it. She was going to devour the poor boy whole—and he was probably going to enjoy it, Eivor surmised. Blech. She was going to need to pour some bleach in her eyes after that image…

"Duly noted," said Valdis.

Oswald climbed behind her, gingerly wrapping her arms around her waist. Eivor couldn't see his face because of the helmet, but it was clear from his body language that he was very uncomfortable with the current placement of his hands. Poor lad. He never had been any good with the ladies.

"Be home before your curfew, young man!" Eivor called as Valdis started the engine. Oswald moved his hand almost as if he'd wanted to make an obscene gesture at her. Almost.

After they had sped away, Randvi jabbed a thumb in the direction they had gone. "So, er, him. Him and her."

Eivor shrugged. As far as she was concerned, Valdis had found the fucking jackpot. "Yeah. 'im and her."

"Good for her, really."

Perhaps at last that would convince poor Oswald to finally get a more flattering haircut. Those neatly parted, curly bangs had been cute in the early years of secondary, when he'd been the school band's star clarinet player, but now…

(Then again, maybe Valdis was into the whole angelic choirboy look. Who knew?)

"Wanna grab a bite?" Eivor found herself blurting out, turning toward Randvi. "That cake was delicious murder on my stomach, but I'm still starving."

"There might be some kebab place that's still open," Randvi said. "I'm always up for late-night shawarma."

"Yeah," said Eivor. "I'm buyin—"

Randvi put a hand over her chest. Eivor's heart made some kind of sick flip inside her ribcage. It shouldn't have been a pleasant sensation—but it totally was, and she found herself grinning like a goddamn fool.

"No, you're not," Randvi said. "Last time, you bought the drinks. I'll pay tonight."

Eivor jammed her hands through the pockets of her jacket, affecting a cool pose. "Alright, alright, then. Lead on, m'lady."

Randvi shook her head, smiling slightly. "Eivor… you're the one with the car keys, remember?"

Someone cleared his throat behind Eivor, startling them both. Hytham was raising his hand, gingerly. "Er… am I included in these plans? Eivor, you're my ride home, remember?"

Eivor gaped at him like a goldfish that just had been plucked from the confines of its bowl. Fuck. She'd just… forgotten that he was there. "Er… I mean…"

Randvi snorted, bumping her shoulder against hers. "It's fine by me. Maybe we'll be better off with a chaperone to make sure nothing… untoward… happens. Right, Eivor?"

Hytham muttered something in Arabic, rubbing his face with both hands. Still, his smile returned not long after—though there was something of a mocking glint in his blue eyes now. "Come on, then, you're both in luck. I just so happen to know where they make the best shawarma in town."