Harder now to prowl the grounds under office. Dangerous since blood had spilled under the pulsing glow of magick light. Days past, a woman had come into the bowels searching. What he saw of it, that spilling, had tightened the knot. An addition of guards. Other...magickal securities. Guthorm could not understand the magicks made, but that they were there.
He could feel them.
Days past, that other interloper came, unknowing of where she was and who was watching. Who was watching? Cold eyes. Cold hjerte. Guarded and skilled, touched by Loki's fire, for that was all the Norskmann could equate with what he had observed of them.
Cold eyes. Dead? Men who thrummed with...oh, that he could see what it was that led them. For they were led. Towards death. And Death was theirs to wield in glory for their masters. Dewberry. Howe. And the Other Unseen.
The Norskmann was unseen. Had been for months. In the shadows, walking, patrolling dim-lit paths under the ground. Shadowman of naught but blood and bone. Of determination. Purpose. Patience. And unseen, he had seen her wandering. Her searching. He heard her whisper, for he was Close. Sooo close. "Viki?"
And when she had run headlong into Death, come out of nowhere, she had fought for her life. Instinct guided her swordarm. But the Norskmann could not help her. Too dear a price, to give up his shadowing. He watched, helpless to save the townswoman's life. One of his was going to die.
But she did not die that day. She left the guard in a pool of blood, and took it away with her in spatters. Outside, in street, a hunter's moon threw shafts of autumn light on her escape.
"Her white dress, so sweet, soured by the mess of vitae...her hair redder in parts with the splatter of blood there too."
And so she had walked away to join who was dear to her, in a room somewhere, no doubt, with the care of friends around her tattered frailty. The Norskmann knew this by instinct, that she, so sultry fair even in her fright, would find her comfort after so harsh a turn. He knew her face, glimpsed so close from the shadows, as near to feel her breath. He recalled her face, from nights he spent at the Inn. But he did not know her name. He had no name to thank for Trouble. For as she got gentle comforts for her folly, he, he paid the harder price.
What she left behind her in her escaping put the point of the knife to his throat. Magicks grew down in those hallways. Alarms spread guard to guard and anything that was loopholed and leaking was stopped up and sealed shut. His ability to move was made thricefold more difficult as the shadows he had worn were scoured day and night by Death's Cold Hounds. The very air had changed. The smell had changed. Sound had silenced into whisperings just below his hearing. The little humming Voice he heard was heard no more. But oh, he knew she was still there.
And with any luck, so did his secret planting....
He could feel them.
Days past, that other interloper came, unknowing of where she was and who was watching. Who was watching? Cold eyes. Cold hjerte. Guarded and skilled, touched by Loki's fire, for that was all the Norskmann could equate with what he had observed of them.
Cold eyes. Dead? Men who thrummed with...oh, that he could see what it was that led them. For they were led. Towards death. And Death was theirs to wield in glory for their masters. Dewberry. Howe. And the Other Unseen.
The Norskmann was unseen. Had been for months. In the shadows, walking, patrolling dim-lit paths under the ground. Shadowman of naught but blood and bone. Of determination. Purpose. Patience. And unseen, he had seen her wandering. Her searching. He heard her whisper, for he was Close. Sooo close. "Viki?"
And when she had run headlong into Death, come out of nowhere, she had fought for her life. Instinct guided her swordarm. But the Norskmann could not help her. Too dear a price, to give up his shadowing. He watched, helpless to save the townswoman's life. One of his was going to die.
But she did not die that day. She left the guard in a pool of blood, and took it away with her in spatters. Outside, in street, a hunter's moon threw shafts of autumn light on her escape.
"Her white dress, so sweet, soured by the mess of vitae...her hair redder in parts with the splatter of blood there too."
And so she had walked away to join who was dear to her, in a room somewhere, no doubt, with the care of friends around her tattered frailty. The Norskmann knew this by instinct, that she, so sultry fair even in her fright, would find her comfort after so harsh a turn. He knew her face, glimpsed so close from the shadows, as near to feel her breath. He recalled her face, from nights he spent at the Inn. But he did not know her name. He had no name to thank for Trouble. For as she got gentle comforts for her folly, he, he paid the harder price.
What she left behind her in her escaping put the point of the knife to his throat. Magicks grew down in those hallways. Alarms spread guard to guard and anything that was loopholed and leaking was stopped up and sealed shut. His ability to move was made thricefold more difficult as the shadows he had worn were scoured day and night by Death's Cold Hounds. The very air had changed. The smell had changed. Sound had silenced into whisperings just below his hearing. The little humming Voice he heard was heard no more. But oh, he knew she was still there.
And with any luck, so did his secret planting....