Raven's Scar

Raven's Scar stood in the Great Hall, ten of her strongest warriors standing close behind her, their hands close to their weapons.

Their eyes were watchful as the nobleman entered, a tonsured monk by his side.

The monk smiled thinly at Raven's Scar as the nobleman sat down in a throne-like chair.

To Raven's Scar, he looked like a perfumed prince, decked out in his finerin gleaming jewels.

He puts on quite the show. One of her men muttered.

Instantly the monk at the nobleman's side began to interpret.

No need for the monk. Raven's Scar interrupted.

I know the tongue of your people. The nobleman jumped as if pinched.

How is it you know our tongue, Dane?

Raven's scar shrugged. Happy to have caught the Englishman off guard.

Perhaps she had played her hand a little too soon here, but there was no going back now.

Besides, this invited and treaked her, and she was eager to know what business was a foot.

A monk taught me when my grandfather, Floki Wilgerson, settled in Iceland.

There were Irish monks already upon the island. Most of them chose to flee. She smiled wickedly.

But some few were convinced to stay. One of these men, if that's what you want to call them.

Tought me your language, although he was very old by then.

He died of the bloody flu and not long after I reached my 21st year.

Interesting. The nobleman replied. I would not have thought your people capable of such learning.

I am better at learning than you are at fighting. She spat, feeling the anger, welling inside of her.

I wonder if you would be so brave with your insults if you do not have these men here to protect you.

And I wonder if you would be so brave if you didn't have a horde and camped outside the town gates.

...