Apocalypse Now
Harald Haakonsson thinks he’s been overly generous since loading that feral dog onto one of his ships five summers ago. Many warriors reached Valhalla the day of, and even more went to Hel as Thor battled the giant sea serpent near all the whale road home. He should’ve seen it coming after discovering Jormungandr’s head above water tattooed on their cursed body.
He expected they’d become comrades-in-arms, only to find the deadly little shit was determined to maim when given the opportunity. The benevolent ruler had merely extinguished an already dwindling tribe, and his pale vision from beyond the veil wasn’t really one of them. He’d given the famous warrior the privilege of being saved for a greater purpose. Flett might have thought of it as suffering, but it was their salvation. Harald saw himself in Wolfwalker. The stubborn mutt chose the muzzle, choker, and chain.
His loins stir recalling the silver-tongue bastard’s taut heat once the thankless mare proved temporarily tamable with the stupefying effects of several herbs or, when the mood suits, dried fungi. Harald had hoped for a more present recipient, but, even with the petite chalice’s wits obscured, the muddled whore achieved remarkable skill in their (albeit involuntary) writhings. The wilful thrall burnt bright with unsought desire, like a caged bird waiting for a chance to sing. His seiðmenn sung so beautifully, the mewling quim.
The headman would have preferred to hump his bashful ergi, which he underwent such efforts to collect and collar, for the foreseeable future. He still believes the minx would’ve eventually embraced destiny. There were signs of acceptance. They ceased their pathetic escape attempts, learnt their master’s tongue like it was their own, and prepared themselves for the inevitable. The pretty little thrall should have felt honoured to receive a resting space on the covered floor of their rightful Lord’s chambers. Prior to his arrival — to free them from that squalid speck of a settlement — they'd been tricked and bewitched by the local populous. Flett had nearly died! Harald was kind enough to keep his confused fae idle, well fed, and warm, while they returned to their right mind. The rest of his chattel received rations, worked tirelessly, and slept with the pigs and goats.
Despite such lavish treatment, an experienced guard, and the bedwarmer’s magic sealed in serpentine gold, that hawknose vamp used those honey-coated poisonous words of theirs to lay a trap. Worse still, it nearly worked at the cost of an eye and two able-bodied men. Next, those damnable priests petitioned to gift the slithery deceiver to the gods. He agreed, but not until after claiming his fair share of merrymaking. The tartlet is unnaturally talented and Harald found it exceedingly difficult to let go of his jewel, which he kept under lock and key, for quite some time.
A lopsided grin creeps up while remembering the smooth-faced fae’s reddish pink flush as they were rutted within an inch of their life. In the end, Flett had rolled over like Harald always knew they could. There was so much more to savour when the Otherworldly creature submitted with smouldering embers behind their eyelashes instead of a glazed over stare. They put their unruly mouth to better use, too.
Betrayed by their own bleeding heart, all it took was a threat (more of a promise) to have Angrboda share their fate, followed by a lengthy demonstration. Harald might have saved himself some strife by holding her hostage the moment he noticed their bond. However, the mere idea of mounting the slave who’d bore his old man’s whelps was disgusting. It held him back. Luckily, his men did not share his unease. Indeed, there was quite an eager crowd after Flett’s murderous outburst. It was as if his shield brothers were mourning their felled brethren by sending their love to the Hall of the Chosen Dead. She was overdue to serve his father, anyway.
The Jarl made sure his beaten treasure watched it all unfold because there would be no more chances — not that the trove knew it at the moment. Flett showed such overdue gratitude at the unexpected mercy Harald believed they’d finally been broken in. They were such a sweet ride for seasons thereafter. The man could still feel the softness of their lips, those narrow hips. A reluctant fledgling there to please. Boy, how they pleased.
If only the snug bitch would bear his pups, they would’ve never parted. It wasn’t for lack of ploughing the wayward nymph’s garden of earthly delights, and he certainly sowed enough seed in the shifty shape shifter to birth some barns by now. Harald should have sent the troublesome runt to Odin, personally, after he sliced off the pixie’s lovely dark waves.
The Jarl isn’t the type to share such a rarity, but those calamitous advisers convinced him to make the sacrifice public in order to shore up support among his warriors. If it weren’t for those fools, the enchantress wouldn’t have overpowered that husk of a priest and called forth the Evil One. The pair shared a manic gleam. It’s also said the God of Lies released the tribute’s seiðr and smashed their irons before vanishing.
Ragnarok had begun.
Not long after fleeing the prospect of unbridled carnage, a supernatural woman carrying a four-sided object wrapped in obsidian skin offers to ally against his monstrous foes. At first, her unexplainable appearance as well as strange garb startle his men. They fear she’s the craven god in disguise. Harald knows better though and figures her to be one of Odin’s ravens, Muninn, transformed. Her half-veiled shoulder length silver-white locks ripples in the morning sun, her hands have been sharpened into talons, and her pointed crimson walk lets off the sound of hooves. Kohl and blood adorn a crone’s face while just her shapely calves are visible under a billowy seeress cloak, secured tightly at the waist, as dark as onyx.
She calls herself The Handler.