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The Last of the Orc - Eithne's Faith

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You might think she’s brave to embark on this solitary journey. Though bravery holds true meaning when the fear of death looms, yet Eithne’s fear ran much deeper than mere mortality. Death didn’t scare her. She had evaded the annihilation of her tribe, the Orc, on a rough, makeshift canoe, which was once her father’s trusty boat, glided through the churning waters.

Northmen, clad in bear-skins, their axes covered with blood, rampaged and desecrated the tranquil isles that her tribe had called home for generations, their atrocities echoed across the land. Farms, once bountiful and prosperous, now laid barren and fallow, homes burnt to coal. Survivors taken as thralls to feed the ever-growing slave markets. Those who had the misfortune of being chosen as sacrifices were the ones destined to be killed in honor of their hideous gods—they had the worst fate.

From the North Sea came a bone-chilling gale which welcomed her as she paddled toward the mainland. Its icy touch enveloped her like an old friend. Even if it carried the unmistakable scent of death and smoke, accented with the salty tang of the cerulean waters. Followed by the twang of arrows that filled the air, their whistling sound pierced through the howling wind. With each miss, the projectiles created tiny splashes and broke the surface of the water. One arrow struck the wood of her boat with a solid thwack, shattered upon impact, and sent splinters flying. Eithne ducked on instinct, her braided reddish blonde hair swayed, accompanied by the soft rattling of bone and gemstone beads.

A shiver ran through her body, caused goosebumps to rise on her sun-kissed complexion. But as she moved away from the main island, the onslaught ceased, as the Northmen cared not for an escapee. Someone left alive to trumpet their victory and what was to come for the rest. But the gods would not be on her side.

To challenge her resolve and will, the gods would put Eithne through a series of tests, determined to expose her cowardice for not dying alongside her kin. As the air crackled with the intensity of their anger, thunder that boomed and echoed all around. Seemed to be conjured by a malevolent force. Brilliant lightning streaked across the sky. That’s when the young warrior felt awe wash over her as she watched, her senses captivated. Forest green eyes flickered like leaves in the sunlight with each whip of lightning that struck something off past the horizon.

But what filled her with an anxious energy, more than anything else, was the notorious current which swirled around the islands and pulled towards the mainland. Its relentless tugging threatened to whisk her away towards the coast in a heartbeat. To batter her tiny canoe, as well as her body, against the cliff coasts, rocks as large as ships waited to bash against her and send the warrior to the depths below. Nevertheless, she possessed the luck of Dagda, a goddess not known for her pettiness or vengeance, and navigated past the treacherous rocks of the island, only to have her fortune fade as the canoe capsized, plunged her into the frigid depths of the waves.

As she sank below, panic gripped her senses, overwhelmed her for a fleeting moment. The island, now a mere memory, left her stranded in the vast expanse of the waters, caught between it and the distant mainland. She battled to resurface, her lungs burned with a searing ache, a relentless reminder of her need for air. Finally, her head emerged, smashed through the water’s surface, and a wave of relief washed over her being.

Eithne gulped for each precious breath—she savored the taste of life as her chest heaved with effort. But as her eyes strained to see, they could only make out the imposing silhouette of the large island fading into the distance, while the mainland loomed on the distant horizon. All the while, the relentless current propelled her towards the coast. Its force pushed her at a slight angle, as if fate itself guided her towards an uncertain destination. Then another wave hit and another, until her world finally turned to black.

***

There came a brilliant ray of sunlight, like the light of the gods, which pierced through the gray clouds, illuminated the young Orc-Pict warrior who had survived her near-death encounter—was not the first time, nor would it be the last. Lying face down on the frigid, powdery white sand, the air danced with the raucous calls and cries of many seabirds. These feathered creatures hopped around the motionless woman, testing her existence with pecks and bites with a caution unseen in their like. Their wings fluttered as they retreated when a mysterious figure, concealed within the depths of a voluminous hooded cloak, approached—despite the sun being at its zenith. This figure knelt beside the woman. As they wiped away the woad from her face—an act forbidden for a warrior such as her—no hint of judgment emanated from their obscured countenance. Something more important awaited them both.

With an otherworldly strength, the druid dragged the woman across the gritty expanse of the beach, her body left a slight trail in the sand. They approached an ancient hut, a resilient structure crafted from a combination of stone and weathered wood. Years of the relentless assault of countless storms and the sustained onslaught of salty gusts had left their mark, inscribed lines of endurance onto its surface. Air and atmosphere were alive with the pungent scent of the sea, carried by the strong wind that whipped through the area. Dried fish, strung between sturdy wooden stakes, danced and swayed in synchrony with the squalls.

Ascended from the heart of the rounded roof was a makeshift chimney from which smoke billowed and twisted in the air. Inside, above a crackling fire, a small cauldron simmered a sickly green liquid that oozed an acrid aroma. As the druid pulled his hood down, revealed a face stamped with wisdom and age, a faint smile crept across his lips, mirrored the satisfaction that glimmered in his pale blue eyes.

Eithne’s ears twitched as her world came back into focus, accompanied by a sharp, pounding headache that dug into the front of her forehead. Her body shifted over the cold rush-grass that covered the wooden floor. And after a moment, she opened her eyes; caught sight of the ancient man, his back turned towards her. The sound of grinding filled the air, watched him crush ingredients in a rough stone mortar with a wooden pestle. Released upon the atmosphere, a faint, earthy aroma blended with salty coolness from the drafty walls.

Her voice low and full of caution, Eithne asked, “where am I? Who are you?”

“Where we are, lass? Aye, in the land of Caithness. Though, I am not one of such. Tir Eógain by birth, if you are curious.” He turned to look at the woman positioned on the floor. “I’m Druit. One of the last of the old ways.” The man’s beard hung low, white but painted with black on the edges. “I fear the ways will be lost under the heel of this Christian god and his fanatics. If’n the Northmen don’t kill us all first.”

The survivor spat onto the dusty floor as she struggled to sit up. Excruciating pain seared through her body, which intensified with every slight movement. Yet, her determination remained steadfast. Eithne hoisted herself onto a weathered, splintered wooden chair—her piercing eyes met his.

“How do you know?”

A humorless laugh echoed from his throat. His voice uttered in a low hum, and said, “I saw it.”

“So, you are really a druid?” Eithne summoned her willpower and stood up despite the pain of her battered body. “You’re a seer. Visions, a connection to the gods. My tribe didn’t abandon the old ways. I didn’t. We had no issues until weaklings changed their believes. We survived the Romans, we can survive the Christians and these invaders from across the ocean.”

“Sit down, warrior,” the man ordered, and stepped over to the cauldron.

After a pregnant moment, he emptied the mixture from the mortar, the thick paste splashed into the cauldron. With deliberate movements, he stirred the concoction, created gentle ripples that danced across its surface. Then dipped a cup into the green liquid. A weird, not-so-reassuring smile crossed his face, and extended the cup to the woman. “Drink,” he said with a softness to his voice, “you will feel better soon.”

Eithne examined the contents, and it didn’t appeal to her whatsoever, squinted her eyes to make out the murky liquid’s appearance. Its pungent, foul smell made her nose crinkle in disgust, but she pushed aside any hesitation. As she swallowed the earthy, briny concoction, her stomach churned and protested, precipitated a wave of nausea to wash over her. Yet, soon after, a renewed sense of vigor coursed through her veins. The pain lessened, though it lingered in her muscles.

She rubbed her eyes as Druit spoke once again. “Cernunnos showed me the vision where I saw your tribe fight and die with valor to defend their homes. No dishonor in that. Except for you. You ran and cannot be called a warrior. For that, I washed away the woad that adorned your face. You must earn it once again.”

The druid was right. She ran, but she didn’t want to.

***

Eithne sprinted with all her might, heart pounded in her breast. The sight of the Norse warriors as they crushed their defenses stunned her, if only for a moment. With valiant efforts, she slew many an invader, even in defeat. But the voice of her husband Talorc, the man she had married just a few months prior, echoed in her ears. His once sturdy figure, now felled by arrows and an axe to his chest, haunted her. Yet, his words remained clear, “run, my love. Warn them!” That’s exactly what she did, even if it cursed her.

In the heart of the once lively village, where vibrant grass and blooming flowers once thrived, now lay a haunting scene of lifeless bodies, a mix of fallen Pict and Norse warriors. Amidst shattered weapons and tattered bark-skin armor, she made her way towards the weathered wooden docks. Arrows whizzed past her, missed her by a mere breath, as relentless warriors pursued. Their screams pierced the air, their foreign language added to the chaos. Fear didn’t cross her mind; she had no time for it.

With desperate, rapid movements, she dodged out of the grasp of a wiry invader who emerged from behind an old, weather-beaten fishing hut. Grubby little hands, caked with dirt and blood, grabbed at her trembling body, but she squirmed and wriggled free, her skin slippery like an eel, as wet as one as well.

A powerful punch, accompanied by the sharp sound of impact, left the Norse open to a wild kick that resounded through the air, propelled Eithne forward as she sprinted across the creaking wooden pier. Each step rung in the air’s sudden stillness. Like a fish taking big gasps, drowning outside of the water, her lungs burned. As she reached the boat, her fingertips grazed the rough, sun-bleached wood while she pulled herself aboard. Tears streamed down her face, blended with the streaks of painted woad, left salty tracks on her flushed cheeks.

She gripped the heavy wooden oar with a white-knuckle tightness and mustered every ounce of strength to propel herself away from the only place she had ever called home. One tenacious invader lept into the frigid water, but the icy chill forced him to retreat and scrambled back onto the safety of the pier. Arrows whistled through the air, their sharp tips aimed at her vulnerable form, but by some miracle, she avoided them all. It was as if some divine force had shielded her, allowed her to navigate the treacherous waters unharmed. But the gods wouldn’t be on her side.

***

“Then you didn’t see it all,” Eithne said, her voice hissed like a cornered snake, pierced the tense silence that hung in the air. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering flames of the dying hearth. “The local chieftain must be made aware of the impending doom that awaits his tribe,” she continued, her words laced with urgency. “I cannot bear witness to yet another tribe succumbing to their fate.”

“More will fall, more should fall!” Droit’s voice erupted, harsh and cold, cut through the air like a bitter winter wind. “The gods demand their blood. Whose concern is it?”

Eithne’s eyes blazed with determination as she declared, defiance in tone and actions, “it’s mine!”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture; the movement caused the tattered sleeve of his worn robe to ride up his wrinkled, tattooed arm. With a heavy sigh, she felt the weight of despair settle upon her.

“So, what now?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Do we continue to flee, always seeking refuge? I would rather face death. There is no shame in standing beside our kin, even in death. Rather die than keep running.”

“You still might.”

Eithne adjusted her forest-green and earthy-brown half tunic, ensured it concealed her bindings. Skin tattooed with a vibrant green dye set in geometric designs. An intricate eye designed just above the middle of her breasts stood as the centerpiece—the eye of the crow.

“Your marks are impressive for your age,” the ancient druid said before he offered her a hunk of hearty bread. “Eat as you need your energy. I have a plan if’n you’re willing. Especially if that third eye of yours is more than just out of vain—the eye of Badb Catha would serve us well.”

“A warrior of the Lynx, I am,” Eithne said, pride hinted in her words. “Or was. If’n any of us survived the slaughter.”

A grim smile crossed his features. “I figured. The Orc always produced some of the best fighters. It will take more than skill and talent, however. We need something special.”

There fell a heavy silence that filled the small hut, engulfed it like the scent of dried herbs and the mysterious concoctions that brewed in the large pot. She ripped a piece of bread with her teeth, savored the rough texture of the crust and the satisfying crunch of the wheat and barley seeds. As she ate, her stomach growled and yearned for more.

“To answer your question, young one. I fear your sword is resting at the bottom of the North Sea,” the old man answered after some time. “Long lost, but served its purpose.”

“Then I must find another. Perhaps a spear as well.”

He nodded. “That we agree on. A spear on your back would do you well. However, I know of a blade that may just suit you. Have you heard of the sword of Rhydderch Hael?”

An unbelieving scoff escaped from her. Eithne said, “aye, but it’s older than the first king, or so the story-tellers would tell. More legend than truth. His kingdom no longer exists. If’n it ever did.”

“All true, aye, but the sword itself exists. I have seen it in my visions. Still as sharp, if not sharper, as each day passed,” Droit said, he swept a hand across an opened tome. “Then you must know that it’s been enchanted by the witch Ives. The old magic is more powerful than anything that those Christians can offer.”

“And what magic did she use?”

“The crow had blessed it herself, at least through the witch. Both came to me during a vision. Stood like an ancient boulder in the middle of a river. All diverted around her, never disturbed by it. Steadfast, unyielding.”

The young warrior rolled her eyes, purple bags hung underneath, and stood up. “No, old man,” she said. “We cannot live off of stories. Thank you for saving me, but I must warn the chieftain.”

He grabbed her by the arm with that same strength that allowed him to bring her to safety. The touch of his hand on her pale flesh sent a fiery sensation coursing through her, but there came no visible mark once he released her. “I know you have no reason to trust me, lass. But the evil horde will crush all of us—no matter what!—so what is there to lose by trying? It’s a test of the goddess’s will. And you are the only one of her devotees left.”

Eithne snarled at the man who dared grab her, but said nothing for a moment. As she didn’t even think the chieftain would believe her, or if he did, what good with it do? The young warrior nodded, and said, “okay, if your words are true. If the vision is true. Then Badb would curse me further for not even trying.”

***

A crisp breeze swept in from the north, carried with it the earthy, musky scent of the trees. While the air was alive with the echoes of Druit, an ancient druid who still clung to the ways of old. His words reverberated in Eithne’s ears, urged her to seek the mountain that reached towards the heavens. Its majestic peak mirrored the dwelling place of the gods. Blankets of mist covered her as she ventured into the ancient forest, thereby added an ethereal touch to the scene. Which sent a faint shiver that ran through her body, despite the heavy furs that hung from her strong shoulders. Something old, powerful dwelt within. Even she could feel this.

Eithne came upon the charred remnants of an old hunting village laid before the forest. Its destruction etched in the passage of time, whispered haunting tales of bygone violence. Motionless, the broken weapons lay corroded on the cold dirt. Next to them, a multitude of bones testified to the countless lives lost. The warrior stood transfixed, her gaze fixed on the desolate sight. Her thoughts filled on the most horrid of ideas. Her beloved husband’s head now adorned the longhouse of a Norseman, a macabre trophy displayed before guests, entwined in their enigmatic rituals. Nestled by a towering stone cairn, surpassed her own height, a tattered flag fluttered in the wind, clung to a sturdy pole embedded within the stacked stones. Adjacent, a mound of skulls, devoid of their jaws, stood as a testament to the atrocities here.

Surrounded by gnarled, ancient trees, their twisted branches formed a thick canopy that shielded Eithne from the little droplets of rain that fell through the leaves. As she strolled, the pitter-patter of the rain along with a mist as thick as mud, Eithne couldn’t see much. Determined to locate the lost altar and the sword that rested upon it, her footsteps crinkled on the bed of leaves and moss. The air carried a lovely scent she had always enjoyed: the thorough mixture of musky decay from the leaves, and the soil that brought a hint of earth to the nose, especially with the rain. Doubt crept into her mind as she pondered Druit’s directive. Did he deceive her? This thought swirled like a storm within her, which added to the weight that her broad shoulders bore.

As she ventured deeper into the dense woods, the distant whispers of rustling leaves grew louder, weaved through the towering trees. Goosebumps prickled along Eithne’s skin as an eerie chill enveloped her. She tightened her grip on her sword’s hilt, Droit’s old sword that would suffice for now, and the cold wood sent a shiver up her spin. Flickering shadows danced on the forest floor, their movements quick and elusive, like fleeting ghosts.

With a swift motion, Eithne drew her sword; the metallic rasp cut through the silence. She turned, her heart pounded, to face the source of the mysterious sounds. Yet, as she scanned her surroundings, nothing stood out to her—no twitching branch, no visible presence. Not that her trained eyes could see much through this blanket of fog. Only the enigmatic murmurs of the unseen, which lingered between the realms of her mind and the tangible world.

“Just the Fair folk,” Eithne said to herself. “Badb Catha wouldn’t take too kind with you in her area. I mean no harm. Just after a…sword.” Almost foolish for her to think, let alone say.

No response greeted her, only the gentle rustle of the breeze that caressed the leaves. Eithne’s eyes swept across the forest, took in the vibrant hues of the foliage that lined the winding trail. Disappointment welled within her, which escaped as a heavy sigh that rang like the roar of a furnace. Eithne slid her sword back into its scabbard, in one seamless motion, the smooth movement punctuated by a subtle clicking sound. Undeterred, she pressed forward along her chosen path.

Time held no significance within the depths of the forest. The ethereal glow that permeated the air seemed to emanate from an otherworldly source, which cast an enchanting light on Eithne’s weary path. Every step caused the ground beneath her seemed to stretch and elongate, as if it resisted her progress.

A profound weariness settled upon her, clouded her mind with exhaustion and dulled her senses. Thoughts and emotions jumbled together blended into a haze that threatened to consume her. Despite her desperate attempts to resist, her willpower crumbled, succumbed to the relentless pull of slumber. Toppled over onto her knees, she sank deep into the damp, frigid earth. A wet sensation seeped through her skin and chilled her to the bone. Leaves stuck to her like a natural camoflauge, but she hid from nothing.

“I know what you seek.” The wind carried on it a message that tweaked Eithne’s ears.

She knew not how long she knelt there until the next breeze came. “But I am not of what you think.”

“Who are you?” Eithne’s voice came both from within and without.

“Who am I?” Like a gentle feather, the breeze kissed her left ear. Several moments past, before the wind said in the other ear, “what am I? I can help. Now get up, warrior. Listen, the lands trembled at the approach of longships. The tide must turn, or all will crumble under their heel.”

Eithne’s muscles strained against their limits, ached with every movement. As she pushed herself forward, a sense of resistance permeated the air. Her weary mind jolted awake, sharpened her senses. And there, amidst the foliage, she spotted it. A diminutive creature, its form resembled that of a woman more than a man, blended with the kaleidoscope of leaves that surrounded it. The Ghillie Dhu, a forest fae with an inherent disdain for humans, served as the steadfast guardians of ancient forests and sacred groves. These were the very realms where ethereal spirits lived and divine beings communed. She escaped with an exuberant roar and it disappeared just when her hand touched the hilt of her sword. After a moment, the forest returned to normal.

***

Eithne couldn’t endure forever. Her body yearned for rest, craved respite, and desired the meager provisions Droit had provided. As the hours stretched on, she discovered a small grove of trees nestled next to a serene pond. She took a moment to survey her surroundings, ensured no mischievous fae or curious creatures lurked nearby. The hushed rustle of leaves and the gentle pitter-patter of rain, her only companions for the night. With a sense of urgency, she fashioned a makeshift lean-to, knew full well it would be her sanctuary for the night.

Though she slept, it was a restless sleep. Visions of Talorc, as they fought side-by-side along with their battle-brothers and sisters. They would kill five vikings to their one, but it was a losing game. There came just too many and people started dying: Enda, with a spear in hand, slew many an invader but died by a well-placed arrow; Herve took three axe blows to the side, and kept going until he bled out, his sword buried in the chest of a Northman; but none of the deaths got to her like Talorc’s. Eithne took comfort that his honor kept intact for the Otherworld, even if it felt a little hollow. She hadn’t slept right in the days since the young warrior embarked on this quest.

As dawn broke, the forest emerged from the darkness. Despite the near constant blanket of fog, it soothed her nerves and mind for what awaited for her. And despite a desire to find this hidden altar nestled deep within the woods. Eithne resisted the temptation to break camp, at least for the moment. Crossed her long legs underneath her, the soft fur-lined bedroll beneath her. Eyes closed, the woman shut out the world around her, inhaled the folksy scent of the forest. Let it all fill her senses in a way Eithne couldn’t before.

From the distant birds that chirped and sung their songs, to the leaves which rustled from the wind and animals—it all became background noises to her. This technique, passed down by the wise old shaman of her tribe many seasons ago. It allowed the warrior to find some calm within the storm of her mind. Now, she hoped, to commune with the voice from yesterday. Not concerned at all about what it could be, only if it could help her.

“Ethine.” A whisper carried on the breeze, neither here nor there. “Deep in the dark. Hidden by the mists of time. Protected by it.”

Her eyes shot open, heart pounded, as a sharp crack echoed through the air, followed by the rustling of leaves—a sound too weighty to belong to any ordinary creature. In a swift, fluid motion, Ethine unsheathed her sword from its weathered, hide-bound scabbard. She emerged from the protective confines of the structure, her gaze scanned the dense expanse of trees that surrounded her. The morning sun struggled against the canopy and fog, stretched shadows, which gave the area an eerie, unsettled atmosphere.

With a determined voice, she called out, “who’s there?” Nothing answered.

In the hushed stillness of the forest, the silence cloaked Eithne as she took each careful step, her footsteps muffled by the moist earth beneath her feet. The air was heavy with a musky scent, a blend of dampness and decaying leaves. With a lingering pause, she gathered her belongings, the weight of her pack pressed against her back. The cool morning caused a shiver that ran through her body, not all from the cold. Undeterred, she forged ahead along the narrow trail, just wide enough to accommodate her. The branches overhead created a canopy that kept out both light and the rain. Something caused the slight glow that lit her way.

She was unconcerned to the distance her feet had covered until the narrow path widened, which revealed what once was a serene glade. But now, looked more like a horrific sacrificial sanctum. Bones littered the ground—both human and animal. While an ancient stone altar, its surface weathered by time and bore the faint remnants of dark brown stairs. While within a bowl-like recess, deep within, there rested a viscous liquid of a sanguine hue, still fresh and tinged with the subtle scent of iron.

As silent as a tomb, a towering figure emerged from the tree line, surpassed the height of any man Ethine had known. Adorned with the immense skull of a buck, its antlers stretched longer and more untamed than any she had ever witnessed. The being wore armor fashioned from rough bark-skin, radiated an aura of hate and vengeance. Gripped in its clawed hands, a spear of unparalleled length beyond the capabilities of any human to wield. There came a chilling, otherworldly screech which pierced Ethine’s mind, compelled her to sink to her hands and knees in front of the altar. Which recalled all the horrible moments of her life in one moment, but she didn’t submit.

It lumbered towards her with the menace of its otherworldly lineage—its heavy footfalls reverberated through the ground, sent tremors up Ethine’s spine. The earth quivered beneath each thunderous step, caused her heart to race. A sinister, throaty chuckle escaped it as the thing hoisted the spear above its head. In a split second, she rolled away, avoided the deadly strike. Ethine drew her sword from its scabbard in the same singular motion. The metallic ring pierced the air and parried the monster’s thrust in an effortless motion. Yet, the thing’s counterattack forced her back from her aggressive stance.

Eithne’s voice, filled with venom, called out to the creature while she bared her teeth in a snarl. Resolve burned in her eyes, a resolute stubbornness fueled her. Though her words seemed to have no effect on the demon, it slowed for just a moment.

A thunderous roar erupted from the depths of her being, broke through the air, as she lunged forward with a powerful swing of her sword. The clash of weapons echoed, filled the surrounding space with its discordant melody. Undeterred, she pivoted, her body moved with fluid grace, and unleashed an upward swing.

The thing, a grotesque monstrosity, emitted a guttural groan under the weight of her blow, but it refused to succumb. With brute force and uncanny cunning, it retaliated. Its spear swept Eithne’s feet from under her. Which forced Eithne to her back, sent shockwaves of pain that coursed through her body, but she rolled out of the way of what would have been a killing blow. His large, hoofed leg kicked Eithne in the stomach, forced all the air out of her. Pain, such a tremendous pain, and Eithne knew at that instant, if she didn’t before, that this test would end with her either dead or triumphant. Still, she rolled out of the way again, scrambled to her feet.

Its guttural and awful words that spilled from its mouth reached Eithne’s ears, a jarring assault on her senses. The relentless battle had left her gasping for air. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, while every muscle in her body screamed in agony. But then, abruptly, the confrontation ceased. And the creature dropped to one knee before her, a peculiar display of submission. A strange and electrifying energy coursed through Eithne just then, as if her very being burst into flames, yet no visible fire danced around her.

“Kill it,” a voice spoke in her one ear then right into the other. “Strike it down! Do it!”

Her sword, its blade honed to a razor’s edge despite its age, shattered the buck’s skull that shielded its head, sunk deep into the bone and tissue below. The creature’s visage, a strange amalgamation of a wolf’s snout, a lynx’s piercing eyes, and teeth reminiscent of some malevolent force, confounded Eithne’s ability to name it. Consumed by a primal frenzy, she hacked at the monstrous being. The metallic clang of iron meeting bone echoed in the silent woods. Each strike splattered crimson upon her, painted her in a macabre tapestry. Eventually, the creature’s head became an unrecognizable mess of flesh and bone, a testament to Eithne’s unyielding assault.

With a fierce determination, Eithne delivered a final blow. Her muscles strained as she let out a primal roar. The sound reverberated through the air, echoed her triumph. The blade, driven by her force, pierced the creature once more, accompanied by a resounding crack that shattered the silence. As the weapon broke off from the hilt, a surge of adrenaline coursed through Eithne’s veins. Never had she felt better. In that moment, the creature vanished, left behind only a fleeting image. It had taken the form of a crow, its ebony feathers as dark as the night, yet somehow it turned the glade even darker than it already was. A piercing caw, unlike any natural sound, pierced the air, sent shivers down Eithne’s spine. With a swift motion, the crow took flight by the woman, disappeared into the trees. The rush of air created by its wings brushed against Eithne’s skin, carried a faint scent of decay. She stood there, hands still trembled with the remnants of her battle, the echoes faded as the creature’s departure lingered in her mind.

“Badb Catha,” Eithne uttered, reverence laced in her voice.

And all went silent. Despite the pain that came with every breath. Despite the pain that forced its way into her mind. She walked over to the altar, whereon its rough-hewn surface sat a sword, one that wasn’t there before. Of a type old, archaic, with a wide neck before it tightened up, slimmed down toward the edge and the tip. The hilt, made of some unknowable wood, painted with the same woad that Eithne herself would adorn with. Though its make was old, it looked new, seemed to radiate power. The same energy that overcame her just moments ago.

As she grasped the weapon, a surge of strength coursed through her, shrouded her mind with vivid visions of battle, of chaos. She could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in the air, hear the screams of the invaders which reverberated in her ears. The scent of earth and decay mingled together as she became a guardian of the sacred garden of Badb, determined to reclaim the land by painting it with the blood and bodies of those who had forsaken the ancient ways, and those who threatened the lands.

A towering woman, surpassed the height of any ordinary mortal, stood before Eithne. Thick furs draped her, adorned with bones that clinked with each movement. She concealed her face beneath a layer of woad and blood, giving herself an eerie appearance, which was stressed by a grin that seemed carved into her face. The surrounding air exuded a palpable sense of menace and malice, mirrored the same ominous aura emitted by the creature encountered earlier. As the woman stared at Eithne, a piercing screech, akin to the collective cry of a thousand crows, resonated from her being. It didn’t require strong intuition to know that the warrior was in the company of a goddess, but divine and devious—the so called Badb Catha.

Eithne said not a word, but knelt down. To be the weapon for Badb and her two sisters to cleanse the lands with the blood of the foreigners. She felt no higher purpose could exist. Even if it meant her death, the warrior couldn’t think of a more fitting way to die.

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@roach-pizza @bodoramzap @leave-a-message19

TW: Violence, TW: Blood, TW: Gore, TW: Death

#in case anyone missed it

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