1 I : The Heroine

The wind was crisp, colder than it had been in a while. Although there was yet over five fortnights before winter would begin the darkened skies attempted to prove otherwise. Trees moved only slightly, their branches and leaves dancing lightly through the air. Just after dawn, the two suns occupied the skies with little cloud coverage, the brilliant hues of grapefruit and gold in ribbons across the horizon. Absent of clouds, the solar lights were accompanied by birds of many a hue who traveled from their nest in search of food.

Below the skies laid a collection of islands — few in number yet large in size. Covered in mountains and with sparse plains, the earth was mostly made of pure dirt and rock. The near only exception to this was the largest and most center isle; crowded forests in competition with the rolling, rocky hills. The few shrubbery which did grow upon the islands was dense and thick, trees old with enough wisdom to combat a wizard from the endless libraries of Cnawan. Void of excess moisture, there was not much natural clay to be found on the islands; those that were crafted only a single leeward side upon the tallest mount of the second largest island. Quite unlike clay, there was an abundance of metals such as steel and iron in the land. As such, many an old mine could be found on even the smallest isle which encamped but two village-lengths. There were but few, however, who actually benefited from these resources.

Upon the island and its few surrounding isles there were but three major — if they could even be called such — settlements. Within those villages, there were, again, but a basket's full of inhabitant families. Unlike its much larger counterparts, there was peace and tranquility throughout the islands of Stakhlijan. The peoples there were of a quaint existence, those who were born matured into adulthood, wed their childhood companions, had children of their own, and passed on of old age. The continuous cycle was not only the norm, but the mundane lifestyle was expected of the villagers.

"Brünhild! Brünhild, you dammed orc-spawn!"

There were always, of course, exceptions to the cycle.

Brünhild fled from the less-than-friendly call, using her hand to boost over a fence instead of taking the extra seconds it would to make another two steps to the right. There were but two horse-lengths between the nineteen-year-old and her opponent, the latter of which barreling onward with the rage of a starved troll. Although the older man was easily three-times her weight, he was not at all out of shape — the boulder-like shoulders he possessed only one implication of such. He was the obvious victor of this chase where he to corner Brünhild. He was the obvious victor, rather, were it no be Brünhild's nymph-like agility and speed.

Faking a left, Brünhild hurried down the alleyway between the village chapel and apothecary. This gave the nineteen-year-old another advantage, her speed gaining even more as her opponent struggled to stop or turn with his heavy momentum. Freedom near in her sight and adrenaline pumping, however, Brünhild lost awareness of her surroundings. As her feet came in contact with the bull defecate that covered the ground, Brünhild slid a good arm's length forward. Barely managing to keep her balance in the muck, she groaned outwardly as she heard audible squish of her boots against the feces. Nearly acting in a jig, Brünhild made her way through the compost as quickly as she could. Although she hated the experience, the poop seemed to quite well enjoy it and decided to keep with it one of Brünhild's hog-hide boots.

"Shite!" Cursing, she had no choice but to abandon the shoe as she finally escaped the manure mound.

Now half barefoot and exhausted more from circumstance than exercise, Brünhild entered the market square with sweat dripping from her philtrum. Not mere an hour had past from dawn and yet the square was already full of animal life. Chickens clucked at her as they searched for morning grub and a goat paused from eating the side of someone's house to blare at her.

"Erik!" Brünhild warned the garbage-loving animal as she went past. The goat belonged to one of her closest friends and was as infamous an escape artist as he was the sole male goat in the village. Somehow the poor sap only sired females. Although this guaranteed more milk and cheese, he was growing old in age and weak in seed. If he did not produce an heir soon, the village would have to venture to the mainlands to purchase more livestock. "Get back in ye stable!"

"Brünhild!" Clearly the bull shit and goat was enough to distract the young woman so that her assailant was able to catch up. Worse yet, she found that she had indeed accidentally cornered herself in between two gigantic log piles that leaned against the town inn.

Knowing instantly that she was trapped, Brünhild cursed once more as her dark eyes scoped for any possible escape route as the burly man approached. Unlike before, he was now walking slowly, the bulk of his figure blocking the suns.

"Brünhild," The low growl of his voice spoke her name once more as if in a cursed chant. Cracking his muscular neck effortlessly as he cranked it to the side like a berserker before war, the young woman knew it to pointless to try and make an escape now. Thankfully, the giant-esque human came to a halt an arm length away so Brünhild did not feel completely engulfed.

It would be a fool's statement to say that no villager had heard the chase. Nay, they were likely all awake by this hour and some had even been outside and able to watch Brünhild's futile flee. As she would later find, her own best friend had witnessed the entire scene of her losing her boot to the literal bull shite. Despite numerous witnesses, there was not a single one who stepped forward to defend Brünhild.

"...Faðr," Brünhild finally addressed the older man before her with an exhausted laugh. Her eyes drifted to the side as she spoke as though direct eye contact may anger him further. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"'Pleasure'?" Brünhild's father, Baldr, growled in astonished repetition. "Did ye take pleasure in melting the brynja?"

Bladr was a blacksmith; the only one in their village at that. As such, he always took care to do each job professionally and correctly; better to take months to get it right than spend a few days and make the project weak. His latest assignment was to create a new chain mail shirt for the island's vassal and after days of connecting the minute rings by hand, the brynja was all but complete. However, Brünhild, in her drowsy state early that morning, had dropped the chainmail upon the hot furnace as she cooked her morning meal. Although that heat alone would not truly melt the brynja, it was enough to soften the metal. The only way to fix it then would be to cool the metal. However, in doing so, the chain mail would become stiff and uncooperative. In short, Brünhild had not only single-handedly destroyed the brynja, but there was now a good chance that Stakhlijan's vassal would not call upon Bladr's work again. She had also burned the eggs as she quickly worked to move the chain mail away from the hot coals.

"I am sorry, Faðr," Brünhild spoke sincerely this time. She was practically raised in the smithery, there was no excuse for her mistake — half-asleep or not.

Bladr's obvious frown was all-but hidden by a thick, brunette beard. He narrowed his eyebrows, a sure sign he was about to yell. Brünhild clenched her teeth in preparation for her punishment. Would it be she could not leave the smithery for the duration of a fortnight? Perhaps Brünhild would be put to work in the pastures, watching over sheep and goats so that wolves or other wild beasts could not eat them. Whatever the ordeal, Brünhild knew that she deserved it and would face it without complaint. Rather, whatever ordeal so long as it does not involve her banishment from the stables.

Brünhild cared not much for the horse or donkeys within, mind you, but rather the stables just outside the outskirts of town. Within the metal establishment were three wingless drakes. The scaled beasts were small and old, not the kind for proper riding, but draca nonetheless. While she had been raised the sole heir to a blacksmith, Brünhild favored a somewhat different fire-themed occupation. She had always been fascinated with draca, her dream to one day become not just a draca caretaker, but a Draca Ryder.

"I just cannot believe ye," Bladr continued, unknowingly reminding Brünhild of the matter at hand. If Bladr were a woman, he might have placed a hand upon his waist as he complained. Instead, he roughly stroked the bald of his head and pulled in a deep breath as he struggled to come up with his next words.

It was then that Brünhild noticed from behind her father emerge her good companion, Li Qiang — Loki by his local name. The lanky young man, a foreigner with enticing eyes and deep skin, gave Brünhild a light smile. Although he had likely seen the encounter between the blacksmiths, Loki had heard nothing of their conversation. His dark eyes sparkled with confusion and yet did not speak to Bladr or his daughter.

"Brünhild..." Bladr spoke once more, yet unaware of the young man standing behind him. The blacksmith had chased his daughter from the house in a rage however now, to the utter confusion of Brünhild, laughed. It was not an exasperated one but instead that of pure acknowledgement. "I could not have done it better meself!" Brünhild wore an obvious mask of confusion but her father continued before she could speak. "That red-faced Sir Bradán need learn to pay his respects to me. Dammed be that vassal — not wanting to pay me my due."

Finally Brünhild understood. Tense muscles loosened and she released breath which she had not known she withheld. She allowed her weight to catch on one leg — the one which still wore a boot — and did not care so much about her back being perfectly straight. The island vassal and magistrate, Sir Bradán of Finiúna, was indeed a haughty knave who evoked dislike from almost every inhabitant of the islands. He, in exception to Loki, was the only foreigner who lived in the Stakhlijan Isles and constantly reminded the three villages that he — and only he — had been personally chosen by the king himself of their grand kingdom, Wær, to oversee Stakhlijan. In addition, Sir Bradán was near the only one in Stakhlijan who had a formal education. He had also even before ventured to Gaderunge, the great market square which laid in front of the high castle in the center of their kingdom. A constant braggart, Sir Bradán was not a man of the people and constantly thought himself above them, going so far as to believe he could purchase things from them without proper payment. As such, he was not well-liked among the villagers.

"Then why...?" Brünhild dare not continue her question when she saw the look in her father's eyes change once again.

"I care not that you ruined his brynja, lass," Bladr growled once more, this time in annoyance of stupidity. His nose twitched and he rubbed it, a confused look in his eyes although he ignored the growing stench behind him. "However, I did not raise ye to make such a mistake as ye did. A grand folly, it was. Why did ye even move it in the first place?"

「I thought it'd be better for it to be away from the furnace where it could get overheated.」 She did not voice the reason, of course. Not only would it show her own father had forgotten to move it in the first place, but that Brünhild had done the exact thing she was trying to prevent. Also, she knew that her father was not actually looking for a response; he wanted her to acknowledge her actions for what they were — dumb. As a blacksmith's daughter, she of all people should always be wary of metal and iron contraptions.

"And what is that God-dammed smell?" Bladr turned around with a scrunched nose, finally facing Loki.

The young man — presumed to be around twenty or twenty-two — was a tad shorter than the average adult male and the top of his head just barely met Bladr's eyes. His natural hair was not at all exotic to Brünhild's ethnic people, being straight and black. However is long locks they once were years ago, Loki now preferred to keep his scalp clean shaven ever since he caught his hair on fire whilst apprenticing under the blacksmith. Loki's skin was also not that uncommon as there were a many in the south-weastern regions who matched his tone. Instead, it was his eyes who set him most apart from the people of Stakhlijan. Elves — except, for course, for the Gealach Elves — were always known for their distinctive narrow eyes. Although this was normal for an elf, Loki was clearly no such being which therefore pointed his origin towards one of the eastward kingdoms. Brünhild had known Loki since she was a lass of twelve and yet was unaware if that was the same year Loki had ventured into Wær.

Loki took a step forward, crossing past Bladr and then standing before Brünhild. Although Loki was short, she was even more so and if the two were standing together, one might believe them to both be of average size the way they perfected each other's height. Saying not a word, Loki lifted one arm towards Brünhild and with it the thing he held. She focused on the object with a frown as though trying to decipher what it could be. In her defense, the bull manure disguised its outward appearance.

"Ugh," Brünhild noticed also then the stench of her boot. Taking it with disgusted hands, she placed it on the ground before her. The nineteen-year-old almost did not wear it again but her foot was becoming cold out in the damp, open air so obviously, logic won out. Looking back at her friend, she returned the pleasant smile he gave. "Thanks." It was a mix of sarcasm and sincerity.

Loki's thin eyes turned to crescents as he mimicked a face of disgust, fanning a hand in front of his nose as though to get rid of the stench.

"Well it's not my fault!" Brünhild defended as she desperately tried to wipe away the manure with the dirt of the ground. She frowned when she noticed the action merely added gravel and dead grass to the feces.

Loki clapped once to grab her attention before lifting both his palms towards the sky at shoulder's height.

"'Why?'" She recognized, pausing before she could answer. Brünhild bit her lips, eyes flicking to her father as she chuckled nervous laughter. "I, uh..."

Bladr tapped Loki on the shoulder while his daughter tried to come up with an excuse. When the young man's eyes were on him, Bladr gestured alongside his face before slamming the air in a motion as though he were hammering metal. His large hands traversed his torso from his shoulders to his waist and he motioned moving an object to the side. Then, finally, he made a tight fist and quickly opened his palm before creating a box in the air.

Loki's eyes widened as his mouth became agape. He too ran two fingers on his cheek in disbelief. Bladr nodded, frowning as Loki rammed the air and motioned down his own chest. The bald-headed youth turned to his friend, singing again along his face and pointing her her.

"Aye," Brünhild admitted, chin nodding ever-so slightly. Her palm rapped her chest before she repeated her father's motions in a first-person confession. "I put the brynja on the furnace, I did."

Her narrow-eyed companion's mouth twitched, unclear whether to laugh or not.

"Do not," Brünhild warned, grasping the air in front of her with palm towards her shoulder.

"Loki," Bladr pointed to his own eye. He stroked his beard and jabbed his thumb to the side as he spoke to the younger man. "Ye're goat — 'e got out again."

Loki responded by pointing towards Bladr and then away.

"No, I'm not leaving," Bladr repeated his signs. "Ye're goat got out again. Erik."

The motion for Bladr's name was the same as the sign Loki had chosen for goat. At first, Loki had wanted to call Bladr by running a hand over his head — mocking his baldness — but quickly changed it once he himself took the razor to his scalp. The difference between Bladr and Loki in that, however, was that the latter chose himself to be hairless whereas the blacksmith was cursed with his genes.

When he understood the message, Loki rolled his eyes aback. He waved a goodbye but paused before leaving. He glanced back at his friend and at her feces-covered boot. A less-than-manly giggle escaped him then and quickly ran off before Brünhild could chuck the shoe at him.

"So..." Brünhild broke the silence between her father and herself before it could begin.

"Bucket duty," Bladr's bulky arms crossed his chest once more as he addressed the punishment. "Each and every pail in the village."

Brünhild bit her lip once more but did not complain out loud. It would appear that her adventure with feces would not yet end. This time should would have to clean out every single chamber pot in the hamlet, regardless of whether or not the users had yet emptied the container for the day. Worse yet, Brünhild knew of more than one villager who had complained recently about defecation problems.

「Shite.」