~ A free woman, once collared, will have a hard time changing a man’s view on this, no matter how hard she tries . . . ~ Viajn sneaked to the warrior sitting on the throne. She stretched her body and breathed deeply, knowing this was a dangerous plan she’d formed in her mind. Standing behind him, she let only her voice sound, whispering, makin sure he couldn’t see her.”Warrior, in the name of Odin, I am sure you will have the honour, the pride and the courage to help a daughter of Odin.” She looked around hoping that only the man who resembled the men in her birth clan will hear her. She continued, “I was travelling and I know I wasn’t right to travel alone. My father, clan chief of the Trudvangr clan, wanted to give me to a berserk as his companion and I didn’t want it, so I escaped and landed at in terrible land. I need help to find my way back,” she whispered and waited to see if, and how, he will react. Spec looked to the heavens. “Odin,” he said, a grin creeping across his lips, “I see that you’ve sent me a gift.” He leaned back. “Come forth, bond,” he called to her. “Show yourself.” He waited for her to obey, leaning back in the throne. “What do you seek? What drives you? Do you seek a land of legend, the Mist of Mjolnir Valr, a holding so old most only know of it through the telling of children’s stories and the hushed words of the old ones?” The woman swallowed as he called her bond, but what else could he call her when she looked like one? She stepped in front of him and stared directly into his eyes. Her own rare-coloured eyes sparkled as she played nervously with her fingers. “Odin be with you, warrior,” she said softly, waiting. What will happen now? Spec looking at the girl. “What do you seek?” he repeated. “As is often the case with remote areas, myths and legends build up over years, and stories are passed down through peoples and cultures. One such tells of a hall high in the mountains along one of these passes, supposedly built by the gods themselves to watch over the lands. The story goes on to say it has long since been abandoned because of a lack of honour in the lands they had created. The fabled hall is set, supposedly, on one of the biggest treasures in Gor. Should one hike into the mountains for several days, and should the mists in the Mjolnir Valr clear a little around the lofty peaks, there might be the flicker of a shadow in the clouds, a shadow large and majestic, showing fleetingly on the ground below before disappearing again. But, it is more likely to be simply your imagination, isn’t it?” The woman fixed her eyes on his blond hair, playing with her own white blonde legacy of the old clans of Torvaldsland. She gave him a nod. A soft smile played around her sinful lips at his speech and the pride in her heart being, part of this culture, seemed to burn higher and higher: she was sure they would feel it in Asgaard. “I am only a women, warrior, but I was raised and taught by my father. I believe in the gods, and I know I am too proud, my warrior-heart in my chest and my honour, my loyalty to my clan . . . well . . . you see what a woman will earn if she was too stubborn to follow the words of men . . . all I want to ask you is to release me from this iron ring and help me to find my way back home, or give me a home until I am able to find my clan, as a free woman,” she said. “My heart feels that you’re a Torvaldslander,” she added and offered a cute smile. The blond man leaned back and looked her over, weighing her words. As she spoke, his hand moved along her thigh. “So, you seek a home, girl, and want to be a Free in that home, when all I see is the bond standing before me.” His hand stroked his beard. “The journey to my holding is not for the faint at heart. Each step you would take, the dangers grow. The path is far from the normal trade routes; the pass is high and strewn with slippery cliffs. I could lead you there so you may have a chance to find yourself, but it will be as a slave and nothing more.” The woman formed her hands into fists as she realised what he offered. Feeling her hot temper growing, she shook her head roughly, her long hair flowing, following her movement. The rare-coloured eyes wandered over his face trying to figure out what he had in his mind. “I don’t fear hard and dangerous paths, warrior. If you remember, I am a free woman of Torvaldsland. I guess the men of our lands are full of honour and they will help a free woman in a force collar,” she yelled out. She was helpless, but her sharp tongue was like a weapon: for sure ,she often hit herself with it. “Tell me, son of Odin, why will you give me protection until I can find my father only with a iron ring around my neck? I am not a slave and a collar will never made a slave out of me. I don’t need to tell you that a slave is a slave with her heart her body and her mind.” She sighed and stepped back, wrapping her arms around her body. He leaning forward as he got to his feet, towering above her. His gaze swept down over her. “Now hear, this plain and clear, girl. You claim to be a Free and that my be true, but it is for me to weigh the words you speak and decide if they ring true in my ears. All I see before me is a slave.” He reached to the fabric that she wore, looking at the collar around her neck. “You claim to be of the north and for that alone I would take you with me to my holding and there we shall see if you are a Free or a slave. So, do you seek a path not knowing what the outcome might be, girl, or shall I leave you here?” She bit her lip, looking up into his weathered face. She puffed out her cheeks trying to find words to argue but she stopped before her voice could escape, and only her breath sounded as she let it out. She lifted her chin proudly and answered firmly, “I will walk along the paths that Odin shows me and I am sure that the plans of the gods are not as you are seeing in front of you, warrior.” She looked ito the sky and silently her lips formed some words, praying, before she gave him a nod. “I am ready to walk the way of the unknown end.” Spec rested a hand on her shoulder. “The gods guide us all. It is we who must make the choice to follow their lead or choose another path. Walk the path you will and the gods will decide your fate.“ He gestured to the serpent off in the distance. “Go there and wait. I have some matters I must take care of then we shall set sail into the unknown and see where the gods will lead us. Go now, girl, and be careful what you seek. You just might get it.” “I made my choice, warrior.” She felt the strong hands rest on her shoulders and looked at him honestly. “I will follow you. These lands are my home, not your clan, and only the gods will know what will happen. You may be right about the leading, but in my case, as in the case of other women, it isn’t a certainty.” As she turns, she mutters, ”I will wait at the ship,” and after a few ihn only the light of her blonde hair was seen until it, too, disappeared. ~*~ Viajn raised her cold hand up again to knock hard at the wooden door. Her eyes widened as suddenly a warrior stood in front of her and she blushed. “Odin be with you, warrior,” she said, and nibbled at her lip. “A very tall warrior, blond . . . he . . . he lead me the way up to this clan. I am Viajn, free woman of Trudvangr, daughter of the clan chief and . . . well, at the moment a bit in trouble, as you can see.” Vil had been dozing up there on the wall, his frame laying on the huge barrel of mead. He awoke, hearing some knocking. Looking over the wall he saw a silkie standing in front of the gate and the edges of his lips curl up. He descended and opened the gate, shaking his head. He studied her. She was dressed like a silkie. “Ye are a silkie are ye not? Ye are not a free woman. Tell mae what is ye trouble? Speak, silkie. Har-ta,” he demanded impatiently, furrowing his brow as she stands there, prettily, in front of him. He fingered the collar at his belt. The woman breathed in deeply at his words and the epithet ‘silkie’. “I am not a silkie even if it may look so. I have no clue, in Odin’s name, why the men in Torvaldsland always be that . . . that-” she waved her hands in the air, seeking the word and sighing, added “- rude, and only seeing what your eyes want to see.” She went on, “I tried to explain to the blond warrior that I am not a slave. I am in a force collar and I need to find my clan again.” She lowered her dark glance hoping to hide what the blond clan member of this land had told her. “I am not a silkie. I am a free Torvaldslander and I am proud that I am,” she spat out, following it with a mumbled “silkie” and fixing him with a stare. The Weapon Master let out a long, loud belch while listening to her and wasn’t that interested in her words. Coldly, he commanded, “Strip, silkie, and give ye free woman’s clothes to mae,” His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The gods have lead her thus far high up the mountain and lead her for a reason to our hold and the legend of our Hall, he reasoned, waiting. Viajn narrowed her eyes, noticing every move of his body. “I don’t have any free woman’s clothes any more. I tried to explain what happened. You want me to get out of these garments?” adding in a mutter, “If you want to call them garment.,” She stepped back a little and shook her head. “Warrior, why will you not help?” she whispered and looked back over her shoulder, wondering if she might be able to escape. Still with ice-cold eyes on her, he grabbed her arm in a iron grip, taking an iron leash with his other hand and fastening it on her collar. He threw her on her stomach on the cold floor of the bridge, took some rope and fastened her both wrists on at back, then pulled her back on her feet. Taking his knife out, he cut the fabric of her silks. Viajn didn’t scream. Her rare-coloured eyes widened only as she felt what he did to her. She closes her eyes tightly, remembering what had happened to her when she was been force-collared. She shuddered, but she still raises her chin proudly. She was strong, a woman of the roughest lands, and it wouldn’t kill her, she tried to tell herself to keep herself calm. She wrapped her hands around the chain and pulled a bit without saying a word. Only her glance flickered to him as she sparkled with all of her hot temper. Her light blonde hair, legacy of the old Torvaldsland, hid her naked breasts. The man had her chained on the collar she wore, her wrists bound behind her back and he was amazed she hadn’t even squealed. He tossed her silks over the edge of the bridge into the waters far below. He took the jewels she’d been carrying and put all in a pouch on his belt. He didn’t say anything as he guided her in the direction of his smithy. He was, after all, the blacksmith and ironworker of this village. “This is not the way Odin choose for me, warrior, believe my words, please,” she protested. “Send men out to find my father. Tell him Viajn is here, protected, and my father will reward you greatly.” She stared about, curious. Vil regarded the old collar she was wearing while coming, alone, from the docks and continued dragging her by the attached leash towards the smithy. His head was clear in respect of what to do with her and was glad, for her, that she didn’t protest or used her rapid tongue to snare him. He didn’t like that at all. He wanted a hard-working slut to serve the Hold, because up here it was harder to survive then elsewhere on Gor. Arriving at the smithy, he fastened her to the table, removing the leash from her old collar. He took the tool to cut open the lock on her collar, snapped it open and put it aside for later use for another slut or to melt it and make a tool out of it. He was the ironworker of the Hold and could do so. He took one of his own collars and snapped it shut, securing it to claim her for his own. He just took what he liked as it the will of the gods and the his own will. Viajn cried out as she felt a new collar around her neck. The position on the work-table was painful and she grew angry. “I hate you all,” she hissed, twisting in the bindings. She felt a tear run down her cheek. She stood before him and bit her lip hard. Vil’s lips curled up the corners. “Ye only speak to mae when ae ask ye to or ye ask mae when ye may speak, slut.” He leashed her again and released her from the table. Freeing her wrists, he pushed her down into the bond circle he had drawn before with his Warrior Axe. He made that circle at the moment the HighJarl gave him a purpose to be here on his land and to serve his Hall. He had set the line of sand, made by his great axe, with stones. But not just stones: they were set with encrypted symbols of old, made for the old gods. His father had taught him this. Future bond-maids will be village bond-maids, but not this one. ”Ye will submit to mae or ye die by mae axe.” was his short phrase, holding his axe ready, staring coldly down towards her. The woman held her breath. She couldn’t believe what he’d said. The collar seems to be his own, she thought. Strange! She stared at the axe, wondering if she preferred death. “I am . . . I am . . . I can’t,” she whispered. Her heartbeat thundered and she felt fresh sweat moisten her body, even though it was cold.. “Why do you want me to submit?” she found the courage to ask, still not realising that she was no longer free. The Weapon Master raised his war axe above her head, ready to strike, looking coldly down at her, his impatience growing. She screamed seeing the metal shining and breaking the sunlight as he raised it. She slid to her knees as a deep growl escaped her pharynx. He placed the edge of his war axe on her neck and looked at his property “What will be ye name, mae slut?” He pondered a suitable name for her. “My name . . . my name is Viajn,” she muttered, still feeling the axe cold and strong. She had no clue how to submit properly so she simply knelt and swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t kill her at least. Vil chuckled a bit. “Nay slut, ye new name will be ‘silent tongue’ for now until again changed.” He sheathed his axe and released his iron chain from her collar. “Heel mae, slut, har-ta,” he commanded and led her cold, shivering body into the legendary Hall above the mists to take her to his alcove. He nodded to the guards “Ho there, kin, this is mae slut.” He opened the door and entered the Hall. silent tongue followed him with a sigh feeling lost. The cold wind had robbed her of the ability to think. She’d stumbled several times on the way to the longhall. Now, she only nodded and slid to her knees at his boots, paralysed at the things that happened to her. She leaned her head weakly against his leg and closed her eyes. “You are unlucky,” she whispered, “the man before you, he raped me and collared me. He took the gift for my mate . . . my whiteness she mumbled. Like most free women, she didn’t realise that a man would find her more appealing, more beautiful, for having lost this encumbrance. She sighed as she felt the new tight collar around her neck. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. It was an honour to be claimed by a man but she hadn’t that thought at all at the moment. She was dealing with loosing her freedom. Her cheeks blushed as her gaze wandered from his feet up over his strong body, until her glance hit his.
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 11:21:00 +0000
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