A letter had been flown into Dalr Keep from Tixwa. He knew the moment he turned over the wolf sigil, black wax what the topic of their request was going to be about. Flora had detailed extensively her stay there, so there was no doubt they were convinced she was still their druid of promise. Honestly, he did not have time for this. The entire kingdom was winding up, tensions high, and anxious for the next raid. With the capabilities of their newest acquisition still unknown, Knut was pushing back any notion of leaving Elska to a later and later window.
He opened it, reading the contents, and frowning. The lycans were laying claim to her, asserting that she had been imprinted on by one of their rangers. He scoffed, unfazed by their silly practices. Imprinting was rudimentary and shallow; an effort to call dibs on a mate without truly mating them. The practice was known in Stadr, as they had their own mating system within the ranks of vargr, but it was something children did when trying to lay claim to someone they liked. It was never considered a true mating.
Additionally, Flora seemed quite ruffled about her exchange with the ranger, despite not going into miniscule detail. He assumed the imprinting was not mutual.
Knut threw the letter into the fire, watching as the parchment caught and sizzled to nothing but ash. The lycans had no claim, nor authority to demand anything of them. The Dalr Clan had more claim to Flora, as she had sworn an oath of fealty to their Jarl.
Speaking of which, the elf had started training a fortnight ago. He had kept his distance, often distracted by her scent. With the responsibility of running his father's escapades, he couldn't afford to be preoccupied. However, he was interested to see how she had been improving.
Leaving his solar, Knut traipsed through the keep and entered the tiltyard where clan training occurred. Despite being welcomed by the Jarl, he knew she faced the animosity of her peers. Until she was battle proven, she would not be fully trusted.
In her light blue leathers, Flora stood sparring with one of his best soldiers, Sigurd. The flaxen-haired shield sister was not gentle, nor sweet. "Shield up!" she demanded, beating the elf back, forcing her step by step to defend rather than fight.
Flora shook with each strike of Sigurd's ax. The next blow jarred her arm and forced the shield aside. It was only the elf's agility that saved her, dodging the swing of Siggie's own shield by a parchment thin margin. The ax was still planted in Flora's shield and Sigurd used that to her advantage, twisting the shield on Flora's arm.
She grunted, dropping her sword and fumbling to unstrap herself from the shield.
"No weapon, knife-ear? You'll regret that!" Siggie swung again and just within the last second, Flora freed herself from the shield and ducked.
Sigurd stumbled, but regained her composure before Flora had the chance to grab her sword. She sliced her ax through the air, forcing the elf to roll out of the way and further from the weapon.
"Is that it? Giving up already?" Sigurd taunted, beating the flat of her ax on her shield.
The battle was lost.
Or so he had thought.
Flora surged forward with the force of hurricane winds, dodging Siguard's ax and ducking beneath her guard. She wound up her arm and struck a fist in a devastating blow underneath Siggie's chin. The punch sent the shield sister sprawling backwards, knocked out.
Now, this drew attention. Elves didn't fight with their fists and nor did they have such a strong hook. They were all elegance and flashing blades; silver dervishes or arcane menaces. This was not the form that any of them were familiar with and he observed the other shield sisters spectating leap to their feet. No one had expected Flora to actually best Sigurd and since she had, they flocked to the assistance of their peer.
This should be interesting, he thought.
Flora stood, craning her neck to see the other shield sisters approaching her. If she could handle a one on one battle, she needed to master multiple foes next. Sliding one foot out in front of her, she brought her fists up toward her face and prepared for the onslaught. She should have been humbled. She should have lost. But without the sword, the elf moved as if she were the wind. She darted between sword and ax swings, spun underneath guards and landed punch after punch. Despite her knuckles getting bloodied from hitting shields and armor, she didn’t falter.
When the shield sisters decided that working together would work better to take down the elf, they began to close in on her, using their shields to defend for Flora’s hand to hand combat. If she managed to get underneath their guard, she could deliver a brutal blow. As the shields closed in, Knut was certain that this was the end to the elf’s luck.
Instead, she pirouetted, frost spraying from her fingertips. Her foes were lethargic, fighting against the ice that had encased their legs. A nearby cask filled with barley water cracked, the water spilling over the tiltyard floor. It remained there for only a moment, the elf moving her hands in a fluid motion and dictating where it was going to go. The liquid obeyed, sloshing toward her, up into the air. Wielding the water like a whip, she snapped it and threw two of her enemies to the ground.
Freed of their frozen handicaps, the last two lurched toward her, throwing caution to the wind in an attempt to overwhelm her. Most mages were not skilled at close combat. The elf welcomed the challenge, side stepping one opponent, which put her in the path of the other. The tactic had been on purpose, not allowing for her sort of escape. The elf lifted her hand, sending the water she had toward this shield sister. With a blow of her lips, the water solidified and her foe was trapped in a prison of ice.
She casually ducked beneath the attack and swaggered, eyes bright with mirth and enjoyment, as she swung her leg around and kicked the last opponent behind her knee, driving her to the ground. From her waist she drew a long knife and pointed it at the back of the she-warg’s head. “Yield,” the elf demanded.
Sigurd was coming back to her senses, eyes widening at the carnage.
It was not the elf that had been humbled, but the shield sisters. Leaving behind the last of the defeated, Flora turned and approached Sigurd whose lip was bleeding as she had bit her lip while being punched by her opponent. For the briefest moments, Knut believed that Flora was going to belittle her, to taunt her and spit, as she very well had the right to. Instead, she extended a tanned hand to Siggie, whose brows shot up in disbelief.
"How?" Sigurd rasped, taking the elf's forearm before being hauled to her feet. "You were barely improving all this time."
Flora went to help the others, freeing them of the ice with a wave of her hand and picking them back up if needed. "I've been studying you all," she shrugged. "I'm not any good with a sword, I came to realize that pretty early on. However, you are all predictable, I just had to learn how you fought before waiting for the right opportunity."
Sigurd's jaw loosened, but she recovered quickly, shaking her head. There was the briefest smirk playing over her lips, which disappeared quickly so that Flora would not see it as she turned back to face her. "Where'd you learn to throw a punch like that, elf?"
"Earth," she responded, pulling some gauze out from her trouser pockets. Taking the cloth, she began to wrap up her battered knuckles. "I was an orphan, no money to my name. I got into boxing - as we call it on earth - to pay my way through university. Never been too fond of being the center of attention, but I was good at what I did. People would spectate and pay to watch and bet on who they thought would win."
"Well, I can't say that you'd make a good swordsman, but a fighter?" Sigurd approached her causing the elf to stiffen at her approach. Until this point, Siggie's role as her teacher had been a strained one. Knut knew they had all been tough on her, tougher than they'd ever treat a fellow vargr. Their animosity to the elven race dictated how they treated her until Flora proved she wasn't one of those flowery, snide bastards. She palmed the elf's back, slapping so hard that Flora staggered forward. "I'd be happy to have a battlemage like you on the field beside me."
"Tidecaller," Flora said, tightening the bandages on her hands.
"What?"
"I'm a Tidecaller," Flora corrected, finally looking up. Her eyes were bright, still brilliant with the adrenaline from the spar, turquoise like glacier fed fjords.
"Tidecaller, battlemage, elementalist, I could give two shits. What I do know is that you deserve one of these, even if you can't use it well enough," Sigurd jerked her head at one of the other shield sisters.
Picking up a Dalr shield where it was mounted on the wall, she brought it before Flora and presented the gift.
"You are one of us now, let this shield be evidence of that," Sigurd proclaimed, sweeping her pale eyes across the other women.
While Sigurd had accepted Flora, Knut knew that the others were not yet in agreement. The leader of the shield sisters was a practical woman, just as Knut felt he was. Flora was bound by oath to their clan and had proven she was skilled enough to battle to work alongside them. However, there was one female in particular that was still glaring at the elf from the sidelines. Adorned in obsidian armor with dual axes on her belt, Freyr approached for the first time.
Freyr always had gripes within the group. She thought very highly of herself and that she should have been the leader of the shield sisters. It was this arrogance that had made Knut decide this was not the case. Freyr was a talented warrior, but she was not a skilled leader. Placing her own ambitions above the wellbeing of her team, Knut had once made the mistake of assigning Freyr as a group lead. Who had returned from that raid? Just Freyr.
He remembered asking the brunette where the rest of her sisters had gone and getting one, infuriating answer, "They were weak. I left them behind."
Freyr's hair was braided along the sides of her head tightly, the rest tied and falling down her back over her leather studded armor. Unlike most, she preferred to wear her battle paint at all times, darkening a band around her eyes and brows so that her misty green eyes stood out in startling contrast.
"You let an elf best you, Siggie? All of you?" Freyr spread her arms toward all the shield sisters, shaking her head in disdain and disappointment. "When did training get so easy?" Spinning around she sauntered up toward Flora, prowling around her like a cat stalking prey. "Why don't you fight me? I'll show you the true strength of a vargr."
Flora narrowed her eyes, but didn't rise to Freyr's bait. Instead, she gave the woman an impish look. "Who are you?"
Knut couldn't help but chuckle softly from where he observed. The elf had read Freyr correctly; she had a terribly huge amount of pride. Going rigid, the brunette clung to all semblance of her patience, which wasn't very much to begin with. "I am Freyr Fenrirsdotter."
Flora glanced past her and toward Sigurd. "She didn't mention you," she shrugged.
"She didn't?" Freyr's voice trembled, bespeaking the rage lying beneath. "Will you fight me?"
Flora looked back up at her. "I don't think I will."
"What?!" Freyr screeched, losing it. "I challenged you!"
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"No, you asked me if I'd like to fight. I don't feel like it," Flora pointed out, returning her attention to her bandages, unraveling a bit to tighten them. "I came out here to practice, not to toss around my ego. That's not why I fight."
Freyr was seething, her fists clenched at her side at the elf's dismissiveness of her. It was about time someone put the vargr in her place, though Knut hadn't known anyone who responded correctly. Usually they accepted Freyr's invitation and lost, reaffirming her vanity. "Why do you fight then, knife-ear?"
Flora glared at her at being degraded. "To find my friend. Since it seems you don't have any, I can define the word for you if you'd like."
A ripple of snickering broke out between the shield sisters that were watching the exchange. None hid their amusement, as it had been long overdue for Freyr to be brought down a few pegs. "Fight me!" she demanded like a petulant child.
"No," Flora told her slowly and dramatically. "Sigurd, I'm going to go get some food if we are done here."
"I will join you, elf," Siggie nodded.
The others took the hint, that ignoring Freyr rather than giving into her baiting was a more successful tactic in aggravating her than resolving to fight. Packing up the training swords and shields, the group milled around Freyr who stood rooted to her spot in quiet wrath, eyes focused on Flora who also helped secure her own discarded sword.
When she turned her back to Freyr, the vargr snapped. A furious roar bubbled up in the back of her throat and she flung herself at Flora, teeth and claws, bowling her to the ground in a flurry of fur. The elf collided with the earth as the saber tooth cat's claws dug into the flesh on her arms.
Sigurd rounded, ripping her sword out of her scabbard with a metallic ring.
"Freyr!" Knut stepped out from where he had been observing, his voice thundering through the tiltyard, putting an end to all of the training. Every eye there turned to where the elf was pinned, facedown on the ground.
The she-lion puffed, turning wild eyes toward him.
"Attacking a comrade without warrant and with their back turned to you?" He strode toward them, glowering at Freyr, asserting his rank as she refused to move where she was. The stubborn woman only lasted a few more seconds before she swung her head and stepped away, feeling the pressure exerted by Knut, she bowed her head and her tail dragged along the ground. "You will be on polishing duty for a month. Every morning before dawn you will be out here to clean the practice weapons as punishment for attacking your shield sister."
Freyr was back on two feet, mouth open to object to the punishment. Polishing weapons was a job for new recruits, young teenagers, not seasoned warriors. "She's not my shield sister," was all Freyr had to say. "She's not one of us."
"She is bound by oath to our Jarl. You'd do well to learn some humility before I teach it to you, Freyr," Knut snapped venomously. "Get out of my sight."
Freyr was still rigid and rooted to her place, but his glare sent her skulking away. He would not tolerate this rebellious nature amongst his warriors, nor the poignant malice and vindictiveness. Even if she was amongst his best swords, Knut was going to have her removed from patrols and the next raid to further prove his point that her enmity would not be permitted.
Redirecting his attention to Flora, he noted that Sigurd had helped her to her feet and was inspecting the open wounds on the back of her arms. Blood was trickling freely from the lacerations, which appeared to go deep, marring the details of the intricate tattoos. The virtoil that filled his every fiber was more consuming than usual when dealing with Freyr's impudence.
"Sigurd, send for Hilda. Those wounds will need to be sewn up," Knut instructed, clinging to his ever waning tolerance.
Flora was aware of her wounds, but did not whimper or cry. "Just a flesh wound," she craned her neck in an attempt to get a better look, but the position of the gashes were difficult for her to see. "I know people don't like elves here, but what's her problem?"
"Freyr has an issue with not being the center of attention," Siggie told her after sending one of the sisters to fetch the healer. "Being that you're new here and an elf, you have been the topic of conversation for a while."
She groaned in disdain. "If we could change that, it'd be much appreciated. I'm just here to do my time and find my friend," Flora sighed, shaking her head. By this point, liquid rubies were dripping from her elbows, blossoming on the ground. While she didn't show that the wound bothered her, Knut was concerned about the amount of blood she was beginning to lose.
"Sigurd, are there any cloths nearby?" Knut inquired directly.
Sigurd stepped away and returned with a few sweat rags. They were not preferential, but opposed to nothing, he accepted them. "Send Hilda to her chambers," he directed, tying the fabric, gripping Flora by each of her biceps to put pressure on the wounds. "Let's go, Fleetfoot."
He steered the elf into the keep and toward the guest wing. With each step, the robust vigor she had was beginning to fade with her disappearing adrenaline. She had not realized that she was hurt this deeply and her skin became pallor, akin to stone than the warm copper tan as she went into shock. Tacky, hot blood seeped between his fingertips where he gripped her.
This was all he needed, their mage getting killed because Freyr had thrown a tantrum at being ignored.
I'll have to make her punishment more severe, he thought bitterly.
When he reached the room assigned to Flora, Hilda was outside waiting with a basket full of materials. Healers in Stadr were not mages. The young woman paled at the sight of her patient. "What in Odin's name-"
"Freyr," he answered simply.
"That rotten bitch-" Hilda started, but clamped her mouth shut when she remembered who she was speaking to. The girl opened the door and rushed Knut to position her on the bench where she could freely access the cuts.
Flora's head was sagging; she was clearly fighting the lightheadedness she felt. Every few seconds, her head jolted and she tried to focus her eyes. "Shit, I've lost a lot of blood, haven't I?" she slurred.
"Keep talking, Fleetfoot," Knut straddled the bench in front of her, continuing to keep pressure on her injuries. A clammy sweat had broken out on her ghostly face, her eyes abysmally dark that they didn't even appear blue anymore.
"Remove your hand on this arm," Hilda instructed, peeling his blood soaked fingers from her arm. Working away the cloth, she wrinkled her nose. "Clean cuts, but deep," she observed, reaching into her basket to pull out the highest alcohol content liquor they had. Sometimes people would try drinking it, but its primary purpose was to flush wounds out. "This isn't going to be pleasant, do you want something to drink?" Hilda offered the sanitizing liquor to Flora.
The elf grabbed it and chugged a few gulps, clear liquor spilling down her chin and throat before she passed it back and braced herself. "How long were you watching?" she asked him wearily.
Hilda dabbed clean gauze in the alcohol and began cleaning out her wounds. Breath hissed between her clenched teeth, her free hand biting crescents into her knee to brace herself as the healer started her work.
"I saw you best the shield sisters," Knut told her. He had witnessed men pass out from less, but the elf battled with the pain and gave him a stiff nod. "You can shoot ice from your hands?"
"No," she gritted out between her teeth. "I used the sweat on my body and turned it to ice. I can't create water."
"You did say you were skilled in hand to hand combat, though I've never seen this... boxing before," he kept the conversation going, watching the shifting expressions on Flora's face as she coped with the agony of Hilda stitching her up.
"As I was telling Sigurd, it's a sport that people like to watch and bet on," Flora responded tersely.
"For someone who claims not to like the center of attention, wouldn't there be a lot of attention on you during these games?" he pointed out.
"Girl's gotta pay for living somehow," Flora snorted, wincing as Hilda tightened a suture. "I put aside my own discomfort because the pay was really good. I didn't mind the fighting portion of it, just being spectated."
"Do you ever think of going back, once you find your friend?"
"To Earth?" Flora's sweaty brows went up slowly. "I think about it, what I've left behind... Just a job. Even if I could work out how to use a glamour again, knowing that all of this is here..." she trailed off, grunting, before resuming. "I don't know how it would work. Haven't considered it much since finding Cassie is already hard enough."
"Next arm," Hilda instructed, tugging his fingers away.
"Hey, you got anymore of that stuff to drink?" Flora whined.
"You're doing well, just this arm-"
"I need more or I'm going to vomit," Flora warned, swaying as she was no longer supported by Knut's grip.
"Hilda-" Knut warned, steadying the elf by grabbing her by the collar.
"If you would just let me clean this up and I'll give her the rest of the alcohol," the young woman huffed as she tried to work at an even more breakneck pace.
Flora let out a pitiful moan, her head slumping. Fortunately, she didn't throw up, but she did pass out. Knut glanced nervously toward the healer who just let out a sigh.
"She's fine, just out from blood loss," Hilda chided, though he wasn't reassured. "Give her a few days once she's all wrapped up and she'll be fine. Elves heal fast."
"On your head be the consequences if she does not," Knut warned in a low, rumbling voice.
Hilda glanced up from over the elf's shoulder, arching a golden brow at him before returning to her work. "Forgive my impudence, Knut, but you sound a bit more concerned for this knife-ear than you ought to be."
Knut scowled deeply, his eyes fastened to the limp elf in front of him. Mixed with the copper stench of blood, he could still smell her refreshing scent. At this proximity, it chilled his skin as if he were laying upon a glacier. Just as when he had first met her, choking up spring water and looking like a drowned rat, her elfin allure cut through. He was practical and he should have interrogated her just as he would have with any other elf discovered in his clan's lands. Beorn's reaction to his shift in priorities had been true; no elf was ever afforded such comfort and freedom to walk alongside them.
His father was ambitious and saw Flora as a tool to be harnessed. Knut would have to report that she made an excellent battlemage and once she healed, could be utilized for missions. Ragnar's whimsy to entertain her at his table had been out of curiosity. Had the elf not proven to be useful, he would have easily turned on her, and had her strung up once she proved to be of no worth.
But the fact of the matter was she shouldn't have even gotten as far as meeting the Jarl. For some reason, Knut was drawn to her and this unsettled him. He could sense the primal attraction he felt, wondering if this was a trait of the Lunar Elves. Seeing as a lycan who barely knew her had also imprinted on her, he supposed this was a possibility. Lunar Elves could possess a pheromone that mellowed other skinchangers. This was not something he could readily test, seeing that she was the only Lunar Elf and he had no idea if the other two would appear during their lifetimes.
Beneath her own scent, Knut could perceive the imprinting. It was faint, but lingered enough that it irritated his nose. A true mating would mark her with an overbearing scent, preventing any other from doing what Knut was considering. The last thing he needed was the lycans feeling as if they had the authority to meddle in their business. Flora was not a druid; she was a Tidecaller and she belonged to the Dalr Clan, not some random lycan.
Once Hilda had finished the last of the stitches, she bound the wounds tightly after applying a sticky poultice. The elf was still unconscious and the healer gave him a curious look.
"I'll finish tending to her," he offered, though she could have very well done it.
Hilda shrugged, collected her things, and took her leave. Knut placed the elf into her bed and grabbed the washcloth beside the wash basin on the desk. He wiped the dirt and sweat smeared on her face from when she had fallen. He puzzled over why he was still there doing what Hilda could have and suppressed a sigh. Soon, he would need to report that she had the skill set to attempt that mission his father had been trying to dole out to his warriors.
Why did she have all these tattoos of different mountains? He hadn't thought to ask until now as he looked at some of the ones still visible on her forearms.
Once he had loitered for too long, Knut leaned over the elf who was peacefully asleep. For the first time since he had met her, she looked more akin to Sylvan and High Elves in this relaxed state. Usually she had an impish expression that made her look haughty.
There's no point for this, he thought, reaching forward and brushing her hair away from her neck. As he had done in the past with teenagers, Knut placed his thumb over her scent gland and broke the imprinting. The troublesome thing was not hard to break, especially since she had been away from this lycan for a few weeks.
He was rebuffed immediately, slapped across the face with a chill so cold that he felt it deep in his bones; was this the feeling of death? Knut froze, feet embedded in the stone as he was oppressed by the full power of the elf's company. The imprinting had been smothering more than he thought and now that it was no longer acting as a floodgate, Knut was choked up by the devastating aura Flora subconsciously put off.
For a few seconds, Knut was not in Dalr Keep, but standing on the edge of a precipice with galeforce winds whipping around him, devilish howls and yips assaulting his ears, and when he shielded his eyes, trying to peer out into the oblivion, he saw the snow and wind take the form of a hellish ivory fox with whipping tails. He was sent staggering back, beaten by the fists of the blizzard.
And then the white out was gone. He was standing back in the warm stone room over the elf who was still sound asleep. Knut nearly tripped over his own two feet when he was able to move again, his heart beating erratically, skin numb aside from his ardent cheeks.
He had seen it: the spirit animal's wrath, the pent up emotions within the elf as she battled her own demons. Why he had been able to see it, he was ambivalent, but as he stood above her he knew one thing was for certain: this elf was undeniably an Alpha.