Accords: The Beginning

Another image prompt that happens to work perfectly with Bjarke's story! I was so excited to see it today. I've neglected Bjarke and Iona for the past week, the poor ducks. I've been working on more of their adventures. It's time Iona to attempt to learn manners. I predict chaos will ensue and everyone in the village will be treated to a great big headache. I'm excited to delve deeper into Iona and who she is.

Also, reddit user, drawswpsometimes drew an absolutely brilliant and beautiful version of the last scene in the first Bjarke and Iona story. They sent me the entire story board they did and I almost cried at how wonderful and beautiful it was! It was published on their tumblr (unknowingly) on my birthday. It was a great surprise birthday present from one of the great people of the interwebs.

Please enjoy this tidbit. No Iona in it though. I used the prompt as a jumping point of how Bjarke and his crew stumbled upon her little bit of land. Things may change as I delve deeper but who knows! I overlapped some of the first story at the end for it to make a bit more sense.

[IP] To the Ends of Midgard

The longship slipped through the thick fog, obscuring the carved bow. The men working the oars murmured and prayed to the gods. These waters were cursed and many a valiant Viking had perished in search of treasures. Bjarke, however, was not afraid.

"Are you sure this is wise?" the burly Viking's second in command, Rangvald asked. "This soup we are sailing in is putting the men on edge."

"They're strapping lads," Bjarke said, peering out into the mist. "They just need to make a slow go of it."

Rangvald shrugged and went back to work. He was as uneasy as the men, but he trusted Bjarke to guide them true and bring them back to their home shores.

While he was not afraid, the blond bearded Viking knew he had to be cautious. In the back of his mind, Bjarke wished Tur was on board the longship. Besides the fact that she was a top notch rat catcher, the black cat always seemed to bring good luck to the ship. But she had just mothered a litter of kittens right before they left the village and he hadn't been able to pull her from them. He didn't like to admit it, but Bjarke doted on Tur more than most did to their cats, but he did the same for Finnr, his watch dog.

"Easy men," he called over the deck. "Keep her steady. We should be out of this mess soon."

The crew jumped slightly at the sudden sound, Bjarke's voice was quickly swallowed up by the thick haze. His well manicured fingers tightened on the rudder. He had made many trips like this one, but a foreboding feeling was burrowed deep in his chest, next to his heart. With each beat, the sensation increased.

"Rocks ahead," Rangvald cried suddenly, spurning the entire crew into action. "Veer to your right!"

The crew strained at the oars, while Bjarke kept a white knuckled grip on the smooth wooden handle. Sea water sprayed the men and beads of sweat flew from their foreheads with the effort of steering the boat through the outcropping of large rock formations. They loomed like giants above the men, ready to dash the ship on their rocky bases.

Bjarke could barely take time to appreciate the massiveness of them and their beauty as he fought to keep the boat away from the formations. They rose out of the water like the fingers of the gods, ready to grab the insignificant boats and gobble the men up with greedy mouths. The Viking strained at the rudder and tried to peer past the upcoming rock formation. It seemed to be lighter up ahead.

"Steady men!" Bjarke shouted over the crew's grunts. "I see sun up ahead."

The longship glided out of the mist and the crew breathed a sigh of relief.

"Rán bless us," Bjarke sighed under his breath.

That had been slightly terrifying. The rock formations had appeared out of nowhere.

"Well, that was a great exercise," Rangvald joked from the bow. "What's next?"

Bjarke and several of the crew members gestured rudely to the second in command who chuckled.

As they emerged from the mist, the longship approached a small spit of land, barely visible through the choppy waves. The air was silent, the sound of the oars splashing in the water the only noise. No birds and no sound of the waves. Bjarke squinted at the tiny bit of land and blinked. Had something moved?

A voice, like liquid gold, rang out, catching the attention of the crew. The voice tumbled over the open water like a river over rocks, sweet and promising. Bjarke heard the melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.

For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.

Extra notes time! I did some research again because I would like to keep this story at least somewhat based in reality. Like all good seafaring folk, I thought it was good to give them a healthy dose of superstitions. According to this website , it was good luck to have a black cat aboard a ship. Bjarke named her Tur, which means "luck" in Swedish.

Bjarke also mentions Finnr, his dog. Finnr is a Norwegian Buhund, also know as the Norsk Buhund and the Norwegian Sheepdog. Apparently, the Norwegian Buhund is one of the oldest known spitz breeds and were used by vikings to herd sheep and as watch dogs. Like most spitz, they're probably too smart for their own good. According to this website, Finnr means "magician" and is believed to have derived from Finnar, who were considered to be powerful magic workers. Now, for anyone who has read the first part of Accords, we all know Bjarke knows magic thanks to his mother. His secret is hiding in plain sight in the name of his dog.

Rán is the Norse goddess of the sea.

Betrayed

It's kind of funny that I came upon this image prompt. I went through a similar situation with a similar necklace. It didn't end up in the woods for me though. It ended up in my mother's bedroom as I could not bear to wear it or look at it. I also didn't walk in on my boyfriend at that time cheating on me, but he did cheat. So I kind of took my experience and turned it into this story.

[IP] Love, she who needed to forget

http://imgur.com/mWwP2mj

It was never supposed to end this way. But things rarely work out the way the should, do they?

I slammed my bottle of beer down on the table, causing my cat to jump. Sensing my mood, he slinked away to his bed in the corner. The events of 20 minutes ago were just the vomit icing on the shit cake of a day I was forced to endure. My nightmare of a boss had demanded that I drop the project I had spent the last three months on and hand it off to the new guy. He was apparently the second coming of Christ.

I took another swig of beer, the alcohol fueling the fire in my brain. On my way home, I ended up sitting in traffic for two hours. My car's AC had crapped out on me a few weeks ago and I had been way too busy to fix it so I also had to endure the scorching heat that had been bombarding the area for the last few days.

And then the best part of my day. Going to my girlfriend's apartment to eat dinner together. It was always the most calming part of my night. We would usually eat, drink a glass of wine, maybe end up in the bedroom. Except tonight ended very differently from what I had imagined.

Instead of finding a homecooked meal waiting, I found the leavings of an already eaten meal for two. And then I followed the sounds of passion coming from the bedroom. I should have never opened the door. If I hadn't, I would have been spared the sight of my boss with her head between by girlfriend's thighs. I would have also avoided the look on my girlfriend's, well ex-girlfriend, face as she did so.

The rest of what happened was a blur. And I guess that's how I ended up with the the necklace I had given to her on our five year anniversary last month. I must have swiped it off her dresser in my anger. There was also a good chance that I was fired, seeing as I slugged her in the face after she scrabbled off of my girlfriend.

My aching hand twinged as I clutched the battered box. I needed to get rid of this. I needed to get rid of it now. Ignoring my intelligent self, I managed to get myself too close to the edge of one of the many lookouts in the area. I gazed out at the sea of trees. I raised my arm and hurled the tiny, blue cloth ribbon tied box. Despite the darkness, I could see the white box fly through the air and disappear into the trees bellow.

I felt hollow. It seemed that my anger had fled with the necklace. Maybe it would land somewhere that it could be found by someone who knew what love actually was.

It was only way I could become she who needed to forget.

Yes

So it's been about a week or so since I've written. I've been a bit busy and distracted which is, really, no excuse. I've neglected Bjarke and Iona, for which I apologize. This is my first prompt in almost two weeks and I'm not 100 percent pleased but it isn't terrible, per say. This is the first time I did a constrained writing.

[CW] Write a love story without using any adjectives.

Her touch was like a tango, igniting flames inside his chest.

He breathes in and out and rejoices as her fingertips trail down his face. He needed to drink her in and keep her in the circle of his arms forever. She was the ending he had always wished for. All these moments banded together after all these years is serendipity. This was the moment he had waited for.

He sinks to his knee and presents her a promise.

She smiles at him, corners of her mouth shooting up. She cannot breathe. This is what she has waited for. He would be hers for eternity.

Her voice was a song that slipped through the air on the breeze. Her answer -- yes.

Write Me A Love Story

Another poem. This time about love. So here's a secret. I used to hate writing poetry. When I was in high school, I took a creative writing class, thinking most of it would be fiction writing. Boy was I wrong. I was absolutely dismayed to find out that most of what we would be writing would be poetry. My poor, poor teacher. But throughout the class, I came to appreciate poetry more than I ever thought I would. I even participated in a poetry slam, something I never pictured myself doing. I even managed to get to the second wrong but got my tush beaten by much more deserving people. Also, my poetry was angsty as a teenager is apt to be. I hope you enjoy this. And I promise, there will be more Bjarke and Iona within the next day.

[WP] Write me a love story!


Love stories are like dreams.

Equally thrilling and terrifying.

Love stories engage a person's passion

and engage a person's rage.

Love stories are written by traveling lips

and bold declarations.

Love stories are written by tender fingertips

trailing fire down a spine.

Love stories can be full of pain

and venom can drip from pointed fangs.

Love stories are told as fairy tales

and are as delicate as a fairy's wing.

Love stories can be built on lies

and false promises.

Love stories can be built on strength

and unrelenting faith.

Love stories are a meeting of hands,

lips,

eyes,

minds,

hearts...

Love stories are written, not by societal expectations,

but the conviction of people.

Love can build bridges

and tear down walls.

Go forth and discover a love story,

one that is solely yours.

Brave

I really like the idea of a prompt almost being like dialogue. I think it gives it an interesting touch.

[WP] I need you to be brave


I held my breath, sweat dripping down my back. I waited, balanced on the edge of a precipice. Each minor hiccuping breath put me closer and closer to being discovered.

"Come now," came the deep, silken voice from the shadows. "Come to me."

I trembled and my leg muscles screamed in pain as I stayed crouched from behind a low wall. I had glimpsed the ill omen, it's bone white fingers beckoning. The words were enticing, almost like a lullaby. But I knew better. This is what the world had been running from. We had been successful until it caught up with us, the one person left I cared about sacrificing himself in the shattered calm.

"I need you to be brave," Nader had whispered to me. "I will draw it away."

I had let out a small sob and grasped his hands, dark against my pale skin.

"If you draw it away, you will die."

It hadn't even been a question. Just a cold, hard fact. Instead of answering me, he gave me a sad look then darted away. Not too long after he left me, I heard his tortured screams. I should have hidden in a better spot after he disappeared into the foggy night. If I had, I wouldn't have found myself hidden behind an inefficient wall with a harbinger of death stalking me.

"I found you," came a singsong voice above me head.

I looked up and found myself staring into a death masque.

"I need you to be brave..."

Nader's last words echoed in my head. The muscles in the thighs bunched as I sprang forward, launching myself at the creature.

I would be brave.

No Return

I am filled with all sorts of stories once again. I can't thank reddit Writing Prompts enough for helping me find the author in me again. And also to my boyfriend who was the one who introduced me to it. This is the first time I've been happy writing in a long time. Sorry it's not Iona and Bjarke this time.

[WP] "At first they came back with nothing, and then they didn't come back at all."


Katiya remembered when the men of her tribe used to don their heavy furs and thick soled boots, seeking food for the mouths of the hungry. It seemed so long ago when they would come back, sleds laden with thick cuts of meat, luxurious furs and bright silks and sweets that would melt away in her mouth quicker than a snowflake. There was laughter and celebrations all the time, thanks to the hunters and the tradesmen. Katiya remembers.

But the world became meaner, striping away the love it used to dole out. First, the men would come come back will less and less. The meat that used to taste so delicious became nothing more than fat and gristle. Furs and silks were few and far between and Katiya only had the memory of sweets.

"Why is there no laughter, Papa?" she had asked, noticing his face was lined with worry. "Why are things changing?"

Her father had placed a tired smile on his lips.

"It will be okay soon, myshka," he assured her, patting her head and she had believed him.

But it was never okay again.

Finally then hunters and tradesmen would come back empty handed. The air around them would fill with the cries of the hungry. And with the hunger sometimes came sickness. Katiya saw too many of her tribe members fade away into nothing. She feared she would be the only one left.

Every day, she would wake up with her father and watch him disappear into the darkness with the other tribesmen, desperate. And every evening, she would see the disappointment and despair etched onto their faces. Eventually, the world began to turn on them. Instead of being the hunters, they became the hunted. Beasts stalked them with new found confidence, waiting for the perfect time to pick them off -- finally high enough on the evolutionary ladder to take revenge.

The first day they had come back one man short, the stares of the tribesmen were hollow and their clothes were painted in blood of their friend. After that, there would always be one or two less men with them when the returned. Instead of silently watch her father go into the unknown, Katiya began to cry and beg him not to leave.

"Hush, myshka," he would say, wiping away her tears. "Papa will always return to you."

And then, one day, he didn't. No one did. And then she was alone.

Accords Pt. III

Guess what? There's a part 3! While nothing is concrete, I'm trying to flesh out Iona and Bjarke's world a bit. I was so excited about finally writing again that I didn't sleep at all. Maybe an hour. So thank you for inspiring, facesless masses of the Interwebs. I still don't have a real title, so I'm still calling it Accords. Again, this is cross posted from reddit's Writing Prompts.



It took another, nonstop complaining by Iona and several more threats by Bjarke before they reached home. Bjarke was not one to be homesick, but seeing the buildings come into view always made him feel warm inside. The village had been built in the shelter the high cliffs of a cove several generations before Bjarke had been born. The sturdily built wooden homes showed their age through faded colors and weather-worn wood but each home was cared for by its occupants.

A crowd had gathered on the shore to welcome the men home. Bjarke could see children running around the crowd, eager to get a first look at the plundered treasure they were carrying home. Tore, a hulking, grizzled man caught the thick rope tossed to him by Rangvald and helped pull the longship to shore. He strode up the wooden gangplank to greet the Viking.

“How were the spoils of war?” he asked Bjarke as his men began to unload the large pile of loot.

“Profitable.”

Tore caught sight of Iona, still naked and holding her head high amidst them activity. His wild greying eyebrows shot almost into his hair line as he assessed the Siren.

“Clearly,” he said before clasping Bjarke’s forearm and welcoming him home.

The younger Viking watched as the stolen goods were carted into the great hall at the center of the village where their return would be celebrated tonight. Iona joined him at the rail, causing some distractions in the crowd and a low murmur of curious voices.

“Am I to live on the ship forever?” she asked. “Or do I get to leave?”

Bjarke sighed, rubbing his forehead. Since meeting Iona and making the deal, it was as if someone planted an ax in the middle of his forehead. There was a constant pounding between his eyes. She was flat out vexing.

“We will go ashore in a minute,” he said.

The Siren clapped her hands.

“Fantastic! I know you love this thing and all,” she said gesturing to the ship, “but I will be so happy to get off of it.”

As the last of the loot was unloaded from the ship, the bearded Viking let Iona disembark ahead of him. In her usual overly dramatic manner, she strode down the wooden place and to the shore, her long silver hair streaming behind her like a banner. Nothing was left to the villagers’ imaginations as the Siren’s toes hit solid ground for the first time in weeks.

The women gawked at her and she paid them no mind as she turned and looked at him expectantly. Fighting the urge to bang his head against the longship’s mast, Bjarke followed Iona ashore. One of his men’s wives, Ylva, stepped forward.

“Who is this… interesting creature?” she asked for the whole group.

“Um, this is Iona,” the Viking said. “I saved her from a Siren who was keeping her prisoner.”

The gathered women cooed and clucked their sympathies. While Bjarke didn’t doubt their misplaced pity, he knew they were looking for something to gossip about.

“And why was she naked before everyone?” Ylva admonished. “Did no one offer you clothing?”

Iona let out a laugh that sounded like a babbling brook. She had found the queen bitch of the village and already disliked her.

“Why would I hide my perfection from anyone?” she asked, eliciting surprised twitters from the group.

Ylva sputtered in shock.

“Surely you cannot walk around the village in the nude!” she exclaimed. “Asta will give you something to wear as you are about the same size.”

Iona made matters worse by wrinkling her nose in distaste. Great. In a matter of minutes she had managed to insult a whole group of people. Seeing the crowd of women become more irate, Bjarke decided, while it was fun to watch the Siren dig her own grave, he did not want them to run the beast out of town after only a few minutes. With a hurried goodbye, the Viking steered Iona to his house, only nodding at those he passed. Most of the people in the village stopped in their tracks to stare at them as they passed. Thankfully, they reached Bjarke’s home without further incident.

“What hateful little harpies,” Iona said, seething. “Don’t those nasty creatures have anything better to do?”

“They’ll run you out of the village if you aren’t careful,” Bjarke said, stripping off his kyrtill and tunic, baring his battle scars and leaving him only in his trousers and calf high boots.

All he wanted was to be clean. Being gone for weeks at a time made it hard to stay completely clean, but he made an effort as did some of his men. Bjarke gave up long ago at worrying about it, but if given the opportunity, he would ty and bathe as often as possible. Behind him, Iona tsked in disappointment.

“If only you desired the love of a woman,” she said wistfully, appraising him.

Byarke was definitely easy on the yes, the Siren thought. He had broad shoulders that connected to a muscular back and a solid waist. His stomach muscles rippled with strength. Iona imagined that everything hidden beneath her new companion’s remaining clothing was just as glorious. His face was pleasant to look at. Greyish-blue eyes peeked out beneath strong brows and Bjarke’s nose was proud and straight, not yet broken in battle. His thick, tightly braided blonde hair gave way to a rugged beard that almost hid his well-formed lips.

“I would devour you,” Iona sighed. “Are you sure you are not the bastard child of a god?”

“Devour me as a wanton woman or to take a nice big bite out of my neck?” Bjarke asked. “And last time I checked, I was not a product of a god’s wanderings.”

“Both,” she admitted. “But for all our ‘monsterness,’ I find the taste of man to be bitter. I’d rather eat something different. It sets me apart from my sisters, who have no problem devouring the flesh of men.”

When he and Iona first struck their bargain, the Viking had been unsure of what the Siren ate. When he asked, she had replied ‘the souls of men’ without blinking and a deadpan tone. Starve was all he said to her. Iona had burst in a fit of laughter, amused by her own joke. She assured Bjarke she at real food and it had been at least 100 years since she had feasted on a man’s flesh. After all, her territory had been in a tucked away corner of the world, almost never passed by. She had to sustain herself somehow.

“Lucky for you, fish is most likely not on the menu for tonight’s feast,” he told her, since she complained about the amount of fish devoured during the journey.

A timid knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Bjarke went to open it. Standing at the threshold was a blonde-haired beauty, who blushed at the man’s state of undress. In her hands were a linen dress and a green woolen tunic. She also had a pair of thick socks and supple leather shoes.

“Hello, Asta,” Bjarke said. “Are those for Iona?”

“Y-yes,” the young woman stuttered, holding them out to the scarred Viking. “Will you be at the f-fe-feast tonight?”

He smiled kindly at her as he took the clothing.

“Of course, we shall see you there.”

She barely squeaked out a response before fleeing.

“Poor thing,” Iona tutted. “She’s so in love with you she can barely stand upright.”

Bjarke looked uncomfortable as he offered the Siren the borrowed clothing.

“I try not to encourage anyone’s affections,” he said tightly.

“You can’t help that you’re so darn manly and attractive,” she said cheekily, inspecting the clothing before her. “How do I put this nonsense on?”

“I’m not sure to be honest,” Bjarke said, feeling the need to tease her. “Want me to call Asta back or get Ylva?”

Iona scowled at him.

“So I can watch that girl simper at you the entire time or have that old she-wolf get her fangs in me?” she asked. “No thanks.”

The Viking let out a chuckle and headed to the bathhouse, leaving the sea beast to figure out the garments on her own. When he returned, Iona had more or less figured out how it went. The woolen tunic was slightly crooked and the linen dress was bunched in some places. The Siren almost looked human. She kept pulling and adjusting the dress like a fidgeting child.

“This is awful,” she complained, pulling at the dress’s collar. “I’m hot and itchy and this is heavy.”

“It’s like you were born to complain rather than lure men to their death,” Bjarke said, heading to his bed where a fresh kyrtill lay.

Iona sniffed and put her nose in the air, a picture of perfect arrogance.

“I’m quite efficient at both, thank you very much. But honestly, how can anyone stand to wear all this?”

The burly Viking shrugged before donning his own clothing. It was nice to finally have a proper bath, even if everyone at the bathhouse bombarded him with questions about his supposed war bride.

“Because it isn’t polite to waltz about in the nude whenever you feel like it,” Bjarke said, pulling on a thick pair of socks and his boots.

“Humans are strange creatures,” Iona mused, following him into the room.

“Speak for yourself, sea beastie.”

She gave him an indignant stare. What a heathen to call her a ‘sea beastie.’ She was practically a goddess. She was made to be worshiped.

Accords Pt. II

Thanks to everyone for all the encouragement! I will be continuing this story. It is cross posted on reddit Writing Prompts. I was not expecting the reaction that I got. Writing the second part, I took people's suggestions into consideration. I hope you enjoy part 2!



They pressed their bleeding forearms together to seal the pact. As Bjarke bound their wounds, he kept glancing at the small bit of land that had been Iona’s home until several minutes ago. He had expected the whole chaining a Siren to himself to be… well, more dramatic.

“What’s with the disappointed face?” Iona asked, exploring the ship as best as she could without stepping on the men lashed to it. She wasn’t having much luck, treading on several of his crews’ fingers.

“I guess I thought binding you to me would be spectacular or disturb the cosmos or something.”

The Siren turned around and glared at him.

“You are practically dragging a fearsome creature home as a magnificent war bride,” she said, offended.

Byarke’s mouth dropped open. By Odin, she was a vain creature.

“First of all, you’re not being dragged anywhere,” the Viking said, beginning to untie the ropes that held down his crew. “Second, you are far from a war bride and third, it is not as if anyone can know you’re a Siren.”

Iona fluffed her drying hair as she rummaged through the loot from a sacked village.

“Ugh, you’re taking the fun out of me being a dangerous creature,” she groused.

Bjarke ground his teeth in frustration and raised his eyes to the sky in supplication. He was already regretting his decision.

“Don’t you have anything in this pile of junk that doesn’t smell of peasant?”

Yep. He definitely regretted his decision, title of the most feared Viking in the world be damned.
When his sleeping spell eventually wore off a half hour later, he gave the crew a vague explanation as to what happened. Bjarke wove a barely believable story of a Siren knocking them unconscious and saving them and Iona in the process.

“How did you not fall under the beast’s spell?” Fiske asked, still a bit disoriented from the spell.

Bjarke glanced at Iona briefly and noted her gleeful smile. Of course she would watch him squirm rather than help him. She was definitely going to be more trouble than she was worth. Shaking his head, he pulled a small wad of wax from a pouch at his waist and held it up. The crew murmured, some of them nodding in understanding. Placing the wax in his ears would have made Bjarke immune to the Siren’s voice. His second-in-command, Rangvald, gave him a suspicious look, as if to tell him his story smelled like bullshit.

“I saved this woman from the clutches of the evil temptress who I slew,” the Viking said loudly and awkwardly, thrusting his sword into the air. “And then I claimed this woman as my prize!”

A half-hearted cheer went up from the crew, who were still slightly unconvinced and several of them threw furtive glances at Iona, who was still stark naked. She bared her teeth at them and hissed. Bjarke let out a groan at her antics. She certainly wasn’t acting like a damsel in distress. His fellow Vikings did not believe a word he said nor did they care about the strange, silver-haired, nude woman who had mysteriously appeared on the longship. Bjarke hastily disbanded the group and sent the crew to their duties.

Rangvald strode up to his friend and said under his breath, “Now why do I feel like you don’t even believe the crap that just came out of your mouth?”
The blonde Viking shrugged and scratched his beard, itchy thanks to the sea water Iona dumped on him.

“It’s true,” he said unconvincingly.

“If that’s true, then I’m a sheep’s ass,” Rangvald said, clapping Bjarke’s muscular shoulder.

“You’re already a sheep’s ass so drop it,” he said to Rangvald, who just laughed heartily at his friend’s discomfort.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, not for the lack of Iona trying. The Siren refused to were a stitch of clothing. Instead, she was perfectly content to languidly display herself on deck, stretching her limbs and drawing the crews’ eyes to her milky skin and perfectly proportioned body. Bjarke did everything he could to get her to cover herself.

“I am a sight to behold,” she argued. “They should be staring at me.”

“You’re distracting them,” he said, brandishing his kyrtill at her. “You won’t need to sing to kill us. The sight of you will run us into the rocks.”

Iona won the argument by sticking her tongue at him and ignoring him.

She also complained endlessly.

“I’m bored,” she whined to Bjarke for the umpteenth time one day.

“Was escaping your rock not good enough?” he asked through gritted teeth as Rangvald snickered in amusement at their arguing despite not knowing what they were saying. “Go enjoy the view.”

Iona leveled her pale blue eyes at him.

“Staring at water is tedious,” she said, stomping her foot like a child. “It all looks the same.”

At his wits end, Bjarke threatened to tie enough weight to her and drop her into the sea. The Siren shot him a wicked grin as the crews’ voices raised in protest. The little beast had charmed the men with her antics. Fiske patted Iona’s silver head as if she were a pet. Iona shot Bjarke an infuriating wink.

“You can’t throw her overboard!” Fiske exclaimed. “Then you won’t have a bride.”

Gods above, the man was as dumb as he looked Bjarke thought.

Hel, take him now. He would jump off the ship himself if they didn’t reach the village soon. Iona sauntered up to him, a mischievous smile on her plump, pink lips. Damn Siren was pleased with herself. Bjarke glanced down at her.

“I hope you know I already regret this,” he told her.

She laughed.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” she said with a nod. “But I have to keep entertained somehow.”

“How about I tie you to the prow and leave you there?”

“Oh, that could be fun.”

“Thor preserve me. You are going to be the biggest pain in the ass.”

Iona shrugged.

“And you’ll be the most feared Viking in the world,” she said. “Sounds like you’re getting a good deal.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Accords

This one was fun!

[WP] A group of Viking encounters a Siren at sea, her voice is luring the men to their doom - except one. Now it's up to a closeted gay Viking to save the day.

Bjarke heard a melodious voice sail over the sides of the longship, weaving promises in the minds of those around him.

For the love of Odin, he thought, rolling his eyes. It's a damn Siren.

He looked at his men, who were entranced by the hypnotizing voice and moving close to the railing. If he didn't act soon, he'd lose his whole daft crew in seconds to the cunning beast. Bjarke spent the next several minutes strongarming his magicked crew into the belly of the longship before bolting the door shut from the outside. Lucky for him, his mother had been a witch and he was able to knock them out with a simple spell. That would prevent any of them from hacking a hole in the side of his ship. He worked hard to build it and Bjarke wasn't about to let some song-drunk idiot sink it.

The lilting voice grew stronger as the Siren tried to beckon the men. Bjarke stepped up to the railing.

"For Thor's sake, shut the hell up, you hussy!" he shouted over the gray water.

He saw head pop out of the water, rage written on her beautiful features. In an instant, the silver-haired Siren was at the side of the longship and scowling up at him.

"Hussy!" she shrieked. "Listen here you sansorðinn! I may be a lot of things but a hussy is not one of them. I will drag you down to a watery death."

Bjarke give her an amused smile. It would be a joy to tease this creature.

He brought his meticulously cared for nails to his face for inspection before saying, "What could you possibly need with all the men on my ship if not to be a hussy."

The woman sputtered in shock before summoning a wave to push herself onto the boat's deck. Bjarke yelped in surprise as he was soaked from head to toe. Great. This was one of his nicest shirts and now it was covered in seaweed and salt water. Blinking the stinging water from his eyes, the Viking saw the Siren stand up, her scaled tail disappearing now that she was no longer in the water. She stood before him naked, her long silvery strands of hair covering her breasts.

"You listen to me," she hissed, poking him in the chest with sharp fingernail. "I am Iona, a magnificent creature of the sea descended from Ægir himself. I will not be reduced to the image of a wanton woman by the likes of you."

Bjarke merely stared at Iona, unperturbed.

"Why are you not affected by my singing," the Siren asked, suddenly curious. "You are a male of a hale and hearty stock. You should have been one of the first to respond to my beckoning."

Bjarke's eye twitched. Yes, she would think that, wouldn't she. This was a secret he had kept close always. A secret that, if revealed, would come with a price. He was not ready to lose all he had worked hard for.

"Yeah, well. Not all of us are tricked by your charms."

Iona pursed her lips and circled him like a vulture.

"Hmmm," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. She glanced down towards his groin. "Are you lacking the needed equipment?"

Bjarke glared at her.

"I have perfectly working 'equipment' thank you very much."

Iona's perfectly shaped brows raised up high in realization.

"You're fuðflogi," she said, breathlessly. "That makes so much sense."

The Viking shushed the Siren harshly.

"Yes," he said in a hushed voice, despite the fact they were the only two conscious on the longship. "But no one knows."

"It is not an evil thing to desire the love of another man," Iona said to the burly, bearded man.

"Not everyone sees it that way," he said gruffly, running his hand over his braided blonde hair. "I will have to marry soon or else they will know."

"I will make you a deal," Iona said, taking sudden pity on the man. "I will help make you the most feared viking in the world if you take me away from this Odin-forsaken spit of land I've been stuck on. "

Bjarke looked at the silver-haired maiden curiously.

"You are a Siren," he said. "Can you not travel the waters freely?"

"Not as freely as you think," she said, sadly. "If I am captured in my human form, I am bound to them and the magic chaining me to this barren place will be split. I will instead by chained to you until you die."

"I would not wish that on anyone," he said.

"It is what I wish. It seems it would not be so bad to be chained to you until your death," Iona said thoughtfully. "I will appear as your wife and help you claim the world. Then we will both be free. I am able to mask my voice as to not charm your village. All you need to do is bind me to you through blood."

Bjarke looked at her, considering her offer. From his belt he drew a knife, slicing a shallow cut down is arm. He held it out to Iona, who mimicked his actions.

"Deal."




When I write these, I do some research. Viking warships were called longships and they were built for speed. Obviously Thor, Odin and Ægir are Norse gods. Even the characters names have meaning. Bjarke means bear, which is what a burly gay man is sometimes referred to as and Iona means born on an island. Sansorðinn is an insult and according to this website means "used in the position of a female by another man" or "demonstrably sodomized." Fuðflogi is a man who shuns marriage according to this website.

She Gave Me You

A poem this time.

[WP] "Show me that old black-and-white wedding picture, Dad. Tell me your story."

Beautiful was an unobtainable idea
Yet she was the embodiment of it.
Perfection has always been unobtainable
Yet it had be obtained that day.
She was like a snowflake,
floating down the aisle wrapped in filmy lace.
It was a dream
That I never wanted to wake up from.
I was supposed to have her forever
since we had beaten so much.
And her life was stolen
by a .15 blood alcohol level.
By a teenager convinced
Of immortality.
But she gave me a gift.
She gave me you.

Swallowed Whole

I was inspired by Ireland this time as opposed to Poland and Russia.

[WP] Settlers named it 'The Maw'. If only they knew how accurate that name was.

They had all heard the rumors as they grew up. To stay away from the forest. When people ventured too far into the woods, they had a tendency to never come back. The villagers of Coolavin called it The Craos or the Maw, a curse brought to the land by the Fomoiri, ancient supernatural beings, who had been forced back underground and behind the veil. Niamh O’Boland knew better than most. Her grandmother had lost her youngest brother to it when she was a young girl, or so she said.

“Stay away from the forest,” Mamó would tell her. “It will swallow you up and Ankou will take you away in his cart to the land of the dead.”

Niamh was not so sure if she believed such nonsense but her mother and grandmother’s warnings were enough to keep her from stepping too far into the silky shade of the trees. It had become a game to the young folk in the village to see who would be brave enough to venture further into the wood. It was said Lugh, legendary hero and High King of Ireland, had some of his troops lead invading enemies to The Craos to be swallowed up. She would soon believe her grandmother’s forewarnings.

Niamh woke early and dressed in a freshly laundered leine, slipping her favorite dark gray wool dress over the other garment. She padded barefoot into the cottage’s small kitchen to snag an apple out of the larder. Her mother was there, carding wool to spin into thread.

“Maidin mhaith,” Niamh said before taking a bite of her apple.

“You’re up early today,” her mother said, not looking up from her task.

The younger woman shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m to meet Máire in the village,” Niamh said, running fingers through her mass of black curls to break up the tangles.

Her mother looked up and rolled her eyes.

“She’ll be wanting to gawk at the blacksmith’s boy, I imagine,” she said with disapproval in her voice. “She should know better than that as she is betrothed to someone else.”

“It matters not to Máire,” Niamh said. “She likes her fantasies.”

“I hope you don’t encourage her.”

“Mam!” she whined, shutting her blue eyes with frustration. “It isn’t my business nor is it yours. Máire can get into trouble by herself. I’m going to be late. Where’s Da?”

Her mother waved her hand toward the windows.


“Out somewhere in the fields with the sheep. I think one of the ewes is giving birth,” she said. “Your brother is helping him.”

“Tell them I said hello,” Niamh called over her shoulder as she raced down the dirt path towards the village.

When she was out of sight of her mother, she paused to kilt her dress up in order to run the rest of the way to the square. She loved the freedom running gave her, even if her mother disapproved. Her bare feet slapped against the worn path as the village loomed ahead. She stopped again to put her dress in order and to dab the sheen of sweat off her forehead. Niamh strolled into the village square, looking past the vendors hawking their wares to find her friend.

“Hello, Niamh,” said one of the vendors.

“Hello, Brigid,” she said. “Have you seen Máire around?”

The weaver looked worried.

“I saw her slip into the forest,” Brigid said. “Dubhán came back from there not but 5 minutes ago. I didn’t get a chance to tell anyone until now. You’d best go after her. When that daft blacksmith is involved, crying or babies are sure to follow.”

Niamh huffed in annoyance and stealthily made her way into the forest. All she needed was to have someone report to her parents she had been in it. She traveled deeper and deeper, becoming more and more uneasy. Every bird call sounded ominous and she jumped as a twig cracked loudly underneath her foot. She needed to find Máire and get out of the cursed forest.

She found her best friend sitting on a boulder, crying loudly.

“What happened?” Niamh asked, going to her and taking her hand.

“I met Dubhán here,” Máire said through hiccupping breaths. “I thought he had finally noticed me. He had left me a note last night to meet him here in the morning. But he was awful. He told me I was an ugly cow and needed to stay away from the smithy because I was scaring away customers.”

Niamh patter Máire’s shoulder as she sobbed.

“I wish I were as pretty as you, Niamh,” she said, green eyed rimmed with red and her cheeks blotchy. “Mam says you’re pretty enough for a faerie prince to steal.”

“Oh what nonsense,” Niamh said, waving her hand. “You’re beautiful. Don’t listen to Dubhán. He’s a dolt. He may be pretty to look at and have muscles from smithing, but there isn’t much going on up there. He’ll disappoint whoever he marries in more way than one.”

She knocked against Máire’s head with her knuckles as her friend gave a gargled chuckle.

“C’mon. Let’s go home.”

As the girls stood, Niamh felt the ground roll beneath her feet. Máire stumbled forward and turned to look behind her. A look of absolute terror crossed her face. Niamh felt the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up and she slowly turned as well. The land was ripping apart, opening a great rift with jagged earthen teeth visible.

“The Craos,” Máire whispered in horror.

“Go!” Niamh yelled, pushing her friend forward. “Run to the village!”

Her red-haired friend was frozen in wide-eyed panic. She wouldn’t budge. If she didn’t move, the both of them would disappear. Niamh pushed Máire as hard as she could before the ground gave beneath her and she was swallowed whole. She fell down in the deep, dark blackness, the echo of Máire screaming her name ringing in her ears. The descent felt like it took years until she had the wind knocked out of her as she landed hard against the ground. Niamh groaned as she pushed herself up, sand digging under her nails. The walls gave off a faint bluish bioluminescence but she could not make anything out in the dim light. She pulled her knees into her chest and did her best to suppress the sob in her throat. She had been eaten by The Craos.


Craos means maw in Gaelic, while Mamó means grandmother. The Formori were terrible creatures that were battled by Ireland's legendary hero and high king, Lugh. Ankou is a Celtic god of the dead, normally seen as an hooded figure in a cart. Maidin mhaith is good morning in Gaelic. Coolavin is a barony in County Sligo in Ireland and I did my best to keep the clothing of Niamh authentic to the historic time period I imagined this story to be in.

Australia

This one is kind of fun and definitely short.

[WP] There was one little problem with the alien invasion. They landed in Australia.

"Slatter, it's too hot."

"Doona, shut up."

Silver and burning vitrol slid down Doona's abdomen. She was totally knackered and Slatter was an idiot.

"Slatter, we're going to shrivel up out here and Tatorel is never going to be able to invade this bloody planet."

Slatter's giant third eye on the back of his head rolled to look at Doona.

"Shut it. Tatorel is the one who picked this place."

This place had sounded so nice when they looked at a human atlas. Doona hadn't expected the heat and the venomous animals they had encountered in their two days in the barren, red expanse. Thankfully for Slatter and Doona, they were more venomous than the animals they faced.

"This place gives me the collywobbles," Doona whined.

"Good Gratish, Doona," Slatter muttered before saying. "Fucking Australia."

Sacrifice of Evil

More writing prompts. These are becoming addicting.

[WP] You're at a funeral. The deceased was an evil and terrible person but his last act was one of pure selflessness and good. You are to give his eulogy.

I shuffled the few sheets of paper I had on the podium and stared out at the crowd gathered at St. Uriel's. They stared at me with a mix of loathing and anticipation. A family member or two was crying but they were the only ones. I cleared my throat and began.

"Everyone knew who Nestor was. And anyone who knew Nestor know most of his actions were not becoming."

I heard a snort from someone in the crowd and, though I couldn't see everyone, I imagined there were plenty of eye rolls. Nestor Callen had been a straight up terrible person. Violent and narcissistic, the man hidden in the casket next to him had committed terrible crimes,

"I guess the best way to describe Nestor was as a terrible human being. As a soldier, we thought he was a hero until we learned about his war crimes when he came home. The destruction and murder of innocents was something he had been proud of. And his cycle of violence followed him home.

"Nestor was volatile, hurting those closest to him in unimaginable. But while he is one of the most hated men in the country, his last act was one of sacrifice and selflessness."

I thought back to earlier in the week. I had been there. I had witnessed how Nestor saved a quarter of a million people who had been trapped in a soccer stadium without realizing it. The government, on the other hand, had known and was desperate for a solution.

"Nestor was one of 1,000 military inmates pulled for a lottery to help prevent terrorists from killing 250,000 people attending a soccer game. He was the only one to volunteer. Rather than let chance pick someone's fate, he stood up and said he would be the one to make that sacrifice. Given a jet to take down a missile, Nestor could have taken it and run away. He could have left those people to die. But he didn't. He took the fighter jet and collided with the missile, sacrificing himself so 250,000 other people could live."

I looked up and my voice broke.

"Call him what you will, but Nestor Callen was always brave. He was hated, but he his last actions were that of a hero. Say what you want of him, but I will thank him for saving my wife and daughter."

Wolf in Hiding

So, I just joined reddit and my boyfriend suggested I look into a writing prompt subreddit or whatever they are called.

This prompt seemed extremely interesting to me so I figured I would finally post something on my writing blog seeing as I've been unbelievably neglectful for a very long time. As I write more stories to go with the prompts, I'll post them here.

[WP] If a prisoner dies, the balance of their sentence must be served by their next of kin. Families of criminals serving particularly long terms will go to almost any length to keep incarcerated relatives alive, but how far is too far?

Kazimir Volkov smiled cruelly at his sister through the scratched and cloudy glass, years of malice lighting his eyes. He had always hated her. The perfect golden child and the delight of the entire family. He had been a black sheep from the moment he was born. Asher heard the whispers of his relatives and the rest of the world. “Not right in the head” was the term they used so casually and so, the family ignored him. But he had made them pay attention in the end. He had made everyone pay attention. He became the wolf and destroyer he was named for. But his dear perfect sister was a sly and sneaking wolf in her own right, hiding secrets in plain sight.

“Hello, little sister,” Kazimir said as she sat down and placed the prison phone up to her ear.

Ekaterina Volkov stared at her brother for several seconds before saying, "Privet."

Kazimir tsked her, looking wounded.

"Reverting to our mother tongue, Ekaterina?" he asked. "And so short. Is this how you greet your only family?

“Last time I checked, you were a big reason for that,” she said lightly.

Yes, Kazimir thought with pleasure. He was indeed the reason his little sister was the only family he had left. He was a wolf and a destroyer of peace. And destroy he did. He had smashed his immigrant parents’ American Dream the same way he smashed their skulls in one moonless night. Then, covered in the blood of those who gave him life, he stalked and killed the rest of his family in the dark of the night.

Ekaterina’s screams waking him up the next morning had been like listening to a symphony of angels. He hadn’t even changed out of his bloody clothing before crawling into bed and he didn’t bother to change when the police dragged him to the station, charging him with several counts of murder.

“Stop playing around, Kazimir,” Ekaterina said roughly. “You are the one who called me to come. Tell me what you wanted to tell me so I can leave.”

“I come bearing you a great gift,” Kazimir said with almost fanatical joy. “You and this blessed world will soon be rid me.”

He watched with sadistic pleasure as his sister registered his words, panic and fear building in her blue eyes.

“Da,” he said with a nod and a smile. “Apparently I have only several weeks to live.  According to the doctors, I have advanced pancreatic cancer. I trust that is enough time to get your affairs in order.”

“You’re lying,” Ekaterina said, breathing heavily as the weight of her future came rushing in.

Several years ago, in a misguided effort to minimize crime and ensure justice was served completely, the United States president signed an unprecedented bill into law. The law required an immediate family member take the place of an inmate in prison if that inmate died before their sentence was up. The controversial law once in effect, drastically reduced crime but ripped the innocent families of the criminals apart.

Kazimir saw Ekaterina wrack her brain for a way out. He has made sure there wasn’t one. It hadn’t mattered that he had slaughtered his family, leaving his sister an orphan. The law did not care that she was a victim. She would now be one of guilty.

“They will not put me in here,” she said uneasily. “I am the victim.”

“Oh, dear sister, you overestimate how much this government cares,” Kazimir said silkily. “They don’t care. You will now be victim and criminal all in one.”

“This is not possible,” his little sister exclaimed.

“I’m afraid it is,” he said. “I checked the law. There is no provision or amendment that prevents you from serving out the rest of my sentence even if you are the victim. And too bad for you. I still have 133 years left. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have little nieces and nephews running around yet.”

Ekaterina felt numb and cold. As a child, she had always tried to give her brother and his strangeness the benefit of the doubt. She had tried to be a protector even though she had been much younger. His violence and anger had gotten even worse when they immigrated to the United States. If she wanted to save her life and that of her future child, she would have to become the criminal she never wanted to be. And she would have to call upon the darker side of herself to ensure her survival. The side that was her mother’s legacy and biggest secret.

“Baiu baiushki baiu ne lojisya a krayu..." Ekaterina whispered with as much venom as she had, something otherworldly sparking in her eyes.

Or else the wolf will grab you and drag you under a cranberry bush. It was a line from a Russian lullaby their mother used to sing to them and now she was going to use it as a threat. There was no way she would serve a sentence used to put away the killer of her family. Her big brother had another thing coming. Kazimir’s eyes widened as they rested on her upturned palm, noting the blood red aura pooling there. He looked up and saw the same color reflected in her eyes, his own dread taking root. Ekaterina had been busy these last few years.

“Ved’ma,” her brother said with a combination of awe and disgust. Witch.

“Baba Yaga is coming for you tonight,” she hissed, pressing her hand to the glass and sending a ball of red magic through the window.

The ball of light hit Kazimir in the middle of the chest, immediately draining him of all warmth. He placed his right hand on the place the magic had disappeared into, stunned at what his sister had just done to him. He glanced around at the people surrounding him to see if they had noticed the magic. She had somehow cloaked the red aura and he looked up at her in abject horror. She had just doomed him to an eternal life of servitude to a nightmare. Baba Yaga would delight in his suffering for the next thousand years.

“I can’t just disappear,” Kazimir said desperately. “You would still have to replace me in here.”

Ekaterina smiled cruelly.

“Oh, I don’t think so, dear brother. I’ve got this worked out,” she said. "Dasvidaniya."

She stood, hung up the phone and strode out of the room in the prison. She could hear her brother howling her name through the glass, spitting curses at her in Russian. Ekaterina didn't bother to look back. She dialed a number on her cell phone.

"Alexi," she said, starting her car. "I need you to find me a man who looks remarkably similar to my brother. He's going to take his place in prison."

~~~~~

I don't know why I wanted to go with characters that were distinctly Russian. It could be that I was inspired by the new Captain America movie that I saw earlier today, but I had decided they would be Russian way before that. I don't know, there's something that just drew me to it. The magical aspect is what came to me on my way home. Enjoy. Also, I had to look up a lot of Russian words for a minor prompt so I think that makes me crazy.