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.