Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER vi. 'Nor I You, Hag'

ﾟ❁ུ۪ °ₒ 𓂂 ˚ 𓂂 ₒ ° ₒ 𓂂 ˚˖⋆

CHAPTER vi. 'Nor I You, Hag'

—

      It was early in the evening when Freydis and Uhtred's bastards deemed they had traveled long enough to procure a great distance between themselves and Dunholm's acrimonious Danes; and so they set camp for the night, needing to refresh the horses and fulfill their ravenous bellies. Sihtric and Finan had gone off to hunt as Freydis sat on top a boulder, cleaning the mud from her nails with fresh lakewater while her legs remediated following the long ride upon her short, ghastly nag. Midway through the trot, the Irish pagan had determined a name for the horse stolen for her by the baby monk; Ogna. For the shite-brown stallion was ugly, stout, and provided her a fresh incessant discomfort at every bleeding moment of the day. Currently, Ogna stood alongside the other horses feasting on the dead grass beneath their feet, a meal fit for the ugly beast.

Despite Freydis glee following her escape of Dunholm, she was not as happy as she would have surmised. Yes, she no longer felt the wrath of Vikar or the blight of Skjord's perpetual horniness, but now she was overtaken by fear. Fear for her life, for her livelihood, and fear for Uhtred and his men. They deemed a great sacrifice saving Freydis from her captivity, and all the while they gained new foes; Skjord, Vikar, and the men who followed the Norweigan invaders. Not only would Freydis be flogged, or even executed upon re-capturing, so would Uhtred and his men. So would Finan, the Irishman kind enough to kill upon the threat of her welfare and fight when Vikar threatened to re-take her as they left Dunholm.

The Celtic rogue scrubbed harder at her nails, rubbing her fingertips raw as the rabbit hide drew blood. Calmer now, Freydis sighed as she dropped the hide into the dirt and wiped the remaining blood onto the rim of her breeches. They stunk of horse shite, kudos to the unceasing work of the horses colon, and her boots stunk even worse as they were used to trot directly into the horse turds and back into the equally shite-ridden roads of Dunholm. It was safe to say that Freydis was on the verge of going mad, whether it was due to her heightened paranoia or unfaltering stench. From the fire in the midst of camp, Osferth the baby monk trudged over with a wooden cup, "Drink, Lady," he commanded, "I doubt you've had nothing but ale these past months."

Freydis gratefully took the cup, "That you are right, monk."

"My name is Osferth," he informed, "if you didn't know."

Freydis sipped, smiling, "I did. We have met before, at Dunholm."

The monk sighed, "At least you don't call me 'baby' monk, for that is what the others insist on calling me."

"That is because you're a pup, monk," Freydis stated, "not a hair on your chin or odor from your pits; what are you doing with the overt pigs you're traveling with?"