Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER vii. 'Conversation Starters'

ﾟ❁ུ۪ °ₒ 𓂂 ˚ 𓂂 ₒ ° ₒ 𓂂 ˚˖⋆

CHAPTER vii. 'Conversation Starters'

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In succession to the squirmish at Witchombe nunnery, Uhtred saw it fit for everyone to urgently leave in order to bring Æthelflæd to safety. Freydis once again found herself shrouded with worry as they traversed the rough east Mercian countryside on horseback. The Celtic rouge comforted herself within the reassurance of her saex, Finan offered her the sword of a fallen warrior but she had yet to find herself able-bodied enough to wield it. After everything she had gone through as the captive of the Scandinavian Viking and leaving her homeland for the frenzied Northumbrian milieu she didn't fancy the idea of dropping a sword mid-battle and the blade going directly through her foot. Ogna winnied below her and Freydis had half the heart to kick her in the side, but then she reminded herself that Ogna was a horse and not the insufferable Dane. That Ogna was dead, fortunately.

It snowed as Uhtred and his crew traversed up a Mercian hill, snowflakes danced through Freydis' lashes whilst she warmed her nose with the inner of her palm. The men had sought to camp but Uhtred had nothing of it. He had just learned of the death of his brother Ragnar Ragnarsson and whilst Freydis felt no glee she was nonetheless relieved by the news. Howbeit, she hadn't shared her joy with anyone else as no one appeared to share her bias--Uhtred the most obvious as he chastised his men for any miniscule wrong move and rode them half-to-death in the extreme wintry weather.

A bird flew out from the cover of the trees, diving at the erect ears of Sihtric's horse; the Dane was forced to pull on the reins of his horse to divert it back on course, the horse was nonetheless frightened as it paced around anxiously on the hoof-printed road. Freydis aligned her horse with him, looking up at the Norsemen from the shorter height of her own horse, "Are you well, Sihtric?"

"Fine, lady," Sihtric stated, "Þorir is only agitated."

Freydis chuckled, "She is a warrior-horse frightened of birds?"

Swords don't fly, lady," Sihtric mused, "nor do they nibble at your ears."

"Fair enough," Freydis concurred, "in Irland we have a bird known as the 'catbird,' named after their eerie songs. If you aren't careful enough they will let out a mighty cry before diving from their bushes and entangling themselves within your hair. We had to cut my brother's hair after his brush with the warbler, my sister mocked his boldness relentlessly."

Sihtric lifted a brow, "You have a brother and sister?"

Freydis glanced back as Finan on top of his ivory-stallion aligned himself with Freydis and the Dane. "Indeed, three brothers and three sisters, to be exact."

Finan chewed on a weed that hung out of the corner of his mouth, "Are yu' the youngest?"

"No," Freydis nodded, "I'm the middle child, I have three elder siblings and three younger."