TOSKA | Sihtric Kjartansson

𝐕.

JELLING, DANMARK  [886]
— now known as Jelling, Denmark

   THE THICK SUMMER AIR CLUNG TO HER SKIN AS SHE MOVED CAUTIOUSLY THROUGH THE CROWD OF PEOPLE that had gathered themselves. For days now the sun hadn't once ceased its power and beneath Zvora's shoes the dry earth yearned for the once dreaded warm rainfalls of the season.

    Despite the midday sun burning down on them, most of the villagers had taken to the market today as always — carrying buckets and webbed trunks filled with everything they could manage to sell, which was not exactly a lot.

    Since rain had become a rarity most of the crops had been unsalvageable or were crumbled and unidentifiable.

   Zvora looked into the sky, narrowing her eyes as she held her hand over her eyebrows to block the sunlight while she focused on the clouds piling themselves up in the distance. She didn't linger for long, following the stream of people wherever they took her and gathered her pouch in her fingers while she approached a stand with the old woman that sold herbs she grew in her garden.

"Good day, Helga," Zvora greeted the woman when she reached the stand, curving
her lips into a smile.

    "Good day, Aðísla." Helga bowed her head, two of her fingers touching her temple where wrinkles had slowly begun to swallow the ink that had been drawn onto her skin decades ago.

"I hope the last week was blessed by the gods for you."

    Zvora chuckled.

    "The gods still haven't decided. The runes need to be cast."

    Helga nodded, her eyes darting towards the other people that had filled the market place, praising their goods and yelling from their ships.

    Zvora had noticed them too, not only the merchants had come to the market today but warriors too, their skins graced with markings and silver rings shining on their arms. Their shields showed sigils from different lords; some of whom Zvora knew and some that were completely new to her eyes.

    "Winds from the north came to us, have you noticed?" Helga smiled at Zvora; two innocent women engaging in a conversation for everyone who wondered but for them it was their ritual, spinning webs of indifferent topics and empty shells that were filled with hidden meanings and tellings.

    I hope the last week was blessed by the gods for you.

    Helga had come to hear that Ylva was still pregnant, exceeding the date of the birth of her child by weeks now.

    The gods still haven't decided.

    Zvora wasn't sure what would be worse; living with a pregnant woman that was constantly filling the hall with her screams and fits of anger or with the cries of a neglected child.

    The runes need to be cast.

    This meant exactly what she said, she hadn't casted the runes and she hadn't looked for signs. These past few days Zvora had done nothing except embroider tiny clothing and tidying the hall for the stipulated birth of Jarl Thore Ivarson's second child with his wife Ylva Hruriksdottir.