Overneath

Chapter 1

VALKYRIE SKOVGAARD

Everything is deathly still. Deathly quiet, deathly silent. From my small mat in the middle of my small hut, in the center of my small world, I cannot even hear the breathing of my family who are sound asleep on the mats enclosing mine. I cannot even hear my own breath. Am I even breathing? Am I on a different plane of existence? That cannot be the case because I can feel things in reality's plane. Movement, soft vibrations, textures. The rough fur pelt that covers my dry straw mat feels prickly as hairs stick into my bare arms and legs. I cannot only feel, I can see things through my cold grey eyes. I can see it all.

I can see the world with these two eyes. Right now, I can see the thatch roof of my family's hut, the dark materials that it is made from. The patterns that the materials make. I can see my skin, it is a smooth, darker brown that is marred with darker , slightly raised battle scars and jet black tattoos, marking which clan I hail from and my victories in battle. My unruly waist long hair is a dark navy blue that fades into a startling cerulean at the end. I can see it all. I can see everything.

I sit up slowly and all at once, I can hear the noises that my surroundings are making. My fur pelt makes a subtle rustling sound as I stand up. Step off of the mat onto the cold, hard, dark soil floor in between my own mat and my father's. I look down at his sleeping face and smile softly. My father has a rough exterior and rightfully so, as the Berserk Kingdom's king, he has to constantly show his dominance and brutality to all. Even though his features are harsh, he is truly kind and caring on the inside though  he does not show that side to many others. That is how one must be if they are to get anywhere in this cruel world that our bodies inhabit.

I begin to tiptoe around his mat and make my way to the hut flap that separates the sleeping section, from the weapons section . I quietly move the thin beige flap to the side with the back of my right hand and pass through it. I shudder as the temperature drops from the lack of insulation. Goose bumps raise up on my skin as I continue to walk into the section.

I walk on the frozen ground into the weapons room, the short blades of grass stab into my feet. I lift my head up and gaze at the four beautiful weapons hanging from the beams supporting the hut, by thin threads made from the fibers of plants. I make a beeline straight for my large scythe. I stand infront of it, basking in its beauty. The hilt of my scythe is thick and black, it has red jewels encrusted into it, racing up it's shaft like a spiral. The scythe blade itself is a thick silver blade that has a clear reflection on it. I hand crafted this weapon myself when I was only eight ears old as a rite of passage to prove my worthiness of belonging to the Skovgaard clan. That seems like it was a long time ago, but it has only been eight years.

I reach up and untie the fibrous string holding my scythe and it drops into my waiting right hand. It is heavy and I love it. The hilt is long and smooth. I grip it tightly as I hoist it over my right shoulder. I snake my right arm around its shaft and drop the fibrous thread on the ground . I tiptoe back into the sleeping section and walk around my resting family. I walk to the far end of the hut and place the scythe on the ground and lean it against the wall. I pick up my thick fur jacket and slip it and slip it over my strong shoulders. I pull on my black leggings and wrap the thin, pale animal skin strips down my legs and tie them together at my ankles. I pull on my knee high, thick furred dark red boots over my leggings.

A bead of warm sweat runs down the back of my neck as a wave of warmth from the pelts spreads through me. I wrap my fingers around my scythe and hoist it over my right shoulder. I quietly walk out of my hut and into the crisp old, early morning winter air. The frozen, pure white snow crunches quietly under my feet as I briskly walk through my clan's encampment. I silently maneuver through the center of the encampment, leaping gracefully over the still smoldering black charcoal where the fire once was, only a few hours prior, blazing brightly in the pitch black night. As I land on the other side, I look back briefly and see the mute flickering of the embers. I walk around the dark, water soaked logs that are positioned in a semi circle around the hearth. With only the sound of snow being crushed under foot as my company, I look around at the dark, hide huts that starkly contrast with the white still air. Many, strewn around randomly. All holding families, all of whom I have known for the entirety of my life.