The scent of blood and ash filled the air over the ruins of Dún Ailline. The first wave of the united Connacht host had crashed against its ancient stone walls, and broke among iron and flame.
It was not surtr's flames that burned these men, no such legendary fire would be reserved for an army worthy of its magic.
Rather, it was a more traditional mixture of pitch that coated their shields and mail coats, sending them to Christian hell where they belonged.
Vetrúlfr stood atop the ramparts, sword and shield in hand. Howling at the enemy below, as if to taunt them. He knew they were here for his head. Why wouldn't they be?
He had caused far too much trouble for these Kings, and the Pope who backed them to not become their primary object of their hate filled desires.
And here he stood, ranting, raving, biting the iron rim of his shield as he wore the skin of a beast whose white fur invoked the primal fury of its bestial spirit.
