The nights in Merrin’s Belt always had a stoic tone. Soft waters quietly flowed through the canals that separated the city’s blocks. A hush that kept a trickled note warbling from the east river entrance to the west. River Merrin was the great divider of Eastern Tel and the Belt was the city that bridged its torrent. The river served the people as an aqueduct and as canals for quick travel through the city. Cookie cutter blocks of man made land and buildings upon them crossed the wide of the river. The city itself was the best place to cross unless you fancied bartering with stingy and overpriced ferrymen. Men who would just as quickly rob you than guide sail you on a ten minute crossing. City crossing was safer besides. Routinely it’s main thoroughfare was guarded by BellRose kings men. Protecting merchants and travelers down the stretching expanse of the Rose road that cut Merrin’s Belt down the middle. The streets were quiet though. King’s men traveled in packs of five on nights like these. Nights where darkness cascaded all around and cast shadow to every corner. Lurking like hungry wild dogs. An eerie atmosphere was born of heavy storm clouds looming between moon and city. Moonlight twisted with the wind’s pulling of clouds and enhanced the parade of shadows on the street.

Two shady forms walked the lonely street. Knowing all too well where the kings men made path and at what time. Their brisk travel would be unimpeded or there would be violence. Both were more than prepared to make the night bloodier than it needed to be. Both ruled the city more than the painted lords but most importantly both knew that the guards wouldn’t stop their walk either way. Not them and not tonight.

The two were starkly different but equally as dangerous. One was shrouded in a dark cloak with hood pulled over and sat comfortably on the others shoulder. Her legs were crossed as she sat casually on the giant woman that carried her. Beneath her cloak a burnished crimson dress split for riding flashed between the crossing of lamp lights. The tops of the lights themselves only barely met the head of the large woman walking quick paced. She towered eight foot tall and wore very little. Scant leather coverings trimmed with white fur dressed her as prudently as possible without taking away what she intended. The bare skin that was revealed were tight groupings of muscular body. Chiseled into snowy skin kissed by a pinkish red. Black branding scarred across her arms, legs, and core. Displayed proudly. They cut into flesh like belts and gave implied tiers of prowess. The larger woman’s head was shaved on either side. Black triskelions were burned into her scalp. A symbol of house and clan. Thick strawberry blonde dreadlocks on top of her head were tied together and fell to the back of her neck in a horse tail. The tall woman passed the same look by each lamp. A look of work needing to be done. Seeds to be sown and bones to broken.

Tss-Tss.

The woman sitting on the shoulder made a noise of high pitched air being blown. They took a sharp right turn down an alley, the shadows consuming them. Both in the belly of the city and the dark.

Tss.

Another quick burst of air was sounded and the giant woman took a left turn down a narrow street. The houses here sat snugly on either side of the road. Polished bronze plaques hung on doors attached to large ornate manors. Each one manicured differently to suit their owner. Powerful and neatly trimmed colors painted their wood. Stained windows shaped family crests in the complex glass work. Tiny gardens of flowers and cut crass followed the frames of each manor. Making the unique dwellings centerpieces of art.

“Gods damn the painted lords.” The shouldered woman said.

Her voice was light and thin. Young. Full of heart and full of strong opinions ready to be spoken.

The giant woman gave a grunt of agreement. A grizzled rasp that spoke volumes in the quick gap it spanned. A strong woman. A woman to the point. A bored woman that might just cause a little ruckus to spice up some dull aspects of work.

“I mean, honestly Gro; why do they feel the constant need to show off their tail feathers and strut around like expensive cocks?”

Gro returned the question with a shrug of her shoulders. The fluid motion of the gesture uninterrupted by the weight of the woman sitting on her shoulder.

“All they do is tell thieves where to apply their trade. I don’t care if they have armed house guards either. Never stopped me before. I remember looting three lords manors in one night. That was just for the sport of it too. When we had already dominated this city. Now Vortheid, he is a different painted lord than the rest. He has political and judicial backing. I hear he has a knack for violence and a rose petal that doesn’t fall far from the stem. Which is, of course, why we are here. Had I picked up from Mela that she intended on taking the Vortheid debt job I would of stopped her this morning. Foolish woman. She is just a novice at thievery and doesn’t have the talent yet. She was born to be a battle-sister, not a sly rogue. Damn woman can barely sneak better than an erupting volcano. I’ll give her one thing; she sure has a talent of avoiding my readings. Not even Lord Sylva’s Mylan can do that. Ruddy rat would make a better diplomat than a thief. If she wasn’t already bound to war I would have her running this God’s forsaken river town in my place. Now we have to fix her bloody mess. Come Gro, third house down.”

Ffft.

The riding woman made a different airy noise and Gro started forward, making her walk slower and more quiet than before. Each lady inspected the manors they passed and seized up security before they got to the Vortheid Manor. The lavish bronze plate shined brightly beneath a lamp light. Additional candle light was creeping from out of the Gold and green of the stained glass window above the door. The light making a show off the house opposite it.

Gro turned her head to the shouldered woman. The hood obscured most of her face, all but her mouth in contemplation. She chewed her bottom lip and uncrossed her legs. Black thigh high leather boots with small sharp dirks working their way up their sides poked through the split of the dress. Gro lifted her hand and helped the smaller woman down. It was only after the small cloaked woman was standing by Gro did her stature become apparent. She was half Gro’s size but manifested an aura of respect. One surely felt by the giant woman.

“Knock, please.” The cloaked woman requested politely.

Gro wrapped the door with her knuckles, twice. Her bosom bulged from her leather wrappings with each breath and their heave almost touched the top of the door frame.

“Thank you, sister.”

A shuffling of boots picked themselves up and walked heavy footed to the door. The small cloaked woman could feel trepidation seeping through the minuscule cracks of the wood. She could hear and taste fear like a sour static. Waves of uncertainty permeated though the door and she picked it up like a whispered etude of fright. She smiled proudly knowing that she was the cause of such despair. It just proved her reputation was built hard and absolute.

“Who g-goes there?” The guard asked.

His voice was shaking already. It sounded young. It felt young. Britches probably too tight. Trying to make a name for himself in whatever sellsword organization hes from.

“L-Lord Vortheid isn’t taking guests. Leave now or I shall c-call the kings men.”

“Open the door, youngling. My sister is quite impatient and is very prone to feeding men that vex her their scrotums.” The cloaked woman said plainly. Threatening people was a language all of its own and she was fluent.

The thick wooden door opened inward with little hesitation. Immediate worry worked sever lines into the guards face. He had an idea of who he might have to deal with tonight. Now he knew for sure. He dropped his head immediately and stuck his hands to his side in a bow. The lance that had been stuffed in the nook of his arm and chest fell to the ground. His prostration exemplified the respect the cloaked woman demanded. She looked over his yellow and white armor, the colors were of ‘The Brothers Lance.’

“Good boy.” She said cheerfully, demeaning the man. “Your master of guild is Arture Keelhaul, yes? Stop bobbing your head like a guilty mutt. Tell him I said the next time I catch his men working for painted lords I will have those men impaled on their own lances.”

Not amused, the cloaked woman walked past the man that retained his bow. His anxiety was bitter to her senses and she grimaced as she passed him. The Anxiety of what he should do next ran off his body in clouds of noisy dissonance. Simple questions asking if this was his last night rested uncomfortably on the forefront of his mind. The small woman picked it up. All of it. Received them as though the man had just narrated his own thoughts and feelings to her.

“You may leave now. Go tell your master what I said.” The cloaked woman said dismissively.

The guard fumbled over his lance as he tried to pick it up off the ground and make his way quickly out the door. Trying to give the tall warrior woman outside a wide berth as well.

“And tell that pretty tavern wench that you like her.” She yelled back at the man through the open door. “Ruddy fool. Men! He stares at the poor girl every other day and doesn’t do a bloody thing about it. You know, men think ridiculous things when the possibility of death arises. Top of his head was a bustle about someone he has shared less words with than his own manhood. A woman he lusts over like a rabbit in heat. Disgusting moron.”

Gro dipped down and entered with a slam of the front door. Still straight faced and bored. She looked to her mistress with anticipation. Gro may be sixteen years the small cloaked woman’s senior but there was profound amounts of admiration beaming off of her. The cloaked woman soaked that feeling up gladly, like the vines of a strangle brush to the sun.

“Well then. Shall we go wake the lord of the manor?” The cloaked woman said with a smile. Mischief playing notes of joy on her cheeks.

Gro returned the grin and followed the cloaked woman up a flight of well polished dark oak stairs. White cloth mats rested in the middle of each step up, masking their ascent. The pieces of cloth were too clean. The banisters leading up were too clean. The air felt sterile and unnatural. It wrinkled the small mistress’s nose. Painted lords had an annoying way of living. Neat and tidy life’s and environments meant you were closer to the gods. A new adoption the rich instated to their private religious sect; The True Believers. Another way to compete with their fellow lords. Who can spend more money being pious? The most foolish of their ventures to out-do one another.

A secondary guard stood outside a door with candle lit sconces flanking him. His face was wincing. He had heard the commotion downstairs and was afraid to the point of petrification. Both women stared at him in disappointment and disbelief.

“Outstanding. Simply outstanding. You’d get better protection from a rattle serpent in a jar.” The small cloaked woman looked back and gestured at the man with a wide, presenting palm. “At least the serpent would make a noise and look menacing. Leave. Now.”

The guard had an epiphany solely centered around the recollection of how legs work as the cloaked woman shooed him away. He made use of this profound knowledge to abscond loudly in a rush of apologies and bowing.

“Sister. Please.”

The cloaked woman pointed to the door the guard had been standing in front of. Gro walked over to it with a stoop and gave a powerful kick at the handle. Splinters of wood sprayed in the air as the hinges left home and swung into the room with the bulk of the big oak door. The cloaked woman could feel the ambush waiting just inside. Murder prickled on her skin like the aria of a corpse. Regardless, she traversed the destruction without worry and walked unflinching into the darkness.

A knife swung from the shadows of the bed chamber. The swing coming from where the door would have been resting had it not been unhinged. The cloaked woman lunged at the body that held the dagger and sliced with her own sudden dirk at her assailants forearm. One cut up and another down the arm followed by a kick to the groin in quick succession disarmed the aggressor. She wiped the blade of her small dagger on the mans night gown and with a flourish spun it back into the thigh pockets of her thick leather boots. All of this action was done with her cloak still tight and her hood still covering her head. The small woman’s walk into the bed chamber was barely broken by the attack.

“How?” The defeated man whimpered. His words pushed between clenched teeth.

“Your nefarious intentions stank more than an aqueduct drowning victim.” The small woman explained while she walked through the bedchamber, taking a seat on the soft goose feather bed. “Or stank more than good cheese. Whatever metaphor resonates with your lordly sensibilities. Gro.”

The small woman snapped her finger at the painted lord. His body was slumping up against the wall, right arm disabled and bleeding on the floor. Gro walked over and held the man by his uninjured arm and picked him up to his feet. His groans were stifled quickly as he tried to save face. Trying to Appear stronger than he really was. Banking on not being put too far footed when the negotiations inevitably began. When he tried to weasel himself out of trouble.

The painted lord’s green and yellow night gown kept up with his family’s colors. His proud heritage displayed as both cameo and shield. Hiding behind the groundwork other worthy men made for him. The only remains of honor was a name of past. Now this lords painted face told a more grim story of frivolity and perfumed words. The red tattooed designs making story of diplomatic ladder climbing on his face. Each distinctive design on different notable features marked where he stood in the epsilon of social rear sniffing. A solid red block from eye to eye and over the bridge of those nose was the first mark earned. The pain to receive it was said to be a harsh lesson to all new lords. It told of his social standing, he routinely saw other lords. A triangles tip with top angle touching the bottom lip that extended to cover the whole of the chin meant he spoke and did business with other lords. His long facial hair was cut to let the chin be bear. To allow him the ability to show off that important mark. No painted lord wore a full beard without giving away that they have not yet received such a poignant accolade. Royal families were the only lords to wear full beards. Their obvious substantial pedigree not needed to be recognized by the tradition of painting. Painted earlobes that rose up the outside of the ear told the second highest painting of having other lords subservient to you. Lords that were given lordship and land from painted ear lords or that were under their employ. The highest painted feature were two thick bands around the neck. A feature only worn by the few lords with close relationship to the crown royals.

Vortheid wore all but the two rings around the neck. His bearing was strong but not strong enough to matter to the little mistress. She did not bow and has not bowed. That custom did not become her or that of her kin. Something that certainly twisted the arms of the painted lords fiercely. Often she daydreamed of Bellrose armies coming to stop her and remaning unbent at the high king Jillian himself. She dreamt that her eventual renown could pull such prolific figures to stamp her and her bezerkers out. She also giggled at the upset of bowing to the Old King Eilon if he so happened to be there. Now he was a warrior. She respected him, his prowess, his power. Jillian was a weak diplomat and deserved the same respect you give a glass of water.

“Be a good boy and light a few candles. My sister is weary of your shadowed chambers.” The little mistress said with dark mirth.

Her cadence like asking an animal to perform a trick. She also did not want Gro to worry. The small woman was picking up reverberation of weariness from her counterpart. She was afraid of too much dark. No matter how brave the warrior; some old fears stubbornly cling to some people.

The painted lord stood with one arm stemming the tide of blood from his other. Seeping wound putting a dark red color to his otherwise bright night gown. Reluctance stuttered his step before he decided it would be better to do as she says. He was outnumbered and outmatched physically. He still had his words though. Always he had been good with them and they will help him through this.

Gro had handed the painted lord the candle from a sconce in the hallway. A Trembling hand took it and began to apply it to the tall tallow candles spread throughout the chamber. Last of these candles was behind the back of the cloaked woman sitting on his expensive bed. It stood on an end table that held another dagger within its confines.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Vortheid.” The small mistress spoke with a new smile. “It won’t be worth losing the use of another arm for a time.”

Vortheid had barely had the thought of the dagger leave his mind before the cloaked woman had dissuaded his brutish behavior. Dissuaded his intent to strike as her back was turned. His eyes squinted in suspicion and confusion. The peculiar small woman spoke like Mylan’s he had dealt with before. Always knowing things they shouldn’t. Your mind no longer private.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The painted lord demanded pointedly.

Vortheid’s voice had a harshness he did not intend. Fear addled his decision making.

“I am the Mistress of Frenzies and your son has a debt with me. I want the money I am owed and I want a sister you have apprehended. She was caught on your premises trying to take from you in equal amount to the money your son owes me. I will have them both tonight.” The mistress counter-demanded.

Fear and curiosity swirled together in a concoction Mistress Frenzy could feel so heavily it left a taste on her lips. Her skin prickled with joy. What a wonderful life this is. What a beautiful night to wield power.

“I simply cannot believe you. Why would my son borrow money? He has an ample allowance. Furthermore, why would the leader of such a deplorable organization as the infamous Merrin’s Wrath come to collect a debt and one of her thieves? Why not send another peon or a messenger? Why do you hide your face, liar? Who are you really?”

“That sounds like something you should ask your son, not me. As for why I decided to come, call it boredom. I digress, to business. I know you were a court lawyer once. You built your reputation on the backs of manipulation and lies and I want you to know that it will do no good on me. I know you try and safely wound me with your words to put me on my back foot but I assure you; my position leading my gang is higher than your position among your perfumed menagerie. You control a third of the belt and I control the rest. Do not presume otherwise. There is a reason no alarm has been raised to come to your aid, Vortheid.” Mistress Frenzy kept a confident punch to the tips of her points. Each was pin pricked and in bed with an underlying threat. “Kings men will come to investigate the commotion in the morning but at no time before. They surely know I am here and all of them will be more than expectant to carry out your lifeless body. Something that could come to pass if I do not get what I want. And I do not hide my face. Hiding implies evasion through fear. That is an emotion I have left behind long ago. I do not feel fear, I spread it.”

Mistress Frenzy lowered her hood and stared intensely at the painted lord. Her dark auburn hair came down to her strongly angled chin. Bangs were pursed back by a dark brown laced headband. Dragon eye polished crystals hung like a beaded wall over her gaze. Her eyes performed like a starry night. Pitch blackness enveloped them but sparkled with gray and white dots. Black ferocity with twinkling lights of power. A beautiful painted midnight sky. She was young. Very young. Smooth features and large pink lips were secondary to the draw of her stare.

“Gods save me. I have a daughter your age. A sweet ten year old flower. How? W-why are you like this?” A sadness bit at the painted lords response to Mistress Frenzy’s unveiling.

Fear remained in Vortheid but a sympathy for a lost soul diminished the feeling of his curiosity. The emotions he sent out were received sourly. The sway of his emotion irked at the Mistress Frenzy. There were many things that tugged annoyingly at her attention but being dismissed because of age was most vexing of all. Being mocked for being blind was beside it in annoyance. She was the leader of a gang that held the balls of a city in its grasp and all people whinged on about was the loss of a pretty young girl’s innocence. Innocence was a disease that affected the weak and the idiots of the world.

“Don’t you dare begin to feel sorry for me. That is reserved for equals. I stand above you, enlightened. Now tell me, where is my money and where is my sister?”

“There were rumors about you but they were so hard to believe. The blind girl with a coven of Nordur Bezerkers.” The painted lord stubbornly clung do disbelief.

“Damned fool! Give me what is mine or I will give the king’s men what they expect to find come morning.”

Vortheid looked down to his feet without slipper. Their cold only just recently becoming apparent. His sullen wash of emotion continuing to poke annoyance at Mistress Frenzy. She was about to open her mouth to speak again before the lord moved to a writing desk near a window in back of the chamber. A fat sack of coin was pulled from out of a drawer and hefted at the blind mistress. She snatched it out of the air and weighted it in her hand before tossing it to Gro.

“I thought so. They say you see the world but you see it far differently than us. Just like the Mylan’s do. However, unlike they Mylan, you are rotten to the core. Do you think this will make you happy?” He asked with superficial deepness.

“Yes. Very much so. Now where is my sister you apprehended?”

“My son Soal took two guards and your woman to my fine silk workshop down by the western escape.”

“Good. I have words for you son.” The Mistress Frenzy bounced off the bed and made her way out the chamber. “And if my sister is with injury then I promise you I will be sending your son back with three fold her pain.”

The painted lord made a plea as Mistress Frenzy worked her way quickly through the manor. She did not care enough to listen and she was still put to foul mood by Vortheid’s reaction to her age. The mistress set the pace at a hurried step. Gro walked leisurely behind but still gave off a feeling of urgency. Gro wanted to get to her sister just as quickly but didn’t want to overstep Mistress Frenzy.

Western Merrin’s Belt was held mostly by factories and workshops. Tradesmen made their craft in that district and walked them a block eastward to the merchants zone known as ‘Merrin’s Purse.’ The gray market in Merrin’s belt was the biggest in Bellrose’s kingdom. Second in Tel only to the seedy underground of Vitania.

Daybreak was still more than four hours off but the night brought in a feeling of dwindling time. Something purged confidence with each of Mistress Frenzy’s steps. Mela was a good warrior. A fine warrior with all the heart and soul a woman and sister could ask for. She was married to battle like death. She a loyal soldier and would not fall easily but Frenzy picked up vibrations of fear that sounded like Mela. Not fearing for her own life but fearing Mistress Frenzy’s disappointment. A Bezerker only did that when they had consigned to dying and worried about how others would view her passing. Merrin’s Wrath had lost members before. Peons though, none of which were Bezerkers. None were sisters of sweet battle, bonded by a sharing of enemies bloodshed. The potential loss would hit hard and Mela left trails of desperate escape. Frantic thought of overcoming a potential lame death. Where glory did not shine. Killing three men before she died would be considered a travesty and she was above that.

“Blast! Gro, we fly. The great flame mother sings our sisters name and I have a mind to deny her Mela’s embrace.” Mistress Frenzy said with a start.

The two women ran. Fervor fueling their muscles, burning hot like wildfire. Despite her size, Mistress Frenzy kept pace with the long strides of her giant counterpart. They breathed hard but not out of tire. Each used an old Nordur war technique to increase lung capacity and keep a hard pace through battle. They sounded like Tundra wolves snarling, bounding in excitement to meet quarry. Even the training techniques utilized by the fierce warrior women exuded fear into their enemies. Spreading rumor of how they bedded with wolves and ruled over packs of their own. Snarled huffs bit into the thin night air. Bared teeth clenched tight, maws impatiently seething. No Bezerker worth their salt burned out quickly when they fought. They blazed. Fires of rage scorching battlegrounds in wicked holocaust. The Nordur Folk are molten fury. Fire wolves unparalleled.

The workshop made view in the distance. Lamp lights dimly lit its skeleton. White aspen wood richly hugged the frame of the large building. Other workshops were built just as richly in this district. It was just another pissing contest between the rich painted lords. Another flamboyant expression of power. Undermined by the gang of Merrin’s Wrath. Where the true control of the city was wrested. Where the mistress of frenzies applied her trade of fear and control. She was the core of this city. Knowing all too well her power made everything possible. All the while the corona of painted lords thought they burned brightest and lit the world. Tonight they will learn who truly burns inextinguishable and who can be snuffed out irrevocably.

Large oaken doors capped with iron banding stood tall and immovable in lantern light. Their handles clasped with chain made for an uninviting malevolence. There was no doubt Vortheid had planned on giving up Mela to the kings men come morning but morning was still far yet and three men had her under lock and key. Men hiding behind strong walls and tightly barricaded doors. Men who did not know honor and lay with guilt like the weak sinners they were.

Mistress Frenzy made a leap onto the back of Gro. One foot steadied on Gro’s low back and the other between her shoulders. She put one hand around the woman’s collection of dreadlocks and one to Gro’s shoulder. She leaned in close to the tall warrior woman whom leaned forward in response, picking up speed. Their rush to the workshop and its chained oaken doors unceasing. They were barreling down the street in a collision course.

“Bezerker! What do we say to those who would harm our kin?” Mistress Frenzy shouted.

“Die!” Gro returned. Her voice barking loudly beneath the glow of the moon.

“Bezerker! What do we say when they bar our path?”

“Move!”

“Bezerker! What do we say to their pleas of mercy?”

“Nothing!”

Mistress Frenzy kicked off the warrior woman as Gro’s shoulder made impact to wood. Propelled, the Bezerker broke through the door like a cannon ball. Mistress Frenzy flipped backwards in the maneuver and landed without a noise. She kicked up small chips of cobble as she regained footing and bolted through the hole Gro created. The Bezerker stood just cresting the entrance with broken door blasted everywhere. Dust and debris hugged her skin and cascaded to the ground in the aftermath. Blood trickled on half her body through splinter openings. Her shoulder a raw red bruising. Her face half a splay of blood and a wide grin. The lust of battle numbing all wounds. Sweet notes of iron dripping down her throat, salivating her pallet.

Mela was twisted up in hempen rope, tied tightly to a wooden post. Her face battered and broken. Her black dreadlocks messy and cut. Her fur tufted leather torn explicitly. Her body slumped and heaving painfully. But her eyes, oh her eyes still burned with a fire wolf’s determination. She gave off relief mixed with shame. Frenzy picked that up as soon as she came to see the woman. Poor Mela had not failed yet but was close to the precipice.

Two lance guards flanked the young lordling, Soal. They stooped near to Mela and what unspeakable acts they have done or were about to do could not be said but their fear was exquisitely palpable. The lordling wore black riding clothes and a gaping mouth in disbelief. His hand took to the hilt of his sword with a fumble and pulled it out clumsily. Mistress frenzy could not hide derision and giggled aloud. The adrenaline was coursing through her. The fire that made the Nordur so dangerous. A people whom had full control of their adrenal glands and could let them loose at will.

“You think yourself mighty, Soal. Standing there so bravely with brandished steel. Have you ever faced a Bezerker before? There is a reason the Nordur are free folk. They remain one of the few undefeated armies of the world” Mistress Frenzy said with a poke. Toying with prey.

“You are outnumbered, Frenzy.” Soal responded shakily at best.

The lordling took a step back to let the guard share the brunt of the oncoming storm.

“All you lords are the same. Hide behind a wall of other men and threats. Thinking your gold buys you influence. It makes you confident. It makes you weak and soft.”

“Squishy.” Gro interjected.

Gro punched the open palm of her other hand. Crazed grin still expectant.

“Precisely, Sister! Mush without backbone. You have so much to learn.”

“Quiet! I have no stomach for your yammering and I certainly do not have time for your ‘lessons.’”

Mistress Frenzy opened her mouth wide in a guffaw. She walked behind Gro and held out her hands. Feelers ready to touch the battlefield and know it better than anyone in the room.

’Their walls of confidence were bolstered by their fear.’ Frenzy thought. ’Painted lords think themselves the highest leaf of a tree. Unaware of the Bezerker with axe to their trunk. Oblivious to oblivion at the doors and the frenzy comes.’

“Sister, give yourself to me.” The small mistress quietly requested. “I am the bellows that fuels your forge. I am the spark that drives your immolation. I am the lunacy that guides your fury.”

Frenzy’s eyes were a sparkle of swirling suns. The Bezerker closed her eyes in response and took a deep breathe. The long exhale pushing her grin wider. Craze building, her battle intuition in control by the Frenzy at her back. She was a weapon and the small mistress held a firm grip. Gro took a strong stance and lowered her center of gravity. Fists a firm white in stretched skin.

“You aren’t armed. I can’t in good conscious fight you.” The lordling said.

Soal’s head was a flutter with excuses.

“It would be over too quickly if we were.” Mistress Frenzy toyed again.

Shhh!

The little woman blew a command with her mouth and Gro tore the ground with a stomp and lunged forward. Dirt flicked up as the woman sprinted, eyes closed. Blind of her own volition. In a panic the lance men held their weapons at the ready. Their intention were clear and resolute. A smattering of training working their movements. The unfortunate truth for them was all of this was received in outstanding clarity by the young mistress. Beyond that, their following moments were broadcasted. They made ripples and those traveled to the outstretched hands of the Frenzy. Winning was no option for them.

Tsah!

Frenzy called out to the Bezerker and she slid on her legs below the piercing attacks the lances struck out. Mistress Frenzy let out a continuous stream of airy commands. Gro’s hands gripped the shafts of lance and pulled them down, dipping their tips into the dirt. With the lances planted, Gro used them to help vault her upwards to regain her footing. The heels of her boots stuck the bottom of the guild guards jaws as she arched her back and landed in a squat in front of Soal. The lordling winced at the sound of breaking bone and shattering teeth. The guards pounded their feet in kicks to the ground as their hands covered their mouths, lances already abandoned. Coughs of blood and chips of enamel making mess of their palms.

Shoo! Ffft!

Soal swung out with his sword. Gro avoided the gut swing with the warning from Frenzy. She leaned back parallel to the ground as the sword flashed above her stomach and the warrior woman sent a kick to the mid of her attacker. Soal took the brunt of it and lost his breathe. Almost losing his sword in the process. The lordling took stumbled steps backwards and grasped at his middle. His eyes were all a daze. They surveyed the situation lost and he turned to run away. Gro stood ready to act with a command from mistress Frenzy but it would of been too late. At least that is what Frenzy told herself. She was still furious from the entire circumstance and the lust of battle guided her actions. A dirk appeared in her hand with a flourish and she sent it rocketing at Soal. Dirk blade found the pit of Soal’s knee and immediately sent the man to the ground on his following step forward. Yells of pain bounced between the three men. Each dealing with the agony in their own way on the ground. Frenzy scoffed and severed the connection to Gro.

“It was over quickly anyway. How disappointing.”

Flows of adrenaline were dammed and the mistress saw to freeing her sister. Gro stood guard over the men, her eyes open and mouth skewed in a scowl. Satiation grew harder to achieve the older a Bezerker got and this was such a let down.

Mistress Frenzy bent down to undo the bindings set upon her battle sister. Mela’s gaze was to the ground. Shame clouded seeing the rest of the woman emotions, her thoughts. Overwhelmingly obscuring the feelings she knew were deeper in. Mistress Frenzy lifted Mela’s head with a finger. Fire from Mela’s gaze met the burning suns of Frenzy’s. Furious tears of self loathing made way down the beaten woman’s face.

“My sweet battle sister, fret not on your failure. The great fire mother did not see greatness until far into her life. Each eruption built her stronger and taller. Be happy you still have a life to prove you are her daughter.”

Comforting words swiftly fanned the clouds of shame. Mela smiled with lost teeth and puffy cheeks. A trickle of adrenaline tied off the pain of her gesture. Mistress Frenzy was well respected and not only because she was strong, smart, and confident. She was a leader. She inspired and helped shape those around her. One and all under her were grateful. Their appreciation evident through unwavering loyalty and dedication.

“I will never burden you again, sister. Branna skaert.” Mela proudly stated.

“I will have your back always, sister. Branna eiluft.” Frenzy returned.

After unbinding Mela, Frenzy rose to meet Soal. The lordling had attempted to crawl away. He Made surprising distance a few yards away from where he had toppled over. Frenzy pulled the dirk from the back of his knee and wiped it on his trousers before sheathing it in her boot. There was penance to be paid. There were lords to make uneasy and a point to be made. Vortheid will have to be made example of.

“I made a promise to your father, Soal.” Frenzy voiced. Her mind picked up the immediate displeasure the lordling made over a knife being exhumed from his body. “I intend on keeping this promise. Should you survive the night, consider your payment compensated.”

“Please, please no.”

Soal flipped over to look mistress Frenzy in the eyes.

“I will pay what I owe you. I will give you more. Anything. Please don’t hurt me. I beg of you. Look inside your heart. I beg of you.”

The sparkling void of Frenzy’s stare ate up the lordlings words. She was looking into her heart and it was an unquenchable hearth. It bled and pulsed for her people. It was a volcano to rival the great fire mother. His pleas of mercy were met with a proud peoples haunting silence. As is the way of the Bezerker.

Next Chapter: Chapter Five: Singing to the Mist