[h1][center][color=6ecff6]Svanhild[/color][/center][/h1]
Nomads, wanderers, people of the plains. Looking at them, Svanhild could only remember her own clan of giants, the friends and allies long lost to her now. Primitive on the surface, yes, but with a rich, deep culture all to their own, and a way of life dating back all the way to the time of myths. If she had only met these Easterlings under better circumstances, had only been able to sit around a fire and speak peacefully with them, just what sort of stories might they have shared? What sort of tales, to delight the soul and enrich one's view of the world?

Chances were she would never know. The scum of the Westerlands, her supposed companions, could only think in terms of crude stereotypes and their own selfish desires. [i]Barbarians, savages, animals to be slain. Threats to be removed, and rewards to be claimed.[/i] No sooner had Svanhild laid eyes upon the approaching party than a horrifying shriek split her ears, and she stumbled to the side with hands clutched tight to her head.

[color=6ecff6][i]The vile tricks of a monster—but they're not directed at you.[/i][/color] The giantess clenched her teeth, and forced herself to stand straight despite the ringing in her ears. By the time she managed to refocus her eyes, she saw the Easterling party decimated, heads blown apart and flesh stripped away from naked bones. A cold fury filled her then, and she cast her arm out to one side.

[color=6ecff6][b]"HOLD!"[/b][/color]

Blue ice materialized in her open hand, a massive broadsword as long as she was tall. She held it out before the Warden's misfits like a barrier, before any of them could go thoughtlessly charging off and get themselves killed. [color=6ecff6]"Hold, you dolts! Look around and [i]think[/i] for once in your sorry lives!"[/color]

The Reavers were scattered, their front lines entirely broken apart by the one-two punch of the magical assault. Some had curled up on the ground, still clutching at bleeding ears, while others cowered behind shields or tried to play dead among the corpses of their former comrades. They weren't berserkers, nor rabid animals: even with half of them still alive they couldn't yet muster the will to renew their forward charge.

No, what concerned Svanhild more was why they'd been charging in the first place. She spoke urgently, loud enough that even the half-deaf would be able to catch her drift. [color=6ecff6]"Why come at us out in the open? They can't have seen us from below that ridge. And if their scouts had found us ahead of time, they could have waited to ambush us after we entered the woods."[/color] She couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong—she thought she might've glimpsed something up in the sky, but the scream had destroyed her concentration before she could pin it down. All she knew was that if her side kept up this haphazard retaliation, they'd be sitting ducks for anything else lurking out there.

[color=6ecff6]"Someone wake up that plague-ridden wretch. And if anyone knows magic for observing distant terrain, [i]use it[/i]."[/color]