[h2][center]Djerka, Velen Principality [/center][/h2]

Whatever burns turns to ash. Men, trees, books, dogs. All burn into ashes. These thoughts filled Njorald's head as he stared into the hearth. It was snowing in Djerka. It always snowed in Djerka, the northernmost port in Velen. It wasn't too bad, but the sky was bleak and gray, and the Prince stared out into the ocean, which reflected the shadows of the cloudy sky. His eyes darted a little lower to the ships being prepared. Tomorrow, their portion of the invasion of Askor began.

People still walked the streets, but there was little joy, more just human cattle shuffling around to where they needed to go. The only people who seemed somewhat happy were some of the more ardent Veleni warriors, with large axes and tattoos covering their bodies.

Velen was hurt far less than most of the other Einherjar...or, as Veleni were supposed to call them, Nouven, vassals, with not nearly as much massacre and torture that followed their surrender. Because of this, the armies of Velen were expected to perform far better, and much more was expected out of them. This was why many of the other Nouven vassals, as well as the Nouven themselves, refered to them as dogs. Njorald breathed the cold, burnt air, and sat down on the deck of his estate in Djerka. He moved his hand over the heat of the flame to feel the warmth, and unconciously, he hand began moving closer and closer to the burning fire.

"Go ahead, grasp the flames" A deep voice said from behind Njorald. The air suddenly seemed cooler, as if someone had opened up a window. The clanking of plate armor grew louder as the figure stepped closer to the prince. "Perhaps I won't torture your countrymen if you torture yourself." The Einherjar commander said.

At hearing Llyr's voice, Njorald stood immediately, removing the hand from the fire and placing it over his chest, staring blankly ahead. "My lord, my deepest apologies, I did not hear you come in." He felt a deep, aching fear rise up inside of him, the same fear he felt when he saw his father's bloody corpse twenty years ago.

"You'd best stay vigilant" Llyr's tone belied the smile hidden behind his helmet, "least you share your father's fate." The Einherjar always seemed to enjoy mentioning Njorald's father. "Lord Goscelin has already begun," He continued after a moment, "and soon it will be your turn. Do you understand your role?"

The Prince nodded. "Of course, my lord. I am to invade the nomads north of Cormyral, to quell whatever future threat they may hold to your endevours, as well as to take as many slaves to provide your lordship with whatever labor you may need." He went through his head, thinking of anything he might have left out...it did not go well when he did.

Llyr gave a slight nod of his head. "Show no mercy. It matters not if the rats you bring back in chains are in less than good condition. In fact... I expect you to personally flog the first hundred you catch."

Sighing in relief for having not missed anything, Njorald said, "Of course, my lord." He waited a moment, visibly sweating as he made the following request. "And...my lord...if it isn't too much trouble...the people of this town...their winter provisions were confiscated to feed our invasion force...if your greatness could maybe find some food in surplus to replace it..."

"Oh?" The air seemed to become even more chilled than before. "You need not concern yourself with the townsfolk. Soon they will not need to be concerned about food." There was no warmth in his voice, only trace amounts of amusement.

Njorald expected his skin to go cold, for some rage to build inside of him. He wasn't all too surprised, however, when he felt nothing. He simply nodded, with a bleak look on his face.

Sometimes he wondered if the rumors were true. He had been told that the Scaveni were brutally massacred, that no survivors remained, and all things to remember them by turned to ash. But there were rumors that persisted, in the darkest rooms, the quietest voices, that the Scaveni still lived. Not in their land of course. But that they lived in the hundreds of thousands, far, far to the west. Of course, if he ever brought this up to his overlords, he'd get a hand cut off, or a city massacred, or something of the sorts. But every so often he contemplated if, back as an adolescent, he should have gone with them in their migration.

Llyr observed Njorald for a moment before giving a slight nod of his head. "You have, by serving us, served the Goddess well. Perhaps she will, in time, allow you to truly join our ranks. But only if you show true dedication to the cause."

He turned to leave as he said "I will be watching your progress with great interest young prince. Remember that."

"I would be honored to recieve your approval," Njorald replied.  He waited for a solid five minutes after Llyr left before he finally relaxed...to the extent that he could. He turned back to the sea, and looked back to the flame.

Of course the Scaveni didn't survive. That's just rumors tortured women make up to find comfort. But perhaps Njorald should follow suit with his old allies. And burn to ash.