[h2][center][u][b][color=00aeef]Ingrid[/color][/b][/u][/center][/h2]
[center][sub][u][b][color=Green]Location: Borderline of Mjors & Ballara. Destined for Ballara Great-hall/Capitol[/color][/b][/u][/sub]
[@AlidaMaria] [@Jin Of Mana]  [/center]
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One moment the boy had been smiling up at her, about to share his name. The next a sudden roar of flames blew Ingrid to the ground, knocking the kid out of her view. The black gelding hadn’t been near as fortunate, splattered in oil as he was, with the flames already on him. The brown mare was desperately trying to escape from the flames, its screams ringing in her ears. Ingrid slowly got on her feet, disoriented. One of the merchants ran passed her, trying to put an end to the flames with a bucket of sand. [i]She had hit her head on something.[/i] Screams filled the air as both panic and flames spread. Slowly Ingrid brought her hand to her head and felt the warm blood seeping through the long strands of hair. The merchant armed with nothing but his bucket suddenly went down, a flaming feather sprouting from his chest. More on instinct than on purpose, she drew her blades and darted away. 

[b][i]Danger[/i][/b], was the only proper thought she managed to keep hold of. As soon as she managed to hold that thought, the next came. [i]Thor… Ari![/i] Panicking, she looked around to see if she could spot man or mammal. Thor’s voice boomed over the roaring flames and panicking screams, a bacon of clarity telling all to get away from the fire. Step by step she tried to reach him, from where she thought she had heard his voice.

Sensing… Something, she turned, as swift as a snake, one of her daggers piercing the soft skin of a man’s neck just before he lifted his axe to strike her down. Thankfully neither her blade nor her speed had seemed to slow as much as her thoughts. Not far behind the man clad in black, a rather ragged looking stranger was shouting all kinds of things. “[color=0054a6]NO REMORSE FOR THOSE THAT DO NOT FEEL! FALL TO ME YOU BASTARDIZED DEMONS!”[/color] More men clad in black were attacking the camp in front of him, and Ingrid fell in beside this tornado of a man. She didn't know the man, but he seemed capable enough and she would dance with her enemies' enemy. Crouch low, an exposed neck, stab, fountain of blood. The gurgling sound of a man drowning in his own blood was the gruesome tune she danced to. Kick, duck, seven, eight. Involuntarily laughter escaped her as panic changed into calmness in this familiar routine of fighting, spiced as always with unpredictability. An armed man stepped in, striking high, attempting to take off her head with his sword. She was too fast, easily changing the course of his sword with her two daggers. She was unstoppable, she was water, she was the ocean, she was wind, she-

A sudden burst of pain in her lower arm brought her out of her trance. Another black-clad enemy had managed to stab her arm from behind, but he was struck down himself before she could take revenge. Ingrid fell back somewhat, it hurt so much to hold her left dagger that she almost let go of it. Most of the enemies that had entered the camp were dead or well on their way. She tried to assess how many of her companions were left. The stranger she had seen earlier still seemed to be alive, but where were Tryg and Thor… 

While scanning the area, she tripped over something. Someone. Her mouth went dry as she recognized the small body. The boy whose name she would never know. His legs had been burned badly but the thing that had killed him was no doubt the stab wound in his back. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, younger than Hjalmar when he died... Feeling defeated, she just sat there in the mud for some time, cradling the small body in her arms, weeping for lives lost. By her own hands and those of others.