dated to approximately the 16th
there is resignation in her step as she approaches the borders, a kind of steel that makes straight her spine and emblazons her intentions. it would be just as easy to go about this slowly, the right way. "it is your birthright."
not anymore, not now. no, she would forge her own right, and if she failed, then so be it. for a week she had hunted, remained close, isolated, and cemented her decision. she'd gathered her strength, knowing the ramifications should she fail, but knowing too that all she'd done for the greater portion of her life was train.
"strike hard and true, daughter. do not relent."
she is beyond them, now, fittingly near the place Valour had first brought her here. she howls for @Vengeance, curiously, utterly void of feeling. perhaps it is utter acceptance, then, of however this ends. the man is not long in coming, the brute for which his title seems to have been made. he is terror incarnate, comparable to gods and beasts, and she is, in this moment, unafraid. "I challenge you."
it is not certain, exactly, what is to blame for the scene that follows. is it fortune, or the lack of it? some mercurial god, or sheer strength of will and those who underestimate such? however it comes to pass, it is the girl that stands over the body of the warlord, bloodied and near-defeated and yet alive. she stands there a long while, blood dripping to join that of the warlord's, pooling in the snow and dirt. it is only the arrival of a raven, silent and wanting and familiar, that spurs her finally into movement. it begins to rain, and the hela walks on.
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