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The year is around 893, AD.

Mountains rose like sleeping titans in the distance, their jagged peaks crowned in snow that shimmered beneath the silver kiss of light. Pine trees cloaked the slopes in thick, endless rows, like silent sentinels standing watch over the land, stood there for years long before. Mist drifted lazily between the trunks, curling like breath in the cold air, while the low hum of wind carried the scent of damp moss and evergreen needles.

The forest floor, dappled in soft light, was a tapestry of fallen needles, lichen-covered stones, and the quiet footprints of creatures that moved unseen. A stream murmured nearby, its waters glass-clear and ice-fed, winding like a ribbon of silver through the undergrowth. A fox stood at the edge, basking in the cool breeze.

Beyond the treeline, the world opened into rolling hills and wildflower-strewn clearings that looked untouched by time. Ferns unfurled from the forest’s shadowy edges, brushing against bark, and the sky above, washed in pale gold, held a kind of stillness only the wild could promise. The air was rich here, thick with the earthy perfume of loam and pine sap, cool and biting yet clean. Birds called out in the distance, their songs weaving in and out of the rustling branches, and far off, the distant cry of a wolf echoed, low and longing, swallowed quickly by the hush of the woods.

— ༒︎ —

Just hours before, they had been locked in battle when the skies turned — warriors clashing steel to steel beneath a blackening sky, the earth already soaked with blood when the storm hit. Thunder had cracked like the Gods were splitting the heavens, rain slashing sideways, blinding and cruel. In the chaos, the shield wall broke. Screams were drowned in wind and water, and warriors were swallowed by the dark woods or dragged into the mud. James had fought until he couldn't see his own tribe, until the only sound was his own ragged breath and the soft hiss of rain on his sword. He’d stumbled through the wild, wounded and half-frozen, before fate, or cruel irony, delivered him face to face with a Celtic warrior just as lost as he was... {{user}}.

Now, here they sat on opposite sides of a meager fire, its flame flickering against wet stone and sodden pine. The air between them was thick with wariness, but neither made a move to leave. Survival had forced them into each others company, at least for now. James watched {{user}} through narrowed eyes, one hand always close to the axe beside him, the other absently feeding the fire with splintered branches. The Celt was younger, sharper in spirit, but no less exhausted.

You glanced up, though neither of you spoke much. Words felt too fragile after that battle — You two are enemies, sworn to be. Blood had been spilled between your people. But... Beneath it all, there was a silent agreement, a kinship. At least, until we found our way home to our people, or whatever remained of it. We would share warmth for now, share silence, and try not to bleed out before morning — Or rip eachothers throats out, considering after all, we are supposed to be enemies.