A dark cloud passed over the bulbous moon which had so recently cast its light upon the thatched rooves of a town nestled on the coast. Gentle waves lapped at its docks where longboats rested, and drunken sailors of all backgrounds burbled and cavorted. Along the cobbled streets, a cloaked and hooded woman made her way through the darkening night. It was past midnight by her reckoning, stirring her to quicken her gait. She would be missed before long. So through the labyrinth of houses and shuttered stalls, the fountain and cattle droves on their way to market she skulked. She took a moment to adjust her mail, ensuring it lay silently against the padded leather of her jerkin before almost casually scaling a large warehouse. It was fit for grain though as she drew a breath from her nostrils, she didn’t scent any. Instead there was oil, sweat and food. Sure enough, as she slinked into the hay loft above, she found her quarry.

Sitting below her, half-drunk and boisterous were three jomsviking. Dull, duplicitous sell swords. It was not them that interested her but rather their hostage which even now sat bound in heavy iron chains with a makeshift muzzle across her mouth. A woman with blonde waves of hair and blue eyes that flicked up as her rescuer’s soft leather boot sent the plank beneath it creaking. The cowled woman’s head snapped downward, tattooed forearm appearing for a moment to slide an axe free.

They were too drunk. So the rescuer slunk down into the shadows, waiting for the opportune moment. A moment that came relatively quickly as, a few minutes later, one of the blonde woman’s captors tottered outside to relieve himself on the docks. As he noisily struggled with the door to the warehouse, the woman above him took her chance to slip another axe free and heft it. Eventually, with some help, the third was gone leaving the other two to make bawdy jokes at his expense.

Their levity was cut short as the cowled woman let loose her axe. It flew so suddenly that the man had the barest time to look up before it embedded itself in his skull. He fell to the ground thrashing, struggling with the haft as he attempted to pull it out. His comrade fared better though only slightly. He managed to draw his blade before the other axe, wielded as a knuckle-duster by the woman, sparked along its length and sheared open his defence. Then, absurdly, the woman raked her fingers across his throat with a vicious laugh. He grappled his own neck, choking and spluttering as dark red rivers sprouted from their newly hewn sources. As an act of mercy, the woman buried her axe in the base of his skull before beheading his fellow. The noise attracted their absent ally who returned with his sword in hand and bleary eyes searching for intruders. They never found their mark as two hands descended ghoulishly from the hay loft to crack the bones of his neck. As quick a death as she could give them, under the circumstances.

She then turned to their hostage, tilting her head as the solid black of her eyes beheld the woman. With a gruff foot, she pushed her over before setting to work picking the lock. After a few minutes of the blonde trying to get instructions through her gag, the lock clicked, and the chains unwound themselves.

“They had the key,” the blonde woman grumbled as she got to her feet. Like her rescuer, she was armoured and of athletic build. Though as she beheld the pooling blood and sensed its smell, the blue eyes became red. “Would you mind terribly if I…?” she trailed off airily as the taller woman gave her ascent. Bigger than most men of the day, corded with muscle under her armour and jerkin, the hulking warrior set about polishing her axes before returning them to their beltloops. She then removed the mask that hid the lower half of her face, shark-like teeth appearing as she seemed to struggle for words.

“I didn’t think you were so careless,” the taller woman observed cautiously. Her arms were folded, watching as her companion sank her teeth into what remained of the jomsviking’s neck.

“These hirelings serve a sect of strange magicians,” she shot back over her shoulder before pausing her feast with a perplexed expression. “Their master set them to guard me while he dealt with a druidess.”

If the information interested the elder, it didn’t show as the blonde returned to her bloody drink. Though the taller woman soon began pacing, turning the thought over in her mind. Was it possible that a true relic had been discovered? It was more likely given the presence of the foolish humans. She took up a loaf of bread and bit into it pensively. It wasn’t as if they’d miss it. Yet as she added some of the ham to her impromptu supper, the matter wouldn’t lie. Her companion got to her feet and began moving to the warehouse door before murder could be cried, the tattooed woman stopped her.

“Does this druidess live?” she asked pointedly, to which the blonde nodded with a confused expression. “Return to my wives, Sigrun. I would like to speak with her. Where is she?”

At her soldier’s direction the taller of the two stretched and gave her best charming smile before vanishing into the night once again, replacing her mask as she did so. No need to make it easy for the night watchmen. There were so few druids left and it would be bad form to bring the Church and all its soldiery upon her head. Her forearms bristled with anticipation as she remembered their secret sects, hidden from the tyranny of Rome. A vast spiderweb or fungal growth of faith. She paused between two streets, dismayed that her project had gotten so far out of control. No matter, another would take its place.

And so she thought, slipping through the somnolent night and its clouded skies to the now-abandoned church that the Norse had burned down a few decades prior. Its blackened roof spars and close stone walls provided nothing but the most fleeting protection from the elements. Thankfully, a night’s rest was not her intention as she passed beneath its empty arched doorway. Through the ramshackle tents and lean-tos that functioned as shelter for the unhoused. They looked at her with forlorn expressions before swiftly looking away when they met her darkened eyes. A few even began praying, much to her amusement. With that mirth still playing across her lips, she curled her gloved hand about a ring pull hidden beneath a tarp.

Beneath lay a cave system, somewhat carved into the rough shape of a temple. The tall woman whispered to something that dwelt in the shadows then watched as it flitted across the walls deeper into the cave. Then, she sat herself beneath the rope ladder that allowed entry and waited.

After a few minutes of careful contemplation of what she’d say to this mysterious woman, her familiar returned in the shape of a black rabbit. It hopped about eagerly, whispering in a thin reedy voice to its mistress before her lips curled. She reached into a pouch at her hip before tossing a slice of dried meat to the creature. It ate with gusto, melting into the floor before the tattooed woman got to her feet and begun skulking down the cave. A man and a woman? Wonderful. Then her night wasn’t entirely wasted.

She found her druidess sat meditatively amidst a ring of holly and oak switches, braided into a ring with sage burning about it. A protection spell on such short notice? What a talented young woman. Though she looked to be fully grown with long brown hair, everyone was young to her. Even her own wives were fresh pine to her ancient oak. She allowed herself an internal sigh. What could have been. Refocusing, she noticed a man in black robes and a mantle. A mantle embroidered with symbology definitely not of Christ’s making. So he wasn’t a priest. Curiosity compelled her. She had to know.

“With regret young man, I must have that druidess,” she shouted from behind him, axes at the ready as she emerged from her hiding place. He whirled about with surprise in his eyes before noting something. Without even deigning to answer, he flung an open palm towards her with primal utterances on his tongue. She knew those words and what spell he hoped to work on her. She was seemingly cowed by it, sinking to one knee and grimacing. He advanced with a victorious smile on his features, drawing a flint blade from his belt and holding it aloft. Now that was an interesting development. Another human that wasn’t completely clueless.

“Arrogant draugr. Or whatever you call yourselves now,” he spat, brow knitted with zealous fury. Realising that her research was at an end, she reversed her axeblade and drove it under his ribs. The surprise on his features was just darling. Taking hold of his spitefully stabbing wrist, she cracked the bones of his forearm before kicking him to his knees.

“Stay there, boy. I will have words with you after,” she shot over her shoulder, standing before the ring of protection. She wasn’t about to immolate herself unless she absolutely had to. Hair took too long to regrow, after all. “As I said I need to speak with you. You know about the Lady of Avalon, yes?”

The woman looked up from her frantic meditations with surprise on her features, eyes sliding to the prone form of the priest or whatever he was. She seemed to collect herself, smoothing out the tartan trousers and heavy leather cuirass she wore. The tall woman noted with interest the thick boots spattered with mud, the well-loved staff that dangled with charms and trinkets of their gods. The object of her mission’s face though soon turned suspicious, gaze searching just as readily as her own had.

“I am not the woman you want. Rhian is the druid that consorts with such dark spirits,” the woman answered. The butcher grinned condescendingly in response, thumbing her axe in mock contemplation. “The icon I carried has been sealed away. Had the Church burned it as was their will, they would have attracted the creature’s attention!”

“Fascinating. Thank you,” came the huntress’ reply before she turned to the struggling man behind her. “It seems you are hunted. Would you care for some respite?”

“Do not think me ignorant. I know you. What you are,” she hissed in response, holding her staff before her as if it might stop her. It might, the undead had to concede. Druids were one of the few remaining practitioners of the old ways. Some few of them could still bind the dead and speak to the spirits. It warmed the bleak emptiness within her to know some existed after so very long. “You are one of the Sulis Cursed. The ancient priestess who went mad with grief and fury. She passed it into others, making them bloodthirsty beasts. Just as you are now,” the druidess accused in a haughty voice. Divulging secrets to outsiders was forbidden, the huntress recalled. How foolish.

“Is that my legacy?” the ancient creature asked with some sadness colouring her voice.

The effect on the druidess was instant and dramatic. She began to quiver in place as she realised just how thin her protection truly was. Her eyes had widened as she searched every inch of the other woman for evidence. She found it in spades. Arms tattooed with ancient, arcane markings. The soulless black eyes and lion-like teeth. The sudden realisation on her features must have been her understanding why the priest couldn’t bind her. With a deep breath and bravery Sulis found commendable, the brown-haired woman stepped out of her circle and stood before her unlikely saviour. The tattooed woman found herself looking down to meet her gaze.

“Bloodied and cursed as you are for what you did, you are a creature of the old faith,” the druidess spoke with solemn confidence. Her words visibly stung the undead woman. “I would sooner accept your help than that of that vile creature,” she grunted as she whacked the unconscious cultist with the butt of her staff. “I am Seren, don’t laugh. My mother was a poet,” came the introduction, her voice stilted as a blush formed along her cheeks.

“I eagerly await the days when poets return. This scrabble for survival is tiresome,” Sulis smirked over her shoulder before grabbing the unresponsive man by the cassock. Her brow furrowed as she spied a bottle of salts in his hand. The bitter scent of a breath forced from his lungs by an expert hand confirmed it. Cyanide. Common enough, though taking it was decidedly rarer. The mystery enticed her, bringing a smile to her lips. A smile her new druidess friend disapproved of, if her expression as any indicator. “Do you know anything of these lunatics? The apparel was intriguing,” the fanged woman asked before unceremoniously searching the body. Aside from a few basic practitioner’s reagents and the knife, this group showed rare competence. No written orders to trace or iconography to decode. The cassock bore a simple protection spell that prevented divination. Very confident in their abilities, she surmised. Why else would they hunt heretics and monsters with so little armour?

The druidess was even less useful, much to her disappointment. Sulis didn’t trust her silence but stood regardless, brushing her hands on her cloak before pocketing the flint knife. She then guided her distressed damsel to the burned church above with a comforting hand offered. Seren refused to take it, pinning the staff beneath her arm before climbing.

Sulis allowed her this defiance, eyes searching hungrily for more pursuers. Why pursue a woman if the icon you craved lay hidden? The druidess probably thought herself wily, but Sulis was no fool. Every gesture and moment in her company was eloquent. A woman used to the outdoors, to hiding. Though not from the church. Though powerful even after the fall of Rome, much to the huntress’ chagrin, it did not seek to butcher just yet. The memories of Ragnar were too fresh for such confidence. She allowed herself to reminisce as she guided the druid from the town and toward the thick foliage and forests beyond.

“Rhian would speak of you often,” the druidess eventually spoke. The huntress grunted, extricating her axe from a bandit too stupid to reason why two women might have the confidence to travel alone. The druidess alone likely could have bested him. Sulis spat a gob of his blood with a disgusted expression before looking expectantly, waiting for her to continue. She looked pale. “Though she calls dark spirits, she said you were fearless. That you looked the cruellest spectres in the eye and shook their hand.”

“Death has become a shadow to humanity. So you call any spirit that can influence the end evil. Tallas is focused, vindictive and cold. But she is almost as human as you or me,” Sulis smirked as she resumed their journey, having tossed the bandit into the ditch where a bear or wolf might find him. Though her explanation did incite something more. “The Lady was never human. Your mistress should bear that in mind if she intends to keep courting her,” the huntress warned, turning to face Seren with a knowing look and an earnest gaze. The pale woman looked up with fearful eyes, as if afraid she’d spoken out of turn.

Allowing her to stew in her fear, the huntress turned from the cart tracks and sheep droves that guided their steps and toward the forest proper. Seren seemed confused but kept her council as the tattooed woman randomly touched the trees. Though they were often helpful to druids, the touch was far too brief for communion. Sulis looked with approval to see Seren running her fingers over the carved symbols that marked their passage. The dark was no hinderance to the cursed or draugr. But she wasn’t above bringing home a stray or two.

Eventually, the pair came upon a secluded glade through which a small stream ran. The brush had been cleared away long ago, making room for a walled herb garden and carefully carved wooden chairs. Abutting these additions to the woodland, a Roman villa overgrown with ivy along its pillars and with slate replacing missing roof tiles sat. The orange light of candles slipped through slim windows of both floors. The druidess in particular would be pleased to notice archaic versions of her own protection enchantments hanging from the archways and awnings. From within this secluded manor, a blonde woman with tightly contained hair made her way toward them. She was richly adorned with bangles and belt, her dress a fine red linen. She and her home were almost a vision of the past.

“How did Sigrun manage to get herself captured? Is this slip of a woman meant to be your apology gift?” she asked with irritation, red eyes raking over Seren with a curled lip that exposed a fang. The druidess quietly began working to bind her if she tried anything. “Don’t think your amateurish witchcraft is a match for mine!” she appended while Sulis attempted to explain the situation.

It didn’t work out too well as the druidess and her wife began to argue in earnestly. Mostly the practitioner’s version of a pissing contest. With a nice heady dose of condescension from her beautiful blonde bride. Their tiff grew loud enough for Auset to appear at the door to the villa. Though she wouldn’t a thousand years from then, her head had been shaved with a stylized wig replacing her natural black curls. Her slender fingers took an apple slice from Sulis, who leant against the doorway with a look of mild amusement on her face.

“Has Livia made a friend?” Auset purred with her hazel eyes boring into the back of her Roman beloved’s head. “It’s about time she found someone other than you to do these obnoxious crafts with,” she commented dryly with a look toward the stick figures hanging above them.

“They’re for protection, darling” Sulis reminded her with a surprisingly delicate kiss for so large a woman. She took a moment to admire the beautiful Nubian features of her eldest bride, smirking at her good fortune. “You look radiant. Hathor herself would weep if you’d been there at the beginning,” the old vampire schmoozed.

“I bet you blaspheme for all the girls” her wife responded with a reluctant amusement. “Did you use those lines on the lovers of your enemies too?”

It was the giantess’ turn to be miffed as she groped for a change in subject. Happily, Livia and Seren had transformed their relationship, via some strange alchemy, into an actually useful debate. They were trading techniques that made Sulis cinch her chin in thought, wondering whether her eldest familiar might like to try them. No, old stick in the mud. Nyx and Nugget might have been game, however. She indicated toward the inside of the villa, commenting on the cold. Auset took a great deal of pleasure in reminding her whose bright idea it was to return to England with the Normans. Honestly it was impressive William had pacified so much of the British Isles. They’d be calling him the Conqueror one day, surely.

Within the villa, her Roman bride had wasted no time in ordering Dominika and Sulis to create suitable furniture. She smiled as she remembered Livia fussing over the ivy and energies of the place. But the smile she’d worn had made it worthwhile. A little slice of home for her fussy princess. And the baths weren’t bad either. The result of their efforts had been a rustic if authentically late imperial home for patricians. Though the huts they’d had to build for the humans had been problematic. Content that her wife was suitably entertained by the druid, Sulis shirked off her cloak and flung it onto the ground beneath her, crooking her finger to a young, freckled woman. She struggled to remember her name. She supposed it didn’t matter as she sank her fangs into her neck, recovering after a long day. Though there was pain, it was a small price to pay for the safety she offered in her opinion. And as she withdrew her lips, she applied an unguent she and…another had developed. Best not go near the lake, even in her sanctuary.

“Gunnar! How was your adventure onto the moors?” Sulis cheered over at a stout, beardless man who’d cut his hair prodigiously short.

“It’s as you said! A man was there who looks like a Moor. But he speaks a very strange language. One of your old Vinland friends had to translate it for me,” Gunnar relayed with enthusiasm. Though his voice was higher than most men, it sounded quite good now. Sulis remembered his first meeting with the younger Gunnar. A very turbulent and educational time. “He taught me how to shave. I didn’t even ask!” he chuckled, drawing a perplexed expression from Sulis.

“Why would you shave if you do not grow a beard?” she asked with a frown, the woman on her lap narrowing her eyes at Gunnar suspiciously. She’d not met the Norseman before now, Sulis knew that much. The vampire had picked her up from some bandits who’d hoped to random her back to a lord from Wales. She cursed her forgetfulness briefly while Gunnar shifted in place. He seemed equal parts intimidated and irritated by her question.

The tension grew between them, drawing out impossibly long. Sulis became disconnected from the moment, her modern counterpart slamming into her past self. She’d done this before. Déjà vu was not the culprit. She knew what would happen next. Gunnar would lecture her about her insensitivity, she apologized. She introduced Gunnar to Sigrun later that evening. Seren was welcomed into the home, coming to enjoy their company and remain there for decades. She would tell of the heretical former druids that bound draugr and hunted them. Then Sulis would go to bed with Auset, keen on quiet and the solace of her own thoughts. She was in bed right now. She’d bade her lovers goodnight after spending the day putting off a ritual. An important ritual. This one?

As she felt her doubts growing and the black lake beginning to loom in her thoughts, she was reminded of her lies. So many falsehoods in pursuit of leaving it all behind. So why did she return to this night? The questions badgered her as she stood from her chair, the woman on her lap seeming to impossibly float free. She felt a presence enter the room with preternatural silence, her smothering power bringing an icy spider up her spine and a pricking of her thumbs.

She turned, gaze meeting the blackened pits of Tallas’ stare. The pale-skinned, fanged and clawed mockery of what had once been human grinned impossibly wide.

“Ever am I your faithful servant, mistress. Would that you were canny enough to divine this pantomime’s meaning,” she chuckled as Sulis was drawn away. Back to the waking world.