My boots pound against the ground, grinding leather to dust as I race ever-on. Trees shiver and shake, cringing away from my arms-pumping passage. Pregnant clouds, heavy with rain and thunder, gather on the horizon while the brewing threat of storm-scars rumble across the land.


    Soon, the storm will strike and rain drops like arrows will churn dirt into mud. My boots were already needing replacements before I set out on this quest, but with how hard I''m running I''m not sure they''ll survive till Asvir let alone the return journey.


    Slowing down to spare my boots is no option at all and my socks won''t survive the rough ground, so I''ll just have to brave it barefoot. If that''s what it takes to see my father whole of mind and free of this curse, then so be it.


    My hero''s heart burns with vigorous purpose as I grit my teeth and focus my thoughts. Carving a path through fear and doubt, I churn dirt with pounding feet as the brewing storm swallows the sun.


    Darkness falls across the land, casting all into a blanket of shadow. No light flickers save for the brief flashes of storm''s light as lightning strikes the earth. Thunder rumbles as rain falls, battering against my skin like a sling''s stony spawn.


    My clothes grow wet and heavy and my cloak swiftly weighs me down, so I wrench it from my shoulders and toss it into the trees. If I''m lucky, I''ll be able to collect it once I see this task through, but its fate is of no concern as I pick up speed.


    An owl''s hoot breaks my focus, the haunting sound echoes through the trees and over the land. My heart pounds a warning drum as lightning strikes and my wary eyes fall upon the glint of shining iron.


    I jerk back, throwing up a spray of mud and muck as the arrow whistles past my head. Loose strands of severed red hair float in the wind, left stranded by the arrow''s flight.


    Those that stand, those against,


    Send them swift to their graves.


    Mother''s words ring in my ears as I twist to face my foes while drawing sax and shield alike. Fury grips my burning heart as a growl thunders from peeled-back lips, "What dead whoreson dares halt my passage?!"


    "That''s the bitch," a voice hisses from the woods, the words slightly muffled by a hollow-sounding echo.


    Three shapes emerge, shuffling from the trees. Clad in goat''s fur and draped in the stench of death, gaunt faces filled with hatred reveal their wicked form. Three Outlaws with spear, axe, and bow dare to bar my path.


    The axe-outlaw carries an open jar beneath an arm, its opening pointed my way. Twin glints of a dead man''s eyes shine from the shadows, the voice''s owner making itself known, "Remember me?" It hisses again, the voice sounding ever-so-slightly masculine.


    Remember? When have I ever seen a talking jar befo– Wait! Could this be the Outlaw I slew with Sticks and Bear? But how could this have happe–


    No, it doesn''t matter and I don''t care. Man or monster, imbecile or impossibility, it matters not to me. Anyone who stands in my way must die for the insult.


    I lower into a fighting crouch, shield held just below my eyes as I ready my soul loom, "I don''t care to recall the faces of worthless wretches."


    The voice growls, "You''ll pay, you bitch! Get her, boys!"


    The Outlaws lurch into motion, their gaunt faces and hollow eyes striking me as somehow wrong. Yellowed skin stretches taut across bone, leaving little room for muscle. Their eyes lack purpose; their souls lack that vital spark of life.


    Were it in any other situation, I would have likely found it all deeply disturbing. But it is not any other situation and they are but obstacles to overcome.


    When fighting against superior numbers, the best option is to either retreat or find a way to render their advantage null. If that is not possible and you must face them man-to-man, then there is only one way to make it out alive.


    You must strike fast and strike hard. You must be swift and stay ever on your feet. You must never cede the initiative nor give them a chance to coordinate, for a good plan and enough numbers can bring down even the most powerful warrior if he fights alone.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Rain falls as I push off the back leg, exploding into motion with shield raised and sax at the ready. Preparing a handful of ordstirr strands, red hair whips in my wake as I run eyes across the outlaws.


    Ideally, I''d kill the Bow-Outlaw first, but the Spear- and Axe-Outlaws will surely get in my way. Of those two, Spear-Outlaw has the greater reach and, thus, presents the greater threat and so he''ll be my first target.


    Though my passage did a number on my shoes, it did have one benefit: it brought my blood''s power to a boil. I''ll get two or maybe even three uses if I''m lucky.


    The Spear-Outlaw lunges, his namesake glinting with insidious intent as it barrels towards my skull. Stoker State''s crackling fires erupt from my flesh as its power lets me easily sway around the blow and wrap my swinging shield with a dozen strands of ordstirr.


    Retribution roars victorious as the outlaw''s skull splinters under the force of an ordstirr-clad shield. I step past him, hooking my shield around his head and slipping my sax under his spear-arm to drive it home in his belly. Once, twice, thrice more do I introduce my friend to his flesh, leaving his stomach a mess of ragged strips as I slip away just in time to avoid an axe-strike.


    The axe parts nothing but air as I curse my erring awareness. I need to keep moving, never staying still for more than a second else—I twist away from a sudden arrow—they catch me lacking!


    "Come on, come on!" The jar shouts under the Axe-Outlaw''s arm—none of them seem to possess any shields, a small glimmer of luck in these trying times. "Kill her already!"


    Axe-Outlaw advances, quick to fulfill the command, and I race to meet him. He raises his axe, the weight slowing the motion and giving me a much needed look at the recovering Spear-Outlaw behind him.


    He''s close to death, I can feel it, but that won''t last forever. Even an Outlaw can acclimate to pain-shock given enough time, rendering the twelve strands of ordstirr I''d spent useless. I need to finish him off now, while he''s vulnerable from pain-shock, or else I''ll need to draw on my Aspects.


    Pale yellow ordstirr wraps around the outlaw''s axe as the trick reveals itself and I realize I''m not going to have a choice in the matter. He swings and the blade blurs through the air faster than any arrow as I barely lift my shield to meet it.


    Axe-iron cleaves through leather and wood in a spray of splinter, shearing away the back of my shield in a single stroke. A bowstring''s twang is my only warning before pain erupts from my side amidst the jar''s cackling glee.


    I stumble back, blood mixing with the mud as needle-like rain bears ever-down. An arrow now sprouts from my side, a potent reminder of my glaring mortality, and the Axe-Outlaw is quick to capitalize.


    The axe climbs high, its snail-like pace purposefully misleading, as more pale-yellow ordstirr wraps around the blade. I clench my jaw, ignoring the throbbing pain in my side, as I muster up what Stoker State power I have remaining.


    He swings and crackling fire carries me clear and away from the axe''s deadly blade, the last of my Stoker State supply vanishing as I do. It''ll replenish with my every motion, but I might not get a chance to use its power again before the day is done.


    Spear-Outlaw shakes his cratered head and plants his feet, recovering from the pain-shock while the Bow-Outlaw draws back another arrow.


    "Sven, circle around the bitch!" The jar cries and the Spear-Outlaw nods, moving to do just that while Axe-Outlaw wraps around my other side. The Bow-Outlaw takes aim and I''ve got a spear on one side and an axe on the other.


    I''m down a third of my ready ordstirr, completely out of Stoker State, and now facing a coordinated assault.


    Things... They aren''t looking good. My heart hammers as the outlaws advance and the arrow sends spikes of pain through my body.


    I... I might die here. I might not reach Asvir, I might not get the Seeress, and Dad might not recover.


    All because I couldn''t best a measly three outlaws. Sure, they had me outnumbered and sure, they had decades of experience on me, but that''s no excuse. I am a Volsung, I should be better than this. I should be able to slay any number of such pitiful wretches.


    And yet, the arrow still brings me pain. And yet, my shield is nearly gone, reduced to splinters. And yet, I still face three to my one.


    I... I can''t do it, I''m going to fail. If I were born a boy and given the chances to prove myself, to gain more ordstirr, maybe then I could do it. But I wasn''t, I''m a girl.


    Just a stupid fucking girl...


    And yet… And yet, I''m a stupid fucking girl who still has her Aspects. I''m a stupid fucking girl who hasn''t revealed her fire kunna.


    I''m a stupid fucking girl with a reason to keep on fighting! Never give up, never surrender! That''s what it means to be a dreng! I''m a stupid fucking girl, yes, but I''m a stupid fucking dreng, too!


    Fire flickers in my heart as my fingers twist tight around my weapons. Brows furrow as jaws clench, my eyes alight with crimson fire. Sax-blade clatters against shield-rim, banging out a brutal rhythm across the rain-splattered battlegrounds.


    "Come on, then, if you''re man enough!" I shout, furious glee twisting a wicked grin across my lips. "Come on, prove you''re better than this stupid fucking girl by killing her, here and now!"


    "But beware," I laugh my warning as I point my sax at each in turn.


    "The next man to approach me dies!"