Wednesday 10 April 2013

Life in the Land - Brunhilda




Brunhilda settled the horned helmet more firmly on her neatly coiled, flaxen plaits, wishing, not for the first time, that someone would invent a hatpin that could penetrate bronze.  Some of the younger Sisters wore felt caps nowadays - Brunhilda snorted with disgust at the thought - they might be warmer, but you can't use a felt hat as a hand basin, chamber pot or soup bowl (not for any length of time anyway, and obviously not in that order).

Of course, she reflected, clasping the ornate silver buckle of the belt that encompassed her ample figure, some changes to the traditional apparel had been for the better.  Leather slippers, for example.  Slippers.  The clue is in the name.  They'd been lethal on the highly-polished floor in the Hall of the Fallen, particularly when it was wet. Which it often was.  Nice sturdy lace-up brogues were much more practical, and a lot more reliable.

 With a satisfied smile, Brunhilda nodded to her reflection in her father's old shield, which she'd hung on the wall as a mirror.  Picking up a small, studded oak chest, she strode out to the stables.
The light, wooden chariot had served her well for many years.  It was small enough to be easily controlled with one hand on the reins, yet had enough room for a passenger at her feet, when necessary.

Her first chariot, all those years ago, had been large enough to carry four of the Fallen and a couple of dogs, but it had been a real pig to drive.  She'd often found herself arriving too late to do anything other than help clear up the bodies, because she'd been unable to find anywhere to park the damn thing.  At least now she could do the job properly.

Brunhilda climbed aboard the chariot and took a list of names from her pocket.  'Right then,' she announced to her horse, 'old Mr Chance to start with.  At least he's used to blood, being a butcher.'  She opened the wooden chest and selected a rather small, but extremely sharp lance.  {Well, alright, maybe more of a needle, if you want to quibble about it.}  Holding the weapon high in her right hand, with a cry of 'I will have blood!' she flicked the reins and was away.  The District Norse was off on her rounds.