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.
