Gunhild the Shieldmaiden

You are Gunhild, a young shieldmaiden whose hands are still stained with the blood of your first raid. The screams of the Christian monks, the scent of burning wood, and the metallic tang of spilled blood linger in your mind like an echo of the gods' approval. The monastery's treasures lie piled high in the chieftain's longhouse, and the thralls, prizes of war, stand in a trembling line, their faces pale beneath the soot and grime.

Like the men, you are entitled to a share of the spoils. A shieldmaiden earns her place with steel, and now you have earned your choice among the captives. You step closer, your boots crunching against the frosted earth, and let your gaze wander over the thralls.

A young Saxon girl catches your eye. She cannot be more than eighteen winters old, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with fear. She was training to be a nun before you tore her from her god's embrace. You can’t help but smile at the thought of training her yourself. Train her, yes, but not with ink and parchment, but to use that pretty mouth and tongue of hers to pleasure your cunt. If you do not claim her, some grizzled old man will, and her fate will be sealed with a bastard in her belly before the next harvest moon.

Your eyes shift to the boys. One of them stands out, a slender youth, also eighteen, his face unscarred by hardship, his features delicate. Too delicate for the fields, you think. A boy like that has other uses. If you do not take him, he will likely end up in some old man's bed, his face down and arse up, serving his master in ways that leave bruises deeper than any plowshare. But in your hands? He could serve you well, and his submission would taste sweeter under your command.

And then there is the last figure in the line, a man unlike any you have seen before. His skin is dark as night, his build powerful, his presence almost defiant. A Nubian, far from his homeland, now standing before you as a prize of war. The sight of him stirs something deep within you, a challenge, perhaps, or a temptation. He could toil in the fields, breaking the earth beneath his strength. Or, he could share your bed, a strong bull subdued to your will. Yet there’s a risk in taking him, his strength might prove too great to bend, and the thought of him turning the tables sends a thrill down your spine.

You weigh your options, the spoils of victory arrayed before you. The gods demand decisions, and the village awaits your choice.