<div class="floatright">  (https://i.imgur.com/P2jSc3U.jpg) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=283059.msg13931773#msg13931773)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Magnhild Firehand</span>(https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1481056)<br/><strong>HP:</strong>12/12<strong>AC:</strong>16<br/><strong>Fort:</strong>4<strong>Will:</strong>1<strong>Ref:</strong>0<br/><strong>Psi:</strong>2<strong>Strikes:</strong>3<strong>Rage:</strong>7<br/><strong>Active Effects:</strong><br/><strong>Am I okay losing to this foe:</strong>More fun to bring them to their knees.  If I lose, I'd prefer to do it gloriously.<br/><hr/><br/>Magnhild grinned as her jaw clenched, sweat dripping in rivulets down her face and mostly-exposed torso as she strained to lift and carry the barrel.  It was warm belowdecks, but her condition was due to exertion rather than climate.  She'd been bored by the voyage at first, tempted to take a lover and then more tempted to accept a few fights from little men who needed to prove themselves.  The bosun had stepped in before it got too bad, fortunately, and given her challenges that put her energy to productive - or at least not disruptive - uses.  She'd pumped bilges, hauled crates, pulled lines, and shuffled barrels until she was exhausted, every time forcing her body to do it faster, better, and harder than anyone around her.  Not that it was a challenge for her kind, and the work had only made her stronger, if anything.<br/><br/>And that was good.  Nobody knew quite what lay in wait on the far lands, but it was bound to be dangerous and powerful, and Magnhild would be the one to annihilate it.  Ages hence, when stories were told in the new nation, they would speak of Firehand, point out the places named for her and her victories, honor the blood she'd shed to tame the strange land.  As long as her legend was spoken of, she would live on as a shieldmaiden in the halls of Valhalla, her days spent fighting the Old Gods, her evenings drinking with them, and her nights fucking them.<br/><br/>She set the barrel of brined meat down in the kitchen with a deep thump and a wet slosh as its contents settled, then left to head up on deck.  She ducked beneath the billowing sheets and stepping over lines and gear to an open topped barrel of fresh water, cupping her hands to drink.  A second dip splashed her face, running down to plaster her thin shirt to her chest and run in salty rivulets down her bare midriff, and ended with a deep, contented sigh.  A shake of her head sent droplets sparkling around her.<br/><br/>What next?  The sailors didn't give her glares any more - they'd learned she didn't give a damn and could glare harder anyhow - but their work was complicated and coordinated.  She'd haul a line, sure, or take a turn at the capstan, but she was useless at all the constant fussing around parts.  The purple hair at the railing caught her eye, though, and she stepped up beside Tinalia.  "Pirates?"  It was hopeful, but only joking - they were far past any civilization and hope of bloody melee on the high seas.  Still, she made a show of narrowing her eyes and casting around the horizon for a bit of humor.