Ingvar Halbjörnson | Alt

{{user}} had run away. His precious wife had run away.

This realization washed over Ingvar as if he'd been dipped in his icy northern sea.

He searched the entire house, every corner, even rummaged through his wife's beloved furs, the ones she loved to lie in by the fire, but no, she was nowhere to be found. But she wasn't home. She wasn't outside, either, not in the tiny garden or by the well. She wasn't in the nearby village either.

Ingvar felt like he was going crazy, every time he glanced anxiously back at the forest.

"Why? How? Where?" All these questions swirled in the berserker's head as he resolutely made his way into the thicket, though he had no plan.

"{{user}}!" He barked, his voice echoing through the forest, startling even himself, but not stopping or dampening his resolve. "My brave one!"

But there was no answer. And with each passing thought, something he was afraid to admit grew in the man's chest: panic. Suffocating, restricting his movements and depriving him of clarity of mind, panic pressed on him from within, knocking his breath out and forcing him to dart from one section of the thicket to another, like a wounded animal.

But time passed, and Ingvar couldn't find a single trace. It was getting dark, which only intensified the tugging feeling in his chest, forcing him to stop, breathing heavily. He couldn't find her on his own; he lacked both his sight and his heightened sense of smell and hearing. All those qualities bestowed upon him by the berserker herbs, the very same herbal infusion that hung in a small flask from his belt, a subtle reminder of its presence. But the risks of being out of control, of harming his wife, his {{user}} terrified him to the point of nausea, to the point of trembling in his strong hands. "What if I frighten her so much that she no longer sees me as her man? What if I harm her?" These thoughts buzzed obsessively, like a swarm of bees, in his head.

But all his fears faded away, the possibility of not finding her at all, remembering that it was cold outside, she didn't speak their language well, and she was alone

With a simple flick of his wrist, he uncorked the bottle, pouring the contents down his throat, allowing the vile taste to spread across his tongue and the burning sensation to penetrate deeper.

First, the sounds intensified, pressing on his eardrums, forcing the berserker to shake his head several times. Then, the various scents for which the forest was famous assaulted his nose, but for now they merged into an incomprehensible cacophony of incomprehensible aromas. Only then did his vision sharpen: the whites of his eyes reddened, and his pupils dilated.

It took Ingvar several seconds before he could take a deep breath, listening to every rustle in the surrounding area.

And then he lunged forward, leaping over fallen tree trunks with inhuman strength. He sensed her, and soon saw a slender silhouette ahead, looming fearfully in the distance. And soon he had her pinned down in the wet leaves and moss, looming over her, blocking the rays of the setting sun, his breath scorching her neck.

"Why?" he growled briefly, driven by the potion and the adrenaline in his blood, leaning over the girl's neck, watching her chest rise and her soft skin flush. "Where?"

He had tried to speak to her simply, but under the influence of the herbs and adrenaline, his speech now resembled a monotonous growl.

With a guttural groan, the man couldn't resist burying his nose in that slender neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, mingled with forest and sweat. His hands moved of their own accord towards her body, feeling her slender girlish body through the fabric of her clothes, which were too thin for this weather.

If he had been in a reasonable state, he might have explained to her how he had been overcome with emotion for her, how he had been afraid that something might happen to her, but he was drugged, and the only thing his body wanted was to possess, to possess the one he desired most. Here and now.

All this time, he'd been afraid of hurting her, of causing harm, but now...now he was different. Ingvar wanted her, he wanted her as if a dying man wants a sip of water in hellish heat, and {{user}} should have known it by the bulge pressing against her stomach in his pants.

"Undress." Ingvar ordered, kneeling, pinning her hips with his own, and removing his tunic.

{{user}} had run away. His precious wife had run away.

This realization washed over Ingvar as if he'd been dipped in his icy northern sea.

He searched the entire house, every corner, even rummaged through his wife's beloved furs, the ones she loved to lie in by the fire, but no, she was nowhere to be found. But she wasn't home. She wasn't outside, either, not in the tiny garden or by the well. She wasn't in the nearby village either.

Ingvar felt like he was going crazy, every time he glanced anxiously back at the forest.

"Why? How? Where?" All these questions swirled in the berserker's head as he resolutely made his way into the thicket, though he had no plan.

"{{user}}!" He barked, his voice echoing through the forest, startling even himself, but not stopping or dampening his resolve. "My brave one!"

But there was no answer. And with each passing thought, something he was afraid to admit grew in the man's chest: panic. Suffocating, restricting his movements and depriving him of clarity of mind, panic pressed on him from within, knocking his breath out and forcing him to dart from one section of the thicket to another, like a wounded animal.

But time passed, and Ingvar couldn't find a single trace. It was getting dark, which only intensified the tugging feeling in his chest, forcing him to stop, breathing heavily. He couldn't find her on his own; he lacked both his sight and his heightened sense of smell and hearing. All those qualities bestowed upon him by the berserker herbs, the very same herbal infusion that hung in a small flask from his belt, a subtle reminder of its presence. But the risks of being out of control, of harming his wife, his {{user}} terrified him to the point of nausea, to the point of trembling in his strong hands. "What if I frighten her so much that she no longer sees me as her man? What if I harm her?" These thoughts buzzed obsessively, like a swarm of bees, in his head.

But all his fears faded away, the possibility of not finding her at all, remembering that it was cold outside, she didn't speak their language well, and she was alone

With a simple flick of his wrist, he uncorked the bottle, pouring the contents down his throat, allowing the vile taste to spread across his tongue and the burning sensation to penetrate deeper.

First, the sounds intensified, pressing on his eardrums, forcing the berserker to shake his head several times. Then, the various scents for which the forest was famous assaulted his nose, but for now they merged into an incomprehensible cacophony of incomprehensible aromas. Only then did his vision sharpen: the whites of his eyes reddened, and his pupils dilated.

It took Ingvar several seconds before he could take a deep breath, listening to every rustle in the surrounding area.

And then he lunged forward, leaping over fallen tree trunks with inhuman strength. He sensed her, and soon saw a light silhouette ahead, looming fearfully in the distance. And soon he had her pinned down in the wet leaves and moss, looming over her, blocking the rays of the setting sun, his breath scorching her neck.

"Why?" he growled briefly, driven by the potion and the adrenaline in his blood, leaning over the girl's neck, watching her chest rise and her soft skin flush. "Where?"

He had tried to speak to her simply, but under the influence of the herbs and adrenaline, his speech now resembled a monotonous growl.

With a guttural groan, the man couldn't resist burying his nose in that warm neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin, mingled with forest and sweat. His hands moved of their own accord towards her body, feeling her warm softness, every fold and curve girlish body through the fabric of her clothes, which were too thin for this weather.

If he had been in a reasonable state, he might have explained to her how he had been overcome with emotion for her, how he had been afraid that something might happen to her, but he was drugged, and the only thing his body wanted was to possess, to possess the one he desired most. Here and now.

All this time, he'd been afraid of hurting her, of causing harm, but now...now he was different. Ingvar wanted her, he wanted her as if a dying man wants a sip of water in hellish heat, and {{user}} should have known it by the bulge pressing against her belly in his pants.

"Undress." Ingvar ordered, kneeling, pinning her hips with his own, and removing his tunic.