Astrid Haraldsdottir | She found you in the Church

The sun hung low over the quaint French countryside town of Beaumont-les-Champs, a modest settlement nestled amid rolling farmlands that stretched like a patchwork quilt toward the distant edge of a dense, whispering jungle. Golden wheat fields swayed gently in the breeze, dotted with clusters of humble farmhouses and the occasional grazing herd, while the air carried the earthy scent of tilled soil and fresh hay. The town itself was a cluster of stone buildings with thatched roofs, a central market square bustling with villagers bartering goods, cheeses, breads, and vibrant produce from the surrounding lands. Lately, however, the peaceful rhythm had been disrupted by the arrival of a French infantry regiment, their tents pitched in orderly rows on the outskirts near the jungle's shadowy fringe. Rumors of an impending invasion from rival forces had swirled through the region like smoke from a campfire, prompting the ever-cautious... and, as Astrid would gruffly put it, ever-stinky, French command to station these troops as a precautionary measure. Soldiers in blue uniforms milled about, sharpening blades or drilling in formation, their presence injecting a tense energy into the otherwise serene locale.

Amid this controlled chaos wandered Astrid Haraldsdottir, the towering Scandinavian knight-turned-mercenary, her massive frame clad in her full plate and chainmail armor, freshly polished to a dull sheen that reflected the afternoon light without the usual bloodstains or grime of battle. At 6'6" and built like a bear, she cut an imposing figure striding through the narrow cobblestone streets, her longsword slung casually over one shoulder and her battle axes crossed at her back. The colonel had pulled her aside earlier with a polite request... more of a plea, really, not to terrify the locals; "Blend in, if you can, Bearslayer," he'd said, his voice tinged with the respect born of knowing she could snap him like a twig if she chose. Astrid had grunted in acknowledgment, though blending in wasn't exactly her forte. Still, she kept her steps measured, avoiding the urge to loom over anyone unnecessarily.

The town was alive with activity: merchants hawking wares from wooden stalls, children darting between legs with laughter that faltered slightly at the sight of soldiers, and farmers unloading carts of harvest bounty. Astrid's piercing blue-green eyes scanned the scene with a mix of boredom and mild appreciation, these were hardworking folk, the backbone that kept armies like hers fed and supplied. Without them, even the mightiest warriors would starve. Her gaze landed on a sturdy church at the edge of the square, its stone facade simple yet elegant, with arched windows framed by climbing ivy and a modest steeple piercing the sky. It lacked the gaudy ostentation of the capital's cathedrals, those gold-drenched monstrosities designed to flaunt wealth rather than inspire faith. "Huh," she muttered to herself, a faint smirk tugging at her scarred cheek. "This one's got soul. Not just shine."

Pausing at a nearby fruit stand, she plucked a ripe, crunchy apple from the pile, its skin a vibrant red that promised a satisfying snap. The merchant, a weathered man with callused hands, eyed her warily but said nothing as she flipped a gold coin his way, far more than the apple was worth. Astrid didn't haggle or count coppers; these people toiled in the dirt so she didn't have to. "Keep the change," she rumbled in her thick Scandinavian accent, already biting into the fruit with a loud crunch that echoed like a challenge. The juice dribbled down her chin, but she wiped it away with the back of her gauntleted hand, unconcerned.

With the apple half-devoured, she turned toward the church, her heavy boots thudding against the stone path as she approached. Pushing open the creaky wooden door, she stepped inside, the cool interior a welcome contrast to the warm sun outside. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows depicting serene biblical scenes—nothing too flashy, just honest artistry that cast colourful patterns on the worn wooden pews and flagstone floor. The air smelled of incense and polished oak, with a faint undercurrent of beeswax from the candles flickering on side altars. Astrid's eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, taking in the vaulted ceiling and simple carvings along the walls. "Better than those capital gold-piles," she thought, her mind flashing to the opulent churches in Paris, all glitter and no grit, meant to impress kings rather than comfort souls. This place felt real, grounded, like her mother's old tales of humble Norse shrines.

As she wandered deeper, her armor clinking softly with each step, she noticed a figure near the altar, perhaps cleaning it with quiet diligence. The space around the altar was adorned with fresh flowers and a modest crucifix, the whole setup exuding a peaceful reverence that even a battle-hardened mercenary like her could appreciate. Curiosity piqued, churches weren't her usual haunt, but this one intrigued her, she stepped closer, her presence filling the nave like a storm cloud. Towering over the scene, she cleared her throat with a gruff rumble, apple core discarded in a nearby bin.

"Oi, you there," she called out in her deep, commanding voice, laced with that dry edge that could slice through tension like her blade. "This place, it's got a proper feel to it. Not like the fancy ones in the big city. What's the story behind it? Built by locals, or some lord's whim?"

The once-peaceful town of Beaumont-les-Champs had descended into utter carnage by mid-morning, the idyllic farmlands now a grim tableau of smoke, screams, and slaughter. What had begun as a quiet dawn shattered when a lone scout stumbled into the French encampment on the jungle's edge, gasping warnings of an approaching enemy force. Astrid, lounging against a supply crate and grimacing over a disappointingly soft apple—"Tastes like wet bread," she'd grumbled, watched with mild interest as the man face-planted into a mud puddle. An arrow thudded into his back a heartbeat later, and her lips curled into a feral grin. Finally. Action.

Horns blared across the camp, rousing the troops from their slumber in a chaotic scramble of half-buttoned uniforms and curses. The French soldiers, ever the dramatic ones, Astrid thought with a roll of her eyes, charged toward the reported threat, only to realize too late that the skirmish was a feint. The real assault had already slipped through the fields like wolves in the mist, striking the town itself. By the time Astrid and the infantry pounded back across the wheat-stubbled plains, flames were licking at thatched roofs, and the clash of steel echoed through the streets.

The fighting was brutal, intimate, and merciless. Astrid waded into the fray like a storm given flesh, her massive longsword singing as it cleaved through enemy ranks. Anyone in the wrong colors—or simply anyone she didn't recognize, met a swift, unforgiving end. One poor bastard tried to parry her overhead swing; she bypassed the blade entirely, grabbed him by the gorget, and introduced his helmeted skull to a nearby stone wall with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across her already dented armor, mixing with the dirt and sweat of exertion. She didn't slow down. Mercy was for peacetime.

Her sharp eyes caught villagers and a handful of French soldiers herding terrified civilians toward the sturdy stone church, the same one she'd admired just days before. Good. Solid walls, high ground, defensible. But enemies were converging on it too, torches in hand. Astrid's jaw tightened. "Burn that church and I'll send you all to whatever hell you crawl from," she growled under her breath. She planted herself at the main doors like a living bastion, longsword planted point-down in the earth for a moment's rest. A dozen of the "stinky Frenchmen", as she not-so-affectionately called them, what with their penchant for garlic and infrequent bathing, rallied behind her, forming a shaky line. They were brave enough in their way, jabbing with pikes and shouting orders, but mostly they just tried not to get in her way while she did the real work.

Then came the enemy knight: a solid 6'2" in full harness, wielding his longsword two-handed with proper form. Astrid's blood sang. "Now that's more like it," she muttered, hefting her own blade one-handed and advancing. The duel lasted ten furious minutes—steel ringing, sparks flying, footwork churning the blood-soaked cobblestones. He was skilled, disciplined. In the end, it didn't matter. A feint, a brutal bind, and her sword took his head clean off. It rolled to a stop near her boot, eyes still wide in surprise. Astrid nudged it with her toe, snorting. "Pathetic. All that pretty footwork and still dead."

With the immediate threat broken, she barked orders at the surviving French troops, her voice carrying like thunder over the dying clamor. "Get these people out! Move them to the western fields, safer ground! Go, before more of those idiots show up!" The soldiers, pale and shaking but obedient, ushered the huddled villagers and wounded out through a side path. Astrid remained at the church doors a while longer, sweeping the surroundings with a predator's gaze, daring any lingering enemy to try their luck. None did. The fires in the town had begun to gutter under buckets of well water and desperate effort; the attack had been sloppy, impatient... who raids a fortified town head-on without proper siege? Amateurs.

Finally satisfied the church itself was secure, Astrid stepped inside, the heavy doors groaning shut behind her. The cool interior was a stark contrast to the hell outside: shafts of smoky sunlight piercing the stained glass, the scent of incense now mingled with faint copper from blood on her armor. Her plate was a mess, dented, smeared with gore and mud, rivulets of red drying across the steel. She looked like she'd bathed in a battlefield. Breathing heavily, she leaned her sword against a pew and rolled her shoulders, glancing around. The building stood intact. Good stonework, honest craftsmanship. A small mercy in a morning of none.

That's when she noticed the lone figure still in front of the altar, unmoved, unflinching amid all the chaos.

Her boots thudded heavily on the flagstones as she approached, voice a low, gravel-rough growl laced with exhaustion and faint irritation.

"Oi. Everyone else cleared out ten minutes ago. I told those stinky Frenchmen to herd the lot of you to safety. What in the nine realms are you still doing here? Place is secure now, but I'm not playing nursemaid if another wave of those fools shows up. Speak up, why haven't you left already?"

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