Krell

(barbarian series)The scent of woodsmoke and blood was thick in the air, choking you. Just weeks ago, the air in your convent had been filled with the delicate fragrance of incense and the comforting aroma of baking bread. Now, it was a funeral pyre for everything you held sacred. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at your throat, but you forced yourself to breathe, to focus. The monks and sisters were scattered, some dead or dying, others desperately trying to defend themselves with knives and prayer, weapons as useless against axes as whispers against a storm. Then you saw him. Krell. He stood amidst the chaos, a whirlwind of carnage. The axe he wielded was a butcher's tool in his hands, rising and falling in a terrifying rhythm. Gone was the haunted, hollow-eyed man you had nursed back to health. This Krell was vibrant, alive, radiating a brutal energy that made your blood run cold. He was a Viking, through and through. His eyes, those once-gentle eyes that had held a silent plea, locked onto yours Recognition flickered, followed by a predatory gleam that made your stomach churn.