When the door splintered into pieces, and the Valkyrie barged into his home shouting threats and obscenities, the startled Oscar sat up on the couch and spilled his wine on the satin covers.
“Holy mother of-“ he began to say.
“Hold your tongue, dog!” barked the Valkyrie pointing her bloody sword at him.
“Dog? My name is Oscar! What is the meaning of this?” He demanded as he slipped under the covers to hide his nakedness. “These are brand new covers," he continued, "and now I’ve spilled wine all over them thanks to you!”
The Valkyrie growled and stormed closer with raised sword, eyes wide, nostrils flaring with heavy breathing. Her armor was battered and bloody, a few battle scars marred her face, and her hair was caked with dried blood.
“Don’t tell me you’re oblivious to what is happening out there?” she yelled.
“Of course I know what’s happening out there,” he said straining to get a better look through the window but only managing to see his two plump little pigs wallowing in the muddy pond.
“Then if you know what is happening, what are you doing lying here naked and drinking wine at this momentous hour?” Her eyes darted towards a pamphlet that had fallen on the rug. “That better not be traitorous work!”
He tried to grab it, but the Valkyrie crushed his finger under her steely boot and took the document. When she opened it, her eyes widened then narrowed and she turned to look at him.
“What manner of perversity is this?” she said shaking the pamphlet. “Let me see if I understand correctly: while we’re out there fighting for the heart of this Queendom with blood, sweat, and tears, you’re lying here naked, drinking wine, and pleasuring yourself?”
“I was NOT pleasuring myself, madam! I was, ah, admiring the arte and industry of this realm. The highest expressions of our culture.”
“Silence, treacherous dog!” She said raising her sword. Then she stopped, looked around, and sniffed the air.
“What is that smell?” she said.
“What smell?”
Her eyes fell on the shelves where an assortment of bottles, vials, books, inkwells, feathers, and manuscripts lay in a pile.
Seeing her move towards the shelves, Oscar wrapped the wine-soaked covers around his nude body and followed the surly woman.
“Those are just my account books,” he said. “And medicines for my farm animals.”
“You call this a farm? I only saw two pigs outside.”
“And very nice pigs they are,” he said proudly.
She opened one of the books and thumbed through it, leaving bloody prints on the pages.
“This doesn’t look like any accounting books I’ve ever seen," she said flipping through the pages. She then sniffed one of the bottles. "This is not medicine but pagan potions. In fact, this all looks like the work of a blasphemous ink-head. Explain the meaning of this! By the Holy Mother, you better have a good explanation for this lechery.”
Oscar sighed and dropped his shoulders.
“Very well, you got me,” he said. “I’m a man of letters. An ink-head, as you say, though I prefer to call myself an artiste. No, I'm no heretic, madam, but a humble wordsmith."
“This doesn’t look like poetry or art. It’s just a bunch of squiggles and profane images,” she said raising a wrinkled piece of paper with the crude sketch of an octopus sucking on a priestess’ finger.
“My poetry is… shall we say… a little on the bawdy side. For taverns and other adult establishments that such a fine and pious lady as yourself might not be familiar with. I did not want my arte to fall in the hands of impressionable babes and innocent maidens. So, I created my own language of sorts to hide the true contents of my poesy.”
“Is that so? Then read them to me.”
“Very well,” he said shifting from one foot to the other. “But first, you have to get comfortable. Otherwise, it makes me too nervous to recite. Let’s start with the sword. Please don’t point it at me. It’s scary. Then, let’s see, that helmet and armor look too constrictive and oppressive. Take them off. Please.”
Grumbling, the Valkyrie put the sword back in its scabbard, then she removed her winged helmet and the metal plates over her shoulders. She breathed a sigh of relief when the weight came off.
He clapped. “Good, good,” he said. “Now sit here by the fire on these nice fluffy rugs, all the way from the North Pass. A little cup of wine to lighten things up. Ah, there we are.”
He handed her a cup of wine. Then picking up a battered notebook, he opened a random page and clearing his throat, he began to recite a poem. The words were full of naughty bits and innuendos, which he pantomimed in front of the fire.
Seeing the man’s antics, the Valkyrie smirked in spite of herself and seemed rather amused after awhile. She drank from her cup and put her feet up.
Oscar rushed up to her and taking off her muddy boots, he massaged her wrinkled toes tenderly and continue reciting his poems.
She smiled and made a soft purring sound.
His voice grew bolder, his poems more explicit. Soon, the Valkyrie's eyes had grown soft, and she guffawed with each outrageous word he uttered.
Even Oscar himself started laughing as the wine flowed freely, thrusting his hips, he made faces mimicking the contortions of love-making.
The Valkyrie downed her cup of wine, and still roaring with laughter, she stood up, grabbed Oscar by the neck and slung him over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
“Woa! What are you doing?” said Oscar flailing arms and legs.
The Valkryie stormed out the door with the man over her shoulder and marching up to the edge of the pond, she threw him into the water with a splash.
The surprised, and rather muddy, little pigs squealed and ran out of the water.
“Oscar of the land of Albanisia!” the Valkyrie shouted. “You are to pack up your bags, and your tools of your trade then ride with me to the barracks of Her Majesty’s Dragon Guard, where you will aid in the just cause of this struggle. Should you survive, you will then wed me and father my children in a safe and prosperous home. Should you die in battle, then you shall relish the knowledge of having sacrificed your life in the name of Her Majesty- Empress of the Eight Realms- Juliana, the Unconquerable!”
Later, after the thundering hooves of the horses receded, and only the sound of the wind through the grasses remained, the two little pigs returned to the pond, where they contentedly wallowed in the mud.
Thank you for reading my story. It was written for the Ink Well Challenge #77. The prompt was splash. The focus was on story setting as per @jayna's article on the subject.
Image by @litguru