They have been drinking all night, nine girls in various stages of distress and undress. None of the men in the bar question why their hands stay glued to steins of ale. Warriors and poets both take ill to being controlled, despite frequent pleas to the gods for some sort of succor. Even in this age, they struggle against destiny whilst asking for guidance. Instead, I send them women who can be touched without too much danger. The nine are to be kept apart, for now, at least.
“I wanna be a Valkyrie!” slurs a solid brunette. She engages in athletics, not having learned the joy of combat. I would take her as my sister, but we cannot harbor such anger as she holds.
“You want to sort through the souls of dying soldiers, so you can carry them to Valhalla, where they can feast and ignore the fact that their gods put them on the battlefield to begin with?” The blonde frowns as knowledge from some long-forgotten classroom comes unbidden. “Do you suppose that comes with dental?”
“What?” The brunette has moved on in what passes for thought process. “I meant for the costume party.”
“Never mind.” The blonde’s thoughts go to a boy she’d hoped to love, before he donned armor and marched out. If he is worthy – and slightly unlucky – his can be the first soul she takes up.
When I call to her, she passes out of her old life without fear. The chosen always know.