Two days and three nights. A long enough period to strain the stamina of many.

Muscles all a fire and heads all a spin, this was no place for the faint of heart, or weak if constitution. The music kept its frantic pace as the dancers reeled and sprang about to its beats and rests.
He had to give it to those godsmen for one thing at least, they made a fine beverage.

The body was battered and bruised but life still resided within it. 
A vital energy force that burned and beat despite its vessel's damaged state. With a sigh he ran his thick fingers across the skin, still smeared with some traces of blood where he had cleansed it. 
Multiple lacerations. 

With a resounding crack, Skol's fist connected with Leif's jaw and bowled him over on his back. A roar of approval rang in the victors' ears accompanied by the staccato of mugs slammed on tables.
The raiders had reaped a bounty on their last endeavour and no one was in a hurry to return to the ships, and the long voyage to colder lands.
This island seemed ripe for pillage, with their weak men, unprotected communities and their One God. Skol bellowed to the continued approval of his men.

The sounds of battle had rocked the land for days and nights without end.
On the fourth day Creidhne took to task the finely crafted weapons to repair and replace so the folk could reap a toll of war.
On the fifth day Goibhniú unleashed his fires to burn the foe and set the land alight.
On the sixth day Brighid spoke before the assembled horde and called for an end to the fever fire, but her words fell on ears made deaf by hatred.

On the seventh day, She came.

She stopped outside her home and dropped her shield and spear upon the ground. Tired aching pained muscles shirked the pack from her shoulders. Walking into the welcoming darkness of her home she moved towards the back and froze.
She was not alone.

Her eyes roamed the space as her hand drifted towards the blade at her hip, warrior instinct triggering a primal warning in the recesses of her brain.#
There.