The forest path was a familiar friend to Brunhild, the rustle of leaves beneath her sandals a comforting rhythm. A rare moment of solitude, she thought, a brief respite from the endless vigilance. It was precisely in this moment of relaxed pride that the ambush struck.
A silent blur from the trees. Before Brunhild could even register a threat, a lithe figure, cloaked in black, was upon her. A practiced sweep of a leg, a twist of the arm, and the Valkyrie found herself on the ground, winded and utterly disoriented. "Well, well," a woman's voice, surprisingly calm and almost amused, purred above her. "Looks like even the mighty Brunhild can stumble."
Skilled hands quickly secured her wrists behind her back, then her ankles. She struggled, of course, but the bindings were surprisingly efficient, and the woman's grip unyielding. Then came the blindfold – a thick, dark cloth that plunged her world into instant blackness. The disorientation that followed was profound, a dizzying void that seemed to suck away her defiance. She found herself surprisingly still, the fight draining from her as if the darkness itself had a sedative effect. "See?" the voice chuckled, a hint of genuine surprise in it. "Works every time. You'd be amazed how cooperative people get."
A moment later, the bindings on her hands and feet were loosened, though she remained blindfolded. "Alright, Valkyrie," the voice instructed, "off with the finery. Gown first, then those lovely sandals." Brunhild, still reeling from the unexpected defeat and the unsettling docility the blindfold had induced, hesitated for only a moment. Defeated and strangely compliant, she fumbled with the fastenings of her gown, shrugging it off her shoulders. Then, with a sigh that was almost one of weary resignation, she kicked off her sandals. "Good girl," the robber murmured, and Brunhild, to her own shame, felt a flicker of something akin to relief. "Now, onto your knees, hands behind your back. Let's make this neat." She knelt, her head bowed, and allowed herself to be re-tied, this time in a less constricting, almost comfortable restraint.
"Just so we're clear," the robber's voice cut through the silence, "I have no intimate interest in you, nor is this a kidnapping for ransom. I'm merely here for the clothes. That exquisite gown, those finely crafted sandals... they'll fetch a pretty penny in the right market. Far more practical than a hostage, wouldn't you agree?" Brunhild felt a hot flush of shame creep up her neck. Robbed. Of her clothes. Not even for a grand purpose, but for profit. She heard the rustle of fabric, and then the receding footsteps.
