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your walk is a beautiful threat; open

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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
Thrall

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Age : 21 years
Place of birth : Ireland

PostSubject: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Thu Jun 01, 2017 2:10 am





I
t is Sigrun’s turn to clean the great hall. It is her least favorite job because it puts her in the presence of all who gathered. She enjoys listening and acting as if she has no idea what they are saying; and if she does respond it is in a rapid crescendo, words from her native tongue.  She is never sure why she does it. To further alienate herself from the norsemen or because she can and there is little they can do about it except for cut out her tongue (a chance she is willing to take it seems). She may bear the name of a Northman but she is not. It has been many years since she has been with her clan, though and she knows they will never come for her. Her coming of age ritual had been interrupted by their attack, well strategized and near flawless in it’s execution. She could see the genus in it, now. All were drunk and otherwise occupied for the festivities. Whether Morrighan as abandoned her or not she cannot say. She sees ravens all around her and yet she does not know if it is Morrighan’s assurances she is seeing or if it is Njal’s Odin.

She clutches the bucket of steaming water, it’s surface bubbling with lard soap a rag - a torn strip of some sort of cloth or another floats at it’s top to readjust her grip before she sets it down in the next breath. The Great Hall is, blissfully, empty and Sigrun lets out the breath she’d been holding in a sigh of relief that breaks her silence. She does not want to try to clean around the Queen and her sons, or visitors and esteemed guests alike and though her defiant and fiery nature demand otherwise she tries to stay invisible knowing that is those who are thought of nothing more than background have the most power. It was a lesson that took her a long time to learn but she has discovered there is a power in silence, in being insignificant. Hands calloused from years passed welding her favorite double short swords taught first by her biological father and then Njal before he was forced to sell her to aid his forge dip into the warm water, grasping the soft cloth and pulling it from the bucket, wringing it out methodically. Her long red hair has been plaited neatly and wrapped around her head in a tight crown so that it will not interfere with her work and she begins to scrub the hearth in attempt to free the intricate stone carvings free of soot as instructed of her.

She has done this a million times and it is almost habit now. She sits, first, upon her knees and switches when they begin to ache losing herself in the simplicity of the chore.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Sun Jun 04, 2017 11:32 am

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

His hand didn’t lost speed when he turned around and around, sharpening his axe on the metal that he twirled around. His blue eyes shortly went up to the new blacksmith from underneath his eyelashes; he did some hard work but hardly approached Ivar, like he shouted out the “stay away” vibe. Anyway, he was here a lot more time than he was somewhere else, he asked himself how long that man would take to say at least one thing. Maybe one of his brothers warned him. He smiled for himself, looking back down to the deadly edges of his axe. He turned it into the sunlight, admiring his own work before his smile got a little less joyful and a little more darken, thinking about what that edge could do to other people. He loved to see others in pain, he loved so much more than that. His eyes darkened, the blue in his eyes turning into dark poles while he studied the magnificent edges of that axe.

When he was ready with it he shoved it into his belt and crawled out like the snake he was. He kept still, lurking his surroundings with those piercing blue eyes you just couldn’t miss. What could he do? Use that axe or rather amuse himself with something else. None the less, somebody would be his victim today. He placed his hands before him and started to drag his body over the ground over to the great hall. His arms where used to so much more than only did, they carried the heavy burden he as cripple faced every day. But wat was broken on the outside was completely all right on the inside, Ivar never missed a detail and even in his crawl back to the great hall he still saw a lot of things that made him laugh … the misery of others. He had to cope his own misery somehow, laughing with that of others was a good start. When he arrived in the great hall there wasn’t a cat to see, or at least, someone, on her knees, rubbing the floor like a maniac. And here he was, dragging his body in, leaving a new trail of dirt. ‘You missed a spot.’ He said without to much emotions to the slave girl sitting there. Seeing her reaction made his day quite alright already, maybe she should be that harmless victim for today.
//©
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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Sun Jun 04, 2017 1:20 pm





S
igrun looses track of time as she scrubs at the hearth, losing herself to the few memories she has of her tribe. The longer she has been with the Norsemen the more she forgets. Five years has felt like a lifetime to the daughter of Morrighan who feels the weight of the goddess’ tattoo on her shoulder blade as if it is a brand burned instead of ink stained into flesh. She was not born to serve, but birthright had ceased to exist for her the night Njal snatched her from her people mid-rite of passage. A fool’s mistake. She is no valkyrie and certainly Njal does not believe his insistent story for he never would have agreed to selling her to aid his forge. Regardless, debts are paid. He has kept her safe, kept her alive while others would paw at her and force themselves upon her. Sigrun is not ignorant, even if she acts like it (and sometimes acts as if she is mute), keeping to herself and doing as she is bid without protest slipping from betwixt her lips even if everything in her screams for freedom. The truth is, though, Queen Aslaug has not treated her ill. She is well fed, she has a warm place to sleep. Not all have been so kind, the whip scars upon the pale flesh of her back are a constant reminder of it.

She does not look up even as she hears Ivar enter the great hall. It is never a guess whom it is with Ivar, the sound of his legs dragging upon the smooth, polished wood. So many fear the youngest Ragnarsson, so many mock him. He does not hold the reputation of the kindest of Queen Aslaug’s sons but in a way she understands. He is outcast, mocked. He is a cripple in a society that values physical superiority. She lifts her arm to swipe at her forehead, only to leave a smudge of soot there. She knows she has and feels a tug at her gut when she is reminded of her face and how it was once painted in woad. Ivar’s voice is apathetic as he points out that she has missed a spot, clearly indicating to the trail of dirt he has just brought in behind him. She throws the rag into the bucket and looks at him over her shoulder, biting her tongue against the scathing remark she wishes to shoot at him. It does not matter which Ragnarsson would have entered the great hall, she’d have been annoyed at any and all of them for trailing dirt of the freshly scrubbed floor. She dries her hands off on the brown pants she wears and grabs the bucket and silently carries it over to the doorway before she sets it down with a loud ’thud’, the water sloshing angrily around within it.

She takes out the rag, wringing it out and begins to rescrub at the floor, intent on ignoring Ivar’s presence hoping that the Ragnarsson will move on and antagonize another.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Mon Jun 05, 2017 1:04 pm

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

As soon as he crawled in he was a little glad their hardly was anybody presents. These days he was just to the fact he crawled in here with more than three sets of eyes looking down to him, laughing without showing it. Now it was just one and she even wasn’t looking. She was cleaning what he already destroyed by dragging the dirt in. Yes, well, if you had to crawl you got dirty, Ivar took a lot more with him than the usual people. She behaved like a real slave, not looking at him, not speaking to him and he just got some satisfaction out of that. Knowing there were still people standing underneath him made him feel powerful. He loved the thought that he wasn’t a slave and the true prince of Kattegat. Other than his other brothers he just bragged about it. In that way he compensated the fact he was a cripple. Maybe he couldn’t use his legs, he was still better than everybody else.

The reaction on his words that she missed a spot was something of frustration she didn’t express out loud. She tried, really hard, to keep it for herself. Maybe because she knew her place or maybe because she knew who he was. Ivar pulled himself onto the two stairs before the thrones and turned around to her, sitting up. He crossed his arms over each other, leaning a little forward with a nonchalant look. ‘Come on, I see you want to say something.’ He said when she stood up and changed places. She couldn’t ignore him, he was the prince, she needed to listen. ‘Speak up.’ He challenged her. If she knew better she would be careful around him, he had picked her out a little for his amusement. ‘You just can’t ignore me.’ He followed with a chuckle. He would keep sitting here until she would say something or until he got bored of her. Saying nothing just filled him with a certain amusement. He followed her hands, putting the bucket down, crouching again before she began all over again. His heart’s desire was to let her scrub this floor over and over again until he got bored of seeing her doing it. But that was cruel, misusing her like that. But on the other hand, cruel was his middle name these days.
//©
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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Tue Jun 06, 2017 1:59 am





I
var is incredibly observant and though it does not particularly surprise her Sigrun is used to blending into the floor or wall and having her presence largely ignored. She prefers it; but there are always moments, like this one, where she is reminded of just how observant the youngest of Queen Aslaug’s sons truly is. It had not taken her long to know that Ivar sees things his brothers do not. Ríoghnach, in another life — a life where she is still who she was born to be — would have admired Ivar; but she supposes that regardless she does admire him because at the end of the day Njal could call her Sigrun but she is still and always would be Ríoghnach …minus the princess part. The dark, elegant ink of her tattoos staining her pale flesh remind her of that every day. Ivar taunts her, goading her to speak what is on her mind. She knows better. She knows that while he may be the most clever, the most charismatic of his brothers he reminds her of a viper. A beautiful creature but incredibly deadly. She is almost reminded of the old myths of Kelpies. How one takes the form of a handsome man to woo a young woman with the desire to drag her into the depths of the water where he drowns her and leaves her entrails — the only part of her they would ever find — that is not how that particularly story ended but is how most of the stories around the Kelpies ended.

“It is nothing Prince Ivar,” Sigrun eventually speaks with a smile tugging at the edges of her pretty mouth. Her temper has already burned itself out as quickly as it is stoked. She looks down from Ivar to the floor and resumes her scrubbing of it. “I could get you a fresh change of clothes and see those washed for you if you wish.” The thrall offers him. Laundry was also apart of her job description, after all. His blue gaze cuts through the distance between them, burning into her. She does not think she has ever seen such beautiful and striking eyes before. Even her’s fluctuated from dark to light due to the storm grey mixed within. “You are impossible to ignore Prince Ivar.” She means it as a compliment. His presence is commanding, it is intimidating and he is only sixteen! Most men go their whole lives without being able to command a room the way that Ivar can. Then again, most men are not Ivar The Boneless. “I mean no offense. I only seek to complete my tasks as commanded of me and be as all thrall are meant to be: unseen, unheard.” It was what her father had expected of his slaves, at least. Her lips pull into a terse frown of their own accord as she thinks of how cruel and twisted the fates must be: that she, blessed by Morrighan, favorite of War Chief Driscoll has fallen as low upon the societal hierarchy as one can go.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Wed Jun 07, 2017 9:14 pm

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

He just said there, really, looking at her in a way he looked to everybody, like he really didn’t care. And he didn’t, for all he cares she did this the whole night without rest, it wouldn’t affect him. In that way Ivar was incredibly arrogant. He only thought about himself and not about others. But that was how people made him, they all forced him to be like this by not caring about him to. In such a way he just shut down his own humanity, making himself the monster that people believed he was. Yes, he killed a boy when he was young, no, it wasn’t his fault. Nothing was his fault, it was all theirs. They shouldn’t treat him like this, they shouldn’t talk to him like this. So why should he care? While she so obedience walked back to that filthy spot again, he watched her every movement. His blue eyes were the biggest weapon he had and he knew how to use them. She behaved like a real slave, not looking up, not moving too fast, doing her job in a blink of an eye without even hesitating his demand. In his eyes it was boring but the fact he saw something of frustration, or at least a reaction on his demand was enough to see what else she had in mind of doing … or saying.

When he challenged her she answered with one of his favorite words. ‘I like that, prince.’ He smirked. He liked to be seen as a prince, more than his other brothers did. He just needed that kind of power, the feeling of it made him functional. He craved it, just like he craved to be in power. His eyes went shortly up to the throne of his father, that kind of power ... he pulled himself back out of the thoughts when the slave talked again. His eyebrows came up, the smile disappeared a little in the meantime. He looked down to his own clothes, he was always dirty but a slave never suggested before to give him a new set of clothes. ‘Maybe.’ He murmured for himself, not caring of the way he looked. ‘What is your name?’ He asked without really answering her previous suggestion. He leaned his back against the throne of his mother, still sitting on the ground like he was used to. In that way she would see he wasn’t planning on going. When he looked at her she looked for a moment back before stating the obvious. He titled his head, amused by her words. ‘I would almost believe you need something for me. But what should a slave need from a prince,’ he didn’t finish that sentence, he just leaned a little forward, trying to get more of her gaze into his power. She excused herself fast, like he took it as a offence. ‘Hmmm,’ he felt silence after her words. ‘You never disobey?’ He asked, curious mostly. Would she do everything he would ask from her? He tilted his head again, slowly while that arrogant smile creeped back on his face. She amused him and that could go two different ways on. She could come at a point she got amused to, or simply used. ‘Look at me.’ He commanded her in a swift demanding tone. He wanted to see what such blue eyes as himself did to someone so low in rank. ‘What do you want?’ He asked. When somebody spoke to him like her he was planning on using that … it was Ivar, what didn’t he use.
//©
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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Thu Jun 08, 2017 11:58 am





T
here is little surprise when Ivar admits that he likes being called prince and a smirk tugs at the edges of her lips as she continues to scrub though she is intently listening to him at the same time. He has no designs of leaving, this much she can tell, as he has seated himself before the thrones and seems rather content to watch her as she works. “Is that not what you are?” The blood born daughter of war chief Driscoll asks him, with a hint of coyness to her tone. In her homeland, addressing a prince as anything less than prince regardless of physical condition was punishable. As to her inquiry of new clothing he gives a vague maybe and she lets it drop, not intending to bring it up again lest he did. She purses her lips slightly as she returns to her scrubbing, sitting back when she has completed the task for the second time. She cleans her fingers off with the clean side of the rag slowly, as if she is concentrating upon the task as he inquires about her name. Ríoghnach, but that name has been snuffed out when Njal began to grow a conscious. “Sigrun,” Not overly imaginative she cannot help but think considering it is the valkyrie Njal and the others had mistaken her for. Regardless, Sigrun is who she has become: forge master’s daughter, thrall to the royal family of Kattegat.

She tosses the rag back in the bucket and takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow exhale as he goes on to claim his suspicions: that she wants something from him. She doesn’t, but she cannot fault him for being suspicious. “You mistake my intentions. I seek nothing from you, Prince Ivar.” She assures him, her tone conveying her honesty. “I try not to.” She responds dryly when he asks her if she never disobeys. Not all take it kindly, after all, and the  thin, pale scars criss crossing across her back serve as a friendly enough reminder of what her spitfire temper will earn her. He commands her to look at him and slowly her gaze rises from the bucket to meet his across the distance between them. Even from afar Ivar’s eyes are candescent. Luminous. She has never met Ragnar and she does not realize that Ivar and Ragnar’s eyes are the same. He asks her what she wants and in that moment many things go through her mind but she does not pick and focus on any of them in particular. “I want many things, Prince Ivar but they hardly matter.” Not in this life. Wanting was dangerous. “I no longer get the luxury of wanting things.” She knows it now to be a road full of much disappointment for those who are powerless, as she is.

She does not want to be a thrall but she has accepted her fate because she sees no way out of it. Even if she could manage to escape unnoticed — which she has always doubted — where would she go? She suspects, however, as her attention refocuses back upon Ivar that this wasn’t just about her. “What do you want, Prince Ivar?” She invites him, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that warns her against it.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Thu Jun 08, 2017 8:00 pm

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

Prince … Prince Ivar. He was more used to cripple, the boneless, just things that would point right back to his legs he couldn’t use. But prince, they didn’t say it often despite the fact they knew that he was one. He was the youngest son of the great and powerful Ragnar Lothbrok and Ivar was desperate to prove everyone who good he would be in the footsteps of his father. He wanted to conquer; he wanted the world to know who he was … a prince. When she asked him if he wasn’t that kind of a man he looked back up to her, gazing from underneath his eyelashes to her moving body. ‘Yes.’ He answered, getting into the thoughts again, placing his thumb against his lips, biting on his nail for a second. Because the great hall was all but filled he lowered some of that defensive glare he always had around him, he relaxed, leaning against the throne of his mother, pulling his legs in a more easier place. When she said her name he looked in her direction, she was still cleaning that floor like she expected that he would demand her to work even faster. But he didn’t, he found his amusement just in making her feel like she had to hurry up, work her way around him. Sigrun.

Ivar was just Ivar, he looked for the most of little information hidden in the little details. She lost her rag in the bucket, not looking up to him when she spoke against his words. ‘Everybody wants something. Always.’ He reacted right away onto what she said. He wouldn’t believe her if she kept saying it for a day long … that she wouldn’t desire a thing. Was impossible, everybody had a desire deep within the heart. He had many, he wanted to have his brother dead quite often, he wanted to be a king himself, he wanted the people down at him feet admitting their loyalty. When she answered his question about disobedience so dryly he needed to chuckle for a short moment. ‘But you want to.’ He leaned forward again, his blue eyes sparkled in the mischief he so often contained. ‘Admit it.’ He whispered, eyes widen a little by the desire he fell to put her in harm’s way. He had a strange way of thinking, everything with Ivar included, violence, blood and pain, it was unusual for him to just think straight, without felling the urge to prove himself or do something wrong. When he commanded her to look up she did. She just looked and he just gazed back, waiting for an answer, waiting for something to change in the way she looked. Did he needed her to be afraid, yes, he acquired that in some way. When she started talking he leaned back, breaking the eye contact and relaxing again. But with her second sentence he squeezed his eyes a little together. ‘No longer.’ He repeated her words. ‘So you had before?’ He asked, a little puzzled of where she could come from.

She returned the question and Ivar shook his head, impatient. ‘It doesn’t work that way Sigrun, I ask the questions, you answer and if I’m pleased by you maybe you get an answer back,’ he began, his voice a little more anger toned than before. ‘So,’ he pointed towards the table with ale, asking her for a cup without using any words. ‘I get easily bored, I don’t want to be bored, don’t bore me. Just tell me, what do you desire the most?’ He would turn her inside out if she would reply on any of his questions, to prove that he pulled a little knife, kicking the point into the wood before his mothers throne. ‘Let’s see out what of wood you are carved out.’ He smiled arrogant, the typical Ivar way. She shouldn’t have said that, that about no longer have the luxury, now he was curious and a curious Ivar was a demanding one.
//©
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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Thu Jun 08, 2017 10:39 pm





S
igrun’s lips twitched in a ’that’s what I thought’ manner when Ivar responded to her inquiry about whether he was a prince or not. She suspects he is not used to being addressed as is proper of him. She has heard many boldly call him The Cripple and considering the  very cruel reputation Ivar harbors she thinks they are stupid for uttering such a thing, he is a prince. He is a man like any other. She did not look at Ivar and see a cripple. She saw someone that would draw Morríghan and perhaps thing that as she and the goddess of War and Sovereignty are tightly bound that is part of her own draw to the youngest Ragnarsson. “More often than I care to admit.” The left corner of her lip curls up into a partial, sly smirk. Sigrun does not mind being honest though she understands it may cost her; of course, she considers, lying may cost her more and she has no intention of spinning a false web that she will, inevitably, get tangled up in sooner or later. Ivar picks up on her words, analyzing them in a way she should have, but didn’t, expect and Sigrun bit her tongue lightly assuming that, sooner or later, she would have to explain. “Once.” She answers cryptically, for now knowing that it may only sate him temporarily.

He twists the figurative table back around to her, refusing to answer her question saying that if her answers please him then she may receive an answer in return. It was subjective. Idly, she cannot help but wonder if anything (or anyone) is capable of pleasing Ivar The Boneless; it almost seems like a feat that even The Morríghan would not be able to do. He points to the ale and she dries her hands off on the skirt of her plain, blue dress as she rises and goes to the table. She grasps a cup situated upon it and pours the ale carefully before she sets the pitcher back upon the table and carries the cup to where Ivar sits at the foot of Queen Aslaug’s throne. At some point, while her back is turned, he procures a small knife and buries it into the wood at the base of his mother’s throne as if to prove a point. She does not doubt that he would use it upon her but she does not intend to give him cause to. She bows her head and lowers her eyes as she holds the cup out for him to take.

“Freedom, Prince Ivar. I have known it and I long for it.” She admits. She wants to come and go as she pleases, she wants to hunt and spar. She wants to hold the double short swords that Njal has forged for her in what the roman’s call dimachaerus style — warriors that wield double blades. She knows her life before Njal captured her is long over and she will never again see anything relatively close to it but she would be content to simply be as long as she is free. “Njal, the forge-master, my …father,” She pauses on the word. It is the closest thing she can liken the burly ironhand to because that is how he treated her: as a father would. “had a blood daughter. She died of illness many, many years ago and it drove him to great grief. To bury this grief he often went on raids. It was the night of my rite of passage into my tribe that he and the other men attacked us, merry on drink. Dressed in an ebony dress adorned with raven skulls and raven feathers the men mistook me for the valkyrie Sigrun and they captured me.” and here we are. She drew her bottom lip in betwixt her teeth for a few seconds. “I was once named Ríoghnach, chosen of The Morríghan, daughter of War Chief Driscoll, Princess of Tiergnach clan,” A lofty title that once meant the world to her when her world did not extend beyond Ireland. “now I am Sigrun Njalsdóttir, spoil of war and thrall.” There was a terse twist of her lips as she studies Ivar for his reaction, half expecting that he would not believe her — not that she had anything to gain from lying to him. His brothers, perhaps, but not clever Ivar. In his presence she feels compelled to speak the truth, though out of respect and admiration as opposed to a fear she does not (though perhaps should) feel.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Sun Jun 11, 2017 8:35 pm

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

Most slaves were nothing, they were just empty bodies with no desire to run off or no desire to change life. This one was a little different. Although she hardly dared to look to him he saw she was not the kind of slave that walked around here without a story. And just because of that Ivar his anger and impatience shifted to his curiosity and eagerness. If it was any better … probably a little but it meant that he would go through big lengths to get the information he wanted. And he wasn’t scared to hurt such a poor soul like the one cleaning the floor now. Ivar had a strange attraction to violence, he would always have it, eager to taste the blood of his enemies despite the fact he never fought a battle in his life except for his own. Yet, he grew that force of violence within him, like a animal that was caged, ready to set off in the wild. It was exactly how he felt.

When she applied his command the corner of his mouth jumped up, see, she wasn’t an ordinary slave. She held a lot more on the inside of that retoured body than she showed. She smiled to, or at least, it looked like a smile. ‘Once.’ She answered and his eyes squeezed softly together. She had the luxury of wanting things before, what means she was maybe more highborn than she looked like. Now his eyes grew more intense in there gaze. He tried to eliminate every little thing in her face, her skin, the way she looked back, her clothes. Looking for something, something even that small that should suggest that she was telling the truth. Would she been lying? Maybe, but most of the people knew him just good enough to not start lying against him. Ivar had a keen eye for words coming from another, if it didn’t fit in his head he got out that the other was laying. And oh, did he hate liars. But more than a once he didn’t get and that just pulled all his impatience back up.

He turned the little knife in the wood, waiting for his ale she was getting for him. Although he was looking at the knife, in the corner of his eyes he never left her unattended, like she was a threat … while all she was nothing but a slave girl, kneeling before him. He grabbed the cup out of her hands, turning that smile to something entirely different when he saw her submission. ‘Sit.’ He commended on the spot one stair below where he said on the little platform. When he forced her to talk it didn’t seem like she had much trouble with it speaking up to him. Freedom, such a wide word and yet it was even for a prince as him limited. His eyes looked shortly towards his legs before he brought the cup to his lips, drinking from the ale. And then her story started. Ivar shifted his look from the knife, to the cup and back to her while she told him her story. And while she talked he kept thinking, placing everything together. When she repeated her full name his blue eyes went up and he stopped turning the blade, only looking at her while she looked right back. He could see a liar from miles away, she wasn’t, why would she tell something like that. His breath escaped but he hardly said a thing. He pulled the knife out of the wood and pointed it towards her. The tip almost pushing against the delicate skin of her throat. He looked at it, in a consumed way. ‘What do you do here then?’ He leaned a little forward, twisting the knife so it came flat under her chin, he pushed her head up a little. ‘Dole name for a girl like you.’ He looked down over her body before he pulled back, petting the knife on his own cripple legs. ‘So you can fight then? Hunt?’ He asked. She got onto dangerous ice, telling this to him. He was claiming her in the progress, placing his mark on her. And been marked by Ivar wasn’t a good thing for he did nothing good in return.
//©
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Sigrun Njalsdóttir
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PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Sun Jun 11, 2017 11:15 pm





S
igrun complies to his command and after Ivar takes his cup of ale from her she situates herself on the stair below him. She watches as he pulls the knife from the wood and points it towards her. She stares down the length of the small blade following it’s hilt to his hand and then up his arm all the way to his face. Does he mean to threaten her? And if he was then for what purpose? She was of no use to him in any sort of power gamble — her clan has forsaken her, the coming of age rite left unfinished and regardless, to him and his she is nothing but as she said: a spoil of war and a thrall. The edge of the blade nearly touches the tender flesh of her throat as he leans forward and swift as a panther it appears. “If you mean my status of thrall it was my own choice. Njal might have captured me but he kept me safe, took me as his daughter. I owed him a life debt and when business in his forge was slow and he needed the coin I suggested he sell me.” She lifts her chin as Ivar forces it up with the flat edge of his knife, careful to avoid being sliced by it’s sharp edges, though she does not doubt he is a master bladesman. She has heard others speak of him, of his prowess on the training grounds despite his disability. She does not recoil from the blade though, trusting him not to slip or decide to slit her throat then and there.

Ivar pulls back, taking his knife with him. She watches as he places it on one of his legs. Content that he isn’t going to end her life her gaze rises to his face. “I’ve never hunted,” She admits, “but I can fight. The romans called my style of fighting dimachaerus — wielder of two blades.” She inhales and lets it out in a soft sigh. “It’s not really a skill anybody looks for in their thralls.” Sigrun offers Ivar a smile though it is not necessarily one of mirth. Instead, it fluctuates between almost sly and almost demure but does not settle on one or the other.

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Ivar Ragnarsson
Thegn

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Title : The Boneless
Age : 16 y/o
Place of birth : Kattegat

PostSubject: Re: your walk is a beautiful threat; open Sat Jul 01, 2017 4:58 pm

If I had a heart I could love you ,
If I had a voice I would sing.

Oh yes … she got his attention and that could turn out better or worse for her. She was spilling secret like nothing, what only told him his reputation followed him. That people talked about him, that she did good in doing her job. He asked himself how much of a sinner she should be, how far she would go to get certain things. He saw a lot of possibilities in a small amount of time right now. But for that he needed to understand her, he hardly wanted to be interesting but opportunities appeared sometimes and that was something he never let pass by without paying attention to it. When she started about how she got in hear, scrubbing floor, he narrowed his eyes a little, taking up everything that there was to find in her expressions. She sold herself … to help out the one caring for her all those time. Would he do it for his mother? Probably, even more for his father. But he rather fought for what was theirs rather than selling himself in exchange for their comfort. He hardly said anything on that, he just loved the way her head moved away from the sharpe edges of the blade. He held his eyes firmly on hers before he smiled amused putting the knife down. ‘Shame that you are scrubbing floors now, that makes you,’ he felt silent, leaning a little in on her. ‘probably very unhappy.’ You weren’t gonna tell him that she was happy with being this, a slave, doing everyone’s bidding while she used to have some kind of rank. No way.

The fighting part on the other hand interested him more. He looked down to the blade while she spoke over what she used to be, a wheeler of two blades. When she told him it wasn’t really something others were looking for in a slave he disagreed. ‘Maybe I am.’ She presented her with a dark smile. He drank from his cup without losing sight of her, calculating what he should do with her. He pointed his finger to her when he lowered his cup. ‘Maybe I need someone like you. Tell me, Sigrun, where lies your loyalty?’ He asked. This was a trick question with one correct answer or the change he would punish her for it when it was incorrect. ‘I presume, being a good little slave that you would come to the trainings field in the forest when I ask you to?’ He tilted his head a little, licking his lower lip, curious to what she was going to answer. He wanted to see what she could do. Potential like hers was there to be used, not to scrub the floors.
//©
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