RoadRash, I am SO sorry to have left Haakon out of Eyja's approach, I'm going to go fix that right now, and finish the post for Svala retrieving her as well. As I just said to Idle, I honestly think I'm losing my damn mind lately- for some reason when Faolan went into the healing house, I read that Haakon did as well - so my bad.
eta: Edited, and SO sorry again! *shame face* ><
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It's all righty FF, for the no filler posts - and I hope your weekend is treating you well too. Thank you Lil for the pokings of the quiet thread. On the side of just getting to the London Office, is there anyone who is waiting on something or someone to post?
I'm glad you all liked. If it's going to take you a bit Idle, I might just put up an adjunct post for Svala - it just got too late last night for me to even try, and it went really long anyway so... ><
Eyja frowned mightily as she stomped along, Tore the kitten hung like a garment over one arm through the dirt roads of Trelleborg. She wished there were some properly thawed mud puddles to face her ire, but the ice only crunched underfoot and, while slightly satisfying, did not provide the squelch of mud splash that would have given her the wicked little pleasure of muck-dotting Svala's somehow pristine skirts. Only a moment before, Eyja had been vigorously working one free finger into the tightly plaited hair at the base of her neck, sighing and rolling her blue-grey eyes and just generally making a spectacle of her displeasure until Hallerna stopped in her tracks, pulling both her daughters short in an instant.
Her mother's gaze narrowed with irritation when she promised Eyja she would shave her bald if she did not stop her endless complaining.
There was no jest in Hallerna's eyes.
"Yes Madir," she'd said quickly, her hand dropping from her too-tight hair to cradle Tore the kitten instead - a move he rather liked it seemed, if the sudden rumbly roar of purring was any indication. Still, obedience did not mean she had to give up pouting though, and Eyja pouted with an intensity of feeling reserved for only the most egregiously offended in this wretched world.
Madir had been awake first, as was her wont, and Eyja watched her in the dim orange glow of the hearth from beneath the palette of furs she shared with Hallerna. She had chosen her very best clean apron dress dyed a pale, icy blue, and then washing her face and the thick lengths of her golden hair before carefully tending it all with a bone comb she'd discovered yesterday morning in the village. And when it all shone to the little girl's eyes like a sunrise by the hearth, Madir braided the front in two long braids, twisting them back and then coiling the whole at the base of her neck perfectly, all without need of a mirror.
Eyja longed to touch the amber beads Fadir had given Hallerna, and her mother had never once forbidden her curious fingers from doing so - but something felt different this morning about Madir. Something... Not right. Something that felt a little sad, and then maybe just a little mad, and then finally sad all over again as, for the first time in all of Eyja's memory, she did not wear the iron keys to their family farmstead, but rather wrapped them into the remainder of her clothing by their small bags.
Svala had risen next and, very like Madir, washed and dressed in her very best, a crimson red apron dress made her deep blue eyes seem to glow. Her own hair she pulled back simply, twisting the golden lengths into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, securing the whole with a few ties and the plain but lovingly crafted combs of horn her father had made Svala for her birthday. And when she finally wrapped the leather belt Madir had bartered for about her slender waist, all the better to tuck the bearded axe she'd taken from the man she killed, like any other warrior, Eyja felt... Well, she felt a little twinge of something in her chest, something less-than-pleasant as her beautiful elder sister transformed from tousled to lovely with every passing moment.
But that was nothing compared to what was to come.
Eyja was next. She endured the washing stoically, but what came afterward was, in a word, unendurable. That bone comb of Madir's went through every last wind-tossed, tangled, snarled piece of Eyja's curly, gingery red hair. Her mother's fingers made quick work of two braids from the front of her head, just like her Madir's, only then worked into two tight, neat braids that hung down Eyja's back like two pieces of rope.
It itched. It pulled. It ached and bothered at her but Madir - patiently at first - explained simply that their family should not arrive to the Jarl's hall looking for all the world like filthy beggars or beaten thralls.
And Eyja understood her mother's plea - she truly did - but her neck itched painfully as the little hairs fought to pull from their unaccustomed bondage, and she truly might have sworn the skin of her face felt tauter than it ought to, yanked back unceremoniously into the braids her Madir had made.
All they truly had to their names fit easily inside the confines of two bags, one carried by each of the older women. The furniture might stay where it was of course, for perhaps the next refugees of the draugr to use, along with the utensils and cookware. There would be no use for such in the great hall, after all.
The sun had only just begun to rise, the first grey light of the coming day bringing some measure of brightening to Trelleborg as they began their trek to the Hall. Madir moved swiftly, as did Svala, and Eyja - toting Tore, of course - had to all but run to keep up with them, complaining grandly - if wordlessly - until her Madir put a halt to that.
But Eyja was Eyja after all, and even if the rising sun was no more than a little girl's harbinger, her naturally bright, brilliant disposition couldn't help but make its way easily to her face as the pout melted from her lips, forgotten utterly, in a veritable split second.
Because the ladies were walking by the healing house and, inexplicably, there was a very familiar face standing outside. Well two familiar faces really, but she honestly didn't think the tall, dark-haired raider looked the type to come play games with her and Ranulf and Dagny.
"Raudr?" Eyja stopped, her head tilted curiously for a moment until she dashed for the boy. Tore the kitten bounced quite merrily in the cradle of her arms as she pulled up in front of him, smiling and breathless and having forgotten nearly entirely about the injustice of her poor head of hair.
"Eyja?" Hallerna called when she caught sight of the movement from the corner of her eye, and then could only sigh softly when she spotted Eyja's destination, straight to Ragnar the Younger. She could not fault her youngest for her impetuosity, and perhaps she was being proud beyond what was her due, but Hallerna simply could not help the twisting in her gut at the unexpected sight of the boy and Ragnar's man, on their way to take the offered shelter in the great hall.
"Raudr, what are you doing here?" Eyja asked incredulously, her eyes falling on the new seax the boy wore so prominently - and frankly she could not escape the impression he truly wanted her to see it.
"Pretty!" she said amiably enough, pointing toward Raudr's new seax with a quick gesture of her elbow, her other hands otherwise completely full of lazy, purring gray tabby cat. "Good morning!" she chirped just as sweetly to Haakon, smiling up at him now, his face and the younger, mostly smiling face of Ivarr now equally etched in her mind's eye as paragons of safety - sanctuary even - after that terrifying run beside Ranulf right here to the healing house only the night before.
"So, is Ranulf about?" she continued eagerly, not truly waiting for a proper response from Raudr on the first two counts before getting straight to the heart of her matter. It wasn't that she was trying to be rude by any means, but only that the piece of paper Orran had given her to draw on after dinner was rolled and tucked into the back of her belt. The discomfort of the order enforced on her otherwise unruly head of hair all but forgotten now, Eyja simply could not wait to show Ranulf the wolf she'd made herself, with her very own hands and a real pen, and real ink! Eyja's head turned right, and then left, furtive, darting glances to see if she could spot Ranulf, though there was no sign of him.
Her mother's gaze narrowed with irritation when she promised Eyja she would shave her bald if she did not stop her endless complaining.
There was no jest in Hallerna's eyes.
"Yes Madir," she'd said quickly, her hand dropping from her too-tight hair to cradle Tore the kitten instead - a move he rather liked it seemed, if the sudden rumbly roar of purring was any indication. Still, obedience did not mean she had to give up pouting though, and Eyja pouted with an intensity of feeling reserved for only the most egregiously offended in this wretched world.
Madir had been awake first, as was her wont, and Eyja watched her in the dim orange glow of the hearth from beneath the palette of furs she shared with Hallerna. She had chosen her very best clean apron dress dyed a pale, icy blue, and then washing her face and the thick lengths of her golden hair before carefully tending it all with a bone comb she'd discovered yesterday morning in the village. And when it all shone to the little girl's eyes like a sunrise by the hearth, Madir braided the front in two long braids, twisting them back and then coiling the whole at the base of her neck perfectly, all without need of a mirror.
Eyja longed to touch the amber beads Fadir had given Hallerna, and her mother had never once forbidden her curious fingers from doing so - but something felt different this morning about Madir. Something... Not right. Something that felt a little sad, and then maybe just a little mad, and then finally sad all over again as, for the first time in all of Eyja's memory, she did not wear the iron keys to their family farmstead, but rather wrapped them into the remainder of her clothing by their small bags.
Svala had risen next and, very like Madir, washed and dressed in her very best, a crimson red apron dress made her deep blue eyes seem to glow. Her own hair she pulled back simply, twisting the golden lengths into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, securing the whole with a few ties and the plain but lovingly crafted combs of horn her father had made Svala for her birthday. And when she finally wrapped the leather belt Madir had bartered for about her slender waist, all the better to tuck the bearded axe she'd taken from the man she killed, like any other warrior, Eyja felt... Well, she felt a little twinge of something in her chest, something less-than-pleasant as her beautiful elder sister transformed from tousled to lovely with every passing moment.
But that was nothing compared to what was to come.
Eyja was next. She endured the washing stoically, but what came afterward was, in a word, unendurable. That bone comb of Madir's went through every last wind-tossed, tangled, snarled piece of Eyja's curly, gingery red hair. Her mother's fingers made quick work of two braids from the front of her head, just like her Madir's, only then worked into two tight, neat braids that hung down Eyja's back like two pieces of rope.
It itched. It pulled. It ached and bothered at her but Madir - patiently at first - explained simply that their family should not arrive to the Jarl's hall looking for all the world like filthy beggars or beaten thralls.
And Eyja understood her mother's plea - she truly did - but her neck itched painfully as the little hairs fought to pull from their unaccustomed bondage, and she truly might have sworn the skin of her face felt tauter than it ought to, yanked back unceremoniously into the braids her Madir had made.
All they truly had to their names fit easily inside the confines of two bags, one carried by each of the older women. The furniture might stay where it was of course, for perhaps the next refugees of the draugr to use, along with the utensils and cookware. There would be no use for such in the great hall, after all.
The sun had only just begun to rise, the first grey light of the coming day bringing some measure of brightening to Trelleborg as they began their trek to the Hall. Madir moved swiftly, as did Svala, and Eyja - toting Tore, of course - had to all but run to keep up with them, complaining grandly - if wordlessly - until her Madir put a halt to that.
But Eyja was Eyja after all, and even if the rising sun was no more than a little girl's harbinger, her naturally bright, brilliant disposition couldn't help but make its way easily to her face as the pout melted from her lips, forgotten utterly, in a veritable split second.
Because the ladies were walking by the healing house and, inexplicably, there was a very familiar face standing outside. Well two familiar faces really, but she honestly didn't think the tall, dark-haired raider looked the type to come play games with her and Ranulf and Dagny.
"Raudr?" Eyja stopped, her head tilted curiously for a moment until she dashed for the boy. Tore the kitten bounced quite merrily in the cradle of her arms as she pulled up in front of him, smiling and breathless and having forgotten nearly entirely about the injustice of her poor head of hair.
"Eyja?" Hallerna called when she caught sight of the movement from the corner of her eye, and then could only sigh softly when she spotted Eyja's destination, straight to Ragnar the Younger. She could not fault her youngest for her impetuosity, and perhaps she was being proud beyond what was her due, but Hallerna simply could not help the twisting in her gut at the unexpected sight of the boy and Ragnar's man, on their way to take the offered shelter in the great hall.
"Raudr, what are you doing here?" Eyja asked incredulously, her eyes falling on the new seax the boy wore so prominently - and frankly she could not escape the impression he truly wanted her to see it.
"Pretty!" she said amiably enough, pointing toward Raudr's new seax with a quick gesture of her elbow, her other hands otherwise completely full of lazy, purring gray tabby cat. "Good morning!" she chirped just as sweetly to Haakon, smiling up at him now, his face and the younger, mostly smiling face of Ivarr now equally etched in her mind's eye as paragons of safety - sanctuary even - after that terrifying run beside Ranulf right here to the healing house only the night before.
"So, is Ranulf about?" she continued eagerly, not truly waiting for a proper response from Raudr on the first two counts before getting straight to the heart of her matter. It wasn't that she was trying to be rude by any means, but only that the piece of paper Orran had given her to draw on after dinner was rolled and tucked into the back of her belt. The discomfort of the order enforced on her otherwise unruly head of hair all but forgotten now, Eyja simply could not wait to show Ranulf the wolf she'd made herself, with her very own hands and a real pen, and real ink! Eyja's head turned right, and then left, furtive, darting glances to see if she could spot Ranulf, though there was no sign of him.
Antonia took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she closed her eyes, settling back into her chair for a moment. So much mistrust with this one, this Nicolette Beauchamp. There was simply... so much broken inside her soul no matter the cool, hard exterior, all the prickly shards pulled back together into some semblance of a woman, held together by that white-knuckled grip in her head.
Antonia could not help but wonder if the first mate truly understood how her perfectly controlled, deliberately formal way of speaking might seem to this captain. No, the rogue decided, she simply... Did not. To this moment Nicolette seemed to measure all men, all crews, all captains and mates by the jagged yardage of her betrayers.
All this passed through the rogue's thoughts in less than an instant, Antonia's grey eyes opening as she rose gracefully to her feet once more. This time though, she did not move to Thomas' side, but rather past Luc in his own chair beside her, tapping the top of his head soundly with her fingertip. "A gentleman does not stare at a lady, no matter how lovely he may find her. 'Tis rude and unbecoming, and such ogling is best left to men like Monsieur Jax, who have neither dignity nor manners to uphold," she said lightly, casually as she continued past the boy, giving the helmsman a cockeyed lilt of a smile and an amused arch of an eyebrow.
For his part, Luc cringed just a little, his smile sheepish and apologetic as his gaze quickly averted from the angelic Nicolette to the aforementioned Monsieur Jax, where it transformed into as impish a smile as even the helmsman could have wished. The boy had already decided that, gentleman or no, he certainly liked the smiling man with the promise of something special, just for him. Jax's curses had not shaken him in the least. Luc was a child of Port Royal after all, and his Papa the owner and proprietor of the Parakeet. There was precious little salty language, or any creative combination thereof, that was new to the boy.
"Luc, sir. I mean to say, Jean-Luc Williams, Monsieur Jax - but most everyone calls me Luc." His dark eyes darted furtively toward his Tante 'Tonia, who had told him to remain silent while the adults spoke. Even so, he had been torn whether that meant he should ignore the helmsman's question, or disobey his Aunt. It was Jax's easy smile that decided the matter for him, though he fell silent once more quickly enough, nibbling on a corner of candied ginger to keep his wayward tongue best occupied.
Antonia slowly leaned over the table near to the first mate's shoulder, smiling tenderly, almost familiarly as her warm fingers wrapped about the neck of the rum bottle, laying lightly over Nicolette's own.
"I pray I do not speak out of turn, but anything that has begun, can always be ended of course," she said simply, not in the least surprised to hear that Thomas had already set preparations underway. The turnaround time required for this venture was, Antonia knew very well, near unprecedented. "As you might imagine, the concerns and thoughts of the Skate's first mate and her helmsman carry a great deal of weight. This is no light undertaking after all, and... "
Antonia reached toward the tray, for a wooden cup. "Shall I pour you some rum while you consider, Mademoiselle Beauchamp? Although if I may?" The rogue's smile widened, a genuinely warm light rising to her eyes.
"Earlier this very day, I offered our Captain Silver Fish a flagon of bumbo." Grey eyes flashed mischievously toward Thomas before she continued, her voice just as easy and pleasant as ever. "But he must have his piss water grog. Have you ever tried it, bumbo? 'Twould be my pleasure to introduce you to a proper drink: rum and a bit of sugar, spiced nicely with nutmeg."
Antonia could not help but wonder if the first mate truly understood how her perfectly controlled, deliberately formal way of speaking might seem to this captain. No, the rogue decided, she simply... Did not. To this moment Nicolette seemed to measure all men, all crews, all captains and mates by the jagged yardage of her betrayers.
All this passed through the rogue's thoughts in less than an instant, Antonia's grey eyes opening as she rose gracefully to her feet once more. This time though, she did not move to Thomas' side, but rather past Luc in his own chair beside her, tapping the top of his head soundly with her fingertip. "A gentleman does not stare at a lady, no matter how lovely he may find her. 'Tis rude and unbecoming, and such ogling is best left to men like Monsieur Jax, who have neither dignity nor manners to uphold," she said lightly, casually as she continued past the boy, giving the helmsman a cockeyed lilt of a smile and an amused arch of an eyebrow.
For his part, Luc cringed just a little, his smile sheepish and apologetic as his gaze quickly averted from the angelic Nicolette to the aforementioned Monsieur Jax, where it transformed into as impish a smile as even the helmsman could have wished. The boy had already decided that, gentleman or no, he certainly liked the smiling man with the promise of something special, just for him. Jax's curses had not shaken him in the least. Luc was a child of Port Royal after all, and his Papa the owner and proprietor of the Parakeet. There was precious little salty language, or any creative combination thereof, that was new to the boy.
"Luc, sir. I mean to say, Jean-Luc Williams, Monsieur Jax - but most everyone calls me Luc." His dark eyes darted furtively toward his Tante 'Tonia, who had told him to remain silent while the adults spoke. Even so, he had been torn whether that meant he should ignore the helmsman's question, or disobey his Aunt. It was Jax's easy smile that decided the matter for him, though he fell silent once more quickly enough, nibbling on a corner of candied ginger to keep his wayward tongue best occupied.
Antonia slowly leaned over the table near to the first mate's shoulder, smiling tenderly, almost familiarly as her warm fingers wrapped about the neck of the rum bottle, laying lightly over Nicolette's own.
"I pray I do not speak out of turn, but anything that has begun, can always be ended of course," she said simply, not in the least surprised to hear that Thomas had already set preparations underway. The turnaround time required for this venture was, Antonia knew very well, near unprecedented. "As you might imagine, the concerns and thoughts of the Skate's first mate and her helmsman carry a great deal of weight. This is no light undertaking after all, and... "
Antonia reached toward the tray, for a wooden cup. "Shall I pour you some rum while you consider, Mademoiselle Beauchamp? Although if I may?" The rogue's smile widened, a genuinely warm light rising to her eyes.
"Earlier this very day, I offered our Captain Silver Fish a flagon of bumbo." Grey eyes flashed mischievously toward Thomas before she continued, her voice just as easy and pleasant as ever. "But he must have his piss water grog. Have you ever tried it, bumbo? 'Twould be my pleasure to introduce you to a proper drink: rum and a bit of sugar, spiced nicely with nutmeg."
Awwwww... *pats Hellis gently* No I wouldn't do that! Maybe giggle a little, but never outright belly laugh - who'd ever be so cruel? 
I have the vague, uneasy feeling that if I admit I actively match socks, I'm saying something akin to, "Way, way back when, back when the mammoths still roamed the Earth and fire was still quite the novelty, there was an enigmatic group of people who, quite deliberately, began to coordinate their footwear by size and material and, strangely enough, by color... "
eta: unless, of course, you're Hellis who still hasn't learned to tame the darn things from roving at will...
eta: unless, of course, you're Hellis who still hasn't learned to tame the darn things from roving at will...
Perfect RR, thank you!
AND YET IT IS! Excited, and will try to get a post off today. Just so I get this "right" though - when Haakon and Raudr are at the healing house, what time in the morning is it? Is it like, IMMINENT mid-morning before zombie return?
I'd almost wonder if the matter of matching socks is the kind of thing that needs a whole magical wish, but considering the importance I've discovered it has in the lives of certain folks around here? I'm totally willing to consider a change of heart on the subject ;) I have a midterm in one of my classes on Monday, so this weekend will be a bit dodgy for me. But I'll still be about because the things you folks write are the happy, lovely, bright study distractions that keep me sane. ;)
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