bow and exalt

derrik rosenburg. thirty-nine. former jarl of bolstaor. It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.

[gcmechanger]

“Beauty, sharp wit, the ability to put you and your kin in place—take your pick, Derrick. The answers are as infinite as the stars in the sky.” Kope remarked with a chuckle, answering the male with a bright aura of confidence.

Of course, the jarl didn’t take his flirtations to heart, but she didn’t stop him either. He was quite good for her ego even if she liked bruising his. Perfect conditions if Kope seriously gave thought to it.

[dcrrikrosc]

     “If only your company was as pleasant as stargazing,” He let out a desolate sigh, putting a hand over his heart in false sorrow. That was once the type of woman that Derrik sought. Fiesty, unafraid to hold their tongue and speak their mind--even if it was for the better that they kept silent. That thought was reminiscent of his son-in-law, though the thought made him ill.

     “Have you ever seen a night sky in Bolstaor?” He gestured towards the vast, snow-covered mountains, fondly, “If you climb to just the right spot, the light hits your eyes with colors only the gods wear.”

[dcrrikrosc]

kope-of-haganes:

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Kope laughed, teasing the grumpy male as she quickly moved around, avoiding said foot debacle.

     “... Touche,” How she could simply insult him in such a way without a care in the world was a mystery to Derrik--then again, he was no longer the jarl. That air of silent intimidation was, mostly, gone. Not that it would have mattered to Kope.

     Eyebrows raised, he trailed after her, stride falling in step with her’s, “You foreign women and your sharp tongues. Whatever do we see in you?”

[dcrrikrosc]

     “Must you step this way?” He furrowed his brow, pushing past, “Crowded streets are prone to broken toes.”

[dcrrikrosc]

jarlvilkas:

Narrowing his eyes at the man Vilkas kept waiting for his answer, his mind was coming up with a dozen answers but none of them made sense. He would never let Ingrid take his seat without him there, unless there was no way he could have been there. On the day she was named Jarl Vilkas had been there and knew she was still in mourning for her father. “Well.” 

The look on his face when he stood was one of pain, a bit of an explanation as well. “Or when you are pushed to it.” Waving away the servants who had been in with Derrik he waited for them to leave before he sat, “An accident or assassination?”

     Derrik let out a sigh, shaking his head. How unfortunate that he could never conceal anything from Vilkas. But it had always been that way. Even when they were children, Vilkas had the innate ability to see right through whatever he was doing. He even insisted that he don’t go through with his marriage to Heidi. Gods, how many times had he looked back on that piece of advice? Not only had she soiled their marriage, but even after her death, her family had come to stab him in the back. Literally.

     “An assassination,” Derrik sat back himself, placid face concealing the old sting, “I believe--no. I know, this was the doing of my deceased wife’s family. Now I am without a leg, without a crown,” He let out a ragged breath, “And fear for my daughter’s safety, in turn. Remind me why we had daughters?”

[wulfshe]

Freshly bathed (she could still feel the ghostly remnants of wine in her eyes and in her hair) Ingrid stood in the cold air of outside. She had not expected peaceful proceedings, she was not quite so naive as that, but she’d hoped for something better than an almost brawl. Against the backdrop of the night, the expanse of her country before her, and her dwelling behind her, she felt as frail as a child. So stiff, and yet so fragile, her shoulders holding tight, and her back ramrod straight, a particularly harsh wind might be apt to come along and sweep her away. Gods above, she might give in for a moment if that were to happen. Give in before kicking and screaming, and fighting tooth and nail because she would not give up now. Ingrid couldn’t fail, wouldn’t fail. Especially not where her father could see. Turning her head, she exhaled a harsh breath, the visible cloud of it entering the world. “As stubborn as a hoard of children, and worse behaved too.”

[dcrrikrosc]

     “You compare them to children, as if children are worse than men who would slit the throat of those who stand beside him just for a seat on the throne above us all,” Boots crunching ice underfoot, Derrik stood beside his daughter, her shoulders so tense he feared her bones might shatter. Perhaps it was better that she learned from a pitcher of wine stinging her eyes, rather than a dagger plunged into her side. The harsher sting would come from her pride. Derrik knew this, because his daughter was like himself. Perhaps too much like himself. 

     Arms crossing behind him, he looked to the white-dusted expanse before them, then back to his daughter, “They cannot be reasoned with, Ingrid. Council is pointless. Even if we did come to a decision, do you think that our new ‘king’ would get the chance to sit on his throne?”

    “There is only one way to come out on top. And it is with a crown of blood,” His gaze softened, and he reached an arm to her, wrapping it around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. There was time where when he yearned for comfort, and there was no one to give it. He would not subject her to the same, “You must first achieve the glory, before you can do the good.”

[dcrrikrosc]

Derrik Rosenburg // Heidi Rosenburg

     I have known it all this time      But I never thought I'd live to see it break

[michaelssw0rd]

Merlin Rewatch: 3x04- Gwaine.

[dcrrikrosc]

arnbjxrn:

·Superstition was a dirty word. It infected sentences, sickened speech, turned unseeable truths into the butt of ignorant jokes. The word superstition belied a closed mind. Arnbjörn’s mouth twitched slightly as he fought off a scowl. “I have medicines proven to work, yes.” He looked to the man’s leg again, remembering the stiffness with which he manipulated it, the pain it obviously caused him in this cold. “The resetting of broken bones, for example, and the re-resetting of those healed wrong.”

     “You’d have no bone to reset, I’m afraid,” Dark humor was the only way in which Derrik could truly deal with the loss of his leg, knee-down. The result of a nasty infection from a would left untreated, forcing him to do something he didn’t quite like talking about. It took a brave man to cut off someone’s leg--it took a miracle for a man to cut off his own.

     Derrik bent down, flicking a finger against the wood replacement, “Unless you have any stain to slather on there.”

[chaosqveens]

@dcrrikrosc

Walking into the Jarl’s place Vilkas was determined to see if the rumors were true. Derrik alive, it had been a blow to him when he learned of his friends death. But he had made peace with it, the man was in Valhalla with the gods. Or he’d thought that. As soon as he saw the man Vilkas narrowed his eyes, “I mourned you, you bastard.” There was joy he was alive, but if this had been some rouse there should have been some kind of sign, at least to him. Vilkas kept his allies close, two men in the world he could trust and one of them apparently faked their own death on him. 

[dcrrikrosc]

     “That’s sweet of you, Vilkas. Would you like a hug next?” Derrik knew the jarl opposite of him well enough to know that an insult was as close as he’d get to any ounce of affection. And that’s just the way he liked it. The way they both liked it. Though Derrik had very few friends in this world, it was comforting to know that one of them was Vilkas: perhaps the most skilled warrior of them all. And he had the prettiest wife, in Derrik’s opinion, but, wisely, he’d keep that opinion to himself.

     Grunting, he stood, bad leg aching with pain. He felt pathetic, before him, showing such weakness, and couldn’t help but feel like less of a man, “Valhalla still escapes me, my friend, no matter how quickly I run to it.”

[rpmusings-galore]

     NOTHING can erase the pain of losing someone you  l o v e. 

                  You carry it with you for the rest of your life, 

                          however   l o n g   that might be. 

The best you can hope for is that, over time, the wound begins to heal. 

But, no matter how STRONG we are, no matter how HARD we fight…

                           the  scar  always  stays  with  us.

[rpmusings-galore]

[bob-belcher]

[dcrrikrosc]

roscnburg:

The world stuttered, and for one long moment, it stopped as she saw the image of her father amongst the crowd. Yule without her sole remaining parent had been difficult, but there had been little time for reflecting when she played host to efforts to stop a coming war. She’d played the part well, pretended to be as carefree as one could be, but her merrymaking had just been another job. The ending of Yule had come as a blessing, the clearing of those ghosts which had tried to haunt her at every corner. 

Only, it seemed the ghosts had not been entirely vanquished. Ingrid stopped in her tracks, the crowd parting around her and the small contingent of guards she took on leaving her gates (her father had been murdered she refused to play victim to a similar fate). The anger came in a flood of fire, replacing with flames the air which had been stolen from her lungs. A trick of some kind, that’s what this had to be. A trick designed to weaken she who some already thought the weakest link because of her youth and her sex. People forgot that she was a wolf all because she was polite and liked manners and pretty things.

There were none of those manners now, her face twisted in something that was more fury than pain, as she stormed over to the tavern he leant against. 

“Name yourself.” Her voice didn’t shake. 

     Derrik, pained, did not seem to find rest for long. It seemed to matter where he went, there were those that sought him out. Whether that be for praise, persecution, or drive a sword through his chest [or leg, rather]. However, that voice was not one to be mistaken, though it was laced with a fire that was unfamiliar to him. A lion, not a mouse. What he felt swell in his chest was more than pride--there was so much more inside of him now. Fueled by long nights of dreaming of his return, of fear for his daughter’s safety.

     If they had tried to give him the axe, what was stopping them from taking it to Ingrid’s pale neck? The thought was enough to rip him asunder, no weapon needed.

     Eyes rose to the voice, gaze roaming over the bustling crowds that seemed to stop, their murmurs growing hushed, until he landed upon the source. Regal as a queen stood his daughter, head high, his own eyes looking back at him with a sharpness that could cut down the mightiest of men. Feeling less of a man himself, Derrik swallowed, pushing his back from the cold stone of the tavern and turning to face her, as upright as he could muster. 

     “Derrik Rosenburg,” He put a hand, palm tied with rags, over his heart, “My jarl.”

     Though the cold did no good for his leg, Derrik stepped forward, moving to throw his arms around Ingrid with all the force of a mourning father when he was quickly apprehended, guards on each side of him, arms pinned with iron grips. Though he was frustrated, he had to admit, he was pleased that his--her--guards were so diligent in her safety. He grunted, flipping the bangs that fell in his eyes, “Forgive me, my intentions were to embrace my daughter, not to slit her throat.”

[dcrrikrosc]

@roscnburg

[dcrrikrosc]

valencica:

Bursting into the snow with vigour, Valencia allowed the door to the hall close behind her. Huddling further into the white fur mantle, she closed her eyes and counted to 3. She had needed a moment and after checking to make sure Ingrid was safe, she had slipped from the hall. Gods, the air was brisk and just what she needed.  It was the sudden moment to her right that had her head whipping up, eyes strainned on the figure. When he stepped into the light, Valencia had almost fell, right there and then into the soft snow at the side of the hall. His hair, dark but longer and his chin dusted with stubble. Valencia remembered him standing across from her the day they had been wed.  She had been so happy and he had smiled at her, he had held her closely and kissed her almost tenderly.  “…Show yourself.” she choked out. Valencia refused to call his name…for she feared she was going mad.

     “Am I not shown?” Derrik held back the sigh that built up in his chest. Was this to be yet another supposed end to him? Perhaps his daughter’s cousins had sensed his presence like a mare missing her foal, and had set out to finish the job themselves. But that would require an ounce of bravery. Of which the majority of them lacked.

     Turning, his eyebrows raised, surprised [for the first time in quite a while] to see his wife. She was unmistakable, with soft, bright locks that shone even in the dull light typical of Bolstaor. Though Derrik wasn’t particularly an emotional man, not anymore, he couldn’t deny that he found himself thinking of her quite a lot in his absence. His almost death had opened the door to quite a bit of realization, he supposed. 

     Chest tightening, Derrik rose, giving a few, slow steps forward and holding out his arms, “Would you hesitate in embracing your dead husband, Valencia?”

[dcrrikrosc]

arnbjxrn:

“You speak as if you do not trust magic.” Arnbjörn noted, feeling a touch of distaste enter his own voice. As a man whose life revolved around the gift of healing, of inscribing runes, of bundling herbs and fats together into poultices and potions, the idea of not trusting magic was ludicrous. Magic, like a blade, could be weilded by a tyrant just as easily as it could be by a wise man. “Or perhaps it is that you do not trust me.” He realized aloud, and sat back in his chair so as to be a little less intrusive, “ Forgive me, I am overly curious and too forward.”

     “Because I don’t. How fortunate that you caught on so quickly,” Derrik might have, once, been faithful to his patron gods, been faithful in ritual, magic and lore, but not anymore. It hadn’t done anything for him. In fact, the only thing it had brought him was hurt and heartbreak. In logic Derrik found solace. It was predictable. Sensible. Emotionless.

     “Yes you are,” He grunted, boosting himself upright again, “However, judging from your tone, you are a medic. Perhaps you have something that doesn’t rely on superstition?”

[dcrrikrosc]

    Yule was once something that, long ago, gave Derrik joy and solace. He truly found himself among his people, sinking teeth into fresh beast, fully participating in games and sport, lifting Ingrid so she could tie her satin ribbons upon snow dusted evergreen branches. Now it was too loud, too crowded, too much–why were all these people so clustered within Bolstaor? Did they have nowhere else to be?

    He supposed Yule was a time for family and friends, after all. How ironic that he’d healed and found his way back home after such a festive time had come to a close. With a pained grunt, he trudged his way to the side of the street, heaving a mighty sigh as he leaned against a nearby tavern. If the crowd wasn’t holding him back, this damnable leg would keep him from the jarl’s gates all the longer.