REVOLUTIONARY. @faildestiny-blog - Tumblr Blog

runasig‌:

The sun blared its midday heat upon the training grounds where man and woman alike bashed shields, clashed weapons, and danced in the heat of mock battle. Runa looked on, eyes darting across the sea of warriors honing their skills. She glanced down her hands, free of scars and calluses, soft as a baby’s skin and destined by the gods to never wield a weapon. So be it. Many times before, Runa had pleaded for answers only to receive silence. But she dared not complain. Her lungs remained damaged and weak for a purpose, but for what purpose, the mortal mind could not know.

Perhaps one of the warriors had noticed her staring with envy, for they put down their weapon and turned to walk towards her. Runa glanced up, giving a slight nod. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to stare. I was simply admiring your skill. Is there something you need from me?” She could only hope her curiosity hadn’t caused offense.

“MY SKILL?” some days he was more honest than others; breathless and the high points of his face covered in a thin sheen of sweat, sun casting shadows from the curls dangling above his eyes, he shifts on his feet, weapon still in hand, “..i have about as much skill as a baby rabbit,” the words are regretful and bitter, and he looks down, pitiful at the ground before finishing his sentence, kicking a small dug up patch of dirt, probably torn out by the heel of a warrior — a real warrior. general clatter of hardworking men continued behind him, he spared them all a quick glance, a look of distaste blooms.

he turns back to her, “i personally had never been much of a fighter,” he explains, aching joints bringing him closer to the girl, breath ever-wavering, “i.. actually gave up the trade as a boy, seeing as i obviously wasn’t going to be this INCREDIBLE WARRIOR that my father had wanted me to be,” there really was no real harm in telling a handmaid his story; it’d be washed up among other things like the suds used to clean the kingdom’s clothes. he sticks his weapon into the grass, leaving it to stand on its own while he leaned his thin body on it, still catching his breath, “..have you been trained? i mean, i have never in my days seen a member of staff such as yourself so.. quietly invested during practice. or are you here to oversee someone?”

#runasig

bonecarverfreya‌:

At his words, the Carver’s lips quirked up in a smirk. oh, it was a l w a y s a pleasure to meet her. while she was not as nearly as dangerous as she pretends to be, that still didn’t mean that she wasn’t dangerous at all. the Bone Carver eyed him as he walked around the table, her eyes watching him like a prey. she did not like surprises, not even when she had upper hand in them ( and this man in her cot smelled like surprises & uncertainty, all thing she found uncomfortable. for her. ). his question brought a quirk to her eyebrow, another arch. “ depends. normally, I don’t care who wields my weapons, unless my own life was in danger. I suppose I don’t trust anyone in that case. “ her voice was close to a murmur as he moved closer to her.

well, that was certainly interesting. with a snort in reply, Freya eyed him. “ who doesn’t? “

“ I DON’T,” a lie. a quick, one dimensional fabrication. his eyes don’t waver with it, for the path of a fibber was not one he hadn’t explored, hadn’t tread all these years, hadn’t made his own, flood his virtue like mud to water, only to be healed with careful separation. “.. or at least, my lady, i make it seem that way.” mischief circles each and every word like a dancer, he can nearly hear the tiny bells of one’s dress. a palm pressed flat and flush against the table, leans in casual leisure, “if i had offended another, they would never know it to be me. for i am known to be quick, i like to think i make up for my lack of strength in quiet stealth,” it’s not quite like he’s trying to sell himself ( or at least it wasn’t intended that way ), because he’s sure, tries to make it seem as though he could walk out of here with nothing and still carry on as before, unmarked. right now, he’s more so sharing secrets with a friend.

BUT SHE WAS NO FRIEND — no, she was something far more valuable. his chest puffs out just a tad, “in exchange for your talents, i would be in your debt. now, this is not meant to be disrespect — i have no doubt that a woman like you has no problem retrieving what she needs when she needs it, but i would imagine you don’t have many fans within the community, most of which i am sure are frightened and slightly concerned by your..” a quick glance around, “hobby.” he smooths his hand along the table before lifting it up, and resting it back by his side, “everyone likes to get what they need and come out the other end with clean hands. all i am proposing is, perhaps it would do no damage to have another pair of eyes and arms for your errands, all the while creating art.”

#bonecarverfreya #in another life troy would be a vacuum salesman

arnbjxrn‌:

Fool. The word hit like a sword - sharp, pointed, and piercing. Upon his anger-red face Arnbjörn’s lip curled with obvious and unhindered distaste. Out of sheer pettiness he flicked his cloak once more, though already depleted of clinging mud it did little but shower down a few watery specks like a damp dog still shaking. Grimacing, he forced himself to full height, and though he stood but a fraction taller than the man before him he still stuck out his chin, looking down his nose at the other. From this position he could see he knew the man not - not his face, nor his clothing were familiar, not even showing relation to any whom Arnbjörn had treated in all his years in Hedeby.

“If you must know, I run to fetch meat and milk for eating, and ale for drinking. My bones are full of wisdom and thus are heavy, my joints have many times moved and thus are weary. But do you not know to trust those who are old, and to pay them respect, stranger?”

A PHYSICAL ANGER SPREAD like wildfire on the face of his opposite, only sparking a dull fear in his stomach, churning like an active river around seated, unyielding rocks big enough to poke through the surface of the water. finally the man stood tall, gruff and seemed somewhat authoritative in his word, maybe even his pride. troy’s stance visibly wavers, gives the man a quick look up and down that could not be suppressed to a smaller, easier hidden glance, and a sharp intake of breath ensues, “... well, if you are not well equipped to run errands in an orderly fashion, i suggest hiring the help, old man.” only mentally did he shove a muddied foot in his mouth, his mouth brave and bare yet a fear swam in his eyes; he wonders if it went unnoticed.

intimidation ran deep and unforgiving against the delicacy of his manhood, or rather a feeling of lack thereof , but beyond his pride sat his truest emotion, GUILT making a home at the pit of his stomach as he comes down slowly from the might of his attitude, that same guilt striking against his outward intent.

troy’s shoulders slouch, features soften with defeat as he looks down at the flecks of mud sticking to the leather of his boots, his way of baring his neck. a brief moment of silence and recollection passes, “.. you’ll have to excuse my behavior, good sir,” he begins, then looks up at him, “..i do not tend to behave my best around men older than i. you have my father to thank for that,” it’s not unlike him to find an excuse, but in this one resides an intolerable truth; and there’s a weird freedom in being so candid, but he still fears a good punch in his gut and the fact that he’d deserve it.

#ambjxrn #me to troy: RESPECT YOUR MUDDY ELDERS

ofctemptation‌:

It was such an odd request. One thing she did learn about Viking men is that they didn’t hold any grudges, and most likely, forgotten about the thing entirely. He seemed as if he was desperate, and would do anything to get whatever item he needed to retrieve. A devilish grin formed on the woman’s face. She leans in, voice so quiet it turned into a whisper. “And what exactly is this item that I must find?” Ingrid asked, head turning to the side to face the doors, where two men both stood across and having a conversation with. “What exactly is in it for me?”

“SAY A VASE with a certain sum of funds strapped to the inside was behind those doors,” he puts it into the air between them, tests the waters with it. it’s true; a muddied wad of cash, tied with leather and string inside stretched animal’s skin, light enough to be missed in comparison to the thickness of the piece but certainly not light in value. inside a clay vase, put there by troy himself but lost at the hands of someone else; he’d call it a cruel understanding.

“a large sum.” he emphasizes, gets that overwhelming look of wonderment in his eyes, making every word seem as if straight from a storybook, “enough to split half and half — enough money to change a life, so to speak.” he glances at the small store and back to ingrid in swift movements of his head and gaze, “in fact, all i need is your charm as a distraction, i myself can do the rest.” it’s a plan slowly teetering off wonderful and more on the side of unlawful, but he hopes he can keep her on board. “what have we got to lose?”

#ofctemptation

bonecarverfreya‌:

“ that is a skill. “ she commented, observing him like a hawk. she l i k e d intimidating people ( it gave her a feeling of supreme power; not like a ruler, no. something far better ). her eyebrow quirked at his words & she chuckled. “ oh, I can hardly imagine anyone being disinterested here. I have a way of… terrifying people. “ she smirked.

she eyed his hand before taking it, to shake. his skin was warm, a perfect opposite to h e r s. the Bone Carver was amused again, holding his hand for a little too long, before releasing it. his words of praise had nearly made her sigh, but the focused on his question, instead. “ yes. I used a weapon. swords, arrows & daggers. all of my own making, of course. I don’t trust anyone else to do the job. “ Freya eyed him again, still standing close to him. “ now, what is that bargain you offered? “

HER EYES ON HIM felt as cold as the evening air, he was almost unworthy — a strange part of him felt he owed her just for lying beneath her gaze as thirsty plants would under the scorching sun; just being in her presence proved a challenge but troy was managing to hold his own. when their hands shake,he’s met with an expected chill, to touch her was a privilege. his smile is satisfactory now, “it is a pleasure.” he echos himself,hand fallen back to his side. he clears his throat, and is not surprised by her answer — he wanted to hear her say it, “i suspected so, you certainly do not seem like a tolerant woman,” he means it in the best way possible, walking around a table, away from her, “.. but would you trust someone else to wield them?” he tries to catch her gaze then, curious, tempting.

now he’s moving closer, meeting her amusement in a subtle fair ground of mischief, “tell me, bone carver, have you any enemies?”

#bonecarverfreya

bonecarverfreya‌:

Freya laughed. a soft sound, melodic, yet bordering on something unnatural ( a sound she’s practised. it kept people… intimidated ). “ rest assured, that is not the only sharp thing I’ve got. & what did you expect from someone working with b o n e s? softness in not in my nature. “ her voice was still soft, still holding that smidgen of quick laughter. her head was still tilted as she observed him, so close, perfectly close. “ oh, you must really be brave if you’ve come to me, after being so… well informed. “

amusement was reaching it’s peak, but Freya always bottled her emotions ( apart from the laughter earlier. that was all part of the play. ). “ I know my worth. question is, do you? only desperate ones come to me to build their weapons. they much prefer me in a less… sharp occasion. “ the melody in her voice returned as she fought the urge to circle around him like a prey. he spoke & she listened, her eyebrow twitching every now & then. “ then a dagger. you can throw it & it is much more discreet than an axe. & much lighter. “ she offered. his words brought a scoff. “ you didn’t. I didn’t throw it. “ the sarcastic retort was quick on her tongue & after a moment she replied. “ it’s Freya. & not many like the way I think. “

“I AM NOT foolish enough to expect much of anything these days. i only know how to adapt to what i’m presented,” perhaps far too profound an answer for such high steaks radiating off this woman whose words are sharper than the weapons in mind, and whose intentions seemed cold to troy, and lingered within them like ghosts was a certain unpredictability. still, it makes for something that sparks quite a bit of INTRIGUE within troy, set ablaze by her indifference towards him. it was not something new, and he would take it head on for as long as she’d allow him, “desperation often shows driven intent, my lady. would you rather me come to you with disinterest and nonchalance? now that would be a ruse.” his head cants with his point, brows peaking in inquiry.

“what did i say? you already sound like a talented blacksmith, much like my father — but he lacked your composure & vision, of course. troy’s the name,” then he offers a hand, slight hesitance settling beneath his skin, “.. bone carver freya, i can smell your excellence. it is an honor, truly, to even stand beside your work; and again this is no false flattery,” he explains, “have you ever been in such a position where you had to use a weapon, freya?” he hopes that position isn’t now.

#bonecarverfreya

arnbjxrn‌:

As his support - human, armoured - fell, as did Arnbjörn, until he knelt in the cold mud like some drunkard, thick clayish clots sticking to the wool of his cloak. There he tarried, cold and heavy-limbed as the man he had assaulted stood with a yell. “My apologies,” he muttered as other shouted above him, and he burned with some shame as eyes turned and took them in. Placing a gloved fist in the mud he pushed his aching bones upwards until he stood once more. His knees, already painful from the cold and damp, now ached with a new fury.

The man before him was young and appeared puffed up with indignation, perhaps even fury. The eyes surrounding them burned further, and quite quickly Arnbjörn felt that burn catch on a kindling within him, and he raised his voice also. “There would be space enough for several sows thick with piglets, but for this confounded mud,” he shouted, flicking the end of his cloak, mud splattering from it.

UNEASE BLOOMS through his joints, the very ones that ached to help this man but did not wish to be clad in mud, and perhaps let his guard down for what could be a quick ruse to pick his pockets ( a scheme he would know all too well ), so he keeps his respected distance, continuing to adjust his armor and clothing as they situated themselves, the man was gruff and dirty like a farmers palm, troy felt pity swarm in his stomach like flies to scraps. still, a light sheen of pride covered his face as he watched them, the volume increase of their voice only beckoned by troy himself, the distaste in the air between them thick like the mud making friends with their garments.

“perhaps it is only a fool who would blame mother nature for his blundering attention,” he barks back, busying his hands by swiping some dirt from his bottom and clearing his throat as though the words pained him to let out. when a new speck of cold MUD hits his leg from his opposite’s flicked impact, he’s quick to swipe it away, looks at its pigment on his fingers before clenching, lost within his palm, “..do i have the pleasure in knowing what would compel a man to RUSH so feverishly at this hour, so lost in his head that he might take down others in his path?” it feels he is wearing someone else’s shoes, clothes, speaking through someone else’s mouth — he had never been such an angry being as a boy; but it had gone too far to change character now.

#arnbjxrn

ofctemptation‌:

And she had thought she was confused already, she was more confused now. Though, uneasy thoughts temporary eased once he complimented on her name. Unfortunately, Ingrid was always weak when it came to flattery. “Troy, is it? I thought you just said your name was Neel Turgis?” The slave asked, arms folding over her chest afterwards. Her brows arched a little, examining the man as she looks at him from top to bottom.

“Well, that is very generous of you. I would hate to ruin them with the work I’ve been doing.” Ingrid, later on, admitted, shrugging her shoulders a little. But since it was the winter, and the nights have been dreadfully chilling, it would be nice for a thicker cloak. “A favour?” She asks. Even though she was a slave and would have to do whatever he had asked, but she wanted to lead him to believe that wasn’t the case. “Depends on the favour. What is it?”

COMPOSURE KEPT neat and upright, he looks at her respectively. a simple nod will do, but he’s not letting go of this just yet, “well neel is my business name, you see, but i felt i owed you something with more life to it,” he’s his own savior, quick and unwavering in his lies — whether she can tell, he doesn’t know. “you’ll have to excuse the uh, informality, but you can address me as either. hell, you can address me as nothing if you wish !” a quick grin, then replaced by something neutral yet driven as he continues, “my garments are known for withstanding even the most gruesome of chores. my mother was a dressmaker, the best of her time, any and all tricks to keeping your clothing in best shape have been bestowed upon me, my fine lady,” he explained, reaching to adjust his own armor which, considering the weather conditions and his lack of concrete shelter, were actually in great shape.

“the favor is simple,” he begins, standing beside her now and carefully pointing towards a small shop, run by two ragged looking men, their faces unamused and unwilling, “see that establishment? just across the way?” he turns to speak nearest her ear, “i’m a wholesome man, but i’m not entirely welcome there these days. i believe i tried to charm one of those fine men’s daughters over some juvenile bet with my chums. foolish of me i know, but there’s something from there i absolutely need and might DIE without,”

he’s standing before her again, moving around her like a dancer would around their hat of coins, “do you understand what i’m asking, fine ingrid?”

#ofctemptation #troy: see what had happened was um............#JHGFJDF

kuutamosonaatti

#visage

bonecarverfreya‌:

Freya was not used to people being so… light around her. granted, not everyone was scared to d e a t h either, but they were never this giddy ( well… she’ll change that. soon. but this was beginning to prove to be a rather intriguing day. ). her head was kept tilted as she observed the man who inched closer & her eyebrow kept twitching upwards in amusement. “ oh, I can name a few things that were killed by curiosity. but, as they say, satisfaction brought them back. “

she eyed him, amusement gleaming in her eyes as he spoke, her eyebrow threatening to disappear under the hairline. well. this was new. whether the dabble part was a jab or a random observation she didn’t know, & she let it slide. for now. “ your flattery will not win you any points, you know. either I will help you, or I won’t, & your sweet words can’t influence it. “ however, she was entertained, so she allowed him to keep speaking. & as he began describing the axe, she snorted. “ an axe? is that what you really want? “ the Bone Carver asked, finally peeling herself from the table, just to take a few fluid step towards him. “ why an axe? why not a sword? “ she added, standing right in front of him, her head tilted as she observed him. “ can you imagine it? iron forged with bone. shadow & dust, metal & blood. a long, curved blade, perfectly sharpened. “ her voice was whisper soft, like the very shadow she mentioned.

HER CALM AMUSEMENT didn’t faze him outwardly, he kept a certain jester-esque composure, light on his feet, filled to his brim with opportunity, an offer you can’t refuse. like a street performer but for conversational arrangements, he dances along his own words, facial expressions all the whimsical, bordering on delusion, “you have a sharp tongue, my fine lady,” he addresses it as a compliment, lays it out before her like a fine sheet, finger pointing vaguely upward in observation. “i do applaud you for being so..” a pause, “cautious. but this is no ruse, i do not put my faith in just anyone, you know,” in a way it’s true — he picked his patrons carefully. he could gain nothing from beggars and troublemakers, nothing from people much like himself.

“some might even suggest that your denial is a reflection of your self worth.. do you not find yourself worthy of a fantastic opportunity? such flattery?” treading on thin ice, he figured it was an angle worth shooting at. his dice were hot in his hands, he digresses, “swords take far too long and cost far too much for my taste. i’m no grand warrior, you see — i find that the closer a weapon is to my body, the better.” no lies there; the last time he fought a sword, he nearly lost his life. he’s smarter now, swifter, he turns quickly to face her among his pacing, “i like the way you think !” he grins a wicked grin, validated by her vision, “i can feel we’re going to work well together — i’m never wrong about these things miss — ! oh, you’ll have to excuse my manners. did i catch your name?”

#bonecarverfreya #HE LOVES U #<3

ofctemptation‌:

Slavegirl, the word that literally felt like pins being poked at her eardrums. Such a word that would make Ingrid easily despise the person. And yet, her face so easily hid that disgust. “Ingrid. My name is Ingrid.” She told him as she approached him. Though hands quickly came upon her, a hand gripped her arm making Ingrid flinch in fear thinking of the absolute worst. Strangers were not welcomed here, and she wasn’t fond of anyone putting a hand on her.

She yanked her arm from his grasp, looking down at her sleeves briefly. Ingrid saw no wrong in her garments. Sure, she was used to far more…Much more. Though, it wasn’t like she was able to discuss her wardrobe. “Just this winter.” The slave answered.

HE NODS in quickfire, almost grateful in his politeness, easily correcting himself without a trace of defense, “ingrid, my dearest apologies. what a beautiful name, fitting for one of your nature,” he bows his head as if he thought she were ROYALTY, the way a commoner would a king. he observes the change in her stature and retreats his arm in time with her defense, clenching it nervously by his side, though his face would never show it, “i had no intention of disrespecting you. please, allow me to introduce myself — TROY, troy of sheppey,” he extends a hand her way, offering. no fake names today; he couldn’t bring himself to it. this was genuine, as genuine as he had been his entire time here in hedeby.

slowly he gathers his bearings, “i see,” his mouth contorts in thought, pausing if only briefly, perking up like beggars at the sight of bread, “it’s never too early for a re-imagining of your wardrobe, my lady !” he leans a bit closer, careful not to startle her, “what would you say if i were to offer you a custom tailored set of clothing in exchange for a minuscule favor? no fees required.”

#ofctemptation #feel free to kick his ass #JHGFJF

bonecarverfreya‌:

Freya turned towards the source of the voice, with a bemused arch of her eyebrow. “ Bargain? Really? “ her gaze raked across the armour, the posture, everything ( he certainly seemed so s u r e of himself. that was never good; being too sure of one’s skill was dangerous. ). her head tilted, the Bone Carver fixed his stare with her own. as he paused, her eyebrow arched further & she craned her head a bit more to the side ( if she kept it up, she’d look like an owl soon. )

He did not seem so sure now. they were always like that; entering with security & arrogance, only to be terrified of her - and it amused her; greatly. perhaps death surrounding her cot was too much; but she’d have it no other way. “ Oh, I am curious now. “ Freya spoke, the faintest of smiles blooming on her lips; & his question brought a shrug. “ I am not a blacksmith, but I know a few things. why? what do you propose? “ she questioned, tilting her head again.

HER AURA was deep and deafening, somehow in harmony with the shapes of death around her. symbols of undoing, made into arm ten times over by a careful hand, she wore the dust like a tailored gown, “that’s the spirit !” a few more steps forward, easily pulling off his gloves amidst closing some of that heavy distance. “curiosity never killed anything but chances for advancement,” hardly true, but he says it with enough blind conviction that might ease the nerves of fools or children. it’s always worth a shot.

it’s never quite clear if he himself truly believes his own words, “AH, a girl who dabbles. MIGHT I SAY, you have the precise look of a skilled blacksmith. do you have any in your bloodline?” hands interlock politely behind his back, albeit for the one let loose to pick up and gently set back down a small chip of what he could fairly assume was bone. he looks back up to her then, “why, i’d LOVE for us to combine our talents. you see, even as a child i always worked best alongside someone else,” mostly because he couldn’t get by on his own, his eyes travel the room as he speaks, paces around in leisure, “.. and i just have a feeling we could make something amazing. say, a hand axe or two? carved from finest wood and deadliest, piercing bone carved to near smooth perfection, decorated with shining silver..” he turns swiftly to her, a dopey hopefulness lining his face, “can imagine it?”

#bonecarverfreya #sure of himself... troy wishes #he's shitting his PANTS

ofctemptation‌:

Upon her arrival, Ingrid was able to learn the culture and language easier than most people thought she would. Still, it wasn’t easy to let go of her life. The name Ingrid was a name given to her, as her original name didn’t agree with their pagan Gods. And to be part of the people here in this village, converting to paganism would make them believe she will become then. As far as she knows, she doesn’t know if she will ever return back to her home – especially if there was nothing left there but blood and bones. However, being called a slave still struck a nerve.

“Slave girl!” A voice called out to her. Ingrid pressed her lips together, slowly turning around to make eye contact with the person before her.

CONNIVING BLUNTNESS took hold in troy’s tone, the kind a thief would use — but he was no thief ( not today, anyway ). he was a bargainer, a SURVIVOR, master of a sort of illusory, a self proclaimed human chameleon, “SLAVE GIRL! yes, you!” he attempts to keep his tone non-malicious, though the words, the NAME weighing heavy and meaningful on his tongue. he had never been a slave, nor had his family owned any, but he had seen enough to know what it entailed. many of those he knew from the lands of his birth were now slaves to who knows who, bound to who knows where. the fact felt disgusting to him as slime would on his skin after a long day’s hunt.

he’s out of breath by the time he catches up to the girl, “hello, my name is — “ he shucks off leather gloves, exposing the slight clammy nature of his boyish hands, “neel. neel turgis,” his father’s first name. using FALSE NAMES had become a habit of his, he couldn’t tell you if it entirely felt necessary anymore, but it seemed to ease something in him. a verbal safety blanket; should this go south, he could declare her unstable, i have never met this woman — she doesn’t even know my name! “i must ask a favor of you. say, a minute of your time?”

he looks her up and down, gently reaching to rest a hand on her bicep, “if it is not a complete intrusion, HOW LONG have you been wearing those garments?”

#ofctemptation

arnbjxrn‌:

Though the days got longer, the low sun did little to calm the chill that lay heavy over Hedeby. It wormed its way into Arnbjörn’s limbs and fingers, seizing his joints, making them swell like waterlogged wood. It was painful, and he was sluggish in the wake of it, moving with ragged gasps and groans. All of his balms and teas did little to help it.

But though he may want to be silent and still for the day - to diminish his pain by giving it to the stiffness of his joints - he found he simply could not. The day must go on. Errands must be performed. It was for this that he found himself shuffling through the ice-packed streets of Hedeby.

The ground was slippery beneath his boots, and the breeze was bitter in his eyes. Arnbjörn walked with an ungainly movement, face tucked into his furs and eyes squinted against the sun. Beneath his sole something gave. Quickly, and with a small shout of pain and surprise, he pinwheeled on the spot and slipped, falling into someone with a crash of limbs.

THE AIR POSSESSED a thick humidity, the kind that both chilled troy & made his armor stick to his skin like the bark of a black maple tree in summer. each person and thing was swarmed with chilled nuisance, a certain busied silence falling over hedeby from where troy stood; but this was not his first encounter with mother nature, and it would not be his last, either. thrashing through air damp, slush pooling around the fixins of his boots, he was determined to get on with his day’s tasks.

falling everything-first into another man was not one of those tasks.

a rather hoarse yelp, the sounds of sewn leather and metal, and a finalizing THUD all part of a soundtrack to his undoing. immediately his face is one of defense, though he’s not stranger to falling on his bottom every now and then. he’s scrambling to his feet, hands raised vaguely should he have to fight for himself, “HAVE YOU ANY coordination, sir ?!” he was dusting himself off then, a sheen of mucky water clinging to his exposed shins and the shiny surface of his chest plate, “.. surely there is enough road for the both of us to coexist without collision,” he’s not truly bitter — he’s doing what his father would do, whether he knows it or not. it was the kind of standoffish behavior that would deem the men he grew up around as NOBLE and FAT WITH PRIDE.

#arnbjxrn

bonecarverfreya‌:

Bones. her life has been an abundance of death and dust ( she wasn’t the one close to it, but she has worked with it, intimately. in the end, all her shapes come from the deceased ). yet, she was content; happy, even. the job was satisfying enough & it helped her pass the time all the quicker; she never over-payed her bone carvings, but if the time was dire for her, or the request for shapes made of bone dwindled, she would pluck out an occasional dime by reading fortunes via runes ( meticulous planning & intuition; rather than magic, but the reputation still stuck, and she did not mind one bit ).

Freya was facing away from the door, her gaze fixed upon the carvings, her head slightly tilted as she observed her craft. the tusks could have been in a better shape; brittle & somewhat ruined by the carelessness of men, but alas she worked with what she’s got, and so far she was pleased. the door of her cottage opened, but the Bone Carver hasn’t moved a muscle to acknowledge it. the person will make itself known soon enough ( they could rarely go in her cottage without speaking, nervously. surely it’s not because of all the bones hanging from the roof, setting up the mood ). she hummed softly to herself, entertained by the eeriness in her voice; a little quirk she liked to do when she was feeling like playing jokes on her fellow townsmen.

“it’s not very polite to sulk in the shadows.” she all but whispered, still in that hum-like voice, not gracing the person with as much as a look. “have you come for a bone?” Freya asked, biting down the amusement that threatened to escape.

“I HAVE COME to bargain.” it wasn’t unlike TROY to be a ghost in his surroundings, move like a chilled breeze at night if he were cautious enough, though his fleeting yet useful stealth was quite unmatched with his clumsy nature ( he has those string of bones and their unmissable CLUNKS to thank for practically announcing his arrival joyously ). he scrambles for his posture, upright with the slight sounds of his leather & metal armor adjusting to his newfound demeanor, “i — i have come for the, um,” waver in his stance, a quick glance around the cottage, a certain dusty smell coating every inch of the place. it was a shadow of death, and perhaps something more — heat from carving that filled the air as wine would a glass.

“..for the benefits of your talents and mine. i wish to propose a trade,” he’s still stood by the door of the unashamed deadly workshop, putting on his bravest face, chest plump with a stranger’s pride. a step forward, voice curious, “.. what do you know about crafting weaponry?”

#bonecarverfreya

( HUGH DANCY, HE/HIM) BEHOLD! THERE’S ( TROY GOUNOUF ), THE ( TRAVELER / BLACKSMITH ). HE IS ( TWENTY-EIGHT ) AND KNOWN AS ( CLEVER ), BUT ALSO ( FOOLISH ). HEDEBY IS THE LAND OF WEALTH AND OPPORTUNITY, WILL YOU STAND WITH IT, OR AGAINST IT? ( ROSE, EST, EIGHTEEN, SHE/HER. )

#helvegenintro #hello !! :-)

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