KINGSBROTHER

aff. ótr ( feh ) rp blog // black eagles student

[lofnheithr]

#LOFNHEITHR. — private rp blog for ótr from fire emblem heroes. written by n ( he/him or she/her, 25 ), established july 2024. black eagles student. affiliated with the officers academy.

portrayal notes ( feh spoilers below! )

taken post-Book V in FEH, his death is handwaved as not having been enough damage to actually kill him, though obviously castmates are allowed to have presumed him dead. escaped thereafter and is vaguely aware of what the state of zenith is after book v's final chapter but did not investigate to get the full story. has zero concept of anything that occurs after his book.

unaware of the fates of reginn, fáfnir, nótt, and eitri.

this is not the summonable version of him, and so this ótr never was an ally of the order of heroes and will still view them as having last been adversaries against him.

though logistically he likely could recognize many characters across the franchise due to the experimentations of the dvergar, due to the failed nature of many of these, at best he will know them visually but know little if anything about their personalities or histories. i will not assume ótr knows anything about your muse ( outside of those he has canonically interacted with via the main story chapters or the forging bonds stories ) without you first allowing me to.

the nature of ótr is primarily that of an antagonist. i rarely excuse any of his behavior and mostly find him compelling as a character. however, i understand this will naturally lead to him likely holding a negative opinion of most other muses, and so i would like to address that his opinions do not equal my own. themes of manipulation and toxic family relationships will be abound, and ótr himself will often be an unreliable narrator in my prose. if at any point things become uncomfortable for you, please discuss with me and we can see where we can go to prevent further ooc discomfort.

although he is an antagonist, i do appreciate any attempts to commit bodily violence against him / pick physical fights with him to first be cleared by me. i'm usually fine with things, but i prefer having a heads-up just so i know what i'm getting into instead of being jumpscared by it.

quick blog links && miscellaneous: dossier & mun info / stats / supports log / under the cut is my tag dump !

⚜ › interactions.  ( ic posts tag, excludes event posts )

⚜ › ooc.

⚜ › inbox. ( answered asks )

⚜ › saved.  ( when i rb a post/interaction without adding anything to it for archival purposes, excludes thread closers )

⚜ › drabbles.

⚜ › hcs & metas.

⚜ › gallery.

⚜ › mun's art.

⚜ › mien.

⚜ › shitposts.

⚜ › housekeeping.

⚜ › queue.

⚜ › prompts.

⚜ › dash games.

⚜ › end posts. ( thread closers, whether they are written by me or reblogged from my thread partner for archival purposes )

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[lofnheithr]

    “ Easy does it? ”  Ótr repeats as if to challenge the sentiment, but the bite he has is only present in his voice. It crumples easily, shockingly easily, for a man of such conviction and willpower as himself.

Damn this book. Damn this world. Damn everything...!

His face scrunches up, but he does not let himself cry. He lets himself be comforted by another, knowing that the man had many times before now to stab him in the back if he truly wished to. The touch on his back is not the sharp prick of betrayal but the soothing touch of what it means to be held.

He doesn't remember the last time he had felt this— doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to. The last time he had asked, it had suffocated him.

This time, he is being asked to instead breathe.

The moment he does, the moment he feels his breathing return more normally to him, this foreign world disappears, and in a flash of light, they are back where they had begun, the clattering of the book on the floor.

“ ...You're right. It was fake. And I had just managed to do little more than make a fool of myself. ”  Despite everything they had gone through, Ótr pulls away from Randal and picks up the book. He does not open it though, refusing to repeat his earlier mistake.

(But even if he did, what else would it have to show him after so thoroughly stomping him the first time?)

“ Pitiful as it was, I learned from it. You... ”  Gratitude to a stranger feels odd on his tongue, and he finds himself hesitant to say anything like it. However, before he moves to leave the building, he does offer something in exchange, his own brand of thanks.  “ ...The name I told you was fake. It's my sister's. If you ever see me again, don't you dare call me by it. ”

A prickly man pushes people away and keeps them at bay. To pull is to do something else entirely.

“ Next time... call me Ótr. ”

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL'S EYES KEEP ON Reginn's back as the world shifts for a final time, fuzz dissipating and throat free once more in the dusty confines of the shop they had started this whole ordeal in. The other man's breathing is placid enough that Randal lets go, rocks back on his haunches and eyes the place around them.

"Well!" Randal says as Reginn acknowledges what good (was it good? Randal would surmise it otherwise, but- he will take it) the book has done him, slapping the man on the back. "In that case, all's well that end's well, no? If the hour isn't too awful for you, I know a bar that's open 'till the sun's rays peek over th-"

A blink. A fake name? No, that made sense, given what little he knew of R- Ótr. The man seemed far more fond of letting thoughts be ripped out of his chest than handed out politely. Randal muses on this from the shop's floor as the other man takes his leave.

Ótr.

Randal closes his eyes, traces how he thinks the man's name is spelled in his head. Ótr. There is no guarantee that he will not wake in a fortnight and find himself under an unfamiliar sky. Find the name equally unfamiliar. It is a practice that seems like it becomes more and more frequent, the older he grows.

Ótr. Ótr. He devotes to the thought the same space he gives the way he counts a deck of cards, cataloguing possibilities and limiting options.

He can't say he likes Regi- Ótr, particularly much. But- privately, he had not liked Shade, not liked Alice or Poe all that much when he first found them. He had kept a stiff upper lip and a fond hand because, begrudgingly, they were like him.

They were someone for him to fold his hands in front of and say, well. What a fine mess we've got ourselves living in. But at least we've lived it together, no?

Was Ótr cut from similar cloth? Did Ótr have anyone else to chase down a thimbleful of liquor with, when the nights were longer and the grass was strange?

Randal opens his eyes. Ótr has long since left, and he is alone with the shop's shelves and trinkets.

He will have to ask him next time.

-- end.

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- HE FEELS LIKE A pervert, peering through curtains at a thing he should not see. Randal's not a stranger to the concept entirely- he is not a man above cheating, above catching the turned corners of a card in the edge of a mirror- but to keep a still eye towards a man, like this? It feels cruel.

He is not meant to see this. He does not close his eyes, but it takes every effort to keep them on Reginn's back, on the curl of his fingers and the desperation crushing his shoulders. It is a pathetic sight, drawn out by a tongue that seems to pleasure in making this as uncomfortable for any involved as possible.

So he does not move. Randal lets the air stay still for three, four beats. Reginn's breaths, panicked and labored, seem like hardly anything at all compared to the desperate howl he had let out mere moments beforehand. It mingles nicely with the natural sounds of their surroundings. A peaceful end to Reginn's nothing.

Because Randal is a betting man, and so he bets that this is 'the end'. Whatever or however this place works, it seems to have gotten what it wanted out of the other man. He keeps the air complacent until Reginn's breaths slow ever so slightly, enough that Randal's footsteps can be overheard when he approaches.

"Come now, ser," he says. His voice takes on the lilt it does when rubbing out the nausea of a drinking buddy, caught onto the lip of a toilet and letting last night's regrets spill out. "Easy does it."

It's awkward. This is awkward. Randal hates it, but he hates scratching his ass and waiting for it to stop more.

He massages circles into the small of Reginn's back, and waits.

[lofnheithr]

    “ Easy does it? ”  Ótr repeats as if to challenge the sentiment, but the bite he has is only present in his voice. It crumples easily, shockingly easily, for a man of such conviction and willpower as himself.

Damn this book. Damn this world. Damn everything...!

His face scrunches up, but he does not let himself cry. He lets himself be comforted by another, knowing that the man had many times before now to stab him in the back if he truly wished to. The touch on his back is not the sharp prick of betrayal but the soothing touch of what it means to be held.

He doesn't remember the last time he had felt this— doesn't remember the last time he allowed himself to. The last time he had asked, it had suffocated him.

This time, he is being asked to instead breathe.

The moment he does, the moment he feels his breathing return more normally to him, this foreign world disappears, and in a flash of light, they are back where they had begun, the clattering of the book on the floor.

“ ...You're right. It was fake. And I had just managed to do little more than make a fool of myself. ”  Despite everything they had gone through, Ótr pulls away from Randal and picks up the book. He does not open it though, refusing to repeat his earlier mistake.

(But even if he did, what else would it have to show him after so thoroughly stomping him the first time?)

“ Pitiful as it was, I learned from it. You... ”  Gratitude to a stranger feels odd on his tongue, and he finds himself hesitant to say anything like it. However, before he moves to leave the building, he does offer something in exchange, his own brand of thanks.  “ ...The name I told you was fake. It's my sister's. If you ever see me again, don't you dare call me by it. ”

A prickly man pushes people away and keeps them at bay. To pull is to do something else entirely.

“ Next time... call me Ótr. ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- REGINN SEEMS FAR TOO caught up in his own misery and regrets for Randal to understand nor give a damn, so he doesn't take the time to try and understand the plot. Instead, he lets go of Reginn and picks at the back of his neck.

"A straightforward enough approach," he says. Naively so, he doesn't. Once again, he glances towards the girl. Does Reginn mean to kill her? That certainly seems the implication, if he's under the impression that doing so will get them a step closer to what they want.

Does that sit right with Randal? He isn't sure. It's all too likely that she's just another figment of this book, or illusion, or world, if it was truly as false as he believed. If that was the case, he didn't care. Appearances were a thing he was fine with discarding in thought.

But if she wasn't? His neck itches, and he picks with more fervor. Would he not take the chance, as per usual? Was that not standard?

But no use thinking this out without clear intent. "So," he says. "Do you think she might b--"

And she cries out, and the world shakes. Randal is cut off by the stickiness gobbing at his throat.

[lofnheithr]

( Book V spoilers )

      When everything clears, Ótr finds for the first time that he has no idea of where he is. There is life here, both in its people and its animals soaring up above, but nothing distinct enough that immediately tells him which world this might be. The landscape is there, but it provides no clues that overlap just right with the lore of any place heroes often come from.

It is an unsettling thing. He looks to Randal to see if the other man might have some degree of recognition for where they might be, but if the cavalier knows, the dvergar can't tell.

“ ...No, she's not the summoner, ”  Ótr answers Randal now that they're back to some semblance of normalcy.  “ I've met them already, and they look nothing alike. She... ”

Blue eyes, pale skin, ebon hair. He's had a feeling this past while, eating away at him, but it's not until now that that feeling comes to the surface, searing him alive.

“ Daddy! ”  the girl cries out jubilantly, voice clearer now than it was before. Head snaps to find her, and just as he suspects, just as he had dreaded, the man she has found at last is the one she so strongly resembles.

For a moment, Ótr forgets how to breathe.

“ Fáfnir— ”“ Daddy! ”

Ótr's weak cry is drowned out by the girl's own call, and the man from across the war camp picks his daughter up and holds her close.

“ Brother, don't— ”“ Daddy! Don't— ”“ Don't leave me alone! ”

The man before Randal now, the one he's called Reginn, overlaps audibly with the girl, but where one sings in her glee, the other writhes in his anguish, holding his own head in a misery he cannot contain. He lunges forth, unable to stop himself, but when he dives through the camp and towards the father and daughter duo, his fingers in the end touch nothing.

The ink drop has coated the full page at last. What was once pure has been stained until there is nothing left to save. The forms of the two figures spill out, transient in their existence, flesh and blood turned to evaporated ink.

It is just Ótr and Randal again, but this time, this world is to stay.

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- HIS DESIRED DESTRUCTION IS less of a surprise, but Randal still gives Reginn the courtesy of a low whistle. "Having high ambitions is good!" he decides upon, taking the hand that still rests on Reginn's shoulder and giving the man a solid pat.

A world- or, well, worlds? A universe?- where the bridges were closed, hm? Where Randal could walk across it and trust that his feet would stay on the same ground, touch the same pool of water.

If the gates are destroyed- if Boundless Chaos is eliminated- then Randal is stuck, here. In this world.

That gives him pause. By all means, he supposes that he should be happy with such an idea: to actually have decision in what roads that he wanders is a courtesy he has forgotten the privilege of having. If he might lose the chance slips into youth that he falls into on the worst of nights, he'd be appreciative of it, too.

But he is not a man who has ever lived by consistency or contentedness. Randal had taken a mansion he had won and tossed it to the wayside at the chance of something different. He has never laid with someone twice, rarely closed his eyes under the same sky while he had the option.

By all means, Boundless Chaos and all it has wrought him was not something that happened by choice. But that was why he liked it.

"If y'think you've got the capabilities t'do such things, then so be it." Randal shrugs. His eyes track the girl. "You'll have t'pardon me, but I find that... far-fetched."

[lofnheithr]

      Perhaps once this conversation would have been over by the point Randal had raised a doubt, Ótr having nothing left to do with him. But in an ever shifting reality, caught between worlds, he was the only constant he had to ground him here. Not only that but to his doubts...

“ We got most of the way there. All we were missing was the soul of the one who pulls people through worlds. That's the key, ”  he rebuts.  “ ...Supposedly. The witch I had been working with hadn't managed to perfect it before we split. Useless little... ”

He trails off, curses becoming indistinct under his breath. A moment later, he catches himself and speaks more calmly again, addressing the cavalier's lack of faith.

“ No matter. Even if I cannot create the weapon to destroy the gates between worlds, killing the one who controls where people go is enough for me. The problem is solved either way. As long as there's no way to esca— ”

The girl at last seems to find something, crying out in glee. The void they'd been standing starts to distort again, shaking Randal and Ótr both and threatening their balance.

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- THE TIGHTNESS IN RANDAL'S chest loosens an imperceptible amount as Reginn does not explode, or spit at him, or any other particularly violent reaction that he had expected from the other man, given everything else. So he was the sort of person who allowed sensibilities about him, when it came to it- Randal appreciated it.

Though, that's where Randal's relief ends.

"...experiments?" He raises a brow, sizes Reginn up and down and back again. He could have pegged this man as many a thing, but an intellect? Well, appearances could be deceiving. "Ser, I'll assure you that I'm both sane and unfamiliar with this 'Order of Heroes' nonsense. Really," and he snorts, "it's been a long time since any folk mistook me as somethin' like that."

He turns this information over in his mind, trying to decide what the hell any of this means. "...then. You took th' role of pullin' folk between worlds?" A tilt of his head. "Or at least, seem familiar with the machinations of it."

He shoves his chin towards the girl, still searching the blank expanse of canvas around them, long forgotten in their conversation. "And here I was all scared you'd resent me for th'fact. But you've plucked folk like her and dumped 'em elsewhere, have you? Why th' change of heart?"

[lofnheithr]

    “ If you're not the one who's summoning, I have no reason to resent you, ”  Ótr says flatly. It is not a mercy nor is it a kindness, far devoid of the tenderness that he had allowed himself to show the child before they'd been whisked through these worlds.

“ I have no interest in summoning heroes in the way you might be presuming, so stop right there, ”  he says, slowly but surely getting the calm edge back into his voice.  “ I am only interested in destroying the gates between worlds. To make the device to do so, I need to replicate how to summon in the first place. A necessary evil. ”

He sees little point in hiding it. A single person held to the whims of such a phenomenon sounds powerless, and if anything, he should be in support of Ótr's ambitions.

“ ...Any further heroes matter little personally to me. I already had the one that mattered most. ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL ISN'T ONE TO fumble on his words. A smooth voice and smoother talk has gotten him out of more sticky situations than he'd care to admit to Emma. It's something he's good at, something he has to be good at to win his way into a mansion and a title with minimal bloodshed.

And yet.

He opens his mouth, closes it. Figures out how to elaborate. Has he ever actually explained this in full, before? It is possible he has, and simply forgotten. But even when meeting those like him, he has never sat down and laid it all out, like one might a recipe. Boundless Chaos takes hold, and I fall through the worlds. Saying something as straightforward as that is something beyond him.

Randal lets go of one of Reginn's shoulders, lets the other rest with a looser grip.

"I'm a world-hopper," he says plainly. "Ain't by choice- somethin' grips me by the scruff of th' neck, and I'm somewhere else." A pause. "That's all."

[lofnheithr]

      A world hopper. Zenith hadn't had used that word for that, but it was clear enough by its etymology just what it meant. The dvergar's eyes widen as he gets his explanation, his suspicions confirmed, for just why his traveling companion had been all too used to the nature of this impromptu trip.

“ Just like Fáfnir... ”  he murmurs to himself, letting this piece together.  “ ...And you never found out who or what summoned you? You're not one of the experiments we summoned. ”

He, in turn, volunteers some information as well— his own knowledge of this art.

“ You're too sane for that. But if you were summoned by the Order of Heroes, you should know. ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- IF THERE'S SOMETHING IN Randal that still has the sense to feel pity, it tickles at the back of his neck now; he has never been one to enjoy peering into the more emotional sensibilities of others. It makes detaching their head from their neck all the more bothersome a job.

But it is hard to ignore the clamminess that stretches across Reginn's skin, or the shortness of the man's breath. Panic is something that Randal knows how to deal with from long nights with Emma, with massaged circles in basks and husky low voices. Terror, and that of a stranger, is beyond him.

The world shifts again, a blank canvas that leaves nothing but ringing and Reginn's shaking voice in Randal's ears. Randal can see every crack in Reginn's parched, cracked lips as he says, with desperate belief: It's not you or me doing it, is it?!

Hm.

Randal ponders this.

He cannot act as if there is not a chance that he has some influence on the matter. He has always been far more susceptible to Boundless Chaos than even his closest of companions, a fact that Niamh considered with great intrigue whenever she got a little too close to him.

Who was to say, then, that this feeling was not yet another symptom of its influence, spurred into action by some trinket or other?

Randal's eyes fall to half-lid. He talks slow, like to an injured wolf.

"Reginn," he says, and he tries to keep his grip tight enough to contain but loose enough to not trap, "I've... a confession, t'make." He treads carefully, frustrated at his own slowness. "To put it nicely. I've somethin' chasin' me. It ain't quite a mess so similar to this sort of thing, but..."

Another pause. He's never enjoyed trying to be gentle with others for the sake of getting what he wanted; it was far more lovely to hoodwink, far less troublesome to take what wasn't yours and forget the matter.

"Whatever's blessed- cursed?- me, could have a hand in this. In takin' advantage o' your mind."

[lofnheithr]

      Confessions— insignificant little things whenever they're told to Ótr. 'I'm in love with you,' or 'I stole the cookie from the cookie jar,' or other such frivolities. The moment he hears that word, he doesn't give a whit about it, couldn't imagine caring in a time where his quarry drives him to madness, not until he hears the full of it this time.

It convinces time to stop for a moment for him, to urge him to think on this, before he asks:

“ ...What? ”

Gravely tone spits out in disbelief, calmer than he was moments ago, but it is nothing more than a falsity. Ignorance on the matter numbs fury temporarily.

“ Tell me what you mean. Now. ”  Blessing or curse— the word attached to it hardly mattered. This was evidently a phenomena, and it was something the other man had some clear knowledge on.

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- NO SOONER HAS RANDAL acquired a grip on Reginn's shoulders before they are pulled through the earth again. Though he has no lack of experience with world-hopping, he has never before done it with such short starts between them. As he dismisses the nausea in the back of his throat, Randal hopes that this isn't to the first in a quick pattern.

But such a thought does not linger as Reginn, quick to shrug off Randal beforehand, grips him with a ferocity that nearly startles. Randal lets him, less out of a token of kindness and more so because wrenching the other man off of him now would only serve to bode poorly for the two of them.

"Th-there there," he says awkwardly, patting the back of Reginn's hand. "It's the same as 'fore, no-?"

This, too, is cut off quickly as Reginn's terror transform to a wild and panicked anger. He wrenches forward, pulling Randal through blade and fire as he aims to kill the girl.

"Woah, man!" Randal's heels hook into the ground, spraying up dust and pebbles behind them. "Kill? Now- that's awful extreme, don't you think?"

As best he can, Randal wrenches his free hand forward to grip Reginn's other shoulder. "Ser, if we're t'play by this place's rules, we're likely meant t'deal with some sort of 'conquering your fears' nonsense." He tries his best to raise his voice above the din, but his throat is thin. He's not meant for all this running and herding. "If we were facin' some beast or other, then I'd let you at it, but- I'm not inclined t'think you'd break out in sweat at every young girl y'face, no?"

Then, what are they supposed to do? Randal isn't certain, but he has enough of an inkling that, should the girl be slain and the worlds keep changing, Reginn would not fare well at the sight of her corpse.

[lofnheithr]

    “ I... Don't presume I'm bested by a mere child! ”  So Ótr says, a bit too delirious in the moment between the hazy state of their surroundings and the utter violence that surrounds them, caught between man and monster, to fully take Randal at the actual meaning of his words.  “ Conquer my fears... I told you, it is these worlds I detest! If they simply didn't exist...! ”

A part of him, though he fails to catch onto Randal's points in their entirety, believes he's starting to catch on to the point of these travels. Randal is probably right in that this is meant to be helping Ótr come to terms with that which he fears.

He did not think he feared anything. But that girl...

“ You hear her! She's hunting for her father! She'll drag us through all of these until she finds him! ”

And he's beginning to hope she never does. Why? The inkling begins to form, a singular black dot on a white page. Pigment spreads, however.

And true to his suspicions, when the girl keeps looking around to no avail, she frowns and the world drains of its colors, shifting along with her search. Gone are the monsters, gone are the soldiers, but the three of them remain, following after her through the rabbit hole she crawls through all on her own.

“ She obviously knows how to get through these worlds! It's not you or me doing it, is it?! ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- IF RANDAL NOTICES THE way the crow's feet by Reginn's eyes soften, or the carefulness with which he tends to the girl, he does not comment. Instead, he watches with a touch of rapt boredom, chin propped up in the palm of his hand and gaze following the girl.

That Reginn dealt with such things, despite their likely futility, despite the danger; that was a mark of sentimentality that Randal took note of. Perhaps, Randal considered wryly, the younger man was far sweeter than he initially let on, only jaded by-

The air changes.

Randal's hand falls promptly into his lap as the girl's words echo through space, bouncing unnaturally in his head before passing on by. He pulls himself up, mouth opening to give a warning that Reginn surely does not need, only to be cut off by a stickiness stronger than before.

It rocks through the area, putting Randal's teeth at jitter. He grits them and breaks line of sight with the long-distant girl, instead opting to glance at Reginn.

As expected: he seems to be doing poorly.

At least it wasn't me. Randal lets the thought rest with idle relief before he dismisses it, closing the distance between him and Reginn with quick strides. Best to nip this on the bud as best it can.

"Reginn," he says, placing a hand upon the other man's shoulder. "S'surely unpleasant, but it's unlikely t'be real. Grit your teeth n' bear it."

He does not add 'it'll pass' because, frankly, he has no way of knowing. But better to keep things as controlled as he could while he still had a handle on the situation.

[lofnheithr]

    “ Hrrrgh... I-It's not real, of course it isn't! ”  Ótr startles at being touched, but frankly right now he'll let it pass since it's at least something else to focus on. That voice of the little girl's continues to grate, utterly inescapable.

And then the ground beneath them falls out. He feels as if he's falling and yet not at all, the world itself shifting in a lack of stability. The surroundings grow blurry, only Randal as his constant, and against his better judgement, Ótr grasps tightly onto the other man's forearm, willing some stability into his senses now.

With a gentler grasp, he might be mistaken for a child too scared to let go himself.

It all flashes in a blinding light again before it evens out, and Valentia is no more. In its place, they find themselves in vast grassy plains, gargoyles, mogalls, and other ferocious monsters inhabiting it and being fended off against by soldiers neither man can make the faces out to. But despite that, he knows this world by its creatures.

“ The Sacred World...? Damn it! ” 

That little girl shows up in a crowd of faceless fighters, rushing towards it, looking to and fro for her father.

“̵̢̨̱͇̥̭͑̋̈͂̀̓̈̔̏͆̈́̕͘͝͝ ̴̢̻͉͉̭̼̩̜͕̞̦̟͇̝̊̄̈́̍̎̓̿̀͗̑͌̾̈́͘͝C̸̣̟̮̯̿̈̍̔̓͠͠ ̴̢̬̦͖̪̩̯̳̜̜̤͖̓O̶̩̝̥͋ͅ ̵̡͉̘͔̹̣͎̒̐̀͐̔̿̅́͘͘͝Ṁ̶̨̨͍̲͓̼͔̻̩͖̠̯͍͜ ̶͉̪̈́́̑͐͆̀̕͝E̴̡̨̛̗̜̬̻̝̹͐͐̆̋̎̌̾́͜͠ͅ ̸̳͕̞̗̫̟̖͍̀̒́̿̽͌̈́͜͝͝͠ ̷̝̠͕̬͈͙͚͖̝͈̥̩̹̈́̃̈̑̍̔͜B̶̧̨̼̱̠̤̙̬̳̪̟̭̝̫̺̊͗̌̓̇̌̿̈́̂͜͝͝͝ ̸̨̪̖̺̫̦̯͎̺̘͒͛̑̍͜͠͝͠À̸̩̝̏̓͋͌̔̂̑͌̊̍̂̾̇͑ ̸̞̗̖̳̳̼̪̖͇͓̳͎͔̣̆̃̿͐͐̊̍̒̇̈́͘̕͜͜͠͝C̷̢̬̝̮̻̫͕̦̦̅̉͑ ̷̛̬͕͕̹̪͈̭̼̳̙͍͈̲͍͓̀͋̊́̏͊͒̕͜͝ͅK̷̛̛͈͔̖̥͎̙͈͈̟̟̻̓͐̄͊̃̍̅̏͆̿͛ͅͅ ̵̡̫̹̜̟̲̜͇̗̭̏̈́̿͛̅̈́̽͑ ̶̻̗͔̩̘̟̲͍̂̒̐̅͂̆̊̈̐̽̚͘H̴̡̢͔̪̺̭̱̯̙͈̩̝̞̞̲͛͛́̀̈̇̎̕̚͜͝ ̴̨̙͋̈́͑̔̓̿́͝Ö̶̟͉́͛͑̊̉̆̑̕͘͝ ̷̳̿̓̎̂̈́̆͘͝M̴̧̢̰͔̩͎̥̰̞̠͈͇̮̹̃̈́̔̃ ̸̮̹̖̏̂̊̓̍̿̂̾̽̽̑͘Ȩ̷̧̦̼̝͇̱̦̠̑̐͜ͅ ̵̛̹͔͙͕͎͕͓͌̈́̋̿͌̍̉͝ͅ ̴̢̧̤̤̫͎̦̙̲̣͕̖̣̖̱͖͗̊̾͊͒̈̾̒̓̕͘͝͝D̶̖͍̺̰̱̬͚̼͚̜͚̝͓̰̮͙̽͗͊͂̀͒̓͂͆́̽̐̊ ̷̼͉͓̎̉̅Ą̷̘̼̠͖͕̭̍͆̄͊̉̆͑͐̚ ̴̧̲̼̫͕͔̯͔͚̭̎D̴̨̛̮̟̟͎͙͇͈̠̼͔̠̮̣̯͂̆̓̏̔ ̶̨̢͙̬͎͔͔̲͔̤̼͎̬̩͌́̒́̆̓̓͊̀͐̀͑̚̚D̵̛̛̘̳͈̀̈́̀͒́̇̎́̍͜͠ ̵̗͖̅̀̿̋̋͊͌̓̍̂̇̇͐̀̉͠Y̷̙̟͛̇̈́̋̊̽̄̐̒̆̒͝ ̵͖͔̙̝̬̳̞̌̃͊͒̌͊̓̍̔͂͝!̷̮͎̻̪̝̠͍͍̖̰̮̟͙̌̂́̍́ͅ ̶̛̪͔̞̳̖̺̬̟̬̰̀͌͒ͅ”̶̛̰̹͍͈͈̿̎̊͆̊͊͂͛̐̆̊͊̀̚͝͝

Ótr snarls his teeth but drags Randal as he runs after the girl through the hordes. Blades clash all around them, asking of swift and nimble feet to make it around them unscathed, but the prince's focus is singular.

“ That accursed girl! She's making us go through these worlds! I know it! We should have let her cry and bleed if this is how it was going to be! ” 

Does he wish to save her? Does he wish to kill her? He's not sure, but there is one thing he knows more than anything else in this moment: he just wants it all to stop.

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL RAISED ANOTHER BROW in bemusement at Reginn’s protests. Hatred, huh. At least this was something to work with.

“Hm. Maybe it really is exposure therapy, then?” Randal wonders aloud. He raises his gaze to the horizon line, shielding himself from the sun with a hand. “If you’re in the practice of hatin’ worlds, showing you one as charming as this one is sure to…”

Randal trails off. This world is populated, it seems, by crying girls with scraped knees. He half expects her to turn into some sort of eldrich dragon when next he blinks, but she remains by Reginn’s side. Tugging at his clothing and crying all the while.

Somehow, it is a sight familiar to Randal. “Aye aye, sir,” Randal says with a messy salute at Reginn’s command. His latest hair ribbon has just been replaced; he still hasn’t managed to approach that Marni girl on the matter of retrieving his old one. Nevertheless, the latest one is solid enough. He hands it over to Reginn with a bit of untangling.

“Make sure t’clean the wound best you can before you wrap it,” he adds, kneeling onto his haunches. He observes the child at her own height, though from several feet back. “Best t’avoid infections, and all.”

Was Reginn a ‘tough fellow with a heart of gold’ type? That’s somewhat endearing, Randal thinks with a smile.

[lofnheithr]

    “ Of course. Any person should know that, ”  Ótr replies to Randal's advice as he takes the proffered hair ribbon. The dvergar inspects to make sure it's clean before he kneels beside the little girl.  “ Come on. Show me your leg so I can make it better. ”

“ Hic... R-Really? ” 

“ Really. ”  It's a commandeering tone, but it's slightly softer than any tone he's taken with Randal, and with practiced efficiency, the moment the girl sticks the scraped leg, Ótr takes out the flask he carries with him and cleans the minor wound with the water he has and a soft cloth he also has on him. He takes Randal's ribbon and presses it against her scrape, binding it tightly enough to stay but not enough to cut her circulation off.

And it's when she's able to stand tall again that he too rises. The girl, make-believe he's sure at this point, brightens. It's a gesture Ótr doesn't reciprocate, but he lets her be.

“ Thank you, Mister! ”  she joyously calls out before she runs as if the injury wasn't ever there, and for a moment there is peace.

Peace, however, is an easy thing to break.

“ Daddy! Daddy, where are you? ”  the little girl calls out, and in an instant, Ótr's face falls. She turns into a speck in the distance amongst idyllic fields, but her voice echoes after she's out of sight.  “ Daddy, which world did you go to? Don't you miss me? ”

It resounds and resounds in a way wholly unnatural, evidently words meant for the two of them to hear and sit on, but Ótr grinds his teeth to hear it.

“̵̢̨̱͇̥̭͑̋̈͂̀̓̈̔̏͆̈́̕͘͝͝ ̴̢̻͉͉̭̼̩̜͕̞̦̟͇̝̊̄̈́̍̎̓̿̀͗̑͌̾̈́͘͝C̸̣̟̮̯̿̈̍̔̓͠͠ ̴̢̬̦͖̪̩̯̳̜̜̤͖̓O̶̩̝̥͋ͅ ̵̡͉̘͔̹̣͎̒̐̀͐̔̿̅́͘͘͝Ṁ̶̨̨͍̲͓̼͔̻̩͖̠̯͍͜ ̶͉̪̈́́̑͐͆̀̕͝E̴̡̨̛̗̜̬̻̝̹͐͐̆̋̎̌̾́͜͠ͅ ̸̳͕̞̗̫̟̖͍̀̒́̿̽͌̈́͜͝͝͠ ̷̝̠͕̬͈͙͚͖̝͈̥̩̹̈́̃̈̑̍̔͜B̶̧̨̼̱̠̤̙̬̳̪̟̭̝̫̺̊͗̌̓̇̌̿̈́̂͜͝͝͝ ̸̨̪̖̺̫̦̯͎̺̘͒͛̑̍͜͠͝͠À̸̩̝̏̓͋͌̔̂̑͌̊̍̂̾̇͑ ̸̞̗̖̳̳̼̪̖͇͓̳͎͔̣̆̃̿͐͐̊̍̒̇̈́͘̕͜͜͠͝C̷̢̬̝̮̻̫͕̦̦̅̉͑ ̷̛̬͕͕̹̪͈̭̼̳̙͍͈̲͍͓̀͋̊́̏͊͒̕͜͝ͅK̷̛̛͈͔̖̥͎̙͈͈̟̟̻̓͐̄͊̃̍̅̏͆̿͛ͅͅ ̵̡̫̹̜̟̲̜͇̗̭̏̈́̿͛̅̈́̽͑ ̶̻̗͔̩̘̟̲͍̂̒̐̅͂̆̊̈̐̽̚͘H̴̡̢͔̪̺̭̱̯̙͈̩̝̞̞̲͛͛́̀̈̇̎̕̚͜͝ ̴̨̙͋̈́͑̔̓̿́͝Ö̶̟͉́͛͑̊̉̆̑̕͘͝ ̷̳̿̓̎̂̈́̆͘͝M̴̧̢̰͔̩͎̥̰̞̠͈͇̮̹̃̈́̔̃ ̸̮̹̖̏̂̊̓̍̿̂̾̽̽̑͘Ȩ̷̧̦̼̝͇̱̦̠̑̐͜ͅ ̵̛̹͔͙͕͎͕͓͌̈́̋̿͌̍̉͝ͅ ̴̢̧̤̤̫͎̦̙̲̣͕̖̣̖̱͖͗̊̾͊͒̈̾̒̓̕͘͝͝D̶̖͍̺̰̱̬͚̼͚̜͚̝͓̰̮͙̽͗͊͂̀͒̓͂͆́̽̐̊ ̷̼͉͓̎̉̅Ą̷̘̼̠͖͕̭̍͆̄͊̉̆͑͐̚ ̴̧̲̼̫͕͔̯͔͚̭̎D̴̨̛̮̟̟͎͙͇͈̠̼͔̠̮̣̯͂̆̓̏̔ ̶̨̢͙̬͎͔͔̲͔̤̼͎̬̩͌́̒́̆̓̓͊̀͐̀͑̚̚D̵̛̛̘̳͈̀̈́̀͒́̇̎́̍͜͠ ̵̗͖̅̀̿̋̋͊͌̓̍̂̇̇͐̀̉͠Y̷̙̟͛̇̈́̋̊̽̄̐̒̆̒͝ ̵͖͔̙̝̬̳̞̌̃͊͒̌͊̓̍̔͂͝!̷̮͎̻̪̝̠͍͍̖̰̮̟͙̌̂́̍́ͅ ̶̛̪͔̞̳̖̺̬̟̬̰̀͌͒ͅ”̶̛̰̹͍͈͈̿̎̊͆̊͊͂͛̐̆̊͊̀̚͝͝

“ Shut up! ”  Ótr loses his patience.  “ Shut up, shut up, shut up!! ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

— RANDAL SIGHS. IN FAIRNESS, he realizes he has not painted the picture of trustworthiness of himself: snooping around shops in the dead of night and wearing a five o’ clock shade that Emma had been nagging him to clean up tended to lead to these sorts of things, as it turned out. It did not mean that he was any less annoyed with the circumstances.

“Look, kid.” He splays his hands out to the side, brow quirked. “I’m not th’ one that opened that book. If there’s anyone that should be distrustin’ of th’ other here, it’s me at you.” He supplements the statement with a pointed gesture. “If I was keepin’ my fears secret, I’d be placin’ myself at a disadvantage in a place that’s more likely than not hostile. And I like t’keep my odds up.”

Though Randal says all this, he turns back towards making his way down the path. “‘Course, this could aaaall be some rube gol’berg machination on my end,” he notes. “Maybe I cast a spell t’draw you to th’ book, or what have you. Just so I could learn your dastardly little secrets.” Another shrug. “If I’m t’ learn things on the fly, so be it. Ain’t somethin’ I’ve not dealt with before.

“Just- if it really is your fears, n’ not mine, I’ll be findin’ ‘em out eventually. S’just a matter of time.” Randal’s eyes flick back behind him. They’re drawing close to the village, now; though Randal is unsure if anyone actually resides in it, as it stands now. “Figures I’d give you th’ chance to say ‘em on your own terms.”

[lofnheithr]

      A case of inevitability. That, at least, is a far better argument than what was presented as a sign of 'trust.' Ótr can understand Randal's point here, once more getting the impression there is more than meets the eye to this man.

It doesn't make Ótr anymore happy to reveal himself however. If Randal relishes in the sweetness of Ram's oranges, Ótr's face sours at the bitterness of the situation.

“ I don't fear most things. It's a waste of time to be scared if you want to get things done, ”  he starts.  “ I detest worlds like these however. ”

It's hatred, not fear. That's what he needs to tell himself. He tries to keep a grip on himself, but it's then that he hears a child's wail in the background— a little girl has tripped and scraped her knee in this provincial life, and as the blood forms on her leg, she cries and cries and cries.

“ Annoying little... ”  Ótr winces at the sound of her, but he nevertheless starts to move towards her. Before he makes it too far, he looks back towards Randal, holding his hand out and asks,  “ You. Give me one of your hair ribbons. Now. ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL LETS THE JUICE dribble down his chin as he listens to Reginn speak, only wiping it off with a palm when he considers his answer. "Shame. It's a nice enough country," he notes, "with even nicer fruit."

Thus saying, he takes a step back, making a wide gesture at the land and the immediate space around them. "If I'm not rightly mistaken, this place is Valentia," he says. "Or at least, someplace with awful similar oranges and grass. As for proof, well."

He pauses, side-eyes Reginn. "I can't say I've much on me. S'like askin' a man t'prove he's passed through a neighborhood after throwing him into a random house on th' block." A shrug, and he begins making his way through the orchard, towards one of the homes on the edge of it. "Mercenaries for hire follow th' pay, and my route's taken me further than most. That's all."

For all the places to lose sleep at, Valentia is one of the better ones. Randal at least remembers this place better than most, the yolk of memories kept solid enough in its shell. There might still be a war going on, but as far as he could tell, they'd be far off from the worst of the fighting.

No, what's far more concerning to him is what this place isn't. It had been on the tin of the shop: a place for confronting fears. Logically, then, this must be some sort of tool in that practice. Something distorted and nightmarish and all too willing to prey upon them, in some way or other.

"Reginn, cards on th' table," Randal says, turning around and walking backwards down the path, "I can't say I'm a fan of bein' chained up. The idea of death doesn't scare me so much as doin' it rottin' in a dungeon for a decade. If the ground opens up and we get swallowed in th' pits, that's what to expect. Now," and he flourishes over-dramatically at the younger man, "your turn!"

[lofnheithr]

      In return to his question, Ótr expects the names of significant people because that's what a soul of Zenith would know a place by. They know it by the heroes that make it up, those that can be called to their own realm and shut out by the accursed kingdoms of Askr and Embla. The name that Randal says doesn't meet that expectation, however, further proving that the two of them are not from the same place of origin at all.

But this also confirms more and more that Randal is an outsider to this world too.

While Ótr tries to draw the red lines of his conspiracy board together and figure things out on his own, he is once again rattled by the all too carefree way his traveling companion jaunts through their shared experience instead.

“ What? ”  Eyebrows raise.  “ You're telling me to tell you my exact fears? Why in all the hells would I do that? ” 

For all Ótr feels like cursing him, he catches on that Randal is fully aware what they had landed themselves into. He's sussing out whether this will be his greatest fear or Ótr's then, just as he was trying to do the same.

“ If your greatest fear is to rot in a dungeon, then we're obviously not in that. Take a look around you and how wide and open this place is! ”  If Randal was smart enough to figure out the purpose of their excursion, then he could deduce that too. No use pretending, he supposes, but he's no more amenable to bearing out vulnerabilities to the man.  “ Unless... you're lying to me? Why should I trust you at YOUR word? ”

[dyshonor]

fear and fury

faith +1; affluence

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL NEARLY LETS OUT a low, amused whistle before remembering the whole sneaking-shtick that they're supposed to be on, catching himself with a click of the tongue instead. "Reginn! Pleasure t'make your acquaintance." His hand lingers in the space after the other man's, following after him.

Was Reginn one of those magically inclined types? It would certainly help them out, given Randal's own lack of interest in the field. He looks around disinterestedly at the other shelves, running his fingers along the trinkets that have seated themself about. If he was here, he might as well treat himself for his troubles with one of these hollowed out horns; they seemed perfect for a pint of ale at the end of a long-

Randal's thoughts are dashed one by one, first by the flash of light from Reginn's hands and, then, a nearly familiar feeling.

The Boundless Chaos enjoys its influence in many different forms. Sometimes, it takes ahold of Randal while he sleeps. He's gone to sleep drunk under one roof and woken under the sky, head ringing and old woman swearing up a storm at him. Sometimes, he is hooked through as if being pulled off-stage, and still others he awakes in a body that only used to be his own.

But the constant through it all was the buzzing in his head, a static that formed at the edge of his vision and forced the center clearer. It was a tool that came with an identity, a shape despite the purpose. Like a hammer used to flatten, or to pull out an odd nail, or to kill.

All this to say: this feeling was not that.

It is soft and sticky and disorienting, far more like waking up from an accidental midday nap than anything else. Randal's foot rests on familiar-looking grass, and he squints through the newly-found daylight.

"World o' shadows?" Randal says belatedly. He finds his footing and realizes pleasantly that he recognizes the place. "Ser, this place is pleasant enough o' daylight. Surely there are nastier places t'fit the title?"

He yawns, stretching wide as he looks about. "Regardless, this place feels more likely a trick than a home," he notes, reaching for one of the lusher oranges. It is warmed by the sun and sits ripe in his hand. "Lesser men'd fall through in fear. Have you visited this place b'fore? Can't say 'Reginn' fits th' names o' the times, here, but." He shrugs, taking a bite through the orange's rind. "I've never been one fer linguistics."

[lofnheithr]

      ...Right. The man was with him still. Who the book reacted to between the two of them remains a mystery, no closer to uncovering the truth, but it also reminds Ótr that his commentary can be overheard and that not everybody was from Zenith, using its nomenclature for the many worlds beyond its own.

“ It's not as if I came up with the name, ”  he shoots back, defensive without any real reason to be. To say he doesn't see Randal's point would be a lie though. Some world names came more naturally and obviously like the World of Holy War or the World of Crests, but others less so.

Regardless, Randal acclimates quickly— too quickly for someone who had just been thrust into an unfamiliar place all of a sudden. As the man plucks an orange off one of the nearby trees, Ótr stares at him, unsure what to make of him.

If he doesn't know this place by its Zenithian name, he shouldn't be used to this. So why is he?

“ ...No. I've only studied it, ”  Ótr says noncommittally.  “ What about you? You suggest you know the names of where we are already? Prove it. ” 

[lofnheithr]

toppling

          ⤷   mission task:   affluence  ( any skill +1 )

[ofdusk]

She’s certain she would have heard the commotion from her own room, had she still been there when it begun. The telltale sound of beasts— always with those hungry, throaty growls and ear piercing screeches— would have been enough to send Corrin off her path and towards whatever poor thing had earned such wrath. Would have been, because they are certainly not the most concerning noise coming from the distance.

As though to echo the thought, the ground shakes beneath her feet with another impact of… something. There’s smoke rising above the tree line, making an easy enough trail without the charred bark and flattened underbrush that she follows now.

It’s about then that the corpses start.

Bodies by the dozen, one shredded monster after the other. Crimson eyes dart from one strung limply across two jagged tree branches down to a second, still smoking where it lays in equal halves directly across her path. Nose wrinkles as she darts past it, forcing her gaze forward. It’s hard to believe with how many there are that there could possibly be more. 

It becomes easy enough, however, when she finds them. More living than there had been carcasses, each taking turns swarming a giant metal body. Corrin swears beneath her breath, ducking behind a tree as another explosion (now identifiable as having come from that weird armor) sends the ground trembling. Two of them are better odds than just one, but something tells her the difference won’t matter for very long.

“Hey!” Now’s as good a time as any, if she hesitates much longer it may well end up just being her out here anyway. “I’ll get them off of you, just don’t stop swinging!”

Of course, her cry has come at the cost of swiveling monster heads, at least twenty pairs of beady eyes trained on their newest toy. She’s appealing prey— small, nowhere near as guarded as their other snack. The distraction, at least, works out.

Yato’s blade clashes hard with a set of dagger-sharp claws, her elbow crashes into a gnarled muzzle. Being easier prey is, unfortunately, just as much a challenge as it is a convenience. 

“They’re not going to stop coming,” a grunt, “they need something else to chase!”

[lofnheithr]

      Backup arrives in a time he never expected them to. How long has it been since he has had the comfort of reinforcements at all? How long has it been since he has commanded a battalion? Has had someone woo'd over to his side with the strength of a thousand men?

He knows not quite the person who comes to his aid nor the reason, but he can tell from the design of her blade that she is no normal passerby. She is quick on her feet, but quickly rushing into danger does her few favors.

It does buy him a bit of space to breathe though and thus the ability to go on the offensive somewhat. In battle, every move counts.

“ Out here? ”  If they had somebody else to deflect onto, then— that's when he recalls something he had run past on his way to this island. His mechanical suit dives in and bats off one of her assailants with a large sweeping arc of his axe as he tries to bark out a plan.  “ I can grab a final distraction if you can keep them focused on you! Don't you dare let up! ” 

[lofnheithr]

unwelcome home

          ⤷   non-mission task:   affluence  ( heavy armor +1 )

[lyngheithr]

He's mad. Of course he would be mad at her when they had parted on such bad terms. He had cursed her, blamed her for everything, and she had still been unable to get through to him. She had been unable to convince him to walk away from the edge and she would have to live with that forever.

"No, that's not what I meant! It's just..." Reginn swallows. Now is not the time to be cowed by Ótr's harsh words. Even if it's unpleasant, she needs to steel herself to say the truth. "I thought Fáfnir killed you. That's why I thought you might have been summoned from another world."

A world where you're still alive. A world where you're both still alive.

She is not cruel enough to hope for either of them to be dragged away from such a world to soothe her own loneliness. Everyone had already suffered enough because of reckless summoning. She would not perpetuate that cycle, not when she had resolved to slowly but surely undo the harm that Eitri had done.

The phantom weight of Gramr in her hands feels heavy. She would make the same choice every time. For herself. For her people. For Niðavellir. That did not make it hurt any less.

Reginn shakes her head, "The Order of Heroes has nothing to do with this. Even if you don't like me... even if you never liked me... I still think of you as my brother, Ótr. What happened doesn't change how I feel!"

[lofnheithr]

( FEH Book V spoilers )

      Fáfnir's name comes up, and although it was a name that normally brought delight to hear and say, Ótr has nothing to say now that would lighten the mood. He has none of his usual sonnets and grand speeches to his brilliance, an ode of gratitude in every syllable. All he has is his silence, pensive in a way he mourns.

It is a silence he detests, that his words do not come out as fast and as easily as they once might have.

“ ...He did try to kill me. This is a fact. I was in his way, ”  he lies— or is a lie? Was his battered body an obstacle to the King of Desolation? Nothing more than a pebble to kick in the middle of the road? Was his existence being wiped away to the side something that would have aided his brother?

Should... he be dead? 

He does not allow himself to think on it; he does not wish to. Reflecting on the past is a waste of time. It does not change the fact he is alive. It only gives him more information to work with.

“ How you feel is irrelevant. If you wished to be my sister so badly, your actions don't speak for it. Have I not told you this time and time again? Your actions reflect upon your image, Reginn. ”

In the past, they had been words to scold her and remind her of the weight on her shoulders once she had ascended back to the rank of princess. Memories of a young girl running without abandon, greeting people with absolutely zero decorum, flit about.

She is as careless then as she had been when she had met the Order of Heroes.

“ Do you think the history books care how you feel? You know I'm being told to re-enact one of your battles for one of these inane seminars, ”  he spits out at her.  “ What do you think it says? It speaks of how you 'valiantly' tried to beat back Fáfnir's forces. ”

The lines even here speak of her betrayal. They do not care for the concept of family, only whose blood is spilt on a war-torn ground.

“ What kind of 'sister' do you think you are doing things like that? ” 

[lofnheithr]

get-along storm

          ⤷   mission task:   affluence  ( stuck on an island )

[peerlessscowl]

The worst part was that he remembered the storm, cognizant for each moment from the clouds rolling overhead to the sharp panic as the crew of their small vessel immediately jumped to action, to the churning silence of the water as it swallowed he, their crew, their boat. 

Remembered, too, reaching for the man closest to him, and the sickening pop, then crunch as his arm became stuck and wrenched from its socket, torn between watching it flail in the current and watching the man drift away from them. The wave had come upon him, then, and the helplessness settled in his gut, wrapping him in the chill of wondering was this where he died? 

It wasn't, as it turned out, though that he didn't realize until the seawater expelled from his lungs and he saw the face take shape above him. 

It wasn't a scream that came from him as his companion had wrenched his arm back into its place, but not for any lack of awareness – too tired to be of any use, too tired to even react, the wave of pain crashed over him and he had been forced back into some semblance of rest. 

Couldn't even get himself to sitting upright in the time it had taken his companion to venture forth in search of food, and his return. 

Raven grunted at the admonishment, then again at the question – it wasn't difficult to take stock of all his aches and pains, buffed to the forefront in the sublime light of his throbbing shoulder – before shaking his head, forcing himself upright with a final breathless heave. 

"I'll manage." 

He forced himself to ignore the shaking in his fingers as he reached for a couple of the berries, hoped that the other would have the tact to do so as well. 

[lofnheithr]

      Ótr is willing to wait and watch, see how the other man fends for himself. The less he has to do, the better, the dvergar tells himself, but in a time such as this where there is little else to do, Ótr forgoes hurrying himself to eat his own portion of what he has brought in favor of observing his one companion in this dreary place.

(It is far from the first time he has forgotten to eat in the presence of another despite the lengths he went to procure that food in the first place.)

The seconds pass, but his impatience wins out in the end. He doesn't move his hand, but he does ask:

“ You do recognize that you're shaking, yes? Don't think I missed the fact you weren't up when I got back even though someone in good condition absolutely would have either. ”