an honest man's abon his might.

[varldsormr]

new years starter for @senseandworth & @igneuscrvx ca. 31st december, 200x.

"--She should kill him." Comes the abrupt assertion from the floor, cutting through a prolonged silence on his part only to rouse along the rumble of frustration in the giant's voice for all his freshly incensed vigor - a single arm shot out to motion briskly towards the television screen and to the farce of sheer of buffoonery displayed upon it. Several hours (and bottles) into melodramatic queries of succession, forbidden elopements and sordid affairs, he cannot help but feel a sense of strange investment on behalf of their protagonist, in spite of her continuously poor display of judgement.

"He has betrayed her trust, besmirched her name, tarnished her honor--" Jormun seethes as with a hiss, his motion having momentarily jolted him a little more upright where he had leaned his back against the edging of the couch, only to slump once more back down against it as his arm drops exasperatedly and the woman on the cathodes bemoans her conflict between self interest and her heart. Again.

"His cock cannot be worth such sacrifice."

[senseandworth]

"She's thinkin' aboot last summer, that walk on the beach." Euan infers as their current focal character plucks up a framed photograph, claps her hand across her mouth and lets loose an especially dramatic sob— poor lass, didn't deserve the trouble. He swigs from his sixth beer with renewed focus, clasping the chilled bottle between his scuffed denim-wrapped knees as he leant over and propped his arms atop them. Serious now, decisions made now would echo through the next half of the season. If Dom didn't get it together, he'd lose her for good and she'll probably start looking Billy's way again.

"Give 'er time, we know Ellie's a sensitive one. With her maw in hospital an' Uncle Harris in town she's got a fair bit on mind now." He's quelling the tension in the room but if he were honest with himself he'd fess up to being the most riled one here, feels like he's near holding his breath. New Year's specials were always packed with torturous twists, heartwrenching breakups and major character deaths— not sure why he put himself through this every year, but call it tradition. Catharsis maybe.

Either way, he was glad for the company.

"You reckon Billy's next on her radar? Or will that new bartending lad Ross catch an eye."

[varldsormr]

He isn't certain when he drifted off. Within minutes, perhaps, though it'd felt like hours. Days. Time endless, trudging and irrelevant. Truth be told, the first what takes him as his muddied senses start to stir again is a muted sort of surprise, not quite having anticipated this development, though the confusion quickly fades amidst a groggy haze of numbness and befuddlement; His tongue tasting of iron and of salt, the smell of the ocean on the air momentarily clouding the meld of soil, and sweat, and death closed in the tent, making him forget himself. Where they are. Knitting his brow upon the hoarse and rasping sounds come from the side of him--

Someone calling his name. A voice he knows.

It takes a moment - then he recalls--

The legs of the rickety old chair leave trackmarks in the earth, divots ground briskly in their wake to where it falls, discarded. He shoots to his feet with force and speed he thinks, somehow, he should've been incapable, the bulk of the serpent's body dully protesting the movement with an objection overruled. Dark eyes snapped open, wild, cast down upon the figure of the man lain still beside him. Or, not so still. Not anymore.

"--Eòghan?"

The name of his age worn companion falls from the giant like a question, in a voice that does not sound quite like his own, down at the wretched creature in the cot. The body yet to fade, yet to leave him, by which he had stood vigil for some foolishness of inablity to do the same, and for a single, outdrawn moment he is taken with a fear - a fear he must have been mistaken - until he sees the Scotsman shifting yet again. Sluggish as a man unwillingly awoken from his bed. Hands fumbling, grasping at his throat.

He stands frozen. Dumb and witless at this scene until his limbs begin to move all on their own, stiff as they are and hindered by some obstacle which yet eludes his recollection as he sinks heavy to his knee before his mind can follow, landing ungracefully before the other's bed. His own clenched hand come up to rest against the edge of it. Eyes seeking to the pallid face of his friend.

"I am here." He speaks, each word as weighted as the next. His tongue sits heavy with disuse and disbelief at once within his mouth. But it speaks true, at least. Though the reminder may be for the both of them. "What need you?"

[senseandworth]

Oh, sure stirred the fires under him there. Eòghan thinks stupidly to himself amid the haze of his waking mind as Nis all but springs to life with an urgency he couldn't recall seeing from him outside the field of battle. A relief in itself, had looked half dead slumped in that chair, blood staining his clothes all over. How much of that belonged to his companion? How long had the battle gone on without him? He near dreaded the answers to each.

"Aye."

He attempts to confirm through another hitching groan, wincing into a pained cough as he felt splinters scratch within the walls of his throat. Nasty business, would have to wash 'em down afore they became a secondary set of wounds he'd have to contend with. To that end ishe grateful that Nis falls in close, kneeling next to his cot close enough that he need not strain for his voice to reach him.

Reading the want in his mind, or perhaps the sorry state of his half-healed body before him, his friend jumps to asking what it is he needs exactly. Thank the spirits he'd been here with him upon the moment of his waking, could hardly move an inch on his own as he was now— would need a longer stretch of time for that much.

"Nngh water. Throat sore." His grasping fingers slide down the column of his neck, drawing attention to the closed wound over his windpipe where that haughty goblin had struck true. Was getting mighty deadly with that bow-stringing eye of his, would have to find some way to deal with that in future. For now, at the very least, he wasn't alone in walking the path to do so.

His eyes blink desperately through their habitual dryness after returning from their deeper sleep, drawing upward to focus more clearly upon Nis' face. Looked near distraught from what he could see... What had happened for him to wear such a heavy burden upon those proud features? He'd rush to ask, had he the vocal ability to do so. Soon, he assures himself with strengthening composure.

[igneuscrvx]

His claws chip the stone they grip for purchase, striking a spark as he fights the impending fall after his legs fail him. And then there are hands– strong arms that come to his aid but that his body registers as threat before his brain can, and so he fights those too, wrestling helplessly for a second too long before he realises that he is actually being saved. Thorne stops, propped between the windowsill and the human, his body held in a tight tremor. Confusion once again floods most of his senses. He searches for any trace of disgust or anger in Eòghan's expression but reads only mild annoyance. A chair is pulled closer, something about the view... what was the work they'd been discussing?

Oh, yes. Thorne's inherited debt to the fairies, or something. Good lord, he'll never walk out of this.

Speaking of walking, he isn't sure what's up with the wobbly sticks for legs, but they're not working splendidly. It's hard to pin the culprit, though, all of him hurt, and from the looks of it it would probably be a while until he'd be breathing without a stabbing pain to accompany it. The tiefling sits stiffly, half cowering, half wincing, clutching his damaged ribs. He watches Eòghan for a moment longer before dejectedly casting his gaze out into the grey wilderness. Middle of blooming nowhere, by the sound of it.

"Thanks." Maybe later. Is it possible to be too tired to think of dying? Surely the gruff mage here wouldn't have enough wine to drown a creature of Thorne's calibre, though intent was observed, but even so, the devil felt entirely too rotten to even conjure ways to end it. Part of the reason why he had hoped maybe Jormun would have done him a solid. Tough luck. Now look at the mess he's in.

When Eòghan recalls their mutual friend's disposition, Thorne only grunts. He's right. So where was he now? Back to the sea? How soon is too soon to worry?

"Where are we?"

[senseandworth]

Ah let him scratch and scrabble all he wants, few nicks won't bother him if he gets caught up in 'em. Such are his stoic thoughts as he hoists the devil upright again, relieved that Thorne seemed to realize quick smart that he wasn't trying to tackle him to the ground or some nonsense. Between them they sort this awkward dance and get him situated again, Eòghan's thoughts dwelling a mite on those tremors he'd felt drumming through the demon's skin. As though there need be any more evidence of what business had befallen him before he'd washed up here.

"'bout nine miles south of Innerness. Same like from the Loch east." There is a slight pause wherein Eòghan recognises that his description shan't much suffice for a soul brought in from the water who just moments ago referred to him as an Englishman. That particular label broils in the furnace of recent memory, and his next syllables are pushed with some emphasis, as though urging for even the slightest inch of independent recognition from this wayward, wounded demon.

"Scotland. North o' the Isle." Discarded bonnet of Europe, is what almost tumbles out of his mouth but he stops himself just short— starting to sound like a neglected maiden, Christ. Had no business being this sensitive about an honest stranger's mistake, and as though to punctuate the thought he grunts and turns himself away from his seated guest; determined to bury his profound embarrassment in some useful venture.

Back to his bench, back to his tools. Sanding the grip of this short hammer shouldn't cause much disruption to their ongoing conversation, at least. Leaving him to remark in a gruff, but pointed fashion. "Folk round here won't take kindly tae seein' horns. Best stay 'til yer well enough to keep a guise."

[igneuscrvx]

He's awake enough to notice his keeper didn't seem too pleased with the way Thorne had referred to him, but ignorant enough to have the real reason fly over his head. He still appreciates the effort the young man makes to communicate in a language very clearly not his own, and opts to match his kindness by responding in heavily accented English, a tongue that felt old and rusty against his own. "Spirits, you say?" Now, that's an alarming slip of information. He faces Eòghan wide-eyed, wondering just what sort of business he was conducting out here, and what sort of trouble he had put Thorne through. He may not be your wisest devil, but he knows all too well that bargains with the underworld always cost most than they're worth.

He knows it, as a misbirth of said place.

"Burning you did..." He mutters lamentably, recalling now the searing pain as his fingertips touched the raw edges of seeping scabs, reliving the agony that had sealed his fate. Lifesaving, surely, but brutal nonetheless, nearly matching the hate with which each knife had driven into his cursed flesh. Oh, well. They'd done what they could – Jormun and the stocky fellow – and for that he should be... grateful. It's unclear, then, why gratitude evades him.

In response to the query regarding his choice of drink, Thorne can only offer an ambiguous whimper. He'd take what he was given, so long as it soothed his throat and calmed the fever. In the interim, he resumes his study of his quaint surroundings. The clothes the human mentions come into view (could have passed for a few folded produce sacks...), and he's glad to at least be given that little bit of decency. He might even score something to eat, when he felt well enough to stomach it, and then he could start figuring out a way to get back to his affairs – and how to repay the man for his hospitality. Maybe save that thought for a later, healthier date. He had little, if nothing, to give at the present moment.

When he collects the glass of water with both hands, he is careful enough to avoid his guardian's hand, partly scared of spooking him entirely too soon. A quick 'thank you' and he brings the drink down to parched lips, flooding his mouth like Spring. The coolness of the water cuts through him like light, which he makes an effort to only allow a trickle through. A taste, though, and he is lost. Delirious with need. He sucks every last drop as though he fed from life Herself, and emerges breathless, confused, pleading for more yet uncertain whether he'd be allowed as much. And so the glass is set aside, his mouth wiped on the back of his wrist, and he begins inching towards the garments laid before him, slipping them on one by one.

Against even his own better judgement, Thorne leverages with clawing hands against the wall of the cabin to push up onto his feet, soles flat and bare on hardwood planks, leaving dust prints where he stood. His vision swims once upright, and he manages only a glimpse through the window he approaches before his knees collapse and he catches himself on the windowsill to break the fall. Spikes of heat and pain flare through him, threatening the integrity of his lucidity.

"Suppose it didn't cross his mind to put me out of my misery?"

[senseandworth]

He's dwelling somewhat on that accent of his, southern type that brings to mind the other convalescent that had taken residence here some years past. Also a fiery spirit, also arrived in rough shape, burdened with melancholy. Eòghan begins to wonder if this is his ascribed place in the world, shepherding lost and wayward souls blown in from the storm. Perched out here at the northern tip of an isle, facing endless ocean— aye, it made a kind of sense. Though he's not sure if the role sat rightly with him.

Takes more care and comfort than he feels he's able to give. But he'll offer what he has: food, shelter, and a warm hearth. Nothing to complain about, that's for sure. Though all the princess types he seemed fated to know always found something, such as he finds himself cocking a thick eyebrow in the devil's direction once he laments the burns adorning his chest. Patched the holes now didn't they? Melancholy indeed, not sure this one was all that spritely over the fact he'd lived to see another day. Well. Deed was done, no taking it back now; or not under his watch.

"Nothin' to worry about." He turns back to his present chores, always finding respite in busywork himself. In saying this Eòghan refers to the skirt-twisting over spirits and burns both, he wonders idly if Thorne had been victim to much by way of gambling before to already be balancing imagined debts in that horned noggin of his. Would make sense, had to be hard to bargain for your life in a time where such a skill promised the only recourse from the sword and the flame. Still, weren't the case here, and he was content to reassure his guest as much.

"I know the work. Much as I kno' my own home."

'Tis a good sign to hear him drink eagerly, meant at least some will to live. Or at least an aversion to discomfort, which was fair enough in its own right. Given this demonstration, Eòghan turns from his workbench once more and takes up the whole pitcher, wandering back over and placing it next to Thorne's empty glass in silent indication for the demon to consider the lot his share. There was more he had stored in the house, and the well outside would serve otherwise. Buried in this line of thinking he habitually makes to return to his work, but stalls briefly to ensure his patient doesn't up and topple over in trying to rush to his feet the way he is now.

And, there he goes.

With trained reflexes and a wealth in supporting strength, he surges forward to catch Nis' friend by the waist and hoist him upright again. Should lay him back down altogether, but he's not sure what the devil's after and he reckons there are words to be exchanged before such steps are taken.

"If you wanted the view, I coulda described it." He chastises with a rugged patience, trying to recall what it is Thorne had asked of him just seconds ago. Putting him out of his misery? Ah no, not about that line of thought here. Eòghan exhales a sigh through his nose, ensuring that Thorne is at least sufficiently propped against the windowsill before dragging over the chair he had himself been sitting on throughout the night. Positioning it next to the recovering patient, he indicates it with prompt expectation. Can sit there and look out, if that is his desperation.

"Enough o' that, now. There's wine in the cellar if ye'd rather drown." Quip come and gone, his nerves settle and his hands habitually find his hips; a knot of sympathy furrows his brow in his remark's aftermath, and he finds himself meaning to express his concern more directly. This was a self-destructive sentiment he couldn't entirely disentangle from one he himself had long been familiar with, and so his tone softens with a measure of that understanding, deftly woven into the subject of their shared companion.

"If ye know him, then you know he's not like that. Never one to abandon" And wasn't that the truth. Only reason he wasn't here now was because his health had begun to fail, seas once more calling him home. He'd return soon enough, no doubt, though he wondered now whether the devil before him would seek to await him here or flee this place before then. He'd promised to make this friend of his well and shelter him, long as he cared for— but he wasn't his keeper, and his home was no cage.

[outofoldbooks]

A titan. Such is what he faces upon this field of battle, birthed from a source so vast and ancient in his mind's eye that the boy cannot help but stagger in place— as though finding himself stood suddenly upon the edge of a precipice. Wherefore had Eòghan called this creature, born not of vast lakes and stone cliffs but of something deep, dark and roiling with primal fury.

Arthur feels the panic begin to rise in his throat, multi-pronged and sourced as it debilitates and delays his time for action. Split between spiritual duty and the impulse for survival he wavers, a breath drawn sharply into his lungs as he draws another shaft to his bowstring; his irises sharpen with pinpoint accuracy where his fingers begin to falter, doubt for his course setting into his conscience.

He fears to strike fatal, he fears to be struck down himself in turn. Bound in a trap of his own making he is condemned to inaction, but for the press of oncoming death. He thinks of his footmen, his knights— still fighting in his name, still falling beneath the banner of his crown. Strike true. Arthur exhales coolly and lets fly the next arrow, watching as the point buried itself deep into the titan's flank without consequence.

His panic grows. Without thinking, another arrow, another stretch of hand-spun linen: to the creature's stomach this time, with naught to show for the effort but an advanced sureness in trajectory. He has not slowed them. He has, to his rapidly spiraling fear, only encouraged them.

The boy archer has only but nocked his next feathered shaft before the giant descends upon him, a single world boomed into the world around him, deafening the sounds of battle beneath the venom in this vast spirit's countenance.

It strikes him with frigid, unforgiving familiarity: there was no quarter for him at such a distance. Such had always been his fate upon the battlefield. Eòghan. François. Dan. Once the gap between was closed, what remained for him was naught but the felling stroke of a blade. Here, his fate would be decided in want of stature.

He attempts veer away from the reach of the creature's reaching arm, but finds himself hoisted with violence from the grounding comfort of the earth, arrow slipping from his grasp as he instinctively attempts to fight the grip upon his nape. A split-second passes in which he contemplates using his bow as a blunt instrument, before he shrewdly abandons the idea.

Dropping that weapon to the ground in turn and favoring instead a small blade drawn from a buckled sheath upon his belt, Arthur thrust the sharpened dagger desperately through the spirit's forearm in an attempt to break their hold upon them. Holding the blade fast in their flesh through the press of both his hands upon its hilt, he sputtered with spiraling urgency.

"N-no!" The desperation in his vehement refute was palpable, leather-wrapped feet kicking the air in futile search for purchase as he hung from the spirit's grasp like a rabbit caught in the hunt. Eyes of forest green lock onto their abyssal counterparts in that moment, blown wide in encroaching terror: terror, it would seem, on behalf of the assailing party above all else.

"They will kill you—!!"

Such are words that are spoken into fruition. As like a tide swelling beneath the call of ashen-curtained skies, his stalwart footmen, his valiant knights— victors riding the frenzied high of a blood-soaked battlefield turned to their favor, seeing the vessel to their illustrious pride threatened, gather with massing force and descend themselves upon the creature in a thundering storm of swords and fury.

[varldsormr]

Bared as fangs against the enemy, his nails dig claw into the southern's skin, clasped like a maw around his throat just as the boy withdraws his dagger and sinks his iron to his flesh. It burns just as the arrows do threading through bone and sinew, and yet he feels as cold as ice with daggers in turn within his gaze - the boy's struggle as he's lifted amounting to naught but to further restrain he serpent's coil, the other's knife akin a key within a lock all but securing it. There is no running, now.

For either of them.

"They will try." Jormungand's voice runs low, deep in retort, echoed with a righteous anger yet behind an even deeper sorrow he cannot contain unto the last - but it does not matter. None of it does. In his peripheral he sees the mortals turning, sees the closing of the walls around them. He hears the misplaced fear within the desperate voice of the other, pleading or bargaining, and spares no care unto his fate.

With a sear like boiling water and cold fire in his hand he pulls on strings from the beyond to draw a spear into his grip, a weapon called upon from fathomed depths incomprehensible to any mortal soul, yet nearer to the serpent than his very flesh and blood; where the fickleness of man-made swords had failed him he finds a heft of gilded yew at his behest, a metal peak which gleams but for a flash before it's thrust into the bowman's chest much like the crashing of a wave and all decends.

He does not know how many men are felled amidst the storming of his rage. How many strikes of iron that he takes. Whether their numbers seeming to wane around him is retreat or his miraculous escape, somehow, lumbering in searing, stubborn stride back down that hill - arm hanging and the crimson tip of Areadbhair dragging a trail behind him. Each step the fell of a mountain, it takes an age to cross that field, empty with all but of the fallen and amongst them - berthed as though in reverence - lain the mounded shape of great Eòghan--

Only when his eyes find to the unmoved figure of his friend does he begin to feel it. The acid in his arms and sudden heaviness of limb. Driven before him, Jormungandr falls leaded to his knees with a drum inside his chest, the spear in his grasp returned in absence whence it came like the extinguishing of flame, his fingers raised as though to reach but suddenly lacking in their age-worn steadiness.

Still and heavy, yet faintly does a warmth still linger in the Scotsman's skin, taken to death struck through the heart as though no mere a mortal. Adorned in flesh that could've fooled another, he who should be so much more than that, and yet-- The serpent's brow draws tight, then lets, then knits again. He breathes a name that no one hears. The air leaving his lungs as he falls back upon his hunches, the hand whose tips had hovered along the stained and grizzled inking of his other's hide then falling slack against his side.

How does the the land-borne spirit's fade, he wonders? He may have asked before, if he had found it pertinent. Conceivable. Now...

Now what yet remains of him cannot be taken.

It's with this conviction that his fist raise slow and closes tight around the arrow in his gut, and he relieves it, faring a wince between his gritted teeth. Restricted in his movement by the many more which yet bore through him and a trickled, blooming heat within his pit, he gathers Eòghan into his arms with no less the care he is deserving and stands, one leg a time, despite the protestations of the whole of him.

Against his broadened chest and empty heart he carries him, each of them blurring numb to their surroundings and the bewildered eyes of Eòghan's kinsfolk, so torn abruptly from their weary and the bitter sobering of their defeat towards the image of the giant. In the distance he hears a noise, a muffled rousing and stir within in their ranks, yet he remains unspoken and unhaltered in his way--

-- and it is not before he's sought the vacant confines of their tent - until he's laid his friend to rest upon his cot and thread the arrow from his chest - that Jormungand permits himself to falter.

[senseandworth]

He has been here before. Many times before.

It is not a dream, for in this place there is no turbulence nor peace.

Only quiescence. An ocean permeating the far reaches of time, stitched together with the echoes of a thousand million voices— the cacophonous hum of conscious existence. Like bones returned to the earth, he is buried where he belongs. Returned to the place of their first embrace, he can feel neither desire nor urge to leave.

It takes a summons to induce otherwise. Louder voices reaching for them. Purpose. An existence called for and to, a need yet unserved and unmet. And at times, a push from the Great Ocean beyond— arms of ivory reach past his ears, sculpted through combat and tattooed with ancestral pride.

Long hair drenched with abyssal sludge flows past his nape, and Her voice urges in a infinitely fractured whisper within his ear, demanding he regain the warmth of simulated life only that he shall once more feel its glacial chill in her presence.

"Wake up. You will not waste the time that was stolen from me."

He wakes thinking of Death.

His lungs remember their instruction to imitate the functions of breath, air passing through him with stirring impulse. He aches. He hungers and he thirsts. He feels heavy, weighed down and grounded to such an extent that for a fleeting moment it almost feels foreign to him. Until he remembers that he is Eòghan.

He is Eòghan and he breathes again.

Then comes the scent of mud and iron, the haze of canvas fabric in his sights, his world upturned and leaving him nauseated with the slightest motion. A cough racks his body— his body— and he twists in place upon the cot until he can force his once corpse to turn at least somewhat upon its side.

Instinctively he reaches for his throat, as though feeling for a phantom wound; there, the unmistakable coarse scratch of a pronounced scab, Christ knows if it'll end up scarring long-term or not upon his skin. Best not or he'd be throttling that wee demon himself. Shite that had hurt. Shite he had lost. What was that gunna mean? Where was he now? Where was—

Nis.

Right there. On the chair next to 'im, looking as worn as he felt. He's half-convinced he must be hallucinating to see his friend there and not some southern fuck guarding him. He still hardly believes it, so much so that the first attempt at sound he makes is somewhere halfway between a groan and whatever spill of words he manages to mumble out in there.

"y'here Nis—"

[varldsormr]

"Not planned." The serpent replies with a rolling hum and a tug twitching at the corner of his mouth as though considering the correct word, one of his hands coming up to scratch a little idly at the bearded edges of his jaw. "Intended, perhaps--"

Musingly, Nis' sights drift upwards and away from where they'd fallen onto the shape of the distant Spaniard, engaged in dipping a few testing digits (or a hand) into the spring pools, gauging their heat. Albeit sprawling on a glance about the place, he knew himself that there were many corners of the cavern yet untouched by his hands or chisel, a scattered smattering of plain white canvases standing in amongst the scenes already depicted - or so to speak, if one so wished to wax romantically about it. The Scotsman often did, in better tongues than he.

Not long are the two old spirits left to standing sheepishly around at the mouth of the tunnel (or, arse, he supposes), however, nor to any further explanation of the thought, before the lilting uttering of the full breadth of the giant's god-given title calls their attention up ahead; The epitaph-and-sometimes-name falling from lips that he is somewhat less familiar with than those of his stout and present friend, though he had grown to better know them during the trek along the mountainside, become familiar in the way with which their spoken syllables ring with a rather more unstressed and liaising accent than his old companion. A little heavier than the chef's...

And unyielding, too, as raptly as the quick-approaching Frenchman starts to state his observations before the other two had barely had the moment to stand at attention.

"Hnh." Nis can only grunt a bit abashedly in response whilst him and Euan both stand listening, a little dryly amused by the spectacle, though his narrowed eyes do widen slightly to the unexpected fervor accompanying Francis' spirited interpretation, not quite accustomed to so high praise as he continues to recieve. The colour that'd taken to his cheeks before had likewise yet to wash away in its entierly, though it melts into the richer pigment of his skin, and indeed almost seemed to so return due some suggestion of the Frenchman's. Springtime lover...?

His eyes dart back at Euan before returning to the blond as the other pirouettes to a position by his side and so between them, the serpent attempting to will confliction notions of his sentiment (and Francis liberal analysis) away with another huff and a dismissive (if halfheartedly offered) gesture of his hand.

"You are giving it more thought than I. I only carve as I feel like, at that moment, nothing else." There is a splashing sound somewhere in the background. "Though I take you will be... pleased, here, then?"

[senseandworth]

A distant patter of thundering steps, followed a loud splash and whooping cry of joy promptly echoes off the glacial walls around them— Euan doesn't even have to turn his head to know that Antonio's stripped himself of his clothes and jumped right on into the warming waters awaiting them. Jesus, he sure hoped all the pools were open to bathing, the thought drifting through his head as he keeps an eye on Nis' features to ensure there's no hint of affront or displeasure in there. Otherwise, he has his hands full trying to process what the hell Francis was on about.

As a man of poems he'd always been able to appreciate his friend's artistic eye, even if it seemed at times to him that he could draw the most nonsense stories out from the most abstract of prompts— though, looking about this cave, he can start to see his vision. The themes certainly tracked with that perspective. Had that been Nis' intent though? His hazel eyes flick across to the giant and take special note of how quiet he had grown, the warmth in his cheeks never brought in response to the cold but rather to the bloom of sentiment in that big heart of his.

Old Nis, dreaming of spring all these years?

Nis looks to him and he suddenly grows overly conscious of the attention, likewise diverting to the fair-headed artist before them both. How grateful he was, once again, that Francis didn't know how or when to shut up. Always nice to fill what might have otherwise been an awkward and shifting silence.

"Happy? Oh of course I am happy. It is a beautiful place. Beautiful." Francis praises liberally, tossing his hand around to gesture their surroundings with a rhythmic flick of his wrist here and there. He turns from them at the same time, likewise distracted by the bobbing head of brown hair moving about the far pool and - unlike the two of them - driven to go and question their fourth companion. He continues to deliver a brief spill of words and sentiment on his way. "Art is the product of feeling! In the moment it is a stroke, in days it is the whole picture."

In his wake they are once more left to their thoughts and shared quietude, until at last Euan clears his throat somewhat and shifts his footing— glancing at his boots for a moment before finally lifting his gaze to meet Nis' own again. A wry, reassuring smile ticks into place.

"Well. Daresay they're both pleased t'be here."

[varldsormr]

"What else would you have?" He questions as his whittling blade hacks into oak. In the deeper tenor of his voice he offers back a tone of measure from his seat, short and hard as is the giant's wont on any other given day - yet there is coldness there not often readily afforded to companions of such a magnitude, for whom the icy sheets upon the sea might sometimes part to find a warmer current underneath. Now, the one arrived must find him naught but glacial--

"You came for answer. I have given it." Jormungandr grunts yet without meeting with the other's gaze; The sharpness to his tongue, a tension like the clenching jawline of a wolf that wants to bite and must restrain itself from doing so. He can hear the other's idleness and the impatient shift behind his back - a sizzling of embers in their forge, stirred up by bellows - and it strikes it has been long before the Scotsman's presence at his back brought about a sense of unease rather than comfort.

He had thought they were beyond this. But then, there are many things he'd thought he'd known which had of late become unproven. "I will not further waste your time."

[senseandworth]

The question is posed to him as though Nis doesn't already full well know what he's after— something of more substance, a willingness to get stuck in and actually have a conversation about all this. Here he is, Christ he'd come all this way and taken the initiative to get something started here. As though he were about to turn heel and march on home with naught to show for his intent, it had taken him months to work over his own stubbornness and even get to this point of reaching out to him again.

Just thinking about it was getting him riled even more.

"You're not satisfied. I'm not satisfied." Euan raises his arms either side of himself before dropping them loudly against his own flanks in a form of bewildered protest, continuing to stare daggers at Nis' broad back. Certainly wasn't about to head home until he looked him in the damn face. "Is that how it's gunna be then? Just us both bein' miserable until the days ebb and we both see oblivion?"

He was impatient. It's been years now and already this had gone on too long, he's not about to let it wander so far that might threaten to venture beyond their reach.

[varldsormr]

"No." The single syllible reply rings firm over his naked shoulder, broad back turnt, seemingly resolute in his conviction - if only very slightly absent as the serpent makes no move to spare a glance back at the other, nor to turn around and deign the rather onesided conversation with a face to face discussion. Idly, he listens to the sounds of shifting, the slight rustle which would indicate some movement behind him, though his attention remains fixed upon his own ministrations. Mostly.

[senseandworth]

Like a roiling rumble of molten magma threatening deep beneath a fracturing earthen surface, Euan can feel his temper flaring with a pulse of reinvigorated calefaction. So this is what they had come to— turned backs and closed doors, the crush and cremation of any olive branch left to them. He had come all this way to see him, laid his case bare with frankness and honesty in anticipation that he'd at least be afforded that same courtesy.

Instead he sands face to face with a stubborn defensive wall he recognises with such arresting immediacy it may as well have been his own, reflected in a mirror's image right back at him.

"That all yer gaun t'say?" Euan rests his hand on his scabbard-belted hip in an expression of heightened agitation, turning his boots in the silt and rooting himself into the lake's shoreline. It all strikes him as somehow familiar, feeling this way in such a place— far in the recesses of his distant memory. "No?"

[varldsormr]

It comes as no surprise that the Spaniard is first to urge past, twirling through with a whistle joining to the chorus of water and echoing between the stone; The serpent had just about barely been able to keep track of him on the way over, yet reassured through querying glances and a quirked brow in Euan's direction that Antonio would find his way ahead - nay, all but most likely be the first of them across the finish-line. Likewise, Jormun must spare a curious look back towards the glacial tunnel from atop the steps to assure himself they had not somehow managed to lose their fourth - the Frenchman - during the trek, due some slip of ice or ambient rapture.

Jormun might've joined him-- to breathe in the mountain air and simply revel in the sprawling landscape if not for his present single mindedness. How anyone hosted these gatherings with more than a handful of guests to corral was beyond him (Alfred's proclivity seeming suddenly the more impressive), though the Scot, at least, had remained behind him every step of the climb. Helping to herd their meandering companions in a vaguely forwards direction, just as effortlessly as he eased the tension of their host with every briefing smile or signalling tap against his side.

Standing together at the open mouthed entrance to the springs whilst the two strafe on ahead, Euan draws his attention once again, though this time the combination of the others' evident expressions of awe and his old friend's comment appears rather to inspire a faint widening of the serpent's eyes, and an expression almost -- bashful?

"It is... a work in progress." Jormun grunts, face having to turnt away to watch Antonio stand a bit further on with hands on his hips as the serpent feels an oncome of darker colour threatening to paint over his cheeks. Amongst the myriad carvings of beast and spirit chiseled out of the encasing mountain, there were many more yet left unfinished, and he suspects there may be rabble left around that he had missed to dispose in making the flooring fit to walk. A fact that he is suddenly all the more conscious of, now that they've arrived. "Watch your step."

[senseandworth]

Nis had felt that one, that was for sure. Euan thought more than anything that he ought to though— his friend knew well enough, he wasn't one to hand out compliments that weren't due. He was... stunned. Genuinely. He had managed to trot the globe in his adult years, seen sights that would steal near anyone's breath away. But this? This was no mere accidental feat of nature, this place had been sculpted by hands with skill to shame the gods with. Every nook, narrow, curve and crevice planned with the eye of an architect; the passion of an artist, he could almost hear his two southern friends counter in turn.

"There's more planned?" If Euan sounds incredulous at the revelation, the sentiment is genuine. Such was the craftsmanship in this build he had assumed it plenty perfected, but to hear it was but on its way to grander design prompted the furthest reach of imagination. He blinked a few times, awkwardly readjusting his rucksack's strap back onto his shoulder through the use of a sliding thumb as he lets this information simmer in his thoughts for a while. He had watched Nis work the whittling blade for centuries on end, but never before seen his craft expressed to such a vast scale: for how long had he labored to build such a place? When had he set himself upon such an undertaking?

For how long had he kept it secret, and why had he chosen to reveal it now?

"Jormungandr. Jormungandr." Francis had turned from a brief exchange with Antonio and was now walking over to them, professional-grade camera once again slung around his neck as he waved a sleeve-slipped wrist loosely to indicate their shared surroundings; he comes to a stop right in front of them. Euan recognizes the other hand currently resting on his hip, his wandering eye and slightly pulled lip— indeed true to character, the art critic never finds rest at chez Bonnefoy. The Frenchman begins to relay his first impressions almost immediately, with such exacting precision that it's almost arresting to listen to him spin a tale for a location he has been in for but a scant few minutes with such relentless confidence.

"This place is a palace built with the dedication of a winter prince to his springtime lover. You cannot convince me otherwise. The animals, dancing—" He swivels on his heel so that he stands more parallel to Nis himself, lifting his hands and placing the sculpted cavern walls within the squared frame of his fingers: "Not a hunt, no." Francis shifts one of his hands into a balled fist but for a single index finger pointing upwards, indicating continued observation. Fixated on the tale he sees unfolding in the hand-shaped statue circling the baths, his mist grey eyes continue to move across this vista spread before them. "But a chase. The joining of spirit and man. Preserved in perennial harmony."

Somewhere in their peripheral vision, Antonio is already trying to wiggle off a boot while eying the pool of steaming waters now just a short few metres away from him.

[varldsormr]

[🐍text: ] Knowing them I suspect it is only a matter of when. [🐍text: ] Consider it done. And do not fret for me. [🐍text: ] I can take it.

(he hums, pleased. Though the sense falters somewhat shortly, back to... uncertainty. Euan is right. It has been quiet, as of late. Perhaps too much so.)

[🐍text: ] Mh. [🐍text: ] The call of the hunt has long been silent, as well. [🐍text: ] I do not know whether to find it relieving or suspect.

(he furrows, though before he is fully pulled to dower thoughts, he makes a effort to muster some resolution, anew.)

[🐍text: ] It will be good. [🐍text: ] Lest til we grow weary of the gyrations.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] can ye now

( Something about that wording gets Euan smirking to himself, satisfied enough to pull himself from the counter and wander back over to the living room couch. )

[ 🪻text: ] long learned to take these signs with caution, but at the same time fair tired of doing so [ 🪻text: ] for once maybe it can be an innocent break

( His fingertips paused against the device, contemplating his own words; it's what he hoped, in any case. Not the superstitious sort, but it still didn't feel right to tempt fate after everything they'd been through. )

[ 🪻text: ] im hoping the cold will slow em down [ 🪻text: ] do you think they hibernate [ 🪻text: ] might give us some peace

[varldsormr]

[🐍text: ] I am well familiar.

( he shifts. Alone within the logwood storage and yet he feels-- strangely sheepish? As though he needs to clear his throat despite the textual nature of their conversation. Mh.)

[🐍text: ] A fair theory. I do recall seeing you reddened in their presence, more than the once. Should I acquire sunscreen for our venture?

(two can play this game.)

[🐍text: ] You wear the age with dignity. [🐍text: ] Was a time I was not sure we would make it so far.

[senseandworth]

( Decent bait, Euan grunts with good humor beneath his breath. )

[ 🪻text: ] spf 50 and pack some for yersel [ 🪻text: ] especially if they start dancing, generous word for hip gyrating

( The ensuing compliment does see him humming with pleasure, turning over so that his elbows planted upon the counter's surface while he typed his response. )

[ 🪻text: ] catch mself thinking that sometimes, more now than before [ 🪻text: ] idle time, no worries n few wars [ 🪻text: ] another world to what we've known

( He pauses, briefly. Then adds— ) [ 🪻text: ] reckon i'll like seeing us all in the same place, for that reason too

[varldsormr]

※》t: hotsprings & cold hearts // starter 1

"Through here--"

His voice carries back across his shoulder towards the chattering entourage coming up behind, dark eyes seeking briefly towards the band of queerly curious and variable sorts who had obliged themselves to following the old furcoat dorning giant along a few hours of tunderous mountain trails and jagged-rock climbs - until at last, the brisk upwards hike between the peaks brings them all before the mouth of cavern, marking the beginning of the final stretch within. It's only momentarly Jormun stops to see that all are yet accounted for (and in one piece, or at most two--), placing a hand along the rim of the carved out hollow and gazing back before beckoning the others with a nod to delve deeper within.

What remains of the early afternoon's rapidly fading sun passes through the outer laters of the tunnel's icy walls, casting a shimmering blue light to guide their way for at least the first few paces through the path carved diligently through the glacier. Winding, yet, ultimately short come at the end of their journey; Still at the head of their party, the serpent takes them thusly up a set up stony steps once the underpass begins to open up into a larger space, at the top of which they are greeted with a wash of-- warmth. Steamy air, emanating in mist from pools of volcanic springs walled in beneath the open sky, and heated well enough to make even the stone beneath their feet almost comfortable despite the cold.

A little stiff beneath his wear, he feels his being already inclining towards the water, himself. But first, there are other matters to attend to--

"There." He speaks, adressing the collective once again. "Make yourselves at ease."

[senseandworth]

Against the enclosing walls of carven ice a lilting whistle of wonder echoes, clear and resonant as the steepening crystal surrounding them— Antonio swings his hiking boot-wrapped foot around in an emphatic turning 180 degree spin to gain a full impression (and appreciation) of their new surrounding environment. Walking backwards into the newly opened up clearing with olive eyes cast heavenward, it is no surprise to either of his companions that the Spaniard is first to breach this space in the great serpent's wake. Each of them had conducted the preceding mountain hike according to his own inclinations: for the eldest of their little troupe, this naturally meant an accompanying abundance of animated enthusiasm.

Antonio had spent the entire trek moving further up ahead and dropping back down along the trail of hikers in alignment with whichever respective force commanded him most, curiosity or boredom. At least once he had become passionately fixated on what instead lay down an alternative divergent frost-lined path, followed in that whim of distraction until disappearing for a time to the unalarmed acknowledgement of his continuing companions, only to then re-emerge upon an adjacent ledge at higher altitude half an hour later with no explanation beyond word of what awe-inspiring sights they had all apparently missed out on. Possessed of an ever-enviable wellspring of vigor and initiative, the tireless adventurer had conquered the final staircase but scant seconds behind the towering silhouette of their guide.

The second to emerge into the gushing rush of humid warmth was Euan, whose pace had remained steady and ever reliable throughout the group's ascent: from the middle of their hiking group he had kept his eyes fixed both to the front and to their rear, ensuring that neither the leader pushed too far ahead nor the last in their party fell behind. Aside from the breaks called between them for various purposes of refreshment and sightseeing, the seasoned mountaineer had remained focused on their designated route and end destination as the pre-eminent priority. Always on hand to offer advice on break length, warning on certain points of loose footing or otherwise provide a strong arm for another to cross a break in stone, he acted without effort as their host's responsible deputy.

Perhaps the most challenging charge had been the Frenchman in their midst, who seemed per his wont determined to conduct the journey to his own leisurely pace. Not for lack of either wisdom, energy or ability— but rather on account of his preoccupation of turning around upon the path to instead take in the view, occasionally bringing out his full-frame camera and bending a knee to square up a meticulously considered photograph. Negotiating both the continuous shift of daylight as well as his choice in lens, the renowned artist had refused to be rushed in his work: especially given the rarity inherent to this particular geographic opportunity. Thus does Francis eventually himself draw into the open clearing, observing the latest reel upon his device's screen before at least storing it away again.

Witnessing the sights that greet them the Frenchman murmurs an expression of appreciation for the natural beauty in the environment surrounding them, readjusting the strap of his camera bag in a manner that suggested he was already rethinking his decision to store the tool of his present creative trade. All the while Euan's hazel gaze traverses the impressive set of caverns before them, taking in the fractal dance of each pool's light shimmering across the surface of its surrounding stone basin: a work of art, no doubt about that one. His industrious mind at once casts itself to thought of the handiwork, the craft conducted by hand to create such a place— evident in the well-reinforced cabins constructed along the walls either side of them, the even footing of the cavern's floor and the rounded hollow of the tunnel before.

"Will have t'give us a moment fer that much. Place is beyond words, Nis."

[varldsormr]

[🐍text: ] I have my moments. [🐍text: ] Though on this, we can agree.

(he notes the added beat of time which passes between messages, and quirks a brow, loosely amused.)

[🐍text: ] You are quite industrious for your age, yes. [🐍text: ] I am not sure I would do better. [🐍text: ] Something in the Spanish waters, I think, judging by others we know. [🐍text: ] Least to my eye you do not look a day over 1800.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] i like to keep busy [ 🪻text: ] hands and passions both

( Back to the teasing, inevitably. Keeps him spirited and lively, as well as smiling even while going about his morning business alone at his place. )

[ 🪻text: ] my money's on the sun. i think they store solar energy in their skin and release it in fits and bursts over the day [ 🪻text: ] like those panels i put on the roof that stored enough electricity over the year to charge an electric shaver [ 🪻text: ] oh seeing that number written down makes me think how close my second millennium is. that crept up fast.

[varldsormr]

(he faintest of smiles spread further along the curve of his lips, one elbow propped against his leg to hold the phone and the other dangling its wrist over his knee - reading the texts with a low, gentle hum escaping into the store.)

[🐍text: ] Better late than never, perhaps. [🐍text: ] Though I intend for this adventure to be less perilous than past accounts. [🐍text: ] Prospectively. [🐍text: ] I would not wish to put a strain on your back, old man.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] wisdom of the ages [ 🪻text: ] not missing the peril so much, figure we've had enough in our time

( He huffs a note of laughter at the teasing comment that manifests on his phone screen, taking his time to tap out a response. ) [ 🪻text: ] alright none o that. still go to the gym like any other hard working lad [ 🪻text: ] was gonna say i'll look spry next to Tony but not sure that's true honestly

[varldsormr]

(the image comes to mind. the Scotsman triumphant, mounted high upon the glacier as dawn scatters golden rays throughout the ice and frosted peaks--)

[🐍text: ] Mh. I don't anticipate sights will be a shortage. [🐍text: ] Until such a day that you start sprouting feathers off your back. [🐍text: ] Or fins. [🐍text: ] My faith in you is paramount. [🐍text: ] Regardless I will be below. For buoyancy.

(at the tug of his lip, he eases down to take a seat upon one of the crates, eyes still watching the stream of their conversation wash the tension of his shoulders.) [🐍text: ] I have not yet felt the urge to eat them, no. [🐍text: ] A lofty claim. I take your word for it. [🐍text: ] It has been some time since I took stock of either.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] through some feat of sorcery, no doubt [ 🪻text: ] ha. i'll take both the faith and the emergency float with matching grace

( It warms him to think back on occasions where they had all been together, Nis inclusive— like wrangling cats, had always been difficult to get this lot in one place at once. He can only think of sparse occasions, scattered throughout history. Golden years each. )

[ 🪻text: ] aye was a difficult century past for all, only lettin up past decade or two. seen 'em more since, bout time we get up to some adventure all together again [ 🪻text: ] makin me feel a whole age younger jus thinking about it

[varldsormr]

[🐍text: ] Good. We will need to make our way through them. [🐍text: ] The boy has been obliging. On several accounts. [🐍text: ] Transport for one. [🐍text: ] Though you are welcome to swim with me, if you prefer.

(he huffs.)

[🐍text: ] Ambitious. But acceptable. [🐍text: ] I do not mind them. [🐍text: ] Presuming they can keep up, as you say.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] will be a sight at sun up im sure [ 🪻text: ] that so? offering his flyboy services for us earthbound folk i suppose [ 🪻text: ] ha. one of these days i'll work up the constitution to swim the whole north sea stretch, save some pennies on them shetland trips

( It's with a wry smile that he leans against the counter beside him. )

[ 🪻text: ] reckon you'd have let me know by now if you were sick of em [ 🪻text: ] highland graded, can confirm

[varldsormr]

(he emerges defeated in his battle against an encroaching smile, despite his efforts. Truly a terrible loss. Though the tension in his shoulders does ease a little, as a result.)

[🐍text: ] Höfn. On the South-Eastern coast, a week from now. [🐍text: ] The American will ferry you from Reykjavík, if you make it there. [🐍text: ] You may bring guests. If you wish.

( ... )

[🐍text: ] Not too many.

[senseandworth]

[ 🪻text: ] had to look that up. looks nice, like the mountains [ 🪻text: ] Alfred? must be quite the occasion

( Young 'un tended to mean bigger types of events, but such weren't much Nis' style. Seemed particular that he might've enlisted the nephew in all this. ) [ 🪻text: ] right will bring the whole contact list then [ 🪻text: ] just the twin dafties that is, good hikers and well ken your boundaries [ 🪻text: ] should make for a fun romp anyhoo