#freydis 002.

[juliangladiator]

starter for @freydis-freydat.

where: somewhere not too battle heavy rn

when: the fall of aventia part 2 electric boogaloo

note: momager help me

For Julian to aid Aventia the best way possible, he'd been tearing through the battlefield as a white wolf, one set free on a path to extinguish as many darkspawn as possible. It'd been easy for him to shift into some sense of autopilot, though the deaths and injuries took their toll when he found himself retreating for the night for rest. Wolves were durable but they were not completely imperishable, and Julian had sat and supported those who'd not live to see another sunrise, watched as grave injuries stripped away fierce warriors and dedicated wolves, and he could do nothing to stop it.

Julian stood, turning away from another werewolf who had offered their aid and paid the price for it, despite how much it hurt to turn away, "Another body to burn.'' He's quiet, Freydis was appointed as the helm of their group as Aurea managed elsewhere, he didn't know how to face either of the two when the light in his eyes had seemed to die, when the will to endure seemed bleak.

[ormir]

// FLASHBACK Location: Arriëvel, Icefang’s fief When: Summer, 3017 (about 8 years ago) With: @freydis-freydat, first of her name Notes: The Gang Gets Concussed

Hers was a beautiful corner of the country, he thought. In the heartland things grew lush and fruitful if you knew them well. Thick, happy clusters of barley scratched against the Huscarl’s outstretched palm as he rode through it. Not yet with the weight of the High King’s signet on his little finger, his hand wore the fat and tone of a younger man. The fields around the city rippled like liquid gold as the wind stirred them, pushing the heat of Iskaran summer into their faces. Ormir’s tight, efficient diplomatic crew was made up of himself and two guardsmen. Their route through the oft-neglected agricultural heart of Iskaldrik was entirely of Orhan’s devising, though why it was his face picked to be the ‘approachable’ mediation to the crown was beyond him. Ormir was growing sore from the saddle and the pageantry in equal merit, and his well of social graces was down to its last summons. This stop had been the one he’d been looking forward to. News of the tenant's latest challenge was filling mead halls well beyond her parcel of Iskaran soil.

Arriëvel, the great house, stood watch over the veins of streets and houses that sprouted from it. As the road morphed from grit to pavement, Ormir’s critical eye found only richness of color brought into the place. The sweet preamble of rain rose from the streets. The last time he’d ridden through these streets, his champion Jarl had only just found her footing in the world, and had recently overthrown the brute of a man who’d been warming her seat in the Great House. Tove’s hospitality had already been a marked improvement over the former. She’d earned a new name in the interim, Ormir reminded himself as they were brought in by her staff, one secured by the ring of men she’d bested - and the two she'd killed.

“Freydis,” Ormir beamed upon seeing her again, at last, bruised but unbeaten. A testament to his judgment of character. With the bias of recency, he couldn’t help but notice how the Jarl’s cropped hair resembled the same spun gold of her fields. The Huscarl bowed his head to her. “The noble life suits you,” The observation held precious validation within. “Or you suit it, rather.”