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@waryar
warjaR (noun, Proto-Norse) defender.
selective, mutuals only and 18+ blog for AC Valhalla’s Eivor Wolf-Kissed. loosely based on both the game and Norse myth and stories. para and novella RP. created June 2021 and penned by Irma.
info | memes | face | promo
You can find me here too:
mustbeathcr - MCU/Marvel comics based Jane Foster (Thor)
perilousxrealm - fantasy & sci-fi multimuse (LOTR, Vikings, The Witcher, Marvel, etc)
/ Hey there everyone, I am back into the world of RP and moving all my muses over to @perilousxrealm. So give us a follow if you see this! Looking forward to writing with my old partners again <3
Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla | Sigrblot Festival
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅 ?
THE HOME whether it’s your warm embrace, your unwavering reliability, your smile that says “welcome back”, your motif is the home. you’re the equivalent to coming out of the rain to the fire on and your slippers waiting by the door. your uncanny way of making people feel alright, you’re treasured in these trying times. i respectfully request you take care of yourself, the world will never been as kind to you as you are to it. anne lammott said “lighthouses don't go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining” and though unconventional, lighthouses are inhabited and your cup runs over with generosity. because you probably don’t hear it enough, thank you.
TAGGED BY: the lovely @stovmborn
TAGGING: @chooserofslain, @shadxwcd, @storiesung, @cerbin, @torntruth and YOU!
If you were looking for someone to KNEEL,
you abducted the wrong GOD.
est. March 2019
;OOC - I am in my hometown until Friday so there will be only reused icons/iconless replies until then. I brought only my work laptop and I have no Photoshop/icons stored on here.
cerbin:
“Hmph, if only,” she replies hunched over her cup. But the wound won’t scar and it will heal even faster. It is all the least of her worries. She’s found herself with a … somewhat unique bunch. Not from Skellige, but they have a lot in common from what she has observed and not being terrible company is apart of that.
Yennefer flinches her shoulder inwards at the sudden touch against the opened flesh. Her body relaxes. Her lips turn up in a half smile. “The ale is payment enough.” It was all a coincidence of timing. She had come here searching for something. The vikings just showed up, hunting for their own treasure.
She looks over her shoulder at the blonde still clad in furs and armor despite the warm hearth that eases even the mage’s muscles. “Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she introduces.
“Is it so? I have heard that sorceresses take a pretty coin for their help.” Eivor blinks away the exhaustion that overpowers her with the warmth of the fire and the nearness of the other woman. “So I would not wish to offend in any way.” Her smirk remains and her touch softens when she feels the wince.
She wonders if the woman has ever encountered Vikings in this part of the world, since not many have crossed the rivers this far south, aside from Ragnar’s sons years ago. Even if she has not, Eivor is impressed how she has been let into the personal space of such a dangerous woman. Even in her stupor, the drengr cannot help but feel smug about it, if only a little.
“Eivor of the Ravenclan.” Her head bows a little, feeling her cheeks flush with warmth at the increasing temperature. Only when Yennefer turns around to look at her does she notice the violet in the other’s gaze. “Your eyes look like flowers plucked from the fields of Francia.” With a gentle movement, her hand pulls back the fabric over the injured shoulder, the smile turning playful and the voice lowering. “Is there anything else that I can do for you... Yennefer of Vengerberg?” The name feels odd on her tongue. She likes it.
shadxwcd:
@waryar is receiving a random starter from RANDVI!
The view of the tower from this perch no longer would have bittersweet memories. Not this time. New memories would be made here, as soon as Eivor arrived. For now, Randvi was content to sit and meditate in the late afternoon light with this small picnic ready for when Eivor found her note and arrived. Her loose auburn hair blew gently in the light breeze as she focussed on her breaths.
One eye did peek open at the sound of a horse approaching. Both did so when she heard the horse stop nearby and soon the familiar sounds of a certain Ravensclan drengr climbing beneath her. The tablemaiden smiled to herself before closing her eyes again, as if she had not been aware of Eivor’s presence. Well aside from the smile that still lit her face.
Hearing Eivor climb onto the platform, she was silent for a few moments before she spoke.
“You are as quiet as an armoured bull, Eivor.”
The adrenaline rushes to her cheeks, and it has very little to do with climbing the tower. It is a warm summer day and no concerns burden her, which is... unfamiliar to her. It still seems like a dream, having Randvi in her arms for almost every night since Gunnar’s wedding, and yet the return to this tower they have gone to so many moons ago is what causes her her heart to thrum inside her chest.
Seeing Randvi’s hair fall so freely in the golden light and the wind picking up the strands of her hair makes the drengr nearly speechless, and before she knows it Eivor is grinning.
“Maybe I did not want to be quiet.” Despite having shed all of her heavy furs and most of her equipment back at the settlement, there is still breathlessness to her voice that is not all tied to physical exertion. In a moment she sits down on the blanket right next to Randvi, their arms flush against each other. In a rush of adoration, her hand takes Randvi’s and brings the back of her palm to her lips. “You look wonderful, Randvi.” The latter is spoken in a lower voice, followed with a smirk, before noticing the basket and a pair of mugs.
“What is all this?”
chooserofslain:
𝗜𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗘 — to linger on Midgard. It was odd to … feel the still warm blood on her fingers, to smell the scent of death on the pines, to SPEAK to a Midgardian – even as the spirit of the slain tugged at her aura, his urge to claim his reward - pulsing against her own consciousness. And yet - the Valkyrie remained where she was, her feet planted in blood soaked mud, listening to the words of a warrior who was still breathing while she stood beside the body of one who … did not.
“ Holmgang – ” the word was familiar and soaked in all that brought Midgard to its knees one century after the next : vanity, honor, respect, fear. Brows furrowed as she looked down at the body and frowned. “ He fought valiantly then and rose to his own challenge. His life was lost but — HONOR kept all the same. ” A shadow passed over her face, the words … too formal, as if she was reading from a well worn script.
The Valkyrie felt weary, even as she lingered in the muck - one life was … nothing compared to the HOARDS of slain that the Valkyrior might take together from the battlefield. But there was something about this task, this life, that weighed on the commander. Perhaps, it was the waste of it all or perhaps —- it was the captive audience.
Brows remained furrowed as dark eyes stayed on the corpse, a muscle in her jaw jumping as she relaxed the clench of her teeth. “ Dag — was ready but many are not, ” she thought of the YOUNG and the fearful, those who were not ready for such a reward as Valhalla, those drengr – who had yet to finished fighting or … living. She looked up to the warrior woman, her gaze hardened and haunted by a hundred lifetimes spent scraping souls from the chaos of a battlefield. “ You will not talk to me of death, of what you do not yet know. No matter what you think you’ve seen, skjaldmær. ”
The title fell from her lips like an insult as the Valkyrie leveraged herself onto the back of her steed in one practiced, fluid movement. One hand gripped the shining shaft of her spear as she looked down at the mortal, her jaw tight, her eyes now cast in the same UNYIELDING iron as her weapon.
” No. ” was the answer as the great winged horse took a slow circle around the Midgardian, his wings flapping as the Valkyrie anchored fingers in his mane. Heels pressed into white flanks as the horse broke out into a trot, the warrior looking over her shoulder, as the great beast began to take flight, her words catching on the wind, “ —- perhaps you will see those Golden Halls, sooner than you might think, drengr … ”
Eivor says nothing while the Valkyrie speaks, wondering when the gods have become cruel, speaking to the warriors who did most things in their honor. The knot in her stomach, caused by the death of Dag and worsened by this encounter lingered; even after the sound of hooves disappeared and all that was left was the sound of the settlement coming back to life. It is no surprise, she thinks, when Odinn is nothing as we imagine him to be. All the visions that Valka keeps showing her and all the visions she has on her own; he is just as unkind and nothing like Eivor heard in stories by the warm hearth that her mother told her all those years ago. Valka will know what to do. Valka always knows best.
~
“Soma, NO!” The battle rings in her ears, in her head, in her heart. Seeing her old friend, her ally, the woman who meant so much to the warrior from the very first moment they laid eyes on each other makes her freeze as the world comes to a halt. Warriors shouting and the clang of weapons clashing against each other is suddenly muffled and seems far away; worlds away. Suddenly she is but a scared child watching her family getting butchered by Kjotve in front of her, another one she loved with years of life before her taken away. Alfred’s soldiers care not for the fact that Eivor’s soul aches at the sight of pooling blood around the body of what used to be the great Soma, her face frozen in an unfinished battle cry; and charge as if they did not just slay one of the greatest.
Feeling her eyes burn with tears, Eivor picks up the shield she discarded a moment ago, and the grip on her father’s axe tightens. Slashing through bodies brings no thrill and she seems to notice not how heavy their bodies are as they fall to the floor with each strike she casts. Blind fury rages in her as she rejoins others and soon enough the enemy - or what was rest of it - starts fleeing through the Chippenham square and beyond. She is in half mind to chase after them, to cut down every single bastard that was left alive. However, Soma’s spirit calls out for her from across the battlefield and she runs, as if hoping that it was all just a bad dream, a nightmare she would soon be waking from.
It wasn’t.
Eivor remembers not when she falls on her knees in front of Soma’s body and when her hands close the darkened eyes without life behind them. It seems like many hours pass when she leans forwards, tears pouring mercilessly down chin and sobs caught in her throat. For someone who has seen as much death as she inflicted, Eivor has not mourned this openly for anyone in years, yet she cares not. The rest of her clan stays behind, tending to the remaining wounded, and not even Birna comes by. Her own bloodied hands lay Soma’s blade across the chest, and takes the hand that grows cold in her own for moments before letting the stiff fingers wrap around the hilt.
When the sound of hooves thunder from afar, she does not even bother to look up. “I grow tired of this.” Her voice cracked from earlier, but knows they can hear her.
“Take them and go.”
hello!! just to let you know i think hellbr published one of your unfinished drafts!
;OOC - I was confused by this ask for the longest of time but then I went to check my blog and --- wow. Looks like 'Save Draft' means 'Post Now' in Dumblr. Thanks friend!
storiesung:
Even if the stablemaster tends to them with great care, Geralt rarely trusts anyone with Roach. He will not hesitate to follow through on his threats should harm befall his precious mare. It is not the first Roach he’s had, it will not be the last, but he’d like to keep her for as long as possible.
No matter, right now, there is a more important task at hand. Finding this creature before it can do any more harm. Before it kills innocents. He’s not getting paid for this one, for this one he’d stumbled across the missing livestock on his own and, as a Witcher, he could not let a monster get away with harming innocent humans. Just as he would not let humans get away with hunting innocent monsters.
He carries swords of silver and steel for a reason. Silver for monsters, steel for humans.
“And people? Have you had any missing people?” If not, perhaps this werewolf has some semblance of control. In which case, Geralt will simply have to relocate it, instead of kill it. Unless this werewolf happened to be one of the people on the settlement. That could….complicate things.
They reach the hall and slitted cat-eyes follow her gaze to the barrel. Do not mind if he does. “Thank you.” He may be a Witcher, but he knows when to be polite, so he makes himself at home and helps himself to a pint of mead and as she had stated - it’s better than most mead he’s had.
“It’s possible this creature is one of yours, Eivor. Have you noticed anyone acting strange? More ravenous? Going missing at night?” Something he realizes could simply be the viking way….unless it’s not a viking but instead of the many people they have settled here who serve as merchants and the like. This will be difficult to prove but perhaps she will be able to provide some insight.
Even though the sun is high on the horizon, Eivor does not hesitate to take a tankard of mead herself. She is used to drinking (and outdrinking) strangers for fun and coin, but now only as a welcoming gesture to the man that talks about things she does not wholly understand. The wooden bench creaks as they are both seated in the far corner of the longhouse, away from curious ears; for the last thing she wants is dread spreading through the settlement.
There is a moment where she considers Geralt’s words, her eyes downcast at the tankard between her calloused fingers. “Not more than the usual, no. But there are many people coming to Ravensthorpe of late, hailing from far away lands.” She thinks of a couple who had moved next to the hunters’ lodge just down the path and that came from South-Eastern lands. “I had not the chance to know the pair that arrived last week.” A heavy sigh, trying to remember what Randvi has been telling her of those who had settled in the village recently.
“Would there be any other signs to look for? I could introduce you; they were at the docks with everyone else when you arrived.”
She is not completely certain why she trusts a white-haired man with the eyes of a wild cat, but Chewy does not react to him in an odd manner like it would to sorcerers or black mages of any kind. The entire matter is enough to hold her curiosity, and the wellbeing of her people is important to her than anything, at any time.
“You are free to stay here at the village for as long as you want.” A hint of smile appears on her face. “But it would be wise not to speak of this to anyone else until we know who is at fault. I will help you find this... werewolf.”
throw me to the wolves and i’ll return leading the pack
chooserofslain:
𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛𝗧 — it did not matter if it was the death of one or MANY, it was the duty of the Valkyrior to escort the spirits to their well earned place in Valhalla, at the table filled with … heroes. But the act itself was almost - dull to her now, after a hundred life - times it was ... expected. The sacred duty was now nothing more than - a series of steps that she would move through almost without consideration of the moves that she made. It was a call that Brunnhilde answered now because it was … what she had been created to do. And because – she had no idea what might happen if she dared to – resist.
When the call had come, it found the warrior on Asgard - training with her sisters, mocking out a mighty battle that was, as Odin foretold over and over again— always LOOMING. All of the Valkyrior had felt the tremor and heard the Heimdall’s call - but it had been only Brunnhilde who stepped away from her place at the front assembled army to take on the summons. They all could feel it was a singular death and — one life did not require the entire might of the Valkyrior. So instead, it was the general alone, astride her winged companion who thundered down the Rainbow Road.
As she cut through the atmosphere and landed just outside of the small settlement, Midgard looking as it always did. Damp, grey – filled with the glow of a thousand mortal deaths that were … still to come. Brunnhilde was relieved in knowing that she would not need to FERRY them all to Valhalla’s great hall. Instead, she only focused on the life that was now in her hands, the warrior who laid slain in a pool of his own blood. She was so focused on calling his spirit to her side, to muttering the sacred words that would bind him to her being for the journey that — she did not see the woman until she spoke for the second time. The Valkyrie looked up with a frown - just as unsettled as she had been the first time, just as annoyed by the sudden invasion of privacy.
Brows furrowed as she looked down to the body at the shield maiden’s feet, “ He WRONGED you. ” it was neither a question nor was it an answer to the one the warrior had posited. After all, wasn’t that obvious ? The Valkyrie slid off of Elendil’s sturdy back and knelt down beside the man, gloved hands passing over his face as she silently finished the rites. “ And yet he still has earned his spot in Valhalla — I don’t if that says more about him or, ” dark eyes flicked upward as she stood, the spirit anchored to Brunnhilde now, as she tilted her head to one side. “ You. ”
Just as before - there was no death glow about the warrior, no promise of her upcoming demise. And yet here she stood – looking at the Valkyrie, questioning her. “ Most - are not so certain that their death has truly come for them, skjaldmær, ” she was AMUSED - but the weight of concern still lingered on her furrowed brows. “ The next time you see me — you might not be so certain. Maybe have fought the Valkyrie when the time has come – even as they yearn for Valhalla. ”
The whole demeanor tenses, and the jaw is clenched as blue eyes scrutinize the figure before her, more solid and… tangible-looking this time around. It might have been for the fact that Eivor has not been covered in blood; head-to-toe this time, or that the shock of the realization has worn off a little from the last time. Brunnhilde is much different than all the books depict her, in stance and in manner of speaking, and Eivor attempts not to feel the pang of hurt, a bruised ego of a warrior who bested another. Slaying Dag seems like everything but victory, and the Valkyrie’s words help not.
“No,” the tone of her voice is lower as her eyes cast downwards at his corpse, eyebrows still tightly knit. “Dag called for holmgang, a duel to the death over our clan. I could not refuse, and the fool would not heed my words.” She thinks of Sigurd, her brother, and how disappointed he would be. At this point in time, Eivor is not certain if he could forgive her, after everything that has happened. She wonders if the concern is etched on her face, and then realizes that Valkyries must not care much about the living or their emotions.
The aura around Brunnhilde is an impressive sight to behold, however, and Eivor finds herself unable to look away. Now that it is only her - and the horse standing back and staring at her just as its rider has been - Eivor finds herself willing to write sagas, longer and more authentic than the ones depicting the Valkyries thus far. It is a silly thought, almost intrusive, and she finds it amusing for a brief moment, the emotion only intensifying upon hearing the other’s words.
“I would not try to fight you, my- lady, unless for a friendly spar.” Were those words really coming from her mouth? Maybe she did lose her mind. “There is no higher honor to a drengr than to be taken to Valhalla, and I truly doubt anyone would fight you for that reason. They would be foolish to try.” There’s a chuckle, not entirely humorless, as she wipes her sweaty brow with a gloved hand. “Only those who earned not their place in the Golden Halls would fight death. Warriors like us, like Dag, welcome it.” Her words ring true, even though it is something she has said many a time. Perhaps that is why it is so.
“I have to ask,” she adds quickly, knowing that their time is drawing to a close, “do other mortal men or women see the Valkyries?” It is doubtful she is the first one. Yet curiosity does not let it rest. “See--- you?”
“ you know - i’d make a lot of CHANGES around here — ” ⚔ drinking since nov. ‘17
How long have you been chasing me, Wolf-Kissed?
shadxwcd:
“I do not grow tired of Sigurd’s stories. They show that he is well.” Randvi spoke then but, as usual, so much was kept beneath her reserved demeanour. A tactic learnt quickly after her marriage. Perhaps it would be unexpected that the feeling of fatigue still lingers, but it had never alleviated. Especially since Eivor’s rejection left her dreams a little more in tatters - although she did not hold that against her friend. The reasons were respected, though the outcomes were still the same.
“I will walk with you. I wouldn’t say no to your company. I suppose though that we cannot ride tonight. Not with the mead you have drunk.” A hint of a smile then, remembering all of the times she had witnessed the drengr entirely off of her face on mead. It was a merry sight indeed, and she still held some of those drunken events over Eivor just to embarrass her. Randvi was the first to move to walk, her hair now braided down her back with little waves undone after this long day.
Eivor watches her as she speaks, as if considering her words, followed by a nod and a look cast downward. Randvi is good at many a thing, and being diplomatic - even when it comes to her marriage - is one of them. It is difficult to ignore the heavy pang that burdens her own chest each time her eyes fall on the redhead, but it is something she learned to do throughout the years. After all, her brother and Randvi’s husband is only several yards away.
“Randvi, you hurt me.” A gloved hand over her own heart, feigning indignation betrayed by a smile that does not leave her face. “Did we not ride through half of England when you bested me in Grantebridge? I do not recall falling off a horse.” Eivor brings a pint to her lips and takes a final gulp, then sets it on the bench and follows Randvi up the narrow path.
“You did not drink at all tonight. It is unlike you.” It is a statement not meant to offend, but merely an observation. “We know that these trees do not tell secrets, Randvi, and neither do I. If you need talk about this, I am all ears.” Maybe a little drunk, too. Randvi knows.
