[ She watches him most carefully. No, there is little to read there, not even from the dance of his hands, where she might read on a fighter otherwise. That was the trick. Don't watch their faces, those were all gile and misdirection. Watch the hand that moves to a blade. In this case, she keeps an ear to the movements of his men.
The rest stays on him. Maps quickly the casualness with which he sits, the shift forward of his shoulders. He is savage; not that he is a savage, but it's there, just under his skin, the construction of it. A propensity to violence, that settles around him. No doubt, something he carefully cultivated. A reputation maintained by centuries worth of actions. Worn so very, very well. ]
I did always wonder which one you were. King Horick, Bjorn Ironsides? [ Voice soft, loud enough to be heard only between them as the merriment picks up about them, eyes flicking up to is in something that might be demure except that she never, never is. She's a Queen, she lowers her eyes for no one.
Her fingers still on the tankard, drawing it in his close. She didn't quite have the taste for it, besides she wanted a clear head. Whatever advantage that might give her. ] Rollo, the Duke of Normandy? [ gives a smile, slightest bare of teeth. ] They all are spoken of when your name is mentioned.
[ She is no open book either rather a puzzle place before him, glittering gold and begging to be solved. The intent is clear, what she wants, but all else? A skillful woman she is, one who knows well how to wear a crown upon her head. He breathes out a laugh, mug close to his lips again, he expects no less.
Shifting he rolls his shoulders, placing down a now empty mug, and crosses his arms over the top of the chair. Leaning heavily, sharp eyes focused upon her face, upon her hands, her bearings. Never settle in one place, there is much you can learn by looking everywhere for the little things. Twitch of a finger, flick of eyes, callous upon her finger tips. He watches, as ever, a predator barely contained in his skin - he watches and waits and learns. ]
Perhaps one day I shall tell you. [ Never to admit, never to deny, to do either would say more than she is needing to know. Lifetimes ago now, yet one of the names rings sharp in his bones. Almost causes to stumble, almost. ] There are many great stories surrounding that name.
[ She stays put to his lean in, even if the urge it to withdraw further. Either to keep her space or to see just how far he would follow for curiosities sake.
For a second, she toys with the question by not answering him immediately. Little bit of her own power. Her head turning, the gold catching the candlelight off her ear, as she watched a man snag a woman around the waist. Doxies, that was what they called women who made their living off their back. Her laughter high and crafted to be exactly pretty and no more. Waits until they are settled and no more a distraction before she turns back.
The smile, though, that is still there. ] No, I am not.
[ Her lips press together, picking her words in a slow and careful fashion. ] My concerns are much more grounded. Though the stories might help if you have them to spare.
[ He allows it, tilts his head upwards to gaze at her down his nose, ears straining towards the noise behind and around them. Men enjoying drink and women, the sounds of well crafted laughter, of a warmth that will only stay for a night at best. His own will be cold tonight, if he even sleeps at all.
Waves a lazy hand about as she returns her focus to him, tankard spirited away to be refilled once more. ]
Then a story you shall have. [ She is his guest and he will not deny her outright, a story she will receive. Ah, but which should he tell? Hundreds of years of life has birthed hundreds upon hundreds of stories, some outlandish and some with a fraction to truth.
He waits for his drink to return, picking it up to drink slow, with purpose. ]
Do you know the story of the man who sailed west? How he landed upon England's shores and met with knightly steel?
[ His story, or someone very much like him. She cannot tell, but it's close enough to what she wants. That measuring him over again, she nods. Making a obvious movement to be comfortable. Like his men at her back didn't bother - granted they didn't particularly, but a fool wouldn't give them heed.
Or the very confident. Which she is. So she settles with her back against the chair, a leg drawn up to prop against the other. Hand settling flat to knee, comfortable, and not a woman's gesture at all. Blinks, once and then nods. ] Go on then, whichever pleases you.
[ It is a sharp silence that hangs, accented only by the echoes of merriment around them. Ragnar watches her, studies her, gold and glittering and poised like a snake about to strike. Hides it well but he sees it nonetheless, sees the warrior in the lines of her body, her arms. Knows it too well. Knows you cannot dress the blood thirsty up in jewels and parade them like a harmless babe, there is a beast that sits underneath the skin that tries to claw its way out. A monster that thirsts for violence, for blood, for that place between life and death where you feel the most alive, the most real, adrenaline coursing through your veins with a fury known to none that still live. A drug more addicting than smoke or drink or sex. She will either be his bane or the most exciting thing to appear before him in the last hundred years.
He chuckles, hands gripping the back of the chair to push himself outwards, gravity shifting with the motion. Another life that belongs to another and so he exhales sharply, detaches from it, pulls back until it is easier to breathe. To dull the ache that settles in his chest, burrows down and down and down, hollowing him out until there is nothing left. The shell of a man, all violence and instinct, lesser than he was and more at the very same time. ]
He sailed west for new land, for opportunity, but all he gained was hands full of blood and bone. [ Distant screams echo, fill the room, his head. The sounds of swords clashing, infantry, the war cries of the dying. ] But it was not all for naught, the man would sail west time and time again, he would lead the dead into the heart of Paris. He would overcome obstacles that would break lesser men, and came to clash blades with valiant knights.
[ All too quickly he pulls himself forward and the chair grinds against the wooden floor, eyes wide and grin wide, manic almost. ]
They thought him little more than a barbarian, threat to be put down like a dog. To that end they tried to squash him and his northern warriors. Fierce was the fighting, many on both sides fell and stained the grounds with blood. But, he would not fall, no matter what they tried the man who sailed west did not fall. They sent warriors to strike him down, men clad in shining steel, men as formidable as him. [ The corners of his mouth quirk, eyes narrow, watches her face her body, the way she reacts and gauges. ] He struck down their warriors, the grandest of all wore a trinket around his neck with the queerest sort of water inside of it. A precious trinket the warrior fought so hard to regain before he was slain.
[ She lets him spin it -- and he does it so well. The drink cupped in her fingers, settled against the worn leather of her braces. The picture of an easy listener, her eyes bright on him as she sips. The blunt tips of her fingers smooth against the dented cup. This place, like any other like it, is only about what will survive. Beauty, care, fragility has no place.
There's no turn away, no shy off detail that is too much -- she is a firm believer in taking what was asked for, of not flinching. After all, she never had that indulgence herself to get into the habit of it now. She had asked for his stories. So she watches: his mouth as he curves words in a tongue that's made for another language, the dance of his fingers that no doubt would look better around a blade and in the grind of wooden chair against wooden floor, she can hear the creak of time. Scraping, grating, in the way no one but those so blessed, so cursed to take vials from around the throat of dead men could know.
It's similar, it's far too similar, of being called rebel, traitor, betrayer when she never should have had to answer to them, above being just an equal, a queen and more than that, that jewels, riches, an army or a court: beloved by her people. Fighting for them, bleeding for them, and when all seemed lost at the gift of a dying man, giving her the way forward so that all may not be lost. ]
And what did the warrior taste in that water?
[ There's a lean, slight, it stretches up her body from hip to stiff shoulders into his manic state. It is something and of itself, a frenzy. Responds to it, not to hide from it, but turn into it because -- she had asked. Because she was shaped by those that needed her to be ruthless as much as fair. Just, perhaps, is the best word. Or maybe she's just in the habit of holding those deserving accountable for the suffering they had caused. ] Was it peace, or a curse?
[ He shifts sharp against the chair, presses his body heavy against the creaking wood, lips curved into grins fit for the mad and the damned. Cool metal shits heavy against his chest, chain cool around his neck, a trinket to any other, but to her? No, no, she knows it for what it truly is, the taste of forever nestled in something almost insignificant, an inky blackness akin to a dead man's blood. He chuckles low, a hand slipping past his coat and resting upon his chest, upon the cool trinkets underneath. ]
Peace? [ What would he know of peace? He whose blood thunders with the beat of war drums, the roar of war cries, clashing steal. The gods never granted him peace, else they would have taken him into the halls with those who still hold his heart. ] No, he did not find peace in that water.
[ Cool between his fingers, absently moving across grooves and patterns, he thinks to pull it out to end the guessing game of what they already know to be true. Knows the signs, the look that haunts both their eyes, the creak of time that emanates from their bones. ]
A blessing, a curse, perhaps it is both, yes? Gifts like that... there is always a catch.
[ Her mouth twists, curling around in something akin to a smile but never that merry, never that happy anymore. She doesn't have time for it so much these days. Meets the understanding with the brittle catch of this a mirthless smile and an uplift of her head, putting her drink to her lips and almost, almost drinking. But no, not this time.
Presses the tip of her tongue against the catch of her lip, wetting them slowly where her mouth is so oddly dry. A tense bolt up the line of her spine, watching him. Something that makes her fingers hold stiff, makes her shoulders roll like a hunter after prey but she isn't the only big hungering thing in the room. ]
What did he see fit to do with this gift his Gods had given him?
[ Then she does drink, swallows down deep the rest of the cup. Waiting for his answer. ]
[ Ragnar laughs, oh he laughs, head dropping until chin meets his chest, teeth brought together to almost muffle the sound. Always a treat to hear others speak of the gods, of beings beyond their understanding. ]
It was no gift given by the gods. [ Kinder gods, perhaps, but not his. Not his. ] What reason would the gods have to share their secrets? To grant eternity upon a mortal man? There is none.
[ He looks to her again then, eyes sharp and dangerous, observant as the eyes of the All Father's ravens. Fingers stiff, shoulder roll, a predator as much as he is, hungry fro the next fight, the next chance to taste blood. ]
He took it, the warrior, as his own and drank from it's dark waters. What else was he to do?
[ Their Gods are very different, and different again to the Christian God of this land, with his upturned beseeching eyes, bleeding from his thorned crown. Different to anything she had been raised to, her strict regiment of prayer that she had crept, she had asked them often, once, what she was to do, if it was right to go to war, to take immortality for herself. So many things she had spent in contemplation.
Now her temples had burned under the boots of British rule and desecrated. She did not blame them for being silent to her, with what had befallen, and she didn't expect to understand what they had in mind, either. She contented herself in her fight, beginning middle and end.
Good then -- his blunt words soothe a prickle of concern she had not quite realised she'd had. ]
And he did not fashion himself holy after discovering he had something the Gods would never share?
[ That is a slower dig, at their compatriots, who the English insisted were chosen by God himself for their duty. She doubted it, very much. It was good to know he wasn't the same. ]
[ Even know he holds them, his vicious and brutal gods, even after all they had done to him, all that they had denied him. His heart still beats for Odin, for Thor, for Freyja, his hand still servants to their wills silent as they are. Long have they abandoned him, he figures, but still sacrifices are made and prays are whispered in the dead of night, unable to abanond them as he did so many others. There is little else to hold onto.
The man scoffs, amused, leaning back on his chair one hand anchoring so not to fall while the other remains still inside his jacket, fingers pressed tight to cold metal. ]
No, he fashioned himself nothing more than a man, a king. People whispered him to be a god, or the son of a god, but he bled as they did, wept as they did. Only... [ Again he shifts, leaning forward once more, voice lowering to a more solemn tone. ] He was doomed to wander as others passed to the great halls of Valhalla.
[ She had not had his time spent wondering, to know it in that way. It had been ripped from her. She could hear her people scream, she could remember the last time her father had kissed her brow, the first and last time he had readied her for battle. Put the swords into her hands and told her to fight for their people, to be brave as he had raised her.
In one drawn out afternoon of blood, she had lost them, and then she had kept losing them, until all she had left to her was Devi. Her Durgadal, her soldiers, her kingdom. Gone in a spray of blood and under the jaws of the pure breeds and their ilk, and those that they did not kill they twisted to their own form to their own purpose, to turn them against their own people.
She looks at him, sees it withered on his face and she has all she wanted to know. Stands then, not so quick, but more folds with a slow careful easiness. The gold glimmering as it hangs from her. A slow inviting lean without threat save where she always moves with purpose. She does not wish to discuss in front of others, the rest of this. ]
Come, take me elsewhere, Ragnar Lothbrok. Take me wherever it is the abandoned go.
[ In many ways his learning was a cruel one, a pain he would wish onto very few. To see time rip all he had known away, erode the great kingdoms of his time, and see their kings crumble into dust. There is little comfort in it, only a dull sting never to truly vanish. A slow rot to hollow out his bones.
She has it now, the answer to her riddle, to her question, the man behind the many names and stories. The game is over and she stands, leans towards him glittering and gold and for a moment he thinks to marvel at it all. Dangerous and beautiful, inviting as any woman should be but hiding her blades underneath. She would have made a good shieldmaiden. ]
Upstairs.
[ Suddenly Ragnar stands, pushing himself away from his chair with a near stumble. Eyes follow but the cheer never ceases, the chatter barely notes as he begins to ascend upwards with their glittering guest. ]
[ There's an adjustment, brief, -- quite probably his men would assume the worst of it ( or best of it to their view ) , men always did. That would be simpler if they did anyway and that was the rumour that got circulated. Kept anyone sniffing after her trail too hard. Let them think she was silly and just playing a woman's game.
Besides, she had so much more to ask him than that. ]
After you.
[ She pushes her shoulders back, squares the line of her body with a rolling step that flows without pause, one after the other, behind him and up the stairs. One brief look around the room, taking it in if she needed to make a quick exit this way in the near future, and to see who was looking. Never anything too forgiving in her gaze about that either. She meets eyes without hesitation and rather more a challenge. She was a Queen, they would back down first if they came to cross her over it.
Her steps are light after him, barely there creaks on the old worn wood. Trailing her gloves over the balustrade, taking his invitation with a pointed easiness as she follows him to whereever it was he was taking her. ]
[ It is not a grand room he claimed, plain by most standards, comfortable enough for the nights the will spend here before the waves take him else where - or until he accepts whatever proposal she seeks to place within his hands. A few furs line the bed, providing rest for leathers and swords, well kept relic from ages past. Against it rests a large wooden shield painted in blues, a pattern familiar only to him these days.
About the middle of the room, upon a small table, rests a bottle of mead and a plate of food - appetizing enough for a man pained by hunger. He walks by it almost languidly, taking hold of the bottle as he moves past, to rest upon the fur covered bed with it in hand. ]
[ It's like something far gone, looking around the small room. Stepping out of time, but they are both that. How long before she is nothing but a throw-back for her people?
Didn't matter, as her eyes skim the room over once again, hovering by the door and in that she doesn't venture too far in. Rather comes to stand by the table, leaning it against it with her hand tapping in a row. Watching him, tasting the ale in her mouth before she goes to speak. Bluntly as possible, with her head tilted a level gaze on him. ]
I have need of you, your experience, your reputation and your well-trained men.
Many people have need of me and my well-trained men, what makes you so different?
[ That is their trade now, after all, swords to fight for other men's wars. Sought in this country as much as the next, a reputation so wide it encompasses much of the sea. ]
What plagues you so that you would come to a dead man to help?
Because I am to fight the knights, their corruption and the man that is their master.
[ She knows what she's saying would be unthinkable outside of this room except for every soul left abandoned to the men and women that were supposed to protect them and yet no longer did so. They were to be considered above such petty mortal means, but they weren't. Anyone else that had the blackwater knew that they were nothing more than just men who had lived too long and seen too much. Just like Ragnar, just like she was. ]
You have fought them, and the half-breeds, haven't you?
[ Even he raises his eyebrows as she speaks, mocked disbelief to her claims. Who would believe the knights to be corrupt? Those bastions of goodness, protectors of the weak and the realm? Ah, but he is not friend to the knights and more annoyance than enemy. It would be a chance to pester, to remind them of what they lost and what they have yet to reclaim.
Suddenly he stands, drinking deep from his bottle, steps taking him towards a window. To the encompassing darkness swallowing the streets, consuming all light. ]
[ Why she is here at all -- she cannot stomach the nobility and the disbelief. The knights could not be corrupt, but they were. Or at least blinded. She would find the truth of it one day or another, though truthfully it didn't matter. She would end their tyranny of her home whether they were English, Half-Breed or Vampire kindred. ]
Then that is what I ask of you. [ Because this is it -- this is the only thing she cares about any longer. ] I need time to train warriors, fighters to protect the people here and see against the corruption that leaves them as victims of those who are meant to be protecting them. [ Tilts her face up, rolls her shoulders back. This is where she is ruler most: in her fierce need to protect and serve in equal turns. ] But I cannot do that with all sides breathing down my neck.
[ And that was where he came in -- ] I would ask you to protect the streets, and by doing so, your... reputation and the abilities of your men, will surely draw them away from my activities.
[ If he could busy their left hand, she could move the right. ]
[ Fight, she says, do what it is you do best. Take blade and gunpowder to the streets, to the beasts and the knights, be loud so that she may slip through the shadows unseen. So she may gather strength in secret, so she may sharpen her claws.
Laughter bubbles to his lips escaping with a low noise, muffled as he drinks. ]
You would have us be your goats. [ For that is the truth of it, the real truth, what she truly wants. ] Prance about and bleat, annoy them until all they become blind to you.
[ He turns back to her lips curved upwards, manic, eyes wide and wild. He relishes the chance she hands him, the promise of blood and violence and gunpowder. Opportunity to clash against the dangerous beasts of the night and then day, force his will against theirs and see who comes out whole. ]
I will do this, but my men... [ A sudden surge of movement has his return to the bed though he does not sit, resting instead a foot upon it, his body leaning towards her. ] They are not dead men, they thrive of money and warmth.
[ She smiles, brief and animal like. The flash of white teeth in the dark. ]
I could not imagine asking anyone else.
[ Because it's an even opportunity for mayhem, he could be as much menace in his bloodlust as he could be her best ally. Only time would tell. There was a sense of letting a great beast free among the streets that Devi would warn her about.
Knowing so much of the past didn't always make predicting the future any easier though - who could tell what would become of this. She had made her bed now, regardless and to that end she does not pull away when he leans forward and instead moves her hands. Deliberately up, to undo the scarf and discard it over the edge of his bed. ] No, they are not. Warmth and money they shall have.
[ She'd be a fool coming here expecting charity after all. Undoes the first clasp on her jacket and tugs it open. It reveals a gold chain, as bright as her other pieces. It is strung with jewels and pearls, and one stone large enough to turn half the Empires envy as its centerpiece. Ruby that had not been hers, but rather her husbands, from long ago, when such things had mattered. ] This country's Queen did not get all our treasures to adorn herself. [ Her fingers run underneath the heavy set of gold and brings it up over her head. Letting it swing from her fingers as if to draw him in closer to her. ] Will this be sufficient payment?
[ Knew that it was worth a small fortune when sold off. ]
[ There is something intense in his eyes as she watches her hands, watches the scarf slip from her neck and be discarded. Something else, this woman, deadly and dangerous, a tiger in glittering jewels and yet. His eyes glance the curve of her jaw, the lines of her neck, and he wonders to himself if her skin there is soft like silk. Wonders how it would feel beneath her fingers.
Ragnar exhales, fingers curling into light fists, her hands bringing forth the jewel. Surprised the viking shifts towards her, closer, putting aside the drink he had been nursing. ]
How generous. [ Desperate, perhaps, it speaks of how much she needs them. Needs him, his reputation. The mayhem he will cause for her, directed in just the right places. ] With this you will have them wholly, blades and guns, they will fight your beasts with songs upon their lips.
[ As for him? Well, the queen does not need to buy what she already possesses. ]
[ She extends her hand, letting it swing from her fingers. A pendulum of price, back and forth, back and forth. It glitters in the oil lamp light, as her gold does. Easily held her grasp. ]
And you, Ragnar Lothbrok? Is blood and gold enough to buy you?
[ His stories said it would be enough, said it wouldn't be enough, either. He asked for one thing, meant another, was known for his turns and twists. She could not sure until it was all done. ]
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kicks him instead!!
The rest stays on him. Maps quickly the casualness with which he sits, the shift forward of his shoulders. He is savage; not that he is a savage, but it's there, just under his skin, the construction of it. A propensity to violence, that settles around him. No doubt, something he carefully cultivated. A reputation maintained by centuries worth of actions. Worn so very, very well. ]
I did always wonder which one you were. King Horick, Bjorn Ironsides? [ Voice soft, loud enough to be heard only between them as the merriment picks up about them, eyes flicking up to is in something that might be demure except that she never, never is. She's a Queen, she lowers her eyes for no one.
Her fingers still on the tankard, drawing it in his close. She didn't quite have the taste for it, besides she wanted a clear head. Whatever advantage that might give her. ] Rollo, the Duke of Normandy? [ gives a smile, slightest bare of teeth. ] They all are spoken of when your name is mentioned.
bring it!! he can take it!!
Shifting he rolls his shoulders, placing down a now empty mug, and crosses his arms over the top of the chair. Leaning heavily, sharp eyes focused upon her face, upon her hands, her bearings. Never settle in one place, there is much you can learn by looking everywhere for the little things. Twitch of a finger, flick of eyes, callous upon her finger tips. He watches, as ever, a predator barely contained in his skin - he watches and waits and learns. ]
Perhaps one day I shall tell you. [ Never to admit, never to deny, to do either would say more than she is needing to know. Lifetimes ago now, yet one of the names rings sharp in his bones. Almost causes to stumble, almost. ] There are many great stories surrounding that name.
[ A hand raises to wave her dismissively. ]
But you are not here for stories, are you?
no subject
For a second, she toys with the question by not answering him immediately. Little bit of her own power. Her head turning, the gold catching the candlelight off her ear, as she watched a man snag a woman around the waist. Doxies, that was what they called women who made their living off their back. Her laughter high and crafted to be exactly pretty and no more. Waits until they are settled and no more a distraction before she turns back.
The smile, though, that is still there. ] No, I am not.
[ Her lips press together, picking her words in a slow and careful fashion. ] My concerns are much more grounded. Though the stories might help if you have them to spare.
no subject
Waves a lazy hand about as she returns her focus to him, tankard spirited away to be refilled once more. ]
Then a story you shall have. [ She is his guest and he will not deny her outright, a story she will receive. Ah, but which should he tell? Hundreds of years of life has birthed hundreds upon hundreds of stories, some outlandish and some with a fraction to truth.
He waits for his drink to return, picking it up to drink slow, with purpose. ]
Do you know the story of the man who sailed west? How he landed upon England's shores and met with knightly steel?
no subject
Or the very confident. Which she is. So she settles with her back against the chair, a leg drawn up to prop against the other. Hand settling flat to knee, comfortable, and not a woman's gesture at all. Blinks, once and then nods. ] Go on then, whichever pleases you.
[ She's a captive audience. ]
no subject
He chuckles, hands gripping the back of the chair to push himself outwards, gravity shifting with the motion. Another life that belongs to another and so he exhales sharply, detaches from it, pulls back until it is easier to breathe. To dull the ache that settles in his chest, burrows down and down and down, hollowing him out until there is nothing left. The shell of a man, all violence and instinct, lesser than he was and more at the very same time. ]
He sailed west for new land, for opportunity, but all he gained was hands full of blood and bone. [ Distant screams echo, fill the room, his head. The sounds of swords clashing, infantry, the war cries of the dying. ] But it was not all for naught, the man would sail west time and time again, he would lead the dead into the heart of Paris. He would overcome obstacles that would break lesser men, and came to clash blades with valiant knights.
[ All too quickly he pulls himself forward and the chair grinds against the wooden floor, eyes wide and grin wide, manic almost. ]
They thought him little more than a barbarian, threat to be put down like a dog. To that end they tried to squash him and his northern warriors. Fierce was the fighting, many on both sides fell and stained the grounds with blood. But, he would not fall, no matter what they tried the man who sailed west did not fall. They sent warriors to strike him down, men clad in shining steel, men as formidable as him. [ The corners of his mouth quirk, eyes narrow, watches her face her body, the way she reacts and gauges. ] He struck down their warriors, the grandest of all wore a trinket around his neck with the queerest sort of water inside of it. A precious trinket the warrior fought so hard to regain before he was slain.
no subject
There's no turn away, no shy off detail that is too much -- she is a firm believer in taking what was asked for, of not flinching. After all, she never had that indulgence herself to get into the habit of it now. She had asked for his stories. So she watches: his mouth as he curves words in a tongue that's made for another language, the dance of his fingers that no doubt would look better around a blade and in the grind of wooden chair against wooden floor, she can hear the creak of time. Scraping, grating, in the way no one but those so blessed, so cursed to take vials from around the throat of dead men could know.
It's similar, it's far too similar, of being called rebel, traitor, betrayer when she never should have had to answer to them, above being just an equal, a queen and more than that, that jewels, riches, an army or a court: beloved by her people. Fighting for them, bleeding for them, and when all seemed lost at the gift of a dying man, giving her the way forward so that all may not be lost. ]
And what did the warrior taste in that water?
[ There's a lean, slight, it stretches up her body from hip to stiff shoulders into his manic state. It is something and of itself, a frenzy. Responds to it, not to hide from it, but turn into it because -- she had asked. Because she was shaped by those that needed her to be ruthless as much as fair. Just, perhaps, is the best word. Or maybe she's just in the habit of holding those deserving accountable for the suffering they had caused. ] Was it peace, or a curse?
no subject
Peace? [ What would he know of peace? He whose blood thunders with the beat of war drums, the roar of war cries, clashing steal. The gods never granted him peace, else they would have taken him into the halls with those who still hold his heart. ] No, he did not find peace in that water.
[ Cool between his fingers, absently moving across grooves and patterns, he thinks to pull it out to end the guessing game of what they already know to be true. Knows the signs, the look that haunts both their eyes, the creak of time that emanates from their bones. ]
A blessing, a curse, perhaps it is both, yes? Gifts like that... there is always a catch.
no subject
Presses the tip of her tongue against the catch of her lip, wetting them slowly where her mouth is so oddly dry. A tense bolt up the line of her spine, watching him. Something that makes her fingers hold stiff, makes her shoulders roll like a hunter after prey but she isn't the only big hungering thing in the room. ]
What did he see fit to do with this gift his Gods had given him?
[ Then she does drink, swallows down deep the rest of the cup. Waiting for his answer. ]
no subject
It was no gift given by the gods. [ Kinder gods, perhaps, but not his. Not his. ] What reason would the gods have to share their secrets? To grant eternity upon a mortal man? There is none.
[ He looks to her again then, eyes sharp and dangerous, observant as the eyes of the All Father's ravens. Fingers stiff, shoulder roll, a predator as much as he is, hungry fro the next fight, the next chance to taste blood. ]
He took it, the warrior, as his own and drank from it's dark waters. What else was he to do?
no subject
Now her temples had burned under the boots of British rule and desecrated. She did not blame them for being silent to her, with what had befallen, and she didn't expect to understand what they had in mind, either. She contented herself in her fight, beginning middle and end.
Good then -- his blunt words soothe a prickle of concern she had not quite realised she'd had. ]
And he did not fashion himself holy after discovering he had something the Gods would never share?
[ That is a slower dig, at their compatriots, who the English insisted were chosen by God himself for their duty. She doubted it, very much. It was good to know he wasn't the same. ]
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The man scoffs, amused, leaning back on his chair one hand anchoring so not to fall while the other remains still inside his jacket, fingers pressed tight to cold metal. ]
No, he fashioned himself nothing more than a man, a king. People whispered him to be a god, or the son of a god, but he bled as they did, wept as they did. Only... [ Again he shifts, leaning forward once more, voice lowering to a more solemn tone. ] He was doomed to wander as others passed to the great halls of Valhalla.
Do you think that to be holy?
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In one drawn out afternoon of blood, she had lost them, and then she had kept losing them, until all she had left to her was Devi. Her Durgadal, her soldiers, her kingdom. Gone in a spray of blood and under the jaws of the pure breeds and their ilk, and those that they did not kill they twisted to their own form to their own purpose, to turn them against their own people.
She looks at him, sees it withered on his face and she has all she wanted to know. Stands then, not so quick, but more folds with a slow careful easiness. The gold glimmering as it hangs from her. A slow inviting lean without threat save where she always moves with purpose. She does not wish to discuss in front of others, the rest of this. ]
Come, take me elsewhere, Ragnar Lothbrok. Take me wherever it is the abandoned go.
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She has it now, the answer to her riddle, to her question, the man behind the many names and stories. The game is over and she stands, leans towards him glittering and gold and for a moment he thinks to marvel at it all. Dangerous and beautiful, inviting as any woman should be but hiding her blades underneath. She would have made a good shieldmaiden. ]
Upstairs.
[ Suddenly Ragnar stands, pushing himself away from his chair with a near stumble. Eyes follow but the cheer never ceases, the chatter barely notes as he begins to ascend upwards with their glittering guest. ]
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Besides, she had so much more to ask him than that. ]
After you.
[ She pushes her shoulders back, squares the line of her body with a rolling step that flows without pause, one after the other, behind him and up the stairs. One brief look around the room, taking it in if she needed to make a quick exit this way in the near future, and to see who was looking. Never anything too forgiving in her gaze about that either. She meets eyes without hesitation and rather more a challenge. She was a Queen, they would back down first if they came to cross her over it.
Her steps are light after him, barely there creaks on the old worn wood. Trailing her gloves over the balustrade, taking his invitation with a pointed easiness as she follows him to whereever it was he was taking her. ]
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About the middle of the room, upon a small table, rests a bottle of mead and a plate of food - appetizing enough for a man pained by hunger. He walks by it almost languidly, taking hold of the bottle as he moves past, to rest upon the fur covered bed with it in hand. ]
Now that we are alone you can speak your mind.
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Didn't matter, as her eyes skim the room over once again, hovering by the door and in that she doesn't venture too far in. Rather comes to stand by the table, leaning it against it with her hand tapping in a row. Watching him, tasting the ale in her mouth before she goes to speak. Bluntly as possible, with her head tilted a level gaze on him. ]
I have need of you, your experience, your reputation and your well-trained men.
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[ That is their trade now, after all, swords to fight for other men's wars. Sought in this country as much as the next, a reputation so wide it encompasses much of the sea. ]
What plagues you so that you would come to a dead man to help?
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[ She knows what she's saying would be unthinkable outside of this room except for every soul left abandoned to the men and women that were supposed to protect them and yet no longer did so. They were to be considered above such petty mortal means, but they weren't. Anyone else that had the blackwater knew that they were nothing more than just men who had lived too long and seen too much. Just like Ragnar, just like she was. ]
You have fought them, and the half-breeds, haven't you?
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Suddenly he stands, drinking deep from his bottle, steps taking him towards a window. To the encompassing darkness swallowing the streets, consuming all light. ]
I have fought many things, your beasts included.
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Then that is what I ask of you. [ Because this is it -- this is the only thing she cares about any longer. ] I need time to train warriors, fighters to protect the people here and see against the corruption that leaves them as victims of those who are meant to be protecting them. [ Tilts her face up, rolls her shoulders back. This is where she is ruler most: in her fierce need to protect and serve in equal turns. ] But I cannot do that with all sides breathing down my neck.
[ And that was where he came in -- ] I would ask you to protect the streets, and by doing so, your... reputation and the abilities of your men, will surely draw them away from my activities.
[ If he could busy their left hand, she could move the right. ]
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Laughter bubbles to his lips escaping with a low noise, muffled as he drinks. ]
You would have us be your goats. [ For that is the truth of it, the real truth, what she truly wants. ] Prance about and bleat, annoy them until all they become blind to you.
[ He turns back to her lips curved upwards, manic, eyes wide and wild. He relishes the chance she hands him, the promise of blood and violence and gunpowder. Opportunity to clash against the dangerous beasts of the night and then day, force his will against theirs and see who comes out whole. ]
I will do this, but my men... [ A sudden surge of movement has his return to the bed though he does not sit, resting instead a foot upon it, his body leaning towards her. ] They are not dead men, they thrive of money and warmth.
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I could not imagine asking anyone else.
[ Because it's an even opportunity for mayhem, he could be as much menace in his bloodlust as he could be her best ally. Only time would tell. There was a sense of letting a great beast free among the streets that Devi would warn her about.
Knowing so much of the past didn't always make predicting the future any easier though - who could tell what would become of this. She had made her bed now, regardless and to that end she does not pull away when he leans forward and instead moves her hands. Deliberately up, to undo the scarf and discard it over the edge of his bed. ] No, they are not. Warmth and money they shall have.
[ She'd be a fool coming here expecting charity after all. Undoes the first clasp on her jacket and tugs it open. It reveals a gold chain, as bright as her other pieces. It is strung with jewels and pearls, and one stone large enough to turn half the Empires envy as its centerpiece. Ruby that had not been hers, but rather her husbands, from long ago, when such things had mattered. ] This country's Queen did not get all our treasures to adorn herself. [ Her fingers run underneath the heavy set of gold and brings it up over her head. Letting it swing from her fingers as if to draw him in closer to her. ] Will this be sufficient payment?
[ Knew that it was worth a small fortune when sold off. ]
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Ragnar exhales, fingers curling into light fists, her hands bringing forth the jewel. Surprised the viking shifts towards her, closer, putting aside the drink he had been nursing. ]
How generous. [ Desperate, perhaps, it speaks of how much she needs them. Needs him, his reputation. The mayhem he will cause for her, directed in just the right places. ] With this you will have them wholly, blades and guns, they will fight your beasts with songs upon their lips.
[ As for him? Well, the queen does not need to buy what she already possesses. ]
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And you, Ragnar Lothbrok? Is blood and gold enough to buy you?
[ His stories said it would be enough, said it wouldn't be enough, either. He asked for one thing, meant another, was known for his turns and twists. She could not sure until it was all done. ]
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