10-30-2015, 06:14 PM
I am iron and I forge myself
Lagertha is more like Scorch than she cares to admit, but it would be a cold day in hell before she ever says anything that could possibly be construed as admitting that fact. The main difference is probably that she thinks rank and titles and power should be earned - not bargained for or freely given because of the circumstances of one’s birth. You will never see her setting Sette or future children up to wear the crowns on their heads unless she thought they were the best one to do the job. Alliances may be bought with children and wombs, but she will make no promises of thrones.
No one appears after her, and unless it’s her gold and white Erinak, or her blue roan daughter, she doesn’t expect anyone else to.
He doesn’t reveal much about his time as a captive, but she imagines it would take a hell of a lot to truly ruffle the perpetually frozen man. That’s what the Tundra does to most, she assumes; it removes the heat of emotion and sets a blanket of unseen ice to chip away before one can even begin to know its members. Their king before Errant must have been an anomaly. She chuckles a little at his description, but it is not in malice - the birds that are in the Jungle are more solitary creatures - a flock of toucans would probably be obnoxious indeed. “I’ve run into a few Chamberlings myself. Spending a year amongst them would probably drive me to murder. You poor, poor man.” The last part has a teasing edge. He probably handled himself well enough. Even with his sabbatical, she is surprised he isn’t up on the latest developments.
Fuck. Crito is someone she genuinely cares about, and she knows she sees callous when delivering bad news. She exhales forcefully, dropping any pretense of amusement from her face and again approaches with the rip-it-all-off-at-once approach: “I’m sorry, Crito, I hate to be the one to tell you… but Scorch died… about a year or so ago.” She looks down for a moment, avoiding eye contact, and then back at the roan stallion before taking a step forward. “I’m the new Khaleesi.”
She cannot help the bit of pride that creeps into her words, and hopes that it is not too upsetting to her friend.
No one appears after her, and unless it’s her gold and white Erinak, or her blue roan daughter, she doesn’t expect anyone else to.
He doesn’t reveal much about his time as a captive, but she imagines it would take a hell of a lot to truly ruffle the perpetually frozen man. That’s what the Tundra does to most, she assumes; it removes the heat of emotion and sets a blanket of unseen ice to chip away before one can even begin to know its members. Their king before Errant must have been an anomaly. She chuckles a little at his description, but it is not in malice - the birds that are in the Jungle are more solitary creatures - a flock of toucans would probably be obnoxious indeed. “I’ve run into a few Chamberlings myself. Spending a year amongst them would probably drive me to murder. You poor, poor man.” The last part has a teasing edge. He probably handled himself well enough. Even with his sabbatical, she is surprised he isn’t up on the latest developments.
Fuck. Crito is someone she genuinely cares about, and she knows she sees callous when delivering bad news. She exhales forcefully, dropping any pretense of amusement from her face and again approaches with the rip-it-all-off-at-once approach: “I’m sorry, Crito, I hate to be the one to tell you… but Scorch died… about a year or so ago.” She looks down for a moment, avoiding eye contact, and then back at the roan stallion before taking a step forward. “I’m the new Khaleesi.”
She cannot help the bit of pride that creeps into her words, and hopes that it is not too upsetting to her friend.
Lagertha
warrior queen of the amazons