12-03-2015, 11:05 AM
I am iron and I forge myself
Lagetha does her best not to boast, to simply state the facts; she cannot help if the facts themsevles are impressive. And if it is impressive that Crito is looking for - try this on for size. Her prowess is no joke, at the tender age of five, she beat the Tundra’s ageless general in a traitless battle, and she’s been on the upswing ever since. Every warrior has their weak points, and Lagertha is no exception - they just might be tougher to find when the iron lady coats herself in an actual layer of iron. Her weakness is Anguisette, and Rhy, and the very few that she holds in high esteem or close to her heart. Crito is one of those few, whether she likes to admit it or not. Her love for Crito is not Eros, the lustful, romantic type of love; it is, instead, a cross between Agape and Philia, a love between equal and genuine friendship.
He smells like… himself, crisp and clean and oddly void of anything other than his own sweat. That is the smell of snow and ice, she thinks. Anyone could tell she is from the Jungle by the seeds and thorns she carries in her mane and on her coat. He has nothing but shag. And yet, they are more alike than she and Scorch were, for all that an oath called them Sisters. The coolness of his ice-land runs rationally through her veins, instead of the hot-headed impulsiveness of their previous Khaleesi.
She stays still, living in the silence of his confession. It requires a response, but for once, it takes her a moment to form the appropriate one. It isn’t a matter of making up her mind, it’s a matter of… making sure all is understood. When she does arrive at the answer, she starts with a murmured quip, “I’ve heard emotions make me more relatable, but that tends to cut into the big, bad, Warrior Queen image. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Crito, because I actually admire you and enjoy our friendship. But if you have to go and die too, leave a piece behind to keep me company.” Ahh… there it is, the Iron Lady has a molten core after all. She shifts her weight to lean into the graying stallion, giving a physical assent to the verbal. There can be no mistaking that.
He smells like… himself, crisp and clean and oddly void of anything other than his own sweat. That is the smell of snow and ice, she thinks. Anyone could tell she is from the Jungle by the seeds and thorns she carries in her mane and on her coat. He has nothing but shag. And yet, they are more alike than she and Scorch were, for all that an oath called them Sisters. The coolness of his ice-land runs rationally through her veins, instead of the hot-headed impulsiveness of their previous Khaleesi.
She stays still, living in the silence of his confession. It requires a response, but for once, it takes her a moment to form the appropriate one. It isn’t a matter of making up her mind, it’s a matter of… making sure all is understood. When she does arrive at the answer, she starts with a murmured quip, “I’ve heard emotions make me more relatable, but that tends to cut into the big, bad, Warrior Queen image. Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Crito, because I actually admire you and enjoy our friendship. But if you have to go and die too, leave a piece behind to keep me company.” Ahh… there it is, the Iron Lady has a molten core after all. She shifts her weight to lean into the graying stallion, giving a physical assent to the verbal. There can be no mistaking that.
Lagertha
warrior queen of the amazons
[sorry i suck...]