01-05-2016, 02:36 PM
I am iron and I forge myself
If there is ever a kinship that goes beyond blood and forsworn sisterhood, it is in those that have drunk the bitter draught and let it consume them - for days or months or years, or the entirety of their life. It wasn’t childhood, or the lack of a mother that left an angry tang in the back of her mouth. It was Scorch. It was Scorch and everything about her that made her spit the woman’s name to the ground and trample it into forgotten memory. Who’s name is now on everyone’s lips, while the naked rat lays rotting on the beach? Who will accomplish what Scorch never could? She has no vast family to set upon thrones and no mate to coddle, no one to temper the iron as it is brought from the forge. Only the Sisters and her.
Lagertha.
Bitterness and ambition have been the meat of her meals and the mead in her cup, from the day that Scorch was chosen General over her. She gnawed on the bones and grew drunk on flagon after flagon until fate flew in her favor. Bitterness, she knows. Bitterness and anger, she can use. Someone with a bit of an edge - Smother had taken to the trees and Tantalize disappeared again - someone to file and hone and focus it constructively.
Her tattoos have reappeared, silver lines that twist and twine together in angles and curves down her face and across the bridge of her eyes, falling elegantly to her chest , to spread in a broad chestplate. The rose grows as wild thorny bushes will, looping in and out until it becomes part of the design. This one is no fool, it says, though no words are actually spoken. She watches and waits, searching for the right addition to the Sisterhood. Then this one comes along - all flurried hooves and huffiness, muttering to herself like the disturbed do. Interesting. Her ears prick forward to catch the other mare’s words, and when she thinks she has them, takes a couple steps out of the shadows.
“One day, what?”
Lagertha.
Bitterness and ambition have been the meat of her meals and the mead in her cup, from the day that Scorch was chosen General over her. She gnawed on the bones and grew drunk on flagon after flagon until fate flew in her favor. Bitterness, she knows. Bitterness and anger, she can use. Someone with a bit of an edge - Smother had taken to the trees and Tantalize disappeared again - someone to file and hone and focus it constructively.
Her tattoos have reappeared, silver lines that twist and twine together in angles and curves down her face and across the bridge of her eyes, falling elegantly to her chest , to spread in a broad chestplate. The rose grows as wild thorny bushes will, looping in and out until it becomes part of the design. This one is no fool, it says, though no words are actually spoken. She watches and waits, searching for the right addition to the Sisterhood. Then this one comes along - all flurried hooves and huffiness, muttering to herself like the disturbed do. Interesting. Her ears prick forward to catch the other mare’s words, and when she thinks she has them, takes a couple steps out of the shadows.
“One day, what?”
Lagertha
warrior queen of the amazons