[table width=85%][tr][td]
The setting sun cast an eerie glow to the Witches' Marsh, dull with it's drab greys and olives. The shrubbery was lackluster as the muck that was the marsh's floor. It smelled wretched — like partially digested lunch of a giant of the sagas. It's filth carved a disgusted grimace upon scarred lips yet he did not turn or deign to retreat around the marsh. Through it was undoubtedly the quickest way. To double back now would waste what precious light of the witching hour lingered. The devourer moved through the slick muck, snapping his sharp teeth together in belated annoyance each time he (occasionally) found a paw stuck in the sticky sludge and pulled up with force, splattering his marred face with droplets of mud (and other things he shuddered to think), a loud sucking noise accompanying the brief swell of relief that the freedom brought with it. Eventually, he found a path of solid earth, the dirty moss pliable and soft underfoot and followed it instead.
Ragnar's legacy bespoke to him across the distance, tales of his father falling had reached his ears even in Svartalfheim. As the rightful heir to the legend's throne as any, Rigr came prepared to conquer. Led by the calling of the Norns as they whispered in his dreams, weaving their visions of glory, fame and power. Whispering in his slumber that he, as a true Viking son, deserved the bloodied, ash tree and bone crown more than any of his brothers or sisters. He glimpsed about, bi-colored eyes staking out his path with unhindered hyper-vigilance, alert and unsettled. Rigr spared a glimpse over his shoulder once as his hackles bristled. He was assured that, for the moment, he was alone and yet he got the distinct feel of eyes on him. Perhaps it was the Gods, the Norns or the dead. Regardless, he kept pushing forth hoping to be gone from the marsh within the hour.
[/td][/tr][/table]Ragnar's legacy bespoke to him across the distance, tales of his father falling had reached his ears even in Svartalfheim. As the rightful heir to the legend's throne as any, Rigr came prepared to conquer. Led by the calling of the Norns as they whispered in his dreams, weaving their visions of glory, fame and power. Whispering in his slumber that he, as a true Viking son, deserved the bloodied, ash tree and bone crown more than any of his brothers or sisters. He glimpsed about, bi-colored eyes staking out his path with unhindered hyper-vigilance, alert and unsettled. Rigr spared a glimpse over his shoulder once as his hackles bristled. He was assured that, for the moment, he was alone and yet he got the distinct feel of eyes on him. Perhaps it was the Gods, the Norns or the dead. Regardless, he kept pushing forth hoping to be gone from the marsh within the hour.
and so we ask ourselves:
will our actions echo across the centuries?
will our actions echo across the centuries?
November 24, 2016, 07:26 PM
Quietly, quietly he followed. In the cover of dark, Voodoo stalked the wolf, though if questioned, not even he would know why. The desire was enough, and he was at the mercy of his whims. Perhaps it was the challence inherent in the terrain. All he had was sight, for the swamp erased all hope of tracking with scent or hearing. The damp moss softened his steps and held the shape of his quarry's, making the wolf easier to track and Voodoo harder to detect. The stench of the swamp helped mask him, though blinded him in turn, he had only his eyes to guide him.
He learned from the wolf, watching where the paw-prints sucked into the mud and where they revealed sturdy land. He followed and watched, and felt quite at home here in the deep. It embodied much of what his edgy little ass wanted to be; dark and mysterious and a little bit dangerous. It fell short of what he was, scrawny and awkward, but that didn't matter. It was the ideal. He certainly felt dangerous, stalking some stranger through the woods, watching but unseen in turn. He was naught but shadow, but the darkness between the trees. And he followed.
He learned from the wolf, watching where the paw-prints sucked into the mud and where they revealed sturdy land. He followed and watched, and felt quite at home here in the deep. It embodied much of what his edgy little ass wanted to be; dark and mysterious and a little bit dangerous. It fell short of what he was, scrawny and awkward, but that didn't matter. It was the ideal. He certainly felt dangerous, stalking some stranger through the woods, watching but unseen in turn. He was naught but shadow, but the darkness between the trees. And he followed.
November 26, 2016, 05:36 AM
thanks for joining! <3
[table width=85%][tr][td]
The unsettled feeling did not ebb, instead kept his hackles bristled in a display of warning though to whom Rigr did not know. Would he not have been an instinctual beast he might have thought it silly. As far as his senses told him — albeit dulled as the marsh made them — he was alone. He was not afraid but the eeriness steeled itself within his gut, washed over him, making him feel so on edge that he was a taut as a bow string. Even his heightened hyper-vigilance was leading him astray. A rustle of tall marsh grasses to his left drew the viking's fierce stare, his lips curling back over his teeth. He could not shake the feeling. If anything the further he moved into the marsh, the more heightened it became. Someone was watching him and there was no way it was the Gods or the legion of dead. Not even the Norns had ever made him feel so utterly uncomfortable.
There was an itch seething beneath his skin, an eagerness to spill blood. The excitement tickled with the rush of adrenaline, the sound of his heart beat and rushing blood in his ears as they rose, alert atop his skull. His tail gave a warning flick before he turned, abruptly, a low snarl tearing from his curled and terse lips. There was no one as far as he could see and yet he did not rely on his eyes, nor even his ears or nose. The marsh was blinding the senses that he relied on so heavily to live. This was a test orchestrated by Odin, perhaps, he considered. A test of his intellect. Was the Allfather's goal to drive him mad? Or to see if he could break the chains of madness as they threatened to settle upon him like a binding weight?
“hver er þar?” He demanded, the guttural words of his native tongue calling into the marsh, swallowed by it. “Show yourself.” Next came the command, this time in the heavy flow of the common tongue, foreign and wrong upon his tongue. He did not use it much in Svartalfheim. It occurred to him that he was likely talking only to ghosts, to nothing but he took the chance nevertheless. Whether it was growing paranoia or his intuition was correct Rigr was determined to find out.
[/td][/tr][/table]There was an itch seething beneath his skin, an eagerness to spill blood. The excitement tickled with the rush of adrenaline, the sound of his heart beat and rushing blood in his ears as they rose, alert atop his skull. His tail gave a warning flick before he turned, abruptly, a low snarl tearing from his curled and terse lips. There was no one as far as he could see and yet he did not rely on his eyes, nor even his ears or nose. The marsh was blinding the senses that he relied on so heavily to live. This was a test orchestrated by Odin, perhaps, he considered. A test of his intellect. Was the Allfather's goal to drive him mad? Or to see if he could break the chains of madness as they threatened to settle upon him like a binding weight?
“hver er þar?” He demanded, the guttural words of his native tongue calling into the marsh, swallowed by it. “Show yourself.” Next came the command, this time in the heavy flow of the common tongue, foreign and wrong upon his tongue. He did not use it much in Svartalfheim. It occurred to him that he was likely talking only to ghosts, to nothing but he took the chance nevertheless. Whether it was growing paranoia or his intuition was correct Rigr was determined to find out.
and so we ask ourselves:
will our actions echo across the centuries?
will our actions echo across the centuries?
December 04, 2016, 10:04 PM
of course! i can't resist threads with you lmao
Oh yes, this was fun. While not a violent beast at heart, Voodoo had a cruel streak a mile wide, cruelty he preferred to devote to more subtle acts. This day, this hour, he was the crawling feeling at the back of your neck. He was eyes in the dark, unseen but watching. He was a ghost, his malice intangible.
Voodoo wasn't too good in a fight, which would only be a problem if he was discovered. As it was he was pleased to spy, pleased to hone skills that would only be practical to a wolf in a pack. If he was found, he'd run. If he was caught, he'd fight. He wasn't a betting man, but if he was, it wouldn't be on him in a fight. All he could do was skulk, but damn was he good at it.
It took a good deal of self control to swallow his laughter when his victim began to speak. Rather than respond (like an idiot) he hunkered down, pressing flat to the ground to better hide himself. Sure, the smell was terrible, but it was worth it for the continuation of his game.
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »