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a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 28, 2017
For the first time inquire some time Wardruna’s hunts — not one but both of them! — had been successful. He’d taken his first fresh kill to @Noma and in rare and high spirits Wardruna told her she could choose whether she wanted to remain in Easthollow’s territory or whether she wanted to follow him into the neighboring glade while he tracks a herd he’s scented there the other day but had not investigated. The second kill he’d had good intentions of sending to the caches to replenish what Noma and him have eaten but in the end only a hindquarter ended up in the cache. The lure of fresh, warm and succulent meat had been to much of a temptation for the northerner and he wanted to taste the victory of an non-botched hunt achieved by his own self on his tongue. Victory, as it turned out, had a very sweet taste. Wardruna’d forgotten what it had tasted like: how the rise of his mood and confidence brought with it a sense of euphoria.
He slips out of Easthollow’s borders and pads along in an easy gait, the snow crunching beneath his paws as he moves, head bowed towards the ground every few meters to sniff at the earth. He catches sight of a tuft of fawn colored fur caught on one of the sparse spruces that inhabit the glade out of the corner of his right eye and veers off to investigate it. He draws in the scent and feels the trickle of anticipation as he realizes that it’s fresh. Much fresher than the day old scent trail he’d been following. Wardruna pursues the fresher of the scent trails, assuming that this lone deer will, ultimately, lead him to the herd.
He slips out of Easthollow’s borders and pads along in an easy gait, the snow crunching beneath his paws as he moves, head bowed towards the ground every few meters to sniff at the earth. He catches sight of a tuft of fawn colored fur caught on one of the sparse spruces that inhabit the glade out of the corner of his right eye and veers off to investigate it. He draws in the scent and feels the trickle of anticipation as he realizes that it’s fresh. Much fresher than the day old scent trail he’d been following. Wardruna pursues the fresher of the scent trails, assuming that this lone deer will, ultimately, lead him to the herd.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 28, 2017
current condition: old blood from a raven starting to wear off and rust; feathers stick out crumpled and haphazard from her pelt. she has mutilated her front legs with her teeth, and her ribs and hips are protruding.
she had lived through three seasons now and each of them brought forth splendors that the amnesiac husk got to experience for what she interpreted as the first time.
this one, so far, was her favorite. the forests were burning, leaves like embers falling to the ground. she had spent her days as of late playing, and although she had attempted to catch a rabbit (or two, or three..) her attempts had ultimately failed.
when she awoke to a fresh, very cold dusting of white across the lands, she very much would've liked to take the time to explore it more, but her stomach twisted in knots and her hips hurt from protruding.. perhaps it was time to try again.
but she was so small. even light game was difficult for her to catch. what a nuisance.
she scented, heading off towards a deerscent that she hoped would be promising, oblivious to the company that would await.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 28, 2017
Wardruna kept his ears keenly alert for any noises: be it the click of his prey’s joints as they moved or the footfalls of others. Eventually, the northerner’s pursuit of the lone deer that he still hopes leads him to the rest of the herd forces him to cross paths with another but …not what he was hoping. Wardruna’s steps slow and then they halt altogether as he fixes the woman in his right, jack-o-lantern eye, his black leathery nostrils flaring take in her scent. Lone wolf, though as much is evidenced in the protrusion of her hip bones. She is small and almost…frail looking. Not unlike the thrall he has at home though this woman would appear to be a bit older than the northerner and his proclaimed woman, though unlike Noma this woman’s pelage is of the finest alabaster and though she is what he might call underweight she is another lovely thing. Lovely, but mutilated and decorated with what appears to be feathers and old blood.
Wardruna's eyes glint with dark hunger. Not a hunger of the stomach. No, a different but familiar hunger.
For the moment, Wardruna’s tracking mission is put on hold as he studies her, ghosting forward, letting out a low chuff to garner her attention ( that is, if he did not have it already; and if he didn’t he certainly wanted it ). Noma was enough of a risk but … it is certainly far from uncommon of the wolves of Jötunn Spine to have more than one thrall. Wardruna’s had to adapt his life and his skills around the hyphema ( the pooling of blood in his iris ) of his left eye, to resulting blindness in it, the flesh around it marred where the fur refused to re-grow and yet the northerner saw no reason why he had to forsake his culture, too. In the Spine pack thralls had been a rite of adulthood and the number of thralls a wolf “owned” was a validation of power. A display of dominance in and of its own self; and like with Noma, Wardruna had set his sights ( for better or for worse ) upon the alabaster female he believes the gods have led him to.
Wardruna's eyes glint with dark hunger. Not a hunger of the stomach. No, a different but familiar hunger.
For the moment, Wardruna’s tracking mission is put on hold as he studies her, ghosting forward, letting out a low chuff to garner her attention ( that is, if he did not have it already; and if he didn’t he certainly wanted it ). Noma was enough of a risk but … it is certainly far from uncommon of the wolves of Jötunn Spine to have more than one thrall. Wardruna’s had to adapt his life and his skills around the hyphema ( the pooling of blood in his iris ) of his left eye, to resulting blindness in it, the flesh around it marred where the fur refused to re-grow and yet the northerner saw no reason why he had to forsake his culture, too. In the Spine pack thralls had been a rite of adulthood and the number of thralls a wolf “owned” was a validation of power. A display of dominance in and of its own self; and like with Noma, Wardruna had set his sights ( for better or for worse ) upon the alabaster female he believes the gods have led him to.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 28, 2017
she enters the personal bubble of another almost without noticing, but as his scent crosses with that of the deer she is pulled from her thoughts almost annoyingly so.
his fiery gaze draws in her attention before the gruff, savage noise that forms in the back of his throat and cuts through the silence between them. just like she, he has disfiguring scars although hers instead adorn her sides, hidden beneath a pelt of alabaster unless one looked close enough.
and, of course, the see-sawed gashes on her front legs from her latest fit.
she bobs her head to take the entire beast of goliath proportions in. his pelage is a drab slate of variegated grays — much like the sky was, that one day, no! stop thinking about it!. his candle-lit gaze is fixed upon her in a posessive, predatory manner and an anxiety creeps up within her that she too is going to become his prey.
and perhaps she will, but not in the way she presently thinks.
her head remains low but her consuming black gaze moves towards the direction of the herd and as she thinks about the ungulates — that this beast would absolutely demolish, — she begins to salivate.
the cold leads her to start quaking. although she does not want to appear any weaker than she is, she is nervous and frigid and there is not much meat to keep these bones warm. she tucks her tail in between her legs to touch her stomach and finally whines in response to him.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 28, 2017
Her gaze — Wardruna notes as he ghosts nearer so he might assess her more throughly — is a consuming shade of umbra, a curiosity …and the northerner is struck with the consideration that she may be the goddess of the underworld, the goddess of death and calamity. Or, if not the goddess herself then surely …surely one of her daughters. Immediately, she becomes a treasure to the northerner. He wants her. There is something about the frail ones that continuously draws Wardruna in. Not because he thinks they are weak — on the contrary, he’s found that the ones that appear, physically, the most frail and the ones with the strength of iron and fire of the sun in them; and admittedly he enjoys the challenge that strength of spirit presents, enjoys building them up and shaping them into the fiercest of choosers of the slain.
Wardruna watches as she tucks her tail between her legs and whines in response to his chuff. She’s afraid, he realizes, likely cold, too. Noma is a a bit thicker than her but only because she has been eating now, no longer refusing the food Wardruna brings to her. Even so, his first thrall does not put off an awful lot of body heat. “Ég mun ekki meiða þig” Wardruna croons to her in his native tongue and then translates it for her, “I will not hurt you.” And it is true. He treats Noma well ( even if she would dispute it though its her own stubbornness that draws his ire ); but of course he does not expect his word to mean much. There is little sense of treating thralls terribly in Wardruna’s mind: they serve a purpose after all and if they are starving or abused they are not capable of being useful; and he’s got need of Noma …and of this woman of the underworld. He draws nearer to her cautiously as to not spook her. Wardruna makes his intention known through body language: to press his nose gently to the fur of her neck to better discern if she’s ill or not before he’ll make his next play. He’ll not bring illness to Easthollow and more specifically Noma. If the alabaster woman snaps at him he will draw back: he doesn’t smell any discernible ailment but he wants to make sure, just in case.
Wardruna watches as she tucks her tail between her legs and whines in response to his chuff. She’s afraid, he realizes, likely cold, too. Noma is a a bit thicker than her but only because she has been eating now, no longer refusing the food Wardruna brings to her. Even so, his first thrall does not put off an awful lot of body heat. “Ég mun ekki meiða þig” Wardruna croons to her in his native tongue and then translates it for her, “I will not hurt you.” And it is true. He treats Noma well ( even if she would dispute it though its her own stubbornness that draws his ire ); but of course he does not expect his word to mean much. There is little sense of treating thralls terribly in Wardruna’s mind: they serve a purpose after all and if they are starving or abused they are not capable of being useful; and he’s got need of Noma …and of this woman of the underworld. He draws nearer to her cautiously as to not spook her. Wardruna makes his intention known through body language: to press his nose gently to the fur of her neck to better discern if she’s ill or not before he’ll make his next play. He’ll not bring illness to Easthollow and more specifically Noma. If the alabaster woman snaps at him he will draw back: he doesn’t smell any discernible ailment but he wants to make sure, just in case.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 28, 2017
the man closes the distance between them with long strides that make him appear otherworldly. he is fixed on her and as he moves closer she can see the gears turning in his head. some just get a look about them.
her anxiety increases before he speaks in a tongue she does not recognize (but does not inherently dislike) before following up in the language of the common — i will not hurt you.
she breathes out through her nostrils, the fog that escapes telling him that she has shifted from discomfort into contentment... or at least as content as she could be given her current predicament.
so if he wasn't going to hurt her, what was the intent of that determination? he continues loping towards her and he does not stop so she freezes, tensing but she does not snap or fight in fear as he noses her throat because he could kill her with ease —
— and perhaps she wishes he would! as she remembers the euphoria brought forth from tearing open her legs, but instead the only way her body chooses to betray her is in the raising of her hackles.
as he is underneath her (what a funny sight, with how small she is), she cocks her head slowly, another soft whine resting deep in her throat.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 28, 2017
Wardruna is contented by what he smells …or perhaps what he doesn’t smell and thus ceases to invade her personal space. He draws back and circles around her with a decisive slowness, giving her a once over. She is no worse for wear than Noma was ( ok, perhaps, a little bit more worse for wear ) but she does not appear as if she’s going to keel over at any given second and that’s a bonus to the northerner. So, he looks to the proverbial chessboard, wondering how he should make his approach: straightforward or subtle and whether consent is important to him or not. Noma had, in a way, consented: by way of their deal. He really doesn’t need it, per say, but it would certainly make it easier because he’s not trying to get him and his woman (women, maybe?) kicked from Easthollow. Yet, how to construct this without raising already beginning suspicions. One woman was not quite so suspecting. But a second ( and of a similar condition, no less ).
As Wardruna contemplates it all he draws in as he moves around the other side of her, brushing the length of his body against her’s, presenting a tease of bodily warmth. “I have chosen you,” The northerner begins to explain. “you who look like my goddess of death.” Wardruna nearly purls, choosing his words and translating them as artfully as he can ( though perhaps the language barrier tends to get in the way of the ‘art’ part of that ). “I have chosen you to be one of my thralls.” He explains, though like with Noma he decides to use the …kinder word for what a thrall truly is. “My home is not far. Come with me. I will take care of you.” In whatever capacity she wanted and/or needed it. Wardruna’s tone is imploring but it implies that there isn’t room for negotiation besides. He’s fixated upon her and if she does not come willingly then he will hunt her down, just as he grimly promised Noma …because Wardruna’s been denied too much in his ( short ) life and he’d sooner be damned to the underworld than be denied anything else. The Gods have brought her to him and he will not waste the gift they’ve presented.
As Wardruna contemplates it all he draws in as he moves around the other side of her, brushing the length of his body against her’s, presenting a tease of bodily warmth. “I have chosen you,” The northerner begins to explain. “you who look like my goddess of death.” Wardruna nearly purls, choosing his words and translating them as artfully as he can ( though perhaps the language barrier tends to get in the way of the ‘art’ part of that ). “I have chosen you to be one of my thralls.” He explains, though like with Noma he decides to use the …kinder word for what a thrall truly is. “My home is not far. Come with me. I will take care of you.” In whatever capacity she wanted and/or needed it. Wardruna’s tone is imploring but it implies that there isn’t room for negotiation besides. He’s fixated upon her and if she does not come willingly then he will hunt her down, just as he grimly promised Noma …because Wardruna’s been denied too much in his ( short ) life and he’d sooner be damned to the underworld than be denied anything else. The Gods have brought her to him and he will not waste the gift they’ve presented.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 28, 2017
mute characters, even selectively mute, are difficult to play! whew!
he begins to circle her. he has assured her he will not hurt her yet his actions are still predatory, posessive. she wonders what he is taking in — her gamine form? the blood that rusts her alabaster pelt?
she still struggles with such abstract notions such as the awareness of a self, she is not.. worried, or embarrassed by her condition. perhaps he is simply curious, the same way she is about him.
yet something about him strikes fear into the very depths of her heart, chambers pumping whup-whup! in rapid succession as he tells her that she has been chosen, that she is his.
it is not the posession that she is worried about. somewhere deep within she almost.. wished for someone to whisk her away, to care for her and mend her, for she was never meant to be alone. maybe it is the way that he looks, like the sky during a storm, cracked open by lightning.
he looks back at her and beckons, come with me, and wordlessly she pulls close behind him, taking her turn to scent him and look him over so long as he does not spurn her.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 28, 2017
She doesn’t snap at him, or attempt to move away. Does not even growl at him as Noma has done on numerous occasions. She allows him his assessment of her without fuss and for this Wardruna is pleased. Perhaps she would not fight him as Noma has done …it would be a welcomed reprieve to his frustration. Of course, it is his frustration and Noma’s fire that keeps the northerner infatuated with her — and he is infatuated with Noma ( and really, there was no sense in denying it ). It continues to fuel his possessive nature but a nature that his first thrall may no longer have to bear the brunt of alone. The hunt is now abandoned in Wardruna’s mind as he watches her, having to turn his head so that his right eye can fixate upon her as she nears when he beckons. Yet, she nears and it is evident to him by her body language that she means to take her own assessment of him. Though Wardruna thinks it’s unnecessary he allows it. He holds still for her and while she takes her assessment of him he tries to come up with how he was going to explain her presence to Valette and why it is important she stay with Noma and him. Though, he supposes there were ways he could work it. He has some time to think on it, at least. “What is your name?” Wardruna inquires of her, wondering if she will have her own name or if he will have to give her one as he had with Noma. “I am Wardruna,” The Northerner introduces himself next. “and my other thrall, my other …woman at home, she’s called Noma.” Wardruna informs her.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 28, 2017
he smells of a pack, and though it is obvious by his form and structure he smells of no illness. perhaps, she muses, she should be more worried about running off with some stranger who just promises he'll take care of her.. but what she needs right now is to heal.
all she needs to know is what he wants from her in return. her dedication? her loyalty? he has it, just as anyone else who would've taken her as a .. ward. a "thrall," as he so chose to call it though she could not place the meaning.
he asks her name and she decides that she should keep that to herself for now. and it wouldn't be unlike her to not have a name, now would it? she shakes her head at his question, and speaks only his name,
Wardruna?
he must think she is dull. but there is.. intelligence behind her umbra orbs as they bore into him, asking without vocalizing.
and he has another thrall! maybe she would be good company.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 29, 2017
i had trouble trying to decide on what i wanted wardruna to call her, lmao.
It seems she is to be like Noms: the quiet type. It would appear that Wardruna is attracted to that trait in his thralls as well. No, that wasn’t precisely true. Thralls are meant to be possessions, yes, but also companions and even in a pack full of wolves Wardruna is easily lonely so far removed from the life and culture he has known and still adheres to. He is still a northerner, still a heathen even though he is an exile, even though he is no longer fit to be the commander of the mighty rage warriors. He stills holds the skill but they’re of no use to him for they are skills learned and memorized when he had the function of both eyes and the loss of vision in his left eye — though it had taken away the, at times, unbearable agony ( times when he begged the gods to end his life ) the hyphema caused — he can no longer judge distance and depth as he once had. It is taking him too much time to readjust to and he knows that even if he adjusts to it he’d be too vulnerable on his blindside. Oh! How the seething self-loathing and bitterness tastes as if he’s just drank liquid metal. It is sour and metallic upon his tongue and he threatens to choke on it for a moment.
The alabaster woman shakes her head at him and repeats his own name back at him. Another without a name. That is fine, he thinks. He will just give her a name. He needs something to call her, after all. “I will call you Hella,” one of the many names of the goddess of the dead, fitting in and of itself because that is who she strikes an unbearable resemblance to if Wardruna were to give the goddess a form of flesh. A little bit tortured looking and a little bit ethereal at the same time. “I will take you to the border and we will talk to my leader.” Wardruna informed her, heading in the direction of Easthollow’s borders, still unsure how exactly he’s going to explain her and why it’s necessary that she stay in his den with Noma, but he has the feeling of dread that the presence of a second woman that clearly needs healing will mean that Valette will be much more pressing in the aid of the pack …if she accepts her at all. Yet, Wardruna wants Hella, he’s already claimed her, because perhaps she is a test. Perhaps she is the goddess in flesh form. Many travelers through their clan had claimed of coming across the gods in flesh form so this wasn’t an unheard of tale, after all.
The alabaster woman shakes her head at him and repeats his own name back at him. Another without a name. That is fine, he thinks. He will just give her a name. He needs something to call her, after all. “I will call you Hella,” one of the many names of the goddess of the dead, fitting in and of itself because that is who she strikes an unbearable resemblance to if Wardruna were to give the goddess a form of flesh. A little bit tortured looking and a little bit ethereal at the same time. “I will take you to the border and we will talk to my leader.” Wardruna informed her, heading in the direction of Easthollow’s borders, still unsure how exactly he’s going to explain her and why it’s necessary that she stay in his den with Noma, but he has the feeling of dread that the presence of a second woman that clearly needs healing will mean that Valette will be much more pressing in the aid of the pack …if she accepts her at all. Yet, Wardruna wants Hella, he’s already claimed her, because perhaps she is a test. Perhaps she is the goddess in flesh form. Many travelers through their clan had claimed of coming across the gods in flesh form so this wasn’t an unheard of tale, after all.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Hella - October 30, 2017
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okay but lowkey i love it. do you want to wrap up here and then get the easthollow thread rolling?
her ears perk up at her new name, and she offers a soft, full-body wag as the syllables roll, clunky from his forign tongue. yet still, she likes it! hella.
and then something she is not so keen on. what does this dude mean, we are going to talk to the leader? surely he understands now that she is almost entirely nonverbal. there are always so many thoughts buzzing in her brain that when she tries to speak it's difficult and disjointed.
but, she supposes, if she must. she waits for him to lead the way and dips her head at him. she supposes, of course, that she will follow him.
RE: a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr - Wardruna - October 31, 2017
:D! Sure thing! I'll get us a thread started in Easthollow asap!
Wardruna’s jack-o-lantern gaze flickers like the color’s namesake as he watches her give a full-body tail wag as he bestows it upon her. Wardruna has always believed in the importance of names — not unsurprising as his culture does not name children until they are one month of age and once the babes bare names they are therefore protected …but during the period of being unnamed they can be left for dead by the parents or killed by a fellow clansman without consequences; though, from what he saw it was only actually the goði that actually took advantage of that ( and occasionally a jealous lover ). Names could pre-determine a child’s path, their behavior. In Wardruna’s mind it expanded beyond the basic rights and protection that a name offered a child in his culture; and this belief extends to adults, too. He calls one of his thralls fate and the other the goddess of death, both fitting to the women that bears the name, in his opinion.
She dips her head at him and he circles around her and nudges her forward with a gentle bump of his nose to her left hip. ‘I will guide you in the right direction,’ it is meant to encourage; but he’d like to keep her in his line of view at all times all the same.
She dips her head at him and he circles around her and nudges her forward with a gentle bump of his nose to her left hip. ‘I will guide you in the right direction,’ it is meant to encourage; but he’d like to keep her in his line of view at all times all the same.