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+--- Thread: Stone Circle sit with you in the trenches (/showthread.php?tid=65782)
sit with you in the trenches - Anoré - April 21, 2025
@Askell, maybe? c:
it was over a week since her paws first crossed into the stone circle. a week of watching, weighing, wandering. now, she worked.
the moonwoman had not yet given draugr answer. but she made herself useful. she would not linger in another’s camp unless she intended to fight beside them… or make her own claim.
the seiðkona den she’d chosen was not one of soft moss and tucked-away warmth—it was a hollowed place between two great boulders, reinforced now with weaved bramble and driftwood. the mouth faced east, where sunfire would dry the herbs. it smelled of stone and pine, of crushed marigold and bark.
bundles of dried yarrow and nettle tucked in her teeth, a sprig of tansy knotted there, too. anoré sets them down with care, sorting her growing stores. the roots she bound in sinew; the leaves, she pressed beneath flint-stones.
this was a shieldmaiden's work too—silent, steady, and no less vital.
RE: sit with you in the trenches - Askell - April 22, 2025
Yeees
Àskell stood on all fours. He had survived, after all. In the end, exhaustion had not laid him low. He moved through the camp, silent and watchful, observing its figures from afar. Drøugr had already gathered a handful of men—formidable warriors of the North—and Àskell did not feel out of place among them.
Then there was the woman. Clad in silver, her face impassive, striking not by virtue of her size or stature, but by something more elusive—her aura alone was enough. Was she the one Drøugr had spoken of?
Hesitant—limping, in truth—Àskell had drawn closer, though he kept a cautious distance. The only women he had ever truly known were his sisters, who had watched him grow before vanishing one by one, wedded off to forge alliances with distant warlords. He remained a young man, timid still—undaunted by the battlefield, but confounded by women. They were far more complex than war.
He watched as she arranged her hut with deliberate care, adorning it with various herbs. Were these the signs of ritual? Or merely the refined touch of a woman? Àskell remembered that one of his sisters had loved beautiful things; she had once gifted him trinkets to weave into his fur—trinkets he no longer wore, and now, quietly mourned.
He no longer resembled the boy he had once been in those gentler days. A single battle had been enough to shatter him. His body was broken, aching—but like the phoenix, he would rise again. In time, once the wounds had closed, he would be reborn—a warrior tempered by fire.
RE: sit with you in the trenches - Anoré - April 22, 2025
olden years had made her senses sharp. and she feels the stranger's gaze on her long before he'd approached the mouth of the hut. her eyes slide over him, unhurried, to note every detail.
the man was young, lean. tempered by bleeding wounds and freshly cut scars that told of a warrior’s life. and there was a crimson hunger in his eyes. like a dagger, ready to be unsheathed.
and yet, the slight caution in his posture suggests he had yet to fully embrace the mantle. or maybe he simply found her strange.
she gestures with a jut of her head for him to enter, "sit," an order, but not unkind. she already begins to tuck dried yarrow between teeth and collects a ball of fresh moss she'd soaked earlier in the creek.
"your name, young warrior."
RE: sit with you in the trenches - Askell - April 23, 2025
He obeyed. He scarcely knew how else to act. He was still little more than a boy, one who, only yesterday, had followed the commands of his elders without question.
She bore no resemblance to the crazed crones or the beguiling mystics Àskell had seen serve as healers and shamans among the clans. She possessed something else entirely—something solemn, almost regal.
The tall youth had ducked his head to cross her threshold, imagining himself so grand he might brush the sky. Now curled in on himself like a child, the tattered remnants of his ears hanging along his cheeks, he stared intently at whatever the Silver Lady was preparing.
Àskell. Àskell Stóróflsson. The last son of Stórólfr,he said, as if presenting himself to fate.
Are you the wife of Drøugr?he asked.
The contrast between Vikings and their women was often striking. As far back as he could remember, Àskell’s mother had been all delicate grace, like a flower trembling in the wind, while his father had been a weathered colossus—more bear than man.