Stavanger Bay talking bodies

The babies are old enough to venture out of the den now — and I wanted to develop Jorunn's monochromacy more. :-)

Jorunn and his siblings had been growing rapidly, though such things went by unnoticed to Jorunn past the initial surprise of gaining something new that he had not had or been able to do before. The young legend adapted with a swiftness that would put the strike of a cobra to shame, adapting rapidly to his new developments. The oldest son of Ragnar had been enjoying the pile of regurgitated meat, growling at any of his siblings if they came too close, asserting his dominance. This would happen until he either ate his fill, or if Thistle intervened. Asserting hos dominance over his siblings was normal for not just him but his siblings as they battled to deduce the leaders of his small world (ahem, him, thank you very much) which did not too often center around anything but his own self interests. It included Floki, as his twin and their special connection but Jorunn did not understand it other than he'd always been particularly close to his twin than he was the other two. The eldest and the youngest Lodbrok. 

He was able to babble nonsense and recognize himself by the names Jorunn, or his least favorite Jorunn Eitri — he was not able to fully grasp the concept of trouble yet but his ears would splay back when he heard his “full” name, though this was mostly caused by the stern and sharp tone that his mother used to reprimand him in. Being scolded was not on Jorunn's list of favorite things.  He had topped the meat off with a few suckles of Thistle's sweet mother's milk before, with a full belly, he let out a loud, childish giggle and zoomed off, too large paws trampling the dirt under foot as he cantered in a fierce and determined beeline for light and according mouth of the den. “JUJU!” He screamed, his best attempt to say his own name, before with a toothy grin that would have put Ragnar's mischievous smirk to shame Jorunn dove out of the den and into the wide world beyond it, enraptured by it ever since Thistle had introduced it to them. 

His gallop faltered as he squeezed his eyes shut, the light hard for him to look at. It didn't hurt per say — there was no physical pain associated with his difficulty seeing in the average sunny day (though daylight was harder as it was) — but it caused some level of discomfort because he had to squint until his eyes 'adjusted'. Seeing the world strictly in shades of gray was no easy feat, and his ability to see was hindered. New as it was to him, damaged as it was, he had yet to grown accustomed to it, or to even realize that there was anything wrong in the first place. He stood still and peeked each eye open slowly, moving to a shady part nearby so that he might have an easier time deciphering the shades of grey to shapes and objects.

The curse of the Völva had already taken hold.