Stavanger Bay vikings mourn their dead

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“Ég er því miður faðir,” Gyda murmured to the mound beneath her through her harsh weeps. She had left him, and now he was gone until she saw the halls of Valhalla herself. A cowards death would not solicit her a place within the Odinn's Hall, no. Only a death befitting of a Viking would see her there. Only the greatest of warriors were chosen by the Valkyries and while she had won the challenge against her uncle she had so much to prove to Odinn yet. The earth of the mound was as unyielding and cold as any other piece of earth, though she draped herself over it, similar as to how she had draped her self across his strong shoulders as a small pup and after some time her sobs became hiccups and soft weeps. Ragnar had achieved what all of their kind aspired to achieve. He was where he was meant to be — though Gyda could not bring herself to fully conform to that thought. Not yet, anyway. For rather than the Viking Queen she was, she felt like little more than a lost little girl. A little girl's whose only wish was to be reunited with her father.

Something stirred in her chest, a slight flutter of discouragement. Though death was the ultimate prize for the Norse it was not something Ragnar would want from her. Not now. Surely she had a long life yet to live. Her destiny in these Wilds was not yet clear to her but she felt it was where she needed to be. Company was not something that the young Drottning had expected, nor was it particularly welcome at present. She was in no fit state to play hostess and yet it would seem that she was given no choice. The sounds of approaching footfalls, heavy (at least heavier than her own) drew nearer and Gyda rose from the mound, shaking dirt free of her coat, attempting to make herself look presentable — a habit of composure only nurtured by her leadership in the Cove. She was no Queen here, not to these wolves, but that did not mean she would relinquish what Dagrun had taught her. Ragnar had never been less than what he was, had never allowed anyone's opinions on him to deter him nor change him no matter how negative, so why should she?

When the other figure shrugged into the clearing, Gyda did not move from the foot of the mound, looming over it. It was nothing but earth and rotting flesh and bones, yet it was the only presence of Ragnar Gyda believed that she had left. “Hail,” Gyda greeted the stranger, studying her with acute curiosity, having first been confused that the scent labeled her as another female but her build suggested something much more sturdy and bulky. The frame more commonly seen on males (or at least this proved true to Gyda's personal experience thus far). “hver ert þú og hvers vegna kemur þú hingað?” Gyda was not accustomed to speaking the common tongue, the native language of her father the only language she'd used when she'd struck out with Nerian and further used to communicate with the wolves of the Cove. 

After a few moments it dawned upon her that the Norse that slipped from betwixt her lips was likely random noises to the broad woman. Gyda adjusted her stance, muzzle lifting ever so slightly as she contemplated their common translation. “Why are you here,” The words were slow as Gyda attempted to puzzle them out, the common tongue words enunciated by the thick accent of the Scandinavian's even in the soft lilt of her voice. “What is your name?” It had been too long and Gyda found her common tongue to be rusty. She much preferred Norse, she realized, but did not draw attention to this inner ephihany as she awaited a response to her questions.