Sleeping Dragon Feathers

He looked awful though Gyda surmised that was more of circumstance than it was a lack of hygiene. He was, likely, not able to properly care for himself and while Gyda could not speak for any of the others she would not be one to aid him in that endeavor. She turned her nose up at him, a flick of her tail stating her displeasure though her snobbish attitude she'd decided to take towards the prisoner had never been unclear, even from the very beginning. Ragnar had treated his prisoners much better than the shield-maiden deigned to treat Thuringwethil but then again Dagrun had taught her that to take prisoners was to waste. She was moderately satisfied when the half-breed let out a whine and lowered himself to submission but it wasn't enough. The fact that he still drew breath he alone owned to Thuringwethil, who stood as a barrier between Cirrus and Gyda's teeth. For that, he was lucky.

Wrong answer. The viking queen's hackles bristled with her irritation and her upper lip curled back from her teeth in a warning. “No,” The Scandinavian woman spat. “Perhaps that answer appeases Thuringwethil but not me,” Thus far, Gyda had allowed Thuringwethil to make decisions without her consent, but they were partners. Equals; and she would actively raise her voice from this moment forth: starting with this prisoner. “What are your skills? What can you offer Drageda?” It wasn't about what she wanted: it was about what the pack needed and if he could offer anything she deemed useful.