Wapun Meadow cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments

Sif. Wife. More specifically, Wardruna corrects himself mentally, the second wife of the God of thunder. She moves closer and the northerner’s heart beat increases slightly in excitement, he realizes. Because she is lovely, because she is like him. It doesn’t matter if she is northern or not: she knows the tongue and he thinks that to call her thrall would be a disservice to her. If only he had that revelation with the others. Wardruna does not realize that he speaks too fast for her, though he has an inkling that she’s not all together as fluent at Northerner than he is ( the time it took her to answer his question hints at such ) — but that’s ok! The important thing is she knows the language and presently it’s all he needs. “Sif,” He repeats upon his softened, accented tone. She has closed some of the distance upon her own but space still lingers between them. He assumes she takes in his scent and he, with a flare of black, leathery nostrils, does the same. Lone. Healthy enough. She appears to look strong but she is still too far away for him to do a proper assessment. “hvað er sagan þín?” Wardruna inquires, speaking this question slower, reminding himself of his previous epiphany regarding her fluency earlier. He could be wrong but he could be right; in truth all that mattered was that they were of the same people ( or rather he assumes this to be the case ) and that he wanted her. As a thrall …as a wife? Specifications hardly mattered at the moment. He only knows that if this goes well that he cannot and will not take her to Easthollow. His time there, he knows, is coming to a close. Their meddling and intervention with Noma aggravates him to the point of snapping — and he knows it’s only a matter of time before that happens.

For now, Wardruna tucks such contemplations and thoughts aside as he focuses on Sif once more, eager to hear what she is willing to share with him.

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