Totoka River We'll be sailing,

Her next comment delighted him; he enjoyed a good fight.

And the temptation was there as ever naturally would be, though he felt an inclination not to rise to her offer. Had he and Stjornuati been more established, there would have been no debate on whether or not to engage. Instead he was pigeonholed into casting a look of consideration, sizing her up and weighing his odds on just how menacing she could really be.

The same note was held in his voice as he swallowed it roughly.

“Kannski.” Clearing his throat of the considering note did nothing to change his voice. “Does you fight? You, ah, hermaðr? How you say, f-ight-er? Fighter?” Not quite the word he wanted in the translation, but many things were lost. He did not have a mastery or command over her tongue like his own; Stjornuati once again took the crown of being the omniglot of the two of them. Solpallur preferred the languages of the norðan fyrir ofan, not these pasty, cumbersome words he was forced into trying.

“Bardagi? That is, how you say, beating? No. Jaw-sparring. Fun.” he went on, his head bobbing agreeably. His version of compromising, provided she didn’t just tear him limb from limb right then and there. Not that she could, of course; he would have had to do the same in return.

His teeth clicked together.

“This one thinks this one be nice this time. Yes?”