September 01, 2017, 03:31 AM
we can say that he is. i doubt he'd mind sharing a den with her, lol. ;-)
Atli dreams of fog and smoke and shadows. Of nothing specific and no one in particular: just the never-ending yawning stretch of Niflheim. The world of fog and the dead, ruled by Hel herself. The northman stirs awake enough to be aware of Potema’s absence as she stumbles away from him, but yet lingers in the realm of half asleep and initially thinks nothing of it, his head dropping back to his paws as slumber refuses to yet let the Berserker back into the world. Until he heard her retch. Velveteen ears twitched upon his ears as he startles awake, warrior instincts and training too far ingrained in him to ignore the noise even though he knew it wasn’t dangerous. Well, no, it was but it wasn’t the same kind of danger. There were only several things that made a woman vomit and as she didn’t strike him as being sick ( but alas he was no medic ) his mind could only jump to one conclusion. That didn’t mean Atli was correct though.
The ásabragr rises and careful not to wake the slumbering children he steps around them, struggling to find Potema in the dark for a moment, focusing on her pale shape with his good eye. He is greeted by the pungent scent of acidic vomit and his stomach turns on it’s own — ironic because there was little in the world that could turn the berserker’s stomach: blood, cannibalism, torture, the snap of bones. No. Vomit? Yes. He does not yet try to make sense of what they were to one another, what they had the potential to be, or what they may never become. Their …relationship is undefined, confusing, bizarre and he is not so sure what he is to call her. Is Potema too informal? Is High Priestess too formal? Undecided, he calls her neither. He moves towards her, making no moves to hide his footfalls so he did not startle her.
“Are you alright?” His lilting accent holds his genuine concern for her. He can’t help but feel it’s a heavy, loaded question and yet, it’s the only thing that the northman can think of to ask.
The ásabragr rises and careful not to wake the slumbering children he steps around them, struggling to find Potema in the dark for a moment, focusing on her pale shape with his good eye. He is greeted by the pungent scent of acidic vomit and his stomach turns on it’s own — ironic because there was little in the world that could turn the berserker’s stomach: blood, cannibalism, torture, the snap of bones. No. Vomit? Yes. He does not yet try to make sense of what they were to one another, what they had the potential to be, or what they may never become. Their …relationship is undefined, confusing, bizarre and he is not so sure what he is to call her. Is Potema too informal? Is High Priestess too formal? Undecided, he calls her neither. He moves towards her, making no moves to hide his footfalls so he did not startle her.
“Are you alright?” His lilting accent holds his genuine concern for her. He can’t help but feel it’s a heavy, loaded question and yet, it’s the only thing that the northman can think of to ask.
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1/3 threads
1/3 threads
you still wonder if you're
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —
a ferocious beast or a saint
but you're neither because
you're infinitely more —
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Messages In This Thread
She wears me down to bones in bed - by Potema - August 31, 2017, 11:53 PM
RE: She wears me down to bones in bed - by Kjalarr - September 01, 2017, 03:31 AM
RE: She wears me down to bones in bed - by Potema - September 02, 2017, 10:18 AM
RE: She wears me down to bones in bed - by Kjalarr - September 02, 2017, 10:52 AM
RE: She wears me down to bones in bed - by Koume - September 03, 2017, 12:47 PM
RE: She wears me down to bones in bed - by Potema - September 09, 2017, 11:31 PM