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Saga
Jan 24, 2021 1:42:41 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2021 1:42:41 GMT
Fellbjorn had been surprised to hear his name called, especially after he had well and truly given up hope that Arlan would come to wish him farewell, by then. Seeing the very man he had been thinking about raised his spirits immediately, his countenance clearly lightening up, even as the red-head had faltered, aware of the many eyes on them. Eyes, that Fell did not see, his full attention on the other.
Arlan’s words were well-fitting, the warrior’s features softening, the tension in his shoulders easing. He took a step towards the other, wanting nothing more than to embrace him. Instead, he paused, hesitating, before reaching for Arlan’s wrist. Bringing his hand up, he turned it over and opened his fingers, placing the trinket into the man’s waiting palm, before closing his fingers over it. “I wanted you to have this.” He murmured, clasping Arlan’s hand in both his own, before raising his gaze again and withdrawing his touch. It was a necklace, the small wooden symbol carved by his own hands. A simple piece, but with great significance.
“It is Ægishjálmr, a symbol of protection.” Fell explained, continuing before Arlan could argue. “It is a symbol used by warriors, often it’s drawn directly onto the skin, like this…” As he spoke, his hand rose, and gently, he traced the symbol with his thumb onto Arlan’s forehead. "Sometimes with paint, often... with blood." his voice rumbled, his words quiet and for them alone. He seemed to hesitate when it came for him to draw his hand away, as he did so, slowly. Another pause, Fellbjorn studying Arlan’s face for a long moment before continuing.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but it doesn’t hurt to have the Gods on your side- mine, as well as yours.” His characteristic lopsided grin punctuated his words, lightening the mood once more. He heard his name called then, and without turning, he raised a hand to illustrate that he would be but a moment. Then he moved in, but instead of reaching for Arlan to kiss him, he’d placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing him in and pressing their foreheads together, his eyes closing as their skin met. It was a motion Arlan would have seen many times before between many different people; fathers and sons, old friends, brothers and sisters and of course, lovers. It was a universal sign amongst the Vikings of great respect.
Then, without a word, he drew away again, turning and making his way down the wooden walkway, grabbing onto the side of the ship and hoisting himself up, easily. He did not look back. He was welcomed by joyful claps on the back, the men buoyed and excited about the journey ahead, the people on the shore cheering as the ship slowly began to draw out of the harbour.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2021 2:58:03 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2021 2:58:03 GMT
Arlan was glad with the eyes on them that Fellbjorn had hesitated before embracing him, never one for the public displays as so many others were doing around them. Fell obviously didn’t care that much who saw him, but after the boisterous announcement and subsequent interest he’d managed to attract, he was less thrilled about being seen.
He did watch wordlessly, surprised as Fell grabbed his hand to put something in it. He’d been about to make a snide remark about not being told that the Viking was leaving, but his words were cut short as he opened his hand to see the carving. Fell seemed to know that Arlan would hesitate taking such an item, trying to explain and demonstrate its use. Instead of focusing on his words, Arlan watched Fell’s face carefully, expression unreadable.
Perhaps it was this expression that prompted the Viking to add that he did know Arlan was able to take care of himself, but before he could say anything someone had called for him. Arlan’s gaze was the one momentarily drawn over, still holding the necklace in his hands even as Fell said his silent goodbye.
Arlan stood on the dock as the ship sailed off, watching even though he knew Fell would be too busy to look back. It would be hard for the next few weeks, he knew, but as the ship began to shrink on the horizon he pulled the cord over his head, looking at the carving before letting it drop against his chest, again looking out. His words were soft, spoken perhaps only because there was no one there to hear them… even if maybe, the gods would help them be felt.
“Just make sure… you come back to me.”
---
Watching over Arlan soon became a tortuous fate, Baldur discovering early on how damnably difficult it was keeping track of the slave when he didn’t want to be followed. Magnhild was now not an uncommon sight around the village, training for handling crowds of people and the unpredictability of village life. So he muttered a curse and kept circling the village, trying to find some trace of where the Celt had run off to this time.
Ever since Torsten’s attack, Arlan had acted more withdrawn. He’d taken to exploring the woods, the crunching leaves under the horse’s hooves a good distraction in the stillness. The world was turning golden as the autumn days drew on, putting a chill in the air. As was now so common, the two were hiding in a small glade that seemed to offer a respite, with no sense of anything Viking nearby. The horse stood eating at some long weeds as the slave practiced with a bow, the dull thuds that echoed dimly being arrows embedding themselves into branches marked with a knife as makeshift targets.
Arlan had looked as if he was centering himself, rolling his shoulders before taking aim again. His aim was fairly good, but as the next arrow launched the Celt cursed, obviously not satisfied with the control. Again a twist of the arm, as if trying to loosen up his grip, like any warrior would do after a long break from fighting. With a grimace, Arlan aimed again, occasionally stretching the bow twice, making sure his muscles remembered the proper flow. It made his arms sore to practice so much, forced into recalling one movement, one gesture that used to be as natural to him as breathing.
Another week’s efforts, and Arlan’s aim didn’t cause him to grimace. As if waking from a deep sleep, his body quickly adapted back to the way of the warrior, the marcach, moving to practicing with Magnhild. She had relished in the racing back and forth as Arlan fired, each successive attempt better and better. The mare could feel the Celt’s growing excitement as they worked, and her own energy burst when combined with his. At last, she leapt into the air, as if flying over some unseen obstacle, the arrow launching and striking true to center. Even as they landed Arlan let out a whoop of victory, as close to a war cry as had ever passed his lips in these foreign lands.
The happy if crazed smile dropped the instant he realized he wasn’t alone, as Baldur was staring at the target, his expression unreadable in Arlan’s flare of panic. Of course he’d been questioned about carrying around the bow and quiver, and he’d answered that it was for hunting. But to see him doing this…
“Odd method for hunting,” Baldur commented, finally raising an eyebrow as he walked over to the makeshift targets. Pulling out an arrow, he glanced back, and even he could see the tension in Arlan’s form, making Magnhild paw at the ground anxiously. He seemed to consider his options, namely since Fell wasn’t there to challenge or question. But in the end, he walked over and offered up the arrow to the slave.
“But, I think that was beginner’s luck.”
Arlan took the arrow back, momentarily speechless as the Viking laughed, walking to the edge of the glade with his arms over his chest. “I’ll bet you a bottle of mead that you can’t do that with her mid-air a second time,” he challenged, hiding his interest in seeing the stunt a second time. Arlan considered carefully, but slowly that same wild grin slid across his face, pointing the arrow at Baldur momentarily. “I hope you enjoy losing.”
---
Finally, the day arrived that the raiding party had been sighted on the horizon. For the last few days, Arlan had taken to waiting for Fell at the dock as the sun rose, as if he could spot the ship coming home as soon as possible. Then it would be moving on to Magnhild, to training… how many times had Arlan wondered why Baldur hadn’t turned him in for practicing his fighting. In fact, it only seemed to make him curious. Fighting on horseback was not a common trait in the village, so the more Arlan could do, the more Baldur seemed impressed... then challenged him to more. Even Magnhild had seemed to taken a liking to the Viking, although her nibbling at his plaits from behind did little to endear her to him in return. It had gotten to the point where Arlan forgot to be curious why the giant would be watching out for him, even as the time Fell was away dragged on.
But at last, the ship was coming into the dock and warriors started to come off the ship. Arlan again found himself running along towards the ship, eyes scanning the faces as he passed. Baldur was there too, although he found Fell first, face darkening like thunder. As Arlan turned to see, his own grew still for a moment, the lump in his chest suddenly seizing up…
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Saga
Jan 24, 2021 15:02:10 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 24, 2021 15:02:10 GMT
As the docks steadily came into view, Fell felt his sour mood lifting somewhat, the prospect of being back with Arlan the only thing that could raise his spirits. The mood of the entire party was subdued, the area too small to engage in whispered questions, falling instead to exchanging grim glances amongst each other. Their silent support for Fell was shown in small gestures, offering him a drink, or a firm clap on the shoulder as they passed by. They knew only what Fell had told them of the incident, but even so, there was a collective feeling that the men knew what it must really mean.
It had happened the night before.
The men had been celebrating. They had raided a small Viking village that had belonged to a long-time foe of Earl Eirik, the same people had attempted to raid one of their smaller settlements a few summers ago, so it felt a fitting reward to return the favour. Spirits were high, stolen mead running like water. The moon was high in the sky and it truly felt as if the gods were sharing in their success. The beach was aglow with a makeshift bonfire, the flames reaching high, its crackles drowned out by the raucous laughter of the men. Although having been involved in the celebrations, Fell found himself on the edge of the gathering, seated on driftwood as he watched the proceedings with a faint smile on his face. Two drunken men passed close by, stumbling over the sand dunes. They didn’t draw Fell’s attentions until he thought he heard Arlan’s name uttered from one of the men’s lips.
Fell had paused, his bottle halfway to his lips. By the time he turned to see which of the men they were, they were already disappearing up the dark slope, heading towards the cover of the trees.
He should have left it. He should have scented a trap. But his brain was mead-addled, and hearing Arlan’s name had unnerved him, paranoia creeping in. So, unarmed, he had followed.
The beach led up to a wooded area, the dark trees standing like sentries. The light of the bonfire did not reach here, so it took a few moments for Fell's eyes to adjust to the lack of light. It was quieter too, as if the very wood absorbed all sound. Glancing around revealed no-one, leaving the warrior confused as to why the men would come so far up. It was this thought that preceded the strike.
He heard the weapon whistling through the air, turning just in time to see the glint of the moonlight along it’s edge. Fell’s body reacted instinctively, his arms coming up to redirect the strike, the man stumbling away, turning quickly to attack again.
Which was when Fell felt the searing pain in his side.
With an almost inhuman growl, Fell reached round and grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking it so that the dagger pulled out, blood spurting across the ground. He twisted the man’s wrist, hard, also sending a knee into his stomach. The man cried out, dropping the dagger as a bone in his wrist popped out of joint. As the other man came towards them, Fell shoved the first figure into him, missing him, the man continuing his charge and hitting him bodily in the chest. The force sent them both into a tree, it’s branches shaking with the force. They grappled, the dagger held high, pointing towards Fell’s face. Suddenly, the warrior headbutted the other, hitting him square in the face. The man howled in pain as his nose practically exploded, and Fell did not wait for further invitation. They tumbled to the ground, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw. Then he felt a weight on his back, and something tight around his throat. Immediately his air was cut off, and he grabbed at it, trying to get his fingers between it and his throat, throwing himself back so that both of them tumbled, rolling on the grass. It was enough for one of the man’s hands to loosen, and Fell could breathe again, sweet, heavenly, crisp night air flooding into his lungs.
A pain in his leg, the first fallen man having swiped at him desperately from the ground. Fell kicked him in the face, temporarily dazing him enough for him to deal with the first man. He had no idea where the other dagger was now, so he used what he did have at his disposal. His hands, strangling the man as he had tried to strangle him. He pressed hard, his beastly strength spurred on by his adrenalin, and he heard the snap, the man falling suddenly limp beneath him.
The man behind came to just a moment too late, and with a strangled cry he brought the dagger down again. This time when Fell tried to bat it away, it nicked his arm, but he didn’t feel it as he sent his fist sailing into the man’s face. They grappled some more, then the area was silent and still again.
Both men lay dead.
Fell was breathing heavily, more from exertion rather than pain, his vision spinning and reminding him of how drunk he was. When he had been fighting, things had been crystallised by necessity, details becoming sharp and focussed. Now, he felt the mead reminding him that it had him in it’s grip, and in some ways he was thankful for it, as it numbed the pain of his wounds. He could hear voices, far-off, jovial voices calling for him, a few men having noticed his absence, with no idea yet as to what had happened. Fell didn’t respond immediately, looking down at the men. Though it was dark, he could see their faces. They were some of the volunteers that he hadn’t known. He began to search them, quickly and effectively, looking for any token of payment, something that might reveal who had sent them. Nothing revealed itself to him. He stood back up, his eyes drawing up to the sky, the gods staring down at him.
Only two people had a grudge against Fell, that he knew of.
Torsten and Earl Eirik.
***
It appeared that no-one in the raiding party knew the two men well enough to be too concerned about the bloody outcome of the fight, except for how it had left Fellbjorn. It turned out the men had been quiet and reserved on the way over, failing to endear anyone to them, and now that they had tried to kill someone who was greatly respected amongst them, it was enough for the men to turn their backs on the strangers. As such, the men had not been buried, left instead where they had fallen. A gift for the pigs, their flesh an offering for the crows.
The mood was sombre on the journey back. Fellbjorn had told the men that he had been attacked, and those who attacked him were no more, and nobody wanted to push him further, the look on his face not inviting conversation. As they drew steadily back home, he only felt his fury grow, the death of the men doing nothing to satiate his rage. It was only the thought of Arlan that brought him down, causing him to stop and try to think clearly rather than reacting on instinct. He wanted to go to Torsten and beat him into the ground, again, except this time permanently. He wanted to go to Eirik and behead him. But he knew what these things meant. He had no proof that either of them had sent the men, to kill Torsten after the people had considered his punishment served, would be considered a wrongful killing, punishable by death. And killing Eirik would not be simple, he would need to challenge him to a duel, and if Fell won, which he was confident he would- what then? He could not simlpy return to life as it was. Earls were challenged when one wanted their Earldom, and that was not something that Fell truly wanted.
As they pulled into the dock, the shore was alive with excitement, at complete odds to the mood on the boat. Baldur was one of the first to notice the grave attitude of the men, his own face dropping, smile fading. Something had happened.
As the boat was docked, Fell climbed out, the drop to the wooden gangplank heavy, sending pain rocketing up his leg and side. When he turned to approach Baldur, there was a noticeable limp in his step. The concern of the warrior’s face turned to one of fury, especially as he noticed no-one else seemed to be injured like Fell. “What happened?” He demanded. Fell smiled grimly, the motion devoid of humour. “I have to go to the Earl.” Was all he said. He needed to announce that two men were dead by his own hand. In Viking law, a killing had to be announced immediately, if the man is open about his reasons, and if the explanation is reasonable it’s not considered murder. Or at least, that’s how things should go, but with Eirik it was sure not to be so straightforward.
He stepped past an objecting Baldur, his hand on his shoulder to assure him that all would be well, but paused as he came face to face with Arlan. Immediately, his countenance softened, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief just at the sight of the man.
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Saga
Jan 24, 2021 16:52:38 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 24, 2021 16:52:38 GMT
Arlan stared at the limp in Fell’s step more than anything else, all too familiar with how such an injury could change one’s fate. The haunted look softened as his eyes lifted to Fell’s own gaze, which seemed to have lost their own edge at seeing him.
Rather than asking what happened, however, Arlan knew well enough other things had to be attended to first. He had seen on one other occasion the need to explain oneself to the Earl, and from the comparison with the others it was easy to tell that was where the Viking was headed next. He wanted to know, quite obviously, his usual mask of calm disturbed. But instead he went for what was more important than his concern.
“I’ll send for Ruald,” he said flatly, in spite of the look in his gaze. Fell might trust Dag, but Arlan trusted Ruald. The old monk had not been engaging with others quite as much, his take on the Viking language still stilted from lack of experience, but those that he had helped had started to respect the man’s wisdom with herbs. And his praying was no less strange to them than Dag’s nearly incoherent ramblings anyway.
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 0:24:47 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 0:24:47 GMT
If Arlan had demanded to ask what had happened, Fell knew that he would have no willpower to deny him, despite brushing off Baldur only moments before. So, he’d been thankful when the man had instead announced that he would call for Ruald, allowing Fell to do what he needed to do without interruption. As for Ruald, although the warrior would normally see to his own wounds, conversation or any following argument over this could wait till later. For now, he was just happy to see the man, as evidenced by drawing him into an innocent, quick embrace, before moving on.
***
They waited a while for Eirik to show his presence, so by the time he appeared to take his seat, the low muttering had turned to loud debates, as the people discussed what they had heard and how they thought events might proceed. Turid had sat waiting as much as the rest of them, stony-faced and tight-lipped. She’d tried to catch Fell’s eye a number of times, but the warrior had avoided her questioning, concerned gaze, revealing nothing, his eyes fixed on the empty seat besides her.
Eventually, though, the Earl was seated, the voices lowering to a murmur again as people waited in earnest to hear what had happened, and what Eirik would think of it. He took his time inviting the warriors to speak, instead calling a slave forwards with a wave of his hand, who poured him a drink. Only after taking a swig did he sit back, and finally motion for Fell to start talking.
“Earl Eirik.” He began, a hush falling about the place as Fellbjorn began. “The raid was successful.We brought back many treasueres.” The Earl smiled, clapping his hands. “Wonderful!” He announced, his voice sounding shrill in the silence. After a short paused, Eirik looking around at his people, he added- “Such sombre faces!” when it was clear no-one was going to join him in celebration.
“Two men, of the names of Toke and Njal, are dead by my hand.”
The murmur started up again, gasps of confusion rippling through the crowd. No-one, however, stepped forwards to confront Fell, no weeping woman throwing herself at his feet for her lost husband. Fell continued.
“The men attacked me, the first striking me from behind.” He lifted his arm slightly, where he had been resting it against the blood-soaked bandage that had been haphazardly wrapped around his waist. Murmurs rose again, the cowardly strike shunned by the people. “With Odin as my witness, I killed them because they intended to kill me. If any should wish for revenge for their fallen brothers, I welcome their retribution.” Despite his words, no-one stepped forwards. Were these men really such loners, or was it just that none dared to challenge Fell’s strength? Either way, Eirik was in no rush to fill the silence that followed, regarding Fell thoughtfully, stroking his braided beard.
“And, I don’t suppose, there were any witnesses to this?” Again, no-one spoke up. With a lengthy sigh, Eirik sat up in his seat. “We shall put it to the people. All those who think Fellbjorn’s actions were warranted, raise your hand.” Most people did so, those that didn’t, it was unclear as to whether it was because they were neutral on the situation, or were about to vote against the warrior. The Earl looked bored, already knowing what the outcome of his next question would be. “And all those in favour of punishing Fellbjorn for wrongful murder?” A few hesitant hands. Eirik scanned the crowd for a few moments before fixing Fell with his steely gaze once more. “It seems luck, as always, is on your side, Fellbjorn.” Then, louder, as he spoke to the crowd at large, he stood up, raising his mug. “Your warriors have returned victorious! We shall feast tonight, and share their riches!” This, was indeed something the crowd could cheer to, and they did, raising their voices and their mugs in reverence to the warriors and their successful raid.
People began to disperse to get ready for the feast that evening, no longer gathering around the thrones of the Earl and his wife, but Fellbjorn did not move immediately. He held the Earl’s gaze for a moment, and in that instance, both knew that Fell knew what he’d done. Then, with a ghost of a smirk, Eirik had turned away. Only when the gaze was broken did Fell turn away too, and Baldur was quick to accost him. “I should have been there.” He growled, voice low, drawing Fell into the same motion the man had performed with Arlan, their foreheads pressing together. “What’s done is done.” Fell merely replied, and as they pulled away, he added, “Thank you for doing what I asked.” Referring to Baldur’s watchful eye on Arlan in his absence. The man merely waved his hand, gratitude making him uncomfortable. “And yet I see no pretty slave for my troubles." Fell laughed, then winced slightly as the wound in his side twinged. "Come. You should get yourself patched up.”
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 1:07:28 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 25, 2021 1:07:28 GMT
Given the proximity of the buildings, it hadn’t taken Arlan long to get Ruald, even helping with gathering up certain herbs and supplies in a rucksack. The two had paused outside the longhouse, listening carefully, although Ruald knew he was only catching snippets of what was said. So instead of watching through the crack at the door, he watched the Celt, whose focused attention showed it was a topic of concern.
His breath caught at Eirik’s remark to Fell, faint enough that he questioned what he heard. There had been a tone in his voice that chilled him, the statement itself almost a threat. But soon enough there was cheering, Ruald looking up at the door as he readjusted the bag on his shoulder.
“The Earl does not like your master,” the monk said softly, although the likelihood of anyone understanding English nearby was unlikely. Arlan nodded, his gaze drifting to the side. “Most want him as Earl instead,” he replied, Ruald’s expression one of not quite surprise at the news. “Then you should take extra care, my son. Strong hands at your plow mean little if the wood is cracked.”
Arlan’s mouth twitched into a bit of a smile at that, recalling all too well their conversation all those months ago when first reunited after the raid on the monastery. The analogy was obvious to him; should anything happen to Fellbjorn, should he die or end up as Earl himself, it would simply make the slaves’ eventual escape all the harder. But a hand on his shoulder brought him back, Ruald staring at him with a quiet look that made the Celt pause. “Don’t decide in haste,” he emphasized, this time his meaning unclear, but he didn’t explain further as Vikings began to pour out of the longhouse celebrating already.
The two slaves pulled to the side, but Ruald had seen the children coming for him. So he handed Arlan the bag instead, shushing his protest quickly. “You’ve worked with me for a year. You know enough to help for now. Go,” he ordered, Arlan uncertainly following after Fell and Baldur with the bag in hand. As he left, Ruald watched him for a few moments more before his attention was grabbed by the two children, who eagerly dragged him along for their own version of a boisterous celebration.
A plow with a crack did not mean more eyes upon him. It meant Ruald knew better than Arlan did about how stiff his resolve was to leave.
Arlan’s pace was hurried to catch up with the Vikings, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he walked in silence. His own limp was still acting up with the running he had done in such a short time, almost as if out of sympathy for Fell’s own step being hindered. Now he knew what had happened, and he couldn’t help but think things would have been different if he had been there. Not that a slave like him would be allowed on a raid… for one, he would be seen as likely to draw iron on his fellow raiders as he was on those he raided, given the fight he had put up before.
But there was a sunken feeling in his chest, even as the pendant Fell had given him still hung protectively against his skin. He’d been attacked from behind, a coward’s strike to get what he wanted. How little worth as a warrior he was seen hadn’t felt so sharp before, perhaps explaining why it was so easy to accept Baldur’s challenges. If nothing else it was validation of what he still clung to.
If the opportunity ever arose where he could fight again, would Fellbjorn even believe he’d stand a chance? He wasn’t sure of the answer, but didn’t dwell on why it bothered him so much.
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 1:57:20 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 1:57:20 GMT
Fellbjorn had sudddenly paused in his step, turning to search for Arlan, his countenance calming as he laid eyes on him. Baldur had left them then, and they walked alone towards their hut. “I’d have thought you’d be happy.” Fell broke the silence after a while. Following this surprising statement, he smiled at Arlan, looking amused. “Well, it makes two of us doesn’t it? Now I understand what it’s like to have a limp.”
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 2:11:37 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 25, 2021 2:11:37 GMT
Arlan’s step had paused alongside Fellbjorn’s, his expression shifting to confusion at the remark. Confusion… with an edge that quickly turned to anger.
“Why would I be happy about that?!” he snapped, for once not caring if he was overheard as his voice wasn’t hushed as it so often was out in the open.
“If you’d focus on the task at hand, rather than getting distracted and letting your guard down, then you wouldn’t be in such a mess all the time! Baldur should have gone with you, so you could’ve had two halfwits making one halfway decent defense!”
Arlan may have been guessing as to how Fell had been cornered by the two men he had then killed, but his anger did something else. As bitterly as he had growled at the Viking, turning on his heel and using his experience with his own limp to storm ahead to their hut, the strongest tone in his voice had been his worry. He’d managed to hide it until then, his breath only calming a little as he stepped into the longhouse, nearly throwing the satchel from Ruald onto the bed, his jaw still clenched.
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 2:27:19 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 2:27:19 GMT
Fellbjorn looked well and truly taken aback by Arlan’s explosive response, and when the man angrily turned on his heel and stalked away, his brow furrowed. “Halfwit?” He repeated to no-one, knowing that it must be an insult, but for the life of him not knowing what it meant. He followed Arlan then, but paused once he reached the doorway of their hut. A slight smile had returned to his lips, feeling as if he understood where Arlan’s anger had originated from due to his concerned tone, deciding to test the waters further rather than let it go. He leant up against the doorframe, watching the other for a few moments before speaking again.
“So… you were worried about me?” He teased, unable to stop himself, despite the fact that he knew it was very likely that Arlan would throw the help back in his face if he pushed him too far.
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 2:41:07 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 25, 2021 2:41:07 GMT
Arlan had been digging in the satchel when Fell spoke, looking up at him with a momentarily unreadable expression. There was surprise, but it quickly melted back into anger, again turning his back on the man.
“Why would I be worried about you?” he began, voice tense, and really that was where he should have ended. But he didn’t. “How could I possibly think that someone with as thick a skull as yours wouldn’t fall right into the middle of a viper’s nest because he can’t even see over his own oversized feet!”
With a huff, Arlan paused, closing his eyes as he tried to get his temper under control. He was rambling, his insults and words making no sense, and all he really wanted to do was punch the man’s lights out himself.
“Why, indeed?”
The look Arlan gave Fell at the ever so slightly bemused tone was ice, sliding over with as much venom as he’d been spitting before. Throwing the bandages he had collected back into the open bag, he quickly turned and started for the door. “Fine, you can bandage your own fucking injuries,” he growled as he went, fully intending to march off… anywhere that wasn’t with the infuriating Viking.
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Saga
Jan 25, 2021 23:40:17 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 25, 2021 23:40:17 GMT
Fell had just continued to look amused, especially as the other began to stumble over his words. But as Arlan threw the bandages and made to storm out, he realised he may have pushed the man too far. As he passed by, Fell grabbed his arm, halting his departure abruptly. Any barbed retort was quickly silenced by the warrior’s lips, as he drew Arlan back and into a heady, passionate kiss, his arm around the man’s waist, pressing their bodies flush together. It seemed Fellbjorn still had his strength, despite his injuries, and the time away from Arlan had not lessened his passion for him.
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Saga
Jan 26, 2021 19:49:59 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 26, 2021 19:49:59 GMT
Arlan was a moment away from arguing when Fell’s lips silenced his, and his irritation didn’t lessen from the action.
It stalled it, however, evidenced as Arlan pushed back into the kiss a few quick moments in, ignoring the open door or Fell’s injuries as he grabbed a handful of the Viking’s hair to keep him in place.
When they finally parted for want of breath, Arlan’s pant was deep, heady, eyes opening to stare into the cool blue gaze. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he growled, showing that his temper hadn’t forgotten everything after all, but he made no move to leave, whether to escape the longhouse or to fetch the bandages.
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Saga
Jan 26, 2021 22:20:47 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 26, 2021 22:20:47 GMT
Fellbjorn had only chuckled in reply, he had certainly noticed how Arlan had drew him in to deepen the kiss. “I know.” He agreed. No argument there, at least not this time. He brought his hand up then, running a strand of Arlan’s red hair between his thumb and forefinger gently, his face turning serious. “I missed you.” He uttered softly.
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Saga
Jan 30, 2021 3:27:34 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Jan 30, 2021 3:27:34 GMT
Arlan’s expression stilled a little, as it always did when Fell would do something so intimate and gentle, studying his face for a few moments before his gaze dropped, all his confidence in the kiss before, in his anger, disappearing rapidly.
“Fell… w-we should, patch you up,” he finally managed, but the pink tinge to his cheeks as he turned away was telling enough. Instead of admitting the same, he pushed away towards the bed and bag of herbs, knowing the motions, the mixtures he could make… but unsure what the next step was.
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Saga
Jan 31, 2021 2:14:53 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Jan 31, 2021 2:14:53 GMT
For once, Fell willingly allowed someone else to patch him up, with little complaint. After being away from Arlan for so long, any touch was from him was welcome. Besides, with the man tending to him, it gave Fell chance to misbehave. Occasionally he would grab the man as he passed by to get something, such as clean water, or he’d take his hand and pepper it with kisses whilst it reached for bandages. All was done so playfully, distracting the man constantly, until he had again threatened to leave, looking quite serious and flustered. Then, Fell had had to settle for worshipping the man with his eyes instead, throwing him a cheeky, lopsided grin whenever the slave met his gaze.
Fell had definitely missed Arlan.
***
Fellbjorn had healed quickly, or, he had simply refused to let his wounds slow him down. Either way, he had continued on pretty much as he had been before the raid. The way he acted worried Halvar somewhat, as it seemed to him that Fell was almost goading the Earl to try again, rather than laying low for a while. He would start fights over nothing, walk home late, alone and drunk, like he always did, with seemingly little self-awareness of his possibly precarious position. He couldn’t tell if it was because the man was so sure that the Earl, or whoever had sent the men, would not try again, or he was confident that he could take them on if they did. Either way, he had tried to caution Fell about it, concern that the warrior had only waved away.
It was true, Fellbjorn had indeed found himself feeling stronger in the wake of the attack, the wounds gained doing little to dissuade him from this new excessive sense of self-assurance, seeming only to strengthen it instead. Maybe it was because he was buoyed by Arlan’s presence, whom had seemed closer to him than ever before, as if the distance had changed his feelings towards Fell- for the better. Or maybe it was because Fell simply refused to be intimidated by the impending danger. Either way, he felt spirited and alive.
“Arlan!” Fellbjorn practically launched the door of the hut open, which had been ajar, startling a chicken who had discreetly wandered in. The warrior had paused for a moment, watching it flee in a flurry of feathers to escape outside, before continuing with just as much gusto as before. “I’m going hunting!” He announced, striding in to grab his bow and quiver.
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