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Saga
Feb 7, 2019 23:27:09 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 7, 2019 23:27:09 GMT
Arlan paused at hearing voices on the other side of the door, setting down the last bite of food before deciding to stand and walk to the door. While part of him was less than thrilled with his actions, stooping to listening at keyholes as Ruald would say, he also knew the importance of knowing one’s enemy. And in spite of everything… from sparing the Viking to the Viking sparing him… he still clung to that construct, as it was the only one that made sense anymore.
He came into the conversation, from the other side of the door, at the risks their Earl was taking. Arlan recalled the response of the invading force at having most of their treasure taken - it had, after all, nearly made him laugh in the midst of many large, armed and angry men - and somehow wasn’t surprised to hear the bear Fellbjorn was the leader. He did roll his eyes at hearing the man’s praises being sung, but regretted it with a wince from moving his eyebrow too far. Oh… where was Ruald with his healing herbs when you actually needed the monk…?
At hearing the conversation end, however, Arlan’s eyes widened as he immediately retreated from the door, managing to catch himself before hitting the chair and sitting down again silently, just managing to settle before the door opened. Holding his breath for a moment to force it to sound calm until it did so naturally, Arlan watched the Viking enter, not without a look of wary uncertainty on what was to happen next. He had a few guesses, thanks to his time with the English, after all…
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 0:10:22 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 8, 2019 0:10:22 GMT
Arlan’s guesses were all about to be proved wrong. For one thing, as Fell entered, he was joined with another. The two men laughing and joking as they were, it took the stranger a moment to notice Arlan. When he finally did, he had paused, clearly running his eyes over the man curiously, his gaze especially seeming to linger on his hair. Fell, meanwhile, frame tucked under his arm, moved to where he had placed the furs for Arlan the night before, setting down the structure there instead, before retrieving a handful of furs and dragging them over the bed. Noting the sudden silence, Fell glanced from Halvar to Arlan, the former whom was looking at him expectantly. “Halvar, this is my slave, Arlan.” He motioned, taking the rabbits to plonk them down on the table. “Your slave?” Halvar repeated, sounding surprised. “Wait, from England?” “Why don’t you ask him?” Fell looked amused at the quizzical look on Halvar’s face. “He speaks our tongue. Or, at least, close enough that we can understand each other.” There was no mistaking it; there was a certain edge of pride to his words as he spoke. Halvar looked from one to the other, clearly trying to discern whether this was a joke or not. Finally, his gaze settled on Arlan. "Are you... English? From England?" he asked, uncertainly, eyes flickering over to Fell to watch his expression, as if waiting for his face to crack into a smile.
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 0:58:15 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 8, 2019 0:58:15 GMT
Seeing the second man enter had Arlan slowly rising from his chair and pulling back a pace, his expression still wary but steadily growing confused. Especially at seeing the strange thing in Fell’s arms, not recognizing it as a bed until it was placed on the floor. That clearly gave him pause, uncertainly watching Fell as he pulled the furs over to his own bed. It wasn’t until Fell introduced him as his slave that the defiant look returned, his gaze hardening at the man for a moment before looking back at the stranger Halver.
It was almost funny the look Arlan got at being asked if he was English, eyes widening before growling his response, lip curled. “I’m not one of those English bastards!” he nearly spat, tense with fury and momentarily ignoring Fell. “I’m Celtic,” he firmly stated after taking a few moments to calm himself and answer without as much promise of a fight, in spite of the fact that he wasn't in much of a position to.
To have been so protective of one of the “English bastards” and yet be so quick to condemn them… what had Ruald done, then, to earn a reprieve?
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 1:36:06 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 8, 2019 1:36:06 GMT
“I think that was a no.”
Fell had spoken, clearly amused at the outburst. Halvar, in comparison, looked shocked, perhaps more due to the fact that Arlan really could speak their language rather than the flood of emotion that had followed. Then, unexpectedly, he broke into a good-natured smile, turning his attention to Fell. “Well, you’ve certainly got your hands full, Fellbjorn! A redhead as well, no less. You know what is said about those!” Fell had cleared away shavings from the table with a sweep of his arm, and was now in the process of skinning the first rabbit. But upon his friend’s words, he paused, looking towards him with interest. Seeing this, Halvar continued, gaze moving back to Arlan appraisingly, looking him up and down again. “Fiery hair means a fiery heart. And a fiery temper, too, apparently.”
Then, for the first time, he spoke to Arlan directly. “I did not mean to offend you, Arlan. I have been around Celts, a good, sturdy people… most of them, anyway. You have some interesting gods and goddesses, if I recall.” Again, Fell’s eyes flickered up as he worked, but for the moment he remained mute, letting the interaction play out as he worked on the second rabbit. “I should like to hear more about them, should you see it fit, one day.”
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 2:06:11 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 8, 2019 2:06:11 GMT
Fell’s amused reaction only earned a dark glare, in large part due to how self conscious Arlan felt at their quiet response. Again, he waited for the rebuttal, and again he found himself confused at how calmly they took his defiance.
Even if Halver’s appraising look earned a challenging stare.
The man’s words, however, softened his gaze, and for the first time he seemed unsure of his angry words given the respect that Halver showed him. A slave.
These Vikings were confusing.
“Fine,” he began, his gaze flickering to Fell before going on, caving to a question he had since overhearing their conversation outside, given how the name kept coming up. “Then, you can explain who Valhalla is.”
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 16:42:15 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 8, 2019 16:42:15 GMT
Halvar looked pleased with Arlan’s answer, tipping his head slightly in response, looking forward to further conversation on that subject. In one swift motion, Fell had skinned the last rabbit with expert hands as the red-head spoke again.
There was a pregnant pause at what he said, in which both Fellbjorn and Halvar seemed to freeze, their eyes locking with each other. Then, suddenly, both were caught in fits of laughter, throwing back their heads in thunderous mirth. Arlan’s expression, clearly at a loss as to what he had said that proved to be so funny, only seemed to give the men further ammo towards their amusement. Fell eventually calmed down enough to actually speak, finally taking pity on Arlan’s bemusement, “I’m sure Halvar will be very pleased to tell you all about who Valhalla is…” Halvar bit his tongue at that, grinning, trying to stop the bout of laughter threatening to follow, now he had finally managed to stop, “But first,” Fell continued, approaching the fire with all three rabbits clutched in his hand. “Let us eat.”
***
The conversation had been easy after that; the two clearly close friends, despite the distance recently experienced, and whilst they spoke, Arlan’s presence was now ignored, although the food clearly extended to him if he wanted it. It became clear within the conversation that bouts of disappearance were quite normal for the traveller, Halvar, although he vowed they would be much less in frequency now his child was born. As they moved onto the subject of family and what Halvar had chosen to name his daughter, Fell had listened with attentiveness seemingly at odds with his warrior façade. Eventually, bellies full and leftovers wrapped and stowed away, Fell had motioned for Arlan to join them as they stood to leave.
Passing through the village, the slave would be able to see the settlement properly for the first time. Instead of a village populated with warriors, as propaganda would have people believe, it was not very different from poor villages of England. Most of the buildings were small and all were made out of wood, and people bustled about busily, herding animals, collecting water in heavy buckets or selling wares on small makeshift stalls. Still, Arlan received curious stares from those who raised their eyes to watch the small party pass, the novelty of the red-headed ‘English’ slave not yet waning and unlikely to for a while. It would be the same kind of treatment the monks would receive, but as of yet, their walk had revealed no sign of such men. It should perhaps not be too surprising, considering the size of the settlement, that they had yet to come across them. Passing by a blacksmith, it soon became clear as to where they were heading. A large building, not quite as big as the Great Hall but still marginally more impressive than surrounding buildings, proudly baring a pair of shields either side of the double doors, the doorframe intricately carved. Upon close inspection, some of the markings were painted in a faded yellow. Fell approached boldly, pounding on the wooden door twice, before stepping back and waiting with his fingers hooked into his waistband. A few seconds later, a young boy, clearly a slave but of Viking descent, opened it. At sight of them, he stepped to the side to allow them entrance, but didn’t need to announce their arrival as Turid greeted them immediately, calling over from her place at the hearth. “Fellbjorn! Come in. And… is that Halvar?" They entered as she stood up, approaching them, stopping before Fell with a smile on her face, they touched their foreheads briefly, the warrior leaning down in a way that was clearly well-practiced, but as she moved to greet Halvar, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up from the floor with a laugh. “It’s good to see you, Turid!” He exclaimed, letting her drop merely a moment later, the woman smiling serenely, un-phased by the action. "And you too, wanderer."
Upon looking around, it was clear by the lavish surroundings that this was no normal Viking home. Banners hung from the beams, as well as all manner of decorations such as the antlers of deer or pristine shields hanging on the walls. Whilst the main area took on very much the same design of other buildings they had seen so far, with a fire pit in the middle, separate areas of the room were cornered off using wooden screens, just higher than head-height but not reaching the beams of the high ceiling. These sectioned off the Earl and his wife’s private chamber, and on the other side, the private dwellings for the slaves, of which they clearly had many. Currently, the Earl was absent, and of slaves they could see two, the young boy who had let them in, and a middle-aged woman with long black hair, both of whom busied themselves with offering drinking horns to Turid, who waved it away, and Fell and Halvar, who gladly accepted. The woman paused before Arlan, clearly uncertain for a moment, but upon pointedly glancing at his wrist, she moved away without offering him one. As the drinks were poured, Turid exchanged words with the boy-slave. Nodding, he disappeared to the back of the house, stepping behind one of the wooden screens and out of sight. Evidently, he had opened a back-door, as a sudden chill could be felt.
Moments later, the boy returned, closely followed by Ruald, with two small children at his heels, the same two that had greeted Fell so fervently the day before.
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 17:23:15 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 8, 2019 17:23:15 GMT
While the two friends spoke, Arlan was perfectly happy to be kept on the edge, eating slowly after having already devoured what had been left on the table. He did keep eyeing them, however, now certain that he must have completely misunderstood the word “Valhalla” given how much they had laughed, and not corrected him.
But being left to his own thoughts made it easier to ponder his situation. This was not at all how he expected to be treated, as a slave with the English he was kept separate, with the other few survivors of the battlefield and were quick to dismiss them like beasts of burden. At least at the monastery he had been treated as a human being again. Here? For now, there felt like very little difference between being a slave and, what? Part of the family? The scars from his first round of slavery kept him on edge, still waiting for the axe to fall.
As they readied to leave, Arlan was quick to try and hide his limp, although the food and rest were finally mending him. While the two Vikings said nothing about it, the Celt noticed easily enough that their pace was not as rapid as that of the villagers as they passed by, slowed no doubt by his own pace. Given the last few days, Arlan for once ignored pride and didn’t try to match pace. If nothing else, it gave him more time to see the village, silently noting how similar it was to the town outside the monastery.
Fell had been right about one thing. Arlan had no idea where they were, or how to get away even if he did escape. So while his defiance would undoubtedly spark, especially if given the sort of leeway that the Viking seemed inclined to offer, he wouldn’t try to run. Not until he knew exactly where and how.
As they approached the large building, Arlan turned to look around again, a worry wrenching his gut. Where were the monks? He might have ended up with a master lax on punishment, but the others might have ended up with a villain like Ove. Young novice Tutilo worried him in particular, a slender boy better suited to writing books than he was to hard labor. And Ruald… where was Ruald?
Arlan followed Halver and Fell into the house as they were greeted, immediately taking in the space as he had been with the village. Points of entry, the blocked off spaces… his attention was yanked over by Halver lifting the woman, Turid, finally noticing the two who were serving drinks. Not knowing the distinction between slave and owner here, he gave the older woman a curious look at her pointed stare before moving on, checking his own wrist and those around him as if that would answer his question. Some wore bracelets, some didn’t… ah. Strange sort of coding… but it certainly was better than shackles. Again, he didn’t mind being kept to the side, able to study and learn rather than having to deal with the Vikings himself.
This wary line of thought, focused solely upon understanding his enemies better, was immediately derailed as the monk was led in, looking reserved but perpetually confused… until he laid his own eyes on a familiar face. “Arlan!” he said with a sudden smile, arms opening as the Celt rushed over for a firm embrace, the limp completely ignored as a wave of relief came over Arlan. “Oh, praise God you’re alright…” the monk said as they parted, even as he checked the wrap on his arm and the bruise on his forehead, the Celt pulling his head back to avoid too much focus on his injuries.
“Which one?” Arlan asked with a wide grin, one that instantly grew mischievous as the monk smacked his arm with a mock glare. “Whichever one that seems to keep your hide in one piece,” he replied, shaking his head a little, even as he seemed to recall the two children at his side. “You’ll have to be my interpreter while you can,” Ruald added, looking down at the curious eyes before looking back at Arlan, who had glanced over at the Vikings, his eyes regaining their wary edge. “I’ll help you best I can, old man,” he said softly, Ruald taking the nickname more smoothly than he normally would have let the Celt get away with.
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Saga
Feb 8, 2019 22:55:54 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 8, 2019 22:55:54 GMT
Turid looked pleased with herself as she watched the two slaves reunited, before turning to the men. “Halvar, I hear you have a daughter. Congratulations.” “Thank you, lady Turid. And you!” At this, he pointed at the two children, who smiled back coyly, in an uncharacteristic show of wariness. “Do you not remember me, little Sigrid? Well, you were a child when I last saw you, now look at you, you’re almost a woman!” As he praised, the girl grinned, stepping forwards, but grew shy on her approach, leaning into Fell instead, who ruffled her hair in response. Halvar laughed, then turned his attention to the younger boy next, his eyes lighting up. “And who is this? I don’t believe we have met before.” Turid smiled, motioning for him to step forwards, which he did, eyes wide on Halvar’s face as his mother introduced him. “My youngest, Jary.” She spoke soothingly. Halvar slowly moved down to a crouch, so that his face was level with the boys. “Jary. That’s a good name, a strong name! I once met a great warrior named Jary. I hear he was so mighty that when he went to Valhalla, Odin himself invited him to fight besides him.” At these words, the boy’s eyes widened in awe.
The conversation was interrupted from a squeal of excitement from Sigrid, as Fell suddenly grasped her, lifting her up with ease, practically throwing her onto his shoulders, her legs either side of his head. Then he moved as if nothing had happened, to the table to fill his drinking horn casually from the jug of mead. “Don’t be fooled, my friend. These children are vicious, you must always watch your back.” He spoke conversationally, his words ironic considering the child on his shoulders. “They are masters of disguise, also.” He walked back over to Halvar as the man stood, leaning to him conspiratorially, as if unaware of his burden. “Be careful especially of the girl, she’ll be there one moment, then gone the next. I don’t know how she does it, but I suspect magic is involved.” This earned a giggle from the girl, at which Fell visibly jumped, looking around with wide eyes, making a great show at turning around as if looking for the source of the sound. “You hear that? She haunts me!” By this point, the boy was laughing also, pointing at Sigrid. “She’s there! She’s there!” Whilst Fell continued to pretend he had no idea where she was. Perhaps quite a strange show to the two new slaves, to see the warrior so at ease acting the fool for the children. His actions drew no glances from the other slaves, clearly used to such candid interactions.
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Saga
Feb 9, 2019 4:01:19 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 9, 2019 4:01:19 GMT
The reunion was cut short by the children leaving Ruald’s side, watching the Vikings laughing at the warrior’s and children’s antics. With the attention off of them, both men having become a little self conscious in front of their owners, they settled closer to the wall, watching the others playing.
“We have ended up with good masters,” Ruald said softly, breaking the silence between them. Arlan glanced at him, scoffing under his breath. “Yes, and mine’s as much a fool as he seems,” he growled back, not as entertained as the monk was by the playful display. The monk looked at him, then down at his arm. “A fool to tend to an injured man?”
“The one he injured.”
“Well, technically I would believe that was your head he struck. Wasn’t that Brother John’s table that gouged your arm?”
That earned an annoyed look, Arlan crossing his arms and pointedly covering part of the wrap Fell had put there the night before. Ruald sighed softly, lifting his chin a little.
“God has a plan for us, Arlan. One that evidently requires our continued survival. What it is I do not know, but He has undoubtedly entrusted us to good people. The best here.”
The last, the Celt knew, was added as still raw memories came back to them. Unarmed men being slaughtered, simply because they had gold stowed away. It was hard to call such men “good.” Watching the display, Arlan’s voice kept its slightly annoyed tone, while Ruald’s expression remained as distant as it became at the memory of his home.
“Well… you say your God has a plan. He gave me my hands… my will. It would take a while to settle in.”
“Ah… how long, would you think?”
“With the turning of the seasons? A few, per’aps. Depends upon the weather.”
Ruald’s gaze dropped from the children for a moment before flickering up to Arlan’s face, already guessing at why he would chose to speak in such a way in English. But if any of the Vikings knew any English, it would be foolhardy to speak openly of planning an escape in the long term.
“How many hands to your plough, my son?”
Arlan half smiled, his own gaze moving back to the monk. “As many as I can manage,” he replied, knowing Ruald immediately worried for the other monks. Michael, Tutilo, even Robert didn’t deserve to be kept as slaves with the same men who had killed their brothers. By the time they could escape, who knew how many would even still be alive.
“In the meantime,” Ruald began, surprising Arlan with the change in topic. “Mind explaining to me who is who? I can’t seem to figure out names from words.” The Celt shook his head with a more honest smile, quickly explaining even as he pondered how well Ruald was taking to his strange new surroundings. “The dark haired is Fellbjorn, the other… Halvar. Children are Sigrid and Jary… and the woman is Turid, wife of the Earl.”
“Earl?” Ruald echoed, somberly glancing at Arlan before shaking his head a little. “Well, Lady Turid is kind enough, but if her husband is any indication, nobility seems to be similarly self impressed with itself whether they be Christian or heathen.”
Arlan half choked to keep his laugh contained, coughing for a moment while Ruald innocently watched the people around him, as if he had nothing to do with it.
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Saga
Feb 12, 2019 22:51:33 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 12, 2019 22:51:33 GMT
As Fell lifted the child from his shoulders, finally lowering her squirming form to the ground, his eyes flickered over to the two slaves just in time to catch Arlan trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh. It was good to see. Well- a happy slave is a good one… or at least, that’s how he justified it to himself. In truth, his actions had been purely selfish. He had been curious to see how the two would react to each other, how Arlan would respond to seeing that Ruald was not only alive, but well. There was clearly something between the two, the older man taking on a kind of fatherly role, and it had been clear back in England that the former warrior was fiercely protective of the man. But why? Arlan had said he had been taken as a slave and sold to the monks, yet he showed no disdain towards the man.
And Ruald, too, was an enigma. He seemed to be taking to things strangely well. He had seen his brethren slaughtered before him, and yet he seemed anything but wary of the Vikings. This was worrying to Fell. He knew that a certain amount of fear was good, it helped keep slaves in line, stopped them from getting too confident and trying anything foolish. Fell had never had a slave before, for despite his good standing amongst the people, he was of humble beginnings, and so he was aware that he was probably being too lenient on Arlan. But even so, he found he couldn’t bring himself to be any harder, not without being given due cause. It probably seems strange for a warrior, especially one who has and can kill without another thought, to be thinking in such a way, but out in the field and in battle it was different. Out there, he had only seen enemies. Arlan, to him, whilst not an equal, was not an enemy now.
As Fell watched the two slaves, unnoticed for now for his scrutiny, Turid and Halvar had been discussing Turid’s eldest son. “Little Stein… no longer so little, but a man!” Halvar exclaimed, shaking his head and wondering where time had fled.
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Saga
Feb 13, 2019 0:12:18 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 13, 2019 0:12:18 GMT
Fell’s assessment of the two slaves was accurate in many ways, but was wrong in one important aspect. Ruald was like a father figure to Arlan, but he had seen the battlefield before. As difficult as it was to carry images of his dead brethren, he had left similar friends on crusade. But this also made him very aware of the real danger lurking beneath the surface. He was very concerned about what was to happen to the monks and their Celt, especially green young men such as Tutilo. As well as he tried to take this new situation, certain there was a purpose to his being there… he was afraid. He was simply good at restraining the show of it.
Knowing Arlan was alright settled him, however, knowing the Celt was the most likely to get himself into trouble. The fact that he was not bound up, and was in fact being tended to, was calming. The life of a warrior was a brutal one, he knew, and perhaps like any knight come home from war they could be honorable in their own lands. But from what Arlan had hinted at, the Celt was anything but suppressed.
Not that he was doing so well. It was frustratingly easy to wear himself out, as he had discovered standing next to the wall, trying hard to keep his composure even as he felt as if he needed to sit down. How badly had he been struck in the temple? How much had he bled from his injury on his arm? The worst injury he had ever had was, of course, his leg, and it had been a month of uncertainty if he would even live. As if to add insult to injury, he found he was considered lame and thus of even less value than originally thought. This memory had him tense, not wanting to be sent further away, and thus away from Ruald. For the first time, he feared being alone.
While the adults talked, the younger children began running about, already beginning to trust the gentle, steady hand of the monk and so racing around him. It was in an attempt to move out of their way that things became unsteady, his injured leg momentarily failing to support him, making him stumble back, a hand instinctively reaching for the still sore spot on his head. Just as instinctively, Ruald reached out for Arlan, concern flicking across his face as he just missed.
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Saga
Feb 13, 2019 0:41:58 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 13, 2019 0:41:58 GMT
It was Fell who caught Arlan, as he had been striding over anyhow. Seeing the man begin to topple backward, Fell had moved quickly, his chest breaking Arlan’s fall, his hands on the back of the man’s arms as he steadied him. “Are you okay?” The rumble of his voice was laced with concern. When the man no longer needed his support, Fell moved away, standing before him to study his face, one hand coming up to sweep away a lock of hair that had obscured his view of the head wound. As the man angrily turned his face away, Fell grew impatient, grabbing him none-too-softly by the jaw, forcing his face back so that he could get a better look.
“What’s wrong with him?” Halvar called over, having seen Fell stop the slave’s fall, whilst Turid looked over her shoulder curiously at his words. The kids, in comparison, seemed unaware that anything was amiss, continuing to occupy themselves nearby, attention momentarily diverted. Fell paused before responding, loosing Arlan and turning away. “I'm not sure.” He answered honestly. He appeared to think for a moment before he spoke again, “Forgive me, sister, but I must go. Halvar, it was good to see you, you’ll be over soon with more rabbits, I’m sure?” Halvar grinned in response, whilst Turid merely nodded her head. Fell headed towards the door, pausing to turn and speak to Arlan. “Come with me.”
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Saga
Feb 13, 2019 1:24:49 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 13, 2019 1:24:49 GMT
Falling into the Viking was not what Arlan had expected, stiffly pulling away as soon as he was able. He pointedly ignored the words of concern, instead focused on steadying himself and standing firm as the other walked around. It was a mix of anger at the Viking and the whole situation, and anger at his own stumble that made him turn away initially from Fell’s intense study, but he was still trying to at least act like a slave and so didn’t lock eyes with the man, trying to keep his defiance under check. The man had to have a limit to his patience, after all.
As the Viking moved to leave, however, Arlan hesitated, eyes widening a little as he glanced back at Ruald. The monk watched, hands tucked inside his robe, with barely constrained concern, but made no move to follow. Arlan’s hesitation lasted but a moment, forcing his step to be steady as he followed Fell, ignoring the discomfort from his injured leg as he tried to walk without a limp.
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Saga
Feb 19, 2019 23:43:57 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Feb 19, 2019 23:43:57 GMT
Away from the Earl’s home, Fell led Arlan through the settlement, but didn’t stop as they passed his own house. He had already adapted to the slave’s speed, still situating himself a stride ahead, but noticeably walking at a slower pace than what he was used to. As they came to the edge of the houses, the woods beckoned them with open arms. They could see from here that in the distance it steadily increased vertically, climbing up the side of mountain at a steepness that seemed clearly impassible for any horse. Thankfully for Arlan, they were not going that far, so the ground was still relatively flat, if a little unstable as forest floors are, by the time they reached the small hovel. Though the wooden building was modest, they knew they were approaching it long before seeing it, as here and there small objects could be seen hanging from the branches of the trees, steadily increasing in quantity as they neared the home. These small constructions were no more than piles of sticks, seemingly haphazardly roped together and decorated with threads and strips of cloth, and they turned slowly even in the absence of a wind to tousle them. The small building soon came into view, surrounded by a low fence, and facing them as they approached were two standing stones, side by side with enough room for a man to walk through comfortably, which one has to, in order to step inside the fence’s perimeter.
As they approached, Fell slowed, and before the two standing stones he appeared to hesitate as whether to enter. In truth, this wasn’t the case, rather he was taking a moment to regard them, despite having visited this place many times before. They stood at about head-height, and their rough surfaces were decorated by etchings, the grooves filled with red paint, the two showing asymmetrical markings. After a moment, he did enter, his fingers brushing the grooves of the stone on his right as he passed by. Only when he passed the perimeter did he break his silence.
“Dag?” He called, approaching the building. Without waiting for an answer, he pushed open the door, turning to motion Arlan inside.
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Saga
Feb 20, 2019 0:19:25 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Feb 20, 2019 0:19:25 GMT
Arlan noted sourly that Fell’s pace was still slowed for him, if that first night had been any indication. But rather than simply hurting his pride, he felt his heart skip at the realization. Did that mean he was perceived as unwanted, then? A slave that was a burden was soon no longer a slave, in rather negative ways. This time, he had a reason to not be cast aside.
He was confused as they passed by the Viking’s home, hesitating for a few moments before hurrying to catch up. His eyes were drawn up as they headed towards the mountains that edged the village, looking up through the trees with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.
Once he realized there were small objects to be discovered within the woods around them, however, the Celt’s focus shifted a little from his own situation to concern. There was a familiar design to some of these piles, from many years before. His step grew slightly hesitant the closer they came to the hut, recalling less than pleasant memories of others of a similar hermit disposition from his tribe.
Fell walked through with only a few moments’ hesitation, Arlan remaining outside as he looked about, clearly uncomfortable with the scene. Rather than fear of heathen ritual, as might be assumed coming from a Christian monastery, he believed in the magic of such people, and feared it. Then, Fell motioned for him to follow.
Part of him wanted to rebel and refuse to go in, but with a growing lump in his throat he walked forward, looking as if he expected something to reach out and bite him. Inside the hut only increased that fear. Skulls of animals were used as bowls to hold candles and mysterious dark substances, herbs lining the walls in between tapestries and scarred old shields and weapons. It was smoky within as well, the fire going merrily enough but with the overhanging herbs a perpetual haze seemed to fill the space. As much as Arlan didn’t like Fell, for all the obvious reasons, he remained close inside the hut, almost as if unaware of how close given how his attention instead ranged about inside the space, immediately zeroing in on the short, bony figure that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, near the middle of the hut, immediately sliding to half hide behind the Viking.
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