Floki (
gods_that_haunt_me) wrote2015-03-15 03:21 am
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Entry tags:
test drive / milliways
A tall, lanky man, seemingly made up entirely of long lines and angles, wanders into the bar through the back door.
He's been out all day, exploring the forest. Listening to the trees.
(They were quite talkative.)
The waitrats scatter as he crosses the room. They probably don't like the hatchet tucked into his belt. Or the knife. Or the sword.
He snickers at their fright. He's harmless! Really!
(No, he isn't.)
"Lady Bar, a cup of mead, if you please," he says in Old Norse. A horn cup appears, and he takes a swig.
He's been out all day, exploring the forest. Listening to the trees.
(They were quite talkative.)
The waitrats scatter as he crosses the room. They probably don't like the hatchet tucked into his belt. Or the knife. Or the sword.
He snickers at their fright. He's harmless! Really!
(No, he isn't.)
"Lady Bar, a cup of mead, if you please," he says in Old Norse. A horn cup appears, and he takes a swig.
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Athelstan is in a corner, hoping Floki won't notice him.
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He stalks toward him.
That could be a grin on his face. Or maybe he's just baring his teeth.
"Why do you cower so, priest?" he teases, leaning in over Athelstan so that the hiss of his breath wafts against his ear.
"Is this not a place where you feel safe?"
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He glowers up at Floki, refusing to move even when Floki invades his space, because he's as much angry as afraid now, the spark of hatred that's always been there but buried for Ragnar's sake making itself felt.
"It used to be."
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"Ah, you wound me, little monk."
And suddenly he is leaning in again, both hands on the table.
"You think I would go out of my way to harm you?"
There's a laugh just beneath the surface of his voice.
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"Hardly." Athelstan meets Floki's stare, but can't maintain it for long. "But if you didn't have to go out of your way..."
He knows Floki wouldn't do anything to really anger Ragnar. But there's harm and harm.
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That comments comes from a tall man in black, armed similarly (but his is a short sahs sword, and a long-handled, two-bladed axe) who is sitting at a table nearby, with some stacks of paper, and writing utensils.
His linen clothes would be right at home in Floki's time, but the long Tyrian purple cloak of Southern origin might invite comment -- or envy.
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The stacks of paper, though? The last time Floki saw that much paper, he set some on fire and burned a monastary down with it.
"Better than the piss the Christians use in their ceremonies?"
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He raises his cup to him in thanks for the recommendations.
"You will know this has happened when you must pick me up off the floor to keep other patrons from tripping over me."
And he takes another swig.
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He's wearing a shirt with a small symbol incorporating a cross on it under his warm black coat, and turns his head to give Floki and his weapons a look, as if taking stock.
[[OOC: Just test-driving him with Ragnar seemed too simple; so I'm sending him my two charries most likely for him to like, and to hate, respectively. Hope that works!]]
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If the man intends on scrutinizing him, then Floki will scrutinize him back.
"Am I imagining things, or does something about me displease you as much as something about you displeases me?"
[OOC: And yes, that's perfect! Thank you!]
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"Drinking people's blood? What are you on about?"
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He is very tall. His hair is very long.
His eyes are bright, lit with the light of stars.
His ears are gently leaf-shaped. And his clothes are made of wool and linen, adorned with tiny stitches, outlining plants and stars.
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Well, Floki sees an elf right now.
He is much taller than expected!
But the beauty of the gods is in him, and Floki cannot help but stare.
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He knows he is being watched.
This is not unusual. It happens here; it happens at home.
After a while, he does look up though and gives the Man a small, polite smile.
As often happens here, his looks are a little familiar, but mostly not.
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The elf appears to be of true nobility, perhaps even a king in his world, so fine are his clothes and so regal his bearing. But there is something warm about him, and friendly, and not at all overbearing, even to obviously simple folk like Floki.
"Are you elf-kind?" he asks, his black-rimmed eyes wide.
Just to be sure.
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She sat by the fire, working on weaving a bracelet with colorful yarn, more colorful than anything she's seen back home. There's a book before her showing her how. Some of the words are stranger, but there are pictures and those are easy to follow.
Only when she hears a familiar voice does she look up, her eyes wide and a smile appearing when she sees a familiar person. Floki was strange and unpredictable, but she was fascinated by him and he told wonderful stories.
"Floki!" She waved at him, unware that he may or may've not just heard of her death through his own door.
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"Gyda!" he chirps, a grin deepening the laugh lines on his face, as he crosses the room to join her by the fire.
"What a surprise that one of your doors has brought you here. What are you up to?"
Floki likes Ragnar's children. It is already plain to see that they carry the best of both Ragnar and Lagertha within them.
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She knew of libraries from Athelstan, but even the one in milliways was larger then the one in England. Even better, there weren't all stories from the christian god.
Her smile vanished when he mentioned doors, looking to where hers might have been. "I don't have any doors here."
There was no way to go back, because she couldn't go back.
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"It is lovely work, Gyda. If you make more, I'm sure that Helga would like to have one."
The book gets a curious look, with its pictures and strange lettering. Having books show you how to do things instead of another person teaching you is still a strange concept to him. But Gyda is a clever girl, and he admires her initiative to learn.
However, what she says next is rather disturbing.
He glances toward his own door. And then back to her.
"What do you mean? You don't see the door back home? Back to your father's hall, perhaps?"
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He then orders two cups, and approaches Rollo at his side.
"Do not become so lost in thought that you can't make your way back to a cup of ale."
He offers him one of the cups.
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Rollo doesn't start...not at all. Really.
"That would a sorry fate indeed." He says, accepting the cup and taking a gulp. "I thank you for saving me."
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"I only lured you back to where you ought to be."
He crouches down near the fireplace, watching the flames, and the fish that seem to dance within them.
"What has you so pensive?" he asks without looking at him.