#character borrowing

I’m building off of a headcanon from characters written about in the phenomenal fic, “Faint of Heart” by @dreamwritesimagines . I just recently binged Vikings, & learned about Floki’s many losses. I had also wondered why he seemed to hold the queen so much at arm’s length. I got it in my head that when Ivar’s queen heard about Helga & Angrboda, she wouldn’t be able to let it go. Dream, I hope I did your queen justice!

*********************

Y/N couldn’t stop her fingers from tightening on the bundle hidden beneath her cloak as she walked along. Gala hurried to keep step with her.

“My queen, something troubles you?”

“Yes. No. Why do you ask?” She tried for nonchalance but Gala frowned.

“You’re practically running, my lady.”

Y/N stopped so suddenly she almost fell, ducking her chin as she pulled in a deep breath.

“It’s just...I know he dislikes me. He is the king’s friend, & I...desire the king’s friends to not dislike me.”

The crunch of gravel gave way to the shore’s sand whispering about their boots as they neared the workspace of the friend in question. Before Gala could reassure her, the queen’s frantic pace had them on the man’s doorstep. The servant bit back her grin when Y/N suddenly froze, & stepped forward to lead the way in.

“Floki? Are you here?”

The wiry, wizened man appeared from the shadows of his home. Y/N felt the same prickle of goosebumps as every other time his gaze fell upon her. With the tattoos lining his skull and the black rimming his eyes, he appeared as mysterious and foreboding as the gods she’d heard so many tales of.

“Ah. Hello, christian.”

“Boat master.”

He said nothing as he moved towards a large carving, running his hand over the started work. Y/N could see his mind’s eye busy as his fingers tested against his vision.

“I build no monuments for you to thank me for today.” Not quite rude, the implied dismissal nudged at her, and Y/N stepped closer.

“Floki. You are one of the king’s closest friends. I know our differences are many, & you know me not but by words. I would wish that...” Sudden embarrassment flooded heat into her cheeks and stole her words. Floki didn’t seem inclined to help as he hefted a wicked looking blade, carving the wood before him like bread.

“You wish what, christian?”

Swallowing her nerves, Y/N drew the bundle from beneath her cloak and held it out to him.

“I wish to give you this.”

The man stood silent for a moment before his gaze flicked to Gala. Whatever he saw in his kinswoman’s face saw him stepping forward. His gnarled hands took the cloth bundle, tugging the leather string binding it free. A handful of bright fabric pooled into his grasp, unfolding itself into a small banner. A beautiful green, it was artfully edged in a bright blue. Shiny beads had been worked into shapes and designs along the edges. Masterful embroidery had been cunningly worked into the Sol and Lagu runes. The overall piece shouted of countless hours of work.

“It’s-“ Ivar’s queen shifted uncertainly. “It’s the sun and water runes. I made it for your...for Helga and Angrboda. To symbolize your light and your life.” Still, Floki said nothing. A great rock of dread sunk into Y/N’s belly and her heart began to pound in earnest. “I...my apologies if the runes aren’t correct. Ivar copied them down for me, but I’m still learning. I should have commissioned it with an artisan here, I-“

He laughed. Floki laughed. An honest, actually-happy-sounding chuckle. Y/n froze as the man stretched the banner wide and high, his smile huge as he stared at the gift. Even more unsure, y/n’s gaze flitted to Gala, who grinned back at her encouragingly. Suddenly, Floki scrambled away into the dark recesses of his home. The thump and whump of wood smacking about echoed to the women before he reappeared, a partially carved piece in his hands. He plunked it at his feet and spun it about, grinning at her proudly.

Though still more suggestion than carving, the unmistakable shape of a serpent and falcon rested in the grain. Y/n raised wondering eyes to the grinning boat master.

“I’ve built many a boat carrying kings and princes to battle. Now, I build a baby boat to rock a prince to sleep. Or a princess!” Then, standing there with the banner clutched tight in one fist, he smiled at her.

And the queen smiled right back.

“Floki! It’s beautiful! Thank you!”

He nodded, a hundred words behind the nod he sent her.

Hi Anon,

I don't really know what Glamourer is - according to Google it's a Dalamud plugin, which doesn't leave me much the wiser. I'm guessing it's a thing to make one character look like another one? :)

I do like gifts and some people have done some very nice gpose things with my OCs, but usually they sort of ask first. I suppose that wouldn't work for a surprise present though. If it's someone who'd done something with my OCs previously, with my blessing, then that would be fine.

I did think you needed a code thingy to do make someone's character with mods, but maybe Glamourer is different?

So a cautious yes I suppose? Not because I don't trust you - I'm sure you are a fine upstanding young anon - but because I'm a bit protective of my characters and I do have some experience of people using mods in-game to do some not very nice things around them and then posting it.

Thank you for asking - it is very kind of you to want to do something nice like that and I do appreciate it.

Now Katsumi is tugging on his sleeve, nervously whispering, "Daddy. Daddy!" He blinks and sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eye with one hand.

"What is it pumpkin?" he asks, squinting into the light coming from the doorway, trying to make out the form of his three year old daughter. 

She scooches closer and stands up on her tiptoes, motioning him closer. He leans forward, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, and she whispers into his ear. 

"There's a monster under my bed! I can hear it moving around." 

In one swift motion he scoops Katsumi up, toting her with one arm back down the hall. 

"That's impossible," he tells her, voice calm and matter of fact. "I know for a fact I got rid of ALL the monsters when we first moved in." He plops her down on her own bed. Noticing her still-anxious expression, he adds, "They don't let you get your dad license without basic monster disposal skills." 

"And besides," he adds, leaning in conspiratorially, "all the monsters in this part of town are scared of your mom." 

This time she lets out a little giggle, and he kisses her forehead. "Now go to bed."

He closes her door behind him, satisfied with a job well done, only to run into someone else in the hallway. 

She swallows the lump in her throat and forces herself to look somewhere else, anywhere else. No, not at the empty chairs at the table, reminders that she's all alone, anyone who she might consider a friend happily coupled up out on the dance floor. Not at the bandage on her arm, testament to her clumsiness and inability to do anything right.

He stirs when he hears the door creak, throwing out a questioning “Tou-chi?”

She steels herself and crosses the room, mostly by memory. The floor is a hazardous maze of occult trinkets. Even if her glasses were in place on the tip of her nose, the light from the doorway is only enough to slash across his chest and face, the rest of the room masked by the red haze of numerous lava lamps. 

She finally reaches the bed, a timid push easing his shoulder back down as she straddles his stomach. He yields easily enough, peering up at her with his left eyebrow quirked in that peculiar way. A year into their relationship and it’s still surprising whenever she initiates affection. 

But no time to dwell on that. “I want you,” she announces, with the air of someone who has practiced the words a thousand times. 

"What?" comes the ineloquent response.

"What are you, a monkey? I said I want you!" she says, irritation creeping into her voice, her fist thumping down on his chest.

And it’s then that he notices her lack of glasses. The way her loose hair spills across her shoulders. And the sheer night dress that he’s never seen before, because she hadn’t been bold enough to wear it. 

"Oh," he says quietly, bringing up a hand and hesitantly running his fingers through the smooth unbraided hair. "Well, Tou-chi

it’s gotten long so I’m just gonna post it now and wirte more parts later because 59 has barely even made an appearance and this is mostly all me attempting to worldbuild

—

Leaving your kids alone to entertain themselves isn’t an uncommon practice on Vert. The cries of plants that need tending to is louder than any sound your infant could manage. Just sit them in a nice patch of dirt, give them a bottle of water and they’ll entertain themselves. What is uncommon is returning to find your two-year-old perched in a sapling that wasn’t there a few hours earlier, sucking his thumb calmly.

I was marked then as one of the Gifted. It didn’t make me a freak like it would on some planets. Not here, where you grow up surrounded by the color green, where you learn to use a shovel as soon as you can lift one. It opened up a world of possibilities for me, but at the same time, it shut down any hope I ever had of leaving. 

Some people do. Leave, I mean. If you can prove your talents, your worth to the Empire, they’ll send down an interplanetary shuttle and the universe is yours. That was all I ever dreamed of before reality punched me in the face. 

I stand at the end of the lane that leads to the hillock that is my family’s home, posture perfect. I try not to let my impatience and nervousness show on my face, but my knuckles are white as I tighten my grip on my channeler. It doesn’t help that the bushes down here haven’t been watered in a while, and I can feel the thirst of those nearest to me traveling up my staff like a low continuous electric shock. Irritably, I pull the end of it away from the ground, because more stimulus is the last thing I want. 

I rub idly at the bulbous purple tip of my staff, trying to make it just a bit shinier. Gotta show off for royalty, you know.

My parents have already retreated to the fields, dutiful goodbyes and parental roles fulfilled, muttering about cabbages and fertilizer. I likely won’t see them again. Possibly ever.

I catch the distinct sound of horse hoofs on a dirt path as someone approaches, and I feel myself straighten even more. My mind goes back to a week ago, to breaking open the letter with the wax imperial seal. If I closed my eyes I could picture the words, sprawling across the page in shining emerald ink.

To Master Peter Crescen: 

We have been informed that next Tuesday, May the 16th, is the day of completion of your twentieth year cycle. We offer our congratulations on your coming of age. 

Our records indicate that you have been registered as a Gifted entity for more than a dozen cycles, and that you received your Channeling Instrument at the typical age. 

Two hours after sunrise, on the 15th day of the 4th month, transport will be sent to the location of your residence so that you may begin more intensive training.

Regards, 

The Office of Princess Ivy Helix

 A carriage rolls up and the driver beckons me into an empty carriage, raising an eyebrow at my hesitance.

"You didn’t think she’d come for you in person, did you?" he sneers, as I trip over my feet attempting to get in. “You’ll have plenty of time to be frightened of her at the castle," he adds with a snort, spurring the horses forward before I've had a chance to sit down. 

You stay absolutely still until you can’t see him anymore, and even then you wait until the sound of his footsteps fades into the distance.

You could leave. You could, right now, probably open a window somewhere and take off into the night, and while the promise of freedom is incredibly tempting, common sense says stay. This is your last chance, it reasons with you. If you leave, if you get caught, you’ll be culled. They won’t care to deal with you anymore. Running away is a sure death sentence.

He didn’t hit you. You don’t know why, but you are sure that if you had attacked him he wouldn’t have had even a second thought. Maybe the shortest path to freedom is through calculated obedience.

It’s not really giving in, you reassure yourself as you finally get to rinse a week’s worth of crustiness off your face. Resisting will only result in them trying to crush you harder. Perhaps you can find a freedom within your slavery.

You go back to the room they’ve been keeping you in, not knowing where else to go, and collapse onto the cot. It seems you don’t have time for daymares before it’s evening again and there’s an insistent rapping at your door.

The yellow-blooded troll doesn’t knock again. Your legs are already  over the edge of the bed when the door slams into the adjacent wall, shocking you to your feet. 

He has curly cue horns and towers over you, all bulging muscles and a tight set jaw. When he speaks, though, his voice is clear and intelligent. “You will be doing basic cleaning, mostly in the culinary block, and possibly some sopor slime replacement."

"You must be Varrek," you deduce as he ushers you down the hall. 

"That’s correct," he responds in a tone that chides you for stating the obvious. Not that that stops him continuing on. “I run things around here. The Orphaner is a busy man and rarely has the time to oversee the finer details of his hivehold. Normally any punishment for wrongdoings would be dealt by me," and he here he turns to you, looking you sharply in the eye. “But you are a special case. Insurrection will get you sent straight to him. You’d do well to remember we have more than one pair of psionicuffs here."

And before you can respond to his dual threat and word of advice, he’s passed you off to another, much more silent, slave.

You don’t go after her right away. Instead, your eye follows the sway of her hips as she storms away from you, and your mind wanders to the first and only other time you’d met her. 

—

Vriska insisted he come, and while he’d grumbled and protested endlessly, he quietly thought some time spent showing off his spade would be good for their relationship. He lets the spider troll lead him into the depths of the (tasteless, low class, landdweller) restaurant, where Aradia and Tavros are already sitting at a table. They’re scribbling on a kids menu, giggling about something and generally being disgustingly sappy palemates. Vriska grins a predatory grin and draws Tavros into a web of conversation immediately, leaving Eridan staring down over his glasses at Aradia. If this is some sort of weird triple date (pale for the lowbloods, black for him and Vriska, red for Vriska and Tavros) where does that leave him and her?

She gives him one quick glance over and dismisses him, goes back to her drawing. He puffs up, demands her attention, and she reluctantly gives it to him in the form of tic tac toe games played on napkins. She wins every one.

He knows he ought to pay Vriska attention, and she will likely get on his ass for it later (as if she’s paying him any, the filthy hypocrite), but he can’t seem to take his eyes off the girl in red, the way her eyes narrow when she’s deciding her next move, the way she pushes that same strand of hair out her eyes and looks smugly up at him once it’s made.  How she puts her elbows on the table with no regard for what anyone thinks, and most of all how she doesn’t seem to pay you any inherent respect for being a seadweller.

—

You snap back to the present. If anyone saw her blatant defiance you’re in a deep crock of shit, but appearances are everything, so you straighten your collar smartly and walk briskly down the hall after her. 

Your hand clamps onto her shoulder, and she goes limp, face carefully blank. She expects you to hit her, and you are fully prepared to, teeth gritted and fist curled. It’s happened so many times before that she knows how to keep silent no matter what you subject her to. You are not a troll at this moment, just something used to bring her pain.

You draw back your hand to deliver a blow when you notice her own hand, curled up, nails digging into her palm. A crack in her callous mask. It shows she is indeed breaking, you tell yourself, that’s the reason you stop before you go through with it. There is no jolt of pity in your stomach, no hesitance in your motions. Perhaps if you tell yourself that enough times, it will become a little less false.

"You’ll report to Vvarrek tomorroww. You’ll do wwhatevver he tells you to and you’ll do it wwithout complaint."