#notodin

the half - destroyed industrial building is the only place in this wide, cursed valley to hide ( the war, she knows, destroyed it. hazards are everywhere. the structure is unstable, but it will provide them shelter as they are hunted ). shadows are infamously difficult to fight. how they slink in and out of focus, and sight cannot track them. they battle in the way cowards do, attacking from behind and cutting her ankles. she had gone down, bent to one knee as the back of her leg had been bitten into ( swiftly, a swarm descent upon her, tearing into her flesh as though they were the strongest metal, and she the softest skin —— but shadow is no match for the light ). lost to the darkness, the godling erupts. once, when she was young, this lightning terrified her. now it is a weapon wielded as powerfully as any gifted touch of magic. the electricity belongs to a god, and she is angry. a scream ( be it an origin of pain, or rage, even she does not know ) joins the static crackle of unbridled power as it tears through the air. a great storm, eivor is, and the arch of blue, blinding light pierces through the darkest shadows and shreds them to bits until they fall like pieces of ash, drifting weightlessly. the shadows are gone, and eivor remains on her hands and knees, raggedly breathing ( catching what she lost ). after a moment, from wherever he is hiding, howl will see her stagger upwards with one arm bracing against a crumbling, brick wall. a momentary rest is all the raven god needs to push herself off and trek over the dusty, creaky, rotting floorboards to find him. her sight locates the wizard easier than any skulking shadow.

🙶 howl. 🙷      his name is expressed as a sigh of relief. eivor's broad figure bows forward. both, blood - stained hands rise to grip either side of the wizard's face. gods, she is tired. such an expense of energy, all for him. 🙶 are you okay? 🙷      not a care in the world for herself, yet it is she who bleeds. she who has nearly lost an arm, dark claws torn right through the loose, white shirt she wears that stains the whole sleeve crimson. but the wizard refuses her concern.

hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay? he says.

turning so sweetly. his voice has always been a melody, while hers is as coarse and gnarled as the scar on her neck that ruined it hundreds of years ago at the jaws of a wolf. she does look. his brilliant, green eyes are worried, and her icy, white - blue ones hold no space for the pain she must be in. they only look deeply into his. only look. the hand of her injured arm slips wetly off his cheek. 🙶 we must keep moving. there will be many more. i cannot fight them in legions, and they will swarm if we stay. they are following my magic, howl. i am sorry you are mixed in this trouble. forgive my recklessness. i am fine. come. 🙷    

though howl isn't as wounded as eivor,   he still topples over one of the low walls of rubble when he feels her lightning raise the hairs at the back of his neck,   and swears he might have twisted something in his leg on landing.   in spite of it,   he manages sundry spells before her lightning fills the air,   all with the intention of keeping him out of the line of crossfire.   then the heat surrounds him,   seemingly bouncing off the very walls themselves,   and he smells charred stone and wood.   then,   silence.

he lays for a moment longer before finally getting to his feet,   hopping toward where she had screamed.   he's relieved,   more than she is,   he'd dare say,   to see that she hasn't somehow lost herself in the process.   she is covered in blood and looks a sight straight out of a nightmare.   it stains her face and her ripped,   charred clothing :   what had once been so neat and white now exists as a carcass of itself in splotches of crimson and blackened fabric.   by all means,   she must be terribly torn up underneath it all.   for but a moment,   howl wants nothing more than to check her over and make sure she's not harbouring some fatal wound that will have her dying in his arms later.   that,   he's afraid,   would be worse than being caught by the entities that pursue her.   he's sure he could find a few minor fixes until they make it somewhere safe once more.

❝    don't be sorry.   don't be sorry    i said i don't care.   and i don't.    ❞    he cares enough that his fingers tremble as he reaches for her hand that drops,   to gently,   firmly hold it beneath his chin.   he's frightened.   not of eivor and the ghastly,   tired sight before his eyes,   but of all of this fighting.   that,   he cannot hide.   once a coward,   always a coward,   and though he hates to be caught up in something this sinister,   he also wants only to be certain eivor is fine,   and that she won't be taken from him.   not now.

❝ can they trace my magic ? ❞ he's itching.   his magic is bursting beneath the surface of his forearms and fingers,   yearning terribly to be released.   ❝ i can fend them off. you can lay low on your magic. i'll do it. ❞ at times like these,   when he holds himself back,   merely existing is much more difficult.   he also knows if he expends all of his capacities now,   he surely won't be able to afford even a bit more to run with her.   that,   and the harpy will inevitably burst from him in a horrific demonstration of defiance against the jurisdiction of his own magic.   he'll risk much more than his energy to keep her safe.

@notodin .   “  with  such  big  eyes  ,    i  think  you  see  too  much  .  ”

on  one  knee  behind  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree  ,    his  glove  rest  upon  the  bark  ,    geralt  blinked  .    as  he  blinked  ,    the  gleam  that  bounced  from  the  backs  of  his  eyes  was  cut  short  for  the  split  second  that  they  shut  ,    plunging  the  remaining  hint  of  his  presence  into  complete  and  ,    as  far  as  he  knew  ,    utter  darkness  .    he  hadn’t  meant  to  be  noticed  .    indeed  ,    he  hadn't  meant  to  make  a  sound  at  all  ,    and  had  spent  a  great  minute  and  a  half  not  breathing  at  all  .    as  for  his  heartbeat  ,    it  still  thumped  sluggishly  normal  .    this  was  where  his  nose  had  led  him  .    from  all  the  extra  scents  he  detected  ,    he  didn't  believe  this  stranger  was  the  one  he  was  trying  to  tail  .

❛        i  see  enough  .        ❜        with  a  soft  grunt  ,    he  stood  ,    balancing  his  weight  on  his  good  leg  and  leaving  his  bad  leg  to  rest  ,    slightly  bent  ,    with  toe  to  foliage  .        ❛        i  see  what  i  need  to  see  .        ❜        and  smell  what  he  needs  to  smell  .    he  turned  his  head  to  the  side  .    from  here  ,    he  determined  she  was  taller  than  him  ,    and  filled  with  invisible  power  .    his  medallion  shivered  beneath  his  shirt  ,    and  the  witcher  instinctively  reached  for  his  chest  ,    pressing  his  palm  into  the  fabric  .        ❛        wasn't  expecting  anyone  to  be  here  .    have  you  seen  anything  come  past  here  recently    ?        ❜

▬ *  sentence prompts !            𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗.

 ･     '𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝙸 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃𝙾'    :    accepting !

𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙸𝚇 𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂 𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙼 𝙾𝙵 𝙰 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙳𝙾𝙼,       her influence dragging its spindly fingers along the heartstrings of the continent, plucking,       she'd be better at avoiding unwanted tangles. situations.       the way the sky falls and lands as pieces on her shoulders     ━    and she has no choice to shake it off with her wings.       her intelligencers weren't far. she was waiting for them at a rendezvous point,        leaning her back against a half-crumbled wall with smoke heady in her mouth.        but        [ and there is always a but isn't there, a shove in the wrong direction, too-calm winds ]        storms can come just as quickly with scarcely any warning, and benedikta finds herself wrapped up in a battle she would have much rather turned away from.

it's easy to leave and return, see     ━    to let whatever unfortunate take their battles alone and to die alone,        but many things intersected at once:        that leaving this position would be disadvantageous so close to the meeting time,        that maybe, just maybe,        benedikta hated those bastards enough to revel in their slaughter,        and lastly to be asked for help took her by surprise.        her. her.        as if she were some benevolent, street-side hero.

well, benedikta would indulge.        would tear it out of that stranger's belly later:        why are you here, DONT YOU KNOW WHO I AM, DONT YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO?        this warrior that brought nothing short of a small army behind her,        that could rip through life like it was nothing.        and it's only when they stand in a landscape of blood,        benedikta's talons ripping through her fingers, all stretched through her knuckles,        does the stranger speak.

        ‘‘  i did not know who else to turn to,  ’’      @notodin says. surely not.        not in this abandoned ruin with no one notable around for stretches in either direction.

        ‘‘  that's no excuse,  ’’      benedikta snaps,        mouth full of serrated teeth, a cut forming on her bottom lip from how overfull her fangs, all jumbled,        cut and cut and cut at human softness.        the blood on her tongue sobers her.        makes the buzz and the shake in her arms ease, feathers retracting back into the pale wash of her skin.        she's dissatisfied. vexed. half-sated.        pulled out of her shell and packing herself back in.        now that neither of them are in immediate danger,        she turns on her temporary ally.

most creatures never live to see their gods. they do not see them in temples. they do not see them in wood carvings, flourished with their mixed paints and sacred stories. but they will see them in people. in kindness, smiles, and touching hands / in cruelty, murder, and bloodied palms. in sparrows on windowsills and foxes on moorlines. forseti faults neither man nor god for looking at eivor and seeing odin; no, he faults them for looking at eivor and not seeing eivor. for seeking out odin and finding him in every reflection and under every raven’s wing. ( ' THE ALLFATHER IS DEAD, ' he had proclaimed from the seat of glitnir only two days heretofore, when ambassadors from the nine realms arrived to determine the wolfsmal’s fate. ' let eivor varinsdóttir live long, and green, and easy henceforth. ' ) they did not listen. why should they? they look at forseti upon his tarnished throne and see odin’s fingers wrapped around his throat. for this he cannot fault them, either.

❛ i did not realize you were in so much pain. ❜ / @ thrud 👀 maybe about memories … we’re currently chatting about

ᚦ  @notodin​ | random dialogs | accepting

There were little to   NONE   who had not been tested by Odinn’s torment once or twice  ( and unfortunately none that she knew could say it was so little in number, twice or thrice would have been considered only   MERCY. )   She pours gingerly the ale from pitcher to pint, the sound of a cackling hearth and liquid breaking the silence throughout the otherwise empty hall, harboring only the two of them for the night as a full moon beckons most of her wolves in festivities honoring   HRÓÐVITNIR.   Yet the exploration of Hvírfýrí had been stunted by the sudden invasion of the Alfodir’s cruelty upon Eivor.   Whilst she wishes for the   WORDS   uttered to not have any remote affect upon her visage, Thrud’s brows instinctually furrow, a writhing in her belly twists in the most uncomfortable manner that brings back visions of a young girl weeping for her   FATHER   in the midst of uncharted woodlands.   Blood that was both hers and her twin’s painting her pallid skin dark crimson, the pain having often made her question of Odinn’s true intent -- Thrud clears her throat with a rough cough and a   ' hmm ‘   to follow.   Like that of an old wolf bemoaning the initiation of rowdy young   HOWLS.

Lids fall to a wearisome close, but it is not the kind of   EXHAUSTION   that sleep could ever mend, before she finally brings herself to Eivor, handing her the horn of ale that may ease her nerves.   She cannot bring herself to yet look her in the eye, however, and   AVERTS   gaze to the flickering flames, adding to them with a block of more oak shards.

❝ Many of us went through much   PAIN   to become what we have ... ❞   though there perhaps was no room for doubt that Odin’s intentions were to kill the half of Modi that may challenge his Kingly authority.   ❝ Besides, who else could say they made it to   RIVAL   the Alfodir, hmm ?? ❞   She casts an arrogant smile finally towards the Raven, bringing her own horn to her lips.

overseers  and  christians  both  have  the  same  stench  about  them.   it’s  something  like  moldy  water.   they  could  never  clean  themselves  of  their  sins  in  dirty,  dirty  infested  water.   a  trail  of  blood  follows  them,   it’s  what  they  wade  in  to  clean  and  then  pretend  it’s  the  cleanliest  water  there  is.   they  hide  behind  their  masks,  free  of  pretenses  and  vanity.   knights  and  overseers  are  very  much  alike.    emily  doesn’t  even  quite  know  where  the  buttons  were  pushed  and  who  pushed  them  and  she  knows  this  isn’t  quite  like  herself,  but  underneath  the  mirthful  smile,   the  rest  of  her  doesn’t  seem  to  care.    she  hasn’t  looked  in  a  mirror  since  returning  to  england,   so  she’s  missing  even  the  fact  her  eyes  are  pure  black.   the  deepest  crevices  of  the  void.   she  has  a  hood  up  that  just  covers  her  eyes,   so  anybody  that  didn’t  die,   wouldn’t  have  been  able  to  point  it  out.   she  heard  word  of  another  coup  attempt,   whispers,   so  she  came  to  end  it.   it’s  just  far  too  bad  said  coup  attempt  also  partially  worked  --  using  magic  to  rid  her  of  something.   maybe  they  thought  it  would  simply  kill  her.   they  forgot  she  is  the  void.

they resupplied at stavanger, the last friendly port before england, and eivor insisted they would stay the night. no one objected—the longship, packed and ready to sail, would not survive the trial of the seastorm clouding the line of the horizon. any wise sailor could see death in the flash of lightning stirring inside that cloud. sigurd disappeared almost as soon as the ship nested in the port. he's been moody since meeting his father in alrekstad, a man told basim; no, another interjected, something happened in that fjord.

that was before most men started snoring in the warmth of the longhouse, taken out by the sharp cold of their homeland and the fatigue of a day of rowing upwind. basim chose a shadowy corner for himself; almost slacked in his seat, leaning back against the wall, his hood guarding the salted scent of a day at sea in his hair.

no one sees him until eivor comes in, frozen snowflakes in her lashes and a dark expression on her face. she's been looking for her brother, basim assumes. by the way she drags her leg, and with a grunt falls into the seat in front of him, he guesses the wound must be paining her. where her hidden blade sank shallowly into his side, it's been paining basim too.

with another rod,    she strokes the fire as the other sits besides her,     sets the skewer above the orange - red flames.        another task complete,    she allows herself the moment to lean back,    to watch as the other takes charge  –––   the skewer is turned slowly,    the smell of meat hitting the fresh and crisp air;     the mouth begins to salivate and another prayer is released,    silent and small.         ❝   you will tell me where you went ?   ❞     expectance does not lay flat on her tongue,    but is instead conjoined with curiosity,    with intrigue that sits and sits and sits.        a foot reaches to jab at the other,    silver eyes half - closed as the Warrior leans back a bit further.