#vigamadr

          "You are the brother to Ragnar Loðbrók."

There is no hint of doubt in her voice. Kwenthrith has been learning about these pagans with much enthusiasm, even going as far as to have Athelstan teach her some of their language.

     as a child, rowena had grown to the tales of a land long past. the land of her forefathers. the land where her mother and father had met and fallen in love. later, tales of grand homeland they had been forced out of by misfortune and loss of father were sullied, tainted by hissed whispers of vengeful men and women of britannia who loathed the barbarians who dared sack their villages and pillage their treasuries. 

        rowena clung to stories whispered in reverent tone by dying mother. yet as years passed and muting hand of time dulled fondness of memories, rowena could hardly remember the childish wonder she once felt for the land her mother spoke of, or the people she had told tales of. 

        so it was in desperate bid to cling to last vestige of mother's memory that rowena sets out, searching for her mother and father's people   her people   and this land of theirs. rowena leaves hallowed halls of hogwarts, her home now, and sets forth to find home long forgotten. rowena leaves to rediscover her past, to breath life once more into child once called ragna, name gifted her by mother.

        travel by magical means is much quicker than by boat. but it is far less reliable. where she intends to land upon shores mother had spoken of so vividly, instead witch lands in heart of village in midst of a festival. people dance about savagely, movements far less restrained and more primal in nature than structured dances of britannia or alba. beating of drums seems to resonate with very beating of heart, urging her to release inhibitions and allow baser nature to come forth. yet she refrains, beacon of composure in midst of passion.

        she feels eyes upon her and turns, seeing man eyeing her with distrust. had he seen her appear from thin air? or if he had, did he believe it trick of eyes or something far closer to the truth?

        tongue she has not used in far too many years slips from tongue, words slightly jilted and not as smooth as they once were. effect of disuse. she has nearly forgotten this language, having no need of it once mother had passed.

           ❛  why do you  continue to stare?   ❜