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“Hold your tongue in regards to my family,” Her husband, in particular. Saanvi knew well that the talk would run rampant--that did not mean she appreciated it, nor intended for it to happen for long, “Those who speak of what they know, find too late that prudent silence is wise.”
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Freshly bathed (she could still feel the ghostly remnants of wine in her eyes and in her hair) Ingrid stood in the cold air of outside. She had not expected peaceful proceedings, she was not quite so naive as that, but she’d hoped for something better than an almost brawl. Against the backdrop of the night, the expanse of her country before her, and her dwelling behind her, she felt as frail as a child. So stiff, and yet so fragile, her shoulders holding tight, and her back ramrod straight, a particularly harsh wind might be apt to come along and sweep her away. Gods above, she might give in for a moment if that were to happen. Give in before kicking and screaming, and fighting tooth and nail because she would not give up now. Ingrid couldn’t fail, wouldn’t fail. Especially not where her father could see. Turning her head, she exhaled a harsh breath, the visible cloud of it entering the world. “As stubborn as a hoard of children, and worse behaved too.”
Yule was once something that, long ago, gave Derrik joy and solace. He truly found himself among his people, sinking teeth into fresh beast, fully participating in games and sport, lifting Ingrid so she could tie her satin ribbons upon snow dusted evergreen branches. Now it was too loud, too crowded, too much--why were all these people so clustered within Bolstaor? Did they have nowhere else to be?
He supposed Yule was a time for family and friends, after all. How ironic that he’d healed and found his way back home during such a festive time. With a pained grunt, he trudged his way to the side of the street, heaving a mighty sigh as he leaned against a nearby tavern. If the crowd wasn’t holding him back, this damnable leg would keep him from the jarl’s gates all the longer.
“Aye... didn’t have to do that to get my attention, you know,” Ivar took assurance in the fact that his temper wasn’t nearly as hot as it had been when he was younger. While others had gotten angrier, more coarse, Ivar had cooled, softened. In the best of ways--while still maintaining the ferocity a jarl needed. Though, his size certainly helped, “I know a few people here that would squash you for that, pup.”
“If anything, at least my merchants and hunters should be happy. Not all who have come were prepared for the cold, and certainly, there’s a profit to be had in that. We’ve fine furs.”
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“Oh,” Quickly concealing the object Saanvi held so diligently in her hands behind her back, she turned to the figure with a smile, using her shoulder to shut the door behind her, “I did not expect to see you here. Bitter cold, is it not?”
Yule was once something that, long ago, gave Derrik joy and solace. He truly found himself among his people, sinking teeth into fresh beast, fully participating in games and sport, lifting Ingrid so she could tie her satin ribbons upon snow dusted evergreen branches. Now it was too loud, too crowded, too much–why were all these people so clustered within Bolstaor? Did they have nowhere else to be?
He supposed Yule was a time for family and friends, after all. How ironic that he’d healed and found his way back home after such a festive time had come to a close. With a pained grunt, he trudged his way to the side of the street, heaving a mighty sigh as he leaned against a nearby tavern. If the crowd wasn’t holding him back, this damnable leg would keep him from the jarl’s gates all the longer.
Saanvi wasn’t particularly fond of the cold. Why would she be? Her homeland was patron to a boiling sun that permeated the skin and roasted the sands. At least Hallbjorn was home to thick greenery and steaming hot springs. All there was here was frozen blocks of stone and flickering tufts of snow, that seemed to fall from the sky endlessly.
But she would settle. To Saanvi, this meeting was not a matter of decision, but a matter of time. Her husband was clearly the most qualified to rule over Hlandul. It was just a matter of everyone else realizing that fact. Frozen fingers pulling her cloak tighter, the small bundle in her arms began to squall, wrinkling his nose and squirming about in his warm cocoon.
“Oh, my little one,” She cooed, brushing a finger over his cheek, “We will arrive soon.”
