BLINDSIDED !!

send BLINDSIDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were betrayed or shocked by what someone did

There are two men pinning him down by his ankles and by his wrists.

The sky is clear and the air is cold, and the grass he's been forced down into is certainly preferable to the abrasive rock that forms their land. A little ways off, there are people he knows - a farmhand and his girlfriend, both skirting eighteen. They keep their heads carefully turned away from him, despite Leifur's hissing and screaming. One of the men snarls him to shut up, and Leifur spits at him.

It is the fucking Norwegians, this is their doing. Leifur liked Tór, despite - he understood now - their initial meeting being an invasion. Tór gave him food. Deep down — despite failing to understand the intricacies of their existence, nor the political plays that these mortals weaponise — Leifur does not wish to believe that this is Tór's fault. It is the people, the Norwegian people, who came here to conquer and to pillage. Under Tór's instruction, yes, and yet...

Could Tór stop this, if he so wished? Could the Góðar?

It is King Olaf who sent Stefnir, King Olaf who sent Thangbrand to the Góðar, King Olaf who - now - has taken several of his people hostage in Norway. It is King Olaf threatening to take their life, should Iceland not convert.

He is aware, too, that the Góðar speak endlessly about Norway. That's all they ever seem to talk about: Norway, Norway, Norway. Friends, that's what they are, and they have to stay that way. It is because of Olaf. No decisions are ever made without the King's presence looming. He doesn't understand why, but he doesn't understand a lot of things. He thinks King Olaf is evil, and he cannot understand why his countrymen simply bow their heads to him. After all — is he not mortal, too?

"Fuck you," he hisses at the men, jerking his wrists against the restraints — ineffectually. Few men would be so heinous as to treat a child this way, but Leifur is no mortal child. He is an immortal boy, physically only five or six — but right now he is a rabid animal, the explosive embodiment of all the great fires of their land. He unleashes a barrage of curses a boy of his age should certainly not know, and he attempts to bite at one man's wrist. "Fuck you! You don't care about Sturla. You never cared about Sturla!"

"You don't even fucking know Sturla, boy."

Leifur spits at him again, then throws his head back against the ground and screams.

His countrymen all know him as a strange boy, coming and going as wildly as the winds of their homelands — and behaving just as erratically. His presence tends to inspire a variety of reactions: some find him endearing, while some find him offputting. They all find him familiar, though, even those he has never met before. He is, after all, the land they walk on and the water they drink. Regardless of how they may find him, he will be exist as they born and as they die.

"Stefnir destroyed everything!"

"And Stefnir is never coming back here."

"And now they've taken Sturla, your 'friend'. Coward!"

The man's chest heaves with rage, and for a moment he looks ready to strike the boy. "You question my fortitude as a man?"

Leifur stops thrashing momentarily to hold the man's gaze, violet eyes all but coring the man from the inside. "I don't question it. You are a coward."

Finally, the man grabs his hair and slams the boy's head back into the earth. Leifur doesn't seem to care or even really react, continuing, "And everyone who Thangbrand got are cowards!"

So, this boy is nothing more than a heathen, is he? It is unusual for one so young - and so isolated - to feel so strongly against the Christians. It was easier to understand it from the farmhands or the sons of the Góðar, but this boy who simply roams, who exists outside the bounds of their society? He doesn't even engage with the Góðar as he should. He may be their land, but he is disrespectful — a lucky little boy who does not know to appreciate what he has. It is infuriating, listening to him whine about the King and the political affairs he takes no interest in. Many of the Góðar are displeased, of course — but law is law, and blood is blood.

"You speak ill of the King and he will have your head, child."

"At least my head won't be bowed. I'm not a coward."

This entire conversation goes on with Heimi just looking between them all, listening along. There is so much food her, by the sound of it — maybe not more food than the forest could provide, but certainly more options. Especially for Heimi, who (while not averse to the idea — nature's bounty is life giving), had not hunted for meat within the forests yet. His food there was all vegetarian, and all cold — and the one thing he really craves right now, he realises, is something hot and hearty. How long has it been since he had something warm to eat?

He blinks at Agnar, and then smiles at what seems to be a positive reaction to the idea of him being a druid. That is what he is, he's pretty sure. He's never really learned much about it, but it just seems... right, somehow.

But, the chaos of so much food being offered from so many different sources, it is a little overwhelming. His tail curls nervously around him, but his mouth is watering, and his little eyes flicker between them all. He still can't understand why they are offering him their food. It's their food.

But Bjorn answers, then, simple and direct. Heimi just blinks at him, and then his eyes flicker down to the pin he wears.

Is this a Harper thing? To share food, even with him?

It's unclear whether he finds the answer comforting or not, as his little tail continues to hug his body. But, he can't deny that he is hungry, and the forest is so far away right now. But what if he takes their food, and then they go hungry? What if he only takes food from one of them, will the rest share their food with them to make up for it? Travelling in a group, it's a foreign concept to the tiefling.

But he doesn't know how to ask for anything, even with it all being held out to him. His tail begins swishing more, and after a secnd he makes a little, uncertain noise, then says— "I do eat meat. The forest gives me plants, but I like to eat meat too."

Heimi is just looking between them all, a little bewildered. His little tail drops from it's protective position when it becomes clear that nobody is angry with him - he knew he could trust Roar! - and instead, it just swishes curiously behind him. He doesn't quite understand the dynamics of this group yet, but they all seem friendly. They do. Even Agnar, considering he's just gotten Chomped™. He's laughing, and that puts Heimi at ease.

But, he grows a little confused at all the talk of the forest, as betrayed by his tail picking up pace. He takes hold of it in his hands to try and stop it swishing, but the fluffy tip still flicks from side-to-side.

"I'm going back to the forest tomorrow," Heimi clarifies, looking up at Roar and then the others.

But then Agnar is encouraging him to bite Roar, and the little tiefling looks something between confused and amused. They really like biting here, it seems! Heimi has fangs, so maybe they'll think that's cool. Of course, they're just baby fangs right now, they're not that sharp. But they might get sharper in the future, and that would be extra cool, wouldn't it? Like his wolf friends. Like Helt!

Heimi cocks head to one side when Jalo speaks up, and he curiously peers out from behind Roar's legs.

"Food...?" He asks, looking up at Agnar briefly as he repeats it (his comedic timing is impeccable, really) and then furrowing his brows a little at Jalo. He just looks... Confused. He can't really remember the last time he had something proper to eat; his diet was mostly just raw mushrooms and berries and leaves. All foraged, of course. It sustained him, but only just, which well explained him being on the smaller (and definitely too skinny) side. He's grown familiar with, and accustomed to, the perpetual gnawing in his stomach.

Not only that, but being offered food by someone else... Don't they need their food? Why would they give it to him? The idea that food may not be so hard to come by for people not run out to the forests, is a foreign one to him. Plus, people didn't like it when he touched things, especially not things used for eating — they said he was unclean, but Heimi bathed in the river every few days, so he was always unsure why they thought so. Still, the offer seems rather strange to him.

"I like berries. But— there's... food? For me?" He blinks between them all, tail still swishing. "Why...?"

Oh, thank God. She knows him, knows exactly what he had been trying to ask — He still wears that embarrassed, vaguely guilty look as she strokes back his hair, but when she settles in beside him tense shoulders slowly begin to relax. He shifts to give her more blanket, turning himself a little closer to her. She is warm, but more than that, it's just nice having some contact with the people he loves the most.

"Are you warm enough?" He asks, too, looking up slightly to her. They fit so nicely together, brother-and-sister but oceans apart— it's comforting, truly. That tension is back in Fannar's muscles, however, as he tries to gauge if it is alright he gets any closer to her, or relaxes into their embrace. He'd like to properly relax into her side, curl up and just chill out for a while. They've done it before, and yet here he is; always the overthinker, this one. "Have you got enough blanket?"

Suppose it comes from a place of love & genuine concern ; to be protective of the people who she allowed to cross very secure boundaries. To be observant & hyper-aware of the needs of others, even when they claim to be alright, a flaw in her design but she honours like a badge. For Fannar, she'd always be that support from the sidelines ; anything he ever needs, she'll provide to the best of her ability.

❝ Can't get warm, huh? ❞ She teases, hand reaching forward to brush his bangs from his field of vision. It's a silent language, his shyness paired with her sensitivity, an odd combination that just seems to work purely for them. He needn't ask, Keira took the subtle signs & sat beside him. Gently pulling the other end of the blanket & wrapping it around her shoulders. The benefits of being a human furnace, Keira rarely became cold, it would have been rude not to share the blessing.

❝ Here, you can have some of my warmth. ❞

@islandiis from x

Strange as it is, something as small as a handshake is infinitely grounding for him in such a new situation; after all, he's learned to play it to perfection. Eirik was taught just how long to hold eye contact for, just how tightly to grip - in a circumstance otherwise filled with unknowns, it's nice to come back to something practised, even if just for a moment. And right now, he's realising, he needs it— as comforting as it is to have Abigail speak in his language, and so kindly and welcomingly, at that — he can feel anxiety beginning to creep up on him. She says he can call her Abby, and that is an unknown. It would be impolite to do so, wouldn't it? They have just met. Plus, she is hosting him— He has to be on his best behaviour, as she opens her home to him and gives him time. But does she want him to call her Abby? Does she prefer that? Eirik's eyes flicker uncertainly.

And she speaks to him in Icelandic, which is undeniably comforting; but it would be rude to force her to carry their conversations entirely in his language, no? That said, his English is one of his greatest sources of nerves; he is surely going to embarrass himself whenever he attempts to speak it. And what if he does something impolite, that they don't do in America? He really should have asked his brother, before leaving— but then, he has never visited America, either, as far as he knows. At least, he definitely hasn't met Abigail. And what if he gets ill while he's here, or something happens back in Denmark that he's not there to help with—?

"Iceland is... very different. America, it is much bigger. I— I cannot explain how big it is, compared to Iceland. It is very beautiful here, very different. In a good way!"

He tugs lightly at his collar. Was that polite enough? He suddenly yearns for his brother, who is much better at these things, and he'd know exactly what to say. When he breathes in, Eirik's lungs shudder, and he cringes in on himself with an embarrassed cough. Thankfully, he had brought a rather impressive stash of asthma cigarettes with him, foreseeing this exact circumstance where nerves bested him. He fishes one from the pocket of his coat — most are in his case — and holds it up sheepishly. "Please forgive me, but— may I smoke? Is it permitted to smoke in America? It is not tobacco, but, uh — for the chest."

He bashfully adds, "I do not know anything about America. Please, if I do anything wrong— please correct me?"

So that was, indeed, Abigail. Eirik's stomach flips, for some reason, when she waves back. He's nervous. It's probably apparent to absolutely everyone, given the sound of his breathing. But still, he smiles, rubbing a hand bashfully over one arm as she nears, and taking a step closer, himself.

But then, she speaks his language. The language dearest to his heart, which has so often felt like a second language to Danish... Eirik just appears to short circuit, and his cheeks positively flush.

Then, after a minute, he starts coughing. This is all so much. It's a loud, grating sound, and he turns his head away to muffle the worst of it in one hand, while the other is held up apologetically. When he regains himself, a little shaky but appearing not to be too concerned, that flush still lingers.

In English, he stutters, "You— f-from Iceland?"

His English is weak, to put it nicely, and after a second of fumbling he realises — she speaks Icelandic. Why is he trying (and failing) to conduct himself in English?

The switch is immediate, and his Icelandic comes much more eloquently, but in a torrent:

"You are not an Icelander, are you? May I ask why you speak— how you speak Icelandic? I— I didn't even know it was possible to learn it outside of Iceland, we are so small— unless you learned it from an Icelander who emigrated—?"

Eirik promptly cuts himself off. That was rude, impolite— he hadn't even introduced himself properly yet. The realisation has him promptly dissolving back into coughing. When he comes out of it, he bows his head apologetically, and leans the most of his weight into his suitcase.

"P-please, forgive my poor manners— I'm sorry. I got excited," the hand that had been bracing himself on his suitcase is held out, and he fixes her with a polite (too polite, almost rehearsed) smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss. My name is Eirik, the Kingdom of Iceland."

As they part, though, his smile widens into something much more genuine, with the corners of his eyes crinkling. Breathlessly, but with so much warmth in his tone, he adds: "It is wonderful to be here, and to meet you. Thank you for having me."

❛  here, you look like you're freezing.  ❜

I love affection I love frenships | always accepting

"I— oh," Fannar blinks at Keira, looking both caught off guard and vaguely guilty. He really shouldn't be surprised; Keira knows him well, too well. She always has, and she probably always will. He clesrs his throat before reaching out to take the blanket she's offering. "Thank you. I feel like I'm freezing."

He wraps it around his shoulders and brings his knees up as well. It helps a little, in combination with his sweater and wool socks, but there's still a chill in his bones he can't seem to shake. After a second, he looks up at her through his bangs as if he is going to say something more — but without really knowing exactly how to ask, nothing comes out. He starts coughing quietly again.

BLINDSIDED !!

send BLINDSIDED for a scene from my muse's past in which they were betrayed or shocked by what someone did

There are two men pinning him down by his ankles and by his wrists.

The sky is clear and the air is cold, and the grass he's been forced down into is certainly preferable to the abrasive rock that forms their land. A little ways off, there are people he knows - a farmhand and his girlfriend, both skirting eighteen. They keep their heads carefully turned away from him, despite Leifur's hissing and screaming. One of the men snarls him to shut up, and Leifur spits at him.

It is the fucking Norwegians, this is their doing. Leifur liked Tór, despite - he understood now - their initial meeting being an invasion. Tór gave him food. Deep down — despite failing to understand the intricacies of their existence, nor the political plays that these mortals weaponise — Leifur does not wish to believe that this is Tór's fault. It is the people, the Norwegian people, who came here to conquer and to pillage. Under Tór's instruction, yes, and yet...

Could Tór stop this, if he so wished? Could the Góðar?

It is King Olaf who sent Stefnir, King Olaf who sent Thangbrand to the Góðar, King Olaf who - now - has taken several of his people hostage in Norway. It is King Olaf threatening to take their life, should Iceland not convert.

He is aware, too, that the Góðar speak endlessly about Norway. That's all they ever seem to talk about: Norway, Norway, Norway. Friends, that's what they are, and they have to stay that way. It is because of Olaf. No decisions are ever made without the King's presence looming. He doesn't understand why, but he doesn't understand a lot of things. He thinks King Olaf is evil, and he cannot understand why his countrymen simply bow their heads to him. After all — is he not mortal, too?

"Fuck you," he hisses at the men, jerking his wrists against the restraints — ineffectually. Few men would be so heinous as to treat a child this way, but Leifur is no mortal child. He is an immortal boy, physically only five or six — but right now he is a rabid animal, the explosive embodiment of all the great fires of their land. He unleashes a barrage of curses a boy of his age should certainly not know, and he attempts to bite at one man's wrist. "Fuck you! You don't care about Sturla. You never cared about Sturla!"

"You don't even fucking know Sturla, boy."

Leifur spits at him again, then throws his head back against the ground and screams.

His countrymen all know him as a strange boy, coming and going as wildly as the winds of their homelands — and behaving just as erratically. His presence tends to inspire a variety of reactions: some find him endearing, while some find him offputting. They all find him familiar, though, even those he has never met before. He is, after all, the land they walk on and the water they drink. Regardless of how they may find him, he will be exist as they born and as they die.

"Stefnir destroyed everything!"

"And Stefnir is never coming back here."

"And now they've taken Sturla, your 'friend'. Coward!"

The man's chest heaves with rage, and for a moment he looks ready to strike the boy. "You question my fortitude as a man?"

Leifur stops thrashing momentarily to hold the man's gaze, violet eyes all but coring the man from the inside. "I don't question it. You are a coward."

Finally, the man grabs his hair and slams the boy's head back into the earth. Leifur doesn't seem to care or even really react, continuing, "And everyone who Thangbrand got are cowards!"

So, this boy is nothing more than a heathen, is he? It is unusual for one so young - and so isolated - to feel so strongly against the Christians. It was easier to understand it from the farmhands or the sons of the Góðar, but this boy who simply roams, who exists outside the bounds of their society? He doesn't even engage with the Góðar as he should. He may be their land, but he is disrespectful — a lucky little boy who does not know to appreciate what he has. It is infuriating, listening to him whine about the King and the political affairs he takes no interest in. Many of the Góðar are displeased, of course — but law is law, and blood is blood.

"You speak ill of the King and he will have your head, child."

"At least my head won't be bowed. I'm not a coward."

🍸 "do you think pigeons have feelings?" craig is also tipsy btw

pls ask drunk fannar questions I need chaos | accepting

"I mean..." Fannar suddenly looks deeply thoughtful, brows furrowing as he stares at Craig. "Maaaaybe...? I mean, they probably get excited when they get bread? Right? They must feel something or why would they want bread so bad?"

But then he sits back in his seat and leans his elbows against the edge of the table, so he can gesture seriously with both his hands as he speaks. "Okay, but— if you go into town and see a bunch of pigeons, are they the same pigeons you saw last week or are they different pigeons?"

"♦" - for the first word your muse thinks of when my muse is mentioned

Send me a "♦" for the first word my muse thinks of when your muse is mentioned | always accepting

Oh— Hm! Hlýr, I think. Warm. [He smiles and folds his hands against his lap.] in the sense that, like... I don't know. Cici just feels that way to me, when we spend time together. Warm. Maybe I'm just more used to the cold— you know, Iceland.

🍸are you currently interested in anyone?

pls ask drunk fannar questions I need chaos | accepting

He grins, raising a hand to cup his cheek as if to hold his smile to his face— or, perhaps it's to cool the rosying of his cheeks. "I mean— yes? Yes." Even with his grin, he still manages to look endearingly shy, and he starts laughing quietly.

"I'm interested, yes. But... Hm. I'm..." He waves his hands absently while he tries to figure out how to describe himself — and when he struggles, he starts laughing at himself, leaning his elbows against the counter and hiding his face in his hands. From behind them, you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally admits, "I'm shy, I guess?"

🍸 do you know any magic?

pls ask drunk fannar questions I need chaos | accepting

It's pretty clear to see that he's been drinking, since this boy is just grinning. He folds his arms against the edge of the table and looks up at the ceiling, almost mischievously.

"Depends what you mean by magic," he grins. "I can tie a cherry stalk— cherry stem? With only my tongue. Which, I've been told, means I can work magic in the bedroom." Jesus Christ, bro. "But magic? No. I can sometimes see magical beings, but only flashes nowadays, sadly."

It's hard to imagine that Fannar's face could grow anymore red without him being set alight. He doesn't pull away, of course, but looks positively flustered— wide eyed and red right up to the tops of his ears.

"Oh, I-I— I would be pretty bad," he laughs, sheepishly, but then she fixes him with that look and his eyes flicker to the dancefloor. It would be rude to say no, wouldn't it? He's never been good at declining people, in the first place.

"I— You'll have to guide me? And, I don't have a lot of stamina, so—" He clears his throat, but then smiles sheepishly at her. "Just for a little while?"

continued | @mauerfrau

"O-Oh! Well, I —" She's got him a little flustered, and he coughs briefly into one hand. "I was asking, just, uh — just out of curiosity. I mean, not that I don't want to dance with you, but — I'm not really much of a dancer, myself."

The blush creeps up over his cheeks, and he smiles bashfully. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure I would be much of a dancing partner."

Heimi is just looking between them all, a little bewildered. His little tail drops from it's protective position when it becomes clear that nobody is angry with him - he knew he could trust Roar! - and instead, it just swishes curiously behind him. He doesn't quite understand the dynamics of this group yet, but they all seem friendly. They do. Even Agnar, considering he's just gotten Chomped™. He's laughing, and that puts Heimi at ease.

But, he grows a little confused at all the talk of the forest, as betrayed by his tail picking up pace. He takes hold of it in his hands to try and stop it swishing, but the fluffy tip still flicks from side-to-side.

"I'm going back to the forest tomorrow," Heimi clarifies, looking up at Roar and then the others.

But then Agnar is encouraging him to bite Roar, and the little tiefling looks something between confused and amused. They really like biting here, it seems! Heimi has fangs, so maybe they'll think that's cool. Of course, they're just baby fangs right now, they're not that sharp. But they might get sharper in the future, and that would be extra cool, wouldn't it? Like his wolf friends. Like Helt!

Heimi cocks head to one side when Jalo speaks up, and he curiously peers out from behind Roar's legs.

"Food...?" He asks, looking up at Agnar briefly as he repeats it (his comedic timing is impeccable, really) and then furrowing his brows a little at Jalo. He just looks... Confused. He can't really remember the last time he had something proper to eat; his diet was mostly just raw mushrooms and berries and leaves. All foraged, of course. It sustained him, but only just, which well explained him being on the smaller (and definitely too skinny) side. He's grown familiar with, and accustomed to, the perpetual gnawing in his stomach.

Not only that, but being offered food by someone else... Don't they need their food? Why would they give it to him? The idea that food may not be so hard to come by for people not run out to the forests, is a foreign one to him. Plus, people didn't like it when he touched things, especially not things used for eating — they said he was unclean, but Heimi bathed in the river every few days, so he was always unsure why they thought so. Still, the offer seems rather strange to him.

"I like berries. But— there's... food? For me?" He blinks between them all, tail still swishing. "Why...?"

"This blood is my blood, but Helt has berry blood on him," he answers, with that same deadpan as ever. "But I also have some berry blood on me, too."

Heimi tenses up, but doesn't shrink away when Jalo appears to... not be bothered by touching him. The wound almost immediately feels better, and then Jalo starts doing something else, which Heimi can't quite place. Either way, his distractions are certainly effective, although they hardly seem needed. He watches as Helt is cleaned up, but then Heimi is just looking intently at Jalo with that confused look about him.

"Jalo," He repeats, and then nods to the introduction of Bjorn. A shifter, a genasi — Heimi isn't sure if he's met any of these types before. Maybe he's seen them in passing, but just never talked to him — he didn't really make himself known, as much as he could avoid it. But they're all friends? Huh.

Agnar kneels before him, and the tiefling flinches once again as the hand is jutted out towards him. Agnar has big hands; he's obviously very strong. Again, Heimi just looks at his hand, and then up to him.

He's not meant to touch anyone. People don't like it when he touches things. Even if he touches things, like bowls or anything — And he's most certainly not supposed to touch other people. This feels... like a trick. But Roar's friends wouldn't trick him, would they? If Roar likes them, they must be okay, right?

Family. He blinks.

"But I'm— I'm going back to the forest tomorrow?" Heimi answers, rubbing his little hands together. His tail swishes anxiously, and he looks at Roar for clarification.

But, Roar is gesturing for him to... bite?

He knows he can trust Roar, and maybe this is a part of their whole plan. He needs to do what Roar says, doesn't he?

It happens quickly — he looks from Roar, to Agnar, to Agnar's hand— and then he bites it. He just fuckin bites it.

Just as soon as he does, he's skittering off the bed and hurrying over so that he can position himself behind Roar to effectively put him between himself and Agnar. He peers out from behind him, his tail curled protectively around him and his hands clasped together at his chest. Agnar knows he doesn't mean it, right? His bite attack doesn't even do a point of damage.

So that was, indeed, Abigail. Eirik's stomach flips, for some reason, when she waves back. He's nervous. It's probably apparent to absolutely everyone, given the sound of his breathing. But still, he smiles, rubbing a hand bashfully over one arm as she nears, and taking a step closer, himself.

But then, she speaks his language. The language dearest to his heart, which has so often felt like a second language to Danish... Eirik just appears to short circuit, and his cheeks positively flush.

Then, after a minute, he starts coughing. This is all so much. It's a loud, grating sound, and he turns his head away to muffle the worst of it in one hand, while the other is held up apologetically. When he regains himself, a little shaky but appearing not to be too concerned, that flush still lingers.

In English, he stutters, "You— f-from Iceland?"

His English is weak, to put it nicely, and after a second of fumbling he realises — she speaks Icelandic. Why is he trying (and failing) to conduct himself in English?

The switch is immediate, and his Icelandic comes much more eloquently, but in a torrent:

"You are not an Icelander, are you? May I ask why you speak— how you speak Icelandic? I— I didn't even know it was possible to learn it outside of Iceland, we are so small— unless you learned it from an Icelander who emigrated—?"

Eirik promptly cuts himself off. That was rude, impolite— he hadn't even introduced himself properly yet. The realisation has him promptly dissolving back into coughing. When he comes out of it, he bows his head apologetically, and leans the most of his weight into his suitcase.

"P-please, forgive my poor manners— I'm sorry. I got excited," the hand that had been bracing himself on his suitcase is held out, and he fixes her with a polite (too polite, almost rehearsed) smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss. My name is Eirik, the Kingdom of Iceland."

As they part, though, his smile widens into something much more genuine, with the corners of his eyes crinkling. Breathlessly, but with so much warmth in his tone, he adds: "It is wonderful to be here, and to meet you. Thank you for having me."

1873; United States | @offreedom

It had been a long journey — understatement of the century, really. It was only merciful he already resided in Denmark at the time, or he would have been forced to add a leg out from Iceland, also. He had boarded the ship in Copenhagen just over a month prior, despite the extensive fussing of his brother and the attempts to convince him otherwise. This trip would likely have been exhausting for just about anyone, let alone someone of Eirik's fragile constitution. Their relationship was close, if not a little on the codependent side, and he had great qualms about his frail little brother making the month long journey to the New World. But Eirik was stubborn as a mule, as he always had been, and he insisted that the trip might be good for him. There was no way to change his mind, ultimately.

It had, indeed, been exhausting. Eirik realised fairly quickly after leaving the port in Leith that this was not going to be an easy trip. There were simply too many people in cramped quarters, although it was made slightly easier upon learning that a fair few of these passengers were fellow Icelanders, emigrating. There was also the issue of the coal-burning ship, which Eirik hadn't accounted for, and nerves growing by the second as he wondered what awaited him on the other side of the Atlantic. He had spent the voyage mostly reading and writing, or socialising with his countrymen. On the days where his body buckled under the exhaustion or illness snuck up on him - which, he'd never admit to his brother, happened more ofren than he'd like - he always found his people sitting by his bed to keep him company. The trip was long, but a nice little community was formed, and he even gave several his address in Copenhagen so they could write one another once they had settled. Something in him ached, knowing they were leaving their home under these circumstances, but Eirik couldn't blame them. Laki had affected them all.

The trip from New York to West Virginia was much quieter, and Eirik found himself yearning for the companionship of his fellow Icelanders, or his brother across the Atlantic. But it was a short ride, in comparison - only about 7 hours - and although he tried to sleep, he simply couldn't. The views outside the windows were dim, but unlike anything he'd seen in Iceland. Everything here was so incredibly huge, as well - especially what little he saw of New York. It was rather overwhelming, but nothing moreso than the uncertainty of what awaited him on his arrival into West Virginia. The entirety of the train ride was spent fidgeting, staring out windows, drumming his heel, waiting.

When the train docks, he feels like he can't move. But here he is: West Virginia, United States of America. How grand.

He can feel himself shaking as he steps off the train, and his breathing is audibly rasping. People push past him off the train and he looks rather unnerved by the hustle-and-bustle, but then the crowd parts and he's the only one left on the platform. Not that he was hard to spot in the first place: a young man, probably bordering on eighteen, as white as snow and looking completely bewildered. And he is easily spotted; his eyes land on a woman he believes might be Abigail, and she looks back at him. Timidly, he gives her a little half-smile and waves, but he's hesitant to close the distance himself in case he might be wrong. This is all so... New, after all.

1873; United States | @offreedom

It had been a long journey — understatement of the century, really. It was only merciful he already resided in Denmark at the time, or he would have been forced to add a leg out from Iceland, also. He had boarded the ship in Copenhagen just over a month prior, despite the extensive fussing of his brother and the attempts to convince him otherwise. This trip would likely have been exhausting for just about anyone, let alone someone of Eirik's fragile constitution. Their relationship was close, if not a little on the codependent side, and he had great qualms about his frail little brother making the month long journey to the New World. But Eirik was stubborn as a mule, as he always had been, and he insisted that the trip might be good for him. There was no way to change his mind, ultimately.

It had, indeed, been exhausting. Eirik realised fairly quickly after leaving the port in Leith that this was not going to be an easy trip. There were simply too many people in cramped quarters, although it was made slightly easier upon learning that a fair few of these passengers were fellow Icelanders, emigrating. There was also the issue of the coal-burning ship, which Eirik hadn't accounted for, and nerves growing by the second as he wondered what awaited him on the other side of the Atlantic. He had spent the voyage mostly reading and writing, or socialising with his countrymen. On the days where his body buckled under the exhaustion or illness snuck up on him - which, he'd never admit to his brother, happened more ofren than he'd like - he always found his people sitting by his bed to keep him company. The trip was long, but a nice little community was formed, and he even gave several his address in Copenhagen so they could write one another once they had settled. Something in him ached, knowing they were leaving their home under these circumstances, but Eirik couldn't blame them. Laki had affected them all.

The trip from New York to West Virginia was much quieter, and Eirik found himself yearning for the companionship of his fellow Icelanders, or his brother across the Atlantic. But it was a short ride, in comparison - only about 7 hours - and although he tried to sleep, he simply couldn't. The views outside the windows were dim, but unlike anything he'd seen in Iceland. Everything here was so incredibly huge, as well - especially what little he saw of New York. It was rather overwhelming, but nothing moreso than the uncertainty of what awaited him on his arrival into West Virginia. The entirety of the train ride was spent fidgeting, staring out windows, drumming his heel, waiting.

When the train docks, he feels like he can't move. But here he is: West Virginia, United States of America. How grand.

He can feel himself shaking as he steps off the train, and his breathing is audibly rasping. People push past him off the train and he looks rather unnerved by the hustle-and-bustle, but then the crowd parts and he's the only one left on the platform. Not that he was hard to spot in the first place: a young man, probably bordering on eighteen, as white as snow and looking completely bewildered. And he is easily spotted; his eyes land on a woman he believes might be Abigail, and she looks back at him. Timidly, he gives her a little half-smile and waves, but he's hesitant to close the distance himself in case he might be wrong. This is all so... New, after all.

The muse is tipsy! Send me a 🍸and ask a question of them.

It may or may not be because the mun is also tipsy…

Would you rather only have garlic or onions?

Oh — hm. I don't really know, actually! I would say we use onions a lot more in our cuisine, and they are good, but... I like garlic a lot. Ah— probably garlic. It's more versatile!