ragnarsson | Asgard Genesis Inbox

[ Ivar, don't make Peter pout at you. He can give some serious Puppy eye looks. ]

Please? Just this time. [ Having friends is a good thing, man, even if they sometimes get picky about murder. Peter at lest offers a proper explanation. ] She got sacrificed back home by someone close to her, you can imagine why it's not a practice she's fond of.

But as you said, she's a warrior and I'm sure you can talk about a whole lot other things. You could fight her if you want? She might even enjoy the exercise. [ There's a pause as peter considers things, and then smiles a little. ] I think you'd enjoy fighting with her too, she never holds back. [ And man, it is hot. ]

[Dangit, don't give him puppy dog eyes! Ivar's very good at that himself when he wants, but that doesn't mean he's immune to Peter's pleading look. He sighs and debates internally whether it would better to agree and keep the peace or stubbornly continue on like he always does. When he comes to a decision, he's far from happy about it.]

.......Fine.

[There's an immense amount of sulkiness and petulance put into the one word. Rather then focus on it, he decides to immediately change the subject.]

I also must both question how you ended up with such a warrior woman and also congratulate you for somehow managing that feat.

Alright!

[He grabs the flask and takes down another gulp without any hesitation. It isn't nearly as strong when compared to the ale of his home, but right now, he'll take what he can get.]

Olive branch? [It takes him a moment to realize what that's referencing. They can't grow olives in Scandinavia, so there's a different common expression for peace between enemies.] Ah, a laying down of arms. Yes, that was a good tactic. What was your message first going to be about?

[ So pouty, Ivar. ]

Thanks man, it means a lot to me. [ He means it, really. And he won't use the puppy eyes unless it's an extreme case. Peter's all too happy to change the subject. ]

Oh well, thanks. She tried to kill me at first.But a lot of people does that so, eh... [ Unremarkable for his standards. ]

Then we got to know each other a little better and worked together to break out of prison, then we saved the Galaxy from a blue skinned asshole Kree with a dance off and holdings hands. And some months later we had to kill my dad, who was a planet and wanted to eat the whole universe, and then she finally admitted that there was this unspoken thing about us...four year later here we are. I mean, it was more than four years but we both were dead for the last five so those doesn't count.

[ Because none of that sounds totally insane. But Gamora is green, so Ivar should be able to tell he didn't made up the stuff about living in space. ]

it was very romantic. [ Except not really. ]

Right. That's the first word that comes to mind when anyone thinks of you, joy... [ Mike just sniggers. ]

Do you have someone back home? Y'know, anybody you love?

[klaus really should be more surprised at this, but... he's not. one: ivar's a viking, different timeline, totally foreign traditions from what he knows. and second: at least ivar's a teenager?

it's a weak-ass excuse, he's going with it, anyhow.]

Ah. Yeah, I guess that saying isn't common where you're from? What you said works, too. [dammit, does he have to tell? avoiding this awkwardness would've been so much easier—] ...jewelry.

Mostly she just feels kinda dumb how she's dressed up. But he said white robes, whatever that meant - and a crown type thing. The latter made her feel a little too much like Aurelia, and fuck that bitch. But she has tried because it mattered to Ivar, and that was as good a reason as she'd ever had to do most things. So where no, nothing is fancy. It is neat, and clear that she's made some kind of effort.

Rhys wasn't using this shirt, anyway. Lucky that dude was a giant string bean, so his white shirt falls easily to the top of her legs, everything covered where it needs to be. Her belt tied around her waist to try and give her some shape ( sue her, she didn't care about impressing anyone, but she cared about looking her version of good ), but mostly so she could holster the knives and hammer off the leather loops. The diadem, in this case, is just wires and weeds, tied around to make a loose circlet. Hair out for once, bright orange and messy.

Waiting by Honir's Temple, fiddling with the buttons on the middle of the shirt, tapping her metal finger on one, that absent habit that made it impossible to stay still. Scuffing a boot, tugging the black stockings she'd put on underneath. Just odd, and not very tall, little in a way that doesn't match just how much she can and does run her mouth. If it weren't on closer inspection the medley of cuts and scrapes and bruises, bullet wounds and buzz axes and that sharp grin when she catches sight of him, lifting a hand to wave him over. "Hey buddy, sup, it's me!"

It takes Ivar a while to make sure he'll look proper for the sacrifice and also to gather up two chickens. He at first thinks about just stuffing them in a sack, but considering how many people have been freaking out over the treatment of the animals, he decides instead to put them in a small coop one of the natives had made so he won't have to listen to anyone complain. Then he sets out, the coop propped on his lap while he's in the wheel chair.

He looks unusually happy when he sees Gaige, at least as far as Ivar's default expression went considering he usually looks like he wants to murder someone. While it wasn't quite the traditional garb for a sacrifice, she'd put forth the effort, and that's what mattered. He waves back and wheels over.

"Alright. We've got the chickens, knives, and bowls. That's about all we really need. Let's get this going, shall we?" This is gonna be fun, at least as far as the definition of the word meant in Ivar and Gaige's minds.

[That entire tale, which seems to bounce from one non-sequitur to the next, leaves Ivar both confused and highly entertained.]

You've led a very strange life, Peter. Worthy to be put down as an epic tale as created by a wandering storyteller.

[That was a high compliment from a Norseman, for they valued storytellers almost as much as they did warriors. Since they had very little in the way of literacy, their traditions were entirely oral, and passed down from generation to generation.]

[Ouch. That hit him right where it hurts. Most everyone here seems to think Ivar's full of prickles and vinegar, with no one able to get below the surface, but that one does it alright. His good humor seems to evaporate.]

I used to.

[There's a whole untold story that goes along with that phrase.]

The only olives that come are way are in the form of oil when the traders from the Mediterranean come in.

Jewelry?

[Ivar seems interested, turning to look at Klaus more fully. The Norse are a bunch of little magpies when it comes right down to it. They love anythings shiny and that glitters, hence why they love raiding Christian churches, since they're always full of gold and things like jewel-inlaid crucifixes.

He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to show that he's wearing two arm rings, one on each arm. The one on the left looks much more tarnished and older then the one on the right.]

"You know it, hot stuff." The same breeziness in tone, eager to see him as before.

Definitely fun, as far as she concerned, and most especially, it's something to do when she sees him. Bouncing over in long steps of someone short that is used to keeping up with much taller people. But when she comes closer she bops down on her feet, balancing her arms to draw even with the chicken coop in his lap, peering in at the chickens trapped within. "Awww, you're so cute. And dumb. Ready for your big day?" She wiggles her flesh and bone fingers into the cage, ruffling some of their feathers. Then tilts her face up to smile at Ivar.

But with it, she rises up onto her feet to stand straight again. Tugging the shirt down a little where it seemed to inevitably ride up whenever she moved. "I'm yours to command. Let's murder a chicken."

[ The confusion was kind of expected, the entertainment not so much which makes Peter amused as well. At least Ivar takes things in stride. ]

Oh man, you're not wrong, it's always been crazy. And thanks, that sounds like high flattery. [ Especially coming from Ivar. ]

When Melissandre was here she also suggested writing down Gamora's story and submitting it to Odin's library. Did you know we can add books in there? You should write some, you must have a lot of cool stories to tell and that way no one would ever forget your name of your people.

[ No lie, Peter would love to learn more about those stories, or hear the songs. ]

I feel like oil is the only way some individuals even know olives exist. How many people in the world don't know about the little black rings you put on a taco or into pasta salad?

Yeah, that's what I said.

[his eyebrows raise with consideration as soon as ivar turns toward him. seeing legitimate interest in ivar's expression is surprising, he does his best with not letting it stagger him though, and is rewarded by getting to see the viking's arm-bands.]

Oh. So, you like it? That ring on your arm looks pretty well-worn. [the bench gets slanted a glance, but ultimately, klaus has already made his decision.] If you're up for it, we could go back to Tyrhaus. I've got it there.

They don't travel well. All attempts to get them to grow in Norway have failed.

[Ivar's gotten to taste so many new foods since coming here and it has been glorious.

He taps the left one.]

It belonged to my father. He gave it to me just before he died. Arm rings are important to Vikings. You receive one when you're twelve years old as a symbol that you're now officially a man. [It may have seemed comical from a modern-day perspective to consider a boy that hadn't even gone through puberty as a full-fledged member of society, but lives were much shorter back then. Getting to your fifties was considered pretty old.] They're also used for oath-making. If you break a vow you swore on your arm ring, you'll be cursed by the gods.

[He perks up at the mention of jewelry.]

I would like that. [And if the mushroom kicks in when he's looking at something shiny, so much the better for it.]

It is! Storytellers are highly praised where I come from. We don't write much down, so everything that makes up who we are comes down from the tales that are preserved through those who tell them. Besides, what else are we to do on long winter nights when the snow is six feet high besides tell stories and have sex?

[There's a very good reason why most Viking families tend to have at least two kids or more.

Ivar brightens at the idea of putting down stories about himself and the Norse people in general.]

I should. I'm fortunate since I'm one of the few that can read and write. I shall make sure our tales are preserved forever.

Ivar sets out two bowls on the ground and looks skyward for a moment. There's some words said, rolling sounds in a Scandinavian accent that fall through the cracks of what the automatic translation spell is supposed to catch. When it's done, he pauses for a moment. "It's time."

He picks one of the chickens out of the coop by the feet. She flutters her wings a few times. He pets it to calm it down and also says more words over the chicken itself. When she finally becomes still, he slices the head off in one single movement. The body of the beast continues to thrash as he tips the neck down towards the bowl, catching most of the blood in it. Some of it he deliberately splatters on the floor of the temple.

Then he dips his fingers into the blood in the bowl, smearing it across his face in a diagonal pattern, and creating a rune on his right cheek. He turns to Gaige.

"Alright. Your turn. Lop the head off, put most of the blood in the bowl, and sprinkle a little on the temple floor." Whatever else people might have thought about sacrificing animals, Ivar didn't deliberately torment them. Their ends were met quickly and without any prolonged suffering.

There is very little that Gaige is reverental about. Her faith in her that way. Only felt it in awe the first time she stepped into a Vault. But that was about knowing she knew so little about the galaxy in which she lived, and that giddy rush of the violence that came before it.

Here, in this, she can't do much else but take his cues. Which she does, best as she understands. He's at least being earnest, so she does the same. Gently taking care of the chicken as she picks it up. Making sure not to crush it in her metal fingers by mistake. "Good chicken. Nice chicken." she mimics how he pets it, but there is signs of the life she lives, in a way, despite it all, she's wary of it. Never knew when even the smallest thing could spit acid at you.

"Uh, thanks, chicken, for uh, dying." Did that count as a prayer? Close enough. But it calms down eventually as she loosely pets it's head. Ruffled feathers settling long enough that she can get her blade under its throat, that for all her twitchy, she goes still in her precision. Then schlick goes the edge against a soft throat, one second still. Ripping straight through, and against her white shirt, her cheek, the blood splatters in a gush down that she quickly gets over the bowl. Trying her best to catch even when it stains her in streaks.

Then when it's mostly caught, she dips her fingers into the still wa blood, coating her fingers and - only knew Bandit war paint, rough as that was. So she places three fingers to her forehead and drags it down her nose and eyes in a line. Then with the extra, flicks it over the temple grounds. There.

"What's next?" she turns back, the chicken in her hand. Blood trickling around the curve of her chicken, and in the relief of actually doing something, all that bursting energ goes direct and slow. Focused in her limbs as she rocks on her heels.

I think you mentioned that to me before. It's a shame these kinds of things aren't done anymore nowadays, they sound cool. But I can see how it would be harder to preserve the stories and knowledge.

[ He chuckles at the 'tell stories and have sex'. ]

Both options are good to past the time but only one keeps you warm. I saw...Gaige replying to your post as well. [ He leaves it at that but the unsaid question is 'How is that going, man?' Come on, he likes to gossip. ] She's a very spirited lady. We met when we have turned into animals a few weeks ago.

Eh, cool. Then you really should do that. I'd like to read them once it's done.

I will and then you shall know all about what my world is like. I think you will like the tale of my father. He was the most famous Viking in the world.

[Ivar sounds very proud of Ragnar and he was. His father had helped shape him into he was today.

At the question of Gaige, he seems to become off-guard.]

She is-- [For once, Ivar finds it difficult to find the words he wants to say. He also might be flushed a little pink and wearing a slightly goofy expression on his face.] --we understand each other. She comes from a similar place and has a mindset that's very much like my own.

Ivar watches her very carefully as she goes through the ritual. She's not of his world and doesn't know the specific customs, but the intent is there clear as anything. He's satisfied with how she handles her chicken and the blood right afterwards. Alright, time to wrap up the ritual.

He picks up one of the bowls. "Now we pour the rest of the blood over each other." Granted, they each could've done it themselves rather then each doing it to the other, but pouring blood over a hot chick is likely an item on Ivar's bucket list that he wants to cross off.

He looks down at the two chicken carcasses just before he pours the blood over Gaige. "I wonder how long it will take to figure out if this worked or not as far as Honir is concerned." Then he looks back at her. Yup, she definitely looks even hotter dripping with blood.

Gaige gets her eyes shut a second before he does it, leaning her head down to make it easier for him where he's sat. It's not the first time, won't be the last she gets covered like this. That thick way blood moved even within seconds after it was spilt, fresh and red. Running down her body, her clothes. Trickling around her neck, her chest, between her breasts and dripping down to the ends of her fingers in a steady stream.

"Guess there's nothing to do but wait. Figure we can pass the time somehow until we know for sure."

Which is about as much warning as he gets, because one thing was always true of Gaige. She was fast, and with it, she steps forward and kisses him. Mouth hot and sharp on his. She's messy, not neat, nothing about her is. That little bit too many teeth, a reckless grin as she inhales, smearing the blood against his lips where it covers her face that she presses into his.

That with her lips on his, her hand lifts, and tips the blood over him in return.

Edited 2019-09-21 06:15 (UTC)

The Viking teen won't deny and say that the sight of Gaige being drenched in chicken blood isn't hot. She looks like she just came off a battlefield. Really, fighting something right now is the only way this moment could get any better. Or so he thinks. Then it does.

Ivar is definitely not expecting her to make the first move at all. Then again, he's good at reading people all but where his own feelings tend to cloud his view. So he's surprised and turned on at the same time as Gaige's lips meet his own. He hasn't kissed anyone since he killed his wife. He does his best not to think about that fact right now. Getting drenched in blood helps bring him back to the present moment.

He inhales and gets a little bit of blood in his mouth as he reaches up with one hand, curling it around Gaige's neck to bring her down closer to his level. He can taste her and blood and vegetables in his mouth right now and it excites him in a familiar way. He's not sure where they're going with this, but it'll be fun no matter what.

She knows where she's going with this, that's for sure. It's something to do. He's something to do. Someone who won't run, or cry, or squirm where she's all sharp pieces held together under the heat of a welding iron. That he likes blood and he likes the violence, but he isn't all bandit, has things he cares about. Rules he stands by. There's - a comfort to that.

The bowl drops, empty now, clattering onto the floor as she begins to push into him with his encouragement. Her mouth parting to lick that taste of blood out of his mouth, thin and heady inhalation on the taste. Because she does like it. It's not quite the same as running under fire, but oh it'll do for something that makes sense.

This probably isn't the time or the place for it, but fuck, they'll work it out as she bends. "Never had someone fuck me in a temple." It's panted quick against his lips. "Is that okay for the Gods too?"

Well, that's... unfortunate. Have you had any here?

[because maybe he's too curious for his own good while trying to keep the conversation going. they'll need it, considering the trek back to tyrhaus will be some minutes and klaus has never been good with silence.

except for when listening to something important. ivar gestures, he leans closers, seeking out any particular markings or other discernable intricacies on the jewelry, attention flickering back to the teenager's face afterward. when he stops to contemplate the time ivar comes from, it isn't unsurprising, but his eyebrows lift somewhat anyway.] Twelve seems like so long ago for me... but damn, that's some important shit right there. Nobody wants a god-curse, I'm sure.

[back home(???) it is, then. klaus makes a fluttering gesture with his fingers toward the direction they need to go and begins leading the way.]

Hopefully, it holds up alright. The hemp cord I got was a little flimsy. Made it work, though.

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