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No. Vita Eiga Beina. This smíð mikill. Big. Will someone come? I tíða know. Help me?

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Who: Lagertha and Ragnar
What: Settling in to a new sort of life
Where: Hedeby (Vikings Door)
When: Now-ish
Warnings/Rating: Mentions of canon-typical violence

( He was there like the North Star at night, like one of Floki's steady, solid decks beneath her feet. )

Who: Ragnar and Lagertha
What: Discussions
Where: Hedeby, Vikings Door
When: Following this
Warnings/Rating: At the very least, mentions of canon typical violence.

When he had left the Hall, men were coming forward to drag Sigvard's body out to being preparations for his burial rites. And what would she choose? As Earl, it was Lagertha's choice, and it rested solely with her, not with his wife (though she was that too), or his sons, or his daughters if he had any. And what would she pick?

He made no attempt to disguise his following her, though the sounds coming from the hall now (loud, boisterous talk of a people who knew change and found this one to be for the better) drowned out a great deal of noise. And where he would have come straight into her rooms and to her side, this time he waited in the doorway, one shoulder butted against the edge, his thumbs loosely tucked within his belt again. "Lagertha."

Who: Ragnar and Lagertha
What: Arrival at Hedeby
Where: Hedeby, Vikings Door
When: Currentish
Warnings/Rating: Violence likely.

It could have been a town like any other in the North, with hay coating wood arched roofs and houses cradled between mountains on one side and rounded hills on the others. There was no river though, no streams or lakes, but there were plenty of mountains within walking distance drenched in white. The sprint melt would bring plenty of water, Ragnar knew. But, judging on the distance and from what he knew of the village, it was close to several rivers, but not on the water itself. And these people were not farmers. There were no great tracks of land devoted to grains or bees, but all around the town there were the signs of small campsites, spits and tanning racks. Traders, then. A days travel and they could be at one of two rivers and from there trade with all the north lands. And given their proximity to the mountain ranges, they had access to animals that others did not.

They were fine furs, decorating the shoulders of men and the backs of women, but Ragnar had a taste for raiding. He was quiet as they rode into the village Lagertha called her (new) home. The place was not like Kattegat, the air different, heavy, burdened. Trade and an iron fist ruled here. His nose twitched, a pull of muscle and skin, a momentary shift before settling into muted curiosity as he followed her lead to the long hall where her new husband was. Would her husband, Sigvard, remember her? Or was she alone in knowing what the future held?

A few gazes lingered a little too long on her, a small tip of the head -- they knew her. She was not alone. If her husband knew her -- his lips pursed rapidly, jaw flexing and rolling, a sure sign of his displeasure to anyone that knew him, but he said nothing until they entered the dark hall of Sigvard. The man himself was older, older even than Earl Haraldson had been, but the hall was quiet though there were plenty of men and women within.

Who: Lagertha and Ragnar
What: Post-plot reaction
Where: Vikings Door - On the way from Kattegat to Hedeby
When: Currently
Warnings/Rating: Violence is always possible. Will update if needed

She had gone mad. She was certain that there was no other explanation for it. She had imagined such strange things, being a different person, a creature with wings greater than any eagle or even the ravens of Odin. She had battled the creature, or had begun to, but whatever had placed her there by its own whims had taken her away again before they could do more than strike at each other a single time.

And so she had been returned. She had awoken, as if from a nap, her mouth tasting of something fresh and sweet and cold, sitting propped against a tree. She recognized the woods, close to where she and Ragnar had stopped to make camp for the evening, still on their shared journey to return her home. She could see the glow of the fire from where she sat, and she pushed herself back to her feet, trying to work blood back into her limbs. She found that she was not injured, not from that knife that had gleamed so wickedly. Her weapons were still strapped to her belt, and glad she was to have them back again, wishing she had had them in the small room just moments before.

If she had been there. Ragnar had spoken of such strange things, of cities of lights and those whose words she had seen but tried to ignore. It all seemed to be born of a place where sense did not rule, and she had shunned it. But she still remembered the rustle of the creature's great wings, and she was certain that she would find it in her nightmares until the gods called her from her life.

She made her way back to camp, following the orange of embers between the trees, and was glad to see her bedroll still spread before the fire. Though false dawn was just starting, she only sat on her bedroll, certain she would be unable to sleep, and stared into the low glow of the embers.

[Locked to Lagertha]

I will have goat tonight, if you would like to join me.

[Locked to Loki]

I gave you my word. What would you have, Lord?

[In runes that do not change.]

Have you seen?

[After this.]

( Cut to save friends pages. )

I'll take Earl back if it means going home.

[Written in the neat, straight lines of younger Futhark before they settle into a very rigid, bold English.]

It is better like this.

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