Who: Ragnar and Lagertha
What: Arrival at Hedeby
Where: Hedeby, Vikings Door
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.