RoadRash

Loki's Laugh

Collab between IdleHands and RoadRash
Healer's House

Sigrid spotted Faolan and the larger part of the duo she had just acquired, "Wilfred is it? You and the other slave will stay here for the night. Rest and get better because there is much work to be done and the snow will fall soon. Tora will stay as well, she needs care...but tomorrow you will all return to our home."

Her green grey eyes flickered from her thrall to the monk, "It is kind of you to stay with her, she will need the comfort.

Sigrid touched Tora's other hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before leaving them. She went to gather the children and Dagny toddled to her father, her small chubby hands outstretched to be lifted up. Sigrid smiled a little, their daughter was constantly indulged by Ragnar and she remembered wistfully their other little girl had been as well. The boys were still stoic despite the frightening ordeal and Ranulf had to be fetched away from Eyja's side. He looked back at her with longing in his grey eyes and Raudr scowled at him, smacking his shoulder.

His craggy features breaking into a grin, Ragnar stooped and swept his daughter into his big arms, holding her bottom in the crook of his left elbow. He leaned forward and tickled her neck briefly with his beard before planting a loud kiss on her forehead, chuckling as Dagny giggled and then threaded her chubby fingers in the coarse braids of his facial hair.

Turning to Haakon and Ivarr, he nodded and headed for the door. The two warriors fell in behind him, moving out to flank the family as they exited the healing house. As they crossed into the cold night, Ragnar turned and pointed towards his sons.

“Raudr, with Haakon. Ranulf, with Ivarr. Watch their flanks, help them see us safely home.”

His ice-blue eyes shone with quiet pride as the boys hurried to their positions, taking his orders as seriously as they always did. He loved his boys, and knew that one day they’d be great warriors in their own right. Ragnar the Younger was his heir, after all, and Ranulf would be establishing a household of his own. It was never too young to start training a son, in Ragnar the Elder’s eyes.

Sigrid moved closer to Ragnar, a smile on her face at the boys following direction and the obvious joy of their surviving daughter in her father’s arms. The fort was quiet, the sleet had stopped though the footing still muddy and slick. Her hand slipped out and found his, brushing her fingers against his.

“Thor watched over our household tonight,” she said, looking straight ahead, her lovely features like carved ivory. “We will offer our thanks to him as well as the Pict in due time. I’ll let Hallerna make her overture now. Ragnar...”

She paused, glancing at the children and men that walked ahead of her, “Nevermind, it’ll keep. Once we get home, I’ll set out food and we need to rest. Tomorrow promises to be as long as today.”

Ragnar nodded absently as they walked, his eyes scanning the shadows. Though Harald had claimed that the hostilities were at an end, at least for the night, he didn’t trust the dwarfish man. As the family approached their home, the Thegn’s eyes played over the blood still staining the ground from the attack on his children, revealed in the flickering light of the torches. His right hand tightened into a fist as anger flooded him anew, the tendons in his massive forearms creaking.

Shaking off his rage he opened the door, leading the way into the hall. Once inside Ragnar gave Dagny another kiss on the forehead, then handed her off to Sigrid.

“We can speak soon. We’ll sacrifice to Thor together, but first I have need of Tyr.”

Turning, he walked to the curtained off portion of their personal quarters that contained his private shrine to his patron god, leaving the family to go about their business.

Sigrid left him to it and carried Dagny to the small table setting her between her brothers and fetched some bread made earlier by Tora. She held it and her thoughts went to her poor slave, causing her jaw to clench and she blinked away the angry tears that threatened. She served the children and the two men bread and butter, then stoked the fire under the pot of leftover stew.

Once it was heated she served a dish and filled his horn with ale, stepping quietly to the curtained off portion that served as their bedroom, “Ragnar, if you’re ready.”

A few moments later Ragnar emerged, stretching his shoulders. He’d shed his mail and weapon belt before attending to his prayers, and now wore his usual linens. Hesitating, he returned to their room and took his hand axe, bringing it to the table and setting it beside his bowl before crossing to the basin of water they used for washing and scrubbing his hands clean. The water darkened as it sluiced off the blood of the man he’d killed earlier in the day, and when he had finished he returned to the table, seating himself.

“Thank you, Sigrid,” he rumbled, giving her a nod of gratitude for the food and drink. “Gods know a little food always helps make a bad day better.”

He patted his ample midsection with a chuckle before tucking in.

”And we were lucky that the former occupants stocked up so well,”she replied, smiling gently at the children who eating with gusto despite their brush with death. ”None know about what we’ve got stocked here, it’ll be better that way.”

Raudr finished first and looked up at his father who was still eating, ”Fadir, I want a real sword.”

Sigrid raised her eyebrow, ”Boy, you’re not big enough. You still have several winters before you’ll be wielding any real blade.”

Her voice held worry behind the no nonsense tone, her grey-green eyes meeting Ragnar’s deep blue. The boy was only eight, approaching nine seasons and a sturdy youngster but a boy still.

”But I needed one today and I didn’t have one,” he countered, ”Just the stupid wooden stick.”

”And what would you have done other than die too soon?” Sigrid snapped at her eldest son.

Ragnar the Elder remained silent throughout the argument, seemingly staring into space as he ate. When he’d finished his meal he stood without a word and walked back towards his and Sigrid’s bedroom. A few moments later he returned, a battered saex in his hand. Crossing to the table, he sat and held the blade, looking at it for a long moment.

“Before either of you were ever born, I led a raid on a Swedish village. Odin was with us, and we came on them out of a heavy fog; they barely had time to mount a defence before we were off the boats and cutting them down.”

Ragnar’s eyes grew distant as he told his tale, reliving the scene with pride. “Most of them didn’t have time to don their armor; some didn’t even have weapons. One of their warriors, though, he’d managed to get his sword belt and shield, and was trying to mount a defence. He faced us barechested, calling us to come and die, unafraid of the armored warriors advancing on him and his few men.”

The Thegn looked at his sons, holding up the saex. “He killed five of my men himself. Five armed and armored Danes, taken by a near-naked Swede who fought like Tyr himself guided his arm. When I went to face him myself, I shattered his shield and cut his sword arm to the bone, and he still came at me, with this very blade, defiant to the last. I still carry a scar where he pierced my mail with the tip before my axe split his skull. I have no doubt that when I reach Odin’s hall, that Swede and I will share a horn as brothers.”

Ragnar smiled at the memory, then leaned over and placed the saex before his eldest son. “Now, I’d intended to give this to you when you were older. But these are strange times, and I can’t have you unarmed. Remember though, that this is for you to defend yourself and your siblings, not the family honor. That job falls to myself and my men, and I’ll not have you drawn into a duel over some insult. You aren’t ready to face a grown warrior in an open fight; draw it only if you have no other choice, are we clear?” he said, his eyes boring into his son’s.

“And if you are forced to draw it, use it. Don’t dishonor the memory of that worthy enemy with cowardice.”

Raudr eagerly took the saex, his blue eyes wide with wonder and pride as he held the blade up, the honed edge catching the firelight of the hearth. Sigrid tightened her jaw, but said nothing until he was finished. Ranulf watched, feeling a twinge of envy at the honor his older brother was receiving but he kept his peace.

”You listen to your Fadir,” Sigrid said, ”Once you’re holding a weapon you’re responsible for your actions. It will not fall to us.”

The redheaded boy held the blade reverently thinking about the great Swede warrior who had once carried it to battle and was now in Valhalla. It was an honor but the warnings of his parents rang in his head, that he would be now responsible for what he did. He heard them but the excitement of owning the knife overrode his apprehension. He tied the sheath to his belt, letting it fall against his leg like a sword rather than across his midsection as the knife was usually worn.

”Thank you, Fadir, I will be careful,” he said quickly, his face flushed with pride. ”I won’t let anyone harm Dagny, Ranulf or Madir.”

Sigrid shook her head slightly, she was better equipped to defend herself and them but she let her son have his moment, ”Remember to offer to Tyr now that you carry a blade, as well as Thor.”

Ragnar eyed his eldest proudly for a moment before speaking again. “Heed my words, boy. You’re armed like a man, and you’ll be treated like one. No more childish tantrums, no more acting out. Remember your station, and act accordingly; if you dishonor this family, and the man I took that blade from, I’ll hang it back on my shrine and have you mending clothes with Tora until Hiemdall’s horn sounds.”

Raudr looked at his father and back at the blade on his hip, feeling the seriousness of the situation start to sink in. His brother eyed him with worry and promised himself to keep an eye on him, incase his mouth was bigger than his sword arm.

”I promise Fadir, I will honor you and the man who bore this blade along with the gods,” he said slowly, thinking about the weight of the words and he took a knee in front of Ragnar. ”I will swear it with my blood.”

He reached for the seax but Sigrid stood up, ”We believe you, Raudr and that is enough. Come, it is time for bed, look at Dagny she’s already asleep.”

The little girl had nodded off, laying her head in Ranulf’s lap. The blonde boy gently lifted her and handed her to Sigrid. The boys went to their corner to sleep and Sigrid laid Dagny with them since she did not have Tora to take the little girl. She would have kept her with her and Ragnar but they still had business to discuss.

She kiss them all on their foreheads, ”Keep warm and get some rest. Raudr, don’t stay up all night looking at that knife, it’ll be there in the morning, son.”

Haakon and Ivarr went to their benches on the far side of the long house, each with a curtain of motheaten wool hanging for privacy. Sigrid put away the dishes and covered the bread before retiring to their sleeping area. She removed her hair from the tight braid, combing it out with her ivory comb that Ragnar had brought her one summer. She undressed until she was in her linen shift, the house was warm enough to allow the comfort of sleeping without a bundle of clothing.

Ragnar followed, pausing only to remind his men to sleep with their weapons tonight. As he passed the curtains into his and Sigrid’s room, he sighed and stripped off his clothes before sitting on the furs that covered their bed. Rolling his head to work a kink out of his neck, he looked to his wife.

“So, you wanted to speak to me earlier..”

Sigrid stretched, testing the limits of the thin shift and yawned before dropping her arms, ”Yes. I want to say I’m sorry about earlier, I should have held my tongue around Harald but that...troll. I wish I could cut his throat myself for what he did to Tora and what his men tried to do to our children. My babies!”

She breathed out sharply, her hands gripped in fists showing her white knuckles, ”I could have run him through on my spear if I had it in my hands.”

”But I should have held back, and now...that man will find any soft spot to cut,” she sighed, sitting next to Ragnar, putting her hand in his. ”I made a mistake.”

Ragnar listened quietly, nodding. When she’d finished he wrapped her in his burly arms, holding her close.
“All is forgiven. I understand your anger, love, I do. And I promise you that as soon as it’s possible, I’ll bring you Harald’s head on a spear and plant it outside our hall. But I can’t move against him yet. If I do, I’ll be in the wrong.”

He kissed her cheek, his gruff voice gentle. “In the mean time, know that I’m not upset with you. What’s done is done, and I understand.”

She put her arm around him and leaned her head against his chest, pressing her face against him, ”I want him to die shamefully, I would pull his lungs through his back before you take his head. There is no place for him in Odin’s halls.”

Sigrid could hear the tremble in her voice and she hated it, the tears that threatened from the pent up fear and rage. She gripped his hand with her free one and turned her face up to look at him. Her expression changed, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. ”I thank Freya everyday for her sending you to me, my love. My shield, my husband.”

She leaned up and kissed him, pressing her lips tightly against his to communicate all what words could not say. Her love, her pride, her relief that he was still whole and hale. That their family was still alive, their children sleeping in a warm pile rather than dead in cold graves. That the gods saw fit to keep them alive, she was grateful, even if the one who saved them would not understand this or accept their gratitude.

She prayed to the gods that it remain so, that her husband’s fate would lead him to a long life and he would be there to keep them safe from the many dangers that lurked in the darkening world. That their children would grow and marry and have their own babies. There was so much death now, even more than life in their rough world usually allowed for. She clung to him in a rare moment of needing his strength as she felt hers falter.

”Ragnar,” she whispered to him, tears making her eyes shimmer. She said no more but kissed him again, embracing him, feeling his comforting bulk against her body.

Star Wars: Dawn of the New Republic

Still interested as well. Sorry about the unexplained disappearance, I crashed my bike and have been recuperating. Ready to write again soon, and I'll get that CS drawn up when I get a chance. Just bear with me.

Loki's Laugh

So Idle and I have been talking, and I've decided to reassume control of Ragnar. Sorry about the absence. Between school and the bike wreck I've been pretty swamped, but I feel like I can get some writing done finally. Just bear with me as I find my way back into the story.

The Sprawl

Outstanding. I eagerly await our commencement of chicken-fucking. I'll hold the wings.

The Sprawl

When we gonna fuck this chicken? I'm gettin' antsy.

The Sprawl

Character sheet is up. Wasn't sure where to put it, so here it is...If it needs to be moved, let me know. I'm open to edits, but I don't think he's too overpowered at all. Just a step or two above "Thug 1" and "Thug 2". Definitely not a terminator.

The Sprawl

Name: Oliver “Ollie” Campbell

Age: 34

Appearance:

Height: 1.7m / 5’8”
Weight: 104kg / 230lbs

Description: Oliver Campbell is a physically imposing man. Though of just-barely average height (in Europe, anyway,) his barrel chest and bull-like shoulders give him a presence that many taller men envy. He seems to have been carved out of slabs of rock; what he lacks in ripped definition, he more than makes up for in raw power, and if anything the layer of fat he carries over his muscled frame only serves to reinforce the fact that his is a strength born of hard work and hard living, rather than neatly sculpted beneath the halogen bulbs of a gym.

His blue eyes are deep-set beneath a heavy brow, and his nose has been broken and poorly set several times. The top of his shaven head carries small scars earned in dozens of scuffles, street fights, and barroom brawls, and his knuckles are heavily scarred from years of hard work and conflict.

Image:



Background: Oliver was born on London’s East End, to a loving drunk of a father and a sober shrew of a mother. His father died in a bar brawl when he was a young boy, the victim of a man with a hunting knife and a chip on his shoulder. Young Ollie became the man of the house, and began working at a young age to support his mother and three younger brothers. He worked as a day-laborer at the dockyards, starting under-the-table at 15 and staying with it until his 18th birthday, when he joined the British Army.

Ollie served three of his four years as an infantryman, and was present at the disastrous “Battle of Fox Bay” during the Third War for the Falklands, where the British Army sustained heavy losses and was eventually driven off the island. During the retreat he was run down by a panicked truck driver, and nearly killed. Though he survived his injuries and the military medical personnel repaired the damage as best they could, he was deemed no longer fit for military service, and medically discharged.

Upon returning home, the listless soldier returned to his own neighborhood spiritually defeated. The residual pain from his injuries led to an addiction to pain medication, which he obtained through illicit contacts from his youth. To afford his new “prescriptions” the burly young man began working as muscle for drug dealers and hoodlums in London’s underworld. His natural build and surly post-war attitude made him an excellent enforcer, and his addiction to the drugs was an effective chemical leash.

Eventually, the mounting debt became too great for him to work off, and at the age of 25 he fled the country, eventually ending up in Thailand. His old habits returned with a vengeance, and he immediately set himself up with the local underworld, operating primarily as a free-lance debt collector who sold his services to anyone willing to pay for a bit of muscle. Now, with his drug habit under control and a firmly established reputation for both reliability and violence, he continues to ply his trade in the inner-city streets of The Sprawl, doling out physical punishment for money.

Personality: Despite his lifestyle and past, Oliver does not consider himself a “bad” person. He certainly accepts that he’s capable of violence, and knows that what he does isn’t exactly family-friendly, but he consoles himself with the knowledge that ultimately, the people he’s working over have brought it upon themselves. He learned the hard way that debts should always be paid, and the fact that he facilitates such payments has become a point of pride for him.

Outside of “work”, Ollie is a surprisingly relaxed man. He has several solid drinking-buddies at a variety of inner-city bars, and gets along as well with the natives as he does with his fellow expatriates. His gallows humor and dry wit make for entertaining conversation, and though he’s quick to violence when it comes to business, he’s remarkably slow to anger in social settings. He’s pragmatic about his life; violence is work, and if he’s not at work, why be violent?

Skills:
-Comfortable and well-trained with most kinds of firearms. Though not a sniper by any means, he’s certainly more experienced than your average Joe Citizen. He generally carries a small pistol when on the job, just in case things go beyond fisticuffs.

-Physically strong. Ollie is a very muscular man, and it shows. It’s rare that someone is able to physically overpower him without augmentations, and he can deal punishing damage with his ham-hock fists.

-Street fighter. Ollie really shines in physical confrontation. Though he lacks formal training, and isn’t terribly graceful, his strength, experience, and ability to absorb physical blows like a sponge make him a dangerous opponent in a brawl.

Augmentations:
-Left hip and right knee- Damaged at the Battle of Fox Bay. Both joints were extensively reconstructed by military doctors.
*NOTE These implants are medical grade, not combat enhancements. They allow him to function normally (though not without a residual limp) and provide no other special abilities.
-Bio-laminate- Five years ago, Oliver paid a bio-tech team under-the-table to surgically attach a laminate sheath to the bones of his forearms, wrists, and hands. This laminate is extremely durable, and allows him to put much more power behind his punches without fear of breaking the bones of his hands. Though they don’t make him any stronger, he’s able to punch a cement wall full-force and just bruise his knuckles, rather than shatter his fist.

Current state-of-affairs
Currently, Oliver is living in a one-bedroom apartment down in The Sprawl. He works as a free-lance debt collector and negotiator, collecting on loans from various criminal elements and delivering beatings to delinquent debtors when necessary. He also contracts as a bodyguard when possible. This makes him well connected amongst the lower elements of society; though he isn’t a high-ranking crime boss himself, he’s a trusted associate of many of them, and his free-lance nature and decade of reliable and effective service means that he’s generally got a favor or two he can call in, if things get tight.

Relationships/allegiances/rivalries - WIP

The Sprawl

I'm sure there would be some sort of Thieves' Cant or trade language in the inner city. There are plenty of historical examples of melting pots creating their own patois out of mixed cultures and languages. The Creole/Cajuns of the United States are a good example.

Hell, even American English is a patois of sorts, given that it borrows so heavily from other languages. Much more so than UK English.

The Sprawl

Groovy. I'll see if I can get mine wrapped up and posted tonight or tomorrow. It'll be done shortly.

Post here and I'll give you a valentine!

KuroTenshi said
I got a rose from my mom and a chocolate covered strawberry from my dad for valentines day!

Don't say I never did anything for ya.