Einarr was having a bad day.
While there was surely a reason (there was a reason for everything), he couldn’t put his paw on it. He’d woken up… off, somehow. Maybe he hadn’t slept very well. Einarr had the vague feeling that he’d dreamt the night before, even if he couldn’t remember it. Violent dreams.
There was the sound of hide being dragged along the ground. Ugh. Normally the sound didn’t bother him, but today it was like raking his claws over slate! His face pinched together in a snarl. “I’m not hungry,” he said in a clipped, matter-of-fact tone.
The preybeast was dropped suddenly. The thud and click of horns against rock caused Einarr to turn. He narrowed his eyes, “You again?”
A young leopardess stood awkwardly by the kill. She was wearing golden jewelry (quite odd in his opinion, given her station) and certainly didn’t look the part of a huntress- but one could still see the faint blood stains on her mouth and forepaws. Her eyes looked away from his and her posture indicated passivity. She seemed slight to him, and Einarr wondered if she was small for her species or if it was just the way she carried herself.
“You brought yesterday’s meal, did you not?” Einarr thought he saw her nod slightly.
Not good enough. “Speak.”
“I did,” her voice was soft and quiet.
The lion considered her; a creature that was young, and soft, and small, and wore gold, and smelled of blood and of fear… And was a female. And a thrall- mustn’t forget that last one.
Einarr circled around her and could practically taste her panic. To her credit, she stood still and almost managed to appear calm. Almost. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You don’t seem to be a laboring thrall,” he cocked his head, “Do you do other work?”
The leopardess bristled. “No,” she said (and he could tell she was fighting to keep her tone polite), “I’m a personal thrall.”
“Oh?” Einarr’s eyebrows rose, “Whose?”
“Ilangabi'Inyoni Bassidottir.”
Einarr’s ears pricked at the name. Bassi? He snorted. Thralls were wasted on that lot. “Bassi never did know how to handle thralls. Or sons, last I heard.”
“I wonder where you heard that.”
Well, now. It appeared that she did have something like spirit inside of her. Einarr was, again, unsure how he felt about that. Beyond his being intrigued. He was most definitely intrigued. Why, he was even intrigued enough that-
“What is your name?”
There was a moment of hesitation on her part, then, “Guðríðr.”
No surname. That made sense; thralls rarely had surnames. His didn’t. “Guðríðr…”
The way he said her name made the fur along her neck stand up. She couldn’t have said what, exactly, was unsettling about it. Only that it sounded like he was… tasting it. Or something. Whatever it was, it was weird and gross and she never wanted to hear him use it again.
“I heard it from other reavers. Maybe a freeborn or two.”
“W-what?” Guðríðr asked before she could stop herself.
Einarr rolled his eyes and flexed his claws. “I was answering your question— not that I was under any obligation to do so. What I heard of Bassi, I heard from fairly reliable sources. Certainly not from a thrall.”
Now that put her in a fix. Her mistress’s family had just been insulted (unjustly to boot), and Guðríðr was the only there to defend their honor. But it would be… imprudent to push the issue. Ragna had once told Guðríðr that there were times when a thrall ought to hold her tongue, even if she knew damn well she was right. You lived longer that way.
Guðríðr was thinking this was probably one of those times.
On a typical day, Einarr would have been satisfied with her silence. Silence was a sort of victory when dealing with those lesser than you. But today wasn’t a typical day, and Einarr didn’t want her silence. He wanted to see what would happen if he pushed her just a little bit farther.
“I suppose you disagree with their assessment.”
Wow, Guðríðr thought. It was not a good wow; it was the sort of wow that one thought when the ocean threatened to overcome the cliffs that had always seemed invincible, or when a preybeast that appeared to be dead attempted to gore a hunter that had gotten too close. Or maybe, Guðríðr tried to keep her breath steady, when one realizes they’ve greatly underestimated a predator.
She tried to stand her ground and appear unfazed, but her ears folded back against her head reflexively. “Indeed,” she managed.
Einarr thought that it really was a pity that she was a personal thrall, especially to someone in Bassi’s family. Honestly; what had the old oaf been thinking, giving such a thing to his daughter? This Ilangabi’Inyoni (what a ludicrous name) wouldn’t even be able to properly enjoy her. Judging by the jewelry, Guðríðr was apparently being used to play dress-up.
Einarr could think of so many better uses for a thrall like Guðríðr. He snorted, “Well, nothing of this encounter has led me to reevaluate my opinion on Bassi’s handling of thralls.”
Guðríðr made a heroic effort not to flinch.
“And I can think of no reason he might manage his sons any better,” Einarr continued. He thought a moment, “Daughters might be another matter. Where is your mistress?” Perhaps Einarr could persuade her to allow him to borrow Guðríðr a while.
“She has gone viking with Captain Ruzanski.”
Einarr raised an eyebrow. “I suppose daughters aren’t another matter.” Outlander wives, disappointing sons, dress-up thralls, would-be reaver daughters… It was as though Bassi had taken it upon himself to make a family embodying everything a Stormborn oughtn’t be.
Then, something seemed to click in his mind. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re waiting for her to return.”
Guðríðr wasn’t sure whether or not this was a rhetorical question. Einarr shook his head slightly. Unbelievable. He tried to imagine coming to the border day after day, hoping for someone to come home. When he couldn’t, he wondered if anyone would do that for him. (Idonea maybe, but she’d not worried so much after his first few vikings.) No one with an ounce of iron in their blood would waste such time. Reavers returned if and when they returned; any waiting had no impact.
“Well, she’s not here now,” Einarr said, hooking a claw in the preybeast’s belly. He took the creature’s neck in his mouth and yanked, opening it with a hideous sound. Blood shone against the white fur of his mouth when he spoke again, “Another day, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Guðríðr all but whispered, taking the lion’s shift in interests as dismissal.
Einarr watched the shrinking form of the leopardess as she retreated to center of the pride’s lands. Maybe the day didn’t have to be such a bad one after all.
