Recent content by Sigrun Flintfeet

"That's right. We don't know what in Crum's bloody beard it is." She scratched her neck, summoning up what scraps of knowledge she had. "But the things it's around they . . . change. The skin of the boars, I've--I've never seen anything the like! Wet and papery like, like . . ." her hands...

Sigrun smiled through her tangles of unbound hair, gradually loosened from strain and one rapid event after another - like a beam of sunlight through a tangle of trees. She chuckled a little at his outlandish question of Irman, turning to look up at Gabriel. "He's fine." The relieved mirth...

Sigrun managed to rush into the stillroom with Gabriel, just at the pinnacle of Ispir's transformation. Those two words - titanic in scope, rattling through her bones like divine memory - completely arrested Sigrun in her tracks. She could only stare at Ispir lying back down, the powerful, teal...

Sigrun blinked. The long, rambling explanation of the drow seemed too fantastical and too out of this world to be a fabricated lie. Moon goddesses, oaths, independence, flying fey furballs, boasting of being a rogue and a pilferer of books . . . Not exactly glowing recommendations, but too long...

Sigrun stood still, threateningly so, barely a ripple in her tense features. Her brow did furrow, however, as the proferred logic was not unsound. But it felt too prepared. Too much like drow deception. "I hunt many things. Monsters too. Including those scampering out of the Underrealm." Her...

A nod of confirmation, then through a clenched mouth: "Aye. He be in good hands." When Irman was carried away and the elk led off, Sigrun leaned her back against a ramshackle wooden post, sinking down to her haunches. Ancestors, she was weary to the bone. Every muscle and fibre of her burned...

The winches of the gatehouse groaned, ancient chains complaining, rust caking off the screeching portcullis. Crobhear Keep opened its main gate like a leper might reluctantly open his mouth to ingest ill-tasting medicine. Sigrun slid off Honey Pepper's back, steering the elk by its reins...

She looked down at him with pity, and attempted an encouraging smile, though it looked mostly remorseful. Gently, but firmly, she took his hand, squeezing it for some sort of comfort. "Sigrun. Name's Sigrun, lad." No sense in keeping names secret any longer. He wasn't likely to go blabbering...

The tension in her muscles and her grimace of combat leaked out, steadily turning into a frown of concern. He was flopping around in the cart like a fish on land, strength wrung out of him, barely able to reach out for her. She quickly stepped over and hefted Ispir's wrist, helping him up. She...

"I'm sarding trying, ancestor's bones!" Sigrun charged after the cart - but her short, dwarven legs could only get her so far. Even shackled to a cart, Honey Pepper soon became a distant memory in the horizon, lurching down the hill from the road. That didn't stop her though. She kept...

"Verun tho bjoulvn skirth udovr!" Sigrun sounded like a different creature altogether when belting out dwarven curses. Her voice echoed in the valleys, startling packs of birds from far-away trees tops, thrumming between mountain-tops like they were distant tuning forks. The vulgarity of her...

The kobold landing on Sigrun would soon wish it had gone for someone else. She cried out, her anger quickly superceding her initial bout of fear at seeing arrows flying and piercing the poor bard's leg. Hitting two birds with one stone, or in this case, two kobolds with a single throw, she...

Sigrun peered in a stupefied manner at the production of a mirror. A luxury she had rarely seen, even in Belgrath. How had this young man not gotten himself robbed yet? She frowned to herself. It was also curious that Ispir had decided to flee so far north. But who could guess how humans...

Sigrun examined the sketch, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. It hardly looked like something spawned from human imagination - and certainly not from this gentile human. That lended some credence to his story. Her sceptical glance travelled up to him as he snapped his book shut. Either there had...

Even Sigrun could tell an obvious rhyme scheme when she heard one. She'd heard more impressive work from passing musicians on the road, dressed in garbs worth a quarter of what this one was wearing. How could he afford these clothes and ink? Maybe she was simply privy to the working process of...