Private Tales Back to the Ground

[Fífl]

What was misfortune?

Was it truly such a cosmic affair? Was it just the very nature of things that decreed that if good luck existed, then bad luck must, too? Inescapable, unavoidable, inevitable. Did Spotta's existence really hinge upon that? Happenstance?

Or was misfortune born from every choice made in a day, balancing one stone perilously atop the other until one poor choice, one ill-placed stone, brought it all tumbling down? After all, did one caught in a storm not have the chance to consult the clouds beforehand? Could the first Nordwiir who ate a púkisveppir not have made their friend try it first instead? Why did the settlement build their storehouse above ground, where hungry eyes could observe it from afar?

It was getting too philosophical. Maybe they were two different things: one misfortune and the other foolishness.

What was actually important was that the aforementioned aboveground storehouse, made of flagstones and proudly standing atop the frozen earth, was a monument to somebody else's fortune—Fífl's.

The first heist had been a cautious one, merely a curious woman in the shape of the common kaldurhrafn hopping through the hide-covered doorway only to discover a veritable bounty, a feast fit for the high festival times of Feittsumar! It was more than just sacks upon sacks of vatchir, jörðgnótt and hanging shoulders of kaldabatur; no, there was a banquet from afar! Strange dried meats like strips of bark, flat savoury disks that would flake and melt under an errant beak, and best of all (at least from an avian perspective) grain.

Naturally, with such a success, there had been a second occasion, a larger pilfering, which had been noticed and met by furious shouts and limbs that hurled stones (and missed, thankfully).

Returning to her small coastal cave of solitude, she had briefly considered what hubris meant and weighed it against her own greed. How much of a good thing was too much of a good thing? It wasn't a particularly lengthy inner debate, the feeling of a full stomach urging on a mind that had already decided before the question was asked.

The third time, there was some netting, the coarse gróft fibres stretching across the doorway like a foreboding obstacle impassable by beasts. It took but a small effort for her to work away a corner with her beak under the cover of night when patrolling eyes shut for a modicum of rest. It had begun to feel like a game, and one that she was winning without little effort. She felt more concerned about becoming too fat to fly than getting caught.

Then, on the fourth, came the door.

A door! Made of wood! For her?!

The fact that they had such a wealth of materials even to consider such a measure surely meant that these Wiir had more than enough to share; could they not part with a small amount of the fruits of their labour? The collection of kaldurhrafn skulls littered on the ground at the entrance, a dire warning, was taken instead as a challenge. This time, she flapped around the circumference of the building, testing the stone with a beak and claw to see what moved and what was stuck fast. Eventually, she had found the chink in the armour, a stone clinging to dear life that was eventually pried free by a determined and greedy bill and, with it, created a small hole that she could squeeze through.

Another success, another well-earned meal.

Fífl had anticipated they might have worked to reseal her entrance on the fifth raid, but to her pleasant surprise, they had not. Perhaps they had given up?

On reflection, that had been a frivolous thought.

When she had squeezed through her hole in the wall, the most peculiar sensation hit her upon emerging on the other side. It was as if a frigid invisible hand had phased through her skull and squeezed her brain like a boiled vatchir. The physical world ceased to make sense, her vision staggered by a delay that showed the storeroom around her in static images, and her limbs no longer connected to stupified thoughts. One moment, she was in a feathered heap on the floor, and the next, she was flapping into the roof like a bee encountering glass for the first time.

While her body panicked aimlessly, Fífl was apparently in the midst of an out-of-body experience. She was somewhat aware that she was making quite the racket, with a string of distressing croaks and caws erupting from her feathery whirlwind of chaos. Was she even in her own body anymore? Was this another plane of existence? The half-baked thought didn't have time to rise as a sudden sharp pain brought the woman back to the fore.

She had just flown full pelt into the storehouse walls. Did something snap? It wasn't pleasant to feel through the maelstrom of confusion, and she was now definitely sprawled out on the ground like a tiny avian rug.

What was that about misfortune again?

Something about fools.

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

The village of Vikkeða was a tight-knit community of around eighty-seven souls; one of the very few in Sund.
​

The sturdy homesteads of flagstone walls and thatched roofs of the village were built on the southernmost coastline of the isle of Sund, sitting comfortably upon the borders of a shallow bay that fed into the vast, winding rivers of the isles. They were not protected entirely from the weather of the flat, stony tundra of the island, but it was enough to live more comfortably than most.

Winter would obviously always find a way in Eyjarnar, and so they suffered the same endless cycle of snow and wind.

The surrounding slopes that signified the dipping walls of the bay could only realistically do so much to make a difference, and most of the inhabitants could walk up and down the carefully paved trails through the winter snow without so much as noticing the change in elevation.

Still, what mattered most to the settlers of Vikkeða was the fact that the waters around their home were deep enough so as to house their small fishing vessels in the summer and spring months. The seasonal storms of the isles were more than capable of devastating any vessel left out in the open sea, and so the natural inlet was far more invaluable to them than some meaningless novelty like comfort.

The illusion of comfort was an incredibly dangerous thing to a people so accustomed to threats around every corner, and getting too comfortable was just asking for fate to turn around and peck you in the eye.

As a kaldurhafn might do, for example.

It started with the theft of grain from their storehouse.

That in itself was certainly unusual; the village of Vikkeða had its own share of squabbling and conflict, but to steal from the communal storehouse where most of their harvests and raided grain were kept so that families could still eat, even in the long winter months? That was not something done lightly in a town so isolated and dependent on pragmatism for the survival of the settlement.

Whoever could've committed such a taboo was either utterly foolish or otherwise possessed an audacity that bordered on actively suicidal. The first time was not unnoticed, but it was so small of a theft that there was no reasonable expectation for the Æðri's retainers to even bother tracking down whoever might've been guilty of the crime. Then they struck again, and then again.

The second time around was much less subtle, and it was soon discovered that their perpetrator was no fellow Wiir at all - but a kaldurhafn, much to the relief of everyone involved. For what was a bird but a temporary nuisance, something that can be condemned to a soup pot as penance for its ghastly crimes?

Yes, they could work with that.

And so the next week was filled with attempt after attempt to catch the belligerent corvid that had made the mistake of pilfering from their storehouse. They had no shortage of hunters who boastfully proclaimed that they would do this thing; they would be the one to bring back the prized pelt of their hated enemy. Oh, they had no doubt in their minds that it would be a quick affair!

As the week wore on, it became suddenly apparent that ridding themselves of this winged menace would not be so easy.

Not when their attempts hadn't even come close to succeeding, for the kaldurhafn was almost uncanny in its intellect. Their nets were cut or avoided, their snares were thwarted by a quick wit, and their arrows seemed to always go wide; the quarry in question taunting them with the fact that it somehow still lived, despite their countless efforts.

Dagny had tried her hand as well, of course. Who hadn't? Even the children of the village threw a rock or two.

Nonetheless, her traps and nets failed like everything else before it. By the time the elders of the village decided upon the morbid course of action of decorating their storehouse with various animal skulls and carcasses as a would-be deterrent, Dagny's interest in the abnormally clever corvid had since shifted.

Not to say that the creature was particularly wise, only that it seemed smarter than most of its kind. Dagny was more curious and amused than frustrated as to how, precisely, a simple animal could evade so many threats with so much ease. It was a mystery, and she happened to enjoy mysteries.

Not that everyone necessarily agreed when it came to her curiosity, or her sense of the unknown, especially not to a problem that had long since tested the patience of even the most level-headed amongst them. Nor had they easily agreed with her proposal to install an actual door rather than a hide barrier, finding it a waste of wood when they could've simply dealt with the nuisance at its source.

So she decided to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

To be the one to capture it, and to have her chance of unravelling the mystery.

Dagny had come up with her plan during one of the many, many disagreements with one of the Æðri's warriors; someone who was graced with an equal amount of favour as she was by the equally as clever old man who stood as the village's leader. He was known as Haldjorr, and he knew better than to permit too much peace and conciliation between two of the most influential Wiir beneath his rule, for what could he gain from their allying?

He imagined that a bit of friendly competition would be in everyone's favor, most of all his own.

It was not always so friendly, however. They were both prideful, and both had a personality that gathered support as much as it pushed it away, and so they seemed fated to be enemies in... everything, honestly. Dagny would have had a difficult time of even so much as agreeing upon the colour of the sky with this Arnþóri, and vice versa.

And so the idea of discovering a mutual solution to the current crisis was unlikely, to say the least. At least not without enough boasting and posturing to make even their staunchest allies shake their heads in dismay

However, the pointing of fingers and the opportunity to be seen as right was not entirely without merit.

That was how she decided upon utilizing magic. A warding rune, more specifically. For one bothersome bird? It was unlikely she would've considered it worth the effort if not for the friendly competition at play, and the culmination of a wager where one's pride was the only reward for having won. Of course, that wasn't why she had installed the door in the storehouse as much as Arnþóri wanted to complain about the cost of it. It was simply practical. Her usage of magic was decidedly not practical, in comparison.

This was the reason why Fífl's rampage had finally been halted, and it was why the four runes facing each corner of the storehouse were in the formation that they were; north was instead facing to the south, as the east was to the west. It was a simple trick, and one that might've not worked on this shapeshifter while she was human, but it was more than enough to bring her current form crashing down into a flurry of feathers. To have been stopped by a petty squabble between two Wiir.

Dagny offered a quiet, almost silent prayer to her mentor of all those years.

Then she spoke quietly, still under the assumption that birds didn't share their tongue. Her eyes were full of simple, undisguised pity as she gazed upon the little feathery rug at their feet.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Wiir that had arrived with her only looked on in thinly veiled contempt at the intruder; their eyes held the promise of a hundred little deaths.

"Oh, you clever little thing, if only your eyes weren't bigger than your stomach," she whispered as she bent down, her fur cloak pooling to the floor as she inspected the pathetic, panicked pile of black feathers. She noted how it did not fly, even after she had removed one of the runes from the circuit and thus breaking the spell. "Maybe you wouldn't be in this predicament, right now."

"Would you stop talking to the creature, woman? It's strange."

That was Arnþóri speaking, mostly out of frustration. They had both boasted loudly and publicly, but she won.

"I don't care to hear your voice if it's used only to complain, Arnþóri. If you're upset, tell Kukjje of it,"

Whether or not Fífl had been paying attention to what was said, or was instead occupying her time with a desperate escape, the three Wiir towering over her would speak on as if she wasn't even an active participant. Because she wasn't. She was a bird. So rather than address her, they addressed the Æðri of the storehouse she had pilfered from; who had the right to the prize and who didn't, and why shouldn't they simply kill it right now?

As much as the old Haldjorr with his amused smile and easy laugh did not mind accommodating Dagny's eccentricities from time to time, he did little now to approve her claim to the bird without wanting so much as one feather to grace a dining hall table.

It seemed that his practicality won over any lingering sentimentality, choosing to prevaricate over the wisdom of letting the thing live and so allowing the second man in the room to argue on his behest without having to pass the sentence.

More specifically, about how they should throw the feathered visitor into a cooking pot.

"Enough with simpering over a bird, it's a half-dead pile of feathers with a broken wing. What are you going to do with something so useless?" The grim-faced stranger of the three suddenly stepped forth, stooping low with gnarled hands with the intent on claiming the prize for himself. Haldjorr simply stood there with arms crossed over one another as if he was supervising unruly children, and didn't quite care if those children killed a bird right in front of him.

Dagny raised herself from where she sat upon her haunches, an unreadable expression on her face as she went to intercept her competition with a gloved hand.

The woman's gloves certainly would've caught Fífl's notice, with her talent at discerning wealth. In the same way the village demonstrated their vanity with a wooden door, so did Dagny with her kaldabatur-skin gloves with a fur lining for insulation, some kind of rabbit, perhaps?

"No you fucking will not, the kaldurhafn is mine. I caught it, and I claim it."

While the woman with the broken arm might have found the act of the woman defending her life to be sweet, it didn't matter in the moment what she thought about it - the Wiir known as Arnþóri was quick on his feet, and was already reaching for his victim by the time Dagny had so much as began to react, bristling at the obvious slight; probably just as incensed with the idea of having something stolen away from a man she detested as she was about losing such a clever little bird.

Those frightful hands came closer.

 

[Fífl]

To say that this was not Fífl's ideal scenario was a slight understatement. In fact, while she lay there as a sprawled flurry of feathers, the shapeshifter considered it to be the worst possible scenario. After all, there was no realm of hell quite like the company of fellow Wiir. Merciless brutes, the lot of them. About as nuanced as an axe to the face, their minds were so focused on death and retribution that they remained closed to dialogue and compromise.

In her Nordwiir form, where she stood as equals, the woman was prone to avoiding their company, never mind in the form of a much smaller beast, where they now towered over her, a single foot, enough power to crush and shatter such delicate bones.

It was as humbling as it was terrifying, so even when her senses returned, she opted for stillness over panic. Clever little thing, indeed. She might have found the pity-laced gloating entirely too sickening if it were not for the fact that there was pity at all. It was a sentiment at odds with the rest of them, who held stares like blades of retribution, all for the sake of the grain. In comparison, she could work with pity.

Her field of view observed them all, black marbles gleaning what they could from the giants that towered over her, crystalline nictitating membranes occasionally washing over her gaze. An ordinary kaldurhrafn might have been caught between panic and pain, erupting into a flurry of sharp caws and desperate feathers, but she remained still. The only signifier of some distress came in the form of rapid breaths that caused the bird's breast to surge sharply.

What else was there to do?

Had she not injured herself crashing into the wall, there might have been an avenue for escape while they bickered over her fate, or better yet, a chance to drive her beak into Arnþóri's face, who insisted upon calling her useless.

Barbarous prick.

Oh yes, Fífl much preferred the woman's intentions. While she didn't appreciate any notion of ownership, she did find her eye drawn to the apparent finery of her apparel. Beyond the appeal of the fur cloak (who doesn't love warmth), even her gloves held a sense of splendour. She seemed to have some status among them, if not a brain beyond that of a butcher. Perhaps she could work with that, yes, play the part of the clever little thing until her wing had healed and then disappear into the night.

With that cloak.

Unfortunately, the beginnings of her plan were already unravelling before her, as hands with ill-intent loomed large, likely looking to wring her neck.

"Gwah!"

The body of the frost raven began to shift, growing in size as brilliant black feathers sprouted forth from a torso that swelled and limbs that stretched outwards until the body at their feet was one of Nordwiir proportions, albeit still covered entirely in a midnight plumage. Before she could be taken for some, great hybrid monstrosity, the feathers began to fall from her flesh, disintegrating like ashes upon touching the floor. When the last feather fell, she was there, prostrate before them, as naked as the day that Spotta had seen her born.

"I will not be claimed by any-" she began to object, barrelling into their conversation with righteous indignation, shifting up and onto her knees before her arm erupted into protest, "-argh!"

Holding it up, she could see the damage done, the unsightly curve in the middle of her forearm that could have been mistaken for an extra joint. It was radiating heat, and throbbing with the intensity of a second heart. Oh yes, it was definitely broken.

Perhaps now was the time to be apologetic.

"Bastards!" Fífl exclaimed, aggressively tossing her head backwards so she could look at them all with accusatory fury, pulling her afflicted arm close into her body and cradling it. "Look what you've done, you... you great blundering brutes!"

There may have been better attempts to be apologetic than that.

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

Dagny's reaction was somewhat underwhelming in comparison to her companions, her mouth hung agape for the briefest of moments before again twitching closed in an expression of wry, albeit confused amusement. Whereas the other two took tentative steps back in order to evaluate what was happening before them, with Arnþóri going so far as to withdraw his hand axe from an unadorned gróft-weaved belt, loosely looped about his waist.

But they had all watched without interruption as the defenseless little corvid morphed and transformed into the naked, disgruntled woman that was presently kneeling at their feet. There was a final eruption of molting feathers, disappearing into the hungry earth like so many snowflakes upon a warm spring day as they were replaced by decidedly human skin. All that remained now to remind them that this woman was once a kaldurhafn at all was her mane of black, inky hair.

Not to mention the broken arm, or the fact that her present attitude was just as shameless.

Somehow, despite being caught red-handed as an outsider and an unforgivable thief that had pilfered from their storehouse for weeks, it seemed that Fífl was seriously determined to talk down to them in such a manner that even Dagny couldn't help but to raise an incredulous brow in response.

By the time the stranger had actually started chastising them about her broken arm, an oblique smile had long since manifested on her lips; she might've started laughing out of pure disbelief at that point were it not for the looks of pure murder in her companion's eyes. Even the good-humored and equivocating Haldjorr didn't seem quite as amused by the audacity on display, and had already grown impatient.

"You will be quiet while we consider what is to be done with you, child."

Haldjorr's voice was rich and deep, with the kind of accent that made it clear how accustomed he was to authority; his command was one that could've silenced a mewling babe as easily as it could have calmed a frenzied kaldurhafn, were the aforementioned kaldurhafn possessed of enough wisdom to actually keep her mouth shut in that moment. But it should've been obvious, even to someone entirely without tact, that her chance of survival rested greatly on the rapidly dwindling generosity of her hosts.

Not even Arnþóri was impertinent enough to act against his elder's words, despite how his broad jaw was visibly clenched from the strain of holding back the wrathful words that threatened to bubble forth behind closed teeth. Or how he subtly adjusted the axe still in his hand with the very evident intention of quieting the shapeshifter's criticisms, probably by burying the head of it somewhere vital in her body.

Dagny might have settled her chilly blue eyes upon Fífl, but her words were instead intended for the man next to her; the one who had to be negotiated with the most out of the three when it came to sparing this strange intruder to the village of Vikkeða. And negotiate she would, having made it explicitly clear that she considered Fífl to be her personal responsibility, as she was the one who cast the trap.

No matter how the arrogant woman would frown and puff up about it.

"I still stand by my claim, Arnþóri. I was the one that caught her, so it should be my judgement she answers to."

That wasn't entirely true, for as trusted as she was by Haldjorr, it was still his decision alone about what would happen to the stranger. This was plainly not the first time she'd pushed her luck when it came to her relationship to the village Æðri, nor would it be the last, as much as the old man rolled his eyes in response, notably ignoring the defiance.

However, it was still a discussion that required all parties in the room to render a verdict. Hence the arguing.

"That was before she had the wits to speak, now it is different," Arnþóri replied with a much calmer, reasonable tone now. His anger was seemingly a fleeting thing, even when he evidently struggled with the concept of waiting patiently; whether that meant throwing down and punishing the woman for her insolence as his eyes promised, or doing the sensible thing and waiting until Haldjorr deemed it appropriate to render his verdict. "You might have convinced me that having a broken bird as a pet was harmless enough, despite her actions. But an impudent Wiir with no remorse; who should know the gravity of her crimes? Maybe her mind is the one thing that does not shift. We should kill her now, and be done with this."

Dagny thought about that for a little while, pensive. She could not argue with logic, because he was right. So she tried another angle. "And what is the harm in hearing what she has to say, then judging this stranger's fate later? Haldjorr?"

The other Nordwiir that was with them was little more than a glorified babysitter, his contribution to the argument was the occasional grunt to clarify the seriousness of his involvement. The man's coarse, wiry beard with its amber beads braided throughout hid whatever expression he might have made with his mouth. Only his eyes could be discerned, and they were as wondrously blue as Dagny's own - and just as unreadable.

"Because why take the chance? You know what comes of taking chances with strangers, Dagny. Better than most."

As reply to that, Dagny pointedly ignored the foray into her past and admitted her concession to what was said with a roll of her eyes. Yet her mouth was still quirked to the side with as much nagging, unfulfilled curiosity as it was with quiet thought.

She had been looking at first to the tallest man of the room, standing at well above seven feet as he argued to let the creature die, but then her eyes drifted again to this woman suffering with her broken arm.

Dagny parted her lips to say something, then seemed to decide against it for a flickering moment as she gauged what this woman was, what she was capable of giving her in return for a debate that only made her weak to her peers.

She ended up asking anyway. "Who are you? To steal our grain and hurt your arm, falling in our wards? I admit that I am curious if there is anything more to your presence than simply making trouble, but I am not so foolish as to argue for your life out of kindness alone." Dagny was indeed telling the truth; kindness was something she possessed in more abundance than most of her kin but it could only go so far before that thin thread of decency grew taut and snapped, and it was clear that she wanted something more out of it than a kaldurhafn's disdain. "You are fortunate to live still, as an outsider and a thief, so do not make a mockery for what I am doing for you,"

A pause, before she added, "My name is Dagny of Vikkeða, and I want to know what you are worth to me."

Alive, that was.

Or at least with one functioning arm rather than two very broken ones.

 

[Fífl]

Only in the aftermath of her outrage did Fífl realise that berating the people she had been stealing from was not the steady path of wisdom that ought to have been followed: a scrunched nose and pursed lips acknowledged this as the older man commanded her silence.

Despite this, she felt her outburst warranted. They had grounded her and robbed her of flight; even if it was only temporary, it was unforgivable to her. She didn't expect them to understand what it was to be a bird that could not soar; she didn't expect them to understand much at all. Her fellow Nordwiir, with hungering axes and eager judgment, none that had known a single act of kindness in their lives, no doubt.

Nonetheless, the woman insisted on her claim, which the shapeshifter took umbrage with but mercifully managed to refrain from commenting on.

Instead, she peered up, caught somewhere between her annoyance and curiosity to stare at the blonde or, at the very least, the underside of her chin. This one, who had opted for a non-violent solution, was still responsible for her broken arm. Half the dark-haired woman wished to support her endeavour, and the other wanted nothing more than to slap her.

So they argued, and she begrudgingly listened.

Arnþóri did himself no favours to endear himself to her, his words less than complimentary as death's advocate and the mediator apparent seemed to be on the side of a swift axe. Her face had reacted in kind, with all the hostile, involuntary twitches that came with a defiant spirit.

Even her supposed champion held this edge of expectation, seeking gratitude alongside an explanation for why she should be granted the mercy of living. Perhaps Dagny of Vikkeða had a point: how often did one encounter a Nordwiir willing to engage with reason rather than violence? She ran her tongue across the back of her teeth, dark brows furrowing as she looked up at each of the three in a brazen judgment of her own.

"I am Fífl the Fleet," she answered, refusing to sound apologetic with a stubborn chin held high, "And my worth can be found in the effort it took you all to catch me."

The thumb of her left hand gently touched the radiating contusion upon her right arm, the pale skin already starting to blush; no doubt it would be a violent shade of purple by the end of the day if she even made it that far.

"You want me to argue for my life? To explain to you why I am more significant than your grain? I see little point in answering if such a question must be asked in the first place," she stated, with a derision that stood in direct opposition to her position on her knees, "but as you are so kind, I will indulge you."

She had still yet to grasp the concept of being apologetic.

"I may be an outsider and a thief, but these things do not mean that I do not feel hunger any less than you do. I must eat, and you have food. Did you not steal this grain from the South first? Does it only become an offence because I have been caught? If that is what you believe, then I do not know what I could possibly say to appease you."

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

By the time it became readily apparent that whatever might've come from Fífl's mouth would not be conciliatory in the slightest, Dagny looked as if she wanted to comment - but the look of quick derision from the kneeling woman prevented her advocate from issuing any words of advice. Mostly when it came to incriminating herself further.

But she clearly wanted to talk, so instead Dagny let her talk. And talk.

If there was ever a lesson in life that she knew all too well, it was to simply not waste one's breath on futility.

And what better example of futility was there than defending a woman seemingly intent on deliberately aggravating a group of Nordwiir as they towered above her, insisting that her thievery was just because she had an empty stomach? With the alternative of a simple apology and perhaps a little groveling being thrown aside in favour of a provocative rant aimed at her less than enthused audience.

The result was actually less predictable than one could've imagined, at least from Haldjorr and Dagny; the wordless exchange between them spoke volumes about where the two stood regarding their opinions on this fiery stranger. Who was so obviously not from one of the nomadic tribes on Sund, and so could only have come from elsewhere. Haldjorr might not have been nearly as curious of a soul as his most trusted retainer, but he was not entirely without appreciation for novelty.

Much like Dagny, he did not like destroying novel things out of hand without due consideration.

"You have said a great deal and at the same time, nothing at all."

Haldjorr beckoned for Arnþóri to return his axe to where it belonged, having not shed any blood, and to instead stand at attention while the elder of the three took a handful of steps forward from where he hid in the back. His eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness from where he stood in the doorway, but he was curious to see this woman for himself. The one who spoke with so much pride.

It was a good thing that he did, too. He noticed immediately how pathetic this stranger had seemed, even before the fact that she was now nursing a broken arm, and in turn feared a little less for the village of Vikkeða were he to permit this stranger to leave the storehouse alive. That it was likely she was not from any of the local tribes also assuaged much of his immediate hostility.

"And to answer your question. What separates your crime from ours is that, yes we were not caught, and all that we have raided is from the mainland. Unlike yourself, we do not steal from fellow Wiir unless they have caused us grave offense; unlike yourself, we understand they, too, might starve if the winter is hard and they do not have enough for the long Magurvetur. You have only served to appease your frivolous sensibilities in arguing otherwise."

Haldjorr spoke well, and his tone was more of an adult scolding a child - which wasn't far from the truth, honestly - and so he had remained remarkably patient with this Fífl. "You did not even consider the consequences when you continued to sneak back into a village that had already grown suspicious of the constant theft, so please, speak no more of trying to appease me with your justifications."

The proverbial leash for Arnþóri no longer seemed so necessary after that, at least. As the younger Wiir didn't seem to bare his teeth with quite the same animosity as before, apparently satisfied with Haldjorr's words and now more content to merely look down at this woman with mild contempt rather than outright hostility. It was true, she was no immediate threat.

An annoyance? Yes, and her words were worthy of death in his mind. But he was not Æðri.

Neither was Dagny, but the difference was that he did not care what happened to this Fífl. Let her waste her breath.

Speaking of Dagny, she had since moved to stand rather close to the kneeling woman, studying who was both physically and figuratively beneath her with a stern, yet mildly appraising stare. Her pouting lips had settled in a crooked line; an obvious tell that she was quietly weighing what to say next to this captive of theirs. How much of the woman's silliness she would humour, and how much of it she would call out in order to knock some sense into Fífl.

"You are correct in one thing, you have proved your worth in what it took to end your little rampage."

She looked towards Haldjorr, meeting his gaze with questions of her own that ultimately remained unanswered. But that by itself was answer enough to her. If he had wanted to challenge her words, then he would've, and it was exactly that loose leash of his that endeared her to the old man.

He was by no means the strongest of their people, yet maintained his power over their village all the same.

"That may save you from being killed, but it will not see you fed tonight," Dagny pressed forward, close enough now that there was little space left between the two of them unless Fífl broke first and scrabbled for the nearest corner - or better yet - lashed out at the other woman who had to press her chin nearly flush to her body to actually meet her eyes. Let her try, it would only work out for Dagny in the end. "You cannot expect to justify your actions because of a hungry stomach. Everyone faces the same winters, and the same harshness of Sund. And you say you have worth, but how do you mean to repay us with it?"

While they did not look upon Fífl with malice, the lack of any outward emotion beyond their contempt and exasperation was probably troubling; it should have been clear, even to her, that they did not intend to release the woman so easily. Even if she did apologize, and her poor attitude was only digging the hole a little deeper with every comment. An exercise in futility, like Dagny had thought earlier.

She didn't know why she asked, but it had been nagging at her. Another piece of the mystery that was this woman.

"You do not hail from Sund, do you? I hear it in the way you speak, and the way you act."

Whatever that meant, but it clearly wasn't complimentary.

"Will you tell of us where you come from?" The woman above Fifl put the two of her gloved hands together; holding her palms clasped as if she was warding away some invisible chill as she waited for the reply. Waiting for the inevitable rebuke with lips parted in anticipation; waiting to hear what next absurd thing was said next. Or perhaps she would be surprised?

There was an enjoyment in surprises, and she wondered if this woman would provide another one for her.

 

[Fífl]

Her honesty had not been received particularly well, but in the same breath, not as poorly as it could have been. Any outcome in which she was still breathing was a surprise, really.

She wasn't oblivious to the smarter option, to throw herself down at their feet with all the grace of a newborn kaltku and beg for mercy, apologies spouting forth from trembling lips like a tragic waterfall. It might have made the axe feel superior when it swung down upon her skull, and rather petulantly, she'd rather it was annoyed.

Fífl did not hold her fellow Nordwiir in the highest regard, seeing no difference from one group of barbarians to the next. What difference did it make to them whether she was sincere in bold-faced justifications or a liar in submissive penance? The only difference she felt was in herself, preferring to be unapologetically her, even on the cusp of Endirinn itself.

Yes, Fífl the Fleet refused to give them the satisfaction.

However, tempers seemed smothered as their Æðri stepped forth and chided her. At the very least, she had the good graces to suppress a snort as the older man preached about some mythical honour that made stealing from other Wiir distasteful to them. Oh, she was the nefarious cretin? That was very fucking funny. Her irritation was writ large across her lower jaw, which was indignantly clamped shut lest she truly showed them the full brunt of her honesty.

Some impulses were best abandoned, and even the shapeshifter could stop being unapologetically her for at least a minute or thereabouts.

Her advocate, or former advocate, took the reigns. Were they all going to take turns for a lecture? Would they talk at her until she perished? Oh, Gods, perhaps the axe was better—sanctimonious belgs. The other woman kept advancing until she was practically on top of her, and instead of bothering with the discomfort of craning her neck upwards, Fífl stared at her midsection instead.

She had almost erupted when the question of how she would repay them was levelled, barely keeping a lid on emotions that usually flew as freely as she did. Her nostrils flared, and her brow deepened, a dam to keep her tongue from a fresh tirade.

"From the northern mountains of Aðal," she had managed to respond through a stiff jaw in a manner almost considered polite.

As for that other question...

"And as for the matter of repayment," Fífl began, her tone indicative of a forthcoming tirade. "I have absolutely no intention of..."

Her voice trailed off, some form of sense trying to wrestle the heart from her mouth.

"How can I even..."

A strange strangled noise of frustration squeaked out from the back of her throat, cutting off her response once again.

"You cannot expect..."

Perhaps she had misjudged them by lumping them in with her opinion of all Nordwiir. Perhaps there was a chance to survive this. If that was the case, she had made a serious error in judgment.

"You broke my arm, I..."

They were still talking, were they not?

"What? Do you expect me to labour with..."

Oh shit. Oh fuck.

"Gods! Will you take a step back?! You are practically inside of me!" Fífl finally clamoured, raising her left palm to the one called Dagny's stomach so that she might push her away and create some distance for her to breathe and, more importantly, think.

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

The metamorphosis of Fífl's expressions were, quite truthfully, fascinating for Dagny to witness.

The stubborn defiance found in the woman's petulant silence did not fool her in the slightest. And the more Fífl kept her words to herself, the more obvious it became to Dagny that the woman had, in fact, absolutely no remorse when it came to her actions. No intention to humble or humiliate herself in an appeal for clemency, and had told them all with her scowls and glares how deeply she loathed being in her position.

How adamantly she hated the way they stood above her, how they looked down upon her.

Then there was the frustrated fury that came after, almost ripping away the woman's precious self-restraint at the mere mention of repayment. As if it was unfathomable for the impetuous kaldurhafn to even consider it. That by simply asking at all, Dagny had added insult to injury; her worth far exceeded the value of some stolen grain, and more besides, had she not injured her arm already?

Truthfully, the shamelessness of it all astonished Dagny.

So it was a good thing that this Fífl had been too proud to look her in the eyes, still pretending she held onto any shred of her former dignity as she knelt before the other woman in naked submission. Dagny didn't want to ruin that for her, not when there was a seed of doubt already sown in the stranger's mind; growing with each and every panicked, sputtering outburst or excuse she made. Dagny was curious to see what would come of it.

She hadn't the faintest clue whether it was because Fífl had simply lost her nerve, or if the situation was finally dawning upon the raven-haired woman; how desperately she needed to say the right words in order to survive. That she might actually come out of this alive, despite initially seeing the other three Wiir in the room as nothing more than big blundering brutes.

That she might have very well made a terrible mistake, after all.

As someone who had the ability to shapeshift into a kaldurhafn at will, she had probably considered herself untouchable, and so could only hopelessly flounder as her reality crumbled around her. Dagny could've almost felt bad for her. Almost. But she could stand to lose some of that arrogance.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, the other woman was too caught up in her own indignant rhetoric to notice her brief moment of pity. And by the end of her last remark, she had actually pushed Dagny away from her to try and gain back the personal space she'd relinquished the moment she'd broken her wing and allowed herself to be trapped by the blonde-haired woman standing above her. The same one who expected a degree of groveling gratitude, if not submission.

Or at least a little less vitriol.

Dagny honestly couldn't help but laugh at the outright insolence; her soft scoff of amusement made Arnþóri turn to her with a grimace of disapproval, clearly uninterested in yielding to whatever hidden entertainment she saw in the shapeshifter's belligerent disrespect. To him, it was yet another reason why the woman should die, as it was to almost every other Wiir who lived on the isles.

Therefore his raised hand in an attempt at discipline should have been no shock, even to Fífl.

"That won't be necessary, Arnþóri. I said that I would handle it," Dagny had been prepared this time around and had intervened with the lightest of touches upon the other man's wrist, enough to gain his attention. And surprisingly, he listened, despite how he evidently would've enjoyed nothing more in that moment than to beat obedience into someone so utterly devoid of it. "So stay your temper, for once, and allow me to."

More surprising still was how he finally, slowly, lowered his arm in deference to Dagny's judgement, no matter how much he scowled while doing it. Her guiding hand upon his wrist was more attuned to a dumbstruck, panicky animal than a human being - and so perfect for a Wiir, really.

Arnþóri's face glared with the incredulousness of being chastised for doing what anyone sensible would.

"You're fucking mad if you allow her to disrespect you in that way. She should be begging, not demanding, and her impudence is all you'll earn for taking your chances with a fool, Dagny."

She had actually rolled her eyes at that, as if she wasn't already aware that she'd taken more chances than was wise in dealing with Fífl. The latter of whom seemed like she was deliberately trying to dig her own grave. When she wasn't snapping and snipping like a cornered beast, she was mewling helplessly over her broken wing as if she'd thought anyone would truly care. Or sympathize. Or kiss it better.

"I would have asked for your advice if I wanted to hear it, Arnþóri. So now I ask that you stop pretending I do, and hold your tongue." Her words only earned her another scornful shake from Arnþóri's head as he wrenched his hand away, seemingly accepting defeat by taking a step away from the two women. For the most part. His sullen eyes still continued to watch the prisoner; making certain that Fífl knew she was being judged, despite the other woman's strange, alien handling of an otherwise very simple solution.

"Then it's on your head."

"Good boy, now leave it alone."

That only left one more person to address.

Dagny had stepped forward once more - not close enough to risk being pushed away so easily - but enough that her presence would be hard to ignore. She regarded the prisoner still kneeling before her for a brief moment before eventually realizing that her lips were still curled into a thin, pleased line. That was gone in a flash; to be replaced by a chilly, neutral mask that gave very little away.

Aside from the obvious fact that she was done playing, no matter how that pleased smile only seconds before might've suggested otherwise.

"He's right about one thing. Acting haughty when you're so fucking vulnerable just makes you look like a fool."

That wasn't entirely true, for most Wiir could appreciate defiance in the face of death; the opportunity to prove to themselves and to others how much disdain they had for life. However, this shapeshifting woman didn't give her the impression of being another warrior, nor that she would've been able to withstand anything they might've wanted to inflict upon her beyond a merciful death.

And hoping for merciful death in the isles was like praying for a mild winter.

She at least gave what Fífl had initially requested: a little more space by taking one measured step backwards. Only one. But it was enough so that she could kneel as she did when there was still a bird there in all of its feathered glory, rather than a woman who was probably looking at her in a way that would've made the most patient of people want to slap the shapeshifter silly.

But she was merciful, for now.

"Now, may we speak?"

 

[Fífl]

Even in the desperate search for just an inch more breathing room, her keen eye wasn't oblivious to the two contrasting reactions to her flustered eruption. It did not need to be said which one was preferred, given that Fífl had instinctively tensed in anticipation of violent retribution, which was only stayed by Dagny's hand of peculiar amusement.

From the moment she unceremoniously crashed into the wall, she had held a certain expectation of these people, perfectly encapsulated by every single word or reaction from the one they called Arnþóri. His hands were the hands of the Nordwiir, and every movement they had made came with violent intent from the moment they met, whether they had sought to wring a kaldurhrafn's neck, reach for an axe, or strike her.

These were not hands that understood compromise, well, not usually.

But how could she account for Dagny of Vikkeða, who wanted the floor reserved for discussion rather than pooling crimson?

Against her better judgment, a slight lip curl met her would-be aggressor, who was resigned to the fate of 'good boy'. It was a small mercy that Fífl managed not to let loose any goading quip to follow, her delayed emergence of some form of sense and self-preservation wrestling her smugness down to that quick gesture.

Yet, even if it had lingered for too long, it wouldn't have lasted as the woman's attention now found her, being sure to dress the shapeshifter down for her attitude despite her predicament. Fífl's nose wrinkled in response, her heart wanting to speak up and no doubt make things worse, but her head instead kept her lips firmly sealed.

Even then, it was still hard to come across as anything but belligerent.

When the avenue for fresh dialogue was offered, it was an opportunity that she would gladly take. There was no guarantee that it would have been wielded wisely, but no doubt the entire storehouse held that expectation by now.

"Of course, but just let me..." Fífl began, once again trying and seemingly failing to find words that weren't inflammatory. At least she was making an effort by looking up at the other woman, a single courtesy she was willing to part with for the occasion, her dark brows furrowing as she struggled onwards.

"I realise that I... have shown little remorse, but in truth, I do not feel it. I am sorry that you have caught me, but I will not lie to your faces and tell you I am sorry for stealing your grain when I am not."

It was a bold play, really, continuing with honesty when abject grovelling was still on the table.

She was growing more aware of the various discomforts of her position, her broken arm enough of a distraction in the immediate aftermath. Still, the cold that crept into naked flesh began to make itself known with the barest of shivers, and knees began to protest against the hardness of the floor.

"I do not have the means to repay you, however. I do not possess much in the way of belongings and with the arm you... I mean, with my broken arm, I cannot see myself as much help," Fífl continued, managing to correct accusatory words before they had entirely escaped. It might not have been satisfactory to them, not tantamount to begging as some would have preferred, but by her own standards, she was trying.

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

There was a lingering pause while the three judging the fate of a thieving kaldurhafn turned to exchange glances; no doubt the eyes of Arnþóri and Haldjorr were as condemning as ever, having long since reached their verdict. But the kaldurhafn only had eyes for one of them in that moment, and it was clear that Dagny had managed to retain her almost disinterested expression. As if she hadn't yet reached the same consensus as the others.

Not that she truthfully blamed them. There was only one sane and sensible consensus regarding this captive kneeling before them in all of her unashamed, impertinent splendor.

Despite the fact that Fífl had long since been stripped of her wings and feathers, it didn't seem to detract at all from how much she continued to carry herself as the haughty creature they had come to know in the weeks prior; perched above them all as if it was all below her, as if they were below her. Even in all her honesty, she couldn't help but speak as if she were addressing fools. It was clear with every word she spoke.

An attitude that she refused to surrender, choosing oblivion with every breath she took.

After a few moments had passed, Dagny risked another look to her compatriots; only from the corner of her chilly blue eyes did she glance back at Haldjorr, betraying very little of what she might have been feeling other than a silent acknowledgement between the two. An agreement that broached no words, nor any sign of an obvious decision in the language of their bodies. Nothing that the shapeshifter might've been able to glean from them, to perhaps learn in advance which direction they were leaning.

Dagny, at least, had appeared kindly enough after having returned her gaze to Fifl's own - it did not carry any hint of an immediate death, in any case - even if those pale eyes staring down at her hardly seemed friendly. In fact, they held something close to outright displeasure in that stare, in a way that hadn't been entirely noticeable before now.

Not until Fífl had tried her clumsy hand at honesty, refusing for a final time to humble herself.

The way that Dagny looked at her now was definitely colder than before, and eerily muted.

"Thank you for your honesty."

The two women might've shared the same appearance of weakness in some small ways, for they were both gaunt and seemed entirely unaccustomed to conflict. But that was where any similarity ended between the two, and in comparison to the honest stranger before her - Dagny of Vikkeða proved herself far stronger than one could have ever expected from a mere glance.

She chose to demonstrate it by striking the Fífl flat across the face; the only indication was a tightening of her gloved hands, as if she were judging for herself the willingness to do this thing, before aiming the open-palmed blow across the nearest cheek. It was such a sudden, brief movement that even the two others in the room hadn't anticipated its trajectory. An abrupt rush of air, and the loud crack of leather connecting with unprotected flesh in a shower of raven-black hair. And then it was done.

There was no cry or grunt of exertion to herald the incoming blow, merely the softest exhalation of breath.

Dagny had watched for another heartbeat, and then she stood to her full height, casually brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from her eyes. Honestly, she had surprised herself - the force of it all was not something she realized herself to be capable of. At least not like this. Not to this strange, prideful woman that needed only to humble herself to avoid it.

After she had eventually caught her breath, Dagny withdrew her trembling hand into the sanctuary of the other, as if it hurt--which it most certainly did. Her hand was aching from the effort, even beneath the padding of her gloves.

And so she tried her best to massage some life back into them.

She did not turn to address the sharp inhalation from Haldjorr, nor the colorless grunt punctuating the silence of the room by Arnþóri. They were not important right now, and she did not balk at the idea of ignoring them for the time being.

Meanwhile the muscles along Dagny's calves felt tight. She had been kneeling too long against the cool ground of the storehouse.

"I am going to tell you this. Your honesty does not impress me, in the slightest." Dagny explained tonelessly as her fingers curled and uncurled in an idle effort to shake away the numb sensation that settled beneath the surface of her skin, like prickling needles. If Fífl chose to look at her again, she'd find that same unreadable, stoic resolve. Clearly the amusement once found in novelty had run its course; that much should've been obvious, even to her. "And I didn't think you were capable of saying anything more offensive than you already have. But if that bullshit was the most worthy thing to come out of your mouth?"

There was a hum of faint acknowledgement as she mulled over all the excuses and the lies.

And they were lies, even if the kaldurhafn believed them herself.

Dagny was contemplative for a little while longer, before parting her lips again. There was a slow sigh; a release of a long held breath before finally, she spoke. "Then I'd rather you say nothing at all, unless it's something I want to hear."

Her eyes said enough - there was probably nothing of value to be heard from those lips. At least not to her.

 

[Fífl]

In hindsight, perhaps the reason she strictly avoided her kin was not for fear of what their barbarian natures would inflict upon her but rather to prevent her heedless tongue from infuriating them.

'Fífl the Frustrating!' Her father had often exclaimed at the end of their impassioned disagreements about everything and anything. They had never been violent people by nature, at least by the standards of their fellow Nordwiir, having invariably settled disputes by words and never physical harm. Well, they were not always settled, with many evenings steeped in a silent seethe until sleep. It was usually her fault, that unwillingness to cede her position an eternal font of frustration for those she called family.

And those people were bound by blood to love her, even if they didn't like her very much.

Having time to consider it in the aftermath of her words, in the presence of silent contempt from people who held only reason to loathe her, Fífl realised that perhaps she shouldn't have opened her mouth.

At all.

If she needed any further confirmation, Dagny's frigid stare when the woman looked back should have been all the damning indictment required.

For the avoidance of doubt, however...

Fífl was caught entirely unaware by the swift, open hand that rocked her head to the side with vicious aplomb. In the immediate aftermath, her ear rang, the high-pitched squeal clawing at her equilibrium, the very voice that spoke of things like hubris and, yes, hindsight. A small gasp had fled her mouth, and her left hand immediately moved to touch the heat of her affronted cheek, which stung with a wicked sharpness, unlike the steady thrum of her broken arm.

And she had thought this woman to be different.

The shapeshifter chose not to look back at Dagny, flexing her jaw as if it might have alleviated the indignity of the slap already visible in an angry blush.

Yet still, she did not turn pensive on the back of the violent gesture, and if this woman had hoped that it might have given her cause to lose her spine and become meek, then she was as much of a fool as Fífl. Instead, those dark eyes poured into the walls of the storehouse, the space between her eyebrows creasing with a frustrated petulance.

This was the lesson, a formative moment to consider when deciding whether to open her mouth and speak without fear—if she survived beyond the end of the day, that is.

Or...

The shrivelled, openly weeping remnants of her common sense baulked at any suggestion of an or...

But who were they to cow her with their axes and hands? Her! Fífl the Fleet! Fífl of the Last Word! Fífl the Fucking Frustrating! Should she accept that brute force always be the victor in petty squabbles over stolen grain? No! Whether they were going to demand their pound of flesh or kill her, she would see it through in defiance of their primal ways. These consequences were hers to have and to hold, and she would hold them however she bloody well pleased.

"Then shall I impress you with a lie and grovel instead?" Fífl asked, her voice rattling with a genuine sense of anger, every syllable laced with derision and proof of a misguided backbone, clearly incensed by that slap. "Should I throw myself at your feet? Or would pleading apologies do? Be it that you may only understand brutality, I could offer you the other cheek if you like?"

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

Dagny, for her part, looked almost regretful while she stole a downward glance at the offending hand; the one she'd lashed out with when her patience had been worn down to the bone. She could see how the reddened shape of where she'd struck was now plainly apparent across the kaldurhafn's pale cheek. And despite that, it did not have the desired effect she was looking for. Quite the opposite, actually.

The hollow act of violence had not brought an end to the one-sided debate, nor had it quelled a tongue so intent on choosing the most provocative, impudent way forward. As if Fífl believed that her inability to compromise, or bend, or yield meant she still held the higher ground over the rest of the people in the room; the ones she had stolen from, the ones who had brought her from the skies, and the one who had just slapped her across the face for demonstrating absolutely no contrition.

For still pretending as if this was some game to be won or lost, rather than a choice between life and death.

And for whatever reason, a part of Dagny wasn't surprised in the slightest. Not when it came to this dark-haired woman, who at no point possessed a single solitary bargaining chip, or a means of repaying them, and yet refused all the same to surrender that haughty indifference to her own fate. It was something that both intrigued and repelled the woman standing above her, who didn't know if it was genuine foolishness that drove her defiance, or if it was some kind of bluff.

For nobody could swagger with so much arrogance, even with their wings clipped, and think it would achieve anything beyond their own humiliation.

"You're a fool," Dagny spoke softly.

The words hardly formed on her lips.

When the shapeshifter raised her chin defiantly towards her captors, as if expecting them to retaliate for all of the snark, they did not rise to the bait. Not to say that Dagny wasn't sorely tempted, for she was; her jaw clenched for a moment too long as she took the opportunity to look towards the other two in the storehouse.

Probably in the vain hope that it wouldn't be too obvious how much this woman had irritated her. Who had spat upon her mercy, and had turned their nose up at simple logic.

She should have hit Fífl harder, but she had refrained. Her restraint wasn't entirely about her desire not to harm their captive in any meaningful way, but also how she wanted to conduct herself - how she wanted to show mercy. And a slap in the face to prevent a fool from throwing their life away was no less of a merciful act for the temporary harm it might've inflicted. Compared to Arnþóri's brutal, angry hand. Or Haldjorr's stern, merciless sentencing, it was a surprise that all the thief got away with was a red face and a little pain.

If there was a way forward without losing pride to someone so stubborn, Dagny had yet to find it.

Because when she was looking to the two other men, her gaze had asked the same thing of them. Was there? Would they have handled it any better? But there was honestly only one answer that she could find in their eyes: That there wasn't, nor would they have handled it any better.

She hated how even Arnþóri had a strange, morbid sense of pity in his eyes. As if he'd seen it coming ever since they first stepped foot in the storehouse, and could not help but sympathize at least a little bit with Dagny's plight. Mercy was a precious resource on the isles, and to waste it upon such a pointless struggle as the one that was unfolding before them all was worthy of some commiseration. Even to one of his rivals. She hated it, and hated the fact that he might've been right.

How she wanted to lash out again. To punish Fífl for making her look like just as much of a fool. Gods.

But Dagny relented--refrained. She busied herself instead with curling her hand against the inside of her other wrist, softly rubbing at the beginning of her palm as if she could dispel the lingering pain found underneath the touch. No longer did she appear the least bit apologetic after turning to face the dark-haired woman beneath her for a second time. Her expression was as pouting as ever; if not a bit grim, and the way she stared at Fífl should've spoke volumes of the precipice they stood at.

"I want you to impress me by demonstrating that you can be as wise as you are clever."

If there was any immediate change in the shapeshifting woman's disposition, she did not see it - at least not right away. Mostly because her eyes had lidded in the seconds that followed her words, choosing to simply have them remained closed while she felt the temper that was still running hot underneath the flush of her cheeks.

Dagny did not lose her temper often, and the people of her village no longer gave her so many reasons to do so, these days.

Yet it passed quickly; as if the wind had been taken from her sails.

And so, rather than feeling angry, she felt strangely removed by the time she opened her eyes to again judge this woman kneeling before them. To discover if she was even worth the trouble anymore, or whether it would've been simpler to break her pride and her harsh tongue in ways that were decidedly less merciful than the polite conversation they were currently having.

"I do not expect groveling at this point, nor do I want you to lie to me," Dagny paused to contemplate her words, hearing for herself how little fire remained in them. How, even to her own ears, she sounded utterly detached; as if someone else had spoken them. "I simply want you to make the right decisions, without all the insults and theatrics, to prove that you are not the fool I fear you to be."

Dagny shook her head as if lost in some impossible thought, and then, in a single breath, she laughed ever so softly at the idea. It was not one that she wanted to share with the room, despite noticing how Arnþóri looked at her then - like she was mad - and she knew he wouldn't understand. He was a warrior and a follower of the dark, old gods, and so never would've understood what it was she wanted.

Nor would he have ever seen the potential in this silly girl.

"The only reason you're alive is because I see potential in you, but you're throwing it away it by choosing to be stubborn. You are not an Arnþóri; you do not have a warrior's idiotic pride. It would be wasted on you." There was a dark chuckle at her side, possibly in agreement, or possibly just in an attempt to remind everyone that he was still in the room. "So I suggest that you make your peace with the fact that you were caught, and cease playing stupid games that will get you killed. That is what I want."

They could always find more food, but Dagny doubted that they'd ever find another woman with wings to catch it for them.

Hopefully to catch more than just food, but a kaldurhafn's usefulness would have to be determined by Fífl alone. That would certainly be something to ask of someone who, despite not being a child to be scolded, continually gave the people granting her a chance at life reasons to.

A chance for something more than a shameless thief who presumably only survived until now by not being caught. But luck only went so far; and the blessing of Spotta only meant so much.

 

[Fífl]

Although Fífl had found herself incensed in the wake of that slap, she was hardly ecstatic at the prospect of taking a second (despite verbally inviting it). It wasn't long after the retort had departed her tongue that the shapeshifter felt that familiar pang of regret, usually found at the end of a petty insult flung in the heat of an argument that cut too close to the bone. But this was not a squabble between kin; this was...

It was...

...what was this?

Her resentful frustration had not fully subsided, the lingering heat of her convictions in the face of violence just as present as her glowing cheek and throbbing arm. Dagny's response had hardly helped, only stoking bewildered self-realisation that was so close to getting the point but tragically left perplexed in the end.

Such familiar words.

She was a fool.

It played out upon her face gradually; those lines etched into her brow, shifting with every subsequent thought until the woman no longer resembled the embodiment of righteous indignation but rather a petulant child caught with their hand in the vatchir pot. Or, as it were, beak in the grain. Her left hand moved to cover her face, partly to avoid any subsequent eye contact as Fífl emotionally flipped and flopped from her position on the matter.

Naturally, she still wasn't sorry, nor wise as apparently desired, but...

Fífl peeked up through her fingers when the other woman spoke again, the voice of judgment now distant as it rolled out expectations that were, in all honesty, more than reasonable within their society, Hátíð Sársauka had been inflicted for less.

Did this Dagny laugh to herself because she found her own leniency ridiculous?

The black-haired woman could at least admit that she was intrigued that there existed a Nordwiir outside of her own who perhaps held the intention of doing things differently, even if her burning cheek spoke of some self-improvement required on that front. It hadn't hurt that she spoke of Fífl's potential, which, considering the circumstances, was quite spectacular.

Was it so wrong to back down?

Just once?

"Fuck," slipped forth the expletive on a breath, her hand still at her face pinching her temples as if she might have squeezed out some sense in return.

"Look, I will... I will pay back what I ate," Fífl finally managed to concede, slouching as her hand moved away from her face. Those dark eyes decidedly forced themselves to look up at Dagny, trying not to narrow in instinctive rebellion, "but I really do not own much, some clothing and forage. I could find more for you, but not with this."

She gestured to her arm, the broken bone perfectly evident in the resemblance of a new joint in her forearm. Between that and her face, they were the only parts of her still feeling some semblance of warmth. Although the pain was wholly unnecessary.

"I cannot fly with this. I will do whatever you want, but I need time to heal."

The voice of common sense cleared its throat expectantly in her head, and the expression that emerged on her fair face could only be described as pained, so much so that it forced the woman to look at the floor.

"Please."

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

There was more than a little doubt in Dagny's eyes as she watched this clever woman with her broken wing transform into something wholly unfamiliar to the strutting, preening creature that sat in Fífl's place only moments before. For the first time since they captured her, the shapeshifter looked genuinely vulnerable; the cracks in her bravado exposing a hint to what lay at its foundations.

That wasn't to say that Dagny actually believed any of the promises being made, because she didn't.

Not for a second.

But she could admit the emotions flitting across Fífl's face were undeniably real; the childish petulance, the naivety, the conflict between common sense and the last dregs of her pride fighting for victory atop what little remained of the shapeshifter's fraying composure. All of it was written there for Dagny to see with perfect clarity, even as Fífl tried desperately to hide it.

The words being spoken were another matter altogether, really. There were swears, there were concessions, and then finally there was pleading. The first was something that Dagny had expected, the second just felt like an outright lie, and as for the third? Well she didn't necessarily trust it either. Yet it pleased her all the same to hear it.

Her eyes had widened marginally in response to the plea, followed by an arch of her blonde brow that creased the otherwise composed planes of her face - as if to say that she believed it even less than the dubious offer of repayment.

She would've liked to think she maintained enough of an aloof expression to avoid whatever morbid satisfaction she found in the act, but the twitch of her lips betrayed a nascent smile that she'd been too late to suppress. Then her mouth was again pressed into a thin, mistrusting line that gave little and less away.

"That will have to do, for now." The words from Dagny's lips were crisp and full of meaning, and perhaps promise, with how her blue eyes never seemed to leave Fífl's own; always examining, always pointing out how little trust there actually was between the two of them with that withering stare of hers. But it had grown less accusatory by the time she had finished speaking, making her decision to spare the other woman's life all the clearer. "And you're right. We'll have to take care of that arm so that it can heal properly."

There was a challenge in her eyes, as she continued to speak. "I hardly have any use for a kaldurhafn that cannot fly, after all."

The explanation was unasked for, but that was hardly the point. It was just another test, and the look she gave next implied that Fífl did not want to fail this particular one.

And yet, there was something almost... expectant in that look? The taunting and the antagonizing might've taken on a different quality had the other woman noticed it, and understood the challenge to be found there: Just try it.

While Haldjorr and Arnþóri continued to observe without interruption, the third of the makeshift tribunal had proceeded to remove her cloak by unfastening an ivory brooch that had held it loosely across her body. And just like that, any lingering tension in the room had first shifted - then dissipated entirely after the warmth of the fur cloak was offered to be draped across Fífl's naked shoulders.

It was a token gesture, really; the kind that simply finalized an already decided outcome.

The fact that Dagny permitted the other woman modesty, as opposed to forcing her to march naked into the snow, was as much of an act of generosity as it was a subtle reminder of who exactly held the power to either worsen or alleviate Fífl's humiliation.

As much as it was her decision to spare the utterly unrepentant, friendless thief in a village that would've liked nothing more than to tear her apart, if only out of spite alone. And why wouldn't they? No matter Haldjorr's willingness to tolerate a shameless outsider's ignorance of their ways, at the end of the day they were still ultimately Wiir. They held little value for their own lives, let alone for that of anyone else's.

And for a stranger?

Well, a token gesture could mean a great deal.

Dagny's eyes softened somewhat as she kneeled to provide help, whether the kaldurhafn with a broken wing liked it or not. She had been hard because it seemed the one way to get through to such a stubborn, prideful woman. But now that she looked - truly looked - at the woman who knelt before her wearing only bruises and their stubborn shame for warmth, Dagny found it hard to permit her fleeting temper to continue distancing the two any further.

Oh, not that she didn't make it clear with a quirk of her brow that neither the gifting of her prized cloak nor the kindness shown should've been seen as anything except a temporary act of insanity on her part.

She certainly held no fondness for open charity, and she wasn't oblivious to the incredulous looks that she could feel creeping up the nape of her neck as if they were phantom fingertips.

But she appeared unperturbed, and helped with all the practiced dexterity of someone who'd long since learned how to deal with the complication of performing this exact act hundreds of times before; the only difference now was that she did it for another. That was certainly different, to be sure. As well as the broken arm making it more than a task than it truly needed to be. Yet it was necessary, all the same.

It was one thing to soar above the tundra as a kaldurhafn, and another thing entirely to walk across it in Fífl's state.

Then the softness in her gaze faded, to be replaced by eyes that were now narrowed in suspicion. Like she couldn't even trust that her next words wouldn't be used against her somehow; to be seen as an indication of weakness where it did not exist. Or at least not in her mind. Even if the concept of sparing someone like this outsider had already seemed like such a ludicrous idea.

"I am sorry, if it means anything." Her lips pursed, obvious mischief in her tone as she sought to clarify. "Not for your arm, that was entirely your doing. But I should not have struck you, it was unkind of me."

 

[Fífl]

It was much more palatable to stare at the floor, the cold stone providing the perfect avenue to avoid judgment or the smug sense of superiority she imagined was standing above her. Even the thought alone stung more than an open hand across the face.

Internally, Fífl could have acknowledged that she was not, in fact, the aggrieved party (broken arm and all) and that the crime of stealing food came with hungry blades. She could have convinced herself that this justice was a lenient one and that it was fortunate that Spotta had weaved the presence of Dagny into this informal trial, turning the prospect of death into one of humiliation instead.

She could have.

She was trying to.

At least the inner conflict caught in her face was passable as some form of tightly wound guilt. In managing to keep some form of silence, the shapeshifter would not betray the illusion, at least not right at that moment. It helped that she was still staring at the floor as if it might have done her a favour and split in two.

Her stare was only lifted when Dagny spoke, the woman's words making it gradually apparent that she would not be facing death.

It was almost comforting.

Right up to the point where it became a matter of having a use for her. The words felt like a gróft rope tightening around her neck, not hitched high to condemn her to death but instead tied to the earth, keeping her grounded in being beholden to the use of another. Fífl might have agreed, albeit in desperation, to make it right however they wished, but that did not mean she would find it pleasing. To the contrary, it was sickening...

...was she going to be sick?

The initial adrenaline was fading, and the great pulsing dull ache in her arm seemed to be swelling in tandem with the realisation that she was stuck here, indebted to these people. She attempted to swallow the thought away, but it lodged itself in the shapeshifter's throat, leaving her staring upwards at Dagny like some stunned primitive trying to comprehend the wheel for the first time.

A small mercy came in the form of the other woman's cloak, a gesture enough to soften her unsettled expression or, at the very least, replace the tinge of nausea with one of curiosity.

That cloak had drawn her eye, after all, in all its warmth and splendour, and truthfully, she hadn't entirely rid herself of the thought that it would one day find its home to be permanently upon her own shoulders. No, that desire was merely buried beneath the rotten reality of the day.

Besides, being gifted the cloak lacked the satisfaction that would have come from taking it.

However, that it was given in the first place came with dumbfounded deliberation, her brow twitching and eyes squinting at the woman now kneeling at her level. Dagny, who wished to use words instead of death, and who offered warmth and finery to an insolent thief who did little to endear herself to them. Her hand, which had lashed out in swift retribution, may have shown traces of Wiir violence sown into blood, but there was little doubt that she was different. Or, at the very least, capable of compromise and using her tongue for more than death-destined accusations.

It was intriguing.

She was intriguing.

Fífl wasn't sure whether she was drawn to this woman by virtue of her leniency or by her striking features and an intensity found in a frigid gaze only truly caught now that she could see more than the underside of Dagny's chin.

Even half an apology, too. Who was Dagny of Vikkeða, and how did she survive this realm and its people without an axe in her back for the trouble?

"It was," Fífl responded with little thought, her prickly words spurred on by the blame for her broken arm being levelled back at her. A slight wince followed, realising that her impudence had little place here and might even have served to lose her the warmth of the woman's fur cloak. "But I understand. Tempers are frayed, and I... have been brazen."

She could correct herself that much, but to say the slap was deserved to placate them would have only brought bile instead.

There was no ceremony in what followed, no hanging around or idle talk while the others loomed, unaware of their own carrion natures as if waiting for the shapeshifter to do something unwise and give them a reason to swoop. She would not give them the satisfaction. Instead, she was led from the storehouse with the express purpose of seeing to her arm.

If the villagers' stares bothered her, then it was not evident on Fífl's face, who held her head up high and stared straight ahead as if their ire could only embolden her. They murmured; they spat upon the snow, but nothing more came of it as the cloak provided more than just warmth and an ounce of modesty but also signified that mercy had been spared by someone who held sway over them.

It didn't do much to keep her feet warm, the dark-haired woman had thought, as bare flesh padded through snow, but perhaps, expecting Dagny's footwraps might have been too far.

Soon enough, they came to a small drystone hut above ground, around which kaldabatur lurked. Their snouts ploughed into the ground to salvage whatever tragic remnants of grassland and burrowing frost insects could be found buried underneath. Fífl envied them; their only concern was food and not a single thought was spared towards the slaughter that crept closer at the end of the season.

The man inside the hut, the keeper of the frost boars as signified by his shit-caked hands, was approached and asked if he could set straight her arm.

He said he could.

Somehow, she was not confident; he hadn't even looked! Spotta help her! Did they lack a proper Prestsfrú?

He told her to hold out her arm.

Fífl instead had helpfully pontificated on the numbing effects that the mucus of góðursnigill held and how it made for apt pain relief for such things. She even knew a cave where to find them; it wasn't too far from here. Her previous public display of pride had swiftly vanished in the face of the unpleasant procedure to be performed by an unpracticed hand.

He instructed the others to hold her while his great, stinking hands approached to grab her arm when she had not immediately offered it. The shapeshifter had squawked then at the very motion, and that was before he had even started to pull.

It hadn't been her most dignified moment.

He pulled.

She screamed.

The woman was not sure if he was trying to straighten her broken arm or pull her elbow from its joint and had perhaps verbalised such in a rapid-fire verbal assault that swiftly devolved into begging Spotta for intervention and various unkind words that would hopefully be forgiven under the circumstances.

Surely, if there was a time to be sick, it was right there and then. She could have. Should have, even!

Spotta had apparently heard the jumbled frenzy, and as the butcher pulled at her broken limb for a third time, there was a sickening click which caused all the air in Fífl's body to go straight to her head, and in what was a display of mercy for all present, the woman promptly (and very bravely) fainted.

 

[Dagny the Unbound]

If there was still doubt in anyone's mind before that point as to Fífl's differences, then the dramatic display of fainting in the midst of her own procedure was the catalyst for it all to be swept away; there was no confusion now that this woman was not like the rest of them, not in the slightest.

But Dagny ignored the sound of disgust rumbling from somewhere deep within Arnþóri's throat as she continued helping the butcher, who had since taken a moment to look at his own hands in vague confusion, contemplating on what went wrong.

This was not the first arm he went about setting, nor would it be the last. His technique may not have been refined, but it was perfected almost to the point that he considered it an art. And he wasn't one to make mistakes, proudly boasting to that effect every time someone had brought their children over with shoulders dislocated by rough play or a particularly nasty fall down one of the many hidden pitfalls concealed beneath the snowdrifts.

Whatever it was, he returned shortly afterward to the task at hand.

Then there was Dagny at his side, still holding onto the other woman in her unconsciousness, fussing over every minute detail every time he twisted or pulled in a way that wasn't to her liking.

There were times when she could be... rather pointed in her disapproval of how they had always done things in the village, and while her criticisms were hardly appreciated by the stone-jawed keeper of livestock - whose rough treatment of animals no doubt extended to his human patients - he nonetheless yielded to the woman's persistent demands.

Where he lacked in finesse and grace, Dagny was able to provide, ignoring the occasional dirty look he sometimes sent her way whenever her words rankled his pride a bit too much for his liking. But the work had gone smoothly from that point on, and there were no further complaints heard from the shapeshifter, who at this point still remained blissfully unaware of the whole ordeal.

It was a good thing, too. Fífl's fragile constitution spared her from not just the pain that she would undoubtedly feel after she woke up, but the sounds, as well.

They weren't pleasant, and Dagny could not help but cringe at the sickening noises that were produced whenever the fractured bone was manipulated into place by rough but experienced hands. And in all honesty, she struggled to avoid visibly reacting to it, choosing instead to occupy her attention with the raven-haired woman's face.

It was a rare opportunity to see for herself who exactly it was she spared, and in the absence of Fífl's typical bluster and insults. Dagny found that she preferred it this way; to examine the woman's features in relative peace, even if the faint bruise upon her cheek and the sporadic twitches that contorted her face in pain dampened whatever appeal it might have held. Not to mention the way those dark bangs clung to a forehead slick with sweat, or the way her brow tensed over every little adjustment.

Yet even with those flaws, Dagny would not deny that she found it a tolerable enough vision.

She supposed.

After the initial flurry of activity that surrounded the injured woman's arrival, and her eventual lapse into unconsciousness, the work of the butcher had finally drawn to a conclusion; he certainly considered it a successful outcome, having made the final touches of a gróft-tied splint in which they bound the kaldurhrafn's broken wing in.

Now the blonde-haired woman was left with a bird who could not fly, and for the first time since Dagny had stepped foot in that storehouse, she was left with the silence of her thoughts. As well as the pressing question: what would be done with someone like this?

She had fought with such insistence that the woman be spared that she hadn't the faintest clue as to what came next, and could not help but feel the stirring of a gradual fatigue that settled over her like a veil; the excitement of the last hour evaporating as she suddenly grew aware that the decision to take the complicated, defiant Fífl under her protection meant that she was now responsible for everything else about the girl.

Her first instinct after the realization was to seek out who still remained, only to find that Arnþóri had since trampled out to only the gods knew where. Not that it was a loss that she felt too keenly, and even less so when she took into account the amount of trouble and shit-stirring that would be caused by this.

Most of it by him, naturally. Arnþóri's glare had promised as much.

When the first droplet of something freezing and cold dripped upon her head, she instinctively tilted her head to the roof and toward the mottled ceiling of muddied stone slabs that ran with water, occasionally finding a gap in the rock to drip down onto them below.

Her mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, as she cursed the butcher's laziness. It was clear that she could not leave Fífl here; the idea of healing in a leaking hut of a man that couldn't be bothered to properly patch his roof was not something that she wished to subject anyone to, nor did she necessarily trust the rest of the villagers, truth be told.

Not even Haldjorr, who still remained, impassive as ever to the whole affair.

"I will allow her to rest within my dwelling." Dagny eventually answered the stoic man's unbidden question, her words as much of a challenge as they were a simple statement of what she decided. She wanted to make certain that he would not object, not necessarily because she expected him to, but because she wanted to know where he stood. Regardless of whether or not he actually considered it wise. "I pray that the Æðri of Vikkeða holds no objections?"

There were times where she could be impudent, and there were times where she decided a wiser path.

Haldjorr had paused at the request, seemingly not as much in deliberation as it was in mild surprise. He hadn't thought to mull over the inevitable in his head, why would he? This woman made her decision with the shapeshifter apparent every step of the way, and he held very little hope in changing her mind on these things. Nordwiir were an overly independent people, to say the least, and Dagny was no exception in this. In fact, she was probably worse than most.

But it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless. "If that is what you have decided, then let the responsibility fall upon you."

"Will you help me?"

And so he did, albeit reluctantly, as Dagny hoisted Fífl's cloak-shrouded body from the furs below.

***​

Dagny's cottage was further out from the village than most, relegated to the furthest outskirts of the coastline village's limits.

As if it was a physical manifestation of the same isolation she was more than happy to impose upon herself. Much to the gossiping and rumors of the others that lived in Vikkeða; that she was different was obvious enough to anyone with eyes to see; that she was an outsider was as much established fact as anything else about her.

Not that Haldjorr made any comment as they reached the homestead, nor when Dagny directed the leader of their village to settle the body of the kaldurhafn gently into the collected furs covering the gróft rope mattress of her bed. She did not anticipate permitting the other woman to sleep there any longer than necessary, for it was a luxury, even to her.

And it had taken far too much cajoling with Kukjje to help with the painfully slow process of weaving the tense, unyielding fibres into a functional mat. She was no seamstress, not by a long shot.

There were some more words exchanged between the two, as well as words of warning where Haldjorr admittedly spoke the truth of the inconvenience this would cause her. The concept of caring for an untrustworthy outsider, of all people, within her home until Fífl's broken arm mended was not a task to be undertaken lightly.

Yet Dagny had made her decision, for better or for worse.

He had departed soon after, leaving her alone with her new guest.

Unlike most other huts in the village, Dagny's cottage was both above and below ground, done in the more modern fashion of some of the larger island towns of the isles. There was enough of a natural slope in the landscape that it wasn't as difficult to dig out the foundations into the frozen earth of the tundra, and at that point it had only been a matter of carefully laying the daubed slabs of the flagstone roof upon a combination of both the natural contours of the land as well as the stacked rocks that served as the exterior wall to the south.

She made certain to seal the interior with dried moss and the clay that was so plentiful in the bay, and she couldn't even recall the hours or the amount of toil it had taken to layer the flagstones of her home until the patchwork mortar was able to withstand the frigid air that - more often than not in the early days - froze and cracked the insulation of the walls.

To come howling with renewed viciousness after she had thought to claim victory over the harshness of Sund.

Everything else only came after she had finally found it fit to call this place her home. All the decorative trinkets of petrified wood and whatever else washed up on the low ebb of the bay's tide, or she otherwise hunted, from bones to tusks to teeth. All the furniture of polished slabs of stone that were painstakingly draped in the pelts and furs of the beasts she had killed over the years.

All of the clay pottery and utensils she'd pridefully coveted away in one of the niches of her hearth, after learning from one of Kannar's sisters how best to shape and manipulate the slurry into whatever she desired, before firing it in an underground pit they stacked with peat and leftover gróft fibres. The last part was especially lovely to show off to company that had come to share her food. Not that it happened often, mind you.

It was more than what most in the isles possessed, and she was content.

Well, that was somewhat of a lie.

Dagny was never completely content, and withheld simple happiness from herself on a whim; she could never simply stop and enjoy what she had. It was why her abode was probably one of the finer ones of the village. The fact that it only held an occupant of one hardly registered for her as it did for her neighbors, who looked on with disdain over her soft ways - and perhaps a little envy.

But for now, her attention was focused upon the woman who occupied one more luxury of hers as she sat at the small table near the warmth of the stone hearth, idly whittling down the hours as she carved away at the soft ivory of some kaldabatur bone with her knife. She was never one to simply sit, and relax. Yet she'd much rather make the small concession if it meant not being robbed blind by a woman who honestly looked far too interested in the luxurious fur cloak that still draped her sleeping form.

And so she waited.

 

[Fífl]

Her arm hurt.

It was no great wonder, given the small boy leading her through the treacherous floor of the cave and towards the light of its open maw. He pulled with a strength unbecoming of a Nordwiir his age, the mop of wild black hair stirring forlorn memories that slipped her grasp no matter how hard Fífl attempted to grapple them.

"Show me how to fly, Fi-Fi!" The boy yelled out as they ran through the cave, a voice of innocent, childlike wonderment echoing endlessly and distorting into meaningless trills.

No sound came from her in place of a reply. The woman's mouth opened, lips moving in a rhythm that suggested words but only spoke cold breath. She wanted to tell him to slow down, to stop pulling on her arm, and that it was painful. She needed to tell him that he could not fly, but there was no sound to say it with.

At the mouth of the cave, they were met by a sheer drop, the landscape below them an endless jagged sea of snowy peaks and valleys capped by a mottled golden sky. The wind whipped and whistled, yet the shapeshifter did not feel it, only hearing it as it carried the shouts of the boy now standing before her with an air of anticipatory expectancy.

His face felt like home, obscured beneath midnight tufts of hair rendered feral by the wind. It was on the tip of her tongue yet evaded the woman's memory all the same.

"Show me!"

Fífl raised her arms in expectation of the change, yet nothing came, no feathers sprouting from the nape of her neck and no reformation of lengthy limbs into elegant winds made to soar alongside the howling cries of home.

She stood there.

Impotent.

Passive.

Unchanged.

"I hardly have any use for a kaldurhrafn that cannot fly, after all," the wind whispered, carrying the words through her ears and into the forefront of her mind as if they were her thoughts. "I caught it, and I claim it."

The boy looked up, his innocent wonder replaced by stern disapproval that sat strangely upon his face's youth, distorting and ageing his flesh beyond his years. He pointed a finger squarely at her, his arm broken beyond measure, forcing him to hold it at a strange angle so his accusation could only be directed towards the shapeshifter.

"Fífl the FOOL!"

With a sudden yelp, she awoke, immediately jerking upright upon the bed adorned with furs, a regretful sudden movement that transformed that yelp into a pained squawk as, indeed...

...her arm still hurt.

Looking down, she found her protesting limb confined by a rudimentary splint that, mercifully, she did not find herself in the mood to comment upon. Yet.

Was this real?

Still adjusting from her dreaming, Fífl's eyes scanned the strange new surroundings, her unfamiliarity with Nordwiir dwellings writ large upon her face in what could be described as bewildered disgruntlement. She had managed to tame her complaints to a breathless whine, her chest still heaving from the sudden shock of waking up.

Eventually, the dark peat of her eyes settled on the focal point in the room, Dagny of Vikkeða, which was hardly a comforting sight given the knife in her hand, even if it was only used for carving idle bones.

This was not a dream.

A slow expression of dismay began to pull at the shapeshifter's face; her bruised cheek still tender in the movement as the realisation of what was real and what was a nightmare began to take purchase in Fífl's head. Was it so naive to have hoped that it was all a feverish dream gifted by Spotta in a mischievous stroke of misfortune?

"Oh Gods," she gasped to herself more than Dagny, who had been relegated to judgmental furniture at that moment, "Please do not inflict this fate upon me..."

It was real; the noose had only relaxed for a fleeting vision, but now, it was coiled just as heavily as before. Naturally, in a room shared between only the two of them (where men with axes did not lurk and grunt), Fífl took it upon herself to gingerly grapple with the other woman's fur cloak so that she could drape it back over herself entirely and lay down once more.

"I will not survive this..."