The valkyrie watched him approach from a long way off, though she pretended she didn't. She'd pretend he didn't see him for a good, long time. Wait for him to come closer, and wait for her moment to strike. What would he do, once he got the desired proximity? This was not a creature that was prone to running. No, every stranger was a chance to brawl, and this was no different. Still, Sanngriðr waited. She settled in her place, stolid, unmoving. The winter sun bled low over the horizon, sky blooming deep reds and bruised purple. Each breath in her lungs a gift, and her pulse picking up. Acutely aware of just how alive she is in this moment. Horrifyingly, dangerously alive.
He nears. He speaks. Sanngriðr's lip pulls up into a sneer, sharp teeth glinting in the light of the sun. Her hackles raise around her shoulders, down her spine, making her look larger than she actually was. That was the hope, at least. This combined with her perch on the wall should make her look imposing. The valkyrie's gaze flashed, fixated on the stranger where he stood. "I am not your sister, your mother, your wife," A warrior, a raider, a pillager-- she is all three. "Nothing to me, who are you to make demands?" She spits the words, dripping venom. Less religious than her brother, but Sanngriðr knows the stories just as well. They always said she'd be one of the all mother's riders, carrying souls home to the halls someday. A valkyrie, through and through.
The entitlement of men. She does not have time for it, and she was prepared to drive him off if necessary. What gives her pause, though, is the fact that he speaks nearly as she does. Nearly. Sanngriðr's eyes narrowed, fixing on the stranger. Where had he come from? Why?
"Sanngriðr"
Sanngriðr speaks with a Swedish accent.
Sanngriðr's threads may be rated M for use of mature language.
