riverviewlogs | Is that a knife in your pocket...

"Supposedly, it's called a Phantump. Professor Sycamore assisted in capturing it, so I suppose it's mine now. It's... sort of a pet."

She still has some hope for training Sprig as a guard, having seen how much damage he can do, but at the moment he's investigating some interesting bug and doesn't seem to really care about his surroundings. He's just about the furthest possible thing from threatening.

"That seems like a fair place to stop." She flashes him a smirk, "Just be sure to defend your legs, I'm not above knocking you off your chair."

"That is not a pet. That is something straight out of Hel." He means the creatures that roam the land of the dead, not the Christian fire and brimstone place. He is somewhat intrigued by such a creature and he makes a note to ask her more about the critter after their match.

"What, do you think I was born yesterday?" He gives a mirror smirk at her as he picks up his ax, settling it into his right hand. "Let's see what you're made of." Ivar waits for her to approach him, all the muscles of his arms and back tensed up in anticipation. It's been a while since he was able to do this with anyone. Ivar loves to fight. It's in his very blood.

"Well, Sprig could easily beat you in a fight, but that's beside the point." She giggles as she takes a fighting stance, more about poise than practicality but the Regis value looking beautiful while you fight if you're going to pick up a sword at all.

She starts with a few quick taps with her sword, testing Ivar's agility and reach before she worries too much about actually fighting. After that her swings become more bold, but she never aims the edge of her sword at him, instead aiming to tap him with the flat of it.

Ivar stops talking and starts focusing. He matches her probing moves, letting her into his space while he tests out her fighting style. His own is quick, the moves swift and smooth. He's had a lot of time to practice. Once he gets a grasp for Letha's moves, he goes on attack.

Though he's limited by his mobility, he makes up for it by having a fierce style. His moves now are less cautious and have a sharper edge to them, jabbing out with the ax blade and ringing off the sword with each hit.

She's a bit startled by his speed; it's been several years since she put actual effort into practicing, and she ends up just barely able to parry him until she takes enough steps backward to be out of his range. She takes a moment to catch her breath, and move a stray bit of hair back behind her ear.

She hesitates before moving back toward him, this time staying right at the edge of his reach where it's easiest to block him, and moving slowly behind him.

Ivar lets her retreat without pushing an advantage. He'd have to get off his stool to do it, and unless he wants to go after her feet, it won't give him an advantage.

When she comes back towards him, he can see what she's trying to do. Get around behind his unprotected back and take advantage of the fact that he can't manuever around as fast as an average man. He blocks her, letting Letha circle around clockwise. When she reaches the halfway point, he abruptly swings his ax around, letting it hit her sword with a loud Clang! He won't allow her to go any further.

Half from the strength of his hit, and half from being startled by the noise, Letha drops the sword with a little squeak. She ducks down, trying to swipe the sword back and scramble behind him without getting hit by his ax. Which... turns out to be a pretty unpolished move, leaving her very much open and defenseless.

He wastes no time in swinging the ax blade around, leaving it an inch or two from a clean blow that would have separated her neck from her head. He stops there, a manic grin on his face. "And you're dead," he says, removing the ax and returning it to a position by his side. He's not even breathing all that heavily despite the excursion.

"Want to go again? Or have you had enough?" He says the question without much teasing. He is aware she's pregnant and doesn't want to push her too hard.

She rolls onto her back, sitting up to catch her breath again and check her belly. She could go again, but it's very clear how much more skilled he is than her, and if she has to try another risky, stupid move like that she might land on her belly.

"Give me a minute." She huffs, looking up at him. "I have to admit I underestimated you. You spend a lot of time fighting, don't you?"

"In a way, it's all I know." He doesn't mean that in a sad way, just as something that is a fact of life. He rests the axe handle between his legs on the wood of the stool, leaning over it with his hands resting on top of the blade. Something is always being worked out behind his bright eyes, the light behind them always angry, but with the occasional vulnerability there as well.

"You've got some skill. But you're too cautious. You need to be bold, to strike out at your opponent without worrying about the blow that is to come from them next." Vikings have no fear. To be afraid is to be vulnerable and lose the fight they're always in.

"The Regis only use swords as a last resort... we use them as defense until we can use magic for offense." She gets up, dusting herself off. "But I suppose you couldn't see my true fighting style if we spar here. I doubt the locals would take kindly to seeing a risen skeleton fighting you."

Ivar's attitude is welcome and familiar; some mix of Nathaniel and Aristeo that makes her feel like she's known him for ages. Neither of them seem to fear like she does, and neither does he. It makes her almost feel sheepish, defensive, for the fact that she avoids offensive tactics unless she's completely sure she can win. Or... too angry to care.

Edited (wasn't quite done) 2017-03-18 04:07 (UTC)

"They may not like it, but I would." Of course Ivar would find the idea of matching skills with an undead opponent brought to life by a friend appealing. He's never claimed to have the most stable mindset.

He rests his chin on top of his hands, watching her from over the ax blade. "So you can contact the dead and bring them back to life?" He's impressed. No one can do magic in his world save for the gods. "Any other interesting little facts you've failed to mention about yourself?"

She gains a meek little smile; since coming to the quarantine she's gotten in the habit of keeping quiet about her necromancy, so she's always happy when someone actually wants to know about it.

"I've told you most of what I can about my magic... visiting the afterlife, animating the dead, speaking to corpses. I had cards for reading the future back at my house, but that's more a parlor trick than anything else." She thinks for a moment, "I can pull living souls from their bodies, but we only use it as a training technique. We use it to start children in their training as necromancers."

She'd never noticed how creepy some of these facts can sound until she had to explain it to people, so it's sort of nice knowing Ivar won't be judging her.

Ivar listens to Letha with an interested expression on his face. Magic is completely unknown in his world, so hearing about fantastic abilities makes him sit up and take notice.

He lets out a low whistle of impressiveness. "Remind me not to piss you off." She was someone he definitely wants to keep on his side. Such abilities could come in handy no matter what he had planned for future.

"The same to you - I'd hate to share the same fate as that target." She nods toward the mark he'd been testing his ax on, before she came.

The Regis had warrior guards, but rarely any real enemies for them to worry about. Direfox dens, sometimes. Bandits. Things like that. Ivar seems almost like the sort of heroes she's read about in books, the kind that have real battles to worry about. The kind that don't have to look for things to complain about like the members of her family do.

She's got her breath again, and takes a step back as she raises her sword, "Up for another round?"

"You don't have to worry about that. I reserve most murder attempts for my brothers." He's not entirely joking about that. He and Sigurd have the worst sort of relationship. You'd think his older brother would have learned to stop antagonizing someone who was both unstable and had no impulse control when it came to using whatever weapons he had on hand.

"Of course." He sets down the ax, picking up his sword to use instead. He actually doesn't like using the weapon as much despite his proficiency in mastering it. Half of a good swordsman's technique is in using his footwork to his advantage. Being unable to use his legs meant Ivar has to instead try and read his opponent instead. The ax was easier, in that if he got overwhelmed, he could always just throw it, and end the conflict with a headshot or chest wound. A sword had to be used up close.

He holds it up, waiting for her to move in closer. He's already seen her fighting style in the first round, so now he won't be nearly as cautious.

Oh, she knows plenty about murder attempts on family members. Between the amount she's threatened and... the amount of cousins who have gone through with it. It's pretty hard to live in a society where you can only speak to your family, without killing a few of them.

A smirk plays on her lips as he picks up the sword. It won't be as easy to bash her weapon out of her hand with that, so her failure from the last round will be harder to repeat. That, and she's already starting to think up some sneaky way to beat him in this round.

Her attitude has shifted this time from cautious to playful, staying just close enough that she can tap her blade against his and at one point slipping closer to aim a hard tap on the shoulder of his sword arm.

Ivar isn't as wary as he uses the sword. He's good enough to hold his own as she steps in, tapping the blade with her own. They go back and forth, trading blows that don't allow either of them to gain an advantage. His swipes go both high and then low, forcing her to keep on her toes.

When she taps him on the shoulder, he switches up his tactics a little, going on the defensive so that he can get her to move in closer. She's got a bit of an advantage right now, but he's confident he can end this match in his favor.

She gives him a bright smile when the tap to his shoulder hits, "There, you've lost your arm." And there she goes taking his bait, cautiously moving closer as she supposedly works on tapping out his other arm.

Right up until she suddenly ducks down with a battlecry of "Sprig, Astonish!" and her little Phantump speeds over to try and startle Ivar with a silly expression and his paws raised as if saying 'boo', and Letha takes the momentary confusion to throw her weight against the stool Ivar is sitting on and knock him over.

Truth be told, Ivar has completely forgotten about the little creature in his focus on the battle, and it distracts him long enough for him to end up falling off the stool, and landing on the floor with a hard Thump!

He looks up at her, ignoring the small jolt that had run through his legs. They're always in some degree of pain. "Clever. Very clever." He thumps one of her feet lightly with his sword pommel.

She's a bit overdramatic about falling to her knees, stumbling theatrically next to him and driving her sword into the ground right by his neck. Sprig floats in a circle above them, dutifully staying out of the way of them until she calls him again.

"Looks like I won." She giggles, rolling over to lay on the ground beside him. "Though I suppose you could have raised your sword to skewer me. That would be a tie at least."

"I should get myself one of those creatures. It comes in handy." He props himself up on his arms, letting go of his sword for the moment. "I could've. But I didn't. You won that match fair and square."

He rubs at his right knee, the one he'd fallen onto when he was knocked off the stool. His legs have always been susceptible to breaks, the gods' little joke since he wasn't capable of actually putting any weight on them. This time, he thinks it's just a bad bruise.

She notices him touching his knee - when he said he couldn't walk, she'd assumed he couldn't feel his legs and didn't think any pain would affect them.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Her hand moves almost as if she's going to touch him, but she retracts it at the last moment and plays it off as flattening out the wrinkles of her skirt. "I think I have some medical supplies with me - okay, they're for Sprig but they might work on a human. I'm not sure."

"I'm fine." Ivar's typical answer for everything. Short of bleeding out right in from of Letha, nothing would make him reveal that he had any sort of weakness. He rubs his knee one more time before letting it go, swallowing down the pain.

"Save your supplies." He shifts his legs, bending them so that he could pull himself back onto the stool. "I'd go for round three, but you'd best not push yourself. Bad things happen to pregnant women in battle."

Belatedly she gets to her feet, trying to help him into the stool but relenting easily if he shoos her away. She's far from immune to stubborn pride, and far be it from her to deny someone their indulgence.

"I hate to end it on a tie... but your point is fair, I've done enough reckless things today for the baby's good." Her hair was pulled free a bit during their sparring and she works on fixing it just to give herself something to do. After that last stunt, she can feel her body completely rejecting the thought of another round but she stubbornly refuses to show her fatigue. "We'll have to pick this up later, before it's too far along. Otherwise we may have to wait until after it's born."

He sheathes the sword in a scabbard on his back, letting the pain slowly dissipate. He'll be better in no time at all. The conversation helps him focus on something else.

"Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" He asks. Every Viking wanted sons to carry on their family name, but girls were only valued slightly less. Indeed, women in his culture had more options, being able to become shieldmaidens or wives as they saw fit. That was more than most Englishwomen could say.

"Hadn't thought of it." She admits after a small pause.

Women have fewer options than men in the Regis clan, but neither are particularly privileged. No matter what, the baby would be forced into some role the elders deemed worthy, married off to a cousin they didn't care about and forced to make more purebred Regis children.

"I like the idea of a boy... without Aristeo around it might be nice to have a son with his face." Her face turns a bit red; she's not used to making it public how much she really misses him, no sarcasm involved. "The rules are all changed now that I'm here - I'm only happy I won't have to force my family's ideals onto him."

Not like she knows anything but Regis ideals... but she knows she hated how her family brought her up and, young as she is, she's convinced she'll make a way better parent than her mother had been.

"Boys are a lot of work. I don't know how my mother coped with four of us and no husband most of the time." Actually, he knows exactly how she coped, and it was starting and ending the day with a glass of wine most of the time. Not that he likes to remember that. Aslaug had been far from a perfect mother, but she'd loved her children as best she could. Ivar was painfully aware of the fact he'd gotten more attention than his brothers.

"As long as you love them, I'm sure your child will be fine." Thus is the wisdom of a Viking who barely knows what the emotion entails.

"Well, as my mother can attest, girls are just as much trouble." She giggles, but she can't help feeling a little bit guilty. All three of her brothers grew up to make the family proud, becoming a record-keeper and a soldier and a baker. And she grew up to be a standoffish housewife who waited far too long to get pregnant. In fact, she barely managed to grow up in the first place.

She's quiet for a moment before her curiosity gets the best of her. "Do you think you'll ever have children?" She.. does not realize the obvious problem with the question.

"I can believe that. I bet you kept your mother on her toes." He hasn't known Letha for too long, but something tells him that she was hardly the type to sit still, fold her hands in her lap, and be the proper lady. No, anyone who raised the dead and wielded a sword was far more than she appeared.

Ivar visibly stiffens up and his hands curl up into fists. She can't possibly know the nerve she's hit with such an innocent question. She doesn't know, he has to remind himself. She can't possibly know. No one knows about his impotency save for him and Margrethe. (Well, and his brothers, but he doesn't know that the slave girl was foolish enough to tell his brother Sigurd.)

"I'd like to," he says, leaving so much unsaid. Women don't look at him the same way they look at other men. They can't see past his legs. He's too different for them to see themselves with him. The only sexual encounter he'd ever had was, in common terminology, little better than a pity fuck which had ended in disaster.

The Regis clan doesn't care so much about deformities; if they can raise the dead and procreate, that's all they're needed for. Though, it's honestly surprising there aren't more defects in her family with such a limited genepool.

Still, Letha notices him stiffen. That says a lot, and while she has her own assumptions about what is being left unsaid, she decides not to pursue it. "I think you'd make a good father - your wife would be lucky to have such excitement in her life."

Lucky for her, she hasn't seen exactly how exciting he can be.

He tries to smile, but the emotion doesn't quite reach his eyes. She means well, he knows, but something inside him still hurts at the thought of trying to have any children. "Well, at least I'd be better than my own." For one, he wouldn't abandon any children he had for ten years. He loves his father and always will, but there was also a part of him that hated Ragnar with a passion for just up and leaving his sons without so much as a word of goodbye.

"I know what you mean... I liked my parents well enough, but I know many family members I'll be happy my child won't meet."

Like her grandmother. Laurentia Regis is probably the most horrible person she knows, for the crimes of... being rude, and making her marry a cute boy her age. ... Okay, Letha doesn't know what Ivar's going through at all, but she's petty enough to try and relate.

"See, you should've just married an orphan. That solves all problems when it comes to dealing with at least one side of the family. I should know." See, it's better to joke about such circumstances then crying about them. It hurts too much to think about his parents, so he uses humor to mask his real feelings.

Poor Letha. She'd probably run for the hills if she was aware of even half the things that Ivar has done. He's most certainly not a nice man.

That gets a little laugh out of her, and... she may be batting her eyes for him a bit. What can she say, it's been a very long time since she's been able to get jokes like that out of someone.

"I didn't have a choice in marriage - the Regis clan always marry their children off to cousins. Aristeo and I had the same family, but... there were nearly a hundred of them, and that was only the ones who were alive." She tips her head a bit, "I've always had a dream of marrying some ragged hero... living alone in exile and fighting for survival. But I suppose that would be less romantic in practice."

She also wants to be blonde. With the same level of thought put into it.

"You married your cousin?" He raises his eyebrows. "That's a good way to end up with a child with nine toes." He glances meaningfully at the bump under Letha's dress. Vikings didn't have a taboo against kissing cousins, but it wasn't exactly condoned either.

"I come from a family of heroes and trust me when I say the reality is a lot harder than the stories make it out to be." He'd learned that from traveling with his father. Ragnar had been the most famous Viking alive and Ivar's fuzzy childhood memories had made him out to be more myth than man until he'd walked back into his life. Getting to see him as a human being hadn't diminished his hero worship. If anything, it increased him by allowing him to see his father as someone with faults and humanity.

"My parents were cousins, and I turned out fine." Arguably. "Anyway, the only other option would be marrying a peasant. And that's a perfect way to ensure any children you have will be treated lower than dirt."

There's a little pause as she listens to him, and her shoulders slump. "Hardship is a rare commodity in Thornwell, and not one any sane man would actively seek. But I've found that life can be... boring, without it. Back home I had maids and servants to handle every little thing I might desire, and it left me with so much free time I never knew what to do with myself. And now that I've come here... I'm starting to realize how empty it all was."

Ivar snorts at her comment about turning out fine. He just gives her a look and says, "Of course you did." Because raising the dead is a perfectly sane hobby for a proper young lady to have. He didn't really have anything to say about marrying a peasant. Nobility was equaled with might in the Viking world. If you wanted a title, you went out and killed whoever had it.

"You know what they say about being careful what you wish for. You just might get it. I always wanted a more exciting life. I got it at the cost of my parents." Life certainly had become more interesting since Aslaug and Ragnar had died. But it didn't replace the hole in his heart left by them. He would have given anything to have his mother stroke his hair one more time or receive a hug from his father.

"I suppose I got my wish. I ended up here... alone, without my family or my husband." She gives a small shrug, "But I have a job to work for, new places to explore and new people to meet. I never had any of that back home."

And with that she turns to him, watching him with open curiosity. "What would make a man that's lived like you do want more excitement?"

"My father. He was the most famous Viking of them all. When he went exploring, he discovered new lands that no one had ever found before. He raided cities that had been impenetrable up to that point. He became Earl and then King when he started out as just a humble farmer. I wanted to be like him, make my own stamp on the world."

There's love and affection when he speaks of Ragnar. Ivar had come to adore his father in the short time he'd been back in his life. He was the only one to ever take a chance on his crippled son, seeing past the exterior to the strength that lay beneath. For that, Ivar had turned his keen mind towards revenge when he died. He wouldn't be satisfied until all of England had been raided.

She's a little jealous of that sort of affection; mostly of the fact that he can feel it. Her parents were good to her, if strict, but nothing worth bragging about.

"My grandmother was the head of the Elder Council in Thornwell. That's... a bit like being Earl. But as much as she liked my father, she was never very fond of me. If I was ever in her shoes, I'd do everything very differently."

No, she wouldn't, because she'd be old enough to understand why Laurentia did the things she did. But she'll never know anyway.

"I think that's all we can do. Imitate the best part of our parents while putting our own stamp on the world."

It was rather introspective for someone as young and violent as the Viking was, but Ivar had learned a lot from watching people, and figuring things out in his own head. His father hadn't been perfect and Ivar had known it. But he'd make his own way in the world and do properly as a son of Ragnar Lothbrok should.

Is that a knife in your pocket...

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