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a snort followed, low in his chest as he stepped forward again, brushing past her shoulder to take the lead along the faint animal trail winding through the brush. she is good friend to have.

sigvard’s stride slowed a fraction when she spoke of the husband. not in full, but the easy rhythm of him shifted, shoulders rolling once as though settling some weight that had crept there. mm. the sound was thoughtful rather than approving. he did not dare think a good marriage quite so glum, that only one party was to be satisfied.

to her request, he acquiesces. a welcome change in pace. cold, he said, stone cliffs, deep water. sea always angry. his nose lifted faintly, as though he could smell it even now—sea-salt and the rot of kelp, the stench of cooked meat mingling with friends. a toothy grin, then. good place to grow stubborn.

when we take mate, trade is equal. the man retorts with a sideways glance to the woman, tone casual but firm. two oars on one boat. else you go in circles. a pointed remark to her future endeavors, if any. to that, there should be no compromise. a pity a woman as fine as herself was not afforded as such initally.