Shadras
Illogical
Deidre's venom lashed against Alfhild's walls, and she was fine with it. Anger was often an emotion thrown at her and she had long grown used to bearing it. It had been hurled often enough that something akin to amusement would sprout in her heart. Humor at that many of her peers, her "betters," fling an emotion she had long since learned to keep control of. Of course, it didn't reach the surface and perhaps it was better that it didn't for this situation. There was no point to Alfhild in intervening in Deidre's tirade and waited for her to finish while processing what she said. She's right, Alfhild realized.
If the Fenrir went to war with themselves and wiped themselves out then... then... her train of thought stalled as she wondered what would actually happen afterwards. Long enough for a small thought to slip in saying, then it serve them right. She flung that thought deep into her mind and prayed it never resurfaced. Whatever the Fenrir had done to her, she didn't want them destroyed. Right? No, the only way for glory would be in bringing the sword to the Fenrir for this tournament. That would be little more than a footnote in the grand tales and songs. And Alfhild had not survived against all her adversity to be merely a footnote in the telling. She swore to herself years ago that she would be more. Greater, accepted, and honored. But how to achieve that, unless, in finding the sword, I can claim the right to fight in it. Once again the image of Alfhild in glory began to peak its way into her mind before she purged it again. I really need to sharpen my blade. Her father wouldn't like that. There was no room for interpretation in his orders. "Bring the sword to me. Directly, quickly, and quietly." However, it was strange that her father had never considered this flaw in his plan. Or had he? A she thought about it, there had to be no way that he would think that the Fenrir wouldn't fight to claim the sword. He had to have a plan. What, exactly, that plan was, she had no idea. Intrigue was never her strong suite. Her own brand of cleverness was directed to battle alone.
And there was, of course, the tiny little matter that Deidre knew she was after the sword. But she wasn't about to broadcast it to the tavern, nor name it for Deidre. Alfhild's eyes followed her words as she said in a voice devoid of deceit, honesty, anger, joy, or any emotion at all, "I suppose we ought to avoid the end of our people. Still, I must first follow through in many of my actions before anything can be decided in honorable combat. And to that end, I will find a shaman. No matter what. I don't believe there will be any issue with that." She wondered, idly, if Deidre would hold onto her anger, or try to release it.
@Maeriel
If the Fenrir went to war with themselves and wiped themselves out then... then... her train of thought stalled as she wondered what would actually happen afterwards. Long enough for a small thought to slip in saying, then it serve them right. She flung that thought deep into her mind and prayed it never resurfaced. Whatever the Fenrir had done to her, she didn't want them destroyed. Right? No, the only way for glory would be in bringing the sword to the Fenrir for this tournament. That would be little more than a footnote in the grand tales and songs. And Alfhild had not survived against all her adversity to be merely a footnote in the telling. She swore to herself years ago that she would be more. Greater, accepted, and honored. But how to achieve that, unless, in finding the sword, I can claim the right to fight in it. Once again the image of Alfhild in glory began to peak its way into her mind before she purged it again. I really need to sharpen my blade. Her father wouldn't like that. There was no room for interpretation in his orders. "Bring the sword to me. Directly, quickly, and quietly." However, it was strange that her father had never considered this flaw in his plan. Or had he? A she thought about it, there had to be no way that he would think that the Fenrir wouldn't fight to claim the sword. He had to have a plan. What, exactly, that plan was, she had no idea. Intrigue was never her strong suite. Her own brand of cleverness was directed to battle alone.
And there was, of course, the tiny little matter that Deidre knew she was after the sword. But she wasn't about to broadcast it to the tavern, nor name it for Deidre. Alfhild's eyes followed her words as she said in a voice devoid of deceit, honesty, anger, joy, or any emotion at all, "I suppose we ought to avoid the end of our people. Still, I must first follow through in many of my actions before anything can be decided in honorable combat. And to that end, I will find a shaman. No matter what. I don't believe there will be any issue with that." She wondered, idly, if Deidre would hold onto her anger, or try to release it.
@Maeriel