sixthiterationlogs | (no subject)

WHO: Thorfinn
WHERE: The woods, The blacksmith.
WHEN: December 13th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Nothing yet, will update if needed, though its Thorfinn so bad language might just be in norse.
STATUS: Open

The woods
Just like any normal day, Thorfinn was up before the sun. A sad welcome home to Jo. The resident screaming alarm clock hadn't changed that much. He felt bad for waking them, he always felt bad when it happened. He dressed quickly, pulling the multiple layers and then the cloak Kate had made on, and set about heading off into the woods. He no longer worried about any thing happening to him. It was a touch dangerous but it was also truer to himself than he had allowed himself to be for a long time. Since he had taken his oath of non-violence. He feared nothing in the woods with the horrible gift he had received. If something tried to attack either it or he would die. A sad end to a story, but it was how he felt of late.

He spent most of the morning into late afternoon felling and chopping up a tree to make it easier to drag home and split into lumber to use at home. The colder it got the more the need grew. Not just for his home but for others, which was why he left almost all of it sitting out back, easily seen to be taken. Kate was given permission as he owed her for the cloak, but still he didn't care who took from the wood pile. He and his would make due, and he would keep working through the winter.

The Blacksmith

Coming by again, he made his way inside, dropping some wood to feed the fire for the forge in case the new Stark came back to mess with it. He checked out first to make sure no one was around before pulling the door shut and taking his cloak off. His long hair was hanging loose today but mostly confined under the cloak. It was staticy when he tossed it aside. Walking across the room he sat down beside the wood pile and took a deep breath. holding his hands out he pushed his sleeves up and, then he let the breath out and watched flames start to dance around his fingers.

It hadn't gone away yet, nearly a week and he was still trying to hide it. Forever secretive when it came to himself. Reaching one of one of the split logs he had brought with him he held it in his hands watching it start to burn as he held it. He knew he should get the forge fire going and see if he could get it to temperature without relying on the charcoal, but honestly he was scared of what that meant for him.

"Faðir, hvað er að gerast við mig?"

He spoke as he did often when he thought he was alone, he spoke his now language.

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Ygritte, having had a nightmare of her last moments at Castle Black, snuck out hours before it became light outside to go to her normal spot where a pit had been built. It was a place where she came when she needed some semblance of normalcy; a place like what she had north of the Wall.

The nightmare put her on edge, and that much was obvious by the way her hands shook as Ygritte tried to start a fire, to no avail. If anyone was up that early, and walking nearby, they would no doubt hear her curses carry through the quiet woods.

Thorfinn had been walking along the woods quietly, hearing the curses he already had a pretty good idea whose voice that was. He should have approached her sooner but how did he even explain that... in the end he decided like everyone else. Pretend he had no idea who they were. It seemed the best thing in the end all around.

Coming out of the treeline he saw her working on her fire. Walking a little closer he spoke out. "Having issue?" He asked, though he had an axe swung over one shoulder, he made sure his other hand could be seen, despite the fact the cloak was much warmer closed, he didn't wantt o give off the wrong idea and look like a threat. The hood hid his hair and face, but his accent seemed to be one of a kind in the village.

Ygritte had yet to see anyone who reminded her of her clansmen back home. But, one look and she held back from answering because the wildling was searching his face for any kind of recognition. There was none, but she immediately felt a bit more at ease with the stranger than she normally would have with anyone else.

But then that stubborn pride kicked in and her head shook. "I know how t'start a fire." she replied, eyes moving back down while she struck the flint again and again before dropping it.

Thorfinn moved closer to kneel down by her wood. Looking it over as she worked the flint. He was conflicted and yet he always felt better in the woods who was he to fault anyone that? Being around the people of the village was softening him more and more.

"The wood is frozen, I had much problem to." He admitted, his accent just as heavy as one would expect, reaching up he pushed the hood back, his long hair spilling free. "May I?" he asked.

Ygritte was getting irritated now. Not so much at this strangers willingness to help, but because she wasn't suppose to be having trouble in the first place. Not even using the excuse that there were things on her mind seemed justified enough. Yet, here the wildling was, handing over the flint.

While Thorfinn was leaned over, Ygritte watched him and out of the blue asked, "Where are you from?"

Chances of him being from her world were slim, unless the man was from a different clan.

Thorfinn kneeled down looking at the flint when she handed it over. "I'm from Iceland. A norsemen." He spoke knowing she'd likely not understand, he had gathered enough not only from the tourney but because of watching her when Bushy died. She was from Margaery's world. A wildling, one much like his own kind if he understood.

"A cold island in the north of my home." He moved his hand out instead of the flint concentrating as the wood burst into a roaring fire. His eyes on the flames and not her as he held the flint back over. "The woods wet and frozen stiff, thats all it was, I've been having the same problem... whatever this." he waved the hand he had used to start the fire with. "is, it lets me do this now. I am not a magical person."

It had been in her mind now, since Ciri first heard of it's existence, that she had been meaning to investigate the village blacksmith. She hadn't yet ascertained if anyone in the place in which they were trapped minded the building, or indeed if anyone was capable of the art, however, the longer Ciri spent without access to a proper sword, the more out of practice she began to feel. Bows were all well and good for hunting but did her little good in a real fight.

The more time passed here, the more Ciri began to suspect there may well be one brewing. The monster corpse the hunting party had brought back to the inn on the previous night justifiably had many of their number on edge. The news the team delivered to them, even more so.

Ciri approached the door with her hands buried in the pockets of the coat she'd arrived with, the same as they'd all arrived with (she thought she'd heard someone at the inn call them pea coats, which Ciri found comical, as it resembled the vegetable not in the slightest). She was just extracting a hand to knock when she heard a voice on the other side of it, though she could not make out the words.

"Hello?" she called, chancing a push to crack the door open and peek her head in. "Is it alright if I come in?"

Thorfinn had been lost in his own world, watching the flames burn upon his hands. He had been born a normal man, grew and grew normal for the most part and now in this place he now had fire under his control. It worried him despite the fact he knew he should view it as a gift it felt like anything but.

When he heard the door crack he moved his hands yo the wood in the forge, the fire from his fingertips getting the fire inside burning hot before he pulled his hands free, pushing himself to his feet. He hoped he had not been seen but the fact that someone spoke to him, a voice he had not heard before made him blink a bit.

"Yes, of course." his accent heavy, words unsure. "It is not my building, all are welcome."

Ciri made her way further into the room, taking in the somewhat empty looking building, as empty as any of the buildings in this place seemed to appear. She took stock of what she could, though it hadn't escaped her attention that there had been flamings licking at the forge from the fingers of the man she found occupying the place. Only one man, Ciri noted, the voice she had heard perhaps not meant for any ears at all.

Just the week before she had seen Thor stumble into the inn with those very same flames sparking from his fingers. It was a talent in her world generally reserved for mages, though apparently... a normal occurrence here in this place.

"Apologies, if I'm interrupting anything," she felt compelled to apologize, which given he sat alone was a bit irrational, but she did so anyway. His accent was somewhat foreign to her, but she was grateful he used any words she understood. It was good enough for Ciri, though she slowed her own on the off chance his understanding was as uncertain as his speech.

It was warm enough with the door closed for her to lose the heavy coat. "I was hoping this place might be in working order... I am quite in need of a sword. I don't suppose you know how to make one?" She swung her arm through the air in what she hoped was a universal gesture for sword swinging with a hopeful expression, just in case.

Around the room was piles of wood and charcoal, piles of bogiron that had only started to be worked. Thorfinn collected things to try and get it going in hopes someone more skilled could handle the task. He barely knew what to do with a blacksmith but his father had been one so he found comfort being there.

"You are not, I am merely just here. Don't worry." He spoke as he brushed his hands on his stained scrub pants and started to push himself off the floor. He was a small man, standing only around five foot four. He was thankful for the slower speech even if he was mastering the language he still had issues here and there.

"It is heading that way, but those of us working for it are not as skilled to actually use it." There was a disappointed look when he heard her make mention of a sword, he reached down pulling a knife from his side, it had once been a chef's knive, filed down into a more deadly knife he used to hunt, holding it over by the wrapped handle so she could take the handle. "There are no swords, but if a blade is needed you can have this. It is sturdy and good for hunting." He knew he shouldn't just offer over his weapon, but he hated violence and the way he had felt of late he didn't feel he needed to be armed.