Confined spaces
The air is stale on the verge of stench if not for the large open spaces, still it is easy to tell one is inside of a mountain. Well inside to the point of under as point of fact, and the feeling connected to that fact leave the Troll-Breaker feeling much like a beast locked inside a cage. She shifts on uneasy nerves as she sits in a thrown of dark walnut grain lumber, fashioned by masterful Dwarven hands. Her auburn hair is tide tightly into fine braids, and clasped with bits of gold and bone, held in place by slim threads of boiled leather. Her skin which is usually glowing with a fresh tan of being kissed to a heavenly bake, is now pale and dull from weeks of living in Twaraslan.
She makes a verbal note of her need to be free, with a grunt. "Fishing." she mutters with her grunt. "Oh the fishing I could be doing right now, back in Asgard... Or on the surface of Midgard... Why oh why am I living in a hole in the meat of the earth... With not but men of different standings, and a crazy old codger for a dwarve?" She puts further voice to her great annoyance. Her thrown is seated at a large wooden feasting table of cherry oak, which is lit by one single torch which is only half wet with oil so now is looking much more like a single candle. In her hand she holds a silver fork with a bit of baked potato resting on its teeth.
She eats her food and drinks her mead, dreaming of freedom from this stone den. The city of Twaraslan is a pinnacle of the Dwarven race, and a beacon of happiness for its people, for an Asgardain warrior woman however, it is rather starting to feel like a prison and fast at that. The hot food and cold drink are lovely, which is gleaming with the pride she has in her lover Fenrir whom is quickly learning his way around a fire pit. He has been cooking her hot meals every night, as he sneaks out during the day for hunting, and Brynhyld helps Clans-Rans with his work, she promised him she would work the mines with him, under the condition that he would bathe himself at least once a week. The digging of dirt and cutting of stone has lead to Brynhyld finding crud in places she would rather not, and has caused herself to even bathe more often than she would normally.
Then it happens as she finds small tears in her deerskin boots. She is able to keep it locked down inside of her but she wants to burst with anger. She takes up her mighty bow and starts to practice her aim and some random targets Fenrir had put up for her around the city, when he woke and left her sleeping this morning. He knew that the stress was starting to unravel her nerves, and even left her a dearly touching note on his pillow.
"My love Bryn...
Going hunting...
Will return later tonight...
Left food for later by the fire...
Set up ten different archery targets all around the city...
Don't kill the dwarf!
Love Fenrir."
Its so sweet how he calls me Bryn for short she thinks to herself as she takes her aim at the first hidden target she was able to spot. If any other were to call her that she would not find it cute, she would have words to say about it, to anyone else she is known as Brynhyld or Troll-Breaker. Her temper is the stuff of legends, and so is her aim with the bow. She fires six shots in the blink of an eye, and they group tightly in the very center of the bullseye of the target which is set up about thee hundred paces out and sixteen feet elevated from her currant location. He was even kind enough to keep it somewhat hidden from the nearest light source so to add to her fun.
"One down... Nine to go."
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