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Ivar the Boneless was an intrepid king.
He overthrew the likes of all of his brothers, the immovable Lagertha and cast out the seer's foolish words of discontent. The rage of the moment had passed and with it, Ivar's interest. Women of deliciously gluttonous frames and skinny typical ones poured icy cold water over the flame that was Ivar the Boneless. Usually he would set himself out upon the salty waters in search of his relief from idle boredom. This time was different.
"She went out to see the sight of Kattegat, King Ivar." Her lithe, blonde haired mother set him out in this witch hunt. Yet you were neither dragging yourself through the busy marketplace, nor gracing the granulous shores of Kattegat. The clouds soon roll in to the thunderous clap of Thor's mighty hammer. Sprinkles of water fall from the heavens. Incredible. As a woman that had to drag herself wherever she went, how fast could you really go? Strike that– he knew exactly how fast he could go. He commends himself to returning to the safety of his dry hall. Tomorrow was another day.
"I just want to pass."
The source of the voice has Ivar turning his head in the direction of a small alleyway. After hours of searching, he found you. Down the alleyway, several barrels of ale have fallen to block the view of any cripple. Its more than purposeful. Any time you shift, one of the men would take large sweeps to block the way to pass, shoulder to broad shoulder. Curiously Ivar takes to the side of the building for cover, opting to listen.
"And we're just trying to catch an easy fuck, babe." One of the men respond. "It's not like a cripple like you can keep a man, right?"
Ivar courses his tongue across his hard palate, listening carefully. You exhale forcefully. "Maybe so. But I have no interest in you. Please move."
"Pull up those skirts, cripple, and we'll let you."
Cripple. A million times he'd been called it– you had been as well. Everyone knew the condition you were in and the one he was in as well. They doubted your abilities as a woman. It was enough for him to intervene. But as he turns the corner, it is to a scuffle. Clearly, it is you who rolled upon the dirt and rose your blade to the speaking male's innermost thigh. Your blade carries outwards, raking through arteries, veins and muscle, as the older man drags himself back in the dirt. No match at all for your well muscled arms dragging you over the dirt with the slippery knife in your fingers like the worst of images from nightmares.
"What the fuck!" The wounded man barks. "Go away! Go away!"
The other man snatches his hands to his belt, warning with a call out to the you. The cries don't exactly reach your ears– only Ivar's sharp words. "Enough." Ivar clips his crutch upon your skirts to keep you in place. Your fingers dig up the dirt beneath you as the men take off out of the alleyway. You push up on your palms, twisting your body around to face the king.
