━ in which; Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, receives a raven from across the sea, speaking of how her dear sister had come into contact with another race of people from the mysterious, rumoured magic of the sea on Arya's desire to answer the age o...
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There was a silence in the air, a solid chunk of the nearby woodlands isolated. So quiet the birds could not even be heard, no sparrows dancing across the sky above the camp. There was an uneasy silence from those within the encampment as well, as late in the inky covers of night, a mere two days prior, there had been a scout sighted.
Eyes danced dangerously across the borders, and many had taken up positions of sentries. The multitude of weaponry was quickly claimed and distributed amongst their rightful owners. The atmousphere had grown tense, so incredibly tense, the sinking feeling of panic ate at the stomachs of all present, akin to the looming sense of dread whilst awaiting the impending siege on Winterfell. Though, some seemed to revel in the pressure, Sansa, however, was not one of them. She existed in silence, watching carefully out of the corners of her eyes, praying to the old gods to ensure her safety, hands clutching the pommel of her dagger.
The impending threat, however did not interfere with the need for merriment, as the gambling circles continued, although less of the Vikings had engaged in watching them play, nor thrown in their own bets. The red haired woman sat on the grass, her legs tucked up beside her. Floki sat beside her, still in his disengaged state, yet he still pushed through and accepted her company. He had been whittling, again, a small totem, yet, he had kindly paused his own work to check over her dagger properly.
Grey eyes rimmed with old, smudged kohl stared intently at the blade Sansa had been given. He twirled it between his fingers, studied the design of the hilt, the heads of two wolves facing away from the blade as the cross guard, and where it met the hilt, a snowflake of quarts was set. He delicately ran a finger across the edge of shining silver metal. It left a small trail of skin that quickly followed with a thin line of blood. Sansa blinked, no normal blade was sharp enough to draw blood with so little pressure, only Valyrian steel could do such things!
Floki had a perplexed expression, though he gave an approving hum. He looked closer at the winding black leather of the handle. He gasped slightly and reached over. He tapped her forearm with an open palm, a multitude of swift taps as if to encourage her attention. "Look, Sansa, they must be runes of some kind."
Sansa blinked, runes? She took a breath, there was nothing on the hilt of the blade, at least when she had looked at it it. Blue eyes focused in on the leather, and right along the edge, where it fed into the simple metal of the pommel, were tiny symbols embossed in the leather, so small that if one was not looking for them, they would be easily missed. Not just any symbols though, symbols of a language long since lost to the world. Valyrian. Not just the written variant of the language, phonetically translated into the common alphabets, but the traditional glyphs. Another ring of glyphs looped beneath it, though, they were more familiar to her eye, the runes of the old tongue, of the age of Heroes, of the Royce banners, of the gravestones deep in Winterfell's crypts, of the letters she shared with Arya.
