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It was best - for his particular sort of business, and whatever his future might hold - for Conall to keep to the edges of the Thingstead, nowadays. The eyes that led the hands that held the strings of the fattest purses would be waiting by that Pyre he'd left behind yesterday, true. But he hadn't come along to a Thingstead yet, in this life, for good reason. Too many Wolfborn, among those eyes. Better to be careful. Make what coin he could on the outskirts, where his beasts would do better, anyhow, and the horsemongers and hawksellers and houndsmen would be keeping their wares.

And, among those - the fightmasters. Of course. The grim, bloodthirsty folk who dealt in creatures doomed to die in pits or staked out, or set loose hungry, thirsty, tired, beaten, to be caught quickly for the entertainment of hersirs too lazy to carry on a true hunt. There'd been a thick-bristled boar clanging his tusks and hoofing the half-froze earth. A sow bear, beating at the boards of her barred wagon as her cubs wailed for her, a cage away. All of it, vile. A trade that gave him damn dangerous thoughts.

Careful had fled his heart at last, though, at the sight of a set of two wild-eyed mountain wolves gnashing, throttling themselves at the ends of heavy chains. The man who claimed to own them - fool, and a bastard besides - had laughed, giddy with greed, when Conall made his challenge. Bring the wolves to heel, and he could take the them. And the pot, which weighed heavy in the cap the fightmaster passed around to the gathering guests, giving odds. Conall had only taken his gloves off, and half-knelt in the show paddock they'd found for the wager. The show.

And what a show it'd been: wolves mad as all the hells lapping at his chin, wagging their tails. He'd let them take their time, to approach. The old thrill, the keenest of them, gnawed down his spine as they circled. But he'd been good with wolves - before they devoured his little cousin, and nearly his less-little cousin and him, too. Since then? Well, he was brilliant with them. As if every wolf he met was out to apologize for those forebears of theirs who'd forgot what a brother he'd been to so many of their kind. He kissed their whiskers, to the horror of the wolfless man with a hat full of money he was soon to lose. Conall smirked, awfully, and whispered names in their pricked ears. His, now. His to look after.

Then he'd bought the bears. (Funny, how the price dropped. With those wolves behind him, as he asked.) Calmed the cubs, first, then welcomed the mother on back to them, her rage - righteous as it was - ebbing quick, washed away. The woman who'd caught the boar refused, insisting he'd been purchased already by a Silvershore merchant. A shame. Too fine a thing to wind up on a platter. But Conall knew well enough that he could only ever hope to save a few lives, if any. He'd already lost...

... that one. Barraged by questions - the usual ones, really - he'd turned to meet the asker, a hand on each of those wolves, still. She was a stranger; in every way except that she wasn't, really. Just, he hardly knew her face, her voice. It'd been so long. He stared, struck silent. If there were words for this... he didn't know them. But he knew his own name, still. His true name. And he knew hers. "Len." Not a question; he wasn't wondering. He fucking knew. Those wolves moved with him as he swayed a step closer, and - stopped. With a raw-edged scoff of disbelief, Corven Ceallaigh dug a travel-battered flask from his coat pocket and held it out, through this strange space between them. "Have a drink, hey? Before you fall down. Go on." So he could have a moment, at least, to sort out what the fuck to say next. Gods...

status: closed @coinorcurses

where: the outskirts of thingstead

it seemed like there was so much going on in thingstead, with all of the people who had come here. there were travelling merchants, duels, a feast in the longhall, and other events that she was sure she hadn't seen yet. her first day ashore had just been spent exploring and taking everything in, afraid that she would miss something if she stayed in one place.

with the news of the high jarl dying tensions were high, it almost seemed like there was a dark cloud overshadowing all of the festivities. lira feels almost anxious as she awaits the decision of the council, just like everyone else. for a while drinking takes the edge off and helps her forget about the politics, but alcohol only solves problems temporarily.

so, she's taken to exploring thingstead once again, wondering if she might have missed anything the first time around. after all, her ship did dock on the first day of festivities, when many people were still arriving. on the outskirts she comes across a beast taming show, which sparks memories of her days in the wolfborn clan. she remembers how her cousin corven had been a beast tamer before he was executed, the nostalgia makes her miss those simpler days.

once the show is over she applauds, the beast tamer having put on quite the spectacle. it seemed like he had a way with the beasts, they obeyed him with no hesitation. maybe it was his confidence, but it seemed like he was able to communicate with them in a way that other beast tamers weren't. she moves closer to him once the crowd disperses, eager to strike up a conversation. "your show was fantastic, how long have you been doing this? you have quite a way with the wolves, i've never seen anything like it before."

she catches a glimpse of his face, lira hadn't been able to before because she had been at the back of the crowd, and her heart stops for a moment. she recognizes of the unmistakable face of her cousin, who's supposed to be dead. it takes all of her restraint not to throw her arms around him right then and there, hug him and tell him how she's missed him. but she has to be seeing things, she watched his execution, watched his body get cast to the sea. even so, she can't stop herself from whispering. "corven?"

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The sagas scrawled across her face, as she saw. Absolute epics. Corven - Conall, the man who'd survived a murder, like this stranger had - simply smiled. He'd had no particular end in mind, revealing that blade-thin glimpse of his story. It'd just seemed some sort of right. Like sharing your lantern, or - a fire.

He nodded sagely, agreeing with the boy's - mother? - as she spoke of gods and fools. Had they been prepared? Him and her, necks slit to drain like beasts bound for the stewpot or the smoking shed? Corven had thought so, fever-bright eyes fixed on Lenora, watching as he spared her from the family curse. Or simply died, ugly. Hard to say; had either happened? Really? How could he know?

Did she? Did she know, if she'd died? And how she'd come back.

Not that any of those were questions you went and asked. Wrapping his scar away again, Conall tucked the ends of his scarves into the neck of his coat. Cautious, here, with so many maybe-Wolfborn eyes around. (The woman, here, and her boy, they weren't his Clan. He was sure enough to risk his life - already had.) With a rasping chuckle, he plucked one of his precious, hand-rolled cigarettes from one of his many pockets, held it to catch light on the Pyre, and shrugged. That's all. What else could you do, when the Gods rolled those thunderous dice of theirs? "Oh, I'm no seer. Far from. Doesn't seem a terribly ominous omen, at least. Eh?" Then again, she... seemed the type, perhaps, to presume that there was no other sort of omen to be had. "Could you use a better one?" He asked, with that grin. "For your boy, maybe? Because I do just so happen to have a good omen to give. To those that're worthy of it, you know."

Dagny gave little thought to the man who had taken up space beside her. His smile was curious, a fleeting thing, but not one that stirred her in the least—until he began to unravel the scars that wound around his neck. It was her son who noticed first, as her gaze still fixed on the pyre before them. She felt him shift beside her, heard the sharpness of his breath catch in the air. Looking down, she saw his wide brown eyes fixed upon the stranger, his gaze full of something she could not name. When she turned to the man, she understood why.

Something twisted deep in her stomach at the sight of his scar he revealed. It was so like her own—a cruel mark, a testimony of malice from another, someone who had sought to end their lives. And yet, here they were, standing before the gods' fire, still alive, still breathing, united by some invisible thread she could not see, a thread whose purpose had yet to reveal itself.

Her smile was sharp, a thing without warmth, as he tried to lighten the air with a twisted jest. His words failed to soften the lines of her face. But when he spoke to her son, her walls faltered, just for a moment, just enough to let a hint of something soft seep through.-- “Only a fool would come before the gods unprepared.” Her voice was calm, steady, but beneath it there was a thread of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or something else she did not wish to name. She wondered, fleetingly, if he too had once stood at the mercy of the gods, his blood mixing with the earth, as they debated the fate of his soul.

Gently, she urged her son to turn away from the stranger and make his offering. With only a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed, leaving her standing there with the man who carried such a weight of marks. “What cruel games they play to bring us together beneath their flames, at such a moment as this,” she said softly, her voice sharp like the edge of a blade. “Do you think this meeting, our meeting, is some omen?” She had always believed in the strength of iron, the clarity of steel, the sharpness of battle. As an Ironblood, she did not concern herself with such things as fate, or omens. And yet, hadn’t the gods already played their hands with her life, their games and trials shaping her in ways she had never anticipated? The last thing she expected was to face another whose fate had been similarly molded by their will.

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The Thingstead was a grand occasion, sure enough; even in his last life, a much poorer one. But he'd always had something fine to bring for sale, and he'd always left with good money in his pockets, and - something for those wee cousins, hidden safely until they all got home again together. Only, he had no cousins now, and he was, if not a rich man, a richer one. Who'd been put to death by one of the Clans that mingled here. Where he, perhaps, should not be.

And yet, here he was: warming himself by the Great Pyre, which was as Great as ever, burning so brilliantly that every breath felt scorched. But the road had been long, and bitterly cold. The Wolfborn in him growled a thing or two about what that might mean. But he'd never been a seer, and the signs had never been kind to him or his. It was cold because it was winter, and he wouldn't look for any meaning deeper than that. He would look into this fine fire, until the very back of his eyes was warm again.

Or so he'd thought, but - he had a neighbour he'd hardly noticed, two, and the one had been kind enough to say a hoarse sort of hello. Conall nodded, echoing her. Then paused, as the dazzle of the firelight faded from his sight, and squinted. At her neck. Which - a careful sort of smile drew over his sharp cheeks. A private joke; well, not so private, as he loosened the raggedy scarves wound round his own throat, marked so very much like her own. Cut.

(What was that a sign of, then?)

Conall let that scar sting in the cold a moment, hands back out into the thick net of heat the Pyre cast out. Like it was nothing, to show the once-wound. "A good day to be alive, isn't it?" When the both of them should be bled out, someplace. He passed that smile to the boy at her side, still clutching a blade. "Ah. You came prepared. Wise lad, ready for the Pyre. Always want something worth sacrificing close to hand. The Gods do like us grateful." No matter what they gave, in return.

who: open starter (0/4) Location: The great pyre, Thingstead

Raised close to her father’s forge, Dagny thought she was almost kin to the flames that danced from the embers and consumed all it was offered. They were her daily partner, drawing the sweat from her forehead and allowing her to practice her craft. The fire was no stranger, and yet… As she gazed upon the great pyre from a short distance, studying the way the lashes of flames licked the open sky, it almost felt as if Volund himself tended to this fire. The dark plumes of smoke that were carried by the breeze her a different scent to them, leaving a sweet taste with a hint of bitter in her mouth as she inhaled deeply. The weapon maker did not burst out a cough, like many others beside her, but drank it in as if it was part of her life blood. And perhaps it was, after years of carefully tending the forge herself. 

A gentle nudge at her side snapped the Ironblood back into reality. When she turned her gaze she found the brown eyes of her eldest, so similar to his father’s but without any of his malice. Her generally stern expression softened, offering the boy a gentle smile as her calloused hand guided him to step forward. To join the crowd waiting to offer to their gods. “Go on, Sten. The Gods are awaiting your gift” she spoke hoarsely, her voice sounding strained as it always did after her ‘misfortune’. The skin on her throat pulled uncomfortably where a visible scar showed the malice of her attacker’s failed attempt to silence her. He did manage, however, to cause discomfort whenever she opened her mouth to speak. - Her piercing blue eyes never left her kid, shifting from his form to the blade he held in his hand and back, even as she felt a presence halt beside her. With a small nod of greeting, she acknowledged their presence, followed by a hushed spoken "Sæl". She would not miss the moment her boy tossed his father’s blade to the flames. The blade of a warrior a gift to the gods and the melting of his steel a final good riddance.

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CILLIAN MURPHY as THOMAS SHELBY Peaky Blinders (2013-2022) | 2.03

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Tommy Shelby - Peaky Blinders S4E1

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Thomas Shelby - Peaky Blinders - S2E6

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you want to talk coin, or curses?

intro and quick wanted connections under the cut!

NAME: Corven Ceallaigh Conall Cayne GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis man, he SEXUALITY: bisexual AGE: 48 OCCUPATION: Nomadic Trader

FROM: A small, remote village in Wolfborn lands. LIVES IN: Eldermark, preferably; but it's just a favourite stop on his endless route, port to port, town to town. Anywhere where Wolfborn are few...

POSITIVE TRAITS: Practical, perceptive, resourceful, his own particular sort of kind, a little too fearless NEGATIVE TRAITS: A real screwed up sense of humour, argumentative, maybe too fearless, definitely despairing in a slow, spiraling sort of way ANYONE IN ELDERMARK WOULD KNOW:

He's good fun at a party, despite his somewhat foreboding appearance - Eldermark is full of sights, but that scar slashing his throat is still striking.

Drifting in and out of Eldermark, Conall Cayne caught the attention of quite a few wealthy, curious members of the Silvershore Clan. His uncanny ability to tame creatures of all kinds, including the most spirited horses, bloodthirsty hounds, and exotic, menagerie-bound wonders that roar and shriek their way into the Clan's richest port earned him some surprising, valuable connections. After all, money can't buy a merchant those skills - unless Conall's prepared to work for them. He's in demand, and not just as a Beast Tamer; the easily bored oligarchs and socialites of Eldermark caught wind of a Tamer for hire, took in that strange scar and odd charms, and decided they found this roving trader quite amusing. So mysterious! So uncanny! Isn't he fun. He simply must come by to avail himself of their hospitality next time he's passing through...

ANYONE FROM THE WOLFBORN CLAN WITH A GOOD MEMORY WOULD KNOW:

That's not Conall Cayne - that's Corven Ceallaigh, and he should be fucking dead.

The Ceallaighs have been Cursed Ones for as far back as any in the Clan can remember; all of them die young, and terribly, even by the grim standards of Myrkvjord. The tales tell of something going terribly wrong during the Wolf Hunt, an act of unforgiveable pride that doomed all who followed that ancient ancestor...

... and not too long ago, Corven committed a Clan crime of his own. Worse still, he didn't die from it. The village's seer determined that he had to be sacrificed to spare the community dreadful, divine retribution for permitting such an abomination to live among them - to live at all, when death had so clearly reached out to take him, as fate and the family curse decreed. His throat was slashed and he was thrown from the cliffs, into the sea. And that was the last any of them were supposed to see of that awful omen...

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