libertasutile

[libertasutile]

Dress falling to her ankles, Ethna barely needed much prompting to step out from it. Brown curls now cascading down her bare shoulders and dipping across her back, she gave a light shiver, partly with the cool air found in the dim house, but partly with anticipation for Finan’s hands on her body. It was difficult to keep composure as he lifted her, pressing herself against his breeches with a gentle sway, whilst lips parted to envelop his intoxicatingly sweet tongue into her mouth.

The table even colder against her skin than the fresh air, she shivered again, and yet it was welcomed against her warm flesh. Lips aching for Finan’s momentarily as he detached himself from her, before reattaching them to her neck, she gave a sharp inhale, breath shaking in her chest. The burn in her stomach only grew, an intense desire to have more of him, to please him as he was pleasing her, almost overwhelming.

Hand snaked to the back of his head, fingertips pressed against his hair and nape of his neck, she gave a soft, contented sigh with the suckling of her breasts. Gentle and divine, but dreadfully teasing, with the achingly slow movements of his hand and tongue.

Hands slip from the back of the Irishman’s head to his shoulders, one gripping him lightly, whilst the other hand teasingly fell further, hovering above the top of his trousers, almost tickling and toying with a gentle, but firm press against his crotch.

“That is surely blasphemy, Lord,” Ethna whispered, eyes wide and pleading, her cheeks still aglow.

“I beg of you, corrupt me. Taint me.” Moving her head to press a kiss to his shoulder, she paused, eyes lifted upwards, gaze on his with her lips a mere inch away from his skin.

“Corrupt me, sweet Finan. Take me.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Heart bounding from her chest, seemingly possible to fall into the Irishman’s hands, Ethna’s cheeks burnt with a pink glow, almost illuminating the emptied river house. With the embrace, she trailed a hand from his cheek to the nape of his neck, settling her fingertips there momentarily, a gentle encouragement of sorts, to deepen the soft kiss. Skin warm with desire, she fought every urge to hasten Finan’s unlacing, an eagerness to have his hands against her chest almost overwhelming every sense. Teasing bastard.

“Any beauty I possess, I will you to find it,” she whispered, light eyes fixed on his dark ones, whilst traipsing a hand to rest against his chest. “I ache for your touch.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

“You and I both.” Ethna smiled softly, amusement evident, but still a genuine softness and appreciation for the words — whether they were true or not.

The river was a sanctuary few seemed to appreciate. Yes, it was a place of work for her, but a place of peace. Still within city walls, within some reason, it was pretty. Water aplenty, trees and shrubbery, there was much to admire about it. Relatively safe, too. Heaven on earth, if one wanted to blaspheme so bravely.

In the doorway of the river house, Finan’s words bring a shiver to her spine even the river’s cold water can’t afford.

“If it pleases you, Lord, it pleases me.” She whispered, a hand trailing to his cheek momentarily, thumb against his skin with some tenderness, before pressing soft lips against his once more.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

To return to minimal touches, even if only for the few moments it would take to reach the river, was going to be a difficult task. She half wanted to drag Finan away quickly, half wanting to sprint just so she could touch him again, Ethna instead took a restrained breath, looping her arm in his. An amused smile toyed with her lips as he offered her his arm. It seemed a step backwards after the tender kiss, but of course, it was for appearances. It would be wholly improper to run wildly to the destination simply so she could press her lips to his again, no matter how tempting.

“It suits you, Lord, being a gentleman.” She murmured, biting back a grin as she began leading the way across the courtyard, towards the steps down to the riverbanks. The unmistakable sound of water could be heard with the descent down the steps, the house she hated described moments ago swiftly rising into view.

“I can hardly suppress the want to press my lips to your sweet skin. I would commit such an act in the courtyard, if it would not see you fall into dishonour.” She whispered, eyes aglow with excitement and satisfaction.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Rationality, if she’d had any, would’ve told her to stop it. Take a step back, think of God. She shouldn’t be doing this, fraternising with someone from the place she’d ran from, cursing all its people as devils. And yet, Finan wasn’t really from Winchester … so he didn’t count as one of the devils, did he? It freed him from that — it made this okay. Christ, as if she’d stop herself even if he was one of them. How could she now?

Breath stuck in her throat as the other’s lips pressed themselves to her neck, she pressed fingertips to his cheek, with a gentle caress of his soft skin given. Her lips ached for his, and it took every ounce of willpower in her not to attach them to his skin. If someone saw her, they’d label her a whore. Perhaps even the threat of that was worth it, she pondered, his tone evoking more desire within her, if it were possible to increase it any more.

Where? A good question.

“The river house,” she whispered, hand still pressed to his cheek. A small, stone hut by the banks of the Wear, uninhabited, but a perfect setting for the task of washing cloth and linen when it rained and was bitingly cool — and a far more suiting place for the pair of them to bask in stolen touches.

“I can show you the way.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

“It’s your boots that give you away, nobleman. Terribly dusty. But I’ll keep your secret.” She smirked, the teasing of him as natural as the sun in the sky.

With the Irishman’s hands returned to her waist, she swallowed sharply in an attempt to suppress her own desire for him. There was very little of Ethna that was ladylike, but even still, she refrained from ungracious movements that could belittle her name even further. Without much thought, she rests one of her hands on top of Finan’s left one against her waist, lacing fingers within his. Craving more of his touch, she was in no position to deny herself of his gentle grasp. His scent was just as sweet as his taste. She wanted to bathe in it.

“Please, Lord, I wish for more.” Ethna exhaled, voice dropping to an uncharacteristic gentle quiver, with the burning touch by her ear. “To deny myself of you, how could I? You are as sweet and intoxicating as summer flowers. Seeing you in my dreams could hardly suffice. I should be quite bereft if you were to leave me now.” Ethna spoke softly, fingers settled against his hand.

Leaning forwards, she pressed her head to his cheek for a moment to whisper into his ear, lips barely above the skin.

“If you take your leave, I would have to seek out another. The desire you have unleashed within me, I have such thoughts — if they come to fruition, I should like them to be only of you and your sweetness, no other. How is another possibly to compare to you, Lord? It is you I desire.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

In an instant, Ethna could take Finan’s hand in her own, and pull him down to the river to kiss him again without the prying eyes of passersby. Would it constitute as Sin? She found herself pondering even if it did, it would be worth it.

Kiss on the top of her hand, she felt her cheeks pinken again, and with a soft smile given to Finan, she remained uncaring. She almost willed her cheeks to glow — he ought to know how he had made her feel, even if for a moment.

“You hardly require the services of a washerwoman, Lord. You dress finely, with such a handsomely carved face. And yet I will pray you make use of me,” she murmured, eyes finding his again, bright with anticipation and sincerity.

“I rather like hearing you speaking my name with your sweet tongue, Finan.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Eyes painfully drawn away from Finan’s, instead faced with a darkness of her closed lids as she rested against his chest, Ethna gently pressed her lips to the Irishman’s. Breath stuck in her throat, though entirely uncaring if she died in this very moment, she returned the gentleness of the kiss, enthralled by the deepening even if only brief.

She had not quite expected him to taste so sweet, nor have lips so soft. Like honey. Even without his arm, she remained standing just as close to him, one hand reaching for his right one, pressing the coin back into his palm.

“You have paid me more than any coin could.” She whispered, tilting her head upwards again, eyes darting to his lips momentarily. Complete desire burning within her stomach, the sweet taste of his lips lingering on hers, she leant forwards once more, pressing a kiss to his lips, pulling away after a second, yet with her lips hovering above his.

“Your change.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

His dark eyes looked softer than they had even a moment earlier, seeming to twinkle in a way Ethna suspected even Finan wasn’t aware of. Truly a sight to behold, amongst other things she had not quite uttered. His fingers around her wrist, though gentle, burnt her skin pleasantly. She should draw back — yet she took a slight step closer, eradicating the final space between them. The coin cold in her hand, a sharp contrast to the burn in her wrist, the brunette’s blue eyes widened, fixed on the soft darkness of Finan’s eyes.

“I believe it to be so. Perhaps you have given me too much.” She breathed out, her gaze dancing between his eyes and lips, tipping her head towards him. “Perhaps it pays for two.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

The Irishman’s increased closeness brought a gentle warmth of excitement to Ethna’s stomach. A sort of excitement and amusement that went beyond the teasing and politeness of their conversation. Any closer, they’d likely be touching.

“You cannot know if my services are truly worth the pay, Lord. You place much confidence in my skills without knowing much. You mark yourself out. Impossible to ignore.” Ethna spoke softly, drinking in the silence that followed, blue eyes studying his familiar, yet also desperately unfamiliar, features.

“I like you, Lord.” She responded with a smile and a blush of pink in her cheeks, teeth resting against her bottom lip.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Biting back an amused grin with the seeming panic evident in the Irishman’s body language, Ethna instead smiles politely, as she would with any potential customer. But of course, there is far more to this, whatever this is, than normal. Whoever he is — one of Uhtred’s men, a nobleman; Finan … there is something about him that the woman wishes to pry out, as if she could open him up, peel back each layer to find what she was looking for.

“Any price? You are fool, Finan. What if I rob you blind of all your silver? Perhaps that is why I am so far North. I have stolen the silver of many, and now I run. You would still believe you need my services, even then?” She murmured, eyes not once leaving his own.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Unsavoury — he looked far from unsavoury. Quite the opposite. She imagined Finan to be a clear standout in a sea of unsightly men, though of course, she was hardly going to admit such a thing. Biting back an amused laugh, pleased her jesting has struck a nerve in the Irishman, the brunette followed his eyes down to his boots, observing the dustiness of them. Hardly the reason for her teasing, though now she’d spotted them …

Bashfulness not going unnoticed, the woman gave her own smirk. Evidently pleased with Finan’s responses, she straightened her posture, a small step taken towards him once more.

“I will have to take your word for it, Lord. What skills of mine are you after?” she murmured, lips creasing into a smirk. “You really should not have told me you were a nobleman, how do you know I won’t charge you higher prices for my skills, hm?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Gaze lingering on Finan’s, Ethna gave another small smile, cheeks mildly aglow with the words. A familiar face, and yet, a complete stranger — but still, an important and kind offer. Perhaps he wasn’t genuine. She was a terrible judge of character. She had believed every word uttered by Æthelwold, for a start. And yet Finan, he seemed honest, sincere with his words. His presence almost encouraged a complete and total collapse of honesty within her. She’d lied for too long, to far too many people. And Finan, he followed the same man her brother had followed, and Halig was a good man. Did that make Finan a good man too?

“You are a nobleman?” She smirked, some teasing laced within the question. “You seem more of a farmhand turned mercenary. What might I need a nobleman for?” A jest, demonstrated with a playful raise of a brow.

“But I thank you for it, Lord. If you ever have need for a washerwoman, I am truthfully never hard to find. I am always by the river.”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Uhtred. Of course. Every man and his dog seemed to be tied to that man, for what good it did. Halig had been blinded by an undying loyalty, seemingly to him, for reasons she could never understand. But to reveal that in conversation with Finan, only moments after learning his name; moments after denying he could possibly have recognised her; moments after lying — she wasn’t bringing up her dead brother.

Unmoving, Ethna tilted her head again, eyes burning into Finan’s with more curiosity.

“Treason bringing one to Dunholm, that, I am familiar with.” She murmured, no elaboration offered.

Now she took a step towards the Irishman, her brows raised momentarily.

“I hardly need anyone to speak for me.” She trawled, another momentary raise of her brows. “Desperate needs have brought me to a place crawling with devil Danes. I pray for what protection God can afford me. It has gotten me this far. Keep a low head, I go unnoticed.”

Not entirely truthful — but her journey to Dunholm was in the past. Protection, or lack of, was a thing lost to history.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

The eyebrow wag brought a small smile of amusement to her lips, despite not wanting to show any sign of amusement with the rather odd conversation.

“Who is your Lord? He has brought you here, perhaps?” Ethna pondered, her mind briefly wandering back to her brother, Halig. Long gone now, but perhaps an unknowing connection between faces of the past.

“Ragnar is a friend.” She repeated slowly, an air of uncertainty with it, her eyes narrowed for a moment. Perhaps it might be so. She’d seen little of the man, other than a flash of remarkably blond hair.

“I hardly believe that is the mere reason you were brought to Dunholm. I won’t pry it out of you, but there is far more to you than you let on. You are very far from home. Friendship, if that truly what you believe, rarely brings masses so far from home, into fields of danger.”

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

There seemed to be very little point in lying, at least to this Irishman. Lying came quite easy, when it was directed at people who knew nothing of her. A tad more difficult in this instance, even if all the other knew was her face. A face was enough, seemingly.

“I have stayed in Winchester, but I am certainly not of it. I am Ethna, of Loidis. And you, you are hardly of Winchester, Finan. Not with a tongue sounding like that.” Ethna mused, slight raise of her brows following, merely offered with curiosity rather than anything else. What animosity she had held a mere moment ago seemed to disappear with each passing second — Finan hardly seemed a threat.

Regardless, she opted not to answer his question just yet, blue eyes peering at his dark. How did he know her face? How did she know his?

“It seems we are both far from Winchester and its confines. Why are you so far North, ey?”

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid

[libertasutile]

Finan strides through Dunholm’s courtyard, having been keeping himself occupied since the strife of the last few weeks. On his way to the smith, he catches a glimpse of a woman, and when they meet eyes he recognizes her in some distant way.

Winchester? The Alehouse? … somewhere more brazen like the whorehouse?

He stops in his tracks, taking another gaze at her. He’s sure they haven’t met, but something about her is so familiar. It’s also rather strange to see a Saxon woman striding so naturally through Dunholm’s courtyard.

“Lady,” Finan nods in greeting to her as he closes the distance between them.

“… have we met before?”

@thedarkprinceofulaid

Dunholm was certainly not a place she’d ever thought she’d return to, not after her time in Winchester — such a time was albeit short, but it had changed her life in a multitude of ways. Abandonment, godforsaken Æthelwold, treachery and penance. It had become almost hellish to be there. An escapade north had led to Loidis, yet that was certainly no longer home. Journeying further north to Dunholm, with some refuge taken among seas of faces that were as unfamiliar to her as she was to them.

And yet, still, the haunts of Winchester followed her still. No further north could possibly run away from the devils that seemed to belong to Wessex. Here they were. Well, one of them.

Irish, not of Winchester, alas, still involved with such things and memories she had long since wanted to run from. A name she couldn’t place, but a face that seemed to chill, even if she wasn’t entirely sure how she knew him — she was still certain he was a ghost of the South.

“I hardly think so, Lord. You must surely have me confused with another face.” Ethna lied, voice wavering ever so slightly, with a squint in the sunlight seeming to give away some of the truth.

@thedarkprinceofulaid