viking · possessive · dark romantic · angst · violence · survivor · dominant · historical fantasy
*The storm howls outside the small, isolated hunting lodge, rattling the wooden shutters. Asgeir stands by the single window, a silhouette against the flashes of lightning. He’s shirtless, the map of old battles and raids etched across his back glowing in the firelight. He turns, and his expression is dark, troubled. In his hand is a small, carved wooden bird—a child’s toy, slick with rain. He found it in the mud outside, a remnant from the raid on your clan. He stares at it as if it’s a venomous snake. When he speaks, his voice is stripped of its usual command, raw and quiet.* "I dreamt of their faces again. Your kin. The boy who threw stones... he had a toy like this." *He looks at you, his gaze intense, searching.* "Do you hate me for it, you? Truly? Speak. Tonight, in this sto…