Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER viii. 'World of Politics'

ﾟ❁ུ۪ °ₒ 𓂂 ˚ 𓂂 ₒ ° ₒ 𓂂 ˚˖⋆

CHAPTER viii. 'World of Politics'

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             Freydis awoke on a stiff pile of furs with a throbbing headache undermining her temples and sunlight shining irritadingly into her eyes. The woman lethargically sat up, rolling her shoulders back to loosen the knots burgeoning her shoulders. When she found herself better awoken, she peered open a squinting eye to observe the room around her; both Sihtric and Osferth liad ahead of her, the Dane sprawled out on a table whilst his monk counterpart was curled up on the floor. Freydis heard a light snore closer to herself and peered beside the bed she slept on throughout the night to find Finan asleep on the floor using a cloak as a pillow. Furthermore, on the table was a cup of water the Celtic rogue merrily chugged to satisfy her dry mouth and ale-stained taste buds.

Feeling her stomach rumble Freydis decided to get breakfast for herself and the boys. They would surely wake up to an ache in their minds similar to her own, and if Freydis hadn't woken up first she would particularly appreciate a nice warm meal to wake up to. The woman slowly stepped out of bed, placing her bare feet on the open floor around Finans sprawled limbs. She tip-toed to the door, stepping over Osferth in the process, and sat on the floor to tie on her boots. Only a fool would walk barefoot in a public inn; Freydis was sure she had witnessed multiple inconspicuous whores strutting around the wood looking for men to satisfy and silver pouches to purge. Once the woman's boots were efficiently tied, she grabbed her fur-cloak from the stool beside the door and softly opened the door to avoid panic in the slumbering warriors within the room.

When the door was patently closed, Freydis let out a deep sigh as she could now freely stumble and yawn like how her oh-so sleepy mind desired. She stumbled past a man unconscious on the floor, cringing when she accidentally stumbled upon his unmoving digits. Nevertheless, he remained unconscious and Freydis was free of the confrontation that would arise if he had awoken. The alehouse below was scarce of patrons, there only being one morning-time drinker, two soldiers fetching a meal, and a single stewardess at the counter. She approached the woman, swiftly glancing at the forearm-length scar dressing the woman's otherwise unmarked ivory skin, "Good morning," Freydis greeted, pulling a pouch from the pocket of her cloak. It withheld several silver coins Finan had gifted to her; she initially disagreed to take it but nevertheless stopped denying himwhen the Irishman proved insufferably stubborn. "What's for breakfast?"

The stewardess looked at the woman, seemingly unimpressed by Freydis' unintentional show of wealth, "Porridge."

Freydis piqued a brow, "Just porridge?"

"Just porridge," confirmed the woman, "and water."

"Lovely," mused the Celtic rogue, "then I will take the latter four times over. As well as a single pitcher of ale."