Ambrosine made the climb/hike to Tove’s little corner of the guild hall and…stopped.
Until now, it had been just that: a corner. A bookshelf, a fire, a pillow, a desk. A place to be comfortable away from home and nothing more.
Now she pursed her lips and had a troubling thought: Tove had moved in. Both wolves were snuggled up on a rumpled bedroll, in addition to the two wyverns perched higher up the cliffs. All of her weapons were propped against the stone: sword and dagger, long and short bow, staff. A duffel bag as well as a backpack, stuffed to the brim. Scolls and books overflowed the bookcase and cascaded across the desk.
Yes…it would appear as if Tove had abandoned her homestead with Thorvald. There was only ever one reason to pack up and leave one’s mate, and that was…well. If was one leaving one’s mate.
Ambrosine cleared her throat and approached the fire. Tove was perched on the pillow, arms draped across her knees, staring into the flames. “Ho, Tove.”
The ranger just glanced up.
Any question about how Cap was faring died then. “Do you need to go get drunk?” Not want. Need.
“Yes,” Tove answered thickly, and pushed to her feet. “But not here.”
“No, not here. Come to my place. There are some human spirits that are far better suited to the kind of drinking we’ll be doing tonight than any ale you Norn could brew.”
Tove was not the type to get silently drunk. There was talking, And singing. The entire story spun itself out across the evening–such as it was. A man and his forge, a woman and her wolves, and how there came a time where she stood alone in Elona and realized this was not what she wanted. But no daughter of Wolf leaves a pack easily, and so by the end of the night there was also sobbing.
Ambrosine was mostly an audience, but that’s all the skaald needed, really. A presence. To not be alone.
To be tucked into a guest bed and left alone until well past noon the next day.