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Inside the cave it is always twilight. It is always the hour when the Valkyries look their best, and when torches and fires do the most fetching things to alabaster skin. To any skin, really. Blues and reds play wonderfully on all shades of skin, and this place produces both in roughly equal measure.
It's humid, but the way the air is humid next to waterfalls rather than in summertime. A rich, metallic, earthy scent to the air borne of water wearing down rock, and rock enriching water, and the air tasting and smelling of all of it. In here. For centuries. It's a scent out of time, in a cave out of time, full of foliage very much out of time. And place. The usual thorns aren't to be found, but plenty of mosses, glowing mushrooms and flowers, and irridescent leaves line the stoney paths that leave to the little village that surrounds the hall.
It all looks transported right from the Viking age, and it is alive with activity. It doesn't bustle, there's not enough habitation to bustle. But smoke rises from chimneys here and there, and figures move along the fire horn lit streets.
As Sigrun leads the way from the entry chamber to the cave, the light falling from the hole in the roof of the cavern seems to seek her out and find her. It isn't quite a heralding, but it's close. Here, it seems, the Fairest gets to be a Fairest. In all the selfish ways she doesn't get to be anywhere else.
Look at her. Look at her. Look at her. That light just invites the observer to keep finding things about her the eye might otherwise miss.
Mostly all the scars, standing silver on her bare skin. Like rather badass tattoos. It is, as they say, a look.
She doesn't comment on any of it, she just keeps walking and sliding eyes Teagan's way as they get nearer and the round houses begin to stand out.
If there is one thing Teagan will never tire of, it's looking at her. Their skin slides and shifts under the lights in a way it never quite has before, though perhaps that is more due to the cave itself than any inherent property of the Mirrorskin. The light that comes from her, from the walls, from the ceilings, scatters across the black liquid metal of their skin, picking up all sorts of little glittery bits and slipping away from it again.
Their eyes reflect back bits of her, scattered and broken, and occasionally they look out at the village as they pass through it. A small smile -- subtle, not muted, and Sigrun has made enough study of Teagan's face in the past ... four? five? years to know the difference -- persists there. One hand rests its scarred palm on the small of her back -- it's equal parts an indicator of presence and a proprietary gesture. This woman to whom this place reports? This woman is mine. It's more pride than patriarchy, that. They do like keeping their hands, after all.
"What tasks have you checked off of your list, and which tasks remain?" they ask, since, reality: Sigrun is never done.
Sigrun is wearing her house dress, but she keeps her sword and axe belted at her hip and her boot in her dagger. There's safe, and then there's safe when it comes to the Hedge. And with her guests around, it always does to keep herself armed.
She assents to the hand at her back. Happy for it, genuinely. "The Rivermen and Kraklin are starting to make themselves at home, so I suppose the first order of business is making certain they know they can make some changes around here to suit their needs. Though this is more something the Kraklin need to internalize. The Rivermen were told 'have fun in the water' and seem to have taken that bit to heart." She nods over to the waterfall and pool where the Rivermen are busy working on flooding the lower meadow.
"I need to get the armors completed, move the armory in. Then we can get the industries here up and running. The fruit farm. Maybe do some canning. If people take to it, we'll get the militia going. If people don't, I'll scratch it off the list of ideas I've floated and move on to something else. Probably improving the ramparts and hardening our defenses from hedge intrusions." Because yes. It's always something with her.
Once they're near the village proper, it's easy to pick out a few Kraklin milling about on the streets, particularly outside one of the round houses near the water. Which makes sense, given their diet. Many of the buildings are dormant, waiting use. She is, of course, aiming for the helix ramp slash stairs up to rubble pile to the hall.
And Teagan is... well. Teagan. Charcoal-grey trenchcoat, battered jeans, boots, a t-shirt which reads QUEER AS IN FUCK YOU across the front in a hot pink brush font, and Baby underneath their trench coat, ready and waiting. Their long fingers splay at the small of her back, and they nod along as she talks. "As long as the Kraklin don't try to get me to give up my weapons," they murmur wryly. But as Sigrun talks, their gaze follows the things she gestures at, turning back always to her. Watching how animated her face gets, the way the light catches on her alabaster skin.
Teagan's not a man, but they're enough of a guy to be a Certified Wife Guy, that is for certain. "I think they will. I bet Artie would be thrilled if you asked him to help you keep tabs on who has what and do repairs. That is, if you haven't already." They follow along with her, and up the ramp they go. "Do they use nets, or just like... grab stuff?" This, for the Kraklin. Teagan hasn't spent nearly as much time with them as Sig has, after all.
"Nets. Spears. Even knives, sometimes. They're a bit like mandalorians. They're not actually crab people. They just look that way because they wear the chitin of their hunts as armor. If you choose to believe they're all zoidbergs under there, though, I won't blame you." Sigrun thereby admitting her rubbing elbows with the Kraklin has not reached the level of seeing one another naked. A comforting fact for all involved, no doubt.
As they pass by the hut occupied by the Kraklin, she nods her head respectfully to the guards on duty who go right on ignoring her as they're won't to do. She pays it no mind, seems to view it as 'their way' and finds no offense there.
The hall becomes very evidently large. Two stories. Long. They'll remember it from before, but it still cuts quite the impression as it looms into view. The knotwork sabotabby is a nice touch.
As they enter the hall, the heat off the hearth drives back the chill of the chamber without. It's like standing in the mantle of the Summer who owns the hall, quite intentionally. The heat is not oppressive, it's dry and almost hospitable. It invites one to strip down to shirt sleeves and take deep gulps of cold drink.
It is, let the record show, a very Sigrun hall. "And here we are."
"It's the Hedge," Teagan points out. Like... it would make perfect sense if they WERE all crab people underneath their armor! Why wouldn't they be? Beaver people, crab people. "I... do not know what a zoidberg is. But I assume that is funny." Look, there are only so many hours in the day, and Teagan hasn't picked up all of the cultural touchpoints that modern humans tend to share. Their hand absently pets down her spine once, coming to rest at the small of her back once more.
Teagan just sort of watches the Kraklin with no expression, and they watch him the same way, and it's ... you know. Just how it is. It's not that Teagan is still grumpy about missing out on the duel, but -- no, it's that. Actually, it's totally that.
Butch can hold a grudge when he puts his mind to it.
They laugh a little when they spot the sabotabby. "Nice," Teagan voices, a white-toothed grin slicing across their liquid-dark face as they follow her inside.
The Mirrorskin stops. Props both hands on their hips. Their expression goes a little distant as they just sort of take it all in, rocking from heel to toe and back again, head turning from side to side.
"Good," they finally pronounce, a single syllable laden with approval and meaning. Another nod, and then they turn back toward her, laying a hand at the small of her back. They kiss just behind her ear, whispering, "It feels almost exactly like you," in a tone which invites a smack on the arm and with a smile to match that tone shade for shade.
"Not much of a compliment to your foreplay, then," she sasses back, nudging him with her elbow in the process. For it is, indeed, like Ben Shapiro in Tempe: A dry heat. To counter her words, she trundles off to one of the kegs that line the walls, grabs a horn, and fills it. It comes out cold and amber with not a bit of head. Mead. She waggles her brows and takes a swig before giving a spin and bounding over to the hearth to see what it's offering up for food.
She comes away with a game hen on a skewer and wields it like a club. A club she takes a bite from. And then she steps up the dais, claims a seat in her big antler chair, and makes a gesture of invitation to get comfortable with mead and meat going wide in either direction. "It would be nice to get the whole gang in here. Silly with drink, faces greasy from a meal. The walls are actually made to magnify laughter. And song. But mute conversation. It's all..." She gestures vaguely. "It's all. Me, in a sense."
"I said almost, didn't I?" Teagan follows on, as if they baited the trap and Sigrun sassed her way right into it. "If it were too close to exactly like you, no one would want to hang out in Sighall: the Rainforest Arboretum." When she trundles off toward the kegs, they punctuate the teasing with a sound smack on her alabaster ass. It makes a fantastic resonant sound, swatting that soft stone skin.
They take their time wandering after, as much watching her enjoy the place as enjoying the place themselves. Mirrors gonna mirror, and enjoying her enjoyment is its own wild and delightful enjoyment. They gather up food and mead -- their own chicken, a horn of mead, and a plate to put it on when they want to occupy their hands elsewise.
They know what they're about.
"Mmm," they agree. "You should throw a shindig. Or whatever the proper Old Norse word is for 'getting a whole pile of people in one place.'" The rest of it all catches up to them then, and they ask: "Why mute conversation? Don't you do like... poetry competitions and stuff?"
"Oratory isn't conversation," Sigrun points out as she hikes up her dress and dangles her knee over the arm of her chair like a proper bisexual. It's a big throne. There's room for more than her on it, quite on purpose. She could have done the whole side by side thing, but Teagan is Teagan.
She takes a swig to punctuate her words, then gestures with her hen. "And it's because I know what it's like to be in a room full of happy people with a deep and profound urge to confide in another. This is a room for community. Not being nosy." She gestures with her horn, "So you can hear me fine right here, but unless I reall project, nobody's going to hear you over the din. It's pretty clever."
"Hmm. I guess," answers Teagan, with absolutely no real appreciation for the skald's art. Just... none! What are they teaching in -- I'm sorry, I've just been informed that Teagan did not go to school. Never mind. They sling themself into the throne next to her, becoming the thing for her to lean on so she can comfortably sling herself across the chair. See? It all works out. Teagan is Teagan.
"Oh, I see. So it's not meant to make conversation difficult, just ... to make it more private." They think about this, tipping their head back, and find a place to balance the plate so they can set their game hen down after taking a greasy bite of it. "I like it. You'd have to be really slick to overhear someone."
Teagan, that isn't what she meant.
"A room unwelcoming to wallflowers isn't welcoming to everyone. So." That's Sigrun's final say on the matter. She wasn't always the center of focus in most rooms by dint of kith, after all. And her hall reflects that much. With Teagan squirmed into place, she leans against him and renews her bisexual sprawl with absolutely no aplomb whatsoever. She is unabashedly taking up space and enjoying it, clearly.
The 'real slick' comment wins him some side-eye, "Yeah, I really had challenging Winter's spies in mind when I set this place up." Her head shakes and she snicker-snorts once before resuming the messy consumption of her game hen. Nom. Chomp chew chew. Once she's swallowed, she uses the pause as something of a natural segue.
"I do feel better, though. Having this place for us. For you, too. And for me. Hopefully you can make yourself at home here? If you want to make suggestions for changes, I'm all pointy ears."
"Mm," agrees Teagan, absently wiping their mouth with the back of their hand before kissing a part between two of her braids. One arm wraps lazily around her shoulders, the other drapes along the chair's arm, and they slouch just enough to complete the aesthetic.
"You wound me, wife," they sigh, ever-so-dramatic. "Who said anything about Winter's spies?" An exaggerated sniffle follows, as if he's about to burst into tears or go off on a woe-is-me monologue. It doesn't last, though. They shrug contentedly at the end. "I think I can," they agree. "But like... "
"Where you're happy, I'll be happy. And this is... " beat. "This will make you really happy. And the rest of us, too, I think."
"It will make me happy if everyone else is happy here. And if they're not, it will make me feel terrible. So I am trying to be practical about it and be proactive and let everyone know i can make tweaks. I was trying to bridge the gap between accurate and functional, you know?" When you're manifesting your well and you're a perfectionist, one can get rather bogged down in the minutae. The place is ... quite detailed.
She casts her focus over it, then sets her game hen skewer aside. The carcass she just slings off and to the side. That's a problem for the hollow to figure out. She wipes her hand on her apron, then nestles in a little more comfortably with her horn held in both hands. "I thought we might do the ceremony here. Once the Rivermen are settled. I'd like Nibs and Chips to be involved if we can?"
They slot their horn into the spot for it on the side of the chair, the notch carved to hold horns upright, and curls their arm closer around her shoulder. Teagan tugs her in such that she's obliged to look up at them at least a little bit. "Mmm. As long as you don't spin yourself into the ground trying to make it perfect for everybody, Significant." They kiss her between her eyebrows and loosen that arm around her shoulders -- yes, my beloved perfectionist, you are seen.
"I think it's wonderful. And it'll change over time as needs change, and as people tell you their tweaks. I like this." They pat the arm of the throne. Of course they would. It's big enough for them to insinuate themself into it. "Yeah. I think so. On all counts. I think they'd be very sad if they weren't involved."
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