Hogun Doesn't Say Much, But He Sees Everything, Including Beauty
Fandom: Thor (Marvel)
Characters: Fandrall, Hogun, Volstagg
Pairings: Fandrall/Everyone, Volstagg/his wife
Setting: Unidentified alhehouse
A serving maid is but a wench to Fandrall. To Volstagg she is the bringer of good things (such as roast meat and mead) and of bad things (such as his bar tab). And to Hogun?
The fur-hatted warrior is a brooding presence beside his lighter-haired, lighter-tempered comrades. He glares down into his mug like he's waiting for the ale to make a break for it, and he talks to no one, unless you count the grunted additions he makes to his companions' stories. “Oh, seven trolls at least,” Fandrall says. “Ten!” Volstagg chimes in. And, “fourteen,” says Hogun, “at least.” Then he looks back down into his ale.
Fandrall nods toward the wench who brings them their orders. “Yon barmaid has some fine hips on her,” he says. “And her rippling hair pleases me.”
“She is well-muscled.” Volstagg nods approval, as she lifts their heavy tray, easily, one-handed.”
Hogun snorts. “She's well enough.” He goes back to ignoring them.
Strong limbs and golden hair do not interest him. No more the generous nature and light hand with the pastry which were how Volstagg's wife snared her husband. Not even the warrior's spirit of young Sif, the girl who holds young Prince Thor's affection, suits this gruff warrior. His dreams are of another kind, of a quiet girl, who's wisdom lies in the making of a happy home, and is the stronger for not being spoken. He sometimes thinks about finding such a one, and of the happiness they might share together.
And in the meantime. “My lords flatter me.” The serving-wench, hearing their words, flushes a rose-pink that some might find attractive. “And what of your quiet friend?” She jerks her head Hogun's way. “Does he have something to say also?”
“Oh, you've no hope with Hogun.” Fandrall laughs. “He wouldn't know a beautiful woman if he tripped over one in the dark.”
Volstagg joins in with a booming laugh of his own. “No,” he says, “nor a well-roasted joint of meat either.” He hoists his mug and takes a gulp of ale.
Characters: Fandrall, Hogun, Volstagg
Pairings: Fandrall/Everyone, Volstagg/his wife
Setting: Unidentified alhehouse
A serving maid is but a wench to Fandrall. To Volstagg she is the bringer of good things (such as roast meat and mead) and of bad things (such as his bar tab). And to Hogun?
The fur-hatted warrior is a brooding presence beside his lighter-haired, lighter-tempered comrades. He glares down into his mug like he's waiting for the ale to make a break for it, and he talks to no one, unless you count the grunted additions he makes to his companions' stories. “Oh, seven trolls at least,” Fandrall says. “Ten!” Volstagg chimes in. And, “fourteen,” says Hogun, “at least.” Then he looks back down into his ale.
Fandrall nods toward the wench who brings them their orders. “Yon barmaid has some fine hips on her,” he says. “And her rippling hair pleases me.”
“She is well-muscled.” Volstagg nods approval, as she lifts their heavy tray, easily, one-handed.”
Hogun snorts. “She's well enough.” He goes back to ignoring them.
Strong limbs and golden hair do not interest him. No more the generous nature and light hand with the pastry which were how Volstagg's wife snared her husband. Not even the warrior's spirit of young Sif, the girl who holds young Prince Thor's affection, suits this gruff warrior. His dreams are of another kind, of a quiet girl, who's wisdom lies in the making of a happy home, and is the stronger for not being spoken. He sometimes thinks about finding such a one, and of the happiness they might share together.
And in the meantime. “My lords flatter me.” The serving-wench, hearing their words, flushes a rose-pink that some might find attractive. “And what of your quiet friend?” She jerks her head Hogun's way. “Does he have something to say also?”
“Oh, you've no hope with Hogun.” Fandrall laughs. “He wouldn't know a beautiful woman if he tripped over one in the dark.”
Volstagg joins in with a booming laugh of his own. “No,” he says, “nor a well-roasted joint of meat either.” He hoists his mug and takes a gulp of ale.