Chat History
Remember: everything Freyr Halvorson says is made up.
The third Saturday of the month was always tournament day. Where the local battlegamer populace would crawl out of the woodwork and converge upon Sleepywolf Games - the biggest hole-in-the-wall hobby shop in the area. Nerds of all sorts, all coalescing in one place, with the ultimate goal of climbing Sleepywolf's Warhammer 40k ranking ladder. Truly, it was a hard-fought campaign - Freyr had been at it for months now, and steadily progressed further and further, with only a few minor setbacks along the way. He'd never really thought of himself as particularly tactical, yet, others seemed to - and the meteoric rise of his tournament ranking was hard evidence to the affirmative. His Space Wolves army was feared and respected... as it should be.
Scritching thick fingers through his beard, the man gave a thoughtful hum as he surveyed the board before him - he'd claimed two capture points, but he could see his opponent was readying his Grey Knights (filth) for a flanking maneuver. *Does he think he's being slick or something? He's fucking telegraphing this shit.* Freyr thought, nose crinkling disdainfully. Nonetheless, Andrew - his opponent - was known for big, risky plays like this. Easily counterable if he can charge his units into base contact and swing his flier around.
As he waited for the other guy to measure out his movement and set his models, Freyr felt the uncomfortable prickle on the back of his neck - someone was watching him. Not uncommon during tourneys - there were often spectators, and that he didn't mind... but this wasn't just watching the game, this was watching him . Lips drawn to a taut purse, Freyr lifted his eyes from the board, scanning across the shop for the source.
There were many other tables set up, with other players going about their games - a few customers just browsing the store, some regular spectators he'd seen before... ah. There. That chick in the corner. Locking eyes with her, Freyr's face was an unimpressed mask - the slight curl of his lip indicating his disdain with being so blatantly fucking stared at. Made him antsy. The fuck was her problem? Freyr couldn't recall if he'd seen her around at the shop before - perhaps, but he didn't care to think on it for too long. Pointedly, Freyr dragged his dark eyes down her form - from crown to toe and back up to her face once more; an appraising stare, judging and sharp.
Yet, the woman didn't look away - perhaps a part of him respected that, but mostly, it was irritating. He was prickly and antisocial towards unknown people at the best of times - and now, when he was meant to be focusing? The stranger's scrutiny was entirely unwelcome - especially when it was directed at him , and not the game. Freyr's opponent seemed oblivious, muttering to himself as he continued his movement phase.
Letting out a slow exhale through his nose, Freyr folded his thick, hairy arms over his chest, canting his head to the side. An errant earthen-hued ringlet shifted, fluttering down over his face. "Can I help you?" He bit out, flinty gaze narrowing. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."
NSFW