Chapter Text
First impressions?
Of competence, but not commitment. A strong mind in a stronger body that was not contented to be a dog’s body or an expendable. Someone with ideas, but not the time or patience to express them very often. Definitely not someone who liked authority. It was not that he did not like authority or considered himself above it; he just thought hierarchies in general were a stupid idea and easily led to corruptness and unnecessary death.
First thoughts?
One she can barely stop herself from vocalising as she looks him over, her hand gripping his in possibly the firmest hand-shake of her life.
She thinks: how is that coat containing him?
He just gives the impression of bigness. Not an intimidating or unpleasant one- it’s kind of like walking past a ripening field and noting that the crops are straining to get out of their ears and cases and the like. There’s almost too much of him for his body, and that body is pushing 6 foot and 3 inches, and easily 90 kg. Almost the same size as her, although she is much slimmer and much, much lighter in weight.
Sigrun is kind of afraid he might explode. She has the urge to either treat him gingerly, or the sense of a challenge- she feels as if the solidity of that hand and the strength of the arm attached to it is just calling for a beating. Like, telling her to come on and give it her best.
Try beating him with a stick or throwing him off a cliff. See how much or how little it will hurt him. See if she can overwhelm him and prove her mightiness.
The challenge is in his eyes, too.
“Captain Sigrun Eide,” says her uncle “And Medic Mikkel Madsen.”
First impressions?
She looks insane.
Not the gentle kind of insane either- the one which can be packed into a strait-jacket and persuaded to leave with medication and therapy and support from whatever loved-ones she may have. The kind of insanity which is inherent and ingrained and taught and taught meticulously for the majority of her life. Whoever trained her must have trained her as if they were taming a wild beast. Whoever raised her must have given her bones to teethe on and a club instead of a rattle.
First thoughts?
Sigrun, as in the Valkyrie? If the old Norwegian means he is introducing the famous warrior woman from Valhalla, then he believes him without shade of doubt.
She’s tall and slim. She would look at home in the forests of her birth nation, standing among the samplings, looking like one of them but for her red hair. That can’t be a natural colour. It probably started blonde and became redder and redder gradually, as she was splashed by the blood of her enemies and opponents.
And he gets the sense she wants to add him to that stain. She’s running out of dye- out of the urge to go and make the dye, because she needs inspiration.
Something a little more than what she already has. She wants to be inspired. The challenge is in her eyes.
He wonders if she knows what she is asking him, or if she means to ask it at all. Does she know there’s that hunger in her smile for some adventure, and that little tremor in her hand is holding back all of her strength, which she must expend on something that will snap or crunch in her grip.
Out of a small fear this unfortunate thing might be his own hand, Mikkel lets go first.
“Good to meet you.”
It is all Sigrun can do not to punch him directly in the nose to see if he will spring back up, like one of those old-world punching clowns.
“I look forward to working with you.”
It is all Mikkel can do not to grab her again and fling her over his head, and say ‘that good enough for you?’
Trond stands between the two new colleagues.
He looks at his niece first, then at the Dane. Hopefully, when they have had the chance to assert alpha-ship and butted heads a few times, they will get along as swimmingly as he has predicted.