Tip of My Tongue
Title: Tip of My Tongue
Author/Artist: still mirrorshoppe.
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Finland, Iceland
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: If they say it's traditional... indeed remember it's meant to be fed for tourists. Selshreifar are seal flippers and quite possibly worse than hákarl, the infamous rotten shark.
Tip of My Tongue
The room smells mildly of dust and of the kind of dampness that collects into houses left cold and unused for long periods of time. Anyone who ever visits a summer cottage will always recognize this scent easily: it's the one that greets you at the door and welcomes you in, to settle down and to turn on the heating. When the warmth dries up the place it will all but disappear, only to slowly make its way back after the electricity is turned off again and inhabitants are gone.
While they're there it's like the house wakes up. There's the faint hint of alcohol in the air, the curtains all drawn because it's going to be light outside all night long and for some absurd reason the people in the north only want to keep sunlight outside during the winters. Colourful towels hang from the washing line, the hot tub is still plenty warm. Small flies collect against the windows in hopes of somehow making their way indoors.
“Hate to put it like this, Iceland, but... that thing's been dead too long for eating.”
“C'mon, here have a shot of this to go with it - no you're supposed to first take a bite and then drink -”
“You think I'm going to do that sober? N-uh. I remember this stuff.”
“I promise it's not shark.”
“What, you cook all your food this way? What's the camera for?”
“Just eat one, go on.”
“Ok but before I do, that's this stuff called again?”
“Selshreifar.”
“I'm going to remember that.”
In short, it would probably be quite a romantic setting without the traditional Icelandic food.
Author/Artist: still mirrorshoppe.
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Finland, Iceland
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Summary: If they say it's traditional... indeed remember it's meant to be fed for tourists. Selshreifar are seal flippers and quite possibly worse than hákarl, the infamous rotten shark.
Tip of My Tongue
The room smells mildly of dust and of the kind of dampness that collects into houses left cold and unused for long periods of time. Anyone who ever visits a summer cottage will always recognize this scent easily: it's the one that greets you at the door and welcomes you in, to settle down and to turn on the heating. When the warmth dries up the place it will all but disappear, only to slowly make its way back after the electricity is turned off again and inhabitants are gone.
While they're there it's like the house wakes up. There's the faint hint of alcohol in the air, the curtains all drawn because it's going to be light outside all night long and for some absurd reason the people in the north only want to keep sunlight outside during the winters. Colourful towels hang from the washing line, the hot tub is still plenty warm. Small flies collect against the windows in hopes of somehow making their way indoors.
“Hate to put it like this, Iceland, but... that thing's been dead too long for eating.”
“C'mon, here have a shot of this to go with it - no you're supposed to first take a bite and then drink -”
“You think I'm going to do that sober? N-uh. I remember this stuff.”
“I promise it's not shark.”
“What, you cook all your food this way? What's the camera for?”
“Just eat one, go on.”
“Ok but before I do, that's this stuff called again?”
“Selshreifar.”
“I'm going to remember that.”
In short, it would probably be quite a romantic setting without the traditional Icelandic food.