Leaving the inviting southern trail, you begin a hike back westward towards the trading post of Gánnáhwǽr.
Most of you know the place; Luke & Muli have been regular visitors there for years, Kevkul came through its trade route from Brevoy. Both Petrik and the Northmen know of its rough and ready reputation but have not visited there...
The trade post is run by a joint council of the guilders - leaders of the various organisations that have a vested interest in the trade post.
While exposed and open to constant danger, the posts lucrative position along the trade route between Brevoy and Iobaria means it can support a well trained and well equiped standing guard (most Iobarian settlements rely on militia).
Gánnáhwǽr's captain of the guard (weardgeréfa) is one Gharrick Emberspear, a hardy hillfighter and wielder of Issgefa a longspear wreathed in magical flame...
Trudging through the snow, Kevkul shrugs off the cold air, feeling snug within the folds of his winter clothing. Sipping the wine found at old Quern's place, Kevkul passes it round the line, trusting the beverage to warm the toes of his fellow hikers. Kevkul keeps mostly to his new lay member of his faith, mostly answering the lad's queries and instilling the tenets of his religion.
Luke continues scouting ahead and to the flanks.
Perception:
Ragnar spends the walk stretching out a few aches he picked up in his launch and tumble from atop the cliff. Spending much of the time with skaggig laid crossways on his shoulders he softly sings some Ulfen songs of home. Liten Mun is left to his own devices to roam out and in as he pleases.
Muli plods along tasking the occasional pause to watch an animal or pick a plant. But he then hustles to catch back up, his pact swaying ominously.
After an hour or so of marching, idle conversation and subtle investigation (by a lagging, distracted Muli) the familiar structure of the Iobarian settlement stockade comes into view.
Unlike Kustnir’s isolated starkness, the track leading to Gánnáhwǽr is well trodden, with cartwheel tracks marring the tundra like twin scars.
The stockade of the trading post is also more robust, thicker blod pine than the small fishing hamlets defences, but also bears witness to attentions of scour marks from the claws of large animals, and iron teeth of raiders...
From the wall movement... half a dozen men move forward above the gate to meet your approach, breath trails snaking upwards from the wall. The crossbows they hold glint in the late afternoon sun, not levelled at your group, but held ready should the need arise...
A woman’s voice hails you in Auld Iobarian;
” Hálette uncúðan! What be your bisignes here in Gánnáhwǽr?”
Hálette the gate. I am no uncúðan. It is I, Luke Falgren, ciricweard of Berghof, out of Ciselwella. My companions and I travel back to the East, and we only seek a rest before getting on.
Upon seemingly recognising Luke’s hail, the posture of the wall guards visibly relaxes.
The woman again addresses first your group, then fellow guardians unseen behind the stockade; Her tone clearly lighter also:
”Hhálettung Warden! Aye, by all means you and your éoredþréat can enter... We’ve some new ealoþu at the inn, and plenty of níwfaran in town so if you’re quick you’ll whet your beards before our eotonweard gets off duty! Slochich, open the door for them lad! Friends of both Gánnáhwǽr and Captain Emberspear... “
After a shot flurry of activity the heavy wooden gate begins to creak open and beyond several armoured figures stand silhouetted by the dropping afternoon sun...
Luke smiles broadly upon entering.
Good to see ya again Gréata!
He turns to his companions.
I suggest we head to Betwux A Roc and a Harpy. Follow me.
Ragnar spits to the side before striding forward through the stockade at the call of the guardsmen. Gorruk's wickedly large hook sits lightly upon his shoulders carried as though it were nothing, and yet unable to miss given it's size. Beckoning Liten Mun forward at his heel, Ragnar does not speak... though he does idly scan the guardsmen for any sign of questioning eye.
Perception:
Muli troops in through the door. He meets eyes with the serjeant but gives no formal greeting other than a nod. Muli, always considered touched or strange, never got along warmly with the guards of villages, but seemed to get by with the friendship of children and wisewomen.
Wearily you troop inside the compound, and following Luke's lead head towards the ale-hus named "Bitwux a Roc and a Harpy"
You notice some of the wall guards eyeing yourself and Skolrykk rarer wearily... a couple pass comment to each other, as if your ilk forebodes trouble...
Inside of the stockade, Gánnáhwǽr does not bustle as much as you would expect for the main trading post in the region. However light and the sound of chatter clearly eminates from the ale-hus before you...
Outside of the lang ale-hus, a weathered sign swings gently in the tundra breeze. It depicts a weary traveller caught on a mountain ledge. Above him flies a mighty Roc, while below him wheels a fell harpy.
After closing the stockade behind you the guards and serjeant return to their duty as the sun begins to dip behind the towering Icerime Mountains that surround the tradepost.
Luke addresses the party,
Feel free to get settled inside the inn. I need to check around for a fletcher to craft these darkwood arrows for me. I will be back for several ales and a fine woman.
Ragnar chews his words slowly "Aye, a drink is in order" though gives Skolrykk a warding elbow "Be wary brother some of the locals don't like the look of a true Northman..." beginning to walk before jesting "and they likely think you a swarthy lass given ye've no beard" chuckling at his joke as he whistles for Liten Mun to fall in behind.
Making his way into the ale-hus, Ragnar finds a place to rest with view of the door and takes a heavy seat - his hund at his hip. Unlimbering his horn before him he gets the attention of whoever is serving and growls for "Ale, bread and cheese"
Those of you who enter the ale-hus find it a smokey, roughshod place. The hearth glows warm, and throughout oil burners provide both light and shadow throughout the busy structure. Its warm peaty air, is a welcome break from the biting cold of the tundra.
A number of large lang tables sit, with benches aside. While nearer the fire smaller tables, with stool seating can be found. Similarly there are 4 alcove tables, dowsed in shadow... .
Heads rise from their cups as you enter, and the following patrons note your entrance:
The inn-keep nods a subtle greeting, then directs his serving wench towards...
... a group of men and women, some half dozen strong sit at a lang table deep in conversation. Their garb varies from functional to fine and all seem on familiar terms with each other.
As she serves them their drinks and food, the pretty lass acknowledges Ragnar's gruff request and bids them find a seat...
"Willspell and welcome to Betwux this fair æfen gentlemen. I bid you sit and we shall geþeówian thee nud"
By the fire sits a lone man; around his shoulders a winter blanket, and cupped in his hands a bowl of steaming food.
Nearby a child squats by the fire, toasting chunks of bread before handing them to the shivering man.
At least two of the alcove tables are taken, but upon first entrance you can discern little of their occupants...
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Skølrykk walks in through the gates, tapping his longspear on the ground beside him as he goes.
Aye, a drink would do me well! he says, heading for the Bitwux a Roc and a Harpy.
@Ragnar: Aye. They'll be disappointed though, naer had a lass such a mægenwudu! As for you, you should take care none of the stánbucca take a likin' to you and that beard... he says in response.
Heading inside the inn, he calls to the wirt. Aye, ale an' bread.
Perception:
Stepping inside the inn he is blinded by the sudden darkness and taps around with his spear until he finds a table to sit at.
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Aye, nice warm hearth and medu to match. Yonder there sits a group of ears ready to soak up our tales of bravery and daring. Which of you warriors would boast of our deeds thus far? It would be excellent way for all the medu we could drink.
Kevkul pulls out the head of Gorruk he's been lugging around this time. Luckily for the cold Northern air, it has been well preserved.
Chuckling at Skolrykk's rejoinder, Ragnar gives him a wily wide grin that makes him unsure whether his insult was taken as a positive or not.
Ragnar accepts his drink and food in relative silence, allowing Kevkul some moments to bring first notice to the head of the trow. He keeps a weather eye to the crowd as he tears off a good sized hunk of bread and cheese both - dropping some of the cheese to the ground for his hund.
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Whispering a few words for guidance, Kevkul grips the trow head holding it aloft.
Kevkul bellows loudly to the barkeep
Kevkul throws Gorruk's head, making sure it lands with a dramatic 'clunk' on the table.
Once Kevkul gets the attention of those present he continues.
Now, come closer all you fine folk and listen how Gorruk the Iss troww parted with his head and how Muk'luk left this world completely save his teeth with one fell blow! All of that with a soft nudge by the Spedig Wesa too.
At Kevkul's declaration of your deeds, there is much surprise and admiring gasps as Gorruk's head becomes a centre trophy to your arrival.
Of the large group, all eyes are now upon you all, a mixture of shock, horror and the odd flitter of disbelief plays across their faces; one of them actually recoils and stumbles backward when Kevkul displays the severed head;
Now closer you see that these men and women are a mixture of finely garbed, but functional clothing. Artisans and merchants perhaps?
He is closely followed by one of his fellows, who recoils not from the trow, but of the medu that the distracted serving wench has overfilled his horn, soaking him!
The innkeep scowls initially, fearing more distruption, but this is tempered by Kevkul's cry for his finest medu, and he shouts to the young lad to come hither.
Even the shivering hearth-body pauses betwuxt sups o' soup to admire and listen.
From the alcoves there is little reaction, one remains silent, while from the other there is a wolfish chuckles... and the murmour of "Iss Trow" and "Gorruk? Har-har!" in strong Skaldic accent...
Though difficult to place, the skaldic accents are from Irrisen... land of the ice witches and a place from where little good ever comes...
Perception:
Ragnar sits quiet still, content to wait for any challenge to sound before he weighs in. He keeps his back straight in his seat, cutting a stout figure of Northman lumber.
Perception:
There are some among us from Irrisen, land of the Ice Witches... Skølrykk mutters to Ragnar over his tankard.
Ragnar's face darkens as Skølrykk kens what he did not. The rats who swarm beyond our Eastern border. Subvocally growling as he grinds his teeth, he now cannot allow the mutters to go unchallenged. Thumping the table solidly with a closed fist he rises in place. Casting thunderous voice into the shadows he back-kicks his chair out of the way and moves to stand beside Kevkul
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Muli drops his pack at their table with a heavy thud. He paws through it and comes up with a vial of his beer spice.
Upon hearing Ragnar's challenge, he rummages in the pack again and comes out with a stuffed amphibian and thumps it onto the table. "There! An Ice Toad! Muli figures they might want to see something familiar so far from their home." Whether this is meant to calm or inflate the situation is unclear. Perhaps Muli just thinks they might want to see the toad.
You quickly locate a known outfitters, who also sell hunting equipment. Their bowyer will be able to create the 16 Darkwood arrows you wish in 2 weeks. As you are supplying the materials a basic cost of 32gp for the labour will cover all.
All in all your business takes but a few minutes, so rejoin the festivities as/when you want :)
At Ragnar’s challenge, there is low cursing from the shadows, again in the thick Skaldic accent of Irrissen...
The other patrons, still reeling from the shock of an iss trow’s head and virtuous boasts all look furtively towards the shadows...
The innkeep meanwhile sends his child scuttling towards your table, arms clutching several large jugs of medu.
Intimidate:
Ragnar scowls at the muttering shadows daring them to solidify into a target for his vitriol towards Irrisien.
Kevkul senses the disdainful air emanating from the shadows.
The men of Irrisen find it fitting to curse in the shadows while our glorious trophies stand testament to our deeds? At least if ye are truly firas show yerselves or lie content in the shadows as cnapa are warrant to do. Feel free to challenge me in a test of fortitude as I would best any man in a bout of béor.
Kevkul calls out a challenge to the shadows, hoping for a response.
Be it Ragnar’s slurs or Kevkul’s challenge, from the shadows more muttered curses, and the wooden floor of the ale-hus creaks with cloaked movement...
Furtive glances are passed like a drinking horn between the other patrons as the “men” of Irrisen come hither.
Stepping from the shadows come two huge northmen; both have wild, shaggy beards, long lank locks and heavy limbs of corded muscle. The first sports a mass of jet black hair and stands bare chested save for a heavy pelt that almost blends with his own wild mane. Across the brutes back sits a sheathed greatsword.
Liten Mun growls defensively as the mutterings amongst the inn die to a whisper...
While the first Northman is easily as large as Ragnar or Skol in stature, the second dwarves you all... Grey forked beard and lang hair both braided tight, this Irrisenr’s head narrowly misses the lang-hus ceiling of 7ft. Scars cris-cross the giant’s body and he too stands bare chested, save for a pelted cloak. At his hand a notched greataxe idly sits...
”Har! Vi ville ta det angripe dverg! Og en gang vi er gjort vi får se viser disse mannskap fra landet av ormer hva avrette Nord er!”
Both Irrisenr grin wolfishly at your company, an undeniable air of menace coming from the wildmen, tempered perhaps a little by Ragnar’s cold challenge...
While Ragnar's hunds hackles are clearly up, you too feel a feral shiver as the two brutes step forward, something stirs in your blod...
Muli growls to Ragnar and Kevkul, as the two lumber into sight, "Muli thinks there is more fur to their fury. The hund can smell it. Muli can smell it. These aren't ice toads....maybe furry rats...or bigger...much bigger.
Ragnar stands impassively... though he does need to crane his neck a little higher to take in all of that which steps from the shadows. Nodding slightly to acknowledge Muli's words Ragnar remains beliggerent settling fully into the Skald of his homeland "Du är stor, jag ska ge er att ... din mamma knulla en ko när du far inte såg?" maintaining his gaze while awaiting Kevkul to drink them under the table.
At that particular moment Luke enters the common room.
Beckoning the Irrrisen men to sit, Kevkul invites the towering men to sit as he pours the first of many cups.
Let Luck and Drunk come hand in hand!
Kevkul gives a cup's salute and waits.
Luke quietly approaches the group and stands next to Kevkul, eyeing the outlanders warily.
What gives boys?
The young lad weaves between the large Northmen and brings medu with him.
His squeaky voice cuts through the tension;
"Medu good sirs! Freshly arrived this week - the best... Dweorgas made... Torag's Goldhord Pa told me they call it... Sup up trow slayers!"
The lad pops two large jugs of glittering golden medu on your table, followed by an assortment of cups and simple drinking horns.
At Ragnar's comment the pitch haired Irrisenr scowls in anger, big fists clenching and eyes flashing. His belligerence is tempered by his taller companion, who smiles wolfishly at Ragnar as he pats his comrade's shoulder firmly;
"Kalm Halvr... kalm. Forgive min young brodir... He... acts before he think...ja? Must have Linnormer in him nei? Har-har..."
The shaggy grey giant nods at Kevkul and eases himself into a chair at your table, propping his axe like a loyal pet by his foot. With a toothy grin the Northman continues in his thick accent as he looks Ragnar dead in the eye;
"... As for min fadir "Son of Thorfed" he was too busy butchering your kin to bed min moder... HAR! HAR! HAR!"
Both Irrisenr break into throaty, growling laughter, but the black haired one, Halvr, remains standing...
Skølrykk Dråthenborn takes a horn and fills it with mead, draining it in one pass before setting it on the table upside down.
Kevkul picks a drinking horn, filling it whilst looking straight into the grey giant's eye.
With a swift flip, Kevkul puts the horn to his lips, tipping the container draining it of mead in a swift gulp. As with Skolrykk, he sets it with a slam on the table, never taking his eyes off the challenging drinker.
Talking at the black haired one evenly and matter of factly "I'll let ye watch while me sköld brors drink your man under the table. Then you an me ken dance with knuckles... unless ye prefer I introduce yer eyes to yer inälvsprodukter with skaggig" patting his axe.
The Irrisenr both smile grimly at the your assembled party;
The grey giant at the table reaches over and draws a horn full of medu, draining it in lusty gulps as his beard is soaked with the strong dweorg beverage.
The brute gruffly laughs;
"There are twa of you litten men... I should takk twa nei? Har!"
With that he draws and drinks a second horn, placing it with the other empties... Wipes his grey braided beard and nods...
"More..?"
Behind him Black Halvr nods back at Ragnar, then spits on his fist and grins wolfishly;
"Vilja vera a ánægja Linn-wormer..."
The Splendig Wesa guides your hand thus far, the horn of Torag's Goldhord is very strong, but a damned fine drop - some of the best you've tasted and clearly the work of a master brewer...
The dwarven medu is damn strong, much more potent that anything you've downed in the fishing villages of your home, or on your travels. It warms the bones and you feel it take hold already... Time for another horn though nei?
Luke, sitting next to Kevkul. Thumps the dwarf on the back after his first draught.
I've watched ya drink better men that this under the table before lunch!
Ragnar nods stoically at the words, removing his gloves to show bare flesh and turning to watch the drinking. As of yet he does not add words.
Skølrykk takes his horn and fills it again, drinking it in large gulps but not quite as fast as the first horn. He sets it quietly on the table, looking across into the eyes of the giant.
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Muli pulls a mug of ale in front of himself. He adds his spice which sets the foam to red, and upon drinking sets his right eye to twitching. But he carefully watches the contest, in particular the mannerisms of the opponents.
Kevkul smacks his lips, clearly enjoying every last drop of the sweet Northern nectar. With great relish, the dweorg takes the refilled horn and downs it with gusto.
The jotunn sized Irrensenr nods appreciatively at Kevkul and Skølrykk. He grabs another horn of Torag's Goldhord draining it with equal relish. The golden liquid soaks the Northman's braided beard. True to his challenge, he reaches for another horn, his speech in Auld Iobarian thickly accented;
"One vor der dweorg..." (gesturing to his last horn)
"One vor der Hwíte Cwén wormlunder har-har!"
At his last toast, Black Halvr behind him echoes his fellow Irrensenr with a "Der Hwíte Cwén!" oath, while glaring with superiority at Ragnar...
Your head begins to swim as the potent dweorg medu begins to take affect...
The next horn of Torag's Goldhord goes down just as smooth as the first. Truly a tasty drop fit for the gods! Your throat and belly are warmed while for you, this contest is just warming up.
You swear, just for an instant that both Irrisenr look knowlingly at you, into your very soul - not as men, but men with the eyes of wolves...
Interesting while matching the drinkers a horn of potent medu each, the Irrisenr still looks fresh...
The music to this contest has become a low whispered hum of observers and other patrons, mixed with the occasional gutteral growl of Liten Mun.