Hour 5
Knute wanders away from the ring of people attempting to tame the stallion, pleased that he made a good effort. He arrives back at the central area of the square. As Knute's nose leads him towards the Elvish pastries he noticed before, he is distracted by the sound of dice at a nearby table. Well, a little delay can't hurt... He heads towards the sound, and watches the game for a bit to determine how it is played.
Knute
Knute makes his way to the gambling! The bones are being tossed, although several of them are not bones at all, but dwarven dice, precisely edged and made of various precious and semi-precious metals. There are two dwarves here, and old Hilde, who is cackling in glee as she sweeps up some dice and rolls them again. (The dwarves look less thrilled.) She glances up at Knute when he approaches.
"Ha! Another to fleece! Come sit, boy, what's your poison?"
"Mo daoine a ghlaoch air cloch ar an bandia Saranrae, cé go bhfuil sé déanta ag scoláirí a foghlaimíodh, ní sagairt. Stailc sé deacair i gcoinne rud éigin, agus beidh sé a chruthú teas chun an spás de lá, amhail is dá bhí tú tine a choinneáil ar shiúl an fuaraigh. Thug mé ag smaoineamh go Ba mhaith liom a reo, anseo!" Five Solomon says with a chuckle.[/ooc]
"Ná ar Jól," Halla replies absently, examining the stone, "ach má fhanann tú anuas an ghrianstad, go mbeadh tú a bheith sásta go bhfuil an charraig do bandia." She looks up at him. "An mbeidh tú ag fanacht?"
Halla
"Bhuel ... mhian liom cuairt a thabhairt ar na sióga. Ba é seo mo súil. Ach--" Five Solomon pauses, and chuckles ruefully-- "--ní dóigh liom go maith an n-cheannaire orm go mór. Beidh mé ag fanacht go dtí go bhfuil sé go maith chun taisteal arís, ar a laghad."
(It's a little unclear by his words whether he really understands that 'good traveling weather' won't come again until, you know, spring.)
Kjell looks at the training weapons laid out for contestants to use, and after a moment's thought, picks up the largest one available. Thick, sturdy, he gives a two-handed swing and nods.
Facing off against Ragni, Kjell grits his jaw at the mention of his loss to Leif. Rushing forward, he brings the large stick down upon the younger man.
"Bhuel ... mhian liom cuairt a thabhairt ar na sióga. Ba é seo mo súil. Ach--" Five Solomon pauses, and chuckles ruefully-- "--ní dóigh liom go maith an n-cheannaire orm go mór. Beidh mé ag fanacht go dtí go bhfuil sé go maith chun taisteal arís, ar a laghad."
(It's a little unclear by his words whether he really understands that 'good traveling weather' won't come again until, you know, spring.)
Halla frowns with concern. If he is cold on Jól.... Still, she is in no position to offer him hospitality. "Ní dhéanann an ceannaire na sióga is cosúil gur maith leat aon duine againn," she agrees, "ach is cosúil a chuid daoine cairdiúil. Cad mar gheall ar na áit fosta? B'fhéidir go bhféadfaí tú cuairt orthu," she suggests. She knows little of the dwarves' home and supposes that it is dark but probably warmer than the surface: There is at least protection from the wind and snow.
Kjell
Ragni dodges Kjell's powerful but wild swing with a sidestep. His own wooden training sword swings out, aiming for a nice smack to Kjell's ribs. His other arm has a buckler strapped to it
But Kjell's much too light on his feet-- the blow is nowhere near hitting him.
Halla
"Ar a laghad a labhraíonn sé le do dhaoine! Dealraíonn sé a bheith a sheachaint dom. Níl a fhios agam cén fáth," Five Solomon says with blithe innocence.
"Ah, ach tá áit fosta áit fosta i ngach áit. Tá do sióga speisialta. Tá sióga eile sa domhan - thaistil mé uair amháin a Kyonin--" this is said as if he thinks Halla should be impressed by this, wherever or whatever Kyonin is, "--ach nach bhfuil siad cosúil leis na sióga!"
"Ah, but dwarves are dwarves everywhere. Your fairies are special. There are other elves in the world -- I traveled once to Kyonin-- but they are not like these elves!"
Faced with the one opponent he reasonably knows to be less skilled than himself, Eysteinn leaves the extracts in their vials.
He steps forward facing the young man “I remember you!” grins Eysteinn “You stole a cheese cake on my twelfth name-day! Time to pay for that, young man!” he says, in a playful tone.
Eysteinn keeps his guard up, sizing his opponent. He knows Olaf is young and unexperienced, but he himself is no seasoned warrior either, and as opposed to his adversary, Eysteinn has definitely something to lose in this fight.
Keeping a close stance, he goes for a first, exploratory lunge.
Knute grins at Hilde's comment. "No, I've a mind to be the shepherd here, not the sheep." He sits down heavily, with a wink. "I can join whatever game you've been playing, but Ship o' Fools is my favorite. If you're sticking around, that is," he adds, noting the sour expressions of the two dwarves.
Knute tosses a few wooden beads onto the table, and snatches up the dice.
"Well, what'll it be?", the Ulfen asks, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Rikka throws the cape over her shoulders, pleased with the trade. "Thank you for this gift and for trusting your skin to my needle." She glances at the other elf and smiles. "If you'd like animals, leaves, or blooms added to your artwork, please let me know." She gives them both a respectful bow and heads back to her 'shop' rubbing the kinks from her hands.
Halla
"Ar a laghad a labhraíonn sé le do dhaoine! Dealraíonn sé a bheith a sheachaint dom. Níl a fhios agam cén fáth," Five Solomon says with blithe innocence.
"Ah, ach tá áit fosta áit fosta i ngach áit. Tá do sióga speisialta. Tá sióga eile sa domhan - thaistil mé uair amháin a Kyonin--" this is said as if he thinks Halla should be impressed by this, wherever or whatever Kyonin is, "--ach nach bhfuil siad cosúil leis na sióga!"
Halla is puzzled. Five Solomon comes from the other side of the world, yet he appears much the same as the villagers of Hofn, save for his odd grooming. If humans from far away are the same, how different can elves be? "Cad é difriúil mar gheall orthu?"
Eysteinn
Olaf colors a bit at having his youthful mischief brought up. Fortunately for him, Eysteinn's caution makes his opening strike easy to dodge.
"That was a long time ago!" Olaf says quickly, bringing his weapon up to answer. "I'm a man now!"
Kids.
Man or not, Olaf's swing with his own wooden weapon is a wide miss.
Rikka
Dyr offers Rikka another bright smile and sweeps her a bow. "Safe travels, ink-stainer," she calls. "May the wind be always at your back!"
Rikka wanders away with her new cloak. It's warm, aside from whatever enchantments it may hold-- fine, soft cloth, much nicer to the touch than coarse-spun wool, but just as cozy against the wind.
A woman of the village offers her a warm smile and presses a pastry filled with steaming meat into her hands as she passes by, and urges her towards the ale, as hospitality dictates.
There are two children of about seven or eight years old who are circling Mr. Lazy Sausage, elbowing each other. It appears there is the universal 'you go up and poke him' '--no, YOU' sort of dare happening here.
Knute
However heavily they were sighing at Hilde's wins, the two dwarves perk up at the presence of a new player. One of the two picks up a bead from those Knute threw onto the table, and turns it over in his hands thoughtfully.
"Fine smooth wood-drilling-- your own work?" he inquires of Knute as he and his companion each reach for their own bets.
Old Hilde tosses in a worked-copper bracelet as her bet and snatches up the dice, eager to see if she's still having a lucky streak. Her aged, clawlike hands toss the dice...
...and Hilde crows in raucous triumph, as the dwarves simultaneously groan. "That's my ship and my captain there!" Hilde grins, setting aside the dice that show a six and a five. "Now for my crew..."
"You see what sort of luck she's having!" the lady of the two dwarves complains to Knute, as Hilde sets aside the four for the "crew", and banks one of the other fours as part of her cargo. She rolls her last permitted roll, a single die.
The dwarves both glower at Hilde, who looks very much as though she would be dancing a little jig if she were not quite so old and hunched and arthritic. "There's my ship, captain, and crew-- and ten for the cargo," she says, and pushes the dice Knute's way. "Go and beat that!"
Halla
Five Solomon seems eager to explain, launching into a long stream of Varisian with cheerful enthusiasm.
"Bhuel, tá a n-dathú unusual-- an-bríomhar, saibhir. Is dócha go bhfuil sé ach conas a bhfuil na sióga, a you-- ach ní roimh an lá atá inniu chonaic mé sioga le craiceann gorm nó glas nó corcra. Tá sé sin go n-athraíonn na sióga a mheaitseáil a dtimpeallacht, mar sin ... Tá na sióga a mhaireann i Osirion roinnt buí agus donn, cosúil le deannach agus gaineamh. Ach má tá sin amhlaidh, ansin ba chóir na sióga ar an taobh ó thuaidh a ... nach bhfuil gach dath an tuar ceatha bán agus gorm. Tá difríochtaí eile ... cosúil a gcuid fiacla," he says, with a little shudder, at the last.
More strange place-names. Five Solomon has either seen very much of the world, or he is just very good at making up nonsense.
His expression sobering, after a moment, Dagrun says,"Lady, I would ask for a moment to consider. As a human I don't have all that many years, and I wouldn't give one of them away lightly. And memories, especially good ones, are a valuable thing indeed."
He pauses, and with a thoughtful look at the elf, he continues. "In fact, with no offense meant, I would ask what it is you propose to give me if I win, since you know my side of the wager."
Eysteinn is very disappointed in his first attack – he thought of ending this quickly, but his first swing was a mess, completely off-balance. Luckily Olaf is equally clumsy and easily parried, but this doesn’t really makes him happier.
“Man, uh? I lost my place in the warband, let’s see you getting my spot!” Eysteinn continues to keep his guard as impenetrable as he can, striking only when he sees a clear opening. Still, his form is weak and slow, and once again his opponent dodges without a problem. Damn! Get it together, this is turning into a shameful performance!
Rikka munches on the pie and watches the children from a discreet distance. She looks for the shy one, the outsider, the one child that hovers away from the group. When she spies one, she sidles slyly over to the child and sits down next to him/her, happily chewing on the pastry.
She regards the resting boar and speaks very quietly to the child, "Hiya. I'm Rikka and that fine fat fellow over there is my friend Lazy Sausage... He's more friendly than he looks. If you were to go over there and scratch him softly on that big butterfly drawn on his belly, he'd be very happy. You could also give him a bit of this pie. You might make a lifelong friend." She breaks off a corner of her pastry and offers it to the child.
Dagrun
Hmmm.... it's not really ringing any bells for him. There was a book Dagrun read once from the distant east, that talked about warfare, and mentioned a game that commanders might play to teach themselves strategy, that seems a bit like what she's describing...? But unfortunately the occasional references in the book were nothing like an instruction manual for the game.
Mav tucks her hands beneath her chin, smiling. "Please, do consider. I would not wish to rush you into anything."
Her smile broadens when he asks what the counter-wager would be. "What would you like? What does your heart dream of?"
Eysteinn
The wooden practice swords aren't especially easy to use, it seems. Or maybe it's the sucking mud, churned up from dozens of feet today, that makes this so awkward.
Olaf grins and swings.
His inexperience is still on display-- he looks more like a boy swinging around a wooden sword, which he sort of is-- than a warrior in training. Eysteinn can judge that Olaf isn't much of a threat... unless he gets lucky, anyway.
Rikka
There is such a child-- there always is. One little boy is watching from a little distance, looking forlorn. Rikka makes her way over to where the child is sitting against a building wall.
She sees why this particular child may be excluded from the games quickly enough-- he has a crutch by his side, and even his furs and boots can't hide that one leg is twisted and thin. The Ulfen have little use for those who can't physically hold their own... though the crutch looks to have been carved with loving care by someone.
The boy looks up startled at Rikka's approach, then his gray eyes get big and he smiles shyly.
"...really?" he says, and scrambles to his feet, picking up his stick and jamming the end under his arm to walk. "He's not mean or anything?"
Assured that he is not, the boy takes the crumbly bit of the pie and edges forward, past the other, bigger children. Rikka watches as Lazy Sausage accepts the meat-pie tribute with happy, snorfling enthusiasm, and as the little boy settles in to belly-skritching the hog, a grin lighting up the kid's features.
"Alas, no," Knute responds to the dwarf, "what skill I have lies in hunting, not crafting."
Knute's eyebrows rise at each of Hilde's excellent throws. His large hand claps his forehead as she rolls a 6 for her final roll. What have I gotten myself into? Knute picks up the dice, grimacing at the thought of the rolls he needs. He pauses, though, to inspect the exquisite dice. "Are these your work?" he asks the dwarves, parroting their own inquiries about his beads. "They're beautiful. A far sight better than the lumps of wood and bone we usually play with..."
Knute rolls the dice around in his cupped hands, then suddenly drops them. They scatter in multiple directions...
...And he frowns unhappily as not one of the dice reveals a six. "Well nothing to do but try again," he says, sounding a good deal less confident than when he sat down. This time he shakes the dice, when rolls them across the table...
...Again, not one turns up a six. What are the odds?... Rotten luck seems my draw for the day. The Ulfen sullenly picks up the dice a third time, and lets them loose...
...A ship and captain finally appear, but too late, and without a crew. "There you are, slippery devil." Knute frowns at the die sporting the six small pips. "Could've used you a lot sooner." He sits back in his chair, looking at the pile in the table rather forlornly. "Apparently my skill doesn't cover gambling, either." Knute gives the dwarves a pained smile and a pitiful chuckle.
"Bhuel, tá a n-dathú unusual-- an-bríomhar, saibhir. Is dócha go bhfuil sé ach conas a bhfuil na sióga, a you-- ach ní roimh an lá atá inniu chonaic mé sioga le craiceann gorm nó glas nó corcra. Tá sé sin go n-athraíonn na sióga a mheaitseáil a dtimpeallacht, mar sin ... Tá na sióga a mhaireann i Osirion roinnt buí agus donn, cosúil le deannach agus gaineamh. Ach má tá sin amhlaidh, ansin ba chóir na sióga ar an taobh ó thuaidh a ... nach bhfuil gach dath an tuar ceatha bán agus gorm. Tá difríochtaí eile ... cosúil a gcuid fiacla," he says, with a little shudder, at the last.
Halla gives the nearest elves a thoughtful glance. She had never considered it before, but they must be easy to spot at a distance, for a predator, unlike the hares that are dirt-colored in the summer and grow white fur when it snows. "B'fhéidir go bhfuil sé rud éigin a itheann siad," she suggests. "Nó b'fhéidir péint siad iad féin. Nó b'fhéidir, cosúil le feithidí geal-daite, tá siad nimhiúil, agus warns a dath ar shiúl siúd a d'fhéadfadh a iad a ithe." She smiles at the southern skald. "Ní mór go dtarlódh sé sin cén fáth ar mhaith leat cuairt a thabhairt orthu. Ba mhaith leis an skald ag canadh den sórt sin rúnda a chur isteach i amhrán féin."
Rikka finishes her pastry and watches the crippled child enjoy his moment of joy - unfettered by the limits of his body, by the distance of his schoolmates, or by the hard life-road in front of him. Maybe her small act of kindness would raise his stature in the eyes of the other children... but she was too much of a realist to think it would be anything more than a passing notoriety. Still, maybe it would nudge the boy on a better path. It was strange what little things could alter the course of a single life.
Rikka wipes the crumbs free of her hands and steadfastly shuts the door in her mind that calls her to recollect how her childhood parallels the boy's. This wasn't a day for old ghosts and she well knew why she'd sought to find the melancholy boy in the crowd.
She catches the boy's eyes and gives him big smile before she walks off to see what else the festival holds.
Outsiders gotta stick together.
Dodging the younger man's blow smoothly, Kjell brings his own weapon up in a sidelong uppercut...
...that blows through the other man's defenses and smashes up against his jaw. Kjell pulls the blow just in time, so rather than cause any lasting damage it just sends the lad tumbling to the ground in a heavy daze. Careful now, Kjell--they'll overlook your status, but not a murder. And who knows what they might charge for weregild against a freedman.
Well this is becoming an embarrassment to Ulfen people everywhere. thinks Eysteinn we’re both fighting like scared cubs… and I’m way less justified than him! I just hope the weird Southerner isn’t watching – or Gods forbid, father himself.
Eysteinn decides it’s time to throw care and defense out of the window. I’ll expose myself, and if he hits, well, I would’ve deserved it for not hitting him first. opening his guard a bit, he raises the stick and swings it down fast and hard.
Kjell
Kjell tightens his grip on the club.... and hits beautifully. The weapon smacks Ragni on the jaw hard enough that Ragni spins around once before dropping to the ground. There's mingled cheers and 'ooooh, that one had to hurt' type of noises from the crowd.
Ragni doesn't move for several seconds, then, he weakly sits up, one hand lifted in the universal 'yield' symbol. The crowd cheers for Kjell's victory, even as Palli comes over to check on Ragni's jaw with a heaved sigh for the sort of fun his village loves.
Eysteinn
Thirty or so feet away, Kjell drops Ragni Torgisson with a crack of wood on flesh that can be heard in the crisp air. Eysteinn feels the pressure to measure up, and responds accordingly-- he abandons his defensive posture and lashes out with his own club, bringing it down solidly on Olaf's shoulder. The boy yelps and drops to one knee, groaning.
A round of cheering greets Eysteinn's win-- he can also catch a few mutters of "see? When he fights like an Ulfen, he does fine!"-- simultaneous approval for his victory, mingled with implied disapproval for his initial caution. When he looks to the source of the mutters, it is to see his father standing there among the spectators, clapping with the others, perhaps the ghost of a smile on his lean face.
Kjell
Ragni gets off the field under his own power, and a young woman, his wife, thoughtfully scoops up a sack full of snow for the warrior to hold to his aching jaw. Ragni sits on a stump with the bundle held to the side of his face, but watches as Kjell's next competitor is called forward.
One of the elves has joined the challengers, after watching the fighting. He is tall and blond and carrying what looks to be a brand-new bow, probably won at the festivities.
The lots are drawn, and Kjell finds himself facing down a dwarf maiden-- the same one that Shale had pointed out as his relation, earlier. She is wearing a good deal of armor and carrying a shield, and gives Kjell a crooked grin and a salute before grabbing a heavy wooden mace from the practice weapons.
"Ho-a! Let's get to it. I don't knock over as easy as you tall folk," she warns.
Kjell again acts first. It's probably hard for her to move fast, in all that heavy steel.
Eysteinn
Palli and a few other people help Olaf off the field. The miller looks his son's shoulder over with a gruff eye, saying something about how, "I told you to give it a year, you thickheaded clod!" yet, despite the scolding, there is some clear paternal pride there in that his son participated. It's enough to cause a little pang in the old heart region, maybe.
Regardless of what Eysteinn's thoughts may be on the matter, his next contestant awaits: one of the elves, blond and tall and lean. The elf sets his new bow to one side and dons armor, after a fashion-- it's barely bits of leather sewn together, but it's probably somewhat more protective than the green silk tunic he wears beneath.
The elf offers a graceful bow to Eysteinn as he enters the ring, giving one of the practice wooden swords a test swing. He grimaces, seeming to find the weapon less than perfect.
"I am called Lirienthalas-- what is your name, so that I can relate it later as one I defeated?" the elf says with a light smile.
The elf's mild bragging gives Eysteinn the window to act first.
Kjell nods his head to the dwarf as they square off. "I faced one of your kin earlier. I look forward to another challenge." With that he rushes forward and brings down the club with a heavy swing.
A hundred and one snappy comebacks pop up in Eysteinn’s mind as the arrogant elf challenges him. Save them for later. Stay humble. Fight smart. he takes a deep breath And destroy this imbecile.
“I bear but one name, and that is Eysteinn. I fight so that I may carry another – and not in a dozen lifetimes you could hope to defeat someone carrying that name.”
He pops the cork on one of his extracts and downs it in one sip “I drink to this fight and to that name!” he smashes the vial on the ground and burps soundly, hoping noone would see any withcery in what he just did “Come see how a son of Tor and Odyn fights!” he raises his weapon, ready to strike.
___________________
Knute! Not forgotten!
The man of the two dwarves gives Knute a sympathetic light punch to the shoulder, in recognition of his rotten luck there, as he scoops up the dice. "Aye, I'm a silversmith. Not the easiest metal to work with, but blessings for your words," he says as he rolls the silver dice.
His wife (or so you assume) watches his first dice roll and says, "Oh, he's always talking about how hard silver is to work!"
"Well, it IS, woman--"
"Aha, there's my ship!"
"But you've no captain," his wife retorts, and grabs the dice up as soon as no five has been seen on the pips. "My turn. Clearly the womenfolk are the only ones who know how to gamble, here."
"See! A ship," the dwarf woman says, setting it aside. Her husband makes a face at Knute. Hilde only looks on grinning through all of this.
"...and captain..."
"...and crew, and cargo!" the dwarf-woman finishes triumphantly, though her face falls as she realizes she is one short of Hilde's impressive total. With a groan she pushes a gold finger-ring Hilde's way.
The old woman grins even bigger and picks up all her winnings. "Hehheh, nobody wins at bones against me! What next, my lovelies? You, young man, still have the stomach for another round? Know any games we old people haven't seen?"
Halla
Five Solomon nods vigorously. "Is ea! Má raibh mé den sórt sin rún a fhoghlaim, beidh mé ag scríobh sé síos, agus b'fhéidir go mbeidh sé a fhoilsiú sna leabhair ... mar do ságaí agus do filí, beidh mé a thuilleamh an onóir. Is maith liom do teoiric an nimh, cé. Ní raibh a rith liom."
He turns to look more fully at Halla. "An bhfuil tú i do chónaí anseo go léir do shaol? Mar sin, tá tú ag feiceáil orthu gach bliain?"
"Have you lived here all your life? So you have seen them every year?"
Rikka
The child gives Rikka a happy wave as she walks away, still excitedly petting the complacent pig. A warm scene, to hold against the cold that will come after today.
Wandering anywhere in particular, Rikka?
Kjell
Kjell swings his club, putting his height and his momentum behind it-- and he needs it too, for the dwarf woman is only a second too slow in bringing up her shield, giving Kjell the window needed to bring it down on her shoulder.
She grunts and staggers back a step, but she does not fall.
"Well struck, human," she says, and swings with her own weapon, aiming to take out a knee and bring the big human down to size.
Apparently, Kjell really did something to that shoulder when he landed his hit-- the dwarf is off-balance and clumsy, and there's a muttered dwarven curse as she misses horribly.
Eysteinn
His father is watching. How, exactly, this makes Eysteinn feel-- nervous, happy, tense-- is for his own heart to know, but what he shows outwardly is pure competence: he steps forward while the elf is still smiling at his high words, and lands a rib-bruising hit with the wooden sword.
The elf is definitely not smiling as he staggers back, hissing and bringing his own blade up. Teeth bared, he lunges back at Eysteinn with his own 'sword'.
Yet his attack doesn't connect. Eysteinn is blessed... or lucky... or skilled.
Kjell quicksteps to the side as the dwarf attacks, dodging her off-balance strike. He retaliates with one of his own, another heavy blow from above.
Rikka wanders along the streets, chatting up locals and perusing the goods for trade. If a particular item or person catches her interest, she slaps a smile on her face and approaches...
Eysteinn is happy that the extracts works, as the elf’s blow is a wide miss; he does stay concentrated on the fight, turning his defense into a powerful offense, trying to press his advantage after the first successful exchange of hits.
That is the reason he is so disappointed when his swing at the elf’s head passes half a foot too high, not even grazing the blond hair. Dammit.
Kjell
Kjell lands another telling blow, using his height to his advantage. The dwarf grunts as she catches the full force of the blow a second time, staggering back.
Doggedly, she attempts to return the favor with some bruises of her own, although she's breathing raggedly and seems much the worse for wear from Kjell's strikes.
Kjell's chain shirt saves him any bruising. One more solid hit will surely win him the fight!
Eysteinn
The elf smirks as he dances easily below Eysteinn's second swing.
"Was the first luck, do you think?"
His practice sword darts low, to stab Eysteinn in the thigh.
Yet the elf comes no closer to hitting Eysteinn than Eysteinn had him... a scowl briefly appears over the elegant face.
Just like a few minutes before with Olaf, Eysteinn’s and the elf’s weapons keep flailing without making much of an impact on the opponents. It is frustrating and possibly quite boring for the crowd Let’s spice it up. This guy likes to talk anyway.
“Aye, perhaps for me it was. But for you, was it a lifetime of clumsiness?”
Knute offers the male dwarf a commiserating smile and claps him on the back as he sees the dwarf's throws miss the mark as well.
"At least silversmithing is an honest profession." He drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seems these womens' skills lie in insulting us and winning our money."
He grimaces as Hilde scoops up all the winnings. "Aye, I'm here to stay. I've a mind to prove you wrong," the young Ulfen says to Hilde. He tosses a medium-sized sack of salt onto the table . "It wouldn't be as honorable to beat you with a game you don't know." Knute grins. "What do you say to a game of Soldier?"
Five Solomon nods vigorously. "Is ea! Má raibh mé den sórt sin rún a fhoghlaim, beidh mé ag scríobh sé síos, agus b'fhéidir go mbeidh sé a fhoilsiú sna leabhair ... mar do ságaí agus do filí, beidh mé a thuilleamh an onóir. Is maith liom do teoiric an nimh, cé. Ní raibh a rith liom."
He turns to look more fully at Halla. "An bhfuil tú i do chónaí anseo go léir do shaol? Mar sin, tá tú ag feiceáil orthu gach bliain?"
"Is ea," she answers slowly. She has seen the elves every year as she has seen reindeer and foxes: as something that exists without delving into the details. She wouldn't have taken a second look at the grasses and plants that brought her to the attention of Old Palli if Maeve hadn't convinced her they could be valuable.
Eysteinn
The elf's scowl turns into a glower. "It's the mud of your stinking village that slows my feet," he retorts. "What's your excuse?"
His tongue is quicker than his blade. Again Eysteinn evades.
Knute
"All women are skilled at such arts," the dwarf grumbles. By his red cheeks and the scent of ale on his breath, you would guess he's deep in his cups. He's an older dwarf, black hair streaked with gray, and his beard is tied with a heavy silver clasp at its end. More silver gleams at his fingers in the form of well-worked rings, and a chain of thick silver links hangs at his throat.
Hilde laughs in delight at Knute's words, and at his tossing in the salt-measure. "Oh, yes, very good! Such nerve. Where were you when I was twenty, Iver?"
She pauses, then her brows knit. "Wait, you're not Iver. You're-- Iver's boy? Gods weep, when did you grow up...."
Shaking her head, Hilde tosses in some of her own winnings to the pool for the game of Soldiers. "Right, so we're to form our troops for the warband..."
Again, Hilde's old, claw-like hands clutch up the dice, as the two dwarves rummage for their wagers. She tosses them with a clatter of metal.
"Ach! That won't do!" Hilde says, glowering down at the dice. "...though... I'm just one dice off the straight, aren't I? Ahhh... nothing ventured, nothing gained!"
She picks up one of the twos, and rerolls it.
The dwarves both simultaneously curse (well, Knute thinks it's a curse, it's in dwarf-tongue) as the dice gives Hilde exactly what she needs. The man lunges to his feet. "Old crone, let me see your hands! I swear you cheat!" he blusters, but Hilde shows off both hands with her eyes twinkling.
"My father was an elf, Master Silverforge-- that's the only cheating in me," she chuckles, and graciously passes the dice to Knute.
Halla
The elves are strange visitors. There are rumors that they have some sort of arrangement with the village to cause Hofn to have good fortune, though Halla has never heard of what this arrangement might be, nor has she lived somewhere else to know if, say, the harvest is worse in other places. Despite how very amicable the elves are on Jol-day, it is said one finds them much less congenial the rest of the year-- that some half-elves have gone off in search of their kin, or a human seeking out the lover they had one night's pleasure with-- to find nothing, no trace of them at all, and possibly to perish in the deep snows of winter.
Some claim to have caught a glimpse of the elves in high summer, when the sky is endless blue and the grasses are briefly green-- claiming to see a flash of colorful skin off in the woods, or hear lilting music-- but nobody has ever had any verified contact with an elf on any day but today.
Most of the girls in the village dream of being chosen by one of the elf-men as partner for the night of Jol-- the elves are, after all, beautiful, captivating, and charming. Yet not all the young women share this idea, and especially among those who have a few more years under their belt, there is a certain cool cynicism about the elves, who love for a night and then leave you to do the work of rearing the child.
Nor do only the elf men take lovers. Elf women bed human men as well... though there seems to be slightly less enthusiasm for that among the men of the village. Perhaps there's something vaguely emasculating about being chosen by a woman who's just as tall as you are, if not taller? Still, there are plenty men who swear that once you've known the touch of an elf-lady, all else pales.
If these latter unions produce children, nobody in Hofn has ever seen them.
Though the elves are regarded largely as benevolent, and any child who was heard to be speaking negatively of an elf would receive a quick reprimand and a cuff upside the ear, children's stories persist all the same: whispers that if you walk under the moon at night and you haven't prayed to Tor that day, the elves might snatch you up and steal you away to be their own. Or that if you are lost in the woods and you hear music, you know you will never see home again, but wander the woods until you die an old man.
Many an enterprising youth has tried to track the elves when they leave Jol-- or to scout out their approach-- to no success. It is unknown where they live, that they bring such bounty of fruit and vegetable to Jol in the middle of winter.
Occasionally, one will hear an elf, at Jol, say something that, for lack of a better term, seems downright cruel or cold. The elf is quick to laugh it off, to apologize for any offense given, but there is a slight sense that one develops over years of seeing the elves that they are, perhaps, trying to be on their best behavior for the feastday, just as the humans are, and that perhaps in another context they might not be so pleasant.
Rys, the leader, has come to Jol as long as anyone living can recall. He always seems the same, pale and bleached and humorless, and takes little obvious joy in the celebration, unlike the other elves. As for them, it is not usual to see the same elf come two years in a row, although they certainly do return. All elves who come to Jol seem to be fully grown adults.