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Dawn breaks cold but bright, the heavy storms and gray skies of midwinter cleared for one day... as has happened each year, in Hofn, for as long as anyone can recall. No matter the weather for weeks before Jól, the day of the solstice itself is always free from clouds, and the sun shows her face one last time before the starving months begin.
Children wake their parents, if their parents have not been up already for hours with preparations. The weeks before the Jólboð, the solstice feast, are busy ones: hunters dare the deep snows for game worthy of being served at the feast; craftsmen hurry to put finishing touches on the best examples of their work; mothers threaten their children with staying home if they do not behave; and cooks cook.
The footpaths through the village of Hofn have been swept of snow. Tables are dragged out into the sun so that crafted wares may be displayed. Throughout the village, the dogs bark, sensing the excitement and activity of the day. One's best clothes, if one is fortunate enough to own feast-day clothes, are hurriedly donned, and everywhere people prepare to make merry.
Even the thralls perk up-- their lot has been harder than usual, as making ready for the feast demands more work from them, as well-- but on Jól-day, they too will eat rich food, play at games of sport, and hear tales of heroes. Tomorrow, the work will begin again, but today is for pleasure and awe, novelty and delights. Today, a thrall can walk as a free-man.
The air is thick with the smells of cooking food. Vast bonfires are lit that will burn all through the day, and into the long night. Children, as well as those who are old enough to know better but are young today, run through the streets from house to house, hammering on the doors of their friends. Houses are full: those who live on outlying homesteads came to the village the night before, to crowd into the homes of siblings and cousins, and a dozen other human visitors have arrived over the last week, so that nearly every home has a guest or several sharing their hearth.
An hour after dawn, one of the unlucky souls who has drawn watch-duty for the day lights the signal torch in his tower: the elves are coming.
The village enters a last spurt of frantic activity. Those in the village with no task that needs doing right that second rush to line the street by the north-gate. Children beg to be lifted onto shoulders. Pointed elbows are used in the negotiations for prime real estate, and excited whispers pass between young and old alike.
Hrolf Half-Hand, the goði of Hofn, comes to the gate with his lady wife Dagmar at his side. Hrolf is a large man, six-and-a-half-feet tall, and while age is beginning to frost his yellow beard, he still wears the sword with which he slew the ice monster Fjǫrlag, which bit the two fingers from his left hand. Rich gold shines at Hrolf's ears and his fingers; his cloak is white sable and his tunic is red silk trimmed with gold braid. Around his strong right arm is the silver of the stalla-hringr, the oath-ring, and Hrolf Half-Hand stands tall, a jarl to whom many have sworn oaths, and to whom he has given gold in turn, generous and great.
Behind Hrolf and Dagmar stand their two eldest sons, Leif and Harald; and Yngvi Wyrmtongue, the skald of Hofn, and Astrid Eikbrunr, the húskarl to the goði, his most trusted warrior and second of the war-band.
A hush descends over the crowd of those watching as the voice of the gate-guard can be heard, ringing out the old question, with the weight of a hundred years behind it:
"Who comes to the gate seeking entrance, on Jól-day?"
And the answer comes, in a lilting voice that makes music out of the strong-sounding Skald tongue: "We come; the ljósálfar, the children of the sun and the stars, the fair people. We come bearing gifts. We come to honor the old agreements and renew them again. We come as guests. Will we find welcome, manling?"
"Enter and be welcome! Hofn receives you!"
The gate is opened, and people crane their eyes for the spectacle of the elves. A score of them enter, and though the day is yet cold, they are dressed as if for the warmest of summers, in bright colors and thin, light fabric that floats with the barest of breezes. The elves are tall and slim, like birch trees, and they are passing strange to see: they move over the ground as if their feet barely touch it. They are beautiful-- but it is a strange beauty, a distant beauty. The eyes of the elves shine like jewels, but every child knows not to meet their gaze for too long.
Here is one clad in a cloak of raven-feathers, shining blue-black beneath the sun; here is one with skin that gleams like gold, and black hair that falls free all the way to his knees; here is one whose skin is white as bone, and hair dark as a starless night.
Behind them come their horses, long of limb and with delicate heads, laden with baskets and bags.
One of the elves-- dressed all in gray, with gray hair, and skin like ashes-- moves to Hrolf Half-Hand, and the two leaders murmur words and greetings unheard by the crowd. A child breaks the silence with a plaintive, "But where are the presents, Mama?", and his mother claps a horrified hand over his mouth.
The elves answer the child's rudeness with soft laughter, like tiny silver bells. One of them, a woman with skin the color of blue ice, sweeps a bow to the child, and tosses him a small pouch. The little boy quickly wrenches it open: a cloud of butterflies erupt, scarlet and indigo and amethyst wings flashing in the sunlight as they fly into the blue sky.
It's Jól-day in Hofn. The elves are here. Anything can happen.
Knute pushes forward, straining to gain a glimpse of the elves, but the Ulfen are packed so tightly he might as well try to move the wooden palisade around the village. Knute and Rikissa arrived late at the gates after the former slept in, exhausted from the long hunting trip he'd returned from two days ago. To make up for his delay, the Ulfen struggles particularly earnestly against the crowd. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd grown another inch or two, to put him over the heads of the throng surrounding him.
"Come, mother", the unfortunately average-sized Ulfen calls, "I want to see what the elves have brought this year! Halvar will be disappointed if we left him watching the shop and we didn't even get to see the elves!" He cranes his head, looking for a glimpse of what this year's Jól-day has brought, as he tries to make a path forward for himself and Rikissa.
The two are hoping to get Halvar some of that elven pitch he is always raving about. ("Not a drop of water on the deck. Not a drop!") Maybe I can also try some of those fine elven spirits, Knute thinks. The man carries a prize raccoon fur under his arm, the best he's got all year, as a gift to the elves.
Hugging her cloak around herself on the edge of the crowd, Halla catches her breath as the butterflies burst into the air, their colors so bright against the white of the snow, the dark gray of the sea and the rocks, and the black of the frozen mud and leafless trees that they seem to hurt her eyes.
Even Maeve notices from her place ... wherever. What's that? It's too cold for the Swallowtail Festival.
What's a Swallowtail?
A butterfly. A blue one like that. We released them on the first day of autumn every year, to celebrate they day a child saved Desna and she turned him into a butterfly as a reward.
A child saved your goddess, and she turned him into an insect? Halla questions dryly. What would she have done to punish him?
Don't blaspheme, Maeve answers sharply. He became an immortal butterfly to explore the wonders of the world forever.
"Ansin riamh tháinig sé anseo," she answers, looking around at the barren landscape. The people nearest her give her an uneasy glance and edge away, and she realizes she spoke out loud. Meeting the nervous women's eyes with an impassive gaze, she nevertheless obliges them by moving further away from their children, skirting the edge of the gathering to get a better view of the visitors.
In comparison to the elves' almost ethereal crossing of the white fields, comes another set of figures - slogging inelegantly through the snow towards the gate. Far in the wake of the elves, a slightly built Ulfen woman with a boar-spear gently herds a small animal that snorts and leaps through the snow drifts. As they draw closer, the wind carries snatches of the woman's words to any that stay to listen. "...et along there... greens an a nice rest... lazy sausage!"
As the duo approaches the gate, the townsfolk see the newcomers are a young woman with the mane of unruly blond-ish hair prodding a well-fed (i.e.fat-bellied) young boar in front of her. Stranger still... the boar's wiry hair has been selectively shaved to reveal its skin which bears a score of tattoos in various sizes, themes, and colors - from coin-sized runes to large, elaborate tribal patterns.
The woman turns her attention on the gate and guard. "Hail and well met! I'm a trader come to enjoy Jól among you and ply my trade. Are strangers of good will welcome?"
Knute
Njall, the tall-and-burly master smith of Hofn, sees Knute struggling to clear a path for his mother and himself, and rumbles a chuckle from his barrel chest as he steps back and gestures them forward to a place closer to the spectacle.
"Here, Iversson-- I need to be readying my wares anyway," he says in a deep baritone. "Let your mother forward."
The big man graciously yields his place and lumbers off to where his table is set up, outside his forge. Rikissa pushes forward with a smile to just behind the row of small children who have wormed their way right next to the road.
Knute can see the elves. Many of them carry fine bows, as long as Knute is tall; graceful and supple lengths of wood. One elf in particular catches his eye: she is the tallest elf and as tall as Hrolf himself, though where he walks the earth like a bear, she seems more akin to a valkyrie. Her skin gleams with a sheen of silver, and her hair is golden, falling to the center of her back in a long, heavy braid. Her eyes are blue as the sky in summer... but what really captures Knute's attention is that her attire is all hides and furs, unlike the seemingly-too-light clothes of her companions.
The white-and-black fur of a snow leopard forms her tunic, and a short cloak of sable fur hangs on her shoulders. Her boots are tufted with the white fur of the ice bear, unless Knute misses his guess, and her belt boasts a pouch made from a skinned fox.
The woman's blue eyes alight briefly on the raccoon fur, then glance up to his face; she smiles and keeps walking.
Halla
The incongruous butterflies seem in no hurry to leave the village entirely. They continue to float around, lighting mostly on the upturned faces of the excited children, but drifting around with the wind.
Halla edges to the outskirts of things... where she is often more comfortable anyway. She has just gotten comfortable when a hand swathed in thick fur mittens taps her awkwardly on the shoulder.
"Ex-cuse? I am regret, but is it yes, I hear you speak Varis-tongue?" says a male voice, in very poor, and broken, Skald. The speaker is someone who... she does not know, which would be odd any other day of the year, but then, Jól-day has had visitors arriving. For that matter, she can see very little of him other than the skin just around his eyes, which is a rich brown like river-soil. The rest of him is heavily bundled in furs, as if he thought he were in the middle of a storm, and not standing under broad sunlight.
Rikka
The voice at the gate calls down, "All who come with good will are welcome on this day! Well met to you, and enter the Safe-Harbor!"
The gate is opened again, and Rikka is free to enter. Though on most days, a boar as singular in appearance as her fat friend would garner much interest, at the moment she is merely a footnote to the more colorful procession that is making its way down the main 'road' ahead of her. A few throw glances her way, and tip their heads in greeting with bigger smiles than Rikka is perhaps used to seeing-- hospitality is the word of the day today, in Hofn.
A woman who looks old as dirt grabs at the shoulder of a probable younger relative and gestures with her walking stick at the boar. "Oh now! That's a fine walking meal you've brought, stranger! Now, do all those markings mar the taste?" she yells, grinning and revealing several silver teeth, at least, those she still has left.
"Ex-cuse? I am regret, but is it yes, I hear you speak Varis-tongue?" says a male voice, in very poor, and broken, Skald. The speaker is someone who... she does not know, which would be odd any other day of the year, but then, Jól-day has had visitors arriving. For that matter, she can see very little of him other than the skin just around his eyes, which is a rich brown like river-soil. The rest of him is heavily bundled in furs, as if he thought he were in the middle of a storm, and not standing under broad sunlight.
Halla's first inclination is to pretend she doesn't understand the stranger's labored Skald and move away into the crowd, but Maeve will have none of it. "Labhraíonn tú an teanga?" she demands eagerly of the bundled man. "An bhfuil tú ann le déanaí? Cá bhfuil tú ó?"
The day began for Dagrun as most do. Having stayed up too late reading a book on strategy (Tunnel Warfare by a dwarf called Grunder Stoneoath), he slept through breakfast, and was unamused when his elder brother Finnviðr came into his room and woke him by grabbing one edge of his straw mattress and lifting, spilling Dagrun onto the floor in a tangle of blankets and books. Unleashing a stream of Dwarven profanity, Dagrun chased Finn from the room, and out of the house, only to find that it had been a setup. His other brother, Ragni, was waiting alongside the front door with a large bucket of cold water. As Dagrun stood there, soaked and shaking, his brothers doubled over with laughter, Torgi walked out of the house. Shaking his head, he started down the lane towards the town gate, saying over his shoulder to Dagrun, "Get cleaned up, and meet us there, boy."
After making himself presentable, Dagrun arrived at the gate just in time to witness a child opening a pouch full of... butterflies? With a smile, Dagrun began to search the crowd for his family.
Today is a day of celebration and feasts, and there’s one priority in Eysteinn’s mind: avoid any conflict or resentment with his father, or relatives. Which means, avoiding his family entirely.
The young man stands at the border of the crowd coming to cheer the elves. He is tall enough to see something, and at least he’s avoiding a ribcage bruised by elbows.
“Nábúi, pull me up, pull me up! I can’t see anything!” Bjǫrsi, a kid of eight who lives next to his mother’s house and used to play with his younger brothers, is pulling his sleeve. Eysteinn smiles down to the boy “Come here, you cub!” he lifts the boy and sits him on his shoulders “How come you are not with your mother?”
“She was late, I don’t want to miss the elfs!”
“Elves, Bjǫrsi, they’re called elves. Don’t let them hear you messing up their name, least they’ll steal your voice!” he bites his tongue as soon as he's finished talking Yeah, good job, Eysteinn... let's associate your name with even more superstition, that's what you need.
The alchemist and the kid move a bit closer to the crowd. Bjǫrsi is delighted in seeing all the exotic-looking elves, and doesn’t shut up one moment about them. Eysteinn is enjoying the show too – he just remembers when his father used to carry him like he’s carrying his neighbor.
Oh, there’s uncle Torgi’s crew he thinks when he sees Dagrum and brothers in the crowd Let’s just hope they’re not in a pranking mood today… he doesn’t wave to his cousins, but neither intentionally hides from them, either…
Halla
The man seems taken aback by Halla's (well, Maeve's) sudden eagerness, but he nods. He steps back a pace and puts one mittened hand over his heart, bows to her-- he is ignorant, it seems, that he speaks to a thrall, and that he is not obligated to such courtesy with her.
"Sea, labhairt liom an teanga ... Bhí mé ann i bhfómhar na bliana ... i bhfad ó dheas; tá mo theach ar a dtugtar Qadira. Tá mé onóir bualadh leat, bhean. Tá tú ó Varisia?"
His Varisian is not perfect, a little halting, and thickly accented, but it's better than his Skald, at least.
Dagrun
It's easy enough to find your brothers and father, clustered in front of Njall the blacksmith's shop, where they can divide their attention between the wares Njall is setting out and the view of the elves. When Dagrun joins them, Ragni elbows him in the ribs and points towards one of the elves, who is dressed in blue silks trimmed with russet, and whose hair glints like copper beneath the sun.
"Look, Dag-- he has a child's sword like yours," Rangi laughs, indicating the long, thin blade at the elf's side. "Though I think he has fancied his up more!"
Eysteinn
Bjǫrsi's heels dig into Eysteinn's broad chest and the child grabs at his hair, which the Ulfen endures with patient indulgence, as the boy cranes to see and babbles excitedly about the elfs/elves.
Uncle Torgi meets Eysteinn's eyes briefly across the crowd, and gives him the smallest of nods of acknowledgment, but no hint of a smile, before the older warrior returns his gaze to the discussion happening between his sons.
"--look, look at that one! His skin is green! And he has feathers in his hair!"
Knute glances down at his raccoon fur and grimaces. I could run back to the shop to get some of that salted venison we just made… His thoughts trail off as he is overwhelmed by the aroma coming from some of the sacks the elves are carrying. His mouth waters at the smell of fresh, warm pastries. Knute sighs. It’s the thought that counts, right?
”I was hoping we’d have something to equal their gifts this year,” the Ulfen grumbles to no one in particular.
After a short while, Knute perks up; it’s impossible to be glum for long on Jól. Maybe I can at least get them to tell me how they make those magnificent bows, he thinks, or better yet, where they hunt those ice bears and other beasts they always seem to tell tales of. He grins at the thought.
The man seems taken aback by Halla's (well, Maeve's) sudden eagerness, but he nods. He steps back a pace and puts one mittened hand over his heart, bows to her-- he is ignorant, it seems, that he speaks to a thrall, and that he is not obligated to such courtesy with her.
"Sea, labhairt liom an teanga ... Bhí mé ann i bhfómhar na bliana ... i bhfad ó dheas; tá mo theach ar a dtugtar Qadira. Tá mé onóir bualadh leat, bhean. Tá tú ó Varisia?"
His Varisian is not perfect, a little halting, and thickly accented, but it's better than his Skald, at least.
Maeve knows nothing of Qadira. Typical, Halla reprimands her bitterly, jump into something and then leave me with the awkward conversation.
"Níl, a rugadh mé anseo," she answers flatly. It is strange to her to be speaking Varisian to anyone but Maeve, but he seems more fluent in that language than in Skald; besides, she feels unexpectedly vindicated to finally have proof that Maeve's language is real. Looking at the southerner bundled up as if for a blizzard, she remembers the story of the swallowtail and asks, "Cén fáth a bhfuil thaistil tú go dtí seo le teacht anseo?"
The solstice: a time of year when all can revel in wonder and joy, whether jarl, karl, or thrall. Even a freedman can experience some peace and happiness on a day like this--were he not still shaking off a night's drinking.
Kjell opens the door from his modest home--a shack that he built alongside his father years before--and winces at the sun. Of course, the solstice, there'll be sun. Bright and piercing. He looks down at the mostly-empty bottle still clutched in his hand, shakes it, frowns, and holds it up to eye level. "Almost out," he murmurs to himself, then lifts it to his lips and drains the last dregs. It's awful stuff, but it does the job. He wipes his mouth with the back of his arm and drops the bottle to the ground. Have to get more from that Eysteinn fellow later.
With a groan, the man picks up his apron and tool belt for woodcarving, hefts a pair of logs onto his shoulders, and sets off for the main area of town. Once there, he sets one log on the ground, sits on it, and puts the other before him. Eyeing the gathered crowd--the festivities have already begun, the elves have already arrived--he begins to carve the log, slowly but surely shaping it...
A woman who looks old as dirt grabs at the shoulder of a probable younger relative and gestures with her walking stick at the boar. "Oh now! That's a fine walking meal you've brought, stranger! Now, do all those markings mar the taste?" she yells, grinning and revealing several silver teeth, at least, those she still has left.
Rikka laughs at the insightful question as she herds the boar forward, "His taste is spoiled alright... but that's because he's lazy and gone to fat! The only thing my ink did was tenderize his skin a bit." Rikka considers her approach for just a moment. "But let's talk about your skin, Mother. How would you like a bit of ink? Perhaps a rune of power: Thorn to protect you, Laguz to enhance your intuition, or Os to announce your wisdom and authority? A wise woman never scorns a bit of help, eh? I'll make you a good deal, Mother, in honor of Jól. If you'll be first to feel my needle, I'll give you the rune of your choice, in the color of your choice - for free. Show the nervous men here a woman's steel! What say you?"
Rikka tarries while herding the boar, waiting for the old woman's answer. Tattooing her offers both immediate and longterm opportunities.
Knute
Rikissa chuckles and pats Knute's shoulder. "Hope springs eternal," she says. "But that's a fine fur, Knute-- 'tis not the size of the beast, your father always used to say, but the skill in the skinning that matters. Don't hang your head."
(Mothers are obligated to be supportive in all cultures.)
Halla
The man seems quite happy to have found someone he can speak more easily with; the corners of his eyes crinkle and he tugs down the furs over his face to reveal more skin, browned by a sun hotter than ever shone in the northlands. He has a thin, hawk-like nose, and a beard that would shame most Ulfen men: carefully cut and shaved so only a thin stripe of black hair outlines his mouth and forms a point on his chin.
"Tá mé aimsitheoir na cosáin, a sheoltar ó na cathrach ag an lár an domhain. Tá mé ag scríobh ar ... taifead, ó thuaidh-tailte. Cloisim ráflaí an lá seo, anseo, mar sin tháinig mé a fheiceáil. Logh dom, tá mé ar a dtugtar Faysal ibn Khalid - cad é mo bhean an t-ainm?"
He struggles a few times with the longer speech, halting over words but still smiling.
Kjell
The noise and laughter makes Kjell's aching head pound, but he takes solace in the fact that in short order, today, there will be free ale, and cider, and even mead-- to say nothing of whatever wines the elves bring. Though the bit he is looking forward to the most is when the dwarves arrive... they brew a strong brew. And tonight, there will be the drinking contest...
For now, he finds a spot in the sun and sets to stripping bark from the log, then chipping at it with chisel and mallet. Despite his hangover, he settles smoothly into a work rhythm, turning the log as necessary, chipping and shaping to create a....?
Rikka
The old woman claps her hands with amusement and rocks back and forth, delighted by Rikka's offer. "My skin's too saggy and sad to be marking, girl! Where were you a hundred years ago, when my dugs rode high--"
"GrandmoTHER--" groans a middle-aged man next to her, looking embarrassed, but the silver-toothed woman ignores her relative's words and just yells louder over the crowd (to snorting and head-shaking from those around her).
"I'll take you up on that offer, stranger! Os will do me-- maybe then my children will heed my words, do you think? Geir, boy, grab my stool, see where the girl sets up her work, now do it today, not yesterday..."
The elves claim a section of the cleared road to spread out hides and arrange their own wares on top of it. The sun is rising higher, now, and Hrolf Half-Hand gets to his feet atop the big stump, motioning for silence and more-or-less getting it.
"To all who've come to us today, we extend as always our hospitality! Let the gods smile on the meeting of people in peace, in merriment and with brother-kindness between them! Let the gods smile on a day when blades are drawn only for play, and the mead flows and gifts are given to all! Let Tor be among us as a drinking-brother, not a war-leader; let Odyn grant us his wit, and not his tricking; and let Freyja rule those who would be so ruled!"
Lady Dagmar offers up a great drinking horn to Hrolf, filled with sweet mead: he raises it into the air.
"The first mead, to Tor!" he cries, and pours the libation out onto the snow. The people of Hofn cheer loudly, and with that, the celebration has officially begun.
In short order, there seem to be a hundred different activities vying for your attention. Selling your goods, sampling ale from the great kegs that have been set up, helping yourself to some of the roasting meats and other treats that are free to be grabbed.... talking with the visitors, both human and elven... games of chance, games of strength, games of wits; storytelling and riddles, horse-riding, archery-- if you can name it, it can be done.
Ice Skating An ice-skating competition, with races for those who are sure of footing! Held on the frozen pond that feeds the waterfall. Well, when the waterfall itself isn't frozen, anyway.
Odyn and Lokke This is a game of lying... and calling others out on their lies. Participants agree to tell two truths and one lie about themselves, and it is the part of the other players to discern which is which. If you tell a certain number of lies without being caught, you win; if you catch a certain number of liars in the act, you win!
The Cold Climb Where the waterfall plunges into the harbor, the wind has sent the spray onto the rocks nearby... and the cold has frozen the spray. This has resulted in a rock face covered with a treacherous, dangerous sheen of ice. It is the height of bravery (or stupidity) to climb here... which means it's a great party activity! The sixty-foot climb must be accomplished without a rope, though tools such as an ice axe are allowed. Nobody has succeeded at the climb in several years. Though falling means you will probably land in the harbor, and can be fished out with nothing more than some truly impressive bruises, there's always that risk of hitting a rock rather than the waves, or hitting the water at just the wrong angle...
Master the Hounds You are partnered with one of Hrolf's best hounds and given some strips of dried meat... you must lead the dog through several tricks and commands.
Riddles of Odyn The oldest of games... a wisdom-contest, to test your cunning.
Skald competition The crowd decides the winner, here! Those who would win favor and entertain the village at large may take the stump and perform as suits them-- epic poetry, dance, song, jests...
The Blind Hunter Like Odyn and Lokke, you may take one of two roles in this game. The Blind Hunter is blindfolded, while his prey are not. They move closer each round, attempting to get close enough to touch the Hunter; he, in turn, tries to hear them coming and point to those approaching.
Riding Sven Audigr brought back a horse on his most recent trading mission, and a glorious horse it is. The black stallion stands 17 hands at the shoulder, and so far, nobody in the village has been able to ride him. Can YOU conquer the beast?
The Drowning Game Because Vikings Ulfen are crazy. A pit has been dug in the frozen earth and water dumped in, as well as hot stones to keep the temperature somewhat warmer than, say, seawater. Contestants try to pin their opponents underwater for a set period of time. An excellent sport when the snow is piled ten feet high behind the houses.
Fightin'! The dueling and sparring at Jólboð is all done with wrapped or wooden blades, so nobody dies, but cracked ribs and broken fingerbones are not uncommon. The goal is to beat your opponent until they surrender or pass out, so there's a fair bit of machismo involved as well as actual skill.
Wrasslin'! Fight like a bear, not a man! Well, you probably don't have claws, but still. Contestants seek to pin each other to the ground.
Board games Both the imported shah and the native game of jarl's guard are enjoyed and played.
Archery What it says on the tin. Contestants set up to fire at an archery target a hundred feet away. Points are awarded for bullseyes... and deducted for horrible misses.
Gambling Ah, to roll the dice! Several games of Ship of Fools can be found. Unlike all other competitions, you must pay to roll the bones and dance with Fate.
Stone hurling What better way to test the might of your arms than to chuck a heavy rock a considerable distance?
The Foot-race Runners start at the harbor-gate and race along the edge of the cliff, up the steep switchback trail, and to the guard tower at the top. It is a test of both speed and endurance.
Selling your wares/practicing your craft Characters who have taken ranks in crafting/profession skills have the option to 'man the shop' for their hourly check. The check will be considered to represent weeks of crafting they have done leading up to the solstice, and thus, to represent the quality of their finished work, in the case of finished goods. Additionally, bartering may increase the amount of ingots/trade goods you obtain.
The best of the hunt Characters who have Survival or a similarly relevant skill (such as Profession: Hunter) can, if they wish, have been participating in the general hunting of feast-game over the last few weeks, as well. This check is considered to represent the sum of all the game you brought in for the feast. Hrolf awards the best hunter with a prize.
General socializing/shopping/etc Whatever you want to do! Enjoy the food, talk to interesting people, etc. Pure roleplay, but if you want to make skill checks, you never know what might happen.
Setting to work, Kjell soon falls into a rhythm, chiseling here, scraping there, carving out unruly knots in the wood and smoothing its surface. He turns it this way and that, occasionally lifting it to balance on his knees or even, once it has been carved down significantly, lifting it in one hand while gently carving with the other. Though it takes some time, he eventually finishes.
Held in Kjell's hands as he stands, his tools back in their place, is a wooden carving of the god Odyn, standing with his spear in hand. At his feet lies a wolf, and on his shoulder is perched a raven. The entire piece is styled to look like the old carvings, paintings, and tapestries of Ulfens hundreds of years before. It is a sturdy enough construction, and at nearly a foot and a half tall, would make a fine decorative piece for a home.
Kjell heads for the main square, where he stands by, eating and drinking from the free selections, with his statue on the log before him. Hopefully showing the carving will drum up business, and I'll make more than last year. Think this is better than that carving of Tor, anyway.
Dagrun looks up at Ragni. "Let us hope he doesn't have a child's mind, like yours, to go with it, brother." he says. Turning away for a moment to give Ragni sufficient time to try to think up a response, he spots his cousin Eysteinn in the crowd, a child on his shoulders.Smiling, he waves in acknowledgement.
"Thanks, mother," Knute mumbles, remembering the superb job his father used to do at both hunting *and* skinning. He always made it seem so easy. Still, Rikissa's comment does make Knute feel better, and later Knute's chest swells with pride as he sees a table piled high with meat for the feast, some of which he had contributed over the past few weeks.
After looking at a few of the wares set out by the elves and helping themselves to some of the plentiful food (Odin's beard, those pastries were good!) Knute and Rikissa head back to their shop. Knute stays to run the butchery and trade their fish, game, and other goods while Rikissa and Halvar head out to enjoy the festival. He proudly sells both his and Halvar's catches, and carefully inspects the various coins, trade goods, and other items exchanged to ensure his family gets a fair deal.
Rikissa and Halvar return (Halvar with some of that pitch he wanted) after only an hour. "Go have fun!" they say in unison at Knute's surprised expression. The two grin as he dashes to his room and grabs his bow, no doubt off to try and outdo Red Alf in the archery contest. Again.
And so Knute finds himself squinting down line of his arrow, pointing at a small target 100 ft away...
The man seems quite happy to have found someone he can speak more easily with; the corners of his eyes crinkle and he tugs down the furs over his face to reveal more skin, browned by a sun hotter than ever shone in the northlands. He has a thin, hawk-like nose, and a beard that would shame most Ulfen men: carefully cut and shaved so only a thin stripe of black hair outlines his mouth and forms a point on his chin.
"Tá mé aimsitheoir na cosáin, a sheoltar ó na cathrach ag an lár an domhain. Tá mé ag scríobh ar ... taifead, ó thuaidh-tailte. Cloisim ráflaí an lá seo, anseo, mar sin tháinig mé a fheiceáil. Logh dom, tá mé ar a dtugtar Faysal ibn Khalid - cad é mo bhean an t-ainm?"
He struggles a few times with the longer speech, halting over words but still smiling.
Halla tries not to stare at the strange thing he's done with his beard. Like when Eivar fell in the sea-buckthorns and the burs had to be cut out with shears.
"Five Solomon Hallit," she repeats, stumbling over the multiple syllables in the name. "Tá mé Halla. An bhfuil daoine labhairt i ndáiríre ar Jól ag an lár an domhain? Anois go bhfuil tú ag feiceáil air, cad a bheidh tú ag scríobh mar gheall air?"
Eysteinn lets Bjorsi down from his shoulders and the kid runs to his mother. The young alchemist walks by the booths where other townsfolk are trying to sell their goods Mmm… later, perhaps. Let’s have father, and Hrolf, see me behave like “a real man” first. Then perhaps they’ll close an eye on the brewing.
That said, he moves to the more testosterone-filled corner of the fair – well, except perhaps the drowning pit That’s going to be few lotions against frostbite and chilblains... and hopefully no one will actually drown. Passing the pit, he finds himself at the stone hurling contest.
He takes off his heavy coat (and the many vials therein contained), and faces the competition with just a shirt and a bottle in his hand – he managed to make his “bottled rage” smell like the worst of hooch “Well then!” he salutes “Can any of you old warriors toss that pebble farther than you can pee?” Damn my mouth. You could do without the taunting, come on now, be smart!
He waits for his turn to come – when it’s time to throw, he drinks his “hooch”, squeezes his eyes, slaps himself in the face and forces a belch – just as if he’s been drinking something truly awful.
Hour 1 (Kjell, Halla)
Kjell
The shape of Odyn emerges from the wood, drawn forth by the skill of Kjell's big, callused hands and his tools. A few of the village stop to watch, looking on with more warmth in their tone than they do other days of the year. With his carving complete, Kjell helps himself to a cup of the thick, heady, ale, which he supplements and slices of roast pork, dripping with fat, and small fish fried in butter, and a slab of thick white cheese. The elves have brought fresh fruit-- juicy, sweet berries, red apples, and rich plums, such as would exist at the height of summer-- and there is a bowl of raspberries and honey and thick cream for the taking as well.
As he works off the last of his hangover with some hair of the dog that bit him, and the rich food of the feast, Kjell sees a man bundled in thick furs approaching, despite the sun of the day. One of the village thralls is at his side, the woman called Halla, the one probably touched in the head if the rumors are to be believed. They are talking animatedly in a tongue Kjell does not speak. The man has skin of a dark brown, and a strangely-trimmed, small beard.
The man switches to broken Skald when he sees the carving.
"This is-- good! Is it the hero of your men? I like the wolf most strongly! Is to be sold?"
He rummages in his furs for something he might trade for the wooden statue.
Halla
The stranger laughs at Halla's pronunciation of his name, but doesn't explain why it's funny.
"Níl, ach labhraíonn siad de Jol i Varisia. Nuair a thabhairt mé ar ais ar mo scéal go dtí an lár an domhain, b'fhéidir go mbeidh siad labhairt de ann, freisin. Agus beidh mé ag scríobh..."
He pauses, looks around to take in the scene.
"Beidh mé ag scríobh, go bhfuil sé cosúil leis an dath an Bazaar Mhór tháinig go dtí an taobh ó thuaidh fuar."
[b]"I will write, that it is like the color of the Great Marketplace came to the cold north."
He talks eagerly to her as they walk, asking questions about the festival and about the customs of the Ulfen people. When he sees a man carving wood , he stops to ask him questions about the carving, switching back to his poor Skald.
Having in the first five minutes exhausted any hope of intelligent conversation from his beloved brothers, Dagrun turns to his father. "I'm going to take my leave for a bit. Wander about, see things. Maybe even talk to some of the elves. If I don't run into you again, I'll see you at home."
With that, he wanders off, admiring the goods on display as he strolls along, nodding polite greetings to people he knows and offering awkward smiles to those he doesn't.
He eventually makes his way to the archery contest, watching the shooters with interest, hoping to see some elves take a turn.
Hour 1 (Knute, Eysteinn)
Knute
Knute deposits his fine raccoon fur with one of the elves, a blue-skinned woman, who smiles and bows to him although she does not speak. He returns to the butchery to sell the fish of Halvar's catches, and his own hides, venison, dried jerky, and so forth.
By the time his mother and step-father return, Knute has received fine glass beads, a jar of honey, and some silver ingots in trade.
Given leave to go and enjoy the feast, he scrambles for his bow with a big grin. His first shot, though not spectacular, he hopes to pass off as having been a practice shot.
Especially so when he sees the tall elf-woman also there, preparing for the archery competition. She has his raccoon fur tucked into her belt, so that the tail hangs down behind her.
Eysteinn
Eysteinn swaggers for the stone-throwing field, throwing back his 'booze' with the flair he's perfected to hide his drinking of something more potent than mere ale. He issues an appropriately scathing challenge to those nearby.
"I can piss quite a distance, given the size of my rod!" Leif Hrolfsson answers in turn, to appreciative laughter from several of his friends. The son of Hrolf Half-hand swaggers to the line, and gestures magnanimously for Eysteinn to go first with his three throws of the stone.
The laughter dies a bit at Eysteinn's first, impressive hurl of the rock. When his second chuck of the heavy stone goes even further, there are some scattered whistles and noises of approval among the spectators. Eysteinn can hear one of the old warriors muttering, "The boy is strong as an ox.... 'tis a damned pity, but perhaps the gods will give him another chance..."
Whether due to his own feelings on the old man's words, or just the fact that his own particular type of 'rage' doesn't burn in the muscles the natural Ulfen way, his third throw comes depressingly short.
Leif brushes off his hands, and goes to grab one of the stones himself, grunting as he hefts it up.
The first two hurls of the stone are no better than Eysteinn's last, and there is some muttering among the watchers that Leif had better watch out, lest he be beaten by a thrall... Veins bulge on Leif's temples and forearms, and his broad shoulders bunch as he puts everything he has behind the final throw of the round. It's a spectacular throw, even Eysteinn would have to grant that. The stone sails past Eysteinn's furthest throw, and lands in a spray of mud and snow.
A mighty roar goes up at Leif's hurling, but Astrid Eikbrunr, watching the contest and drinking from a deep horn, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and yells out, "Aye, that was a good a throw, but which matters more, the sword that strikes every time, or the sword that strikes hard once?"
This kicks off a good deal of arguing and bickering among the spectators, and, in good Ulfen fashion, results in Astrid Eikbrunr offering to throw a man downfield to prove her own competence at the hurling. In the end, by merit of mutual arguing and shoving, it is agreed that Leif and Eysteinn should each get one more hurl of the rock, and the further distance wins it. They've attracted quite the crowd of watchers now, for what better drama than the son of the goði, versus the disgraced warrior?
Eysteinn sees his father in the crowd, standing back a ways with his arms crossed and his face impassive.
Eysteinn can also feel that the witch-brew that powered his throws has melted out of his veins during Leif's attempts... if he is to win this, it must be on the strength of his own arms alone.
With his teeth gritted, Leif throws his last attempt.
It's a solid, if not spectacular throw. The crowd murmurs appreciatively... then all eyes settle on the thrall.
Kjell eyes the stranger, quickly seeing that this man is an outsider and comes from far away. "It is Odyn, a great god of magic and war, strong and wise. The wolf is one of a pair that feeds on fallen warriors, and the raven flies to bring him knowledge of the world. This," he says, hefting the carving onto his knee, "is in the style of old weavers and carvers. I've spent my life working to perfect the art of quick-carving. A piece like this would take a week's work for another craftsman..." Kjell shrugs. "It is for sale, yes, to a worthy buyer."
The old woman claps her hands with amusement and rocks back and forth, delighted by Rikka's offer. "My skin's too saggy and sad to be marking, girl! Where were you a hundred years ago, when my dugs rode high--" ...but the silver-toothed woman ignores her relative's words and just yells louder over the crowd (to snorting and head-shaking from those around her).
"I'll take you up on that offer, stranger! Os will do me-- maybe then my children will heed my words, do you think? Geir, boy, grab my stool, see where the girl sets up her work, now do it today, not yesterday..."
Rikka doesn't have to feign her delight. She beams at the old woman, "I think the Gods never marked your skin til now because you haven't needed the added potency, Mother. A fool could see you are a force to be reckoned with in this village! Since we're to be bound by the needle, we are strangers no longer. I am Rikka, Mother. I'll await you yonder. Be thinking on what color you'd like for your tattoo: plain black, serene blue, noble purple, or perhaps a red so deep it would shame a harlot's lips and will set your grand-children gobbling for years to come."
Rikka winks at the old woman and nudges her walking billboard to an open spot near where the roads meet - hoping it is a good spot to see the action and watch the elves. There she plants her boar-spear into the frozen ground and quickly sets out her bedding and tops it with her winter blanket - an impromptu work-space. The boar snorts, climbs on the bedding, circles once, and collapses onto its side - ready for a lengthy nap in the sun. The majority of its tattoos, on side and belly, are boldly displayed to the sky.
The tattooist sets her tools out and prepares her powdered inks, mixing tiny amounts of snow into each one to get the proper consistency. When her preparations are done, she takes a moment to watch the festivities and eye the elves - wondering how it would be to tattoo one of their elusive race; if their skin was different from mortal skin. And she ponders how the pigments would set against some of their strange skin tones.
Halla makes the ring of the village with the stranger as he takes in the sights of the festival. Many of the activities are common even in the southern lands, but she does her best to explain to Five Solomon anything unfamiliar. His Skald is not good enough for him to follow Odyn and Lokke or the Riddles of Odyn, but he at least is made to understand the principle of the competition. When they come to the pit for the Drowning Game, she only shrugs. "Fir."
"This is-- good! Is it the hero of your men? I like the wolf most strongly! Is to be sold?"
He rummages in his furs for something he might trade for the wooden statue.
She hesitates when the Qadiran starts to barter with the drunken carpenter. The stranger has treated her well, and she doesn't want to see him taken advantage of. On the other hand, Five Solomon will leave and go back to the center of the world, while she has to live with Kjell. He may be a drunk and a layabout, but he is still a karl and could easily make a thrall's life in Hofn more unpleasant.
Deciding not to get involved unless she is explicitly asked to help translate, she takes a few steps away so as not to look as if she is intruding herself on free men's business and makes a pretense of watching the wrestlers while she listens to the barter.
Kjell
It seems the language barrier is giving Kjell some issues as it comes to explaining the provenance of the piece, and the importance of Odyn. The man nods and smiles, a little blankly, in the way someone does when they understand perhaps half of what you are saying but do not wish to give offense.
From his belt pouch, the man pulls out a string of blown-glass beads, blue-dyed, dangling from a thin golden wire. Glass-blowing is an art of some skill, little practiced in Hofn-- there are many in the village who might be willing to trade handsomely for that necklace. He points to the wooden statue, offers up the necklace. "Trade?"
Halla
The man makes a startled noise and then laughs at Halla's one-word indictment of manly Ulfen culture. He continues asking questions all the way over to his trade for the statue.
When his business there is conducted, he turns back to her and looks at the wrestlers a moment with her.
"I mo thír fir streachailt freisin, ach a dhéanann siad amhlaidh le ola thar n-chomhlachtaí. Déanann sé ar cheann i bhfad níos deacra a grab, Tá mé ag inis..."
Rikka
Shortly after Rikka has set up her tools, the old woman comes hobbling down the road, with the long-suffering Geir in tow carrying a small foot-stool. The stool is set down, and the woman huffs and eases her body down onto it.
"Rikka, was it? I am named Hilde-- Old Hilde, everyone calls me, because all the ones who knew me as Fair Hilde are dead!" She laughs, slapping her thigh. "Now tell me, where should I take my mark? The back of my hand? My face? That would really set them talking, ha! I think the blue would suit me best, though."
Up close, the woman has ears that taper to points, just visible between the white of her old hair. And while she may hobble and limp, the eyes that look at Rikka are a surprisingly intense blue, and show no sign of the milk-white of age.
Kjell ponders over the necklace for a few moments, turning it in the light. Finally he nods and gives a small, quick (and somewhat forced) smile, pocketing the glass and lifting the carving. "It is yours," he says, handing it out to the man. Hope that necklace is worth a fair penny.
Knute glances around quickly, hoping no one saw him take his "practice shot". Seeing the elf-woman at the archery competition, and realizing he must wait for the competition to start, Knute attempts to strike up a conversation.
"Those are some fine furs you have, my lady. You have any tricks or advice for an aspirant Ulfen hunter? Name's Knute, by the way. Knute Iversson." He offers a meaty hand and a warm smile, hoping to hide his nervousness at talking to one of the fair folk. I hope she speaks Skald, otherwise I may have just made a big fool of myself.
Dagrun watches as the various archers prepare their equipment and ready themselves to compete. Setting his longbow and quiver down carefully, he starts doing some light warm up work, jogging in place, and swinging his arms in circles.
The sight of the bowmen reminds him of a stratagem he'd read about once, carried out by one Duke Ylthis, a minor warlord involved in a border dispute between two countries that no longer existed except on very old maps. The Duke took a cohort comprised of 300 mercenary archers, dressed as light infantry, and 100 actual infantry, and marched them to a keep he intended to take and garrison. Arriving before sunrise, he had each of the archers lay a longbow in the grass by their feet, and conceal quivers under their cloaks. The Duke parleyed with the enemy commander, and successfully goaded him into meeting on the field. Once the enemy soldiers were formed up, the Duke gave the command and his archers grabbed their bows and began firing at will into the enemy formation, quickly breaking the ranks of the enemy, who attempted to flee back into the keep as the Duke's infantry ran them down. The biggest flaw in such a plan, in Dagrun's mind, was -- THUMP! Dagrun was jolted out of his thoughts by the impact of his hand on someone else.
Turning, he saw that he'd struck one of the elves. "Mae'n ddrwg iawn gennyf. Yr wyf yn ei golli yn fy meddyliau a mynd yn ddiofal. Os gwelwch yn dda maddau i mi!"
Chuckling, the elf replied, "Peace, friend. It was an accident, and no harm was done. Your apology is gratefully received and accepted. And while your grasp of our language is impressive, perhaps if we speak yours we can avoid making anyone around us feel as though they are being excluded? My name is Lirienthelas. Might I ask yours?"
Eyes wide as saucers, Dagrun manages to stammer out, "D-Dagrun... is my name, yes." Taking a deep breath, he continues, "Forgive me. I learned to speak your tongue mostly from books, and I've never had the chance to actually speak with an elf before."
Smiling, Lirienthelas says, "Well, today is a lucky day for you. Not only have you spoken with your first elf, you will get to see one win the archery contest, too." With a wink and a wave he walks toward the firing line.
Yes, oh mighty Ship-Breaking huskarl, let’s shine a huge light on this thing… Eysteinn grimaces when the arguing gets more intense.
When Leif hurls his fourth and decisive boulder, he bites his lip with tension Great, let’s all discuss for a while, and now the alchemical strength is gone… oh and there’s father! Even better! he squints, cracks his shoulders and sternum, then steps forward to grab the stone.
“Guess that rod didn’t hold you down that much…” he attempts a bit of humor with Leif, but if now that the mutagen is gone his mind is clearer, his wit is still not as sharp as it should.
Eysteinn, lifts the stone, takes a deep breath, and hurls.
Decent… perhaps… oh F@#&! Eysteinn’s shoulders sag, his eyes lower That’s a good two feet shorter than I needed. he takes a glance at Thorgal That’s right, father, another disappointment. Do you still keep count?
Rikka looks over her client while she stirs her inks, "Perhaps we should go with a blue that matches your striking eyes, Fair Hilde. As for location, I can place it anywhere you like but I'd suggest somewhere where you can see and enjoy it without having to find a mirror." She runs her fingers across the back of Hilde's hand, testing the resiliency of her skin."Your skin here is quite good... and when you threaten to backhand your uppity children, the rune will add extra weight to your blow." She laughs lightly, "If you like, I could do something a bit more elaborate than just the rune. I could create the image of the rune carved on a stone resting on your hand and include a shadow beneath it." Rikka scratches the boar's leg pit to get it to expose a portion of its belly where a sample similar to what she described rests. "Would you like something like this?"
As Rikka works with Hilde, she makes a point of smiling at passersby and waving curious people over - particularly the town's women.
Kjell
Beaming, the man hands over the necklace. It does catch the light prettily, at least... someone will be willing to trade him well for that, and if Kjell, in turn, takes his trading eventually in thick ale, once the day of free drink is a distant memory? Why, that's nobody's business but his own, now is it? And to hell with what the villagers mutter behind their hands.
The man takes the Odyn-carving with a bow of thanks, and ambles off with the woman Halla in tow.
Knute
The elf-woman offers Knute a smile, small and slow, broadening into a big, white grin. (Is it just him, or do the elves seem to have... sort of sharp teeth? Or maybe that's just her.)
"Knute Iversson," she repeats, her voice lilting over his name. Her long-fingered hand touches his briefly, less a hand-shake than a moment's ghosting contact.
"I am called Lydd. This fur, the raccoon: you caught it? It is handsome. The raccoon is a cunning little brother. If you caught it, I think you are hunting well enough."
She does speak Skald! With an accent to be sure, but still.
"What would you know, young hunter? How to track game a night and a day and another night? How to whistle to your arrows so they might chase the birds? How to hide your scent, or how to scent a hide?"
She is stringing her bow as she talks, clearly intending to enter the archery contest. A short distance a way, another elf is already doing so, and Little Dagrun is watching. Lydd glances up with a small smile, watching the other elf as one watches a rival.
Little Dagrun
A bullseye has been erected at the end of a hundred-foot stretch of fairly straight road. The concentric circles are marked for simple scoring:
-A natural 20 rolled is a perfect bullseye, worth 10 points
-Total of 14-20+ is a good shot, the first ring near dead center; 5 points
-Total of 11-15 is a decent shot, hitting the target; 2 points
-Total of 2-10 is a lackluster shot, but at least you hit the block of wood the target is mounted on; 0 points
-A natural 1 rolled is a wretched shot-- perhaps your arrow slipped your string, or hit the ground halfway to the target. -5 points deducted from your score.Each contestant gets three arrows to fire in the round. Points are tallied at the end of the round; highest point wins.
Red Alf grins as he sees Dagrun stepping to the line. He jerks his head towards the elf that Dagrun had been speaking to. "He's a cocky one, isn't he?" the red-headed, rangy Ulfen murmurs to Dagrun with a sly wink. "But I've seen you with a bow, and I've seen me too. I'll wager we can give him a run for the prize!"
A woman lowers her hand to signal that the first contestant may try his hand. Hrolf's favorite huntsman nocks and releases his arrows.
The sea wind gusts unfortunately at Red Alf's first shot, and the arrow thunks into the wooden supports in a disappointing fashion. The Ulfen takes it in stride, and his next two shots are better. He nets ten points in the round, and steps back with a grin at Dagrun, waving him forward.
The elf whom Dagrun had spoken to leans against the wall of one of the nearby homes, watching both Red Alf's shots and sizing up the rest of the competition. Nearby, Knute Iversson and another of the elves, this one a quite-tall woman, are talking and watching the archery as well.
Eysteinn
Eysteinn's thoughts swirl with all the private woes of his awkward position. His final throw, though respectable given the size of the rock he hurled, comes a few feet short of Leif's. The watchers clap Leif on the back, and somebody pushes a drinking cup into his hand. Less people look Eysteinn's way-- there's a few sympathetic glances, a mutter of 'too bad' from one old man.
His father wordlessly turns and walks away from the stone-throwing field.
Hrolf Half-Hand, however, is a proud father with no such disappointment to mar his day. He clasps his son on the shoulders with both arms, and presents to him a heavy golden torc, for beating out several other competitors in the day's first stone-hurling.
After the shouting has subsided, the goði beckons Eysteinn forward.
"It was well-thrown, boy," he says with a big hand roughly clasping one of Eysteinn's shoulders as well. In a lower tone of voice, Hrolf leans in and mutters, "Now this is the sort of thing we want to see from you. Good work."
It's a good question, whether the goði would be so kind with his praise had Eysteinn beaten out his son. A good question, but one that is unanswered for now, anyway.
Still, even a consolation prize is a good one, on Jólboð. Hrolf retrieves a cloak-pin of cunningly-worked bronze, dwarf-make by the look of it, and presses it into Eysteinn's hand as the second-place throw, to some cheering from the watchers.
Rikka
"Flattering girl," Olde Hilde crows with good humor. "Yes, on my hand will do well enough. Hm, let's see here..."
She inspects the example on the boar, then nods-- that suits her well enough, the fancy floating stone. "Now I've a question for you-- how in the giant's fires do you get Master Bacon to sit still for all the pricking you do to his pork, ha?"
Rikka is acquiring her wished-for goal: spectators (probably a lot of them related to Hilde), men and women alike, children tugging their parents' hands and asking if they can get a mark, etc. There's a woman who is probably Rikka's age, her blonde hair almost white in the sunlight, leaning on a low stone fence and watching the marking of Hilde with great interest as she peels a ripe red apple (elf-brought, to be certain) with her belt-knife.
When his business there is conducted, he turns back to her and looks at the wrestlers a moment with her.
"I mo thír fir streachailt freisin, ach a dhéanann siad amhlaidh le ola thar n-chomhlachtaí. Déanann sé ar cheann i bhfad níos deacra a grab, Tá mé ag inis..."
Halla looks around at the wares on offer. The flasks of whale oil that fuel the lamps in Thorgal Magnisson's house are too expensive to cover a man, but pots of bear grease like Old Palli uses to light his shop are cheaper.
"Tóg amach do fionnaidh agus iad a léiriú conas a dhéanann na fir theas sé," she suggests, her eyes twinkling wickedly.
"Flattering girl," Olde Hilde crows with good humor.
Rikka shrugs slightly as she sets to work with her needle. "Mayhaps a little bit, Fair Hilde, but it is also true."
She inspects the example on the boar, then nods-- that suits her well enough, the fancy floating stone. "Now I've a question for you-- how in the giant's fires do you get Master Bacon to sit still for all the pricking you do to his pork, ha?"
Rikka chuckles mischievously. "Lazy Sausage is like many men - ply him with enough mead and he'll let you do what you want... or pass out and be unable to argue." With some relief, the tattooist watches Hilde's friends and family gather around. They might create more business for her, but that was incidental to her purpose. Their more important role was to keep the process social, distract Hilde from whatever pain she might endure, and relieve Rikka of the burden of solely carrying on the conversation. People in groups liked to talk, and that made things easier. She smiles at each one in turn, welcoming them silently, including the white-haired girl who has drawn more than a small portion of her innate curiosity.
As Rikka dips her needle in ink and begins some of the more painful tattooing, she distracts Hilde with a quiet riddle, voiced low enough that only the people hardby can hear. "So, Fair Hilde, I've crossed the Linnorm lands: North and South, East and West. In that time, I've learned a thing about tattooing... young men may be the first to battle, but they shy away from my services. But grown women are always first to greet my needle. Why do you think that is?"
"Nice to meet you, Lydd," Knute says, glancing at his hand as if unsure if she even touched it. The Ulfen is surprised by her praise. "T-thank you," he says, "but it can't really compare to the prizes you have won."
Knute's eyes light up as she mentions whistling to arrows. "That sure sounds useful!" he blurts out. Seeing a few others look around at the exclamation, he grins sheepishly. When he notices Lydd stringing her bow, he says, more quietly, "Of course, I'll probably learn a fair bit just from watching you compete. I'll be happy just placing among the humans, but I always like watching you elves, too." He steps away a bit to allow her space to warm up, hoping to do the same himself.
Need to avoid any more of those "practice shots" next time. The Ulfen warms up and stretches his arms, testing his bow. His eyes go wide as Red Alf's first shot misses the mark, but sighs as his next two find the inner ring. Looks like you've got your work cut out for you, Knute. He prays to Skaði, asking her to guide his arrows true, and maybe aid him in besting Red Alf. Knute then waits, seeing if any others will go before it's his turn.
Kjell watches the pair head off for a little while, then looks down to the plate of food--empty--and the tankard--also empty. Deciding it's time to get some more, he heads over to the tables and loads up a feast, comprised of a little of everything offered today, before filling his tankard with sweet, strong mead. He then heads over to where some of the tests of strength are being held, getting an eye on some of the competition while he eats.
“That’s… well, thank you, goði.” Eysteinn bows ever so slightly, just a bit lower than a nod Let’s hope he’ll talk to father, too… he takes look at the copper pin, which is actually quite beautiful I could get a good deal for this… but I think I’ll keep it. he pins it on his cloak, and smiles at the few cheerers in the crowd. He wanted to be a good sport and congratulate Leif, but the chief’s son is no longer there, probably somewhere waist-deep in mead.
As Eysteinn walks by the fighting and wrestling rings, he knows he’ll have to take a shot at one of those to fulfill what the goði expected of a young warrior. But for now, his back and shoulders are a bit sore from the heavy stones and cracking his neck, Eysteinn sits down to rest his body and sharpen his wit with the Riddles of Odyn!
With a grin at Red Alf, Dagrun steps to the line. Focusing intently on the target as the world around him fades into the background, he looses three arrows as fast as he can draw them...
...and is satisfied with his performance, as the sounds of the festival come back to the fore. He steps back, excited to see how he fares against the other competitors.
Halla
Five Solomon's eyes widen and his face darkens-- it might take Halla a second to realize the foreign man is blushing. He clears his throat and looks again at the muscled men struggling in the snow and mud.
"Ah ... Tá mé mar scoláire, bean, ní ghaiscíoch. I mo thuairimse, ba mhaith liom ach mé féin iontu. Agus tá sé ró-fhuar, a bheith gan léine!" he says with a sheepish grin.
How... extraordinarily un-Ulfen, to declare yourself not a warrior, and to turn down a goading to a man's challenge. What Halla thinks of this odd statement is up to her.
Rikka
Judging by the brightness of their blue eyes, and by certain other lines of jaw and mouth, you'd wager that the pale-haired girl and Hilde might be related. If Hilde looked like the young woman at one point, she probably earned the name 'Fair'.
Hilde smirks at the answer of mead-- a solution to all things, indeed. The old woman holds patiently still for the marking, shifting on her stool here and there to get comfortable. The man who brought it seems to have wandered off, free of familial duties right now or perhaps taken over by the young woman.
"Oh, that's easy," Hilde snorts. "No pain in battle is close to that of birthing a babe. I had twelve! Two of them cut out of my belly, too! I don't fear a needle, and neither does any mother. The young men go to battle and go sark, so they cheat; they feel no pain. A mother endures it at birthing, and again every time after, when her child takes a pain. So! Women are the tougher, and old women toughest of all. You'll know, when you've babes of your own."
Knute
Lydd laughs merrily at Knute's words. "You can watch me beat my brother," she says, with a flick of her fingers at the other elf who is readying to shoot.
"Ah, one of your village just shot well--" she indicates Dagrun, who has just loosed three arrows, all of them landing solidly in the first ring.
The elf she indicates as her cousin steps to the line, and looses thrice.... but does not do as well as Dagrun.
"Ah, that'll go hard on Lir's ego," laughs the elf-woman.
Kjell
Kjell loads his hands and carved wooden plate with all the mead and feast-food he can carry, going to observe the favorites at some of the other games.
Njall the blacksmith is rumored to be quite the wrestler, though he is manning his shop at the moment. Leif Hrolfsson is fresh off a victory at the stone-throw, and wears a bright torc of new gold around his neck and flagons of mead in both fists. He is every inch the embodiment of an Ulfen youth just settling into manhood: blond-haired, big in the shoulders and long in the legs, well over six feet in height, and with a glorious ancestry of warriors rather than thralls in his blood. Though he is yet young, many are betting on him to win the wrestling as well-- and you can hear his loud boasting that he'll conquer the ice wall as well.
The dwarves usually send a fierce wrestler as well, but you have yet to see them arrive.
Eysteinn
With his new cloak-pin showing that he did well, if not triumphant, in one of the games, Eysteinn makes his way to the riddling. The leader of the elves, who is clad all in gray and is as colorless as the rest of his people are colorful, gives Eysteinn a long and unblinking stare when he approaches. It's a gaze that Eysteinn is somewhat familiar with-- a weighing gaze, a gaze to assess if he is adequate or has been found wanting-- though rarely from strangers who don't know his particular lot in life.
After a moment, the elf beckons with one long-fingered, ash-gray hand for Eysteinn to sit. Ynvgi Wyrmtongue, the skald, is here as well, and gives Eysteinn a nod and pushes a flagon of ale towards him before asking the elf: "Now tell me, Master Rys, what walks around all day on its head?"
"A nail in the shoe of a horse," the elf responds almost instantly, his expression unchanging. "My turn, I believe."
The two rapid-fire riddles for a few more moments at one another, before they turn to include Eysteinn in the game .
Dagrun
Three beautiful shots! Red Alf whistles appreciatively at Dagrun's aim, and claps him heartily on the back once he has loosed all three of his arrows.
"All three in the first ring, by Tor!" Red Alf cries, and there are cheers from the village spectators at seeing the beautiful shots.
The elf whom Dagrun had spoken to wordlessly readies his bow, though some of his swagger has gone out of him at seeing Dagrun's excellent shots.
The second two are excellent shots, puncturing into the same places on the target that Dagrun hit-- but it matters not if two of three are beautiful, if the first misses its mark. There's a moment of silence, then a loud cry from the watchers as it registers that the local boy beat the elf. Red Alf claps Dagrun harder on the back, grinning, and shoving him forward towards the judges.
Lirienthelas looks distinctly disturbed, his face drawn tight and irritated-- then it passes in the next second, as he laughs as light as bells. He offers Dagrun a deep bow. "It appears my words missed their mark! And your arrows found it, in most excellent fashion. My congratulations as to your win."
The judge beams at Dagrun and unwraps the prize: a beautiful bow that the elves have brought to the contest, made of wood so dark as to be near black, polished and gleaming under the sun. When he goes to pick it up, it's lighter than any bow he's held before, supple and responsive to his hand. There is silver inlaid into the wood in some strange fashion, for it bends easily with the wood and doesn't interfere with the bow at all: it forms delicate patterns of vines and leaves over the entire length of the bow.
Festivities are well and truly underway, now. People ply their craft, drink ale and beer* and mead, and feast on smoked herring and rich, creamy cheeses and the bounty of fresh vegetables and fruits that the elves have brought in the middle of winter. Small boys and girls race along the streets, running from game to game, playing at marbles and other children's games. One of the elves is playing music at the stump, a strange and lilting flute-melody that flows over the revelers and will occupy the dreams of many, tonight.
A second time, the cry goes up from the guard at the gate. There is less fanfare, to accompany this entrance, though those with nothing better to do still come to watch, and Hrolf Half-Hand again comes to officially greet the second batch of visitors.
Where the elves are tall and slim, the others are solidly built, shorter than a grown man, and dressed appropriately for the weather in thick and luxurious furs. Some of them have come in armor, as well, including one old dwarf-woman whose armor looks to be made of stone, if such a thing can be fathomed. The beards of the dwarves glint and shine with gold ornaments and intricate braiding. They exchange a solemn greeting with Hrolf Half-hand, who bids them welcome.
The dwarves, too, have brought gifts: precious metals, marvelously crafted weapons and tools, jewelry, and other, more mundane-but-still-useful bounties of the deep earth, such as salt and coal.
With ceremonial gifts exchanged between Hrolf and the dwarf-chief, the dwarves too disperse into the town, to seek out activities at which to try their hand. They are a quiet and serious people, so they say-- but today, even dwarves may crack a smile, or a deep belly laugh, as they too partake in the excitement of the day.
Finishing his meal, Kjell sets down the plate and tankard and strides over toward the wrestling area. He cocks an eyebrow and looks at those nearby before clearing his throat loudly. "Well, lads, I see we don't have any bears among us yet! Anyone brave enough to go toe-to-toe with a grizzled old freedman?" The craftsman gives a small, wild grin, knowing that his insolent words will likely attract attention, though hopefully go unpunished on this day.
"Oh, that's easy," Hilde snorts. "No pain in battle is close to that of birthing a babe. I had twelve! Two of them cut out of my belly, too! I don't fear a needle, and neither does any mother. The young men go to battle and go sark, so they cheat; they feel no pain. A mother endures it at birthing, and again every time after, when her child takes a pain. So! Women are the tougher, and old women toughest of all. You'll know, when you've babes of your own."
Rikka nods at the old woman's wisdom while she puts the finishing touches on the tattoo. "That's a good answer, Fair Hilde, but I'll give you another." She pauses a beat then continues with a sly smile but a deadpan voice, "Experienced women are all too familiar with small pricks."
Five Solomon's eyes widen and his face darkens-- it might take Halla a second to realize the foreign man is blushing. He clears his throat and looks again at the muscled men struggling in the snow and mud.
"Ah ... Tá mé mar scoláire, bean, ní ghaiscíoch. I mo thuairimse, ba mhaith liom ach mé féin iontu. Agus tá sé ró-fhuar, a bheith gan léine!" he says with a sheepish grin.
Scoláire: She recognizes the word, but it has little meaning to her. "Tá tú skald ... coimeádaí na scéalta. I do thír féin, ní go gcoinníonn tú ó troid freisin? Tá tú ró-luachmhar chun riosca do bháis, ar eagla go mbeidh do daoine stair a bheith caillte le leat? Yngvi Wrymtongue sé ár ... scoláire, ach ní chuireann sé a choinneáil air ó cath." She looks around for the skald, expecting to find him near the stump, and sees him exchanging riddles with one of the visiting elves. "B'fhéidir gur mhaith leat a chloisteáil ar cheann de na chuid scéalta a insint ar ais i lár an domhain?" she suggests.
"You can watch me beat my brother," she says, with a flick of her fingers at the other elf who is readying to shoot.
Knute glances at the elf. "I wish you luck, then. He's been swaggering about for a while now; it'd be fun to see someone take him down a notch."
Knute whistles appreciatively at Dagrun's shots. I didn't know he was as skilled with the bow as with those swords of his. Knute is also surprised that Lydd's brother was beaten by Dagrun, and cheers along with the rest of the Ulfen. Here's hoping the luck is with all of us today, not just Dagrun.
"Ah, that'll go hard on Lir's ego," laughs the elf-woman.
"Yes, Dagrun has already knocked him down a few pegs, it seems." Maybe I can take him down one more, and win one of those superb bows, too.
Knute steps up in front of the target, having warmed up enough, though not particularly eager to follow Dagrun's spectacular shots. He mutters a quiet prayer to Skaði, and takes aim:
Knute's first arrow narrowly misses the first ring, the second strikes close to the center of the target, and the third hits right beside the first, but on the inner side of the ring.
Not exactly as good as I wanted, but I'll take it. At the realization that he beat Red Alf's score from the previous round, the Ulfen grins. Thanks, Skaði.
Kjell
Several men look up at Kjell's challenge and grin in answer, shoving drinks into the hands of friends. Torgi the Blue is trying to organize people into proper bouts lest it turn into a free-for-all. "Alright, Kjell has challenged, now who wishes to--"
"Me!"
"No, me!"
"It's my turn!"
Leif Hrolffson shoves and shoulders his way past a few contestants, downing the mead in his flagon hurriedly and then hauling off his shirt to bare a chest that will probably qualify as 'brawny' in a few years, once he's finished filling all the way out. "I'll take you on, Strongarm!" he says, and his friends and hangers on roar their approval.
There's the clearing of a throat from one side, and heads turn to see one of the dwarves has just run over, fresh from his arrival at the gate. He is young, judging by the shortness of his black, curling beard, but broader than Leif in the chest and shoulders, dressed only in light trousers and warm boots. His head is shaved.
"I am called Shale of the Steel-arm," he says in a deep bass voice. "Strong-arm and Steel-arm, then we are well-matched! I will also challenge."
Njall steps forward as well, to throw his metaphorical hat into the ring, as well as a score of lesser competitors.
Torgi explains the rules, having to nearly shout over the general hubbub. "Right! You must try to pin your foe! No weapons, no biting, no thumbs in the eyes, and no grabbing a fellow by the staff or the stones! The first to win three matches is king for the hour!"
Leif looks disappointed when Torgi directs Kjell to face off against someone else. Clearly Hrolffson thought Kjell would be a quick victory to add to his first of the day. Kjell finds himself instead paired with Birgir, one of the men who makes his living by fishing. The other man is not as obviously muscled as Kjell, but his forearms are hard with the compacted muscle of hauling nets. He sets his feet in the mud and gives Kjell a brief nod.
Birgir manages to get his feet planted a few seconds before Kjell-- perhaps it's time spent on the rocking deck of a boat, or perhaps it's just that he doesn't have a hangover. Either way, the other man launches himself first at Kjell, trying to grasp him in a bear-hug 'round the waist.
The fisherman may be faster and stronger than Kjell might have thought, but he's also an inexperienced wrestler, it seems-- Kjell sees an opening in that uncoordinated lunge.
Rikka
Hilde.... cackles like a madwoman at Rikka's barbed wit, slapping at her leg with the hand that Rikka isn't working on and flashing her silver-toothed grin around. "HA! HA! I'll remember that one! Ha! Oooh, a sting for the men, there!"
Those were close enough to hear laugh or groan as suits them. The fair-blonde girl snickers, then hops over the fence wall. She tosses her apple core to the boar. "I'm next, for your marking!"
"Hrmf!" Hilde snorts. "And what do you think your parents will say, Signy?"
"Nothing, when I say you did it first! Can you do the rune Raido on my shoulder?"
And thus, Rikka has her second customer lined up... And more intrigued spectators, too, including several young men who feel the need to defend the bravery of their gender by taking a mark of their own.
Rikka's second hour of tattooing is also productive-- and at the end of it, the young woman, Signy, presents her with a curious little device in trade: it is two small bulbs of glass, connected by a thin neck, and filled with black stand that glitters in the sunlight. The glass bulbs are held in an metal framework to keep it from shattering at a clumsy touch. The workmanship does not look Ulfen.
Halla
The man scratches at his pathetic beard in thought, still looking somewhat sheepish as he answers her.
".... nach bhfuil sé an oiread sin nach féidir le fear a bheith ar an dá ... skald ... agus laochra, ach ní raibh sé ar mo cosán. Léigh mé leabhar. Staidéar a dhéanamh liom teangacha. Fágann sé am beag do an claíomh. Ach tá, ba chóir dom grá a freastal ar do skald! Tá tú a bheith an chuid is mó de chineál, bhean Halla. Beidh mé ag labhairt ar do áilleacht i mo scéalta...."
The last, he says with a wink and a broad grin, as he follows along in Halla's footsteps towards where Ynvgi is trading riddles.