Kjell nods and touches his nose again. "My thanks, old man. I'll sit out for a bit, see if the dwarf-drink is here yet." He claps the healer on the shoulder and moves off to find out.
Knute claps and smiles as Lydd makes three excellent shots, and goes on to claim first this hour.
Aye, my luck served her well enough all right, he thinks wryly, though he is genuinely happy for the friendly elf.
He turns at the elf leader's comment, surprised at being spoken to.
"Ah, hello, master elf", Knute says, a little nervously, unsure whether to bow or somehow show deference to the stately elf. He makes an awkward half-bow, though he pauses as he remembers the grey elf's comment. "Dwarf-make, you say?" Knute's curiosity gets the better of him. "Do they have any special qualities, these dwarven arrows?" Knute knows he should be getting back to the shop to give Rikissa and Halvar another chance to enjoy the Jól-fest, but he can't resist a chance to learn more about his trade.
Taking the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity while she massages the kinks for her hand, Rikka strolls over towards the elves. She nods politely to one and all as she looks over the goods they have to trade.
She tries to determine if any of the elves seem interested in her tattoos.
The elf's eyes are a green so vivid as to seem unnatural. For a moment, looking over the crowd, he stares at Halla with his dye-green eyes, then grins. "Are there any requests?"
The elf's magic all seems so effortless: What could possibly test his skill? "A linnorm to slay, and claim your kingdom," she challenges.
Kjell
Palli nods and gestures Kjell on his way. As the freedman leaves the area to look for something to get the taste of that tonic out of his mouth, he passes close enough by Leif and the small knot of people around him to overhear:
"...my son, and Tor knows that you are strong, but the seggr who cannot master his own sark is as dangerous to his brothers as any enemy..."
The tent with the ale, the mead, the cider, the elf-wine, and, yes, now the dwarven brew, beckons ahead. The dwarf that Kjell beat in wrestling is sitting there drinking, watching the fighting match with interest-- there is another dwarf facing off with an elf there, their styles as disparate as stone and water.
Knute
The elf gives Knute a long, frank stare, past the bounds of politeness. The colorless eyes seem to bore down into his soul as if cataloging every failure and misdeed.
After a second, the eyes flick back to where Lydd is accepting her prize.
"That arrow will never break; the arrowhead will never chip. It can pierce stone itself. Heavy, though. It will not fly as far."
Halla
For a second, she thinks the elf draws back-- offended, or shocked perhaps-- by her request. Then the glib, startlingly-white smile is back in place (is it just her, or do the elves all seem to have... sharp teeth?), and he sweeps her a bow.
"I can only provide the first half, lady. Kingdoms are beyond me. But let us see..."
He waves his hands about once more, murmurs to himself in a lilting tongue that is not Elven... and nothing happens.
The crowd of children-and-others let out a disappointed sigh; the green-eyed elf looks sheepish and spreads his hands.
"I have met a task I cannot perform! I am ashamed. Perhaps you--"
A linnorm's head arises behind him, creeping up over the short bluff that separates the beach from the town. The children gasp, and one little girl screams.
"--eh?" says the elf, turning with comic slowness. The enormous head darts down and swallows the elf in one gulp, then disappears back over the bluff's edge. There are some truly grotesque sounds of chewing and snapping bone.
The adults either stifle giggles or, depending on how gullible they are versus theatrics, look rather frightened themselves. The children are nervously shoving at one another and throwing worried glances to the adults. "Mamma-- is he really dead?"
"Papa it ATE him--"
One girl, no older than seven, backs up against the nearest adult, who happens to be Halla. She looks up at the thrall with enormous blue eyes. "Is it gonna come back up and eat us too?" she asks with a lower lip wobble.
After thanking once more, Eysteinn pockets the small marvel of science – something perhaps even rarer than true magic in Hofn.
Oh thank Odyn there was no real magic there! This… this might make a fine gift for Father, perhaps, should he sail away after the festival. the temptation of keeping it is strong, yet the young Ulfen has to weight the value of a small toy with the value of his own family accepting him once again…
“So, master Wyrmtongue! Should we keep going with the riddling competition?”
Rikka
There are only three elves minding their particular 'shop'-- the rest are out mingling. But they each smile and offer a bow to Rikka, their long-fingered hands placed over where their hearts might be.
"Blessed be the hour, and the tree prosper. Are you looking for anything in particular?" says a man with skin the faint green of new leaves, and hair brown as tree bark. He has something of professional interest to her: his skin is tattooed already, with hundreds of small, curling vines and leaves done in dark green ink, over all the skin she can see.
Of the wares spread on the bright sky-blue cloth... a number of tiny bottles holding colored liquids, a brooch that looks like a delicate leaf made of green-tinged silver, a scabbard of red-dyed leather with brass studs, a piece of rolled parchment, a tarnished brass key, a spider made of folded paper, a chunk of sooty coal, a pitted gray rock the size of your thumbnail, a handful of amber-colored pebbles, pouches of dust, an apple made of what looks to be solid gold, a rapier that glitters like ice in the sun, a cloak of a fabric that shifts between sky-blue and lilac.... and a dozen other things besides.
As for whether the elves would be interested: well, the one already seems fairly covered in his own vines, and the skill is exquisite. A woman-- Rikka thinks she's young, but as Dagrun observed elsewhere, it's so hard to tell, with elves-- does seem to be considering Rikka with interest, though.
Eysteinn
"Right," Yngvi says with a draining of what is left in his mug, and a refilling of it from the rundlet on the table.
"Man cannot control the weather: so all the sages say.
"But put your hand to me, and the wind itself obeys.
"What am I?" says the old skald.
Kjell fills his plate with various meats, fruits, and baked goods, and fills a large mug with the new dwarven brew, taking a gulp and refilling it before sitting by the dwarf. "Master Steel-Arm," he says with a nod and a grin. "I thank you again for a fine match, and now I thank you and yours for a fine drink." He takes another swig and looks to the fight. "Relative of yours?"
Accepting the offered seat, somewhat awkwardly due to the two longbows, Dagrun blushes a bit and says, "I suppose I could, but I'm no skald. Most people tend to get bored not long after I launch into the story of a battle. Perhaps it's because, instead of talking about it from the perspective of a soldier in the mud, which I could really only guess about, I talk about what I know, which is orders of battle, troop movements, strategies, battlefield conditions, and outcomes. It interests me enough, especially since the lessons imparted could be used to the benefit of our people... but it's not as glamorous as hearing about knights on the charge, or great swordsmen chopping down fifty foes without a scratch." He smiles at her. "I'd love to hear you sing, though. It would certainly beat my brother's ribald poetry."
Knute fidgets self-consciously under the elf's gaze. Did I offend?
Knute breathes out a sigh as the elf's disconcerting eyes turn away from him. It felt as if those eyes had latched on to him, had drunk in his very essence. He shudders.
"Ah, well, perhaps not much use for hunting, then. Though piercing stone would be a neat trick..." Knute trails off and begins edging away from the tall elf, really intending to get back to the shop after such an uncomfortable meeting. "Thank you for the information, master elf," Knute says with another slight bow. "I must take my leave. Have a merry Jól!"
The Ulfen hurries away, returning to the center of town to view the wares in a small detour on his way home. Knute picks his way through the crowd, keeping an eye out for anything useful for hunting or preparing meat, as well as baubles and foodstuffs uncommon during the year.
One girl, no older than seven, backs up against the nearest adult, who happens to be Halla. She looks up at the thrall with enormous blue eyes. "Is it gonna come back up and eat us too?" she asks with a lower lip wobble.
Halla smiles. "Courage, young shieldmaiden," she reassures the girl. "Elves are made of down and spun sugar; they hardly make a mouthful for a linnorm. Brave Ulfens are another matter. I thing you'll find that linnorm's run off ... and even left behind the elf, for fear we'd chase after it and cut its head off to rescue him."
"Blessed be the hour, and the tree prosper. Are you looking for anything in particular?"
Rikka looks over the many intriguing objects. She debates how to respond and opts for the candid truth. "Actually, I was looking for an excuse to meet some elves and see if I could interest any of you in a tattoo. I've never worked on one of you and I'm curious to feel the quality of your skin and see how it takes ink." She glances at the woman for a moment before returning her gaze to the table. "But you do have many interesting items here. What is this parchment?"
Kjell
Shale nods in a friendly fashion at Kjell sitting near him. His own trencher is piled high with... fish, mostly. Fried, smoked, salted... look, when you live underground, you don't get much seafood.
"Aye, 'tis my sister there. She is a credit to the clan, but that elf is quick. Here, let us drink to her!"
He raises his tankard, plain but of fine dwarven coppersmithing, to touch Kjell's, and drinks deep of the dwarven brew.
All year long is a rough wait, for this-- rich, so dark as to be near black, an inch of head, smoky and bitter and smooth-- but worth it, if one is a connoisseur of strong ale.
Shale no doubt saw Kjell's last fight-- it would be hard for him to not have-- but he is clearly avoiding commenting on it.
Dagrun
"Yes," Signy agrees blithely, "your way of telling a battle would not be a very good story. All numbers and facts. Grandmother says those things have no use being in a story."
She grins like a cat at Dagrun's compliment-- if she had a tail, it would be twitching. "Would you? What if I sang of a boy whose head was always in books, reliving battles fought long ago and far away?" Signy teases.
Conversation is momentarily interrupted by a loud collective gasp and a child's scream from over by the stump-- Signy looks that way, but there's nothing there to see right now other than a small crowd of spectators, and no apparent performer right this instant.
"...huh."
Knute
The elf inclines his head slightly at Knute, his expression otherwise unchanging, and Knute takes his chance to flee excuse himself.
The dwarves have set out a wagon with gear, and such gear-- fine armors, and axes, and swords, and shields-- any sort of weapon a man might swing. No bows of the sort Knute hunts with, although there are some fine crossbows. There are also plenty of tools of peace as well as war-- plows, bridle-and-bits, wagon-wheels, hammers, drills, awls, and the puzzle-boxes the dwarves are famous for.
The elf 'booth'-- really just a broad cloth laid out, with numerous bright baubles glinting in haphazard fashion-- is a short distance away. A woman Knute does not know-- and therefore a visitor to the town-- is talking with a green-skinned elf there.
Rikka
The lady elf makes a small noise of interest. "But if one of us is marked, it is a commitment of hundreds of years," she says with her lips curling into a small smile. "Is your hand up to such work...?"
Her skin, if the tattooist is paying close attention, is milk-white, bone-white, so pale that the blue winding traceries of blood can be seen beneath the surface.
The green-skinned, vine-marked man chuckles softly. "I can always get flowers and birds and beasts added to mine," he chimes in. "That, lady, is a blank parchment. But," he taps the side of his nose, conspiratorially, "it has wings and a mouth. A businesswoman such as yourself might benefit from it."
Halla
The little girl looks doubtful-- Halla thinks she might have been the one to scream. She throws a dubious glance to the edge of the bluff. One boy is creeping forward as if to peek over, but loses his nerve and runs back to his hiding-her-smile mother.
"...I'll go look if you come with me," says the girl to Halla. Little Ingrid, Halla remembers-- Red Alf's youngest child.
Kjell also drinks deeply, enjoying the rich, strong taste. "Indeed. She looks a fine fighter, like yourself. You dwarves know a few things, fighting and ale-brewing among them," Kjell laughs, glad that Shale isn't bringing up the last bout.
I can’t believe it, stumped again! Eysteinn curses under his breath at his own mind being so obtuse That guy spoke like a three- year old, but this… this is Wyrmtongue! I should not have taunted him before…
While most riddles are a series of hints, this is just one, massive: but this is not helping Eysteinn I can put my hand on a wind vane and it seems that the wind obeys me… or is it a pair of bellows?
"...I'll go look if you come with me," says the girl to Halla. Little Ingrid, Halla remembers-- Red Alf's youngest child.
"Very well," Halla says, getting up off of her folded cloak and taking the girl's hand. "But let us give the linnorm fair warning that we are coming so it can flee if it chooses; there should be no unnecessary bloodshed on Jól. " With an encouraging nod to the girl, she tugs her hand to get her marching toward the edge of the bluff.
"If you sang of--" Dagrun cuts off as he hears the child's scream. With a concerned frown he looks towards the stump. "Wonder what that was about? I hope all is well..."
Not hearing any further screams or seeing any signs of alarm, he faces Signy again. "I wouldn't say that I always have my head in books, reading about battles. Sometimes I'm reading about engineering."
He grins. "And really, I could be reading about proper feeding and care of pigs and it would be infinitely more interesting than dealing with my brothers. Occasionally, I talk to the logs as I work wood for the same reason."
The lady elf makes a small noise of interest. "But if one of us is marked, it is a commitment of hundreds of years," she says with her lips curling into a small smile. "Is your hand up to such work...?"
Rikka responds soberly, "Short-lived race or long-lived race - the commitment is the same. Barring magic, a tattoo is borne for a lifetime... so you should be certain of the image you wish to carry. As for my hands..." she says frankly, "there are greater artists in the world. But you can see the quality of my work on my skin and on my pork protege. Only you can judge if my skills are worthy of your skin."
The green-skinned, vine-marked man chuckles softly. "I can always get flowers and birds and beasts added to mine," he chimes in. "That, lady, is a blank parchment. But," he taps the side of his nose, conspiratorially, "it has wings and a mouth. A businesswoman such as yourself might benefit from it."
Rikka is utterly tempted by the scroll... as well as the other curious, unidentified items. Though incautious - among the Ulfen - she takes a risk that the elves are less superstitious and quietly recites a phrase of power to see which objects on the table are dweamored. After her perusal is complete, she sighs, "I don't think I have anything to offer that matches the value of your goods." She smiles at the vine-draped man, "I doubt any number of flitting butterflies and prancing unicorns I might add to your skin would be a worthy trade. However, if you'd like a tattoo, I'd be pleased to do it...and leave the value of the trade to your judgment, for everything on this table teases me, though I can't say I understand what most of them are." She adds laughing lightly, "What, in the name of all sacred things, is this lump of coal?"
Knute briefly peruses the dwarves' wares. The glinting axes catch his eye, but he knows he doesn't have the coin to spend on that kind of superb craftdwarfship. And anyway, if I'm having to use my axe things have already gone to Hel.
Knute passes the elves, giving their goods a relatively quick glance. There are some interesting-looking trinkets, to be sure, but nothing to stop him as he hurriedly makes his way home. Knute notices an Ulfen woman, a stranger to him, talking to one of the elves, but doesn't think much of it. Though Hofn didn't usually get many visitors, Jól was always a time of new people and experiences. He does slow as he catches a glimpse of the many tattoos on her neck and hands, but doesn't pause to stare. Maybe I'll get one of those tattoos, he thinks idly to himself.
As Knute enters his home, he smiles at his mother, who glances up from writing at the counter. Hoping to forestall the inevitable question of how the archery contest went, he quickly speaks up.
"Sorry I was gone for a while, mother. I stayed for two rounds of archery, instead of one. I'm back to hold down the fort though, so you and Halvar can go back out to the festival, if you like."
Halla
The little girl takes a bit of courage from Halla's words, giggling a bit and taking the offered hand. She's still too young to know not to associate with thralls, or to be wary of those 'fey-touched'-- Halla is just another friendly adult to her.
Together, they creep up to the edge of the bluff and look over.
There is their friend elf, sprawled on the dark sand-and-rocks twenty-feet below, looking up with a grin. he cries, voice pitched to echo to the audience as well.
He scales up the dirt of the small cliff, and gracefully comes back over the edge to the cheers of the little crowd. "Now, what reward can I give to my rescuers?"
He searches around on his person, then looks up and spreads his empty hands with an expression of dismay. "I have nothing! --ah, but wait--"
He gives Halla a sly wink, reaching forward to perform the time-honored trick of plucking something from behind her ear. With a flourish, he withdraws his hand to show a red-dyed leather ball, and drops on one knee to present it to Ingrid, who accepts with a shy grin.
"And for you--" he looks up at Halla, seems to pause a moment, really taking her in-- then slowly reaches into his vest and pulls out something which he hands over to her.
"...I think these are fitting."
It's a carved wooden box no larger than Halla's palm. When she opens the sliding lid, she sees something unknown in Ulfen culture: a stack of small sheets of stiff paper, with little paintings on each. Maeve knows what they are, though: a Harrow deck.
Before Halla can much react, the gray elf strides past her and right to the entertainer, and speaks to him in low, curt Elvish words. Halla doesn't speak the language, but displeasure is a universal tongue. The gray elf is very unhappy with the other one over something.
The colorful elf flinches slightly, then pulls away to jump atop the stump. "Ladies, gentlemen, visitors: that concludes my show! Congratulate your shieldmaidens, and drink to their health!"
And with that, he bows and steps off the stump, yielding it to the next entertainer.
Kjell
The dwarf chuckles, a bass rumble in his chest. "And crafting: the holy three.
"I thank you for our fight: I see I will have to learn to adjust my technique for those with a longer reach than me. I hope that I also taught something to you, for as the Creator teaches, if one must fight, one should also learn from one's foe, and thus be the better, whether for victory or loss."
The fight between elf-and-dwarf resembles nothing so much as a swift hound harrying a bear: the dwarf maiden, heavily armored, turns in place trying to keep up with her opponent, dancing around her with only a thin leather hauberk to impede his movements. Their blades have been replaced with wooden practice weapons, the tips wrapped with a cloth dripping with dye to show where blows are landed on the foe. So far, the dwarf's armor is splotched in many places with bright red dye-- usually at the joints and weak places, where a foe's blade might conceivably find a gap-- and the elf appears unmarked.
The dwarf takes a frustrated swing which the elf nimbly dodges, stepping back to the closest snowbank. Long fingers dip into the snow, and fling a slurry of it up to the dwarf's face. The second of distraction is all the elf needs-- he steps in, and touches the tip of his "sword" to the dwarf's face, smearing red color on her chin in what could clearly have been a lethal blow in a true fight.
"For instance," Shale says, sardonically, "my sister has learned that elves fight with no honor."
Eysteinn
Eysteinn rolls over the riddle in his head, eager to solve it, while Yngvi gives him a faintly amused glance.
Eysteinn thinks that bellows is not quite right, though not a bad guess-- one might be able to argue one's case for it as a valid answer-- but alas, he is not having any particular flash of insight as to this one's solution.
Rikka
The spell the old seithr woman taught her is a useful one-- and casting it reveals to her a blanket full of glittering lights. It seems that almost everything on the blanket has some sort of enchantment upon it.
She is right that the elves don't seem to mind such a display-- in fact, the pale-skinned woman grins slightly, showing teeth just as white as her skin (and seemingly rather-- sharp...). Then again, maybe the smile is for the answer to her statement of her skill.
The green-skinned, tattooed elf also smiles, and plucks up the 'lump of coal' to toss it lightly into the air and catch it. "Tis a rock that burns with fire when so ordered, but it has a mind of its own: as fire always does, no matter how people may force it into glass cages and stone rings."
The woman holds up her hand to forestall further explanation of any goods. "I think I would be marked by you, and I will pay you thusly: one item from our wares, but we won't tell you what it is until after you have chosen it. Is that a pleasing deal to you, human?"
Her eyes are a deep purple, and spark with amusement as she looks at Rikka for an answer.
Knute
Rikissa smiles when her son enters.
"You're young," she says. "Halvar and I have seen many more Jól days than you-- enjoy them now, we don't mind."
She perks up at his explanation of competing twice for the archery. "You must have been shooting well," she says hopefully. Curse parents and their parental interest!
Dagrun
"I'd bet the entertainer gave them something to yelp about," Signy chuckles.
She flops back onto the cloth and laces her hands behind her head to look up at the blue sky. "Nobody chooses their family... but they're still your family. I suppose I got lucky with mine."
She's silent a moment, then says, "Why do you do all that reading and care about those things? We won't ever have a grand battle here in Hofn, you know. Nor will you ever need to make anything more complex than a water wheel for the mill, or help with the rudder on the ships. Your dreams are too big for this place... and maybe too big for you, Little Dagrun," she says, using his somewhat mocking nickname. But there's no malice to her tone, just a sigh as if to say that perhaps her own dreams feel similarly confined by a small town where one sees the same faces every day, year in and year out... save for today, anyway.
The green-skinned, tattooed elf also smiles, and plucks up the 'lump of coal' to toss it lightly into the air and catch it. "Tis a rock that burns with fire when so ordered, but it has a mind of its own: as fire always does, no matter how people may force it into glass cages and stone rings."
Rikka frowns, agreeing with the elf. "That is a fool's act. Magic and fire are both willful creatures - better coaxed than compelled."
The woman holds up her hand to forestall further explanation of any goods. "I think I would be marked by you, and I will pay you thusly: one item from our wares, but we won't tell you what it is until after you have chosen it. Is that a pleasing deal to you, human?"
Her eyes are a deep purple, and spark with amusement as she looks at Rikka for an answer.
Rikka doesn't hesitate. "Agreed! Though I think I've got the far better portion of that deal."
Looking up at the sky, Dagrun gives a wistful smile. "Because I can't not. I don't talk much about this, but... it's as much a part of me as breathing. I see people fight a certain way, and I think, "Why not try something different? What might happen if you did this instead? Why do we discard things that have worked for others, simply because they don't fit with the cultural identity we've assumed?" I try to really live in the world as I make my way through it... the sights, the sounds, the smells and tastes... and I want to understand it all. Why the air smells different just before a thunderstorm, what led to the discovery of the wheel. Can you imagine having been there the first time someone thought that boats could go faster, further, if you hung a giant sheet up to catch the wind?"
He looks at Signy before continuing. "I hope you're right. I hope Hofn never knows the likes of true war. Time will tell. But in the meantime, if my dreams are too big for this place, as you've said, I will do what I can to make this place big enough to hold my dreams. You should, too."
Knute stops at his mother's comment, then grins. "All right, I'd been meaning to see that stallion Sven brought, and watch those attempting to tame it. Maybe even try it myself!" He laughs.
His smile fades as she asks about the archery competition. Knute sighs. "Actually, I did only mediocre once, and fairly awful the second time." He turns away to avoid her disappointed look, heading to his room to set down his bow and quiver. "I did meet a nice elf, though. The one who received the fur we brought. She even commended me on it." The Ulfen chuckles, but it's half-hearted. "Oh, and I beat Red Alf's score in one of the hours," Knute says as he tromps back into the main room, brightening a little bit.
"Anything I should get for you and Halvar while I'm out?" He pauses, hand on the door.
Rikka
The elf woman, who says her name is Dyr, smiles whitely when she accepts the bargain. "Very good. I am wanting an image of a tree. Large: two handspans from top to bottom."
The green-skinned elf makes a faint coughing noise, not quite a laugh. The woman reaches into pack and pulls out a much-worn book, the leather binding nearly worn through in places, the pages ragged and much thumbed. She opens it into the frontispiece to reveal a very intricate design of a stylized tree, with a great bird in its branches, and a serpentine form curled through its roots. The elf woman's eyes hold a hint of challenge.
"We shall see if you can manage all of it," she says simply, then turns and sits down on the cloth facing away from Rikka. She undoes a clasp at the back of her garment and it falls away to bare the albino-pale skin of her back. She and the other two elves seem unbothered by this baring of skin, though she keeps her front covered out of deference to possible human sensibilities.
"I am ready when you are."
Dagrun
Signy laughs, the sound ringing in the crisp air. "We fight the way we fight because it is the best way for fighting, in the north! You talk about the knights-- they wear big suits of metal, don't they? Imagine one of those on a war-galley! He would be too heavy to jump to shore, or he'd sink in the water like a stone..."
She sobers a bit as he goes on. "I think it smells of magic, before a storm. That is always what it tastes like to me. Something wild, something free..."
Signy snorts and sits up again, shaking her head. "I would rather travel, and see the world in all its wonder! Hofn can't stretch beyond this harbor, no matter how many dreams you try and cram inside it. Don't you want to go see the lands you've read about?"
Knute
"Be careful if you try to ride that horse," Rikissa scolds. "Didn't someone break a leg on him?"
His explanation of his performance in the archery earns a small nod from Rikissa-- yes, disappointed, but... the elves are fine archers, so perhaps it's only to be expected. She does arch a brow though at his mention of the elf.
"Hmf. Well, don't you go staring into her eyes," Rikissa mutters. "You're too young to get caught in their spells..."
Mothers never truly accept you're grown up.
"...oh, a bit of the pastries, perhaps? Halvar wants a glass of the dwarf ale, too, but--" she looks around, "--put some water in it, or your step-father will be snoring the rest of the day, and leave me to man the shop alone."
Rikka laughs and flips her hourglass. "Quite a challenge. Get comfortable, Mistress Dyr, this will take a couple hours."
Dagrun smiles and absentmindedly scratches his arm. "Yes. I'd like to see the rest of the world. And one day I plan to. I don't think it'd surprise anyone much, if I did go. I think my father, in particular, expects it of me, even as he dreads the idea of me doing yet another thing to call attention to my relative oddity."
He grins. "But no matter how backwards it may be, this is home, and I will carry it with me everywhere I go. I love these people, and this place. Maybe it's foolish of me to think I can make it "better" but I feel I have to try."
Attempting to lighten the mood a bit, he adds, "Unlike you, I can't make it better just by being here. I have to work at it some."
"I will," Knute says, "though if there was no danger to it, it wouldn't be a challenge!" He grins at her scolding.
Knute rolls his eyes at his mother's mumblings about the elf. He knows what she is saying, despite not really hearing it.
"Pastries and half a mug for me and another, with water, for Halvar," Knute recites dutifully, and with a wink. "I'll be back in another hour or two."
He leaves the house and heads north, to the area where the horse is kept. Showing up a little late, he watches the other would-be beast-tamers. Knute carefully watches both the people and the horse itself, trying to figure out how best to approach it and learn as much has he can about the animal before coming close to it himself.
Rikka
"I am comfortable," the elf says serenely, sitting ramrod straight on the cloth.
Rikka gets the answers to her questions: the elf-woman's skin is soft as that of a rich jarl's wife, who has never had to grind flour or use the broom, yet oddly cool to the touch. It seems to take the ink well enough. Oddly, her skin does not redden around the places where Rikka works, as it would on any human (or on dwarves, as she has now seen).
It's a big, intricate design. Rikka thinks she'll be at this a while. It gives her plenty of time to decide what trinket of those on the blanket she might like, though.
Dagrun
Signy grins, looking slightly fey herself in the gesture, but then again, she has elf-blood in her veins a few generations back.
"We could go," she teases. "Slip out the gate with all the leaving visitors, our cloaks and hoods tugged up-- everyone would be too hangover to notice until mid-day that we were gone. Run away with me, Dagrun Torgisson-- to Varisia or even to Taldor where Ulfens serve the Taldor king! My songs, your blade... I could compose sagas for you, if you earn them--"
A shadow falls over the blanket, and Signy breaks off to glance up at Njall the blacksmith. Signy's grandiose dream-spinning, with Dagrun as a semi-willing participant, disappears into a dazzling smile up at the big smith.
"What would you, Njall?"
"Ah, something for my shoulder, little ice-flower," Njall says with a wince. "Kjell Strongarm wrestled me down-- though I gave as good as I got, I promise you-- and it's aching a bit."
Njall flexes, not entirely subtly, and gives Dagrun a bit of a dark look as well, that indicates he had hoped Signy would be here alone and dammit-why-are-you-here.
"Ah, we have liniments for that," Signy says with a bright smile. She plucks a bottle from those on the cloth. "You will need to rub it on once at morn and once at night, until your ache eases."
"Don't suppose I could get help putting it on?" the blacksmith says hopefully. Signy smacks him on said shoulder in a playful fashion.
"That is extra!"
Knute
Rikissa gives Knute a kiss on the forehead before she permits him to leave. "A mother's luck!" she says with a wink, and ushers him out the door.
He makes his way through the fest to the ring where the horse is being kept. The stallion is truly a majestic beast: most Ulfen horses are smaller, stocky, hardy creatures known for their surety of foot and thick winter fur rather than size or galloping speed, but this animal came from the south where the grass grows sweet for much of the year, and there is flat open land to race on.
The ground inside his corral is a mess of slushy mud now, from fallen riders and the horse's hooves. Though mud splatters the beast's coat, he seems dignified despite that. As Knute watches, the horse stands with legs splayed in the center of the ring, breathing hard with little puffs of steam, as another hopeful enters the ring.
The man carries no saddle, but an apple and a rope halter-- it is Finnviðr, one of Torgi the Blue's sons. He approaches the animal warily, making soft noises and holding the apple out. "There's a boy, there you are, come on now..."
The response is a short, swift snap at his outstretched hand-- aimed at fingers, not the apple. Finnviðr pulls back with a yelp, scrambling backwards and leaving the apple in the mud. General laughter rings the corral as Finnviðr blushes and gives a mock bow to his audience.
Knute watches, thoughtfully, thinking about what he knows of beasts and their ways.
The beast is riled up, he can clearly see that. Ideally, if one had to try and ride him, one would not do so after the crowd has been pestering him and attempting to do so-- one would give him time to relax and to calm down. But a competition like this one means that can't happen, of course. Still, the beast is pawing the earth and clearly regarding anyone who steps into the ring as a challenger.
Knute continues to watch: some hopefuls bring saddles and blankets, attempting to get those on the horse first, but after quick bites and lashing hooves they all retreat without getting so much as the saddle atop the horse.
Finnviðr tries again, this time without his apple (which the stallion smugly snatched up from the mud and chomped down). He throws his rope halter around the stallion's neck, trying to lasso him...
...but the rope halter falls limply to the ground at the horse's hooves, as if Finnviðr's own nervousness caused him to shrink back from a real throw. The spectators let out another round of raucous laughter.
It's a carved wooden box no larger than Halla's palm. When she opens the sliding lid, she sees something unknown in Ulfen culture: a stack of small sheets of stiff paper, with little paintings on each. Maeve knows what they are, though: a Harrow deck.
Before Halla can much react, the gray elf strides past her and right to the entertainer, and speaks to him in low, curt Elvish words. Halla doesn't speak the language, but displeasure is a universal tongue. The gray elf is very unhappy with the other one over something.
Maeve is stunned, carefully riffling through the cards with Halla's trembling fingers.
What are they? Halla asks crankily, not enjoying being shunted to the side in her own body. What do they do? Is the gray elf angry because he gave us something very valuable?
"Tá sé ar deic Harrow. Tá siad naofa agus is féidir a nochtann duine cinniúint," Maeve murmurs.
It is valuable then? Halla presses eagerly. We can sell it?
"Níl sé a dhíol!" Maeve insists fiercely, sliding the lid closed over the cards and undoubtedly attracting unwanted attention from the stump's audience. She looks around to see where the linnorm-rescued elf has gotten to.
It is not to be sold!
Kjell nods as he watches the conclusion of the match. "Aye, they dance about instead of standing still, but is there more to be said for honor, or survival?" The large freedman takes a final swig if his ale and sets the tankard aside. "But sometimes all comes down to a matter of strength. Care to throw the stones?" He heads to the spot and prepares to participate in the games.
Halla
The grey elf doesn't throw more than a passing glance Halla's direction, nor look at the cards she holds-- Halla's gut tells her the elf's displeasure has little to do with the gift.
All the same, when she scans the crowd for the elf, he is gone.
Kjell
"Honor," the dwarf says simply and earnestly. [b]"But aye, I would willingly test my strength on the stones... or observe yours! What skill I lay claim to as a wrestler comes from technique more than musculature, so I estimate you will out-throw me: but yes, let us go there.
A few hundred feet walking later, and they stand before the stone-hurling contest.
The miller's son is testing his heaving arm, staggering a little under the weight of his stone before he chucks it forth, then picks a second stone, then a third to try again.
Only one of the throws is even worth speaking about-- through some luck, the lad launches it with good form, sending the stone to splat in the pocked mud a respectable distance out.
The stones await you, Kjell!