Rikka
It's possible that it's just a function of the festival, but to your eyes, Hofn seems an exceptionally happy little town. And prosperous enough for its small size, too. While not everyone appears rich, you see nobody who looks to be wanting for food, either-- no beggar lurking by the stump in threadbare clothes, no ragged woman with three ill-clad dirty babes clinging to her skirts. Other villages have the poor, even on feast days... but you just... don't see that, here.
The child with the bad leg is the first person you've noticed who appears to have any sort of serious deformity either. Hofn seems a happy and a healthy place.
There is a dwarf woman with a broad face and bright red hair hawking her wares. "Puzzle box from Whitehammer? Solve it under two minutes and it's yours for free," she calls hopefully.
Beyond that, you see one of the elves, the gray-and-colorless-one, engaged in fierce, if quiet, conversation with a younger, more-pleasant-looking one. The young man does not appear to be enjoying the conversation.
You poor fool, you buried your own grave with those half-assed jabs! Perhaps you’ll beat me, but my wit will cut you open… grins Eysteinn “Ah, but you see, I’m just a disgraced human.” he replies while circling around the elf “Not even in the warband. Nobody expects me to have an excuse for failing at hitting an elven master of the blade.” the two fighters keep squaring off, then Eysteinn finally finds an opening Took it long enough! “Not that I need an excuse, mind you!” he exclaims when his blow impacts soundly.The "stay humble" part kind of fell apart there...
___________________
Kjell has to give it to the dwarf--she's tough, and isn't going down easy. Her attack catches him in the ribs, but his old mail shirt keeps him safe. You didn't leave me much, da, but what you did's been good. He lifts his club again and brings it down a third time.
Eysteinn
The war of words is briefly much more interesting than the war of weapons, given how both contestants are having difficulty hitting-- but with one ringing cry, Eysteinn proves his skill with a weapon. It's a beautiful shot, and he knows his father saw it-- briefly, he can hear his father's voice raised with the other watchers in a loud cheer for the local boy, for today, that is what he is, however much there might be mutterings about his witchcraft the rest of the year. But right now, as far as the crowd is concerned, Eysteinn is an Ulfen who held his own-- and more!-- against one of the elves.
The haughty elf staggers all the way out of the ring at Eysteinn's perfect shot, and drops to a sitting position, dazed. The judge quickly declares Eysteinn the winner, to roaring cheers.
Only a minute after the sounds of the applause die down, they ring up again, as Kjell wins his match as well.
Ragni gives Eysteinn a cheerful nod when they are called to fight for the third match.
"Go easy on me, cousin, the other fellow near knocked the sense out of my skull," he jokes, and today, at least, the references to them being family are something that can be glossed over, that nobody has to feel too awkward about.
Once more, Eysteinn has the edge in acting first.
Kjell & Eysteinn
By the sounds of the cheering, you think Eysteinn may have won his match, but your attention is focused wholly on the dwarf. She's held her own, but your natural reach is saving you from a lot of bruising.
Once more, Kjell brings down the club, and again, she is too slow to bring her shield up to parry it. The dwarf grunts as the impact drives her fully down to one armored knee. Huffing, she drops her wooden weapon to the mud, holding up her empty hand in the universal gesture for a yield.
Again the watchers roar their approval! Twice have the Ulfen warriors proven superior to the visitors-- everybody loves it when the home team wins, after all.
Hrolf himself is watching closely, and steps forward to announce the third match of the hour, after drawing for it. Ragni Torgisson has gotten back up again and has gamely decided to throw back into the ring, after his ears stopped ringing from earlier; Mara, one of the war-band, is also ready for another crack at the contest.
Eysteinn draws his cousin's lot, and Kjell is paired off against Mara.
Mara is a woman with darker hair than is common among the village, speaking to some southern ancestry no doubt, cut short to keep it from her face. Though she is a good head shorter than Kjell, she doesn't seem the least bit intimidated by him or his earlier victories in the other competitions. She has a lean, wiry strength to her, and holds the wooden sword she has chosen with the ease of one who has won her place in the war-band.
"Heard Astrid saying she was up for a wrestle with you," Mara says with a crooked, amused smile as she takes her place in the ring opposite Eysteinn. "Best watch yourself, big man, I hear she leaves bruises."
Mara seems much quicker than his previous opponents-- she doesn't wait for Kjell to respond to her banter (or her attempt to get him off guard), but instead lunges forward, wooden sword swinging for Kjell's ribs.
Fortunately for Kjell, he is not distracted, and twists out of the way.
“Don’t worry, Ragni. That elf got the worst of my aggression for the day.” replies politely Eysteinn to his cousin.
Fighting against someone in the actual warband would’ve been preferable to the young alchemist, a chance to prove himself. Ragni is not a bad match however: at his own level, quite respected – gives him a chance of winning three matches in a row.
For a second Eysteinn thinks about using a defensive tactic as he did against young Olaf We saw how that worked out. Let’s go for a straightforward approach, seems to be the most appreciated one.
His moves first, but he actually does go easy on his cousin – a bit too easy, and the blow is easily parried.
Knute thinks the dwarf's silver a bit excessive, but he respects a man (er, dwarf) who values his trade highly. Father seemed to do so, at least... He also takes notes of the dwarf's ruddy appearance. "Have you tried many of the ales here? Any recommendation on the best one?" He asks the dwarf, looking around the main square to find where one obtains ale.
Knute seems a bit uneasy at being taken for his father, but takes it in stride. "Haven't grown up yet, Hilde. Still a long way off from that," he says with a grin. "Name's Knute, by the way." He directs that last bit more at the two dwarves than at Hilde.
Knute stifles a smile when he sees Hilde's poor roll. Perhaps one of us has a chance this time... Though, he whistles appreciatively as Hilde completes her low straight, and is just thinking that perhaps the old woman is cheating as the dwarf confronts her.
As the dwarf sits back down, Knute accepts the dice and grumbles, "If I had just an ounce of your luck..." He rolls the dice around and drops them on the table. Please, Skaði, just a little luck today!
"Yes!" It's a very good roll, though not enough to beat Hilde's army. He stares at the dice for a bit, gears obviously turning slowly in his head. Knute deliberately picks up the 2, hesitates, then snatches up the 5 as well. The only thing that can see me through is a perfect line or a one-man-down... He rolls the two dice, praying for the best. Once more, Skaði...
"Close, but not enough." The Ulfen laughs as he passes the dice to the silversmith. "Well, I've learned not to trust my luck today. Here's hoping you can best her, friend."
Kjell shrugs with a grin. "I'll watch myself," he comments, and quickly sidesteps to avoid Mara's strike. He returns with his own, aiming for the legs with a sidelong swing with the power of years of hard labor behind it.
"Tá sé sin go cosúil leis an aimsir, is iad na sióga, de chineál amháin ar Jól. An príomhfheidhmeannach, Rys thagann, chun Hofn gach bliain; b'fhéidir go bhfuil an brú a choimeád ar an tsíocháin i bhfad ró dó. Na sióga eile riamh cuairt a thabhairt ar dhá bhliain i ndiaidh a chéile. Tá sé sin go riamh iad siúd a théann ar thóir bhaile na sióga 'a aimsiú ... agus ní féidir teacht ar a bhaile féin arís ach an oiread."
Rikka approaches the dwarf woman, curious about the puzzle-box. "I'll give it try. What does it cost me if I can't open it?" She plunks down the smallest of the dwarf 'grapes'. "Fair enough?" While she attempts to work the puzzle-box, Rikka tries to eavesdrop on the elf conversation which she hopes isn't in Elvish.
Eysteinn
"Probably he deserved it," Ragni says blithely, and swings his practice weapon at Eysteinn's legs to try to to sweep them out from under him.
Eysteinn sees the trip attempt coming, and tries to parry it, but he misses, and...
....it winds up not mattering, as Ragni fails to hook the club behind Eysteinn's knee, and instead botches the attempt, losing his club in the mud. The crowd roars with good-natured laughter and Ragni swears, hurriedly snatching up the club again.
"Damnit, I'll have to get Da to show me again how he does that!"
Knute
"The best ale?!" the dwarf echoes loudly. "The best is what we brought with us, of course. No offense, you humans do many things well, but when it comes to brewing.... Now, if you're asking for the best of what we brought? Dragon's Breath is the finest, if you can handle it..."
The ale tent is not far, and there are kegs of all sizes there-- including huge ones bound in iron that must be the dwarves' contribution. Knute decides he'll have to avail himself of some of those brews.
The game plays on-- Knute's new dwarven friends join him in the sympathy over not getting another four-- and then they make their rolls.
"Ach, I might get the full squad if I can just get another three or four..."
"Bah!" says the dwarf with a sour wave of his hand, and passes the dice on to his wife.
There's a moment's silence as the five silver dice come up with a solitary one showing on every face. Hilde's expression of anticipated triumph droops, and the dwarven woman grins slowly.
"I think I'll be keeping that roll. And taking the winnings," she says sweetly, holding out a hand to the grumbling Hilde.
"Women," grouses the silversmith.
Kjell
Kjell's strike lands true, and though Mara turns her leg to roll with the blow rather than getting her kneecap possibly cracked, she winds up hopping back several feet with a grimace-grin of pain.
"You are strong," she says, the compliment sounding half like a curse right now. "Seems I'm the one who'll have a bruise, if I can't land a blow--"
She lunges forward, apparently that leg not quite as bad as she was feigning, and stabs forward.
Kjell dodges easily, and has an opening to end the fight, perhaps....
Halla
Five Solomon listens with interest-- he even goes so far as to shed another layer of his furs and get into his battered back; he pulls out a stained and battered leather-bound volume (Hofn has books, a few; the property of the rich, such as Sven, or the powerful, such as Hrolf, or those with special knowledge... Palli has two books, one a volume on useful plants, and the other filled with pages of faded drawings of body parts, veins and bones and muscles) and flips through to blank pages at the end. A little corked bottle of ink and a quill feather also emerge from his pack, and he hurriedly writes in what must be his own strange tongue.
For a few minutes, Five Solomon quizzes Halla on everything she can recall of the elves, their customs and oddities, all the children's tales and old wives' tales alike that she has heard. As long as she is willing to answer, he seems to have questions. He coaxes from her such details as the fact that Jol's weather is always clear, that the elves seem little bothered by the cold, that children have a rhyme about the elves:
One, two, three, four
The elves are hiding at the door
Five, six, seven, eight
The elves are waiting out the gate
Close the door, and shut it tight!
The elves are hunting me tonight.
...eventually, Five Solomon seems to realize he has grilled her incessantly. He puts his quill down and looks sheepish. In Varisian, he says, "I am sorry. Probably you wish to enjoy the feast-day, yes?"
Rikka
"Oh, that'll do nicely," the dwarf says to the offer of the little token. She hands the box over, and Rikka sets to work.
The box is made of brassy metal, and even though the individual pieces seem delicate enough, the end result is heavy and solid in Rikka's hand. She gets to work, carefully twisting and turning sections of the box. She thinks she's making progress, and gets one corner of the box to open fully, but after several minutes she has to admit she doesn't have the whole thing open yet.
The dwarf grins crookedly at her. "I'll give you another two minutes on the clock for another one of those," she teases.
Perhaps if Rikka were focusing wholly on the box, she would have solved it by now-- but much of her attention is (discreetly) on the scene taking place a little ways away. It is, unfortunately, in Elven...
...and other than it reminding Rikka strongly of being chewed out for some error or other as an apprentice, she can't really make heads nor tails of it. The younger elf slinks off eventually, quite chastened.
The pale elf briefly glances up-- and notices Rikka glancing covertly his direction. His colorless eyes narrow and his mouth purses, less than pleased.
Kjell drops low under Mara's attack, rolling to the side and coming to his feet. He brings the club around again...
Rikka shakes her head at the woman as much as the curious box. "It seems I'm not clever enough to solve it. Is it for sale?" She leaves the box and the dwarf woman to consider the question before approaching the narrow-eyed elf. Rikka should probably feel embarrassed for having been caught eavesdropping, but her upbringing didn't include such silly notions. She gives the elf a measured nod and offers the only recompense she can for whatever offense he took. "I recognize a disagreement but your language is curious to my ears and I understand none of it. Whatever you discussed is between you alone."
Ragni is trying to liven up the fighting grounds with some tricky maneuvering. Eysteinn is ready to rise to the occasion and try to exploit the clumsy attempt of his cousin Let’s see if I can get an opening…
He raises his club, two handed, as if he’s going to hack down at the adversary. Instead, as soon as Ragni switches stance to face the heavy blow he brings down the club close to his body, holding it horizontally above the elbow, for a point-first strike at the solar plexus. Ok now, cousin, you didn’t expect that, did you?
Kjell
It's a good strong swing-- but Mara just dodges, the club whistling a half-inch over her shoulder. The drilling practices of the war-band make her eager to dodge a blow, it seems.
Mara straightens up from her duck and...
...just manages to give Kjell a bruise for the one he's given her, the blunt practice sword smacking him with disciplined force right in his midrift. Even through his father's chain shirt he feels that one, the wind briefly knocked out of him.
Both contestants are rather the worse for wear, circling each other with ginger wariness, wheezing, feeling their aches and pains. Kjell again has the chance to finish things.
Rikka
The elf gazes very intently down at Rikka from the foot-and-then-some height he has on her. It's the sort of gaze she was used to from her old mistress: evaluating her critically, seeking out every flaw...
"It is some time since a human spoke to me with so graceless a tongue," he says after several seconds. "But you are not from Hofn, are you? You would know no better."
He pauses another moment, then says in a dismissive tone:
"Շարունակէք ձեր սեփական ճանապարհով."
Kjell grimaces as his strike goes just over the woman's shoulder, and then grunts heavily when her own attack lands. He starts to double over and steps back, his club up in a defensive position for once, as he catches his breath. That was quite a hit. Can't take another of those...
The large man circles with the warrior-woman for a few moments, then lunges forward with an uppercut.
But his balance is off and he's still struggling to catch his breath. The attack misses.
The elf gazes very intently down at Rikka from the foot-and-then-some height he has on her. It's the sort of gaze she was used to from her old mistress: evaluating her critically, seeking out every flaw...
"It is some time since a human spoke to me with so graceless a tongue," he says after several seconds. "But you are not from Hofn, are you? You would know no better."
Composed, Rikka regards the elf steadily as he gazes at her. His similarities to her 'mother' - the withering gaze, sharp eyes, and likely sharper tongue - were interesting and a spur that could provoke Rikka to speak her mind far too freely. She weighs the old elf tales against the man who was doing a fair job of boring a hole through her with his eyes.
"Graceless?" She smiles, "Either the tales of your people's skill with words are true or you are being charitable on this feast day... Perhaps both. My words have earned me far worse titles than 'graceless' in the past." She continues on, unperturbed by his subtle rebuke. "No, I'm not from Hofn and have never met your people before. I'm told I come from the Ironbound Isles."
She adds, "Don't blame my loose tongue on my ignorance of your people. Even some humans curse my ways. But what my words lack in grace, they make up for in earnestness... This is what comes from being raised by a seer who was akin to a she-wolf in a frock." It is a frank appraisal, not an excuse.
"Շարունակէք ձեր սեփական ճանապարհով."
Rikka raises an eyebrow curiously and responds, "Երբ դուք ցանկանում եք ... Դա ցավալի է, որ ես չեմ սովորել, թե ինչպես Դուք կարող եք իմանալ, թե ես խոսում վիշապի լեզուն."
Acquiescing to the elf's cool directive without complaint, Rikka sets off towards the dwarf woman and then turns back. "I intended no offense but perhaps I've slighted your honor. If it will mar the feast day to satisfy your honor... I'm at your disposal to settle the issue in whatever way is agreeable to your people. I'll be in the village for a few days. My name is Rikka." The tattooist gives the elf a polite nod and repeats the well-intentioned parting words of the elves she met previously, "May the wind be always at your back."
She doesn't know Elvish ways but the tattooist can't imagine her offense was grievous or that Elves would be particularly brutal in their punishments... certainly, they weren't likely to be as vindictive as Þórodda to whom punishment was a high art. At worse, Rikka considers she might to be striped with a rod or humiliated in some fashion.
Knute cracks a wide smile. "Of course I was referring to your dwarven ale! I may not be the brightest, but I am not foolish enough to claim human brews exceed dwarven ones." Knute glances over at the ale tent. If I can handle it, eh? I wonder how much water it'll need to be watered down enough for mother's liking... Guess there's no way to know but try! He grins at the thought.
The Ulfen's attention turns back to the dice game as the dwarves completes her throws. He shoots the male one a sympathizing glance, but is interrupted by his wife's stunning throw. Seeing Hilde's face at the roll, Knute laughs and claps his hands together. "Excellent, it's a true game again! I'll play one more round, any game of your choosing. Then I'm thinking I need to go try some of that ale."
His gaze strays over to the ale tent as he places a small, simple bone carving on the table. "This one," he says to the male dwarf, "is of my own making. I've just begun carving bones, when I'm home preparing to hunt again, or waiting for an unlucky animal to cross my path." Knute appears proud of the small leaf carving, though it is by no means expert craftsmanship.
Eysteinn
Ragni only shakes his head with a grin at Eysteinn's attempt to fake him out. "Come on, that didn't work on me when we were kids!" he says, and swings again with his club.
The club whistles within an inch of Eysteinn's nose, and he knows that if not for his own, secret protections, it would have hit. Ragni's expression changes from triumph to bemused disappointment as his club slides away without contacting.
"You're deft as a devil, cousin!"
Kjell
Mara twists back and Kjell's club cuts only air. "You've got a lot of power," she observes, "but you've got to work on your footwork-- like so--"
Her attempt to show Kjell what she means comes just short of connecting properly, the force of the blow ringing off his shirt once more. Mara grins ruefully.
Rikka
When Rikka turns back to the elf to offer her appeasing words, he is still staring directly at her. He listens to her earnest offer with his barely-visible brows climbing above his gray eyes eyes. Then the elf... smiles, tight and bitter; it draws his pale skin close to his delicate bones and makes him look briefly like nothing so much as a skull.
"I have no honor to offend, Rikka of the Ironbound Isles," he says with a small shake of his head. "Be at your peace."
The colorless elf turns and walks away, long stride carrying him swiftly into the crowd.
The dwarf puzzle-seller is studiously pretending to notice none of the exchange happening 20 or so feet from her cart. She is quite absorbed in picking out a bit of dirt from under her nails, and only looks back up when or if Rikka stands right before her cart again.
"Ten gold for the one you tried on, miss-- ach, that's right, you people don't use good honest coinage. Well, ten like the beads you gave me earlier, but you already gave me one, so, nine! I've fancier boxes too, but that's a good starter one."
"Like so!" Kjell grins back, having just sidestepped enough for his shirt to absorb the blow. He brings his own weapon around again, putting just as much of that 'power' behind it...
...and losing his grip in the process. The heavy stick looses from his grip and flies out above the heads of the gathered crowd. The carpenter blinks as he watches it go for a moment, but quickly adjusts his stance, knowing that another strike from his foe will likely bring him down.
Knute
"Well then, that's good," says the dwarf, mollified by Knute's quick assertion that dwarven ales are superior.
When Knute offers his third bit of barter, the dwarves seem pleased, the husband again picking it up to examine it. "Now that's not bad, lad. Here, I'll match it with this silver ring I've made..."
Antes are again offered. Hilde still looks sour over her loss. "Soldiers again! I'll win it yet," the old woman sniffs, and picks up the dice for her throw.
Hilde curses as she sees the poor roll. Yet, like before, she's only one off the straight... muttering to herself, she picks up the 6 and rerolls it.
"Oh, damnation and giant's fire!" the old woman swears, giving the stink-eye to anyone and everyone. "Bah! What did you to do the dice, you cheaters!"
"First games you've lost since we sat down, and you ask us that?" the husband-dwarf retorts, and slides the dice to Knute. "Go on then, lad, perhaps your luck has turned."
Kjell
Mara's head turns to watch the club go sailing as the crowd laughs and groans in equal measure. She turns back to Kjell, giving him a look that might be pity and might be amusement.
"Work on that grip too, Strongarm," she advises with her mouth twitching, and presses her advantage.
"Dammit! Even unarmed, you're still fast," she complains.
"Aye, it didn’t. Perhaps this one will though!" Eysteinn, cockily relying on his witchcraft-based defense, goes through with his initial idea even if Ragni didn’t fall for the feint. Ragni is probably ready to roll with the blow when Eysteinn’s club strikes head first in the middle of his opponent’s chest Did he even feel that through the armor? asks himself the young alchemist.
"I'm as slippery as that club," Kjell comments, slipping around her attack before coming in with a sudden punch.
Rikka could probably haggle the woman down but she finds herself mulling over - or perhaps brooding on- the exchange with the elf... and money had never been something she valued overmuch. She drops nine additional gold grapes in the woman's hand without complaint and pockets the puzzle-box. More to herself than anyone else she mutters, "This village is holding more turns than I expected." She nods to the merchant and walks off, working through the puzzle of what the elf knew and how he knew it.
...eventually, Five Solomon seems to realize he has grilled her incessantly. He puts his quill down and looks sheepish. In Varisian, he says, "I am sorry. Probably you wish to enjoy the feast-day, yes?"
She laughs. "Tagann na Jól gach bliain. Is é seo an chéad uair mé bhuail fhile ó lár an domhain. An bhfuil sé go leor? Chun do leabhar? Bheadh a fhios Yngvi níos mó. B'fhéidir go bhféadfaí tú scéalta leis an trádáil."
Eysteinn
Eysteinn swings; but Ragni's armor is indeed sound, and Ragni pulls back in time to avoid the worst of the blow.
Huffing from exertion, Ragni takes a wild swing at the witch-guarded Eysteinn.
Wild, and very sloppy. Ragni actually trips in the churned-up mud of the practice field! Eysteinn, can you capitalize on it?
Kjell
Kjell's boast proves to be true-- moving lightly for the big Ulfen man that he is, he darts around Mara in the mud, and finally connects again. The force of the blow sends Mara reeling down into the mud, clutching at the spot where Kjell's club hit.
"Damn me for falling for that!" she cries, but lifts her hand from her weapon and signals her surrender. "Owww, that one'll leave a mark..."
There's another round of cheering for Kjell! Glancing over, he sees that Ragni has slipped in the mud, and Eysteinn is closing on him.
Rikka
"Well, I guess it's a bit like a puzzle-box then, isn't it?" the dwarf says cheerfully, as she pockets the barter-tokens. "Come again anytime, tell your friends..."
Rikka's puzzlebox is heavy in the hand as she walks, and thinks.
Halla
The southern grins, his teeth very white in the darkness of his face.
"Tá mé cosúil le tine, álainn Halla-- riamh sásta!" he says with a wink. "... a bhfuil eolas, ar ndóigh. Ach tá, beidh mé ag iarraidh ar do Yngvi, nuair a fhilleann sé ... Má tá mé ádh, beidh mé ag labhairt chomh maith le ceann de na sióga.
"Beidh mé ag insint dóibh scéalta de na fir-a-bhfuil-déanta-de-tine, a bhfuil cónaí orthu sna dramhaíl te. Nó, b'fhéidir beidh mé in iúl duit?"
"I will tell them stories of the men-who-are-made-of-fire, who live in the hot wastelands. Or, perhaps I shall tell you?"[/b]
Oh, you mock me for using outdated moves, and you can’t even keep your balance! Eysteinn moves fast, fully knowing that the fight is going on for far too long. This must be embarrassing for both Father and Uncle. We are this close to turning into a laughing stock, hacking cluelessly like a couple of drunk fools.
He strikes down diagonally, trying to take advantage of his cousin’s slip-up. His attack isn’t elegant nor very precise – and Ragni is raising his own club to parry…
Knute looks very pleased at the silversmith's praise. "I'm honored to have it matched by your silver work," Knute says humbly.
The Ulfen sports an amused expression as Hilde lashes out. He chimes in with the dwarf: "Come now, Hilde. If we had done something to the dice, don't you think we would have done it before letting you win my first round, and who knows how many before?" He attempts to make light of the situation as he accepts the dice from the husband-dwarf. "I can only hope so!"
"Hmm... Not a great turn of luck, if it is one," the Ulfen mutters to himself. He scoops up the 3 and quickly lets it loose again.
"Ah, maybe that was too much to hope for." He offers the dice to the male dwarf, knowing that he's unlikely to come out on top with only a three of a kind, and twos at that. Knute seems cheery despite his poor luck throughout the day, though; the new friends he's made (and the promise of excellent ale in a few minutes) has him in high spirits.
Eysteinn & Kjell
Fortunately for Eysteinn, Ragni's position in the mud makes it hard for him to dodge a swing that (Eysteinn must admit privately) was only mediocre. The club still connects, and Ragni yelps.
"Owwr! Gods' blood, I yield!" he says with a groan, and slumps into the mud with the knowledge of two defeats in one hour.
There is some cheering (though also some laughing) for Eysteinn's victory-- not quite as impressive as Kjell, who managed to bare-handedly defeat an armed member of the warband, but hey, a win is a win.
There is some debate among the watchers over whether Eysteinn and Kjell should fight it out, but Hrolf rules that the rules stated the winner of three matches, and they have each done that.
"You have distinguished yourselves, and taken steps on the path to being true warriors!" the jarl calls out in his booming voice. "Step forward for your prizes."
The old dwarf nods gravely to Eysteinn and Kjell. His Skald is thickly accented and haltingly ponderous when he speaks:, "I offer you... a choice of weapons... or armor... from the forges... of my people. May they... serve you well. What... would you choose? Blade...? Hammer...? Shield...?"
Knute
Hilde sticks her tongue out at Knute and makes a rude noise. One of the prerogatives of advanced age, apparently.
The silversmith picks up the dice and blows on them for luck before tossing them.
"Ahh! There's my luck! It didn't run too far after all!" he cries, and picks up the two and the five to reroll them. "Sorry, lad--"
He punches the air triumphantly as another six shows. "Four sixes! I doubt you can beat that, my golden one," he grins at his wife.
His wife only arches a brow and picks up the dice for her own roll.
Sh frowns at the showing faces, and hesitates to pick. Finally, she gathers up the 6, 5, and 4, and rerolls them.
Fives and ones! Almost, but not quite. Her husband's roll stands as the best, and he shakes his fist in triumph before pointedly snatching the winnings up with a grin at Old Hilde. His wife merely shakes her head fondly.
"Better luck next year-- or next game, if you'll play more," she says to Knute. "I am Arda Red-rock, and my husband, who is too drunk for courtesies, is Garnith Silver-forge, in your tongue. Your name is Knute? Let us drink as friends."
"A superb roll," Knute congratulates the silversmith.
Knute's eyebrows raise as the wife-dwarf gathers up the 6, 5, and 4. "Aiming for a repeat of last round, then," he mutters, pausing with everyone else, as the dice turn up three fives. "Ah, no such luck. Well played, all!" He smiles at the group, looking to see if Hilde has cheered up at all.
"Ah, no more games for me this year, I think. I've lost as much as I like," he laughs. Knute grins as Arda mentions drinking. "Aye, Knute's my name, and I'd be honoured to drink with you as friends, Arda and Garnith." He winks at the silversmith. "I've always thought shared drink served as a better beginning to friendship than courtesies anyways."
Knute stands up from the gambling table, and gestures towards the ale tent. "Lead on, friends and winners. Let's see what this Dragon's Breath is about." He turns to Hilde. "Come drink with us, Hilde! You can brood over a good mug of ale instead of an empty gambling table." Knute doesn't expect a warm reception, but his invitation is sincere.
The southerner grins, his teeth very white in the darkness of his face.
"Tá mé cosúil le tine, álainn Halla-- riamh sásta!" he says with a wink. "... a bhfuil eolas, ar ndóigh. Ach tá, beidh mé ag iarraidh ar do Yngvi, nuair a fhilleann sé ... Má tá mé ádh, beidh mé ag labhairt chomh maith le ceann de na sióga.
"Beidh mé ag insint dóibh scéalta de na fir-a-bhfuil-déanta-de-tine, a bhfuil cónaí orthu sna dramhaíl te. Nó, b'fhéidir beidh mé in iúl duit?"
She squints at him dubiously. "Níl i ndáiríre fir déanta as dóiteáin," she half-questions, "ar bith níos mó ná mar atá na fir déanta as sneachta. An bhfuil ann?"
Eysteinn helps Ragni back on his feet “I quite lost count with the years… you’re still up three or four victories, right? Don’t take it too bad.”
He stays polite and gets his humbleness back for the victory – he knows he won more because of luck and opponent’s fault than his own merit. And what little merit, it was trickery. he licks his lips, where the faint alcoholic taste of the extract is lingering.
He thanks the goði, congratulates the other fighters, before joining Kjell in front of the old dwarf “You honor me with these prizes, honored guest” he says respectfully to the dwarf. Then nods to Kjell “What is it going to be for you, big guy? As I recall, your fist hits harder than these good folks’ hammers…”
For himself, Eysteinn ponders for a while over a beautiful morningstar topped with a horned ram’s head, but in the end claims as his prize a blade of the specific length he is familiar with Though learning how to use something else might not be a bad idea. You always need another option.
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Knute
Hilde's ill mood seems quickly enough vanished-- the old woman agrees to come along for drinking, though she does help herself to leaning on Knute's strong young arm without asking. (Look, that's what you young people are there for, to assist the elderly.) The little group makes a slow way over to the food-and-drink tents-and-tables; once there, Hilde bullies her way to a spot near one of the firepits.
"Ah, that's good for these old bones!" she says as she gets comfortable. "I don't see any of my grandchildren about, so you can grab me a drink, boy."
See what being generous gets you, Knute?
The dwarves seem to know Hilde well enough, by their comfortable and easy bickering. Of course, everyone knows Hilde well-- she's a hundred and twenty, or so they say, and has been a fixture in the lives of anyone born in Hofn for the last century.
Once her drink is fetched (if Knute declines she simply corrals a passing youngster by the ear and issues the same order), Hilde settles in with a happy sigh.
Master Silver-forge has, meanwhile, given Knute a crash course in the different dwarven brews available to drink-- Knute probably knows more than he ever wished to about distilling techniques, the years that each barrel is aged, the significance of the time of year as it pertains to brewing... etc. Silver-forge does see to it that Knute's mug is filled to near-overflowing with a thick, dark brew that, when sampled, is both bitter and heady. If the smell of woodsmoke could be bottled in liquid form, that is what Knute tastes. The drink warms him head to toe, curling hot in his belly like a cat on the hearth of a fire.
The dwarves knock cups to Hilde's and, while they are at it, to Knute's. It has the feel of a ritual practiced many years now, long before Knute's birth.
"Now then," says Arda, "who among us shall tell the tale? Hilde, have you any you haven't told us before?"
Hilde snorts. "I have all year to find new stories to tell people who I only see once, eh? I have stories. I always have stories. Finding one this lad hasn't heard yet, though... Hmmm."
Hilde sucks her lips in a moment in thought. "Alright," she says, "the story of the Frost Giant's Daughter.
"So it came that on a day when spring was still tender and the snow still survived in the shadows, Rolf became separated from his war-band. He went over a hill and then over another hill, but when he turned back he could not find the way that he had come. Rolf wandered for hours, calling out to his warriors, but the trees seemed to close behind him, and the rocks became steep and high. Rolf sought out a tall tree to climb, so to gain his bearings, but he climbed a tall pine and saw nothing that he new, and then he despaired, for he knew some witchcraft had hold of him.
"Rolf heard a sound of water in the woods, and as he was thirsty, Rolf went towards it. He found a spring of clear water, but at the spring there was a woman such as Rolf had never seen before. Her skin was white like the first snow; her eyes were blue like an icicle; and her hair was silvered like frost. She was bathing at the stream.
"Never had Rolf seen a woman such as this among his own people. Rolf called out to her, and she looked up, startled. Rolf stepped out, and the pale woman turned into a white deer, and fled from him.
"There was no thought in Rolf's mind but to give chase to her. He plunged into the woods, calling out, and the white deer ran ahead of him.
"For one day and one night Rolf chased the deer, feeling madness in himself. The branches cut at him and the rocks pierced his boots, but he was sarkr, seeing only the deer. He neither ate nor drank, but only ran. With the morning's light he found his strength ebbing, but he saw the deer ahead of him, and Rolf summoned the last of his strength and leapt forward, putting his hands around the deer's body.
"The deer bucked in his grip, and then the deer became a white owl. She flew up out of Rolf's grasp, and he fell to the earth senseless with the despair of his defeat.
"When Rolf awoke, he found himself chained in a room of ice. There was a small window, and out the window Rolf could see that he was at the top of a high mountain, and he understood that he was in the hall of the frost giant, which his people had seen many times from far away, but had never dared to approach.
"The frost giant, whose name was Ymir, came to mock him. He told Rolf that the white woman was his daughter, Dagny, and that she had led Rolf into Ymir's hands. Now, he said, he would cook Rolf into a stew, and eat his flesh, and his bones he would hurl back to Rolf's people.
"And Rolf was much afraid, and his heart knew no hope. Ymir left him then to his fear.
"After a time, Rolf heard soft feet. He looked up and he saw the white woman, the frost giant's daughter, stood there. Rolf cursed her, calling her an evil witch who had led him to his death.
"To this, the frost giant's daughter said, What should I have done? A strange and wild man appeared as I was unclothed, without my kin to defend me, and I fled. You chased me and would have seized me! I acted to defend myself only. If you chased me that is your own affair!"
"Rolf heard the truth of her words and he was ashamed. He asked for the white woman to forgive his chase of her.
"Now, while Dagny was the daughter of the frost giant, her mother had been a kind woman and a wise one, and Dagny's heart was not made of ice alone like Ymir's. As she spoke to Rolf, Dagny perceived in him honor and a brave heart. It did not seem well to her that this man should perish at her father's hands. Dagny resolved to free him.
"Ymir had a stew-pot the size of a house, and he needed to build a fire as great as the pot. This was no easy task! For the space of three days, Ymir climbed down from his mountain to the trees, and he cut down a great pine each day, and he brought the whole tree back. When he had all three trees, he built them into a great fire, so hot that a man would die a dozen paces from it. Ymir filled the pot with snow to make water. Ymir was very hungry now, and he desired nothing but Rolf's flesh in the pot!
"But Dagny spoke cunning words to her father telling him that he should throw Rolf into the pot now, and that in the morning the stew would be better for having waited and cooked all night. So sweetly did she speak that Ymir agreed to this. He picked Rolf up and threw him into the pot!
"The water was as hot as blood, but the white woman had given Rolf a strand of her hair to wind around his finger, like a ring. It burned like ice, yet as long as he wore it, he was safe from the heat of the fire and of the water.
"Dagny then spoke further to Ymir and pressed mead upon him, telling him that after all his work to build the fire, the mead would taste sweet, and it would whet his appetite for the next morning. Ymir drank, and drank, and drank. Three barrels of mead did Ymir drink, and at the end of it, he slept and he snored. Then did Dagny help Rolf to climb from the pot, and she returned to him his spear and his shield, and she told him the secret path by which he could flee the hall of the frost giant.
"But Rolf said that he would not go until he had slain Ymir. At this Dagny wept, and cried out that she had not freed him for him to kill her father. Dagny begged Rolf to leave, but Rolf refused, saying that as long as Ymir ruled in the mountains there could be no peace for Rolf and his people. So Rolf strode forward and, over Dagny's weeping, he put his spear into Ymir's heart.
"But the heart of Ymir was made of ice, and Geirr, the faithful spear, broke against it. Ymir woke, and perceived that Dagny had freed Rolf. Ymir believed that Dagny had conspired with Rolf to kill him, and he was mad with anger. He caught up the whole stew-pot and threw it down upon Rolf-- but Rolf's shield was strong, and the pot did not crush Rolf. Then Ymir threw the burning fire down upon Rolf-- but Dagny's hair held true, and Rolf did not burn. Then Ymir caught up Rolf in one hand, to eat him raw-- but Rolf took his broken spear and plunged it deep into Ymir's eye and into his brain. And Ymir fell, cursing and screaming. He cast out his hand and he laid the curse of his dying not upon Rolf, but upon Dagny.
'You have lied to your father and sought to kill him!' cried Ymir. 'You have played myself and this human against each other, and you have spun lies as a spider weaves its web! As long as the mountains stand, you shall no longer change your form, but you shall be in a form that fits your treachery, and you will be hated and reviled by all!' And Ymir thrust forth his hand, and Dagny was changed into a loathsome spider as white as bleached bones.
"Rolf was filled with horror at the sight of the creature. He fled the hall of the frost giant, climbing a day and a night down the secret path that Dagny had showed to him. Eventually he came again to trees and to hills, and he heard the cries of his war-band. Rolf returned to them and showed them his broken spear and told them the tale of his valor. Some among them wanted to return to the hall of the frost giant and to kill the spider also, but although they searched, they were never able to find the way to climb to the top of the mountain. So Rolf and the war-band returned to the rest of their people, and Ymir the frost giant no longer plagued them. So the people prospered, and the ice-walkers and trols and orks and all the other monsters withdrew, fearful of the slayer of Ymir and of his prowess at war."
Hilde pauses, and has a deep, deep swallow of her mug, then flashes a gold-toothed grin. "They might have felt different if they knew he'd only killed Ymir when he was drunk, and with a woman's help, eh? But of poor Dagny, ill-treated by them both-- the stories do not say a word more."
With her tale concluded, Hilde leans back in her seat with a wave of her hand, gesturing for anyone else to pick up the duty of spinning a story. Her tale has attracted a few others nearby, as well.
Eysteinn
The dwarf gives Eysteinn a measured nod when he selects his prize. Taking the blade in hand, Eysteinn discovers it is beautifully balanced, with an edge on it as keen as the winter wind. A plain-but-well-made scabbard is also offered over by the dwarves, and an oiling cloth and whetstone-- clearly the dwarves believe if you're going to take one of their weapons, you must take proper care of it.
"My... apprentice forged... this," says the very-old leader of the dwarves. "Use it... well."
Ragni whistles at the sight of the blade, dreams of 'next year' dancing in his head.
Halla
Five Solomon grins more broadly, the grin of a man pleased that he has the interest of his audience. And if that audience also happens to be a pretty girl, well...
"Ó, ach tá! Feicthe agam orthu," he says earnestly. "Siad ar a dtugtar efreeti. Tá cónaí orthu i saol na tine amháin, ach uaireanta a thagann siad anseo, má tá siad ar a dtugtar. Tá siad cruálach agus uafásach, agus is breá cogadh thar aon rud, ach má dhéanann siad gealltanas, beidh siad a choinneáil air.
"Uaireanta a fhágann siad páistí taobh thiar ar mhná an duine, mar do elves Deirtear go bhfuil a dhéanamh. Níl na páistí déanta as dóiteáin, ach tine siad ina gcroí, agus uaireanta gceannas siad tine."
"Sometimes they leave children behind on human women, as your elves are said to do. These children are not made of fire, but they have fire in their hearts, and sometimes they command fire."
The blonde tattooist finds her way to the food-and-drink tents, still working unsuccessfully on the puzzlebox of dwarf-make. She takes a seat near enough to Hilde (and Knute) to hear the tale-spinning while she enjoys the local cookery.
Flummoxed yet again by the curious box, Rikka comments on the story. "Poor Dagny."
Knute does not stumble when Hilde's bony hands clutch his arm as she stands--having known her for his entire life, he had expected and braced for it. He admires the crowd of Ulfen, dwarves, and elves as the group approaches the food-and-drink area. When they reach a fire, he begins to sit down next to Hilde, only to have her poke at him.
"I don't see any of my grandchildren about, so you can grab me a drink, boy."
Knute huffs and pushes himself back to his feet. He accepts Garnith's invitation to help select a brew, and ambles over to the great ale barrels, rolling his eyes as he hears Hilde begin to harass someone else.
Knute listens attentively as Master Silver-forge explains each brew, both its properties and its making, in great detail. He struggles to keep up, but is happily rewarded for his patience with the excellent brew Garnith selects. He sighs contentedly as the warm feeling that accompanies the ale radiates through his body. "Ah, that's the stuff," he says happily, his eyes closed. Knute grabs a second mug for Hilde--Does she take full-strength brews? I suppose it's better to assume so than to have her think I'm patronizing her...--and walks back over to the fire pit, sitting down with a grunt and passing Hilde her mug.
As the dwarves and Ulfen toast and the talk around the fire develops an easy rhythm, Knute smiles. It's rare that he feels as happy and safe among people as he does alone on a hunt, but this is truly one of those times. Knute always enjoys the traditions of Jól, and here, huddled around a fire pit, with a mug of heady ale and a friendly crowd of Ulfen and dwarves, he feels those traditions strongly.
His musings come to an end as Hilde begins her story. Knute nurses his ale as he listens to Hilde's yarn. Sure enough, he has not heard this one before, and he soon is drawn deep into the tale, his mind filled with the images of the great chase, the mountain hall, and the terrible frost giant. As Hilde nears the end, and mentions the spider, Knute shudders. "Why did it have to be a spider?" he mutters to himself, grimacing at the thought of a large, white spider. He looks up from the fire, noticing an unfamiliar Ulfen woman across the fire, apparently listening to Hilde's story while working some strange dwarven contraption in her hands.
"Poor Dagny."
"Aye, a sorry lass indeed," Knute agrees, "though sorry or not, I can't say I find the notion of her still sharing these woods and mountains with us at all entertaining."
Knute peers into his ale mug and is surprised to find a little less than half remaining. He settles in to finish his mug, and hopefully hear another tale.