Halla is still skeptical. "Fear déanta as dóiteáin agus bean an duine? Is féidir leis an elves a bheith nimhiúil, ach ní dhéanann siad sruthán. Cén bean a bheadh maireachtáil den sórt sin cúplála?"
Halla
Five Solomon laughs in delight at Halla's sharp question.
Tá tú an-chliste! Ach ní, is féidir leis an tine-fir ... cas as a n-tinte, tá sé sin, más mian leo. Nuair a dúirt mé go raibh feicthe agam orthu, ní raibh mé chiallaíonn a rá gur chonaic mé iad sa ghníomh ghnéas," he grins.
"Nach bhfuil mé labhair le aon cheann acu, ach tá mé tar éis labhairt le roinnt a bhfuil an fhuil iontu. Bhí a fhios agam le fear a bhfuil a súile a bhí dearg mar luaithrigh, agus a bhfuil a craiceann bhraith i gcónaí fiabhras."
"I have not spoken with any of them, but I have spoken to some who have the blood in them. I knew a man whose eyes were red as embers, and whose skin felt always fevered."
Men made of fire ... who can quench their own flames, Halla muses. Would they not then cease to exist? When you pinch out a lamp, there is nothing left but the wick. When you throw snow on a fire, there may be embers left, yes, but would men made of embers not still burn? She is still not quite sure she believes Five Solomon's account, but it is a good tale nonetheless, one that Yngvi would enjoy embellishing on the long, cold nights.
She glances at the sky where the Jólday sun hovers too near the horizon on this shortest day of the year. "Más mian leat labhairt leis Yngvi nó na sióga roimh luí na gréine, ba chóir duit iad a fháil anois. Tá Jól beagnach os a chionn."
When it is clear no one else is ready to offer another story, she speaks up. "I don't know if it's a proper 'tale' or not... my mother called them 'learnings' from which many lessons and wisdoms can be gained. But, if you would listen, I will tell you the learning of the Three Sisters..."
Hearing no objections, Rikka spins the tale...
And for two days the trip went well. But on the third night, while they camped in the wilds, brigands set upon them and the three sisters were captured at sword and spear-point then spirited away. Each one was claimed by a different brigand and taken to his dank hut far away from the others. The three sisters were, for once, alone and without help.
What the bandits wanted with the women you all know... I'll speak no more of that. But the three sisters wanted to remain maidens and escape these cruel men. So each one of them took stock of their situation and planned their own escapes. The beautiful sister used her loveliness to beguile and seduce the brigand, promising him her willing surrender if only he'd give her a few days to get used to the idea. She played to his passions so well and had him so bewildered with desire that when she hinted that she would come to his bed if only he presented her with flowers worthy of her beauty, he raced into the hills to find them for her. She made her escape while he was questing for wild-flowers.
The second sister had no such bewitchments, but she had skill. At the brigand's hut, she made him as good a meal as his supplies would provide. It was so filling that he fell straight asleep and could not ravish her that night. The next day he awoke and found that she had made him a fine breakfast and was darning his worn clothing. She spent the day improving his lot in life - repairing armor, cleaning his filthy house, and ended the day with another memorable dinner. When his desires turned amorous, she looked at him with all the weariness of her long day and said she was exhausted from all the work. To his credit, he felt a twinge of guilt and so left her alone. The next days continued much as the first had, with the girl proving her worth and plying him with enough food and liquor that he fell asleep early. After a week, when the brigand had truly begun to the value her and his wariness slipped, the second sister said that she wished she could make a meal worthy of so patient and fine a man as him. If he would allow it, she would fetch herbs and rare mushrooms from the forest while he slaughtered and prepared a goat, then she would make the best meal of his life. He agreed... and thus the second sister escaped her captor and cost him a goat in the process.
But the third sister had neither beauty nor talent. She told the brigand that she was not so beautiful nor so skilled as her sisters but she was happy to please him. Then she set up a bowl for washing, took off her shift slowly - awkwardly trying to tease him, and then began washing herself before his eyes saying she wanted to be clean for their first night together. By the time she was done with her bathing, the eager brigand awaited her naked on his bed. She crossed to be with him, snatched up his spear and plunged the weapon with all her strength into his chest, killing him. She washed the blood splatter off herself, put her shift back on, and made good her escape that very evening.
Rikka finishes the tale and begins to work on the puzzlebox again, letting the villagers consider the matter. After a minute she says, "The lesson of the tale depends on who is thinking on it. A man might say 'Never trust a smart woman' whereas a woman might think 'a man's desires are weapons that can be turned against him'. And a parent might say 'only a great fool leaves his children defenseless'. All these are lessons a person may fairly draw from the story... but I will tell you another. It's commonly said that the ways to a man's heart are through his stomach or by catching his eye." She shakes her head, "But I say the quickest way to a man's heart is by punching a hole in his ribcage." The tattooist gives Hilde a wink.
Sweat and cuts of the fighting competition cleaned away, Eysteinn gets back into the celebrating town, intentioned to mingle a fair bit. His confidence is a bit boosted by his small success. He proudly wears the cloackpin given to him by Hrolf, and he carries with himself two scabbards, his old blade and the much better one won in the competition. He is amazed by the quality of dwarven craftsmanship, and wishes to deal some more with them.
He hangs around the dwarves, looking at the fights that take place in the sixth hour, complimenting them on their craft, but most of all, he tries to steer the conversation such as to gather what kind of goods does the dwarven weaponsmith fancy the most.
Halla
Five Solomon blinks-- how the time has flown!-- and nods his eagerness to do such a thing. He lets Halla take him over the colorful elf who had given her the Harrow deck. Five Solomon bows over her hand again with profuse words of thanks in Varisian. As she wanders away and leaves him to his devices, she hears him speaking to the elf in what sounds like the elf-speech.
As for what is going on around the town... Signy is singing one of the old sagas from the stump (Palli has taken back over selling wares) to an appreciative audience of all three races. The black horse of Sven Aurigr has been responsible for three broken bones today, but so far, nobody has successfully ridden him. A dwarf made his way nearly to the top of the Cold Climb with some spiked boots, but the ice he was on broke and he fell the fifty feet to the water, which prompted a bit of a minor scare as the impact knocked him out and four sturdy Hofn-ites had to jump in and fish him out. Kjell Strongarm has won several competitions today, and is not the only human to do very well, though an elf won both the ice skating and the foot race.... such is the gossip around town.
The sun is dropping to the west, and with it, the warmth of the day is also rapidly lowering. Daylight will linger on another stubborn half-hour, but those who are not still engaged in vigorous feats of athleticism are donning fur cloaks and taking their spiced beer from the hot pots over the fire. The light glitters off the waves of the bay. Of course, the party's not over-- the drinking and carousing will go until the small hours, even if the games have stopped.
Palli is in a good mood, when Halla drops by to help him start putting things away. He boasts of getting many fjórðungr of salt from the dwarves, and honey and butter from the elves. It has been a good day, and now, for the good night.
Eysteinn
Eysteinn receives approving looks as he makes his way through the village, and men stop to clap him on the shoulder or compliment him on his dwarf-forged sword, and women to give him appraising glances and smiles. Perhaps his successes today were just what he needed to begin to get his old life back...
Seeking out the dwarves, Eysteinn finds they have docked all their carts together, and use the carts as shop-displays, of a sort, as each cart has clever shelves that fold down from the sides and can then be used to show off the wares. There are three different dwarfs, all on the young side of things, manning the shop-wagons, while their elders are partaking of the pleasures of the feast day.
One of them, a red-haired dwarf woman with a cheerful face, calls out to Eysteinn as he approaches, "Puzzlebox, sir? Solve it under two minutes and it's yours for free..."
She seems to have half a dozen of these puzzleboxes, and sundry other tools and objects besides. The other wagons have arms and armor enough to equip all of Hrolf's war-band, and more prosaic but useful things too-- a hand-operated bellows, ploughs, horseshoes, a grindstone, mirrors, rat-traps...
Rikka, Knute, and anyone else near the storytelling
The out-of-town woman weaves a good tale, with an amusing punchline. There's a moment's silence as people parse the joke, but Old Hilde bursts into sharp, crowing laughter, finding it hilarious and slamming her cup on the table with a big gold-toothed grin. "Through his ribcage!!" she repeats, slapping her thigh. "Ha!"
A tall, lean man with pale blond hair, a trim beard, and piercing gray eyes smiles slightly, more restrained than Hilde. Knute and the other Hofnites know him as Yngvi Wyrmtongue, the skald; he tips his head slightly to Rikka.
"I will remember that one. It was well-told," he says. "Perhaps you should have tried for the stump, with a gift for stories. But it appears I should tell something..."
He looks at those around. "What shall I tell, the story of how Tor got a rock stuck in his head? Or of Lokke and the cow that pissed honey? Or of how Odyn came to have his great horse? These are not the sagas, but the laughing-stories, to tell for fun."
Palli is in a good mood, when Halla drops by to help him start putting things away. He boasts of getting many fjórðungr of salt from the dwarves, and honey and butter from the elves. It has been a good day, and now, for the good night.
Salt ... perhaps she should have taken the salt, she second-guesses herself as she bundles the leftover wares to return to Old Palli's shop. It would have been more practical. She is no jarl's daughter to wear the stone openly, and if the winter is hard, you cannot eat a ring.
You cannot eat salt, either, Maeve puts in with lassitude; she has been surprisingly quiet since they received the Harrow Deck. If meat grows scarce, all will starve together. Be content with your luxury; you have had little enough.
As the temperature drops, Halla huddles under her cloak and worries about the southerner Five Solomon. Surely Yngvi or one of the jarls will offer the stranger the hospitality of his hall for the night. Despite his ambitions, she can't wholeheartedly hope that the elves grant his wish and invite him to their home, wherever it might be; she fears he would not return unchanged ... and most likely he would not return at all.
He looks at those around. "What shall I tell, the story of how Tor got a rock stuck in his head? Or of Lokke and the cow that pissed honey? Or of how Odyn came to have his great horse? These are not the sagas, but the laughing-stories, to tell for fun."
Rikka's curiosity is piqued. "A cow that pisses honey? I would like to hear that."
Eysteinn approaches one of the smiths, greeting him with a warm smile “Enjoying the celebration, I hope! Thanks to one of you, and to the Gods who lent me strength, I have a memorable prize to remind me of this beautiful day!” he lays his new, amazing blade on the counter, and then unsheathes his old sword “Now of course this old blade of mine can’t compare, but it is by no mean something to cast aside.” he presents it placed upon his two open palms towards the dwarf. “Solid steel, well kept – our wise goði saw that I didn’t miss a day oiling it. If one of you where to remake the guard – a bit battered – and perhaps sharpen it back it could be a good weapon, can’t it? I could trade it – if nothing else, you could use the steel.”
“I’m looking for a special weapon – something that can be used against evil spirits of the forest – like the ones in Nithveil or far East in Irrisen. Those spiked maces look strong enough to make a pair with this beauty here.” he pats his newly won sword “Do you have one of them in metal that can hurt the witch-feys?”
After the transaction is concluded, his attention is caught by the redhead “Sure, ma’am. Always enjoy a good brain-teaser, especially if it comes with the promise of another prize to add to this fine day!” he walks to the woman’s booth and grabs the contraption she offers him – looking attentively to find the solution.
Knute is surprised at the stranger's story, and a little unsettled. Though he certainly can't fault the third girl for acting as she did, murder is still murder... Not that she had much choice. Can't say I wouldn't have done the same.
As the woman makes her final joke, he is startled by Hilde's sudden, raucous laughter. As he comprehends her joke, Knute chuckles. Aye, it is direct. That much, I can appreciate. He turns as Yngvi speaks up, noticing the ghost of a smile on his face. At his offer to tell a story, Knute again peers into his mug. The round, wooden bottom stares back up at him, and Knute sighs. If I don't get back to mother and Halvar now, I might not be able to later. He stands up, bracing himself on the seat as the world turns more than it should. "That stuff is strong," Knute mutters a bit clumsily.
He hesitates as the blonde woman who just told a story requests a telling of Lokke's cow. It is a good one, Knute knows, but he also can't wait around. He wanders back over to the barrels of ale and fills his mug about half full, then fills it the rest of the way with water. He sips it, testing its strength. "This should still be strong enough for Halvar I think," he says, thinking out loud. Looking around the food area for some of the pastries his mother wanted, he finds scant pickings. The elvish offerings have been a hit, but he picks out a few of the remaining to slip in his backpack, and sets off back towards his home.
Arriving home, he opens the door and calls out, "Mother? Halvar? I brought back pastries and ale!"
Halla
Halla finishes the last of bundling away the unsold wares. When she looks up again (perhaps scanning for a glimpse of Five Solomon), it is instead to see the little girl, Ingrid, watching her a bit shyly.
"You were nice to me when there was the linnorm," Ingrid says. "I wasn't scared, though, not really! But you were still nice."
Eysteinn
The dwarf that seems to be in charge of the weapons cart looks over the old sword with a pursing of his lips. He picks it up, gives the blade a test swing in the air, and tings his fingernail against the blade, listening to the ring of steel in the cooling air. He shrugs, clearly not terribly impressed with the blade, but not outright turning Eysteinn away, either.
"You want.... a weapon of deep iron?" he grunts, his Skald not as fluid as some of the other dwarves, or any of the elves. "This... human smithing...." a crooked smile crosses the dwarf's face "...would trade for human smithing. Not dwarf."
He gestures at a morningstar such as Eysteinn is looking for-- the black iron seeming to almost glitter in the last of the sunlight, the grip bossed with braided silver wire-- and Eysteinn gets what he's getting at, that all of the work the weaponsmiths have brought is of superior quality, worth substantially more in trade goods than his old sword. The dwarf shrugs, and hands Eysteinn his bastard sword back.
The red-headed dwarf watches this with interest, perhaps amusement, then, when Eysteinn turns his attention to her, she lightly tosses him an intricate box about the size of a man's fist, with dozens of moving parts and panels. "You slide the bits and around and twist and turn until you get it open," she grins. "And if you manage it, I'll put in a word for you with Quar, there."
Knute
Knute takes his leave of the dwarves-- the husband is grinning broadly at Knute's reaction to the stiff drink, but wishes him well-- and Knute weaves off to bring his mother and step-father the requested tidbits from the feast.
The few elf pastries he manages to grab are still soft enough to tempt the tongue, but he makes it back with food and ale intact. Rikissa smiles at him when he enters.
"There you are. I thought I might have to send Helvar out," she says. Knute's stepfather is cleaning some of his fishing tackle by the light of a candle, and gives Knute a gruffly-warm nod.
"Win anything out there?" he asks, as he takes the mug appreciatively and has a deep breath of the aroma. "Gods, that's the stuff, isn't it!"
Rikka and anyone else at the central food pavilion
As the temperature drops, more people are crowding into the hall and near the firepits. Dogs and children roll on the straw of the floor, and for once, mothers put off trying to keep their children clean. Yngvi has a good audience for his tale.
"Right," says the skald, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to clear off some froth from his ale. "So. Lokke and his cow...
A dwarf in the crowd looks slightly amused at this introduction, but says nothing as Yngvi launches into the tale.
"Now the smartest of all the gods, except perhaps for Odyn, was Lokke. Lokke was cunning above all, a tale-spinner and a shape-changer, a liar and and a cheat. Lokke was always in trouble! Tor was always throwing him out of the god-hall, or fighting with him. They were brothers, but as we all know, brothers fight.
"This time, it was because of a horse. Tor had a fine horse, descended from Odyn's great horse, and Lokke wanted the horse for himself. He sought to buy it from Tor in the guise of an old merchant, but Tor said no; he sought to wheedle it away from Tor, in the guise of a sweet maiden, but Tor said no; he sought to lure the horse away in the shape of a mare, but Tor caught the stallion and dragged it back to the stable and shut it up. And Lokke became angry, and decided that if he could not have the horse, that Tor should not either. So Lokke became a poisonous wasp, and flew in through the crack beneath the door, and stung the horse, and the horse grew sick and died.
"Tor was mightily angry! For seven days there was a storm when he discovered the death of his horse. He was so angry that he went to Odyn himself and demanded what had caused his horse to sicken and die. And Odyn asked his wolves and his ravens, and they told him that they had seen Lokke taking the form of a wasp, and that he had gone to kill the horse. At this, Tor's rage became so great that the walls of the hall shook with his voice and his feet! Lokke heard his anger, and Lokke ran. He ran all the way down from the god-hall to the earth, where men live now. Tor stood on the great hill outside his hall and saw him very far away and small, and Tor picked up the body of his dead horse and he threw it at Lokke, and it landed where Lokke was and sank in the ground all around him. Even today the ground is still low there, and there is a lake there, that we call Horse Lake, and that is why."
Yngvi takes a deep swallow of his horn and then continues. "Anyway. Lokke was now far from home, in hard lands, and all he had was a dead horse. You or I, maybe we would just have eaten the horse! But Lokke is resourceful, so he took the dead horse with him and he thought about what could he do with a dead horse.
"Lokke walked and walked, carrying the dead horse, until he saw a farm on a hill. This was the farm of the trol Koli. Koli had a large farm, and he would go and steal people away to be his thralls and work his farm. He had cows that stood as tall as a house, and grain that stood taller than that. Lokke went towards the farm, hiding in the grain and watching. He waited until one of Koli's great cows came across the road, and then he jumped out and threw the horse down on the road in such a manner that it looked like it had fallen and broken in its neck, and he set to yelling and shouting.
"Koli came from the fields and saw the dead horse and Lokke yelling and shouting, so he came over to see what was the matter.
" 'I came riding the road, and your cow stepped out into it spooked my horse, so that he fell, and broke his neck!' Lokke answered. 'He was the finest horse in a hundred rosts, and I borrowed him from mighty Tor! I will tell Tor that you are responsible for the death of his fine horse!'
"Now Koli knew that Lokke was a god, and the name of Tor was fearful to him, so Koli was greatly afraid. He pled with Lokke not to tell Tor, and then he offered things to Lokke-- gold, mead, honey, butter, salt-- and finally he offered him the cow. And Lokke said he would be merciful and be satisfied with the cow, and a bag of salt, and a jar of honey, and a barrel of mead.
"So now Lokke walked on leading the cow, and Lokke thought, and thought. For where and I would think we had made a good trade, getting honey and salt and mead and a cow, all for a dead horse, Lokke is never satisfied. He walked until he saw that he was near the lands of the giants. And then Lokke changed his form to that of a giant, and he took the cow and stuffed the salt up inside the arse of the cow, and the honey as well, and he cut her udder and poured in the mead, and then he used his cunning to sew her back up again.
"Lokke came to the giants in disguise, leading his cow, and told the giants he had a magical cow that could piss honey and crap salt, and that you could milk her and mead would come out. The giants laughed and told him he was a liar, and to prove it, but he said he would only prove it to the king of the giants. And finally they took him before Thrym, the great and terrible ruler of the giants. Again Lokke told the king of his magical cow! And Thrym said, PROVE IT!
"So Lokke milked the cow, and mead came out of her; and Lokke poked the cow in the stomach, and the salt fell out onto Thrym's floor; and Lokke poked again, and the honey came out! And the giants were all amazed. And Thrym decided he wanted the cow.
"Lokke said that he could not possibly sell the cow, as the cow was all he had in the world. Thrmy offered him gold, and he said he had no need of it; Thrym offered him mead, and Lokke pointed out he had that every day from the cow, as well as honey, and salt. And the more he spoke, the more Thrym desired the cow, for that is Lokke's magic. Finally Thrym said he would give Lokke anything at all for the cow, and Lokke said, Very well, I want your great sword!
"And Thrym was not well-pleased by that, but all in the hall had heard his offer fairly given. So Thrym ordered his sword fetched, and given over to Lokke, and Lokke gave him the cow in turn. And when this was done, Lokke resumed his own face and laughed at Thrym in his own hall, and then Lokke ran-- he ran and he ran, all the way back up the rainbow bridge to the gods' hall, while the giants roared curses behind him and threw rocks! But Lokke is very good at dodging, on account of how often things get thrown at him," Yngvi says with a wink and a grin.
"He came back to the walls of the hall of the gods, and Tor, who was still wroth with him, would not have let him in-- but Odyn said, see now what he holds, and Tor saw that he held the great sword of Thrym, and that this was a mighty deed for the gods. So Tor softened his heart and let Lokke enter, and the giants could not pursue. So Thrym and all his followers had to return back to the middle-earth, and they had to be content with the cow of the trol, that pissed honey.... except never again did Thrym get a drop from her!"
Rikka chuckles at the tale, taking delight in the unfamiliar story. "Ha! I've never heard that before. It reminds me of a funny yarn I heard once of Tor and Odyn's steed... "
In the Halls of the Gods all worthy creatures may drink. And so it was that Sleipnir, Odyn's great steed would often come to drink and listen to the tales of the heroes of old. As all know Sleipnir was a clever and wise animal and understood all the tongues of men.
But Sleipnir rarely spoke though he listened much with his great ears. In all his long years in the hall, he was only surprised by a tall tale a few times and only been made to laugh once - just once - at an unbelievably clever joke. And so it became a challenge among the heroes of the Hall to try to make mighty Sleipnir laugh. Even clever Lokke after many tales and tricks could coax no more than a smile from the long-faced animal.
And so it was one night - after much drinking - that Tor, Odyn's son, proclaimed that he would succeed where others had failed, that he would make Sleipnir laugh. Few in the hall believed him, least of all jealous Lokke. Angered by the lack of faith, and still very drunk, Tor said he would bet legendary Mjolnir on his success... If any man there would offer up an equal prize should he win. Only Lokke took the bet and set aside his magical cloak that shielded him from all men's eyes and hid his mind from even Odyn's keen ways. It was perhaps not equal to Mjolnir but it was a great prize and Tor accepted the bet.
Tor strode over to the great eight-legged beast, who had listened to the bet and was determined to remain stone-faced no matter Tor's antics. Sleipnir was a proud creature and saw this as a matter of some honor. Thunder hurler Tor approached Sleipnir and whispered a short phrase in his long ear. To the amazement of all, Sleipnir let loose a great belly laugh and nearly fell over - so hard did he laugh. It was minutes before Odyn's steed could do aught but chuckle. Lokke was astonished and gobbled to know what witticism Tor had said. Great Tor smiled but only said that for an equal treasure, he would coax tears from the animal. Having seen Tor's skill no man in the hall challenged him. But jealous Lokke could not say no for he knew that Sleipnir had never wept, not for any heart-wrenching tale wove by the greatest skalds in the Hall. He offered a dozen magical trinkets against Mjolnir that Tor could not make Odyn's steed cry as strongly as he made him laugh.
Tor took the horse aside, to a private corner of the Hall and spoke earnestly. In a moment poor Sleipnir wailed and wept. Hopeless tears rolled down his long nose. It was a sight that silenced the hall. When the horse was though crying, Tor brought him a trough of mead and patted him with affection... Then he swept up all of Lokke's treasures.
Lokke burned to know what Tor had said. He begged and pleaded... Finally Tor chose to answer. He said, "To make Noble Sleipnir laugh, I told him that I am hung better than he is. To make him cry... I proved it."
"No need for that," Knute says, smiling at his mother's concern. "Though a few more mugs of that ale and that may have been necessary, ha." He returns Halvar's nod, and offers him the mug full of ale and water.
Knute shrugs at his step-father's question. "No, unfortunately. My luck seems to have deserted me today." His drunken cheer seems to falter a bit at that thought. "Though I had a good time anyways, as you can see," he says, stumbling a little and handing the pastries to his mother. He grins at Halvar's reaction to the smell. "Aye, it's the real stuff all right. Recommended by a fine dwarf, at that. A silver-smith."
Knute takes a seat next to Halvar, steadying himself, and offering to take up the cleaning while Halvar drinks for a bit. "How's it been? Busy, I hope?"
Rikka, etc
Yngvi smirks a bit at the tale of Sleipnir's Laugh. "I feel I have heard that one before, but not with the gods as the people. I like the change. And I will wager Tor does too!"
More jokes are passed around by all and sundry. The elves seem to favor wordplay and puns (some of which don't translate entirely well to Skald, it seems, as there's a couple that the elves seem to find hilarious that leave the Hofnites and dwarves skritching their heads); the dwarves tell few jokes, but those they do tell seem to have a broad, earthy humor well in keeping with Rikka and Yngvi's jests.
And the food and the drink keep coming, everyone nibbling and sipping, nibbling and sipping. A few people gamble in corners, impromptu (Hilde is waging war with a group of young men, and winning too, if the groans from the losers are any indication).
The sun drops below the horizon. The gaming fields with their torn-up turf are left behind.... cleaning can be done tomorrow. For now, most of those in the village who are still awake, and have not already drunk themselves under, or eaten too much, or found diversions of a companionable nature... start moving towards the great hall, where a blazing fire has been built in the long fire-pit.
The hall is close with so many people packed in. It smells of sweat and alcohol, food and woodsmoke. Every bit of bench is taken, and people stand against the walls. Sleepy children, over-tired from the day, doze on their mothers' shoulders. Dogs who have already eaten their fill today snuffle for scraps among the hay on the floor. Still, the air is filled with a certain expectancy.
Knute
Halvar looks a touch disappointed that Knute has no big prize to show, but he claps Knute on the shoulder all the same and drinks deeply. Rikissa answers Knute's question.
"We traded a good deal of smoked meat and fish to the dwarves," she says. "Halvar got fishhooks that the dwarves say will never bend or break. Oh, and I told them you're a bowman, so the dwarf gave me this--" she pulls a single arrow out from a shelf, and hands it over to Knute, before she keeps talking, "--and we've salt for the whole winter, and I got new needles and a sack of good nails, and the elves traded me a bolt of a lovely fabric..."
As his mother happily explains the bounty of the trade-day, Knute examines the arrow. The shaft appears to be made of metal, rather than wood, but it is hollow and light as a bird's bone. The arrowhead itself looks sharp and sturdy, flared in a three-fold blade rather than the usual flat-bladed version Knute uses.
"--the dwarf said that won't break either!"
Halvar finishes the drink and starts shrugging on his heavy fur cloak; Rikissa is likewise bundling up. "Sun's down," Halvar grunts. "Let's get to the feast-hall..."
“I understand, master smith. And indeed, if our places were reversed, not even silver-tongued Lokke himself could hope to exchange this blade with that beauty.” he nods towards the deep iron mace. “Sorry to have wasted your time, hope to be able to afford that next year.” he salutes politely.
At the woman’s booth he fiddles with the locks, shakes the contraption close to his ear, and even pricks his finger on one of the sharpest parts, all with no result “Heh…” he chuckles “Your puzzle defeated me, but I’m not one to give up. It was free if I had solved it, but can I purchase it and try to solve it later? I can offer…” he rummages through his belongings, and picks up a few vials and bottles “here, this balm will work against pain from burns, and accelerate healing. Or perhaps a liquor made from mountain herbs, works as a fantastic digestive after a big meal, and it tastes fine too! What do you say?”
After a few more deals, when the cold of the evening starts creeping in after the sunset, he goes to the central pavilion for the closing ceremony, quite happy with the day.
____________________
"You were nice to me when there was the linnorm," Ingrid says. "I wasn't scared, though, not really! But you were still nice."
Halla shrugs awkwardly, not sure how to respond to the girl's friendliness. "It's Jól. Everyone's nice on Jól, even the elves. Even the weather." She glances around at the darkening skies. "But now it's getting cold. Won't your father be looking for you at the great hall?"
Rikka waits expectantly for whatever comes next in this odd celebration tradition, watching to leaders (human, elf, and dwarf) sharply trying to read their moods... a tall task particularly with the fey-touched elves.
Eysteinn
The dwarf weapon-smith gives Eysteinn a grave nod and lets him go on his way.
The red-headed dwarf only smiles at Eysteinn's attempt to open the box. She looks unconvinced at Eysteinn's first offer, but when he throws in the liquor as well she grins and offers him her hand. "A deal!"
Eysteinn wanders for a bit, looking at those who have their wares out. The apprentice of Njall the blacksmith, a gangly youth with a shock of pale blond hair, is starting to bundle up the goods that were out on display, but when Eysteinn approaches and offers up his old blade the boy takes it and squints along the length of it.
"Steel's good enough," the youth admits. "We can put a new edge on it, sand out some of those scratches, and sell it again..."
He offers Eysteinn several white ermine pelts and a an iron flask for his old sword.
His business conducted and his badges of victory worn proudly, Eysteinn ambles for the great hall, feeling good about life. Once inside, he joins the press of bodies and sees both familiar faces and unfamiliar faces-- Kjell is in a corner with Astrid Eikbrunr, the two of them grinning rather drunkenly at each other-- and the southerner from the riddle games is drinking deeply, looking to drown his woes; Old Hilde and Yngvi and strangers that Eysteinn does not know are telling filthy jokes and stories in a corner, and everywhere people eat and drink are merry, more or less.
Halla
The girl snickers at Halla's observation about everything being nice today, and nods earnestly. "It's all nice! One of the elves gave me these little sweets that looked like rocks but they fizzle on your tongue like stars, and another gave me ribbons for my hair--" (Ingrid points at a strip of shimmery blue silk tied into her hair) "--and I pushed Rolf into a snowbank, and Papa gave me a little metal horse he got from the dwarves and--"
Her litany of all the joys of Jólboð (somewhat more joyous for a free daughter of the village than a thrall, it is true) comes to a bit of a stammering halt when Halla points out her father will be looking for her.
"Oh. Guess so," Ingrid says with her nose scrunching up. She holds something out to Halla-- a flower, of all things (even if it is a bit wilted and droopy). "You should have that," the girl says shyly, "cuz it's pretty, like you."
Her gift delivered, Ingrid turns and runs back towards the crowd of people and light gathered in the great hall.
Rikka
Rikka drinks, and eats, and watches. The food is a mixture of the standard hearty and fatty food typical of all Ulfen villages in winter-- fresh fish, cod and salmon and herring, prepared in half a dozen ways from fried to steamed (but preferably with lots of butter regardless of the cooking method); fat slices of ham cooked with apples and butter; horsemeat cooked in chunks on a spit with wild onions and winter potatoes; roast goose stuffed with fennel and sharp, tangy goat cheese... bowls of cream so thick that a mouse might walk on it, fresh-baked bread with butter melting into it and honey drizzled on top, fat wheels of cheese in every hue from white to golden-yellow, stew with hunks of beef and carrots floating in the unctuous, savory broth... and of course the honey-mead, the apple-cider, the ales...
The elves' contributions to the feast come straight from summer, it seems-- Rikka hasn't had access to any of these foods in several months: fresh strawberries, lingonberries, plums, cherries, elderberries, raspberries, and other fruits too that Rikka has no name for-- all of them plump, full, and bursting with juice and flavor. The elves have brought vegetables too, such as any farm-wife would be proud to display, but most of those have already been cut up and put into the pots or other dishes. Pastries, too, seem to have an elven touch-- there are pies with crusts as light and delicate as air, tarts with a drizzled sugar frosting, and lattices of a thin bread-like substance that snaps at the lightest touch, into brittle, delicious fragments. The elves have even brought a few wines-- Rikka overhears someone saying they are deceptively sweet, but will kick you on your arse if you're not careful...
The primary dwarven contribution to the food-side of things appears to be: alcohol. One long table has been set aside for the dwarven brews, and an easy dozen kegs crowd on it, each stamped with a separate maker's mark. When one is emptied, another replaces it-- the Hofn villagers crowd to this table, eager to sample one brew after another and boast its merits to their fellows.
But Rikka keeps an eye out for people, as well as for food and for drink...
The elves mingle freely, interspersing without issue, it seems, among the human villagers. The longer Rikka watches, however, she notices that they do seem to seek to pair off-- the women of the elves are, nearly each of them, engaged in talk with a man of Hofn, and the men among the elves similarly seem to be each finding one or two particular Hofn women enthralling. Everywhere the elves smile, charm, and flatter... the majority of the Hofns who are paid this attention seem to blush and fluster, pleasantly overwhelmed by all the sweet words coming from such uniformly graceful and attractive creatures.
Only the dour elf-leader holds himself apart from this fraternization. The pale elf sits in position of honor by Hrolf, and nurses a horn of some sort of liquor, though Rikka notices he drinks only rarely. His eyes drift restlessly around the room.
As for the dwarves: they mingle less, but do so more as group to group, rather than one-on-one. In one corner of the hall, there are arm-wrestling matches springing up, the dwarves on one side of the table and the humans on the other, facing off in good-natured rivalry. Over by the table of dwarven ales, two dwarves are arguing the case of who brews the better booze, with an audience of humans cheering first the one, then the other, and nobly agreeing to sacrifice themselves as test subjects in the cause of determining whose claim is correct. The dwarves seem to have come in pairs, and largely to stay together in pairs. The leader of the dwarves appear to be a very old man, his beard snow white and his body weighed down by both age and the richness of his gold-worked cloth and copious gold jewelry; he is also seated by Hrolf, and younger dwarves bring him a revolving cycle of drinks and food.
Knute winces slightly at Halvar's obvious disappointment, but shrugs it off as he listens to Rikissa go on about the trades they made. A contented smile creeps onto his face as he hears how well the shop did, though the smile turns to puzzlement as Knute accepts the arrow and begins to really study it.
The workmanship is amazing... How did they make this? He tests the arrowhead's sharpness, and is surprised when it draws a pinprick of blood with the slightest touch. I'll need to be careful with this, Knute thinks, returning his attention to Rikissa's account of the store. He smiles as she breathlessly runs out of things to say. "Sounds like we had an excellent day, mother! Gods be praised." He grabs his mother in a hug. "And the arrow is wonderous, thank you." Knute glances over at Halvar, and drops his voice to a whisper, "which sold more, by the way? My game or Halvar's fish? Just curious, you know..."
As he sees Halvar finishing the drink and putting on his cold weather gear, Knute releases Rikissa and walks to his room. There he puts on his own cloak and heavy boots, and snatches up his bow and arrows, with the new Durable Arrow tucked away safely in his quiver. Have to look the part if I'm going to have any chance of placing in the hunting competition, after all. He grins at the thought, though Knute knows he's unlikely to have out hunted Red Alf and his best few men.
Knute joins Halvar and Rikissa in the main room just as Rikissa is putting up her cloak's hood, and hears Halvar's suggestion to go to the feast-hall. Knute motions for his step father to lead on, eager to test more food and brews, and possibly see Garnith and Arda or Lydd.
She holds something out to Halla-- a flower, of all things (even if it is a bit wilted and droopy). "You should have that," the girl says shyly, "cuz it's pretty, like you."
Her gift delivered, Ingrid turns and runs back towards the crowd of people and light gathered in the great hall.
A flower! Where did she...? Halla looks around at the frozen mud and dirty snow. It must have come from the elves, she realizes and finds herself thinking for the first time about their mysterious home. Is it always summer there with flowers and fruits, or do they save up all their magic for Jól to dazzle the people of Hofn? And why Hofn? she wonders, remembering Five Solomon's assertion that these elves are different than those elsewhere in the world. What is so special about this village, that they visit us and no one else?
Having double-checked that all of Old Palli's wares have been carried in and that he hasn't overlooked anything in the fading light, she tucks Ingrid's flower behind her ear and heads for the warmth of the great hall herself.
Knute
Rikissa looks a bit abashed at Knute's question of whose wares sold better, and gives him a little pat on the shoulder. "The fatty fish preserve better for the winter, Knute," she says sympathetically. Sooo... Halvar, then. Sigh.
Still, such disappointments aside, Knute's spirits are high enough as he makes his way back to the great hall, following the figures of his mother and stepfather. The sun is behind the western ridge, now, and the wind that blows off the cove is bitterly cold, a reminder that this is still winter, the very heart of it.
Inside, the warmth and noise strike like a welcome wave. Knute sees faces he knows, young and old alike, and faces he doesn't. There's a man with skin brown like sand at the bottom of a stream, and a pathetic little beard not worthy of the name, sitting close to the fires; there are Garnith and Arda, in heavy discussion with Njall the blacksmith... Lydd is nowhere to be seen right this moment, alas.
Halla
Halla enters the hall just a bit after Knute Iversson, and stands blinking in the warmth a moment, confronted by the wall of the crowd. Eventually she works her way in, to the closest thing to an unoccupied corner of the hall that yet remains here.
A struck chord from Yngvi's lyre washes over the assembled, and conversations, arguments, laughter, and near-fights die down throughout the hall (more or less).
Yngvi stands on one of the long tables, head bowed a moment over his lyre, then plucks forth another twanging chord.
"Listen.
"I sing of days gone like waves | beneath the red ship's prow
"Long ago did Rolf ride the road | of water, to home-harbor and haven..."
"Sure, better for the winter," Knute mumbles. Ah, well. Luck is just not with me, today. Though it's better than selling little overall, I suppose...
Knute bundles his cloak tight around him as the group approaches the hall, but quickly shrugs it off upon entering the hall. The contrast between the inside of the hall (warm, noisy, merry) and the outside (cold, quiet, dark) could not be starker. He shuffles his way into the hall, looking for a place around a fire for his family to sit.
Eventually his eyes alight on Garnith and Arda, the couple he met and gambled with earlier. He considers introducing Rikissa and Halvar to them, but thinks better of it. It's probably not best to remind Mother I gamble, and I'm not sure I'd want to intrude on their discussion with Njall, anyways; it looks serious. As Yngvi strums his lyre, Knute hastens to find somewhere to sit and listen, dropping into the nearest unoccupied space.
Late it was that Thrymr joined the festivities of Jól, the hours of the day having passed with solitude and labor. His clothes trailed the detritus of snow and soil that betrayed his profession as a tiller of soil, though the wary manner in which his eyes scanned and the surety of his footfalls suggested that farming was not his only skill. Not blessed with great height, the man clearly made up for it with girth - thick corded muscles roped around his limbs and a barrel chest sitting beneath a fulsome beard that frames a sun weathered and worn face.
At his heels follows a bright eyed hund, keeping instinctive pace with it's companion and following his steps. The dog's coat is predominately black, though it's neck and underside are contrasting white. In keeping with the ulfen, the hund is thick chested and as it moves there can be seen that muscle pads it's form.
Reaching the hall, Thrymr pauses to take a deep breath and allow the sea of people to part and permit him entry. Making straight for the feast table, he gets a large bowl of unctuos stew - laying bread atop the bowl. Before he leaves the table he takes a thick slice of ham, and without looking lowers it for his dog to take grip in its jaws. A retreat is then beat towards the least populated area of the hall - where a seat upon the floor serves as well as any to pause and begin to eat. His hund follows with ham hanging from it's maw until they pause also - not starting to eat until his companion does.
In the hall, for all PCs who are there
The stew and the meat are welcome to Thrymr after a long day doing the work that everyone else has left behind in their eagerness for the feast.
Well over half the village is here: those few who are not are those who are abed early, or who have drawn the poor luck of watch duty for the day, or have already found companionship among the visitors and decided that was a better use of their time than listening to singing and drinking... or who simply stayed at home, for whatever reason. But the visitors more than make up for the missing: aside from dwarves and elves alike, there are a handful of human strangers, traders and travelers, such as the dark-skinned southerner, and the rune-marking woman.
Yngvi's voice rises and falls in the story of Rolf of the Red Ship, how he left behind his old lands due to a blood feud that had taken nearly all his people, and sailed with the rest of his warriors and their families for new land. Those of Hofn have heard the song every year of their life.
"Skilfully Rolf sent the sea-steed | Sails full with the sky's breath
"Until they reached the haven-harbor. | Well-wrought were the walls and strong the stone
"That guarded the bay of beaching! | The red ship, the blood-eagle,
"Rolf brought in to the bay | Cunning of the bow-breakers that waited..."
The song tells of how Rolf found the harbor site of Hofn, and guided his ship in to shore in this well-favored site... only to find it occupied, of course.
"For the cloud-children called this place home | The sky-singers, the deep-dreamers, the light-lovers
"Held the water's fall and named it sacred. | So then Rolf spoke sweetly and strongly
"And won for his host the harbor-home | Promising peace and protection and binding by blood
"Between his people and the bright-born children..."
The elves smile, at this stanza, their delicate heads tilted politely to the acknowledgment of their people, their eyes sparkling in the dancing fires of the hall.
The song spends little enough time discussing the elves; it quickly carries on to the many struggles Rolf had in defense of his new home: the land at that time was full of many monsters, and Rolf and his people were beset by dire creatures, giants, orks, truls, and worse. Long they fought to hold the harbor, but in the end, the dark things were beaten back into the snowy wastes and hard hills, and Hofn and the regions around it became the lands of men, and thus has it been for centuries.
The hall is near silent throughout the telling of the old, familiar story. Yngvi's voice carries easily through the hall, strong and clear. When he ends his song and the last note of the lyre fades to nothing, thee is a moment's silence before a murmur of approval, the stamp of feet on the floor and the noise of cups clapped against the table as applause. Yngvi nods to those assembled, and sets his lyre to one side for now, looking to Hrolf, who pushes himself up from his chair.
"The day of Jól has come, and gone," the goði says in his deep voice. "Now for the night of it! Drink to Tor and to one another! Let us welcome the winter with our bellies full and our hearts high! Prosper and courage to each house here tonight under my roof!"
A roar of a cheer goes up from everybody in the great hall. Somehow, there are still people with the appetite to eat, and things quickly return to a noisy and riotous feast state. At his end of the hall, Hrolf presides over the giving out of gifts-- today, any one can go before the goði, and ask for a gift to show his generosity, and the jarl will respond, for it is by such generosity that he rules his war-band and the village alike.
Yngvi, meanwhile, is seeking out the dwarves for the time-honored 'game' of combining drinking and insults. To match your opponent drink for drink is a fine thing... to match your opponent drink for drink, and still come up with the wittier and more poetic insult of him, is a glorious thing.
Finishing up his stew and holding the bowl low for his hund to clean off what remained stuck to the bowl Thrymr listens to the words of excess and grunts. Keeping recumbence for a span, he buries one hand in his dog's fur to scratch and the hund reciprocates by leaning into the attention. The bear of a man makes no move to rise, nor to seek gifts of Hrolf... but his roving eyes settle upon a dwarf through the crowd who is bearing liquid gifts.
Sensing the potential for danger the hund's chest reverberates with a low growl, but Thrymr ignores it - trying to lock eyes with the short and bearded and see if it offers the seated man a beverage.
After Hrolf officially opens the feasting, Knute makes his way towards the head of the hall, joining the line to receive a gift from the goði. He doesn't like imposing, even if it is tradition, But I had pretty bad luck in all the competitions today.... While his pride internally wrestles with his self-pity, Knute waits patiently for the line to move forward, keeping an eye out for interesting folks to talk to.
Thrymr
The dwarf that Thrymr has seen wears his black beard cropped fairly short, for a dwarf; his head is shaved, and he is dressed simply, boots and sturdy trousers and a loose tunic that does little to conceal a build that would be considered barrel-chested and powerful even among the dwarves. Thrymyr has two easy feet of height on the dwarf, but all the same, the dwarf might come close to him for width of shoulders.
Not that the dwarf appears to be fighting anyone or anything at the moment. He notes Thrymr's gaze and comes closer with the tray of ales he is carrying.
"Good health and life," the dwarf says to Thrymr, in accented but clear Skald. "Would you drink with Shale Steel-arm?"
Knute
Knute stands his place in line before the goði, and people watches in the meantime. He sees Kjell Strongarm and Astrid Eikbrunr off in a corner, sharing the same bowl of mead and grinning at one another. He sees Rys, the dour leader of the elves, sitting in his chair next to Hrolf-- of all the faces nearby, his is the only one Knute can see that does not have at least a smile on it. Hilde can be heard, if not clearly seen-- by her triumphant cackling, it seems the old woman has regained her luck at gambling, and is fleecing others of their rings and trinkets. Behind him, in line, is Mara-- one of the war-band, but known to turn her hand to hunting as well, in the winter when all is quiet. She sets good traps, and often brings a white rabbit into town even when all other game has gone quiet in the deep snows.
The man in front of Knute, one of the farmers who sees to his own outlying homestead, is given a sack of grain and a pound of butter by Hrolf, which he accepts warmly, praising Hrolf for his generosity before he scoops up the goði's largesse and moves off beaming into the crowd. It is Knute's turn.
Hrolf looks him over. "Ah, Iversson-- damn me, but I almost forgot! Quiet in the hall," he calls, and the noise volume subsides slightly.
"The fine deer that graces.... well, graced... the feasting earlier was brought down by the arrows of Knute Iversson!" Hrolf Half-hand calls. "I'll dream of that venison tonight, and I hope you bring more meat to Hofn in years to come, lad!"
(There is a smattering of polite cheering from those who are not too busy with their own activities to pay attention.) Hrolf turns to his table laden with many gifts, rummaging a moment before he finds a gift worthy of the best hunt of the feast. He offers a finely-made quiver to Knute, and claps him on the shoulder.
"Do us proud with it... and do your father's memory proud as well," the jarl rumbles. "The quiver is blessed by Skaði, and it holds more arrows than it might seem to. Wear it well!"
Rikissa looks on with a smile as if her face were about to break, so widely is she beaming.
Answering the dvergr's greeting with a acknowledging nod Thrymr replies "I would drink, if the ale does not cost... and cannot stop you from standing beside me. But Thrymr Níðingr would not drink with any man or dvergr he has just met." without any malice upon his voice, but making a clear distinction all the same.
The hund at the Ulfen's side almost seems to roll it's eyes before letting any tension in it's muscles go and relaxing into an easy squat... almost as though it had given up making any attempt at speaking sense into his companion.
Not quite at ease in social situations, Eysteinn mingles little, enjoying the best meal he had in months and sipping brews here and there, eyes focused on the slice of roasted meat in front of him.
But his self-control fades quickly as the alcohol does its job. He hears the roars of laughter coming from the nearby tables and the giggles of the girls charmed by the elves. Gods be damned he thinks They may have a gut of stone, but my wit is sharper. Fight smart, right? he grabs his brews and settles down at table mixed with humans and dwarves insulting each other. "I bring brews for the contest… and a tongue so quick it will make a girl scream Odyn’s name!"
Knute smiles at the sound of Hilde's laughter floating over the hall. I wonder which of these poor souls she's just tricked into gambling with her, Knute thinks with a chuckle.
As Knute steps up to Hrolf, he bows his head slightly. His self-pity tames his pride as he asks, "Ho there, Chief and Jarl. I humbly ask any gift you might bestow upon me." He mumbles the words, obviously still embarrassed.
Knute grows yet more embarrassed as the attention of those in the hall (well, those not too caught up drinking or other activities) shifts squarely to the raised end where he is standing, head inclined towards Hrolf. Knute quickly straightens as Hrolf addresses the crowd, but his mouth falls noticeably open in surprise as Hrolf names him as the honored hunter. He attempts to smile at the attention of the crowd and the praise of the goði, but his face retains its stunned expression.
He turns as Hrolf offers the exquisite quiver to him, and holds the gift reverently. It is as detailed and beautiful as it is mysterious; though Knute has no experience with magic, he believes Hrolf's words for the...strangeness of the interior of the quiver.
At the mention of Knute's father, Knute becomes even more flustered. "T-thank you, thank you. I will!" Not expecting such a fine gift, he walks in a daze back towards his mother and Halvar. Still too shocked for words, he holds it out for them to inspect with only a smile.
As is her way, Rikka eats a bit and drinks a little, keeping her eyes open for people who might catch her interest.
Thrymr
The dwarf's bushy black brows climb nearly to where his shaved hairline would begin at Thrymr's first words.
But the next words cause the dwarf's face to crinkle into confusion. He stands there a moment, tray and drinks in his hands, his face reflecting slow musing.
"And why would you not drink with, on this day where your people show welcome to all who come to them? Are you apart from your people on this day?" the dwarf says thoughtfully.
Eysteinn
"Do you!" cries an elf who is taking part in all this. "Quite a claim, sir! But share your brew, and I my wine, and we shall see who has the better tongue before the ladies decide it for us!"
The elf has hair black and glossy as a raven's wing, and eyes as startling green as new grass. He is dressed in a mishmash of clothing of every rainbow hue, though none if it very practical for hunting or warfare. He hurriedly has the tankards refilled, and he will drink your brew if you offer it, Eysteinn.
The elf drinks deeply, holding the bowl up to his face with both long-fingered hands!
Though his face is flushed and his eyes bright, he doesn't slur a bit as he looks Eysteinn over and rattles off quick words.
"Your brew-craft is fine and good, my friend-- as you'll need it to be, for I perceive that only by plying a maiden liberally with the cup will you ever persuade her to come closer to you than the feast hall's table!"
There is some appreciative chuckling around the ring of spectators/participants at the elf's quip.
Rikka
Well, there's insultin' goin' on.... and a local boy was just awarded as best hunter of the feast, and received a pretty spiffy looking quiver. Also, there's your first customer of the day at one of the tables, raking in jewelry and other little trinkets from her competitors as she apparently beats them all handily at gambling. And there's the line for the lord's gifts, too! And you still have your puzzlebox. Continuing to people-watch is also a valid life choice!
Knute
He can already hear his mother reminding everyone for the next year that, oh, remember, Knute won hunting at the feast!
Halvar takes the quiver with a whistle, admiring the leatherwork and the stitching on it-- "I think the elves did this, look how fine the stitches--" while Rikissa gives Knute a big hug and whispers into his ear that his father would be proud of him. Knute endures the positive attentions and the congratulations and back-slapping of several others nearby.
There is a little lull in the well-wishing, and when he looks up, golden-haired Lydd is there, several feet away in the crowd, smiling mischievously at him. The elf nods towards his new quiver.
"Well done," she says over the hubbub of background noise. "It appears my drinking to your luck paid you in the end."
Sense Motive:
Looking around to pick out the other villagers, and the fact that none of them are making overt efforts to single him out "And you drink with every älva, dvergr and man here?" raising a questioning eyebrow before reaching out a hand to rest heavy on his hund's side "Some I would, some I would not, and many I know not."
Showing that he means no malice in his words, or at least that actions speak with greater volume he holds out his other hand "You bring öl, that is a good start."
Oh, aye, Rolf the hero, Maeve remarks archly when Yngvi's song is done. Why does he not go on to sing of how his warriors invaded the lands of strangers to steal their goods and carry away the innocent to a life of servitude and humiliation?
Halla rolls her eyes. You can't let it go, just for Jól? Even the elves are nice on Jól.
You've never been free, Maeve responds icily. And if the warriors of Hofn attacked the fair folk and carried their women and children away to slave in the mud, do you think the elves would still come with gifts or with terrible wrath?
Halla looks around the dim room uneasily, seeing it through two sets of eyes: as a warm and safe place packed with celebrating neighbors, and as a prison filled with enemies. The smoke from the fire-pit stings her eyes. Not for the first time, she thinks how much simpler life would be without Maeve in her head, forcing her to see things from another perspective.
Her eye falls on the sour gray elf at Hrolf Half-Hand's side, looking as unimpressed with the proceedings as Maeve is. What quarrel do you have with Hofn? she wonders. Do you regret the pact your people made with Rolf? Were you there so many years ago? On a whim, she joins the line seeking gifts from the goði.
Rikka considers her options: Much as she liked gifts, it seemed a poor choice for a stranger to queue up for a prize from the village's headman, so that was out. She briefly considers joining the drinking and insulting but sharp as her tongue could be, drinking was not her strength.
Having mulled the possibilities the tattooist opts for the easiest path, she takes her drink and joins one of the larger tables filled with the women-folk. There she listens to the local gossip and chatter trying to get a handle on the doings of the Hofn locals. It served three purposes. First, it got the locals comfortable with her. Second, it could lead to more business. And, finally, having grown up 'on the road' with no real roots, local color conveyed a sense of community that was alien to Rikka. And it was always fascinating to see what people got 'wrapped around the axle' about in their smaller interwoven lives.