Knute hugs his mother back and grins from ear to ear as she tells him his father would be proud. At Lydd's voice, he turns around, looking surprised. He quickly regains composure.
"Aye, that it did," Knute replies. "Had me going for a while, there; my luck had been middling to poor all day... I'm glad it all worked out. How was the rest of your Jól? Did my luck for you hold?" he asks, smiling. Knute holds up the quiver, "Also, is this your handiwork? It's magnificent."
Thyrmr
The dwarf considers the question very literally, standing still for several seconds with the tray seemingly forgotten in his hands.
"I am a guest here among your people on a day of peace," he says at length. "Unless I had a war-debt unsettled with any in this company, I would drink with them. I have no war-debts with any here. But perhaps it is different among your people."
When Thrymr reminds him of the drinks he carries, the dwarf grunts and offers a flat-bottomed horn of öl from the tray. It is a thick brew, fragrant, rich to Thrymr's nose.
"This is from the brewers of the clan that in your tongue would be called Deepvein. I would take no gold for it even if you offered it, on this day, but if you stand wary of... price... then I will tell you that the only cost of the brew I bear is to speak truly of whether it pleased you or nay."
Halla
The line for Hrolf's gifts moves swiftly enough, and soon she is before the goði, who pauses (as so many people do, in Hofn) at registering her before him. Still, Hrolf blinks but a moment, before gesturing his son Harald to take a gift and offer it forward from the table.
"Palli speaks well of your skills, woman," Hrolf says with a clearing of his throat. "Continue to serve him well, for the hands that patch the wounds of my war-band are appreciated by all, in time. This satchel may serve you."
Harald sidles forward and hands Halla a sturdy leather belt pouch. A toggle of antler keeps it securely fastened, along with leather cords, but when opened, Halla can see it contains many of the things she has become accustomed to working with in Palli's trade: bone needles, sinew thread, little packets of crushed herbs such as willow bark, a small, sharp knife of black glass, and other things besides.
The elf leader, Rys, seems to have sat up slightly, watching Halla with more interest than he has shown the other gift receivers so far.
Knute
"Ah, whether my luck finishes ill or well remains to be seen-- the night is not yet over," says Lydd, coming closer to look at the quiver when he displays it. She laughs, the sound pleasant as a light spring breeze.
"It looks like the work of my people, but I have no skill at stitching. Probably it was Mav's hands, though I do not think we brought this with us when we came... Perhaps it is from a prior year." The elf runs long, pale fingers over the leatherwork of the quiver, then arches a brow at Knute and smiles very whitely.
"Now, the question becomes: have you arrows to fill this fine elven quiver, Knute Iversson?"
Taking the horn and draining half of it in a single long swallow, Thrymr wipes the foam that accumulates upon his beard away with one furred sleeve. He mulls the flavor for a few moments, swirling the residue around his mouth before shrugging "It wets a thirst, and I'd gladly take another when this is emptied. I have not words like flowers to describe it... you'd need an älva or skald for that..." leaning back to place his head against the wall behind where his arse is seated.
He mulls for a moment, narrows eyes slightly before relaxing them again and adds "I am Níðingr and my words are mine. To me this day is the same as the one before and the one after... the wolves are hungry, soil needs turning and the crops grow. A man met today at hearth deserves no more or less respect than a man met at crossroads any other day." providing a counterpoint to the dwarf's seemingly more trusting nature, before ending with "And even now, I drink and you watch... so I am drinking alone nei?"
Eysteinn offers his brew, happy that an elf would try it, and accepts happily the wine in return. He listens to the opening strike of his new drinking mate.
“To perceive such a well-hidden trait, you must have fine eyes indeed!” he replies quickly, in between two generous half-glasses of wine “You had a lot of training, I guess, every morning when looking down your trousers, trying to find what will allow you to empty your bladder!”
Rikka
Rikka makes herself comfortable, nursing her food and drink, near a couple of middle-aged women who are dandling drowsy infants and toddlers (likely their grandchildren rather than their children) on their knees as they chatter over the rumors of town.
Signy is a topic of some discussion-- the young woman who had taken a tattoo at Rikka's hand, earlier in the day. She is widely agreed to be the loveliest young woman in the village, and half a dozen men have jostled for her attentions, everyone from Sven Aurigr (Rikka gathers he's rich) to Njall the blacksmith (a good heart if a slow head, they say) to Little Dagrun (too clever by half, but what can he offer her?). One older woman tuts that too much beauty is a curse in its own right, that it keeps you from a peaceful life and makes you the object of quarreling and worse.
The conversation shifts from Signy to Sven Aurigr, in his way the most eligible man in the village, if all one wants is to be well provided for. They say he's nearing forty and has yet to take a wife, with his sights set on Signy. Sven is an accomplished sea-captain who trades down the coast as far as Varisia, even, and whose longship returns with goods that the rest of the village greatly appreciates, and by which Sven profits well indeed. Admiration for his prosperity goes hand in hand with the usual low-key resentment that often happens when someone is substantially better off than their neighbors.
Eysteinn is a name brought up in turn, usually with a cluck or two of 'isn't it a shame' and 'ah, but he did so well today, perhaps it will all work out'. Ought to have left women's work to the women, you hear, though one of the younger women in the circle says that she bought some of his cider and it's the best she's ever tasted.
There is also some gossip pertaining to one of the other Jól visitors, a brown-skinned southerner with black hair and a funny little beard. The man in question seems to be having trouble keeping up with the strong liquors of the feast, for he's half-slumped at a table in the corner, having a fuzzy conversation with a dwarf; the women find his state of intoxication amusing. You also hear one of them mutter about how he was hanging about half the day with 'that girl who's touched in the head, so it goes to show there's no accounting for taste'.
The name of Leif Hrolfsson is brought up as well-- the son of the goði, generally well-liked although it seems he has a ferocious temper. There's some tutting among the women about Leif is getting to the age where he ought to learn to control that-- apparently he and one of the ne'er-do-wells of the village had a scuffle earlier, and Leif won, but had to be dragged down to the ground by his father's own war-band. Much sage headshaking goes on, about how if Leif will lead the village someday, he had better learn prudence and self-control.
The gossip about the dwarves is nearly non-existent-- the dwarves seem well-regarded, appreciated, but about as much fun to talk about as one's draft horse. The elves are a topic of speculation as well, but it's the younger women who seem to be busily swooning over who is the most handsome and charming of the elves-- these matrons have seen it all before, and find the years of elf-chasing a thing of their youth, now. Though a few of them do share nostalgic memories of those exciting feasts of Jóls past.
Rikka offers to dandle an errant child to ingratiate herself with the women and listens to the local tongue-wagging, nodding at the sagacity of the pundits regardless of her actual opinion. People always think you're brilliant when you agree with them.
Of the talk, three pieces strike her interest. She might be able to sell Sven Aurigr a tattoo. Seamen could be superstitious and he might be willing to take a tattoo if he thought it would give him an 'in' with Signy. In Rikka's experience, men and women had one thing in common - they were both fools when it came to love. Though women were more likely to do something foolish while in love and men were fools when it came to winning a love. She files the idea away for further mulling.
The talk of elves and Jól days past is... eyebrow raising. Clearly, the Hofn have some very friendly 'traditions' with their neighbors. For all their charm, Rikka has a hard time wrapping her mind around the idea of bedding an elf. They seemed a passionless race, too prim to be much fun between the sheets. The tattooist can't think of a polite way to pose the question, so she keeps silent... and quickly brushes aside the matter when the women speak of Eysteinn.
Rikka puzzles over their words about Eysteinn, not sure if their references to leaving women's work to the women is a euphemism for tastes more exotic than bedding elves or a literal truth. Eventually, her curiosity gets the better of her, "What women's work?"
"Palli speaks well of your skills, woman," Hrolf says with a clearing of his throat. "Continue to serve him well, for the hands that patch the wounds of my war-band are appreciated by all, in time. This satchel may serve you."
Harald sidles forward and hands Halla a sturdy leather belt pouch. A toggle of antler keeps it securely fastened, along with leather cords, but when opened, Halla can see it contains many of the things she has become accustomed to working with in Palli's trade: bone needles, sinew thread, little packets of crushed herbs such as willow bark, a small, sharp knife of black glass, and other things besides.
Halla recloses the pouch, delivering a respectful rote thank-you to Hrolf even as she steps aside to put herself in the position she was angling for when she joined the line: directly in front of the leader of the elves. "Honored guest of my goði and friend of my people," she begins, bowing her head respectfully, "I have heard Yngvi Wyrmtongue sing of the founding of Hofn many times, but I know that a song changes with the singer. Do your people tell tales of the day Rolf came to your shores?"
Knute unconsciously returns the elf's smile. It is a really nice smile, even if her teeth appear...pointy.
The Ulfen catches Lydd's meaning, and nervously glances back a few paces, where Halvar and his mother are. I'm not entirely sure she isn't toying with me, but there's only one way to find out... "Oh," Knute says casually, "I always have arrows aplenty. I'd be a poor hunter if I was ill-equipped or unprepared. It's excellent quivers that are usually hard to come by around here." Knute raises the quiver appreciatively. "Of course," Knute adds, looking at Lydd, "that's not the case on Jól, when the elves come to visit."
Thrymr
The dwarf listens with his black brows drawn in mild perplexity, but at the bit about how he is not drinking 'with' Thrymr, he abruptly laughs, a booming bass note.
"I wrestle with muscle, and flesh, and bone. You wrestle with the meanings of words said," he says. He sits down, dropping into a cross-legged position on the straw of the floor, setting the tray of tankards between them.
"I have no head for that style of struggle."
Eysteinn
While the elf's witticism earned some laughs, the bawdy humor of Eysteinn's is appreciated more by the mostly-human spectators. The elf looks around with exaggerated outrage, taking another draught of Eysteinn's brew.
The second deep swallow of Eysteinn's brew seems to set the elf back a bit-- he sits there coughing and hammering at his skinny chest until he's able to get some words out. Despite streaming eyes, his speech is still clear enough:
"You speak truly, my lot in life is to be so cursed! Yet I have had the kind assistance of all the finest feminine hands in your family line in finding the tool of which you speak!"
Ooooh goes the crowd.
Rikka
The golden-haired tot on Rikka's knee gums at her fingers if she lets them get too close, but is otherwise easily cared for with some gentle bouncing of the knee.
When she deigns to actually intrude into the conversation rather than mere nodding along, the wives of Hofn give her a blink as if having half-forgotten that the stranger was among them at all. There's a bit of self-conscious throat clearing, and then one of the women looks up from the bit of knitting she is working on to meet Rikka's eye.
"Seiðr," she murmurs, barely audible over the hall's noises. Seiðr... witchcraft, of the sort Rikka's mentor trained her well in. The province of women, some women, special women... to divine from omens, to cast spells, to weave enchantments. Most scandalous for a man to engage in.
Halla
Hrolf arches both bushy brows when Halla doesn't move on back to the hall, but instead addresses the pale elf. The big man sits up sharply, flicking a sidelong glance at his guest...
... but the elf, Master Rys, merely waves away Hrolf's look with one long, spider-like hand. Rys sits forward in his chair, elbows on knees, fingers dangling down between them, staring intently at Halla with his washed-out gray eyes.
"We have many songs," he says after a heavy pause. "Some are more pleasant than others. But we sing happily of the harbor given to Rolf's people, for we are pleased that the descendants of Rolf dwell here and keep their hearth-fires burning. Peace and prosperity upon them, and upon you, daughter of men."
With a slight smile on his face, he raises his cup in a toast, which Hrolf is quick to echo. "To peace and prosperity!" and which is then taken up around the room by the others. Rys sinks back into his seat, seeming to dismiss Halla with the gesture, though he continues to watch her.
He does seem intrigued by you though, Halla, his eyes following you (assuming you move off through the room-- you might not do that, I suppose!)
Knute
Lydd's brows arch a moment, and then she laughs brightly at Knute's rejoinder. "Then you should make the most of the day, don't you think?" she says, her eyes dancing by the torch-and-fire-light.
She holds out a pale hand, faintly silver-skinned, to Knute. "Come. Share a bowl of drink with me. Your family can surely spare you for that time... or more."
Rikissa is busy explaining to the miller that yes, they have fish-bone and meat-bone to be ground into meal which can then be sold as fertilizer for the farmers, and what sort of business cut can be worked out over that, do you think... she doesn't appear to be aware of your conversation with the elf woman, Knute.
Grunting a chuckle before draining the rest of his horn Thrymr ahhs and replies "A man has much time to think when tending field..." holding the near empty horn down to his hund to see if the beast will lick at the dregs. The muscled dog gives the residue a sniff before snorting it's disagreement and laying flat, resting it's head on folded paws. Upending the horn on the dwarf's tray, Thrymr finishes "...And he is not much for talking." giving his hund a scratch behind the ear.
The bear of a man then takes another horn, serving first the dwarf, before taking a second himself. His bearded mouth splits into a grin before he puts his prodigious chest to verse... though at least for now it's at a normal talking volume...
"Helan går
Sjung hopp faderallan lallan lej
Helan går
Sjung hopp faderallan lej
Och den som inte helan tar*
Han heller inte halvan får
Helan går" and at the last word raising his horn and sculling the horn in a single extended draught, tilting his head slightly so he can see if the dwarf follows suit.
Halla stares back at the elf almost angrily. She, a thrall, has risked the goði's displeasure only to be brushed off with empty pleasantries? She glances aside at Hrolf in his eager relief that Rys wasn't angered by a woman speaking out of turn. It's just another Jól game. Hrolf is playing not to lose, and the elf-goði is merely bored. But why? The rest of the elves seem to be enjoying themselves sincerely enough. She bows her head again courteously as she moves away into the crowd but doesn't bother to veil the hard gaze she gives to Rys.
Thrymr
Shale Steel-arm listens to the drinking-words with his head cocked, though he does not join in. His brows remain knit in that expression of slight concentration/you-people-are-weird, but when Thrymr drinks deep at the end he seems to get it, and to approve. He smiles and raises his own horn in both hands to drink it down, matching Thrymr gulp for gulp.
"Your hound may not talk but I would guess he listens?" Shale says, looking at the dog with some curiosity. "I know little of hounds, other than they are supposed to be loyal creatures. That is a goodly trait."
Halla
Halla burns with her frustration, but it is not difficult to find an elf: there is an elf-woman with skin of a dusky purple, and eyes that show no whites at all, merely pools of indigo ringed by black lashes. Her black hair gleams like a raven's wing. She is watching the men of Hofn in assessing fashion, but as yet has made no moves to approach any of them. Before her on the length of wooden table is a small board of inlaid squares of colored wood, with little beads of glass atop it. The woman divides her attention between glancing at Hofn men, and gazing down at the board to move glass pieces.
When Halla approaches, the elf-woman looks up slowly.
"Blessed be the hour, and the tree prosper," she says calmly. "Do you seek sport, daughter of your people?"
With two horns imbibed, unconsciously Thrymr's voice grows in volume to a dull roar as he man guffaws and replies "Hah, aye... he listens... and judges." at that the hund seems to narrow it's eyes slightly before yawning wide, licking it's lips. Giving the stocky dog another ruffling of it's scruff "A good hund is worth more than a man... at least in my eyes. This one would face down an is björn at my side... and knows before me when storms are coming... and where the kanin burrow. I could not say the same of many men here"
Thrymr has not yet taken another horn, instead he is waiting... almost as though despite the ale being free - he still expects the dweorg to take turns with him at serving.
Before her on the length of wooden table is a small board of inlaid squares of colored wood, with little beads of glass atop it. The woman divides her attention between glancing at Hofn men, and gazing down at the board to move glass pieces.
Knute smiles (somewhat nervously) at Lydd's laugh. "Aye, that I should. Jól only comes once a year, after all."
He's faintly surprised at Lydd's offered hand, but then grins widely. "I'd love to," Knute says, glancing to see if Rikissa notices. He turns back to Lydd. "So how could I say no?" Knute takes Lydd's hand, and follows her lead to one of the nearby tables.
"So," Knute says, sitting down. "Any Elvish spirits we can share first? I'm always game for trying something new."
Eysteinn raises his cup to the clever retort of the elf. Heh. I’ve got no family really, so joke’s on you… he thinks But that’s not really a good reply…
The mention of family brought back a bit of gravitas to his mind, and as he empties his second cup of wine, he feels the pleasant inebriation slowly succumbing to drunk bitterness. His own insult lacks comedic timing and verve.
“Heh. Well...” he sips once more “Hard for me would be to do the same with your women, as they can hardly be told from the men!”
"Seiðr," she murmurs, barely audible over the hall's noises. Seiðr... witchcraft, of the sort Rikka's mentor trained her well in. The province of women, some women, special women... to divine from omens, to cast spells, to weave enchantments. Most scandalous for a man to engage in.
Rikka raises an eyebrow at that and looks the man over, more curious than scandalized. Magic was a thing of blood, not gender, but few understood that. "A shame to walk such a hard road."
Thrymr
Absently, Shale fills their horns again from the pitcher, much of his attention still on the hound. "I also do not know when storms are coming," he says, deadpan. "My people know little of the sky. May I touch the hound? Will he mislike it? Does he have a name?
"I will drink to his years, and to yours, whether you say yea or nay. May your nose be always keen, hound!"
The dwarf lifts his horn towards the probably-unimpressed hound, and drinks.
Halla
Halla does not recognize the game (and neither does Maeve); perhaps it is an elven game. The board has both light and dark squares, and the beads of glass are colored red, blue, green, and left clear.
Though it's really quite hard to tell with the elves as they all look more or less young and colorful (barring Rys with his paleness), there is something in this one's calm bearing that makes Halla think she might be an older one of her kind.
Knute
Lydd's fingers are cooler than Knute's.
There are no places of seclusion in the crowded hall, but still, they are at least out of the immediate sight of Knute's family. A few of the villagers cast glances Knute's way, arched brows-- perhaps envy in their looks at the fact that he's apparently caught an elven eye, perhaps merely something to toss into the gossip mill for the morrow-- but Lydd pays none of this any mind. She snags a bottle from the table of liquors, and a bowl of carved wood with stags leaping around the rim.
"Elven liquors, yes," she says with her smile curving. "And you won't have the likes of this for a year again either, mighty hunter!"
Wine is a rarity in the village-- brought from the warm lands of the south by Sven's ships, if brought at all-- but Knute has seen just enough of it to know it for what it is: dark purple-red, almost black, splashing into the bowl with a sweet and cloying fragrance.
Lydd guides Knute's hands to twine his fingers with her own (he has bowstring-calluses; she does not, her skin as smooth as a child's or a jarl's wife) and to lift the bowl together. She sips first, the dark wine staining her lips momentarily before she tilts the bowl to him.
"Tell me, Knute Iversson, Hunter of your People," she murmurs, her eyes seeming larger and darker with the firelight, "what would you have done, had you come across the white deer in the woods? Would you have acted as Rolf himself, ruled by your-- passions?"
Eysteinn
Eysteinn's insult is slow in coming as the wine begins to dull his senses and his wit; there is a little impatient grumbling before he actually lands his quip. The elf bursts into bright laughter at his words.
"What, you say we are all too pretty? Then I thank you and kindly for it, for I should rather resemble a lady than a bear or a dog, which is what you look like when barging about in all the furs and hairs you wear!"
Addendum. What the elf means to say is up above. In practice, it comes out rather giggly and hiccupy, with several false starts...
...and there's a lot of loud booing before he gets the last word out. The elf hiccups pronouncedly, and wipes at his streaming eyes as he waves his other hand for Eysteinn to drink. The home crowd don't like their dogs insulted, apparently.
Rikka
The rumored seiðr-man is, apparently, getting drunk off his arse and trading 'wit' with one of the elves, also drunk. This is not much magic. But perhaps he does better when sober.
One of the women tuts. "Hard? Perhaps. But he had no business to muck with it in the first place. Disowning and thralldom was a light punishment, on account of the love Hrolf bears his father. They gave him the chance to prove he's still a man... I pray he doesn't waste it."
“Bears and dogs grow strong and tough!” yells Eysteinn before emptying his cup once more, pushing the drunken stupor into the back of his head, rubbing his eyes to stay vigil. “What you see is a warrior’s attire, but you wouldn’t know, dressed as a summer flower, just about ready to be slain by a girl making a daisy garland!”
Shrugging his heavy shoulders Thrymr answers "Don't ask me, ask him" gesturing with his chin towards his canine companion. The hund for his part seems decidedly nonplussed, but doesn't act in any way to forestall being touched. "He is Gifr..." giving the dog's name to the dwarf.
As the dweorg drinks, so does Thrymr...
...draining his horn again in a long extended swallow, before the weight of fluid begins to weigh and he cannot hold back a resounding belch. Thumping hand to chest he grimaces before asking "Have you no songs dweorg?"
"Blessed be the hour, and the tree prosper," she says calmly. "Do you seek sport, daughter of your people?"
"Only if your idea of sport is to run a footrace against a fish," Halla replies, taking a seat at the table nonetheless. "I do not know your game; you would have to teach me it. Is it an elven game?"
Eysteinn
Your words are perhaps not as clear or inspired as you might like, but: you're holding your liquor a lot better than the elf. A mediocre insult that is actually, you know, articulated, is still better than a string of hiccups.
The elf blinks muzzily at you, peers down into the horn of your homebrew mead, and takes a third draining swig.
"Well... you... you jusht...
....somehow, the elf rallies, sitting up straight again and looking Eysteinn in the eye.
"--I'm a flower unbowed by the cold, while you mussht-- musht wear the hidesh of every animal around to save your stonesh from freezing solid-- so who'sh more manly?"
Slurry as he is, the elf seems to be back in the game again.... your turn, Eysteinn. Drink up.
Thrymr
Shale grunts and extends a cautious hand to the hound. "Gifr. Well-met," the dwarf says solemnly, as if he actually thought the dog understood him.
At the question of whether or not he has songs of his own people, Shale looks somewhat discomfited, and clears his throat.
"I have not word-skill to put them in the tongue of your people. And I am not one of the... sten-sångaren, the... the skalds, is your word? I sing-- bad."
Halla
The woman smiles slightly at Halla's retort.
"I like my contests to have some challenge to them, it is true," she says smoothly, then steeples her fingers together and looks over them at Halla with her whiteless eyes.
"I could teach you, yes. But if you did not come for sport, then what would you of me? I feel it only fair to tell you," she smiles, teeth very white in the dusky indigo of her face, "that on Jól, it is men with women, and women with men, only."
Gifr Sense Motive:
The hund looks first at the dweorg's hand before it's eyes rise to the beard that owns it. Sensing the dwarf's lack of ease, Gifr languidly rises and takes a few steps forward before setting it's head down fully in the beardling's lap and expectantly awaiting a scratch.
Thrymr Sense Motive:
The bearish Níðingr watches his dog and kens the purpose of it and lets out a thunderclap of a "Ha" before addressing Shale's answer "You listened to my throat before you'd even drunk a horn without grimace and think your voice worse? This must be heard..." casting a challenge to the dweorg to sound any worse than Thrymr's own tuneless bellow "Skalds are for chieftans and battle... come, sing a tale of stone and darkness" refilling both his own and the dwarf's horn with more of the intoxicating fluid.
The wine now even tastes bad, as nauseated he is getting of it, and yet his mind endures the alcohol’s assault, staying vigil and filled with the will to compete.
Eysteinn keeps drinking, snorting at the elf’s half-assed attempts at an insult. Pffft! Now my insult, that’s aaaaa… as insulting as aaaaaa… well aaaa… a well talked insult. Hah! Crowd’s on my side now!
“Hah! Pfff… losing your loquolence – your eloquentolensce, aren’t you?” he smiles, very proud to be able to articulate such a complex word “You call yourself manly, but you can’t even… I mean, you are not…” Eysteinn fights a brief feeling of vomit coming up, and endures “I may need my pelts to… huh… yes, to keep my big stones warm, but is there even room for two pebbles down there?” he points at the elf’s crotch “Hah! Perhaps if you had pelts, they would not have frozen off! Hah! Hahah!”
One of the women tuts. "Hard? Perhaps. But he had no business to muck with it in the first place. Disowning and thralldom was a light punishment, on account of the love Hrolf bears his father. They gave him the chance to prove he's still a man... I pray he doesn't waste it."
Rikka nods, "I'll leave right or wrong to your wisdom. All I meant is that seiðr isn't an easy calling even for a woman... and for a fish that swims against the stream, life is doubly hard."
"I could teach you, yes. But if you did not come for sport, then what would you of me? I feel it only fair to tell you," she smiles, teeth very white in the dusky indigo of her face, "that on Jól, it is men with women, and women with men, only."
For the half-breeds, Halla thinks. But why do they care? To cement the alliance between our people? For the first time, she wonders what becomes of the half-humans carried away in elven wombs every Jól.
"No," she clarifies, "I thought you might know... There was a man of your people earlier, performing illusions. He gave me a gift, but your goði," she nods toward Rys, "intervened; he seemed displeased that the seiðmaðr showed interest in me. As one woman to another: Is it because I am a thrall, and my child would be the same? Is the thought of one of your blood in bondage hateful to you?"
(In truth, she has given little thought to the elven illusionist apart from how he came into possession of the Harrow deck, but it gives her a pretext to ask prying questions.)
Knute claps his hands at Lydd's procurement of wine. "Excellent, I'd been meaning to try some of this. Let's see how it compares to the dwarves' brews." Knute's nose wrinkles involuntarily upon smelling the wine, and he briefly hesitates as Lydd takes her sip and offers the bowl to him; but after the first sip his face relaxes. The fragrant liquor warms his innards more than the usual ale or beer, and with an unfamilar complexity of flavor, too. "Ah, that's good stuff. A lot smoother than anything I've had before," he murmurs, eyes closing slightly in contentment.
While enjoying the wine, Knute wonders at Lydd's hands. If she is a hunter, why are her hands smoother than mine? He hears his mother's voice in the next thought. "She's not a human, after all, but an elf. Different in many ways." Hmm...
"Tell me, Knute Iversson, Hunter of your People, what would you have done, had you come across the white deer in the woods? Would you have acted as Rolf himself, ruled by your-- passions?"
Knute considers the question only briefly, replying, "Well, yes, I would have, had I been under the same bewitchment that Rolf was. I think anyone could, under spell..." He pauses, giving the question more serious thought, "That said, without the bewitchment, I know not. In a strange land, alone, stumbling upon an entrancing and magical being..." Knute takes a moment to look over at Lydd, and seems startled by her deep, unwavering eyes. He is shaken, but holds her stare, "how could I not give chase? Isn't the goal of any hunter to pursue that which is fleeting and rare? Even if only to observe and marvel, in cases such as that. That said," and here he chuckles, looking off into the room, "the story would not have been the same, as I am no Rolf, and would not have caught Dagny. My skill lies in my steadiness with my bow and my patience in the woods, not in my speed or brawn."
Knute looks back to Lydd. "And you? Elves are known as people of mystery and wonder. Are you also ruled by passions? Or is there something else that drives you?"
Thrymr
A big grin briefly splits the dwarf's beard when the hound deigns to come closer for scratches. The smile vanishes quickly as if Shale were sheepish about the display, but he industriously scratches behind Gif's ears.
The dwarf chuckles sheepishly at Thrymr's goading, tugging at his short beard with his free hand before he picks up the horn again.
He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, then begins to sing, a little uncertainly at first. The dwarf has a deep voice too (despite his youth), and the first words roll out softly, but he gains some confidence through the singing and by the last he is singing loudly enough to earn a few glances from others nearby. The song has a strong, rhythmic cadence, even if the words are a mystery to those who don't understand the dwarven tongue.
"Jord och sten
"Kött och ben
"Ner och ner och ner vi gå.
"Hammaren träffar
"Hackan klyver
"Djupt och djupt och djupt vi gå.
"Bära malmen
"Ryggraden är öm
"Upp och upp och upp vi gå.
"Elden bränner
"Malmen renar
"Varmt och varmt och varmt vi gå.
"Nu dricker vi
"Vila, och sjunga
"Hem och hem och hem vi gå."
When he is finished, Shale clears his throat again. "It is... a song about mining. But also drinking. There are more lines, but..." With a little shrug, the dwarf reaches for the ale again, to refill their horns.
Another draining of the horns-- this stuff kicks, and both dwarf and human are now several drinks deep into it.
Eysteinn
The elf makes a face at Eysteinn's words. "That'sh not even a word," he mumbles. He looks at his mug of Eysteinn's brew looking about as happy to keep drinking as Eysteinn is. Ahhh... bottoms up.
The elf goes into a coughing jag after he upends the tankard once more, hammering on his slender chest until he can speak again.
Still, apparently the coughing was just buying him time-- his words come out fairly clear, and quite biting:
"Oh, my shtones will be easy enough to find by the lucky lady I'll pleasure tonight-- and I'll be tashting a sweeter honey than that which you have brewed, my friend, while you will only have your hides for warmth, I fear!"
Rikka
There is some sage nodding from the women, some mutterings about how Eysteinn had better turn and swim with the stream. The child on Rikka's knee takes that moment to stir, blink around, and let loose a piercing cry for mama and possibly for milk.
"Hssh, hsh, come here little bird," tuts the toddler's likely grandmother, scooping her back up and giving her a dummy-teat of fabric wrapped around a morsel of meat. "Easy, little one, cry too much and the elves will hear you and take you away," the grandmother tuts. There's a half-laugh around the circle.
Halla
The elf-woman laces her fingers together and rests her chin on them, studying Halla with a frank stare, slightly disconcerting with the lack of white in her eyes. She listens, then laughs, a soft and musical noise.
"Thralls... bondage. No, what humans call bondage would make little difference to us. As for what might have displeased Rys?"
Her head tilts to the side, and she smiles again. "What is the knowing worth to you?"
Knute
Lydd smiles slightly at Knute's declaration that he is no Rolf. "Humble, too," she says lightly.
Knute's question makes her look momentarily serious, but it vanishes in the next second, gone in another burst of bell-like laughter.
"Mystery and wonder to you! To ourselves we are nowhere near as exciting. In fact, we are often bored." Lydd grins. "Jól is exciting for us also. And I would say everyone is ruled by their passions... the nature of the passion varies. For some, it is the thrill of the hunt. For others, the passion for wine, or wealth... for others, the touch of a lover, the dance of battle. Many passions. But in the end, all who live in the world are ruled by such. And those who claim to be without desire are liars."
The elf-woman raises the bowl again, and sips. "And to chase one's passion is the dream of all. To chase and to achieve it. To feel alive in the pursuing."
Fort Save:
Thrymr puts the dwarvish brew away as though 'twere water before roaring at an ale-fuelled volume that exceeds anything that had been said or sung thus far. Shale gets the distinct impression that the barrel chest has more resonance to give as well, as Thrymr levers himself off the floor.
the man then makes his way through the hall to the snow outside... seeking a nearby spot to colour the snö golden.
Gifr's back arches as Shale's dwarvish fingers grind away at it's head, but doesn't move to follow his companion - instead remaining lodged upon the dweorg's lap.
"As for what might have displeased Rys?"
Her head tilts to the side, and she smiles again. "What is the knowing worth to you?"
"What might a thrall have to offer that you would judge valuable?" she counters. In her head she tallies her gains for the day: the heatstone from Five Solomon, the dwarven ring, the Harrow Deck ... no, not that. Back at Old Palli's, she still has some herbs and tinctures, but offering nature lore to an elf seems like offering swimming lessons to a fish.
"Easy, little one, cry too much and the elves will hear you and take you away," the grandmother tuts. There's a half-laugh around the circle.
Rikka listens, considers, and drowsily thinks of the nights she sat at her mother's knee soaking in the wisdom of a seiðr and seer. The late hour, long day of work, and strong drink pushes her into old memories and she begins to quietly recite an old lay she heard more than a few times. Fortunately, her voice doesn't carry very far.
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.
Her voice trails off as she catches herself falling asleep with a start. She glances at the women self-consciously, trying to recall if she was dozing or speaking aloud. "Sorry. It seems I should be seeking my bed not propping my eyes open with the children."
"The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats
Thrymr
Thrymr heads out to the now-chill air to answer the call of nature, as he goes, he sees the dwarf happily scratching the hound's ears, like any village child.
The clearness of the day has made the night even colder than it might otherwise be. There is no snow falling, and the black sky overhead is studded with a thousand brilliant stars. Thrymr's breath steams in the air.
Beneath the boisterous noises of the extended celebration going on in the lodge, there is a deep, ancient silence. The sound of the surf on the graveled beach are a low murmur in the night, a soft and endless white noise that is in turn swallowed up by the yawning silence of winter, stretching out over the land in all directions.
Hofn is a small collection of buildings, light, and warmth against that endless blanketing of noiseless white. Thrymr sees the torch light in the village's watch-towers, and gives thanks that he is not one of the poor bastards who must content himself, tonight, with a bottle of hot cider and the little fire in the tower.
Two figures stumble out of the feast-hall, a human woman and an elf man to judge by their heights and builds. Arm in arm, they half-stagger down the street, their laughter carrying in the night air as they make their way to one of the village's other buildings.
The warmth, light, and creature comforts of the hall beckon for Thrymr's return again.
Halla
The indigo-skinned woman smiles and spreads her graceful, long-fingered hands. "Nothing you could not spare. The memory of the first time you saw a flower, perhaps... or the memory of your first kiss?"
A low chuckle. "Have you been kissed, child?"