A gibbous moon hangs pendulous in the sky, providing some degree of shadowy light unto the white land below. The air is crisp and bereft of wind, causing breath to congeal in clouds of steam as it is exhaled by the few brave or foolish enough to be outside at this hour. A thin layer of frost covers the ground, making a crunching sound beneath your boots as you trudge onward. Ahead of you glinting through the gloom like a taunting will o' wisp is your destination... the fest hall of Clan Arngrim.
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Kjell treks purposefully towards his destination, the warming sensation of his last drink slowly leaving him colder as he approaches the fest hall.
Balls, it is cold! Colder than a witch's tit! I cannot wait to warm my feet and innards with a strong drink...
Roluo reclines in his seat, facing the fire and waiting to hear if any will respond to his tale.
In the moon's silvery light, a powerfully-built man strides briskly across the frosted path. He wears a dark cloak, charcoal-grey or black, with a hood pulled up over his shaggy black hair warding off the chill of the night. At his neck, a heavy bronze wolf's-head brooch fastens the cloak in place. Under it, you can see the glint of a polished chain shirt. His quilted tunic is dark with gold trim and narrows where a blackened leather belt circles his waist.
At his side, a sleek, athletic wolf pads silently over the terrain. The wolf's eyes reflect the light of the longhouse, pools of liquid gold in the dark night. Its head moves side-to-side and you can see the fog of its breath in the wintry air. The wolf is waist-high on the man. Its fur is thick, mostly black, but with amber brindle on head, neck, and chest. It keeps pace with the man, clearly intelligent and well-trained.
The man's head tilts toward the moon, Nearly full. My brothers will be anxious, anticipating the hunt. They will not have me. My way is my own. Jarl Aerlfin needs men? Will he take in the wolf? This promises to be a most interesting night. It is time to see what Clan Arngrim proposes.
The longhouse slowly looms closer and closer as you trudge across the frozen turf. Torchlight plays out from the door and eaves, and a thin tendril of smoke can be seen trailing into the sky from it's roof. The building itself is not overly large, and carries very little by way of exterior decoration - as does much of Bildt's architecture. Standing either side of the entrance are two huscarl, chainmail glinting dully in the light and bearded axes plunged before them in the ground as though challenging all that look upon them. Despite the cold, they do not move - regarding the night with steady and unflinching gaze. The entrance to the longhouse is covered with a cured pelt of an ice bear.
As you draw close, the huscarl to the left of the door speaks "Hail, come forward and state your business." He carries himself with a warrior's air, and his hands and face betray the fact that he has seen many battles by their scars. Brown hair and beard spill out of his open-faced helmet, excepting a swath on his left cheek where a jagged and uneven scar can be seen. The other huscarl is no less imposing, but his posture is more relaxed. Helmet less and black hair and beard clipped close, he is lacking the ring finger on his left hand.
Kjell confidently strides forward.
Aye, Kjell Carlufsen, answering the call of Jarl Aerlfin.
Looking you over the huscarl mulls his words before replying "Aye, you'll get our names in return soon enough. Ye walk inside and ye agree to not draw your steel. Blood might be spilled tonight but you draw steel and we draw ours. Understood?" holding eye contact with a meaningful and intense gaze.
The black haired huscarl shakes his head and chuckles to himself.
Úlfarr pulls his thoughts back to the present. Ahead in the light of the longhouse he sees three men speaking. Two are clearly huscarl guards. The. third he is unsure of. Perhaps another here to answer the Jarl's summons like himself. They seem to be concluding their business as he advances with Surtr at his side. Hearing the huscarl's call, he pulls back his hood and looks the man in the eye. "Heilir! Úlfarr Véulfrsen here. Jarl Aerlfin has put out a summons. I am here to answer his call."
Glyfir crosses the ridge of the valley and sets his eyes for the last time on what had been home. He sees the smoke rise from his mother's chimney. He will send her what fortune he can spare, but for now he is glad to see the town pass away behind him. Unable to even arrange passage, Gylfir is forced to walk several valleys to his destination. I will return with a boat even finer than my father's. You will all see. And I will master the Old Gifts and wield a power stronger than steel and sinew. He thinks these things not as a threat or in spite but more of a prophesy, that will show others the errors of their treatment of him for things out of his control....He knows not what the 'Garden People' or their darker cousins want in him...but as he adjusts the heavy anchor resting on his shoulder, he knows it has made him stronger.
The 'Garden People' would often tell him tales of old, when men honored the Old Ways, and they would leave rune stones for him to discover in the grass or caught up in roots. While those of the Hedge, whispered much darker tales that often left him afraid to sleep at night and They made many attempts to draw him into the Hedge even after his father attached the anchor to his leg. Never again could they force or drag him...but they could entice and trick. Over time he learned all their tricks and even took to trying to lure Them out from the hedge. The Garden People warned him that played a dangerous game, but with his anchor in place, he never felt in true danger as he grew up.
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Days later Gylfir comes to a village after dusk and catches sight of Aerlfin's longhouse. The Huscarl at the door hears Gilfir's approach before spotting him. The rattle-pause-rattle of a chain dragged on the ground gives him a momentary glimpse of his own repressed thoughts on Spirits that might walk the surface world until he sees a youth of less than 18 Springs loom into view from the night. Taller than many men in the hall, his cloak's hood was tossed back despite the wind exposing his short brown hair to the elements. His beard reflected his youth, not yet the length of a proper Ulfen raider.
As the young Ulfen approached closer, the Huscarl finally got a good look at the source of the rattling, the man carried a large block of metal...an anchor by the looks of it, attached to a length of chain that fell to coil around his ankle. Each step elicited the now familiar rattle. The anchor was a thick metal shaft with two flanges like shovel spades attached at the end and folded back upon the shaft. The far end, in the man's hands, was wrapped in leather cord...like it was a sword pommel?
At the Huscarl's challenge, the youth responds, "I am Gylfir Ulafson. I am here in answer to Aerlfin's call for men." Now up close, the Huscarl sees the man's eye's are a strange shade of green, and indeed, he carried an anchor, ancient in its form, one not employed by the raiding fleet. The way the man presented himself left no question that the anchor was indeed a weapon wielded with a considerable strength.
At the warning of drawing steel and violence, "The Ancor is at rest upon my shoulder. I have no plans to change that except to wield it against Aerlfin's enemies."
Kjell ducks his head as he pulls aside the flap of skin covering the opening. he stands just inside the door, taking in the scene.
I really need a strong mead!
He searches desperately for someone who can serve him a beverage.
Roluo approaches, his hands steady but his heart beating.
I need this. My honor needs this. My family needs this.
"Ho there, Ruluo Krage, answering the summons of your lord. I come in peace and look for the same."
Not too much mead tonight, I need my wits about me.
Kjell:
The huscarl do not seek to block your passage, though the derisive chuckling of the dark haired one continues.
Black Ulfarr:
As you approach the huscarl they eye you warily, though the black haired one seems more engaged than with the one you just saw pass into the longhouse. As you give them your name you sense a flicker of recognition cross his eyes. The brown haired huscarl addresses you "Ye walk inside and ye agree to not draw your steel. Blood might be spilled tonight but you draw steel and we draw ours. Understood?" When assent is given to his request he adds "Your vargr can go inside with ye, but any affairs are between men and he's not to get involved."
In the meantime the black haired huscarl has knelt where he stands and extended a hand to Surtr. The wolf sniffs the air before padding forward a few feet to allow the huscarl to ruffle the fur behind his ears. The man stands and then affixes a gaze upon you with his limpid grey eyes. You get a sense that the black haired man rates your companion above yourself.
Gylfir Faegeancor:
The huscarl challenge you as they have done the others, and accept your promise that steel and iron will not be used within the longhouse. The brown haired one adds in an almost fatherly tone "You should not find any enemies of the jarl within... but if there were to be it is ours to act and not your own."
The black haired one does not speak, but the look on his face and slight shake of his head lend you the air that he does not think much of you.
Roluo Krage:
The brown haired huscarl delivers the same warning against the drawing of steel "Ye walk inside and ye agree to not draw your steel. Blood might be spilled tonight but you draw steel and we draw ours. Understood?" again holding your gaze until you ken his meaning and give your assent.
The black haired huscarl smiles at you condescendingly if you look his way... almost begging for your challenge in words so that he might respond. But if you choose to move past without words you are allowed passage.
Parting the bear hide curtain that covers the entryway you are able to step into the longhouse proper. The structure is roughly five men in width and twenty in length. A fire burns upon the ashen floor towards the center of the house, which has warmed the air considerably - shaking off the chill of the night air outside. Twin rows of support columns run the length of the structure and outside of those are wooden benches that would usually serve as cots, but today are cleared down to the wood to allow them to act as benches. Three chairs sit at the far end of the house, below a banner that bears Arngrim's emblem - a longboat with full red sail.
There are already a couple of hands of Ulfen men within the house, mostly keeping to themselves - though there is a trio of similar face and build that confer near to the house's head. All are young, and looking over their weapons and armor - many are of poor quality and you gauge that the worst they have faced is the predations of a straw target. Some have a drinking horn in hand, others are eating and by the look of one gent barely able to grow the first inklings of a beard he has already drunk too much. The men look up as you enter, but soon return back to their thoughts.
To the left of the entrance is an open topped barrel of black mead - brewed of honey and black currants. Beside it sit a small pile of drinking horns. On the right is a blackened pot filled with fish and vegetable stew, with wooden bowls and spoons beside it. There are also hunks of dark rye bread and aged hard cheese.
A smile crosses Kjell's face as his eyes adjust to the interior lighting of the tent. He strides purposefully to the open barrel, grabs a horn, and cups out a healthy draught of Black Mead.
He then sits on the bench near the barrel with a view of the entry and the head of the longhouse. He quietly listens to the conversations while keeping an eye on the door.
When the tall, lanky, red-headed Ruolo enters the longhouse, Kjell raises his horn with a nod.
Roluo nods and moves past them, ignoring them both once passage is granted. Moving to the table he takes a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese.
No mead tonight, I want my head about me when meeting this new lord.
Casting about for an opening in a quiet corner, Roluo makes his way there, careful not to spill is stew.
Warmer near the fire, but some of these men look like they've something to prove. If the huscarl at the door is any indication I'll receive no just hearing here when I defend myself.
Jorlief approaches the clan over water. Ice forming beneath his feet, he walks across the water like it was land. A small amount of light equal to a torch floats over his head while he travels. Occasionally Jorlief looks around to get get his bearings, but he never fails to go the right way.
Reaching the docks, he pulls himself up, extinguishes the light, and asks the nearest clansman, "Can you direct me to the Jarl's longhouse?" He enjoys the reactions he gets when doing things like this.
As he approaches the longhouse he meets the huscarl in the eye and says, "Jorlief Crestfallen to answer Jarl Aerlfin's call.". He traces a rune in the air for effect while awaiting an answer.
Pausing to stroke his beard thoughtfully, Torgeir surveys the exchange between the huscarls and the big youth helfting an anchor;
Stink o’ the unseelie on that one... the young dvergr spits sourly and approaches the longhouse guards, arms open and weapons sheathed;
”Torgeir Strømsvik, o' Skjoldmur answering the Jarl’s call for strong arms and the chance to earn a hard name...”
The bullish dwarf is almost as wide as he is tall. Encased in mail, he wears the trademark bearded war axe of his people at his belt, along with the shieldwall butcher’s favourite: a Scramaseax. The dvergr’s simple helm does not disguise his short black beard and one ice blue eye.
The other ruined eye however, is clouded and surrounded by a tattooed runic symbol.
The squat warrior stands stoicly, like a lump of granite - lone good eye intently studying the huscarl’s reaction as he awaits their decision...
Jorlief:
The brown haired huscarl begins to open his mouth to speak when you begin tracing the rune. He sighs "Ah skit!" but before he can act the black haired Ulfen steps forward and grabs your arm in a grip of iron. As his fist begins to squeeze down painfully on your wrist he growls audibly and you can sense murder in his eyes. The brown haired Ulfen barks "Sámr... let him go."
The black haired huscarl does not release his grip, but after a few moments he speaks forcefully and deliberately "There will be no seiðr in this hall... if you ken that, then you can go within... but I will be watching..." Sámr waits for your assent to the request before releasing your arm with a dismissive shove and spitting on the ground. The brown haired huscarl keeps his eyes on Sámr while adding "And keep your steel from your hand as well... áss willing we'll have no need to shed blood tonight" giving you a meaningful glance.
The way is then left open for you to enter the longhouse.
Torgeir:
The brown haired Ulfen's eyes narrow as you approach and he is brusque "Run along home dwarf, you're not welcome." not even bothering to lower his gaze to deliver the words to your face. The black haired Ulfen spits to one side and remonstrates with the other huscarl "Feck sake Njáll, pull your head in. Ain't your bloody call." before he turns to Torgeir "Aye, ye'll get a chance dweorg... inside, though keep your steel from your hands in the house." holding eye contact for an assent before adding "Answer words with words, or if ye need with ye fist."
If Torgeir walks between and inside, Njáll is clearly opposed and unhappy... but discipline keeps his tongue in check for now.
Black Úlfarr moves forward past the men without a word and pushes aside the bear hide curtain. Surtr pads softly at his heel. Úlfarr scans the interior of the longhouse. He takes a horn of mead and a hunk of bread and cheese and spotting a red-headed man alone at one of the benches, walks over to take a seat across from him. Surtr sits at the end of the table and turns liquid eyes up at him questioningly. "Not now Surtr. I'll have food for you later."
Jorlief:
The brown haired huscarl begins to open his mouth to speak when you begin tracing the rune. He sighs "Ah skit!" but before he can act the black haired Ulfen steps forward and grabs your arm in a grip of iron. As his fist begins to squeeze down painfully on your wrist he growls audibly and you can sense murder in his eyes. The brown haired Ulfen barks "Sámr... let him go."
The black haired huscarl does not release his grip, but after a few moments he speaks forcefully and deliberately "There will be no seiðr in this hall... if you ken that, then you can go within... but I will be watching..."
As his arm is getting wrenched Jorlief starts a low throaty chuckle. "Of course" Jorlief says the next word as mocking as he can,"Sámr."
Sámr waits for your assent to the request before releasing your arm with a dismissive shove and spitting on the ground. The brown haired huscarl keeps his eyes on Sámr while adding "And keep your steel from your hand as well... áss willing we'll have no need to shed blood tonight" giving you a meaningful glance.
The way is then left open for you to enter the longhouse.
As he is shoved he begins to chuckle again. That man's grip could rival a giant's
To the other he gives some respect, "My steel will remain hidden, I am here to offer my talents to the Jarl." As he walks past, Jorlief says to Sámr "Be grateful you have a man such as him next to you. The world is full of danger and I fear for you." I will need to watch out for that one
Jorlief enters the longhouse, sees the food and mead and heads over to gather some. He then sits down at the table and begins to eat.
Gylfir moves to the side table. With one hand, he breaks off a large chunk off bread and carves off the block of cheese. The small pieces of bread and cheese that fell off from the whole, he carefully collects and tosses them across the table to fall on floor. For the small guardians of the hall.
He makes his way to a table, and lays the plate. Upon the bench, he rests the anchor, freeing a hand for a mead horn, although he drinks only enough to cut his thirst.
The large man quietly lifts his arm and sniffs underneath befor taking another long pull on the mead.
None of these newcomers seem to have noticed me. Odd enuff' considerin' my size...maybe I have too much of the stench o' the road on me?
Kjell again gazes at each newcomer in passing.
Mayhap the fella with the beast won't mind the stench...ha, ha, ha.
With a smile he stands and saunters to the newcommer.
Fine beast ya have there, what do they call ya?
Surtr turns his head and sniffs as the large man approaches the table. Black Úlfarr looks up at the approaching youth. "Greetings. I'm Úlfarr, known as Black Úlfarr. Of Clan Rúnólfr, but here to meet the Jarl's summons. This is Surtr." The man's hand unconsciously extends to ruffle through the wolf's thick fur. "Have a seat. Haven't made the acquaintance of this man yet, but you're welcome to sit down." he says gesturing to the red-headed man.
Jorlief:
Your words were not lost on Sámr, and though he does not speak or act against you again - you can see that he harbors ill thoughts towards you. Njáll remains wary and poised as you move past... clearly not completely sure that Sámr would be able to check his intent.
Inside the Festhall:
Those that partake of the black mead find it almost cloyingly sweet on the palate, but with a heady and satisfying aftertaste. It has a kick to it that warms from your throat to loins. The stew is thick and unappetising to look at, but has a hearty and satisfying taste to it.
The trio of similar face towards the front of the hall occasionally look up at Kjell. Their faces are relatively neutral as they do so, though their whispered discussion seems somewhat intense.
The youngling that has had more filled horns than would be wise smiles at the entry of Roluo. Walking unsteadily over to where the skald sits, he sloughs onto the bench beside him uninvited and roughly enough that he jostles some mead from his horn onto Roluo's lap. He slurs "Come skald, give us a song"
A few minutes after Gylfir enters, an older man well into his thirties enters the longhouse. By his dress and demeanor you'd wager he's one of the few there that has seen real combat. Dull chain on his person and a short hacking sword at his waist. Nodding to all present he moves to gather a bowl of stew before sitting next to the boy with the ancor "Hail boy, I am Gummi. What brings you to this fool endeavor?" sighing slightly as he begins to eat.
Towards the centre of the longhouse two men are seemingly staring daggers at one another over the flames. No words have been said between them, but by looks and body language they seem to be as coiled springs ready to spring forward with intent...
Just after Jorlief takes his seat on a bench, a pair of women enter the chamber and sit near to the door. The younger and prettier is dressed in thick furs and has a sickly look. Upon her shoulder is a young raven with a band of white feathers around it's neck. The other female is thick set and swarthy with her hair drawn in a thick ponytail. Gruff look upon her face she has twin hand-axes at her belt.
The other men in the hall seem most intent to lose themselves in their mead and stew for now.
"A song? A song you say. I know no songs, but I can tell you a tale, if you wish. What saga would you have me impart?"
Roluo sets aside his food and stands up, stepping away from the young drunk and towards the two coiled men.
Danger here, best put a stop to it. And newcomers. They are...ominous.
Not my finest tale, it will have to do.
Torgeir impassively stares at Njáll,
Run along home dwarf... Feh this human needs taught some manners... My feet have left trails in the frost for longer than him!
The dvargr’s one good eye narrows as he looks up at the big Ulfen;
Patience of stone. Miskunnsamr of iron...
Torgier nods at the huscarl with hair of coal, acknowleging his instructions, then with a baleful stare of his clouded eye he steps onwards.
Lifting the heavy pelt, the squat dvargr steps into the longhus. His sharp eye takes in the men before him, measuring each, before he takes and fills a mead horn for himself;
He moves to stand impassively before the fire pit, moving only to first flick some drops of mead into the flames before taking a deep draught himself.
Gylfir holds his tongue momentarily. He will not rise so quickly to the baited hook. He remembers the stinging wasp that pestered him until he chased it...almost too close to the Hedge.
Take what is used as a weapon and make it a strength. Gylfir finally responds, "Gummi. I am Gylfir. I guess I am here to offer youthful vitality to a room full of those long of tooth. And if by doing so makes me less of a boy, so be it."
Roluo moves away from the drunk and stands near to the firepit, beginning an ode of the ancient years and Rolf Redhand; how he sang for the nymph-queen before leading a band of brothers south for conquest and plunder. It is well received by those present and the Ulfen who appear to have umbrage with each other cease their staring a while to listen.
Torgeir's entrance is greeted with a short hush followed by harsh whispers. He stands before the fire to warm and listen a while to the skald's words. The hairs upon his head prickle as he feels the staring eyes... though the thick-set woman near the door seems to have a flicker of recognition.
Gummi replies to Gylfir after a chuckle "My apologies Gylfir, all I see bar the dweorg are my junior. I meant no disrespect." his words genuine. "For mine my family is dead... taken by the plåga three winters past. It's either this or give up and wait for the lång natt"
As Roluo ends his tale and returns to the bench, Úlfarr nods in acknowledgement of the fine story, "That was well-told and seems to have calmed the hall. Am I right that you are here like I in response to Jarl Aerlfin's summons?" Surtr looks up at the man, seemingly having enjoyed the tale as well, or perhaps just looking for a scrap.
"Aye, I come to serve the Jarl. My fortunes need a change and the Jarl will give me that chance. Roluo, Roluo Krage. Who might you be?"
Roluo abandons his food and the drunken man sitting over it in order to converse with the new man.
Jorlief looks up from his bowl and sees a dwarf standing by the fire I might not be the only one to battle some bias in this place. Ah and he has Kaunan as well.
"Nevermind them all dwarf. Word must have traveled far, I didn't expect to see one of your kind here. I am Jorlief. I couldn't help but notice your tattoo, Kaunan is it?"
"Sorry Gummi. I know a bit of your loss. My father did not come back last season. His boat was lost and with it, I lost my place on the oar deck. So, I am here too, hoping to find a new place to fit in."
He raises his drinking horn to Gummi and quietly says, [b]"To new beginnings then. Skol."
"Well met Roluo, I am Black Úlfarr and I find myself in a similar position to yourself with regards to my fortunes. Hoping to find a position with the Jarl here." He takes a drink from the horn. "This is my friend Surtr." He reaches out and scratches the wolf behind the ears. Surtr stretches his neck, tilting his head back at the attention.
Kjell leans over and lifts his drinking horn, and with a hardy grin says,
Indeed, Roluo, well met! I am Kjell Carlufsen, and I aim to earn a name fer myself with the Jarl so that soon you'll be tellin' sagas of me, eh!
Torgeir addresses the lean Ulfen’s question with a short nod and a mirthless comment;
”Aye seems my presence has set more tongues wagging than a hall of Skjoldmur fishwives... though were we in Skjoldmur I’d wager the fishwives over most of these langshanks...”
The dvergr seems impressed by Jorlief’s knowledge, a look of respect and reverence flitting briefly over the stout warrior’s stony demeanor;
”It is. Caster of the runes I take it?”
Though Torgeir’s words are directed to Jorlief, his eyes – one blue and sparkling of life, one dulled and dead, scour the hall... dwelling on any who’s cast him looks disapproving or dismissive.
"Well met Kjell! I'm sure it would be a fine saga, and perhaps in the doing I will learn the way of the telling. I am a young skald yet, with much to learn."
And much to prove.
Gummi smiles at Gylfir "Aye, new beginnings... or at least a worthy end." drinking at his toast.
"Aye, Kjell. Perhaps tales of all our glorious adventures together lie ahead!" At his side, Surtr rolls his eyes and whines. Úlfarr laughs, "You too Surtr, you too."
Hopin' the Karl appears soon, or I'll be far enough in my cups where the large gal at the door be lookin' good fer a roll...ha, ha, ha!
Torgeir addresses the lean Ulfen’s question with a short nod and a mirthless comment;
”Aye seems my presence has set more tongues wagging than a hall of Skjoldmur fishwives... though were we in Skjoldmur I’d wager the fishwives over most of these langshanks...”
The dvergr seems impressed by Jorlief’s knowledge, a look of respect and reverence flitting briefly over the stout warrior’s stony demeanor;
”It is. Caster of the runes I take it?”
Though Torgeir’s words are directed to Jorlief, his eyes – one blue and sparkling of life, one dulled and dead, scour the hall... dwelling on any who’s cast him looks disapproving or dismissive.
Jorlief shows Torgeir his tattoos of Laukaz and Raido not caring if others see. "Aye, I have learned the runic way since I can remember. Very important in being a Crestfallen." Jorlief looks to see the dvergr's reaction.
Still working on my background but basically a Crestfallen has strange powers including seeing through fog, walking on water, and other strange arts including runic knowledge. They are used on boats to aid in foggy or misty times and are often seen in the front of the ship in bad weather "falling" beneath the crests of the waves. They are seen in both a positive and negative light.
One last arrival enters the longhouse - a man that is not bearing arms or armor and is dressed in ragged and disheveled furs. He has the look of a criminal, and the scar of a brand burned deep into his forehead would seem to reinforce that belief. His eyes are wild and wary as he moves through the hall and right up beside the three chairs, making sure to keep his eyes away from the gaze of any of the others present. Hands clasped and set to constant wringing he rocks back and forth on the bench slightly.
The numbers in the longhouse count to an even twenty including yourselves, and awaiting what would appear to be three more to occupy the chairs at the end of the house.
If Torgeir is suitably impressed with Jorlief’s status and runes, it does not show on the dvargr’s morose expression.
”Vatn eda Fara... Good runes for the reaver. I’d happily herja with you at the prow Crestfallen”
He nods once more as he watches the room, before taking a final draught to drain his horn. The squat warrior retrieves another horn and resumes his stoic, one eyed vigil.
”I would have brought you a horn, but I see you still have your legs beneath you, unlike some of these other fools...”
Kjell stands and belches loudly after downing the remainder of his mead.
Ulfarr...Ruolo, can I grab you's another? I am headin' back fer more.
At the display of Jorlief's rune tattoos, Gylfir lifts his anchor slightly off the bench and raps it softly on the wood a few times. To Gummi, "To draw such attention to oneself...I found it to be dangerous." Just as Kjell stands to refill his horn, "There too." he nods sagely, the coin tied around his neck bobbing slightly in the torchlight.
"A fine offer Kjell, but I'll continue with this horn for now. I'd be grateful if you'd bring another hunk of bread." As Kjell heads back to the barrel, Úlfarr turns to Ruolo. "If you don't mind me asking, do you hail from Aegos or another isle?"
Gummi nods to Gylfir "Aye... that's for sure." regarding the forthright nature of Jorlief with a tinge of apprehension.
When Kjell stands to move to the mead barrel, one of the three from the front quickly stands and moves to follow. Standing close he addresses Kjell as he fills his horn "Carlufsen?" said in a questioning and inquisitive tone.
One of the Ulfen that has been keeping to themselves stands and moves to refill his stew bowl. Broadshouldered, though still growing into his frame. Moving past Torgeif he does not check his motion and intentionally bustles the dwarf with his hip as he passes.
The women towards the front are content within themselves. The sickly one has taken the raven from her shoulder into her lap and is whispering to it quietly. The thick set one still sets her eyes to roving the longhouse warily.
The drunkard calls out belligerently at Jorlief from his place of seated rest "Seiðkona, what are you doing here? The call was for warriors... not weavers." looking lasciviously towards the front of the room "at least the kona there could be useful for a ride or two."
Torgeir takes the Ulfen’s bump and smiles mirthlessly. Handing his horn of medu to Jorlief;
”Hold this for me runa kasta, I have a debt to gjalda with that whelp”
The squat dvergr slowly walks after the broad shouldered Ulfen, catching up with him just before the medu barrels...
Torgeir’s sets a stare upon the tall sapling; one eye clear like glacier ice, the other clouded like sour milk:
”Hoi lang shanks. Best you stay off the mead nei? Can’t even walk straight... for only a drunk fool would walk into a dvergr of Skjoldmur! So what is it boy? Drunk? Fool? Or both?”