"Thank you Kjell, but I do not drink this night. I want a clear head for the Jarl."
I hope the Jarl shows up soon, the men in here are getting restless.
Fair enuf' boys, save my spot, eh?
Kjell saunters to the mead barrel, and he comes upon Togeir plainly using sharp words at a larger Ulfen. As he gets closer, he moves around the pair to the barrel. After filling his horn, he pauses casually for a moment to the side of the Ulfen to discern whether the Dwarf may need help in a confrontation with the larger drunken man.
May be a good row, here...these Dwarves can be tough, I hear.
The Ulfen that followed Kjell to the mead barrel gives him another tap on the shoulder, asking again "Carlufsen?"
The boy that bumped Torgeir turns and gives an exaggerated look around keeping his sightline high and over Torgeir's head as though he cannot see who wants his attention, before stepping up close to the dweorg and looking down on him so that Torgeir has to crane his neck up to see him "I'll walk where I choose and I'll not check my step for the hämmad" Torgeir can see the hot fire of a racist heart in the boy's eyes "Why don't you set off home get jävel... save me the trouble of throwing you out."
The boy's jaw is set belligerently...
Torgier stoicly stands his ground, and the dvergr’s retort is in a tone as dull as stone and as mirthless as a burial;
”Hämmad I may be boy, but not where it counts...” ...” Ask your own móðir - she never complains as lowers herself on my darraðr!”
The squat warrior smiles wolfishly and adds;
"But then again as a get jävel I'm used to rutting with kykvendi!"
:
Kjell, turns to the intrusion on his thoughts. After taking in the Ulfen, he responds.
Aye, Kjell Carlufsen, and what do they call you?
Kjell still keeps an ear pealed to the Flyting going on next to him, and he cannot help but chuckle at the dvergr's response.
The boy's face reddens as Torgeir retorts. Blown into a slightly frothing lather he blurts out as much to the other Ulfen of the longhouse as to Torgeir "What are you doing here dweorg? This isn't a gödselstacken where ye can snout for tryffels in the dirt. Or can't ye see that..." tapping his good eye in mockery of Torgeir's withered one.
-------
Near to the mead barrel the Ulfen with Kjell responds with a hand to heart before gesturing to the front where the other two are seated. "Ingólfr, here with my kin Bjólfr and Unnúlfr. My far was oarsman with your far." he has fair hair and beard, both braided and striking blue eyes "He oft talked of your far..."
A sterner look crosses the broad dvergr’s face as his jaw sets as the insults fly;
”Feh. We dweorg are as forn as runes. But a ósnjallr child like you would not understand that... Does your móðir know you are out alone little sveinbarn? Or does she lie at home lysta to have her furrow ploughed by my “ein_auga” ormr!?”
: +
The boy is puffed up further with anger he steps back slightly so as to thrust a quavering finger in accusation "Ware your tunga dweorg lest I take it from you." voice squeaking slightly "My blod is pure, unlike yours."
But looking around he sees that most of the longhouse is chuckling with the dweorg and at him. Shaking with both anger and flushed with embarassment he growls "To helvetet with the lot of you." and spits at Torgeir's feet before stalking out of the longhouse.
"The dweorg has spirit, if not manners. Still, glad to see he didn't hurt the poor child. Perhaps his móðir waits to console him at home?"
Torgeir grimly smiles at the skald's remark;
"Perhaps he wishes my tunga as it is seasoned with his móðir's honey?"
The dvergr then reclaims his place at the fire, taking a deep draught of his mead;
"Flyting... Thirsty work" he grumbles to Jorlief
After filling it up, Jorlief hands Torgeir back his horn. After he hands the horn back to Torgeir he says to the drunkard
"How do you think you will be riding either one of those kona when even the sýr refuse you?"
Kjell's eyes widen at the mention of his father.
Tales of me far! I would love t'hear em'. He went to the mud when I was but a babe at the tit. Please join us.
Kjell puts a hand on Ingólfr's back as he guides him back to Ruolo and Ulfarr.
Ruolo and Ulfarr, this be Ingólfr. Our fars shared the oar back in the day. Ruolo here is a Skald. I'm sure he'd want to here the stories. I could even tell a few of my grandsire, Ragnar "Cleaver" Carlufsen!
Torgeir one good eye narrows warily;
"The pup is lucky. Amongst the reavr dvergr o' Skjoldmur - a sharp tunga is just as oft met wi a sharp blade..."
... tho for a place at the Jarl's oars I'll stay my hand..."
The squat dweorg drains his horn, then turns again to refill;
"...Waiting... also thirsty work..."
Gylfir thumps his anchor upon the bench at the resolution of the flyting and shares in the chuckling that ripples through the hall.
He nurses his drinking horn, seeming to drink more than he actually is. As he repeatedly scans the room, his eye is repeatedly drawn to the raven and the kona it seems to interact with. He tries to avoid making eye contact with her, but the bird? Does it know he watches? He grasps the small leather pouch tied to his belt and gives it a gentle shake. The soft rattle serves as a gesture of protection in the face of ill spirits.
During the time that you've been in the longhouse you've heard no further sounds or movement outside.
The drunk smiles at Jorleif's words "Aye, a sýr is fine enough when there are no women to plunder... but when there are..." he licks his lips slightly as though building courage and then stands to walk towards the pair of women.
As Gylfir shakes the leather pouch watching the raven it seems to cock it's head in curious interest. The sickly lady looks toward you and makes eye contact, a warm smile crosses her face.
Ingólfr follows Kjell back to the benches but does not yet sit... his brothers also do not move from where they sit yet. Reflective and precise in tone, as though he is all too cognizant his words could cause umbrage to be taken "Are you sure you wish the stories told Carlufsen? You may hear words that cast a pall on his memory..."
Roluo moves to intercept the young drunk.
"Think man. She has had nothing to drink and looks as though she could best you on your best day. I suggest you sit down before you do something you'll regret."
Aye, Ingólfr, tell on. I have no ken of my sire, and the tales told back in Carluf are far and few between. Now, The Cleaver, that is different!
Black Úlfarr notices that Surtr has taken a particular interest in the pocket of one of the lonely Ulfen. Shock of red hair flowing like a mane down his back he is clean shaven, and his build is stout though he has forsaken the traditional Ulfen chain and wears stiff boiled leathers. Seeing the wolf's interest the man smiles and reaches into his pocket retrieving a knob of venison jerky. Looking to Úlfarr his eyes ask for permission to toss it to Surtr.
Holding gaze with Kjell for a few moments Ingólfr gives a curt nod and calls upon his brothers to move closer. The brothers give a nod of greeting also before sitting and you can see the family resemblance. He begins to parlay his tale "As I said, my far and yours went a viking together. They were fast and true to one another and broke skjoldur and swords alike side by side... that was until the voyage where your far didnae return..." but his retelling pauses as his eyes turn to the drunk's approach upon the women.
The drunkard half strides, half stumbles past Roluo paying him no real heed apart from mumbling "Yer welcome to my seconds if she's still up to it once I'm finished." moving through the longhouse to stand over the sickly girl leering at her. Half drooling and half spitting he slurs "Come on lassie, you're for coming for a hrjota with me." The sickly girl recoils slightly in her seat, keeping her eyes low and fixed on her bird so as not to make eye contact with the drunk.
Roluo notices that the stocky lass with braided ponytail and handaxes raise her hand to him in a halting gesture while slowly shaking her head. Quietly and slowly so as not to alert the drunk the woman stands up from where she sits upon the bench.
Glyfir is relieved when a drunk crosses in front of his view, breaking the eye contact. She seemed nice enough, but the Hedge People always seem nice too...at first. His next view of her, she is looking down and away, as the drunk looms over her. The man is a drunk AND a fool. Clearly one such as her is touched, and not in a good way by her condition and the raven.
Not wanting to draw attention, he remains sitting, but watches carefully, his hand tight on the Ancor.
Torgeir watches the events unfold with stoic indifference;
He drops his breeks, she'll drop him... Feh. One less weak arm pulling the oars...
Black Úlfarr smiles at the man and commands, "Sit Surtr. Be good." When the wolf obeys, he says, "You may feed him, but remember that he's not a dog. If I have him on guard, he's likely to take your hand off." He watches as the man feeds the wolf. "I'm Black Úlfarr. How did you come to be here tonight?"
The drunk gets a tap on the shoulder, but no warning as he turns to regard the stocky woman. A solid fist drives hard into the drunkards gut, doubling him over. This is followed by dual elbows into both of his kidneys, before the one with the braided ponytail hefts the drunk by the britches and hurls him bodily through the bearskin covered portal and into the night's cold air. The stocky lass then turns to give the room a gaze laden with warning before retaking her seat beside the sickly one. From outside you can hear a bout of extended retching.
The red haired man smiles "My uncle keeps hunds, I know where to be putting me fingers if I like to be keeping them." making a fist of his hand and placing the jerky upon it, he leans forward and offers the meat to the wolf "I am Hrónarr, and I am here for likely the same reason as you? A chance... just to have a chance."
For the rest of those within the longhouse time seems to start dragging on. It is well past the hour when you were bade to assemble, but the Jarl has not made an appearance and neither have the huscarl gave you succor in form of words. There is an air of anxiousness thick and swirling through the smoky room.
:
Catching wind of the drunk's fate the dvergr mrerly spits into the flame with a satisfied grunt.
He then takes a deep draught of his current horn, and turns his good eye from the fire to the rest of the room...
Surtr picks the jerky off the man's fist, chewing it with a bobbing motion with his head. At the sound of fist connecting with gut, Black Úlfarr looks over to the entrance. He chuckles as the woman makes quick work of the drunk. "Well, looks like that's two down."
He turns back to Hrónarr, "Your uncle taught you well. Surtr definitely It is good to meet you Hrónarr. You're right. Have to say I've had a few....troubles...with family. A chance for a new start would be good." He looks around the room and wonders at the Jarl's timing, "Interesting the Jarl has delayed his appearance. I wonder if he's seeing if time will weed out the chaff."
"Hah, well done!"
Roluo laughs heartily and bows to the maiden before turning to the rest of the room.
"Perhaps a tale of glory to lighten the mood?"
Ahhhh...well done Ruolo! It appears the Jarl is happy to allow more time to liða. More mead will make time bregða!
Kjell stands and drains the remainder of his second horn before heading back to the keg for another.
Hrónarr gives a smile and a grunt of affirmation to Black Ulfarr's words "Hmph, wouldn't surprise me iffin it was his plan." before leaning forward with a sparkle to his eye. "Wonder how many spots he's got at the oars then?"
Roluo's tale of a warrior woman of old who served Gorum well enough to be made a valkyrie is again readily received, except by the stocky woman who does not seem the kind to like attention focused upon her.
The two men who had eyes for blood earlier have caught each others gaze again, and the warm smoky air between them is getting heavier with growing intent.
Ingólfr waits with his brothers for Kjell to return, ready to continue his tale of his far.
Torgeir's stoic and impassive guardianship of the flames has caught the attention of the criminal fellow towards the chairs. Eyes furtively turn to the dvergr and hands continue wringing themselves.
Gylfir can feel a gaze upon him from towards the door - though it is not the sickly lass, but the beady eyes of her raven that are spying him.
Torgeir's dead right eye tilts slightly towards Jorlief as he mutters and aside to the rune caster;
Crestefalla, what know you of the ósælligr one who eyes the fires like a hungry valdyr?
"These men keep taking themselves out and we're going to need to put out another call soon. Looks like those two are getting ready to go at it. Any idea who the one watching the dwarf is?" he nods at the two men glaring at one another.
Torgeir's dead right eye tilts slightly towards Jorlief as he mutters and aside to the rune caster;
Crestefalla, what know you of the ósælligr one who eyes the fires like a hungry valdyr?
To Torgeir "Hmm, He appears a criminal, but I feel like there may be something more to him"
Kjell walks back to Ingólfr and his brothers with a full horn.
Ingólfr, please continue the saga, but first, who are these two makin' illr augas at each other?
Jorleif sets his eyes to the ósælligr and does not sense anything is hidden. The prison brand is worn openly, and is given to a range of criminals - so does not portend anything specific as to his crimes.
Ingólfr shrugs his shoulders at Kjell's inquiry "They are no kin of mine, and I know not what the gräla is"
Ingólfr continues "The last time our förfäders sailed out it was to raid deep into the buk of the South, around the horn of Varisia and to the East. Their longships found a island off the coast with a stenhus that looked to be easy plundring. Your far led the assault from the shallows onto the shore, and kicked in the door..." pausing a few moments to lick his lips "and then all hell broke loose..."
As if by cruel fate, the two ill-eyed Ulfen chose that moment to turn their simmering feud into a boil-over. The black haired one moved first, tossing his half-full bowl of stew at the sandy haired one in furs...
Ranged touch:
...missing with an o'er eager throw and scattering the bowl's contents on the wall. The other's eyes bulged and he launched across the longhouse with murderous eyes, grabbing at the black-hair's shoulders...
Unarmed Blow: for
...gripping them fast and firm, then driving his forehead into the crest of black-hairs nose. Bright red blood started seeping down black-hairs face and sandy-hair recoiled from the strike his crown red-marked in gore.
Gylfir takes that moment to give the men room and get out of the way. He makes his way to near the door and the two woman. Ignoring the chaos erupting behind him, he eyes the tall one carefully and holds out his free hand to show her he means no harm. On his palm he holdd two items, a piece of bread and a glass marble.
He lowers his hand to show the seated woman with the crow. "I feel the need to make an offering to your companion. I seem to have gained his eye, and wish to appease him lest his attention prove baleful." He hold his hand out to the bird, if allowed. "I thought I would let it choose."
Roluo moves back to the bench after his tale.
"Well, hopefully the mær found my tale satisfactory. I've the feeling their word will carry weight on who pulls the oars."
Listening intently to the tale of Ingólfr, cursing when the men interrupt.
"I should've let them fight the first time. Fools!"
As the men begin their fight, Black Úlfarr growls at Surgr, "Stay!" He turns to Roluo as he sits back down, "Sorry Roluo, I don't think the best tale would have kept those two from going at it. But, I don't think the Jarl will appreciate it if they destroy this longhouse while we wait for him."
With that comment, Black Úlfarr stands glaring daggers at the men, "Cut it out you fools! Is this the impression you want to leave the Jarl on your meeting with him? Soup on his walls and blood on his floor. Soon enough, we'll have plenty of heads to crack. Sit down!"
Kjell stands next to Black Úlfarr and menacingly adds!
Aye, simmer down whelps!
Intimidate:
The two men with Ulfen blood rising ascendant remain unbowed by the interjections, though the menacing look on Black Úlfarr's face does give them pause. They eye each other warily like wounded bulls, neither attempting to staunch or wipe away the blood upon their faces... though the calm is fleeting.
The sandy haired one speaks "This bikkja's grandfather cheated mine out of weregild owed... I'll take it in now in blood." and the black-haired retorts with a spit "We'll never pay guld for that oanvändbar hora" and lashes out with a sneaky punch...
Fist: for
...which misses badly and draws a retalitory haymaker from the sandy-haired one...
Haymaker: for
...laying out the black-haired one onto the ashen floor. Moving forward to kneel over the body, sandy-hair's hands go to his belt where a broad bladed knife is stowed...
...seemingly not noticing that the wolf-skin door has been drawn aside and Njáll stands watching the two men with a grim countenance.
At the entrance the stocky lady watches Gylfir warily, while the sickly woman gives him a wan smile "Snaren has seen something in you hasn't he... I am Ellisif, and we will see if Snaren would take your offering." holding the raven up near to Gylfir's hand. The raven eyes Gylfir with a cocked head and almost questioning demeanor.
Black Úlfarr continues to glare at the man. When he speaks, it is with a low, menacing snarl, "Whatever your past, you set it aside when you walked into this hall. Take your hand away from that blade. I put Clan Rúnólfr behind me when I brought my weapons and my wolf to serve Jarl Aerlfin. You can do him the courtesy of leaving your blade where it is."
Will save: - Common Sense:
The sandy haired one is driven to pause at the hearing of Black Úlfarr's clan. He licks his lips as he looks around the room and notices Njáll's silent vigil. Cogs whirr in the sandy haired gent's head and lodge in the wrong position. He stands to his full height swaying slightly and weighing the sentiment of the hall "He's got a skuld to honor to my clan." before grasping the insensate body of the black-haired one by the hair and beginning to drag him from the hall.
Njáll watches him move from the hall with his human cargo, but does not bar his path.
"Go ahead Snaren. Are you hungry or do you want the glass ball? If you are hungry, I can get you more. But if its the bead, well that I dug up in my Ma's garden. It caught my eye, I thought it would catch yours too."
He looks around a bit self consciously as he proffered his gifts to the bird. I don't want to stand out, and yet here I am talking to a bird. But he things he did the right thing as the bird alternates between looking at him and then his hand.
Before the man can leave the longhouse, Black Úlfarr steps up to him and grabs his shoulder. "That would not be a good choice. Leave if you must, but leave him behind or you can deal with me."
The raven bobs it's head a few times before leaning forward to peck at the bread a few times. It then nudges the marble towards Gylfir with its beak, and plucks the bread up to eat. The girl then talks very quietly in Sylvan "Syö vain sen, mitä tarjotaan ja jäädä polku" with her head bowed.
The sandy haired one stops and turns to face Black Úlfarr directly "Who is he to you utlanning? and why do you risk your blood for his?"
Roluo watches the proceedings quietly, content to see what transpires between men.
Two sagas and still their blood boils. Good on a battlefield, poor in a longhouse. Still, this will weed out the weak.
Kjell steps forward again.
I believe my friend asked you to leave 'em be. I think ya better listen, eh?
Intimidate:
The sandy haired one's gaze remains on Black Úlfarr, awaiting his response...
From his stance at the fire Torgeir watches the scene unfold with interest. His good eye flits between protagonists and occasionally finds the man markk'd as a criminal...
Feh. They think themselves heitr blóð?! What do they know of the furnace of móðr within!
"Are you here to serve the Jarl or your own feuds? He has sent a call for men. We've lost two already and it looks like we're about to lose two more. I understand you've had a dispute with this man. But we will need men. I'd rather see the two of you settle your differences. But barring that, I'd rather not lose both of you. Leave him or put him outside and come back yourself."
With a look to the still impassive Njáll the sandy haired one responds "The call of kin and blood is the stronger..." and Njáll gives him a nod "Ye can leave with him boy... but take him to the Thing for their dom."
Njáll then turns to Black Úlfarr after the sandy haired boy has left with his human cargo "Aye the Jarl needs men, but there's only fjorton seats at the oars..." looking around the room at those that are left so the message sinks in. "When ye've made your choice we'll talk again."
Njáll then turns and walks back outside of the longhouse to leave you with your thoughts... and the air in the room grows thicker still as it is made plain that two more must be culled...
Torgeir runs a blunt hand over his shaved scalp, then drains his third horn of mead.
The dvergr stalks over to the barrel and retrieves not another horn, but a bowl of the fish stew and a hunk of black bread.
He then walks to where the wretch sits and placing them before branded man;
”Eta man. By Gorum you have the look of a trémaðr... While I reckon yer most at home in the myrkr nei? You’ll still need to róa like the rest o’ us... so eta...”
The dvergr leaves the food with the man and impassively walks back to his place by the fire.