Doot.
You are sitting in Halfstead's tavern, the Hungry Havershack, wiling away the day around hearth, basking in the comforting heat emanating from the stack of pine slowly burning in pit. The fire casts a warm glow across the inside of the building, illuminating the various patrons and the finely carved tables that they drink at, tankards and drinking horns all around.
Numerous decorations, ranging from the impressive racks of some mighty Elk hanging from the wall, to the exquisite rugs made out of the pelt of a fearsome polar bear, to numerous charms and tapestries dangling from the rafters, all add to the ambiance of the Hungry Havershack
The air is festive, as is common in Northland taverns and longhouses. Laughter and raucous music echoes off the fern walls and the sweet, heady smell of mead and roasted Ox wafts to your nose.
Outside, you hear a commotion is starting in the streets. Looking through the window, you see that people are moving briskly, some running, towards the beach.
The tavern door opens, and a young Northland boy sticks his head in. “The Long Serpent has returned! The Jarl is back from his sealing expedition in the lands of the Ulanat! Come, quickly!". He runs outside, exuberant at Jarl's return.
The people in the tavern let out a hearty cheer and storm outside to see their Jarl's return. Outside the window, his Dragonship can be seen cutting the ocean mists like a mighty beast emerging from the fog of war.
It is no surprise that the boy is excited about Jarl Olaf Hendrickson's return. He is a man among men, a sea reaver of no small skill who was once in the employ of High King Ejrik Weissritter before the latter's coronation. The Jarl is as generous and fair in his dealings with the people as he is fearsome in battle.
Neve quietly sipped from her drink - a concoction of berries, brewed from a well-kept recipe to keep the full flavor and sweetness of spring even on the coldest of days. Mixing it was one of the more enjoyable things she did when she came to town, and she patiently finished her drink, watching the others leave the building, before she joined them in walking down to the docks. She'd been granted the status of a temporary guest pending the Jarl's return - on the wise assumption that he would indeed offer his hospitality - but now that he had returned, she was obliged to get his permission to stay rather than simply assuming it would be permitted. Not that anyone would say it that way, of course. It was simply what was expected from both of them.
The rules of conduct were complex, but she navigated them with the wisdom her kind was known for, idly pondering the stories she could tell this time around. Oratory performances were another of the many things she offered to the people when she came to visit, for there was nothing quite like the expert recitation of an epic tale to pass the cold days away...
Einarr Eindriði walks out of the tavern slowly and quietly, watching to see if anything unusual has come back with the men or their haul.
Asta had been walking for the better part of the day when she finally got to Halfstead. She saw the Tavern rather quickly upon entering town and made her way towards it preparing for a nice warm enclosure. She had walked in took the chest and backpack off her back sat down finally enjoying the weight off her feet and started taking off her winter clothing when all the commotion started happening.
---
I gave out a heavy sigh as I reversed the motion of taking off my coat. Suppose I shouldn't miss this, will give a good indication on the health of the town. I heft my backpack back on my back but simply carry the Chest, walking outside to find a good vantage point before putting the chest down and sitting on it.
"Well, let's go see what fancy things they bring" eating the last of his food before leaving the tavern between laughs as he stumbles for a moment Not much of a good sight if you break your nose against a fearsome foe such as the tavern's floor. Wonder what stories and treasure they have brought with them stopping to put on his coat before leaving and winking at a serving girl.
Walking fast to get a good view of the Long Serpent, the warriors, and the Jarl That should let me know how successful it truly was as a small crowd begins to gather, but a steady stream of people continues to come in.
Staring deep into the flames the scarred and dour looking man seems lost in himself with a half full mug of dark mead.
The shadows behind him dance and play havoc on the walls turning laughing men and thick women into demons and monsters on the wall as dark as they are fleeting. Sitting on the largest head watching above it all a single bird shaped shadow marred only by a pair of baleful red eyes stares down upon it all.
Some in the tavern take turns and bets pitting their drunken stares against its glare. Few last more than a moment before returning to their drinks with a shudder and laugh never playing that game again.
The man himself never explained his purposes in town merely that he was passing through. Ever since he has waited at the Hungry Havershack. For what, no one knew, and he did not offer. His gold was good and despite his general mood kept to himself. That's all that mattered.
As the boy came in with his excited shouts and the whole tavern began to hurriedly empty out into the streets towards the harbor he was the only one who responded with a frown as the bird took off from its perch with an ominous squawk and fluttered out above the small crowd.
With a stiff groan the man retrieved his spear and finished his mead. Staring at the bottom of his cup he contemplates the remaining impurities staining it before he mutters to himself. "So it begins again."
With that he followed the crowd.
Brynja sighed from her little spot in the tavern, swirling a mug of ale around in front of her more to fit in than anything else. She didn't really like the stuff, but it wasn't awful either. Next time, she'd order a cider.
Bright blue eyes politely observed the other patrons gathered in the common room but quickly darted away when she met anyone's gaze. It was rude to stare as her mother always said. From her view, everyone else seemed to have purpose and meaning in their lives. Work, families, homes to tend to... She gave her head a shake. No need for such sour thoughts, she scolded herself. Hardly the attitude that is going to get you anywhere.
As if the Gods were rewarding her self discipline and perseverance, a boy came bounding in bearing news of the Jarl's return. The mood of the patrons went from merely comfortably festive to overwhelming joyous. The scrape of chairs and thumping boots filled the air along with cheers and excited chatter as the tavern emptied itself as everyone poured out into the streets to head towards the docks.
Brynja was no exception. She quickly took a sip of her bitter beverage before setting it back on the table and joining the crowed, letting the mass of people guide her towards the docks where she could catch a glimpse of the grand arrival. It took a bit of creative foot work and dodging (okay, and a bit of pushing and shoving), she managed to push towards the front of the gathered crowed.
Heading down to the beach, you see the sleek lines of a longship being drawn up onto the sand. The ship is a fine specimen, its prow carved in the shape of a snarling dragonhead, its wood polished to a golden brown, and its single mast straight and tall, a striped sail flapping in the breeze.
The men hopping down off the ship are scraggly and tired, but still exude an aura of strength and power. They do not, however, look as excited as the crowd that has gathered on the strand.
The cause of their gloomy demeanor becomes evident as the sailors greet their families, but not every family has a sailor to meet them on the shore. Some of the men are wounded and bear bloodied bandages. Some go into the crowd and offer consoling words to some of the women and children assembled.
Four men, bearing the traditional fur cloaks of a huscarl, carry a makeshift litter from the assembled ship, their heads solemnly bowed. On the litter is the body of a man dressed in fine chainmail and fur armor, wearing a black fur cloak with a golden chain clasp. His aged face is taught in the repose of death, his braided beard and plaited hair splayed out under him. Multiple gaping wounds appear on his body and the blood from his wounds appear frozen by the cold into scarlet crystal.
A well-dressed woman emerges from the crowd, her braided red hair whipping behind her. She freezes in her tracks when she sees the body on the litter and tears form in her emerald eyes, running down her freckled face a second later. She is clearly in shock, but manages to stammer out, "O... Olaf? But... what... how...?" She begins crying uncontrollably, her frail frame wracked by sobs.
A man emerges from the ship, also wearing the traditional cloak of a huscarl. He is a large, blond man with a barrel chest and a beard that hangs down to his collar in thick rings. He walks over to the sobbing woman and places his hand on her shoulder, speaking in a grave tone, "Myra, I am... sorry. Olaf, he... he died a warrior's death, for what consolation that offers you."
The woman beats her fists against the man's chest, "What happened, Hallbjorn?! Why is it that my husband lies here as cold and dead as the heart of winter while those sworn to him now wear death grimaces and hang their heads in shame?! You were his huscarls! You were meant to protect him! WHAT HAPPENED?!"
Hallbjorn hangs his head further, his countenance grim, "Aye, we were to protect out honored Jarl and we failed. What there was... what we encountered in the lands far to the north..." He pauses for a moment, then takes his hand off of her shoulder, "No... I cannot speak of this, not now."
Hallbjorn slowly walks towards the Hungry Havershack, his every step seeming pained. The crowd, now somber and solemn as the grave, parts for him. He slowly opens the door and looks back at Myra, the Jarl's widow, and hangs his head in defeat, then slowly closes the door.
The crowd, those not still asking after their loved ones at least, disperses into the cold mists to go back to their homes and mourn for their dead, for their beloved Jarl.
It was said that the Jarl and his men were some of the mightiest and most fearless warriors in the Northlands. What could they have encountered that slew so many of them, those who were well-versed in the spear-din and who spilled much battle-dew? What could have inspired such fear in some of the men that they fled, leaving their honor in the frozen lands of the Ulanat? These questions and more come to your mind, but are silenced by the sheer enormity of the situation.
Not so healthy it seems, at least not anymore. I get up and sheepishly make my way back to the tavern carrying my chest, walking inside I try not to be too loud about it. This is probably going to make getting work here hard, may have to move on soon. Though my heart goes out to the survivors.
Neve tilted her head slightly as she considered these portents. After a moment of thought, however, she caught up to one of the warriors and simply... behaved as herself. Even in the midst of grief, no man would easily refuse a wise woman's words. "The Jarl was a friend of mine - and I would honor his memory with a tale for others to remember." she said, looking the man straight in the eyes. "I wish to know what happened, before the passage of time blurs your memories."
Freezing sleet begins to fall from the overcast sky as if the sky itself were feeling the pain of those assembled, casting icy tears to rain down on the world below.
One of the huscarls, a grizzled, scar-covered bear of a man that Neve knew as Alaric Sturmgeist, speaks to her, his haunted eyes meeting her gaze, "There will be time for our tale to be told later, wise one, gifted of storm and sky. For now, we must lay our Jarl in his longhouse, that we may prepare the pyre ship for him and give him a proper sending. After his ashes swirl through the sky, winding their way to Valhalla and honored Donnar, then we shall speak of the terror in the endless white hell to the north, of the things that silenced our spear-din and made cowards of men."
A young man, barely of twenty winters, walks up to Asta and looks at her and her equipment. He looks at her with his one good, unbandaged eye, "Are you a free warrior looking for work? If so, sorry that you had to come all this way here only to find the wails of widows and grief."
He attempts a smile, which is quite obviously forced, "Well, you can always stay here until after the Jarl is sent on his pyre ship. No one will ask anything of you regarding the laws of hospitality, as is customary before a sending. I know my father wouldn't have asked anything of you."
Myra looks up from her sobbing and sees the young man talking to Asta. She runs up to him and gives him a hug, burying her face into his shoulder, "Snorri, my son! Thank the Aesir you are alive!"
She sobs into his shoulder and he frowns, "Yes mother, but not all of us were so fated. Where is little Anya? We must break the news to her, heavy though it be even on hearts as stout as ours."
She sniffles and tries to regain her composure, then silently grabs Snorri's hand and walks towards the longhouse.
Brynja didn't know much about the Jarl, but his death weighed heavy in the hearts of others which impressed upon her the severity of the death. She took up the somber mood that had replaced what had moments ago been that of rejoicing. She mourned not for the dead, but for the living who had to continue on without their loved ones.
She kept her ears open as grim words were exchanged between various parties, particularly to the words of those who had disembarked from the Jarl's ship.
Trouble to the North, hmm? she thought to herself as she overheard one of the huscarls speaking to a rather frosty looking woman. Not that her personality or way of carrying herself looked cold in the metaphorical sense, but just that she reminded Brynja of the snow.
Not knowing what else to do with herself for the time being now that the festivities had been cut short, she heads back to the Hungry Havershack. Perhaps I'll catch more talk in there. Or find out if I can offer any help anywhere. She takes a seat back where she had left her mug before, though the mug had already been cleared away by one of the staff.
Eindrið has spent time in the far North, but cannot immediately think of a creature that would cause such wounds. Still, he follows Hjallborn and the other huscarls into the tavern.
When he gets a moment alone, he tries to approach Hjallborn, or one of the other huscarls, hoping he is recognized. ”The Jarl’s death is indeed a tragedy,” he explains ”But there will be questions of cause, and honor. It would be better to make a record sooner than later, and hear his final words. In any case, I would be honored to help carry out the rites.”
Neve continued to keep her eyes on him for a few long moments. "See that the tale is well-told." she said. There was no point in threatening the man - while she'd been known to scare people (generally for their own good), that was unnecessary here, and she'd long-ago been taught to take control of her emotions and remember her position. "You may return to your duties, Alaric. I will see to it that the memory of ice does not touch him as you prepare."
As she stepped away, the snow retreated from her foot - and for over a hundred feet around, the temperature abruptly started rising until no bite of Niflheim remained in the air. For now, at least, she would simply remain nearby and hold the weather for them, allowing them to make the preparations with a little more comfort than before.
Holding back shock that I was just talking to the Departed Jarl's Son, and seeing him already being dragged off to somewhere else, [b]"Thank you, but please if you need an extra pair of hands while I stay here, then ask for Asta at the Tavern and give me a chance to repay the hospitality." I then nod at him and continue on my way, entering the Tavern.
Einar's expression becomes grim, knowing full well as a warriors the implications of such loss to this village would be great, and it will remain a burden as they are now weak "I hope someone back in Howth gets this news, and the neighboring Jarls don't turn greedy eyes this way"
Curiosity to know the event's of the journey Einar would help the men unload the Long Serpent and the other fallen men that made it back before heading back into the tavern, while trying to gather any bits of information from the men that might have been there.
As the crowd settles in and witnesses the offloading of broken men and shattered souls only one does not appear nearly as shocked and urt by this turn of events. Gazing on impassively as a carrion bird Rangvald witnessed the unloading as the black bird landed on the prowl and gave an ominous squawk before laying it's baleful gaze on the crowd.
Muttering to himself he nods. "Ah, the death of a King. A monumental but not uncommon event in the scope of mortalkind. But such petty human events don't interest you do they Hattr? Why bring me here if there is not a deeper evil in this?"
Ragnvald looked around and considered his options. There were ways to speak with the dead but he had no desire to be burned on a stake or hung for desecration just yet.
For now, subtlety was his best option for learning more.
He returned to the Hungry Havershack to hear this tale, likely expecting the alcohol to help loosen tongues and dull painful memories.