When you stand by the Gate of Death
And you have to tear free,
I shall follow you
Across the resounding bridge with my song.
You will be free from the bonds that bind you.
Cattle die, kinsman die,
You yourself will also die.
I know one that never dies,
The fair fame that one has earned.
Rámundr Æiþorn opens one eye, then two, and stares up into dawn past icy brows, and mist breath. His bones ache I am old to sleep so in the open though he'd never admit it. He was Rámundr, The Defender. He was of the Æiþorn, of Law and Thorn.
Rámundr snorts in self deprecation. Bold names for a man as I
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Hordaland is a loosely governed kingdom that is on the brink of collapsing into warring jarldoms. The former Køenig, Ragi Steinson, passed away last year after a lengthy illness, leaving behind a 10-year old son as his heir. Young Køenig Leif Ragison rules through his regent mother, Gudrid Ragiswif. The jarls are divided as to their loyalty, with some supporting the køenig, some throwing their might behind Ragi Steinson’s bastard son Amundi the Blond, and still others being courted by both the Gats and Hrolfs. The Hordalanders are more cosmopolitan than most of the other Northlanders, while remaining true to their Northlander ways much more so than the Hrolflanders. Hordalanders cling tightly to their traditions, seeing every freeholder as his own ruler and giving the jarls only enough power to organize the hirth and see that the kingdom is well managed. The local Things are very popular, and most Hordalanders treat the rulings of the Things as being more law than suggestion.
This is in large part due to the city of Halfstead, the Northland’s largest settlement and biggest trading center. Hordalanders are used to seeing strange travelers from distant lands, many of which come and stay for an entire season before sailing off for home. It is not unusual for a Hordalander jarl to host one or more strangers from the Southlands or even the distant Caliphate for the winter, and to do so is often considered a great boon and sign of status. However, the people that settled Hordaland came from the Storstrøm Vale, the very heart of Northlander culture.
Jarl Olaf Henrikson is one of the most powerful men in the North. He is not a member of one of the great families such as the Gats or the Hrolfs, nor is he a resident of Storstrøm Vale where dwells the true old blood of the Northlander peoples. But he is nevertheless jarl of the most populace and cosmopolitan settlement in the Northlands and, as such, commands a great deal of respect and power. He is not even the ruler of Hordaland wherein his city of Halfstead lies, but even the køenig of Hordaland (the closest Northlands equivalent to a king) respects and listens to the words that Jarl Olaf speaks in the mead hall or at the Thing.
It is well known that Olaf Henrikson began his career as a sellsword in the Southlands, where he gained his reputation as a leader of men and as a generous ring-giver. He also amassed his fortune with plunder from his days of fighting for foreign lords before attaining command of his own ships and reaving against the settlements of those same lords. Upon returning to the North at the head of his own fleet of sixteen ships, he landed at Halfstead, at that time a stockaded port town known more for its surly jarl and acerbic residents than anything else, and put the place to the torch. Those residents who did not yield or flee were put to the sword, and a new banner raised over Halfstead — the boar and rings of Olaf Henrikson. That Køenig Ragi Steinson raised no hand against the newcomer brought forth more than a few suspicions as to whether or not the crafty ruler had not paid Olaf to raze Halfstead in the first place. Regardless of any real or imagined collusion, the result was a port rebuilt by Henrikson into a large and prosperous settlement open to trade from abroad and a powerful jarl loyal to the køenig and with a fleet of ships at his command that only grew as his reputation spread.
Today, twenty years later, Jarl Olaf is a settled man raising a family, and Halfstead is a booming Northlands port largely left to its own devices. The local Thing makes most of the decisions for the town, though Jarl Olaf does keep a hall within the city from where he holds court and feast twice a month in which to hear complaints and settle legal cases and give rings to the worthy. This also allows him to claim his sizeable share of the duties collected from the many visiting merchant ships. The fleet of longships Jarl Olaf maintains is down to four, and these are more prone to patrolling the waters off the peninsula for raiders than going a-viking on their own. But many rightfully expect that should the need arise, the jarl could raise the call and gather a fleet of loyal ships twice as large as what he had before.
A self-made man, Jarl Olaf is enjoying his quiet semi-retirement despite even the recent turmoil for the crown of Hordaland. He remains loyal to Leif Ragison, the young køenig, but holds Halfstead carefully neutral in the current political machinations to keep the port open and prosperous. In his mind, a healthy Halfstead is good for all of Hordaland and the North, regardless of who rules the country. As such, he and his family spend most of their time at his personal hall of Silvermeade, which is situated on the coast halfway between Halfstead and Galvȅ. It is here that they have wintered, served by a retinue of huscarls, thralls, and others (including you).
During the winter, there is a great deal of boredom. Snows are deep and travel is largely cut off. Few merchants or other travelers make it through, and cabin fever is not uncommon. Other than feasting and drinking, there is often little to do over the harsh winter months of the North. As a result, when there are days good enough to go outdoors, all manner of brash contests and dares are set forth and participated in with alacrity — even if the occasional knocked skull or broken bone is the inevitable result. In addition to these physical contests or wrestling, hunting, and general feats of strength (or idiocy), there are also riddling contests, singing or chanting the sagas by skalds and would-be skalds, and games of hnefatafl and other types of challenges.
Breaking the monotony this winter, a nearby farmstead reported last week that a known outlaw, Styr the Ugly, was spotted trying to sneak into a barn. Jarl Olaf sent his most trusted huscarl, Hallbjorn Bolverkson, along with several senior ranking members of the household out to hunt Styr down. Unfortunately, being relatively new in service to the jarl, none of you were selected. Instead, the jarl chose Kraki Hallason, Young Ljot, Berg Geirson, and Hauk Arinbjornson. That they have not yet return suggests either that Styr the Ugly has proven elusive, or else they have met trouble.
Silvermeade Hall
NG small town
Government: overlord (jarl)
Population: 420 (367 human (Northlander); 38 human thralls; 12 dwarves, 2 giant-blooded, 1 Nûklander
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There was plenty of activity in the courtyard, even though darkness still enveloped the land. In deep winter, the sun would peek above the horizon for only five or six hours, so work was being done by torchlight and candlelight. Þyrnir hummed a happy tune to himself as he wove through the servants and craftsmen going to and fro. Winter season was harsh, the cold, the darkness and the lack of activity turning men surly. But Þyrnir was of the opinion that you make your own mood, so he made an effort to be cheerful and pleasant even under the most trying of circumstances. And tried he was, sorely! Little Runa had had one of her fits in the early morning, turning the house upside down. Fastvi was also moody and restless, Inga was making a point of bossing him around, and to top it all off the jarl's wife wanted fresh venison for supper. Where would he get fresh venison in the middle of the winter he wasn't sure, but he wasn't going to let such a little thing bother him. No, what bothered him was that all these interruptions were eating precious time that he would rather have spent working on his masterpiece. Inga would be soon betrothed, and she needed her heiman fylgia, her dowry. A good portion of that had already been arranged, but some things were still missing. Þyrnir had been given the honour of carving one of her dowry coffers, or rather, the narwhal ivory plaques that would decorate its exterior. He had chosen the theme of Frigg and her twelve handmaidens, and thus elected to carve twelve panels - four each on the long sides, and two each on the short sides - while the lid would show Frigg herself with all the symbols of her domain. He had finished ten on the twelve panels, but didn't have a good idea on the composition of the lid yet, which was distressing. The lid would be the most important and visible part of the coffer, so it had to be particularly good.
Such thoughts were preoccupying Þyrnir as he made his way to the hunter's hall, hoping to snag one of those fellows and persuade him to go hunting. In a corner of the yard, the huscarls were drilling the warriors. The cold and the darkness didn't make for very enthusiastic training, so instead of the shouts and taunts one would hear in warmer weather, now they sparred mostly in silence, with only the sound of sword hitting shield and the occasional grunt. And that was another project that Þyrnir was eager to finish - the carving on his own shield. Frigg's spinning wheel provided the frame of the composition, its circular shape mirroring the contour of the shield rim and being contained by it. A branch of mistletoe shaped like a spear would cross the wheel diagonally from right to left. The choice of direction for the mistletoe was unusual, but Þyrnir envisioned himself fighting with this shield, and then the point of the mistletoe branch would be aimed at the foe, a curse on whomever would dare to strike against the jarl or his household. That thought alone makes Þyrnir's blood boil; perhaps he will snag some training time once this errand is done.
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Winter was a fell season. A time for the conservation of strength, a drawing inwards, when mighty deeds were described in song and not performed in the flesh. A harrowing season, hard and frigid. The fires burned all the brighter for the dark, the voices raised all the louder as if to banish the doubts that gnawed at the soul. Smoke hung heavy amongst the rafters. The dogs lay as if overthrown between the benches. Tempers frayed. Weapons were oversharpened.
Ótryggr Grímsson still does not feel at home. The jarl has been nothing if not welcoming, but the Vastaviklander has held back. A bear of a man, his black hair braided, his beard thick and hanging down over his chest, he moves like a ghost amongst the fires and revelry. He drinks, but the mead moves him not, rather driving him into his somber melancholies that make him withdraw all the more.
Long hours are spent staring into the heart of the fire. Longer nights spent beneath the stars, shivering and watching for what he knows not. The wolves haunt his dreams, their howls reaching him where he lies in the great hall, seeming to call him forth. He whittles with no skill for it, butchering branches with stolid patience. He volunteers for hard tasks, relishing the burn that hauling logs and clearing snow and ice bring to his muscles.
He sweats. He drinks. He gorges on roasted meat and listens as the other huscarls jest and boast and goad each other on. They don't seek to include him in their camaraderie, and he doesn't mind.
He's a shadow on the edges. A bear of a man that's never without his massive ax. He knows they bet against his staying come spring. He's not found his place amongst the household, is not truly welcome. Come spring, he's heard them whisper, he'll get on the first boat back to Vastavikland, and good riddance.
Ótryggr sits and whittles, staring into the fire. Its fiery glow reflects in the depths of his eyes. He feels the stirring of his soul, a nameless yearning. His hand aches to wield his ax. Yet part of him relishes these winter months. A sense of dormancy suffuses him. Of peace akin to death. A peace that one day he might look back upon and miss.
But it was not for this that he left his meager farm, not for this that he left his people and family. Not to sit and listen to the idle boasts of inebriated Halfsteaders.
But spring is coming. Spring with its fast flowing silver streams and meltwater. It's flowers and sun. Its promise of raids, of opportunities to earn rings, to prove his mind's worth, to carve his reputation with a bloody knife upon the fabric of this town.
So Ótryggr waits. Patient. Grim. Silent.
Watching.
Signe stifles a yawn and waves to one of the guards as she leaves Silvermeade Hall. She pulls the hood of her heavy woolen cloak over her hair against the brisk cold of dawn. She needs to check the traps before larger animals clean them out for her. She double checks her longbow and battleaxe which are her means of protection outside the walls of the town. Her mood dampens slightly as she’s reminded that her brother isn’t here to use the battleaxe that had been his or to help her hunt. It had always been something they’d done together. But she doesn’t let herself get lost in grief. She’d had her time to grieve and now she must prove herself to be a valuable member of Silvermeade Hall. Her mother was distant ever since they’d arrived here after having to leave their farm. Signe didn’t know what else to do but to try and make her mother proud by working hard. That, and Signe didn’t want to be just known as a relative of the jarl. The fact that her mother was the jarl’s cousin had already caused problems. She gave an involuntary shudder as the incident with Ketil flashed through her mind. He is definitely another reason that Signe likes keeping herself busy with hunting and trapping.
She checks the first trap and is disappointed to see that it was still intact. She checks it to make sure it is still functionable before moving on to the next one. The next trap she checks rewards her with a rabbit. She frees the still-warm carcass and resets the trap. She continues until she’s checked them all. She can’t help but be grateful that Hallbjorn Bolverkson had taken her under his wing when she first arrived. Whether it was from the request of the jarl or because he saw something promising in her, she didn’t know. But she did seem to have a knack for designing and setting traps and quite enjoyed this new aspect of her duties. At the thought of Hallbjorn, her insides twist anxiously. He still wasn’t back from tracking down Styr the Ugly. She wonders how long the jarl will wait before sending out more people. She hopes that she’d be able to be among whoever is sent. It was the least she could do for Hallbjorn in thanks for her training.
As Signe returns to Silvermeade Hall with her small bounty of four rabbits and two pheasants, she smiles as she sees a slight lightening in the sky. Spring is definitely coming as the days get slightly longer. The proof being a touch more light every day.
She returns to the hunter’s hall with her cache and hands them over to be cooked for those in the jarl’s household. She can’t help but overhear that someone was looking for fresh venison. Always wanting to make herself useful, Signe approaches the man. She’s seen him around the halls but has never really talked to him before. He is usually chasing after the jarl’s daughters and Signed is usually outside or training. ”I can go out and try to track a deer for you. It would have been near impossible in the winter but with the beginning of spring, there may be some venturing out. And the meat won’t get damaged because I use my bow.”
I am neither particularly smart nor wise in the ways of the gods, to discern their intentions from fallen droppings or broken fingers. Ramundr stares at the white hands of the surly old wench gingerly pick the slab of trout from a glowing pit of coals. Why? She held out her palm expectantly, but didn't answer. A tenth of hacked silver convinced her to move on and leave him with a trout and some poor drought. No. Not particularly, wench. But I am Odin's man.
Ramundr settles back, pinches some salt from a wooden bowl, and begins to eat. He surveys the room of Nordalanders, noticing the subtle differences in mannerisms, that made them seems strange, despite Storstrom Vale being just adjacent to the North-West of his old home.
When he had heard that he was to be sent out as an emissary to sever the Jarl at Halfstead, he felt in his bones that the time to take Odin's directive and promise was nearing for him. He had hoped to go further north, but from here, he could look out across the seas and plan the future. No not a smart man, Ramundr repeats to no one but determined..
Ramundr, spits a bone to the snow, tips back the bad beer, and again wanders the markets. Now this is a city He spies several likely wenches, parading more flesh than could be comfortable in this bitter winter, and weighed his finances...but with a backwards glance, sighs and moves on. Before leaving the vale, Ramundr had traded his old hide armor, a fine cow pregnant with her first babe, half of his store of smoked deer meat, and all but a handful of his saved hack silver, for a newly forged suit of chain mail ...a big achievement that had made him nearly impoverished.
I should set out to hunt, get a feel for the land around the town. He had pretended not to hear Þyrnir's invitation to do the same earlier. Þyrnir's strange demeanor unnerved him. It was not the black skin. He had seen black skinned men at home. No it was the man's way of looking through him. Besides, I had wanted to peruse the stalls. He felt that he'd soon like the man Þyrnir though. There was time.
You have been ordered to appear before your jarl, Olaf Henrikson, Jarl of Halfstead, greatest city of the Northlands. For you, members in service to his household, this is a moment of both hope and fear. Hope that he assigns you a glorious task that allows you to prove your mettle, but tinged with fear of his wrath should you fail. Your jarl is a good man, strong and battle-tested, with many famed heroic deeds to his name. Most importantly, he is a ring-giver, one who is generous to those in his service who prove themselves deserving.
After making yourself presentable, you and a few of his other retainers and guests walk through the gates of the great hall’s stockade and present yourselves to the guards at the carved wooden doors that mark the main entrance. After exchanging a few jests with these household warriors that you have known for as long as you’ve been a part of the jarl’s household, Ari Hrokson, your jarl’s herald, comes for you. “I needn’t remind you to keep polite and let the jarl speak first. And do not keep too much of his time, this is a busy day,” the old skald states. He then announces you to the jarl.
You are announced in order of your status. First Signe Oddvardottir of notable birth, then the freemen Ótryggr Grímsson and Ramundr Æiþorn, followed by the thrall Þyrnir.
And finally Ragnar Hedefødt. The Godwytch, the empty air seems to whisper.
The hall is dimly lit, for this is a normal day and not a cause for feasting. Only a few huscarls stand about the room, but several thralls busy themselves putting up garlands of flowers and green boughs, preparations for the upcoming Feast of Freyja. The jarl is seated at the end of the feasting table in his chair, an ornate piece of work carved from the trunk of an oak. He is leaning in and talking with a stranger, a well-dressed man with the bearing of an envoy. As you approach, you may hear the jarl say,
The jarl turns to you. “Good, you have come quickly and well comported. This speaks kindly of you and your kin. Sit and partake of an early meal; you will need it, for I have a task for you. My three daughters, Inga, Fastvi, and Runa, wish to go out this afternoon and gather flowers for the feast. As this is a rightful thing for young girls to do, I am allowing it. They need to be guarded, and this is the task I set before you.”
“I know you have longed for a chance to prove yourselves and rise in my favor as well as allow your mind’s-worth to shine, but there is no spear-din today and no chance to shed battle-dew. All I have is this task: Spend a spring afternoon watching young girls as they pick flowers in the meadows. When you have your own halls and have seen the swans of blood sip on many a foeman’s wound-sea, such a day as this will be a boon beyond naming. So remember it well and pray that you have many more like it. Now, let us eat. But before that, allow me to introduce our bread-brother this morning, Ottar Gundrikson, skald and herald to the Jarl Ref Solumundson of the Vale.”
The lunch subsists of black bread, butter, the last of the winter’s pickled flounder, fresh spring greens (cooked with white beans and a ham hock), and several pints of beer.
Ramundr sits at the table, eyes on his food, and listens to the reminiscing of the Jarl and Solumundson herald. Ramundr was surprised he had been among the chosen for the excursion with the Jarl's daughters. The Jarl's huscarls would have been more the likely choice, with the exception of the thrall, Þyrnir, who seemed close to the family.
Refusing to spend too much time wondering, Ramundr motioned for more ale and bread. He'd lost weight through the winter, eating frugally on his meager supply of hacksilver and dried meats. He liked how he looked in his new chain mail, and he thought the serving wenches at the alehoses did too. They didn't like that he was too poor to tip a little extra for their ministrations, however.
Ramundr lets his eyes roam on occasion to surreptitiously inspect his companions. Signe, seeming more a huntress than a warrior, made him wonder why she'd been chosen to protect the Jarl's daughters. Ótryggr, and even Ragnar, he understood. Perhaps she will teach the girls to set a trap for some flowers? Ramundr laughs at his own jest, but in truth he was impressed with Signe I have to admit though, she seems quite skilled; I bet she'd be able to track game in any season.
Ramundr returns his attention to the men and women at the table, laughed politely with the Jarl, who'd made a jest about some encounter with some beast in some land. Ramundr wasn't sure. He'd been listening to his own thoughts. Why are we here?
Signe can barely contain her excitement. She had been summoned to appear before the jarl. The best she can figure is that news of the deer she recently hunted at the thrall's request had reached his ears and that she was being chosen for a greater task - most likely that of finding the missing huscarls.
She is still young enough that the eagerness to prove herself outweighs any apprehension of what it may mean if she doesn't. She makes sure that she cleans the majority of the woods off of herself. She puts on the best clothes that she has which really means those that haven't been patched and re-patched. She doesn't tell her mother, not yet. She wants to know why she's being called before she tells Merethe since things have been strained.
Signe nods silently as they're instructed on how to behave before the jarl. She takes in the presence of the others and is at once more certain of her presumption of their probable assignment - there were two other warriors - but at the same time doubtful because of the other two present although one was the thrall she brought the deer to.
Dowry? Now Signe is even more confused.
She listens intently to what the jarl desires of them and tries her best to keep the disappointment from her face. Why was I chosen for this assignment? I've never said more than two words in greeting to any of the jarl's daughters. Yes we're distantly related and yes we're all female but that's where the similarities end. If he's expecting a feminine touch with his daughters by involving me, he's sadly mistaken. But it is my jarl's request and I still need to prove myself. Everything happens for a reason. He did say that this was all he had to offer for us to prove ourselves so consider yourself fortunate to be chosen.
Signe nods when Ottar Gundrikson was introduced and waits until they are invited to sit for lunch. She enjoys the reminiscing of the jarl and his guest. Both seem more than capable of spinning a good yarn. She has always been much better with her hands than with words and she admires those who are able to hold the attention of a group with mere words.
Þyrnir had been amazed when the order came to appear before the jarl. Always until now, if the jarl had some task or reprimand for him, that had been delivered in private. He frantically reviews the events of the last few days and his own behaviour - had he displeased the jarl so badly that he was to be chastised, or worse - punished - before the entire household? Or was this something else entirely? Puzzled, he does as he is bid; he always strives to keep himself clean and neat, but the clothes he wears are simple and utilitarian. He has no finery, so he is extra careful to clean and mend his everyday clothes.
A few others have been called to attend to the jarl's wishes this day, and Þyrnir recognizes the huntress who had brought in the deer for his mistress the other day. He nods respectfully to her, averting his eyes. He has since learned that she is related to the jarl himself and he wouldn't want to be thought impertinent. The others are little known to him, having recently joined the jarl's household. They're not Hordalanders, from what he can tell. He gives the large man an appreciative look before they are being ushered into the hall.
Ah, they are negotiating Inga's marriage. Þyrnir nods to himself - this was to be expected, considering the work himself had been doing towards the aforementioned dowry. He hopes she will make a good match that will bring honour and prosperity to the jarl's clan, and that she will get a good morgengifu, the 'morning gift' that the groom would pay her the morning after the wedding. This gift would consist of jewelry, clothing, household goods, cattle, thralls, sometimes land, and would serve to ensure the bride's financial support during the marriage. Þyrnir had become very knowledgeable in the laws and customs surrounding betrothal and marriage, since this was all that Inga and the jarl's wife had been talking about for the last few months, with the older woman offering sage advice to her daughter. This had given him a rare glimpse into the inner world of women, something he was sure that not many men were privy to.
When the jarl's request comes, he is even more amazed. Why is the jarl inviting him to his hall to make this request? It is, after all, part of his job to guard the jarl's daughters. A bit awed from being in the presence of so many fine people, he seats himself at the foot of the table and waits until everyone else begins to eat. Only then does he break bread, listening intently to what is being said and enjoying the food - a better fare than what he is used to.
Ramundr, unused to sitting for more time than it takes to stand, asks for one more flask of the good beer. Part of him entertained the idea that sobriety would be the better course, but having to listen to men brag and boast was thirsty work. Besides he liked the green eyes of the round serving girl.
Ramundr wondered from which vale this herald had travelled; it wasn't the vale from which he had come. Was it across the sea to the north? He thought to ask, but he had enough presence of mind to not be the first of the four to interrupt his yarl. Not yet.
The summons arouses within Ótryggr a fierce certainty. After months of idleness, after an endless winter of enforced quietude, his moment has finally arrived. Events have no doubt forced the Jarl to act, to summon warriors upon whom he can depend, and Ótryggr's name had perhaps been first amongst those ranks.
The massive Vastaviklander dons his heavy bearskin cloak, rebraids his beard and sideburns, and even goes so far as to crack the ice over the waterbarrel with the pommel of his greatax so that he can dip his heavy hands into the frigid water and dash it over his face.
He barely hears the old herald's warning, and as empty as the great hall might be to Ótryggr it might as well have been filled with the spirits of the greatest dead come to witness his first true trial. He marches forth alongside the others, chin high, shoulders back, and when introduced he bows low, giving his jarl his due.
"...My three daughters, Inga, Fastvi, and Runa, wish to go out this afternoon and gather flowers for the feast...."
Ótryggr's expression hardens as he listens to the jarl's desire. At first he's confused; surely he's hearing incorrectly? Then as the jarl continues in a light tone to explain the benefits of such a mission his expression curdles. Anger spirals up within him like flames in a hearth that have been caught by an errant wind. His hands slowly close into fists, and he stares straight through his jarl while the man finishes his mockery.
When they are dismissed to their meals, Ótryggr sits heavily and as far away from the jarl as he can. He doesn't touch his food. He simply stares with blank, burning eyes at the servants who offer him mead. His mind is a furor. How had he offended the jarl? What had he done to be given this mockery of a task? Was this what he had sailed from Vastavikland to endure?
He ignores the hubub around him. Stares forward, mouth a thin line, his whole body tense as he recalls his glorious aspirations of just minutes before, and what a fool he had been to believe them.
In the glow of the fire of the hall, Ramandr's thoughts turned to a past Midwinter's Feast in his Audun's hall. Drifa had just put out a plate of roasted winter mushrooms, onions, and venison. Audun Alfsson, poured mulled wine into large iron flagons, each bearing the eye of Odin. The Yule fire last long warm shadows about the walls, while spiced sacrificial fat sizzled above in a bowl on the hearth, filling the room with Odin's wyrd. Ramandr's two sisters had later brought out plates of Sne Pudding, fresh snow flavored with spring honey and winter mint. Merry were those days of celebration, Ramundr remembered.
Signe's mind wanders a bit as the meal progresses and the stories begin to repeat, at least in theme. She vaguely recollects the name Jarl Solumundson and thinks that he may have sons of matching age. She figures that may be why they had been talking about a dowry. So many complicated discussions that a daughter is never aware of. Something that would not happen for herself which Signe considered a blessing. But that also means she would have to make her own way.
The jarl and Ottar continue their banter through lunch, barely pausing to eat as they exchange stories and jests. As lunch ends, they stand and walk, continuing their conversation with only simple nods in your direction. One of the huscarls approaches and directs you to the stables "...to fetch your steeds. You are all granted one this day. They may have only four legs, but they'll carry you well enough."
When you arrive at the stockade the stablekeep, Thorballa, greets you as though she were expecting you. The gate is open and three young women astride fine, saddled horses wait impatiently.
The oldest wears a dress of blue linen with a squared border of small yellow flowers embroidered around the neck. She is tall and fair of face, her golden hair coiled about her head in braids and covered in a silver net. Her face favors her father, and she is introduced by your escort as Inga, the Jarl’s oldest daughter.
Next to her upon a skittish mare sits a girl of perhaps thirteen. Her dress is a plain green smock, and her hair and eyes are dark like her mother’s. She is named to you as Fastvi.
The third girl is the smallest, perhaps nine or ten years old, with a distant and dreaming look on her face. Her hair is fair like her older sister’s but the resemblance ends there. You have heard the rumors of Little Runa’s troubled birth near ten winters ago whispered around the hearth fires out of the jarl’s hearing. The truth of these tales seems to be told in the angry red birthmark that covers her face from left ear to chin, the girl seemingly unaware of the rough, wrinkled texture or the ill portent it marks. Worse from the standpoint of omens are her eyes, one blue and one pale green, the eyes of the aglæcwif — the witch-wife. Nevertheless, though dreamy and precocious, the jarl and his wife have loved Little Runa dearly, and she has enjoyed the privileges and upbringing of a devoted family despite the ill omens of her birth. If anything can overcome the spinnings of the wyrd at her birth, it would have to be the good Jarl Henrikson, a man favored by fate as much as any man can claim.
Inga hops down from her horse and regards the group with a coy smile. "Hagalaz, Signe." Her eyes merely pass over the others, though linger on Ramundr and Ótryggr. "I see faðir is at his worst, requiring half the hall to escort us to the Meadows. I'm sure you all had much better things to do."
"Well I am very glad for it," Fastvi cuts in from astride her horse. "Who knows what adventures we'll find this day, even if we are to cut flowers. Perhaps our escorts will grace us with tales and stories...we could even practice fighting..."
Inga turns to regard her sister with feigned surprise. "Fighting? In our dresses? Móðir would have our hides! You know we're expected to keep ourselves clean and presentable this day. It was a condition on going at all."
Runa simply smiles, keeping quiet and appraising her escorts with shy glances here and there.
"No, we'll have no fighting, or I'll tell móðir and faðir." Ingra proclaims as she marches back to her horse. She lifts her skirt a couple of inches from the ground and stares directly at Ramundr, then Ótryggr. "Well?" she asks impatiently. " Aren't you going to help me onto my steed? You--" to Ótryggr, "--Hold the reins. And you--" to Ramundr, "lift me up onto the saddle. Or do they not teach Vastaviklanders and Valesmen the proper way to treat a young woman?"
Ramundr decides he likes the Jarl's daughters I have treated many young women proper. Ramundr hints at a smile. Ramundr loosens his arms, flexing his broad back before putting a knee down in the dirty snow. Would you I toss you up at all once, mistress, or would a simple leg lift do?
Ótryggr brings in the rear, his expression still turbulent, his brow lowered, eyes glowering like storm clouds promising lightning. He stops just outside the stockade and there gazes past the three girls at the rolling land beyond Halfstead, seemingly uninterested in their attire, opinions, or requests.
Still, when Inga calls out her bright command, her words drag his chin around like reins on an unwilling ox's head, and he stares straight at her as if seeing her for the first time. For a long, aching moment it appears he might disregard her request, and then, schooling his features into impassivity, he steps forwards to take hold of the horse's reins in one stone-crushing fist.
That done, he turns away again to stare into the middle distance, jaw set, lips pursed, gaze distant.
Signe inclines her head towards Inga, hiding her surprise that she used her name. She is unsure about using the jarl's daughter's name to reciprocate so she says, "Hagalaz, herskerinne. Surely you can't fault your faðir for wanting to protect that which he holds dear. I am honored to be chosen. I have nothing I would rather be doing than accompanying you and your sisters to the Meadows. If there is any way that I can be of assistance in any manner, you only need but ask."
Þyrnir tries not to smile as Inga starts bossing around these might warriors as she has done him many, many times. He doesn't understand the jarl's reasoning for choosing these people to accompany his daughters - after all, he has many huscarls and house guards at his disposal for just such a task. But he doesn't let his mind dwell on the inner workings of the jarl's mind, such things are not for Þyrnir to know. Instead, he moves to Runa's side, smiling at the young girl and checking the straps of her saddle and the bridle of her horse.
"Fair day to you, precious. Are you looking forward to the flowers?"
Out of the three sisters, Runa had always been his favourite. There was something special about her, and for all the love that her parents showed her, she was out of place, just like him. Not only through the distance that most people kept due to her oddities, but she seemed... elsewhere for a lot of the time. Sometimes she would talk to him about the things she experienced during those times, but that was only rarely. Nevertheless, Þyrnir treasured those moments, that trust.
Finished with Runa's horse, he moves to check Fastvi's, then Inga's. This was a thing he had done hundreds of times before, so his hands are practiced and assured as he tugs on straps and runs his fingers along the leather, seeking for any weakness or defect. It would not do to have such a mighty escort of warriors, only for one of the jarl's precious daughters to get hurt falling off her horse.
As Otryggr and Ramundr approach, fair Inga gives the latter her most alluring smile (and Inga’s smile, even at its worst, is inviting). ”You, freeman, may hold my waist. Your shield is arm is stout, and I can see that the gods have gifted you the strength to carry it. Would it now hold a jarl’s dottir?” She places one hand upon the saddle of her roan horse, and another on Ramundr’s shoulder as he slips his hands around her slim waistline and hoists her up into the seat.
The saddles are a luxury, and are made from wood and leather. They utilize two saddle panels resting on the ribs on each side of the horse's spine, with a high pommel and cantle. Mounting rings allow loads to be carried as well as a rider.
Northland horses are small, standing only about fourteen hands, but they are exceptionally sturdy and strong. They have well-proportioned heads, with straight profiles and wide foreheads. The neck is short, muscular, and broad at the base; the withers broad and low; the chest deep; the shoulders muscular and slightly sloping; the back long; the croup broad, muscular, short and slightly sloping. The legs are strong and short, with relatively long cannon bones and short pasterns. The mane and tail are full, with coarse hair, and the tail is set low, with a double coat adapted for extra insulation in cold temperatures.
”You are even stronger than you appear,” she adds, once situated. ”I see that faðir has chosen the most capable protector in Silvermeade.”
Fastvi coaxes her horse nearer to Signe, grinning. ”Hello frændi (cousin). I thank you and the others for joining us this day. The meadows are treacherous, I have heard, full of wolves and spiders, and even the spirits of the old folk from the Barrow Land may roam there from time to time.” She giggles, then drops her voice to a whisper and dips down closer to your ears. ”You will let me try your sword, won’t you? Inga doesn’t have to see.”
Runa gives a shy little wave to Þyrnir as he checks her saddle, then turns her eyes to the sky. ”I love the flowers. We may find a few extra for my hair? And will there be a rainbow today, Þyrnir? Mama says they are a good omen. And spring is so near. I am tired of winter.”
Thorballa presents your horses, five healthy specimens with coats of varying degrees of black, gray, and roan.
Signe returns Fastvi's grin. So the girls know of their relation and seem okay with being familiar. She tries out the familial term, it being awhile since it had just been her and her mother. "Frændi, yes." She inclines her head towards Fastvi as she had her sister. "I gladly ride with you, no thanks is required."
She raises an eyebrow slightly at the mention of her weapon. Signe lowers her voice to match Fastvi's tone. "One needn't always wield a weapon when dealing with threats." She pauses slightly not wanting to discourage the girl. "I offer a compromise - to show you how to set a trap or two. It would be much more useful to keep curious sisters out of your things than swinging a battleaxe would."
Signe's eyes light up when they're presented with the horses. She respectfully approaches one the color of smoke. She takes the rein from Thorballa but meets the horse's eyes instead of the humans'. After a moment she asks, "What is their name?"
Ramundr is slightly taken aback.
Do I appear weak, only to give surprise when I am found strong? Ramundr wonders, but then shakes his self-doubt away. Ey, well, mistress. Perhaps that is so...or perhaps it is because I have an eye for rare flowers.
Ramundr looks away, wondering if he'd been too direct. He was no fool to court the Yarl's daughters in earnest...not yet, regardless.
Ey, any which way, mistress, I doubt there is much dangerous in these meadows......Except.. Ramundr feezes, leaving this last word in the air. He squints intently at a small snow covered outcropping of rock, his hand moves to the shaft of his spear.
After a long while, Ramundr relaxes visibly. Ramundr turns to Inga, and only shrugs noncommittally, with a half turned smile.
Tell me! What do you want from me?, Ragnar's thoughts shout at the voice in his half-trance. The answer, silence as usual, as Ragnar sits up, dark clouds in his eyes.
Ragnar awakes from his daydream to the sound of his voice being shouted from a weary, tired voice, slivers of panic in the breath. He lifts his head from the hay, looking down at Halfstead from the Ole's roof. While the snowy roof wasn't the most comfortable sitting spot, the heat from the chimney's was enough to keep him comfortable. "Over here!", he waved, making his way down the loose planks and headplanks, greeting the young boy of no more than fifteen. "Yes?", he looks at the kid, his face quickly matching the panicked look on the boy's face as he, between short breaths, explains the reason he'd spent the better part of an hour looking for him and that the rest have already left for the stables. Stopping for a moment to take his spears, Ragnar runs towards the stables, only to see the guests leaving the longhouse. Oh, Wotan, protect me from my own stupidity..., he breathes out, as he runs towards the stables as fast as his legs would carry him, muttering curses under his breath.
As he reaches the stockade, he bends over, breathing heavily. A man no older than twenty, with the bare face of a boy half his age, Ragnar isn't physically imposing. His long brown hair is tied in several small braids running down his back. A rough wolf-pelt shirt is across his chest to keep him from the winter's bite, and his peasant's clothes are faded red. In his hand he grips a spear with an ornate handle, several smaller ones in a quiver on his back. In this moment nothing betrays the fact that Ragnar Hedefødt, the Godwytch stands before you.
"Inga, Runa, Fastvi.", he nods, exhaling nervously as any boy who made the jarl's daughters wait would. "I'm sorry. I just got the hail from your father...", he quickly replies, shyly stepping back to look at the horse presented to him by Thorballa, staring strangely at the animal. "I'll try and keep you entertained.", he suggests, a devilish spark appearing in his eye. "And I know a story or two you might be eager to hear."
Just then he steps back to look at the rest. Þyrnir, as prudent as always, is helping the maidens with the horses, as Ragnar sends him a smile. "Unless Þyrnir's hiding another tale of unknown shores." The Vastaviklander, with whom he'd barely exchanged a word since he arrived is staring in the distance and not saying much. The Valfather's given more of his blood-fire to this one..., he notes at the man's uneasy expression. His smile flashes wider as he sees other two being at the whim of the two elder daughters.
He takes a moment uneasily mounting his horse, as he focuses his attention on Runa, eager to hear what the small one has to say.
"Yes, dear one, everyone is tired of winter. But, as you say, spring is very close. We'll have fresh greens to eat and sun to warm us. And today we will get flowers for your hair, beautiful flowers in all the colours of the rainbow." Þyrnir, now up on his own horse, smiles warmly at Runa. He wasn't very used to riding, as most times walking was good enough for thralls, but he did his best. He wasn't sitting very well in the saddle, but the horses were used to him and at least didn't fidget or rear.
Just then the Godwytch comes running, with promises of stories. He wouldn't mind hearing a tale or two, himself, but telling them... he doesn't have that many stories that are suitable to be heard by the jarl's daughters. He keeps his expression bland and pleasant as his mind roves back to the bloody raids and battles in the southern seas.
Fastvi looks glum as Signe rejects the offer to practice with weapons, but beams again, a secret smile as she gives a sideways glance toward Inga. ”Yes, that would be pleasing! We may trap a rabbit or fox to make a fine cloak for móðir, or even Runa.”
Inga smiles at Ramundr’s flirtation, her cheeks flushing the perfect shade of springtime bilberry flower. ”You flatter me, Ramundr! Perhaps you will be my personal escort this day? I wish to learn more of your lands.” She follows his gaze with a worried look. ”What is it, do you see something?”
”It’s another bandit, I’m sure!” exclaims Fastvi with glee. ”One of Styr’s men. I heard faðir speak of it in the mead hall. See, Signe? We’ll have a battle after all.”
”The bad men ran away,” Runa adds uncertainly, looking scared. ”Mama said they aren’t here anymore. They are gone, aren’t they Þyrnir?”
”The Godwytch.” Thorballa mutters gravely as Ragnar approaches. The horse whose reins she grasps rears and screams, nearly striking her with its hoof. She releases it and jumps back as all the horses balk, neighing uneasily and turning this way and that. Runa’s horse nearly tosses her to the side. Thorballa whistles and coos, trying to calm them down.
"Inga, Runa, Fastvi. I'm sorry. I just got the hail from your father... I'll try and keep you entertained, and I know a story or two you might be eager to hear. Unless Þyrnir's hiding another tale of unknown shores."
”I’m not interested in any skald’s tales or godi’s lessons this day,” Inga coos to Ramundr, ”Only your stories.”
”Tell us of the Jomsvikings!” Fastvi squeals. ”Is it true they’ve machines to toss rocks so great they can break a shieldwall with a single blow?”
”I want to hear about a dragon,” says Runa.
--------------------------------------
It’s only an hour ride through farmland and well-coppiced woods to the Meadows where the girls want to pick flowers. The Meadows are beyond the settlements, just inside the boundaries of the forest and more wild places, but still near enough to be safe, for the jarl would never send his dottirs into a lawless area. It is a pleasant spring day, and the girls are atwitter with delight at their first outing after the long winter. Freemen out in fields still spotted here and there with snow in the shadows, or traveling along the muddy road wave to you as you ride past, and some of the higher-status hirdmen stop and chat for a short while.
Inga only deigns to give freemen and their families a slight wave or nod of the head and is too curt and short with the hirdmen she encounters. Instead, she gives the bulk of her attention to Ramundr, showing every comment he makes appropriate appreciation, and largely ignoring the rest.
Fastvi is enamored with all things martial and heroic, and pesters Signe and Ragnar with endless questions about hunting and fighting, pleads for them to teach her how to fight, and other such annoyances. She is especially receptive to tales of battles--the more gruesome the better. She also tends to want to ride ahead of the party, jumping her horse over fences, galloping through pastures and fields, and generally causing minor havoc.
Runa, on the other hand, is rather quiet, muttering to herself and occasionally laughing at some private joke.
Signe inwardly sighs as her compromise is accepted. "We will do our best after we have gathered your flowers."
Signe immediately steps in to help Thorballa calm the horses. She speaks soothing words which sound like a mantra as she repeats them over and over again. She locks eyes with the horse that is her focus as she speaks. She starts with Runa's horse to make sure the girl isn't thrown. Then she moves to help with the others.
When they finally have the horses calmed again, her head whips around and she glares at the source of that which spooked them. Surely you're aware of the effect you have on animals. A little more care on your part around the jarl's dottirs would be warranted."
Signe constantly reminds herself of the importance of patience as she is harried by Fastvi's constant barrage of questions. She balances her answers between what is appropriate to tell a girl of thirteen and what she knows Fastvi wants to hear.
Fastvi definitely tests Signe's riding skill as the ranger keeps up with her young charge's antics.
A few times as they circled back to the rest of the group, Signe caught snippets of speech from Runa that caught her attention only because she had thought she was being addressed by the young girl. When she realizes Runa's words were spoken to someone else who seemed to be invisible, Signe frowns. But she doesn't have the chance to think about it as Fastvi takes off on her horse again. Signe gives her horse a solid nudge to pick up the pace as she follows, leaving Runa to
Þyrnir.
Ramundr coos at the horse as it rears, as he had done at his cattle on his farm when they had startled. Just as he had, Signe moved in expertly, and Ramundr noted with admiration, calmed the horse with ease.
Was it the Godwytch who the horses feared? Ramundr believed in the gods, but he was less superstitious than most. Other than the tale of a drunkard he'd gambled with in town, Ramundr had not seen in Ragnar any particular oddity or mystery.
On the ride, Ramundr enjoyed the attentions of Inga, and did not discourage her for it. Still. While Ramundr had let his predilection for fine women lead him into more than a fight or two over the years, coupling with an Olafsdottir could result in more than a bruised jaw. He'd no land, no cattle, no fine way with words to magic the Jarl's favor; just youth, a strong back, and ambition.
The main Coast Road crosses your trail here at One-Eyed Sven’s Spring. Named for the old huscarl who has taken this natural spring and enlarged it, ringing it with stone as a service to travelers and others taking the main road, the spring is the best watering hole in the area. An older fellow sits under a lean-to by this spring pool whittling, a small pile of wood shavings at his feet. It is the huscarl, One-Eyed Sven himself, the man who tends this spring when not called by his duties in Jarl Olaf’s hall. He raises a hand in greeting to you as you ride up.
Ramundr secures his shield on his back, and flips his leg over, dropping to the ground. He nods respectfully to the old huscarl, scans the area briefly before moving to help Inga and her sisters from their mounts. He steps to the edge of the springs, dips a hand into the clear water, splashing it onto his face. T'is good clean water in Sven's spring. You did your countrymen a good deed building it up. He turns to the old huscarl.
It is well met, huscarl Sven. He nods to his party As you see, the Jarl charged us to escort the Olafsdottirs to the meadows to pick flowers, feel the sun, and otherwise enjoy the end of winter. Any news of trouble on our road ahead?
At the spring, Ingra halts her horse and extends a hand, waiting on Ramundr to assist her in dismounting. Fastvi jumps down on her own accord, leading her horse to the water’s edge. Runa allows Þyrnir to assist her, sliding down his legs and torso as though he were a maypole.
“Morning young folk, care for some dried apples?” Sven produces a collection of wrinkled, gnarly dried fruits bound in his woolen satchel. ”Well, it’s a nice day to travel, and I envy you a peaceful task for it. Me, I have to head back to the hall this afternoon and see what ol’ Olaf is planning for the season. Probably going whaling. The godi and cunning women are talking about a dry summer, and that means a poor harvest. What say you, Ragnar? Þyrnir?”
He pops an apple into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, looking across the field. “You young folks should keep an eye out, I heard that the outlaws have been spotted out on the Moors, not to mention the trouble that Jasil the Nûklander ran into in the forest — damned fairies. And keep a look out for troll sign. We may not have got them all when we burned ’em out of the hills last winter. Oh, and keep an eye on the weather, I’ve got an awful crick in my back, sure sign of a storm coming.”
”We’re going to capture the bandits!” says Fastvi, her eyes alight with mischief. ”And bound and gag them, then drag them back to faðir. He’ll try them before the Althing, and then they’ll be fed to the wolves.”
”We should give you to the wolves,” Inga complains mildly. ”You’re more wolf than girl, anyway.”
Runa grasps Þyrnir’s hand. ”I want a baby wolf. If we find one, can I keep it?”
After a light chat with Sven, you remount. Naturally, it simply cannot do for Inga to climb back onto her horse, and requires Otryggr and Ramundr to hold its reigns and her waist and be lifted up into the saddle.
A little further into the ride, the road turns southwest and heads into the woods. This part of the forest is fairly tame, and you soon find yourselves on a side path, little more than a dirt double track through the trees, muddy in the low places due to recent rains. After a few minutes, you hear the lowing of oxen and the raised voice of a man cursing his beasts. Coming around the corner, you see a small, heavily laden cart stuck in the mud. A one-eyed elderly man is trying to goad a pair of oxen into pulling the cart from the mud, with little success. Standing off to the side, out of the mud, is a strikingly handsome blonde woman of middle years and a young red-haired boy. The man’s cart is completely blocking the narrow woodland track. You would need to take a game trail through the woods to go around.
Inga scoffs. ”We musn’t delay. We’re expected back at the hall well before sundown. These people are making a nuisance! Let us take a side trail.”
”This way looks good,” says Fastvi as she begins to guide her horse off onto one of the game trails. ”Look, I’ll ride ahead to make sure it’s clear!”
If you intend to help the old man and his family, someone must make a Diplomacy check to keep Inga from being rude.
To prevent Fastvi from bolting away, a Sense Motive check is needed to catch her bridle before she sets off.
Helping the family then requires a Handle Animal AND Strength check (you can all use aid another on all checks).
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Ragnar jumps up as the horse rears back, then keeps his distance, raising his hands in the air. Bah! Lokir's staring at me today., he thinks to himself. "In my haste it must've slipped my mind, Signe.", he shakes his head in disapproval of himself. He thinks to raise his concerns about his unlucky day, however a voice in the back of his head reminds him that being late and cursed is worse than simply the former. Resolving to round up the back, he mounts a calmer, mousy-coloured mare. His stormy demeanour soon changes, as he quietly picks up a tune to hum.
---------------------
Ragnar's mind jumps to many tales told around a campfire as he sees the old man and his livestock. Could this be a test?, he ponders, as he stops next to Inga. Leaning in closer towards the girl, his voice is almost quiet enough to be a whisper. "Inga, what if this is a test to you as the oldest and wisest of your sisters? Does the Valfather not walk around in the guise of an old man? He even misses one of his eyes.", he suggests. "If you are to tell your father how you helped those of his hold, I'm sure he'll be most proud of your wisdom, if you allow us to aid him in this time of need." He sends a mischievous smile at Inga. "And they will surely spread the tale of Inga Olafsdottir, beautiful as the spring and kind as the sun."
Ey, well. I never did gainsay the advice of godi in planting and harvesting. Do as they suggest and it turns poorly, well your neighbor might help out some. Go your own way, plant when the godi say no, your neighbor might just say you reap what you'd sewn. Hunger will take the strongest man. Ramundr walks around, looks to the sky. A storm, eh?? My thanks for the news of the road ahead.
A storm may come, Sven feels. Let us help the family be on their way. Signe, would you help handle the animals as I try to pull the cart from the mud?
Ramundr dismounts and walks over to the old man. Deep rut this. Let's see if we can help you out Ramundr look them over, and the woods around for signs this is a trap of outlaws. He pats the rears of the oxen as affectionately as any farmer, and moves kneels near the cart. In his work on the farm, he had found that consistent strength was often the best approach to farm work. The days are long.
The old huscarl was a bag of joyful news, wasn't he just. Drought, trolls, outlaws, faeries, storms... then Fastvi has to chime in with trials and wolves. Inwardly, Þyrnir sighs, while outwardly he ducks his head respectfully at Sven. "Aye, master Sven, dry summer is poor harvest, that is known."
To Runa, he responds. Wolves do not make good pets, precious one. They are pack animals, and they miss their pack if they are on their own. Some are known even to die of loneliness when separated from their packmates." Trying to soften the blow, he adds. "But there are some very nice sled dogs in Nûkland who look very much like wolves, but are easier to tame and keep. Perhaps your faðir will get you a pup."
Could it be true, what Ragnar was suggesting? Eyes lowered, Þyrnir studies the family through his lashes. The one-eyed old man, the beautiful woman, the red-haired boy... could they be Odin, Frigg and Baldur? Either way, he judges it a better course to help them clear the way than to chase the girls through the woods. Dismounting, he sets his shoulder to the back of the cart, helping push it out of the mud.
Signe listens intently to the old huscarl as he runs down his list of things to watch for. She minds his words and her pale violet eyes look up to the sky scanning for any sign of weather troubles. "We will heed your words, thank you."
As Fastvi moves her horse away from the group, Signe snags her bridle. "Oh no you don't. You can wait. If you were in their place, you'd want someone to help you. Wouldn't you?"
She makes sure that Fastvi is going to listen to her words before dismounting. She nods at Ramundr and moves towards the team of oxen. She notices that the fighter scans their surroundings and Signe can't help but do the same.
The ranger then focuses on the oxen and as was her custom, she makes eye contact with each animal. She leans in and speaks softly, "I know you are tired but you must pull for me, and keep pulling. My friends will help you."
Looking over to the others who were going to push she simply asks, "Ready?" Receiving nods, Signe gives a whistle to the oxen and they begin to get the cart unstuck.
Once Inga is saddled and busy with her flirtations, Ótryggr steps away, boots squelching in the mud as he walks slowly toward a gelding with a dappled ivory hide. The steed is no war stallion, no fiery-eyed mount on whose back legends might be carved, but that suits the Vastaviklander fine. He's never ridden a horse, never done more than lead sturdy pack ponies down from the mountain highlands to the markets below.
The horse is surprisingly large; while not the tallest of the group, its width surprises Ótryggr, who has always thought of them in two dimensions. As broad as a feastday barrel. He takes the reins from Thorballa and closes the last few feet with quiet caution. A raised hand causes the gelding to shy, and Ótryggr freezes in turn, till instinct bids him lay a large hand upon the horse's broad neck and there just rest it, feeling the warmth and strength of the beast.
"Beautiful," he murmurs to nobody but himself, then shoots a sharp glance in the stablekeep's direction. "Does he have a name?"
Then, carefully, he tries to mount the horse, engaging in a series of hops as the horse shies away each time, gritting his jaw and finding his admiration for the beast dropping as his frustration rises. Finally he simply muscles himself up onto the saddle, swinging a leg over and squeezing the gelding with his thighs, reins bunched in one fist, jaw jutting out as his face flushes.
In the tales, the heroes never dance around in the mud while trying to mount.
When their group finally rides out, Ótryggr brings up the rear, partly so as to guard their backs, partly so that the rest of the group won't be able to watch him bounce miserably with each jarring pace the gelding takes.
By the time they reach Sven's the Vastaviklander has come to peace with his horse; riding is a trial of endurance, and his face has taken on a cast of stony resignation. His anger has reduced to a dull simmer, and over the past hour or so he's grown aware of how surly and withdrawn he's been. It's too late now to make redress, however; trapped by his own silence, he remains aloof from the group and their chatter.
The chance to dismount is one gladly taken, but he does so in silence, dropping down at the back and then leading his mount to drink only after the others are finished. He listens with alert interest to Sven's wonderings and warnings, but makes no comment of his own.
When their visit draws to an end, Inga asserts her dominance once more, and he grudgingly moves forward to take hold of the reins. Once again he stares off into the middle distance, as emotive as a stone, and when she's up he fades back again, determined to betray no anger.
This time he's able to mount the gelding on the third attempt. Jaw set once more, pulse pounding in his temple, he restrains a groan when they begin moving again.
The Vastaviklander catches glimpses of the problem at the front of the group, peering from side to side as he tries to make out the nature of their obstruction, but hears Ragnar's words clearly enough, and his eyes widen. They're reason for him to slide awkwardly off his mount, wrap its reins around a low hanging branch, and then forge a path around the massed horses toward the front.
Ótryggr examines the elderly man's face with avid curiosity, then turns to the woman and child. Father, dottir, and grandson? Husband, wife, and child? The blond woman's striking beauty catches his eye and holds it; only when she turns to meet his gaze does he look away, at the older man, to ask bluntly, voice harsh, "You are husband and wife?"
Then, regardless of what the old man says, he follows the others to the rear of the cart.
Once the others are in position, he sets his ax close at hand against another tree, and moves in to take the last remaining opening, lowering his shoulder to the cart's beam, adjusting, clasping at the wood with both hands, setting his chin, and waiting for the signal. When Ramundr sets to and Signe gives her whistle, Ótryggr surges forward, boots sinking and slipping in the mud, the cart's wooden frame groaning, his own grunt of effort melding with that of the others.
”What is their name?”
”Does he have a name?”
Thorballa pats the dirt from her tunic, giving a sideways glare toward Ragnar. ”Aye, names they have. Otryggr, this is Braka . Signe, yours is called Skip . Ramundr, you shall ride Gulpa . For Thyrnir, Hross . And for Ragnar,” she says with a smirk, ”Flona. (to become ornery)”
”Aye,” Sven agrees with Ramundr, ”even the godi and the gods with whom they commune must obey their wyrd, for the Sisters command the destiny of both gods and men. Well, whatever that may be, I wish you safe travels this day.”
Thyrnir notices Fastvi ready to bolt and gestures to Signe, who is able to grab the girl’s bridle in time to keep her nearby. Fastvi groans in frustration. ”It’s not far, and perfectly safe!” Still, she obeys her cousin and remains, looking impossibly bored.
Inga’s mouth spreads into a radiant smile as Ragnar speaks of the tale of Inga Olafsdottir, and for the first time all day actually deigns to acknowledge him. ”Do you think so, skald? Will you write such a song of me, and sing it at the feast of Freyja?” She collects a braid of flaxen hair in her fingers and begins to unwind and rebraid it, humming a tune and forgetting her frustrations.
The old man looks up from worrying with his beasts, a distant smile on his face. He hails you as you ride up. ”Hagalaz, Heil. We thank you for your aid this day. Aye, this is my farmwife and our son, and we travel the road for Silvermeade, bringing supplies for Jarl Olaf. It was folly to load the cart so great, but good fortune to meet those with mind’s worth enough to help an old farmer.” As you take the rear of the wagon, he whistles. ”Boy!” The red-haired boy bounds up onto the wagon and begins unloading crates down to his father, who sets them aside. With the cart unburdened, you are able to free it from the patch of mud.
The handsome farmwife touches Þyrnir’s shoulder. ”Þakka fyrir,” she says with a warm smile. The old man looks at you gratefully with his one good eye. “Aye, thank you for your aid. You are the sort of folk who make the Northlands proud. Have a pleasant journey, wherever you are going. Keep tight to your mind’s-worth, and may your fates soar through the ages.” The family rides on toward the hall.
It is only after you have resumed traveling that you notice there are no wheel tracks in the mud leading to where you found them.
The ways of the gods are mysterious. Could it be the old man and his family were actually gods in mortal form? Perhaps they are mere mortals chosen by Wotan to test your mind’s worth. In any case, you cannot deny that your interaction with them has left you feeling favored.
Your horses travel at a trot as you make your way toward the Meadows. On the muddy track ahead of you, you see an armed group of warriors riding your way. Their horses move more slowly, as if exhausted from long riding, and they and their mounts are spattered with the mud of hard travel. Once within hailing distance, you recognize this group as huscarls and householders of the jarl. They are Hallbjorn Bolverkson (one of the jarl’s most trusted huscarls), Kraki Hallason (an up-and-coming householder), Young Ljot (no relation to Old Ljot), Hauk Arinbjornson (a hotheaded Vastaviklander already at odds with Otryggr), and Berg Geirson (a sour-spirited warrior).
”Ho there, where are you bound?” Hallbjorn calls to Signe.
Young Ljot looks over Ramundr before calling to Inga. ”Hello Inga. You look pretty today.”
Hauk Arinbjornson glares at Otryggr and spits to the side. ”What have we here? Ladies off for a morning ride?”
Berg Geirson eyes Ragnar and Þyrnir warily. ”I think I may be catching a chill.”
The approaching group resolves itself into huscarls and householders of the jarl, and Otryggr leans back in his saddle, causing Braka to slow and then stop, stepping uncertainly from side to side till he saws with the reins and brings the gelding completely still.
The huscarls are uninjured. They are unaccompanied by prisoners. Their horses look exhausted. It is easy to surmise that they've failed at bringing Styr the Ugly to justice.
Still, Hauk's animosity is welcome. It's a fire that Otryggr understands, a heat that he relishes. He stares directly at the other warrior with a slight smile on his lips, feeling no need to respond, to defend himself. The memory of Hauk's going down before Otryggr's blow is still fresh in his mind. That defeat speaks for itself. Petty insults do not change the balance between them.
So Otryggr stares openly at the other man, content, large hands resting lightly on Braka's pommel.
As Inga grants Ragnar a smile, his initial reaction is to return it, happy with the fact that his words had done their work. Several moment, however, he realises he's been staring at the Jarl's daughter for a couple of seconds longer than he thought, and crimson starts spreading on his cheeks. "That would be an order taller than any my tongue has been to, Inga. But to leave your qualities unsung of would be even harder.", he grins.
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Nodding at Berg, Ragnar taps the surprisingly unruly mare's flank with his spear's hilt to bring her to a halt. "I am certain that's nothing that a night next to the fire, a hearty drink and a woman's smile can't mend, Berg.", he replies in a cautious, yet surprisingly friendly tone. The man's face can turn mead to vinegar at the best of days., he thinks to himself as he notices the warrior's face not lighting up.
Ramundr Æiþorn was in a daze as they continued to ride. He answered Inga only absently, his eyes constantly seeking the North. Had he really met Odin One-Eye and Wanderer on the roadside?
I am Odin, the All-Father. Next the moon devours the sun, go into the northern wastes and seek your mother's bones, and return them to be ground into mortar for the foundation of the Æiþorn Odin's voice echoed into his ear, speaking to him the Æiþorn Wyrd those years ago.
Ramundr had since turned his life toward Odin, burning fat in sacrifice and praise. He felt the urge to hunt, and do the same this very night in his awe. He wished to meditate and ponder the implications of the meeting on the road.
In this state, Ramundr did not notice as his horse bumped into the side of Þyrnir's mount. Ramundr looks up startled. Þyrnir
Þyrnir. Þyrnir Warpriest of Frigg.
Ramundr wondered how Þyrnir felt about the morning's encounter, already being so close to the gods. Frigg, Ramundr recalled, was the wife of Odin.
Þyrnir. If it is true that we met Odin the Wanderer this day. Would you suppose that the flaxen woman beside him was his wife, Frigg?
Ramundr looks at Young Ljot and smiles friendly. If Ljot hoped to get into Inga's bed, he took the wrong oath to his Jarl. The oath to produce no sons or dottirs, well that is too high a high price for honor, even if he admired their skill in war.
Ho their Little Ljot. We have met but little, as I am only recently come to this Jarl from the Vale. There I had sparring partners, but have not yet found some here. I admire the huscarl shield wall, and practiced with an old huscarl in the vale to learn it. I'd love to learn and practice with you sometime. I think you would not find me totally unskilled.
Þyrnir starts as Ramundr addresses him. His brown eyes are huge in his dark face as he turns away from his close examination of the muddy track. "She must have been. How beautiful she was! Ah, now I know just what to carve on the lid!" His white teeth flash in a beatific smile. He cannot believe his good fortune, this extraordinary blessing.
As the warriors exchange words, Þyrnir fades into the background, an unregarded servant. There is tension here, but there is not much that he can do about it. Best to seems as unthreatening and unobtrusive as possible and not give anyone reason to turn that tension into something worse. From the corner of his eye he checks on Runa and her sisters.
Signe gets Fastvi's attention and points to the absence of wheel tracks. "Curious that there's no tracks here, don't you think? You never now who you may meet on the road and I know that I now feel blessed for having helped them on their journey to your faðir."
Signe feels a sense of relief as she sees the jarl's men coming towards them. She smiles and nudges Skip forwards as she's hailed by her mentor. "Hallbjorn, you are a sight for sore eyes. We are bound for the Meadows so that the jarl's dottirs can gather flowers. What news do you have of the road you have traveled?"
She takes in the state of the horses and the men as well as the absence of Styr the Ugly. Not that that meant much because it was quite possible the man was dead. She looks at Hallbjorn questioningly, "Did you find your quarry?"
We are bound for the Meadows so that the jarl's dottirs can gather flowers. What news do you have of the road you have traveled?"
”Some people get all the luck,” says Kraki, opening his mouth for the first time.
Hallbjorn’s eyes darken at Signe’s question about Styr. ”No, Signe. We have been on the Moors for a week, but have been unsuccessful. We did, however, manage to spend several chilly nights sleeping in the mud, getting rained on, and in general not having an adventure. You’re off to the Meadows then. Keep an eye out for Styr. He’s tall, dark haired, and has a scar across his chin like a serpent’s tail. Rumor is he may have fallen in with some witch, Sibbe the Unkempt, but for what reason none know.”
When Little Ljot addresses Inga, she plays coy with him and casts her eyes down to her hands. ”Can we just move on. My feet are wet and cold.”
Ho their Little Ljot. We have met but little, as I am only recently come to this Jarl from the Vale. There I had sparring partners, but have not yet found some here. I admire the huscarl shield wall, and practiced with an old huscarl in the vale to learn it. I'd love to learn and practice with you sometime. I think you would not find me totally unskilled.
”Yes, yes…” Ljot agrees absently, hardly taking his eyes off of Inga, even as she ignores him. ”In the shield wall we shall meet…”
"I am certain that's nothing that a night next to the fire, a hearty drink and a woman's smile can't mend, Berg."
Berg sighs. ”No smiles for me. I probably have guard duty tomorrow; I’ll miss the feast. Even flowers just make me sneeze.”
Hauk Arinbjornson’s nostrils flare, clearly unhappy that he hasn’t been able to provoke Otryggr. ”Must be proud warriors who escort little girls to pick flowers; fine warrior’s work that is.”
”That’s enough, Hauk.” Hallbjorn’s tone is final. ”Come, we ride on to Silvermeade.” With a nod of his head he sets off, his fellows following behind. Hauk’s eyes smolder as he passes Otryggr, though he dares not provoke the man further in defiance of Hallbjorn.
A mere fifteen minutes into the ride after leaving the returning hunters, Fastvi spots something interesting across a recently plowed field. She suddenly turns her horse and jumps a ditch along the side of the road, taking off across Old Ljot’s fields.
Ramundr, never really trained to ride a mount, found his chainmail made it hard to shift his animal the way he needed, and the animal plainly refused to jump the ditch. He tried again, but knew he'd fail, and just stopped hard. Never really rode a horse much. Ramundr jokes with Inga. Perhaps Fastvi should teach me a trick or two.
Signe shrugs at Kraki's words. "I know nothing of luck but my jarl asked this task of me so this is what I do."
She then nods gravely at Hallbjorn's warning. "I will keep a close watch like you taught me and will take no chances. If he has joined with a witch then that doesn't bode well."
After Fastvi's many small detours along the journey, Signe's reflexes and instincts are primed for whatever the teenager may do. When Fastvi glances off into the field and begins to move, the ranger is only a second behind her. She spurs Skip with her heels and her horse glides across the ditch like a skiff over water. She pats the horse on the neck and urges it forward towards Fastvi, easily catching her cousin and heading her off.
"You cannot just wander off, cousin. If there's something in this field to investigate then just say so and we can take a look together."
Like Signe, Þyrnir is quick to react, turning his horse with a tug of the reins. A squeeze of the knees and Hross jumps the ditch, far easier than you would expect from a horse no longer in its prime. In a couple of heartbeats he is by Fastvi's side, neatly bracketing the young woman with Signe on the other side. The others may have been charged with being responsible for the girls' well-being today, but they were his responsibility every day. He would not let anything happen to them, if that meant protecting them from outlaws and witches, or only from their own foolishness.
Signe and Thyrnir effortlessly guide their horses across the deep ditch and cut off Fastvi before she can make it fifty feet. ”You are no fun!” she whines. ”I am nearly a woman grown, and may never be able to ride a horse again before the bandits overrun the hall. Then we’ll all be foragers in the woods, with no horses to ride at all.”
Ramundr tenses at the edge and his horse hesitates, rearing back and knocking him off his saddle. He strikes the ground hard on his left elbow.
”Ramundr!” Inga forgets her courtesies and slips off her horse on her own, kneeling by the man, yet deftly avoiding soiling the fabric of her dress in the slightest. ”The horses are feral, wild beasts. Of course this would happen to even the most seasoned rider. Are you hurt?”
”They are not!” yells Runa. ”The horses are nice. I feed them carrots. They talk to me.”
”What do they tell you?” Inga asks, looking up from Ramundr. ”That you’re a brat?”
”I am not a brat! I’m telling mama!”
With Ramundr back on his horse and the girls calmed (for the time being), the party resumes their ride into the Meadows. It has turned into a warm spring day, and the meadow chosen is nestled in a narrow arm of the forest not far from the settled lands to the east. Insects buzz about, and the idyllic expanse of flowers is fragrant with fresh growth and new blossoms. The girls quickly dismount and spread across the meadow.
The Meadows are on the edge of the settled lands surrounding Jarl Olaf’s hall, partly in the forest and partly adjacent to fields and woodlots. The area is largely deserted this morning and you are alone, save for small animals and insects. To the south, the woodlands extend into the greater forest, and to the west, beyond the forest’s edge, lie the Trollfist Hills and the Barrow Lands. The sun is warm and the air is fragrant.
The girls each pursue a different task. Inga busies herself with picking the best flowers, gathering them in a basket. She does so in the most ladylike of manners, avoiding anything that could possibly dirty her dress. Fastvi only picks flowers if reminded, and then only after being told several times to get to her work. Instead, she cavorts about the meadow, throwing a small knife into logs, climbing trees, investigating hollows, and trying to read tracks. Runa gets to the flower-picking, but is easily distracted by squirrels, mice, insects, odd-shaped petals, and her own conversations.
There is a rustling in the bushes toward the western edge of the meadow. Moments later, a stray dog wanders out, a mangy flea-bitten, but seemingly friendly cur. Runa immediately runs to it with a squeal of delight, throwing her arms around it as it begins to lick her face happily.
”It is my baby wolf! Can I keep him? Please?”
Ótryggr: 15/15
Raymundr: 12/13
Ragnar: 10/10
Signe: 12/12
Þyrnir: 9/9
Otryggr's mood only lifts upon parting ways with the huscarls; the jarl's chosen team had failed to bring Styr to justice, which meant that the outlaw was still at large; that in turn meant there was a chance for another band to find some sign of Styr's passing, and with that an opportunity for glory.
As such, he grows more attentive to their surroundings as they ride toward the meadows. He scans the ground for sign of passage, watches the treeline for some hint of a passing shadow, and constantly turns in his saddle to scan the trail behind them.
It occurs to him that he's imitating Fastvi in large part, which brings a wry smile to his lips, but he doesn't mind: let the girl play at ranger. He is searching for blood.
When they finally reach the meadows he urges his gelding in a slow circuit of the clearing, leaving the girls and their antics to the others while he investigates as best he can the immediate environs. He's slowly gaining more confidence in his riding skills, in large part for not having asked Braka to do anything untoward, and in the sunshine, with fresh air and a chance at adventure before him, Otryggr feels for the first time the stirrings of something that could almost be called happiness.
His elbow stung a bit, but nothing was broke. He smiled at Inga's response. I can do not wrong with the girl, not yet anyway.
ey well, not nearly as feral as I am, Inga. Ramundr jumps to his feet, and gathers his horse.
Ramundr, always weary of stray animals and other mangy things as a general matter, grimaces as the girl embraces it. ey now, careful Ramundr warns.