RP:The Grass-stalk Which Bends

The Green Plains, Outside Venturil

There are few celebratory events in the lives of the Riddarnir which call for more than a cursory, approving glance or a skin of ale. One is when they are victorious in war, in which case the feasting can go on for weeks as every slain man and woman is given honour; no tears are ever shed and many tales are told and re-told. Another is when a bargain is struck – while they all but live on horseback and will have it no other way, the Riddarnir have an abiding fondness for protracted haggling and will sit in yurts for days, drinking, feasting, negotiating the price of a good mare or some well-crafted torcs. It’s a way to allow rest for those who need it, without dishonour, in times of peace, and this is why the Jarl was furious at Eboric’s lack of bargaining, which the Riddrjarl saw as a sign that the bargain he offered was too easy and he should have demanded more. Only Raidh’s ability to soothe her father’s famously sour temper prevented the new alliance from turning into the latest war – and quite against everything she holds high in herself, she lied out of her breeches to do so. Many were the honours heaped upon the Jarl by the King of Venturil, apparently, for whom Raidh could speak now that she was, technically, his second wife.

By the end of that untruthful litany of great compliments, the Jarl was mollified enough to send his only daughter back to the Stone Barn (as he calls Venturil) accompanied by a dozen good men and women, all fine warriors and better riders, as well as a small foundation herd of extremely fine mares and the honoured solid-black stallion Glaesir, brother of the Jarl’s own mount. Each horse bears grass-woven panniers filled with the legendary goldcraft of the Plains Riders, which even the dwarves were envious of for its detail and ingenuity. And before them all, as they come to the end of the plains, rides Raidh Jorgunsdotr. She wears a simple tunic and breeches, but her head and neck and arms adorned with a dragon’s trove of precious and ancient artifacts – the dowry of her mother’s blood. Raidh had spared a thought for mother, this day, who perished in battle with the Minotaurs when Raidh was only a babe. The girl knew she was watched over by those in the long-house of fallen heroes, and her mother most of all. Except perhaps for her grandmother, whose spirit rides the mare Nidrun. And speaking of that horse, she is not looking happy at all be nearing the place where Raidh met that ‘madman’… Nervous, she is the first to sense a Venturil patrol nearby, her shrill warning-whinny calling the entire retinue to caution.

The Venturil patrol, catching sight of the small column, angles across the rugged landscape toward Raidh and her entourage. The scouts ride in formation, the reason for their rigid discipline obviously the huge man riding in front of the patrol, mounted on a white steed, its otherwise spotless fur daubed with runes in a red ochre pigment. The stallion's stride is unfaltering; it hardly appears to be breathing, despite the speed. The cyning himself accompanies the patrol, as ever keeping an eye on his more troublesome border lands. Raising a hand, he signals to his men, who fan out into a line, coming to a halt some distance from the people of the plains. Eboric rides in alone, reining in the pale horse as he nears, so as to avoid spooking the other horses. "Raidh," the werebear says, peering down at her. "You return swiftly." He looks around, gazing at the horses as they are driven along the path. "These are fine animals," he says, "and finely decorated." The compliment is given sparingly, but that it is given at all should be enough.

Raidh offers the King a dip of her blonde head as subtle acknowledgement of his praise. “The stallion is Glaesir. Last spring he staved in the heads of a band of six men on his own, his rider dead with a Chartsend arrow in his heart. The mares you see are proven dams, their bloodlines stretch back to ancient days.” The girl appears to be amused by something, her blue eyes glitter with it. “The rest of the herd is behind..” she raises her hand, and the eldest of the Jarl’s men lets out a shrill, musical whistle. Over one of those rolling hills, hooves pound the ground beneath the golden grasses like thunder. Another ninety mares, these of lesser quality than the first, but still finer than any horse bred elsewhere in Lithrydel. Black and brown, bay and dun, they come wheeling out of the plains with no man or woman to guide them – thus do the horses of the Riddarnir heed their humans. Raidh turns back to the man on the uncanny white horse, and her grin is wide. “They’ll kill all your stablemen before they walk into any barn within twenty miles of the Nidhoggr.” Just so he knows. Now she changes the subject, and the grin vanishes, for it is not so amusing to her: “Our journey was swift, and we are all in need of rest of meat. Perhaps we might sup all together, Eboric. I am very much looking forward to meeting my sister-wife”.

Eboric watches the herd impassively, performing a swift count in his head. "Then you have brought my city an expensive feast, for I have no other stable than the one you saw." After a moment's thought, he adds, "perhaps they can be kept on the prairie." He seems about to speak further when Raidh's last words register. "Sister-wife?" His expressionless mask slips for a moment, betraying his confusion. "It would seem that I agreed to more than I thought I had." His voice sounds amused, despite his words, and he gives Raidh a measuring glance. "We shall return to the hall to feast. We can discuss such matters more after we have eaten."

Raidh had opened her mouth to respond to King's suggestion, to agree that the plains were a far better choice than some horrible shack which reeks of lizards - but she shuts it like a sprung trap when he seems confounded by the fact of their marriage. Just for a moment her own cheeks grow very pale and the girl looks as if she might be sick, but it is staunchly that she nods to Eboric, and quickly tells the riders to set up a long-yurt here, just outside the city. They bustle to the task, a bare handful remaining to bring the mares bearing panniers into the city proper. Raidh will follow where the King rides, her features composed like those of a woman being led to her death, and in absolute silence unless he speaks to her first.

Eboric cannot help but notice the change that comes over Raidh, and to his credit, he appears somewhat chagrined to have embarrassed her in front of her people. He watches the yurt being assembled with some curiosity, before signalling to his scouts. Their ranking officer rides in swiftly to the king's side. "Leave twelve men," Eboric says, "and take the rest back on patrol." It would not do for Eboric to have less retainers than Raidh, after all. The scout salutes and rides off to execute his orders, and the werebear turns back to Raidh. He studies her again for a time, silently, before speaking in a quiet voice, to avoid causing further embarrassment. "I do not object to the idea. But I must first wed the mother of my son, before I can think to binding your family to mine in such a way. If I did not, I'd have to watch for knives in the dark, even in my own hall."

Raidh slides the King a look of such veiled ire that the blue of them appeared the steely hue of beaten iron. “Too late,” is her curt reply, followed by silence rivaled by the loneliest of graves. Eventually, though, her clamped lips part again, a frown furrowing her wheat-coloured brows. “Not .. married, yet?” What sort of place had she come to?

Eboric laughs suddenly, startling the scouts as they approach to attend their king. They stop some distance away, so as to afford the pair some privacy. "So." Eboric pauses to think for a moment, still watching the assembly of the yurt. "What is done is done, and I will not offend your father, or bring dishonor to you. Ceremonies will be carried out, in due course." He speaks casually, as if about the weather. "You will find, though, that while I hold to the traditions of my people, kingship is new to me, and it was not too many years ago that I lived in a den in the woods." That is as close to an apology for his behavior as Eboric has ever given, and it appears to leave a foul taste in his mouth, for he changes the subject swiftly. "Tell me of your people, and their customs."

As far as Raidh is concerned, the ‘ceremony’ part was over, but she was as ignorant of the King’s customs as he was of hers and wished in turn to cause no offense at denying their necessity. “Well,” she breathed, seeming a little less likely to offer him her own, much less subtle version of a dagger in the dark, “For a start… When a warrior, man or woman, achieves renown many families wish to join houses with them. It brings honor and fortune. My father married seven wives, two of whom live still, three who are dead in battle and one in childbirth,” she cast a glance to one of the men who’d accompanied her, a lean and scarred type missing the lower portion of his left arm. “That was Avaldi’s mother, Gleatha. The other one he tore apart with his bare hands, and cast the pieces to wild dogs. She was disloyal. Her name is forgotten.” She spoke it quietly, quickly, a family shame she could openly share only with a husband, without it being a betrayal of her father’s pride, “Anyway. No child among us is born without marriage, even if the woman must be married to a god, or the child is an utlendr – a stranger to us.” Her expression demonstrates clearly that such a thing is not desirable. Talking of her homeland has brought affability back to her, though, and it is a far milder aspect she turns to the King now, “So much to tell. But we have years for the telling. I would like to know a little more of your own people, before I sit down to share meat with them.”

Eboric tugs at his beard as Raidh speaks of her family and people, listening without comment throughout. "Utlaga," he says. when she is done. "We know of them as that. We know what it entails. Among my people, a child is a child, though, and is legitimate regardless. A wedding is simply a time to announce the union to the ancestors and gods, that they might bring their luck to it." He turns to watch as the rest of his scouting patrol starts off into the distance. "What I have in Venturil is a mixture of people, all of the same tribe, but split into three long ago. We have customs of men that have lived here in the west for countless generations, those that lived in Frostmaw, west of the giants, for the same amount of time, and those, like myself, from the clan that went east. Our customs, our stories, remain the same at heart, but differ in details from one group to the next. I have reunited them, though, and in time they will unify once more." He cuts off there, the outburst of speech uncharacteristically long for the king.

Raidh is bursting with questions, not the least about how Eboric has so recently become King as well as that den in the woods, but she keeps them to herself for now and listens intently to the words he has volunteered. Particularly the part about the three tribes, because she suspected that original tribe might have had a fourth branch which had gone much further west.. Surely it is no coincidence that their languages branch from the same root? She shivers – it seemed this great, hairy King has a heavy wyrd upon him, bringing home his people from all the corners of the world. “A worthy task.. my husband.” Those last words fall awkwardly from her tongue, the girl’s cheeks turning pink as she speaks them. “The legends of the Riddarnir speak of giants, but I doubt any living have seen one. Instead, we have the bull-man of the far west. Foul creatures, with whom we are ever at war.” If she had anything else to say, it was cut short by their approach to the city – she would never call it the Stone Barn again, not even to herself. “It’s quite beautiful, in its way” she observed, indicating her subject with a hand which jangled with heavy ornament.

Eboric smiles, guiding his horse up atop one of the grave mounds, giving a better view of the white stone city. "Minotaurs," he says. "I have known several. One was a friend, one was an enemy. Neither still live, though." He looks over his city then, surveying the rebuilt walls, the guard towers, above each of which flutters the bear-flag. "It is. My people are happy here." The same thought of languages passes through his mind, and he says, "What do the Riddarnir say of how they came onto the plains?"

Raidh doesn’t look at all impressed with the news that Eboric once had a bull-man for a friend, an expression which only lightens when he mentions that the creature is dead. Whatever trouble the thought has given her is put aside, once he begins speaking of his city with the same sort of pride the Jarl displays when speaking of his riders. “It was dragons. Long ago, after one of the ancient wars few have knowledge of, now – one of the great wars, in the days when men were new and gods still wandered the world. Dragons, voracious and powerful, who saw man and horse alike as merely meat. Our people were driven far into the plains, for there we could see our enemy coming for many miles, and prepare ourselves. Many died. Almost all of us, when the last Great Dragon came to avenge the slaughter of his lesser kin. That is how the shamans came to be. We discovered the dragon’s true might is in his magic and so forged our own magics to strip him of it. By then, we had become the Riddarnir, and the wide grasslands our home.” That is the mere bones of a tale more properly told in song, one she would perhaps sing for Eboric some day. As they set off again for the city, her curiosity can no longer be contained. “Did you really live in a den, in the woods?”

Venturil

Eboric is silent a long time, and the gates of the city loom ahead of them before he speaks, his eyes gazing ahead without seeing, drawn wholly in to the memories. With a frown, he rouses himself from thought. "Dragons? They can be fierce foes. My own people dealt with them on the other side of the world. Dragons and ogres." He grins, baring his teeth ferally at the memory of old fights. "I did, yes," he says in response to her question. "It was cozy place out west of Frostmaw, near the fields of the dead. I learned much there, and gained the fealty of those of my people that lived on up there." He gestures to the mountain range that stretches like a line to the north and east. "Your people work magic, then? What sort?" The question is spoken casually, but the warlord's eyes fixate on Raidh, waiting on the answer.

Raidh has been listening to Eboric’s own tale with all the proper attention and gravity which history demands. It is astounding to her that his own people fought dragons too. So many parallels.. As he continues, more questions stack up on her list of things to ask about, when the time was right, but his question regarding the shamans shocks her a little. “The ways of the shamans are hidden, mostly,” Raidh seems distressed that she cannot speak of it plainly, “Some of us employ runecraft, some draw down the spirits of our ancestors from the Hall of the Dead in times of need, others perform cures. Some bless, some curse.. “ Oh, those cheeks of hers, how she wishes they would stop betraying her – for of course Eboric has witness a much-watered-down version of the cursing. “and some are seers, who borrow the eyes of eagles and far-see.” The clopping of hooves on the road is loud for several paces, and she adds, as casually as she can, for the look in Eboric’s eye has not escaped her (and she well remembers that comment about burning..): “And a very few, the most gifted, can do all of it.”

Eboric nods his head, as if to himself, relaxing subtly from his tensed position as Raidh explains. Riding through the gates, he returns the guards' salute, keeping the small procession heading south, along the main roadway. "Those, apart from the cursing, are all welcome in Venturil. There are folk in the eastern lands that bring fire, ice, and all manner of evil magics to bear, and that nonsense I will not allow." He gestures to the runes that adorn his bracers, sword hilt, and horse. "I would be interested to see the runes of your people, to see how they compare to those of mine."

Her blonde head nodding agreement, Raidh studied the marks. “I can already see that, like our languages, the runes share common roots.” She points to one, “That is my name. Raidh, the traveller, though of course it can mean several things. In my case, ‘traveller’. My father chose it on the advice of his mother, my Amma, who was a great shaman.” She give Nidrun’s glossy neck an affectionate pat. “perhaps the best, since ancient times. That’s how my father knew I was to leave our home one day and dwell amongst strangers. It helped him prepare…” she squints at the mark again. “What is it called, in your language?”

Eboric glances down at the rune in question. "Rád," he says. "The road, or journey. It is, from what I understand, a good rune. I have no skill with them, but I at least know the meanings." He flicks a look behind, to the barrowlands that wait silently behind the city wall. "An ancestor of mine was skilled with the runes." He grins. "It did not save his life, though, for all that." With a pat given to the hilt of Eidhur, Eboric reins in at a gate set in another wall, this one surrounding only the stone keep. "A trusty weapon is all a man needs, I think, without complicating it all with magic." He slides from his horse, giving the spectral stallion a gentle pat on the haunches. "And a good horse, to be sure."

Raidh is also sure – that she is one day going to ask Eboric about his uncanny mount.. Just the look of the animal gives her the shivers. However, she smiles at his affection for Beorhtanfeax. “You sound a lot like my father, when you speak of magic. Perhaps growing up at my Amma’s knee cured him of wishing to follow her path.” She glances back toward the barrows – more questions! That mental list is growing longer by the minute, but her stomach lets out a loud growl which she doesn’t acknowledge or blush about. “I too value a good weapon,” Raidh dismount from Nidrun in a smooth motion, “I am very fold of my axe… But look, we are all empty as a dwarf’s ale-cup. May we have the horses take leave of their burdens here, and return to the yurt with my men? Except for Avaldi Half-Arm, if that suits, the Jarl insisted that my brother stay close.” Sensing a possible insult in that, she quickly goes on, her words droll as she repeats Jorgun’s wishes, “For he has sense, where I do not, and Father believes he will keep me from making an utter fool of myself.” The man in question was silently attending the horses, long fingers of his one hand running down a fetlock here, smoothing the wind from a mane there, his touch alone seeming to gentle the animals which are unnerved by lack of open ground. “I would prefer if Nidrun stays, too, but not,” she gives Eboric a pointed sort of look, “in that stable of yours.”

Eboric gives a permissive gesture, and gives an order to one of his men. The unloading process begins at once. "Avaldi is welcome in my hall, and Nidrun can stay in the courtyard here. I will have someone bring her food and water." The gate to the castle swings open, and the king strides through, passing into a stone-paved courtyard that culminates in wide, white stairs that lead to the keep itself. "The castle is much the same as when I found it," he says to Raidh. "I did add a feasting hall...Venturil's previous king did not seem the type to have such a thing."

Once she is satisfied that Nidrun will be well cared for, Raidh gathers her few essential possessions from various rings and bags attached to her saddle and proceeds to trot along at Eboric’s side, perhaps closer to it that she might have been in the open. Her blue gaze is wide as she takes in the royal house, so very different to her father’s yurt. It reminds her of a massive tomb, but she does not speak it aloud. “You said you had not long been king,” she reminds him, as invitation for Eboric to quench her curiosity on that subject. At which point, her stomach growls again, like some ferocious beast.

Castle Venturil

Eboric leads the way into that massive tomb, entering the castle and proceeding directly to the feasting hall. Long trestle tables are set up there, with a firepit set in the floor, behind which is a raised daias, where sits the high table and Eboric's carved throne. He gestures for Raidh to sit to his right, with an open place for Avaldi on her other side. Food is brought swiftly, great loaves of bread to slake the appetite until the meat is finished cooking. Horns of ale and mead arrive as well, while Eboric replies to Raidh. "I took the throne here not quite a year ago, after saving the city from attack. Before that, I simply led my people to where pay could be found."

While Avaldi speaks a barely-audible few words of thanks for the king’s hospitality before stuffing a large hunk of bread in his mouth, Raidh settles into her seat – hard, compared to the horse-hair stuffed cushions she is used to. The sent of the meat wafting from the fire-pit is maddening. Raidh quells her raging appetite with a long sup of ale, which she find strange to the tongue but quite agreeable. “So I have married a hero,” she teases, and cannot help but wince when Avaldi’s swift boot knocks her in the shin. She adopts a more serious tone, once her older half-brother is suitably glared-at, “Is your wi…son’s mother.. not at home?” she enquires, glancing around. “I wonder what she’ll make of me. Not mincemeat, I hope.” Another wince. And another glare at her brother..

Eboric gives a wry smile. "Hero? I am sure there are many who would disagree. Not that it matters much; none of them have beaten me." From the scarred skin, even on the face, it is clear that it is not for lack of trying. As Raidh asks her question, he gestures toward the door. "She is often not at home. She has errands of her own, that occupy her time." The meat is taken off of the fire and sliced onto platters, which are brought first to the high table. Each diner is served in turn, their plates filled with rare cuts of beef, while one platter proves to hold meat taken from the dinosaurs to the south. "I am not certain what she will do," he says, thoughtfully. "It will probably be good for me to speak to her about it soon." Not relishing the prospect of an argument, the king attacks the food in front of him heartily. "What do your people normally eat," he asks between bites.

Raidh fortunately fills her dish with beef – she might never forgive Eboric, if she finds out he’s served her lizard-meat. Chewing and swallowing the first delicious mouthful while Eboric speaks, she replies in between hungry bites, “It is good that your women are independent, as are ours.” She has no idea whether women here fight in battle, but she hopes so. “And yes, wise not to shock her. Tell me about her, though, and your son.” While the king eats, she fills in the silence, “The Riddarnir hunt all game, birds, antelope, bison.. mostly whatever is migrating across the plains at any given time of year. In hard times, we eat rabbits and ground-squirrels, and sometimes slaughter a horse, but that is a last resort and accompanied by much ritual. The horses know we do not take them for granted.” She sucks the blood from a bit of very rare beef, and grins. “We make our bread from the seeds of wild grasses, and our strong drink from fermented mare’s milk. I shall have to brew you some. It has a real kick.”

Eboric does not seem to mind the dinosaur meat at all, as it vanishes at the same rate as the beef. "We eat horse, too. Mostly for large feasts or before battle. Horse makes warriors strong." He wrinkles his nose. "I have never had fermented milk. I suppose, though, if it gets the job done, it is worth trying." Reminded of his drink, he downs a horn of ale before continuing. "As for Jerica and Æthelric, I met her while in that den in Frostmaw, and she has been with me since. Æethelric was born there in Frostmaw, some months before I took the throne here. He is, at present, staying with my father, for his own protection, although I mean to fetch him soon.”

Raidh seems pleased by that news, “It is good for a son to have many mothers,” she tells Eboric, jerking a greasy thumb toward Avaldi. “If it happens that one dies, there are others to guide his growth.”

Avaldi, almost as scarred in the face as Eboric himself, has rested the stump of his missing lower arm on the table beside his plate and looks entirely unconcerned with conversation regarding his mother’s demise. “We are not people who dwell on mourning, for those who are worthy, we will see again. And those who are not, we do not wish to meet once more.”

Raidh interrupted, “Oh, my brother, you must tell Eboric the tale of how you lost your arm!” Beaming, the young woman turns to Eboric again. “It’s quite a story, there are songs sung about it.” Studying the King’s face, she adds, “And I’m sure you would have more than a few of your own to match it.”

Eboric bares his teeth in a grin. "I like that way. I have never sat in mourning, not for any man or woman. Among my people, a son is usually fostered in the home of some other family, as a way of binding the two families together. I had considered that for the boy, once he grows a little older." He looks over to Avaldi, his haughty gaze assessing the other man fully. "But yes, there is no better dinner conversation than war stories, and any deed worth singing about is worth hearing."

Avaldi is a man of few words, more comfortable around horses than he ever is with humans. “You tell it.” he says to Raidh, casually spiking another thick bit of beef with the tip of his knife. “You’re the skald of the family.”

Raidh snorts, shaking her head so emphatically that the end of one of her braids end up wet with beef-juice. “I am not!” she protests, in the way a woman of Kelay protests when accused of being pretty. Quite quickly, she adds, “Oh.. alright then. But it’s not the song, just the tale. We’ll have a night for song and feasting at the yurt, when my sister-wife comes.” Laying down food and knife to take a quick gulp of ale, she swallows and begins: “Many the horse was lost in the winter of the empty sky. The bison and elk were gone, and the grasses frozen. Man and beast alike hungered, in the snow under the sun’s cold eye. Many prayer-fires burned, and none were answered, in the winter of blood when the beast came from the forest and many horses died. Bone and bloody snow, we cannot ride, it will not carry us. Brave were they who hunted the beast, we remember their names. But Avaldi Jarlsson did not accept their wyrd, he sacrificed and prayed and on Gaedingr rode to the edge of Riddrheim, to the black forests of the Utlend. Frozen to his saddle in the hard times, Avaldi kept his vigil. Under the pitiless moon, one night from the forest a beast came charging. Wharg!” here, Raidh makes a monster-face, complete with ferocious finger-claws. “Wrong-in-the-head wharg! Horse-slaughterer! Killer of men! Head on, ran Gaedingr, unafraid to meet his herd in the sky-pastures. On rode Avaldi, his great-axe swinging!” here, at a cliff-hanger moment, the girl paused to take a sip of her drink, while the subject of the tale chuckled, shaking his head.

Eboric leans back in his throne to hear the tale, taking a horn of mead with him. At his gesture, those nearby fall silent, so as to avoid disturbing the recital. He glances again to Avaldi, his eyes passing swiftly over the stump as if to search for some sort of clue as to the monster's identity. Sipping at the sweet drink, he looks back to Raidh for the rest of the story.

The king would not have long to wait, Raidh was not wasting any more momentum. “Bold Gaedingr’s hooves were like iron, great earth-hammers striking! Avaldi, sprung from the line of horse-kings, like an ancient king into battle rode! On came the wharg, nine feet at its shoulder and slavering! In the winter of hardship, in the snow, they clash! Blood and hair, bone and flesh are torn, staining the white earth red. Gaedingr falls, crippled by cruel claws, screaming his rage! Avaldi fights on, his war-axe keen for vengeance! Mad wharg, razor-maw, wolf-demon, red- eye, it feels Avaldi’s axe bite - its skull is pierced! Is it slain? Is it slain? It is not! For Avaldi’s axe goes off with the wharg! In its head! In its skull, the axe still buried, the wharg blind with its own blood. Does it die? It does not! But sharply, swiftly its claws tear the frozen ground, seeking the death of Avaldi! Horseless, axeless, the Riddarinn warrior stands, in his hand a skinning-knife, paltry weapon! Courage, not iron, wins a war - the wharg leaps, ready to swallow up life. It comes, it comes, and Avaldi is ready! On his own two feet, he runs at the wharg! And into its maw jams the skinning-knife, and with it the arm of Avaldi! Claws rip and rake, but the son of Iron-seat drives the blade in harder – he is cutting its throat from the inside! Does it die? Does the beast finally die? Yes, it does! But in its throes, snap go terrible jaws, down on the arm of Avaldi. A limb for a life – it is a trade with which the warrior is satisfied.”

Avaldi Half-arm grins, "I swear that wharg gets bigger, every time you tell it..."

Eboric thumps his fist on the table in appreciation as the story ends, as do many of the others nearby. "A story well told," he proclaims. "And a battle well-fought; I would like to have seen it!" He eyes the other warrior for a time, pondering. "I know of such creatures. Does that make you a wolfling as well, Avaldi?" He twitches the bearskin cloak that he wears, unknowingly, before busying himself with another slice of meat. "It is no dishonor if you are," he adds. I have men who are.

Raidh’s glow of pleasure from the King’s enjoyment of the tale dies a swift, cold death, and in frigid silence she eyeballs Eboric.

Avaldi slaps his leg with that one hand of his, his beard shaking with laughter, “Ohoho, a great man indeed, who succeeds in shutting my sister up!”

The girl is clearly livid. “My brother…” at whom her eyes would shoot spears, if they could, “…is no hair-shirt, shape-shifter… moon-mad animal!” She huffs, containing her ire, for she is in the house of her husband now. “It was just a beast, Avaldi will tell you. Tell him, brother!”

Avaldi nods, staring into his ale, “Aye. Only a beast.”

Raidh swivels in her chair to better gaze into the face of Eboric. “You are telling me… that you have… men. Who are, occasionally, wolves.” It is less a question than a statement of outraged disbelief.

From behind Raidh’s shoulder, Avaldi shoots Eboric a look that says they'd best speak of this.. later.

Eboric gives a grim smile at Raidh's reaction, pausing a moment to drain the mead in his horn. "Be calm," he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. "I meant no offense. In some lands, such things are common. I do not have many wolves with me...we tend to differ in nature." He catches Avaldi's glance, and gives a subtle nod in understanding. "But I welcome lycans to my ranks, so long as they keep their teeth to themselves. They are fearless in battle."

The comment Eboric makes regarding his being ‘different in nature’ and the quiet exchange between the two men both thankfully sail right over Raidh’s head. The girl, her lips pressed so hard together they are pale, merely nods. Not in acceptance, but as a grim ‘of course’ at the fact she couldn’t just have a great big husband in a stone castle who was bold in war -- there just had to be werewolves, as well. Didn’t there. She grabs up her drinking-vessel and takes a very long swig from it. “My Amma used to tell me about them,” she says, once she has somewhat gathered herself. “How they smash into yurts and eat the babies first. Tear horses from under their riders, in one swipe of a paw, and feast on the entrails of both.” The girl looks quite stricken. It’s obvious these tales have had some terrible impact on her. “I can’t wait to meet one.”

Eboric 's expression softens somewhat, and he leans back in his chair to observe Raidh. "They can be terrible, to be sure, but you and yours are under my protection now. No werewolves will trouble you, and no babies will be eaten. Those lycans under my control do as I say, and only that. All men know what will happen if I am challenged." He smiles, gesturing for more mead. "There is nothing to fear," he adds.

Raidh is still quite young and at times excitable, but she isn’t a fool. Something is very awry here, and she can’t quite put her finger on it. ‘Nothing to fear’, Eboric says, and Raidh looks to her half-brother, whom she trusts implicitly.

Avaldi leans in to punch her in the shoulder, and not gently. “The grass-stalk which doesn’t bend in the wind, snaps,” he says, “Put your big girl’s breeches on, alright?”

Her brother’s chiding does much to restore Raidh’s fortitude. “It was so nine feet at the shoulder,” she sulks.

The tension is broken, the meal is done, and Avaldi rises from his seat. “If you’ll excuse me Eboric, it’s been long ride.”

Eboric rises as well. "Ah, but of course." A servant comes at the king's gesture. "I have rooms prepared for you. If you want for anything in the night, there will be a bell you can ring for the servants." He indicates the waiting maid. "I hope you find all to your satisfaction." The king's words slur a little from the alcohol he has consumed, but he seems in a jovial enough mood.

Avaldi has sunk a few skins-worth of ale himself, and his solitary hand claps briefly on the Kings’ wide shoulder. “You have my thanks for this fine meal, brother, and trust me when I say I mean no offense, but I prefer to sleep with the stars above me. I will return in time for breakfast.”

Raidh just looked bewildered. Was Eboric.. dismissing her? To her own room? Was Avaldi mad, leaving her alone here, with the were-things and maids and tinkly bells?

The yellow-bearded horseman ruffles his sister’s hair, displacing the gaudy golden head-piece she wears. “Tomorrow, sister. We will show your King of Venturil how we of the Riddarnir ride.” If Eboric speaks further or not, the warrior will soon retreat to the comfort of the yurt, and the familiar smells and sounds of the herd around him.

Eboric smiles, and returns Avaldi's gesture. "I understand," he says. "My men will escort you, of course." The maid stands by, unsure as to what to do. Eboric returns to his seat as Avaldi leaves, turning once more to Raidh. "And what of you? Would you also prefer a bed under the sky? I have beds here of the finest make, softer than I would have once thought possible." Again, he has his horn refilled, and he takes a drink.

Raidh would rather have died at birth than live as one of those woman who dream of nothing but weddings and marital bliss. But right now, she just feels like baggage. Unexpected, unwanted, awkward baggage. Big girl breeches, Jorgunsdotr! she tells herself and musters a smile at her husband. “A soft bed? Do the wonders of this place never cease?” Gracious, chin high, she rises from that hard, wooden chair. “It sounds.. wonderful. Really.”

Eboric watches Raidh stand, a slight twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Although the big man is not exactly a source of knowledge on the subject of women, he is at least insightful enough to recognize her plight, and he stands once more. Leaning down, he speaks in a quiet voice, a low rumble. "As I said before, Raidh, I will not bring you dishonor. Tonight you may sleep alone...I will not burden you with my presence." With a shrug, he finishes his drink once more and tosses the empty vessel onto the table. "Although you are pretty enough that I cannot say that I am not tempted." He grins, not unkindly, and even reaches out to straighten the head-piece that Avaldi disturbed.

It is a universal truth that all woman like to be called pretty. Even the peerless warrior-women of the Plains Riders, who simply cannot fathom the use in cosmetics and find such a practise as lip-rouging an endless source of hilarity – even they like to be called pretty. And though she cannot understand how sleeping next to a husband could entail him being a burden or a bringer of dishonour, Raidh recognises that the situation is far more complex than anyone has anticipated. Like that grass-stalk she bends, leaning down to place a chaste sort of kiss on Eboric’s hairy cheek. “Goodnight, husband. Watch out for those daggers in the dark,” and she winks to show she means no malice, before following that ever-so-patient maid up the stairs. Before she sheds the tiresome weight in gold she's wearing and finally sleeps, she’ll ring the bell half a dozen times just for the novelty of having the long-suffering servant arrive soon after, every single time.

Eboric watches her go, sliding back into his throne to sprawl languidly for a time, until the waning moon rises. He stands and exits the hall, pausing in a side room to discard his hauberk and golden rings, his crown and his weapons. Dressed only in simple tunic and leggings, the werebear slips out of his castle, heading to the barrowlands north of the city.