RP:The Ride of Maidens
The Plains Riders have spared no effort in their preparation for the King of Venturil’s visit to their yurt. The dray from their homelands, of course much slower than the company who’d ridden east with Raidh on her return, finally arrived the evening before, bringing with it all the trappings of nomadic life. Thick woven rugs bordered in intricate knotworks line most of the felt-tent’s wallspace on three sides, and buffalo, antelope and other skins line the floor.. Ceremonial shields, depicting scenes from history and mythology on their round faces in incredibly detailed base-relief metalwork, hung from hooks on the outer tentpoles, along with horse skulls, used for musical instruments, painted with runes. Piles of horsehair cushions surround the central fire-pit, platters and bowls made of carven horn or woven grasses stacked by the great haunch of buffalo that is slowly roasting there since the night before. Honied vegetables, various dips and platters of greens, all of the food is heavily seasoned, and much cooked in horse-butter. Close to the ceiling everywhere, and all around the yurt’s openings, are hung strings of peculiar charms. Some are runic, some more cryptic – eyes carved from dragon-glass, the teeth of predators worked into the figures of men and horses, strange bits and bobs cast from precious metals, all of it jangling when anyone passed the entrance. Beyond the yurt, the riders and their horses have donned ceremonial gear, tassled saddlery and clothes trimmed in embroidered knotwork designs, the Riddarnir’s strange chainmail which is more like woven cloth, light and strong. Their shields bear family totems and symbols of individual achievements, and all bear an array of weapons with blades and heads forged with superb skill.
Raidh is running about like a chicken with its head cut off, fussing about this and that being not ready, or not quite good enough. Avaldi Half-Arm finds this amusing; he is as indulgent as ever of his sister and her prattling. The warrior is small distance from the yurt, speaking with a group of riders.
Eboric approaches, backed, as is proper, by retinue of his warriors, the bravest of his armies. They are all mounted, most upon tall, heavy horses, their armor polished to reflect the sun's dying rays, so that a red-gold aura seems to surround them on the approach to the yurt. They are armed, of course, but no weapons are bared, and they stop a short distance away, so as to keep from causing any alarm. Eboric rides forward, his pale horse taking him close to the edge of the encampment.
It is Avaldi who rides to formally greet the King and his men, ushering them toward the yurt, by the side of which is a roped-off corral with fresh-cut hay and tin buckets of water for the horses. “Raidh is preparing for the Ride of Maidens, brother,” he tells Eboric, gesturing to a throng of activity nearby, where the women riders were making ready for the ritual. “Best we leave her to it. Come, all take a horn of kumis,” he passes into the yurt, “our strong drink, made of mare-milk.” The stuff would taste like weak yoghurt mixed with spirit, if any dared try. “Or if you prefer, we have rye-spirit and heavy ale. Welcome, men of Venturil, to the home of the Riddarnir.”
Eboric and his men dismount and follow Avaldi, leaving their horses in the corral. As the warriors take, mostly, the ale, the king himself accepts a horn of the more traditional drink, taking a swallow without any apparent distaste. "The Ride of the Maidens," the warlord asks, casting a glance back outside. "I am not familiar with the term. It sounds, though, like something I had best know, given the situation." He grins wryly, and takes another drink.
Avaldi chuckles. “We both have much to learn from one another,” and he too fills a horn with kumis, “The Ride of Maidens honours our horse-gods, but also serves to help the maidens train for war, as well as remind our warriors that life is not all horse-sweat, iron and blood. Many marriages are made every year, after the Ride.” The one-armed man gives a brief order and others hurry to fold back the entire western wall of the yurt, the only one free of much decoration. The effect is a three-sided tent where the King and men have a view of the grasslands nearby. “Come, sit. Make yourselves at home with meats and honied yams, there is plenty for all. The Ride is about to commence.” Avaldi says, aside to Eboric, “I think you’ll enjoy this.”
Eboric and his warriors settle onto the horsehair cushions, positioned so that they can have a good view on what is about to commence. The king himself sits to the front, the huge figure looking rather silly on the pillow, designed as it was for normal men. He samples the food, washing it down with the kumis, which seems to grow more to his taste with each drink. "I hope it is not too tempting," he says, only mostly in jest, "else I may not be able to hold my men back."
Avaldi casts the King a look from the corner of his eye, “That would be interesting,” he murmurs, with a half-grin. His attention then turns to the grassland, where twenty riderless mares of the purest white trot with elegant, high steps in a wide ring, each bare of all saddlery but for their faces where armour-plates of mithril filigree, strong but very light, formed a mask of sorts, each bearing on its poll a short, spiral horn of silver. Entering this ring one by one, so each may have her moment of singular attention, sixteen young women gathered inside the circle, all facing outward to the mares. The women are garbed not in the usual thick tunics and cloth breeches, but linens of the purest white, embroidered in mithril thread, the garments giving a rare opportunity for the women of the Riddarnir to show off their figures, as the sheer tunics and the short-legged breeches underneath are fitted to subtly reveal the best assets of each. But by far, the greatest beauty among them all lies in their glorious hair – free of braids, it reaches the lower portions of their backs, some like Raidh’s are golden as ripe wheat, some copper-coloured, or blazing red, or the pale shade of copper known as ‘strawberry’, thick tresses crimped from the plaits and contained only by a simple filigree coronet of mithril. Their feet are bare, as their arms, but for spirals of white metal. From the sides of the yurt commences a soft drumming, and the women began to hum a low, wordless song. Then, one by one, each vaults to a mare’s back, leaving four of the horses riderless. One circuit is ridden in that high-stepping trot, which slows so all the men present get a good eyeful of each girl as she passes. Then, a most amazing sight - likely one Eboric and his people have never seen before. All the maidens kneel, then stand on the backs of their mounts, arms held wide out and to their sides. Then they make a supple bend backward, so the tips of their long hair tickle across the horse’s backs, their bodies forming an inverted ‘U’. Each woman then completes a sudden flip, twisting through empty air to somehow land on the back of the horse behind. Such gymnastics are to follow that will boggle the minds of all watching, and probably rouse the desire of more than a few men. Lithe as cats, sure as steel, the Maidens dance for the Goddess of Mares, keeping up their hypnotic humming, an eerie old song without words that harken the mind back to ancient days..
Avaldi nudges Eboric with his stump, his blue eyes still fixed on the Ride, and mutters quietly. “Makes you wish you were one of the horses, does it not, brother?”
Eboric watches the display attentively, refilling his horn of kumis once more. As the dancer complete their flip, the warlord gives a sort of cheer, slapping his hand against his leg in approval. "It is quite the display," the werebear says with a grin. He glances at his enraptured entourage, and laughs. "I imagine there will be few maidens left for the next Ride."
The synchronised ‘dance’ continues, a fluid perfection of elegant, acrobatic marvels and ethereal beauty for a time, but then the drum begins to beat staccato, a fierce and driving rhythm. The mares break into a gallop, the horseback gymnastics become frenzied, and observers new to this spectacle may wonder how the women accomplish such dangerous, wild motions while on a moving horse. A group of warriors approach, flinging spears to the ring of horse-dancers, each caught deftly, as are the shields which next are thrown, spinning through the air. Suddenly, these long-tressed ‘faerie’ maidens are true warriors, an echo of the Valkyries, their haunting hum becoming the shrill ululations of war, while the motions which formerly were a dance begin to make sense in more practical terms. It seems a minor miracle that no maiden spears herself or her mount, or her companions, the formation of the mares entering a kind of weaving knot, where spear clashes on shield in time to the drums. As the intricate ‘dance’ ends, all mares wheeled toward the tent, halting mid-gallop not three yards from the open face of the yurt. Spear-tips skyward, shields to the fore, the maidens make a final shrill of victory. All the mares, including the ones without riders, bend their heads low and make a deep bow, their riders remaining upright. The Ride of Maidens is finished, those gloriously-crowned heads bear flushed cheeks and wide smiles. When the horses stand tall again, Raidh slips off her mare. She makes a soft order for the maidens to exit and see to the mares, and for the next demonstration to begin, before approaching the cushion-festooned seats. Her chin is high, and she is breathing hard as she puts up her spear and shield, all the while sneaking looks toward Eboric.
Eboric 's attention remains locked on the dancers, although his barbaric features reveal nothing of his thoughts. It may be noted, however, that he seems to forget about the drink in his hand throughout, only remembering to drink when the riders begin to exit the area. His eyes turn to Raidh as she approaches, and he allows a small smile of approval to show and, when she draws near, he says, "If you were a thegn, I would give you a ring as a gift in return for the gift of that show," he points to the golden rings that cover his arms, "but I believe I must think on a greater gift, one more suitable. You did well."
Raidh lumps her body down on a cushion beside Eboric, fidgeting with the fabric of her unfamiliar ceremonial outfit. It isn’t practical. It pinches in places that would make for an agonising ride if one wore it on long trek. Eboric distracts her from this fussing, and she shakes her head, “No need for a gift, my King. The Ride of Maidens happens every year – the one back home must be in full swing by now..” Avaldi elbows her. His face is grim. Raidh coughs, and quickly adds, “But of course, Eboric, I would graciously accept a gift, because it’s.. “ she is floundering here. “.. would be nice…”
Avaldi butts in, rising to his feet. “My riders come next. I must prepare.”
Eboric inclines his head to Avaldi, and takes another drink of the fermented milk. "A gift deserves a gift, Raidh. It was a gift that I was able to watch the Ride." The werebear frowns at the kumis. It must be stronger than he had realized. With a shrug, he takes one more drink. "You do not worry about falling from the horses? You could be killed by their hooves before they could stop."
Raidh pours herself a large cup of kumis and takes a long gulp. Eboric’s comments make her laugh, so a bit of kumis sputters from her lips. “Oh no, Eboric, never! Our horses know well where to put their feet, and we train for such riding before we can walk steadily on the ground. I would no more fall from my horse than I would fall off my feet.” In the improvised arena of the grasslands beyond the yurt, men and horses are milling now. Avaldi is nowhere to be seen, but his voice rises from somewhere, curt orders given. Raidh looks excited, “You will enjoy this, I think. It is no ceremony, the men have arranged this just for you.” She sips her drink, not looking at Eboric as she continues, “I’m glad you enjoyed my ride.”
The men gallop out wide, spreading to a loose arrangement of six men at either side of a large patch of land. All are armoured in mithril and leather, all bear shields bright with metal, decorated with figures which proclaim ancestral alignments and victories in battle. They bear spears and axes, a few have swords, and their horses are heavy of bone and thick-necked. The mounts too wear armours, pads of leather over horsehair blankets, some with light mail covering flanks, shoulders and neck. Avaldi is wearing his shield on his severed arm, and shouts a few words. Horses paw the ground impatiently, tearing up chunks of earth, and then they are galloping again, full tilt toward each other. The men are not to be seen, however! For somehow, all have become invisible? No, look, Raidh is pointing to the tips of spears behind equine shoulders– the men are simply clinging to the sides of their mounts away from view. Some swing upright again as the two parties clash – this is apparently a mock-battle, though there seems nothing much ‘mocking’ about it. Those axes are swinging for real, and the spears are sharp—one of the men on Avaldi’s side takes first blood with a cry of victory! Then abruptly is forced to lay flat on his horse’s rump as an axe whistles past the space where his head would have been.. Raidh forgets herself and snuggles up alongside the King like an excited child, cheering for her brother one moment, a friend on the opposing team the next, as the Riddarnir show how men on horses truly should fight. No mercy is shown, but for the lack of killing blows, wounds are plenty – yet no man falls, no horse stumbles.
Eboric watches the fight with the relish of one born to war. As the blood begins to flow, he watches the play of blows carefully, using the opportunity to size up the abilities of these newly-found neighbors. From the glint in his eye, it appears as though he is pleased. He drinks more of the kumis, his taste for the strange drink growing the more he drinks. As Raidh moves closer, he glances down in surprise, but only smiles and shifts his black bearskin cloak over, to allow her room underneath it, should she wish refuge from the chilly air. "I have never seen such skilled riding as I have today," he remarks to her, the drink drawing more praise from him than is his wont.
Raidh stares at that warm space within the cloak just for a moment, before shifting under it, “You have seen nothing yet,” she promises, reaching for a new skin of kumis, and filling their vessels again. “The men are just warming up..”
And they’re all laughing now, shouting insults as salt to the wounds of their kinsmen, while more men carry out half a dozen straw effigies, loosely dressed in the armours of Chartsend. These are stood upright in a cluster, spears leant to their straw-stuffed ‘hands’. The mounted men fall back, and from the area of the yurt a great thudding may heard, rhythmic and accompanied by metallic jingling. Into the King’s line of sight trots Glaesir, the great black stallion that is the finest gift (though Raidh might argue!) from the Riddarnir to Eboric. Massive and proud, he is fully armoured, his neck a thick arch protected by fine-wrought mithril plate, his hooves loud as he prances alone into the open grassland, heading for the effigies. Ears pricked, his nostrils flared, Glaesir ceases forward motion, though continues his high-footed gait, trotting in place for a moment. Then Avaldi whistles, and the stallion’s muscles visibly bunch – in one huge spring-to-action, he is galloping toward the Chartsend effigies, and when he reaches the cluster of them explodes into a frenzy of motion that might not be quite believable! All four feet leave the earth as Glaesir strikes out with front and hind hooves simultaneously, neatly knocking the heads off several dummies. He rears, twisting half his frame to protect his belly from spears, bucking down hard again once another ‘soldier’ lies crushed on the ground, one hind leg lashing to kick another over. Meanwhile, the men who are not in need of stitches are busy again, riding a wide circle around Glaesir while the horse finishes ‘slaying’ the straw infantry. Avaldi gallops up to him, but his horse falls! Avaldi makes a neat roll as he tumbles free, his ‘wounded’ mount lying in the grass (Raidh points out that the horse is not really hurt, it’s just part of the show). Glaesir comes to his sharp whistle and with the most free and simple of motions Avaldi is mounted on the war-stallion. Fierce and proud, they are, Glaesir now performing a series of motions that defy reason – sideways, rapid movements, so that his armoured flank faces the last straw dummy, and Avaldi guts it with his spear. High kicks, mid-gallop leaps.. Glaesir’s value in battle is clear. The riders circle round, dropping their weapons near a group of maidens, who are handing them bows and quivers of arrows.
Raidh nudges Eboric, “This is the last part,” she glances up to the King, over the shaggy hair of the cloak. “Axes and spears, swords, they are alright for close range – but it is with a bow that a Rider truly shows his worth.” Glaesir leaves the area, and several straw targets are carried out. A maiden, one of the beauties Raidh rose with, stands before the targets. Then another, and then a third…
Eboric raises an eyebrow at the straw soldiers' outfits, and feels compelled to say, "I am officially at peace with them." But he makes no further issue of it, and focuses instead on the magnificent horse, trained so perfectly to battle. "It is truly quite the display," he says, watching Glaesir trot away. "And it is archers that I need the most, so I am eager to see this show." The women walk onto the field, and Eboric's eyebrow climbs again. "Let us hope there is no mistake," he says, making a guess at the coming event. "It would be a waste."
Raidh snorts, “We are not officially at peace with them,” in reply to the comment regarding Chartsend, spoken with a grin. She says nothing to the ridiculous notion of mistakes, and hands Eboric a platter filled with bison-meat and the roasted leg of some enormous flightless bird.
The central maiden of the trio draws a pair of long-knives, the ones either side of her draw slender swords, and the three begin to parry with each other, up and down the line of targets. The riders seem to mill about without formation, mimicking the chaos of battle but really every motion is deft and deliberate – some men hang again from the sides of their mounts, holding on with merely a foot looped around a bit of rope attached to the horse’s surcingle-strap, so it would seem riderless horses are somehow shooting arrows. Some charge forward, others ride away from the targets, swivelling at the waist to shoot backward, and some men (and women! for females fight alongside their brothers and husbands!) actually spin about to sit backward on their mounts. Not one horse needs bit or bridle, all directed by the skilful knees and calves of the riders, or with whistles and words, so that the bowmen may have both hands free. The maidens, still clad in their pretty ceremonial garb, continue their mock-fight, while a heavy slew of arrows after arrows darken the air before slamming into the straw bales – they are sharp! And though the maidens’ motions are random and rapid as their swords clash, not one of them is pierced.
Raidh is just about glowing with pride, and she prods Eboric gently in the ribs, “Avaldi used to shoot men in the eye through the slit of their visors, while on the gallop. They sing songs about it..” The girl’s brother is nowhere to be seen, however – a man with half an arm may wield an axe, but he is no good for a bow.
Eboric cheers along with the others as the arrows rain in, yet not one drop of blood is shed. "I should like to hear those songs," the king says, glancing about for but not finding the warrior in question. The warlord can already see the myriad uses such cavalry might have, but he does his best to keep the thoughts from being known. "I only wish that I had known; I would have provided a like display, although my soldiers do little like all that." He gestures to the arena.
Raidh is suddenly serious, “Your warbands are legendary among the Riddarnir. While we have never had cause to battle them, we have heard of skirmishes, brutal and swift…” but as Eboric is at officially at peace with the slain, she says no more on it. “Imagine, hundreds of my father’s riders bearing down on troops of infantry.” The pride returns to her tone. “It is something to see. Especially when the enemy foot-soldiers are bull-men.” She smiles, “I will sing you one song before you retire tonight, you may choose from the song of Avaldi stealing sight, or the Jarls’ last ride against the bull-men.”
A low voice rumbles from behind them, “Or the one concerning the fat-arsed, lazy maiden who would rather groom her husband than her horse…” Avaldi is grinning, but the expression has a sharp edge to it. “That’s a good song.”
Eboric turns his head to meet Avaldi, giving him an answering grin that slips only a little at the strange cast to the man's face. "Much as I would like to hear of your father's deeds, I think that the song of Avaldi is best suited, after his performance there." The werebear indicates the arena with a nod of his head. "Come, sit with us!" To Raidh, he says, "It is true, my men are trained to do their job swiftly. We were built for it, and excel at it."
Raidh spares a moment to protest to her brother that she has, in fact, already seen to her mount, thankyou very much! Or at least, made somebody else see to her.
The warrior musses his sister’s hair and takes a cushion, “Sit with you I will, for a moment. Glaesir is fiery now, and needs a hard ride to settle him down.” Avaldi swipes Raidh’s drink and takes a long draught, then once again addresses the King, “There’s more than a thousand riders on the plains, all loyal to their last breath to the Jarl. They will fight where our father tells them to fight, and he is now your father, too. In days to come, you must ride with me to the long-yurt of the Jarl and meet him in person, for you have to wife his only daughter and he would look upon your face.”
Raidh listens, fidgeting somewhat, as she’s not sure whether her brother was being serious about the horse… in all the excitement, did she overlook something? Was it wrong to have another cool her mount down, remove its tack, when there was so much else to see to, and a husband besides? It is a vast dishonour to neglect the care of a mount, a shameful thing.. But then, Avaldi has always played tricks on her. She thinks about that for a moment, and realises that perhaps Avaldi wants some time alone with the King. She groans inwardly at her own dense-ness, and says to Eboric, “Actually, I need to go and organise the riders for an evening at your tavern. It seems some of your guards have claimed that they can out-drink the Riddarnir, and we cannot allow that challenge to pass.” She pats Eboric’s cheek before slipping out from under his cloak, “But I’ll see you in your chambers, later. For that song…” Her blue eyes are flinty – daring him to send her to a spare bed this night, and see what happens! More than a dagger in the dark, she thinks. Then she’s hurrying off, to make sure no-one can whisper that Raidh Jorgunsdotr has a fat, lazy arse.
Avaldi watches her go, and says to Eboric, quietly, “The truth will come hard to her, brother. Our people are not tolerant of .. tainted blood.” He stares at his stump, the ragged scars where wharg-fangs tore his arm apart. “But she must know it, sooner or later.”
Eboric nods his head. "With your father's thousand alongside my men, no enemy in the world could threaten me. But of course, I will gladly ride to meet the Jarl. It is only right that we should speak." As Raidh speaks, he offers her a smile. "You'll find my men are strong drinkers. Your people will be hard-pressed to keep up." At her last few words, he grins again, and waves her onto her business. When she has gone, he turns to Avaldi. "Sooner is best. I will be fetching my son soon, and he cannot control it as I can."
Avaldi’s features abruptly wear a staunch expression, but he nods as if knowing too well how it is with children of the weres. “I would rather cut my tongue out than speak untruth to my father, but he too is yet to know..” Clearly, this is all a painful subject for the man. “Were he not getting old, were his other sons as capable as I of leading our men,” there’s no boast in his words, just flat statement of fact, “Then I may have fallen on my own sword already, this is how despised are weres among the Riddarnir. But our hatred is as ancient as it is deep, and over time the tainted have come to walk among men more freely. It is my belief that the Riders must gain new eyes on this, and a good many other things as well, if we are to continue to hold the plains.” The long speech seems to drain him, and he shrugs. “I think my sister likes you. It is not always the case, with our marriages. But still, she must be loyal, even if she loses that sentiment.” He rises, “We’ll leave for the deep plains in three days, if it suits you.”
Eboric frowns and tugs on his beard in thought, before rising to his feet as well, albeit unsteadily. "Perhaps as they mingle with my people, their opinions will change. I have many, my elite troops, that are like you, or, sometimes, like me. Such things are of no consequence to my people. Vampirism is a different story, of course." As the topic returns to Raidh, Eboric gives a small smile. "She is a...striking woman, and seems to have a good head on her shoulders." he says no more on that, but merely adds, "I will make arrangements."
Avaldi inclines his head in acknowledgement of the King’s words and his mouth returns Eboric’s quick smile, but the Jarl's son is weary of speech and says no more before striding off toward Glaesir for the ride that will cool the great war-horse’s heated temper.