Núll: The Meadhall

Another day comes to an end, but that ending is a beginning. The beginning of another evening spent in the meadhall. The hearth is warm and casts a flickering light across the battleworn and weary faces. Faces that will soon be smiles and snarls as the honey-wine fills their bellies. All are welcome in this hall, from the mightiest of huscarl warriors to the lowest of thralls, from the wildest of berserkir to the most guarded godi with their secrets from the gods. Even you, my intrepid adventurers.

Bujold, the owner of the meadery and the hall, does not charge for his drink; this is not true of the food he serves, however. He delights in the fermenting of many types of mead, and this season you find yourselves drinking a lemon and rosemary mead, with the fruit and herbs having been provided by the exotic Numedians who had a keep and embassy not far from town. The proprietor, a man who is rotund with both muscle and fat, carries steins of his craft with fire-scarred arms; it is rare that he passes a table without a joke or a quip.

At a table closest to the hearth- a table often taken by the Jarl Olaf's huscarls- Sirkjorg rises to his feet and clangs his stein against the boss of a wall-mounted shield. As the hall looks towards the man, he cries out in a voice that is already too drunk, "My friends, my brothers, let us play a game! Let us speak of Toasts, Boasts, and Oaths! I would propose the first toast to Bu.. Bujold, who has slain many-a-man with his stout mead only for them to rise and return the next night!" The hall fills with laughter and the sound of stein pounding on table. Another man, a hunter of no great fame, rises and calls out, "I toast to my wife, who gives me reason to return from each hunt!" It would seem none truly know the man nor his wife, and the noise in the hall quiets to a whisper and a cough. He sits down, embarrassed.

Oren had been playing his lyre by the hearth for well over an hour when the call for toasts went out. His bow hand stilled, the rakish bard reaches quickly for his tankard and an appropriate toast...

"To The All-Father, though it's said he never laughs he still saw fit to give our women the humor needed to take us to bed!"

"Well said, Oren!" cheers Runar, laughing as he rises, stein in hand. "I will toast Yance Leafshadow, who spills blood the way a Southland merchant spills gold - though his customers pay a dearer price!"

The hall, already silent from the poor toast of the hunter, remains silent for a moment. A few confused murmurs until someone finally gets it. Upon that, like a wave, a cacophony rises in crescendo of laughter and slamming of tankards. Runar's toast is almost unheard, but follows a traditional pattern and the crowd understands. He, too, receives an uproar. A shieldmaiden who had just come of age to fight for the Jarl rises, and proposes a toast, "To Freyja, whether she lead us to Valhalla or guide us to Sessrumnir-" [the hall of honorable dead not killed in battle] "...may the Queen of the Valkyries look upon us with favor! And bless our beds, too!" This causes a series of hooting and cheering, for the maiden is rather comely.

"Hear hear!" Oren calls loudly at Runar's toast and again when the shield maiden calls out.

"Especially MY bed! Har har!"

To Freyja!" Kara walks up to Oren, puts down one of both steins close to him and settles down. Bards are not meant to play thirsty and the young hunter knows her manners. "That's hardly necessary, if the birds are to be trusted." She leans back a bit and grins suggestively. Kara raises her tankard to Runar in acknowledgement as well and takes an impressive draught of the fragrant beverage. "Play something cheerful, will you? Something ... epic!" With the unbridled enthusiasm of youth, she beams at him expectantly, for Kara has a great reverance for music and song, even if she cannot produce a straight tone herself.

Oren drains the dregs of his current stein then hoists the fresh mug Kara sets before him for another toast.

"And to the birds! Who's songs grow more beautiful by the moment!"

Oren winks at Kara and lifts his lyre once more,

"All the great epics are tales of death and war but here's a balad about a ship!"

The drone of the bowed lyre is somber but the tempo is pitched and the bard begins to sing:

My mother told me
Someday I will buy
Galley with good oars
Sail to distant shores
Stand up on the prow
Noble barque I steer
Steady course to the haven
Hew many foe-men
Hew many foe-men

Runar returns Kara's gesture of acknowledgement whilst the bard plays. "Surely that was worthy of a toast!" he cries warmly, full of appreciation for a fellow artist's craft. He rises once more and moves to stand beside Oren. "For what good are mighty deeds, if no songs are sung, nor verses spoken of them? To Oren, whose music could inspire the Aesir themselves to victory!" he claps a friendly hand on Oren's shoulder and adds good-naturedly, "And when he's drunk, would send even the greatest frost-giant fleeing!"

Oren laughs heartily at the joke,

"Too many damned strings on this thing when I'm drunk!"

Laughter and joviality fills the warm hall, overly-packed with bodies. The music of Oren carries through the conversations and the jests, and a voice suddenly overwhelms all the others. It is Sirkjorg once again! "Boasts!" he cries out, and the echoing voices repeat, "Boasts! Boasts! Boasts!"

Sirkjorg climbs atop his table and draws in all attention. "It was I who brought forth the battle-dew of the two-headed troll of the Forest of Woe, and put it to sword-sleep!" He pulls out a necklace decorated with several large and rotted teeth, baring it to his audience. His companions let out a fervored cry and slam hands against table. The relatively unknown hunter opts to not make any boasts.

Brindlemane the Ulfheddnar enters.

Wide eyed and still swaying on his feet, the traces of red mud in streaks from where copious sweat had run streamers of it down his face and hair to his legs and feet. Naked save for a Wolfskin the youth stumbled in. He was quite dazed.

And he would be. With the dose of mushrooms he had taken three nights prior, it was a miracle he was still alive. It was obvious from the dilation of his pupils he was still incredibly high. No one had ever taken as many as the twins had, not in memory or legend, drinking as they had deeply from the Well of Knowledge. Egil had perished that very night, but Hraven had lived. He hadn't moved in three days, said nothing, did not respond when even his own mother plead him to. If he was conscious of the outside world during his trip he did not show it.

Shrieking laughter had been the first night and day. He had not stopped laughing for the whole of the day. Even when it was clear it was causing him agony. The height of his high had come on the second morning, during the night he had extricated himself from the Godi's pit and laid on a hillside. Praising the Sun in the language of the Giants. The whole of the third day he had not moved from his spot, instead chanting the futhark runes which he had no way of prior knowing hands raised and eyes affixed to the sky.

The stench coming off him was something special. It didn't smell like rancid sweat or body odor, but exactly as the magical mushrooms smelled. The earthy odor was easily extinguished by the flame and mead. All the smells of the Hearth.

His wide puzzled eyes swept across the room, seeing but not seeing each and every person. No sign of recognition on his stoned face, not a trace of emotion in him currently. Blanched skin, white and thin, he looked like a dead man.

He greeted no one. Only moving when he espied an earth vessel full of clean water. Which he immediately plucked from its rest and lifted to his lips. He drank, long gulps, five, ten, twenty. He kept drinking at this vessel until his stomach had expanded before Unceremoniously losing his balance and spilling the water all over himself. Which, fortunately washed away the remnants of the red clay he had been anointed with.

Managing to set the vessel back in its place he stood straight up, swooning, falling face down to the floor again. Ungainly, uncoordinated, he rose to his hands and knees. Then up on his feet. He found a place to sit by the Hearth and stared into the Flames unblinking for many long minutes.

The mead hall found itself in silence as the young man entered, all eyes finding themselves on him. Some thought they recognized Hraven, but none could truly say they knew the youth that entered tonight. As he drank his fill, they simply watched. A voice in one corner speaks up, not recognizing the situation that sat before him, but quickly quiets down again.

A man by the name of Halfdan approaches after several minutes. Halfdan had known both Hraven and Egil, likely as much as any could claim. "Boy, you have the look of death upon you. And eyes that look into two worlds at once. Have you returned to come to your senses? The Jarl would know what you have learned in your mourning."

"I do not mourn Egil. He dines in Wotan's hall. And to my mind many years have passed since then." Hraven shook his head at the notion, he had walked the Entirety of the Serpent's Trail with Egil and back alone something he wasn't sure Halfdan would understand. "I am afraid Halfdan, so much knowledge did I learn in the ages I spent in the Well of the Worlds." Fully coherent of speech, yes. But Hraven was still speaking in prosaic terms. "I don't want to be burned, but these things I have seen..." Hraven trailed off, he had never once stopped staring into the fire. "I fell through Ginnungagap."

In the months that had passed, Hraven had grown, now seventeen years the youth had grown two inches in height, the difference between he and Yans was now the breadth of a finger, so too had he filled out. Hraven had been a stout lad, now none could question the might of the young man who had thews like a horse and shoulders yoked like the mighty bulls of the northland. The young man possessed keen wisdom, and a sharp intellect recognized the value and profitability of pageantry and a good show. He hosted a feast to toast his companions. Calling all the Free Men and Women to attend in honor of naming the Sword he had recovered from the Vaults of the Winter King.

Upon the festivities start he lead a ram to a sacrificial pyre, tying it to the stone. The ram was surprisingly calm, and those who knew his skill with animals and love for magic mushrooms could easily guess he had drugged the ram, as well as the other sacrifices he brought.

Drawing his new sword from its sheathe he cut the throat of the ram and painted his face with the blood as it poured into a large stoneware vessel for anointing the guests. Caked in the sacrifices blood he held the blade aloft for the crowd and raised his voice for the crowd.

"Sigmund lay dying, bleeding in a field
Battle fought and laid him low by hooded stranger's spear
They call his woman to him, but he would not be healed
The shattered shards of Wotan's Gift lay scattered at his feet
Regin collected shards of sword and made oath to slay the Fiend
He was stopped by Sigmund who named Sigurd his Heir
Revenge on Volsung's killers would be his to take.
Regin took Young Volsung, to a place called Niflheim
With the Shards of Wotan's Gift he forged a mighty blade
He gave the blade to Sigurd, who in turn gave his word
When quest for vengeance thus complete he'd turn it to the Wyrm
The Blade of Holy Sigurd, Son of Sigmund, greatest of the Volsung line.
Gram, Gift of Wotan, Brynhildr's Razor, Drangrsbane, this the mighty hero's sword - for the greatest hero man has made."

He made patent eye contact as he allowed the story to set in.

"This blade is truly Wotan's Gift, and it is named Heilagt. The Holy Blade."

The young man grinned cleaned the blood from the sword and sheathed it bowing. Filling his horn he then raised it. "Here's to a life of roaming around. Where there's a feast we can be found. Traveling wide over sea over land. For glory and fame and a drink in our hand." Clearing the way for the godi to do their work he finished his toast. "Hail to the Day. Hail to the children of Dane. Hail to the Night, the moon, the stars. With gracious eyes may they look upon us and give victory to those in here. Hail to the Æsir, hail to the goddesses. Hail to the mighty fecund Earth. Eloquence and Cunning grant to us, healing hands, to all of us, Hail!" Toasting the guests and saluting them Hraven downed the drinking horn. "Now for why we are all really here, please, drink my mead and eat of my food until we are merry."