Sven & Gusi: "Giants!" *splat!*

[Wargie]

The world of the north:
Forests so wide the eye can not see the end of them. The steppes, dead in winter, nothing but snow. It kills all but a few. In summer and spring they transform into vast green fields, giant herds wandering side by side by side with the nomadic tribes. See the coast, magnificent tall grey cliffs, at their shores long ships lie. Feared men with great beards dressed chain and leather stand by the railings, eyes turned towards the south and west, looking for distant shores and plunder to take. See the icy north, the lone bear that wanders on the hard crust of the snow. High above, a cloud free sky. See! A flash of light! What was once a star filled patch of sky, nine stars break free and fall across the heaven. The patch remains black, the stars are gone, and down below the world begins to turn.

Three elder women sit below a tree, their hands move across a loom, and then they stop. Their eyes are raised from the loom that changes beneath their fingers and stare upon the sky. As one they scream.

The wind howls and twists as it passes the corners of the building. Somewhere in the small village a dog howls. A few window shutters slam in the wind and a few signs rattle uneasily on their hinges. In a small room on the top floor of the biggest building sits a man covered in furs. In the light of a single lantern he sits bent over his desk. Sven Friedrikrsson is his name and he is facing a problem. He is cold to the bones but there no thing in the world that can drag him away from his work. All over the floor in this cramped space lie pieces of parchment with scribbled words. All pressed into tiny balls. His mind wanders as he once again finds himself having to thaw the ink that he uses.

'œAh. Sven, my great skald, we have been invited to Njordborg for Yule to celebrate with the king! Is this not great? Games will be held and great prizes will await those who win.
The biggest competition is that of the skalds, and I want you to write and perform a masterpiece and show those big city folks that they are not as great as they think! It shall grant us all great honour, specially for you!'

Sven now finds himself struggling with how to write this work of art for not only his own honor but the one of chief Hjalli son of Njal, his current employer. It is a month to Yule and the days are passing by quickly'¦

GM

So welcome Bitom, and only Bitom at this point. I hope we shall have fun. Please post when you feel ready.

[Bitom]

In truth, there is only one thing that can draw the singer from his work. Unfortunatly, it was given to him when the work was aggigned in the first place. Njordburg. The name echos in his mind, freeing memories like demons to interfere with his work. He throws his quill down again and balls up another piece of parchment, then pushes back from the small desk. A metal plate and a pile of his failed attempts make a warming, if brief fire to warm his hands as the memories fade and the fears come to take his place. There will be no avoiding him during the contest, so this had better be good. It will have to justify my decision to his friends, if not to him. He returns to the desk and starts scratching again. He doesn't normally use parchment, and the cost of these sheets are why he's in a room with no fire, but it has to be perfect. Everything is at stake. For better or for worse, father, I'm coming home.

[Wargie]

There is a solid set of thuds coming from the stairs that warns Sven that someone is coming to see him. The steps comes closer and then with a grunt someone pushes aside the hatch that leads inside. Into the room walks an old man covered in great furs, so many and so thick that his neck is totally missing. All that is seen is a thin grey beard that flows down upon the chest, top of the head is clad in a fur cap and below the rim are two bushy eyebrows. The figure shivers for a moment as he attempts to adapt his eyes to the faint light of the room.

The man clears his throat, and coughs, the sound of a truly old man and then speaks up, and as the voice is heard Sven recognizes it at once. It is Njal the old leader chief of the village. "Sven my lad, I see my son has set you to work." He looks around the room for a free place to sit, and there isn't much inside and in the end he sits down upon a low stool while excusing himself, "My legs are not what they used to be." he looks upon the cold Sven and continues, "So what great story are you writing now? Can you tell it for me, as in the old days?"

Years back when Sven left Njordborg he was down on his luck until he came across Njal, a man who was back then already an old man, though he was an old man with visions. He had seen and heard the skalds of Njordborg and wanted one in his own village of Fiskaback so he could boast before the other leaders of villages along the coast. Njal took pity on Sven and hired him to tell stories each night in the great hall. For each story Sven recieved either coin or something he would need to continue his work as a skald.

"So?" the old man says again.

[Bitom]

Sven smiles, pushing back from the desk. "Njal of Fiskaback, I am not that starving boy you took in years ago, telling the bedtime stories his mother taught him for a coin or two to buy bread. You have turned me, much against my will, into a skald. I have given law and made judgement. I have composed great ballads, and sung those composed by others. And now you ask me to violate the rules of contest by telling you the tale before its time? Songs sung at contest are sung for the first time at contest. You know that as well as I. So why are you REALLY, here, old man?" Sven crosses his hands across a belly that hasn't gone empty for lack of funds in some time. "Are you just here to make sure I don't tell the truth about your son, or is there some less sinister motive?"

[Wargie]

The old man pushes his fur hat back a bit as he listens to the ramblings of the young skald and then smiles as Sven finally silences. "So you have not come up with anything yet. It was as I expected." he bends his back slowly and picks up a piece of curled up parchment from the floor and opens it up. He squints as he attempts to read it, "..and her bossom was large.." he looks up and raises an eyebrow "Right..." he curls the piece of parchment up into a ball again and drops it on the floor.

"I think you shall need some help young skald. There is a mead made from the blood of Kvasir as you probably know, which is given to those skalds in need of inspiration!" he rises from his seat and winks at Sven, "I don't have that type of mead, but I think that there is truth in that story, and that all mead can give a man inspiration! So come and join me by a fire to see inspiration!"

[Bitom]

Sven laughs as the man quotes something off of his sheets that he most certainly didn't write. "Fah! I have inspiration up to here!" He holds his hand at his neck, then after a moment's consideration, drops it to crotch level. "What I don't have is a story! Come! We'll drink, and you can tell me something your son has done other than kill doe-eyed deer and bed doe-eyed maids. One can only say 'doe-eyed' so many times in a serious song before one is chased off the stage and beaten with sticks."

[Wargie]

"My son have killed doe-eyed deer?" The old man turns and gives Sven a surprised look with his two bushy eyebrows. "I am impressed by him." He then shakes his head and slams open the hatch and begins to walk downstairs while he continues to speak, "My son has never performed any great deed, except scrabbling down numbers in columns on skin and then on parchment." The man takes his time as he walks down the stairs, his legs not being what they used to be. He grunts loudly, "You should either write of what is to come! Or what has already passed...but that is what everybody else will do." They finally reach the bottom of the stairs and make the way towards the door.

As it opens the rushing wind is heard, and diagonal rain is well, pouring down sideways. The old man pops out his head "We move fast and swift! A hundred feet down and then left through the door of the stag." And so the old man goes out in the rain and makes way to the inn.

[Bitom]

Sven races through the slanting rain, terying to beat the old man to the inn door and open it for him. He knows who his real patron still is, but that doesn't mean he doesn't heckle the man for his slowness until they are both out of the cold rain.

[Wargie]

Njal catches up with Sven as the door swings open and then steps inside what could be a sauna. It is rather large hall, littered with tables and benches. A long one of the wall there runs a firepit which burns with high flames spreading the heat throughout the room. A busy fat and greasy man runs between the table serving mead and the giant pig that is roasting above the firepit.

Njal moves between the tables, grunting and moaning at people he knows and who all grunt and moan back at the sight of their old leader. He manages to find some room on two benches and sits down and begins to remove some of the furs covering his body. The owner of this taverns our rather mead house is Arne who stumbles over with two large horns of mead for the two men.

Njal takes a first sip of it and grunts, "Been tasting like ratpiss for years." he takes another sip, "At least it is good ratpiss." he puts the horn down on the table and then stares into the eyes of Sven, "Now...tell me what you plan."

[Bitom]

Sven follows along, shedding his less significant quantity of furs as he goes. He also picks up the ratpiss, but for him it is good, as defined as: Free. He smacks his lips. "No... rat turds... in goat piss, I believe."

Finally, he settles a little and allows the old man to talk business. "What do you mean, what do I plan? I plan to write a ballad honoring your son. I plan to sing it at the contest in Njordburg. What are you worried about, old man? you know I'm the best."