Of Winding Ways and Cunning Devices

12th of May 867 A.D.

"Remember that you are men of Numenor skilled in war but gracious in peace. By all the Guiding Light and the Wine-dark sea be on your guard, but not snarling like dogs on a chain and do not forget that we go to meet a king in his own hall. Be that hall ever so humble it is his with his honor dwelling in it or if not that recall that there are all of sixty of us on the ship and twenty one, twenty two going ashore," you tilt your head in brief apology to the young man his fingers testing the strings about the slender neck of an elven lute. "There is a lot more of them out there."

'Out there' was the town of Alode-joki, looking like nothing so much as if a great fleet weary of its long travels had climbed up into the shore on stilted legs and there disgorged from its holds all the raucous life of folk who live by the call of the ever-sighting sea. There are fishermen fulling up heavy nets to slow work chants, the silvery catch flashing in the sun and open hearths cooking some of it right there on the shore to take advantage of the warmer weather.

Definitely 'warmer' not warm as some of the men try to hide a shiver in the morning chill, rediscovering after months of sailing that quality of armor least known by those who glory the idea of soldiers and and most despised by soldiers themselves, armor, even the best mail shirts the craft of men can work always makes you hotter in summer and colder in winter. No doubt for the people Alode-joki you must cut quite the impressive sight, helms tall and shapely, some with pattern of seabirds' wings worked into it, fine threaded mail flowing almost like cloth and shields burnished to a mirror shine.

Having gone into the business of making scepters with sword in hand as much as by the swiftness of your sails some twenty years past one of the most important lessons you had learned is that the best battle is the one you do not fight at all, advice that bites all the sharper now. Even more so than in Novozem, most of the men gathering near the shore are armed, not warriors by craft perhaps but axe and sword and longknife are borne with grim familiarity.

It's the flash of gold that marks the royal party through, gold armbands proudly displayed in the shape of serpents or dragons, their cloaks brighter of hue than the greens and earthy browns most common among the common folk. Among that company apart rides a man in a cloak of red and though upon his head rests a helm and not a crown you cannot mistake the deference of his fellows... nor the rather weary look in his eye as he beholds the Daring Wanderer, riding high in the water like a wooden-ramparted fortress. Perhaps he is wondering if more of them are coming.


"Hail Rurick King we come in peace, gift-giving travelers in far waters!" you call out, voice clear and commanding even if the wind is from the shore. Of all the petty powers sorcery requires the one you use the most, hardly guldur at all, only experience and confidence. If one it to command fire to burn your foes or water to drown them how much easier is it to be heard by men?

Down on a long ramp to the piper men bring bundles of cloth fine instruments, and to the cheers of on lookers, wine. They seem to have decided that you are friendly marvels, still as the first of your guard steps onto the shore mounted, a trick you would not have tried in rougher waters than this, they draw back a little.

Meeting Rurick: 55 + 12 (Diplomacy) = 67 (Success)

The king had said little beyond the customary answer to a greeting that Liv had told you to expect and it is harder to read his lined and sun-beaten face then those of most of his warriors, but once you are ashore he reaches out to grasp your arm and asks a question in the tongue you now recognize as Greek, though you must sadly shake your head.

"This tongue is all I have, new learned. Still many words-lost."

"What is your tongue then and whence is your land?" a younger man whom you would have marked as the king's brother even without the introduction. Signjótr is his name and uneasy is his countenance. "Why do you come here now on..."

"Peace brother, do not question guests new come to shore like the cries of pecking gulls," the king says. Or at least that is what it sounds like he is saying. There is nothing you hate more than ignorance, even half-ignorance.

What do you reply?

[] Give the same accounting you did at Novozem

[] Reply that it is a sad tale, one better told in high company with song and drink to dull the edge

[] Write in

OOC: So far so good, you did not insult anyone and the fact that you started unloading barrels of wine makes everyone happy as the custom is that any great feast in the king's hall should also be shared with the people in some measure. Basically you just declared a festival.