Northern Winds

Azel · Jun 7, 2020

ᚾᛟᚱᚦᚨᚾᚹᛁᚾᛞᚢᚱ
Prologue

It is not the filthy crawlspace you have been crammed into for the last few weeks or the thin gruel that barely sustains you, but the cold and darkness that is your sole companion. Through the planks above you sometimes glimpse the barest rays of light, but they are not the same as in your home. Pale and grey, more akin to moonlight then the warmth of the sun and where it strikes your bare skin, it can not ward of the dampness and the chill. The sea is cold as ice and with every creak and groan of the ship, you fear that it will break through the thin hull and claim you whole.

How many days you have spent like this, you could not truly tell. When they chained you into that tiny box inside their ship, it was late summer, but you skin was cold and clammy as if in deepest winter. It was colder in the north, that much you knew, but you never had experienced it for yourself. The lands of the Imperium were warm and bright, snow barely seen outside the mountains and deepest winter. Yet the tales you heard about your captors homelands spoke of snow that lasted whole seasons, of storms that froze a mans blood in his veins and that even the salty sea would turn to ice in winter.

Back then, hearing such tales from singers while you drank wine in the sun, they seemed made up. What kind of people would live in such lands if they had a choice? How could you even live there? Now you could believe it though. Now you had met the people who called such blighted places their home. Vikings they called themselves, seafarers and raiders. Barbarians people called them in your own tongue, scum that came to the Imperium to do nothing but plunder and rape, taking everything and everyone that caught their fancy.

You still remember every moment of the battle. Every face you saw, every breath you took, and the smell of blood as they cut through everyone that stood in their way. The stench of burned flesh when their sorcerer threw thunder and lightning, the last moments of their victims searing themselves into your eyes. But not you. You were not among the dead. For now. Your fate was still in the balance, though you did not dare to hope right now.

The Northmen took slaves, true, but they also did worse things. Some of their plunder, they offered to their pagan gods, making little distinction between gold and people. You probably were not worth all that much to some deity, but it was hard to say if that made it more or less likely that your long journey over the sea would lead you to a gruesome end. After all, before they clasped you in iron, you had been just a common…

[] Menial Slave
Neither iron chains nor the crack of a whip is foreign to you, having been born into them. Over the years you had many masters, some probably crueller than even the Northmen, but you always knew how to stay out of trouble. The long years of hard labour made you strong and you learned early to master your feelings and please those with power over you. It was never a great life that you lived, but you lived and that is all that mattered in the end.

[] Household Slave
While you never knew freedom, you neither truly faced hardship. Cooking, cleaning and serving your masters was no back breaking labour and with diligence and humility, you learned a thing or two about the world while waiting on magistrates and senators. Your last master even trusted you to keep his household, having you taught letters and numbers for that purpose, though how much that will serve you in the north, you do not know.

[] Soldier
Born as a late son to a farmer left you little choice, but to make your own way in life as soon as you could. The Legions lured many young men like you with the promise of steady pay and a plot of land once your service was over, though now that small farmstead will forever remain a distant dream. At least the Legion taught you how to fight, a skill the Northmen value greatly, even though you fared badly against the Vikings that captured you.

[] Merchant
A life of travel left you with few ties to your homelands, but with many tales to tell about the world. It had been your curiosity that drove you to the trade of a faring merchant and before the fateful day if your capture, you never regretted it. Perhaps your experience might be your chance at survival or even freedom though, for you know quite well how to convince others and speak enough of the Northmen tongue to try your luck. If one of them ever listens that is.

[] Thief
Having eked out a living at the expense of others, ever presented with the choice between starvation or the risk of capture, left you with a rather fatalistic attitude. You always expected to meet a violent end one day and tried your best to push that day as far away as possible. Being quick and sticking to the shadows had served you well in that regard, until your luck ran out and you were caught. It was cruel irony that the Vikings came before judgement could be passed on you, but maybe your chances were better now than before.

The monotony of your existence is mind numbing, your small box being opened, and a cup of gruel forced into your hand whenever your captors please. Only the coming and going of the sun helps you to count the days, but after a while you can no longer be sure if you were even counting them right. You drift in and out of sleep, only the sounds of the ship and the sea reaching your ears. But then, something other is there. Birds. Seagulls. Your journey is reaching its end.

It is at least another day before you reach the harbour and you hear the distant sounds of a city, of people talking and shouting, horses and oxen drawing carts through the streets. Not much later, you are brought out of the tiny room you were kept in and one of the burly Vikings threads a rope through your chains. A few other people captured alongside you are already bound to it and a few more are added to the procession behind you, then the march starts.

The sun stings in your eyes as you leave the ship, even though it his hidden behind the dull grey clouds spanning the sky. You nearly stumble as the Northmen drag all of you onward to the streets of the city. And a city it is, indeed, not some small hamlet or a group of barbarians in huts. The houses are made from planks thatched in reed, or hewn stone with wooden shingles, and the roads covered in even stone plates that could rival even Imperial work.

You marvel at the people out and about, dressed in finely made wool and expensive furs. At the streets filled with nothing but shops and the people buying from them. At the sounds of merriment drifting out of the tavern you pass, accompanied by the heady scent of some sort of alcohol. And above the roofs, you briefly glimpse other things. A palace resting on a rocky hill at the sea. A giant building with tiered roofs, every wall a window made from stained glass depicting scenes you cannot quite make out.

Travelers who had come this far north often told of the great cities of the Northmen and how they were no lesser then the Imperial ones, but only now that you see it for yourself you believe it. They were not myths told by self-important barbarians. And in some strange way, it fills you with hope. This place is not your home, far from it, but with every slave you pass, every row of shops where you spot a few men and women who seem to not quite fit in with the Northmen, you know that you too can find a place here.

At long last you reach a large plaza, stages arrayed on its edges and on one of those your captors drag you. By now your feet are sore from the walk and your legs tired from the exertion after all the time of disuse, but you give your best to keep standing upright and looking well. It is not fear of your captor's ire that drives you. You know a slave market when you see one, and you also know that nobody would buy someone who seems only a strong push from keeling over.

So, you push down the pain and the tiredness, blink the tears from your straining eyes to look to the crowd and upon those you might soon call master, wondering who all these people are. Most look like those you spotted in the streets, Freemen you would wager, though some groups stand out. You see warriors clad in heavy armour, the shields on their backs bedecked in symbols and pictures that make no sense to you. Sometimes they surround other men and women who look more wealthy, heavy golden jewellery adorning their clothes, beards and hair, other times walking on their own.

Some robed figures you spot too, sorcerers like the one you saw during the battle, many wielding large staffs while others bear belts carrying pouches and collections of long sticks. Or perhaps they are priests? Others seem to treat them with respect and even as the day goes on and the plaza fills, the robed figures never have to push or shove others out of the way, the crowd parting on its own for them.

Soon it is your time to be led to the small crate in the centre of the stage and then the bidding starts. You wonder if you will fetch a good price. After all, you are a young and healthy…

[] Man
[] Woman

… and that should count for something at least. There is some interest in you, a few people bidding against each other, though in the end, you are bought by…

[] A Clan
Soon you learn that the symbols on the shields of the warriors denote their membership in a given clan and that you are now the property of one of them. What they will have you do, you do not know yet, expecting anything from menial work to be used as a household servant.

[] The Priesthood
One of the robed figures paid the price for you, leaving you dreading your fate. They say the barbarians tell the future from a mans innards and slaughter them like cattle to empower their spells. At the same time, the people do not seem to fear the priests, making you doubt the accuracy of such claims.

[] The Arena
It seems the Northmen even have their own arenas and gladiators, of which you are now one. In the Imperium, it is a prestigious if risky life to fight in the sands, but knowing little of the Northmens customs, you are not sure if the same will hold true here.

AN: Welcome to my newest quest, this time with a much shorter character creation. Please generally use plan voting unless I indicate otherwise.

Azel · Jun 7, 2020

Clan af Dagr

A large and probably important clan in the city and the current owners of Lucia. As of yet, you know little of the clan or it's history, though it appears to hold sway over an entire district over the city and has ties to many other important clans.

Main Family

Lord Lífsteinn Bjornson af Dagr
A slightly chubby man with long, grey hair and beard, which show some errand strands of ash blond hair among them if you look closely enough. He is the current leader of the clan, but despite that seems to rarely be in the clanhold, instead spending most of his days on matters in the city. While looks alone might be deceiving, he appears to be not as martially inclined as his wife and eldest children, instead carrying himself with the air of a merchant or courtier.

Lady Ragnhildr Asriðrdottir af Dagr
The matriarch of the clan and the person who is usually in charge of the clanhold itself, commanding both the garrison and the servants. She is often seen in armored robes and ocassionally still trains with the warriors and especially her daughter Rannveig. Despite her lean stature, she is quite strong and her usual cold demeanor hides a fiery temper. Ever since the split in the family, she has taken up residence in the guest quarters of the hold, shunning he husbands presence and even refusing to share a table with him during meal times.

Stéfnir Lífsteinnson af Dagr
Eldest son of the Lord and as of recently his desired successor. He recently returned from a long and successful raid, bringing riches and glory with him. He outwardly pretends that nothing is wrong, but others whisper that he seems gloomy and withdrawn since the clash with his sister.

Randvér Lífsteinnson af Dagr
The second son, junior to Stéfnir by a year, and rather similar to him in both appearance and behavior. The two of them are inseparable since Stéfnirs return and they often make trips to the city together or can be found training in one of the yards.

Rannveig Lífsteinndottir af Dagr
Eldest child of the Lord af Dagr and as such, until recently, the Tanist of the clan. She had been groomed for the role since birth and when her father proclaimed his intention to make her brother Stéfnir his successor, she vocally object and declared a grudge against him over the matter. Now she plans to raid some place beyond the ocean to the west to prove herself. She is in many ways like her mother, though the cold shell she presents others is much thinner and she has a reputation to be easy to provoke.

Auðvin
Third son of the current Lord, but he became a Gothir in young years and has cut all ties with the clan. Apparently there was some row between the Lord and the Lady shortly before he left.

Nóri Lífsteinnson af Dagr
A young man and the youngest son of the Lady af Dagr, often considered the black sheep of the family. He is known to amuse himself by flaunting his ability to leave the hold whenever he pleases, no matter the orders of his parents, and is a known troublemaker all over the city. Especially the Gothra hold him in contempt for some event in years past. He also is known to be rather affectionate towards some of the female slaves, having allegedly sired a child on a stable hand named Irpa.

Dagr Hórason af Dagr
A young boy that the Lord had with a common whore, which is something nobody lets him forget by even naming him after his mothers profession. As a result, he is rather quiet and withdrawn, preferring to not draw the attention of his elder siblings.

Valgerðr and Undrlaug Lífsteinndottir af Dagr
The straw blond twins are the youngest children of the Lord. Their mother was his mistress Svafa, who died in child-bed. They mostly stay in the quarters of the family, where their wet nurse Halla takes care of them. The Lady outwardly is distant to the two, but rumor is that she can be rather affectionate towards them behind closed doors.

Slaves and Servants

Gunthar
The Seneschal of the clan and thus in charge of all slaves and servants of the household. Outwardly a friendly and unfailingly polite man, but most of the slaves fear him for his coldness. It's said that he his loyal to the main family above all else and that he would commit any atrocity willingly and happily, just to please them.

Nechtan
Head cook of the clanhold and in charge of the slaves in the kitchen. He can be rather demanding, though also often shows some genuine kindness to others. Above all else though, he tries to run the kitchen as tightly as possible, seeking to make his charges lives easier by keeping them out of trouble and the attention of Gunthar elsewhere.

Ingomer
A rather unpleasant woman, who is the only other in the kitchen besides Nechtan who speaks fluent Imperial. She is often derisive of others and seems to dislike you solely for being born in the Imperium, though she equally dislikes anyone of Northmen descend.

Azel · Jun 9, 2020

[X] Plan: Shadows in Ice
-[X] Thief
-[X] Woman
-[X] A Clan

ᚲᛖᚦᛃᚢᚱ ᛊᛇᛏᚨᚱ ᚲᛖᚦᛃᚢᚱ
Chapter 1

As you are led down the stage, your knees nearly buckle as the tension leaves your body. For better or for worse, your fate is now decided. Though all things considered, it seems not all that bad. The Viking holding you by the chains even lets you sit down for a moment as your buyer approaches, giving you a moment to look him over as he approaches.

The man himself stands out from the crowd, his grey hair cropped short and his face cleanly shaven, wearing a heavy robe of black wool with red trim. Your instincts peg him as a target. Wealthy, but not so much that you would get in trouble just for getting close enough for him to take his purse. However, the two other men he is with dispel any such notion.

Both are heavy set, bearing sword on their belts and shields on their back, the latter painted a solid black with angular patterns in the middle and around the edge. The leathers they wear are dyed red with black iron studs serving as both decoration and armour. Guards, you think, even though the matching clothes and colours of these people remind you more of legionnaires then the paid thugs of a trader, or even the retainers of a magistrate.

Without much ceremony, your shackles are taken off, revealing raw and tender skin beneath. Immediately the older man steps forward and coils a chain around your wrist, making you flinch back. But his grip is tight and as he presses the cold metal deeper into your skin, he whispers something, too faint for you to hear. Then the pressure is gone, and you stare curiously at your wrist. Instead of a chain, there is now an iron bracelet, looking like a knotted rope inscribed with the angular symbols the Northmen seem to use with everything. It seems completely solid, without any clasps or hinges, making you wonder what just happened.

"ᛏᚨᛚᚨᚱ ᚦᚢ ᛏᚢᛜᚢᛗᚨᚢᛚ ᛟᚲᚲᚨᚱ?" You look up when you hear the mans voice, who makes an effort to have the harsh sounding words come of soft. The only problem is that you do not understand a single word. "ᚹᛁᛖᛚᛚᛖᛁᚲᚺᛏ ᚨᛚᛚᛖᛗᚨᚾᚾᛁᛊᚲᚺ?" He tries again, but you just slowly shake your head, unsure what else to do.

"Do you perhaps speak Imperial?" This time you understand him, even though the way he speaks sound much harsher than you are used to. So you nod this time and he smiles in return. "Good. You will learn the local tongue in time. What is your name?"

When you try to speak, only a rasping sound comes out at first, sending you into a coughing fit. It is only now that you truly notice that you have not spoken a single word in weeks, having stopped to try after your captors responded to nothing. "Lucia," you answer him once you can speak properly. "From Burdigala." That you say with less surety, even though he looks like the type to know a far away city, since you could be on the other end of the world for all you know.

"You may call me Gunthar. I am the Seneschal of clan af Dagr." With that he turns, waving you to follow.

It takes a while for you to reach the 'clanhold' as Gunthar calls it, but when you stand before it, the term begins to make sense. It looks like a cross between a villa and a fort, the lover level made from polished stone blocks without windows and with a large, wooden gate the only entrance. The gate is richly decorated though, each wing bearing the same sigil as on the guards shields surrounded by twisting carvings of snakes, wolves, bears and ravens. Above it sits, like a crown, two more stories made from wood that is lacquered bright red with the occasional carvings and pictures outlined in black.

The gate opens for you group without a word or command from Gunthar and his steps speed up as you approach the house. For most of the walk, he kept a rather sedate pace that you are rather grateful for, but now you must hurry again and notice how every fast step drains the wind from you. You quickly stride over the small courtyard and into the hold proper, noticing from the corner of your eyes how the guards stay behind at the gate. Gunthar walks on though and aside from him likely expecting you to follow, you have little interest to be separated from the only person who you can speak to.

The entrance hall of the hold is just as lavish as the outside, every bit of wood and stone decorated with finely made carvings, some of them inlaid with gold and silver. Large tapestries hang on two of the walls, depicting scenes of battles and ships, though something else has you full attention. In the middle of the rooms stands a woman, long red hair falling down her shoulders and onto a chainmail shirt, her hand resting on the hilt of a blade in a silver sheath.

Gunthar bows before her and begins to speak in the Northmen's tongue again, leaving you to stand awkwardly, unsure what to do. "ᚲᚹᛖᚦᛃᚢᚱ, ᚠᚱᚢ ᛗᛁᚾ," he says before rising and gesturing at you. ᛃᛖᚷ ᛖᚱ ᚲᛟᛗᛁᚾᚾ ᚨᚠᛏᚢᚱ ᛗᛖᚦ ᚾᛁᛃᚨ ᚦᚱᛇᛚᛁᚾᚾ ᚠᛁᚱᛁᚱ ᛖᛚᛞᚺᚢᛉᛁᚾ."

She looks expectantly at you for a long moment and only when it slowly shifts to annoyance do you understand that she is apparently important. Hastily you bow too and keep your head down while she turns back to Gunthar. "ᚷᛟᛏᛏ ᚨᚦ ᚺᛖᚾᚾᛁ ᛖᚱ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛇᛏᛚᚨᚦ ᚨᚦ ᚦᛃᛟᚢᚾᚨ ᛊᛏᛖᛚᛈᚨ. ᛉᛁᚦᛗᛖᚾᚾᛏ ᚺᛖᚾᚾᚨᚱ ᛊᚲᛟᚱᛏᛁᚱ ᚠᚱᛖᚲᚨᚱ." Slowly you look back up, hoping to at least catch the gist of what they talk about from tone and expression. Unfortunately, the important woman seems a bit annoyed, taking a low tone when she speaks on. "ᛃᛖᚷ ᚹᛟᚾᚨ ᚨᚦ ᚦᚨᚦ ᚹᛖᚱᚦᛁ ᛖᛜᛁᚾ ᚹᚨᚾᛞᚨᛗᚨᚢᛚ ᚨᚢ ᛞᛟᛖᚠᛁᚾᚾᛁ."

The seneschals bows again, making you guess he was reprimanded. "ᛃᛖᚷ ᛗᚢᚾ ᛊᛃᚨᚢ ᛏᛁᛚ ᚦᛖᛊᛉ ᚨᚦ ᚦᚨᚦ ᚹᛖᚱᚦᛁ ᛖᛜᛁᚾᚾ, ᚠᚱᚢ ᛗᛁᚾ. ᚦᚹᛁ ᛗᛁᚦᚢᚱ ᛏᚨᛚᚨᚱ ᚺᚢᚾ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛏᚢᛜᚢᛗᚨᚢᛚᛁᚦ ᛟᚲᚲᚨᚱ ᛖᚾᚾᚦᚨᚢ, ᛊᚹᛟ ᛃᛖᚷ ᛒᛁᚦᛊᛏ ᚨᚠᛉᛟᛖᚲᚢᚾᚨᚱ ᛖᚠ ᚺᚢᚾ ᛊᚹᚨᚱᚨᚱ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛊᚲᛁᛈᚢᚾᚢᛗ ᚦᛁᚾᚢᛗ ᛏᚨᚠᚨᚱᛚᚨᚢᛊᛏ." Again, the woman glances at you with annoyance, but then nods to Gunthar and leaves without another word.

It is not until she has closed the door again that he rises and turns to you. "That was the lady af Dagr. You would do well for yourself if you bowed before anyone unknown you meet in these halls. Not all members of the main clan are as forgiving as her." There is no real threat or menace to his words, but you know what he means just the same. You would prefer not to get beaten and whipped for disrespecting someone who considers themselves important.

The thought reminds of you of your home and how some of the freemen treated their slaves. It also reminds you why you choose to live in the gutter and steal to stay fed instead of selling yourself to someone. "And what am I supposed to do when I get an order? You are the only one I understand here." A bit of heat creeps into your voice. Somewhere in the cramped ball your mind became in the last weeks, your old temper stirs.

However, Gunthar seems unperturbed by that, keeping the same calm and pleasant demeanour he has shown you the whole time. "The words are: ᚠᛁᚱᛁᚱᚷᛖᚠᚦᚢ. ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛊᚲᛁᛚᛃᚨ."

You give him a dubious look, but try to say it none the less. "ᚠᛁᚱᚱᛃᛖᚠᛟᚢ. ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛊᛃᛁᛚᚨ." It sounds close enough to your ears, but it is not as if the sounds mean anything to you.

"Passable," is Gunthars assessment, though his tone betrays that it was anything but. "It should not be an issue since you are supposed to work in the kitchens. As you are a woman, I take it you are skilled at cooking and cleaning?"

The implication that you are a pampered housewife rankles somewhat and you are not skilled at either of those. At least you are certain that roasting rodents over a campfire does not constitute cooking and you never owned anything that would have needed cleaning. However, you are not stupid either. This sounded a lot better than whatever other labours he might have for you. "Of course," you answer in what you hope is a demure tone, bowing slightly before him.

It is hard to say if Gunthar buys the lie, but he does not show either way and just turns again, motioning you to follow. "Then you will be housed with the kitchen staff. The head cook and some others speak some measure of Imperial, so they can teach you Norse. If you comport yourself well and learn it soon, you might get other duties."

As he speaks, he leads you through the hallways, past many doors and tapestries, but also people. This clanhold seems to be a busy place, with warriors, servants and important looking folk passing you. The latter part you mostly identify by how Gunthar bows before them as he passes and this time you make sure to do the same every time, even though you still get a few strange looks for the dirty rags you are wearing. You deeply miss the public baths of Burdigala already.

The house is truly huge, with far too many twisting paths and stairways. You just hope you will not be asked to navigate it any time soon, or you might get hopelessly lost. After a while, Gunthar stops in a less important part of the hold, or at least the lack of décor and plain, unlacquered wood implies that. "There we are." With this he gestures towards a plain door. "The cook, Nechtan, will explain your sleeping arrangements and duties. Or do you have any questions?"

Do you?

[] (Optional) Ask something:

-[] Write-In

What will you do in your first days in this house?

[] Work lightly. You need to rest to recover from the ordeal on the ship.

[] Work lightly. You would rather spend some time to get to know the other servants.

~~[] Work lightly. Try to learn the local language from the other servants.~~ Need a friendly relationship with the other servants first.

[] Work lightly. Sneak around and explore the clanhold.

~~[] Work lightly. Sneak around and listen in on people.~~ You don't understand the people.

[] Work hard. Gunthar seems to be important, so impressing him might be helpful.

AN: Mostly a setup chapter. Keep in mind that Gunthar might note like it if you ask something like 'how do I get the bracelet off?' or 'how do I sneak out of the clanhold?'.

Azel · Jun 10, 2020

[X] Work lightly. Sneak around and explore the clanhold.

ᚱᚨᚾᚾᛉᛟᚢᚲᚾᛁᚱ
Chapter 2

After however many days on the ship, the cot next to the kitchen was feeling like a luxury. You had fresh bedding and a blanket to ward of the cold and sharing the room with all the other kitchen slaves was not all that bothersome. It took a lot more then a few quiet conversations to keep you from sleeping at the best of times and your first evening was anything but. Nechtan the cook had taken one look at you, almost forced a bowl of cabbage soup into your hand and told you to sleep the moment it was empty. That was an order you gladly obeyed.

It was only on the next day that the tall, thin man properly introduced himself and the other slaves properly. Nechtan himself was born into slavery, knowing not much about his ancestry except that he came from folk that the Northmen called something that roughly meant 'the painted people'. He was also the one in charge of the kitchen staff, which consisted of two more cooks, four servers and a about a dozen other people who were tasked with cleaning, cutting, goat a milking and a host of other minor things. You tried your best to memorize at least the names and faces, especially those few who spoke a lick of Imperial, but the rush in which it was explained to you made it hard.

The head cook was not one for dawdling, keeping everyone around him busy all the time. Despite that, the other slaves liked him, as he was kind and fair to them and quite friendly company whenever there was no work to do. To you though? He quickly became a bane. On the first day in the clanhold, he had you follow people around all the time to learn where the most important places where. The larder, the cellars, a place he had called the ice room, which indeed was cold as the deepest winter and coated in a thin layer of frost and the rooms of the slaves whose duty it was to clean the clanhold. There was also apparently a stable housing goats, pigs and hens nearby, but you were not allowed to leave the hold for now.

The work was, all things considered, not that bad. After a few days, you had learned a bit and Nechtan lowered his expectations a lot, leaving you with tasks you could do to his satisfaction. That meant mostly cutting onions, beets and other things that you could not really mess up, and fetching things from the many storage rooms of the hold. In return, you got two meals a day, sometimes even a few scraps of meat that were left over from the masters meals, and a warm cot for yourself. No need to grab something from a merchants stall and run for it. No need to catch and skin rats on your own. No walking through cold rain all day.

However, the routine rankled. Not in the first few days, when everything was still new and strange, your body weak and your mind fearful of the people around you. Yet after the first time you moaned about having to cut onions yet again, the seed was planted, and it grew quickly. You wanted out. Leaving this gigantic house to roam the streets. Even sleeping under open sky began to sound inviting after a while. You could have had the same arrangement back in Burdigala, yet had chosen to make it on your own. And now that the fear and novelty had worn off, you remembered why. You weren't meant for chains, no matter how comfortable they were.

Instead you began to dawdle whenever you had a reason to leave the kitchens, taking detours and peeking into any room whose door was not closed entirely. The problem were the guards and other people walking through the hold all the time. Without a clear reason for you to be somewhere, they quickly became suspicious and there was one terrifying moment when one of them started to yell at you in the Northmens language. Luckily, he dragged you to Nechtan instead of doing anything worse and the cook managed to placate the guard after you lied to him that you had just gotten lost. It was a close thing though and you doubted that you would get away with it a second time.

The solution came to you a few days later, when you had been sent to fetch the cleaned tablecloths from the housekeepers. That time, you truly had been lost, but this time, no one seemed to mind you wandering around. A slave with a stack of cloth in his arms looked busy after all, and a busy slave was a good slave. And unlike a bowl full of cabbage that looked out of place to be carried around far away from the kitchens, the stack of cloth made sense no matter where you went with them.

It was still a risk though and you could not walk around endlessly without raising suspicion in the kitchens instead. After the second trip, Nechtan had a few stern word to offer about your time wasting and even when you cut them shorter, it became clear that you were not exactly becoming his favourite. It did not matter though. You were learning a lot and that was worth more then his approval.

The hold was huge, encompassing multiple yards, training halls, a horse stable and even a smithy that seemed to be constantly busy making and repairing weapons. The Northmen truly were a warlike folk, many of them training all day. Once you even glimpsed the lady af Dragr again who was handily defeating a handful of guards in a mock duel. Only her last opponent, who looked a lot like a younger version of the lady and fought with two axes, managed to give her any trouble. The display reminded you of the few times you managed to sneak into the coliseum of Burdigala and you left with great reluctance when the duel dragged on, wondering who had won it the entire evening.

Most of the building was dedicated to living quarters though, with those of the highest ranking clan members being in centre of the hold, right above the great feast hall, while the guards had to make due with bunks near the outer walls. You carefully tried to tease a bit of information out of the other slaves whenever you could and were quite surprised to learn that even them belonged to the clan. Apparently, the Northmen held that blood was blood, no matter if a child was sired to a mans wife or his lovers and thus the families were quite sprawling after a while. A whole part of the city was nothing but people belonging to the clan af Dragr, who all paid homage to the main family living in the clanhold.

However, the strangest discovery you made was not a place, but a man. He was blonde and still with a boyish look to him, his beard and hair kept short. His clothes seemed rather expensive, making you think he is important, but he did not behave like anyone else in the hold. You often saw him skulking around, sneaking up on guards and slaves alike. The former seemed to accept his antics with some annoyance, while some of the latter seemed to like him. Once he even tried to sneak up on you, though you spotted him while he was quite a distance away. When he noticed that he had been spotted, he spoke something, then bowed, bowed, to you and went away, leaving you reeling from how the terror of the moment had turned to confusion into the blink of an eye.

After that, you decided to stay put for a while, dodging any duty that would bring you of the kitchen for a few days. The change of pace was not lost on Nechtan and neither that you were rather unfocused when working, but still got a lot more done then before because you were not dawdling somewhere. He also was not checking the linen cabinet quite as often as the weeks before, making you dread that he had noticed how you borrowed a few things from there now and then. He had not said anything to you, but you certainly noticed how he had begun to only send someone on errands when you were already busy and could not volunteer.

At least you learned the lay of the hold somewhat.

What do you want to do in the coming days?

[] Work lightly. You would rather spend some time to get to know the other servants.

[] Work lightly. Try to learn the local language from the other servants.

[] Work lightly. Sneak out at night and explore the parts of clanhold that are too heavily frequented during the day.

~~[] Work lightly. Sneak around and listen in on people.~~ You don't understand the people.

[] Work hard. Nechtan does not treat you badly or single you out, but maybe putting some extra effort into your work might get you into his good graces again.

AN: Generally favorable background rolls, though the encounters were more on the boring side right now. Language learning is now available, but since you didn't socialize with anyone yet, only Nechtan would be willing to teach you.

Azel · Jun 12, 2020

[X] Work lightly. Try to learn the local language from the other servants.

ᚠᚨᛚᛁᚾᚾ ᚲᛃᚨᛚᛚᚨᚱᛁᚾᚾ
Chapter 3

Being confined to the kitchens and cellars rankled, the little freedom of roaming the clanhold having made the drudgery of work more bearable, yet the worst was how the others began to treat you. Attempting to work closer with Nechtan was seen by many as you trying to worm yourself into his good graces and they were not shy of showing their disapproval. Suddenly you always got the nastiest work, like scrubbing down a cupboard in which a load of forgotten food had been allowed to fester for months, or making sure you always were the last one to the bath tub, ensuring that the water was almost freezing already.

Your tried to take it in stride, even when your bedding began too reek due to the others 'forgetting' to replace it repeatedly and your clothes coming back from the washers with more stains then before, though it was hard. It was not as if you had even spoken all that much with the other slaves before, but being actively shunned by them was worse than the self-chosen distance. Worst of all that Nechtan barely spoke to you, no matter how much you tried, and he certainly was not responding to your requests to learn the Northmens language.

It was almost too much. Almost you gave up, but then the head cook did something unexpected, taking you aside in the middle of the day and leading you through the hold in silence. In an empty courtyard he finally stopped, and his forbidding posture made it clear enough that he would not answer any question. So, you waited, rubbing your arms for warmth and watching the few snowflakes drifting down from the sky. Fall was almost over, and you were told that the winter would soon come. You did not truly know how much worse it could get and the frost was already bad enough for your taste.

After a while, another door to the courtyard opened, admitting three warriors, followed by three slaves, two men and a woman. The last in the procession was Gunthar, the Seneschal carrying a small wooden case with him. Two of the slaves were herded to stand next to each other by the guards and began to strip off their clothes, while the other stood to the side before Gunthar.

As the Senschal began to speak, Nechtan began to translate his words for you. "Otto, slave of the great clan af Dagr. You know what crime you have been accused off?"

"Yes," the slave answered in a defeated tone, while Nechtan translated their words with a flat voice. "I have stolen from the generous masters, who have clothed and fed me, who gave me work and welcomed me in their home."

It struck you how stilted the words were, how they sounded like a ritual or prayer, not like the words of a slave. "You have brought shame on yourself and your fellow servants, Otto. You have brought pain to your masters. Therefore, you will now purge that shame and see the pain you caused." With that, Gunthar opened the small case in his hands, giving the slave a long and thin strip of leaver, iron barbs clinking as they were taken from the case. "It will be ten each."

It was obvious what would come next. You had seen more then one slave whipped, but this was the first time you saw slaves whip each other. "What have they done?" The words you spoke idly, your eyes still glued to Otto who took position behind one of the others. The whip came down with a loud crack, followed by a muffled groan. What struck you the most that he did not try to run. No guard was holding him, no shackles binding him. He just stood there, bracing for the second strike.

"That man, Otto, stole some jewellery from the Lady af Dagr and tried to flee the hold. He wanted to pay a Skrifarðr to take off his bracelet, then hire on a ship." At your glance, he shook his head. "I do not know what the others did. Maybe they helped him. Maybe they had the same work as him. Maybe their cots were next to each other. It does not matter. They are here because they are slaves."

The first ten strikes had been met out by then, the slave sinking on his knees on the blood-stained cobbles, while Otto stepped over to the woman. He struck her too, but it was not as loud as the first time. Gunthar noticed too and Nechtan kindly translated again. "That strike does not count. You are being soft on her." The next strike was harder, sending her sprawling onto the ground, but immediately she stood back up.

It went like this for another few strikes before she could not get back up. You were sick and wanted nothing more then to walk over and help the woman, but you knew it was futile. You would just join her bleeding on the ground. In the end, Gunthar added the last few strikes to be administered while she lay there, adding two more when she raised her arm to defend herself.

Afterwards he left, nobody speaking another word, with him, the other whipped slave and two of the guards. Otto was left to stand in courtyard, the warrior watching over him, and the woman quietly whimpered on the ground.

After a long while, Nechtan spoke again. "Do you understand why I brought you here?"

"To know my place," you spat at him, hands balled to fists.

He shook his head in return, surprising you. "Not in the way you think. What you need to learn is that we are a group. We may not have chosen it, but it is true all the same. If one of use does something wrong, they will punish everyone. They make us hurt each other, so that we learn to hate each other."

While he spoke, you watched as the woman slowly rose to her knees, and shakily began putting on her clothes again. "They made him whip those two so that they fear others breaking the rules. And to make sure he hates them in turn, he now must stand in this courtyard until both of them are done with their parts."

"They most apologize to the Lady in his name and then come back here to 'forgive' him for whipping them." Somehow, she had draped her dress over the bleeding ruin that was her back and now, while hunched over and gasping for air, she slowly ambled to a door. "He will likely lose a few toes to the frost before she can even walk back out here, even if she wanted to do it right now."

"So you made the others bully me to get a taste of that." You could not keep the edge out of your voice, even though you tried to not anger the cook any further. That could have been you, had you made a single wrong step while gallivanting through the hold.

"No. I just did not stop them when they started on their own. You have met Nóri, right?" With one hand he was showing he height. "About this tall. Blond boy. Likes to annoy people around him. He is one of the sons of the Lord af Dagr."

All the anger and disgust left your body, instead a cold dread suffusing it. You knew exactly whom he meant. And your reaction must have been obvious, because Nechtan did not wait for a reply. "He was asking around about the new slave girl among the housekeepers. Gunthar was a bit confused by that, since he had not bought any new slaves for that group. I had to assure him that you were behaving yourself and that I would take care of it if you were doing anything that he might consider a problem."

For a while you kept staring straight ahead. At the freezing Otto. At the two spots of blood-stained snow before him. "I see," you said and in return, the cook just nodded and left.

From then on, things became more bearable again. It was hard to say if Nechtan had spoken with the others in the kitchens or if he had some unseen way to convey that you were back in his good graces, but the other slaves stopped their harassment for the most part. You still got a good number of unpleasant tasks and were kept close to the kitchens, but everything else was mostly back to the way it was before you ran into Nóri. You were still uneasy when thinking about him though, since the head cook did not know why exactly the young man had asked about you.

In the end, nothing came of it and you shelved that concern for another time after a few days, instead focusing on the lessons in the language of the Northmen. With your standing somewhat restored, Nechtan was happy to teach you and a few of the others did too whenever you worked together with them. It was not much that you learned, mostly basic things such as yes, no and how to apologize, rounded out by a host of kitchen and food related terms. Not enough to hold a proper conversation, though it was a start and your fear of being accosted with an order while outside the kitchen lessened quite a bit.

There were other concerns though. You always had wondered why there were so many guards and other armed people in the hold, chalking it up to a Northmen thing after a while, but still keenly aware of it. But when winter began in earnest, coating the roofs and courtyards of the hold with knee deep snow, their number seemed to become even greater. The raiding seasons had been over, you were told, so the last ships where making their way home before the sea ice became so much that only the largest ships of the wealthiest owners could still leave the port.

Among those returning was the eldest son of the Lord af Dagr, named Stefnir, having raided as far south as Tingis and returning home with ships full of gold and luxuries from the far south, mainly jewels and ivory. There were also some exotic slaves he brought home, but apparently those had been sold off already. You did not notice much of that in the kitchens, except that Nechtan was cooking another two pots per meal and that the storerooms had been restocked with spices, though that would apparently change. A great feast had been called, with everyone of note in the clan and even some important people from others attending.

To your surprise, Nechtan took you aside a few days before the event and made you an offer. In return for your good behaviour, he would have you placed on the serving staff for that feast. That mostly meant hauling food and drink to the hall and returning to the kitchens with arms full of plates and cutlery, but it meant getting out again for a while. Better yet, if all went well, he would let you serve the food to the guards now and then and maybe even help with the goats now and then. It was a glimpse of freedom, of roaming around again, and so you eagerly agreed.

In the days leading up to the feast, the kitchens ever busier. You even got a few slaves from the housekeepers to help out, though you were quite happy that none of those you had seen in that courtyard weeks ago was among them. Instead of working in the kitchen, your duties had quickly shifted to searching for various things in the cellars beneath the hold. The head cook might have objected to how you learned your way around the clanhold, but he certainly was not letting that stop him from putting it to good use.

Thus, you found yourself in one of these cellars on the afternoon right before the feast, looking for a set of candelabras that had allegedly been used during the Lord and the Ladies wedding for the last time. It was a rather thankless search so far. Two cellars you had already combed over for them, the third not looking much more promising. It was mostly dust and cobwebs that you found filling the empty crates and shelves, sometimes with broken pottery or other refuse left in there. Chances seemed ever slimmer to find the things in time, your candle having already burnt down alarmingly far.

Sighing, you put the candleholder down on a wobbly table that seemed to be held together mostly by the faded paint on it. Wiping some dust caked sweat from your face with your robe, you looked around again. A few more crates, then you would have to return empty ended, lest you come to late to start serving. And that assumed you hurried while washing up, because Nechtan would certainly not let you step before the masters while looking as if you had crawled in through a chimney.

So, you tried to push one of the crates aside, swearing quietly when it caught at something on the floor. It took a moment to lift the unwieldy thing over what you thought to be a warped floorboard, but when you put it aside, you saw something different. There was a hatch on the floor, covered in the angular runes of the Northmen. And some of them glowed. Only a few of them and only faintly, a soft red light that was almost lost to the sheen of the candle, but you were sure of it.

The hatch was faded, the wood almost falling apart and the hinges rusty, with most of the runes no longer legible, yet you were sure that it was no normal text written on them. Almost without knowing why, your right hand grasped the bracelet on your left that marked you as a slave. You could not read these letters, but you knew enough that these patterns were not normal. That these runes were far more complex then anything you had seen before.

And there was a sound. Faint. Weak. Something from below. Carefully you pressed your ear onto the wood, trying to make out what it was, but the noise grew no more distinct. It reminded you of the wind as it pushed against the sails of the ship that brought you to these lands. Of the dark nights trapped in the tiny closet, only the beat of your heart and the clinking of your chains for company. And of a whisper. Far away and quiet. Too quiet to hear what was said. When you raised your head again, the last runes had fallen dark.

Open the hatch and explore what is beneath?

[] Yes. (Will miss the feast.)

[] Not yet. Try to hide the hatch again. (Might miss the feast. Hatch might be found by others.)

[] No. (Hatch will very likely be found by others.)

AN: Before you ask, Nechtan will send someone else to look for the candelabras, which is why it's likely that they will stumble upon the hatch unless you make some efforts to hide it better.

Azel · Jun 14, 2020

[X] Not yet. Try to hide the hatch again. (Might miss the feast. Hatch might be found by others.)

ᛒᚱᛟᛏᛁᚾ ᚠᛃᛟᛖᛚᛊᚲᛁᛚᛞᚨ
Chapter 4

For the barest moment, you hesitated. The unknown was always a strong lure to you, and you could not shake the feeling that something important was down beneath that hatch. At the same time though, you remembered the courtyard. You remembered the sound leather tearing apart skin. The smell of blood mingled with the cold, salty breeze. No. Nechtan gave you a chance to prove yourself reliable in his eyes, and this you would not squander. This mystery had to wait.

So, you quickly lifted the empty crate back onto the hatch to hide it again, then dragged a few others around so that the hatch was beneath the centre of the haphazard pile. It was not much, but it was all you could do right then. Almost you were tempted to speak a quiet prayer to the gods, but caught yourself before you could. The gods never favoured you and you had long ago decided that it was better not to bother them, lest they decide to bother you in turn. If they would even have heard your words so far away from their temples.

With the hatch hidden again, time was your greatest enemy, followed closely by the grime and dust coating you head to toe. Candle back in hand, you left, not looking back towards the strange hatch on your way to the kitchens.

When you saw the great feast hall for the first time, you thought it was oversized. Who would need eight hearths and enough space to build a few houses in just for guests? Now the room was packed to the brim, every bit of space covered in tables and chairs, each one piled high with food and drink. The sounds of the crowd were deafening, and it was hard to walk anywhere with a tray of food in each hand. You were quite grateful that Ingomer, the only other serving girl from the kitchens and your appointed minder, seemed to have quiet some experience with this.

She deftly wove through the crowd, dodging drunken Northmen and somehow ploughing a path that you hastily followed, lest you be left to fend for yourself. The woman was hard to like, all things considered. Having a heavy disdain for both Imperials and Northmen, she had always been cold to you, which was rather annoying since she was the only one among the kitchen slaves who spoke fluent Imperial. On top of that, she was always quick to berate others for doing their tasks wrong, or at least wrong in her opinion, which made sure that nobody liked to be around her for longer then necessary.

Now though, she was your lifeline and you felt not a speck of shame for clinging to her. The routine she had, and which you had fallen into, was fairly simple. After the chaos of bringing out the first food, which took the entire kitchen staff except for Nechtan, the two of you retreated to the gallery on the upper floor that oversaw the feasting hall. From there you could spot whenever something was threatening to run out, giving you enough time to run to the kitchens and fetch more of it before the plates were even empty.

It was without a doubt stressful, but it also meant you always had a bit of respite in between and some time to talk with the other woman. The first few attempts went badly, and that was a generous term to describe it. Talking about your work only got you clipped answers from Ingomer and the one time you tried to talk with her about her past got you a glare that could have curdled milk. You did not give up entirely after that, still trying to make some meaningless talk happen, but you certainly lowered your expectations and instead took the time to study the crowd a bit more.

Unsurprisingly, most of the guests were members of the clan af Dagr, wearing clothes with runes and decorations held in red and black. Parts of pelts were also common in their attire, mostly bear as Ingomer informed you, though that was where the familiarities ended. Many kept to plain clothes you had seen quiet often, but a few people sitting at the heads of their respective tables came festooned with enough gold to buy a villa, faintly sheening cloth replacing the wool of other peoples robes. They looked a lot like the magistrates back in the Imperium, though here that attire was more indicative of traders, you had gathered.

The other group that stood out were the warriors, wearing chain- and scale-mail despite the warmth in the feast hall. There were quite a few women among them, which was still an odd sight for you. And they were a rowdy bunch. They all drank heavily, ate like pigs and kept shouting and singing, sometimes dancing on the tables. Others often joined in on their antics, though they still remained the loudest of them all. You were also pretty sure that a few of them copped a feel while you were walking past, though you could not tell for certain in the general pushing and shoving it took to get through the crowd. Ingomer tried her best to evade the loudest tables though, so it was probably not your imagination.

A few other clans were present too, each one getting their own table and mostly keeping to themselves. You tried your best to see some of their sigils, curious what they said about those people even if you likely only got half the meaning of the symbols and colours. One group bore a tree as their symbol, white on black on the left half and black on white on the right. They were one of the quietest groups, eating in moderation and favouring water over mead, much to the amusement of those around them. They were also one of the larger groups, so you guessed that they must have been important in some fashion.

Another large group, mainly made up of people that looked like merchants, had a yellow boat stitched on turquois cloth as their symbol. Of all the other clans, they were the most inclined to mingle. Their members could often be seen walking to other tables, drinking a bit with the people there and then marching on to the next table. Last among the larger clans was a group who bore a circle made of three red ravens on light blue cloth. In a sense they were the inverse of the yellow and turquoise people, with a few warriors occasionally coming to their table, chatting and toasting a while, then returning to their own people.

In the centre of it all stood a huge table that looked as if it had been carved from a single, giant tree. It was bent like a horseshoe with main family of clan af Dagr sitting on the outside. Occasionally, one or a small group of people would walk up to the table, stand in the middle of it and bow before the hosts of the feast before chatting briefly with them. It was the first time you saw the whole family in one place and only now you noticed that you passed a few of them in the hallways already. It was then, while you were carefully memorizing them all, that you finally hit on something Ingomer was willing to talk about, even if it was in her rather unique and friendly way.

"You still don't know the main family? And Nechtan thought it was a good idea to send you tending to the feast?" Her voice was a mix of incredulousness and disdain, though for once you were not sure if it was directed at you or at the head cook.

In response, you just shrugged. It never really came up before and while you saw the problem, you had enough of Ingomer's needling that evening to ignore it. "I have met Nóri once," you replied mulishly, nodding towards the young man sitting in the spot furthest to the left from your viewpoint.

"Figures," came an equally annoyed sounding reply. "He is the black sheep of the family. Has been sneaking out of the hold since he was a boy and loves to taunt and prank people. Half the shops and taverns in the city have unflattering tales about him and the Gothar allegedly had once a vote to ban him from their district all together, which resolved barely in his favour. Rumour is that Irpa, one of the stable workers, bears his child."

Suddenly the interest he had in you made you feel slightly queasy. You still had no idea what he said to you on that day and for the first time you wondered if that was not for the best. Though you had learned quite well to push down such feelings in your time here, so you just talked on, hoping to learn a few things about the people holding your leash. "What about the others then? It's your chance to fix Nechtans oversight."

She briefly quieted, probably mulling over if she was willing to help you, though in the end she spoke on. "The young boy with the black hair is Dagr Hórason. His mother wanted to make sure everyone knew from which clan his father came and the epitaph was bestowed upon him when the Lord acknowledged him." She glanced at you, frowning when she saw the puzzlement on your face and sighed quietly. "Hórason means he is the son of a whore. The lady was rather cross with her husband about the whole ordeal, but the Gothar divined it quiet thoroughly and the boy is definitely his."

You had a bit of pity for the boy, who counted perhaps ten winters at most, being saddled with that reminder of his parentage birth. "I guess they don't treat every child the same after all."

Ingomer just shrugged, not caring one way or another about the boys circumstances. "Next ones are Randvér and Stefnir." With a very careful gesture, as to not alert anyone that the two of you were staring at the main family, she gestured to the two men that looked almost like twins. Both were large and bulky men with long red manes and beards, wearing armour at the table and seeming to constantly talk with each other. "They are a year apart and thick as thieves. Stefnir was away raiding most of the year, while Randvér had to stay behind. Don't expect to see those two away from each other anytime soon again."

"You skipped one. What about the empty chair between Dagr and Randvér?"

"That would be the place of Auðvin. He became a Gothir in young years. Tradition is that they cut ties with their clans, but you don't have to. Makes people whisper that you are trading favours with your clan, if it is important enough, though otherwise it's your choice." She paused for a moment, absently looking over the tables if there was work for you. However, it also felt as if she was considering her next words carefully.

As nothing required your attention, she spoke on. "It was before my time here, but one of the house servants told me that he had heard a vicious argument between the Lord and the Lady in the days before young Auðvin left. No idea if that is true, but the Lord always has a place set for him at every feast, even though he never attended a single one."

Thus, you looked back to the central table, the next in line being the Lord and the Lady af Dagr themselves. While you had already seen the lady, the first of many warrior women you spotted in the clanhold, you had yet to see the Lord and he was not quite what you expected. He seemed a good few years older then his wife, his beard and hair entirely grey, though on a second look, he still had some strands of bright blond in between. He was not the lean warrior you had always expected, instead looking like a slightly chubby trader, looking over the feast with a kind smile that clashed badly with his wives cold façade.

"You will always address them as Lord and Lady, just to be clear," Ingomer whispered harshly to you. "But his name is Lífsteinn Bjornson af Dagr, and the Lady is Ragnhildr Asriðrdottir af Dagr. Just in case you ever hear someone address them as such."

You tried to ask her more about the two of them, but Ingomer kept talking on, not giving you the chance. "The girl to her right is Rannveig. She is the Tanist of the clan, meaning she will inherit the leadership when her father dies." It took a moment for you to place her face, as it was quite a while since you saw her, but then you remembered that day in the courtyard. She was the one who fought like possessed, easily defeating every other warrior except for her mother.

Now she seemed like a different woman entirely. Sure, she bore weapons and armour, but both incorporated in a lavish robe that mirrored that of her mother, cutting just as an imposing figure as the matriarch did. "She is still unmarried, so people are expecting her father to announce a betrothal every time there is a feast," Ingomer explained further. "There's a lot of rumours why she has no man yet, but if you ask me, no one is brave enough to court a shrew like her."

This left only two more children, both young girls with hair as blond as straw and too similar to be anything but twins. They were younger yet then Dagr and seemed rather uncomfortable with the formal feast and how loud it was. Unlike their older sister, they wore normal dresses in black and red and occasionally glanced at a woman in servants clothes that was about your age, who stood near the table. As you glanced over, Ingomer finished her explanation. "Those are Valgerðr and Undrlaug. They are the youngest of the Lord with his lover Svafa, who died in childbed. The woman to the side is their wet nurse and minder, Halla."

Having by now a rough idea how this family worked, you hazarded a guess. "The Lady is not all too fond of them I guess?"

Ingomer looked between the lady and the two young girls for a moment, weighing her words. "It is complicated. She shuns them in public and Halla is the one who is most involved in their upbringing, but I have heard she is different to them in private, even calling them Valka and Undra like Halla does." She grew quiet for a while, then shrugged. "It's not my problem and neither should you try to make it yours. Just keep out of the way of them, then you will have a quiet life here."

There was certainly some wisdom to these words, but if your encounter with Nóri was any indication, you might have not much of a choice in the matter. You stood there a while longer, pondering what your life had become and the people who now held sway over it. The feast had wound down somewhat, giving you the time for that. Sure, there was still plenty of eating and quite definitely a lot of drinking, but it did not seem you would have to return to the kitchen any time soon.

Thus, you were still on the balcony when it all started. At first, the Lord rose and banged his fist on the table, beginning to give a speech that you could not follow. But then, the room suddenly went deadly quiet just to erupt in loud talking a moment later. You looked over to Ingomer for an explanation, who had gone rather pale all of the sudden, when a female voice cut through the din.

It was Rannveig, who had stood up and began shouting at the top of her lungs in the direction of her father. "ᛃᛖᚷ ᛗᚢᚾ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᚷᛖᚠᚨᛊᛏ ᚢᛈᛈ ᛗᛖᚦ ᚠᚱᚢᛗᛒᚢᚱᚦᚨᚱᚱᛃᛖᛏᛏ ᛗᛁᚾᚾ ᛊᚹᛟᚾᚨ, ᚠᚨᚦᛁᚱ. ᚦᚢ ᛗᚢᚾᛏ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᚷᛖᚱᚨ ᛊᛏᛃᛖᚠᚾᛁᚱ ᚨᚦ ᛖᚱᚠᛁᛜᛃᚨ ᚦᛁᚾᚢᛗ ᛗᛖᚦ ᚦᚹᛁ ᚨᚦ ᚺᚱᛟᚢᛉᚨ ᚺᛟᚾᚢᛗ ᚹᛖᚷᛉᛖᛗᛞ ᛖᚾ ᚾᛖᛁᚦᚨ ᛗᛁᚷ ᛏᛁᛚ ᚨᚦ ᛉᛁᛏᛃᚨ ᛟᚷ ᚷᛖᚱᚨ ᛖᚲᚲᛖᚱᛏ." You tried your best to make out the words, but could not make sense of it. Something about giving something to her father. The tone alone made it clear though that she was beyond angry.

There was more shouting, even at the central table now, and you poked Ingomer in the ribs to get her to talk. After a moment of confusion, she replied, completely forgetting to use her unpleasant, lecturing tone when she spoke. "The Lord just called for a vote to have Stéfnir made his heir."

Before she could say any further, your eyes were drawn back to the table. Suddenly, Rannveig had an axe in her hand, from where you did not know, and brought it down on the table with enough force to split a plate and embed the weapon deep into the wood. "ᛃᛖᚷ ᛗᚢᚾ ᛉᚨᚾᚾᚨ ᛁᚲᚲᚢᚱ ᛟᛖᛚᛚ ᚨᚦ ᛃᛖᚷ ᛖᚱ ᚹᛖᚱᚦᚢᚷᚱᛁ. ᛃᛖᚷ ᛗᚢᚾ ᛏᚨᚲᚨ ᛊᚲᛁᛈ ᛟᚷ ᛉᛁᚷᛚᚨ ᚦᚹᛁ ᛁᚠᛁᚱ ᚹᛖᛊᛏᚢᚱᚺᚨᚠᛁᚦ ᛟᚷ ᚦᛖᚷᚨᚱ ᛃᛖᚷ ᛗᚢᚾ ᛊᚾᚢᚨ ᚨᚠᛏᚢᚱ ᛗᚢᚾᛏᚢ ᚹᛖᚱᚨ ᛃᛖᚷ ᚨᚦ ᚹᛖᚱᚦᚨ ᛖᚱᚠᛁᛜᛁ ᚦᛁᚾᚾ ᚨᚠᛏᚢᚱ!" After she was done yelling, she turned around and left, most of the hall watching in stunned silence while a few apparently cheered at what she had done.

Again, you elbowed the other servant next to you. "Don't make me beg, Ingomer. What did she say?"

"She said that she would no longer stay at home while her father heaps glory on her brother to make him his heir. She wants to raid something in the west to prove herself." Towards the end, the other woman seemed to regain her composure, quiet unlike the feast hall who became louder and louder again. "I'm not sure myself what the axe means, but it seems she just declared a grudge against her father."

Suddenly it made a lot of sense that there now were clan members shouting at each other in the hall. There were even a few altercations that seemed on the way to becoming full blown fist fight. What became of it, you did not know, because that was the moment Ingomer grabbed your wrist and dragged you to the nearest door. It was unlikely that anyone missed the two of you.

The evening was tense after that, the occasional bit of shouting being heard as far as the kitchens, where you and the other slaves had hunkered down. It took a good long while for the ruckus to die down and a few had to be sent out in the middle of the night clean out the thrashed feast hall. Luckily, Nechtan had a heart, letting Ingomer and you sleep instead. Things did not go any better in the morning, with the air in the hold feeling even more oppressive then in the night, though at first you could not tell why.

When everyone was woken up to prepare breakfast, one of the other kitchen slaves, a barbarian by the name of Svaba that you had never talked to before due to not sharing any language, was found to be missing. At first Nechtan tried to have her found quietly, but when that proved impossible, he alerted the guards. In his opinion, she was not someone who would try to flee, and his assessment proved true in the end.

Around the time of noon, she was found dead in one of the cellars and a few careful questions by your revealed that it was the same one you had found that hatch in. Apparently, the head cook had sent her to try and find the candelabras when you returned empty handed and she had found the hatch too. Unlike you though, she did so by stepping on it and falling into the empty cellar beneath, breaking her neck. The Lord had ordered silence on the matter, fearing that her death would be held as evidence that the clan was cursed after what had happened during the feast.

The rumours about that event slowly began to trickle in too, especially after a few of the others returned with fresh tablecloths from the always well-informed housekeepers. There were more than a few physical fights at the end of the feast, though at least to other cleans were mostly kept out of it. Instead it was members of clan af Dagr beating each other for supporting either Stéfir or Rannveig as the Tanist. It took a good long while to separate the camps from each other, followed by the Lord tactfully throwing them out of the hold with a clear degree to stop the fighting.

How much that order was adhered to, nobody could say, but word was that there was still unrest brewing in the clan district. Likewise, the main family was not on speaking terms. The Lord and the Lady had a hefty row, followed by the Lady moving the guest quarters. Rannveig on the other hand had been barely seen in the hold this day and she was clearly not on speaking terms with either her parents or her two oldest brothers.

It should have been a distant concern what was going on among the clan, but Nechtan kept to his word and so it was suddenly quiet important for you to know where the cliffs where that you might have to navigate. Your grasp of the Norse language was still rather basic, but it was enough to serve someone food and you had been deemed reliable enough to do so now. At the same time though, the death of Svaba had opened some other tasks you could request. Namely to leave the clanhold to tend to the goats, maybe even to accompany Nechtan when he went to buy things in the markets.

What task do you request for the coming days?

[] Keep working in the kitchens and get to know your fellow slaves better.

[] Serve the food for the guards, allowing you to roam and explore the clanhold some more.

[] It seems Rannveig will not be eating with the family any time soon. Serve her food and try to get into her good graces.

[] Keep your normal duties, but try to meet Nóri again. If you can get him to like you, he might be your way to freedom.

[] Tend to the goats and see if you can convince Nechtan to let you come along to the markets.

AN: Since most might be unfamiliar with it, the letter "ð" is spoken as "th". I've debated with myself for a while if I should use that letter or not, but decided in favour of it in the end, as the names of the people here are Norse after all. Also, this became way longer then anticipated.

Azel · Jun 16, 2020

[X] Serve the food for the guards, allowing you to roam and explore the clanhold some more.

ᚷᚱᛖᛁᛏᛏ ᚹᛖᚱᚦ
Chapter 5

While the lure of being able to leave the hold and to see more of the city was great, you ultimately decided against pursuing that path. There was still much about the Northmen you didn't know, chief among them the proper use of their language, so it would have served you little in the end to gawk. The clanhold though? If the mysterious hatch had shown you one thing, then that this place had it's secrets and odds were that you might be able to uncover some of them, if you kept exploring. So, you opted to serve the guards, leaving you to room most of the hold freely, even if you had to be careful not to spend too much time away from your duties.

Nechtan had tacitly given his permission for this and you did not want to betray his trust by causing any trouble. The work itself was pretty light, amounting to nothing more then carrying a few tablets worth of stew and bread around the hold thrice a day, helping with the cleaning and cooking whenever you had nothing else to do, and occasionally serving the feasting hall when larger groups were dining there. The guard rooms those tasks brought you to were all over the place though and soon enough, none of the guards paid you the slightest bit of attention anymore. You were just the serving girl, so why bother?

The freedom that gave you was staggering, allowing you to waltz through most of the hold with impunity around the mealtimes. Everyone you passed just assumed you came back from delivering something, and you quickly learned what was in those places you had previously not been able to get close to. There were armouries all over the hold, the whole place apparently not only looking like a fortress, but also capable of acting as one. Then there were two vaults, likely containing the riches of the clan, though you only managed to glimpse the doors of these.

They were huge and lavishly decorated oak clasped in iron, coated in runes and pictures. And much like the faint glow of the runes on the hatch you had seen, the writing glowed. It was just a dull red when nobody was close to the doors, but once, when you felt adventurous enough to have a closer, they became brighter. With every step you took towards them, the glow became stronger, becoming blinding as the heart of a forge when you were only a step away from them. You did not try to see what would happen if you were to touch the door. It was most certainly nothing pleasant.

It made you wonder all the harder what had been beneath the hatch in that cellar, but there was little chance you were to find out now. With the death of Svaba, the guards had descended on the cellar and likely taken anything of note that they could find. There was even a rumour that a Gothir had been sighted entering the hold at night and going to the cellar, which apparently was highly unusual, both because of the secrecy and because he was called over a servant's accident. And all that while the main family was feuding, sending those servants inclined to gossip trading tales without end. Even some of the guards seemed to have joined in, though despite Nechtan's efforts, you still could barely follow what they said to each other.

Some claimed that the slave died because the ancestors of the clan were wroth with the main family. If that was because the Lord had tried to disinherit his daughter, or because his daughter had defied him, that was something hotly contested. Nechtan was clamping down on it in the kitchens, but it was easy to notice that everyone else was picking sides with every day the quarrel went on. The Lady and Rannveig had more or less commandeered the eastern guest quarters for themselves and their followers, which were mainly warriors and a few older women that nobody was willing to talk about with you.

Meanwhile, Stéfir had begun to take command of the hold, aided by those of the clan more interested in trade and politics, or at least that was what you gathered. You certainly could not tell apart the finer details of the people clamouring to sit with the heir apparent during meals. They looked vaguely like fat merchants to your eyes and seemed not all that good company for the ever more miserable looking Stéfir.

You did your best to keep out of it, making no noise one way or another what you though about these events. There was just nothing for you at stake and so you just tried to stay neutral. None the less, you paid attention all the same. As you slowly became capable of having a halting conversation with the other slaves who spoke only Norse, you learned the value of knowing things. Others wanted to know things too, each for their own reasons that you could not even guess at, but there was talk about trading favours and perhaps even other things.

In a sense, the tension soon became routine. The lines had been drawn in the sand after a while, even among the servants, and the animosity was merely a low simmer. Most of the housekeepers had fallen in with Stéfnirs people, sparking a minor feud with the smiths and stable hands, who were favouring Rannveig. The kitchens had, thanks to Nechtans efforts, kept out of the mess and were mostly free to work in peace, what with Gunthar being occupied to keep the peace elsewhere with petty punishments meted out whenever an issue became too much to ignore.

Before things calmed again, another incident happened. The kitchen was the first to hear in the hold proper, when Ingomer returned from the outer stables with empty buckets. That morning, the goats had given no milk, instead dripping a noxious black slime from their udders that reeked of rotten fish. The goats themselves had fallen ill after the milking and the slave who had been doing it had been rushed to a guest room. Why, she could not say, only that Gunthar had ordered it and even posed guards at the door.

The news quickly spread, and by noon, you heard whispers of curses and witchcraft, of the slaves hands rotting off his arms because he touched the liquid, and how the entire clan was doomed for one reason or another. It all seemed overly dramatic to you, until Nechtan quietly confirmed that guards had went to the goat stables after some had complained about a horrible smell coming from them.

Your first impulse was to keep your head down and stay out of all of this, but there was also a spark of curiosity. Something was afoot and this time, there was nothing that would have prevented you from looking around to learn more. Especially since most of the hold was in uproar over the events, making it even easier for you to move around. It even meant a chance to investigate that hidden cellar, for right now, nobody would have paid much attention to you sneaking around down there.

What do you do?

[] Keep your head down and try to not get wrapped up in this.

[] Ask Nechtan to be allowed to look into the situation at the goat stables. That is a matter relevant to the kitchen after all.

[] Try to find out what happened to the slave that milked the goats.

[] Move around the hold, listen in on people and try to keep an overview how things develop.

[] Take the opportunity and investigate what is beneath the hidden hatch. There might still be something interesting that the guards have missed.

AN: You found not much of interest, but some other events have been set in motion around you.

Azel · Jun 17, 2020

[X] Take the opportunity and investigate what is beneath the hidden hatch. There might still be something interesting that the guards have missed.

ᛚᛖᛁᚠᚨᚱ ᚠᛟᚢᚱᚾᚨᚱᛁᚾᚾᚨᚱ
Chapter 6

There was not much to think about for you. Meddling with whatever had happened with the goats was likely to draw unwanted attention to yourself, and there was the chance to get afflicted by whatever curse or sickness was spreading there. No. There was something else that you had wanted to see and now was the perfect moment. Nobody would pay attention to the cellar where Svaba died right now, giving you a chance to explore it after all.

Candle holder in hand, you descended the stairs to the storage cellars, passing two guards on the way who gave you no more then a quick glance. They knew you. They knew it made sense for you to be here. So, you were no more notable then the furniture to them. It was demeaning to think of yourself like that, the thoughts briefly drawing your attention to the bracelet on your wrist that marked you as less then a person. But it was also freeing in a way. It was the first time you had truly tested the boundaries of what you could get away with and all seemed to be well.

The storage room was mostly as you had left it, save for the crates that had now been orderly stacked on the far wall while a few boards had been laid over the hole left behind the broken hatch. For a long moment, you waited, nose drawing in the musky air of the cellar while your ears were listening for the slightest sound. There was nothing though. No creaking floorboards. No doors opening or closing. You were all alone. So, you quietly put the boards aside and begun climbing down into the dark hole beneath.

Climbing down the ladder with only one hand proved harder then anticipated, each rung slick with wet mould. And with each rung you climbed down, the silence seemed to become deeper, the light of the candle dimmer. The air was heavy with the smell of rot and decay, making you faintly nauseous. A small voice in the back of your head urged you to stop, to climb back up and leave this place, but you clamped down on it. The choice had been made and when your foot found ground beneath it instead of another wooden rung, you knew it was to late to turn back.

With great care you stepped from the latter, feeling the slick stone through your thin shoes and holding out the flickering candle to get your bearings. The walls were solid rock, roughly carved and damp, with streaks of red colour running down their length that looked eerily like freshly spilled blood. There was no floor, just more bare rock, covered by a thing layer of wet grime and dirt. In it, you could see the footprints of those that came before you. The heavy boots of the guards, stomping all over the small chamber and towards the mildew covered wooden door in one of the walls.

But there was something else. From the corner of your eye, you saw a single footprint near a wall that did not fit in with the others. It was smaller than the others. Thinner and uneven. That print had been made a woman. A slave. Involuntarily, you drew your arms closer to your body, peering into the darkness without truly knowing why. They had lied about Svaba's death. She had not fallen but climbed down into this room just as you did. Just as you had pondered to do that night. But if not the fall, then what had killed her?

Your steps were unsure as you approached the door and laid your hand on the wooden handle. Something compelled you forward though and with a careful push, you opened the door and stepped into the other room. Here, the musk of decay was strangely muted, instead replaced by the smell of old parchment. The candlelight fell over shelves and cabinets, all filled to the brim with half rotten books and scrolls, though they looked dry and shrivelled, not wet and mouldy as you would have expected. But among them, there were other things.

Little glass flasks filled with long decayed plants, others with half molten remnants of what you hoped were animal parts. Pots that gave off the smell of rancid fat as you walked past. Bones of bird and other things, glued together in a mockery of life, seeming to move of their own accord in the flickering lights. Pelts of squirrels, cats and other small things piled on a barrel standing in a small puddle of oil. Your steps are unsure and your breath shallow as you walk among these things, expecting something to happen, yet nothing does. There is something in the air. Something in the silence that is only pierced by your beating heart. It feels as if you had been expected in this room.

As you step around another shelf, you finally see what must have been the source of this feeling. Of that vague dread that has your very bones itching. On floor stand candles, half burned down, though they look not as if they had been made from bee's wax or tallow. Between them, runes were written on the floor, the sharp angles frayed and raw as if drawn in a hurry. And only now, now that you saw it, did your nose truly notice the stench of iron that hung in the air, forcing your mind to acknowledge why the runes were so shoddily drawn in brown colour. This was where Svaba had died and it was not an accident.

You heard your heart pound away in your chest, making you feel light in the head. Svaba had been murdered. Another slave from the kitchens had been killed and there was no sign that the guards had found whoever had done it. On the contrary. What if the goat's sickness was the killers work? Carefully you stepped away from the writing on the floor, leaning against a shelf and tried to calm your heart. It was not easy to do so. Not with the stench of blood and rot in your nose. Not with the treacherous voice in your mind telling you that this could have been your fate.

Then, you heard something, sending your heart racing yet again. It was only the faintest of sounds, but in the oppressive silence of this place, it was like thunder. Someone was climbing down the ladder.

What now?

[] Try to hide yourself.

[] Try to find another exit from the room.

[] Wait for whoever is coming and try to explain yourself.

[] Write-In

AN: It was only a question of when, not if, your luck would run out.

Azel · Jun 19, 2020

[X] Try to find another exit from the room.

ᚱᛟᛖᛞᛞᛁᚾ ᚢᚱ ᛗᛁᚱᚲᚱᛁᚾᚢ
Chapter 7

You knew that you did not have any time to waste and would have liked nothing more than to run away, yet you knew knot where to. There had been no other door, ladder or anything that you had glimpsed while walking through the shelves and cabinets. Were you trapped? No. There had to be another way out of this place, whatever it was, and you had to hurry to find it. It would not haven take long for whoever had come to climb down the ladder and the moment they saw the sheen of your candle, you would have been just as done for as if you stood there and waited for them.

With quick steps you went deeper into the room, hoping to find another door at the other end of it, though it was hard to find your path. The room was huge, likely an old storage cellar, but with all the shelves and cabinets, it might as well have been a labyrinth. As you walked, you no longer heard the steps on the ladder, your own accelerating in response. Was the person down here already? Would they open the door any moment now and see the shine of your candle above the shelves?

Your heart nearly stopped when you heard a creaking sound, but after the first moment of fright, you realized that it was your own steps that had caused it. Below you, worm-eaten and mouldy planks groaned with every step, shelves swaying ever so slightly and tipping dust into the air. There was no time for caution though, so you almost ran over the treacherous ground. And just like that, you had finally found a way out of this room. Another hatch, leading down to another, deeper cellar. Or was it only a small crawlspace? Were you about to trade one trap for another?

The choice was no longer yours though. With a bang, the door to the room was opened and someone yelled, "Halt!" They knew you were here. Without thinking, you snuffed out your candle and dove for the hatch. Heavy boots echoed through the room as you tore open the trapdoor, revealing an inky void beneath. There was light on the ceiling, but it was not of a torch or candle. It was cold and blue. It was getting closer. Blindly you swung your feet into the hatch, silently thanking every god there ever was when your foot caught the rung of a ladder.

Quickly you lowered yourself into the hole, desperately trying to find the rungs without seeing them. The boots were getting closer. You drew shut the hatch above you. They shouted again, the voices coming ever closer. Then you slipped, your head banging against the ladder and making you lose your hold. Your shoulder broke your fall, hurting terribly, but you did not allow yourself to cry out. And suddenly, the boots went silent. They had heard your fall. They had to.

Fighting down the pain, you began to crawl, not trusting yourself to stand up. You did not see anything, relying on feeling around to find your way. The ground was covered in dust and grime, your fingers constantly finding the dried-out remnants of bugs and spiders amidst the dirt. And then, suddenly you saw something. Through the gaps in the boards above you, like blue daggers dripping through the gaps, there was the light again. Someone was right above you.

But the light also meant that you could see. More shelves were down here and as fast as your shoulder allowed, you crawled over to the closest on. There was not much in it, just some moth-eaten bags and linen. Enough space for you to squeeze in. Then you dragged the dirty cloth over you, throwing up another cloud of dust, but hiding you all the better. Your breathing was slow and shallow as you did not dare to make any more noise than necessary.

Above you, the light wandered. The sound of boots was gone entirely, even though you could see how the light moved. How a shadow moved with it over the boards. The very boards that had creaked like a ship in a storm when you had passed over them, but now remained silent. Slowly, ever so slowly, the figure paced above you, undoubtedly still searching for you. The worst was that you could neither see, nor hear the person, only see the baleful light illuminate the room around you.

Every time the light seemed to move farther away, you rejoiced. Every time it seemed to come closer again, it swung back to despair. How long had you been here? How much longer would this go on? You did not know and that was perhaps the worst of it. But the worst was yet to come, because at some point, you noticed the patterns on the ground to shift. The shadows cast by the pale light peeking through the floorboards moved oddly, then seemed to split apart, and it took your mind the longest moment to understand why. A second light had been lit. And then something creaked.

You could not see the hatch from your hiding spot in the shelf, could not even make out the ladder, but you just knew it had been opened. And then, the light was down there with you. Moving. Searching. You stilled your breath and could you have done so, you would have stilled your heart. It moved around, ever so slowly, floating in the air without a person to carry it. And then you saw it, floating above a table full of rotten parchment.

The skull of a bird, glowing blue runes etched into every tiny speck of its bone and casting their eery light into every corner it could reach. Except for one. Except for where its eyes should have been. There, you could see nothing except a pool of blackness and in their centre, two tiny motes of blue flame that shed neither light, nor warmth. But while you could see it, it did not see you. It turned in the air, those empty eyes searching the room, but found nothing.

So, it floated on. Past shelves and cabinets. Past the skeleton of a bear, mounted to look as if it was ready to pounce. Past finely ordered and labelled stacks of bones. Past clay jars covered in runes and sealed with wax. Then it was gone, the light returning to the room above. And the figure above, his shadow cast down to you by the lights that followed him, just left, leaving you in darkness as the door shut behind him, keeping out the light.

For a while, you just lay there, carefully breathing the air you had denied yourself and which now tasted better then sweetest honey. The person was gone. You had not been found. The thought made you giddy. All you had to do now was to leave, return to the kitchens and pretend you had never been in this place. Easy. Simple. Or maybe not. You were not sure if you only realized because the euphoria was lessening, or if the realization banished the joy. You were still in the cellar you could barely navigate with a candle in hand, but now there was not even the slightest bit of light.

It took a moment for you to leave the shelf you had crammed yourself into, your shoulder protesting all the while. The good thing was that you could still move your left arm, so it seemed to only be sprained, but every movement was hurting as if a hot needle was pressed into your flesh. Suddenly even climbing the ladders out of this place seemed like a daunting prospect. Not that you had a choice. You could not stay here.

Slowly you stood up and stretched out your hands, desperately trying to remember what little you had seen of this room. Had you fallen far from the ladder? It did not feel far, but you had not been able to see it from your hiding spot. Your hand found the shelf and within, a pile of bones that softly clinked when you touched them. It sounded strange though.

The sounds were dull and hollow, reminding you of the moment when you had first found the hatch with the runes. Of the silence that was not. The stillness that seemed not like an absence, but as if something were swallowing the sounds whole. Which seemed to whisper something just at the edge of your hearing. You had not understood it then. Neither did you now. But right then and there, you had the feeling that you were no longer alone. That something was there with you in the darkness.

Your hand came down on the shelf as your attempts to find your way gained some urgency, but you regretted it immediately. There was broken glass on the shelf, and you had cut yourself on them. The pain was not the problem though, only a dull imitation of the agony in your shoulder. It was the blood. When the first drop was hitting the ground, it sounded like a drum being struck. Another drop fell, another beat. You were not alone. Something was here with you. A third drop fell, but it never struck the ground.

Your blood was like ice in your veins. Your heart barely beating. A scream caught in your throat, the sound itself afraid to come outside. For the briefest of moments, you saw it. Not with eyes that needed light to see, but something else. Something deeper. Something that understood the thing you saw in a way that mere flesh could not. It was hatred given form. Madness given purpose. It was, yet it should not have been. Another drop fell from your finger, and the darkness hungered.

But then you heard a sound. A voice. It was the whisper, but this time you understood. "ᚠᚨᚱᛁᚦ ᛒᚢᚱᛏ, ᚺᛚᚢᛏᚢᚱ ᛉᛖᛗ ᚦᛖᚲᚲᛁᚱ ᚺᚹᛟᚱᚲᛁ ᛚᛁᚠ ᚾᛃᛖ ᛞᚨᚢᚦᚨ. ᚦᚢ ᛗᚢᚾᛏ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᚷᛖᚱᚨ ᛏᛁᛚᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛁᛚ ᚦᛖᛊᛉᚨ." The emptiness seemed to recoil at the words. More blood ran down your finger and never had you heard a more joyous sound then when the drop struck the ground.

"ᚠᚨᚱᚦᚢ, ᚺᛚᚢᛏᚢᚱ ᛉᛖᛗ ᚹᛖᛁᛏ ᛖᚲᚲᛁ ᛊᛃᚨᚢᛚᚠᚨᚾ ᛉᛁᚷ. ᚦᚨᚦ ᛖᚱ ᛖᛜᛁᚾᚾ ᚨᚲᚲᛖᚱᛁ ᛉᛖᛗ ᚺᛖᛚᛞᚢᚱ ᚦᛃᛖᚱ ᚺᛃᛖᚱᚾᚨ." The voice was weak as it intoned the word, yet it felt as if they were being shouted at you. You stepped back from the shelf where you had cut yourself, nearly falling over from the haste of the movements, and the voice spoke on. "ᚠᚨᚱᚦᚢ, ᚺᛚᚢᛏᚢᚱ ᛉᛖᛗ ᛖᛁᚦᛁᚱ. ᚠᚨᚱᚦᚢ ᚨᚠᛏᚢᚱ ᛁ ᚠᚨᛜᛖᛚᛉᛁᚦ ᚦᛁᛏᛏ ᛟᚷ ᛖᛏᛁᚦ ᛊᛃᚨᚢᛚᚠᚨᚾ ᚦᛁᚷ."

From one moment to the next, it was gone. The thing that lurked in the silence had been driven off, though you could feel it in every fibre of your being that it would return. Banished, but not vanquished. There was only you and the voice now, and ever so quietly, it spoke again. Not in the tongue of the Northmen. Not in Imperial either. It spoke a meaning so pure that you had no doubt that even the deaf would have heard and understood.

"Help me," it said. Weakly. Faintly. The power from its words was nearly gone. You had no idea what you were supposed to do at first, but then you understood. More blood ran from your wounds. Another drop formed on your finger.

[] Offer your blood to the voice.

[] Try to flee.

AN: This took much longer than necessary, due to me having to sort out some mechanics. Needless to say, the rolls were not on your side here, though you managed to hide in the end. From the person at least.

Azel · Jul 7, 2020

[X] Offer your blood to the voice.

ᛟᚢᚹᛇᚾᛏ ᚺᛃᚨᚢᛚᛈ
Chapter 8

Not waiting a moment, you raised your hand, blood still slowly flowing from your cuts. Should you have hesitated? Should you have thought it over? There was no telling what that voice was. Was it wise to offer your own blood so freely? But it had asked, not demanded. It wanted help. Help that it had given you. And no matter what it was that spoke to you, it had helped you. It had driven away the malice lurking in the darkness. Somehow.

Your body moved on its own, knowing what it had to do while your mind still reeled from the shock. With a light touch, the tips of you fingers came to rest on something hard, covered in rough spun cloth. But as you blood began to seep into it, you began to see. Nothing else you could make out in the pitch black, not even your own hand, just that round thing in the weathered jute bag beneath your fingers. It was the same clarity with which the voice had spoken. A certainty that made it seem more real than even yourself.

Slowly the blood began to flow down the curve of whatever it was, leaving patterns on the cloth that seemed to hint at what was beneath. It smelled strange. Of mint and aconite, with a trace of fresh cut yarrow. Why did it smell? Nothing in this cellar had been smelling of anything except mildew and dust. Certainly not like fresh herbs.

"Ah, what a lovely gift you give me," the voice spoke, cutting off your thoughts and sending your heart racing again. "How have I earned such kindness?"

You worked your jaw, trying to find words. Any words. "What are you?" It came out almost like a croak, your throat dry and raw. Had you screamed earlier? You had not made a sound, but it seems you had tried your best anyway.

"Now, that is a rude way to ask such things, good woman. Would it not be more polite to give me, who speaks with you, the benefit of assuming that behind a voice is a who instead of a what?" The voice trailed off into a chuckle then, leaving you just more bewildered at what you had stumbled upon.

Intently you focused your attention at the two dark blotches your blood had made on the front of the thing as if they were eyes. The voice had to be in the thing you were holding. Could it see you too? "Then, who are you?" Deeper and deeper the blood ran on the shape, making you wonder how much you had bled already. Should you have worried? It seemed to be a lot of blood indeed, but you did not feel ill for losing it.

There was silence for a while, before the voice spoke in a quieter, sadder tone. "I am afraid, good woman, that I can not tell you. See, my memory is not the best, so while I can say that I am a who, I am not quite sure who myself." Then it chuckled again before continuing. "You can call me Mimir for now. It is a joke. A good one, if I may say so." You did not laugh though, so he might have been mistaken there.

By now the blood had formed another shape, beneath the blotches that looked almost like eyes and this one seemed to be a bright and sunny smile, inked in dark red onto the cloth. "You are a skull," you could not help to blurt out at the realization. "A talking skull. Who speaks Imperial of all things?" Something was welling up in you and it was not fear, but it seemed close kin to it none the less. Why had you decided to come to this cellar?

The skull seemed not to notice though, speaking on as if it were the most normal thing for it to do so. "No, I speak no mortal tongue. The dead speak no language save their own. One that is understood by all and yet remains unheard. Of course, there are ways to make it heard none the less"

"But you spoke Norse just a moment ago. I understood not a single word of it, but it drove the other thing away."

"Well, that would explain why you so politely share your blood with me while I do not recall the reason for it. My memory, you see, is not the best and the Norns take ill to being told what to do at the best of times, let alone when one such as I is ordering them around."

You had heard the name 'Norn' before, but you could not recall when, just that it was some thing in the Northmens faith. "Was that a Norn then? The other thing?"

"Speak not idly about that which lingers here." For once, the cheer was gone from the skulls voice, making him sound like Nechtan when he gave orders that had to be followed to the letter. "It has been gone for a while, that I remember, but this place is still tainted by its presence. A remnant accosted you, am I right? And I banished it?"

Hearing the thing called a remnant was not reassuring. "Yes, I think so. But…"

"No. I can explain another time if you insist. Know for now that it is old and cruel in the truest sense of these words and that if you draw its attention again, you will be on your own against it. We should not linger in this place." He paused again to let his words sink in, then spoke quieter, as if worried that he was being overheard. "Perhaps it is the reason that my memory is not the best. I think I once knew something that would make me think so at least."

It was not that you did not wish to leave the cellar. In fact, you could scarcely remember ever having wanted anything as much as leaving it right now, the only stronger desire having been the same, but in regards to the thrice-cursed ship that brought you to these lands. But there was still the problem of light. "I would go if I could, but I can't see anything. My candle is out."

"Yes, that would be a problem. I am afraid that keen sight is not a gift I have been blessed with either. Could you stretch your other hand? There should be a candelabra to my left."

So, you did, careful this time to touch any shards again, and indeed you found one after a few moments of waving your hand around. "I have it and it still has a bit of candle left on it, but I don't have anything to light it."

"Let that be my concern. There are a few tricks that I still remember, but it will be taxing for me. It will take a quite a bit of blood to rouse me again after I do this, so be careful. Just hold the candle before me and take your hand from me."

You had a fair idea what would happen next and indeed, after you did as he had told you, he spoke once more. This time, it felt different. His voice was the same, but something in the way he said them was wrong in a different way then when you had talked just now. "ᛚᛟᚷᛁ," he said. Flame. But when he said it, it was not a word, but a command and from a tiny spark on the candle came forth a light.

It was the most beautiful sight you could imagine after all of this, letting you finally see again. Before you stood a large cabinet, filled with rotten bags containing smashed skulls. Herbs and writing still clung to the decaying bones. And in the centre of it all was a small pedestal, covered in shards of glass. Some still had a few drops of you blood on them.

Only one was different. The skull that had called himself Mimir sat near the middle of the shelf, the blood you had just spilled on it having dried already. Now that you saw it with your eyes again, the smile looked anything but kind, just a sinister drawl scrawled across the bag containing the bone. He was quiet now and the strange awareness you had of his bag was gone. For all intents and purposes, it seemed to be just another piece of rotting junk in this cellar. But he had said that he could be roused again. The only question was if you wanted to.

[] Leave the skull here.

[] Take the skull and try to hide it in another cellar.

[] Try to hide the skull around the kitchens.

AN: Lot's of stress cut my writing time short, but things cleared up and we should be back to a semi-regular schedule now.

Northern Winds

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