"Tell the Chieftain that we'll challenge them for passage," you say to the Nordlander as you make up your mind. "I just have to head back to the Expedition to fetch our Champion."
"Joerg, then?" Sir Ruprecht asks.
"No," you say, smiling as you turn your Shadowsteed.
---
By the time you return, much of the Norscan town has gathered around a small island in the frozen sea where the challenge will take place. You've read that the tradition exists so that nobody can interfere with the battle and there's no chance of escape for anyone that tries to flee, and it seems that the Baersonlings maintain that tradition despite the very different sea. It does have the advantage that spectating is simply a matter of walking over instead of having to anchor a longship offshore.
Those Norscans hoping for a good show are immediately rewarded by your arrival, as instead of having a rider alongside you, you ride in the shadow of Deathfang as he lazily drifts through the air, moving much slower than he is capable of to give onlookers a proper chance to register the majestic being that has deigned to grace them with his presence. He swoops low over the island as the Norscans duck and Asarnil hops lightly off at the nadir of the arc, allowing his momentum to drive the Dragon banner of Caledor into the stone and running an amused eye over the would-be spectators.
"Ah, Norscans," he says as you arrive and dismount next to him. "Nobody quite like them for reliably delivering an invigorating fight. We've spilled an ocean of blood keeping them hemmed into the Sea of Chaos, and yet they never stop trying. There are parts of Cothique and Yvresse that have seen more Norscan invaders than Druchii over the years."
"Ready to add another gallon to that ocean?" you ask.
"Always, and then much more if that doesn't get the point across." He smiles in anticipation as he runs his eyes over the crowd. "Which unfortunate will taste my blade today?"
You nod towards Vindslaktare, who's gazing thoughtfully back at the two of you. "That's their Chieftain, but he might not be the Champion they put forward."
Asarnil's grin widens. "I hope it's him. Old men in a profession where men usually die young are always the most interesting."
The Nordlander joins the two of you as you walk across the island to the Chieftain, whose eyes are locked on Asarnil and who barks a question as you approach.
"He wants to know if Asarnil is a Ljósálfar or a Dökkálfar," the Nordlander translates. "Er, he means-"
"Oh, I know what he means," Asarnil interrupts, his smile growing strained. "Tell him that I am a Fjallvættr of Álfheimr, and that at the slightest provocation I might decide it is my duty to wear the guise of Víðarr on behalf of the Dvergr."
"I got most of that from context, but who's Víðarr?" you ask as the Nordlander translates.
"Drakira," he says distractedly, watching the expression of the Chieftain as he listens to the threat, and to the Chieftain's response.
"He says it would be ungracious for him to take the glory of what promises to be a battle for the sagas," the Nordlander says, and Asarnil sighs in disappointment. "He grants the honour to his nephew Völundr Jólling."
The crowd turns almost as one, and you follow their eyes to a bear of a man as muscled as he is fat, his beard adorned with steel rings and with a short-hafted hammer on his belt. Völundr steps forward, smacking a meaty fist against his chest and bellowing a challenge, one word of which you wince at.
"He says he'll earn the favour of the Blood God with the skull of a Ljósálfar," the Nordlander says.
"I suppose the natural response would be to dedicate the kill to Khaine," Asarnil says with artful casualness, "but we Caledorians have our differences with the Bloody-Handed God." He draws his blade, which would seem precariously thin if you didn't know it was made of Ithilmar, and examines the tip of it. "Instead, I shall dedicate this victory to Vaul."
---
There's a short delay as Völundr's armour is fetched from his smithy, which gives an opportunity for more of the Winter Wolves to arrive, trailing behind the pace set by you and Deathfang. You don't think the Norscans will go against a duel they believe to be adjudicated by the Gods, but you'd rather have the forces on hand to press the matter if you turn out to be wrong. The wait isn't as uncomfortable as it could have been as the fjord shields the ice here from the bitter northern wind, but you're still suppressing a shiver here and there by the time Asarnil and Völundr stand alone in the middle of the island.
The clash of Norscan steel against Caledorian Ithilmar begins immediately, with Asarnil parrying the first swing of the Norscan to obliterate the patch of ground he had been standing on a moment before, which causes you to raise your eyebrows and concentrate your Magesight as you realize there's more to the hammer than steel or more to Völundr than baseline human muscle. But at this distance you can't make out any flash of energies from the hammer amongst the eddying ambient Winds, so you give up and return your focus entirely to your mundane senses as the two warriors dance around each other, seemingly evenly matched.
Seemingly.
"I thought the Old World's dearest mercenary would have a bit more flash to him," Sir Ruprecht says beside you, and you remember that his attention was elsewhere when Asarnil went blade-to-claw with a higher Daemon of the Tempter and came away unscathed.
"What do you know of Vaul?" you ask as you watch.
"Vaul?" he says distractedly. "Vaul. You mean Vallich? Nordlander God of Shipwrights? Not much, really."
"They do get around a bit, don't they? I must admit, I don't know a whole lot about Elven Gods. What I do know is that Vaul is the God of Smiths and the patron God of Caledor. And most notably..."
You wince as Asarnil's blade flicks out twice, faster than the eye can see, and a scream of pain rises from the Norscan as he clutches at his face. "Most notably," you continue, "he was blinded..." Asarnil circles his foe, and you wince again as the Elf's greaved leg lashes out with a crack of shattering bone. "And crippled by Khaine," you finish, almost drowned out by the second crack.
"Ah," Sir Ruprecht says as Asarnil's blade slips between Völundr's ribs to skewer his heart.
"'Victory is a foregone conclusion,'" you say, echoing Asarnil's promise to any who are able to afford his prices.
Jesus wept Asarnil. What did they do to piss you off? Was it the part where they insinuated you might be a Druchii? I bet it was the part where they insinuated you might be a Druchii.
"He says it would be ungracious for him to take the glory of what promises to be a battle for the sagas," the Nordlander says, and Asarnil sighs in disappointment. "He grants the honour to his nephew Völundr Jólling."
Well it's always a joy to see my current favorite elf remind people that he's a centuries old mercenary with the skill to back in up. And not to be fucked with.
And while he is expensive he is well worth every penny.
And with that fight out of the way, I am reasonably certain that the Karag Dum Expedition can threaten me no more with stress or panic!
If something goes terribly wrong while Mathilde is attempting her hat trick of rediscovering lost Karaks, you have permission to blame me for tempting Ranald like that.
"Tell the Chieftain that we'll challenge them for passage," you say to the Nordlander as you make up your mind. "I just have to head back to the Expedition to fetch our Champion."
"Joerg, then?" Sir Ruprecht asks.
"No," you say, smiling as you turn your Shadowsteed.
Also it is a little amusing that he went "Yeah, either me or Joerg could take him" and apparently forgot that we have the world's most expensive mercenary here.
Well it's always a joy to see my current favorite elf remind people that he's a centuries old mercenary with the skill to back in up. And not to be fucked with.
And while he is expensive he is well worth every penny.
Even aside from being a centuries old mercenary, he's a) an Elven Prince, who, seeing as the position was founded by being warriors, are all expected to have some degree of combat prowess and have a lively dueling culture, b) an Elf and therefore vindictive as fuck (Elves hold personal grudges almost as well as the Dwarfs), and c) from Caledor, literally the traditional heart of Ulthuan's military.
You wince as Asarnil's blade flicks out twice, faster than the eye can see, and a scream of pain rises from Norscan. "Most notably," you continue, "he was blinded..." Asarnil circles his foe, and you wince again as the Elf's greaved leg lashes out with a crack of shattering bone. "And crippled by Khaine," you finish, almost drowned out by the second crack.
"Ah," Sir Ruprecht says as Asarnil's blade slips between Völundr's ribs to skewer his heart.
"'Victory is a foregone conclusion,'" you say, echoing Asarnil's promise to any who are able to afford his prices.
I expect Boney just isn't going to show the bonuses, and that barring a nat 1 asarnil's win was basically guaranteed - it was just a matter of how long before he stopped playing - or if, as happened, he won while playing.
Ljósálfar: Light elf
Dökkálfar: Dark elf
Fjallvættr of Álfheimr: Mountain-spirit (the vaettir were a vague category of supernatural beings) of Elf-land (I'm guessing Caledor is mountainous?)
Víðarr: Drakira, elf goddess of vengeance, one of the Ellinilli (children of the god of destruction)
Dvergr: Dwarves
"He says it would be ungracious for him to take the glory of what promises to be a battle for the sagas," the Nordlander says, and Asarnil sighs in disappointment. "He grants the honour to his nephew Völundr Jólling."
Funniest part of the update; translates to 'I don't fancy my chances against an excessively eager and grinning elf, so you can have my disposable nephew instead.'.
Jesus wept Asarnil. What did they do to piss you off? Was it the part where they insinuated you might be a Druchii? I bet it was the part where they insinuated you might be a Druchii.
