Justiciar
02-26-2007, 05:13
Blôðisôjan âb Wintraz
Prologue
Hágárdáz drummed his fingers on his thigh impatiently, his grey eyes fixed on the tumbling waters ahead. The shore of the great ancestral isle had been in view for what seemed an eternity, though the rhythmic crash of his Lángáskápáz’ eighteen oars brought them no closer. It’s crew were hardened warriors all, drawn from amidst the finest seamen and raiders of the Lángobárdōz. Today, however, no blood would be spilt, nor any loot taken. They were bound for the temporary camp of Ôkuz the Old, a petty chieftain of Skándzá, but more importantly the rightful ruler of much of Rugōlándám. Ôkuz’ reign in the land of the Rugōz had been ended little more than a half-year ago, his claim to the title of Kuningáz stolen by a younger and more popular contender. Though he had been at odds with the Confederation for many a year in his youth, Ôkuz now needed their aid in reclaiming his domain. In truth, they also needed him.
Of late, Swêbōlándám had found itself in conflict with it’s neighbours to the north and east. Raiding parties from the great isle often passed through the tribal territories of the Confederation en route to the rich lands of the Boii and Vindelici. The outer hamlets and minor settlements of the Márkámánnōz especially were under constant threat. The need to defend themselves often resulted in skirmishes, and in response to the shedding of their tribesmen’s blood many chieftains of the Skándzáwárjōz had turned their back on Swêbōz trade. Relations between their peoples had become strained, and this latest ruler of the Rugōz only strained things further.
And so by the will of the Kuningáz Swártágáizáz and the Thêudánáz Hêruwulfáz, he had been sent at the head of a diplomatic mission to arrange the terms of their alliance-to-be. It was necessary, he supposed. In his father’s day there would never have been such an exchange of words, he noted sourly. Such offences could only have resulted in an all-out war. He blamed the arrival of Gallic slaves, and their many backwards ideas. It was even known that the Thêudánáz himself had a woman of that folk to keep his bed warm. Hágárdáz had seen her in the flesh. A pretty thing, to be sure, with soft golden-brown hair and deep green eyes, dressed in finery of bronze and amber. But she was no less a negative influence on the Confederation.
With a sigh of exasperation he pulled his long and notched iron dagger from it’s sheath and began picking the dirt from his nails. “There they are, Hágárdáz!” one of the oarsmen shouted from behind him. Taken by surprise he dug the blade into the skin of his finger. He let out a bark, shoved the bloody digit into his mouth, and turned to face the crew angrily. They were all looking beyond him, to the coastline.
Surely enough, some thirty men littered the beach. Gathering his pale blue mantle and draping it across his left shoulder, Hágárdáz climbed to his feet. The ship drew closer and closer, until they were at last within sufficient distance to converse. Lifting his right hand to the heavens he cried out to the awaiting men. “Háiláz! I, Hágárdáz son of Sikijáz greet you!” Placing his finger back in his mouth he awaited a reply. None came. His brow furrowed anxiously, he bellowed to the welcoming party once more. “I come on behalf of the Swêbōz Confederation, to Negotiate with your Kuningáz!” Still they made no answer. Hágárdáz ran his fingers through his long red beard before turning to the oarsmen and ordering them to slow their pace. Surveying the group ahead he noticed that all were armed. A third held bows at the ready.
Finally, and to his relief, a lone voice roared back. “We’ve been waiting for some time now, Hágárdáz son of Sikijáz! Come, we have a horn of mead and a cut of roast bâraz for your band and you!” The speaker seemed to be a young man with long auburn hair. He could make out little else but for the spear held in his hands.
Nervously the boat crept forwards until drawing up onto the dark, pebble-strewn sand of the beach. After taking a moment to tighten his sword belt and check that his men were sufficiently armed, Hágárdáz leapt over the side of the ship. They were lead up from the sands of the shore towards a grassy rise, it’s nearest slope host to a number of elk-hide tents, the largest of which was open to the air and nestled amidst a formation of jutting rocks. As promised, a skinned and honey-roast wild boar hovered on a spit just outside, and a serving girl wandered from between four great tables beneath the tent’s shelter, pouring fine golden mead into the hollowed horns of the evicted old Kuningáz’ men. They must have numbered some hundred in total, Hágárdáz noted.
Sat in the place of honour was Ôkuz. He wore a long red over-tunic, and beneath it a shirt of chain, likely taken from a raid against the Gauls. Wrapped around his broad shoulders was the shaggy pelt of a black-bear. The man himself was a sight to behold, standing a full head taller than Hágárdáz, with a great, bulbous gut, flared nostrils, and a neck as thick as a tree-trunk. The moniker of his younger days – the Bull – seemed true to see. Age had taken it’s toll on the man, nonetheless. His thick, leathery skin was knotted with wrinkles, and his hair and beard were as white as newly fallen snow. Upon seeing Hágárdáz, Ôkuz sternly gestured for him to come closer.
“Swártágáizáz sends you, hmm?” He grunted. “You will do, I suppose. Sit, drink, and eat. And then, Tiwáz willing, we can talk of war.”
Prologue
Hágárdáz drummed his fingers on his thigh impatiently, his grey eyes fixed on the tumbling waters ahead. The shore of the great ancestral isle had been in view for what seemed an eternity, though the rhythmic crash of his Lángáskápáz’ eighteen oars brought them no closer. It’s crew were hardened warriors all, drawn from amidst the finest seamen and raiders of the Lángobárdōz. Today, however, no blood would be spilt, nor any loot taken. They were bound for the temporary camp of Ôkuz the Old, a petty chieftain of Skándzá, but more importantly the rightful ruler of much of Rugōlándám. Ôkuz’ reign in the land of the Rugōz had been ended little more than a half-year ago, his claim to the title of Kuningáz stolen by a younger and more popular contender. Though he had been at odds with the Confederation for many a year in his youth, Ôkuz now needed their aid in reclaiming his domain. In truth, they also needed him.
Of late, Swêbōlándám had found itself in conflict with it’s neighbours to the north and east. Raiding parties from the great isle often passed through the tribal territories of the Confederation en route to the rich lands of the Boii and Vindelici. The outer hamlets and minor settlements of the Márkámánnōz especially were under constant threat. The need to defend themselves often resulted in skirmishes, and in response to the shedding of their tribesmen’s blood many chieftains of the Skándzáwárjōz had turned their back on Swêbōz trade. Relations between their peoples had become strained, and this latest ruler of the Rugōz only strained things further.
And so by the will of the Kuningáz Swártágáizáz and the Thêudánáz Hêruwulfáz, he had been sent at the head of a diplomatic mission to arrange the terms of their alliance-to-be. It was necessary, he supposed. In his father’s day there would never have been such an exchange of words, he noted sourly. Such offences could only have resulted in an all-out war. He blamed the arrival of Gallic slaves, and their many backwards ideas. It was even known that the Thêudánáz himself had a woman of that folk to keep his bed warm. Hágárdáz had seen her in the flesh. A pretty thing, to be sure, with soft golden-brown hair and deep green eyes, dressed in finery of bronze and amber. But she was no less a negative influence on the Confederation.
With a sigh of exasperation he pulled his long and notched iron dagger from it’s sheath and began picking the dirt from his nails. “There they are, Hágárdáz!” one of the oarsmen shouted from behind him. Taken by surprise he dug the blade into the skin of his finger. He let out a bark, shoved the bloody digit into his mouth, and turned to face the crew angrily. They were all looking beyond him, to the coastline.
Surely enough, some thirty men littered the beach. Gathering his pale blue mantle and draping it across his left shoulder, Hágárdáz climbed to his feet. The ship drew closer and closer, until they were at last within sufficient distance to converse. Lifting his right hand to the heavens he cried out to the awaiting men. “Háiláz! I, Hágárdáz son of Sikijáz greet you!” Placing his finger back in his mouth he awaited a reply. None came. His brow furrowed anxiously, he bellowed to the welcoming party once more. “I come on behalf of the Swêbōz Confederation, to Negotiate with your Kuningáz!” Still they made no answer. Hágárdáz ran his fingers through his long red beard before turning to the oarsmen and ordering them to slow their pace. Surveying the group ahead he noticed that all were armed. A third held bows at the ready.
Finally, and to his relief, a lone voice roared back. “We’ve been waiting for some time now, Hágárdáz son of Sikijáz! Come, we have a horn of mead and a cut of roast bâraz for your band and you!” The speaker seemed to be a young man with long auburn hair. He could make out little else but for the spear held in his hands.
Nervously the boat crept forwards until drawing up onto the dark, pebble-strewn sand of the beach. After taking a moment to tighten his sword belt and check that his men were sufficiently armed, Hágárdáz leapt over the side of the ship. They were lead up from the sands of the shore towards a grassy rise, it’s nearest slope host to a number of elk-hide tents, the largest of which was open to the air and nestled amidst a formation of jutting rocks. As promised, a skinned and honey-roast wild boar hovered on a spit just outside, and a serving girl wandered from between four great tables beneath the tent’s shelter, pouring fine golden mead into the hollowed horns of the evicted old Kuningáz’ men. They must have numbered some hundred in total, Hágárdáz noted.
Sat in the place of honour was Ôkuz. He wore a long red over-tunic, and beneath it a shirt of chain, likely taken from a raid against the Gauls. Wrapped around his broad shoulders was the shaggy pelt of a black-bear. The man himself was a sight to behold, standing a full head taller than Hágárdáz, with a great, bulbous gut, flared nostrils, and a neck as thick as a tree-trunk. The moniker of his younger days – the Bull – seemed true to see. Age had taken it’s toll on the man, nonetheless. His thick, leathery skin was knotted with wrinkles, and his hair and beard were as white as newly fallen snow. Upon seeing Hágárdáz, Ôkuz sternly gestured for him to come closer.
“Swártágáizáz sends you, hmm?” He grunted. “You will do, I suppose. Sit, drink, and eat. And then, Tiwáz willing, we can talk of war.”