|
Saga
Mar 5, 2019 23:00:02 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 5, 2019 23:00:02 GMT
Rather than concern over the slave’s actions, to mount the horse without permission, or even an attitude of concern, the two Vikings were… laughing. Hysterically, Arlan thought with a raised eyebrow as he watched Baldur stand. He didn’t understand the word Sleipnir - didn’t Fellbjorn call the horse Mag-something? - but Baldur’s approach once more earned a hesitant step back and a wide-eyed look.
The slap on the back was the closest he had gotten to a punishment, but the sting was reminder enough that perhaps instead of being insulted, he should be grateful. It wasn’t that difficult to recall how hard Fell’s own strikes had hit his makeshift weapons. Arlan’s gaze darted between the two as they continued to laugh, clearly uncertain of the sudden acceptance after riding the horse.
Well… riding and managing to dismount on his own terms rather than Epona’s. He was beginning to see what Fell had meant, at least, about her opinion of him… to be so wild and untamed in spite of at least some training and definite breeding, what sort of life must she have had so far?
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 7, 2019 17:41:52 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 7, 2019 17:41:52 GMT
The tavern was already busy, despite it being mid-day, and was predominantly full of the warriors that had been on the raid. In between them, slaves mingled in and out, serving drinks and food. Arlan drew no more than a few curious glances as they passed by, but Fell and Baldur received hearty slaps on their backs and exchanged words with many a raucous warrior they passed. The two wasted no time accosting a slave to hand them drinking horns and pour them drinks, all memory of their roaring hang-overs earlier, forgotten, and willing to be relived if it meant a good drink now.
“Sleipnir is the eight-legged horse of Odin.” Fell explained to Arlan without prompting, leaning against one of the carved, wooden pillars that held up the ceiling. About to elaborate, he paused as the tavern slave began pouring his drink… Fell thought, incredibly slowly. Quickly becoming impatient, before the thrall could turn away, Fell had taken the jug from him, the slave backing away apologetically as the warrior swiftly filled Baldur and Arlan’s horns himself, setting the jug besides him at a nearby table. Baldur broke away then, having been motioned over by a group of men sitting by the fire, and was soon laughing and joking amongst them, his booming laughter rivalling even the loudest voices in the place. “Do you know who Odin is?” Fell continued, turning back to focus on Arlan, but becoming distracted at movement from his right. His gaze instead fell upon a thickly-bearded man, who had just grabbed a female slave onto his lap. The motion caused a stirring within the warrior as he watched in interest, his question momentarily forgotten.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 7, 2019 18:14:45 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 7, 2019 18:14:45 GMT
To Arlan’s surprise, the comment about his having somehow earned a drink for simply not being bucked off a horse was an honest one, his reaction clear as he stepped into the tavern. And when he was handed a drinking horn, especially given how swiftly he had been ignored when visiting Fellbjorn’s sister.
Fell began to explain what Sleipnir was, regarding his earlier comment, Arlan again raising an eyebrow at the idea. An eight legged horse? Sounded preposterous… even though his mind considered what picking eight hooves would be like. Arlan took a tentative sip of his drink once it was poured by the Viking, a little surprised at the taste but appreciative. How long had it been since he had last had a drink? A real one, not the watery dredge the monks would drink. Even Ruald would complain about the wine they had with most meals… and as a slave, Arlan never had a chance with the good stuff.
A moment before Fell’s question, Arlan took a long drink from his horn, running his tongue over his lips as he gave his cup an appreciative study. “Odin?” he repeated, his attention and gaze moving back up with a slow shake of his head. “Is he important?”
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 7, 2019 21:42:20 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 7, 2019 21:42:20 GMT
Arlan’s voice was enough to draw Fell from his intense study of the pair, but as he regarded the slave he found his eyes moving to the man’s lips, especially as he ran his tongue over them… A memory flitted to the forefront of his mind, of this same man pressed against him, their mouths colliding hungrily…
He looked away just as the slave was looking up towards him, an amused smile on his lips, only this time, it was aimed at himself. By Valhalla, it really had been too long, if everywhere he looked he imagined bedding someone! At Arlan’s words though, he couldn’t help but laugh, turning his attention to him once again. “He is the master of all, father to all!” Fell appeared to become excited as he spoke, drink momentarily forgotten as he gesticulated his meaning with his hands, the mead sloshing about dangerously in the cup. “He resides in Asgard, one of the Nine Worlds. He gave his right eye to drink from the Well of Urðr to acquire knowledge, the knowledge of the entire universe…” His hand swept enthusiastically to encompass the room, but then he paused, looking back at the slave and studying his face for a moment, suddenly aware that the man was still trying to work his way through all the new words that had been thrown at him.
Then, with a grin, Fell lowered his arm, raising his drinking horn to his lips to take a swig before continuing. “You will learn, slave.” He added, unknowingly using the hated nickname, yet with a touch of warmth. “Well, if you wish it. You’d best speak to Halvar, he is better at explaining, than I. Although I hear you have enough Gods of your own to contend with.” This last statement was said with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Of course, the curious warrior, had questioned Halvar briefly on what he knew of the Celt’s Gods.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 7, 2019 22:49:11 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 7, 2019 22:49:11 GMT
Both of Arlan’s eyebrows shot up at Fell’s excitement at describing this Odin, a name this time at least short enough to hear clearly. His expression almost settled into this look of surprise, having been about to take another drink when the Viking began explaining the different worlds and wells… or at least that was what it sounded like. The names were enough to make him question if he was translating the Viking’s language properly this time.
“Ah,” was all he managed as Fell took a drink as he paused, still looking thoroughly confused. As always, the “nickname” made Arlan flinch, wisely dropping his gaze and occupying his mouth with more mead rather than responding to it. The warmth in the way the word was used didn’t go unnoticed, Arlan sullenly trying to steady himself at the thought of the name being used repeatedly. At least the Viking’s remark about the Celt’s gods distracted him, his brow furrowing suspiciously as he wondered how Fell might have “heard” about them…
“I… will be sure to…” Here Arlan hesitated; “M’lord.” His gaze dropped at the word, unable to utter the word master but confident he couldn’t refer to the Viking out loud as he did in his head.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 7, 2019 23:36:52 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 7, 2019 23:36:52 GMT
The Viking looked momentarily confused. “M…lord?” He echoed, hesitantly, as if unsure of the pronunciation. Then, he waved his hand, getting the context of what Arlan had said if not fully understanding the word. “Just Fellbjorn.” He corrected, realising for the first time that a slave in England would not necessarily abide to the same rules as a Viking slave. “If you were referring to the Earl, it would be that, following his name. Do you understand? ‘Earl Eirik’. Or if it is a king, ‘King…” He paused, trying to think of a random name, and with a tweak of a smile, pointed his drinking horn towards Baldur. “’King Baldur’. But all free men and women to you, go by their names. Unless you don’t yet know it, where you are expected to say ‘your grace’.” Realising he hadn’t mentioned any of this before, he capitalised on the chance to maybe solve any other gaps in the slave’s knowledge. He lifted his free hand, the light glinting off the metalwork wrapped around his wrist, with it’s intricate knot-work, the two ends forming the faces of wolves. “This is baugr. It is the mark of a free man or woman.”
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 0:02:36 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 8, 2019 0:02:36 GMT
Arlan’s expression shifted yet again as the Viking began to explain, from surprise at the unexpected correction to surprise at having so much explained all at once, paying close attention as it would undoubtedly be needed. He nodded solemnly as Fell seemed to finish, but he didn’t have to look around to tell that the only ones in the tavern without a band and with a drink were either serving the warriors… or him. This recollection did little to settle him as he awkwardly finished his drink, his free hand idly touching his wrist as he looked around, more to look at someone other than Fell.
For the umpteenth time that day alone, he swallowed his pride and was about to thank his master - er… Fellbjorn… when he paused, seeing someone coming up from behind the Viking. The man’s approach was that of an old friend, clapping Fell on the shoulder heartily. Arlan pulled back a little to give them room, quickly mapping out a path to the wall to avoid being in the middle of the room. With so many warriors heartily laughing, drinking and bragging, a part of him felt homesick for his own tribe, where they would do the same, albeit around a campfire, with warriors and horses visibly painted with vivid blue patterns.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 0:43:16 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 8, 2019 0:43:16 GMT
At first, especially from afar, Fell seemed to welcome the man. They exchanged a few words with an air of pleasantness between them, until the warrior appeared to suddenly stiffen. Not even a second later the stranger was being slammed back against a pillar, a fist coming up to meet his face, blood spattering the floor as his head whipped to the side with the force of the strike. The fight immediately drew attention, the crowd, whilst not understanding why exactly the scrap was taking place, gleefully welcoming this form of entertainment, raising drinking horns and roaring in encouragement.
Meanwhile, the man had served Fell with his own left hook, bloodying the warrior’s nose. Fell didn’t even seem to notice, his own strikes unrelenting. This was not comparable to the way in which he had fought Arlan- for then, he had been calm and collected, his moves calculated. This was something else entirely, an onslaught stoked by fury and one the slave had yet to see before now, as it was usually reserved for the battlefield. His moves were sloppy in some respects, but every punch landed was devastatingly strong, betraying the pure, animalistic power often kept hidden and easy to forget beneath his usually calm demeanour.
The fight only drew to a close as the man was left gurgling on the floor, Fell stumbling a little as he finally pushed himself away and rose to his feet, blood running from his nose and down his chin and neck, his lip split and a purpling bruise at his jaw and just beneath his left eye. Turning for a moment, unsteady on his feet, he seemed to finally find what he had been looking for as he grabbed Baldur’s drinking horn from his hand, and lifted it to his lips, downing it in one to a chorus of laughter from the crowd.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 2:11:06 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 8, 2019 2:11:06 GMT
Arlan had almost turned away from the pair as they spoke, but visibly jumped when Fell shoved the other into the pillar, almost dropping the horn and preparing for self defense. Fortunately he didn’t attract too much attention, given that Fellbjorn and the other were taking over the space. As his heartbeat settled from the adrenaline rush, Arlan watched from the edge as the others began to cheer for one or the other, or simply cheered for the fight itself.
His own reaction? At first, he just enjoyed watching one Viking being beaten. But as Fell’s obvious fury kept him going, Arlan couldn’t help but recall how hard the man’s blows had been back at the monastery, from hitting the candelabra and the torch, right down to his head injury that had caused more problems than it had right to… but that animalistic show of power also reminded him of something else.
As much as his pride was grounded at the sight of his fool of a master pummeling another into the ground, thinking back to how miraculously long he had lasted during their fight… that same powerful figure had been pushed against him twice already. The first when he had tried a pathetic assassination attempt, the second… well, he pushed back into that, he recalled with a hard swallow, finding it impossible to pull his eyes away.
Even as Fell stood, Arlan’s eyes swept over him, unsure what to think… until the chorus of laughter and cheering broke the stillness.
Arlan’s gaze immediately dropped down, managing to maneuver away from the middle of the crowd to the wall, setting his empty horn down on one of the tables as he passed. There he waited, grateful the attention was still on Fell and his successful fight, running his hands over his face as he tried to center himself again. Fell was big and powerful… that meant danger, not… whatever he thought he was feeling.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 2:44:26 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 8, 2019 2:44:26 GMT
Things gradually returned to normal, the defeated man crawling away back to his companions, a small group near the back of the room, seated with none other than Ove… The man was staring at Fell with open seething hatred, and upon the wounded man’s approach, he stood, dragging the man into a seat and barking at a slave to bring him a drinking horn.
Meanwhile, Baldur’s playful punch towards Fell had hit him squarely in the shoulder, a move that would have normally left the warrior unmoved, but after the fight had managed to make him stumble back a pace, Baldur laughing as he grabbed the front of the man’s tunic to steady him. Fell merely grinned, shoving Baldur’s hand away playfully and demanding another drink. Music had started up now, a man by the fire striking up with the lyre that had until now been untouched, perhaps finding inspiration from the impromptu fight.
Downing yet another drinking horn, Fell once more became impatient, throwing the cup across the room and returning to the table he had been standing besides originally, taking the jug and raising it to his lips. Suddenly wondering where Arlan had disappeared to, he paused, looking about himself… but was distracted as a familiar face entered the tavern. “Halvar!” Fell roared, arms wide, one hand still clutching the jug of mead even as some of it sloshed onto the floor from the movement. “Join us!” Halvar looked both amused and confused as he paused and pointedly looked the warrior up and down, before approaching. “Well, it seems I’m a little late to the party. You haven’t drunk all the wine, have you?”
Fell wasn’t sure how much time had passed, or how much alcohol he had drunk, before he decided to actively seek Arlan out. By this point, Halvar was telling one of their stories, and as usual, had a handful of men enraptured by his skill. He remembered thinking it would be good for Arlan to hear this, and that was what had lead him pulling away from the group. His movements were steadier now, having recovered a little from the fight, the alcohol dulling any sense of pain that had crept up on him after the adrenalin has calmed. Still, he was drunk, but pleasantly so, not yet at the state of intoxication he had been the night before.
He spotted Arlan lingering in the shadows, and with an open smile perhaps too honest for his own good, he approached boldly, grabbing the slave’s arm, but appearing to think better of it as he loosed immediately. “You should join us.” He implored, more a request than an order.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 3:09:14 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 8, 2019 3:09:14 GMT
As the Vikings returned to the all important task of getting drunk, Arlan watched from his spot against the wall, more than once having to pull his eyes after having trailed back to Fellbjorn. Someone started to play music, and the tavern took on a more familiar tone.
Eventually, his leg tired and he risked taking a seat, remaining close to the wall even as he straddled the chair, leaning forward against the chair’s back with his arms folded over the edge. Rather than becoming bored while waiting for Fell, Arlan busied himself with learning names… or at least, what he assumed were names. At one point, he had realized a word was a playful insult rather than an actual name when it was thrown at more than one man, but he was slowly beginning to pick up on a few people.
It helped to be distracted, at least, from his earlier thoughts.
Upon spotting Fellbjorn, however, Arlan hastily stood, his theft of the chair going ignored until then. He quickly spun it back around to the table it had been at, the one in the corner that was the only one unoccupied for its bad location. Arlan began to use the term he learned in England of “m’lord,” but hesitated at remembering Fell’s earlier words; before he could speak, the other had grabbed his arm. Arlan wasn’t sure if his jump at the grab, or if it had been something else that made the Viking let loose a moment later, his eyebrow raised at Fell's open, honest smile in confusion.
Confusion was a state Arlan was often in when it came to Fellbjorn, it seemed, as he implored rather than demanded Arlan rejoin them. As awkwardly as he had initially drunk with the Viking, the Celt hesitated, his gaze meeting Fell’s with less certainty… and for once, no defiance.
“I’m just a… slave,” Arlan said with a look of not quite concern mixed with his confusion as he furrowed his brow, struggling for a moment to utter the last word. His reply proved he was guessing that somehow Fellbjorn had forgotten that fact in his revelry. Or after being punched, as the bruises across his face indicated.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 12:21:11 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 8, 2019 12:21:11 GMT
The way Arlan had reacted, as if concerned he would be punished for sitting down, of all things, was not noticed due to the warrior’s intoxication. At his words, however, it was Fell’s turn to pause and consider. “I know that.” He responded coolly, studying the slave’s face and his hesitance, wondering why Arlan had thought he needed reminding. Why did Fell treat him in the way he did? To himself, he didn’t think it was all that odd, in fact until now he hadn’t thought to double-guess or examine too closely his actions. Of course, he was not oblivious to the fact that the way he acted with Arlan was lenient, but he had known others that treated their slaves so, such as his sister. Although thinking that, he was sure she wouldn’t have been so lenient after Arlan’s, albeit half-hearted, assassination attempt. In his response to that, Fell was sure, he was at odds to the norm.
So why did he act this way? Well, Arlan was different. He came from a faraway place from an almost unheard-of people, he was an ex-warrior and he had spent time in England. Fell saw in him a chance to learn, but in the same breath he felt an urge to share his own culture, curious of the slave’s response to it and how it might differ from his. As for Arlan’s status as a slave, Fell didn’t see the point in using excessive force. A maltreated slave was an unhappy one, and an unhappy one was only the more likely to buck and bite against the chains of slavery. Fell had already expressed his desire to live in peace, being at war in his own home was not something he wanted to encourage.
Meanwhile, despite Fell’s treatment of him, the man always seemed ready to expect some kind of punishment, which led Fell to wonder, not for the first time, what life had been like for him back in England.
“There are no tricks.” Fell noted, after a short silence, wondering if that was the reason for Arlan's hesitation, perhaps he was always wondering if the warrior was testing him and trying to trip him up. "Is it wrong for me to want to share my culture?" he added, cocking his head to the side slightly, an innocent gesture that seemed completely at odds to his rugged, blood-spattered, appearance.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 16:58:28 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 8, 2019 16:58:28 GMT
The way Arlan’s eyes widened at Fell’s words proved the warrior was right; Arlan was expecting some trick, some catch to his leniency. To have it so bluntly stated that there was none… he didn’t know how to respond. That seemed to be his biggest hurdle, how to respond to kindness from a master. He didn’t respond to Fell’s question, his gaze instead falling, looking very lost.
The Viking took his hesitation in stride, again reaching for his arm and pulling him away from the wall. Arlan didn’t struggle for once, and soon found himself pushed back into the crowd, a drinking horn full of mead in his hand. As subdued as he was, it didn’t take much to get him to start drinking, so by the time they were leaving, he was as drunk as any of them. Face lightly flushed, an ease to his posture that hadn’t been there before. Except, notably, for when he had been with the horses.
Maybe that was why, while walking back towards the Viking’s home, Arlan found himself pausing by the fence of the paddock, one hand moving to the wooden post for balance as he looked out, a smile dancing on his lips at seeing Epona’s coat shining softly in the evening glow. “Amazing horse,” he remarked to no one, but at seeing Fell approach he went on, in spite of the fact that just a few hours earlier he had been wary of the man approaching him.
“Reminds me of Maelog,” he said with a wistful look, his accent heavier from the mead. “Young stallion, given as a gift to Father Abbott. Completely unridable… never trained, barely ever handled. Took me six months, but I got ‘im trained to take any rider.” He paused with a laugh, shaking his head at the memory. “Woulda finished in less time, but it took Ruald a while to convince the Father to let me near ‘im… never mind riding.”
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 8, 2019 18:32:58 GMT
Post by Kelathi on Mar 8, 2019 18:32:58 GMT
Fell was in high spirits. Halver certainly had a gift, her voice commanding attention and moving even the hardest of warriors into silence as he spoke of their Gods. Odin, Freya, Loki and Thor… One story moved seamlessly into the next, some tales tugging the heartstrings whilst others were punctuated with roaring laughter from the listening crowd. Halvar had just been starting another when Fell had motioned wordlessly to Arlan that they should go, and as they walked beneath the open sky, a blanket of stars staring down on them, he felt at peace. It probably had something to do with the fact that he had a belly-full of wine, but still, there was no mistaking the easy way in which he walked.
His gaze was diverted from above, and instead followed Arlan as the man found himself drawn yet again to the paddock. Fell strode over placidly, resting his forearms on the fence just as he had before, regarding Magnhild as the slave talked, his gaze soon moving to the one speaking. He smiled as he saw the passion with which the man spoke, the wine doing good to put him at ease enough, for once, not to rein in his emotions when speaking to the Viking. Fell found himself nodding in agreement as Arlan praised the mare, but his curiosity was piqued by the words that followed. Studying the slave as intently as the redhead studied the horse, he spoke after a moment’s consideration. “Is a ‘Father’ alike to an Earl?” He asked innocently, noting the unspoken sense of power resonating from the word.
|
|
|
Saga
Mar 9, 2019 2:01:05 GMT
Post by Red Irish Dragon on Mar 9, 2019 2:01:05 GMT
Arlan was blissfully unaware of how open he was being with Fell, the good drink and presence of horses that came over to investigate the two more than enough to brighten his mood. He looked over at Fell at his question, laughing. “Oh… nooooo, they’re not. Well, not too much. Father Abbott is… he leads the monastery, but he’s low ranked to the church. Now, like Bishop Eluard…” he went on, mocking the proud man’s mannerisms and large build, “He is as puffed up and gilded as any earl. He got to eat the finest of everything, the best wine, the best food… he even dined with the king, just because he ranked high enough in their god’s hierarchy. Their god… you only get to their heaven if you bow and scrape to men of the cloth. Different cuts of cloth to be damn sure… But Eluard? He started out as common as any! But he looked down on the rest of us there like-like we were just filthy peasants… or worse! No, the Father was a’ight, unlike Eluard… or Rhysart.”
The last name seemed to make him pause, leaning back from pantomiming the bishop to rest his back against the fence, his expression growing distant at the memory even as he went on to explain why. “Earl Rhysart. English bastard whose army took out mine… what few of my friends survived, well… you don’t see animals suffering such conditions. Only reason I survived was my gettin’ injured bad enough to not be kept with the rest. I don’t… don’t know how many survived. I never got to talk to ‘em.” For a moment, he seemed to sober up, but the way he continued showed he hadn’t, even if most of his jovial mood had completely disappeared. He started with a short, morbid laugh, his lip curling a little at his own venomous words.
“Then I get handed down to the abbey since I’m worthless. A lame slave, eh? What a joke. But… I got the abbey from it. Ruald. Maelog…”
The memory of the horse brought a smile back to his face, before he seemed to recognize just how much he had been talking. His expression tried to settle itself, not fully successful given how much he had managed to drink. As he looked back at Fell, his expression grew a touch annoyed; “What?” he asked, brow furrowing at the Viking’s expression as he watched him, straightening almost as if about to defend the fact that he was not drunk.
|
|