A Skald's Tale

[Mulu]

The Great Hall is a testimony to the authority of the chief. It's strong Northern wood is layed out much like a sea vessel, taking advantage of the curve of the grain for support. Words of wisdom are carved on plaques on the walls within.

COURTESY
A guest needs
giving water
fine towels are friendliness.
A cheerful word
a chance to speak
kindness and concern.

BATTLE
Silence becomes the child of a prince,
To be silent but brave in battle:
It befits a warrior to be merry and glad
Until the day of his death.

COURAGE
The coward believes he will live forever
If he holds back in the battle,
But in old age he shall have no peace
Though spears have spared his limbs.

PRIDE
A small hut of one's own is better,
You are a master at home:
A couple of goats and a corded roof
Still are better than begging.

DANGER
A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,
But have weapons to hand:
You know not when you may need a spear,
Or what menace meet on the road.

KNOWLEDGE
It is best to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
The learned whose lore is deep
Is seldom happy at heart.

VALOR
Cattle die, kindred die,
Everyone is mortal:
But I know one thing that never dies,
The glory of the great dead.

[Mulu]

Although the birch leaves have unfurled into sprays of soft green, the lake's dark waters are still rimmed with a thin glaze of ice, and winter's dying breath still cuts cold in the wind. Grymbjorn comes to the bathhouse weary from a long day's work in the fields. The small wooden building's door is shut tightly, but he can see a faint glow through a chink between the logs. He draws his belt-knife, reaching up to the dangling twigs of the old birch tree which stands tall and fair beside the bathhouse, and murmurs a blessing before cutting a handful of the leafy branches and binding them together with a long supple twig.

Once inside, Grymbjorn quickly sheds his cloak, tunic, and breeches, letting the bathhouse's heat soak into his bones. In the warm light of the glowing fire-rocks, he can see his woman, Griselda, resting on one of the bathhouse's linen-spread benches, a fire-reddened sheen of sweat already gleaming on her fair skin. She greets him gladly as he comes to stretch out on the bench beside her, then dips her ladle into the bucket of water by her seat and casts the water onto the hot stones. A cloud of steam hisses up, dampening the air and making it feel even hotter.

In a little while, both Grymbjorn and Griselda are dripping with sweat, all the day's grime and weariness washing away in the salty trickles that run freely over them like rivulets of water over melting ice. Grymbjorn takes the birch-bundle he has made and begins to whisk Griselda lightly with it; too soft to hurt, the birch's leafy twigs beat the sweat from her back and shoulders, stirring her blood so that her white skin soon glows pink and healthy. The fresh scent of the bruised leaves rises from the whisk, blending pleasantly with the wood-smoke that heated the bathhouse. After a little while, Griselda takes the birch-bundle and whisks her man with it in turn.

When they have sweated long enough, Grymbjorn and Griselda rise from their place, going to the door. They plunge out together, running out along the lakeside pier and diving into the rime-chill water only to come up a moment later, gasping with the joyful shock of the crisp cold biting into their skins. The two of them swim about for a few minutes, then pull themselves up onto the pier again, cleansed and strengthened by their bath of fire and ice.

Griselda hands Grymbjorn a thick cotton towel, a concession to the exotic and pampering goods that have trickled North from trade. "You better dry off before that ice freeze to you."

Grymbjorn chuckles, "My blood burns too hot for ice to form." He takes the towel anyway and briskly dries himself, then puts on his pants, furs and boots. "I'm going to check on the boats."



The stroke is strong and sure. The flat of the halberd's blade strikes the frozen goblin's head,sending it flying over the ice, over neatly lined whale carcasses on the shore, over the slushy sea water, and striking a floating marker lightly bobbing in the still ocean.

"Ha! Beat that!" The large man says, smiling through the ice in his beard.

Grymbjorn was just a teen, though tall for his age even among the Northmen. He had bet three martin skins he could hit a goblin's head closer to their whale marker. He was pretty sure he had just lost that bet. Still, he had to try.

"You just wait an see, Knute." He steadies his halberd on his shoulder, then swings low at the next frozen head placed on the snow with the flat of the blade. The metal cracks against the frozen flesh and bone, knocking the lower jaw off as it flies into the air, spinning lopsidedly to splash in the water, far wide of the mark.

"Bah! I got a slice! Best three out of five?" He asks.

"You already owe me three martin skins, two walrus tusks, and five ells of rope. You should quit while you're behind." He says, spinning his halberd with precision.

"You'll have my entire share of this season if I don't try again. Maybe we could play something else, like..." he is interrupted by shouts from the men.

"A ship! To arms! To arms!"

The dragon prow pushes through the small chunks of ice and approaches the frozen shore, the magical glow of its eyes lighting the way. The ship is small and sleek, designed for fast transport. A man stands at the front, his clothes frosted with wind blown snow. A flag with two axes and a bear droops on the mast behind him.

"Who is that?" Grymbjorn asks.

"A skald. Important business, for Hrolf, I bet" says Knute.

The ship beaches in the snow, and a tall man with severe features walks out.

A skald thinks Grymbjorn. He follows the strange looking man into the longhall.

[Mulu]

"Skald! Another Tale!" The boisterous men jeer and cajole, but the old man will have nothing of it. "You interrupt too often. I will tell another tomorrow," he says, leaning against the whalebone bar.

"Then we sing praises to the dead!" Shouts Hrolf, the clan leader, with cheers following.

"To Bjorn Durdram, who died to a water dragon!" Claims one man.

"To Leif Mannikson, who died to an orc chief!" Shouts another.

"To Hans Shangriffon, who died of a broken heart!" The men laugh.

"To Olaf Lunden, who died to..." Hrolf pauses, then his face falls. The men stop laughing. "I... I don remember anymore." He says, his eyes wide.

"It's okay Hrolf," a man says from the back, "You're old now, we understand." A few men chuckle.

"No, it not okay," says Hrolf. "If I don sing his praises..."

"Then another will," Says the skald with authority. He walks from the bar and approaches Hrolf, then he leans in close so the others cannot hear and murmurs something to him.

"We talk outside," Hrolf says, seeming to ignore the fact that it is cold enough to freeze spit in mid-air.

"Ja, okay, if we must," the old skald says, putting on a glowing amulet.

Grymbjorn watches the old men leave. The others go back to drinking and laughing, but he can't stop thinking about the skald. Finally, he puts on a heavy fur cloak, and steps outside.



Hrolf stands in the snow, his chin held high. The wind blows in a gale, but the amulet of the skald calms the air around them, and warms them. Grymbjorn gets close enough to be in the warmth, and tries not to be noticed.

"Dat handy," Hrolf says with a snort.

"Ja, it's magic has helped me often in my travels," says the Skald.

"So, I spose you gots some fancy deal for me? I give you some gold or some men, and you gonna make me rich?"

"No," he says. "I am here for you."

Hrolf looks at him skeptically.

"The Jarl is worried," he says. "There are rumors in the court, not all of them kind."

"Oh, I shudda known," Hrolf says. "Da Jarl always been jealous of me."

"The Jarl is dying," he says. Hrolf stands silent. He continues, "He dies without a clear heir. There will be conflict, perhaps even war."

"What dis got to do wit me?" Hrolf asks.

"Nothing. Everything," he says.

"You speak in riddles. I too old for dis. Get to da point."

"You are a hero to our people, Hrolf," he says. "All respect your strength and exploits. The fact that you have not tried to take the throne for yourself makes you a strong ally of those who seek order in the coming years."

"I hate politics," he says firmly. "I got no mind to side wit nobody."

"As I suspected," he grins.

"Den why you come all da way out here?"

"For you." The Skald calmly pulls out a pipe, and stuffs it with leaf.

"Dat mean nuttin. You still speakin in riddles."

The Skald lights his pipe, and puffs it calmly. Hrolf looks over his shoulder at the lodge house, then right at Grymbjorn, but stays put. Grymbjorn tries to breath again.

"I have seen many a great warrior in my day," he begins. "Stars that shine brightly on the darkest night, heroes who rise and fall with the waves. Do you know what it is to be a hero?"

Hrolf snorts.

The Skald smiles. "To be a hero is to do that which only you can do, at the time and place it needs doing. You have been a hero many times over Hrolf, and for that you have earned your rest."

Hrolf's face falls a bit.

"I know what troubles you. You have the fate of the living, who feel guilt over the death of others. You think that maybe it would be better if you had joined your fallen comrades, yes?"

Hrolf looks away, into the wind blown snow.

"It is a hard thing, to live, when you have consigned yourself to die in glorious battle. You worry that the old tales are true, and that Valhalla is closed to those warriors who age, no matter how successful they were. Worry not. I have it on good authority that the Halls are open to you."

Hrolf smirks. "You talk to All Fadder did you?"

"Yes." The Skald stands tall and resolute, his sharp features looking down at him.

Hrolf studies his face, and sees no deciet. "Well, I guess I kin go die in my bed in peace now."

The Skald chuckles. "I also have it on good authority that you are not yet retired."

"Oh, I plenny retired," Hrolf says. "I too old to be swingin a sword at demons anymore."

The Skald looks him over. "Being old is as much a state of the mind as it is a state of the body. You have strength in you yet. Especially while you wear that belt."

Hrolf smiles, looking at his magic belt. Then a cloud passes over his face.

"Thinking of death again already?"

"How you know what I tinkin?" He narrows his eyes and looks him over again.

"It is written all over your face," he says, and puffs his pipe again. "I have some advice for you."

"Oh, dat not surprisin..."

The skald grins, pipe still in his mouth. "Go to Elturel. Visit the people you knew in your adventuring days. The reason you didn't remember how Olaf died is that you weren't there. He is one of many companions you've had who parted ways. Perhaps you should rejoin some of them, to remind you that living isn't so bad."

"You know an awful lot, even for a Skald."

"Yes, interesting, isn't it?" The Skald looks over to young Grymbjorn hiding behind the woodpile next to the lodge. The Skald's eyes glow gold as his white wings appear. Grymbjorn gasps, then the world spins, and falls to darkness

[Mulu]

Hrolf had left the next day. He left instructions for the men, and a bag of books for Grymbjorn, with a note inside.

Hopefully your curiosity can be put to use.

Grymbjorn studied the sagas. If he was to be a skald some day, he would need to know the ancient lore. His favorite was the voyage of Ohthere.

Ohthere's Voyage to the White Sea

Ohthere told his lord, Jarl Haldrig, that he lived farthest to the north of all the Northmen. He said that he lived by the western sea in the north part of the land. However, he said that the land extends very much further north; but it is all waste, except that Ice Bugbears camp in a few places here and there.

He said that on one occasion he wished to find out how far that land extended due north, or whether anyone lived north of the waste. Then he travelled close to the land, due north; he left the waste land on the starboard and the open sea on the port all the way for three days. Then he was as far north as the whale-hunters ever travel.

Then he travelled still due north as far as he could sail for the next three days. Then the land turned due east - or the sea in on the land - he did not know which; he knew only that there he waited for a wind from the west and a little from the north, and then sailed east, close to the land, for as far as he could sail in four days. Then he had to wait there for a wind directly from the north, for at that point the land turned due south - or the sea in on the land - he did not know which. Then from there he sailed due south, close to the land, for as far as he could sail in five days. There a great river extended up into the land. Then they turned up into that river because they dare not sail beyond the river for fear of hostility, because on the other side of the river the land was all inhabited by frost giants.

He travelled there chiefly - in addition to observing the land - for the walruses, because they have very fine bone in their teeth (they brought some of those teeth to the Jarl), and their hides are very good for ship's ropes. This whale is much smaller than other whales: it is no longer than seven ells long. But the best whale-hunting is in his own land: those are forty-eight ells long, and the largest fifty ells long. He said that, as one of six, he slew sixty of those in two days. He was a very wealthy man in that property in which their wealth consists, that is, in wild animals. When he visited the Jarl he still had six hundred tame animals unbought. They call those 'reindeer'; of those, six were decoy reindeer; they are very valuable among the Northmen because with them they capture the wild reindeer. He was among the first men in the land. Nevertheless he had no more than twenty cattle, and twenty sheep and twenty swine, and the little that he ploughed, he ploughed with horses.

But their income is chiefly in the tribute that the other tribes pay them. That tribute consists in animal skins and in bird feathers and whale-bone and in the ship's ropes which are made from the hide of whales and seals. Each one pays according to his rank. The noblest must pay fifteen marten skins, and five reindeer, and one bear skin, and ten ambers of feathers, and a bear- or otter-skin coat, and two ship's ropes, both to be sixty ells long, one to be made of whale's hide, the other of seal's.

He said that the land of the Northmen was vast and harsh. The cultivated land is broadest to the south, and increasingly narrower the further north. To the south it may be ten leagues broad, or a little broader; and in the middle five or broader; and to the north, he said, where it was narrowest, it might be a single league broad to the mountains; and then the mountains in some places are as broad as one might cross in two weeks, and in some places as broad as one might cross in six days. But in many they are uncrossable.

Grymbjorn imagined being a great traveler, who saw things like Ice Bugbears and Frost Giants. What an amazing world it was. Someday perhaps others would pay tribute to him. That would be a good life.

[Mulu]

He watches the ice patches swell on the ocean, looking for whale blow. The men pull the oars in practiced unison, the dragon prow slicing between the patches of ice, even occasionally passing over them as the low draft vessel is pushed relentlessly across the Trackless Sea. Then, a white mist in the distance.

"Thar she blows!" Knute yells. "Turn two by two, and pull!" Grymbjorn readies a large spear with a broad head. "We're gaining, pull!"

He gets close to throwing range when the beast dives. "Oh no! It dove." The men groan, and pull up their oars. The only thing to do now was wait. Then a strange voice comes from behind the vessel.

"You don't want to throw that."

Grymbjorn turns around to see a whale with its head above water, a great eye looking at him.

"Ummm, did you just talk?"

"Yes, I did," the whale says. "Don't throw your spear, I can be your friend."

"Well, we make money by hunting whale," Grymbjorn says, looking around at the other men for support.

"I know the secrets of the deep," says the whale. "I can find the hidden treasures, the shipwrecks, the schools of fish. Nothing happens in the ocean without my knowing it."

"Oh, really?" Grymbjorn asks, still uncertain.

"Yes brave hunter," the whale replies. "Stay your hand, and I will take you to riches without end."

"Well, okay then," Grymbjorn says. "But you had better not be trying to trick me."

The whale gets a twinkle in its eye, and slips back into the water, its tail rising high.

Grymbjorn awakens to the sound of the kitchen staff below. He wipes his eyes and looks at the burned out lamp. "Oh, what a weird dream," he mutters. "I have to stop drinking that dwarven stout."

He looks around his room at Rivermoot Inn. He had studied hard, and gained some skill at being a skald. But the real test was the journey. As a young skald, he had to first travel much, and learn much. Only when he was a lore master could he return to his people, and be recognized as a true Skald. This place, close to Silverymoon, seemed a good place to start.

[Mulu]

The Banites had assembled a team to deal with the crypt. Grymbjorn was supposed to go, and indeed had looked forward to it as a great learning experience, but a simple pot of poorly cooked stew had brought him to his knees.

He had spent the time going over sagas.

THE ORIGIN OF STEEL

Ere arose the star of evening,
Iron ore had left the marshes,
From the water-beds had risen,
Had been carried to the furnace,
In the fire the smith had laid it,
Laid it in his smelting furnace.
Gond the Smith starts the bellows,
Gives three motions of the handle,
And the iron flows in streamlets
From the forge of the magician,
Soon becomes like baker's leaven,
Soft as dough for bread of barley.
Then out-screamed the metal, Iron:
"Wondrous blacksmith, Gond the Smith,
Take, O take me from thy furnace,
From this fire and cruel torture."

Gond the Smith thus made answer:
"I will take thee from my furnace,
Thou art but a little frightened,
Thou shalt be a mighty power,
Thou shalt slay the best of heroes,
Thou shalt wound thy dearest brother.
Straightway Iron made this promise,
Vowed and swore in strongest accents,
By the furnace, by the anvil,
By the tongs, and by the hammer,
These the words he vowed and uttered:
"Many trees that I shall injure,
Shall devour the hearts of mountains,
Shall not slay my nearest kindred,
Shall not kill the best of heroes,
Shall not wound my dearest brother;
Better live in civil freedom,
Happier would be my life-time,
Should I serve my fellow-beings,
Serve as tools for their convenience,
Than as implements of warfare,
Slay my friends and nearest. kindred,
Wound the children of my mother."

Now the master, Gond the Smith,
The renowned and skillful blacksmith,
From the fire removes the iron,
Places it upon the anvil,
Hammers well until it softens,
Hammers many fine utensils,
Hammers spears, and swords, and axes,
Hammers knives, and forks, and hatchets,
Hammers tools of all descriptions.

Many things the blacksmith needed,
Many things he could not fashion,
Could not make the tongue of iron,
Could not hammer steel from iron,
Could not make the iron harden.
Well considered Gond the Smith,
Deeply thought and long reflected.
Then he gathered birchen ashes,
Steeped the ashes in the water,
Made a lye to harden iron,
Thus to form the steel most needful.
With his tongue he tests the mixture,
Weighs it long and well considers,
And the blacksmith speaks as follows:
"All this labor is for nothing,
Will not fashion steel from iron,
Will not make the soft ore harden."

Now a bee flies from the meadow,
Blue-wing coming from the flowers,
Flies about, then safely settles
Near the furnace of the smithy.

Thus the smith the bee addresses,
These the words of Gond the Smith:
"Little bee, thou tiny birdling,
Bring me honey on thy winglets,
On thy tongue, I pray thee, bring me
Sweetness from the fragrant meadows,
From the little cups of flowers,
From the tips of seven petals,
That we thus may aid the water
To produce the steel from iron."

Evil Talona's bird, the hornet,
Heard these words of Gond the Smith,
Looking from the cottage gable,
Flying to the bark of birch-trees,
While the iron bars were heating
While the steel was being tempered;
Swiftly flew the stinging hornet,
Scattered all the Talona horrors,
Brought the blessing of the serpent,
Brought the venom of the adder,
Brought the poison of the spider,
Brought the stings of all the insects,
Mixed them with the ore and water,
While the steel was being, tempered.

Gond the Smith, skilful blacksmith,
First of all the iron-workers,
Thought the bee had surely brought him
Honey from the fragrant meadows,
From the little cups of flowers,
From the tips of seven petals,
And he spake the words that follow:
'Welcome, welcome, is thy coming,
Honeyed sweetness from the flowers
Thou hast brought to aid the water,
Thus to form the steel from iron!'

Gond the Smith, ancient blacksmith,
Dipped the iron into water,
Water mixed with many poisons,
Thought it but the wild bee's honey;
Thus he formed the steel from iron.
When he plunged it into water,
Water mixed with many poisons,
When be placed it in the furnace,
Angry grew the hardened iron,
Broke the vow that he had taken,
Ate his words like dogs and devils,
Mercilessly cut his brother,
Madly raged against his kindred,
Caused the blood to flow in streamlets
From the wounds of man and hero.
This, the origin of iron,
And of steel of light blue color.

[Mulu]

Grym lies in bed in the Rivermoot Inn. The sun was up, people were about, and soon the cleaning lady would come to clear the room. Still, he didn't feel much like going out today. Even the sagas held no interest for him.

He thinks back to his home, to the night that changed his life. He remembers the words of the old Skald:

"You have the fate of the living, who feel guilt over the death of others. You think that maybe it would be better if you had joined your fallen comrades, yes?"

Yes, he thinks to himself. Then he chuckles, thinking about his witty, dead friend. He gets up, finds a pen and ink, and starts writing.

We Two Bards Together

We two bards together
Roaming 'cross the land
Two bards together
A glorious bardy band

We skirt wyverns many
Avoid the goblins' stew
But those kobolds fear us
As any weaklings do

Can't neither of us fight
But both of us can sing
Between us five grand bardic spells
Not useful for any damned thing

We both run quite well, though
Most useful for two bards
Then tell our stirring tales
Of heroes afterwards.

Grym smiles at the silly song. Certainly nothing he would ever sing, at least not in public. He picks up the magic bandore that Shard had bought in High Hold. He couldn't bear to burn it with his friend. He wanted something, one thing, to remember him by. On the anniversary of your death, I will send its smoke up to you, old friend, he thinks. Then he strums the instrument lightly, and sings the silly song in a quiet voice, so others cannot hear.

"Thank you Shard," he says afterwards. "You have taught me the lesson of Mirth." Grym gathers his things, and walks downstairs, leaving a coin for the cleaning lady, as well as the song.

[Mikayla]

That was very cool Mulu. I really liked it.

Needs more cow-bell though.

[Mulu]

You can never have too much cow bell.