Ingvar The Stout AXE-AGE, SWORD-AGE Part III A leaden weight Lies on my tongue I cannot sustain The measure of a song. Odin has stolen My heart's treasure; I draw no succor From the stores of my soul. The pride of my house Is beaten to the ground Like trees of the forest Bowed before the storm. How can a man rejoice Who has borne to the grave The bodies of his kin From their earthly seats? -Egil Skalla-Grimsson, "The Irreparable Loss of Sons" 978 A.D. Birka, Sweden .......... The seaport of Birka sits on the island of Björkö, in the middle of Lake Mälaren. While not a terribly large city, it's larger than Gullspång, your only previous experience with cities. Having traveled farther from home than ever before in your life, and arriving at a trading center frequented by merchants from around the world, you feel very much the bucolic country boy on his first visit to the big city. Being dressed for war makes you look a little less bucolic, but you'd hate to have your axe-skills tested by some of the seasoned huscarls you see walking the streets...men who've probably fought and killed real warriors, not a rival family of backwoods farmers. These warriors, you learn, garrison the fortress that protects Birka from enemy attack, an attack that has never yet come and seems unlikely to, despite current unease over the Dane-king's ambitions. It's the "off-season" now, as most of Birka's trade takes place during the winter, when goods are taken to and from the city by sleds across the frozen lake. You see quite a few foreigners- your first. Merchants from Frisia predominate; one of Birka's three harbors is specifically reserved for them. The main trade here is furs, furs brought from all over eastern Sweden by hunters and trappers. There are also dozens of smithies here, and you almost want to kick yourself as you find weapons and armor sold here for half of what you paid for it back in Gullspång. In return, foreign traders bring silver and gold and gems, "hard currency", as well as silk, that fabulous and expensive material that can be worn only by the wealthy, said to come from a kingdom far, far to the east, beyond the farthest outposts of the Rüs. Birka has another export, of course, one which is your reason for coming here: slaves. You're dismayed to learn that the slave-market is at a low ebb right now, not only for the year, due to the summer decline in traffic, but apparently for the present decade. Not surprisingly, you don't come across your family stockaded conveniently in sight. They would probably have been shipped out during the last days of winter, to Bolgar or elsewhere in Europe. Your only chance of finding them will be to question the slavers, and there are very few who specialize exclusively in that trade; most are simply ship-owners who find it profitable to carry human cargo along with their usual complement of goods. <><><><><> Ingvar: To Ingvar, travelling to Birka is the adventure of a lifetime. He had always heard that the world was vast, but this is his first glimpse of the true scope of life. The city itself is *huge*, Ingvar has to concentrate to avoid getting lost in its maze- like (to his mind) tangle of streets and alleys. The strange people from far-off lands fill him with a mixture of wonder and suspicion; he understands neither their speech nor their motives. The many warriors he sees impress Ingvar greatly. Such a life must be magnificent - far more interesting than farming! They have a hardness, a fierceness that informs their every action. Even without a weapon or armor, they seem dangerous. Under other circumstances, he might consider trying to become one of them, but he is here for a reason - one that is *far* more important to him. Ingvar spends much of his time in the merchant and dock regions of town. His disappointment at not finding his family right away is palpable, but he refuses to give up. Hour after hour, he roves about, speaking with merchants and shipowners. He is desperate to find anyone that may have seen or heard of anyone meeting his family's description. When night comes, he will find a meal and a room, so that he may continue his search in the morning. <><><><><> [GM] While weapons and armor are cheaper here, lodging is not. The hospitality you were accustomed to where you grew up is not granted so readily in this international trading center...you're shocked at how much you have to pay for a simple room and an evening meal. Reclining in front of the fire, drinking mead and listening idly to the sailors staying here, you realize your family could have been sent anywhere....Denmark, Novgorod, Normandy, even Byzantium! It could be the search of a lifetime to find them. If any are still alive. In the morning, you resume your dogged questioning. By midday you've had no more success than yesterday. Walking by the western docks, you're stopped in your tracks by a sudden shiver that goes down your spine. It's so intense that you almost fall over, and even after you take a deep breath and stand upright again, an unnatural prickling sensation continues to vibrate in your skull and down your back. <><><><><> Ingvar: This particular Viking has much to grumble about as he relaxes by the evening fire. The price of food and lodging. The disparate destinations of the many travelers around him; all representing possible fates of his family, even if they are still alive and together. *Gods*, if they've gotten split up, he could be searching *forever*! The following day does little to improve Ingvar's outlook. No news is definitely *not* good news in this case. Hopeless doesn't *begin* to describe how he is beginning to view his search. Then, it hits him. Electricity down his spine. Queasiness. For a moment, the whole world seems to spin about him. Ingvar grabs his stomach and head with one hand each. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself erect. Dinner. Or breakfast. Has to be. Purging is *bound* to be next. He's going to *stomp* all over that weasly little cook... <><><><><> [GM] While your stomach is buzzing along with the rest of your body, your lunch doesn't seem to be crawling up your throat. This is not the upset stomach from illness or bad food you've experienced a few times before...this is something unlike anything you've ever felt. Your skin tingles all over, and in your gut, you can't help feeling this is something totally unnatural. Now your eye is caught by a figure that, if not for the sudden electrical spasms going through your body, you would certainly have noticed before now. A woman was standing on the docks, surrounded by a group of admiring, leering and incredulous men. That woman is now staring at you, and as you look back at her, she steps away from her "admirers" and walks directly towards you. The first thing you notice is that she's *beautiful*....the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. Her piercing, bright blue eyes seem to hold you motionless, and her lovely face is set in a determined, rather arrogant grin that reveals perfect white teeth. Twin braids of honey-blonde hair fall down her shoulders and lay over her bosom, but she shakes her head briefly to toss them behind her. Immediately after being struck by her beauty, you finally register the other remarkable thing about her- she's dressed in armor and carrying weapons, like a man! Not just any armor and weapons either....beneath the rich, gold-brocaded cloak she wears, secured at the throat by a gaudy, ornate piece of jewelry, you see finely-linked chainmail covering her torso and thighs. (And what a torso! Even beneath a heavy cloak and a heavier layer of metal, her bosom is quite....impressive. And her legs aren't bad either...though it's mildly scandalous that she shows them, wrapped in leather leggings and boots, rather than concealing them beneath a proper skirt...of course that's not nearly as scandalous as the fact that she's dressed like a warrior!) A *metal* shield is slung on her back, and you see the hilt of a long, two-handed sword over one shoulder, the other end, in a decorated leather scabbard, protruding behind her, pointed at the ground. The leather straps that hold both these items on her back are hitched across her chest, and even those straps have little color-stained decorations on them. At her hip is a standard-size sword, with a silver hilt that appears to have gemstones set in the pommel. The scabbard is also gem-laden. Besides the sword, her belt holds several pouches and a large knife at her other hip (also finely decorated.) And a large leather bag is slung under one arm. She's heavily laden, for sure, but carries all that encumbrance with a light step. She's also wearing a helmet...a tall, burnished metal cap with plates hanging down to cover her ears, but no face protection. A complete helm like yours probably wouldn't fit over all that hair.... The helmet is definitely of foreign design, particularly when you note the pair of *horns* placed on either side of it. That's a strange bit of ornamentation, but compared to everything else about her, only a minor oddity. By her appearance, she could be a goddess or elf-woman, from one of the tales you heard as a child, and the supernatural tingling that wracks your body adds to her surreal presence. The other men don't seem to regard her as a goddess, though. A very, very strange woman, yes, but there's no reverence in the tone of the soldier who reaches out to grab her arm as she steps away from the men with whom she was conversing. "Hey, woman! I wasna' finished talking to you!" The female warrior (!?) turns around, and her right arm shoots straight out. A gloved fist collides with the man's jaw, and he's knocked off his feet, topples backwards, and crashes to the dock and lies there groaning, grabbing his face and rolling over. The other men gape, while she lowers her hand and lightly taps the hilt of her sword. "Does anyone else have something to say to me?" she asks sweetly. The sailors and soldiers scowl and mutter, but it wouldn't be manly to get in a fight with a *woman* right here on the docks. They whisper to one another, and a couple go to pick up their shamed, fallen comrade, as the woman turns around and continues towards you. <><><><><> Ingvar: Having started back in the direction of the inn, it slowly dawns on Ingvar that this doesn't feel like the bad food contagion that he has suffered before. He slows to a halt, not feeling either better or worse, and looks about. That's when Ingvar sees her. She's *gorgeous*! The most beautiful woman he has ever seen! Something tells him that she is connected to his current affliction. Many thoughts race through his brain, but one keeps reappearing. There can only be one explanation. Seeing her deck the sailor clenches it. As she draws close, Ingvar removes his helmet and sinks to his knees. "So this is it." More a statement than a question. "After all the battles of the last few weeks, this is how it ends?" His voice is tinged with bitterness. He thinks that if he must die, it should have been valiantly in battle - not to some nameless affliction here in the dirt. "Have you come to take me to Valhalla, warrior maiden? You know I'm not a true warrior?" <><><><><> [GM] The beautiful woman stops and stares at you, as does everyone else on the street. "What?!" she exclaims. She shakes her head, as if baffled by your behavior. Then her lovely features twist into a frown. "Are you mocking me?" she demands. She stands with hips canted, arms slightly bent, one hand near her sword as if ready to draw it in an instant. Her posture has become quite belligerent. "I am Astrid the Fair! Who are you?" <><><><><> Ingvar: Feeling shocked and as confused as she, Ingvar spouts, "N-n-*no*, fair Valkyrie. I-I-I meant no disrespect! I have long heard tales of the Valkyrie, but never encountered one before. From what I had heard, I am surprised that these men can see you - unless you intend to take us all, of course." "Astrid the Fair..? That is surely a fitting name for a Valkyrie. Please be not displeased with me! I am but a humble carpenter. My name is Ingvar the Stout, but you must *know* that already... Right?" Ingvar looks up at the vision before him, wonder and awe and confusion and fear streaming across his face. <><><><><> [GM] "What!?" she exclaims again. She looks around at the people beginning to stop and stare at this scene. Then her eyes light up, and she actually grins. "You're clueless aren't you?" Quickly, the blonde warrior-maid steps closer and grabs you by the arm, hauling you to your feet with impressive strength for a woman. "Get up, idiot!" she whispers. "I'm not a valkyrie! But thanks for the compliment. Come on, we need to find someplace to talk." Without waiting for you to reply, she starts shoving you towards the nearest sidestreet, to the bafflement and amusement of the spectators. <><><><><> Ingvar: "Clueless?! *Idiot*?! *But*... *I*... *You*... Urk!" Failing to think of any intelligent response, Ingvar sputters and fumes as he is hauled unceremoniously to his feet by this *woman*? So shocked is he by her words and behavior that he mutely allows her to push him stumbling along. Even so, he senses the looks of the surrounding people, and humiliation and indignation begin to blossom in his breast. However, her smile and her radiant beauty make it nearly impossible for him to truly become enraged by her. <><><><><> [GM] She continues shoving you down one street and around the corner, apparently wanting to make sure no spectators follow, and then into a narrow alley between buildings that terminates in the water front. "All right," she says, once you're out of sight, and she gives you a chance to turn around and look at her again. Up close, she's just as beautiful. "Ingvar the Stout. You sense the Quickening....the buzzing in your head, the tingles going up and down your spine." She states this, rather than asking it, as if she somehow knows exactly what you're feeling. "Is this the first time you've ever felt this? How old are you? And if you're not a real warrior, why are you dressed like one?" Certainly an odd question for *her* to ask! <><><><><> Ingvar: They finally come to a halt in an alley, just as he is becoming *seriously* ticked from all this pushing and shoving. There is only so much humiliation a man can be expected to take! Then, one look in her eyes, and his anger melts away like snow in the noonday sun. "Quickening?" he asks in obvious confusion. "And how do you know how I'm feeling? I've had the bad food sickness a few times, but this seems... *different*." Drawing himself erect, he tries to appear somewhat more forceful. "I'm 32, come Late Harvest week. Which puts me a might older'n you, unless you really are a valkyrie or... Vanir, perhaps? And if you're *not* a valkyrie, how come *you're* dressed like a warrior." "I've just come from killing the sons of the Firehair clan - those goat droppings! I now seek my family, whom they sold into slavery recently." His expression reflects his sadness as he says this last. <><><><><> [GM] "Vanir...those are, like, elves, right?" Now that your shock and awe is fading, you notice that the woman's Norse is very slightly accented, and her manner of speech is...odd, to say the least. She smiles. "Vanir might be closer, but it's still not quite right. No, you are certainly not older than me." She grins. "And I'm dressed like a warrior because I AM a warrior!" Her grin widens to show more teeth, her look challenging you to contradict her. "Firehair clan, huh? Let me take a wild guess here...." her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "During this feud you had with the Firehair clan....you got killed, didn't you?" <><><><><> Ingvar: Something's wrong here; *every* Norseman knows of the Vanir. "Elves? Uh... I guess so." His eyes get narrow as suspicion worms into his brain. "You talk funny..." "*You*?!? A *woman warrior*? <*snort*> That's a *good one*!" Ingvar chuckles, though somehow it doesn't seem so funny; she certainly acts the part... Ingvar's mouth drops open at her next suggestion. "*Killed*?! Do I *look* dead to you? Are you *daft*, woman?" Memories begin to stream through his mind's eye. He speaks in a soft far-away voice. "There was the time that they started to carve the 'blood eagle' on me, but surely they chickened out... And then, Hakon caught me in the forehead with an arrow that one time, but it *obviously* didn't get through my thick skull... Later, he caught me in the leg with his sword. It hurt terribly, and I couldn't stand, but surely it was just a nick - the wound was gone in no time... Every time any of them saw me, they kept claiming that I was dead, but of course, they're all idiots anyway..." A pattern seems to be forming in his mind, but it is one that he *can't* believe. <><><><><> [GM] Astrid's eyes narrow at your disdainful comment. When you recount your experiences with Ole and his clan, she snorts and folds her arms over her chest. "You're not very bright, are you?" <><><><><> Ingvar: "WHAT?!? Are you calling me *stupid*?! Watch your mouth, missy, or I may just have to put you over my knee and give you a good *spanking*!" As strong as she is, Ingvar begins to wonder if he could actually do so... <><><><><> [GM] The blonde warmaid's eyes widen, in feigned innocent surprise, and she says "Why yes, I AM calling you stupid!" She whips her sword out, before you can even think about reaching for your axe, and presses the point against your throat, prodding you lightly and forcing you to back up a step. "You're stupid, first of all for that spectacle on the street, thinking I was a *Valkyrie*, by God, and kneeling and fawning like a child!" "Secondly, you're stupid for threatening me after admitting that you're not a real warrior. Of course you're not the first man to think that just because I'm a woman, you could put me over your knee and spank me, and I've a good mind to do to you what I do to most such idiots." She shoves her swordpoint a little harder against your throat-guard. "Do you think I'd dress like this, *knowing* how the average thick-headed buffoon such as yourself will react, if I wasn't quite capable of demonstrating my fitness to wear these arms?" "Thirdly, you're stupid for getting yourself killed...what? Twice? Three times? And still convincing yourself that you imagined it all. Actually," she pauses, thinking for a moment. "Hmmm. I think getting yourself killed twice counts as being stupid all by itself...so not figuring out you're just a liiiiiittle bit different from the average mortal after all that is proof of stupidity FOUR times over!" Then she stares at you, and, as you feel your face turning red-hot, and your temper reaching volcanic proportions....she *giggles*! <><><><><> Ingvar: His temper rising predictably, the *sharp* sword at his throat is the only thing preventing Ingvar from slapping this woman silly. He's never felt right about hitting a woman, but this one is pushing his buttons in a *big* way. And he's *still* not convinced that she *isn't* really a Valkyrie... Astrid continues to insult him in ways he can't even keep up with; he begins to feel just as stupid as she claims he is. Ingvar begins to doubt himself, which just makes him angrier still. He feels about to explode, when she finally finishes. Opening his mouth to say all kinds of vicious and foolish things in reply, Astrid begins to giggle, and he feels himself deflate. _Damn! Damn! Damn!_ Ingvar screams in his mind. He feels foolish and impotent before this frustrating woman, or *whatever* she is. "*Ok*. *Fine*. Since you have all the answers, why don't you *explain* it to me!" He stands there, eyes boring into hers, struggling to retain his composure. <><><><><> [GM] Astrid finally wipes the bemused expression off her face, and pulls her arm back, flicking the swordpoint away from your throat and drawing her blade back to rest casually on her shoulder. "The answer's simple, my stout friend. You're an immortal, like me. Forget about your Valkyries and Vanir, they don't exist. We do." She wrinkles her nose. "Blood eagle...isn't that where they carve your back open and pull out your lungs? That's really disgusting. How the hell could you survive something like that and convince yourself it didn't happen?" She flips her sword back into a level position, aimed at your stomach. "But I can give you more proof, if you really need it." <><><><><> Ingvar: Tension drains from Ingvars body and blood returns to his face as Astrid removes her sword from his adam's apple. The relief seen there is quickly replaced by confusion at her next statement. "Immortal..? What does *that* mean? Is that like a *god* or something? I *know* I'm not no god or nothing..." "Yeah, that's the way it works." A flash of remembered pain crosses his face. "I just figured they chickened out or got chased off or something." Next instant, the sword is back. Ingvar steps back, hands raised in a gesture of conciliation. "*Whoa*! *Watch it* with that thing. I'm not certain that you aren't crazy as a loon, but that doesn't mean I want you hacking me up to *prove* some ridiculous idea..." <><><><><> [GM] Astrid smirks a little, but lowers her sword. "If you want a less extreme demonstration, then, just try cutting your finger with your knife. It will heal instantly. I'm surprised you haven't seen something like that happen already....but then again, if you managed to convince yourself that recovering from a blood eagle was your imagination, then I guess you could easily dismiss cuts and bruises disappearing as well." She grins, as if enjoying her knowledge, and the fact that she has a man hanging on her every word. "Immortal means what it means....you're immortal. You can't die. You'll never get older, and you'll heal any wound. Even if you take a mortal wound, you'll recover. You can get hacked to bits and recover....eventually." "We're a race that lives among mortals, and we have since the beginning of time, or so other immortals tell me. We're born to mortal parents, and no one knows of their immortality, until their first death." She smiles. "And we have rules and traditions that all immortals live by. One of them is that when an older immortal discovers a fledgling, they're supposed to teach him or her." Then she giggles excitedly- it's quite jarring, for girlish tittering to be coming from this otherwise fierce 'Valkyrie'. "I guess that means you're going to be my pupil!" <><><><><> Ingvar: He relaxes a little more as the sword retreats from his midsesction. "Well... The sword cut on my leg *did* heal pretty quick. Just like the carving accident with my hand..." She *has* managed to peak his curiousity, though. Following her instructions, Ingvar pulls out his sax. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain, he lays the edge of the blade across his left palm and then jerks it lengthwise. "*Ungh*!" he grunts at the pain. The cut isn't deep, but it runs the width of his hand. He stares, fascinated, at his rapidly-healing hand as Astrid continues to talk. As he watches, Ingvar tries to absorb all the she says. By time she finishes, his hand is almost healed, and he feels like his brain is going to explode. Nothing that she says makes sense, yet he can't deny that it fits everything that has happened, in a strange way... Then, Astrid's last comment sinks in. "Your *pupil*? Like some child apprentice? I think I'm a wee bit old for that!" <><><><><> [GM] "Oh really?" Astrid replies, eyes twinkling. "And how old do you think *I* am?" Without giving you a chance to answer, she continues. "I was born over a hundred years ago, and I'm young compared to many other immortals. There are some who remember the fall of Rome...it's said there are even some who remember the BUILDING of Rome!" She stops and cocks her head at you. "I don't suppose you've ever even *heard* of Rome?" Only vaguely, as a great, old city, far to the south, like Byzantium. And you've heard tales of a great empire, centuries gone, of which the kindoms now said to occupy those lands are only a pale shadow. "Now, if you're not a warrior, how are you planning to rescue your family? You can't fight, and you don't look like you've got much money. If you're as dense as you seem, you're going to need serious help." <><><><><> Ingvar: "A *hundred* *years*!?" Shock and disbelief are written all over Ingvar's face and voice. "Not possible! You don't look to have seen 28 harvests." Ingvar acquires a blank look as he searches his memory for several moments. "Rome... Name sounds vaguely familiar... Big, ancient city? Far to the South somewhere?" "How can anyone be *that* old? If 'we' are *immortal* as you say, and can never die - and I'm not sure I believe that part, mind - there must be *lots* of us around. How come I've never met any before?" The remark about his family gets his attention. "Hey! I've done ok so far... I've killed at least four men so far, and I followed my family's trail *this* far. I've got *some* money , and besides, how is becoming a warrior going to get my *family* back?" <><><><><> Astrid's mouth pops open, and she stomps her foot angrily. "Twenty-EIGHT!? I don't look a day over *twenty*, you big oaf!" She shakes her head at the rest of what you say. "You haven't even got a clue how much you don't know. I don't think you even have an idea of just how big the world is. But don't worry, I'll teach you. Trust me, you need it." The shield-maiden hooks an elbow around yours, and begins towing you back down the alley the way you came. She speaks lightly, as if all these incredible things she's telling you are as commonplace as the weather. "Just think of me as your wise old granny....without the wrinkles. You'd listen to what SHE says, wouldn't you?" She winks at you. <><><><><> Ingvar: It's his turn to smirk at her reaction to his age guess. The rest of her words just fall on deaf ears; he's fairly certain that she is mad anyway, even if 'immortals' really do exist. Ingvar allows Astrid to lead him away from the area. He can think of worse things than spending time with someone so beautiful. It's obvious that she has travelled far more than he - perhaps she really *can* help him find his family... Then, in her flailing about, Astrid strikes a nerve and Ingvar stops short. "Ragnhild..? Yes, I *always* listened to Ragnhild... She had *great* wisdom... But you are not her." Pain crawls across his features at the memory of his beloved Granmama. He had been still young when she died.... <><><><><> [GM] Astrid pauses and looks back at you with a sigh. "No, I am not your grandmother. If you always get this emotional when remembering dead relatives, then you'd best give up on finding the rest of your family. They will die, you know, and you'll watch it happen. They'll get old, and you won't. And there's nothing you can do about it." <><><><><> Ingvar: The look on Ingvar's face becomes hard, as he is embarassed by his own emotionality. "Ragnhild was a *very* special woman. She taught me most of what I know. I don't know about wherever *you* come from, but here we respect and honor our ancestors. Now, if you can help with my search for my family, then please do so. However, if all you have to offer are insults and criticism, then you are of no use to me and I would rather you go on your way. In either case, I *will* *not* give up my search for my family. I may not find them, but it won't be for lack of trying! <><><><><> [GM] "Live long enough and you'll BE your own ancestor!" Astrid retorts. She steps towards you, fist on her hip. "I said I'd help you, you big oaf! So tell me just what you plan to do next. Any idea where your family is? Here, or shipped off to another port? Novgorod, Frisia, Hispania, the Mediterranean? Rome or Byzantium? You do speak Frankish, or Latin, or Arabic, of course, so getting there and finding them will be no problem. Suppose you learn where they are, what then? Journey down there and politely explain to whoever bought them that they're your family and you want them back? Oh, I see, you're going to wade into battle waving that axe that you've managed to kill four backwoods hicks with, slaying whomever opposes you in a foreign land, and then you'll walk away with your kin in tow. Couldn't be simpler!" She smacks her forehead with the heel of her hand. "I'm all for epic quests. Actually, this sounds kind of fun." That grin of hers is getting really annoying, even if she is beautiful. "But you need a plan. And you need money. And you need someone who knows the way, and speaks the language. And you need more help, warriors who will help you retrieve your kin. And you need to learn how to fight, so you don't get butchered again. And that's just by the mortals! There's a few things I haven't told you yet about immortals." She places both hands on her hips, and stops grinning. Her tone becomes completely serious. "You need ME, Ingvar. If you reject me, then good luck on your quest, and I assure you, you'll die before you ever lay eyes on your kin again. If you accept me as your teacher, then you will agree to listen to me and do as I say. So which is it going to be?" <><><><><> Ingvar: "Like I said before, lady, if you're going to help, then do it. Seems you're even more thick-headed than me! So far, all you've done is strut around like a peacock and *talk* big. You talk about money and warriors and whatnot - so where *are* they? I don't see them following you around. You may be right that I need you, but only if you're actually going to *do* something. So what's it going to be? Are you going to do something *useful* and actually *help* me, or are you going to stand around trying to *talk* me to death?" <><><><><> [GM] Astrid snorts. "Men!" She gestures for you to follow. "Come on, fledgling. I'm not a wizard, I can't conjure ships and warriors out of thin air. This is an endeavor that will require planning.... which is another skill you obviously haven't practiced much. I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty." <><><><><> Ingvar: "Aye, *now* you're talkin'. Ale is my life's blood. " Ingvar turns and follows this difficult woman - though what woman *isn't* difficult... Though he doesn't say it, he hopes that she is heading towards an alehouse. <><><><><> [GM] And she is. The other customers give you and Astrid, especially Astrid, odd looks as you'd expect. But she jingles a hefty purse, and that's enough for the publican. You hear him muttering something about seeing all kinds of strange foreigners as he serves you both ale. Seated at a table, she tilts back ale as well as you can. Maybe moreso. Once your good humor's been somewhat restored, she says "All right, let's start at the beginning. How many relatives are we talking about, who are they, and when were they taken? I have to be honest with you, Ingvar, it's not likely we can find them. But we certainly have plenty of time to look." <><><><><> Ingvar: Glaring up at the mouthy publican, Ingvar growls back at him. "I ain't no foreigner. And this here lady is my friend, so watch your mouth!" After he leaves, Ingvar responds to Astrid's query. "Four were taken: my wives Helgi and Sigtrygg, and the little ones: Istrid and Hammar. Originally, they were taken when I was attacked last winter. Helgi and the children were apparently only sold just a few weeks ago. I was told that Sigtrygg's grief was such that she killed herself soon after. Halfdan claimed that the merchant was heading East, possibly here to Birka, possibly by way of Gullspang. Then again, that treacherous goat could easily have been lying." Ingvar's simmering anger and hatred towards Halfdan and his clan are plain. <><><><><> [GM] "Hmmm." Astrid tosses her cup back and drains it. "Well, Birka is no longer the city it once was, but it's still the most likely place on the east coast for someone to bring slaves." "Slaves usually come TO Sweden or Denmark, from farther east. The kids being young and all, they might have been taken east, to Novgorod or Smolensk, for sale to the Arabs or the Byzantines, but more likely they're somewhere in this part of the world. Which doesn't narrow it down much. Unless we can find someone who remembers 'em, it's pretty much a hopeless cause." She pours you another cup, and one for herself, then asks "Whose kids are they, by the way?" <><><><><> Ingvar: The woman's ability to handle her ale is *quite* impressive. Ingvar finds this a rather attractive quality in a woman. Of course, he will do his best to keep up... Novgorod he has heard of, since it's the latest new triumph - a recently established Viking trading center. However, much of the rest of what she says goes over his head. As she speaks, an idea slowly seeps into his consciousness. "Astrid. As I understand it, most merchants have a set route that they travel, generally returning to the same places in a regular fashion. Mayhap we would do best to remain here and wait for the merchant to return. If we question everyone who comes through, we might eventually find someone who recognises the description." Her last question startles him. "Uh... They were Helgi's, from her first marriage. How did you know they weren't *mine*?" <><><><><> [GM] "Hey, that almost sounded like a reasonable idea!" Astrid says, reaching out to rap your forehead with her knuckles. This kind of rough camaradarie would be fine from a man, but it's very strange for a woman to be acting like this! "There's only two problems; first, asking every ship captain that comes through here will attract attention to you. You'll have to watch out for scams....you'll start having sailors come up to you all the time saying 'Sure, I remember those kids, give me twenty silver and I can tell you where they went....' And if you're in some kind of feud with another clan, how likely are they to show up here sooner or later?" "Secondly," she leans back in her chair and drains another cup, "I'll get bored stiff sitting around in this backwater port." With her boots propped up on the table (attracting stares from all the other patrons of the tavern), she wipes her lips with the back of her hand and looks at you. "Oh....that's one of the things I haven't told you about-" she looks around and lowers her voice- "immortals." Pulling her feet off the table and letting all four legs of her chair thump back on the floor, she leans forward towards you, and speaks in a whisper. "Immortals can't have children. You can't father 'em, I can't birth 'em. Which suits ME fine!" She smirks. Then pats your hand. It appears that all the ale she's been drinking is starting to have a slight effect on her. You haven't thought yet about whether it's having an effect on you. "Sorry, but if you had hopes of your wives giving you an heir someday, that's one of the trade-offs you make for being an immortal. No offspring. That's just the way it is." <><><><><> Ingvar: Swelling with pride at Astrid's backhanded complement, Ingvar deflates just as quickly as she points out all of the defects in his idea. Not surprisingly, she's a couple steps ahead of him. "Uh... I hadn't thought of that..." Admittedly though, he's less impressed with her concern with getting bored - after all, where could possibly be better than *here*? Her information regarding children catches Ingvar's attention, just as it was drifting into the bottom of his near-empty mug. "Damn. Well, that explains a few things. Eleven years with Sigtrygg and four with Helgi, and yet no kids. I *know* Sigtrygg really wanted one of her own; she even went to see the local healer about it. Didn't help much, though." Ingvar's speech sounds just fine to him, though the effect of the ale may be obvious to others in the room... <><><><><> [GM] Snickering from the other patrons alerts you that you've been sharing your thoughts with others besides Astrid. Astrid giggles. After finishing your last tankard, she rises and says "All right, come on, farm boy. We have to start somewhere. We'll look around, make some inquiries, see if we can turn up anything." Which is what you've already been doing, the last couple of days.... "As soon as we get out of here, we'll need to start weapons training for you. I don't suppose you've ever had any actual training? Or is that axe just something you used to cut trees with, as I suspect?" As you walk outside, you notice that the fresh air seems to be clearing your head very quickly, and Astrid likewise doesn't seem to be feeling the effects of all her drinking. <><><><><> Ingvar: He blushes as the meaning of the snickering sinks into his ale-soaked brain. Damn! Humiliation seems to travel with Astrid - will it *always* be this way..? To drunk to take offense at her 'farm boy' remark, Ingvar rises to follow her out. He just nods as she speaks. Then, mention of 'weapons', combined with the fresh air as they step outside brings him around. "I was trained as a boy, just like everyone else. I'll have you know that I can use a bow and a spear, too!" <><><><><> [GM] "Great, rudimentary archery and spear practice for peasant troops," Astrid says. She begins asking many of the same merchants and innkeepers you've already asked. Not surprisingly, many of them give Astrid a friendlier response. None can definitely recall any child slaves being brought through recently, however. At the end of the day, Astrid asks "All right, where are you staying? I'll come pick you up at dawn." <><><><><> Ingvar: Rudi-what? Ingvar's not certain what that means, but it doesn't sound very approving. Then again, Astrid may be justified in criticising his fighting skills, if she really *is* a warrior as she claims (which he is beginning to believe - unlikely as it seems) "Uh... I've done ok hunting, so far." Ingvar has to admit; she has a way with the questions. The responses to her are certainly more personable, though no more successful. Evening comes soon enough; it has been a long and trying day. "At the public house about three blocks that way , and then two to the left. Ok, dawn it is." With that, he turns and heads off towards bed, not even teasing himself with thoughts of the beautiful woman he just left. <><><><><> [GM] That eerie shivering in your neck and shoulders fades as Astrid walks away from you. You sleep fitfully, until dawn, when you rise and dress for the day. Before you even emerge from the public house, you feel the jolt of electricity running up your spine again, heralding Astrid's approach. You find her waiting outside, dressed as she was yesterday, in her fine armor and accoutrements. "Good morning, Ingvar," she says cheerfully. "Ready to begin your training?" <><><><><> Ingvar: Though he doesn't feel very rested, it's a feeling he's becoming *very* familiar with. Life (is he truly 'alive'?) has been quite unsettled for a while now. Ingvar jerks and spins around as the jolt pierces his spine. Buckling the belt with his axe and sax, he snatches up his helmet and steps outside. There stands Astrid, looking even more beautiful in the morning light. "Good morn, Astrid." He smiles. "Sure, I'm ready. Let's go. It will be interesting to see what you have to teach." He's also curious as to where she intends to do her 'teaching'. Regardless, he intends to follow. <><><><><> [GM] Astrid snickers. She leads you out of town, to an uninhabited spot in the middle of the island of Björkö. Birka sits at one end of the island, and small villages are perched around the edge, but almost no one hikes up the rocky hills to the interior. You're chagrined to see that Astrid is less winded than you as she crests a small ridge and turns to face you. She unslings her shield, and hoists it on her left arm. "All right, farm-boy," she says, drawing her sword. "Let's see what you can do." She advances on you, stepping nimbly over the rocks that will make falling down a painful experience. <><><><><> Ingvar: The climb up into the hills proves more strenuous than he had expected, and the rocky ground in the higher elevations doesn't help, either. Not surprisingly, he's sucking wind by time they reach Astrid's chosen site. At her example, Ingvar also straps on his shield, then drops his helmet on over his head. Slipping his axe from its loop on his belt, he prepares for Astrid's attack as best he can. After all the abuse he has suffered from her sharp tongue, Ingvar is determined to give a good accounting of himself. "All right, Astrid. Come and get me." Ingvar moves slowly, watching for any openings in Astrid's defences. <><><><><> [GM] She does so, and quite aggressively. Astrid quickly proves that she's no wannabe-warrior; she slices right through your guard and slaps and prods you all over the hilltop with the flat or point of her sword. She tears your shield to bits from all the time you spend putting it in front of her sword, while you rarely touch hers, except in one small corner she reserves to take the impacts of your axe- blade when she doesn't parry it. The speed with which she wields her sword is impressive and frightening. It's clear she could cut you up any way she wants in the time it takes you between blows. You do have an advantage in strength; she's strong, especially for a woman, but you're stronger. Trying to press this advantage by battering her shield with yours, only gets you tripped off-balance. She kicks your knees out from under you, and when you topple to the ground, she places a boot on your chest and holds her sword to your throat. "This has been your first lesson in swordsmanship," she says, grinning and wiping sweat from her brow, after pulling off her helmet, so her long golden hair tumbles loose around her shoulders. "Namely, why a sword is better than an axe." "Second lesson, is don't lose your head." She prods your throat guard for emphasis. "That's the ONLY way we can die, Ingvar. You can recover from any other wound, but if your head leaves your neck, it's over." <><><><><> Ingvar: Can this woman *be* any more maddening? Frustration heats into anger as Astrid bats him back and forth across the rocky plateau seemingly at will. Her weapons skill put his to shame and then some. Ingvar tries to use his superior strength to his advantage, and receives nothing but a back full of sharp rocks and a sword at his throat for his trouble. Astrid's words cut through the fog of anger and shame clouding his brain. Even Ingvar can't fail to notice that she could kill him with little more than a flick of the wrist. And her words make sense, even though he loves his axe dearly. "*Gods*, woman! Get off me already! Ok, you made your point. Looks like I have to learn to use that sword I took off Ole. Don't expect me to completely give up my axe, though." Climbing to his feet (if she lets him), Ingvar rubs his neck gently. The idea of having his head separated from his shoulders disturbs him. "Ok. I get it. That's the only way, huh? Well, how likely is *that* to happen? Guess I'll be around a good long time." Ingvar smiles at his own cleverness. <><><><><> "*Have* I made my point?" Astrid asked sweetly. "I hope so. Otherwise your immortality is bound to last a shorter time than you think." Ingvar smiled and commented boldly about the unlikelihood of decaptiation. The blonde woman smiled wryly. "It's not that simple, farm boy. You're strong, yes, but there are others who are stronger. You'll survive on your wits..." She bit back the obvious comment and continued, "You'll survive on your wits or not at all. *This*," she fingered the edge of her fine blade, "can be either your best friend--if you learn to use it properly--or your worst enemy, if another Immortal gets to you and takes your head before you can stop him. Remember that tingling I mentioned? That's called the Quickening. When you kill another Immortal, you take his power for your own." Her eyes met his, a canny gleam within. "And, of course, another Immortal can do the same to you, by taking your head. And *that* is what I'm hoping to prevent." <><><><><> Ingvar: The grizzled carpenter stands shaking his head and scratching his beard. Once again, Ingvar feels as though his brain is going numb from all the thinking and information Astrid has imparted. "Yeah, you made it pretty clear that the sword is faster, and thus more dangerous. But it's not like people normally go around chopping people's heads off, right?" As she continues, Ingvar fails to notice the ascerbic tone to her voice as she mentions his 'wits'. Nevertheless, the references to other Immortals catches his attention, and somehow it sounds rather... sinister. "'The Quickening'? 'Take his power for my own'? 'Take my head'? This all sounds rather strange..." Ingvar is obviously confused, but too proud to come right out and say so. "Are you saying that Immortals are going around *hunting* each other? You make it sound almost like some kind of *game*. Is all of this *likely* to happen? I mean, how many of, uh, 'us' are there, anyways?" <><><><><> "Ah... but that's where you're wrong," Astrid countered. "Immortals *do* go around chopping off one another's heads. I ought to know. I've narrowly escpaed that fate several times myself... and it's not a *game*, no... but it *is* our destiny." She paused and looked at him thoughtfully. She crouched down, resting on her haunches, and patted the ground. "Sit down for a minute. It's not a short story." Resheathing her blade took a moment, then she began. "Immortals are naturally drawn to killing one another, to taking the power of others. There is a cycle. Many immortals are born. Nobody knows how many, though I'd guess there are scores of us. All of us possess a spark that normal men do not. That *spark* is called the Quickening. It is what allows you to live on... and if another Immortal kills you, he takes your power--your Quickening- energy--for himself. The only way to kill an immortal is by severing his head. Hence the blade..." She motions to her own sword. "You can parry with it, which you cannot easily do with an axe--and it might save your life. And your head. Only five years back, I was in a small village..." She paused and shrugged. "But you don't want to hear that story yet. Anyway, we are all destined to hunt one another, because among our kind, there is a saying: 'there can be only one.' And it's true. At the end of the cycle, the final immortal remaining gains something called the Prize. But to get it, he must survive." She raised a single eyebrow. "Got that so far?" <><><><><> Ingvar: At Astrid's first revelation, Ingvar sputters, "That's *crazy*!", but his tone implies that he's beginning to believe that it is all too real. Ingvar sits as he is bid to do, and listens silently in growing horror as she pours more information into his already over-full brain. Several times during her speech, he subconsciously strokes his neck. Ingvar thinks back to the sword he acquired from Ole, lying under the bed back in his room. He wonders if the sword will be sufficient to keep him alive. It appeared to be of good quality to him, but he knows that he is no expert in such things. Finally, Astrid finishes her lecture, for the moment. A look of concern, almost fear, is etched across Ingvar's features. He is beginning to realize just how much being a simple woodcutter may cost him. Yet, he is also fascinated by all this. This 'hidden world' that exists in secret and alongside the one that everyone is familiar with. Ingvar looks up at Astrid. "Um... Astrid? Have *you* ever... 'taken a head'? What is this 'spark', this 'Quickening' like? And what is this 'Prize' that the last immortal is supposed to win. Also, if this is our 'destiny', why haven't you taken *my* head?" <><><><><> [GM] "Hmm, at least you're starting to ask the same questions all of us ask," Astrid replies. "Yes, I've taken a couple of heads. I plan to take a lot more." She grins almost ferally. "The reason I don't take yours is a matter of tradition and honor. Elder immortals aren't supposed to kill fledglings....it's unsporting. Not that all immortals are so sporting...but I'd rather teach you than kill you. The most respected immortals are those who have mentored many other younger ones-" her grin loses some of its fierce edge, becoming almost girlish, "- and I've never had a pupil before!" "As for what it's like....the Quickening....well, it's kind of like sex." Her grin now takes on a lecherous aspect. "I could try to describe it, but until you actually experience it, you'll never really understand. Trust me, it's like *nothing* you've ever experienced before. And unlike sex, it's never boring or disappointing, and it doesn't lose its thrill after the first time." She sits back and looks more serious. "No one knows exactly what the Prize is...some say it's just a myth. But considering what taking one head is like, I think whoever takes the very last Quickening in the world, besides their own, is going to have an experience that makes all other Quickenings seem like nothing. Some immortals believe the Last One will become a god....or goddess." She smiles, folding both hands over the pommel of her sword. "I plan to be that one, or die trying." <><><><><> Ingvar: Surprised by so wolfish a grin on a woman, Ingvar subconsciously takes a half- step back. The thought that only 'tradition' kept her from killing him on sight gives him no peace. Again, he feels that this 'woman' is a completely different creature from any woman he has ever known. Her obvious pleasure in killing shocks him far more than even her open discussion of 'intimate' matters. Ingvar nods and smiles as she finishes the comparison. "Heh. Can't say as it ever quite lost the thrill for *me*, though I've heard it can be different for women..." Ingvar's expression becomes mild and wistful as Astrid's becomes serious. Her mention of humans becoming gods reminds him of tales he heard as a youth. Images float through his mind of himself as a god, standing beside Thor and Tyr, or flirting with the likes of Sif or Idunn. A smile spreads across his face, his mind so far away that he hardly hears her last comment. Eventually, Ingvar notices that Astrid has grown quiet. "So, ah... what now?" <><><><><> "What now?" She quirks the eyebrow again and chuckles. "Now, I teach you what it means to be immortal. Hopefully, I'll also manage to teach you the finer points of bladesmanship.Then, you go and live your long long life, and avoid losing your head." The wolfish grin reappears. "Any more questions before I go on, farm boy?" <><><><><> Ingvar: He gets the feeling that she's making fun of him again, but that's just what he plans on doing: living long and keeping his head. Ingvar doesn't have to think long to respond to her query. "I'm getting hungry. Perhaps we could stop for lunch? That way, on the way back I could collect my sword from my room - you wanting to teach me swordfighting and all..." <><><><><> Astrid considers this and nods at the request, her own stomach growling loudly at the mention of food. "Sorry, got ahead of myself there." She laughed. "Let us feed ourselves, then I will teach you the rudiments of swordfighting. And we'll talk about what you are a bit more. THere's quite a bit to learn." She pauses, thinking back to her own fledgling state, remembering the events with the gloss that years can effect on a memory. It seemed more distant, now, more divorced from who she was. Immortality could do that to you. She chuckled. "Let's go, Ingvar. And *do* try not to get into any fights. Common folk have a tendency to try and burn our kind as witches when they see that we do not die and heal instantly." She laughs gaily. <><><><><> Ingvar: A smile creases his face as he envisions tearing into a hefty meal. "I'm glad we both appreciate the value of food and ale..." he chuckles in response to Astrid's good humor. However, his expression sours as she mentions that there is *still* much more to learn about what they 'are'. Ingvar looks at Astrid strangely. "No... I'll try not to get in any fights. I suspect that I will get *plenty* of that with *you*. 'Burned'? 'Witches'? You speak of strange things, though that seems to be common with you; I am almost getting *used* to it..." However she replies, he *will* follow her into town for some food...