(1866-04-18) To Drunk Spiders
Drunk Spiders
Summary: Ranulfr and Yrsa speak of and drink to omens, straight paths and kin they have lost.
Date: 18-20/04/2015 (Date of RP)
Related: None.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Ranulfr  Yrsa  

The North - Clontarif - Drinking Hall
Smoke gathers up in the carved beams of the old longhouse where a hundred years of song and bloody history are all clotted up with the generations of spiders and flickering shadows. Down below the high vaulted roof are long tables where Njorvolk drink and trade boastful stories before the blazingly hot fires set into sunken pits along the length of the enormous hall, and venerated elders sit in plank chairs made comfortable with thick fleeces in a place of honor by the largest fire at the head of the hall where it burns under a hearth of knotted thorny antlers and tusks and the rib-bones of sea monsters carved with holy runes. Mead is served in short cups not much bigger than the hand stamped with a tusked figure, or lacquered, hollow horns. Food is served on wooden and earthenware platters, and everyone eats with clean fingers and knives. At night the floor is occupied by sleeping Vigamandr, and Kaupmadr, Farmadr full of mead and their hounds, while their jarls sleep in private rooms-nevertheless, all eat and sing together here, in the cavernous main room of the Hall.
Avril 18th, 1866

Perhaps in a somewhat uncertain display of superstition, Ranulfr watches a spider plummet from the web tangled upper reaches of the drinking hall and splosh in a most ungainly manner within his mead. Quite what had propelled the spider to its fall is anyone’s guess, though Ranulf carefully upends the horn and tips out the mead and soon enough the spider. The soaked bundle of legs and eyes is given a nudge and carefully lifted and tucked beneath the table in some safe little nook. The empty horn soon after given a look of longing, but left where it rests, the puddle of mead also left. The rafters given a simple glance are nodded towards and Ranulfr rises and moves about the hall with ease, that previous spot was clearly not one destined for drinking for the omens were almost certainly against such a simple act. Soon enough a fresh horn is claimed and mead soon sloshing within it as he mingles and comes to a halt beside one of the roaring firepits.

A firepit that will already have attracted another. But maybe that perhaps being the reason to tempt the farmadr to a stop? At the moment, a pair of dark eyes stare from a pale face into the flames, as if engaged in either a study on the workings of fire, or in contemplation of the higher workings of the world, and the plans Magnus and the other Gods might have with the Njorfolk, or just with this woman's clan, the F'jet. The man approaching will draw Yrsa's attention to the here and now however, a hint of slight irritation appearing in her demeanour as she shoots him a glance. The glance and the posture, as well as the martial attire of a leather armor that has been enforced with ringmail here and there, and the impressive sword hanging down from her belt, would mark her as a Vigamandr. One brow is raised in a silent question.

The flames are witnessed and whatever he sees within them is given scant regard for the glance that is shot Ranulfr's way certainly does much to focus him on the here and now also. Clad in his scaled armour, twin bearded axes tucked into the loose loop of his belt, the farmadr certainly cuts more of a martial figure than his usual guise. The glance, the hint of irritation not gone unnoticed, but the farmadr does love the heat and so the heat wins out over the glare as he takes in Yrsa's armoured form, the impressive sword admired with a fleeting glance of his own before he dares to lift his gaze to Yrsa's, "There is a spider back there who fell into my mead and would be more grateful than I for this fire, but he would burn to a crisp if he came as close as we do to these flames." His horn lifted and supped from, the words spoken as anyone and everyone might well known of this spider, "So I seek the warmth in his stead, perhaps my crops will be better for this act."

The glance had indeed been more of a glare, softening somewhat as the armor and weapons had been noticed. And… irritation was a regular expression to be found within Yrsa's gaze and bearing. Especially when she was not on the way or engaged in a raid. The mention of the spider, will make those dark eyes flit to the direction indicated. "A… spider fell into your mead?", she echoes, and yes, there is still that hint of grumpiness in her tone. "And you did not want to feed him to the fires? What a strange act, to spare the spider…" Oh, she is fond of burning things, this one! "Especially if it spoiled your mead?" She takes a good sip from her own horn, considering the man's words as he continues. The mention of crops has her raise a brow, and make her breath leave her lungs in a brief exhale. Which might come off as slightly arrogant. "What is your name," she inquires casually. but also curious. "I am Yrsa Thorbjornsdottir, of Clan F'jet." A clan known for its fierce raiders.

"Ranulfr Raudi, son of Swithwulf Raudi, the fourth generation to serve these cold and distant lands and never has my heart known a truer home!" Ranulfr's words are followed with a quirk of a grin, his bright eyes reflecting the fire's light with a certain ease given the light blue they are, "As for the spider, he suffered enough for it was the dregs of whatever barrel they filled my horn from into which he fell. A shame to punish him twice." The grin broadens albeit for a brief moment as he raises his horn to Yrsa, a silent toast given the clan from which she hails, "I shall save the burning for those who deserve it, for though the land anchors me here, the sea does have a good hold upon me and may those who stand against me and my kin fall before our blades." His calm fire-reflecting gaze remaining as ever fixed upon the fierce and grouchy raider.

"Well met, Ranulfr. The spider spoiled your mead, did it not?", counters Yrsa, with some persistence, even though her slightly distracted mien suggests a spider is not her main concern currently. "So I'd either advise to kill it, or to consider to stop drinking. It might be… a sign if the Gods." The words, however outrageous in their assumption, are offered with genuine conviction. "As for punishment…", she shrugs, obviously not caring that much of the 'deserving' part. Ranulfr's next words can only be met with an incline of her head. "Well said." The horn raised as if in toast, Yrsa will take another sip of her horn of mead - which has not been spoiled by a spider so far.

It is with some measure of horror, a veritable rictus etched deep into his features for a few moments as he gazes deep into his horn of mead. The sweet amber liquid regarded with nothing but affection, even as he gazes the flames flickering away to the side remain reflected in his gaze, now lost within the pool of amber bee-poo that tastes so sweet upon the lips. The horror softens to a quirked hint of amusement, "The Gods could never be so cruel as to deny a man the chance to sup such nectar. It was a sign that I was surely to encounter you. Had I stayed at the table, drenched in mead and covered in drunk snoring spiders as it was, I would not be annoying you now." His mind working at the omen, that is clearly the better option. Though the everso slightly more dangerous one at that, "The spider now slumbers from its surfeit of mead and I am warm. Not too bad an omen and well met Yrsa Thorbjornsdottir of Clan F'jet, I have no doubt our enemies shall be trembling soon… the seas are calm, the weather is good and our weapons are all close to hand."

There is a somewhat annoyed flicker in those dark eyes as they regard Ranulfr, when some of his words may infer some very Easterling-like flattery, before that expression softens somewhat, and Yrsa looks amused even. "If you were annoying me, you would be dead by now," she remarks with a soft chuckle, but something in the tone hints that her words are not meant as a jest. A good thing perhaps, that Ranulfr leads the conversation in a direction very much preferred by the raider. "Indeed, they shall," Yrsa agrees with a matter-of-factly grin. "Something tells me, you would not want to miss such an opportunity?" Her gaze flickering towards the axes and his attire.

There is a smirk, the briefest of hint of amusement and a glance back towards the flames, "I do not intend to miss such a chance, I have stood in many a shieldwall and have many a score to settle with those eastern lot." As he speaks, his lip curls slightly with the first hint of annoyance, annoyance bordering on disgust, "I could not spill enough of their blood to quench the thirst for vengeance I have." Teeth are gritted, ground and for a moment Ranulfr's hands clench into fists at his sides having discarded his horn and a slow and measured breath is taken, "It will be good to witness our weapons cut a swathe through their ilk."

A nod comes to Ranulfr’s words, the horn raised in acknowledgement of them. “Who hasn’t?”, Yrsa comments dryly, after tasting another sip of the mead, her eyes looking a touch darker than before, still, she studies the man with the two axes with new curiosity. “My brother Lefnur did not make it back from the Great Raid of Four Corners,” this she admits in a low grumble. “And even if it’s one of the risks in our trade… I can’t wait to return to those shores, and pay them back… And gather more of their goods.” The latter part added with a smirk, as her gaze settles on Ranulfr. “That thirst for vengeance of yours… what does it stem from? Not just some relative that didn’t make it back from a raid, hm?” Not that it would be much of her business anyway.

“A relative.” Ranulfr responds, his voice quieter still as he gazes into the fires that burn so brightly and hotly. Sending out their heat amidst the great drinking hall, “I even avenged him when he fell… cut down the bastard who buried a sword in his neck. We cut many down that day.” Yet even so Ranulfr shrugs, “But it feels like I still owe them for all they have done, they might well have given my father the death he wanted… but there’s just something missing. I dream often of becoming a raider, have done since I first leapt from a longship and waded ashore but the land anchors me upon the shore and much as I love the sea, the crops I harvest feed many, too many to simply stop.” There’s a faint wolfish grin that twitches across his lips, teeth bared for a fraction as he lifts his gaze to seek Yrsa’s, “Perhaps, just perhaps it is simply just a thirst for blood to whet the appetite after three months of harvesting crops.”

"Four Corners?", Yrsa inquires, temporarily returning to her usual monosyllabic way of communication, her own mien pensive as she considers Ranulfr's words, her dark eyes following his gaze, in contemplation of the flames of the firepit. "Your father died an honourable death, by the sound of it," she states after a moment. "My brother did as well, although with only two real brothers that leaves me with just one sibling." She raises her horn in a toast, "To your father and my brother Lefnur, may they feast in the Golden Hall, at least they will never run out of mead there."

His next confession is considered, a sideways glance given, before Yrsa shakes her head with a chuckle. "Seems you are neither then, and both. A farmer with a thirst for blood, and a raider with the urge to settle down…" The chuckle turns into laughter, that resounds from the walls of the Drinking Hall. "I don't know whether to pity or envy you, Ranulfr Raudi, son of Swithwulf. I am glad that my road is as straight as it can be, there has never been any doubt that I was destined for the path of a warrior."

A horn is grasped and raised for the toast, “He survived Four Corners… to lose his life in a fishing village a couple of months later. To your brother and my father, may their horns never cease to flow with mead and may the tables before them groan under the weight of dripping meat.” Ranulfr’s words full of warmth as the horn in his hand remains raised and then the contents supped and swallowed, “It would be a waste to follow one path and one path only given all I have learned… there’s the means to do so, but the right to do so will never present itself. Can’t see my friends and family and all those whose bellies are filled with my crops go hungry, wouldn’t be right.” That wolfish smile appears once more, his gaze lifted to the rafters up above, “Tugged one way and then the other, it isn’t boring at least.” The smile broadens and the cup is lifted once more to Yrsa, “To drunk spiders also, helping make new acquaintances and crooked webs since time began.”

The horn is brought to her lips, her head tilted backwards, dark long curls falling down her back as Yrsa downs the mead, looking up towards the ceiling while some of the beverage is spilling over her chin, only to be rubbed away with the back of her hand as she sets the horn down, dark eyes glinting as they settle on Ranulfr, and her mouth curves into a grin. “My path, Ranulfr,” she clarifies in a low confident rumble, “ isn’t boring even if it is straight. To spread fright and terror among my foes. To take from the weak. And to fight side by side with those that are with me, raiding.” Which might include even him, the man of the two paths.

There seems to be a little mead left in the horn, and Yrsa swirls it thoughtfully, her gaze darkening at the mention of the spider, an omen by what Ranulfr had said earlier, and thus deserving her respect. “To drunk spiders,” she echoes as she empties whatever little is left into the flames, in a fizzling offering to the Gods.

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