(1867-02-20) Blood Oaths in Duval
Blood Oaths in Duval
Summary: An odd alliance is forged between the Njorvolk and Galenthia, blood oaths are sworn and mead is guzzled in great quantities.
Date: 1867-02-20
Related: None
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Aethelwulf  Jarret  Gauvain  Myrana  Bethany  Inga  Ranulfr  Thomas  Yrsa  

Fortress Duval
Fortress Duval sits over-looking a cliff side port along the Great Salt River. The wind from the Great Salt adds the scent of the sea, and is a cooling breeze, which, this close to the equator and the deserts of Parthia is actually refreshing. For though the rest of Galenthia is only just now seeing the thaws at the end of winter, the regions along the Great Salt never freeze. They merely see colder temperatures.
1867-02-20

Fortress Duval sits over-looking a cliff side port along the Great Salt River. The wind from the Great Salt adds the scent of the sea, and is a cooling breeze, which, this close to the equator and the deserts of Parthia is actually refreshing. For though the rest of Galenthia is only just now seeing the thaws at the end of winter, the regions along the Great Salt never freeze. They merely see colder temperatures.

The soldiery of House Tarris are in their finest uniforms, though only those on watch, along the topmost walls and towers facing Parthia are in armor. One such soldier is the Duke of House Tarris, Gauvain Tarris, Lord of Griffon Pointe, Protector of the East, and the Lord Marshal of Galenthia. He stands in the court yard of the mighty fortress next to a young red headed woman wearing a slitted skirt, but functional blouse. Both them are in finely clothing made clothing, and both wear swords on their hips. Behind them, a bannerman raises the standard of House Tarris, nice and large, and the towers and walls unfurl the House's colors as well.

The Duke raises an eyebrow and looks to the woman. "Daughter. I did tell you the Heir of Sokar was coming did I not?"

The Red headed woman smiles and tosses her braid over her shoulder. "Aye. That you did father."

He looks over his shoulder. "So the banners?"

"Well da," the woman says with a mischievous grin, "The Njorvolk should know whose lands they are in."

Gauvian tilts his head and nods. "Indeed." He smiles. But only a little. Then nods to one of the Knights. "Please, allow the Njorvolk access to the Fortress."

The Knight salutes and moves to head to the Docks to inform the guests they are allowed and to show them the way.

Once there the Knight salutes in the Mainland fashion of Galenthia to the visitors of White Hall. He speaks in the barbarian tongue to them, though thick with the accent of Galenthia. "Honored Guests. The Duke Gauvain Tarris has sent me to bid you welcome to the Fortress Duval. All has been made ready for arrival and swearing of Oaths." He gestures, "If you will come with me?"

—-

Ranulfr Raudi is one such Njorvolk visitor and clad in his scale armour, all polished to a fine shine with his war finery adorning his form. A couple of torcs of plundered silver wrapped about his strong right arm and his hefty hand axe stowed against his hip, bound with a peace knot and with a couple of shaggily furred hounds trotting and weaving and padding along about him. For where Ranulfr goes, the wolfhounds Ulfr and Lifa are sure to follow, lead, pant and slobber. To the knight of Galenthia, the farmer offers a broad if slightly crooked smile, "That we shall, shall we not?" The words spoken in the Common tongue and blessed with that strong if lilting accent of the Njorvolk. A few more farmers, each as clad and each as armed about him. The warlike settlers destined for this ravaged village, their wagons and supplies having docked a few days past. And like Ranulfr, he stares at the great stone walls and finds himself whistling softly before slipping back into his barbaric tongue, "You have to admire their walls." He states to those about him, impressed.

—-

Aethelwulf looks to his freind. He is merely here to make sure the soon to be Jarl follows the words of the Gods, and becuase he really want sto see this Fortress when he's not trying to sack it. He reaches down and rubs the head of one of the dogs and nods to his friend. He does not speak the common tongue, so he speaks the language of his people toward Ranulfr. "Are you sure you want to do this my friend? These people are Savages. Only one god?" He shudders. "But. Yes. They do make rather impressive walls…"

—-

Among the Easterner welcoming party and, more specifically, Gauvain's entourage, is yet another nobleman. This one, though, IS armoured, in a ceremonial though functional set of leather armour. The elaborate cuirass is painted in cobalt blue, with dark grey strips on the side. A white sun in splendor has been embossed in the middle of his chest, its eyes golden. A high, polished brass helmet with a cobalt horsehair plume is fixed on his head.

This is Baron Thomas Chandus of Repton March, and tonight it appears he's acting as his Duke's aide-de-camp, or so the silver braid running along the shoulders of his armour would indicate. His hands rest on his ceremonial swordbelt, and he nods at the White Hallers as they file in. "Your Grace. This is indeed an interesting series of events."

—-

The Heir of Sokar is here as well. Jarret has arrived a little while ago, present where he is supposed to be. He's dressed up for the occasion as well, in formal clothing as he watches the arrival of the foreigners, studying them a bit thoughtfully.

—-

It is with a grin that Ranulfr looks to Aethelwulf and a gentle if respectful bow of his head follows, "They have a jealous god, that is true." The farmadr almost stumbling as Lifa entangles between his legs for a brief moment before going off to nuzzle and nose at anothers legs before thinking better of entangling an armour clad raider. Ranulfr however offers a gentle shrug having contemplated the prospect, "It is five years yes, but five years of raiding a fertile and rich land while settled so close that it is almost unfair… my Sif will expect gold and slaves to be shipped back home to her and the children and imagine the harvest that follows our success here. I think it is worth a chance. A risk that should make us wealthy and our Gods proud."

—-

Yrsa may not be as fortunate as to master that foreign tongue, so she is quite grateful in a way to have the Duke's words translated into a language she can understand. The Vigamandr is clad in half maille, a sword at her side, her dark eyes staring unflinchingly - and perhaps unintentionally impertinent - at Gauvain Tarris. Her pale face is for once not adorned with the white and blue face paint she usually applies to scare off her foes, but she stands there nonetheless. A tiny twitch of her brows, an occasional awkward twist of her lips the only sign, this whole situation may not be one she would feel most comfortable with. When oaths are mentioned, she shoots Athelwulf a glance, her eyes flickering with dark fire, before she lowers her gaze. Silent for now.

—-

A few of the White Hallers at the rear carry upon their shoulders a weighty cask each, each hammered with a hefty bung and each engraved with scenes of the sea and the Gods themselves. The casks carried with relative ease, the lumbering gait of the cask-bearers slow, sure-footed and steady given their weighty cargo.

—-

As the White hallers enter the Courtyard Gauvain nods to his daughter who steps forward and bows respectfully. She speaks common, and one of the aids translates. "Welcome to my Lands. I am Sir Bethany Ashedown, Lady Commander of Fortress Duval. In the name of my Father, His Grace the Duke Gauvain Tarris, and in the name of the Rose Queen, Her Majesty Melisande Romante I bid you to my Hearth and Home." She gestures and servants come forth with bowls of bread and salt.

Taking a piece she dips it in the salt, then takes a bite. She explains after she chews. "Forgive me, for I know not your customs. In our lands, if we break bread and salt with another then we are meeting in peace. This is my way of welcoming you to my Hearth. I offer Peace, and hope we can work together for the next five years to foster that peace into a lasting relationship."

Gauvian takes the offered bread and repeats the ritual his daughter performed, whispering to Thomas. "Is her thoughtfullness your doing while I was busy fighting a war and she was stuck here?" he asks his friend with a grin.

The Servants move about offering Bread and Salt to the Njorvolk as well.

—-

Aethelwulf listens to teh translationa nd hrumphs before taking an offered piece of bread and following the others. "Be at calm Yrsa. This is our Queen's wish as well. Besides. Ran here deserves a chance at raiding fat sloppy Parthians. It is a public service to make them poor. They won't be able to eat as much and will live longer lives." He winks to her and then nods to Ran, settling a hand on his friend's shoulder. "My Clan will be the one moving back and forth from White Hall to here. Transporting your goods. If ever you need my Axe my friend…" He leaves the rest unsaid, but his eyes show genuine care and concern in them.

—-

"Mine, your Grace? No no, for I am only just returned, and certainly not long enough in the tooth to have any influence. No, look instead to your grey maned advisors, rather than your young, untested ones." Thomas says wryly to Gauvain, winking at the last bit with the hint of a smile; he knows well that he HAS in fact been sorely tested over the last year and a half, but he is at ease with that. Grasping the bread in his grey leather covered hand, he crunches down on it with a large chunk of salt. A ritual he likes, and one he's performed several times recently. Speaking up to the White Hallers, he dips his head respectfully. "Welcome to the East, to the Duchy of Tarris, North Folk. May we ever work diligently towards common goals." He carefully avoids any reference to the One; unusual for such a publicly religious man.

—-

Yrsa looks to Aethelwulf when he addresses her, and for a brief moment a rather faint version of a smile seems to brush over her features. "We shall do as she wishes… But it feels odd.", she states in the barbaric tongue of the people of Whitehall. Her dark eyes flit to the bread and salt, nodding to the translated explanation. Rolling her eyes even a bit when both is presented to her, and she tears a bit off the bread, moistens a finger to dip it into the salt, before she licks it off, and takes a bite of the bread afterwards.

—-

Ranulfr smiles warmly at Aethelwulf before speaking, "Your axe will always be welcome and it is true, all that talk of those lush and fertile lands… how can we resist?" And to Yrsa the farmadr smiles broadly and warmly, "We shall be rich, it is perhaps odd, yet the blood of our enemies shall be spilled." The words cut off as he takes a piece of bread and dunks it within the salt before taking a bite and thus honouring the Galenthian tradition, "But mostly our harvest shall be great and our bellies and the bellies of our kin shall be full, not to mention our new friends here… their bellies are quite empty from what I hear." Though with a breath the farmadr looks to said friends Thomas, Gauvain, Bethany and Jarret, each regarded in turn, although Bethany is admired for a moment longer than the others before he speaks, "Thank you for your warm welcome, like those about me, I look forward to reaping all that I sew be it here or across the river. Perhaps this will lead to an understanding in time."

—-

"May there be a greater understanding between your folk and ours," Jarret offers politely to Ranulfr, along with a nod and a brief smile after the ritual with the bread and salt has been concluded. Studying the other people from far away, he offers them all a polite nod in turn, but otherwise keeps silent. After all, no matter if he likes it or not, this is the show of the Tarris.

—-

Giving Thomas a slight and friendly smirk knowing it was likely the Baron and his newest Vassal Wulfred, he steps forward and dips his head. Only slightly. "And I am the Duke Gauvian Tarris, standing in for the Rose Queen." He gestures around him. "Welcome then, to my lands and Kingdom. " He nods and then stands at ease. "We have a simple ceremony, that we call the Swearing of Oaths. I understand you will supplement this with a Blood Oath. We shall honor BOTH realms by performing both ceremonies. This will appease all who may question the validity of this agreement." He looks to Ranulfr.

The Duke steps forward and gestures to the man. "Ranulfr Raudi. Step forward." Once this is complied he nods to the man. "Do you swear, for the allotted time to defend these lands? From enemies of the Throne, no matter what form they take? Do you also swear to comport yourself with the honor and courage of a Warrior of House Tarris? To take up Axe, Shield and Sword and be as such to the Rose Throne?"

—-

As the Duke's aide-de-camp, Thomas stands close enough to him to assist or protect him if need be, but far enough for him to perform his ceremonial functions. His back is rigidly straight, his feet perfectly shoulder width apart, hands at his sides. Belying the stillness of his body, the Baron's head and eyes move incessantly, now moving to observe the Njorfolk, now to ensure the sentries are on the wall, then to judge distance to any other friends in his immediate proximity. The eyes hover a bit too long on Yrsa. Clearly, he has never before seen a woman so clad and painted.

—-

Ranulfr steps forward and tilts his head to the side as he listens to Gauvain's words, clearly deciphering them a scant second after they have ben spoken as they rumble about his head some, "I so swear." The three words uttered and affirmed with a nod, "I swear to defend these lands from their enemies no matter their form and I shall… comport?" The word mulled over as it plays across his tongue, though it is with a gentle shrug that the lilting words of Ranulfr Raudi continue even if his cold blue-grey gaze does drift to Bethany once or twice, "With the honour and courage of a warrior of House Tarris, to take up axe and shield and sword and be as such for the Rose Throne for the allotted time." Without a pause, Ranulfr plucks a dagger from his belt and draws the sharp blade across his left palm causing blood to soon trickle from his gashed palm, "By the Tuskenald I so swear that while you honour me, I shall honour you and may your enemies fear us and if they don't, they soon will."

—-

"Nothing wrong with being rich," Yrsa replies to Ranulfr with a shrug of a shoulder and a lop-sided grin. "And yes… Spilling blood is what I do best. Far better than working the land with a plow, Ran." Then the oaths are explained, and Yrsa frowns. "I don't speak their odd tongue, Ran…" But even so, she will not refuse when it is her turn. Giving her version in Barbaric, which will be more or less similar to what the translator tells her to say. "I swear, to kille the enemies of these lands… each and every one of them… and make them suffer. I am from Whitehall, I've never shied away from a good fight, so I suppose that will work. I understand our queen and your queen have agreed to this, so I'll fight for the Queen of the Rose Throne…." Her voice sounds husky, a low almost menacing rumble, where it not for the faint smile curving her lips. The dagger is already in her hand, and she administers a cut to the palm of her left hand, just like Ranulfr did. "By our holy Gods I swear I shall honour you as long as you honour our kind. Our enemies shall fear us, and together we will make them shiver."

—-

Aethelwulf folds his arms over his chest, watching the exchange carefully. When Ranulfr performs the blood Oath he steps forward and says in a clear and strong voice in Barbarian. "The Blood Oath has been performed." He nods once and then looks to Ranulfr. "Until lands have been taken by Axe or Spear you are now Jarl among our people. By the blood that you swore, you must defend your people, and those who you so swear to this man. May Magnus watch over you and grant you wisdom, and may all the Gods of our People grant you strength and power." He steps back and smiles to Ranulfr.

—-

Ranulfr listens to the translation of the oath for Yrsa and the others who follow suit, nodding as the words are spoken and the blood oaths are given. Each blood oath pretty much stating that for while they are honoured, so too shall they honour the Galenthians. Blood is spilled and words are bonded. And Aethelwulf's own words are met with a grin, "Jarl." The word met with a bark from Lifa while Ulfr simply sets about circling Yrsa before settling down and giving a huge toothy yawn that is soon followed by a lick of his chops. Ranulfr however clasps his bloodied hand to his heart, leaving a smear over his chest as he speaks, "I shall protect you all with my life and may I prove worthy of leading such a band of great warriors, men and women all!" A nod given especially so to Yrsa, "In five years time, we shall return home and have many a tale to tell and song to sing and many I am sure shall be of you my friend." And with that said, a cask is broken open and horns are produced and filled and four are brought forward to Gauvain, Jarret, Thomas and Bethany, "To our new friends!" And filled horns are raised, more horns are filled and mead is sloshed as the words in Barbarian and lilting Common are shouted.

—-

Gauvain nods once and looks to Bethany. The woman steps forward and smiles to those there. "Come. Let us feast, and be merry! Welcome to Galenthia my freinds, I look forward to working wiht you, and learning from you." She tips her head toward Ranulfr.

—-

Thomas is more than happy to heft a drink in honour of new relations with a hitherto unfamiliar and, frankly, unfriendly force. A smile finds its way to his face as he raises the drinking horn. "To our new allies!" He echoes, the word slightly more formal. This is like to be one of his only drinks of the night. "Lord Ranulf, I am Baron Thomas Chandus of Repton March. I hope that when you are settled that we will be able to train our troops together." He motions with a nod at the other Njorfolk. "I think we have much to learn from eachother in warcraft, yes?"

—-

"To new friends," Jarret echoes, smiling before he takes a sip from his horn. Looking to the horn again, he smiles. "This is quite good," he offers.

—-

Aethelwulf hears food and drink. Slaps Ranulfr on the back and heads to find these wonderoud things. He has never had Galenthian food before! Surely it is an experience that a Jarl should have. He too gives Bethany a long look and then looks to Yrsa. "I think our dear friend Ran is here sinply for the girls." He chuckles and looks over the feast table with the food.

—-

Gauvain stands at ease and watches all of this occur. The drinking, the merriment. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as he looks to Thomas. "One. It is nice to be enjoying a day, and something new instead of preparing to draw sword against a foeman again." He cracks a slight smile and looks over toward Jarret. He gives the man a slight smirk, and then looks to a Tarris banner before returning his gaze to teh Sokar.

—-

Ranulfr finds a horn thrust into his hand and it is soon lifted and mead soon sloshes down over his bloodied hand to wash away the crimson as Bethany approaches and welcomes him and his fellow Njorvolk to the feast, "And I with you." A warm smile offered and indeed the two wolfhounds are soon up and about and circling Gauvain's daughter before they decide to go and circle another and then weave off and away to lap at mead on the floor. Classy hounds. Likewise Thomas' own words are met with lilting agreement, "I am sure we shall clash as enemies and rise as brothers every time we train." Though any further words are soon lost as Aethelwulf slaps him hard upon the back. Mead sloshes, Ranulfr coughs and laughs, "If they are all as fire-haired, what is not to like?!" The words spoken in Barbarian to his now fellow Jarl before he flits easily back to his lilting Common tongue, "Let us eat and seal our joined fates with food!" And a cry rises, many a warrior already taking their seat, tearing at meat and knocking back that mead as another cask is de-bunged and the mead flows richly and warmly.

—-

Finding himself ready to enjoy the feast, Jarret pauses as he sees Gauvain's action. Shaking his head a bit lightly, he offers a momentary grin, and then gestures to some of the food, before he takes some of it. Must eat a lot when someone else pays, right?

—-

"Well, your Grace, you know we will always have to do so in the future again. It is heartening to see the arrival of allies at our side for when that day arrives." Thomas notes with a tinge of optimism in his voice. He grins at Ranulfr, sitting down to eat at the joint Njorfolk-Galenthian table. His helmet comes off, laid next to him on the bench, and his gloves get tucked away behind his belt, before his hands lift up to fix his mussed hair. "Tell me, Lord Ranulfr, what do you know of Parthians? The Duke and Sir Jarret, here, have some experience fighting them."

—-

Ranulfr looks to Thomas and again looks more than a second or two behind the conversation as he translates it within his head before re-translating it once more to speak in that lilting Common tongue of his, "I know little of them, though equally I doubt they have experience with our ways, though it would be good to know of theirs." The farmer-Jarl states, lifting his horn to the Baron before taking a long and delicious quaff of the honied mead within, "Our shield walls are formidable, what of these Parthians? Though I believe we'll be facing a few treacherous Galenthians too yes?"

—-

"We might, yes, my lord." Thomas nods. "Much of the West has agreed to recognise the treacherous Alezzans, mostly former Galenthians who fought and lost against us last year. Our lands suffered, but still we endure. The Parthians, well. They fight mainly ahorse, with two types. One is heavily armoured, the cataphracts, on large chargers. The other is light horse with bows, very quick moving. Also, they have very good heavy infantry and large numbers of light troops. They like to soften enemies with arrows before charging with the heavy horse. If you can master receiving a cavalry charge with that sturdy shield wall of yours and beat back their horse archers, you can beat them. A formidable enemy, but not invincible, and the shock of you North Men would be something they'd scarcely seen before." He motions at the walls of the fortress. "They tried raiding during the last few months. Beaten back by the guns, but they will be back when it warms. They think that we are weak, after so much war."

—-

Ranulfr leans down to scritch at Ulfr's head, those shaggy ears of the wolfhound's flitting and then settling as the newly minted Jarl levies some affection while listening to Thomas, "Once our shields have locked, we shall stand any barrage of arrows as is our way… and I am sure we can come to brace any such charge." Still with the scritches, Ulfr whines softly and yawns once more before settling across Ranulfr's feet, "Our ways are quick and fast, we strike, we raid, we withdraw and providing we keep them off balance, we should fare well against them and perhaps there are some among you who would join us, though perhaps you would be in need of disguise yes? We can paint your faces and find enough scale for you all." At that Ranulfr grins once more and knocks back his mead, "But we shall be ready to be called upon, I am sure we shall be needed as you say come the warmer weather."

—-

Having been here as part of a small Aequoran embassy to chronicle this historic event for the Queen of Aequor, Myrana D'Armaz finally puts down the pen and paper into the hands of a clerk, sighing and shaking the hair from her face as shee steps out to gather something cool to drink from one of the tables.

—-

Inga, in the meanwhile, is chatting up a pretty young Galenthian and flexing her muscles to great approval.

—-

"That would work well, I think. If you are concentrating on raids, I feel that you would be able to overwhelm their defences with swiftness and surprise. As for some of us coming along…" Thomas grins. "That would be up to the Duke. We've got some hardier, heated folk among us, to be sure." When the Aequorian comes around, Thomas rises politely. "Lady Myrana, well met and welcome to Fortress Dalcen and to the East. May I introduce you to Lord Ranulfr, the Lord of the North Men who will be living on our lands as allies."

—-

It is with a grin that Ranulfr catches sight of the enthralled Galenthian and the flexing Inga, as ever an impressive sight. But to Thomas' words the farmer and raider and now Jarl nods, "I shall look forward to them joining us in the shield wall." Though there's no mirth at that, just the lilting words spoken as fact as he follows Thomas' example and stands as the Baron does. The words as ever taking a few moments to follow, but soon enough the Jarl inclines his head and smiles brightly at the Aequorian, "Greetings to you Jarl Myrana." The yaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl warmly rolled in that lilting manner and his horn of mead raised by way of a toast, "It is good to meet you and in the years to come I hope you have much to write about."

—-

Myrana smiles at Thomas as he greets her, turning around from the sideboard before she can have picked anything from it. "Thank you, Lord Thomas; I was honored to serve in this function for my Queen, and pleased besides. This area is beautiful." As Ranulfr greets her her smile warms, if a little wrily, at the lengthened flattery. "Pleasant evening, Jarl Ranulfr, to you and your house." she says. "May I ask you something?"

—-

"By all means, ask away." Ranulfr replies in the common tongue as those words roll about his brain and slip from Common to Barbarian and back once more, "And I shall answer." Those cold blue-grey eyes of his fix upon Myrana as he awaits that question, his scale clad form unmoving and though adorned with little war finery, it is fine enough for a freshly raised Jarl.

—-

The Baron shifts a space over to make some room for Myrana on the bench, but does not as yet sit back down. His hands clasp behind his back and he listens, watery blue eyes shifting between the Aequorian noble and the White Hall Jarl.

—-

Myrana looks up at Ranulfr, dark blue eyes piercingly curious and searching his face. Since there's no drink in her hands she instead links her fingers loosely before him, plucking absently at the edge of her kirtle sleeve. "Do your people use writing for records?" she asks after a moment's pause. It might seem like a silly question, but she's obviously curious. Thanking Thomas, she takes a seat on the bench. "I know that the Icenaila don't, but I've seen your ships; they have writing on them, don't they?"

—-

"I cannot say that we do." The words offered in steady and measured Common, that warm lilting hint to the words carrying them easily as he grasps a nearby horn of mead from a passing servant and offers it to the inquisitive Aequorian, "Our deeds and tales are carved into our ships, some might well carve them into stone upon the land… but the tales themselves are passed from mouth to ear and so they never die." There is indeed a curious look within the former-farmadr's eyes, though the smile that soon follows is slow but warm, "My ship will be docked at the village once we're encamped and you would be welcome to visit and see, some are simple ornament, but yes there is writing upon them, prayers and stories and oaths and more, for the sea is harsh and it pays to worship every wave, but I would have to say your written words are just as impressive. Such effort… I don't understand them, but I appreciate the art we've seen amidst them in some of the writing."

—-

"Once you are established, it is likely that it will be time to plant the first seeds. But once that is done, I suspect you will have time to train… and perhaps, time to learn letters? I am no linguistic expert, but I speak several tongues. Writing can be put to use for any, I would think." Thomas notes, nodding at Ranulfr's story.

—-

Go look at a Whitehall ship without the bothersome distractions of being hacked at by huge northerners or having walls land on you?? Oh man HELL YEAH! Myrana's eyes light up and she accepts the horn, sitting up straighter in excitement. "I‘d like that very much," she says. Which is when her attendant in D’Armaz colours, the poor long-suffering bastard, looks about ready to commit himself to some mead to drown his sorrows. Myra looks at Thomas. "If your scribes would like, I'd be glad to have a copy of my linguistic notes made available to you."

—-

Ranulfr grins brightly at Myrana's acceptance and nods firmly, lifting his horn of mead to his lips and taking a swig of the rich honied liquor that is oh so sweet. A simple enough, "Good! It is settled!" Is offered back by way of reply and a further nod is offered Thomas with his offer regarding literacy. It seems intriguing enough a prospect to nod to for the moment, the farmer-raider-Jarl is it would open to new things! A slap on his back from another raider has him turn, roar and hug a burly and bearded looking fellow and almost a moment later the Jarl is tugged away, but not before he has looked back to Myrana and Thomas, "Excuse me, I shall return." And while Ranulfr is tugged away, Ulfr and Lifa his two wolfhounds decide to lope over, sleepily sniff at Ranulfr's spot and then begin sniffing and snuffling at Myrana and Thomas. Snuffle Snuffle Snuffle!

—-

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