T3+
Anonymous11/06/25, 02:13No.6328407Loot and Longships
You are a thrall, a slave, bonded to the house of the Chieftain of this village in order to pay off your late uncle's debts, under whose scornful eye and ready hand you had been formerly raised.
Though the debts are formidable, your labors these past seven years have diminished them to the point where a release seems no longer impossible. You cannot claim that it was by your diligence alone that this was accomplished; the Chieftain's generosity also played a substantial part. He took you into his own home, to serve as a companion for his only son, and has always dealt fairly with you as he does with all his subordinates. Indeed, he seems more eager to see you freed from bondage than perhaps even yourself. And it is that sentiment, along with a hundred other kindnesses he has shown you during your time of service, that compels you to remain with his house, even after your freedom is achieved.
It is an outcome not entirely unwanted by the Chieftain either, for your service has revealed the possession of certain worthy talents.
>You have a natural genius for sword-skill. A quickness of eye and hand that are unmatched in the village, which you have developed into a kind of preternatural sixth sense for danger.
>You have a gift for making others feel at ease. Your good looks and skill as a raconteur are contributing factors, but it is your naturally sunny disposition that charms all who meet you.
>You have a prodigious gift for symbols, figures, and other abstractions. Your sense of measure is especially keen, making you an ideal craftsman, shipbuilder, or even sailor
162
Replies
jKJ
Anon11/06/25, 02:16No.6328408
You have a natural genius for sword-skill
ysn
Anon11/06/25, 02:23No.6328413
>>You have a natural genius for sword-skill. A quickness of eye and hand that are unmatched in the village, which you have developed into a kind of preternatural sixth sense for danger.
tTr
Anon11/06/25, 02:42No.6328422
>You have a natural genius for sword-skill. A quickness of eye and hand that are unmatched in the village, which you have developed into a kind of preternatural sixth sense for danger.
UNM
Anon11/06/25, 03:04No.6328429
>You have a prodigious gift for symbols, figures, and other abstractions. Your sense of measure is especially keen, making you an ideal craftsman, shipbuilder, or even sailor
d6b
Anon11/06/25, 03:23No.6328434
>>You have a natural genius for sword-skill. A quickness of eye and hand that are unmatched in the village, which you have developed into a kind of preternatural sixth sense for danger.
mXP
Anon11/06/25, 03:47No.6328441
>You have a gift for making others feel at ease. Your good looks and skill as a raconteur are contributing factors, but it is your naturally sunny disposition that charms all who meet you.
zXn
Anon11/06/25, 03:59No.6328445
>You have a prodigious gift for symbols, figures, and other abstractions. Your sense of measure is especially keen, making you an ideal craftsman, shipbuilder, or even sailorI could not be more on-board for this quest get it? teehee
E4a
Anon11/06/25, 05:01No.6328471
>You have a natural genius for sword-skill.
T3+
Anon11/06/25, 05:28No.6328482
Sword-skill, most prized of all the arts of your people (save perhaps seafaring and navigation), lies ordinarily within the purview of the karl, the freeman, and even then only among those who deign to call themselves hersir or huscarl. Yet in certain cases ones natural gifts may be so extraordinary that they supercede the order imposed by custom and propriety. The quickness of eye and hand which might be called your gift arose out of necessity, the better to escape your uncle's swift and merciless thrashings (which, in the end, only enraged him the more). In fact, if not for the circumstances of your thralldom, whose responsibilities included service as a frequent sparring partner for the Chieftain's son, Einar, and if not for Einar's own passion for battle (a passion his father does not entirely share), your gift would have remained inert, likely perished without ever seeing its full expression. Such is our wyrd, as they say, in which nothing is straight and nothing arrived at or discovered without some contradiction.Once your gift was revealed to you, it became your shrine and your salvation. It was not long before you surpassed the Chieftain's son in skill and had to begin holding yourself back to spare his pride. And that gap has never closed, for you spend at least twice as much time in the exercises he was taught (and which by extension he taught to you) until the "trade entered your flesh", as they say. Probably Einar has guessed your deception, for he no longer asks to spar with you as often as he used to, but that has not abridged the brotherly feeling between the two of you, who remain, even now, as inseparable as clinkers in a hull.Today, the house is in a state of heightened agitation, for tonight an assembly will be held in the Chieftain's hall, a Thing, in which all the karls of the village and of the outlying lands inside the Chieftain's domain, shall convene to feast, to make merry, and to talk of grave and important matters. A few of the guests have arrived already and have begun setting up tents in the pavilion outside the Chieftain's hall; while inside the hall, numerous preparations are underway, food and furnishings and entertainment all judiciously arranged under the Chieftain's watchful eye. It is for such things the Chieftain lives, and so fond is he of feasts and celebrations, that it has even become a custom for the poorer karls in the village to plan their marriages to a common date, so as to better take advantage of the Chieftain's hospitality and not inconvenience him overmuch, for he always insists on being their host.In the meantime, you are busy with:
>Scraping together bits of food for the strange old hermit who lives up the hill
>Patrolling the tents with Einar and greeting the other boys your age
>Running errands for the Chieftain's wife with the other thralls
>Write-in
+ag
Anon11/06/25, 18:34No.6328699
Kino opener
+ag
Anon11/06/25, 19:14No.6328721
Gotta feed the Gothi/Vitki
T3+
Anon11/07/25, 01:42No.6328876
The delight the Chieftain takes, even from the infinite pains which his hospitality demands, can always be read plainly upon his face. Yet today his features are beset by an uncharacteristic gloom. Einar, in contrast, seems as if he might burst from enthusiasm. He is finally old enough to participate in the Thing, and though he has on former occasions trumpeted its tedium, he would not abandon this first proof of manhood for the world. His eagerness, however, makes him rather a nuisance to the surrounding hive and they soon demand his immediate removal, which desire his father corroborates with a stern but silent finger toward the door. Einar goes whistling. And you make ready to follow, slipping a roll of a cheese and a quarter of thick rye bread into your tunic as you pass, when the Chieftain calls for you stay behind a moment.The Chieftain knows you well enough not to assume petty theft, and is not so mean, especially on these ceremonious occasions, to begrudge you a bit of bread and curd. Rather what you fear is that he also knows you well enough to guess the inheritor of your meager plunder: the old hermit of the hills, whose unpronounceable name and unnatural beard have earned him the epithet of Raudskeggi, Redbeard. Redbeard is indifferently tolerated in the village, for unlike other "men of his cloth" (a phrase he is quite fond of) he does not disturb the peace with loud sermons nor attempt to convert others to his strange faith, but keeps entirely to himself. Even so, the Chieftain, like many others in the village, regards him with distaste. You have often wondered if it is not so much the strangeness of his god but the perfection of his fidelity that so disturbs them. Perhaps it reminds them of their own distracted worship and thus makes them ashamed.You, for one, have always found him to be a fount of novelties. The occasional provisions you supply are always rewarded with a marvelous tale or two, for Redbeard is well traveled and quite learned. But the confiscation of the commons (and by extension of the strange tale that might have followed its delivery) does not come to pass. Rather, as you approach, the Chieftain loosens one of the torcs he wears upon his arm--the thinnest among them, made of bronze rather than gold or silver--and places it in your hand. His instruction is brief, almost hesitant, but perfectly coherent. If not for that clarity, you would have doubted your own ears, for he has just told you to give the torc to Redbeard and by that gesture to invite him to the Thing.>Bite your tongue and do as you are bid, perhaps Redbeard himself will explain this absurdity.
>Retreat and seek out Einar. He has a sharp mind and might know better what to make of this.
>Ask the Chieftain himself what he means by such a strange reversal, under the guise of misapprehension.
>Write-in
+ag
Anon11/07/25, 01:50No.6328884
I see no reason not to oblige; will Redbeard be a Kristian or something even stranger?
T3+
Anon11/07/25, 19:42No.6329137
It is not that the invitation is totally against convention. Redbeard is a karl, of a sort, though he possesses no land nor property to speak of, completely content to budget his existence in the recesses of a small cave. Poverty does not seem to bother him. Indeed, you have often wondered if it was he who was not at greater liberty, did not enjoy greater independence, with his single suit of clothes, his wooden token (which at first you had taken for the image of a sword, but which he later explained was quite the opposite), and his string of wooden beads in constant motion by his prayers--if he were not more at peace by the sum of these homely trinkets than the richest jarl in Nóregr, with all his jewels, langskips, and freeholds.Yet the fact remained that he was a foreigner. A stranger. Moreover, a hermit, who seldom, if ever, involved himself in the affairs of others. Occasionally, one or another villager would make the climb up the winding, pebbled slope, pausing at the switchbacks to look out over the rolling dough of sea and the slanted files of smoke from the longhouses, continuing on until they reached the arch of his den, then calling his epithet between their winded breaths. They would never stoop to enter his lair, as you do now. What they pretended was dignity was, in fact, horror. Accustomed to the expanse of sea and sky, spoiled by the light and the wind between these limits, they could not long endure darkness or detention. And they feared whoever could.So they would summon him and wait. He would appear at last, his bald head bent only a little by the low cover (for he was of a very short stature). And they would ask their questions, confess their crimes and passions, and take his counsel. Redbeard is learned, as you have said, which is rare enough, but he is wise and patient also, which is still rarer. He would say little, as if conscious of giving offense with his accent (which was indeed ridiculous), and the few words he did express were halting and strained, like an oar sweeping through frozen waters. Despite this, most solicitors descended the hills with a lighter step than they had climbed it, or at least with a confusion that distracted them from what would anyway prove to be temporary concerns.But on this auspicious morning, you are disappointed to find him dozing, his curly beard hidden (the curls so much more unusual than their color), his hulking shoulders gently rising and falling in untroubled sleep.>Wake him. You at least have the excuse of the invitiation, even if your intentions are more mercenary.
>Let him sleep. Leave the food and the torc on the table and trust him to understand their meaning.
>Wait for him to wake. He won't mind if you help yourself a little to the bread and cheese either, since he always ends up sharing whatever you bring him.
>Write-in
+ag
Anon11/07/25, 19:52No.6329140
>Wake him
Can't keep the Thegn, Hauld, or Jarl waiting, whatever rank the chieftain holds.
zCR
Anon11/08/25, 10:00No.6329465
>Wake him. You at least have the excuse of the invitation, even if your intentions are more mercenary.WAKE UP OLD MAN
T3+
Anon11/08/25, 18:20No.6329577
It is a great shame. If those suppliants had only crawled the few yards of tunnel, they would have discovered a nest of unusual comfort and arrangement. The chamber's spaciousness greatly alleviates the confinement of the tunnel adjoining. The darkness (which Redbeard bears as cheerfully as his poverty) is easily perforated by the removal of some handfuls of dried grass stuffed into the minute holes on the dome. They would then see the shelf of stone Redbeard uses for a bunk, the boulder which he has flattened, with protracted labor, into a kind of table on which lay the totality of his possessions: a bronze razor, a wooden bowl and mug, some pieces of wood in various states of progress toward tafl pieces (the board having already been carved into the table), and a small hatchet you recognize as belonging to one of the villagers, likely a gift for his good counsel. On the dirt floor beneath the shelf, one could often find sketched runes and figures which seemed to hold great meaning and interest for Redbeard, but were inscrutable to all besides. One time, you recognized what must have been the outlines of a map, but the geography was totally alien to you, and you have never seen it again.Laying your own offerings at the table (but keeping the torc in hand, to pass it directly), you go and gently shake Redbeard awake. The muscles on his back and shoulders are well-packed and hard as rocks, and often you have wondered if he had not been an oarsman in a former life, for although their abidance is explained by his occasional forestry, you cannot imagine any other occupation that could develop an anatomy such as his. But if he had been an oarsmen--and no self-respecting skipper would ever let a foreigner touch his oars--he has never spoken of it.He rouses instantly at your touch. You offer him your hand to lift him up, and grasping it with his own monstrously calloused one, he leaps out of the shelf. After the usual pleasantries are exchanged, the two of you sit by the low table, Redbeard with his legs crossed, yourself on your hams, both silently munching on the bread and cheese you have brought. The geitarostr is not your favorite, you prefer the sweeter, softer texture of skyr to this pungent tang (in which the smell of goat still lingers), but the rye is still warm and soft in the middle, and its sourness nicely complements the intensity of the cheese. It is, at any rate, Redbeard's favorite, which is what counts.1/2
+ag
Anon11/08/25, 21:07No.6329693
>The Hills...
Not opposed to Einar's curiousity & council though.
RLg
Anon11/10/25, 18:51No.6330629
Still musing on Redbeard's cryptic prophecy you elect to take a stroll before returning down the hill. There is a clear flowing beck not far from where you presently stand, the waters cascading down from the icy reaches of the mounts higher up, and there you might refresh yourself. Along the way you collect lingonberries and sweet bilberries growing in the scattered bushes amid the rocks. They are hardly enough for the fanciful purposes that the kitchen thralls might put them to, but are good to munch on as you progress through the gathering density of pine and spruce.What could it mean that you could play a part in the proceedings of the Thing? Redbeard's participation, strange or improper as it might be, is an entirely different proposition from your own. A thrall, no matter his talents or intimacy, is still a thrall. He cannot impose himself upon an assembly of freemen, except in the services which his bondage demand. Excitement is still more remote a possibility. The Things you've eavesdropped on in all your seven years were staid, dull affairs, full of somnolent accounts and dreary figures. Occasionally one or another clan might present a dispute, over land or dowries or debts, and very rarely their representatives got heated enough to shout, though never so bold as to rise to blows, for whatever the severity of their grievances, those always seemed beneath the respect they not only owed, but felt lucky to confer, upon the Chieftain. The Chieftain's rulings on these matters were always just and fair, which motivated this regard. He ensured all parties always came away feeling whole, sometimes even at his own expense. Yet, you have also sensed a certain fear of his displeasure which was possibly even more potent. One too trembling to have the thought of mere exile for its origin.Come to think of it, there was one time that you were involved in a Thing: when you were first indentured into the house of the Chieftain. But it's equivalent, freedom from that enthrallment, is much too soon to be hoped for on this occasion. There are still a few years to go before the debt is paid. No, however, you turn it, you cannot decipher the riddle.But having surrendered one conundrum, you immediately find yourself in another, more perilous one.1/2
g67
Anon11/10/25, 19:06No.6330638
>Simply turn around & leave
2mt
Anon11/11/25, 07:03No.6330943
What's the social hierarchy in this setting as far as titles/statuses go?
RLg
Anon11/11/25, 18:42No.6331103
Transfixed by the sight of flesh as fair and spotless as a polished shell, hair like shimmering sheets of honey or of molten gold, it takes more than a moment for your wits to return. When finally they do, they can find no other recourse than to reveal yourself. Although the maidens have not yet been alerted to your presence, and you might possibly make an escape while maintaining that pretense, such shamelessness is so utterly against your nature that the mere consciousness of it forces your hand to the opposite extreme. You declare yourself loudly, with profuse apologies at the invasion of their confidence, with your eyes shaded and head turned away to prevent further breach. The ladies scream in surprise and fear, then rail against you (unnecessarily, it seems to you) to hide your looks while they dry and clothe themselves.Imagination is a scorpion which grows stronger in absence of its supports. The darkness of your eyelids seem only to vivify the images now burned beneath them forever, making them stronger and more intoxicating than pale reality. The rustle of their clothes, the splat of droplets on the grass as they wring their hair, the sharp whip of tightening cords and ribbons, are even more stimulating unseen. It is with the greatest exertion of will, more difficult then even the most strenuous exercise or the roughest bout of glima in the ring, that you force yourself to "stand down", as they say, when at last the girls are ready for you to face them.Then follows the expected course of censure, promises of punishment, declarations of disbelief, disgust, determination for justice, and so forth; most of this carried on by the one you correctly established as the inferior, a thrall like yourself, in defense of her master, the latter who merely observes you with a sly, mute expression of surprise, as if finding unexpected delight in a previously maligned cuisine. She finally lifts her hand to silence her attendant, and then demands your name, history and purpose, all of which you briefly and composedly provide.At mention of your master, the Chieftain, the maiden grows more attentive.1/2
RLg
Anon11/14/25, 19:01No.6332350
Brightened by your sudden escape from an otherwise imminent flogging, you readily accept her conditions. The three of you set off back toward the village, Gudrun walking ahead in surly silence while Hilde strolls beside you and pelts you with questions. She first wishes to know about yourself, and then about Redbeard (whom you had mentioned in your earlier exposition), then gradually turns to the subject of the Chieftain--his house, his means, his temper, the nature of your service to him--and finally to Einar, of whose manners and character she seems particularly interested. You present him in a better light than perhaps he warrants, but that is only natural, given that he is, first, your master by law, and second, your brother in spirit. You advertise his strengths--cunning, wits and imagination, of which he truly has no equal in the village--yet this seems only to crease her soft, lovely face with ungainly furrows. Of his sword-skill you say little; of your own, through teasingly pressed, even less. It is pleasant to boast of a friend, for that elevates the advocate by association, but unflattering comparisons, however true, dishonors friendship, and dishonors oneself. Hilde, belonging to the sex whose "hearts were formed on a turning wheel", as they say, does not understand these subtleties, or if understand, finds them merely amusing. Her haughty laughter, even as it galls you, admittedly quite becomes her--a truth which vexes you all the more.You reach the pavilion just as the conversation moves to its most salient theme: the Thing, and the reason for which the karls have assembled. But the girls are called away by a towering old man, who, though his reddened face announces clearly an otherwise discreet fury, seems still to yield to that anger's object with the greatest deference. So it is that Hilde, nonetheless, takes the opportunity to retreat with all her interests satisfied, without satisfying any of your own. You learn at least that the Jarl whom the Chieftain serves will be in attendance tomorrow, for so the old man addresses Hilde, as daughter of that Jarl, and where the daughter goes, the father cannot be far behind. But why the Jarl himself would grace this humble gathering only deepens its mystery.You have some hours now before night falls and the festivities begin. You can see upon a field a ways from the pavilion some boys that have gathered for either mischief or sport. Einar is not among them, but you spot him soon enough chatting amongst the visitors. There's also much work to be done should you wish to make yourself useful.>Join the other boys in their sport, whatever it may be.
>Join Einar and discuss with him all that has passed.
>Join the other thralls and busy yourself with work.
>Write-in
dmk
Anon11/14/25, 19:31No.6332356
>Thralldom
Gotta' earn our keep, try to maintain our Hamingja
RLg
Anon11/15/25, 20:55No.6332890
Einar spots you even before you begin to approach. One hand clasped in a firm handshake with a visitor (a successful trader by the look of his clothes), Einar curls the other to beckon you to him. He wishes to know where on earth you've been. It seems he is as full of intrigue as you are, yet his shrewdness forbids him from speaking first. He listens to your account with sharp attention, and then, when you are finished, he falls into deep thought. By that time you are both secured in your usual haunt, an abandoned hut hidden in a small cove, which you and Einar spent the better part of last spring repairing into a kind of hideaway. While Einar meditates upon the significance of your report, you duck outside to check on some fish you had caught days earlier and left hung out to dry.There is no use trying to converse with Einar when he falls into one of these broods. His concentration is neither delicate nor superficial, but a product of training nearly intense as your own with the sword. It is why no one in the village, not even the adults, can defeat him in a game of tafl. It is also why his father, the Chieftain, regards him with as much wariness as with awe. Snjallr is only a stones throw from fálátr, as they say; cunning and conniving are bedfellows. Still, though Einar is something of a plotter, his schemes have all thus far been harmless and bereft of deception. Case in point: the little fishing skiff moored at the bank of the cove, which Einar had purchased in atrocious condition for a pittance and, together with you, had painstakingly restored to fighting form over a period of a year and a half. It is Einar's pride and joy and the envy of all boys in the village--or at least it was, till he had seen, last summer, a glorious langskip gliding across the sea towards open water. From then on all his powers were bent on that one vision. And not merely to sail upon a longship, but to sail its captain.Just as the fish begin to release a mouthwatering scent in the procession of smoke, Einar awakens from his reverie. He answers in a word all the questions which had been mounting: a raid. It must be a raid, for there is nothing else for which the Jarl himself would come. And it must be a raid across the sea, to the distant lands, for nothing else explains the attendance of Redbeard. And finally, notes Einar, grimly, it must be a raid for which his father harbors reservations, for nothing else explains his gloom.Having made this prophecy he turns to you with eyes of flame. He would go on this raid, come what may, and he would have you with him, if you will follow.>You are delighted by the offer, it is what you have trained for and dreamed of all this time.
>You are hesitant to promise what may in the end prove only to be undeliverable fancies of imagination.
>You are sobered by the knowledge that his father will never allow him such a liberty and keep silent.
>Write-in
yFH
Anon11/16/25, 01:13No.6333053
We are a thrall to his father; surely if he goes, we must go.
RLg
Anon11/16/25, 05:26No.6333173
Moments like these fill you with a sublime, inexpressible gratitude. Of course, Einar need never ask, and certainly never doubt, your support of his causes. Never mind that this is what you have trained for and dreamt of all these years. But it is your duty, first of all, and therefore not your choice. That Einar would even deign to consider your opinion in the matter--and because you know that his consideration is earnest, that were you refuse now the very service which by law is his due, whether out of inconvenience or even cowardice, he would not only absolve you, but ensure that none could intercede nor coerce you to act otherwise, that to his own father would he present resistance for your sake, should it come that, that he has done it before on other occasions, and that all this is only his nature, not something he does against himself for the sake of an ulterior motive, it is all you can do to hold back the tears which brim in your eyes, and still the loyalty and devotion which swells in your heart, and offer the mute, solemn nod to answer his request.You pick at the fish in silence a while. Then, suddenly, Einar seems to remember again your encounter with the girls (whose salacious parts you had delicately omitted to avoid the very teasing he subjects you to now). He has always found your "innocence" (as he puts it) extraordinarily amusing, especially because he himself is such a libertine when it comes to the opposite sex (another quality which worries his father) and seems to regard the spheres of love and courtship as trifling recreations (which maddeningly seems only to bolster his success in them). On this occasion he is particularly merciless, knowing well your inexperience and timidity about the female figure, and insists on learning the particulars of what you saw, which, when you must lie and say are no longer strong in your memory, he begins to sketch out by means of elimination, asking, for example, whether they were the size of onions or of cabbages, or whether she was entirely smooth or a little downy, and if downy, whether it was fair like her hair or another hue. All this, needless to say, is unendurable, and grasping for the first excuse you can find--that by now the visitors will likely have started the games--you flee his absurd inquisition.When you return to the pavilion, you find the preparations well under way. The rope-ring for the glima matches has been set down with stakes. Targets for the spear throw and axe toss have also been mounted: old cracked shields, an upturned tree stump, and some logs lashed together into a crude facsimile of a man. Some stools and blankets are also being carried out to the beach, for the swimming competition which will happen later.>Fight in the glima competition, a contest mainly of speed and skill
>Compete in the spear toss and the axe throw, games requiring coordination and a good eye
>Enter the swimming competition, a test of pure endurance and will
>Write-in
uaz
Anon11/16/25, 05:49No.6333178
Can we pick multiple options?
B1d
Anon11/19/25, 04:17No.6334724
The games of such festivals are always of two kinds: the first, dispossessed of competitive spirit, as might be accessible to a child, a woman, an entertainer, or a person of advanced years. Among their rank are amusements which hardly deserve the appellation of contest or sport, such as dancing, music, poetry, the footrace, feats of astonishing dexterity as juggling, somersaults, vaulting, or the ever popular handspring, though indeed they are performed with the forethought of judgment (if only measured by the general cry of acclaim). You know of no one superior to Einar in certain of these recreations, especially in the application of the lyre, the flute, the voice, or the imagination in the spinning of verse or tune. Yet, despite his pride in, and the furious practice of, these faculties, he hides them as though they were his greatest faults. Only in the pursuit of some blushing cheek or the wonder or laughter of a child might he apply them. He possesses the restraint to let all other challenges go unchecked.The second kind is another matter entirely. While the first falls short of true competition, the second lies perhaps beyond it, where victory signifies not merely the prize of the shield, the horn or the arm ring, but life and glory itself. And these, being the stakes and prize of battle, have no equal. Consequently, the lowly thrall does not often participate in this second kind of game, for he is seldom equipped with the necessary gifts (to say nothing of the courage) to play them, even if he has the invitation.There are, of course, exceptions.Among those who know you, you are called the Fálkr, the falcon, for in the Glima there is none faster and none have ever escaped your grip upon their brókabelti. Your sight too is of the bird, and your quarrels, after long training, obey this exacting master. Seldom do you ever miss a mark by more than a thumb's width. Among the entrants in today's tournament you have only two serious competitors, Bjorn the Mighty, who has gone undefeated in the stone-lift for the last four years on account of his monstrous strength, and Harald Halfhand, who is more accomplished with one hand (in so far as it always strikes true with the axe or the spear or the dagger) than most men are with two. Other than these, the rest are formalities, almost tedious in their routine dispatch.Today, invigorated by the promise of destined combat, you are in a rare fighting form. You feel as though you could give Thor himself a challenge. Consequently, you decide, against your usual habit, to compete in all the main contests.For the initial bouts you:
>Win, but take care not to extend yourself overmuch to avoid embarrassing others
>Play leisurely, saving your strength for the main event and your favorite: the Glima
>Attempt to crush everyone beneath your heel without the slightest apology or hesitation
>Write-in
NIg
Anon11/20/25, 02:46No.6335220
>+1.... Glimmer
S1x
Anon11/23/25, 04:41No.6336740
As the greatest honor is conferred upon the victor of the Glima, it is for that you conserve all your strength and speed, partaking in the axe throw and the spear toss without the design of absolute victory, and using the swimming match as merely a way to warm your muscles to demands you shall shortly make of them. Consequently you do not take the first prize in either of these games, but in the first, resign that position to Harald Halfhand, who though he makes as many points as you do from hitting his target, does so from a farther distance, and in the second, do not place among the winners at all, but finish the race with the middling crowd. Still, you come away with a drinking horn for your performance.Finally, after some rest and enjoyment of the other, first kind of sport as already mentioned, the crowd gathers around the rope-ring for the Glima. You can see among them even the Chieftain, sitting in a position of honor, and also Hilda and her maid, whose presence unnerves you somehow. Einar, who never participates in these bouts, acts as your second, giving you encouragement and advice for each of the wrestlers you face. His intelligence is not unwelcome, for it is usually uncannily accurate, yet it is unneeded, for you defeat all your early opponents almost as soon as the matches begin and could have done so not only without his advice, but perhaps without even the aid of your own sight.Glima is an art of two measures: the first, and most obvious, is strength, for without this one cannot maintain the grip on the belt, or long endure the resistance of the opponent's efforts. The second, which is more subtle, yet more decisive, is speed. Not merely speed of hand, which is necessary to take advantage of the slim windows of weakness or error or overreach, but speed of mind, without which such windows may never come, or if come, pass unrecognized. And in this latter measure you have not yet met an equal. Besides this there is the skill itself, the various techniques, which you have been fortunate enough to learn from Einar's tutor, Rolf, through Einar himself. Rolf is an inexhaustible store of martial knowledge, being a veteran of so many wars that some of them have surely passed into saga. But, according to Einar, he is not much of a teacher. Thus, you award it more to Einar's genius that you were able to learn such complexities with such relative ease. He seemed keen to impart upon you all the knowledge he himself could not take full advantage, not out of charity, but the disdain of education and talent gone unused.1/2
1Qh
Anon11/28/25, 06:08No.6339430
umm OP how are you doing?
S1x
Anon11/28/25, 17:10No.6339576
OP here. Not dead yet. Just busy with some other stuff during the holidays.
E4a
Anon12/02/25, 05:30No.6341348
>wait until Bjorn bites
>Bjorn hasn't bitten
>keep waiting until he does
I guess good old Bjorn is taking a few days to take the bait