on a road in alzorc

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

The winters in Alzorc were harsh ones. Temperatures plummeted to the point where they gave even those peoples and creatures native to the land pause. Winds cut through paltry protections and sawed away at the very bones, injecting a fierce chill that begged for even the infernos of hell to chase away. A blanket of white eclipsed the sky and snow fell in sporadic clusters pushed across the landscape by those bitter winds .. but for a lot of people this was home, and despite its vicious climate they would be loathe to give it up.

One such native carefully trudged across the landscape, one foot placed in front of the other, thick hardy garments covered in a series of white clumps gifted by a boreal lover. A shield was securely strapped to the travelers back, covered with a large rag so as to keep it from icing over completely and making it harder to use in conflict. A similar treatment had been given to the massive axe that swung from their hip. It was difficult to discern the gender or race or .. anything .. about this lone creature as they plodded across the tundra, their clothing was so heavy and all encompassing, thick furred hood pulled across their head and several layers of scarf protected their face: save for two eyes in a blue so clear they could strike through to the marrow.

The figure paused and seemed to examine the landscape. They had come to a crossroads as such, though there were no visible markings obvious to visitors from other Kingdoms. In one direction they knew that the Alzorc Keep broke from the frigid landscape hours from where they stood and offered security, warmth, and ale. In another direction, there lay uncertainty, the nearest village could be days away and when night fell, the temperature fell to numbers that did not bear thinking about. However .. in that direction there also lay the Knockskull Mountains, where peril lay beneath every foot step and were potentially riddled with Rumerian raiders. It brought a smile to ones lips, and they were carefully considering their next set of options when a curious black blast of .. what?

Light? Non light? The absence thereof?

There were no words in the Zorcan's vocabulary that were capable of describing the swathe of darkness that bloomed against clouds fat with snow which had yet to be released on this world. The figure had no words, but a curiosity warred with their instinctive dislike for such anomalies. Maybe, just maybe, there was a story to be found there.

As the darkness dissipated the decision was made, ice encrusted boots were turned to a completely different direction as they carried their owner away from that crossroads and to the source of this deviation.

[Requiem]

Too much had changed, He thought, as once again the spidersilk beneath his coats earned another slash that led to the black-blood seeping from the resulting wound. The Minstrel remembered a time when one much like him had stood at the side of a Named Man of Alzorc and been accepted as an equal to those hardy people of the far-north.

Was that man even him? There could be no certainity despite the resemblance he was reputed to have to the 'First Requiem'. The Second Requiem found relying on the Dark to be his only saving grace, and even those magics seemed to be failing to fell his foes.

Foes whom definitely needed to die if he was to survive long enough to reach much needed warmth in Saguenay Hall.

Yet here they were with only one of the Irregulars dying with darkness still wrapped air-tight about the mouth, eyes, and ears.. looking quite akin to a burial mask of ancient cultures in the likes of Madder or the Desert of Thanes.

The rest, two in fact, remained plenty healthy and angry while the bundled elf was breathing hard from his efforts. The black-blade, the broadsword in his hand felt heavy, though his fingers only tightened around them as long as the gloves he wore would allow his grip to remain. Still his strength was failing him quickly and the elf proved all too aware of this fact. When another well-timed strike from the Irregular armed with a pole-arm came it was all he could do to step away in order to avoid it. All the same he found the wooden shaft of the weapon colliding painfully with his knee for his trouble. Whether shattered or not, his knee surely felt as if it were and buckled drawing the Minstrel down into the snow.

His free hand fell to the snow as well as black wisps coalesced in his palm until an orb of darkness had formed only for its energy to be release so that it enveloped the melee. While he could not dance his way out of combat what he did accomplish in the wake of that surge of shadowcasting was proper spell. While he could not dance, he could move and taking to the sky above the orb of blackness he'd enveloped they and he within served well to hide his actions.

So it was that the minstrel placed himself above the melee with wisps of darkness gathered at his feet seemingly all that kept him aloft. In the meantime the Rumerian Mercenaries did not sit idle. They stepped out of the darkness as soon as the realization that their enemy no longer happened to be within it.

How glorious the wardance would have been from this level, he thought, smiling wistfully before looking down at the angry, cursing men below. It was not long at all before he realized his mistake. That polearm could still reach him..

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

It took several minutes for this person to cross the wastelands expanse, leaving a trail of footprints behind her that would eventually become covered with a layer of snow or simply washed away with the tide of bitter cold winds. The closer she became, the stranger the scene grew, darkness seemingly exploding across daylight and releasing tendrils into the sky. It sent shivers through her body where the cold did not, a twisting in the gut that was a simple response to the unknown. Zorcans were a myopic bunch after all. However, while the stretch of budding blackness was unfamiliar, the sounds that would reach the ears were all too familiar and encouraged a small grin to form beneath the layers of cloth.

There was a battle underway.

While it may not have been a war that would find its way retold through the epics, it was still an interesting fight that eyes finally settled on, moments after one of the individuals sent themselves into the sky with a globe of darkness beneath. Of course, the interest grew when said globe appeared to disgorge Rumerians of all things from its belly, and if there was anything a Zorcan enjoyed more than a good battle it was a good battle against a Rumerian! Glove sheathed hands moved, the shield with covering still intact pulled down from her back as the axe was yanked from its loop, the figure advancing from a position somewhat behind the cursing men. Though the globe of darkness was given a wide berth, it did not slow her step as suddenly a raucous clanging rent the air: the sound of an axe head striking mightily against the face of a shield. Something was yelled in Zorcan, though muffled as it was behind the scarves it came out as naught more than a wordless yell designed to get the Rumerian's attention.

Whether that worked, or if they were too busy poking at the floating man with their spears, she did not care. Her blood was up, and she was no knight, the woman having no qualms against charging one or both and striking whomever she reached first in the back with a thrust of her shield, knocking them aside and following up with a swing of her axe. She would repeat this as many times as necessary, yelling the entire time as she swung with axe and shield to either concuss or behead if she could get away with it: the only good Rumerian .. not even that, their blood would poison the earth and their corpses were refused by even the maggots. No, not even a dead Rumerian was a good one, though at least it would prove quieter.

She'd deal with the floating man later, if her immediate opponent didn't pull out a deadly trick!

[Requiem]

Most sensible mercenaries and soldiers would have considered battle with mage a worrisome matter. Something about a blade in that same spellcaster's hand seemingly made the odds go in the favor of superior numbers. Whether such was the cause of his less than glorious results in the fight thus far or not the Minstrel felt his tactic had earned enough of a reprieve to regather his focus against the pain and cold.

A drop of black-blood fell from the stain of it around one of the sword-made wounds on his person already beginning to mark the battle with an ink-black spot. His focus upon the spot beneath brought the spear-wielder into his sight first. Even as the spear was pulled back to be thrown his vision only began to clear at the bang of sound that came from seemingly nowhere. As soon as he realized that the battle had been joined , by whom and how many he could not be sure, but the fact the Irregulars were distracted rather than being filled with resolve told enough.

" Axes flash, broadswords swing, Shining armour's piercing ring. Horses run with polished shield, fight those bastards till they yield. Midnight mare and blood red roan, fight to keep this land your own. Sound the horn and call the cry, How many of them can we make Die! "

Thus the song began with a musical voice carried upon by every shadow and spreading beyond to fill the ears of ally of convience and enemy alike. The song of inspiration continued as the elf repositioned his black-blade until it lined up with the distracted spear-wielder at which point he moved his shadow-carried feet in such a fashion as to run, even in a limp, in a nearly vertical line for a couple of feet prior to coming into a full drop. As the magic could no longer keep him on the invisible 'stairs' he fell sharply and neigh-immediately lose his blade into the mercenary's chest.

Impressive a feat though it may have been the result was the lose of his melee capability. All the same the battle hymn still came in spite of interruption

" Send these bastards back to hell. We'll teach them the ways of war, They won't come here any more. Use your shield and use your head, fight till everyone is dead! How many of them can we make die! "

Though he still sang he could see for himself that the spear-wielder remained alive as did the other more capable of ending his life. He could afford to leave the uninjuried mercenary to the one who joined the battle. Thus he was left with ending the life of the spear-wielder that had chosen to hound him so. Pushing against the snow covered earth he got to his feet with a pained grunt as his knee argued against his standing with a burst of pain that shot blackness into his line of sight.

Not far now, just a little further and I can relax a little, he thought, about the time he fell atop the downed spearman. Thus it was that he sought to reclaim his blade in the most painful way possible.

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

"Af bardaga er dýrð!"

Her voice rose high and was followed by laughter as the cloth slipped from her mouth, hood falling back as she dipped out of the way of an incoming blade that soon crashed hard against the surface of her shield. The noise vibrated through the wasteland and twisted with the floating mans song, only causing her to laugh harder through a jaw clenched in a death grin as she stepped back to give herself more space to move. She did not pay attention to the words used in the song, and did not consciously acknowledge that the voice helped to spur on her battle lust and guide her hands, but encourage it did as she suddenly moved into a turn and dipped in low, the arm holding her shield swinging up high and beneath the Rumerian's guard to nip him quite neatly between the thighs.

"Dauðinn er hér, gera tilbúin!!"

As she yelled she was already moving, her opponent winded by the surprise connection and falling into the involuntary half standing fetal position unique to the gender. Her shield arm was already falling to connect the edge against the back of his protected skull, further rattling his brains as she pulled back and shifted her body to the side with her axe held high. She spied the thin gap between his armor and took the bait, the brilliantly coloured metal shining in the light before it sliced through his neck and severed the bone, an almighty yank pulling the blade free as a spray of crimson joined the blackness already staining the snow. She kicked out with her boot to shove the corpse away and continued to move, looking for her next target only to find that .. she was the only one standing.

"....hvað?"

She frowned. That was a bit quicker than she had anticipated and she was left feeling disappointed. Moving over, she poked at the other body with the toe of her boot to ensure that the Rumerian was dead: following up with a quick blow to the chest with her axe in case he happened to be a particularly skilled actor, before she came to the singing man still atop his recent kill. She eyed him warily. He had been spewing darkness into the surrounding area by her count, and though he had a pretty voice she did not know if she should count him as friend or foe. For the moment, he was a little bit into the former column by virtue of the fact that he was actively fighting Rumerians, and had not decided to blast her with bolts of lightning or whatever it was people who floated in mid air often did. After considering it a moment, she kept her shield at the ready and gave the man the same treatment as the others: a nudge with her boot, though did not follow up with an axe to the chest.

"...you?"

A single word question that encompassed much more than the individual syllable. As he had been singing in common, she adopted the tongue herself though she did prefer to stick with the language of her people. It was much simpler.

[Requiem]

Quite focused on the matter of retrieving his sword he did not take too much notice of the Zorcan's battle with the Irregular mercenary that remained on this side of the mortal coil. It wasn't until the more questioning tone of the Zorcan.. or was it Cold Tongue? , words that he looked away even as he shifted the blade's position in the struggling man's chest to shift between ribs to stab through the heart.

His eerie greens settled his gaze upon the figure even as he struggled with freeing his blade from the Rumerian's chest. The wicked, serrated black-blade received a bath in the nearby snow and a cleaning on the corpse's attire more suitable to the task. Thus directed the elf did not take much note of her approach until the nudge from a booted foot forced the matter.

The voice set into his mind as feminine though distinctly Zorcan in accent, a language that brought a pleased grin to his expression despite his inability to process it into a translation. Seeing as he had a blade in his hand when the nudge came, he made a point of sheathing the sword before anything further progressed especially not a fight with the Warrior-woman.

" I suspect you did not join the fray to help me. You have my thanks for your efforts all the same. "

He began to attempt standing after those words as to face the woman eye to eye rather than on his knees. Painful though the act proved to be it was managed all the same.

The man looked away from her in order to attempt gauging direction in order to be capable of making it to Saguenay Hall.

" I am called Nightsedge. "

Came the introduction from the common-speaking elf. Although he knew the Gods that had earned his worship were of the Zorcan, he did not see fit to try winning her over by boasting his choice in deity. Alongside the introduction was the matter of looking the woman over in a fashion more sizing her up than appreciating looks.. though he found her possessed of a beauty , of what little he could see with her all bundled up, he felt many such Zorcan women possessed for all their strength and differences to the women of the rest of the continent.

If she chose to do the same in sizing up the man that , mostly, stood before her. She would be easily able to take note of the many wounds and assorted injuries the battle had left him with. His choice of attire and protection against the elements as well were not quite as suiting to someone who could sling spells as it was certainly seen could be done. Practical clothing and armor aside the most obvious marking could be seen on his face.. a tattoo of some sort whose meaning while unknown looked akin to certain woad symbols among the Zorcan tribes.

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

She watched him for a time, wisps of blonde escaping the fur lined hood and twisting in the brisk winter wind, no emotion playing behind eyes that were as cold as the landscape now that the battle lust had ebbed away. Initially there was no indication as to her thoughts on the current matter, no hint or nudge of any kind until she wrinkled her nose slightly and flicked her axe free of some of the blood that coated it before returning it to its loop and her shield to her back. Drops fled the blades surface and joined the multitude staining the snow, and while there was a significant amount of black already present the red gradually leaking from the slain Rumerians would eventually win out.

''Nightsedge is .. odd name.''

Shrugging, she turned from the wounded man and began to rifle through the Rumerian's belongings. Anything of use be it coin, weapons or even rations would be lobbed into a pile that steadily grew depending on what else she found. When she could scavenge no more, she hunkered down on her haunches and stared at the elf from her peripheral for a time, before, setting to tearing strips of cloth from the Rumerian's clothing – it was not as if they would be using it – for the make of crude bandages. Eir was versed in the most basic of first aids but she was no healer, her first advice would be to inform the elf to simply walk it off, but he looked like a skinny and frail type compared to the Zorcan she was familiar with and naturally assumed that he stood a chance of breaking in the next gust of wind.

''Here.''

Rising, she offered the strips of cloth to use however he wished, and once taken she turned to face the direction of Alzorc Keep though its vast walls were not visible from their current location. She was not familiar with Saguenay Hall and would be unable to direct him to that, so the Keep would have to do.

''There is a city not far from here. If you need healing, you should go there.''

Her reckoning of 'not far' may have been considerably different from another’s, but in either case if he kept going in that direction he would stumble across it eventually, considering how large it was, it was also flanked by two mountain ranges and an ocean, so impossible to miss. The cloth that had covered the face of her shield was gathered up from where it had fallen and used to fashion a makeshift sack that was soon filled by the various goods belonging to the corpses formerly known as Rumerian's, if the elf did not voice protest then they could banter over the distribution of these items once they were under a stable roof with a warm fire and full mug. Tying the collection securely, she returned her attention to the wounded man.

''My name, is Eir Yngvarsdóttir.''

She jerked her chin in the direction of the Keep.

''If you wish to go, I go. Otherwise we shall part.''

[Requiem]

" Yes, well.. I suspect most think bleeding black ichor to be odd. "

He also happened to be doing exactly that fortunately the woman possessed the good sense to do what his thought processes had not yet caught up to pushing that body of his to do: make bandages. Amongst the sounds of her rifling through the belongs of the dead the sound of fabric being torn had not come to his attention at all. Without a word the strips were taken to be wrapped about the more easily accessible wounds.

The mixture of cold and blood loss alike were hardly benefiting the elf. Strange then that he remained standing despite it. He tried to make sense of her words while directing his eerie green gaze towards her own. If there was a city nearby than his trek towards the Hall could stand to wait. He slowly shrugged off his pack in order to rummage through it enough to pry out the atlas carried within. Thumbing through it brought the map sporting the mass of land that encompassed Alzorc in order to roughly pinpoint where the nearest city was to them.

" I was following the lakeshore here.. not counting the mountains Alzorc Keep is closest. If that is where you suggest.. its a journey of several days on foot. "

Knowing the Zorcan dislike of spellcasters it took a moment of mulling it over before what entered his mind even came to his tongue to be spoken at all. By then the man was rising back to his feet after shoving the book back into his pack and shouldering it with a grunt of pain.

" I can shorten our journey considerably if you are willing to undertake the path I can provide us. "

Clearly by his avoidance of the subject he had chosen to travel with this woman rather than take his chances on his own. Alzorc was an unforgiving land.. he knew that all too well.

" Eir.. "

He paused, thinking back to a conversation that seemed as if it had not even been he on the recieving end of the lesson. He glanced to the woman a second time, attempting to judge how she might react from the words running through his mind.

".. like the Goddess? "

Ah, there it was then..

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

''Does this look like a basket of wheat to you?''

A hand moved to indicate the axe at her side. It was large and still stained with the blood of the fallen, faint etch work marking the blade in a decorative fashion though clearly the weapon was more for use than art itself. At least, not the kind of art you would place above your fireplace. Despite the words used her tone was not offended, perhaps a little amused, as it was something she had grown accustomed to as she travelled further from her homestead: others questioning her combat acumen based on the origin of her name. Her parents had thought to bring further blessings on their farm by naming their first daughter after the Goddess of Harvest, and while it had appeared to work (though whether the Goddess had turned Her eyes to the farm, or it had simply been good luck) it had nevertheless tried to pave Eir's own path before she'd a mind to create it, though this was not to say that Eir looked down on the farming community: she understood their necessity and strength as well as anyone.

The similarity with the Goddess began and ended with her name, even though the blonde hair peeking out from beneath her hood was the same shade of warm honey reported to belong to the Goddess. In any event, wherever she went there would be those who would seek to test her ability to hold that axe, and she often took great joy in explaining things with her fists, after which much ale was shared and everything was as it should be.

In any case, she would soon be peering over to catch a glimpse of that map .. and while the images themselves made a semblance of sense to her, any written markings would just seem to twist and dance in front of her eyes and resemble nothing more than gibberish, resulting in a frustrated sigh before she pulled back with a clink of stolen goods and regarded the wounded elf. She honestly wondered how long he would be able to continue like that .. but if he genuinely had a way to cut down the travel time between here and the Keep considerably, then that would be beneficial to all involved. Tilting her head to one side, she considered the various options and discarded several: what remained .. one seemed rather optimistic, whereas the other set her skin to crawling beneath the layers of heavy wool, animal hide and fur.

''You have .. horses?''

Her voice ended with a hopeful lilt, and she glanced around the frozen expanse as if some equine were merely hiding behind a strategic snowdrift. Yes, she had observed him tossing around darkness as if he were a child in a mud pit (albeit with more finesse) yet she still clung to the perhaps misguided notion that he would present a normal and natural way to hasten their travel. But still, one lived in hope.

[Requiem]

" More a harvester of the living. "

A morbid definition for the weapon Eir wielded to be sure, yet his was no different.. his especially looked to be meant for taking lives as painfully as possible with its dark, serrated blade. How fortunate that it now lay sheathed in its scabbard. Much of the Zorcan pantheon of Gods did not keep a defined place within his mind. The likes of Rig and Valdis.. Sverrir and Svol certainly held a place in his mindscape.. while others swam with much more anominity.

A glimpse of the map itself displayed what any other map of Alzorc as its was known would show. The sign of the Zorcan woman earned a glance taken to study why such might have come about. An inability to understand the map or the script that told what cities were which? With no means to certainity it was decided not to bring it up at all. It would be no more appreciated than his apparent weakness being mentioned would have been.

" No. "

The inquiry into horses came all too optimistically that it took little to figure out that she like other Zorcan possessed a dislike of magic.. the arcane if not others.

" It will not be instanteous travel.. portals like the Mage Unions in the south possess are beyond my capabilities. I always find myself disoriented after stepping through them. "

The admission came with a frown.. still he chose to explain more.

" We will walk the fringe between this land and shadow. "

A lengthy pause settled while he waited for Eir to decide how she wished to proceed. She likely would prove the more capable of the two of them and thus more capable of surviving the journey through the snow and ice circling about the mountain to reach the Keep. By how injured he appeared to be despite still being capable of walking and talking without constant grunts of pain he imagined it easier for her to decide to live him behind.

" I have stories aplenty to distract from the Dark along the way. I am sure you have heard many tales of Named Men of old? Have you heard much of those of Northness? "  

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

Harvester of the Living .. it was certainly poetic, but she preferred that her wheat fight back and prove a challenge. If it ever got to the stage where every encounter ended in a single blow then she may hang up her axe and replace it with a farmer's scythe for all the good it would do her. Nevertheless she gave her weapon a small pat with gloved hands before she turned her mind to the conundrum at hand.

Though she began to wind her scarf around her nose and lips to protect them from the cold winds – voice growing thicker as it became more difficult to speak – her face fell visibly as he went into detail just how he planned on cutting down the time between their current location and the Keep. She was somewhat .. on edge .. around the use of magic though she was a touch more easy going regarding new things than her family and other zorcan, but it was one thing to witness the manipulation of darkness from a distance and another entirely to be informed that yes, we're going to take a jaunt through the realm of shadows! The fringe perhaps, but still daunting. Keeping her face impassive, she hunched down and stared at the snow, using a finger to trace patterns through the cold powder. The patterns held no rhyme or reason and would make no discernible sense to an outside viewer: they were not runes nor glyphs nor any language that ever existed, they were just doodles. As she doodled she muttered underneath her breath, voice already muffled by the renewed presence of a thick scarf, in the language of her people. She could have been cursing. Pleading. Repeating the inventory of her own personal belongings on her back for all he knew. The fact was, she repeated a series of actions she had promised herself to complete before she died, and bargained with it to find out where she should place – if at all – a sudden trip alongside the boundary of Valdis' domain.

Finally, she stared at her doodles critically and wiped them away with the flat of her hand, arms balanced on her knees as she stared up at the elf in silence before rising.

''Samþykkt. We go. You talk.''

Clipped tones rattled from a set of teeth that had already begun chattering, her face a few shades paler than it had been a moment prior. But never let anyone ever say Eir was afraid! That would be a death wish. She would however position herself behind the elf once he began whatever it was he needed to do ..

''.. you first.''

She wasn't crazy, if this was a trap he was going to enter it ahead of her, and she could figure out the rest later.

[Requiem]

While Eir pondered her own willingness to transverse the dark he set his mind to other tasks. Primarily the matter of his wounds in order to keep them from being a problem once they stepped foot on the fringe. His arms were carefully freed from the many layers that bundled his flesh as a ward against the cold. When they freed themselves they were set to the process of quickly adding a swig and pour of the liquor in his possession to both disinfect and dull some of the pain. Soon as he was reasonably liquor'd up the elf came back to his feet.

It was really quite the sight to see for some, he knew. A Svek spellcaster downing strong drink without the sputtering coughs such a beverage should have sent a mere elf into? He did not bother to bring it up. What he did was drop a hand to Eir's shoulder in order to have as strong a grasp on her as possible before the casting began.

As it turned out, it was no where near as terrifying an experience as some may have presumed it to be. One moment the world was white with snow and ice of a Zorcan winter. The next? The world turned gray and colourless with its distances distorted to the degree that a single step forward made them seem to move several rather than what their physical movement had actually done.

" Though its scarcely believable, once a Rumerian youth , the son of a nobleman, of no less than thirteen winters is said to have wandered into the wilds of Northness. None sure how he came to transverse Alzorc on his own, the boy was found at the end of his own fierce battle with a lone wolf. In spite of the beast's advantages it lose the battle though left the boy gravely wounded for his efforts. "

The elf kept his gaze infront of them.. though he kept a hand on her shoulder for the time being whether she liked it or not.

" Keep to the path and do not allow contact between us to end.. "

He spoke the warning clearly, though the tale continued after.

" A Named Man known as Kveldsongr, and his tribe were there to witness the boy's victory. Whereas most desired to end the boy.. whether to put him out of his misery or simply be rid of yet another Rumerian. Kveldsongr instead chose to take the boy in. "

A pause came about then.. adjusting his gaze to the numerous steps they had taken. It would be clear to them both that they were already surronded by a two sets of mountains far in the distance to either side even in the grayscale world of snow and ice.

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

She might have jumped when that hand fell onto her shoulder, but she had steeled her body so well that even the furs about her torso did not move with the connection; though eyeing him shrewdly her hand snaked out to grasp that liquor bottle before it could be spirited away completely. Brought up to her lips despite any steadfast resistance on his part she took several deep swallows without a care as to the contents save for any ability the liquid may hold in bolstering her spirit and mind for the coming journey; she had no hope for numbing her senses with such short notice, but perhaps once they got to the other side she could cross into a friendly tavern and repair any damage the journey may have brought upon her. Once she had drunk her fill she hissed out sharply (and appreciatively) as the contents of the bottle burned at her throat and filled her belly with fire, returning the container back to its owner significantly lighter than it was before.

''...I will give back later.''

Perhaps a little abashed, but the situation had certainly called for some liquid courage from her perspective and she would make good on her promise even if it was with liberated Rumerian gold. She could only hope that the drink hadn't been too expensive .. though she doubted some rare aged liquor would have been used to disinfect his wounds, she did not know this pretty man nor his financial situation. Perhaps centuries old spirits discovered sealed away at the bottom of the ocean were the perfect cleansing agent for him? Not lucrative from her perspective, but who was she to judge? Regardless.

There were the briefest of full body shudders when the world became washed with greys and blacks, the blue sucked from the sky and the deep scarlet staining the snow taking on the same hue of this man’s own blood until it was virtually indistinguishable from the rest. The view that met her eyes was more than a little disorienting, but thankfully given that it was the starkest of winters there were not many colours to be found save for what the Rumerian's had been wearing on their clothes. Lifting a hand, she stared at her gloves and found the effect curious, pulling out her cloak and watching the breeze ruffle the colourless material before she released it. It took her a moment to realise that he had continued to speak and she would back track the words in her mind and then frown, her features creasing. She held no love for nobles – especially those of Rumerian blood – but she had agreed to his story telling to pass the time and distract from the path they took and would offer no verbal objection to the tale itself as it was spun before her.

In truth she needed to focus on his speech in particular, as with each step they took the world blurred a little at the corners of her vision as the distance taken was multiplied beyond their physical movements. It was .. disconcerting .. to say the very least, and encouraged her stomach to consider distasteful thoughts of rebellion. One that she would like to quash very much.

''What happened to this .. boy .. when Kveldsongr took responsibility? Did he die, from the wounds?''

She filled the gap in his speech with her own words, turning to regard this colourless man standing on the pallid landscape that changed dramatically with each step. She wondered how far they had come in that short time, and how long they would have to remain in this strange world. Eyes cut down to the hand that remained on her shoulder, and a brief prayer was released in hopes that should the connection break maybe it would not be so dire and the worst that would happen would be an abrupt ejection into the real world. It would never be that easy of course, but dwelling on the worst possibilities was not going to do her any good. That tavern could not arrive fast enough.

[Eir Yngvarsdóttir]

Requiem: The theft of his bottle of whiskey earned a blink out of the Minstrel as Eir took then downed more than a healthy dose of the amber liquid. Aside from a less than pleased expression, he dismissed the matter after her mention of 'will give back later'. Few of the Zorcan people save the Stormlords and Druids that received a notable pass of acceptance tolerated magic, especially not those that reminded as greatly of the domains Valdis reigned over as his dark magics did. Choosing to make no further mention of the matter set the attention of this elf that called himself Nights Edge back upon the matter of guiding his Zorcan companion along the shadow fringe. Their travel , once initiated, only slowed to give his warning prior to focusing his mind on their fast-travel, such as it was, towards Alzorc Keep. Their journey well underwell by then, the inquiry into what happened to the boy in his tale garnered a grin out of the storyteller. " The boy lived due to the insistence of Kveldsongr on keeping him alive. He lived as a Zorcan would afterwards.. trained as a Skald by Kveldsongr, the Even Song, himself. " Edge looked over his shoulder to note any expression Eir might have possessed upon hearing that at some point a Zorcan Skald had been the savior of a Rumerian Noble. As for their travel through the fringe itself.. every moment brought them far closer to their destination than if they had gone through a more mundane walk to the Keep. In fact, by now they could both see the darkly blurred Keep in the distance with the valley that would lead to it on either side of the path they traveled upon. -d

Eir: The expression he would meet was one of '...really?', a frank slate of disbelief across her face. But the more she thought about it the more she decided not to dissmiss it out of hand. After all, weren't there other legends that were at first seemingly too fantastical to have that little seed of truth? Men both big and small destroying ancient dragons, saving villages, rising from the very dirt to become living legends and the stuff of epics. Was a noble .. Rumerian .. boy taken in by a Named Man and raised as one of their own so hard to believe? Wasn't she now, walking across the shadow fringe with someone who threw darkness from their fingertips? Perhaps following that train of thought was unwise, as it removed her focus from the tale itself and brought her mind back to the actual travel .. her stomach offering up veiled mutters of rebellion once again. With a lift of her chin and through gritted teeth, she addressed the elvish male with the poetic name. "He did, did he? And where did he go after that, once Kveldsongr taught him our ways and cleansed him of the corruption of his Rumerian blood?" There was no question as to whether or not the Named Man had succeeded in his venture .. after all, one did not become such a Man if they were easily thwarted! [d]

Requiem: A raise and fall of his shoulders served as the only response she would be given as his attention and gaze both turned to the valley. Certainly they were protected from either side though the exposure from the back and front both made even Edge a touch nervous. Not due to any proper dangers during the 'daylight' hours within the border between shadow and prime, but it was a situation he disliked none the less. When the next question came, the answer came without any sort of pause to consider words or anything of the like that might lessen the impact of a potential truth behind the tale. " With the songs and tales Kveldsongr taught, the boy .. now a man.., became one of two survivors of a battle that took the life of the Evensong. None know what became of the Other , the young man.. Girard Sirri, went on to travel many lands of this world. From the lands of Alzorc he sailed off to the Elven Kingdom of Kir'Viir where he chose to act as an adventurer. It was among the elves that tradegy struck once more.. friends and innocents alike fell to a demonblooded scourge and cult. Though the scourge was vaquished once again the man was the survivor of an incident with only one other save himself to speak of it. The incident had given a him a Name as well, Requiem; the Mourning Song. After all.. there must always be one left behind to sing the songs, tell the tales, and mourn those who fell under the shadow of Valdis. " -d

Eir: Eir was already nervous, though if she were adept at reading body language she may have become even more so .. fortunately her ability to read extended no further than recognizing the signs of aggression. Does This Man Want To Hit Me Yes/No? And proceeding appropriately .. you know, atypical Zorcan. When her travelling companion moved the tale onto that of demonbloods and cults and other such nastiness she could not prevent herself from turning her head and spitting off into the colourless snow, though such an action made her a little dizzy as she saw the landscape moving past faster than it should have been. She shuddered as he spoke of Valdis however, leaning in slightly to hiss within his earshot. "Is it wise to speak of such here?" Pulling away, she allowed her voice to raise slightly as she continued to speak. "So. He earned himself a Name for his deeds .. and who was this other that had survived as well? Did he carry on to slay more wolves and sing more songs?" Her words may have seemed flippant to an outside observer, but she was genuinely interested in between teeth chatterings, after all this was a tale she had not heard before, and it had succeeded in taking her mind off the path .. when her eyes were not attempting to betray her by reminding her pointedly. [d]

Requiem: " The Dark possesses no interest in us, Eir. " He spoke soothingly even though the words were not expected to calm the Zorcan woman as easily as one of the Southern women may have been. Once more he set his words towards the matter of the tale and the questions asked of it. " Girard, the Requiem, did indeed live on though he slayed no further wolves. Instead he became a trusted friend and companion to another Named Man.. a very literal.. Son of Sverrir. It was at the side of the mate of the Thunderer's Son that Requiem came to bargain with Valdis and step foot in her realm and retrieve that very Godson, whom had been deluded into the belief that the afterlife was where he belonged despite being very much alive. Thus rescued from the oblivion only a living mortal , even a god-son, could achieve in that realm.. Requiem earned his Oath-Scar, not by the Evensong , but by the Godson, the Bloodied. " If body language was truly such a thing to be noticed by Eir, perhaps she'd even take note of how Edge opened and closed his , gloved, right hand as if something about it pained him from the tale being told. As he'd played the storyteller their destinat ion loomed ever closer as time passed.. minutes into hours.. until they Keep seemingly came into sight within a few minutes of mundane travel. " Its time we return to the prime... ready? " Whether she was or not.. the shift from shadow into their own world came as color flooded their vision and the fleeting light of sunset made pained his eyes closing them abruptly as a hand came to shield them. " ... I believe this is where you take the lead, no? " -d

Eir: "For an elfkin you know much." About Alzorc, was the unspoken addition, those names dancing around in her mind and tantalising the very edge of her memory as if there was something she should be aware of .. but it was just out of reach, and pushed even more so when he seemingly abruptly made mention of the prime. Asking if she were ready caused her to consider it carefully .. or try to, as she never really gained the chance to get beyond the first mental syllable before the various hues swarmed across her eyes, making them cross, her lids shut abruptly as her receptors complained about the hasty sensory input. Shaking her head and muttering something underneath her breath, she mashed a closed fist into her eye as if that would help matters before lifting her shoulders ever so slightly. "Suppose." Turning her attention to the Keep itself, the massive frozen walls that encircled the capital city of Alzorc and defied invaders. It was in truth her first time here but she was zorcan, and there was never any time to be hesitant! "What do you want first .. drink or health?" Namely, they could probably find someone to look at his wounds without too much difficulty given how often the zorcan's tended to get themselves into trouble. Yes they were a robust and hardy people but even they needed to see a wisewoman or learned man from time to time. With a crunch of snow she set off towards the Keep, while they had travelled very close there would still be time before they moved through the entrance, into the streets, and found either a tavern or someone who looked like they knew a thing or two about stitching up a wound. [d]

Requiem: " I do. " Came verbal agreement without even an attempt to explain away just why an elf might know the things that Nights' Edge proved to be aware of about Alzorc and things that occured within the frozen lands borders. The blood- ied coat he wore came to some rearrangement to make it appear much less blackened with his blood as it looked to be. The quest of drink or health earned the rise of one dark brow as lips came to a grin despite any pain he might have been feeling due to his wounds. " Drink. " A visit to a tavern would also allow his companion distraction away from him if he chose to deal with the issue of his injuries on his own. Well aware of the Zorcan intolerance of both Rumerians and dark magics such as his.. he did not bring to bear any of the spells that would have made his life easier in traveling upon all that snow beneath and around his feet and likely up to his knees as well. " Have you any thoughts about the tale I have told you, Eir? " How much a fabrication the Zorcan Woman considered it would do much to tell how much was remembered by the land of Alzorc of Requiem and those he once traveled with. Sadly he knew the south had by and large forgotten the name.. save for an imposter that had risen to promience in the years since.. or was it more recent? Pity Edge knew he was no longer quite sure of it himself. Becoming the cause of a second set of boots crunching snow in their wake towards the Keep, Edge followed his Zorcan Guide into the keep.. unaware that he'd fallen into a case of blind leading the blind. -d

Eir: Fortunately while this blind individual had never set foot in a large city before in her life .. she was still zorcan, and would look as determined and knowledgeable of her surrounding area as if she had lived in this one place all her life. With confidence she strode between the open keep doors and into the streets themselves, the cobblestones visible beneath their feet an array of interesting colours and patterns that indicated the dead .. not that Eir was aware of what this meant, she just assumed it was A City Thing. "Hah! Man with priorities." She allowed herself a belly laugh as she continued to march through the streets, pale blue eyes flicking from one swinging sign to the next .. she could not read. At all. Not a single letter. But .. images? Pictures? Those she could deal with. And so she studied each shop front, each house, each little cart until she discovered a series of pictures and displays that she could understood: a sign of large boar with an apple stuck in its mouth swinging happily in front of a building that looked like it was within her price range: and judging by the noises that could be heard from within, it was full of people and laughter. The Stuck Pig Tavern, the sign proclaimed, though Eir did not know this. She paused long enough to quirk a brow at her companion, before wrapping her gloved fingers around the door handle and giving it an all mighty shove. [d]

Requiem: Although a little observation went a long way several moments were still required to pick up on what seemed to be a lack of literacy. Noticing such hardly made it an issue to bring up without good reason, nor did it have much bear ing on what led the elf to briefly seperate himself from Eir as she stepped foot in that tavern. While she likely looked about the place her companion had set his path to the side of the building. It was there that he rummaged through his pack to lay hands on the aquamarine gemstone that was in truth much more than it appeared to be. The ioun stone earned a spot above his brow where it was allowed to begin floating as its power was drawn on in order to heal those numerous wounds and any infection or disease that might have been contracted along the way to Alzorc Keep and that tavern Eir had entered ahead of him. Plucking the stone from its levitation above his head, Edge pocketed it once more and shed that blooded coat of his in that alleyway. An act that left him in his black armor and the clothing and fullcloth beneath that kept him warm despite the purposeful lose of the additional layer. Magically healed as he was now.. the elf finally turned the corner once more to set foot into the Sunken Pig and see just what trouble his new companion might have got herself into by now. -d

Eir: As she opened the door a wave of hot hair slammed her in the face. And it was good. What perhaps wasn't so good were the additions of sweat and spilled ale, sawdust and slightly burned food that came with it .. but Eir had grown up on a farm, and so her sense of smell was perhaps more tolerable than most, so she barely batted an eyelid as she stepped inside the tavern. It was a large common room just within the door with dim lighting mostly provided by a large fire in the center of the room. Many tables with long benches were littered around the room, as if haphazardly, some of which that had also been pushed together as large groups of friends settled in and required more than the one table. Several wenches were moving amongst the merry zorcans that looked like they could strongarm the bravest knights of Sarkotos without even trying, carrying large platters covered in frothing mugs of ale that were distributed amongst their kinfolk. There was no bar where one could saunter up and take an order .. it seemed like Eir had chosen a very lowbrow tavern to partake of: but it was just where she was at home, and so she would waste no time locating an empty bench near the fire and stripping off her wet outer layers: the thick furry cloak, hide gloves, woolen tabard and lengthy overshirt until there was just a cotton shirt with a messy chainmail vest. Her belongings were dumped on the table, and she looked up just in time to see the elfkin finally make his way through the door - though it took a moment to acknowledge that he had lost some clothes himself. "Armor?" A shrug, hand lifting to signal one of the serving wenches that strong ale would be very welcome at this table .. it looked like he would have to wait for Eir to pay back his whiskey! [d]

Requiem: While never particular to being observant of his surrondings, especially not in a tavern, it was always blantantly obvious when a Zorcan was riled up by the presence of a 'Rumerian Dog'. The accented tone of his voice and the way his dark brown hair covered his pointed ears made for some difficulty in assuming this handsome man was anything other than a Rumerian. No doubt the black spidersilk with black, almost egg-shell like crystals decorating the chest though there was little else that looked remarkable long as the impressive gauntlets of shadowstuff and singing crystal remained in their compact, ring state at one of his fingers. " Yes, armor. You didn't think I was picking a fight with Irregulars because I thought their weapons wouldn't pierce my coat did you? " He teased, though it did not come with a grin or even a smile... it'd been learned sometime ago that such seemed flirtatious among the Zorcan. While doing such was certainly not beyond him nor unlikely at all when one was in a tavern surronded by Zorcan sometimes a little caution had to be taken given the look of things! The elfkin happened to look quite healed up, though still smelling as if he'd taken a bath in whiskey, for someone who had only been out of her sight for a moment at most. More distance was closed by then just to take up a seat with Eir at her table. -d

Eir: She shrugged one shoulder as if to say 'she had no idea what he had been thinking!'. A verbal response wasn't offered, because she may have been too likely to comment that having discovered a man who was essentially floating in the air and tossing around shadowstuff well .. given their current company it may not have been wise. Instead, she hit the bench a few times with her hand as he neared, and accepted the mugs of ale a serving wench gave after aquiring a few coins from the blonde zorcan and pushed one over to him; keeping her peace as she took a few long swallows from her own mug and sighed appreciatively. That unsettling walk through the shadow fringe had almost been worth it to arrive at the Keep in good time and start off the night early! Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she settled the mug down on the table and squared her eyes on him. "As for your question .. what else is there to think? You knew this man, this .. Girard the Requiem, the Mourning Song. You say he went to the land of elves .. mayhap you met him there. You hold some elfkin markings after all. Though you are a long way from home." Another brief shrug. That was the conclusion she had drawn, that he must have been a close companion of this man to have garnered so many details .. the alternative was that he just really enjoyed his tales! A third option existed but had not reared its head yet .. because why would a man so reknown (to hear this elfkin speak of it anyway) have been discovered struggling with a small ragtag group of Rumerian's? Mmmm. So many questions. For now however, Eir kept one eye on her mug .. and the other around the tavern, well aware of her countrymens myopia. [d]

Requiem: " A reasonable theory I admit. " The dots within the tale could be connected in many ways that did not tie him directly to the tale. It was largely the reason for the alias of Nights' Edge here in the North. If any would be sure to recall his name it was the people of his most lasting companion .. prior to part of the tale neither the First or Second Requiem would part with in whole. Edge elected not to speak further of it, least for a moment, while picking up his mug to take what appeared to be a hearty swallow more expected of the likes of Zorcan than the slender, seemingly weak folk of elvenkind. When the mug lowered awareness of where he happened to be came flooding back in to his thoughts. A tavern in Alzorc Keep .. where in no odd incarnation had he stepped foot within the city despite all his travels within the northern lands that seemed oh-so long ago that it was nearly in another man's shoes! " Its strange though that a man with an origin such as his could befriend the notoriously aloof elves and your people as well while gaining nothing but the enmity of his own homeland? " They were both dancing around the issue of the subject of his tale being a Rumerian due to where it was they now sat.. though who could say how long it might be before one of the occupants of the Stuck Pig recalled the name as some Rumerian lie, or whatever the Zorcan people un- aware of the legitimacy of it considered the story as that of Girard the Requiem? Eerie greens looked over the rim of his mug to glance over the assorted patrons for himself. -d

Eir: "There was more to this man than his bloodright." A slight quirk of her lips in lieu of a full shrug that was partially obscured by the mug by her mouth. While they did indeed skirt around outright stating the country, they had spoken of enough outsider topics to gain the attention of those around about them. Some were disinterested, more involved in their food or drink or the company of their companions. But there were one or two that had clocked the elfkin's arrival with his fancy armor and dark features, and cared not that he had directly joined one whose physical appearance screamed stereotypical zorcan native. It were these few that had since drained their mugs and bullied up to the bench occupied by Edge and Eir in a quite literal fashion: knocking the table just enough that Eir's mug spilled what little liquid remained as it rocked, the aggressors attempting to fill the space with their presence that bristled with animosity. The ringleader was a burly sort, long matted blonde hair scraped back and tied with a piece of thin leather, bits of metal twined into his beard that had also succeeded in collecting a few scraps of yesterdays breakfast. So, fairly typical sort, whose blazing eyes in particular encompassed the elf. "Villa svín .. fjarlægja þig svo ég þurfi ekki að saurga hendur mínar með blóði." Snorting through his nostrils, he then spat on the table itself. "Svek." For the moment, Eir was more concerned with glancing mournfully at her spilled mug than the smelly barbarian with his testosterone fueled antics .. a damp hand rising to gain the attention of the serving wench for a refill. [d]

Requiem: " A man touched by the Dark is always more than blood. " Those words came with a certain melancholy that went away as easily as it had come to the elf. Not much time at all had passed before his expectations were indeed met by one of the more headstrong and bias of the Zorcan that occupied the Stuck Pig for their drink. He sat unmoved despite the jostling of the table and the Zorcan words he could not begin to understand without the enlightenment of magic or the time necessary to learn the tongue for himself. While there were facts that this elf knew well he'd not disgrace a Named Man that was not capable of answering the insult by relying on what was little more than a scar without it. " Drink to the Glory-Field where a man embraces death, and thank the gods that we live at all with our joyous dying breath. " Lips quirked slightly at the end of the words he'd just sang despite the aggressiveness now facing him. It was without the aid of shadows that sudden movement came that brought the elf atop his chair. A swift act of acrobatics brought his feet to feet to the table and the chair into his hands. What did all this impressive movement mean out of the dashingly handsome fellow? Little until movement finished with violence as the chair was promptly launched into the Svek-spouters face. " Lets dance before the Raven comes. " -d

Eir: Eir murmured her thanks as the serving wench replaced her lost ale with a fresh one, a few more coins given her way before she took up her mug and drained it half way. As her companion sang she lifted a brow, but upon removing her mug she chose to laugh as if a great joke had been passed between them which only succeeded in angering the aggressive male more. It would appear that common was not a tongue known to him, and so he rested in the same place as this elfkin as far as communication went. That was .. until he successfully caught a chair with his face. Now that was a language anyone could understand, Eir dropping to one side as the furniture flew to avoid getting hit with the item as she drained her mug entire without spilling a drop as the blonde aggressor was knocked back into the bench behind them: the woman rising in a smooth motion and allowing her now empty mug to connect with the nearest skull of one of his friends: a man whose lack of hair on his head was more than made up for by the hair on his chin, which had been hurridly stuffed down the front of his jerkin to avoid it being used against him in the heat of brawl. While the connection of mug and temple didn't have the same effect as a chair to the face, it certainly got his attention as he reached to grab her by the shirt. The third friend was not standing idle while all this was going on, no, he had indeed chosen to join the svek on the table himself and was in the process to swinging conjoined fists up and towards the elkins chin. Such fun! [d]

Requiem: Joining the elf atop the table was perhaps not the best of places to find oneself. Nights' Edge proved to be a wily sort indeed though it was cunning that accepted that goading a blow and even taking it could be much to his own advantage. It was not until after a blow out of the table-dancing Zorcan that the effects of the strike were thoroughly played upon. When next the fellow went for a strike the Skald went under it and into a roll that deposited him on the floor beside one of the table-tapper's friends. A fortitious tumble indeed if it played out as the elfkin himself expected it. In the meantime he took to song despite the on-going brawl.. and fittingly selected a Zorcan Drink ing song for the entertainment of those not engaged in the melee. " Drekka, því að vindur blæs kalt og Drekka fyrir The Wolf keyrir ókeypis. Drekka til skipa með seglin eins vængi og Drekka við stormi-kastað höf. " Passion-fueled and fluent as the song-words seemed to be in the heat of a brawl it was a fabrication far as his knowledge of exactly what those words meant. What mattered was that he happened to be having a rather good time at the moment! -d

Eir: Eir laughed in her opponents face as he grabbed at her clothes, letting him pull her forward only to grace him with a forehead across his nose, blood bursting from the damaged vessel and encouraging him to back off a step. She took the advantage, however temporary it might be, stamping forward heavily with her boots and releasing an almighty yell from the top of her lungs that appeared to hit him with the force of a physical blow: that was then joined by an actual physical hit as she all but threw herself at him to knock them both to the ground much to the surprise of any onlookers. The elfkin's dance partner was not to be forgotten however, thinking that he had the Rumerian scum right where he wanted him as his first hit connected solidly, grinning widely as he chased the fleeing elfkin and swung out blindly and laughed uproarously as he felt his fists hit solidly .. only to refocus his eyes in confusion to find that the main aggressor - having finally shaken off his chair induced daze - had somehow found himself slamming backwards as his own brother in arms knocked him clean across the neighbouring bench. It .. it was not Gauti's best day. Roaring angrily at having been made such a fool of, he jumped after the singing elf with his leg rising in full intent on stuffing his dirty boot right in his torso. The space around them was gradually being cleared of perhaps not so innocent bystanders: while the furniture remained, the zorcans themselves had retreated to the edges of the tap room in order to place various wagers, drink ale, with a few joining in with the drinking song in high spirits. [d]

Requiem: Never being particularly adept at relying upon strength to will his fights meant taking up different tactics even in a tavern brawl such as this one. That some of the patrons took up the song as well brought a pleased grin to that handsome, elven face. He did not allow it to distact from the brawl going on around him after all that would mean leaving Eir to deal with three on her own. Not that he did not think she could handle herself .. it just was not near- ly as entertaining a show for the audience gathered at the edges of the taproom! He possessed every intention of making a show of this situation. " Drekka við varanlegum nætur og þeir sem hita rúm okkar. og kalt að hreinsar höfuð okkar. " The song continued unabated even as Edge threw himself into the melee once again. The 'limelight' as it were did its part to make the elf seemingly all the more difficult to land a hit on. Not that it kept him from taking a hit.. just that when it came down from whichever of the brawlers were responsible for it earned a reciporcation of the treatment by way of an emptied mug that gloved hand had wrapped around and preceded to collide it with a certain artistic flare for his audience .. with the unfortunate ex-table tapper's throat. Truly as the scene appeared it almost seemed that having an audience empowered this strange elfkin! -d

Eir: His current dance partner - Drott, he was named, Gauti was currently laying on the bench while their friend Hrani was tangling with Eir - was heartened that his kick had landed, if not completely solidly, given that the acrobatic elf was beginning to get on his nerves with his stepping and weaving and singing. It was not a combat style he was accustomed with, more familiar with the style Eir employed on Hrani right this moment by means of grabbing the man by the head and continuously smashing it back against an ale soaked floor. So, Drott, was a little out of his depth and readily cheered by anything familar .. even if that familiarity did come by way of an empty mug to his throat! He coughed and choke in a manner much to be expected, one hand reaching for his neck while the other grabbed the deceptively slender elf by the forearm and attempted to swing him into the table with his own perceived superiority in strength. The elfkins audience had cheered when the mug had connected, and boo'd when Eir appeared to go flying backwards as Hrani got two feet underneath her and launched her away, though began to laugh after a brief stunned silence when said female projectile collided with a dazed Gauti who had once again attempted to stand upright .. and was knocked down for his audacity! Yes, the other zorcan were enjoying this entertainment and had collectively chosen not to interfere .. at least not yet, so long as it continued to be worth watching! [d]

Requiem: It became increasingly tempting to end the brawl altogether by way of calling upon his magical talent. Temptation earned its surpression due to a certain respect for the people if not the individuals that chose to label him Svek without any knowledge about him at all. When Drott made to throw him Edge made a point of working with the unaware Zorcan to make the throw come to pass. What mattered to the elf happened to be taking advantage of being thrown by way of an acrobatic landing that sent his booted feet sliding along the table at the expense of any remaining mugs. " Drekka til dýrðar-sviði þar sem maður nær dauða, og þakka guði að við lifum á öllum með glaður deyja okkar anda! " The song continued despite being tossed and his own landing atop the table anew. It was there upon the table that he took the oppurtunity to pull off the black leather glove from his right hand. While the moment was not available to display the oath-scar to his ally or the brawlers set against them.. but did display it to the audience prior to setting his sights on Drott. " svefn. " The pointer finger pointed the towards the Brawler as the blue woad marking took it place between that digit to his thumb very much within sight of any that were looking his way. The rich blue mark stood in contrast to the black-tinged oath-scar that marked this elfkin as equal to any Zorcan as designated by one of their Named Men. -d

Eir: The mirthful shouts and cheers gradually faded into hushed whisperings and furtive looks as the blue woad marking was revealed to the onlookers save for Eir herself, who was currently disentangling herself from the unlucky Gauti and so did not have a clear line of sight. Drott himself was confused at first, wondering why this person was standing up tall and pointing around like some kind of ruler, but he was unable to finish that thought as a wave of exhaustion swept through his body, and the unfortunate redhead dropped like a discarded sack of potatoes. Hrani was a little bemused when he rose from the ground, looking between the fallen Drott and the apparent svek with a growing expression of confusion. Just what had he done? The bristling man made to charge the elkin on the table before he set eyes on the clearly displayed markings on his palms, the sight of such stopping him in his tracks but doing nothing to stall his confusion. He fully understood what such meant, but their presence seemed incongruous when paired with the slender dark haired elf type! He gestured at the marked man and said a few words in his own native tongue, and though the words themselves were not translated with ease the tone of his voice was pretty clear: what the hell? While that was going on, a sharp crack and a muffled groan sounded as Eir saw fit to give the unfortunate Gauti a solid crack on the nose with her fist as she finally removed herself from his flailing limbs, the woman heaving in a breath as she looked around after getting to her feet .. a little bemused herself. "...what, over already?" That seemed to be the order of the day, would she ever find a man who could outlast her? [d]

Requiem: Now that the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, there was little reason to keep his gloves. He took the other off to tuck both of them away. " You ready for another mug, Eir? Think our new friends could use a drink to.. we can take up the melee again after. " His own rendition of the Glory-Field.. fight, drink, and then fight again! Edge turned his gaze to the silent audience with a short-lived smirk. " Keep a tally of those bets.. its not quite over with. " As far as he was concerned this would be how the lot of them could be set towards something more than antagonism once things were said and done. However the brawlers, and Eir, that were still standing might react to the actions and words of the elfkin, Edge stepped off the table all the same to wave a wench over in which he ordered a few mugs more.. enough for his own thirst and the Zorcan that were still on their feet. It was not quite a show of wealth as he made no effort to try getting the best in the tavern for the lot of them, nor would he.. throwing wealth around was as foolish as it was disrespectful to play the show-off in such a way.. besides.. much of his coin was no where nearby! -d

Eir: The zorcans were not overly concerned as to the price or quality of the drink .. they were more focused on the fact that it was free! Eir gave him a toothy grin and reached down to grab Gauti by his jerkin, hauling him bodily upright and stuffing him onto the bench, leaving Hrani to sort himself out as she moved onto the bench and got herself settled in nicely, waiting patiently for her ale to arrive. She did not have to wait long, and she was soon lifting her mug in the air in salute to the not-quite-finished brawl. "Skol!" The unlucky Drott could get his drink later once he'd woken up .. there was plenty of ale to go around, as thirsty as these individuals were it would be next to impossible for them to drain the Stuck Pig dry before he woke up! Always assuming that the elfkin hadn't put him to sleep for days .. leaning over slightly, Eir lifted a hand and pointed at the dark haired individual. "You barely have a mark on you .. what happened with the men you fought earlier? Surely they were not more skilled than my countrymen?" This earned a a chorus of grunts and other worldless noises: while their new, however temporary, friends did not know to whom she referred well .. they didn't need to! No one was better than a zorcan! And this one was marked, so he didn't count. Eir herself had a few wounds of her own of course, a bit of blood on her face with signs of a swelling lip, clothing ripped, and the ornamentation (however scruffy) in her hair was all kinds of out of place. But on her it seemed normal, in much the same way another woman would paint their lips and eyelids .. she wore her swelling and blood. [d]

Requiem: They could be assured that Drott would awaken after several minutes of sleep. Edge dropped down onto a bench as the brawlers either got their drinks and began downing them or , like Eir, spoke of his appearance now in comparison to the difficulties with the Irregulars. " Poison. You probably came by one of their.. it has a hollow needle on it. " Whether educated or not even he did not know the name for all the things others might use against him. " I would not have resorted to the tactics I did with the Irregulars otherwise. " That was not to say that magic would not be used outside of a response to under-handed tactics. He just would not abuse it against those potentially worthy of respect .. til proven otherwise. Though Edge did have his share of bruises as a result of conflict with the Zorcan Brawlers.. not to mention an unpleasant soreness in his legs for all the acrobatic antics undertaken more than might otherwise have been put to such use outside of a enclosed setting such as the Stuck Pig. A mug of his own was lifted to drown his thirst though Eir regained his undiverted attention afterward. Eerie greens took in the bruises and swelling that were the results of her part in the taproom brawl. " Fenrisúlfr was much the same. " He said, without offering context immediately over the injuries Eir wore with a good deal with pride from the looks of it. " Unwill- ing to evade the blows from an opponent and enjoying every second of a brawl. He grinned then.. flirtatious or not.. it could not be helped at all. " The Bloodied would be proud to see such a companion I think. " When he spoke the Name of his old friend, that marked hand came up at first to show it to her then to turn it to look it over for himself. " No better companion than a hard-earned friend and brother , or sister, in arms. " -d

Eir: "Tch .. Bleyðurnar." The woman spat off to one side, their companions echoing the sentiment. They were all of the minds that they much preferred their opponent to be of sound mind and body when engaged, and that poison itself was an underhanded tactic utilised by the weak. Naturally different methods worked for different people, but that was just the mentality of those sitting with him at this time. Eir took another swallow from her mug once she had finished airing her thoughts on the matter, lifting a brow in query as she drank before releasing a quick bark of a laugh. "So you were companion to these named men? What else could it be to allow you to speak of them so? What was it like?" She watched the movement of that hand and just grinned all the wider: so that was what had ended the scuffle prematurely? Yes, she could understand why that had caused Hrani to stop in his tracks, and it explained a few things about this man .. though Eir was very much unaware as to how far this actually went. Though she did seem pleased with the comparison, grinning broadly, as he declared that The Bloodied himself would not be disappointed with the company Edge kept at this moment. [d]

Requiem: While Edge, even as a frequent companion to many a Zorcan, did not understand the Zorcan Tongue any better than he did the Cold Tongue of the Rumerian tribes. Fortunately the context as well as the reactions told enough to know what her thought on poisons in a fight happened to be. " Yes, until the disappearance of Fenris and his mate.. and Requiem's own when the skies above the elven kingdom were torn asunder and changed both the people and lands for the worse. " Still even if the identity of Requiem would not be attributed to him as it rightly should be.. it was best to leave the fate up in the air in case it would need to be revealed properly. " What was it like? " He chuckled, " How could I even start to explain what its like to stand next to an Avatar of Fury and War or a Skald touched by Death and Shadow with the Dark willing to bargain with him? " There truly were no words to accurately describe the memories that went through his mind. It did not skip his mind that Eir and these other Zorcan would not care to hear mention of the Dark, of Valdis.. their Goddess of Death and Shadow. He took a moment to search their faces before downing the remainder of the contents of his mug. -d

Eir: Skald touched by Death and Shadow? That jumped around inside her skull for a few moments and seemed to demand her attention, but she was unable to grasp its significance and compare it to his manipulation of shadowstuffs or how the darkness in the sky had initially prompted her to take the path that led to Edge to begin with. Instead, she mentally grasped onto his mention of the elven kingdoms. While Alzorc itself tended to focus on its own business, the news of the creation of the Scarred lands had indeed travelled this far simply because of the possibility of it happening all across Arith .. indeed strange happenings had taken place, and so it was to that detail that she clung. "You mean the .. mmm." A hand lifted, it was waved around a little as she searched for the words. "..mutations, before the eclipse?" Or something to that effect, the details themselves weren't entirely clear but she had the gist of it. Of course .. all that talk of Valdis and Shadow and the like made the other men a bit uncomfortable .. but the elfkin had earned their company, and those others within earshot had been suitably entertained for the mean while and so he would be forgiven for any little slips that he made. As long as it did not go too far, mind! Eventually there was a soft grunt, a hand appearing on the bench as the third aggressor finally reared his sleepy head and pulled himself upright. Glancing blearily from one to the next, Drott just looked as confused as anyone, but did not question why everyone was all of a sudden sitting down and drinking ale .. after all, there was ale to be had. [d]

Requiem: Edge made a mental reminder that mentions of Valdis needed to be kept at a minimum. Eir making mention of the mutations and the Triple Eclipse earned a nod from the elfkin. " Yes. " A truly simple response that would not draw any ire like too much talk about death and the Dark. When Drott finally awakened from the effects of the divine gift that had been used on him.. Edge motioned to a wench to bring the man an ale. " I sailed to the mainland not long after the scarring of Kir'Viir. I headed to these lands in hope that the Bloodied or any of Named Men that flocked to his banner remained. I have made little progress since.. and the Irregulars getting in my way did me no favors. " And now I find myself once more in the company of the Zorcan people and a good deal of entertainment for my trouble. " Indicating the brawl that had gone on prior to his interrupting it for a drink! " As it stands .. the Bloodied and the Requiem are no where to be seen and as I told you Eir. There must always be one left behind to behind to sing the songs and mourn the fallen. " As such he placed himself in Requiem's place under the assumed 'missing' status of the Skald.. not that he would admit the truth of that matter to them. It would not do to linger on the past too heavily when the world would move on without him. -d

Eir: "Hmmm." Eir nodded a little. It was amazing how much could take place in such a short amount of time. As Drott sat himself down at the bench, she reached out absently and smacked him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion as she drank the last of her ale and wiped her mouth. She took his returning to the zorcan people as a given, after all, there was no where else she would rather be! "What do you intend to do now? Will you continue your search or have you decided to be the one that remains behind?" History seemed to have an interesting way of repeating itself .. the Skald and Kveldsongr, who would then become Requiem and Fenrisulfr both missing presumed dead (from her understanding), and in each instance there was foreigner who had been accepted into the zorcan ways that had been left behind to carry on. She may have thought it melancholy, had her blood not already been running hot in the aftermath of the brawl and three mugs of ale - it was hard to feel depressed when your day just seemed to be getting better and better! "If you still search, I could come with you?" Her grin was a little crooked as she lifted a hand and indicated the surrounding people. "I have been in your company less than a day but you have attracted interesting circumstances twice in that time, and i have fed my fists plenty in the mean time. Who is to say how much more will come if we continue?" Much much more she would hope, this was the most fun she had partaken of in a while. [d]

Requiem: " People have a knack for disappearing once those that drew them together are gone. " A fact he suspected to be the cause of those whom were likely not longer to be found at the Hall. As things stood he imagined that one of them, a Knight in service to Alzorc might well have come to this very Keep.. though he did not say as much right then. The grin Eir wore as she made her offer earned a rising, dark brow from Edge even as she presented her reasoning for mak- ing it. He nodded seemingly accepting the proposal.. after all who could say how his battle with three Rumerian mercenaries may have gone without her intervention? He knew the tradition of the lifedebt though did not offer it aloud. Better she realized the debt owed to her on her own in the course of heated battle, if at all. " Its what I am here for to bring death to the deserving and entertainment to far more along the way. " Even though only one had truly died at his hands since having sailed away from elven lands. A single Rumerian Farmer turned unscrupulous Mercenary. " Always a foreign Skald and a Zorcan Warrior.. "-d

Eir: She seemed pleased, waving over the serving wench to top up as many mugs as necessary, while nodding slightly to his final statement. "Yes, that is the pattern in the cloth." Grabbing her mug she eyed the contents, the little frothy bubbles swimming around in a sea of amber. Not the most expensive stuff but it did the job, the woman becoming light headed as the time wore on, though it would take a few more before she could be considered any level of intoxicated. Though, that was where her general 'resistances' ended, had the elfkin deigned to turn his sleeping palm at her instead of Drott, he would have found her unconscious for far longer than intended. "Though .. I neither intend to die nor disappear, so the similarity will end with me." A brief laugh. That was not to say that she would eventually earn herself a Name (as nice as that would be), and she did not intend to break this companionship before it had even started either! Perhaps she should keep a wary eye out for additional foreigners, see if that breaks the chain .. "And if those are your only reasons for being, at least on this day you have succeeded. May we all be as fortunate!" [d]