In the weeks following the Harvest Festival, the weather has softened somewhat.  Rain replaced snow, and gradually the roads became clear enough for travel to begin again.  Heavy ice remains in the bay, however, trapping the ships in its grip, and not even the powerful Blood Drake can escape.  Captain Dumart’s only hope is for the ice to melt further.  If the cold weather returns and winter begins in earnest, he will be trapped in Hardanger until late into spring.

In the weeks following the Harvest Festival, Thane Bolwerk stepped up the attacks against the therm, meeting them several times in full pitched battle.  Thus far, many lives have been lost on both sides.  The Söderkarl carry the day in most pitched battles—the walls of Hardanger are adorned with the gruesome skins of slain udyronde—but that may soon change.  The therm still rule the forests.  Lone travelers are being hunted and slain—isolated steads are being burned—and as autumn nears winter, the therm’s numbers are only growing.

In the weeks following the Harvest Festival, Bolwerk remains private and enigmatic, keeping council with only a select few, Asmund, Huld, Orkning, Dårlig, and keeping his plans and motives even more secret.  No longer does the highseat of Hardanger entertain the requests and demands of the EroBernac envoys, and Justiciar Quintian has been forced to devise new schemes against the rebellious Söderkarl, meeting and forming pacts with the likes of Viscount Nikolas and Thane Vandril.  Few of the Harvest Season guests and fewer of the EroBernac are pleased with the agendas of Thane Bolwerk.  There are whisperings in the halls and böths, murmurings against the Thane, murmurings against the Medianists.  Some say, the likes of Orkning and Huld are forming a Thunderer cell, preparing to murder the Medianists in their beds when they are at their most vulnerable.  Many say it is only due to the presence of the powerful Blood Drake in Hardanger’s harbor that the Medianists are still safe.  Many on both sides believe a bloodfeud is imminent.

In the weeks following the Harvest Festival, all these events and intrigues came to pass, though Guiromélans was not witness to them.  For, in the weeks following the Harvest Festival, he has been suffering the torments of his body—the tremors, the hallucinations, the ravings—results of his abstention from wine and hydromel and øl.  His sufferings were more severe this time, the visions more terrifying, the convulsions more intense, but at least he didn’t have tyggskins to torment him as well.

He sees now that Caidryn was right, of course.  Even as he sought to purge himself of sin—to atone for his past crimes—he was still sinning in ways new and old.  Was it no wonder that he always feared to hold the Empyrean Median to himself?

In this time of suffering and penitence, Guiromélans’s friends stood by him.  Caidryn cared for his needs, fed him, cleaned him.  Balen raised his spirits, traded stories with him, and trained with him whenever his body allowed.  Ofeig kept him informed on the happenings within the stead, on the news of the war, and on the machinations of the disparate parties.  The truth or falsity of the information Guiromélans got was solely upon the huskarl’s shoulders, but the man seems truly unaffected by the scheming factions.  As Saint Ragnvald has said, “It is best for man to be middle-wise.”  Guiromélans wishes others in Hardanger would follow in the good saint’s footsteps.

Guiromélans is grateful to all of them.

Carefully, he slips the worn leather belt around his waist.  He is lost much weight, and he has to buckle it at its smallest notch in order for it to fit.  With some surprise, he realizes that it is the last piece he has left of the Raven’s uniform he wore in battle over 6 months ago.  Everything else is gone, sold, lost, or destroyed.  So much has changed.  If it wasn’t for his brooch or his saber, one may never suspect he is a Raven… was a Raven?

Slowly, he slides his broken saber into its sheathe and hears it lock in place with a firm click.

Whether or not he will become a Raven again shall be up to God to decide now.  It is not his decision any more.  All he can do is strive for the goal.

“Yä goin’ tä be OK?” Balen asks with some concern as he watches Guiromélans shakily dress himself.

Guiromélans smiles.  “I will be fine.  The pain, the… episodes have past… for the most part.”

“Yäh!  But where yer goin’, there’ll be drinkin’!  Yer not goin’ tä drink tonight, uh?  Less the shakin’ comes back?”

Guiromélans freezes.  He had never considered that.  The boy is right, of course.  The disease, the pain passed after a couple of weeks, but to keep it away forever, he must refrain from drinking, most likely for the rest of his life.  That is a long battle for any soldier to fight.  He looks at Ofeig and Caidryn and sees the concerned looks on their faces.  He plans to rejoin the company within the longhouse, a place where the alcohol flows endlessly and drinking is encouraged, if not expected.  It may prove to be the most difficult challenge he has ever faced.

“Caidryn,” he says carefully as he gratefully tousles Balen’s hair.

“Yäh?”

“Perhaps you and Ofeig can do me a favor?”

“Yäh?” she asks with exasperation, “What’s one more, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles down at the boy.  “One among many, yes.  All of which I appreciate and treasure.”

Caidryn rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “Yer a fuckin’ pain-in-the-ass!  If yä hadn’t proven yerself useful in the past, I’d tell yä tä go fucks yerself!”

Guiromélans looks back at her.  “Is that your answer then?”

“Nage,” she sighs explosively.  “Speak.  Ask yer favor.  I can’t speaks fer Ofeig, but I’ll see what I can does fer yä.”

Ofeig laughs.  “Jâ, speak, Korp.  Ask your boon.”

Guiromélans smiles with mild relief.  “I have recently discovered, I cannot—must not—drink, in moderation or in excess.  To do so would risk… failure.  I ask you a simple thing.  That while I do not drink tonight, you also refrain.  At least at first.  It would help me greatly.”

Ofeig’s mouth drops open.

“Are yä fuckin’ KIDDIN’ ME?” Caidryn shrieks.

“And so fell Dreng, slain by 100 wounds.  And he laughed as his blood stained the battle-scarred snow.  And his enemies acknowledged his unmatched bravery and strength, for none faced death with more honor nor sold his life so dear.  With his passing, the storm-age was ended, and the betrayal of Yngvi Gulskeg was finally avenged.  Dreng entered Thunderer’s Hall triumphantly as Einheriar.”

 

The Söderkarl nod and grunt appreciatively.  Guiromélans shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  It’s been a long evening, and it doesn’t promise to end any time soon.  The room is kept dark—the lamps and fires kept barely burning—and it is making him sleepy.  But Bolwerk seems to want to hear a story from anyone willing to offer one, and there’s no one more talkative than a Söderkarl with an evening’s worth of drink in his belly.

“Dreng’s vengeance was just,” Bolwerk murmurs, “Gulskeg was a great man, a suitable man to be the last of our yngvis.  He ruled the cythth well in home-concerns.  Very prudent was he, of good understanding, and it is the universal opinion that nej chief of the southern lands was ever of such deep judgment and ready counsel as he.  He was a great warrior, bold in arms, strong and expert in the use of his weapons beyond any others.”

Many of the karls and bönder grunt in assent, and Bolwerk’s eyes settle on Guiromélans.  “It is a shame that he had such an ignominious end.”

Guiromélans sits quietly, his hands folded on the table.  “There are few ends,” he answers mildly, “that I would gladly embrace, my Thane.  You might say that one death is as good or bad as another, for the end result is always the same.  God is your judge, and nej matter how you die, it is He you must face.  All that matters is how you lived your life before the end.  From what I have heard and read of Yngvi Gulskeg, he was an honorable, intelligent, ferocious man.  It is a shame he was not a Medianist.”

The muscles of Bolwerk’s jaws tighten briefly, but then he smiles and salutes.  “Certainly high praise for Reccared’s greatest foe!  Could I expect any more from a Korp?”

The herr laugh loudly and then fall quiet in contemplation.  After a pause, Asmund shouts, “I have a tale of the south, of the dark óriás, and of the great hero, Mosterstang!”

The men around the table shout in approval, and with a laugh, the huskarl begins to recite his tale:  “I shall well relate the old songs of men I remember best.  In the lands of Óriásjord, the great empire of the óriás holds all of mankind in thrall!  As labor and food, the skrælings suffer beneath their rule.  Into this land, there traveled a karl from the north, a man of middle size, of long and clear complexioned countenance and light hair, who spoke well and hastily, was brisk in his actions, and was extremely generous.  He was a great warrior and remarkably bold in arms, the most popular of huskarls, prized even by enemies as well as friends.  He was Mosterstang, the godi of Cnear, son of Tryggvas Forkedbeard!  A man of deep-thought and unparalleled battle skill, he was wrongly outlawed by Are Iron-coat for crimes committed during bloodfeud and driven from his homeland by his own kin.  Waves like the foam of men’s blood clung to his legs as he walked from the Sea…”

Guiromélans groans and looks down at the fetid water in his mug.  To think that the øl or hydromel or wine they serve here is any cleaner would be foolishness, but at least they tasted better.  Nudging the mug further away from him, he catches the eye of Caidryn sitting next to him.  She has long since abandoned her mug and merely glares at him balefully.

“I’m sorry, Caidryn,” he says quietly beneath the story telling of the karl.

Though she sneers back, her eyes soften slightly.  “Yäh?” she hisses in a whisper, “The least yä could do is give me my drink if yer goin’ tä expect me tä listen tä this buachar.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “In this case, I don’t think even drink would help you.”

“The överfurstes of this land were proud,” Asmund intones, “and they ordered their thralls to build a monument, a great temple honoring their dark gods.  Mosterstang came upon the people of the small bygth, who were most sorely burdened by the cruelty of their masters and bewailing their lots.  He found them distraught and fearful, and a sorry tale they told him.  Unless they complete the cathedral within a month’s time, they will all be put to the knife and served as their masters’ next meal!”

Guiromélans rolls his eyes as the Söderkarl around him grunt excitedly.  He has heard of the race of ogres that lurk in the frigid southern lands, but he suspects most of the tales are merely exaggerations by the overly melodramatic Söderkarl.

“Mosterstang heard their pleas.  They had nej means to finish this chore, they had nej money to hire artisans.  They held nej hope and were faced with certain death, but they knew Mosterstang was knowledgeable in the ways of the ovän.  They asked him to speak to the Thunderer and plead their case, and sword-strong Mosterstang agreed.  He told them the skræling are weak in the ways of the Dømme-Ring, but only through the might of the Thunderer and the strength of their courage can their enemies be overcome.  And thus he took possession of the bygth and its ondvegi, deeming the rig-jarl to be weak and a friend of the óriás, and he declared him to be banished.  Then he summoned together the karls into the oväder-möte and spoke the Names of Power.  He invoked the Laws of Gro and led the Iselfolk in the Hird of the Einheriar.  He cast the runes of the Dømme-Ring Fulthark, and over them all, the thunder clashed and the rain fell.  The gales blew, and the living trembled.  The Thunderer’s footprint was felt heavily on that day.  To the Thunderer, Mosterstang screamed, relating their needs and making their plea, and great Thunderer replied, making known His mind with the following words:  ‘Into a pact with Me you seek, and though your request is selfish, your cause is just!  Hear this!  The temple, you will build, but the soul of the first to enter will be forfeit to Me!’  And gladly, Mosterstang accepted these terms, and so gold and silver and the finest stone fell from the sky, more than enough to hire the artisans and finish the cathedral!”

The Söderkarl of the room shift and stir, evidently anticipating some turn in the story that Guiromélans is unaware of.  He also can’t help but note the occasional reference to the ogre temple as a cathedral.  The comparison of oriás to Medianists cannot be accidental, as are the occasional surly looks cast in his direction.

He glances at Caidryn and can feel the boredom seething from her pores.

“Quickly,” Asmund says, “the temple was finished, a proud, ugly thing for their proud, ugly masters!  And quickly, the Thunderer’s price became a concern.  Who shall it be to sacrifice himself to the great ovän?  Who shall be the first to enter the cathedral?  Many suggested luring an animal through its gates, but Mosterstang feared the Thunderer would be offended by such trickery.  Others suggested the rig-jarl, who had proven himself to be a friend of the óriás, but he had not been seen since the day of his banishment.  At last, it was the wisdom of Mosterstang that rang true.  He advised they wait and trick the leader of the óriás into entering the cathedral first, and all assembled agreed that was a wise decision.  And it became so!  In his pride, the great överfurstes insisted on being the first to enter, and almighty Thunderer claimed his dark soul and condemned it to Nâströnd!”

The Söderkarl roar and laugh with approval, and there is much embracing and backslapping, almost as if they themselves had a hand in the simple trickery.

Quite suddenly, Caidryn’s voice penetrates the noise, “Yäh?  Sä then what happened?”

The Söderkarl hesitate and look at her with confusion.  Asmund shakes his head, “What?  What do you mean?”

Caidryn leans forward over the table, “Sä what happened after the óriás died?  What happened tä the people?  What happened tä yer hero?”

The huskarl shakes his head, “The story ends there.  There is nej more to tell.”

“Sä yer sayin’ the orias didn’t kill and eat everyone fer their treachery?”

The hersing looks aghast as, to a man, they look to each other for answers.  “There are stories,” Bolwerk says, “of Mosterstang’s later adventures, so it would be safe to assume at least he survived the initial confrontation.”

“Uh,” Caidryn nods, “Sä he ran while the others died?”

Bolwerk smiles, though the other herr grumble with irritation, “I’m sure we would prefer to assume he fought them all off and rescued the skrælings.  He is a hero, after all.”

“Yäh, right,” Caidryn mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes.  “Killed them all, uh?”

“Very well,” Bolwerk says suddenly, “I take it then that our banda-drapa is not to your liking?”

Guiromélans glances back at the Thane and marvels at his hearing.  “Caidryn only meant—”

“I was sayin’,” she interrupts, “that yer givin’ yer man a lot of credit, uh?  Killin’ the monsters single-handed?  Rescuin’ the village single-handed?  How’d he do that, uh?”

“He did it with his sword,” Bolwerk says, “With his skill and courage, time-tested by countless battles!”

“Battles, uh?  Yäh.  I shoulda known.  That was how all yer other stories ended.  Is that what all yer stories are about?”

Bolwerk laughs, “For us, the world exists only for the battle!  War is inevitable, and we Söderkarl embrace it joyously.  Our heathen ancestors teach that we should expect nothing more than endless battle before and after death.  They craved death, for it would offer them an eternity of bloodshed, endless training towards the perfection of the Einheriar!  It is only reasonable for our folklore and history to reflect this.”  He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“We Bracks have a tradition of warfare in the afterlife too, yä knows!” Caidryn answers with some heat.

The Söderkarl in the hall chuckle condescendingly, infuriating Caidryn even further.  “Johlpa’s hall is a pale place compared to the battlefields of Niflheim,” Bolwerk says.  “The black ghosts of the slain Söderkarl train and drill and war upon each other endlessly upon its plains.”

“Do you truly love war so much, Bolwerk?” Guiromélans asks, appreciating the rhetoric but not convinced of its sincerity.  He has seen these Söderkarl in battle.  They are large and strong and brave, but they also appeared as human as the next man.  “Would you embrace death so easily when the time comes?”

“Nej one embraces death, Guiromélans,” Ofeig answers.  “Our way is to fight, to forever fight, until our last breath escapes our lips.  And then we shall die laughing, for we know we are going on to Niflheim, and our battles have only begun.”

“For a Söderkarl,” Bolwerk says, “his first battle is with his mother as he struggles for birth, and it continues unabated until his final lesson.”

“And that is?”

“Death, of course!  Death teaches that you have only begun to learn.”

“Death,” Guiromélans smiles.

“You go into the afterlife,” Ofeig says, “and in the service of the Thunderer, you wage endless war until you have perfected your skills.  Only then do you earn the mark of the spear.  Only then can you join Uspak in Paradise.”

“And this makes you an Einheriar?”

“Nej.  The Einheriar are those rare few who have perfected warfare in their mortal lives.  Before death.”

“Perfect warriors who have perfected warfare, hmmn?” Guiromélans asks.

“You Medianists have nej equivalent.”

“Nej, I would think not.”

“None other than the Ravens,” Caidryn adds under her breath.

Guiromélans looks at her in surprise.  He never imagined she held his kind in such high esteem.

“So tell me, fair may,” Bolwerk says quickly, “Since our banda-drapa are not to your tastes, have you any tales you want to share?”

Caidryn sneers at him amongst the derisive laughter of the Söderkarl.

“Nage,” she says in Brackish with choking sweetness.  “Geneta imi daga uimpi inigena.”

Bolwerk laughs and pours wine into a chalice.  “Nata uimpi inigena, pota uinum,” he answers back, offering the cup to her, “Ibetis uciu andecari biiete!”

Caidryn pales in surprise.  Silently, almost automatically, she takes the cup from him and stares at its contents.

Guiromélans smiles.  “That was unfair, Thane,” he says in Ehrech, “She never saw it coming.”

Bolwerk laughs even harder and answers in likewise, “It would do well for her to remember that we are not all provincial imbeciles!”

Guiromélans’s smile fades slightly.  Bolwerk just expressed almost verbatim Baldruus’s sentiments.  He wonders now if they have been overheard and understood all along.

Bolwerk turns back to Caidryn, “So tell me, Brackish princess, have you any tales that would suffice?  Tales, perhaps, that do not end in distasteful combat?  Since our banda-drapas have become tiresome, rouse us with an epic of your homeland!  Lighten our hall with your words!”

Caidryn carefully sets the wine cup down and shakes her head, “I knows of na worthy triads.  I am na bloodless bard.”

“It is just as well, then,” Bolwerk says.  “Poetry bores me, quite frankly.  Even our own.”

“The Bracks have a very rich story-telling tradition,” Guiromélans offers.  “I have heard a few in my travels with her.”

“Jâ, so I’ve heard,” Bolwerk says, looking at Caidryn expectantly.

Caidryn shoots Guiromélans a look of hatred, but the knight remains focused on his examination of the Thane.

“Yäh, I can tells yä a story,” she murmurs.  She glances around the room suspiciously but finds the Söderkarl merely patiently listening.  “It takes place in the Bracklands near the Equoranda.  Na one knows which dunum it happened in, sä it could have been any…  And it goes like this.  A baby was found in the moors outside a Rix’s commote.  Na one knew where she came from.  Some said she was the bastard inigena of a disgraced bna.  Others thought she was the plunder of a raiding band of rraakk that was somehow left behind.  It came as na matter though, fer the Rix loved her and adopted her as his own.  Yä sees, though he had a mosac belongin’ tä his own blood, his dona’s loins had gone cla and could bear him na more pektus.  Bein’ there was na other way fer him tä have one of his own, he took the foundlin’ inigena and raised her as if she was his own daughter, though appropriately separate from his mosac.”

Guiromélans watches the Söderkarl.  They are listening attentively and seem to be warming to her story.  “It was obvious tä everyone the noble blood than ran through the foundlin’ inigena’s veins.  She was strong and fast and brave and clever.  Even at her young age, her beauty was unmatched by any grown bna, and it was spoken of across all the Bracklands.  Most importantly, she bore a mark… a stone… fer she was a stone-summoner, though not a very powerful one.  She bore this stone in a most… intimate place, and so few knew of it, and even fewer saw it.  Regardless, the Rix’s sacardds fortold that the stone was an omen of good tidings and greatness.  It was clear tä everyone that she should be married tä the Rix’s mosac, and arrangements were made tä have them wedded at his sixteenth birthday celebration.

“It was as the pektus were nearin’ their ninth year that the Rix’s dona began tä get sicker.  The rot in her womb had begun to spread elsewhere.  Her health faded until one day she died.  It wasn’t long after that the Rix remarried, this time tä the daughter of an old gwledig from a distant cantref.  The thing na one knew—not even the Rix—was that this new dona already had pektus of her own, an inigena close tä the same age and appearance as the found girl.

“The engagement between then Rix’s mosac and the inigena fell hard on the new dona’s ears.  Fer the mosac tä marry this girl, it would mean all the Rix’s lands and wealth would go tä them—not tä mention whatever estates the inigena held as well (once her true heritage was discovered)—leavin’ her own daughter with nothin’.  Sä she conceived a dark plan.  One day, she took the young foundin’ far away from the dunum, beyond the Equoranda.  She bound her and beat her and stabbed her and left her tä die, meat fer the rraakk and capalus.

“Back in the Rix’s dunum, she disguised her own inigena as the Rix’s, and sä na one knew the foundlin’ daughter was missin’—”

“Are you saying,” Bolwerk suddenly cuts in, “that even this Rix couldn’t tell the girl wasn’t his own daughter?”

Aside from a passing dirty look, Caidryn hardly acknowledges the interruption.  “Her mam’a made sure she kept her face covered, as was the custom fer young riges.  She kept tä her private rooms, with only the dona’s most trusted slugs, as was the custom fer young riges.  She never spoke, as was the custom fer young riges.  Thus, her disguise was sound, and by the time people did see her, time had passed, the memory of the real daughter had faded, and na one doubted the inigena’s identity.

“The years passed, and the day of the marriage arrived.  This was met with excitement by the Rix and his dona and his people, but it was met with some fear by the dona’s inigena.  Yä sees, what only the imposter inigena knew—sadly fer her mam’a’s plans—was that some months ago, she had dishonored herself with one of the Rix’s slugs, and now she was becomin’ swollen with child.  She knew, if her condition was discovered—say, on her weddin’ night, and by her donios—she would most certainly be disgraced and her marriage ruined.  Sä she searched high and low through the commote until she found a cottar family raisin’ an inigena of similar age and appearance as herself.  Fer a suitable fee—nearly all she and her mam’a owned—she arranged fer this girl tä take her place in the weddin’ bed that night.

“Of course, she didn’t know of the hidden mark borne by the real inigena.  Sä she didn’t know that her new husband would immediately recognize her as an imposter.  She didn’t know that her plan would fail as soon as her naked loins were revealed tä the mosac…

“But on that night, when the mosac did join the inigena, he laid with her, embraced her, and loved her.  He enjoyed her fine young body, her tight little box, her sweet pair of little rounded teats, as firm and finely shaped as if they were made of cauaros ivory.  And as he did this, he saw the stone, and prodded it with his rod, and he remarked with surprise upon seein’ it again, fer he had not seen it since they last were bathed together as young pektus.  The peasant girl was astonished that he knew of it at all, fer it was kept in such an intimate place and to her memory they had never met.  Fer yä sees, the peasant girl was the long lost inigena.  She had been found by the cottars, diein’ of her wounds, and they had nursed her back tä health and raised her as their own.  Her life as the Rix’s daughter was only a distant memory, perhaps thought to have been merely a poor girl’s dreams.”

Caidryn smiles coldly as the Söderkarl laugh at the turn.  “With the identity of the inigena discovered, the dona’s plan quickly came apart.  The marriage tä her own inigena was dissolved, and the Rix’s son was married tä the proper bride.  The kindness of the cottar family was repaid with the dona’s own money.  The dona’s inigena was absolved of guilt, and she was married tä the slug she loved.  In time, they became loyal and valued vassals to the young riges.”

“And the stepmother?” Bolwerk asks.

Caidryn nods, “Fer her troubles, her tongue was cut away, and she was sent her north as a coept-inigena.”

Bolwerk laughs.  “And what of the girl’s destiny?”

Caidryn frowns, “What?”

“You said she had a stone and that the Rix’s priests foretold that she was destined for greatness.  You implied that she came from royalty or some such.”

Caidryn shakes her head.  “Yäh.  That’s what they said.  But they was wrong.  It was all buachar, as it often is.  She was just a dumb girl, found abandoned in the wilderness.”  Caidryn’s eyes narrow, and her voice carries a strange layer of steel, “She was a dumb, lucky adgarios.  Nothin’ more.”

Bolwerk stares at her in surprise before exploding with laughter.  He pounds the table until tears fall from his eyes.  “Jâ!  Jâ!  Excellent!  You are right, of course!  Why should it be anything more?”

Guiromélans catches Caidryn’s eye and silently salutes her.  She smiles at him almost shyly, as surprised as anyone that they liked her story.

Finally, Bolwerk’s laughter fades, and Guiromélans feels his attention fall upon him.  “Korp!  You have been silent thus far!  We have heard from the Bracks.  Perhaps we can hear from the EroBernacs as well?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “I am Ehrech.”

Bolwerk bows minutely, “My apologies, but my question still stands.  Tell us something in the manner of your homeland.”

Guiromélans shakes his head again, “I am afraid I must refuse.”

“Ah, c’mon!” Caidryn jibes viciously.  “Bein’ a knight, aren’t yä supposed tä be all poetic and shit?  Aren’t yä always supposed tä be on bended knee, wooin’ the ladies?”

Guiromélans grimaces as the Söderkarl laugh.  Should he expect anything different?  He had helped corner her into telling a story, and obviously she is eager to return the favor.

“I am a realist,” he says, “A simple warrior, and I have no talent with such courtly things.”

“We’d host a Court of Love for you,” Asmund sneers, “only we’re missing the whore for the table!”

Laughter fills the room.  Guiromélans would be pleased to be in the presence of such joviality if it wasn’t at his expense.

He gives Caidryn one last look before raising his hands.  “Very well, very well,” he sighs.  “Considering the current events of this place, one story has come to mind… frequently, in fact.  One perhaps, you all might identify with.”

Bolwerk raises his eyebrows, “Truly?”

Guiromélans smiles, “Jâ.”

When the room falls silent, he collects his thoughts and begins.