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Eingar last won the day on June 30

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  1. "CUR?!" The huge Aesir turned towards Freya, plainly bridling at the insult, the ire in his blue gaze increasing as he laid eyes on her. He spat at her feet, booming invective in his native tongue. "Fegh! Only a piss-reeking ginger slattern would confuse a man with a dog. Tis no wonder, though. All know how much the women of the Vanir like to lay with beasts!" For a moment, the ship, crew and (for Eingar) the girl who was his prize were forgotten, washed away by the savage enmity as old as Nordheim. For even as the Picts and Cimmerians hated one another with a deep loathing, so too did the Aesir of Asgard and the Vanir of Vanaheim war with one another gleefully. It is truly said that man hates most those with whom he shares most in common, and that enmity between neighbours can far outstrip rivalries between distant foes for sheer spite. Freya and Eingar glowered at one another, hands tightening on the hafts of their respective weapons as the ship's crew looked on in bemusement. Finally, the master's voice cut through their confusion. "Aiiee, scum! Kill both these savages - a purse for each of their heads!" With that the spell was broken, and with roaring cries the crew of the ship rushed along the pier at the two northerners. To be met with a furious gale of steel and woe, for the interruption of the pair's hostility was possibly the worst tactical blunder any man could make. Had the ship's master left things alone, the two Nordheimir would have torn one another apart, leaving the survivor likely wounded and thus easier game. Instead, just as a tall tree draws the lightning, so too did the reckless charge of the southern sailors provide a focus point for the pair's aggression. Freya spun on one heel, lopping off an upraised arm from one sailor before cleaving open the breastbone of another. Eingar was less graceful, but no less effective as the boss of his shield caved in the face of one man, even as the weighty stone head of his hammer carried through an upward arc, driving the shattered remnants of another luckless man's jaw through what was left of his brain. Another man, armed with a boathook, tried to snag Freya's arm with the cruel gaff, only to have the returning downward plunge of the hammer flatten his head like an overripe orange. Eingar began to sing lustily in his native tongue as he fought, the thunder of his voice ringing in the ears of all nearby. In a matter of heartbeats, the wooden decking of the quay was awash in blood and worse, and the two Nordheimir showed little sign of stopping as they carved and smashed their way towards the boat's gangplank. Red and gold hair flying, faces alight with the thrill of battle, and with their weapons and clothing splashed with gore, Freya and Eingar were a terrifying sight to behold even if one were an uninvolved bystander. For the hapless sailors in their path, the gods alone know what they felt, though several of those quicker on the uptake than their fellows began to jump into the harbour rather than stand their ground.
  2. Lo, it is written in the Scrolls of Skelos and the dark lore of fallen Acheron that at the bottom of the deepest furthest ocean is a dolmen formed from a single meteor. In script that was formed by no human hand is inscribed a dark prophecy that foretells the awful blasphemous truth that someday, someone will post. Until then, we just have to keep up the sacrifices of screaming virgins.
  3. He came striding along the dock, a blond giant of a man fully head and shoulders above what was considered 'full-grown' here in the warm Southlands. Stripped to the waist against the heat, his pale skin inked with barbarous runes and wearing a harness from which hung an array of cruel weapons he was an imposingly vital presence, a slice of the savage northern tundra given life and purpose. The footpads and ne'er-do-wells who frequented the docks in search of drunken prey noted the icy blue of the northron's gaze and the easy way one hand tossed, spun and caught the heavy-looking hammer, and slunk from his path. "Cap'n!" One of the sailors paled and called urgently, waving to attract his master's attention as he saw the giant approach. The ship's master also paled at what he saw, quickly motioning to his men to take up arms. Daggers, boathooks and cutlasses were readied, even as many of the ship's crew silently mouthed prayers to their varied gods. The northerner did not slow his approach, though his eyes narrowed over a grim smile and he ceased the careless tossing of his hammer at the sight of their preparations. He came to a stop at the foot of the dock, his eyes searching out the captain and alighting on the two girls beside him as he stood there, saying nothing. "What do you here, savage?" The captain called from the deck, his bluster increased by the readiness and numbers of his support. "I am come to collect my prize." the Nordheimir rumbled in a voice like distant thunder, speaking Argossean with a barbarous accent. "'A dark-haired Ophirean lass, lithe and sweet' you promised me for my winnings. And lo, I see such a lass there." He motioned with the head of his warhammer at the brunette lovely on her knees beside the two fat men, her pale skin paler still as she beheld the giant, her dark eyes wide. "It is lucky that the tavernkeep knew where you were berthed, Master Menaus." The blond giant stroked his braided beard, still smiling. "I know you would not wish to be forsworn on a debt, after all." "Debt?" The captain glanced at the richly-dressed man beside him, then cleared his throat. "I know of no debt I owe you, barbarian. Certainly not one as expensive as this young virgin. Now begone, else I shall have my men dump your fetid carcass in the harbor!" At the captain's words, his men tightened their grips on their weapons, though their eyes betrayed uncertainty. The Aesir laughed, a booming sound with little mirth in it, and slipped the round shield from his back. "Merchants." he spat to one side. "This day you learn that there are costs that cannot be counted in gold, fat man."
  4. Name: Eingar of Asgard Gender& Age: Male, 20 Homeland: Asgard Caste: Barbaric Caste Talents: Savage Dignity, Uncivilized Story: Rite of Passage Trait: Famed Among Peers Archetype: Barbarian Nature: Murderous Education: Born to Kill War Story: Left for Dead after A Slave Raid Languages: Nordheimer, Argossian AGILITY: 10 -Acrobatics – 1/1/11 -Melee – 5/5/15 -Stealth – 2/2/12 AWARENESS: 7 -Insight – 1/1/8/ -Observation - 0/0/7 -Survival – 3/3/10 -Thievery – 0/0/7 BRAWN: 14 -Athletics – 2/2/16 -Resistance – 1/1/15 COORDINATION: 9 -Parry – 3/3/12 -Ranged Weapons – 1/1/10 -Sailing – 0/0/9 INTELLIGENCE: 7 -Alchemy – 0/0/7 -Craft – 0/0/7 -Healing – 0/0/7 -Linguistics – 0/0/7 -Lore – 0/0/7 -Warfare – 1/1/8 PERSONALITY: 9 -Animal Handling – 1/1/10 -Command – 1/1/10 -Counsel – 0/0/9 -Persuade – 2/2/11 -Society – 0/0/9 WILLPOWER: 6 -Discipline – 2/2/8 -Sorcery – 0/0/7 TALENTS Winter-born - Born in a place of deep winter and intense cold, often spanning the entire year, you are accustomed to frigid climes. When in wintry environments, the number of successes required for any Survival test you attempt is reduced by 1. This can even reduce tests to a Difficulty of Simple (D0). However, you must achieve 1 additional level of success when attempting Survival tests in areas offering the Desert-born talent. Savage Dignity - Despite your barbaric upbringing, you have a fierce sense of pride in yourself and your lineage. You cannot be dominated or cowed easily. You may roll an additional d20 for any test to resist being intimidated, persuaded, or impressed by a “civilized” person. This is usually a Discipline test, but can extend to Personality-based tests such as Command or Society. Uncivilised - You’re uncouth and lack civilized manners, and those of more civilized societies will think poorly of you upon first impression. As a result, you suffer one step of Difficulty in Social tests when dealing with people from more civilized countries. On the other hand, your Upkeep cost is reduced by 2 Gold, as you are accustomed to roughing it and making do with what you have. BLOODLINE: Nordheimer- whether from Asgard or Vanaheim, a Nordheimer with this talent is descended from a race of humankind that devolved into snow-apedom after the cataclysm. The earliest true humans in the land, forefathers of the Hyborians, drove them northward past the Arctic Circle, where they once again became humans, eventually returning to the lands that would later be known as Nordheim. When a Nordheimer with an Ancient Bloodline fails a Personality test, they are prone to boastfulness and foolhardy overconfidence. MELEE: No Mercy - When making a Melee attack, you may re-roll a number of damage dice equal to the total number of Melee talents (and ranks in those talents) you have acquired, if desired. You must accept the results of the re-rolls. Blood On Steel - You do not hesitate to bloody your weapons. When rolling for damage with a melee attack, you may spend one Momentum in order to add the Vicious 1 quality to the weapon, or increase the weapon’s Vicious quality by 1 if it already possesses the quality.. Grappler - You know that a mobile foe is a dangerous one, and the easiest way to stop someone moving is to grab hold of them. After making a successful melee attack, you may spend 1 Momentum to gain the Grappling quality on an unarmed attack.. WARFARE: Skirmisher - You can fight in a Squad with one other character and not lose your Reaction. Attacks: -Brawl (M): +4 Dam - Warhammer: 2 reach, UB, Damage 4, Knockdown, Vicious1; Enc 1 - Battle Axe: 2 reach, UB, Damage 4, Intense, Vicious1; Enc 1 - Shield: reach 2, damage 2, 1H, Knockdown, Shield 2; Enc 2 Threaten: +1 Dam Soak: 2 -Armor – Full suit of Brigandine -Courage - 0 Stress/Harms: Vigor - 15 | Wounds - Resolve- 8 | Trauma - Fortune Points: 2 Social: -Social Standing - 1 -Renown - 0 -Gold - 9 - Upkeep -2 Other Belongings: Target Shield; Battleaxe that belonged to a fallen friend; A fine Bakhariot belt of worked leather; A magnificent drinking horn with metal cup Image: A massive example of an Aesir, even amongst such large people. Eingar stands close to 7 feet in height. His white skin is marked with pale blue tattoos telling of his manhood rite, and under the surface muscles move smoothly with a grace than belies his size. His hair and beard are pale gold, braided and well-kept in the fashion of his people, and his eyes are the deep cold blue of the northern sky. Background: From the time of his birth, the joke amongst Eingar’s tribe was that his father was secretly a giant. He grew tall and strong, being as tall as many men before the first whiskers appeared on his chin. The whispers of giant blood grew as he did, not abated by his fearsome murderous temper, and the breadth of his shoulders and strength of his grip were not something even a full grown Aesir would take lightly. It was the custom amongst his tribe for boys on the cusp of adulthood to range out far and wide, armed with only a spear, until they had done some deed worthy of note, whether slaying a foe or hunting one of the mighty tundra elk singlehanded. Eingar not only slew an elk, breaking his spear in the process, but also defended his kill from a pack of wolves attracted by the blood. Armed only with a broken-off spear and his bare hands the young Aesir slew five wolves, sending the rest of the pack running, and then dragged the sled containing his kills over the tundra back to his village. The acclaim of his deed spread through Asgard, and many of his folk heard tales of the ‘boy blessed by Ymir’. His manhood celebration promised to be a riotous one – and would have been so if not for the slavers. Hyperboreans: tall and gaunt, cruel and merciless. Guided by their witchmen, they fell upon the small village at the height of the celebration. They were not after children, men or older women – they sought golden-haired Aesir maidens and slew all that did not suit their needs. Eingar fell during the battle due to a blow from a Hyperborean mace that would have killed a less sturdy man. When he came to, there was nought but bodies and charred dwellings around him. Now he roams the southlands as a mercenary, seeking gold and glory and, perhaps, a path to vengeance.
  5. I'm afraid I'll have to bow out. Very sorry, but RL is kicking my butt and I don't have time for posties atm. I'll be lurking around, though. Hope to catch a game or two when things calm down.
  6. Sanity Roll: Einherjar *rolls* 1d20: 16+3: 19 [Einherjar] 10:07 pm: Yay for sanity! [Kaoleth] 10:07 pm: Nice roll. Initiative Roll: Einherjar *rolls* 1d20: 19+4: 23 [Einherjar] 10:09 pm: I'll take it [Einherjar] 10:09 pm: Witness? [Kaoleth] 10:09 pm: Shiny and Crome [Asarasa] 10:09 pm: witness Action: Cursing from a combination of surprise and superstitious fear before unhooking his hammer and attempting to turn the nearest moving dead thing to mulch. Move Action: Ein will spring to the nearest animated corpse. Action: Two-handed attack with his warhammer.
  7. The priest's knowledge of Eingar's heritage and origin was good for little more than a grunt of respectful acknowledgement. The huge Northerner took for granted that the gods knew more than mortals, and those mortals who served the gods shared some of that knowledge, in the same way that he took for granted that fire was hot or that snow was cold. Still, it served as a chilling reminder to the warrior that the gods had taken an interest in him. Such interest was rarely a good thing. The bodies at first left him unmoved. Death was a constant, these were the earthly remains of ones who had been living, and the manner of their death was the only matter of interest to Eingar. He did consider it somewhat tasteless that the bodies were on display in this fashion - bodies should be burned on a pyre so that the spirits within could be set free, not stored in the dank chill of a cellar. He was quick enough of wit, though, to gather that the bodies were here so that wisdom could be gained as to their murderers, so felt little outrage on that score. He folded his massive arms across his chest and turned away as the women examined the dead - tending the dead was honorable woman's work, and it was not right or proper for a true man to see a dead female's mysteries. Priests, of course, were the exception, as they were servants of the gods. The elf-boy, too, was excused, as all knew the elves to be effete and sorcerous cowards. The mention of an unnatural Elven flower drew a grunt from him, his blue eyes narrowing as he restrained the urge to turn and look further. The initial glance had been enough - he would permit the dead their dignity. It might seem strange to those who had only a passing acquaintance with the bluff, wild northman, but there were standards even for such as he. "The whores ply their trade in many taverns, many brothels." he rumbled in answer to Tharra. "Some walk the streets, though, if they can find no roof under which to hawk their wares, or cannot afford to pay for such." He glanced at Aldo. "Were these street whores or tavern wenches? It seems that those who work on the streets would be easier prey for a murderer." He thought of Taila laying there, uncleanly murdered with foul symbols carved into her flesh, and his jaw tightened. There were ways of dying that were natural: to die in battle, or childbirth, or of an illness. There were ways of killing which were despicable: to poison someone's food and drink, for example, was a nilthing's deed, as was the knife in the back to settle a score (which in turn was different to inviting an enemy to a feast and then slaughtering them while they were drunk, or stealthily killing an enemy sentry prior to a night raid - on the first example the victim would not have expected the treachery, on the other they should have been more wily or alert. Barbarian morals can be complicated.) To torture someone to death was for the most despised of enemies: to repay a blood debt or redress a grievous wrong. But how many blood-enemies could a whore have? What grievous wrong could a slip of a girl have committed, to be sacrificed so? And so Eingar came to an awareness of something he had not, in his youth, considered before: evil. A cynic, he considered 'evil' to be a word used by people to describe simply that which they did not like. Pirates were evil, to the merchantman. Thieves were evil, to the man who had lost his purse. The northmen were evil, to the soft southerners who shrank from casual violence and hid behind walls. Doubtless the deer would complain that the hunter was evil, too. Evil had been just a word too easily uttered. Now, in the cellar containing cruelly murdered whores with unholy designs carved on their bodies, he realised that there was such a thing as true evil. Part of him wanted no part of this. He would find a ship headed out of port and leave this wicked city and it's decadent, unholy denizens behind. Cupidity stayed his flight. The temples were rich, and if they wanted to pay him for ridding the world of such unnatural evil, he would do so. "Tharra of the Katjaa speaks truly." he looked at Aldo. "I redden my blades for the cause of none but myself - unless there is gold in the doing of it."
  8. Eingar

    Ein's Stuff

  9. The food was hearty, at least, and Eingar had packed it away as only a starving bear after hibernation could eat, all the while studying the trappings of this southern god's temple, his avaricious eye seeing wealth beyond counting, even here away from the glamour of the public worship area. He had grumbled - good naturedly for the most part - at the lack of strong drink, but ever pragmatic he had drunk deeply of the clean water, feeling his hangover subside. His head restored and his belly filled, he turned his attention to the others who had been summoned to this southron temple. The tattooed woman stirred his blood, eerily so, for she did not smile nor speak, and yet there was a tightening in his loins as their eyes chanced to meet, something compelling a twist of desire from him. Tharra and Neeva, both beauties, had the clean look of the wild in them, as did the diminutive woman as fierce as a wolverine. No city folk, these. Yngvar was surely of his people, yet did not introduce himself nor do other than glower at his countryman. The boy-elf seemed soft, but Eingar was wary: elves were sorcerous and not to be trusted. And the dwarf... Aye the dwarf. Suffice to say that Eingar did not have many words to spare on the stout warrior: he was quick to anger, and slow to let go a grudge, especially one born of being struck. When the tattooed woman - Shubure or Gidum as she preferred - asked her question, Eingar tapped his drinking cup on the table in tacit agreement. "Aye, then? So why have we been summoned so?" he demanded - politely so, for him - of the priest. "What need has your god of me? I am hardly a religious man!"
  10. If Eingar's mood had been dangerous before, Alberich's clout and scathing words turned the atmosphere deadly. Blood drained from the Northman's face, and those nearest could hear the leather grip of his hammer creaking as his grip tightened on it, accompanied by grinding from his teeth. And then the blonde woman stepped up, her words spoken with calm authority that drew the attention of the enraged man. Eingar paused: soothsayers were not to be taken lightly, and he glanced down at her as she laid her hand on his - not to restrain him by force, for she had no chance of that, but as a plea for him to restrain himself. She was beautiful, full of quiet wisdom and respect for him as a warrior, and her soft tone penetrated the volcanic core of rage that burned in his heart, calming and cooling it enough that the corded muscles of his forearm unclenched, his grip loosening on his hammer as he brought it down slowly, hooking it back onto his belt. He nodded at Neeva, accepting her words, then smirked at Tharra's comments. "Aye, if it be a trap we'll decorate the walls with their blood." he said in agreement, winking at the two Dhari women before looking at the priest. "I'll come to hear what you have to say." Then he turned towards Alberich. "Nobody strikes me, you stunted cur." he told the dwarf, his tone calm but with an undercurrent of the rage that bubbled inside him. "I am not one of your bastard-born whelps for you to cuff and snarl at. Try such a thing once more, and your blood will stain the ground."
  11. "The small warrior is right." Eingar growled, his good humor once again deserting him at the twin affronts of mysticism and being ordered, as though he were some galley slave. "Who are you to give me orders, priest? Perhaps your sight is so decayed that you mistake me for one of your city-bred dogs, to come when called and do tricks for a scrap?" The huge barbarian unhooked his hammer with practiced ease, lifting the heavy stone head to point at the priest. "Omens and magic be damned. You want me to come with you, then give me good cause. I'll not obey you simply because you command it! And do not think to sic your dogs on me, or I'll shower you in their brains before feeding you your own manhood!" His pale eyes were frosty stone, with no give in their cloud-shaded depths, and his deep voice was the rumbling snarl of a sabertoothed cat before it strikes.
  12. "Aye." Eingar rumbled, then spat to one side as though clearing a foulness from his mouth as he muttered. "I shall keep one eye open and a hand on my hammer." He watched them leave, his height letting him track their progress away from him as he stood motionless beside the amazonian Dhara and the dwarf. Pale blue eyes narrowed slightly, he resembled nothing so much as a great wolf watching a rival pack leave his range, wary of any trick. Not till they were long out of sight did he relax somewhat, shifting his posture to face the woman and dwarf. He was about to speak when another presence imposed itself, and Eingar watched with some amusement as the bantam bowed and spoke in a liquid, musical language to the tall woman, his eyes rapt on her face. The boy (for such Eingar supposed this beardless, pretty youth to be) was plainly smitten with the giantess, and the Nimothan chuckled as his minds eye supplied a vision of the two trying to mate. When Malokch introduced himself and bowed to the group as a whole, the Nimothan eyed him a little more suspiciously. The boy had a poetic way of speaking, and radiated 'soft city dweller', yet was also comfortable with the sword at his hip. And Eingar had never had anyone describe meeting him as an 'unexpected delight', though he suspected that the delight was more due to the ample charms of the woman than those of the dwarf or himself. The odd part was that the boy was offering them food and drink. Hospitality was something that he was on steadier ground over. This boy had, for whatever reason, offered breakfast and ale. And Eingar was certainly hungry. "Lead on, then, with my thanks." he told Malokch. "But if this is some southron trickery..." he grinned savagely, teeth white in his bearded face, an expression somehow more intimidating than a scowl would have been at that time. "Well then, now is the time to retract the offer. We take hospitality and the offering of it seriously in the North." With that, he turned to Tharra and Alberich, offering each of them a nod of greeting. "Well met, stout legs and longshanks." quoth he with a grin, his spirits high after the refreshing hurling of insults at Yoran and Hildas. "I am Eingar of the Thousand Teeth, and I owe you my thanks for the opportunity to dent Yoran's head, even though the cur decided to retreat like the nilthing he is!"
  13. "Hah! Behold the dog that speaks!" The giant Nimothan's laugh was a bark, a thunderclap that rang from the nearby buildings, an expulsion of scorn and disdain that even the haughtiest of nobles might have struggled to emulate. "There is not a fish that could stomach me without bellyaches aplenty, and as for this fine figure of a female - " he indicated Theera with his thumb, smiling at her before returning his attention to the reavers in front of him " - By my name I have not clapped eyes on her before your jabbering awoke me this morn. And I STILL like her more than you, 'kinsman'. Draw those blades, you jackals, and your women will be crying fake tears before the day is through!" his voice rose to a storm of thunder suddenly, pointing at the warriors behind Yoran and Hildas, his blue eyes ferocious in their blaze. As they released their hilts hastily, his voice returned to its normal scornful level. "Now run along, puppy. You have not the wit to match word-smithing with me: Your best axe to hurl is 'I know I like to be the woman in bed, but what of you'. Really now, cousin? You are as lacking in this arena as in others. Now either act, or run along, clamber back onto your mother's lap and suckle some more."
  14. "Stay with me!" the wench - Taila, her name was - murmured urgently as she caught at his shoulder. "There are city guards abroad - redden your blade here and they shall throw you in the darkest cell they have." She smiled in sultry invitation. "If you so dearly wish to be in chains, you have but to ask. Who are these people that you'd risk yourself so?" "Risk?" Eingar laughed as he pulled on his other boot, reaching around her waist and pulling her close for a kiss as he slung his shield across his back and checked his hatchets were in place. "That implies I'd be in danger, Taila of the Sweet Lips." It was aptly spoken flattery, at least: her lips were stained with berry juice, as were those of many Quodeth women seeking, for one reason or another, to attract a man. Eingar reflected that the women of his people could learn a thing or two from the decadent cities - at least when it came to pleasing menfolk. "This will be but a moment's diversion to clear my head of cobwebs." He looked down at her as he lifted one foot to the sill. "Cheer for me?" he asked with a wink, then was gone. With tigerish grace he sprang from the window, landing on the eves of a low-built dwelling. Sprung-steel muscles flowing under pale, tattooed skin, the blond giant of a man landed, coiled and leapt again in a single motion, dropping to the street between too stalls, landing in a crouch. He looked up at Taila's whistle, and grinned as she dropped his axe down, catching it deftly in his hand and slinging it beside his shield. With his hammer at his waist and other accoutrements, he was properly garbed to meet his 'kinsmen'. "Du har ingen kuk, Hildas?!" The leonine rumble cut across the still air of the confrontation, and eyes turned to take in the new actor in this farce. Tattooed and pale-skinned, his braided blond hair framing a devilish smile on the bearded face, this new northman was an even more imposing sight than his countrymen. He moved at a saunter, his presence imposing itself on the scene even though his tone was one of mocking astonishment. "Men du har en sådan härlig skägg!" As Hildas flushed red and the men behind her muttered at the sight of the giant, Eingar flipped a coin to a merchant and took an apple from his stall, crunching it with studied insouciance, his eyes alight with malice and amusement. "And Yoran!" the giant continued in Low Atlantean. "Speaking of beards and here you are! I am not sure if seeing Hildas at your side portends more to her liking of women or your liking of men, you sag-bellied bootlick!"
  15. Yoran! The misbegotten son of a goat and an ice-troll! What was that lickspittle lackwit doing here in Quodeth? For in truth, Eingar considered all of his tribe to be lickspittles now, kowtowing like Katagian eunuchs to the new chief and permitting their tribe to be absorbed - and Yoran had been one of the first, before Eingar's father's blood had even cooled on the snow. And Hildas too? Eingar couldn't deny that the shieldmaiden was impressive: as tall as he was, with a raw-boned handsomeness (and, he reflected privately, udders that could shame a yak). But despite those ample charms, Hildas was as cold and heartless as Kang himself. Every time the young Eingar had begun some drunken fumbling, she began speaking of the strong children they would bear and how she would rule the tribe when he was away raiding, which was more effective than ice water on the crotch when it came to dampening Eingar's ardor. The woman had eyes only for the prize of shieldwife to a chief or sub-chief, and would not care if that was Eingar... or a misbegotten son of a goat and an ice-troll. The objects of their mirth were of less concern to the young warrior, though the woman was definitely worth a second look. Eingar took a third while he was about it, leaning on the wooden sill and absently scratching under one arm where nail-marks from the dusky-skinned wench still abed itched as they healed. She had the look of the wild about her, and the weapons adorning her ample form did not look ornamental. The dwarf had the look of a warrior also, doughty and tough like all his stunted folk. With a grin, Eingar mused that here was some theatre - and with nary a copper penny to pay for the sight. "Come back to bed, my northman." the wench cooed, running her hands down his broad back. Eingar spared enough attention to buss her cheek noisily, eliciting a giggle. "Bring me ale to wash last nights from my mouth." he told her with a wink, slapping her behind and making her squeak as she hurried to comply. Eingar turned back to the window and leaned on the frame once more, settling in to watch. The morning was looking up: perhaps he would gain an opportunity to blacken Yoran's eyes and knock out some of his teeth. Again.
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