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Eingar last won the day on June 30 2019

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  1. "Me?" Eingar stared at the pair as though they'd been touched in the head, then turned to look at Chiara as she struggled to safely pick up more than one axe at a time. Catrin was up at the prow in the lookout spot, her self-appointed post when not busy with ship-work - largely because it was the furthest point on the vessel from anyone else, most of all Eingar. She resembled nothing so much as a cat curled up in a tree, balefully watching the giant any time his wandering of the deck brought him near. The giant rubbed at his sun-burned brow doubtfully as he considered both women. "That is a terrible idea." he rumbled, turning back to Dracian. "If I talk to them they will jump over the side." "Try to avoid that." Dracian quipped in a dry tone. "I'm starting to become fond of them, and they're prettier to look at than you." "Then you go and talk to them." Eingar folded his massive forearms, each thicker than Dracian's thigh, over his chest and scowled. The pirate was unmoved. "You're the one they're scared of." he stated firmly, folding his own arms over his chest before realising there was no way he could match the Nordheimer for sheer physical presence. Still, he stood his ground and stared back up at the ice-blue eyes. For a long moment the two locked gazes, then Eingar snorted. "Fine. Don't blame me if it does more woe than good." he sighed, unfolding his arms and turning to walk across the deck. Simeon gave a dusty mirthless chuckle, glancing at Dracian. "Care to wager that one of them panics and tries to stab him?" His sardonic amusement was cut short by a sharp glance from Dracian. "I'm more worried they'll try to harm themselves." he said shortly, turning back to the tiller but keeping one eye on the deck. Eingar frowned as he moved over to where Chiara was fumbling with a pair of axes in the crook of one dainty arm as she bent over and tried to pick up a third. From behind, the view was pleasant as it was from the fore, he admitted to himself. He'd not really had any nefarious intent towards the girl - winning her at a dice game was just a way for him to thumb his nose at the snobbish Messantian former captain of this vessel, who'd been overt in his sneering about 'barbarous races' in the tavern. There had been a half-formed idea to woo her with her own freedom and perhaps receive some, ah, 'gratitude' for it, but in truth the massive Aesir was - pardon the pun - at sea with women of the warmer kingdoms, especially soft ones like Chiara. Catrin was more like an Aesir lass - at least in spirit, as the Gundermen were stoic and hardened by life on the frontier of the Hyborian kingdoms - but the beautiful dark-haired noble girl was outside his experience. "Let me help." he said, coming alongside her and dropping to one knee, meaning to reach down and gather the remaining weapons. The effect was immediate. With a low cry of surprise, the Ophirean dropped both the axe she was trying to pick up and the two she was already holding with a clatter, leaping away and falling on her rump as she stared wide-eyed at the Nordheimer, who in turn was regarding her with bemusement. "Help." he repeated, pointing to himself and then to the weapons, wondering if she was perhaps simple. Scooping up one of the axes as though it were a toy, he offered it to her hilt-first. Understanding dawned in the girl's eyes as she slowly got to her feet, keenly aware that even on one knee the Aesir's head was almost level with her own. She reached out, taking the axe in both hands, then watched him as he began gathering up the other cleaned weapons. Though not the blood-covered, joyfully singing engine of destruction who had hewn through the sailors, the large man was still fearsome in aspect. His pale skin - reddened in places by the sun - was tattooed in savage patterns and glyphs, the fierce light of the northern skies in his gaze, but there were other things now that caught her eye now that the blood and worse had been washed from him. His hair and beard were clean - she had seen him every day take time to wash, comb and re-braid them with fingers that were dexterous despite the size of them. He was massively built, by far the largest man she had ever seen, but there was nothing apish or shambling about his appearance and motion. Still, though, the knowledge that he considered her his prize weighed on Chiara's mind, and she was convinced that it was only due to the aegis of Captain Dracian that the giant barbarian had not ravished her already. "Come." Eingar handed her a neat bundle of swords lashed together, and motioned her to follow him below decks. He'd gone several strides when he realised that Chiara was not following, and a glance back showed her watching him, pale and trembling. He sighed, and stepped back over to her, noting that she cast her gaze down at the deck and stood still, a goat waiting for the slaughterman's axe. "Hmmph. Look at me." His voice was a rumble, but not harsh, and the Ophirean girl peered up at his face through her lashes. "You are not mine." Eingar stated in slow Argossean. "You understand? You are free. I will not hurt you, girl. I never was going to." Doubt tinged her expression at that. Eingar huffed, somewhere between laughter and exasperation. "I swear by Ymir, and the gods of my tribe. You are safe from me forcing myself on you. Now come - we need to stow these where they will not rust and ruin your work." There was still a wary suspicion in her eyes, but Chiara followed him below decks. There, they found an empty barrel which would hold the bundle of weapons, which Eingar showed her how to wrap in oilcloth before storing. "Good." he grunted, stepping back and catching the back of his head on a low beam, which caused him to emit a string of profanity in gutter Argossean and his own tongue as he clutched the offended area. He was in the middle of invoking various devils to take whoever had built such small cramped boats when he noticed Chiara trying to cover a smile. "Oh? This is funny to you?" he asked in a plaintive tone. The girl's smile disappeared almost immediately, and Eingar paused, then sighed, still rubbing his head. "Aye, it is funny. I would laugh if it happened to someone else." he rumbled in a resigned tone, waving at her as though granting leave. "Go on, then. Laugh away." "Let me see it." Chiara said in a soft, melodic voice, surprisingly both Eingar and herself as she spoke without thinking. "Your head." she clarified, pointing to him to sit. "It is just a bump." The Aesir's tone was dismissive, but she pointed again at the bale of sailcloth. "Let me see?" she asked, sweetly pleading, her dark eyes on his, and Eingar realised that this was, in it's way, her own overture of peace. Nodding wordlessly, he sat as indicated, aware that the girl was moving behind him, her touch light as she gently parted his thick blond mane and examined the bump. The northman made no sound, even when her fingers grazed the bruised area, and she peered closer. "There is no blood." she said, apparently satisfied as she stepped back around to face him. "You have many scars." she commented as she studied him, noting the slightly paler marks on his skin, marks of blade, or fangs, she could not tell. There had, too, been a nasty one on his scalp, hidden by the long blond hair. He grinned at her. "They are marks of victory over death." he said with a short laugh, rising - carefully - to his feet. Chiara studied him a moment longer, then smiled very timidly, gently touching the fading line on her pale throat. Eingar nodded. "Aye, you have one too. And now you are free. That is what beating death does - it frees you." he chuckled. "Come, let us go back above deck. This place is like a burrow for a very small tundra fox." Nodding, still with a very slight smile, she followed him out of the hold.
  2. "The letters-man? Aye. He told me where that nilthing captain was when I was looking to claim what I was owed." The pale-skinned giant scowled faintly as he regarded the two girls, particularly the pretty Ophirean, then glanced at Dracian, a flicker of interest in his gaze. "Certain death, you said?" "Almost certain." Dracian nodded. "A slaver foul even by the standards of that breed." "Will there be wealth?" "For sure." "Glory?" The light in the Nordheimir's eyes was vaguely terrifying - not in a direct sense, but for the sheer savage lust for war and glorious death that it betokened. "If we're successful, we will have ended the reign of a prince of devils." The Messantian said by way of answer, seeing even as he did so that the huge warrior was sold on the idea. Eingar turned to the girls. "You heard the man." he rumbled in his barbarously accented Argossean. "You're free now, at least on this ship." He motioned towards the shore. "How long you remain free? That's up to you." The other girl, a long-limbed tawny-haired lass who looked to hail from the hills of Gunderland, scowled faintly at him as she examined the faint cut on the Ophirean's slender throat. "And where are we supposed to go?" she demanded, planting her hands on her hips and turning more fully to face Dracian and the northerner. "Begging or whoring on the waterfront? We will be back in chains before nightfall." Eingar shrugged. "You could stay aboard, but you heard the Argossean. We're sailing toward peril, so if you're staying, best help yourselves to weapons and armor from the dead here." He seemed to have no qualms at the idea of a woman strapping on steel, or even coming along on a deadly adventure as he turned, nodding his huge head at Dracian as the two girls exchanged glances and fast whispers. "Eingar, of the Aesir." he rumbled, slapping a blood-smeared hand on his broad chest. "Point me at your foes, and watch them rent asunder, Captain Dracian."
  3. "A straw death would be preferable for a man who would hide behind a helpless girl." rumbled the northern savage in his rough Argossean, wiping blood spray from his face with his forearm - though this mainly had the effect of smearing the crimson into his beard. The official, glancing from the captain to the two barbarians and the rogue with the ready bow, stepped forward, hands raised placatingly. "Come now, fellows... and, uh, lass." he said. "Let us have no more bloodshed here. I am a port official of Messantia, and if I were to be harmed over your quarrel it would go very poorly for you. Now, Master Knossos, perhaps it would be best to give the barbarian what he wants?" "I'll see him in hell first." The captain snarled. "And you too, damn you. Where are your guards!?" The dark-haired girl at his feet whimpered as the blade scraped her tender throat, her eyes wide with fear. "Not here, fool. Our arrangement was to be a private one, remember?" The official snapped as his exasperation warred with his trepidation. "Your men are dead, fled, or otherwise incapacitated and I, for one, would like to live past this day." With a visible effort, he forced calm into his tone. "Let us cut our losses, captain." "I am not giving my ship to that scoundrel or my girls to that savage!" roared the ship's master, and his dagger hand swept up, clearly marking it's course to plunge back down into the helpless young woman's body. The official started to protest, Dracian started forward - and Eingar threw his hammer. The solid mass of iron-capped stone was not a wieldy weapon, but the massive thews of the northron propelled it unerringly on its course. It sailed over the head of the kneeling woman to smite the captain of the vessel square in the chest with a sickening crunch, choking off the death cry of the unlucky man as the air was blasted from what remained of his lungs and his body was hurled backwards from the impact. He hit the deck of the ship, the hammer tumbling from his body as he wheezed his death rattle, the knife falling from his nerveless fingers. A shadow blotted out the sun overhead, it's voice a cold rumble as though of distant avalanches. "You should have thought of that before losing at dice." the blond barbarian stated dispassionately as he bent, scooping up his hammer, and hefted it, ready to finish the man off rather than let him linger - only for him to check his blow when he realised that life had already fled the shell that had been the captain. He looked at the official, whose face was pale with shock but was otherwise composed, then at the slender archer who had come to his aid - doubtless for his own reasons. "My thanks." he said in rough courtesy, then stepped to the Ophirean lass and closed a not-ungentle large hand around her upper arm, drawing her inexorably to her feet as she looked at him with terrified eyes and let out a wail. "Pssh. Stop that caterwauling. I just saved your life, woman. Some thanks would be welcome."
  4. "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.
  5. 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.
  6. 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."
  7. 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.
  8. 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.
  9. 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.
  10. 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."
  11. Eingar

    Ein's Stuff

  12. 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!"
  13. 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."
  14. "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.
  15. "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!"
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