Day Three of the Odinsleep - The Halls of Valhalla (part 2)
DAY THREE OF THE ODINSLEEP (5pm)
As the rest of the party is filing in to the mead hall, Grog stops and picks up one of the golden-red leaves that have fallen from the tree above. He taps one corner of the leave against his teeth, sniffs it a few times, and then finally touches if with the tip of his tongue. His examination of the leaf reveals that its metallic appearance is just a trick of the light and that the leaf itself is not made of metal – gold or otherwise.
A feminine voice speaks from behind Shadow, “So, tell me, have you learned my name yet, dark elf?”
Shadow turns to the sound of the voice and bows slightly to her "Nay, I have not my Lady. This day has been short of time for such inquires. It was to be my second task had I survived the day's battles, the first being to secure a bottle of wine fit for the moment in which I did at last meet you once again. Yet your vigilance outpaces my own and you found me as I entered this hallowed hall. Allow me to introduce myself, Nym Millithor is my formal name but most call me Shadow. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name as well and of your choice of wine this evening?"
The Valkyrie shakes her head, “You are an intriguing mortal. That is for certain. But no, if you wish to learn my name, you shall have to earn it. As for drinking, I will not partake tonight – I have other duties that I must attend to.”
She turns to leave but stops and throws a glance over her shoulder in the drow’s direction, “Grant me a favor – do not die tomorrow and seek me out again after you quit the field for the day and I will reward you with Half of my name.” With those parting words, the Valkyrie slips away into the crowd and is soon lost from view within the throng.
Morn, stops short looking over at shadow “Your name is Nym? Huh, I never knew”, before throwing himself into the revelry like a drowning man does to the shore.
Drax watches the scene unfolding before him. The assassin is astonished by everything going on around him but maintains a careful air of nonchalance as he looks around. This place is far different than what he was told to expect of the afterlife while still a youth, and he has to admit, a lot more fun than he thought it would be.
Hansuke, Desmond, Niklas, and Kysek all filter past the assassin and reach the nearest table. They discover that it is loaded to the point of nearly breaking under the weight of all of the food and mead it is laden with and begin helping themselves, thanking those nearby for the feast. Grotto happily bounds over to join his comrades, praises to Hanseath on his lips as he gives thanks for the fine meal and fellowship after the day’s battles.
Korbin waits a few moments for Arthur to speak to him about whatever it is the First Paladin of Malazzarr wanted to talk to him about but Arthur stares off into the distance, looking over the crowd so the bird shrugs his shoulders and takes flight. He wings his way through the air, swoops down and snatches a goodly-sized hunk of meat from a nearby table and carries it aloft, up into the shadows surrounding the rafters and settles in to eat. That’s when he senses that he isn’t alone. Korbin cocks his head from one side to the other and sees a pair of ravens, one to either side of him, each as large as an eagle with steel-hard talons that score deep scratches into the thick timber of the ceiling beams. The one to Korbin’s right opens his beak and speaks, “Favored of our master, you are.”
The left adds, “We remember him saying this and so we know it to be true.”
The first continues, “A strange combination you are – immortal yet weak.”
And then the left, “We remember a thing.”
The right once again, “A thing from long ago. Something our master did.”
“We remember what he did and can tell you,” comes from the left.
“If you are brave enough to trust us,” the right one replies.
The left raven asks “Will you come with us?”
The right one replies, “I think he will.”
Cedron stands in awe of the magnitude and glory of the festivities before him. He grasps his holy symbol, and whispers “Malazzarr this is truly a place befitting your glory. I will spread great honor in your name here. Your tree will soon take root, and the path of progress will again be paved.”
Cedron pulls his blindfold in place and his clothing transform into a bright blue tunic with a prominent orange upward pointing arrow emblazoned upon his chest. His trousers and boots are clean, no longer showing the rigors of the earlier battles. He then begins to make his way to the stunning god and goddess who announced their arrival.
Ra’ziir smiles as the group is celebrated for their mortal accomplishments. After formally introducing himself to Ivaldi, Ra’ziir gestures to the minstrel-god in a manner that indicates he is asking permission to perform a dance while the deity plays. The god looks at the robed woman standing beside him and she nods demurely. Ra’ziir notices that while beautiful, she has perhaps not yet reached the age where she would be considered an adult – her face has the look of a maiden on the cusp of womanhood and for a moment she seems to be asking her father to bestow a boon upon her but their body language implies that their relationship runs far deeper. The god nods and motions with one hand for the
Iron Elf to begin. The bladesinger strides to the center of the hall and the deity begins to strum a tune on golden strings. Easily finding the rhythm, Ra’ziir gracefully begins to dance in time to the music. As the tune rises and falls, the Elf leaps and whirls with a poise and nobility only his oldest comrades are familiar with. As the music plays, Ra’ziir continues to dance and draws his sword, twirling the blade through a number of intricate maneuvers and flourishes in time with the music and his steps. As the music slows to a stop does, he concludes his dance with a gracious, sweeping bow to thank the musician. The maiden goddess claps in delight and kisses her older escort on one of his whiskered cheeks before intertwining her fingers with his.
Once he has completed his performance, Ra’ziir fills a glass with the finest wine he can find and then makes his way to find some food, preferring the lighter fare.
Morn circles through and around the crowd, mingling and sharing stories and good natured bragging games. Each new person he meets melts away a bit of tension that has built up over the years until the smile he often wore as a mask has slipped into the more natural one he had two years ago. Shoulders slowly drawing back until he stands tall every movement a flourish eyes lighting up after one Einherjar shares his story. Morn stands, clear his throat and asks, “So it would go something like this?” The bard winks at a red haired Valkyrie nearby as he starts to sing.
“I was a young man then
and lived for the spear-dance.
My blood pounded hot then
as summer's hard sun.
My thoughts then were bold ones
of women and warfields,
and glory and prowess
upon either one.
It was a grey morning:
in rain I had risen.
I let my horse lead me
to drink at a stream.
As we drew near it
I heard someone singing
a song full of glory,
of ravens and steel.
I stood as if rooted
and drank in the fine sound.
All the gold in the world
could not move me away.
Instead I strode closer
to glimpse the song's singer
and when I gazed on her
my breath fell away.
She sang as she bathed
as lithe as the salmon,
all clothed only
in what the gods made.
Her skin pale as the glaciers,
her eyes golden as amber,
and her hair gleamed as red
as a new-blooded blade.
When her song ended
she turned and she saw me.
She smiled like she knew me,
as if pleased I was there.
She rose and stepped toward me
clad just in cool water,
and I? I went to her--
I was a young man.
I woke in the noon's sun
and I woke up smiling.
I looked for my lover
but I was alone.
My horse she had taken,
but where he'd been tethered
a fine leaf-blade spear leaned--
like black ice it shone.
Now that spear's served me well
in the long years I've had it;
its light was the last light
full many men knew.
My kinsmen joke often
how my spear is bewitched--
I have no answer.
My wordfame has grown.
Enough years have passed now
to turn my beard silver.
Again, I'm in service
to a man who'd be king.
As part of his warband
I stand on the warfield
with my spear and my kinsmen,
and hear the crows sing.
How long it goes on
from the first ringing shieldclash--
a moment, a lifetime,
no man can fair say.
Just the thunder of steelsong
and screams of the dying
and the stink of the blood
while Wyrd works its way.
But it's odd now how this time
through the killing and dying
I hear someone singing
a half-recalled song.
And I listen and smile
while I feed my spear's hunger,
and the singing grows clearer
and sweeter and strong.
How a man's death comes
is only as important
as how each man meets it
when it comes for him.
I meet mine fighting
a foe from the borderland--
my spear finds his heart
while his own blade bites me.
I fall to my knees
in the blood of my banesman.
The fighting rages 'round me
but silently now
except for the singing--
I hear it full clearly:
A song full of glory,
full of ravens and steel.
A touch on my shoulder
and my eyes fly open--
I am not dead yet,
though the ravens draw near.
I look into eyes
as gold as the eagle's,
see hair flowing red
as the blood on my spear.
She smiles as she sees me,
so fiercely, so fondly,
and she speaks my name
in a voice full of light.
She cradles my head
in her arms as I lie there
and my last heart-blood spills,
stains her swan-coat of white.
Now again I'm a young man
and I live for the spear-dance
and my blood runs as hot as
the gods' oldest war.
And when Ragnarok comes,
I will fight it beside Them,
my spear and my shield-maid,
to Valhalla's own door.”
Those einherjar close enough to heave heard Morn’s song applaud loudly, slamming the tables with their mugs and stomping their feet while they hoot and holler. Morn risks a glance over at the harpist god who announced us, nervous that his impromptu performance may have been pushing the boundaries of hospitality too far but the minstrel god smiles and nods at Morn before turning his attention to Cedron.
Raven remains near the back of the party, lingering near the door the group entered through – fighting on a battlefield is one thing but socializing with so many people at once has never been something that he has enjoyed. He eats while trying to avoid drawing attention to himself and only has a small amount of mead, hoping to find an opportunity to excuse himself without drawing any attention to his departure.
As the rest of the party is filing in to the mead hall, Grog stops and picks up one of the golden-red leaves that have fallen from the tree above. He taps one corner of the leave against his teeth, sniffs it a few times, and then finally touches if with the tip of his tongue. His examination of the leaf reveals that its metallic appearance is just a trick of the light and that the leaf itself is not made of metal – gold or otherwise.
A feminine voice speaks from behind Shadow, “So, tell me, have you learned my name yet, dark elf?”
Shadow turns to the sound of the voice and bows slightly to her "Nay, I have not my Lady. This day has been short of time for such inquires. It was to be my second task had I survived the day's battles, the first being to secure a bottle of wine fit for the moment in which I did at last meet you once again. Yet your vigilance outpaces my own and you found me as I entered this hallowed hall. Allow me to introduce myself, Nym Millithor is my formal name but most call me Shadow. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name as well and of your choice of wine this evening?"
The Valkyrie shakes her head, “You are an intriguing mortal. That is for certain. But no, if you wish to learn my name, you shall have to earn it. As for drinking, I will not partake tonight – I have other duties that I must attend to.”
She turns to leave but stops and throws a glance over her shoulder in the drow’s direction, “Grant me a favor – do not die tomorrow and seek me out again after you quit the field for the day and I will reward you with Half of my name.” With those parting words, the Valkyrie slips away into the crowd and is soon lost from view within the throng.
Morn, stops short looking over at shadow “Your name is Nym? Huh, I never knew”, before throwing himself into the revelry like a drowning man does to the shore.
Drax watches the scene unfolding before him. The assassin is astonished by everything going on around him but maintains a careful air of nonchalance as he looks around. This place is far different than what he was told to expect of the afterlife while still a youth, and he has to admit, a lot more fun than he thought it would be.
Hansuke, Desmond, Niklas, and Kysek all filter past the assassin and reach the nearest table. They discover that it is loaded to the point of nearly breaking under the weight of all of the food and mead it is laden with and begin helping themselves, thanking those nearby for the feast. Grotto happily bounds over to join his comrades, praises to Hanseath on his lips as he gives thanks for the fine meal and fellowship after the day’s battles.
Korbin waits a few moments for Arthur to speak to him about whatever it is the First Paladin of Malazzarr wanted to talk to him about but Arthur stares off into the distance, looking over the crowd so the bird shrugs his shoulders and takes flight. He wings his way through the air, swoops down and snatches a goodly-sized hunk of meat from a nearby table and carries it aloft, up into the shadows surrounding the rafters and settles in to eat. That’s when he senses that he isn’t alone. Korbin cocks his head from one side to the other and sees a pair of ravens, one to either side of him, each as large as an eagle with steel-hard talons that score deep scratches into the thick timber of the ceiling beams. The one to Korbin’s right opens his beak and speaks, “Favored of our master, you are.”
The left adds, “We remember him saying this and so we know it to be true.”
The first continues, “A strange combination you are – immortal yet weak.”
And then the left, “We remember a thing.”
The right once again, “A thing from long ago. Something our master did.”
“We remember what he did and can tell you,” comes from the left.
“If you are brave enough to trust us,” the right one replies.
The left raven asks “Will you come with us?”
The right one replies, “I think he will.”
Cedron stands in awe of the magnitude and glory of the festivities before him. He grasps his holy symbol, and whispers “Malazzarr this is truly a place befitting your glory. I will spread great honor in your name here. Your tree will soon take root, and the path of progress will again be paved.”
Cedron pulls his blindfold in place and his clothing transform into a bright blue tunic with a prominent orange upward pointing arrow emblazoned upon his chest. His trousers and boots are clean, no longer showing the rigors of the earlier battles. He then begins to make his way to the stunning god and goddess who announced their arrival.
Ra’ziir smiles as the group is celebrated for their mortal accomplishments. After formally introducing himself to Ivaldi, Ra’ziir gestures to the minstrel-god in a manner that indicates he is asking permission to perform a dance while the deity plays. The god looks at the robed woman standing beside him and she nods demurely. Ra’ziir notices that while beautiful, she has perhaps not yet reached the age where she would be considered an adult – her face has the look of a maiden on the cusp of womanhood and for a moment she seems to be asking her father to bestow a boon upon her but their body language implies that their relationship runs far deeper. The god nods and motions with one hand for the
Iron Elf to begin. The bladesinger strides to the center of the hall and the deity begins to strum a tune on golden strings. Easily finding the rhythm, Ra’ziir gracefully begins to dance in time to the music. As the tune rises and falls, the Elf leaps and whirls with a poise and nobility only his oldest comrades are familiar with. As the music plays, Ra’ziir continues to dance and draws his sword, twirling the blade through a number of intricate maneuvers and flourishes in time with the music and his steps. As the music slows to a stop does, he concludes his dance with a gracious, sweeping bow to thank the musician. The maiden goddess claps in delight and kisses her older escort on one of his whiskered cheeks before intertwining her fingers with his.
Once he has completed his performance, Ra’ziir fills a glass with the finest wine he can find and then makes his way to find some food, preferring the lighter fare.
Morn circles through and around the crowd, mingling and sharing stories and good natured bragging games. Each new person he meets melts away a bit of tension that has built up over the years until the smile he often wore as a mask has slipped into the more natural one he had two years ago. Shoulders slowly drawing back until he stands tall every movement a flourish eyes lighting up after one Einherjar shares his story. Morn stands, clear his throat and asks, “So it would go something like this?” The bard winks at a red haired Valkyrie nearby as he starts to sing.
“I was a young man then
and lived for the spear-dance.
My blood pounded hot then
as summer's hard sun.
My thoughts then were bold ones
of women and warfields,
and glory and prowess
upon either one.
It was a grey morning:
in rain I had risen.
I let my horse lead me
to drink at a stream.
As we drew near it
I heard someone singing
a song full of glory,
of ravens and steel.
I stood as if rooted
and drank in the fine sound.
All the gold in the world
could not move me away.
Instead I strode closer
to glimpse the song's singer
and when I gazed on her
my breath fell away.
She sang as she bathed
as lithe as the salmon,
all clothed only
in what the gods made.
Her skin pale as the glaciers,
her eyes golden as amber,
and her hair gleamed as red
as a new-blooded blade.
When her song ended
she turned and she saw me.
She smiled like she knew me,
as if pleased I was there.
She rose and stepped toward me
clad just in cool water,
and I? I went to her--
I was a young man.
I woke in the noon's sun
and I woke up smiling.
I looked for my lover
but I was alone.
My horse she had taken,
but where he'd been tethered
a fine leaf-blade spear leaned--
like black ice it shone.
Now that spear's served me well
in the long years I've had it;
its light was the last light
full many men knew.
My kinsmen joke often
how my spear is bewitched--
I have no answer.
My wordfame has grown.
Enough years have passed now
to turn my beard silver.
Again, I'm in service
to a man who'd be king.
As part of his warband
I stand on the warfield
with my spear and my kinsmen,
and hear the crows sing.
How long it goes on
from the first ringing shieldclash--
a moment, a lifetime,
no man can fair say.
Just the thunder of steelsong
and screams of the dying
and the stink of the blood
while Wyrd works its way.
But it's odd now how this time
through the killing and dying
I hear someone singing
a half-recalled song.
And I listen and smile
while I feed my spear's hunger,
and the singing grows clearer
and sweeter and strong.
How a man's death comes
is only as important
as how each man meets it
when it comes for him.
I meet mine fighting
a foe from the borderland--
my spear finds his heart
while his own blade bites me.
I fall to my knees
in the blood of my banesman.
The fighting rages 'round me
but silently now
except for the singing--
I hear it full clearly:
A song full of glory,
full of ravens and steel.
A touch on my shoulder
and my eyes fly open--
I am not dead yet,
though the ravens draw near.
I look into eyes
as gold as the eagle's,
see hair flowing red
as the blood on my spear.
She smiles as she sees me,
so fiercely, so fondly,
and she speaks my name
in a voice full of light.
She cradles my head
in her arms as I lie there
and my last heart-blood spills,
stains her swan-coat of white.
Now again I'm a young man
and I live for the spear-dance
and my blood runs as hot as
the gods' oldest war.
And when Ragnarok comes,
I will fight it beside Them,
my spear and my shield-maid,
to Valhalla's own door.”
Those einherjar close enough to heave heard Morn’s song applaud loudly, slamming the tables with their mugs and stomping their feet while they hoot and holler. Morn risks a glance over at the harpist god who announced us, nervous that his impromptu performance may have been pushing the boundaries of hospitality too far but the minstrel god smiles and nods at Morn before turning his attention to Cedron.
Raven remains near the back of the party, lingering near the door the group entered through – fighting on a battlefield is one thing but socializing with so many people at once has never been something that he has enjoyed. He eats while trying to avoid drawing attention to himself and only has a small amount of mead, hoping to find an opportunity to excuse himself without drawing any attention to his departure.
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