Spring of the 1999th year of Dreagonn's Fall

As the winter of the previous year fades to memory, and the spring thaws send snows into retreat, word comes to the Jarls of Norsia of the fate that has befallen their king. Beron The Bard was a popular king, earning his place at Jarlmoot upon the death of Hjarrir the Old. He respected the autonomy of the Jarls throughout his reign and was known for his honeyed words and gift for song. In the early years of his reign, Beron led raids along the coasts of Nirn, attacking Elven, Dwarven and Southrons at his pleasure. His expeditions were greatly renown throughout the realm, as each raid brought more wealth in gold and thralls to Norsia.

Ten years ago, the reach of the Kingdom of Gothra began to threaten Norsia. The Goths marched north in a fury, intent on laying waste to the kingdom. Their tenacity in battle was unexpected, and all the south-east of the Norsia burned. King Beron raised his banners and marched south to meet the Goths in battle. Set back after set back marred the King's army. Beron, however, would not be deterred. Using his knowledge of Norsia, the king was able to set traps and ambushes and demoralize the armies of Gothra. With the aid of the Jarls, the forces of Norsia pushed back the Gothra horde and crossed the border with steel hearts.

Beron was able to infiltrate the walls of Wallachia, the northern-most city of Gothra and put the ruling Duke there to the sword. Fearing the Nord onslaught, King Vlad of Basarab, the self styled Lord of Men, finally knew fear, and eagerly proposed a white peace. The war had been raging for five long years and Beron was now at the age of forty and five years, Beron pressed terms of his own, demanding tribute from Gothra which was quickly accepted.

Five years have passed since the war, and a tired Beron made moves to bring Norsia to a state of peace, ending raids and beginning diplomatic relations with the Therons of Galadriel and the High Kingdom of Highathar. In recent seasons, Beron grew restless of peace and led an expedition across the Shivering Sea, to find the mythic land of Everwinter. Gone for over a year, and with no word from the king, the Jarls feared the worst...

A scroll is sent out across the realm, to the halls of the twelve Jarls. It is sealed by the wing of a moth, burned in hot wax...

Rejoice sons and daughters of Norsia, for our king is in the embrace of Odin, the All-Father. May the Valkyrie speed his soul to Valhalla, to sing, feast and battle forever more. Our great king, he whose steadfast defense of the realm protected us all from many dangers, has fallen to the greatest of enemies; the storms of Odin. Such was the way of Beron the Bard, to sail heedless into danger for the glory of Norsia. Though Everwinter remains a mystery we cannot forget the greatness our king achieved, and learn from his failures.

As we remember the deeds of King Beron and pour libations to the Gods, let us also give thought to the times ahead. We approach the second millennia since Dreagonn's fall, he who thought himself a god, and the land is in need of a king. Come hither to the season's Jarlmoot with wills of stone, and bring all your wisdom. May Loki give us keen sight in this time of uncertainty. May Thor fill us with strength and courage. May Odin favour the strongest wisest of the Jarls and so name him king.

~ Otrygg the Wise, High Moth of Norsia, Keeper of Thor's Hammer, Protector of the Realm

* * * * * * * * * *



The Pale Wing Hall is not unlike any typical mead hall within Norsia. It is built upon a foundation of stone, cut low into the rheag. A small village of revelers propped up around the hall, as is common in Norsia. What sets this hall apart from the others, however, is the importance of what dwells within the catacombs below; the mythical Thor's Hammer, said be a gateway to the spirit realm, as well as the weapon of the God. Inside, a fire burns hot and bright in the central hearth, bordered with tables and benches where warm food and mead sit aplenty. Haunches of bread, simmering broth, flanks of venison atop beds of grilled leeks welcome the Jarls and their emissaries as they file into the hall. One side of the hearth is naked, free of the tables and chairs that line the other sides. It is here that Otrygg stands, his head bowed, but his keen blue eyes peek out of the hood of his plain grey robes, watching the Jarls as they walk past him to find a seat. Across from the old man, one chair is prominent above the rest, only a high back setting it apart. It is the seat reserved for the king of Norsia, and it stands empty.

Otrygg clears his throat as he tilts his head up to face the lords of Norsia. His hands remain clasped together at his waist, resisting the habit of letting them run through his snow white beard, as he tends to do. The voice of Otrygg belies his old frail frame. His was a voice of strength and wisdom. Ever it spoke to guide the Jarls on Odin's path, and steer the kingdom to greatness, and yet it was one that had been ignored all too much as of late.

"We approach two thousand years since the fall of Dreagonn. The man who called himself god, and drove Odin and his Sons from the world. As we use the gifts of the Gods to walk their path, rather then for selfish needs, as Dreagonn had done, let us be worthy to find ourselves in Valhalla, in the All-Father's embrace."

The old monk takes a moment to let his eyes rest upon the faces of the Jarls. There was Henrik, whom he knew well. Ever faithful of Beron he was, even in the face of his misgivings. Koval the Greater, who unlike Henrik, could not forgive the shortcomings of the late king. The piercing blue eyes found Ragnar of Coldmarch. Despite the mystery that surrounds the man, the old eyes could not question his loyalty to the realm. Otrygg gave himself a moment to look on Bertil the greedy. His rule in Escgor was absolute, this man who bought his crown. Searching the faces, he came upon Eyildr, the Jarless of the Vale, whom like him, had a strength to her eyes that betrayed her frail stature. There was Zarathustra whose thirst for battle could not be quenched, He then found Myriane Ashgold, a new face to the moot, whose inexplicable rise to power makes her a force to be reckoned here. Otrygg would have gone on to the others, but his hesitation was becoming noticed.

The monk cleared his throat once more. "Not a fortnight ago, a lone ship of the King's fleet returned from the Shivering Sea, speaking of a horrible storm that sent them to scatter and ruin. Lost they became in their quest to find the edge of the world, where winter reigns always. One by one, the ships sunk or ripped asunder by the storm-children of Odin. Cursed Beron was, for he led us astray late in his reign, great though his deeds may have been years ago. The body of Beron has returned and burned in a great pyre here in the Pale. Glory to him in Valhalla.

"Now we must give thought to the present, mourn the king and those lost on that perilous quest hereafter. Norsia, is without a king. The treasury is empty, Gothra has turned aside its obligations for tribute, and strife and unrest, born from an uncertain future, are prevalent in all corners of the kingdom. One of you, Jarls of Norsia, must be named worthy by your peers, to lead this kingdom to glory. Let wisdom take hold, and speak a name that will set darkness in flight from our hearts. Speak, my Jarls. Speak!"

With a bent back, the man of sixty winters found his seat among the moot, and watched earnestly for a Jarl to stand before the hearth and speak.

Jarl Henrik Havarr of Tyr

Well respected amongst those who supported the former monarch, Henrik was beset on his flanks by thanes of his hold, their names not as important as the steel they carried. As the Jarlmoot began, his entourage faded back as Henrik found his seat at the great table and eased into the airy pleasantries of greeting the other Jarls as they neared him or made eye contact. The hearth was hot and the drink plentiful, but as the monk of the Moth began his insightful speech, all eyes turned to him. Henrik listened intently, but there was little respite between the end of the monk's speech and when Henrik stood, though he stood in an amicable silence as he peered around the table.

"Long have I and my lineage protected the Tyr; the vast borderland between the Gothrans and Norsia, the Great Inroads to the Jarlmoot, to your very own Jarls." Henrik paused to pass a goblet to his lips and take a drink, wetting his lips once more. "I have served the king well, and the realm even better. Many of you I know," His eyes cast cautiously across the table, meeting the eyes of the other Jarls assembled. "Some of you, I do not. But let that give you no question of my character."

"I would serve the realm with the same benevolence that I have long served my Jarldom. I would defend the realm with the same tenacity I have defended our border. There are some here wiser than I, and it is your counsel I would heed; others here, more fierce in battle, and it is your steel I would call upon in war. But there are few here I think, that possess the love of our foregone King that long held Norsia together as I did. A unified Norsia is a strong Norsia!"

Henrik slammed his goblet down across the table, the last remnants of the crimson liquor spilling out. "I press my name, Henrik Havarr of Tyr, forward. If you would have me, to serve as your King!"

Otrygg allowed his hands to run through his snowy beard, listening intently as Henrik spoke. Watching him slam the goblet down with conviction, the old monk stood and addressed the Moot...

"Here we have the first to come forward and give a name in service to the realm, to serve as king. Listen well, my Jarls, for the seat of the king is indeed held in service to the realm. What say you, be there a wiser, stronger among this Moot? What say you?"

Bertil laid back in his chair, lazily. If this was a tense situation, upon which the very future of the Kingdom depended, he did not seem to burden the significance. Kings came and went as far as he saw it, whether by age, the sword, or in Beron's case, madness. Though recently a Jarl, and a member of the country's highest nobility, Bertil was ever a business man. Henrik Havarr was a solid option; he had the years and the experience to lead as King. However, from what Bertil had gathered of the man over the last decade, he did not know him as what one would call 'strong'. Always grovelling to the King's every whim, Henrik laboured tirelessly to his superior's benefit. Now without someone above his station, would the old man know how to approach those below his?

Looking around the room at the other Jarls, Bertil sensed that perhaps Henrik, despite his possible flaws, would be the best choice. A gambling man, he was sure that the others would rally to him. What mattered most, was that Norsia had a head, before weakness came to make victims of them all.

Stroking his neatly trimmed goatee, and leaning forwards as if waking from sleep, he cast in his lot. "Henrik is an honourable man, and a noble warrior of great renown. Though I am new here, when compared with some of your ancient and legendary blood, I believe he is the right man to lead us." Leaning back into his chair, he raised a pewter goblet to Henrik and bowed his head.

Otrygg fixed a steady gaze upon Bertil. He was a man that did not act unless at the advantage. The monk wondered what the merchant-Jarl could have to gain from the ascent of Henrick to the throne...

"That is two voices now who speak for Henrik. Eat and drink my Jarls, take what you fancy, but not so much as you lose your voice. Speak wisdom here, I beg you."

Ragnar had served under Beron but had not been to a Moot before and the occasion intrigued him. The Order was something that were more stories and rumours than actual fact and he had wanted to be present at a Moot for some time. Watching Henrik put himself forward Ragnar nodded slowly. Henrik considered himself the perfect candidate, his prior relationship with Beron and the virtues he considered important being those of the old stories. He was truly a picture of the stories however Ragnar would never deny the man had problems. However what man didn't? And right now was not the time to nitpick. United Norsia survived yet already Gothra were pushing their bonds. They needed a leader and now. On the war front Henrik was a good bet.

Sitting forward slowly ragnar took a calculated bite of a leg of chicken before sitting back

"Before I declare my vote, Henrik. I wish too know how you aim to deal with the rising threat from Gothra. We have been at peace for many years now and Gothra have the fire of revenge burning inside of them. It will take more than some sweet hams to appease these brutes and appeasement is never a good course of action."

Otrygg nodded approvingly as his keen blue eyes looked on Ragnar.

"An astute question, my lord."

The monk turned toward Henrik...

"Some words of comfort to put the threat of Gothra at ease in my mind would be a welcome thing, Jarl Henrik. Should the Moot bestow the crown upon your brow, how would you deal with the Gothra southrons?"

Henrik Havarr of Tyr

Still standing, Henrik offered a long and deep nod to the Jarl of Escgor. He continued to peer about as the Jarl's discussed the issue and when the Jarl Ragnar finally broke the silence with an inquiry, Henrik pondered for only but a moment.

"Long have the tensions between Norsia and Gothra been high, no higher than in my own fief, where the Gothran's stray into our lands, looking for unsuspecting Norsians. Long have the thanes of my Holds held the peace, but only just. A unified Norsia, a strong Norsia.. can reclaim it's glory and put down the wounded Gothran dog. With the support of the Jarl's here, I can make only one promise; as your King, there will be only one conflict between Norsia and Gothra, and it will be the Gothran's last!"

Again, with emphasis on his words, Henrik slammed his goblet atop the ancient, oak table.

Otrygg did not miss the lingering look Henrik gave Betril, the Jarl of Escgor. He surmised that if Henrik was indeed crowned, Betril would likely have a promised seat upon the council, as Steward, no doubt.

"Strong words, Jarl Henrik. Strong indeed. I say no one here doubts your conviction. I advise caution in dealing with the southrons. We have beaten them before, yes, yet that was a different time. Nevertheless, it cheers me to hear such strength spoken to these old ears. Now what say the rest of you? Does the stone voice of Henrik bring honey to your ears? Are there questions still to ask, or doubts that gnaw. Speak, my lords, speak! We must choose wisely, and trust in Odin to guide us true."

Eyildr had arrived at the Jarlsmoot with a sizeable cortège of attendants and family members. Her retinue included her son, the warrior Asmund, and her three youngest daughters - Kalli, Hjelda and Birna, the Maids of the Vale. Their attendance was deliberate, as was the fact that their mother had dressed them all in fine clothes of ermine and silk, studded with amethysts and jet jewels from beyond the sea. The king was dead, and thus the kingdom needed a new ruler. That ruler needed heirs, and for heirs one requires a Queen. Hjelda seemed the most appropriate choice, she was a learned girl with a strong constitution and aptitude for stressful situations and meaningful conversation.

For her part, the aged Jarless was also resplendent in her finery. A diadem carved of ancient, blasted oak wood rested atop her greyed hair, woven into two long plaits that trailed down her front fluidly. It was studded with jewels, sapphires and emeralds both. Her thick, leather robed dress was inscribed carefully with her house sigil, a blue horse riding on a vast green field, and her rough hewn but carefully maintained staff rested against the edge of the table. Though her age was plain and clear in the wrinkles about her face and the frailty of her person, the Crowsfoot sat upright and calm, eyes piercing and steely in the face of those who looked at her. Her manners were easy, however, and a warm smile graced her face frequently at those who took to it to strike up conversation with her. She recognised many of those seated around the table, though many of them had gained wrinkles and scars of their own since she had last seen them. Others were new, or distant. Eyildr noted Myriane Ashgold, barely older than her daughter Faelina but the Jarless of Ashfall. The old woman took a long drink of wine. "The Gilded Maiden". She had come from nowhere, and toppled the ruthlessness of Helbrook with no king to contest her. Pretty she may be, but anyone who can almost single-handedly fell such a house is not one to be underestimated.

Zarathustra Metsamees was also a familiar face, though a somewhat uncomfortable one. He reminded Eyildr precisely of the sort of Jarl that her son Asmund would make. All of the carefully cultivated relationships and diplomacy with Galadriel and the neighbouring provinces could be shattered by Asmund's warlike disposition. It had been five years now, since the young warrior had become heir to the Jarldom, when the longship carrying his two elder brothers had sunk in a great storm in the Icevein Inlet. Torvigg had been the capable leader. Eyildr had moulded him into a man of great diplomatic care and unyielding patience. Hallfrid and Asmund were to be his book and blade. The scholarly Hallfrid, however, had perished in the storm. Only Asmund had survived, only the blade remained.

Eyildr contemplated for a long while, as she always did, and disguised it as the muddling of an old woman. When Henrik spoke, she listened, placing her goblet down carefully and leaning forward. Yes, that could work. He was a careful man, loyal to the old King, but so had she been.

"If you permit me speak, my brothers and sisters," Eyildr said in her dulcet southerly tones. She rose carefully with the aid of her stick. "I would speak my piece," She waited for silence to fall, whenever such an occasion would present itself. "I may not surprise you by stating that I will not be putting myself forward as a candidate for ruler. I am old - though, I am sure many of you have observed this with your own eyes. But I feel it is my duty, as someone who has been a Jarless for some three-and-fifty years, to speak my piece duly. This may be my last Jarlsmoot, and if I should survive long enough to see such an occasion again I fear my disposition and mind will be even frailer than they are now. The election of a King is no easy task. It must not be based on whose beard is longest, whose axe is most hallowed or whose smile comes most easily. A King must be a man of careful decision and due consideration. I remind you all here tonight, that you do not have to like a King for him to be good,"

"I also know that many of you still simmer over the peace with Gothra. Many of those who do this, I have duly noted, retain lands far away from its border," She pursed her lips as if chastising her fellows. "Hjaldr's Vale rests along the southern border, alongside Galadriel, and thus I have had the opportunity to develop my diplomatic skills continuously throughout the years. It was the right thing to do. This nation cannot prosper on the face of warmongering. The Elves are a good and benevolent peoples and through me they provide many of our most valued goods, but if we had continued a campaign of Gothra I can tell you here and now we would have lost their trust. War breeds atrocity. It breeds poverty, and disease. Who will feed you when my men are called to my son's banners? Who will plough the fields and make the bread that feeds you, your wives, your babes and your servants? I urged caution throughout that war, and I urge caution again, my brothers and sisters,"

She paused, leaning bodily against the table for a moment as if her speech had fatigued her. "It is with this in mind that I consider the claims," She settled herself down into her chair again. "Jarl Henrik makes a good case for his leadership. But if he keeps slamming his goblet onto the table I may have to rescind any support I have for him,"

Otrygg smiled slightly under his snowy beard as Eylidr spoke, leaning to speak softly to a Moth monk that flanked his seat.

"Strength followed by wisdom. They should pay close heed to the words of Jarless Eyildr. Beron the Bard throught to charge heedless to danger, and all that he found was an early voyage to Valhalla. Three voices now all call on Henrik, yet voices more have gone unheard. Let Odin not still their tongues in this hour."

Jarless Myriane Ashgold The Jarless of Ashfall sat quiet in her seat, watching the proceedings of the Jarlmoot with what seemed to be an air of musing cheer. This was her first Moot, and also her first time meeting most of the other Jarls sitting around her. She returned whatever greetings she received with smiles and gracious words, but otherwise kept to herself, learning more about the Jarlmoot with each passing pleasantry. She had a good idea of each Jarl's character and mannerisms, if only through brief observations and the words of others. The Monk, Otrygg, made some interesting speech about the state of the kingdom and the need for a new king, and at the mention of kingship, the Jarl of Tyr stood and put forth his name for the Crown. There was some talk of agreement with his claim, until the Jarl of Coldmarch brought up an important point.

War.

Henrik's reply was one that even Myriane expected, and she was about to begin speaking when another of the Jarls raised their voice above the rest. The old, withered Jarless of Hjalder's Vale took a stand. She spoke with a clarity unexpected from one as old as she, and by the time she had finished, none could miss the wisdom contained in her words. This time, however, the young Jarless wouldn't let her chance to speak fly from her hands. Without missing a beat, she directly follows up Eyildr's comments by clearing her throat and moving to stand. Slowly and deliberately, she rises gracefully to her feet, her voluptuous golden curls (and other endowments) bouncing subtly as she comes to a respectful standing posture. When she opens her mouth, the voice that rings out through the hall was carefully filled with a song-like mixture of charm, mirth, and maybe an unnoticeable lining of Magic.

"Wise words, oh Jarless of Hjalder's Vale... as expected of one with your greatness of years. Now, if I may, I will take my turn to speak." On this note, she allows for a moment of silence where somebody may object to her presence there. It was a clever timing, as the age of the woman who had spoken before her served to further amplify her appearance of youth and beauty in their eyes. She continues, blue eyes tracing the faces of each Jarl sitting in attendance...

"It is a great honour for me to speak be able to speak here today, at this most important of meetings, to discuss the crowning of the very first King in my time as Jarl. I have listened to Jarl Henrik's claim to the crown, and have heard many tales speaking of his strength, and of his loyalty to the late King."

"As Jarless Eyildr has spoken before me, our King need not merely be strong, nor honourable or loyal. The King of Norsia must show sound judgment, they must be able to fight for the safety of the realm without succumbing to his fancies, or to his bloodlust. So, has Henrik shown us he is able to make decisions, knowing that the fate of the entire realm may rest on his shoulders? I believe that he has, spoken right before us today!"

"Gothra, who we gracefully allowed to share our peace, seethes in spite for the very vows which saved them and their people! Even now, the flames of revenge burn hot in their hearts as they glare lustfully at lands that are rightfully ours! War is a horrible, dangerous thing that bends the hearts of sane men, and what better evidence of this than this treachery? Gothra hides behind a deception of peace, while they truthfully gather their forces in preparation to break their vows. Caution should always be shown in times of war, Jarless Eyildr speaks the truth, so we must be prepared to protect the safety of the Kingdom when our enemies join banners against it. Henrik has already spoken his true judgement, he has said that we must protect what is ours, and stand up against the Gothran threat. This is why I feel that Jarl Hendrik of Havarr has shown all he needs to be a strong, just King. Now..."

Ending her speech, Myriance redirects her attention directly to the prospective King. She meets Henrik's eyes when she speaks to him, letting her nearly flirtatious feelings of respect pass unseen by the Jarls gathered around them-

"Jarl Henrik Havarr of Tyr, I believe that your words are as true as your merits. I support your claim to the Crown, and with me, you have all of the support Ashfall has to offer. I have but one request, and that is that I may receive a place in your council in exchange for my fealty to your Lordship. While I am new among your ranks, and lacking in the respect or experience of the others in this Moot, you will find that I am quite capable at what I do, and that I will not betray your expectations if given the opportunity. That is all I have to say, so at that, I will take my seat-" and so she did, leaving the Jarls to discuss her ambitious request. She did not expect her proposition to be accepted, but she needed whatever potential chances she could make for herself, if she was to earn the respect of her fellow Jarls.

Henrik Havarr of Tyr

While he stood, Henrik mused on whether the support for him was indeed overwhelming, or rather opposition to him non-existent. He braved the articulate words of the Jarless Eyildr with a stern face. Few could match the wise prowess of her, but in the end it was apparent that she had relinquished and offered her support. Second to speak was the Jarless of Ashfall, Jarless Myriane Ashgold. Her words too were graceful, an apparent debutant to the Jarlmoot -- she too had found her thoughts measured, but not wanting and her support was just.

When she spoke directly to him, he met her gaze and listened intently. When she was finished, he exchanged a firm nod; but as to what end that meant was unclear. He remained standing, and his eyes instead lingered to the monk, Otrygg.

Jarl Ragnar was about to speak when the newest of the members to the table spoke. He had to calm himself as he almost slammed a mug down on the table at the mention of her placing on the council. Looking over to Jarl Henrik he attempted to catch his gaze and remind him silently of the deals made before the Moot. Despite being a new member to the table Jarl Ragnar had used his 'friends' to secure a lot of information about this women. She was devious and cunning, traits he admired and had himself. He knew her strengths and they would mean she was after the post of Spy-Master. A post he desired himself.

Curse the bitch, it seems I must lay myself low earlier than expected to protect my interests. He thought.

"Jarl Henrik, your words have assured me of the positive directions you would take Norsia. I will be swearing my fealty and vote to you. In hopes that together, as a nation, we may grow and become closer. Heading eacothers advice and council."

The aged Jarless observed these events with a collected calm, but her expression soured somewhat at the Jarless of Ashfall's blatant request. It was courageous, if foolhardy, for someone so young and thus inexperienced to be so unrepentantly and unmistakably ambitious. Eyildr chewed a narrow sliver of bread, then swallowed. Support for Henrik seemed almost uncontested, and since plain speech was evidently the desired course, it would be best even for her to speak without pretence or consideration of what would be deemed correct in normal circumstances.

"I am not one for impracticality, my Jarls, and so I hope you see my plainly when I speak to you all. The Jarlsmoot is no time for manners, but for the steady hand of the kingdom's affairs. Jarl Henrik, only I surpass you in age here at this table. That much is obvious," She offered a smile to the grey, bushy Jarl that was not unkind. "I have enjoyed your presence at this council for many years now, and at mine own table in Firsthold have I gladly broken bread with you and your kin, and will do so again. You are our bulwark against the ostensibly expansionist ideals of the Gothra, and for that we are all grateful for the sacrifices Týr makes to protect our own lands, both in manpower and resource," She paused, taking a long drink of wine.

"But you are old. I hope I don't offend you when I say this, but we must talk of a succession even before an ascension. Who will lead your armies in your stead, when you are too weary to do so? And when you join our late and noble king in Valhalla, how will you ensure in your lifetime that our kingdom does not descend once again into scrabbling chaos? These are questions you must consider duly. Are you truly fit to govern this kingdom newly at such an age? I know you as a good and strong man of great character. Do our people? Do our petty lords and arls, and moreover, does everyone here? I seek not to overburden you with questions, my good friend, merely lay out the due considerations,

Henrik Havarr of Týr.

"Aye," he mused, "I've seen many winters. But whether my bountiful reign be long or short, we are a people steeped in laws and tradition. The Jarlmoot has long served the people of Norsia before any of us yet breathed, and the Jarlmoot will stand long after we are gone."

Henrik did not sense discord, but felt the Jarless' questions were valid. Henrik mulled for a moment, his goblet still in hand. "But does a King serve because his service will be long, or rather because it will be just? Take my age not at the expense, but rather the benefit of this great kingdom. Long have I stood over the squabbles of coin and war beside King Beron the Great, and I have seen what the ambitions of younger men might bring with a crown. I wish instead to return Norsia to it's true and former glory before I am called home to Valhalla." Satisfied with his own answer, Henrik wiped an arm across his beard embellished chin and gulped the rest of his goblet down.

The longer the moot raged on, the deeper Bertil descended into boredom.

If that old witch would just shut her mouth and let us get on with it, he mused to himself, then I'd be free to return to Escgor, and try my hands at my wife's new woman in waiting. Pretty, that one, and there's nothing like a young pretty wench to make a man feel young again, that much is true. He chuckled aloud, but quickly coughed to cover his blatant disinterest in the moot.

It wasn't that he hadn't paid due attention, it was just that the Jarls seemed to have spoken to the point that nothing much else needed saying. Jarless Crowsfoot had made a fair case though; the old man hadn't an heir to Bertil's knowledge, and his knowledge was deep as far as everyone else's lives were concerned. It paid to have ears to the ground around your rivals, whether they were fur merchants or Jarls. Not that Henrik's lack of a son was secret. The more Bertil thought about it, the bigger his grin stretched across his face.

Perhaps when Henrik drops dead, I'll have a stab at this crown nonsense. Norsia's riches would know no bounds with me at the helm, that's for sure, he thought to himself; his grin quickly becoming a smirk.

It was true that the merchant-Jarl had big plans for Escgor. Within five years, he had steadily turned it from a forgettable backwater to a booming economy. Trade was his key, and to get trade, one had to be prepared to make friends with everyone. It didn't matter that usually one friendship was aimed at hamstringing another; as long as all parties involved failed to realise someone was losing out, then no one got hurt feelings. Hurt feelings were bad for business. With this in mind Bertil suddenly revived his interest in the moot, and started to study each of the Jarls long and hard as they talked. Were any of them really fit for the throne?

Beron had done great things, as far as Bertil was concerned. He increased external trade links, allowing all kinds of new goods to flood the market, and Bertil was always there to capitalise on the trends of the consumer. Whether it was buying bulk supplies of Elven silk, or spices from Highathar, it didn't matter, as long as there was variety and demand, House Reenburg would always be front runner to the table of commerce. Henrik seemed likely to go in the other direction however, and this may cause hardships for a time, but as the Jarless had noted; he was old, and soon someone else would step forth, ready to capitalise on the disasters of his decisions. That someone could very well be Bertil. He flashed his smirk again, despite himself.

Yes, he thought, perhaps one day, when the time is right

For now however, all the wily merchant could do was bide his time; watch, wait and buy. That wisdom had gotten him this far, and he had plenty of faith that it'd take him further still.

The road south from Frostmourne, the northern most city in all of Norsia, is cold, long, and arduous. It is a great journey that sets off weeks prior to the Jarlsmoot, and it is faced with the great perils of the forsaken land that is The Province of Arda’Njor. Biting cold winds that pour in from the Shivering Sea that can freeze a man in his place, rolling hills that have seen ages upon ages of snow laid upon them, and the treacherous Hold Mountains that have claimed the lives of many who attempt to pilgrim south.

Though to the proud people of Arda’Njor, the weather is simply a challenge to be met, and conquered. It is the driving spirit of the clans that has tamed the land in opposition to the will of the Gods. The same will that drove the armies of the Province to march south in support of the King in his campaign against the Kingdom of Gothra. Armies that knew they’d likely never see their home land again, yet were content in the knowledge that they would die in service to the King, and in securing and advancing the borders of the Norsia. However, this contentment was broken when the war ended with a “mutual” peace was brokered between the warring empires.

Jarl Koval the Greater remembers the great journey north at the end of the War, passing through the lands of Tyr, whom he and his men had fought so brutally to defend. Koval might not have been of Tyr, but he viewed it as he did all of the other Provinces of Norsia, as the sacred lands of the Nordic people. He knew then, just as he knows now, that Tyr, along with all of Norsia would have been safe, had the war continued, and had Gothra been brought under lock and key, rather than a knee.

All of this Koval had contemplated as he and his entourage had made their way south for the Jarlsmoot. All of this he contemplated as he sat quietly at the great table, his hand placed carefully beneath his strong chiseled and bearded chin. Koval was a massive man, standing nearly two meters tall, with shoulders as broad as an oxen. He stared across the table at the other Jarls of the Kingdom, measuring them up in his head by what he knew of each.

There was Henrik, who’d all too excitedly put forth himself as a candidate for the throne. His bid to power was obvious to Koval, who could see the desire in the old man to establish a lasting legacy. He knew that it was this that fueled him, not the desire to serve his Kingdom. It was one reason why Koval knew he could not offer his support of Henrik to the Jarlsmoot. Another, was Henrik’s blind and loyal support of the King in the past, a King who served with honor and distinction early, but later with cowardice and even madness later on.

Then there was Bertil of Escgor, whom came to power thanks to his expertise in mercantile, and a deep purse. Koval held no ill will toward merchants, but he certainly didn’t trust them, and when Bertil offered up his support of Henrik so quickly, he knew there must have been a promise of gold made. He narrowed his eyes as he examined Bertil, knowing he was a cunning man, and respected that in him. But at the same time, his mistrust of Henrik was growing, as he was all but certain of their arrangement.

And while Henrik answered the question asked by the young Jarl from Coldmarch in a manner that Koval had liked, he couldn’t dismiss the feeling of distrust he had.

Koval turned to look to his Arls standing against a wall nearby, themselves watching over the proceedings. His son, Koval the Lesser, and his closest advisor, Toral Stone-Fist. Toral raised a curious eyebrow as he spotted Koval’s gaze, as though they were thinking the same course of action. Though, they’re gaze was broken when Eyildr, the eldest of the Jarldom rose to speak.

Long had Koval respected her, even though they might not have always agreed on things. He’d always known that it was the unity of the Kingdom that drove her, rather than an ulterior motive. As she spoke, he listened with a reverence deserving of her age, and of her long service as a Jarless. Her words might well have directed at him in a sense, as she brought up the long lasting bitterness regarding the war against Gothra, and it’s abrupt end. He understood where she spoke from, and respected her for her honesty.

It was becoming obvious to Koval that Henrik had brokered many deals with the other Jarls, as the next one to speak was the youngest of all the Jarldom, and immediately after offering her support of Henrik, demanded a spot within his council. Koval fought the urge to roll his eyes at the obviousness of her approach, and the groveling manner in which she offered fealty toward Henrik in exchange. If she wanted to earn respect from the other Jarls, she failed to do so in the eyes of Koval.

Koval then mused at how quickly Ragnar offered his fealty to the would be King, only to offer up an actually audible chuckle at Jarless Eyildr’s comments regarding Henrik’s age, and her own. He’d actually not considered this before, but it did seem to make sense. Though, Henrik did an admirable job of disarming the thought, Koval hadn’t entirely bought his sell job.

The old warrior had finally heard enough, and thought it was time for him to offer up his thoughts to the Jarlsmoot. Pulling his hand away from his bearded chin, he leant back to slide his chair out from underneath of the great table, and stood slowly. For what seemed a long moment, he stood silently, his eyes going over each of the other Jarls, before he turned toward Henrik in particular.

”It is obvious that the support you’ve mustered up for yourself is nearly overwhelming. If I’m not mistake, that makes five who favor you for the ascension to the Throne. Impressive.” He let this linger a moment, wanting the accusing nature of his tone be clear.

”You even speak of resuming the war against the Kingdom of Gothra, something that maybe I, and other members of the moot might favor. But I must wonder, as one who was so very close to our former King, do you not support the peace that he brokered? A peace that I, and others have questioned? A peace that may have brought the threat of peril to your Province, and all of Norsia?”

”I ask, because if you are to ascend as King, as it appears you will, it will be the armies of Arda’Njor, as well as the armies of all our Provinces that will congregate within your lands to drive back the Gothran threat, and I wish to know if you truly have the convictions to see it done in completion. Or if you are made of the same stock as our former King?”

Henrik Havarr of Týr.

Koval.

To say he had been a thorn in King Beron's side was not true. Henrik was not a genius, or even cunning -- but rather true to his word, and if asked to describe the Jarl Koval of the Northern Provinces after a few too many drinks, he'd probably relate him to the very Jarl he ruled over. Cold. There was a certain honor in the ruthless efficiency that Koval carried with him, and while Henrik burdened himself with the virtue of truth and justice, Koval had mastered the meticulous antics of a man not so easily swayed.

"The Gothran Wars saw many things, Jarl Koval, and King Beron acted with the wisdom of that particular winter. The Gothrans," Henrik sighed, he was there, at Wallachia. "were beaten. They were tired dogs. Who at this table could know the Gothran King, Vlad would let his anger boil over?"

Henrik mulled, as he did -- a warrior who had seen been at the borderland sieges, the butchering at Wallachia, the final victory, -- he was a fledgling statesman. "You misjudge the giving of our late King, Jarl. You have made your thirst for war apparent at this Jarlmoot, Koval, but as King I will seek to hoist Norsia to an age of glory, not one of war."

Koval’s starkly blue eyes were locked on Henrik as he waited for a reply, looking carefully to judge his mannerisms. The hard process in which one earned trust of the people of Arda’Njor was a byproduct of the harshness of the land. Offering trust so easily would have led to the collapse of the Province long ago, and Koval was not about to make that mistake. He intended to challenge Henrik, and challenge he did.

"In fact, it was at the behest of my father, the late Jarl of Arda’Njor, that the war continue. That an occupying force remain to ensure the obedience of the Gothran people. He saw it then, as did others. Yet Beron did not heed our warnings. Instead, a peace was brokered, allowing Vlad to rise to prominence, and the threat persist. The Gothran are a vicious people, and like the dogs they are, the should have been kept on a tight leash."

Taking a deep breath, Koval shook his head. "The threat that the Gothran possess is obvious, and if you cannot see that, then how can we expect you to meet it? You speak of an age of Glory, but how can Glory be obtained without first ensuring the security of our land? Of your own, land?” Koval wanted those last words to sting, and he made sure his tone betrayed that.

”…and while you dismiss me as a warmonger, understand that I have accepted that our security can only be achieved by meeting this threat on the field of battle. That the long lasting perpetuity of our land can only be assured, when the dogs of the Kingdom of Gothra are held in check by a short leash.” With one of his massive hands he makes a yanking motion, as though her were to cull a feral beast.

”So again, I ask you. Are you of the sort to back up your words, and drive our enemies into the ground? Or are you of the same sort as our former King, and back down at the earliest offer of tribute?"