Henrik Havarr of Týr

Not yet king and already the muddled waters of politics were to make themselves known. Koval saw in a less than robust black and white, but anticipating becoming a monarch was looking at the multi-angled issue with the perspective of a king. While the Gothran hounds seemed eager to fight, the Elves in the West had their eyes set solely on the conflict and Henrik would not so easily dismantle that fragile trust. Henrik saw through the ruse -- or perhaps it was no ruse but rather a genuine affair with boodlust -- of Koval. The Jarl of Arda’Njor had only one card to play, and he had just laid it down on the table. While Henrik deemed it important to keep the fierce warriors of the cold North on his side, the greatness of Norsia would not be prematurely extinguished by a war.

"You worry solely of Gothra, when your focus should remain with your countrymen. A king sits not on the throne and already you talk of crossing the border, Koval. Norsia will be strong, and when it's Jarl's are satisfied, when it's people are fed and the cold winters are over will we march on Gothra, and not a moment before."

Henrik, having been standing for several minutes since he announced his candidacy, he returned to his chair.

Letting out a deep sigh of disappointment, Koval shook his head as Henrik sank back into his chair. In truth, a small part of Koval had hoped that Henrik would rise to his challenge, so that he could offer his support to the man. But it was made fully clear to him now, this was not the man to lead the Kingdom. Koval desired not the throne himself, but he would not see the sovereignty of the Nordic people undone by the inaction of a weak King.

”…you are right to accuse me of concern regarding the Gothran. We should all see what is brooding to the east, and be concerned. You, most of all, as Jarl of Tyr. But rather than ride out and meet this threat, cutting it off before it can become truly powerful, you wish simply to wait and see. You speak of strength, yet you are unwilling to demonstrate it.”

Imploring his fellow Jarls for a moment as he glances to each of them, Koval looks back to Henrik again. “You do a disservice to your people if you do not think that they can rise to meet that which faces them.” With that, Koval looks to Otrygg. “I offer my services to the Jarlsmoot to serve as their King, if they would so choose. I will see done, what Beron failed to. I will see secure our borders, and I will see our enemies conquered.”

Otrygg nods slowly, his hand smoothing out his white beard.

"So you say, Lord of Frostmourne. My Jarls, another name is spoken for your consideration. The matter of Gothra is a contemptuous issue, to be sure, and again I advise caution. War heedlessly sought is a doomed course, and sound leadership is needed. Can we find that in Henrik, Jarl of Tyr, or in Koval, Jarl of Arda'Njor? Both men have served the kingdom well in the past, but it is your call to make, my Jarls. May Odin grant you all wisdom."

The Nordic Pantheon
by
Moth Grima Wyrmtongue
1989 D.F.


the fall from Odin's grace

For the purposes of this tome, I shall be outlying just the high tier of Gods that sit atop the Pantheon. My contemporaries have produced volumes upon the subject, but my intent here is to give but an easy reference to even the most detached of layman. The All-Father's children are many, and gone from the world though they may be, let us always give worship and learn and ask forgiveness.

Odin
Praise be to Him, the All-Father, from which all life has sprung, Master of the Heavens and the Kingdom Beyond. It was Odin who created Rheagonn, forged the world in fire, water, rock and air. He is the lord of the elements, and though he gave us wisdom and sight, He could not save us from sin and poor judgement. Odin sits in Valhalla, awaiting those mortals who earn places of glory in the realm of mortals.

Odin's beautiful Shield-Maidens, the Valkyrie, shepherd the souls of the valiant dead, upon being burned from the mortal realm, to the halls of Odin in Valhalla, to feast and fight forever more.

Thor
He is the First-Born, the bold and the honourable, may all who seek courage and great deeds in battle pay homage to Him. Odin gave Thor dominion over Norsia, to lead mortals to the grace of the All-Father. Many lessons Thor taught mortals both on and off the field of battle, to be truthful and honourable and ever strong. He sits now in Valhalla, waiting to greet those who follow his tenets.

Loki
Loki, holder of cunning wisdom and a serpents tongue. Jealous of the favour bestowed upon his brother by Odin, Loki fought for control over Norsia, leading through guile, giving wisdom and keen sight to those mortals who followed Him. Reconciliation happened in the late hour of the God's reign on Rheagonn, and Loki sits now in Valahalla among the All-Father and kin. When strength fails you, pray to Loki for cunning but never forsake your Nord's honour.

On Dreagonn
It is incumbent upon me, dear reader, to impart to you but a brief lesson on Dreagonn, the man who called himself god, for if one is to understand the Gods, then even the briefest of lessons on the Sinner is needed.

Dreagonn was a man who shunned Thor's rule of Norsia, and proclaimed himself master of the realm, and entitled to the powers of the Gods. A mighty army he gathered to him, through lies and deciet that even spurned Loki to the banner of His brother. Promising Godhood to all who followed him, Dreagonn cast countless lives to end at the hands of the Gods. Dreagonn stole Thor's hammer, and drew blood from the God, filling himself and his sinful followers with power.

Odin, grieved by the fall of his mortal children called the Gods back to Valahalla, to mourn the fall of Rheagonn from grace, and await those valiant enough to return to his embrace.

May the All-Father forgive us all, and may we look upon Him again in his high halls.

Bertil looked at Koval with amusement. Ah yes, finally, a true warrior speaks up. I see fire in his eyes, and with sons to his name, he'll be sure to charge us all head first into the fires of war. Not today, Koval my man, not today.

"Must we look on Gothra with old eyes?" Asked Bertil, appearing as modest as he could. "Yes, there is bad blood between Norsia and they, but my friends, no nation has ever benefited from prolonged conflict. As Jarless Crowsfoot has pointed out, along with our much beloved Otrygg: War has many draw backs. Speaking from a merchant's point of view, if I may, a war with Gothra would need to be brief and brutal. Already our trade fleets are challenged by other nations, when it is we Norsians, rulers of the waves, that should have a stranglehold on the seaborne routes of commerce. A war with Gothra would deplete what we already have, and what we have, and forgive me for saying, is very little when I think upon the matter of what we should have." Looking towards Henrik, and once more raising his pewter goblet he nodded, "Henrik is right to approach them with caution, as any good Norsian should when dealing with an adversary. However, if there exists a possibility for our two nations to benefit in mutual coexistence, then Norsia would stand to gain from the opening of trade links, and further deals resulting henceforth. We must not shut out the world, and approach it with sharpened axes, no. We must approach it with open arms, but keeping our eyes on the dangers that arise from our dealings."

The Old Hound

As still as a statue fashioned from the darkest marble, the old hound of Amriel sat. Zarathustra Whitemane, descendent of the great Snorri Metsamees, sat silent up until now. His great hands folded on the table before him, his light blue piercing eyes watching each man and women at the table speak their peace, his mind weighing the odds behind his cold gaze. Dressed in a great cloak made of the hide of a once mighty white wolf, draped over his finely made nordic steel, his long locks of silver white hair splayed about him like a great mane of diamonds. Which stood in streak contrast to his remarkably coal black skin, giving him the appearance of a living onyx golem. This combined with his powerful physique marked him as an intriguing if intimidating man, perhaps the most interesting man in the room if such was based on appearances alone. Indeed the many scars upon him told many a tale, and of course revealed that Zarathustra had seen his fair share of battles, and one such scar most prominent among his features was visible as a red line running down from his left eye.

His own aura of dread about him was only amplified by the great fierce hound coiled some feet back from his chair. Nuntis was far more than a mere hound however, oh indeed one would know it without question with one look at that mighty beast! That unnatural spark of light in its dark eyes bespoke of understanding few animals held. It's fur was of such faded brown to appear almost like gold when the light hit it in just the right way, indeed his name was well deserved. At that moment it paid no heed to others in the room, gnawing on a large bone at the moment, though it remained watchful over its master even so preoccupied.

Nuntis was not the only member of Zarathustra retinue however, there was his eldest son Kjarik, a fine a warrior as one might ever find or need, and also proven himself in his duties as Arl. Then there was his younger brother as well, Sorarik Whitemane Thane of Amriel, both ambitious and strong, though lacking the wisdom that came only with age. Hellne too had come, though only after much arguing was Zarathustra at last convinced to take her as well. As the debate waged on, Zarathustra took hold of his mug, no fancy goblet, and seeped of the mead within. Mostly to wet his dry throat, for it paid to not drink heavily at a moot, though Zarathustra constitution offered him a formidable resistance to alcohol. Zarathustra weighed Henrik's speech in his mind that one had a fondness for flowery words he did. However sweet words held no power over Zarathustra, he was a man of action, and it was always action that spook loudest in the minds of all Nords. Eyildr was another speaker who words Zarathustra pondered, for he held respect for her as well, the kind only one who had survived as long as sh could so easily earn.

Though for her part unmistakable wisdom weighed strongly in each word, of that he could not deny for she raised important points. Still there was a fine line between diplomacy and meekness. Could a man like Henik walk it, or would he bulk at the challenge as Beron had done and show weakness where he should have shown strength? Then there was the Jarless of Ashfall, who threw her support behind the high king as well, though not without groveling for position like some milk drinker. The smallest hint of a frown followed her declaration of support. His sharp eyes did not miss Henrik's subtle nod in her direction however. He even noted Jarl Bertil's seeming loss of interest as the moot waned on. More flowery speech followed as Henrik answered every challenge sent his way, the man had a way with honeyed words Zarathustra would give him that. Indeed there was much gain if he took the throne Zarathustra had to admit.

When Koval stood however and spoke his peace at last, a rare smile graced his lips for just a moment. Zarathustra knew Koval well; indeed they had both fought and bleed together on the same battlefield throughout much of the Goth and Nordic conflict. Whoever believed Zarathustra had not risked much for his homeland they were sadly mistaken. Indeed Koval was a man much like Zarathustra, a man of honor and integrity. It might be said that Koval were among the few in that room who matched Zarathustra own great stature.

"The War Giants" Some had dared whisper in part from the fact both Jarl's had not taken the peace with Gothra well. The back and forth between Henrik and Koval had been the most interesting part of the Jarlmoot thus far. However in the end, Henik had indeed answered Koval's concerns. Zarathustra could see that his response to the threat Gothra presented would be hardly different from that of his predecessor it seemed. 'Wait and see' was not the attitude one would be wise to take at such a time as this. One could not have it both ways, to swim the cold waters yet not feel the bite of the cold. It would be unwise verging on the edge of a foolishness to wait, thus allowing Gothra to reclaim its lost strength. No such a move would be a terrible blunder on Henik’s part, already time was against them.

Zarathustra rested his elbows on the oak table, hands entwined under his chin as he watched Henrik closely. Even as Bertil spoke of trade and more peace. Finally the Old Hound could remain quite no longer. Clearing his throat for silence he moved to stand, a certain unnatural kind of grace to his movements despite his age and size. Standing now at his full height he seemed to truly dwarf those around him. When a spoke, his voice was deep and resounding, the kind that seemed to rumble with a clarity that hinted at a man used to shouting orders on the battlefield easily heard even over the sounds of slaughter. His breastplate gleamed in the fire light, his family's crest easily visible as it was displayed proudly upon his chest. A backdrop of black and at its center the fiery face of a wolf. In some ways one might see much of that wolf in Zarathustra, fierce, strong, proud, but, almighty loyal to those who earned his trust.

"My friends, brothers, sisters all. I ask for your ear now." His voice boomed, an odd calm to it despite the giant who wielded it. He waited a moment as he met each of their gazes with pale blue orbs. "I have listened as each of you spoke your peace, weighing in my heart all the while the choice we must make today in the wake of Beron The Bard's untimely demise, we must choose who among us will lead this proud realm we call home. Yet...more importantly we choose who will be the face of Norsia to those within and without this ancient realm. I am not a man of honeyed words, nor do I possess the wisdom of as many winters as our dear Jarless of Hjaldr's Vale." He bowed respectively in her direction. "But I offer you now, what wisdom I may. Henrik has positioned his candidacy for the throne--indeed he has proven himself a capable jarl in Tyr, something few can dispute. Henrik Havarr has ever been a wise and cautious leader, a man of honor and holding firm in the old ways, admirable traits all. However, while there might have been a time I too would have quickly placed my trust in Henrik, such uncertain times as now require swift action, not mere promises or waiting."

"I do not pretend to have any great love of Gothra- In fact I do admit I would like nothing more than seeing their king put to the torch. But make no mistake; Gothra is very much a real threat. Have you all forgotten already how close they had come to victory so early in the conflict? Only unexpected ferocity of our people and the alienness of our land halted their march, something Beron in his wisdom was quick to use to our advantage- even the sacking of Wallachia had been chance, the Gothrain fools never believing we would strike so deep and so decisively. But did Beron press his advantage and use that victory to make certain they would never strike use again? Nay, he accepted their surrender instead, showing them a mercy they would never have offered to us. My friends, do you think Gothra will be content to lick their wounds and settle into trade? Do you believe a people willing to start a war to stamp us out for raids will take defeat humbly and seek no retribution? Will we wait for them to rebuild their strength, throwing away the sacrifice of countless warriors to 'wait and see'? There are those among you who will think me nothing but a warmonger, I care not. Your feelings will not change fact, and that truth my friends, is these Gothrain's will not sit idle; even now they rebuild their strength. Five years fighting these snakes, and I am certain of only one thing. They 'will' return again, and do not think they will repeat the same mistakes they have in the past."

He paused, his eyes resting on each jarl, to finally end on Henrik.

"So, at the risk of repeating a question already drawn before us. Are you Henrik- are any of us- so willing to gamble the lives of our people on a 'wait and see' attitude?""

Otrygg watched Zarathustra intently as he spoke, turning to the other Jarls as he posed his final question. The old monk searched their faces as though his eyes could bore into their very minds, and read their thoughts. Finally the monk cleared his throat and spoke.

"Though war with Gothra may be inevitable, I would not advise us to assume they are weak, no less so then us. Our treasury is dust, the throne is empty, and unrest tears away at the kingdom. What can we say of Gothra, do we really know? What we do know is that King Vlad of Basarab reigns still, controlling the kingdom with an iron fist, by all accounts, and so, one can assume, suffers not from the ails we do. I deem it wise to ponder ourselves the weaker, at this point in time.

"A wait and see attitude is not one I endorse, nor should any of you, but an attitude of strengthening and preparing for a war that seems poised to find us. Who then best to do this? Henrik or Koval? Both men I would swear to, but one over the other? I cannot say, nor will I, for it is not my place. That honour is yours, my Jarls."

Henrik Havarr of Tyr

The debate seemed to intensify as Zarathustra weighed in. Henrik mused the fact that the two most prominent and bloodthirsty of the Jarl's had faraway stations to call home. They had the audacity to belittle Henrik's judgment, when it was Henrik's own bannermen who prowl Gotho-Nordic borders. Henrik had since seated himself, and after heeding the advice and inquiries of the Northerners, he presumed to stand once again, but he did not once look in Zarathustra's direction.

"If it is a perfect King you seek, then I am not your man," he glanced around, making eye contact with the young Jarless, then the withered but still regal Eyildr as well. Then man of all things gold, Bertil. He made eye contact with Ragnar and then looked back at the empty throne, the throne of the King of Norsia. "There are men in this room that would lead you to war, to great victory even. And when the fires of war have died, what then will you have? You will have a King who rules just as he wages war. Without mercy. Without consideration.

"I have a grand vision of Norsia, and I would seek a reign that would see Norsia empowered for when our great grandchildren finally walk the world. A war with these Gothrans there may be, but I will see the coffers first filled, the serfs fed and the stones sturdied before I will march needlessly to war."

THE VOYAGE OF HJALDR, BLESSED AMONGST MEN
Written by Hallfrid Crowsfoot



HJALDR Crowsfoot voyaged across the uncharted Icevein Inlet in an act of bravery that would become legend throughout Norsia, and his reward was the lush and bountiful land of the Vale which now bares his name. Even at the time of this writing, his family still presides over the eminent, warm and fertile lands of the Vale as a reward for Hjaldr's bravery and courage in charting those untested and unsafe waters.

The Crowsfoot are a house older even than the Vale - a petty noble house from what is now Coldsmarch, who had decided that the life of subservience no longer suited their pride, and decided that beyond the as of yet uncharted Icevein Inlet lay a land untouched yet by the ambitions of men. Thus, with money gathered from all available sources and the sale of his family's last manse, Hjaldr, his wife Miravine, his two daughters Jarra and Yartha and his sons Ransund, Åmund and Ruhen. He gathered about him his most leal bannermen, who came with their families without thought of what may lie ahead. It was these men, with not a penny to their names, that sailed forth from from Coldsmarch one fateful night.

The journey was long and perilous. The assembled had brought salt pork and salt fish enough to last for weeks, but fresh water had become a quick concern. The men began to thirst, and three servants died. Hjaldr's wife Miravine and his daughter Jarra fell ill too, and for a time it was feared they too would perish. However, one night, as the moon illuminated the waves, an iceberg passed close to the ship - close enough so that one could reach out and touch it. Hjaldr's youngest daughter Yartha, then just a girl of eight years, watched as a seagull swooped down atop the berg and drank heartily from its top, where some melted water had accumulated. The girl rushed quickly, chipping off large segments of the berg and drinking of them heartily. She brought some to Miravine and Jarra, and they too drank of the fresh water, untainted by the brackish salt that pervaded all else. It was with this in mind that Hjaldr knew his youngest daughter had saved his life and that of his whole family, and he was well pleased, and would never forget this great miracle, nor the quick thinking of his daughter. Yartha would for the rest of her life be known as Yartha Quickfleet, and would be the founder of the city of Red Roost.

One day, near landfall, a thick fog descended on the ship and many feared they would hit rocks and sink. Some began to express disillusionment, for some more men had died since the water crisis. Fearing revolt, Hjaldr looked to the skies for a sign from the gods. It was then that the Ice Nymph Faetiara appeared to him, riding on an iceberg nearby. She was a pretty, ageless creature with a delicate touch and eyes that glimmered with the flames of the sea and the gods. She told Hjaldr that she had drowned all men who had tried to cross the inlet in the past, but his honourable nature and devotion and convinced her that it should be who is allowed to pass forward into the bountiful lands beyond.

She smiled at Hjaldr, and with the authority of the gods told him that he would own the land he discovered from the very coast to the heathen lands of the Elves, by divine authority. Then, she cleared the fog, and kissed Hjaldr tenderly on the head. There, a crown formed of fine, iced crystal that sat delicately on his head and shimmered constantly so as to appear half-transparent and occasionally as if it were not there at all. This crown remains the finest artefact of the house Crowsfoot - Faetiara's Diadem, or the Ice Crown, is used in all crowning ceremonies for new Jarls.

Landfall was made with the Vale shortly afterwards, and at the very spot where Hjaldr fall and kissed the rich dirt, his son Ransund placed the family banner from which the capital city of Firsthold would grow. His other children rode forth, starting holdfasts and towns of their own and farming the rich land in the name of House Crowsfoot. Yartha went to Red Roost, and was the first Norsian to make meaningful diplomatic contact with the Elves of Galadriel, and with the cultivation of the land came a divinely ordained wealth and prosperity to the region that has been uninterrupted ever since.

Koval looked to Otrygg, and nodded to him out of respect and to accede the floor as it were. He did not however, retake his seat, instead remaining on his feet to answer questions and concerns. Turning a moment to check upon his son Koval the Lesser, then his friend and advisor Toral, he had hoped that he’d done right by them. On the journey south from Arda’Njor, Koval made it clear that he had no intention of ruling as King, but things as it seemed, changed that during the moot.

He was aware of the support that Henrik had secured for himself, most likely prior to the moot, was enough to see him crowned. But to Koval, he was honor bound to at least offer himself as an alternative, in the event that the Jarls would withdraw their support of Henrik.

His attention was then brought to the Merchant Jarl, Bertil, who spoke of opening trade with the Gothran. Koval scoffed audibly at the notion, shaking his head in absolute disgust. He couldn’t believe his ears, that someone would actually suggest something as outright ridiculous as trading with a sworn enemy, then again, Bertil wasn’t your average Jarl, and Koval reminded himself of this. To the merchant, business was business, not war. At least Koval thought, that Bertil was a man who would stick to his convictions.

Koval thought to speak again, and address the foolishness of Bertil’s suggestion, but instead he saw an old friend rise to speak, and held his words for a moment longer. The Old Hound, Zarathustra Metsamees, a man whom Koval had fought beside during the Gothran War, and man whom he’d trusted greatly. When he asked for his ear, he granted it, and saw that his son too looked upon the great man with respect.

When he’d finished his say, Otrygg again addressed the Jarlsmoot, and reaffirmed the question that he himself, and now Zarathustra had asked of Henrik.

Koval raised an eyebrow when Henrik began to speak, perhaps to address this issue finally. But when he spat out a silly misgiven jab about he himself not being a perfect leader, Koval knew that the old man from Tyr had missed the point entirely. Shaking his head, he leant forward as he pressed both of his clenched fists against the table to support himself, and he let out a deep sigh of disappointment.

When Henrik had finished his overly emphatic speech about mercy, and spoke of his grand vision of Norsia, he nearly burst into a loud laughter, stifling himself as he took a deep swig of mead from a nearby goblet.

Koval then spoke again when Henrik had finished ”My father had many sayings, and one comes to mind when I listen to your would be King speak…

‘Foolish is the man who heads needlessly into war, but even more foolish is the man who hides from it when it calls his name.’

…and make no mistake about it my fellow Jarls, war calls to us.”

Taking a moment to stand straight again, Koval looks to each of them before resuming. “The Gothran, cannot be bartered with. They cannot be reasoned with. They understand only force, and respect only the blade. They grow stronger, even now as we enjoy this discussion. How tall will we allow the tree to grow above our home, before we cut it down?”

With that, Koval nods again out of respect to Otrygg, and Zarathustra. He then returns to his chair, and leans back, contemplating what the next move of his Jarldom will be.

Otrygg takes a cautious sip from a tankard of mead, setting it down gently...

"You do Norsia proud, Jarl Koval, and your voice was one sorely needed at this Moot, as was all of yours, my Jarls. Odin guides us truly.

"However, the Moot has spoken, and majority have called the name of Henriik to lead us into the future, from peril to the Gods' grace. My Jarls, give unto him your oaths of fealty, but know this, should doubts give a course in your mind that will lead us to disaster, you are compelled to war, to revolt, as is the law and custom of our land, our people.

"What say you, my Jarls? Fealty or war? Speak!"

Otrygg's eyes scanned the room, but lingered on Zarathustra and Koval.

Eyildr shifted in her seat and a small frown graced her lips. Both sides had providence - both had spoken truly and, as they saw it, faithfully. But the outcome had been almost unanimous, and with it she dared to hope that unity and peace may follow. Asmund would be unhappy, for he spoke frequently of once again wetting his axe in the blood of the Gothra, but the moot had decided. She rose carefully, once again leaning on her cane.

"I have spoken at length, my fellow Jarls, this night, and thus I see it as my duty to speak shortly here and now. I have heard all of your voices, and most of you have raised points I see as valid and well thought of. But the moot has spoken, and with peace in mind, I see it as my duty to duly swear fealty to Jarl Henrik. This kingdom cannot fund another war. Glorious as it may be, my Jarls, for you to imagine yourselves, your Arls and your sons in the songs they sing in the mead halls a hundred years from now, we must be pragmatic rather than simply bloodthirsty or caught up in the machinations of what you all deem honourable. If we war again, then the people will starve. I can guarantee you all for that, for it is my vast fields that house our grain and our crops and which will suffer when men die in some land, forsaken by Odin. I will not see that happen," She nodded, casting an approving gaze to Henrik.

"I am not a foolish woman. We will war, one day. But that day is not tomorrow, nor the next day. We must be wary and careful and then - and only then - can we find ourselves in a suitable position," She paused, then seated herself. With any luck, Asmund could find himself on the council. She herself would seek the role of Steward, but she feared that to already be filled before the moot had even began. Asmund would make a clear headed military leader, and not a foolish one at the behest of his mother.

Ragnar nodded at the elderly Jarless, she spoke with wisdom he hoped to one day posess. He was still young in the eyes of most and had acted that way in swearing his support so early. This showed weakness and made him seem like a sheep. Not a wolf. However he had meant what he said and intended to honour that. Standing he raised a mug towards the soon to be ruler.

"My worries go beyond Gothra and I will have further business to discuss with the King. Further more rebellion is never an option that finds strength. It only sows discord. I will be swearing my fealty and support to Jarl Henrik and hope he may live for a long time."

Growing increasingly impatient, Bertil raised a hand. "Fealty," he spoke softly, his goatee riding high around his beaming smile.

Pulling himself from his chair with elaborated effort, he dislodged a bejewelled ring from his finger and held it to the light of the hearth. It sparkled a rainbow of colours, and to the keen eyed observer, there was the worn engraving of a single sailed longship stretching across its golden shank. With careful and humble steps, he walked the length of the table, bowed deeply and presented the ring to Henrik.

"Long has this bauble been in the possession of my family. My great grandfather had it crafted to celebrate the christening of his first ship, before he sailed the coasts of the continent searching for riches. It signifies prosperity, as may be obvious, and long has it served as my inspiration - perhaps to no one's surprise. Many see me as a greedy man, a gawking merchant with no steel in his veins, and maybe they are right to see me in that light," he said sullenly. "However, I believe that it is easy for those of this land, who are all too eager to bleed their neighbours, to see a man such as myself as weak and dishonest. I do not hold this against them, it has always been this way."

Placing the ring onto the table in front of Henrik, and looking the ageing Jarl in the eyes with steadfast conviction, he spoke further. "I believe that honesty and loyalty are essential in a merchant, and in me you will find plenty of those qualities. Just as a Jarl cannot trust devious Thanes, a patron cannot trust devious shopkeeps." Pausing briefly to smile gleefully, he continued, "the world is changing. Norsia will be left behind if it does not embrace the qualities of others. My name is well known in every major trading junction from Galadriel to the lands of the Saxons. Should you ever need an ambassador to carry your righteous council to foreign ears, then you will find no better than myself. This I promise you."

Taking three measured steps back with head bowed, Bertil stood straight, "The ring I give to you, as a token of my loyalty, and of my honour. It is my hopes that you will find within me more metal than most give me credit for. I am yours, my King. Though the crowning is yet to take place, I am from this moment, at your call. Anything you command of me, I will endeavour to see it done."

Respectfully, Bertil returned to his chair, shooting Jarless Eyildr a very brief, but very hard stare. We will see what Henrik prefers, hag. Your archaic wisdom? Or my modern rationale? Time will tell, but if I were a gambling man....

Henrik Havarr of Tyr

Pleasantries aside, Henrik did not anticipate such an open willingness from the Merchant-Jarl, Bertil of servitude. He listened intently and took the ring with a firm and resolute nod. With less to say now, Henrik instead turned his eyes back to the monk, Otrygg. With little apparently stopping him from being informally coronated and announced King, Henrik sought the end of the Jarlmoot as opposed to it's continuation for fear that Koval might continue to conspire against Nordic unity.

Zarathustra stood for a moment before shaking his head in disappointment at Henrik's response. Still refusing to meet the challenge presented before him. Yet, even that was answer enough on it's own. No one expected Norsia capable of marching to war tomorrow, or even this month, but still Henrik was blind to what lay before him. Slowly resuming his seat he listened to others speak, quickly swearing their fealty, the jarl Bertil even going so far as to offer up a gift on the spot. Thus the race to grovel for position had begun in full swing.

Zarathustra let them to it, drinking his mead as he half listened. As Bertil finished his speech and returned to his chair.

"The moot has spoken, and thus I and my kinsmen are honor bound to follow the lead of the High King, whoever that might be."

Looking to his son, Koval the Lesser, Koval the Greater imagined to himself what Norsia he might inherit if he one day ascends to the Jarldom of The Province of Arda’Njor. Would it be the Province that he has known most of his life, cold yet prosperous, or would it be the last bastion against invaders from far away lands. Invaders that should have been opposed, but were instead let to encroach upon our sacred Nordic land.

He listened to the groveling of those Jarls that had been promised gold and title in exchange for their fealty, and felt disheartened. To know that his fellows, whom he’d respected, could so easily be swayed troubled him. Koval was sure that Jarls of Ashfall and Escgor were promised gold and title in exchange for their support of Henrik.

And while he wasn’t entirely sure of the motivations behind the Jarls of Coldmarch or Hjladr’s Vale, Koval trusted only the Jarl of Amriel, Zarathustra. He, like Koval had tested the would be King early, and exposed the weakness of the old Jarl for the moot to see. Henrik’s lack of conviction, one moment declaring that war would come to Gothra, then the next declaring that it wouldn’t, spoke to his inability to lead with confidence.

But the Jarlsmoot had spoken, and the support for the Jarl of Tyr was overwhelming. Koval hadn’t expected this support to change when he offered himself as King, but he felt that he owed it to them to at least give them the chance.

Henrik, it seemed, would be King.

Now, Koval thought to himself as he sat quietly for a long time. Thinking for so great a time, he knew the others would suspect him to declare a revolt, as was tradition. In fact, Koval was contemplating the idea. If Norsia were to survive, it would need strong leadership, and that certainly wasn’t Henrik. But as much as revolt seemed an option, Koval knew that he couldn’t betray the throne.

His father, and those before him had all remained loyal to the King, and they’d no doubt seen their fair share of weak leaders. No, Koval wouldn’t stray where his ancestor’s hadn’t, no matter how much the threat of Gothra concerned him, the threat of a divided Norsia was greater. Taking a deep breath before standing, Koval looked one last time to his advisor and friend, Toral. With a simple nod, Toral knew what it meant, and returned it with a cursory nod of his own.

“Though the words may not be of genuine intent, they have been spoken by the Jarls.” Pausing to grant a reassuring glance to Otrygg, Koval then stepped around from the table to approach the place where Henrik was sat. ”If it is the will that you be my King, then you too will have the loyalty of my Province, and the people of Arda’Njor.”

With a slow and deliberate motion, Koval withdraws a simple dagger from his waistline, and sets it down before Henrik on the table. ”May this dagger represent the willingness of the armies of Arda’Njor, to march at your command, and to wage war with our enemies. It is also the trust that we place in you, to see our borders secured.”

Lowering his head to look into Henrik’s eyes, Koval continues. ”It is also my solemn promise, to personally see you to your end, if it is your inaction that leads to the desecration of our Nordic lands, by our enemies.” With that, Koval takes a single step back from Henrik. ”May your reign be just, and may our lands grow great under your leadership.”

Koval then turns and walks away from the Jarlsmoot table, joining his son and Toral as they leave the hall. Leaving behind the King, his crowning ceremony, and looking to the great journey north to Arda’Njor ahead of them. Though loyal to the new King, Koval has no desire to attend a ceremony of his crowning.

Eyildr leaned back in her chair, and watched Bertil with narrowed eyes. He and the Jarless of Ashfall had made their status as newly ennobled Jarls extremely prominent and noticeable through this moot, and as she watched Koval retreat with his retinue in tow she noted that the elder, more traditional Jarls would not take kindly to this. For her part she offered no grovelling to Henrik. She hoped that the Jarl of Tyr, and new King, would be able to see through their facade immediately - but she could not vouch for his perception, and it was easy for someone newly enthroned to fall victim to the proclamations of undying loyalty from others.

"I have no token bauble to offer you, Jarl Henrik," She said with no small hint of sarcasm as she rose slowly from her seat. Her eyes lingered carefully on Bertil for a moment. That, there, was not a likeable man. She had known the type both here and from Galadriel - slimy salesmen, turning up in one's castle with a chest full of snake oil, empty promises and quick escape plans for when you find out everything he had sold you would turn to ashes in your mouth. These men's promises were as flimsy as their product.

"But I can offer what I have offered your predecessors - loyalty, and sustenance from my vast fields. I, like our dear friends the Moths here, see myself as a woman who serves the realm and not the king. I hope you do not take this offensively; fifty years will do that to you," She grasped her stick with one hand, and one of her daughters appeared from the shadows to grasp her arm. The girl was fair skinned and fair haired, with a strong, solid figure and a pretty face framed by two large, steely eyes that would leave anyone in the room doubtless as to her parentage. "Thank you, Hjelda," Eyildr said softly, and with that she exited the hall, with all the dignity a woman of her age and condition could possibly have and more.

Dawn of a New Reign
Celebrations were held far and wide across the land as a new king stepped forward to claim the crown of Norsia. The kingdom seemed united again as Otrygg lowered the crown upon the brow of Henrik, King of Morsia, Jarl of Tyr, Protector of the Realm. Despite the jubilation, whispers of doubts were spoke regarding the future of the realm under Henrik's lead. Though most Jarldoms swore fealty to King Henrik, there were two that had yet to do so, though oaths of fealty were expected soon, as all of Norsia had done so already. With great anticipation, the Jarls await King Henrik to announce his council at the summer's Jarlmoot. As news of the fall of Beron and the crowning of the new king reaches the other kingdoms of Nirn, the Jarls intend the Moot to find envoys from both Highathar and Galadriel in attendance...

Summer of 1999 D.F.
Otrygg smiles warmly, standing before the hearth, as the Jarls fill the hall, finding their seats among the Moot. With a respectful nod to King Henrik, Otrygg opens the Moot...

"Glory be to Odin, to Thor, to Loki and all the Gods, for they have blessed us with wisdom and brought all of Norsia under united rule under one king. Odin bless the reign of King Henrik, long may he rule.

"Word of our righteous ascension of the new king has spread far and wide across Nirn, and rulers and ambassadors from distant lands have come to pay their respects to the Jarls of the Moot and to the King.

"My King, my Jarls, I give you the Therayn of Mirrorwater, his Grace, Therayn Tinotan of Lithdel..."

A slender Elf male, tall and lean, dressed in flowing green robes and a golden sash across his waist, a needle of a sword upon his hip, The Elf's face was ageless with bright green eyes, his golden hair falling from his face as he bowed before the Moot. The Elf stood and looked upon the moot warmly, his gaze catching upon Jarless Eyildr.

"Greetings distinguished Jarls, Lords of Norsia and stewards of peace. My name is Tinotan of Lithdel, hailing from Mirrowater. I admit that I looked on from my Theraynship with great anxiety as I saw what befell your kingdom. Yet my fears were unfounded as the grace of Light and the Gods sped you to peace. I come to offer my condolences for the loss of your late king, Beron the Bard and a promise of good terms to King Henrik in regards to my realm as a partner of trade. Beron steered the course of peace and prosperity between Norsia and Galadriel and it is my wish that you, King Henrik, in your wisdom, will do so again. Give me promises of peace and I shall relay your words to the other Theraynships and put ease their minds that stray into Norsia's past, glorious it may have been, but a time when Elves and Nords were less then friends."

Otrygg returned to the hearth after Tinotan bowed once more...

"I thank you Therayn, you have given us much to discuss here. Your sentiments are appreciated, I assure you. Now, my King, my Jarls, I present you with Master Ven Grinhammer of The Tooth, Guildmaster of the Stonecutters, and Envoy to his Kingship, Isbane Goldgrin, Underking of The Tooth of the High Kingdom of Highathar..."

A stout Dwarf dressed in a leather jerkin with an patch of gold woven upon his chest bowed so low before the moot that his long brown beard touched the ground and it seemed he may fall over.

"Salutations, respected King and Jarls. May the Gods smile on you all. As your wise Otrygg stated, I am Ven Grinhammer, but make no mistake, I am not here at behest of the High King, but rather, Underking Isbane Goldgrin, Lord of the Tooth. While the esteemed Therayn may bandy choice words, I have been instructed by my lord to show you tangible gifts that would result in the Tooth's friendship! I have outside among my caravan a wealth of gold, ten chests in all, to impart to the trust of you, your highness. Gold enough to purchase a fleet of ships is but a taste of what a friend like Underking Isbane can offer you. Send words of friendship for me to carry back to Highathar and let my Lord be set at ease knowing he can call the Nords friends."

With another low bow, Ven Grinhammer retreated from the hearth and exited the Hall along with Therayn Tinotan, the Elf and Dwarf exchanging cold looks as they exited, leaving the Moot to discuss.

Otrygg clears his throat...

"Now then, my Lords, what say you? Be there a better friend over the other to be found in Mirrorwater or The Tooth? Should each be treated as equal? The King should hear your advice. And what of the Council, my King we must now, who have you decided to sit among you to steer the course of the realm? And what of these black sails plaguing the northern coast and the Icevein, what should be done in that regard? Wisdom find you, my Jarls. Speak!"

With that, Otrygg found his seat and allowed the Jarls to speak.

10 chests of gold is gifted to King Henrik from Underking Isbane Goldtooth

The summer had restored some vigour to Eyildr, as if it had thawed her joints. Today she wore a sky blue garment, a great twisting robe-like dress that was with embroidered, glimmering sapphires. Her effervescent cane was again leaning against the table, and in the background lingered two of her daughters garbed themselves in unblemished white linen. She listened to the opening pleasantries with a polite disinterest that hinted at the fact that she had been through this many times before, but sat upright to attention at the announcement of the ambassadors.

She smiled softly at the Elven ambassador, and her eyes spoke of a recognition of him. She regarded the Dwarf coolly, but her expression soured somewhat at his offer of gold to the King. After they both departed, she was the first to offer her voice, as always.

"My Jarls and Jarlesses," Eyildr glanced around. The invigoration the summer had granted her was obvious in her voice and her disposition; she seemed almost much younger. "All of you are aware of the Vale's close proximity to Galadriel, and through this - as it has always been with my family - I have been in almost constant contact with the Elves for half a century,"

"During that time they have always been creatures of their word. Always. No payment went unpaid, no trade went undiscussed. I know this very Therayn who has today spoken unto us and he too is good. There is an inherent goodness in Elves, for that I can vouch, and they have been responsible for the continued prosperity of the Vale and thus have put the food on your tables for decades. They are dependable and they are not creatures who speak lightly nor do they speak empty words. I have worked very hard to forge friendship with them, and a national policy unto this would be only beneficial, that I pledge with my life. Besides - should they double cross us, it will be my lands that are the bulwark," She gives a small, sharp laugh.

"This dwarf has turned up with gold, but that is all the dwarves are. They crave wealth more than anything. They will forsake loyalty and ties and words all for the sake of gold and jewels, and these chests of gold only prove that they expect a greater return. I do not know what they want - but they will ask for it. And when we need their aid, they will disappear beneath their mountain like beetles. Do not trust them. Their baubles and their gold may glint with beauty now, but it will turn to ashes in your hands. I issue this warning strongly,"