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.
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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.
"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.
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.
Posted. :)
A pale moon rose over Ashanti and its stony streets glimmered with the soft lights of the floating lanterns employed by the Elves who called it home. Out in the streets of the mountaintop city, they moved about as ghosts would with slow care and deliberation. They meandered across the cobbles, resting at fountains to read books or chatting to each other quietly as they went. Soft harp and lute music could be heard on the warm breeze that breathed its way tenderly between the large, stone hewn manses that the Ashanti Elves called home. Far below, the forest expanded endlessly in all directions, a sea of verdant green illuminated in great spots by the villages that called its leafy expanse their sky and its soft, moist floor their homestead.
The Elves of Tyrisine were well known for their guarded dispositions and the their aptitude for thinking events through with an unprecedented thoroughness. Their long lives and calm cities meant that, on occasion, government decisions could take weeks to be discussed amongst the various levels of society - the Queen, her advisers, the merchants, the priestesses, the Dukes, the petty lords... all talked at length and frequently, a Tyrisinian custom that pervaded their system of government. Discussion and debate were some of the nation's most prestigious hobbies, and everyone from the lowliest farmer to the Queen herself participated in them on some level or another almost daily.
Today, in the Palace of the Sky at the centre of Ashänti, debate raged fiercely. It was not often that the debate was fierce in the echoing marble halls of Queen Elsannis III's primary residence, but tonight in the open topped Chamber of the Moon, while the stars bore witness, echoing shouts of passion and fury rebounded. The ambassadors from Norin had arrived early in the morning, but they had been kept waiting in the sleepy tranquility of Ashänti for a whole day, fed on the sweetwine, figs and honeyed veal that the Queen had presented them. All important business was conducted in the night's air in Tyrisine, for it was the belief of its Elves that the night aided thought and facilitated cool and calm discussion. This night, however, not even the moon's pale and disapproving face could halt the passion.
The chamber was circular in shape, its open top allowing creeping vines to travel down its marble face. A ring of stone hewn benches surrounded a central area complete with a raised marble dais that allowed a speaker to address a crowd unmolested. Echoes rang out imperiously across the chamber. In the centre, at this moment, was the ambassador from Norin, who had come representing the interests of the Galan League. The clamour in the room died down as he continued: "...my Elven brethren, it is your duty to support the League in this matter. Our request to ready your armies is not disputable. It must be war,"
The ambassador trotted sheepishly down from the dais and back towards his cohort on one of the lower levels of the bench. Opposite the entrance to the room sat Queen Elsannis herself, flanked by guards in gold gilded armour and herself clad in the imperious robes of state - red silks threaded with ermine and a great lace headdress that accompanied the vast and opulent tresses of her golden hair. She would be beautiful and pretty if she were not so imperious, so icy. Her demeanour was a calm mask that did not allow any such faction to read her expression.
Next to the dais came Marïthriel of Myrth, in his old age weighed down by the heavy and ornate runic robes of his position as First Chronicler of the Order of the Leaf. It was he who preserved the culture and traditions and histories of the Kingdom, and in times of crisis such as this the Tyrisinians always turned to their venerable and long past in order to secure faith in the course of action chosen. "My Lords and Ladies," the old man breathed at length. "War has not been seen by our people for generations. It is deliberately thus - it disturbs the calm that we call our own. We are a nation of careful cultivation of peace and prosperity, and for that we have our gracious monarchs and the ever lasting wisdom of the Council of Elders to thank,"
He paused, rubbing at the long white beard that trailed down to his middle. "However, war is not always avoidable. We made a pledge to our Elven brethren. It is imperative that we maintain this contract, this concordat, for there is nothing in this realm more important than the preservation of the Elven race. There are those out there who seek to destroy us; every man, woman and child will suffer under the reign of the Dwarves. These creatures care not for art, for the fine music that hangs like a thread on the Ashänti night's air, nor the bloodlines that have maintained our nation's prosperity for so many years. We must go to war, for we have sworn it, and if we do not, then we will only have ourselves to blame when our fine cities and our forests burn against the pale expanse of the Dwarven domain," He bowed, descending to a sea of muttering. Opposition to the war seemed to have been softened considerably by his words.
Next came Raelin Malthusîan the Green, the First Arrow of the Queen's Army and High Ranger of the Kingdom. He was much younger, no lines creasing his soft features. He wore the fine splendour of the upper echelons of the army with a winged and gold gilded helm, and an ornate, tree hewn bow at his back. A smile came easy to his lips, and as he ascended to the dais he did it with much less heaviness than the others before him. "My Lords and Ladies," he began, as was customary. "Our armies are largely defence based. I am sure that the League have taken this duly into consideration. It is true that our nearest neighbours are not what we would all call friends, and thus I would see it unwise for us to send a large force to fight an aggressive war. For we are not an aggressive peoples - and to send the bulk of our army would leave us helpless to the whims of the Dwarves and their allies. Instead, I say we act as a defensive bulwark against the advances of those who would seek to destroy our enemies to the south, and instead send a much smaller expeditionary force forward to those frontlines. Without it, we may be helpless," He bowed, a lock of his raven hair escaping his helm and brushing forward across his eyes.
Silence reigned supreme for a minute, and then the Queen rose. She did not descend down to the dais, but spoke with a clear and icy clarity that did not allow a murmur to disturb her speech. "I thank you for your counsel, my leal Lords and Ladies, and I thank the ambassadors for their patience. I will respond to this call to arms favourably, but it is the way of Tyrisine to plan defensively and carefully," She paused, icy eyes surveying the assembled crowd. "I and my councillors will begin discussions as to the semantics of this. Ambassadors, you may remain in my hospitality for as long as you so require. I do not go gladly to this war... but I do go to it," She paused, let out a small sigh, and then swept from the room with her attendants in hot pursuit.
Well, we could certainly be trade rivals.
Old witch?! I am offended.
I'm still here. I was hoping to continue developing my sheet as the RP progresses.
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,
"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,
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,"
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,"
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