RoadRash — Roleplayer Guild

Collaboration between RoadRash and idlehands

Ragnar rose before the sun, as was his habit, and sat at the edge of the sleeping bench, stretching for several minutes to work the kinks out of his sleep-tightened muscles. The years of life as a Viking had left him bulky and brutally strong, but they came with a price; his large, iron-hard muscles needed a good warm up every morning before he could move without pain. He knew that if he didn’t work the kinks out now, he’d move like an old man until midday.

Once he felt he could move freely, he ran a hand through his hair and tugged thoughtfully at the braids in his beard. A moment’s consideration and he nodded to himself, then began pulling loose his braids. They’d become frizzy and tangled since he last wove them, and he decided he’d have Sigrid redo the lot of them after she’d awoke. The Thegn pulled on his linens and boots, then stood and, with a glance of affection at his slumbering wife, walked out of the sleeping chamber. There were things to do.

Haakon was already awake when Ragnar left his room, pulling on his own clothes. Ragnar waved him over, and the warrior roused his comrade, Ivarr. Once dressed both of them approached to hear their Thegn’s orders for the morning.

“Go ahead and attend to your weapons,” he told them, stretching his broad chest as he spoke, his voice low to let the rest of the household sleep. “Ivarr, get Faolan and send him for fresh water. What we have will suffice for us, it’s too cold for a real bath, but I’d at least like everyone to wash their faces and hair. We should be presentable this morning, especially after last night’s fiasco. We don’t want to appear haggard when Harald finally rouses the drunken louts he calls warriors.”

After a brief pause, he added, “And go with him, Ivarr. Fully armed. I don’t expect them to be awake yet, but I’d rather not have another thrall accosted. Haakon, wake Raudr and show him how to attend to his weapon after he lights a few torches. Let the other children sleep. I need some time alone think on today.”

The two warriors nodded and set about their tasks. Ragnar himself went to the large basin of water near the table and dunked his head, giving his face, hair, and beard a good scrubbing. That done, he returned to his and Sigrid’s room and spent several minutes carefully combing out his tangled mane and beard before sitting on the edge of the sleeping bench and grasping his sword and his blade-care implements.

Hausstaka, he whispered to himself, smiling softly as he spoke the blade’s name. Skull Taker. Ragnar drew the sword slowly, his eyes running over the familiar weapon, and gently caressed the blade, his fingers tracing the swirls in the metal left behind by the forging process. Though it was true he preferred his axe for the shield wall, this weapon was by far the most important in his arsenal. He had spear-heads aplenty, and his seax and axe had both sent their share of men to Odin’s hall, but only this weapon had a name.

The blade was long, nearly an arm’s length from tip to crossguard, and gleamed dully in the semi-darkness of the hall. The silver wire inlaid in the crossguard shined, and more had been wrapped tightly over the black leather of the grip to both prevent slipping, and to add to the striking appearance of the weapon. It had a cost a fortune, he was sure; the weapon had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been passed down amongst the men in his family. It was by far the most expensive thing he owned, and certainly held the most sentimental value. This was especially true considering that it had been forged for his family. Men could fight and raid for a lifetime and never be able to afford a sword. Most had to be taken from a fallen foe. Both Haakon and Ivarr had acquired their swords in this way, and while there was certainly no shame in taking weapons from fallen enemies (Ragnar had gotten his ever-present hand-axe in this fashion) it still didn’t confer quite the same amount of pride as having a custom-forged blade.
The raider reached into his pouch and took out a sharpening stone, then began to scrape it slowly down the length of the blade. Always careful to mind the angle, he applied equal pressure to both sides, ensuring an even and razor-sharp edge along the entire length of the weapon as he muttered a prayer to Tyr.

Sigrid woke slowly, turning over and peering through her tousled red hair at her husband’s back as he sat on the edge of the sleeping bench. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, pulling the warm furs back up over her bare shoulder. The air had a touch of chill in it, the hearth fire had burned down without Tora to tend it. She noticed his damp hair and sighed, reaching out to him to tug his shirt.

“I would have washed your hair for you,” she murmured, her voice still husky with sleep. “You should have woke me.”

She scooted up, moving to the edge of the bench, still holding the covers to her chest. Sigrid watched him silently for a moment as he ran the whetstone over the edge of the blade, smoothing out the nicks and rough spots, until the steel was keen in the dim light. The sword had seen many battles and had spilled a river of blood. She reached up and brushed her hand against his shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking about Raudr and the seax you gave him,” she said finally, studying his weather worn profile, each line and scar familiar and dear to her. “I don’t think he’s old enough, Ragnar. I know we are in strange times but I know our son. He’s got more from me than just the color of his hair. He’s got a temper and a habit of speaking without thinking.”

She ran her hand down to his thick wrist of the hand that held the sword, “I won’t ask you to take it away, he was so proud...but perhaps make him keep it here, for home defense. Like my spear.”

Ragnar nodded as she spoke, to show he was listening, while he inspected the edge of his sword. Satisfied with the sharpness of the blade, he set his sharpening stone aside and took from the pouch a cloth, soaked in lanolin. The oil, wrung from sheep’s wool, would help to keep the blade from rusting in the damp weather. He silently began to rub the cloth along the length of the weapon, soaking the oil into the semi-porous metal until it gleamed in the dull light. After several minutes he spoke.

“The boy needs to learn, my love,” he rumbled, still working. “I was much the same way, when I was young. My hope is that this new level of responsibility will spark a bit of manhood in him. He needs to start seeing himself as a man, not a child. No more games, no more play.”

The burly warrior slid the sword back into its scabbard and set it aside reverently, then took his axe and began the same process, scraping at the blade with his stone. The edge was less extreme here, providing strength rather than razor sharpness.

“I plan to talk to him once we’ve eaten. He won’t be playing with the other children anymore; Ranulf has Eyja to keep him company. Raudr needs to be with the men, learning from Haakon and Ivarr. It saddens me that his childhood has to end so abruptly, but…” Ragnar shrugged.

“Such are the fates we’ve been woven.”

Sigrid felt a tightness in her chest, her baby boy, her first born, was going to grow up faster than he should have. She leaned her chin on Ragnar’s shoulder, ”I remember when he was born, I can never forget any but he was our first. Nearly two days to push him out, I thought I was going to die. The boy has always been very stubborn. The Norns spun his thread that winter’s day, so cold it was that season. The wolves came too close, we could hear their howling just outside our walls. Do you remember?”

She stood up, putting the blankets and furs back onto the bench and slipped on the cream colored wool underdress. ”A mother can’t help but want to keep her babies close but you’re right, he is not a...he can’t be a child anymore. I know he’ll be a fine warrior, it is what he wants more than anything.”

Sigrid picked up her ivory comb and raked it through her hair until it shone like copper. She went to Ragnar and ran her fingers through his hair and gave his beard a playful tug.

“He’ll have no better teacher,” she said with a small smile on her lips. “When you are done there, I’ll fix your hair.”

Ragnar grinned at the memories, remaining quiet as he focused on his weapons. They had been together long enough that he knew she wouldn’t take offence at the lack of response; this was how all of their conversations went, when he was working on his war gear, and a response on his part wasn’t really required anyway.

After several minutes of sharpening and polishing, he set the axe aside. A brief inspection of his seax told him the blade was still in good condition, and didn’t need any care, so he put away his tools and stretched, then turned to his wife.

“Alright. I’m ready,” he said, tugging at his wild beard. “Make them tight; I want to look good if today’s the day I get to put Harald’s head on a stick.”

Sigrid straddled his lap, a leg on either side of his as she worked to braid his beard into three sections, one large in the center and flanked by a smaller braid on either side. Each ended by wrapping it with a bronze ring and the central braid had a few woven into the coarse hair. Her nimble, practiced fingers made quick work of it. She smoothed them and smiled down at his handsome weathered face, planting a quick kiss on his brow before she moved around to comb and plait his golden hair.

Despite his age, his hair showed no signs of thinning and among the pale gold were threads of silver. Sigrid braided it into a single thick braid down his back and tied it off with a strip of leather. She slid her hand down it, patting down any stray hairs and stepped around to admire her handiwork.

“You look very fine, Ragnar,” she said, reaching up to comb and braid her own hair, “I’ve got your blue and green tunic, the one with the embroidery.”

She coiled the long russet braid of her hair at the base of her neck, held there with ivory combs carved with the likeness of Freya, a wedding present from her late younger sister. She carefully pulled the deep green apron dress over her head, smoothing it out over the flare of her hips. Around her neck went the layers of beads, glass, amber, gold, silver, and stone and her belt around her waist that was hung with the golden box that held her precious grooming kit and the key to their money box. She tied on her long knife, the leather sheath hanging in front of her small waist.

”Today, if Harald seeks a fight, he will find us ready for him. I hope his sense of self preservation wins out and he stays huddled in that small longhouse,” Sigrid said as she opened the curtain that sectioned off their room.

Standing, Ragnar pulled on his tunic and buckled his weapon belt around his waist, adjusting the sword and axe so they rode comfortably. Though he had no problem with going armed about the camp, he didn’t intend to let Harald think he had him frightened by walking about in his mail. He left the room and, noting that Faolan had returned with the water and Raudr had washed and dressed, he waved them and Haakon over to him.

“Head to the healing house. Tora and the others will need an escort back to the house.” the Thegn said, stretching his back again briefly. “You’re going with them, Son. Follow Haakon’s orders, and see to it that you conduct yourself properly. Faolan, take a spear.”

Faolan picked up a worn spear that leaned against the wall near the door, his hand me down cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Raudr strapped his knife to his hip and grinned at Ranulf who stood off to the side as the men got ready, a troubled expression on his face.

“Don’t worry, Ranulf, you’ll be safe here with Dagny and Madir,” he said, patting the saex, “Sœnskrnautr and I will protect you.”

Ranulf rolled his eyes at his brother’s name for the long knife, ‘Swede’s Gift’ implying it was taken as a trophy from the Swedish warrior though usually it was by the bearer. In his eyes, nothing had changed about his older brother, he was still the same cocksure kid who shared his fantastical games of slaying trolls and fighting epic battles against giants with their wooden practice swords.
“Don’t worry about us, worry about your mouth,” his younger brother retorted.

Raudr shrugged, his freckled face smug as he followed Haakon out the door, walking beside the older warrior. He stopped short at the sight outside, the light from the rising sun in the east was made faint by the overcast sky but it was enough to make out fresh snow that coated everything in white. It crunched underfoot, the frost making a crust of frozen mud under the pristine snow. Winter was here and the thick clouds promised more snow by the end of the day.

Faolan trailed behind them as they made their way to the healing house, stifling a yawn as he watched the small figure of Raudr. It amused him in a joyless manner to see the child, a mere braggart of a boy, given the sudden responsibility of a man. If they were that desperate for fighting men then dark days were ahead.

Raudr paid no mind to the Irish slave behind them, his attention completely on Haakon. He imitated the quiet man’s strides, trying to look as casually alert as he did.

“Haakon, do you think we’ll fight today?” Raudr asked, his enthusiasm that of a child eager to play a new game.

Haakon shrugged, calmly probing the morning shadows with his eyes as they walked. His mail jingled slightly with his steps, and he adjusted his sword at his hip, his left hand resting casually on the hilt.

“We’ll have to see,” he said, glancing at the boy as they walked. “But remember, we aren’t here to seek out a fight. We can’t antagonize Harald and his men, or it will reflect poorly on your fadir. Thegn Ragnar is known for his fairness, as well as his valor. If we go around barking at Harald’s men like dogs, that weakens our position in the eyes of everyone else.”

He pointed at the seax Ragnar the Younger wore. “The warrior controls the blade, not the other way around. If you think with your weapon, it’ll lead you to ruin. You should only use it when you have no other choice. Understand?”

“Fadir wants to kill Harald doesn’t he?” he asked after a moment of silence, looking up at the tall dark haired viking. “He killed his guard, I saw the head...”

Faolan listened quietly, the boy had not seen the violence his father was capable of first hand and sooner rather than later he would get a lesson on what men like Ragnar the Elder were capable of. His dark green eyes glinted when Haakon spoke of his master as a man of valor and fairness. Though the thrall had known much worse than his current owner, he also felt there was little honor in raiding helpless monks and snatching women and children from their homes. Viking honor came in combat, particularly one on one or being outmatched but the slave did not think in those terms, only in what he had experienced first hand.

Raudr touched the handle of the saex, puffing out his chest, “I would kill Harald if he were standing before me.”

Haakon stifled his laugh, not wanting to hurt the boy’s feelings. He’d known Ragnar the Younger for much of the child’s life, and liked him fine as far as children went, but it was strange to him to try and see him as a young man. It should have been a few more years before he started joining his father on raids.

“I don’t doubt you’d do your family proud,” he said, as they neared the healing house. “And yes, Thegn Ragnar does want Harald dead. The man’s a coward, and has claimed a title he has no right to. Add to that the insults he’s shown your family, and your fadir has every right to take the man’s head. That’s the way of things.”

The Viking approached the door to the healing house and stopped, reigning in the other two.

“Faolan, make sure they’re ready to go. We’ll watch the door here,” he said, leaning his back against the wall beside the door. “Raudr, keep your eyes open. Watch to our right, and alert me if you see anyone at all.”

Raudr furrowed his smooth brow, “Then why can’t he just kill him? I know Fadir’s dueled men who insulted Madir while he was gone. I never got to go but he came back victorious and with their weapons.”

For a moment, he wished his brother was with him, Ranulf would understand, he always did. Even as young as he was, he had a quick and political mind, astute in observing the rules and why people did what they did. Raudr could count on him in that way, though Ranulf was never one to lead he was excellent to have behind him. The redheaded boy nodded when Haakon gave him his order, taking a spot next to the door.

“We can’t simply kill him because he’s made restitution, paltry though it may have been.” Haakon explained patiently. He scanned the shadows cast by the dim morning sun as he spoke, his left hand still resting on his sword hilt. “We can’t do anything unless provoked. If your fadir had killed Harald over Tora, it would have disgraced him. She’s a slave, and while Harald is scum and doesn’t have the right to call himself a Thegn, he’s still a man of some standing. You don’t challenge someone over a slave, it’s unseemly. If we kill him now that he’s made payment, it’ll be murder. Harald will give us cause soon enough; men like him always undo themselves in the end.”

Faolan clenched his jaw and bit back his acidic comment. Tora, like himself, was just property. No matter how much the Ragnarsson family seemed to care about the young woman, she was in the end, unworthy of retribution. It was in their code of laws, ingrained into their psyche. Tora was like other slaves he had known, docile lambs for their masters since they knew no better, having been born a thrall.

He opened the door to the healing house, it was quiet but for the murmuring and occasional moans of pain from the injured of the supply party. His keen eyes found Tora quickly, asleep on the bench, her pale face puffy and bruised. He walked silently to her, noting the monk who dozed in the chair next to the bench, his bow leaning against the wall. Beyond them, Wilfred and Robbie slept in their beds.

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