Date: September 13, 2000 (Aether: February 2, 3907)
Place: Chamber of Stars - Delphic Citadel - Haven
Cast: Axel, Cassius, Izak, Jenner, Leif, Leonidas (later emitted by Cassius), Theron, Thorvald
Scene: A delegation of Empyreans visit Delphi to speak with the leaders of the "barbarians" and attempt to resolve the issue of their slain soldiers.

Chamber of Stars - Delphic Citadel - Haven:
      Located at the pinnacle of the tower, the ceiling of this chamber slopes inward like a pyramid. Furnishings are almost nonexistent, consisting of a few woven mats decorating the floor, covering parts of the mosaic extending wall-to-wall. Thousands of small, colored tiles illustrate a compass rose showing the four cardinal directions. The northern section is dark--like the mountains that stab at the horizon far beyond the walls of Haven. South is blue--like the vast ocean stretching away from Haven's harbor. Green represents the west, where a thick forest hems in the farmlands that produce food for the city; and finally, east is gold, where the wind blows fresh and warm in the summer months. It is not too far a stretch to say that the compass represents more than mere direction; for Delphi has always been a place where the four races could mingle freely, as equals.
      The walls are shaped from a stone that is almost as clear as quartz, so that one may glimpse the entire city. Starlight or sunlight shines above, depending upon the time of day, and students often make the long trek up here to study astronomy, or merely feast upon the view offered by a small balcony that overlooks the city.

The pinnacle of the White Tower offers an unparalleled view of the city. Despite winter's rages -- the snow and sleet and ice that has ravaged Haven -- it is a sight unlike any other, just as it is a city unlike any other. The transparent quartz walls allow one to gaze in any direction, and glimpse the patchwork of buildings and architectural styles that make up this metropolis.

To the north are the massive, formidable stone structures of the Varati, while the east displays homes that are lighter, airier, and more stately. Bordertown lies to the west, crowded and dilapidated, while to the south, beyond the shaped, nautilus-structure of the Korallion, the ocean stretches, vast and silver under a slate-grey sky.

It is out of this sky that several figures approach. Four sport the purple chlamydes of the Schola, and are here as escorts only. Two wear the distinguished garb of Aegians, and the last, the uniform of a Praetor of significant rank.

They coast down out of the sky on pristine wings and land upon the archway one at a time, the Schola leading the way in to the Citadel.

There's a resounding boom throughout the chamber as its doors are blown open from outside; the fact that they yet remain on their hinges a testament to Delphi's construction.

"Hei, Vanir!" a deep, booming voice calls out. Thorvald Drengsen, a burly mountain of a man with wings the color of burning embers, steps through the doorway. His dark brown eyes survey the Star Chamber as he steps inside with a brief flare of his wings. "Hei, Empyreans," he repeats. "I am Thorvald, son of Dreng, Hoevding of the Aesir. The Aesir greet you!"

Axel is close behind, one of the hands assisting in the clattering, jarring arrival of the Aesir and Najada representatives. His own ashen wings are spread as well, a cask of his private alcohol slung under one arm. If this is to be a meeting, it shall go along with the proper drink. "Hei, Vanir! I am Axel, son of Arne, Jarl of the Aesir, and I greet you." He's had Thor coach him on the words.

In stark contrast to the loud and booming greetings of the Aesir, the Najskor of the Najada is an icy, silent presence. Skin a mottled combination of bluish-grey and white, he almost seems to slink up the stairs with tense, silent steps. Once within the chamber, his eyes flash and dart about, studying the dizzying view of the city far below. Then he comes to gaze upon these Empyreans. Nothing is said. No greeting given.

Thorvald:
      Thorvald Drengsen is a craggy mountain of a man, six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders, and a powerful stance. Dark reddish hair frames his grim face, clearly weathered by both sun and sea. Thorvald's beard is as red as his hair, though lightly peppered with grey. He looks out on the world through dark brown eyes that seem to have never known laughter.
      Two strong wings the color of hot embers arch out from his back, with pale white pinions interlaced with the red. Though fully developed, his wings don't seem to be quite as large as one might expect on an Empyrean, and it'd be anyone's guess as to whether they could support such a large man in flight, or not. Four long parallel scars slash down the left side of his face, though old and well healed, they stand as a testament to some terrible past injury. Lesser scars cover his hands and arms, speaking to a life spent in combat with nature, and other men.
      Thorvald wears layers of heavy linen and furs to protect him from the cold. Scale mail, in the form of heavy steel overlapping plates sewn onto leather, provides armor, and hard leather boots are on his feet. A great double-bladed axe, sturdy despite having seen many battles, is hooked onto a thick belt around his waist.

Axel:
      Cloudbanks heavy with frozen snow and ice, the bones of a whale washed ashore and bleaching in the wan winter sun; that is the color of the man's wings. Wings that extend from his back, arching upward like a wave overtaking a ship. His hair is the same stark color, thick, long and draping down to his shoulders, framing his face. His face is sharp and angular. A small scar on one cheek from some injury long ago is visible through the thick grey beard he wears. His eyes are crinkled, from the smile his lips often wear. And the glint of youth is in them. His vigor and his lack of wrinkles being the only signs that mark him as not so old as a first glance might have one believe.
      Broad shoulders are swathed in fur; the soft brown pelt of some large animal made into a tunic to cover the deep blue woolen shirt that covers the man's muscular arms. Over the top of this he wears heavy chain-mail that clinks as he moves. A wide, thick belt with silver inlay fastens the garments around the man's body, a large, heavy-looking axe often depending from the belt. In spite of the garment's concealing him, the man is obviously large and well-muscled, especially for an Empyrean. His trousers are made of a deep blue wool, much like the shirt beneath his tunic. They fit tightly against his legs, reaching down to his ankles. Leather shoes cover his feet, laced with thongs of leather. Lastly, his head is crowned with a helmet, conical shaped and circled by a band of fur.

Izak:
      Cold and hard as winter ice, eyes of palest blue are set close and deep within a round skull. A broad nose, thick lips, and a wide, flat forehead compose a countenance that would be better suited to a chiseled sculpture. There is no hair upon the scalp; this middle-aged man is shaved bald to ensure a streamlined appearance and to prevent being seized in the heat of battle. And battle this man has seen aplenty. Almost every inch of thick, whale-like skin visible is marred by the mark of a past wound. One in particular runs from the corner of his left eye, down his cheek, and ends at the tip of his chin.
      The man's clothing could be considered crude by the standards of Haven's populace. All of it is fashioned from the skins of animals: a vest of polar bear fur, leggings of sealskin, whaleskin moccasins. A formidable knife chipped from stone is tucked into a belt of leather, its long and wicked blade usually kept sheathed.
      What is most noticeable and perhaps the most disconcerting is the hue of his skin. Upon land it is as white as the surrounding snows, but in the water it is a dark, bluish-grey. Though clearly Atlantean, possessing gills and the webbed digits, this man has a distinct advantage when it comes to camouflage.

Leif:
      Bright red hair crowns this tall, muscular Empyrean. Waves, resembling flame, cascade down his back, pulled back in a tail. On either side of his face is a braid, the hair blending in with the new beard that masks this young man's jawline. While the bones and muscle are that of an adult, the blue-green eyes are yet a little innocent. But surely that will soon change. Wings of a pale brown spring from his broad back, arched behind him...well out of the way of any attacks.
      Layers of varying shades of brown seem to be the choice of this one's attire. The leggings are a dark brown, cross-gartered and fringed, metal eyes the adornment. Over a tunic and over-tunic of lighter and still lighter browns, he wears a ruddy pelt, the edges tucked into his thick leather belt. Leather bracers cuff his wrists, metal discs providing extra protection. Topping off the entire ensemble is a fur-trimmed cap with decorative stitching.

Theron turns away from examining the view of Haven. He is an infrequent visitor to this place, so has not had the opportunity to study it much. Even for one who flies, this is impressive. As are the Aesir, in their own way -- this small force caused much more destruction than he might have thought. This doesn't mean, however, that he doesn't want to track everyone of them down and kill them in revenge for his soldiers, but he feels this way about Varati, so the Aesir shouldn't get any warm fuzzies from it. "Ave, Aesir."

The Schola, purple-clad and armed -- though the swords are kept sheathed -- startle at the boom and crash of the chamber doors. One of them drops his hand to the pommel of his gladius, only to be stopped by his cohort in arms. All four, though, turn attentive gazes on the arriving northerners.

Leonidas, too, turns to face the doors, feathers resettling as he tucks his wings more securely against his back. "Ave, Aesir," he returns, as an eyebrow lifts.

Cassius folds his own silver-white wings smoothly against his back, and tries not to jump at the sound of that jarring crash -- all he does is flinch, minutely. Maybe they won't notice. His pale blue eyes settle on each of the 'invaders' in turn -- he's met Thorvald before, but the others he has not. They are treated to an intense scrutiny, though his expression remains bland.

Rather than offer a traditional greeting, as his companions had done, Cassius remarks, "I see you are without your carcass, this time." The words are addressed to the Hoevding. "Did you dine well?" Underlying his courteous words is the vaguest hint of sardonicism.

Thorvald stalks towards the Empyrean delegation, eating up the short distance between them with a few mighty strides. If he noticed the flinching, he hasn't given any indication of it ... but it's a sure bet that little escapes Thorvald Drengsen's attention.

"If I did not know that you would pale at the sight of blood," he tells Cassius, "I would have brought food for our meeting." His lips pull back in a fierce grin as he recalls Cassius' face at their first meeting, when Thorvald was smeared with blood and carrying the half-eaten carcass of a deer.

Thorvald reaches the meeting table, and slaps his open hand against it. "Well, Empyreans," he says, mangling the graceful word with his heavy accent, "we are here to discuss things. Has Niherlas, Estrel of the Delphi Tower, relayed our offer of wer-guild? What say you?" Forceful, blunt, and right to the point.

Long, purposeful strides of the energetic sort bring Axel to the table a mere step behind, though there is no sense of deference. He takes his own pace as all Aesir do. And yes, little swan, this Aesir noticed the flinch. It's part of the reason his smile curves further upward, showing a touch of his teeth.

The cask he carries is set atop the table with a *thud*, and Axel proceeds to comment in his own language, the only discernible word being 'Vanir.' He turns to Thorvald, expecting translation for their southern 'cousins.' Axel opens the tap, filling his own with a clear liquid alcohol.

The Atlantean look-alike remains curiously distant from the Aesir. Izak is barely two steps within the threshold, off to one side from the door, and he slowly folds his arms over his bare chest. His face is impassive, stony, and he is, as can be expected, silent. Perhaps he still hasn't finished taking in the view of the city or of these paper-doll versions of the rugged, northern gliders. Perhaps he awaits them to finish conducting their business before he begins his.

Theron's mouth twitches slightly at the idea. To be certain, he is here to be a force of good-- wait, wait, to question the 'guests' of Delphi, but the idea of Deus Augustin being disturbed by the sight of blood and a more basic way of life is intriguing. Back to business, Imperator, no time to be distracted. Wer-guild? Indeed?

Leonidas clears his throat quietly, and says, "If you could, perhaps, enlighten us as to what, exactly, a wer-guild is, we could discuss it on equal ground."

Leif approaches with the others, his limp practically gone. A grin is given to all the older Empyreans and he says something in his own language. Moving to the cask, he takes his own share of the drink and merely watches the others. He's rather enjoying this.

After a momentary pause, Cassius likewise moves to the table. He and the other Empyreans are arrayed on one side of it -- the Aesir and Najada on the other. But there's far more than a flimsy wooden structure separating these disparate groups.

Thorvald's first mocking words -- at least, Cassius construes them as mocking -- elicit a minor twitch of his wings, though he manages to keep his expression neutral. All but for his eyes, which are as pale as the ice still decorating the eaves outside. He remains silent for now.

Thorvald nods to Axel as his Jarl places the cask on the table. He pours some of the drink therein into a drinking horn he keeps on a belt, and raises it to his lips in toast to the Empyreans. "Axel Arneson brings this for the meeting, but warns you that it is strong drink. Skoal!"

With that, the red-winged Aesir downs the contents of his horn. "To peace." His last words are rumbled as he looks from one member of the 'Vanir' delegation to the others.

Thorvald nods to Leonidas, and begins again. "Wer-guild is our custom for when a man is found guilty of man-slaughter. He pays wer-guild, or man-money, to the family of the slain. We do not consider ourselves to have unjustly slain anyone here, but sent your warriors to glorious feasting with the gods, as you have sent some of ours."

He holds up a hand, to continue. "But," he says, "we realize that your culture is not ours, and that you do not see death as we do. So, I offer wer-guild, to make right what you see as a wrong, for the deaths of your people. I offer my personal goods, all the profit I have had from this voyage before landing on Haven, and it is not a small amount. I can only offer my own goods, not those of my men -- an Aesir chieftain is not a ruler as you know it -- but Axel Arneson freely offers a portion of his own goods, as well."

Thorvald watches carefully for their reaction. "Delphi and a trader of your people known to us will be the go-betweens for this, if Haven accepts."

Axel fills his own horn, slams back his drink in a burning river of near two-hundred-proof alcohol. His eyes twinkle with the warmth it spreads in his belly. The cask is turned the other way, to allow the Vanir access to the drink, should they wish. He then folds his arms over his large chest, nodding his bearded head at the Hoevding's words.

He's going silent at this point? Well, perhaps the Princeps will have something to say, to be sure, he's not going to enter negotiations. After all, Theron is merely a fighter, not a politician. If Haven accepts. Interesting. Makes him wonder what line this man has been fed about the way things work.

Leif pauses before taking his own drink and adds something in his own language. Little that it is, but perhaps it will help in this negotiation. Only then, after raising his drinking horn to the Vanir, does he drink.

Negotiations are not exactly Izak's strong point, either, judging by the way he also holds his tongue. The mottling of bluish-grey drains slowly from his features, and at this point, he is a mostly-white pillar of muscled ice. The Najskor does not drink, nor does he sit. He doesn't even move from his position near the door. It becomes clear he does not yet see himself as part of this discussion.

"And where are these goods?" Cassius cuts in, with a brief glance toward the Princeps. It lasts only an instant, and his gaze is once more settled on the Aesir -- Thorvald in particular. "On your ship?"

"In several places," Thorvald says. "Where they are does not matter. If the leaders of those who consider themselves wronged agree to accept, Delphi will broker the transaction." There's a nod to what Leif says, as well, and then Thorvald's gaze returns. "Leif Nordstrom offers his own goods, as well."

Thorvald is under no illusions as to the political structure of Haven -- now -- but he doesn't quite have the words to express it. It's a strange situation to him.

Apparently understanding better then he speaks, Axel simply smirks and shakes his head. They must think the Aesir stupid, to be so free with information. He eyes the cask, and the Vanir, disappointment on his face that his drink is too strong for the beardless flying wonders.

Well, it's a strange system to most everyone, except the slimy weasels who run it. It's a good thing, he's got that internal censor blocking such thoughts. Anyway, the idea of goods and money for men, he's never particularly liked, but then again, he wasn't pleased with the end of the latest war with the Varati. Theron continues to watch and monitor quietly.

"I believe you misunderstand," interjects Cassius again. "If your goods are not on the ship, then it will be some time before we receive them, no? What sort of guarantee do we have that they will ever reach Haven, and the families of the men and women you..." He pauses, eyes flickering from one man to the next before adding, "'sent to glorious feasting with the gods?'" His skepticism is obvious.

Leonidas remains quiet. If he is annoyed at the Augustin Deus for butting in, he doesn't display it, although perhaps Cassius will receive a dressing-down later.

The Schola, likewise, are silent and still, but that is part of their job. To watch, to guard, to protect. The barbarians aren't hollering or reaching for their weapons, and so danger is not imminent, but the Schola will not relax their vigilance until this meeting is over and their charges have returned to the embassy unscathed.

Leif turns to ask something of Axel in the foreign, guttural tongue. He seems to be a bit confused as to who these elders are, exactly.

It is the Aegian, Cassius, whom Izak watches most closely now, settling a baleful stare upon him as if he were looking straight into the man's brain. Little else changes, though by now his skin has taken on the snowy-white hue of arctic ice.

Thorvald raises one craggy eyebrow, displeased at that. "My word," he says, "and that is enough, in my land. Do not think that because we will not tell you where these goods are, that we do not have them close to hand. Be assured, we will make good. I will take a blood-oath to that effect, if you wish."

Thorvald doesn't believe that this situation warrants payment either, for he does not see himself as a murderer. Acceptance would shame an Aesir in this case, as it implies that their warriors were not warriors at all. Thorvald is wise enough to realize, however, that the ways of the Southerlings are not the ways of his people.

His word. Right. That would be like taking a Varati for its word, and we don't trust them either. Not to mention, the Imperator doesn't want them to make more than one trip. You know, if you insist on paying, pay now, then leave, after which we track you down and kill you. But that's another part of the story.

Axel turns his head to Leif, barking quickly, yet softly, to the younger Aesir something that the others cannot distinguish, save for a few words -- among them, 'Empyreans,' 'Jotun,' and 'Atlanteans.' He makes a brief gesture toward Thorvald, his wary glance rarely leaving those across from him.

Then his eyes widen and he laughs out loud at their implications, shaking his shaggy beard. He makes some other comment in the Aesir language. Axel would spit if the floor weren't so lovely.

Izak would personally enjoy seeing some of the Empyreans track him down and attempt to kill him. Fighting is what he does best, not talk. But he doesn't say that aloud, if he is even aware of the Imperator's less-than-friendly attitude. As it is, one might wonder if he even knows what is being said in this smoother Common tongue that Thorvald Drengsen speaks so eloquently. He only stands and watches, slowly moving his gaze on from Cassius to the equally silent Princeps Leonidas.

Cassius lifts his own brow in an unconscious echo of Thorvald's expression, though that is where the similarity ends. He's tall for his race, but nowhere near matching the height of the Hoevding. And while Thorvald is a massive mountain of a man, the Augustin Deus is lean, slight -- almost scrawny in comparison.

"I do not believe," he commences coolly, "that anything so drastic as a 'blood oath' is necessary. You've shed enough blood already, haven't you?" Cassius glances toward Axel and Leif, brows furrowing at their exchange of strange, guttural words, but he doesn't allow that to distract him from the topic at hand.

"When will the families receive this payment? You killed five of our men. Three Velites, and two Praetorians. Those men had families -- two of them had wives. I do not think they will be mollified by the knowledge that those slain men are 'making merry' with the gods. Or whatever it is that your people believe."

He drags in a breath and composes his wings against his back, adopting a milder demeanor. "We can only determine the... 'wer-guild' for our own people. The other warriors -- the Hounds, Korallion guardsmen, Varati, and citizens of Haven that you killed -- are not part of our jurisdiction, and I suspect you will need to make arrangements with those respective governments. But on behalf of the Empyre..." Cassius glances fleetingly at Leonidas, "...we will accept your offer of compensation."

Thorvald nods to Cassius, listening carefully. He's a little disappointed that they didn't try the drink, but it doesn't show on his face. "We must see who else will take the wer-guild," he says. "I had thought it to be done by now, but many things here move slower than we are used to."

Thorvald looks to the others in the room, specifically, Leonidas and Theron. "We will speak to the other governments, for their respective warriors. Then, we pay what we agreed to. Is the need of the families of your warriors dire?"

Jenner steps in from the landing.

"They have lost able-bodied men -- men who helped support them and provided income. Naturally, no amount can truly compensate for what was lost, but at least it is something. With what will you be paying?" He evidently expects money, although some small niggling doubt remains -- these Northlanders are different. Who knows what they consider precious, and Cassius is uncomfortable with the prospect of telling the families of those slain Praetorians that they'll have a nice collection of hides or deer carcasses to see them through the remainder of the winter.

Jenner enters quietly with a pair of Hounds. After a few brief words to the trio already guarding the entrance to the Star Chamber, Jenner and the newly-arrived pair take up posts at the door, and the other Hounds quietly leave.

Axel simply sits in the chair, looking impatient as he waits for this to move forward. A grinning rictus of a smile across the table, and another look is shot upward to Thorvald as he makes some comment. And then he hears that and his grin tends more toward approval. That is more like it.

Leonidas is as before, quiet and still, although his gaze does flicker over to the Hounds that just arrived.

Leif tries not to burst out laughing, trying to hide even his smile in his drinking horn as he makes some unintelligible comment. But he is more than amused. He'd almost like to see the reactions of the Vanir to that...

Even Izak has to look towards Axel at his comment, and the sternness of his features lifts slightly. But never does amusement truly break through, and his icy gaze once more turns back to the Empyreans. The Hounds are unnoticed; beneath his attention completely.

Thorvald turns towards Axel, and raises an eyebrow as he says something in their language. His lips quirk up a bit, then the look fades as he turns to Cassius yet again.

"We have goods," he says. "Gold, silver, and precious wood. Furs, hides, and pelts, the like of which you have not seen in the South. It will fetch a high price on your markets; I have said that we know an honest trader, who will work with Delphi to convert our goods into your money. It will not be insubstantial." Thorvald refills his horn from the cask, and pours a measure into some cups on the table as well. "If you are agreed," he rumbles, "then we will drink to it."

Axel leans forward, filling his own horn once more with the clear liquid from the cast. He holds it aloft, awaiting the response of the Southerners. Should he tell them how strong the drink is? He did warn them already... so he feels no need to reiterate it. Only a smile of anticipation; perhaps for the beverage. Or for the Empyreans' reaction to it.

Leif never got much of a chance to drink his own, for he was too busy laughing or talking to drink much at all. Sp he raises his mostly-full horn as well, watching the Vanir closely.

Drink? Cassius can smell that stuff from across the table -- he could probably smell it from across the room. And at the Hoevding's 'suggestion,' he blanches. Visibly. But some concessions must be made -- the Northlanders have agreed to compensate the Empyre's fallen. It is only fair, now, that the participants seal the bargain.

Clearing his throat, the Aegian murmurs, "Very well," while hesitantly reaching for one of those drinking horns. His expression is patently dubious, but he'll be damned if he's going to back down. For all his 'civilized' ways and that cool, composed demeanor, there's a stubborn streak of underlying machismo and one-upmanship after all. No matter what culture you come from, men are men.

Even if they have no beards?

Thorvald nods, eying Cassius with some approval at the sudden burst of machismo. That, more than anything else, might have done the most to give Thorvald a better opinion of this thin Vanir who doesn't look like he could handle a weapon without cutting his own wings off.

His own horn is raised, and with a hearty, "Skoal!" Thorvald drains it.

"Skoal!" Axel cries in concert. The horn is lifted the last of the way, draining the alcohol in one might guzzle, letting it burn its liquid fire through to his belly. His eyes are on the Vanir -- at least one seems to be made of sterner stuff.

Still unmoving, still silent, the Najskor watches this exchange in impassive silence. Not one word has he said during this time, and it looks as though he's not going to say anything at all. Quite abruptly, however, he takes several steps forward to stand beside the Aesir.

Cassius eyes the Aesir leader and his companion, Axel, narrowly, then hefts his own horn. He clears his throat yet again, and his own, "Skoal," lacks the vehemence with which the others issued it. Nonetheless, he does lift the vessel to his lips, screw his eyes shut, and take a healthy swig...

And his eyes promptly go wide as he puffs out his cheeks and strives doggedly not to break into a fit of coughing. The concoction is swallowed down, somehow, but Cassius's vaunted composure is in tatters as his eyes well up and his face darkens to red.

Axel cannot help his laughter at the sight of Cassius having difficulty with the drink -- a loud sound that is reserved for when a boy has his first drink.

Thorvald slams his horn back down on the table in approval. "Good!" he says. "Perhaps, in time, this rift will heal." Or perhaps not. Either way, Thorvald seems pleased enough.

A brief snort is heard from the doorway, all but lost in Axel's laughter.

Leif's laughter escapes as Axel's breaks... he certainly remembers his first drink of the stuff. Standing and giving Cassius a hearty slap on the back, he offers a comment in his own language. Then, with a smirk, he follows Axel out.

Leaning forward to brace a hand against the table, Cassius sets down his own drinking horn with decidedly less force as he blinks his watering eyes. "Yes," he manages to croak out. "Perhaps..." But any further words are cut off by Leif's exuberant slap, and in his current state, he teeters forward from the force of it, stopped only by that braced arm.

Two of the Schola immediately start, hands settling upon their gladii, but Leonidas halts them with an upraised hand, and they subside. But their expressions are dark with suspicion.

Thorvald nods to Cassius. "Leif said that it gets better on the second drink. You handled it manfully for your first horn." He eyes the Schola as well, though the grin doesn't leave his face. Nor does his hand go for his axe; he can draw it fast enough if need be.

Axel and Leif step through the door and return to the landing.

"I think I will... quit... while I'm ahead," Cassius manages as he straightens from his slouched position and tries to regain the shreds of his composure. Watering eyes settle on the strange-looking Atlantean, and curiosity gradually overcomes his grimace. "Is he part of this agreement?" he asks Thorvald, assuming that the Najada cannot understand him.

Only a glance is given to the departing Aesir; the cold mantle of silence is left unbroken. Izak eventually turns his gaze back to the startled Praetorians with mild interest, then looks down to observe the reddening of Cassius' features. This is what the Empyreans consider to be a leader? What a wuss.

He eventually looks back to Thorvald, expecting a translation. But whether or not it's necessary... Izak keeps that secret to himself.

Thorvald looks to Izak. "He is Najskor," he says, "leader of the Najada. Peace with the Aesir should mean peace with the Najada, we have tentatively agreed to work together. I cannot ask him to pay the guild, nor do his people place much value on material goods. I will ask him." Turning to Izak now fully, he proceeds to explain in the guttural language of his people.

Izak senses: Cassius's natural defenses are strong, and he could very well block a deeper telepathic probe, were he alerted to its possibility. But the strong liquor he just drank, and the mild relief he feels at having come to an agreement, leaves him more relaxed. You can easily determine his name, and a few other fleeting impression come to you. Cassius is not comfortable here, but there is more to it than his unfamiliarity with your kind or the Aesir. There's a current of dislike toward one of his companions -- Theron. And wariness toward the other, Leonidas. There is no sense of kinship or camaraderie with either, as there typically is among the Aesir. These southerners are far less trusting, and far less forthright.

There's the merest hint of a frown. Looking from Thorvald to Cassius, Izak speaks directly to the man, though he clearly expects that what is said will be translated. His voice, once he actually begins, is low and guttural, unused to being employed. Only a few words can be distinguished from his dialogue, including, 'Najskor,' 'Najada,' and 'Cassius od Anjeli.'

Cassius straightens, his dignity restored -- although his cheeks are still flushed and his gaze a touch watery -- and glances back and forth between the Aesir and Najada. Eyebrows lift -- he can only understand a smattering of words in that dialogue, and he seems unsettled to hear his own name included within the phrases.

Thorvald turns to Cassius, to translate. "The Najskor says that he will contribute his share of the bounty, though it is not Najada custom. He asks if this is acceptable to you."

Cassius nods slowly while his gaze remains on the Najada. "I will accept," he answers, his words directed to the white-skinned Atlantean this time, rather than the Aesir Hoevding. A deeply-buried sense of humor rises briefly to the fore as he adds, "But I hope you will not make me drink on that, as well."

Thorvald looks to Izak to see if a translation is needed, but the Hoevding doubts that it will be.

And indeed, it is not. Izak merely stares at Cassius with a rock-hard gaze, then simply nods his head to all present and turns on his heel to go. Unlike the Aesir, the Najskor has no desire to drink or make merry over this new 'treaty.'

Izak steps through the door and returns to the landing.

Thorvald nods, then. "Very well." He seems to be the only Northerner left here, though it doesn't bother him. "I leave the cask for you," he says. "If you do not wish to drink it, it is excellent for cleaning wounds."

Or thanking Hounds who have stood dutiful watch.

"No doubt cleaning the rust off swords, as well," Cassius comments with a narrow-eyed glance at the cask. "But I... thank you for the 'gift.'" He tips his head, and his courtesy seems more natural now; less feigned. Maybe it's just an effect of the alcohol, but he's more relaxed. "I believe we are concluded, then." His brow puckers in confusion. "What is it you are called, again? By your people?"

"I am Hoevding," Thorvald says. "Hoevding Thorvald, son of Dreng. That is roughly, Chieftain. But we are not a formal people, and do not stand much on titles. We know our own worth, and the worth of our companions. That is all that matters." His red wings flare out, then re-settle. He leaves the rust issue for Cassius to determine on his own.

"Hoevding," Cassius repeats thoughtfully. His pronunciation isn't perfect, but it will suffice. "Our people use many different titles. And they are... important. A misused title can bring insult. I am called 'Deus,' as is my companion." He nods with his chin to the still-silent Leonidas, who nods in agreement. Theron, it seems, gets no mention -- maybe that's not accidental.

"But my name is Cassius Silvarius Augustin," the Aegian goes on to say. "And on behalf of my people... thank you for this meeting and for your cooperation. I will convey the results of our decision to the Emperor." His easy mood fades for just a moment. "The man you held hostage."

Thorvald steps forward, his arm crossing the table, hand extended to Cassius. "Deus Cassius," he says. "I am glad we are agreed on some things." He did not expect, or even want, to agree on all. There's a raised eyebrow at the mention of the Emperor. "I will be very interested in his response."

The Imperator doesn't seem to mind that he's 'forgotten' by the Deus, but then, is a slight really a slight when offered by someone that you can't stand? Probably not. Theron continues to regard this proceedings with a reserved and distant air, almost as if he weren't here for much of it.

After a second's hesitation, Cassius extends his own hand, as well, reaching to clasp that of the Hoevding's in a gesture of respect. "As will I," he murmurs, half under his breath.

Thorvald grips Cassius' hand firmly, though less so than he would another Aesir. Thorvald has no need to demonstrate his strength -- no more than he needs to brag about his prowess. "Good, then," he says.

And with that, Thorvald turns from the table, and strides out of the Star Chamber with powerful steps that ring on the floor. His red and white pinion feathers flare out as he stretches, then he's gone, down to rejoin his people.

One of the Hounds peels off from the trio, trailing Thorvald at a respectful distance as the Aesir walks the halls of Delphi.

FIN  

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