Date: August 15, 2000
Place: Aesir Lodge - Northlands
Cast: Astraea (various NPCs), Mariham (Kovar & Najada), Thorvald
Scene: Several Najada show up at the Aesir lodge to meet with the Hoevding, Thorvald, in order to discuss further details about the upcoming journey south.
Note: This scene was Thorvald's audition for the part of the Aesir chieftain.

Smoke drifts through the lodge from cookfires while men and women sit hunched over tables, or move to serve themselves more of the rich, meaty broth whose smell so tantalizingly permeates the air. The hunting was good -- caribou. Enough to feed the lodge for a week. Sleep will be restful tonight, and nerves relaxed; a few men are already starting up a game of hnefatafl in one corner, and the mead is flowing freely.

But a young voice cuts into the din of conversation. "Hoevding!" a boy shouts -- no more than fourteen, but already playing at battle with his peers. He'd been outside, wrestling in the snow with them, but he whips aside the fur covering over the door and races into the lodge. "Hoevding!" he shouts again -- Chieftain. "They're here!" He points, wildly, back toward the doorway. "Five of them -- I saw them! They asked for you!"

A murmur of voices accompanies the youngster's pronouncement, and eyes turn both toward the entrance to the lodge, and to the man these people call Chieftain -- Thorvald Drengsen. The conversation suddenly drops away, and the silence is thick.

Thorvald is a tall, powerful man with red hair and broad shoulders. At the head of the table he sat, drinking his mead, and eating his meat, yet gaining no pleasure from either. It has often been remarked that he would rather feed the two great dogs at his feet than himself -- and there may be some truth in that.

At the boy's shout, Thorvald stands with a flare of his wings, which then settle in at his back. He nods to the boy, barely a dip of his head, to let the lad know that he has done well. "I will meet them without," the Aesir called Thorvald rumbles with a voice like thunder on a mountain, "and invite them in. They have come at my asking tonight; they are our guests."

With a nod to five of his own men who sit at the high table with him, Thorvald strides towards the door, expecting his men to fall in behind him without needing to look back and see.

Stepping outside of the lodge and toward the approaching strangers, Thorvald Drengsen motions the boys back with a glance. He watches the Najada approach, and awaits their coming, seemingly insensate to the cold and snow.

The five Najada stand a fair distance from the entrance of the Aesir lodge, as if contemplating advancing further into enemy territory. They are like five pillars of ice, each as white as the snow that covers the landscape, but their eyes remain as stormy as the waters which house them.

One steps forward, one named Kovar to those who need words to communicate, and he eyes the Aesir male cautiously, but makes no move to fidget with the weapon at his hip. The other four are just as attentive, they could be mirror images of each other, as if they blink, breathe and move together.

Kovar's fingers clench into a fist and then release in a prelude to speech. "Greetings, Hoevding," comes his thick voice, working his tongue around the foreign word he was taught for this encounter.

Atur, Bjorn, Loudon, Rolf, and Ivar are the five men who fall into step behind Thorvald -- each as big and brawny as the last. Ivar, though, is a head shorter than the others, and he makes up for it with a belligerent expression that dares anyone to mock him. Hot-tempered, that one, but there's no one better to have at your back in a battle.

The boy, Sven, sneaks back out, too -- he's not about to miss this, after being the first to bring news of the coming Najada. The whole lodge is curious about them, but most of them know better than to trek out after the Hoevding and his five; they'll have to wait to hear the tales told later.

Thorvald unhooks the great axe from his belt and holds it high aloft in the air for all to see. Then, with a single, definitive gesture, he slams it down head first into the snow, so that the handle points towards the stars: a gesture of recognition, and peace. We see you and recognize your prowess, now know that weapons will not be needed this night.

"Hail Najada!" Thorvald booms. "I am Thorvald, son of Dreng, and chieftain here. Be welcome this night! This is the lodge of my people, and here you are welcome to rest, and share our meat and drink as guests. Then we may talk of why you have come." Thorvald greets them with all the formality of his people. There is no guile in him, and it is plain to any who would look at his hard face ... or look into his mind.

The five Aesir men, hulking already but made bulkier by their mantled wings, watch the five eerily white Najada with wariness and doubt, but Thorvald has thrown down his axe, and it is a sign of peace that none can ignore. Thus, their own weapons remain on their belts, or strapped to their backs, un-drawn.

Sven, the youth, watches raptly -- what a story he'll have to tell his friends later! -- and he narrows his gaze on one of the Najada. He has heard that they can read minds -- pluck one's thoughts right out of the air. 'Look at me,' he thinks. 'Prove it. I bet you can't.'

The five ocean-dwellers watch the overdone display and are frozen for the span of a few heartbeats before Kovar returns the gesture and removes his much smaller dagger at his waist. The other four follow suit, as if their thoughts were connected -- and they probably are. They lift the daggers into the air without the bravado of the Aesir and allow them to drop into the snow.

"Hail Aesir!" Kovar's deep baritone works itself around the words, as if reciting them from memory, taught to him by a Najada with more knowledge of such things. All five eyes are on the elder Aesir, so it seems as if the young boy's experiment has proven fruitless.

Thorvald nods to Kovar, in appreciation of his act. "Will you enter my lodge and eat with my people?" he asks. "We have meat in plenty tonight, and welcome you as honored guests." Now that the strict formalities are done, Thorvald seems much less prone to grand gestures; everything he does is understated and waiting for true action, as a slight rumble can herald a mountain avalanche at times.

Of course, there isn't much on the Atlanteans' faces to react to, but Thorvald seems to address a concern that they might have. "Later, after we have eaten together, we will discuss the reason for your coming."

Just as he thought. Lies. The Najada don't look so tough. And they can't read his thoughts. Sven, watching from somewhere where, hopefully, the Aesir men won't notice him, wears a smug smirk. 'Why,' he wonders, 'do we need them along, anyway?' But he would never dare to say such a thing aloud, and question the Hoevding's decision.

The other Aesir stand arrayed in a loose semi-circle, flanking Thorvald. They watch the Najada, taking their measure with wary, suspicious eyes. Perhaps their thoughts are similar to Sven's, but there is nothing to suggest that on their faces.

The youngest Najada, a teen by the looks of his somewhat lanky figure, glances downward at his discarded dagger while Kovar handles the pleasantries of the meeting. "We ... accept your ... invitation," comes the reply, though every other word is stumbled over as it attempts to leap from Kovar's tongue. They aren't much for conversation, these Najada, at least not the kind which requires the use of the throat.

Leaving his weapon behind in the snow, Kovar takes the first few steps toward the lodge with the icy snow crunching under his bare feet. His companion follow him, stiff-backed and eyes forward, pride and determination flowing from their synchronized gait.

Thorvald's eyes blaze with a fierce eagerness as they accept. His dark eyes settle on all of them, from Kovar to the youngest. There's some approval in his face and thoughts as the one looks down at his dagger. He's willing to accept the minor slight in return for proof that the Najada are as warlike as he has heard.

"Come, then!" he says, and turns to move into the lodge, flaring his red wings out before settling them again. There's a nod and gesture to his men to fall in behind him, then he catches sight of Sven. There's a tone of command in his voice rather than anger or surprise as he says, "Sven. Remain out here, and guard the peace." Weapon-bound, Sven is now kept to watching the thrown weapons in the snow. It is an honor, a reward for his audacity to be sure, but also a punishment.

When the group enters the lodge, Thorvald's voice becomes booming, and expansive yet again as he addresses his people. "Welcome our guests!" he calls out. "They have come as honored strangers this night, and join our feast."

Sven masks any disappointment on his face and offers a stoic, "Yes, Hoevding," while he takes up a position of sentry outside the lodge. Oh, how he itches to be inside and hear what these Najada have to say. But he'd never dare defy an order from his Chieftain.

The other men: Atur, Bjorn, Loudon, Rolf, and Ivar, all turn and troop back inside along with their chief, giving the Najada a wary berth -- as much out of respect as distrust.

As the draped hide is thrown back to allow passage into the lodge, boys and girls scatter from where they'd been peeking out avidly to watch the exchange. The adults are more dignified; they won't stoop to spying, but they're curious, all right. All conversation grinds to a halt at the first sight of the Najada stepping into the lodge, and men and women alike stare, food and drink poised halfway to their mouths, at these strange, alien visitors.

It is as if the winter landscape has been brought into the lodge. Each pale figure steps in one at a time, providing a sharp contract to the warm tones of the dwelling and the people residing within. Stormy eyes wander the room; each Najada appears to have his own section to study and record so a comprehensive tableau to the curious back home in the underwater cavern of ice.

Kovar steps the furthest into the lodge while the other four -- Patek, Slavka, Boris and Gerek -- spread out sideways, but linger near the entrance, just in case they need to duck out quickly to reclaim their weapons.

Thorvald seems to ignore the expressions on the face of his friends and kinsmen, almost as if he has no time for such things himself, and is not pleased with them in others. He says nothing, however, but strides to the high table, and motions to five men there that they should make way for the Najada. Normally, there is no shame in being asked to make way for a stranger, but who knows how the Aesir will take it when the guest is an alien?

Already, there's a growing restlessness evident in the Aesir chieftain, barely contained by the formalities he observes. Thorvald Drengsen wishes to get to the heart of the matter, and discuss the journey south with the Najada. His heart longs for the open seas, and his hands already itch to hold his axe. Most of the Aesir present know this mood of their leader, and say that he is cursed. A few of the others privately hold that he is battle-blessed, and that Valholl calls him.

Thorvald motions for the Najada to sit, and eat and drink as they like. Even though he is restless, the formalities must be observed, and strangers lie under Othin's protection. It is never wise to ignore the gods, just as it is never wise to trust in them.

The men are aware of their chieftain's mood, and while normally most of them would have few qualms about speaking their minds -- they do not sit at the high table because they are fawning flatterers, but because they earned the privilege through competence and prowess -- this night is different. The whole lodge is edgy and ill-at-ease. Better to present a unified front with these strange visitors in their midst.

Therefore, the seats are reluctantly relinquished, and the Aesir men give the Najada suspicious glowers. If their expressions and the tension inside the lodge were not evidence enough, the buzz of distrust from their minds should be wholly apparent.

While the Aesir make way for the Najada, women and girls move to prepare plates of food. Steaming, succulent caribou, onions and cabbage, dark, crusty bread -- and mead. Plenty of mead. The men can attend to talk of war and raiding, but the bellies' needs must be met first. And perhaps the act of 'breaking bread' with these odd strangers will help diminish some of the tension.

Only when Kovar has taken his seat do the other four follow, though with the way they trudge across the floor it is obviously with great reluctance that they sit at the table of the Aesir, so close to those that most Najada do not trust, just as they are not trusted. They can sense the emotions shifting around them -- they can feel the curiosity, the uncertainty and in a few, the disgust or hatred as clearly as if it were spoken aloud.

Existing on land seems to be the hardest on the lanky Gerek, who awkwardly stumbles to his seat; he is lost without the buoyancy of the water and looks downright clumsy. If he's embarrassed, he does not let the Aesir know, but messages criss-cross between the five telepaths.

The others seem to have no problems, for they have acclimated themselves to the land above the water, but they are not prepared for the unusual fare set before them. They do not wish to insult their guests, certainly not when the relationship is as tenuous as this one is, but the food on the plates -- the cooked food -- has them hesitant to eat.

"Your people ... they are quite ..." Kovar begins to offer a compliment but cannot form the last word without much difficulty. "Accommodating." There, he got it out.

Thorvald nods to his trusted warriors, with a look that says he'll expect to hear thoughts later, in full and with no holding back. That is for later, however. For now, a unified, confident front is exactly what Thorvald wishes to project.

The Hoevding eats sparsely for an Aesir, consuming food merely to survive, rather than for the enjoyment. There's no deep distrust in him, as the Najada would have to be fools to come here with ill-intent, surrounded as they are by many times their number of armed, wary Aesir. If he notices Gerek's difficulties, he does not react to them, but rather turns to Kovar.

"Thank you," he says, "you do us honor." Then, with a gesture, he calls over a serving girl, and speaks softly to her. With a nod, the girl departs, and returns shortly with some plates of freshly-caught, raw fish, which she sets down near the Najada.

And so the feast continues. There's no easy conversation or laughter like before, and the game of tafl has long been abandoned. But the Aesir are practical people, and when there's food before them, they'll eat -- Najada or no.

Of course, the fact that the Najada have just been served raw fish is not lost on many of them. When the girl returns with her plates of fresh fish to set before the visitors, several Aesir stare over at them, waiting to see what they'll do. A rippling murmur radiates across the room, and snatches of words are overheard.

"... look at them... all white...."

"eat that... do they?"

"...see their eyes...?"

"...it's raw!"

Hungry eyes alight on the newly-brought fish -- raw fish -- and the air around the Najada lightens significantly. Patek even attempts a smile as the serving girl passes, though it looks a bit frightening, his lips twitching rather than pulling into a pleasant expression. Respect for the Aesir rises significantly as telepathic thoughts are flying back and forth, even as the raw fish is consumed. The mead is accepted as well, though it is taken in small amounts, for it is foreign to the Najada and the smell puts more than one of them off.

Kovar is the only one not eating, at least not right away. "You ... have impressed us ..." he begins, attempting a smile as well, and succeeding where Patek failed. "We were not ... expecting ... this." His fingers spread to reveal the translucent webbing between them as he gestures to the pile of raw fish, though most of it has been taken up by his comrades.

Thorvald nods in return to Kovar. He does not smile -- he never smiles anymore -- but there's an intent in his thoughts that's at least affable. He wonders how Kovar can speak for all of them without ... oh, that's right. Telepaths. It must be terribly useful in battle, he decides.

"We are not unacquainted with the sea," he says, "and when necessity requires us to eat our fish without fire, we do so." Of course, most of their meals on a raid consist of dried foods, but Thorvald's never known any Aesir to turn down fresh meat when it is available. "I am glad you enjoy our table," he says finally. He's not much for light dinner conversation either, it seems.

Nor are any of the other men -- and one woman -- who sit at the high table. They pause in their chewing to glance up, and Ivar absently wipes his mouth on his sleeve while Rolf is making a half-hearted attempt to dislodge a chunk of meat caught in his beard. Table manners were never high on the Aesir's list of priorities. Loudon, who had not eaten all this time, and had stared the hardest at the Najada as if trying to discern their thoughts, finally brings his fist down upon the table, hard enough to make nearby plates jump and rattle.

"When do we go?" the grizzled, one-eyed man asks. Loudon wastes little time with conversation, and could go for whole days without speaking; when words do cross his lips, they are blunt and to the point. His single flinty eye switches back and forth between his Hoevding and the one he has determined must be the Najada leader -- Kovar.

All the Najada look up as if one brain guided their gazes, which probably isn't far from the truth. Slavka continues to pick the white meat from the tiny bones in the fish and stuffs the tiny morsels into his mouth, but his eyes are wide on the outspoken man who goes around expressing himself by banging on things. Interesting. The others continue to eat, but their eyes now turn to the two at the head of the table.

Something odd begins to happen, something that will no doubt have all the Aesir's eyes on the Najada, if they aren't already. They appear to be changing their color, for were they not bright white when then came in? Now they look a bit grey, and the young Gerek is looking a touch green, and not from the mead.

Thorvald doesn't seem put off by the color-changing Najada. They haven't spent the evening staring at his wings, so why should he show any less respect? He does, however, nod to Loudon, thankful for the man and the issue he brought up. Dinner has progressed far along that he feels comfortable talking business now, and Thorvald does so.

"I want to launch as soon as possible," he states. "and this is why we are working with the Najada." There's a nod to the color-changing contingent. "We do not know how the seas and storms are at this time of year, in the far south, or where suitable ports are for us to stop along the way if we need." He takes a drink of his mead, making the gesture a statement in and of itself. He turns to Kovar, evenly. "What say you?"

The intensity toward eating fades as 'business' matters come to the fore, and the Aesir watch the Najada as they await Kovar's response. Some of them are surprised to see that their skin is no longer so dark -- is it just the dimness of the lodge? But others are more certain, and a few whispered words drift from the other tables.

"...do you see?"

"Their skin!"

"...getting darker..."

Those at the high table are not so undignified as to gasp or whisper, but they do watch, both intrigued and wary about this new 'talent' the Najada possess. Surely, they've heard rumors, but few of them have ever seen it in action.

Oh yes, there's the problem, they travel above the water whereas the Najada can retreat to calmer waters should the seas become treacherous above. Kovar rips a hunk of meat from the fish and sucks the inner flesh off of the tougher skin before he answers his host and the man who will be his Najskor's companion of sorts on this trip.

"Our men and ... women have ... little that needs ..." He pauses and finishes his meat. "Preparing. We can ... swim when ... you wish." He fingers, now dark grey like a wintery wave on the sea, pull the bones from his mouth and set them aside.

Thorvald nods to Kovar, not surprised by his response. Still, it did not answer his question. "What do you know of the winds and waves to the south?" he asks. "Do you know the currents?" He's as eager to leave as any Aesir at the table, but will not ship out unprepared. This is a long journey, and Thorvald has no intention of it ending before their destination is reached. Safety at sea is something the Hoevding is known to be fanatical about, almost to the extent that he is heedless of his own self in battle.

"How many?" This, again, is from Loudon; he's one of the oldest warriors, and while he does not speak much, when he does, he assumes he has earned that right. His eye switches from the Hoevding to Kovar, darting back and forth. "How many of them, and how many of us?" He spears a piece of meat with his dagger, finally, and takes a bite out of it, chewing while he waits to hear the answer. Which, of course, will probably follow the answer given to his chieftain.

When they entered, they looked almost identical, but as their skin adjusts to its surroundings, each Najada has become a different color -- though nothing nearing flashy or flamboyant. Dull and muted tones now decorated their flesh.

"I ..." Kovar flounders and for the first time actually betrays an emotion on his smooth features. He looks frustrated. There is so much to be said, but he doesn't have the words to express it, not in ways these winged men would understand. Kovar's fingers clench around the fish and its uneaten flesh is crushed in his grasp. "There may be ... storms in ... air above but ... we can ... slow the waters. We will reach ... the southern ports."

Thorvald nods to Kovar, satisfied with that. Magic. He's familiar with magic, even if he places more faith in his own crew. "Good," he says. "Our normal longboat compliment is thirty men and women. Everyone sails, everyone fights. We could carry more, but the more people we have, the less we'll be able to bring back. How many of your people would want to go?" This last question is directed at Kovar.

Satisfied, Loudon settles into his customary silence, and no others at the high table speak out. They are practically assured places on the voyage, if they wish to go. It's the rest of the lodge that erupts into excited whispering and muttering as the men -- and some of the women -- speculate on who else will go along. It has been some time since their last raid, and never before has a raid been planned like this! Stories will be told about this journey for generations, and even now, there's a skald composing verses in his head so that he might recount this very night. The beginning of it all.

FIN  

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