Skarnir looked a little sheepish. With tankard in hand, he wobbled his arm back and first on the table like a metronome, and looked to be weighing what to say next. By the gentle sloshing sound, the tankard was already half gone. His arm froze, and he took another long gulp of beer.
“Let’s just call it a part of being me,” Skarnir said finally, giving a placating smile. “I apologize, I’ve never been the brightest, so I’m not the best at explaining my circumstances. So it may be confusing. Trust me, I try not to think about it much myself. Makes the ol’ brain case itch.”
Setting the tankard down, Skarnir looked genuinely contemplative.
“Skarnir is as much a title, as it is a name,” he began. “Loooooooooooooooooong, long ago, in a realm beyond this one, there was Skarnir the First. His entire story is a long one, so I’ll try and not get sidetracked. His life was one of strife and triumph. Born a slave, raised as a gladiator, he was expected to die young. It was a terrible world, you see. The gods had all died ages before, and a band of sorcerer-kings had begun billing themselves as the new gods. But Skarnir didn’t die young. He kept fighting, kept winning, and became hailed as a warrior-god reborn. With his battered and chipped greataxe, he even earned the title The Executioner King. Clearly, this didn’t sit well with Kalak; the Sorcerer-King of Tyr, a city of gross decadence and chains. He arranged one final fight for Skarnir, and should he win he would be free. Kalak had Skarnir led into the arena to face off against his prized pet hydra. The crowd was dismayed, but Skarnir did not falter. The story goes that he kept chopping off heads for ten days and nights until the hydra had used up so much energy regenerating that it died of hunger. Enraged, Kalak entered the arena to finally strike down the upstart himself. There are no stories of this. No one who was there spoke of it, not even Skarnir himself. But, the result of it was that for the first time in a thousand years, a god died. Skarnir had truly become The Executioner King. Word spread, the legend grew, and Skarnir traveled to far off realms to get stronger and gain allies for taking on the remaining Sorcerer-Kings. Until, one day… He died. In battle, as was proper. Slain while helping topple another oppressive god. But that day, a member of his ship’s crew made a decision. A dragon-rider who’s original name is long lost to time took up the crown, the axe, the mantle. He took up the name, Skarnir. He knew that there would never be another Skarnir by chance, he could not let the hope that Skarnir represented die. He went on to continue the campaign, and when he eventually died, another took up the name in his place. So on, and so forth. Skarnir can be many things, depending on who you ask; even every Skarnir will give a different answer. Hope, revenge, justice, spite, rage. All are valid.”
Skarnir took another swig.
“To me, Skarnir is stories. Like the Brothers Grimm, I have an anecdote for any situation. Cultural stories, in a way, of all the past lives I’ve lived vicariously through my fallen comrades. I fight to create more stories, and to ensure the Story of Skarnir continues while carrying on the mission. To that same end, I love hearing stories, so feel free to continue telling stories of your father.”
Skarnir downed the last of his beer, and gestured for a refill.
[Nishinoya's] Skål
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
A tingling of a metal spear jostling in a coupe signaled that Eryl was also finished with her drink. Considering the generous strength of Nishinoya’s beverages, they ascribed to a neat two-on-one rule with their spirit to liquer ratios, and the woman’s frame, she was probably about on par with Skarnir in the feeling. What Far-field would find was that Eryl was a good listener, her sparkling eyes lighting up as the story carried on. It would be hard to tell if she were being patient or simply interested in what he had to say.
But, the warmth in her smile was unmistakable, when he stopped to ask for more stories of her father.
“An avatar? No… that implies a perfect embodiment,” thoughtfully mused the triclops, her three eyes tracking a small line that only she could see. They tracked along another line, her mind following it elsewhere, “A living incarnation? Like lighting a candle, one after another, carrying on a flame from a blaze that used to burn unbearably bright. Oh, you will need to excuse me, it’s just quite interesting.”
Her fingers played at her chin as she thought of it, “Ah, yes. My father. Yes. Yes yes yes. I think I can do one more without getting emotional. It isn’t painful, but I am terribly nostalgic for my family, and we are drinking. Oh, there comes my courage.”
A wide low-ball glass was set in front of her, with a smooth, round piece of ice spinning in a pool of liquid ruby. The elf heaved Skarnir’s mug off for another fill, but Eryl patiently waited for her to come back with a full mug before continuing.
“My father… Yes, he was a dragoon, you know. Loved horses terribly. Loved riding and hunting. Taught me things that they frowned on in those days, but he was strangely enlightened by his exposure to the magical world. He could see the things that the mundane could not, and did not fear them the same way. For example,” Eryl took a drink and raised a pedagogical finger, “He comes home one day raving on the lawn that he’s killed the largest chicken he’s ever seen in his entire life. I remember coming out to the veranda, and my mother is shrieking that it was not a chicken at all.”
The triclops set down her glass and fanned out her hands, “It was a cockatrice.”
“‘Theobald, you fool,’” Eryl shook her hands, panto-miming her mother, “‘it’s still alive, the tail, the tail!’”
“‘Well,’” the Triclops put one hand on her hip, staring at something invisible clenched in her hand, “‘what do you know, it is, isn’t it!’”
“‘The tail, damn it!’”
At this point Eryl was laughing, “My father has the tail cinched in his hand, and he– and he’s begging my mother to come down and show him where to hit it just right to put it dead. She’s just throwing her fists about, furious. ‘Do I look like a damn druid!? I’m not going near that beast!’ Ha ha ha! Thankfully, I was never so squeamish, and so my father let me deal the death-blow. My hands were shaking so much, I almost missed point-blank.”
Eryl sighed, wiping away a few tears from each of her eyes. “Cockatrice is damn good. A bit tough, but it roasts terribly well with potatoes, carrots and butter.”
But, the warmth in her smile was unmistakable, when he stopped to ask for more stories of her father.
“An avatar? No… that implies a perfect embodiment,” thoughtfully mused the triclops, her three eyes tracking a small line that only she could see. They tracked along another line, her mind following it elsewhere, “A living incarnation? Like lighting a candle, one after another, carrying on a flame from a blaze that used to burn unbearably bright. Oh, you will need to excuse me, it’s just quite interesting.”
Her fingers played at her chin as she thought of it, “Ah, yes. My father. Yes. Yes yes yes. I think I can do one more without getting emotional. It isn’t painful, but I am terribly nostalgic for my family, and we are drinking. Oh, there comes my courage.”
A wide low-ball glass was set in front of her, with a smooth, round piece of ice spinning in a pool of liquid ruby. The elf heaved Skarnir’s mug off for another fill, but Eryl patiently waited for her to come back with a full mug before continuing.
“My father… Yes, he was a dragoon, you know. Loved horses terribly. Loved riding and hunting. Taught me things that they frowned on in those days, but he was strangely enlightened by his exposure to the magical world. He could see the things that the mundane could not, and did not fear them the same way. For example,” Eryl took a drink and raised a pedagogical finger, “He comes home one day raving on the lawn that he’s killed the largest chicken he’s ever seen in his entire life. I remember coming out to the veranda, and my mother is shrieking that it was not a chicken at all.”
The triclops set down her glass and fanned out her hands, “It was a cockatrice.”
“‘Theobald, you fool,’” Eryl shook her hands, panto-miming her mother, “‘it’s still alive, the tail, the tail!’”
“‘Well,’” the Triclops put one hand on her hip, staring at something invisible clenched in her hand, “‘what do you know, it is, isn’t it!’”
“‘The tail, damn it!’”
At this point Eryl was laughing, “My father has the tail cinched in his hand, and he– and he’s begging my mother to come down and show him where to hit it just right to put it dead. She’s just throwing her fists about, furious. ‘Do I look like a damn druid!? I’m not going near that beast!’ Ha ha ha! Thankfully, I was never so squeamish, and so my father let me deal the death-blow. My hands were shaking so much, I almost missed point-blank.”
Eryl sighed, wiping away a few tears from each of her eyes. “Cockatrice is damn good. A bit tough, but it roasts terribly well with potatoes, carrots and butter.”
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
Skarnir chuckled along to Eryl’s story as he settled back and began drinking away at his new tankard of ale. This was one of his favorite pastimes, not necessarily the drinking, or the chatting with women, but telling stories and listening to them. When someone told a story that meant a lot to them they got this glimmer in their eye, and one could almost feel all of the emotions the storyteller was reliving. This was a precious story for Miss Maelgwyn, and it showed. The tone of her voice, the pitch of her laughter, the slightly distant look in her eyes as though she were looking at a photo album, but also the tinge of melancholy and longing on the tail end; like tasting notes in a fine wine or aged whiskey. Given what he had heard already, it made sense. Eryl was out of time and space; displaced and somewhere vastly different than the vignette of her memories. A feeling to which he could relate. Yes, this had been a properly good choice of drinking companions.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had cockatrice, at least personally, but have you ever tried meat from a Hound of Tindalos? Don’t recommend it, slimy, pungent, and thought I was going to die for the next three days,” Skarnir laughed out his response as he sat his tankard back on the table. “Dragoons. Good bunch, brave soldiers, strong fighters. Always liked cavalry, perhaps going all the way back to the dragon rider. There’s something remarkably inspiring about their charges. Like when the Winged Hussars charged down that mountainside to turn the tide of the Siege of Vienna.”
The Norseman seemed to be thinking back a ways.
“Would have liked to have been a part of that one. But alas, I can’t claim to have been a part of every major battle.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever had cockatrice, at least personally, but have you ever tried meat from a Hound of Tindalos? Don’t recommend it, slimy, pungent, and thought I was going to die for the next three days,” Skarnir laughed out his response as he sat his tankard back on the table. “Dragoons. Good bunch, brave soldiers, strong fighters. Always liked cavalry, perhaps going all the way back to the dragon rider. There’s something remarkably inspiring about their charges. Like when the Winged Hussars charged down that mountainside to turn the tide of the Siege of Vienna.”
The Norseman seemed to be thinking back a ways.
“Would have liked to have been a part of that one. But alas, I can’t claim to have been a part of every major battle.”
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
"How does that work?"
Eryl's eyes were a little less focused as the alcohol did its work on her system. As a result, she was much more at ease, and found it a lot easier to take in Skarnir for what he was. She wasn't sure what that was, but she was fairly certain she had nothing to fear.
Except herself.
"U-uahm--... Not... Not that you have to explain yourself, but I'm finding myself terribly curious about you Mr. Far-Field," she explained, "You seem like a fine, youthful specimen of a man for the depth of your memory; do you inherit the memories, or is your particular ability being able to recall their stories?"
Her eyes drifted and her voice pitched a bit, "Oh, ah... I meant to say you... you look more my age... Erhm... Dear... I think we should order some food, since I seem to be keen on putting my foot in my mouth. That, and the booze is quite potent."
Eryl's eyes were a little less focused as the alcohol did its work on her system. As a result, she was much more at ease, and found it a lot easier to take in Skarnir for what he was. She wasn't sure what that was, but she was fairly certain she had nothing to fear.
Except herself.
"U-uahm--... Not... Not that you have to explain yourself, but I'm finding myself terribly curious about you Mr. Far-Field," she explained, "You seem like a fine, youthful specimen of a man for the depth of your memory; do you inherit the memories, or is your particular ability being able to recall their stories?"
Her eyes drifted and her voice pitched a bit, "Oh, ah... I meant to say you... you look more my age... Erhm... Dear... I think we should order some food, since I seem to be keen on putting my foot in my mouth. That, and the booze is quite potent."
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m almost forty. You still look a couple years off of thirty,” Skarnir gave another warm belly laugh as he waved over the server at the mention of food. He had food at home, but he never passed up opportunities for revelry. Once the server came over he put in an order for some fried skewers, tuna tataki, braised pork belly, miso grilled eggplant, roasted potatoes, and a side of pickled mushrooms; at which point he gestured that it was Eryl’s turn to order some food. Drinking his tankard down further in the meanwhile, he sat it back down once the server left.
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure; about the stories, that is,” Skarnir turned thoughtful as he had to practice some introspection. “I’d only met my predecessor once, and it was only for a day or so as she was passing through the thorpe; heard a couple stories as she and her companions were drinking at the longhouse, but at a distance. She was amazing! Spritely French woman, perhaps a bit bigger than you, but she had this way of wielding an absolutely savage estoc. Grace and power, all in one. After taking up the mantle though, I can recant her exploits, and those of the ones before her. Probably the only real magic I have; comes with the office, I suppose. That way, even the smallest stories will never die. I carry on their stories, I carry their artifacts, and I continue on their missions.”
Skarnir found himself idly rubbing a ring under the glove of his right hand, and separated his hands; occupying the ring hand with holding his tankard again.
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure; about the stories, that is,” Skarnir turned thoughtful as he had to practice some introspection. “I’d only met my predecessor once, and it was only for a day or so as she was passing through the thorpe; heard a couple stories as she and her companions were drinking at the longhouse, but at a distance. She was amazing! Spritely French woman, perhaps a bit bigger than you, but she had this way of wielding an absolutely savage estoc. Grace and power, all in one. After taking up the mantle though, I can recant her exploits, and those of the ones before her. Probably the only real magic I have; comes with the office, I suppose. That way, even the smallest stories will never die. I carry on their stories, I carry their artifacts, and I continue on their missions.”
Skarnir found himself idly rubbing a ring under the glove of his right hand, and separated his hands; occupying the ring hand with holding his tankard again.
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
I suppose he's ordering for both of us; what a gentleman.
Skarnir gave Eryl some sort of sign and the waitress looked at her. The gaze the triclops answered with indicated she wasn't sure what the other woman wanted. Her drink was still full, there hadn't been any questions, but it seemed like she was missing something.
"O-oh," it hit her suddenly, and she began scrambling to look at the menu.
"I can give you a second."
"Nn-no! I know what I want, I just--... just forgot what it's called. Yes. Yes! The... ahm... tuna dish, and... ah... the eggplant," Eryl flushed a rosy color as she got the order out. The elf gave her a bit of a lop-sided smile, before taking off.
She was doing so good. They had managed to go a few minutes without her saying something egregious or outrageous.
The triclops shrugged it off as Skarnir began to speak again, his voice had a bit of a hushing effect on the soul. It was the sort of bassy buzz that shook a person just enough to get their attention, no matter the circumstance. It made her wonder if that was, perhaps, an effect of this inherited power. Did being Skarnir mean becoming more like him? Was his predecessor also a woman filled with such an animal presence? It was difficult to pick out what was acceptable or not to say. This was new ground, for more reasons than one.
"Curious and more," Eryl said, finally, not wanting to drink just yet, but feeling the urge coming, "It sounds like you persist... in some way. There is a you that is there before Skarnir. Who was that?"
She gave a patient look over her glass as she took another sip, still feeling a bit mindful of herself.
Skarnir gave Eryl some sort of sign and the waitress looked at her. The gaze the triclops answered with indicated she wasn't sure what the other woman wanted. Her drink was still full, there hadn't been any questions, but it seemed like she was missing something.
"O-oh," it hit her suddenly, and she began scrambling to look at the menu.
"I can give you a second."
"Nn-no! I know what I want, I just--... just forgot what it's called. Yes. Yes! The... ahm... tuna dish, and... ah... the eggplant," Eryl flushed a rosy color as she got the order out. The elf gave her a bit of a lop-sided smile, before taking off.
She was doing so good. They had managed to go a few minutes without her saying something egregious or outrageous.
The triclops shrugged it off as Skarnir began to speak again, his voice had a bit of a hushing effect on the soul. It was the sort of bassy buzz that shook a person just enough to get their attention, no matter the circumstance. It made her wonder if that was, perhaps, an effect of this inherited power. Did being Skarnir mean becoming more like him? Was his predecessor also a woman filled with such an animal presence? It was difficult to pick out what was acceptable or not to say. This was new ground, for more reasons than one.
"Curious and more," Eryl said, finally, not wanting to drink just yet, but feeling the urge coming, "It sounds like you persist... in some way. There is a you that is there before Skarnir. Who was that?"
She gave a patient look over her glass as she took another sip, still feeling a bit mindful of herself.
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
“Just some lad from rural Norðmanna Land. Had he never met that woman, he probably would have gone on to be a herdsman like his father,” Skarnir’s tone was somewhat dismissive. Not to Eryl’s question, but instead to the identity of who he had been. “Who I was doesn’t matter all that much in the measure of who I have become. I have not forgotten where I came from; but I am Skarnir, and I am what Skarnir represents.”
The Norseman leaned forward on the table, his tankard sounding close to another refill. His mood seemed light, and quite relaxed.
“That lad went on to different pastures the day Skarnir the Bastille fell. Seen a wider world than I would have otherwise, am a part of a heritage bigger than myself, and get to wield powerful items from bygone eras. I just wish my purpose was more of an active one. Skarnir the Executioner King had his goal of felling the Sorcerer-Kings, Skarnir the Giantkin made allies with storm giants and stopped the resurrection of an ancient god of tyranny, and Skarnir the Grey Maiden freed a city besieged by its own corrupted queen and stop the resurrection of… Hmm, saying some of these out loud really makes it sound like I have a problem with gods.”
Another warm roll of laughter despite the topic of deicide.
“Probably part of the reason I agreed to work for Flynn.”
The Norseman leaned forward on the table, his tankard sounding close to another refill. His mood seemed light, and quite relaxed.
“That lad went on to different pastures the day Skarnir the Bastille fell. Seen a wider world than I would have otherwise, am a part of a heritage bigger than myself, and get to wield powerful items from bygone eras. I just wish my purpose was more of an active one. Skarnir the Executioner King had his goal of felling the Sorcerer-Kings, Skarnir the Giantkin made allies with storm giants and stopped the resurrection of an ancient god of tyranny, and Skarnir the Grey Maiden freed a city besieged by its own corrupted queen and stop the resurrection of… Hmm, saying some of these out loud really makes it sound like I have a problem with gods.”
Another warm roll of laughter despite the topic of deicide.
“Probably part of the reason I agreed to work for Flynn.”
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
“Perhaps it’s a sign that we’re finally to a happier, more peaceful age,” Eryl evaded the comment about gods, for the moment. She wasn’t sure how much Skarnir knew about her role in the Menagerie’s infamous god-slaying incident. Most of the triclops’ role was swallowed up by the primary actors and the eventual legal mire that surrounded her existence. “Skarnir the Teacher, Skarnir the Learned, Skarnir the Peaceful, Skarnir the Wise. They aren’t titles that evoke the image of… well…”
A small spindly set of fingers wiggled in his direction, “You... You look more like an Executioner King but the more I sit here, the more I realize that there is more to you than meets the eye. That is typical of those that came to Safeholme. We are all quite unlike the image we portray. You are thoughtful, in-tune with the world around you, and reflective of those lessons that your ancestors have taught you and… dare I say… nostalgic? Almost like a poet. A warrior-poet.”
There was prim little smile on her face, and it hung there for a moment, before she began to waver in her nervousness. She rubbed her fingers together, as if to shake off some sort of dust, and averted her eyes to somewhere else in the lounge as she got embarrassed again.
“Unless I am wildly off-base. I–... We’ve just met. You must have your own, real reasons for wanting to be here in Japan.”
A small spindly set of fingers wiggled in his direction, “You... You look more like an Executioner King but the more I sit here, the more I realize that there is more to you than meets the eye. That is typical of those that came to Safeholme. We are all quite unlike the image we portray. You are thoughtful, in-tune with the world around you, and reflective of those lessons that your ancestors have taught you and… dare I say… nostalgic? Almost like a poet. A warrior-poet.”
There was prim little smile on her face, and it hung there for a moment, before she began to waver in her nervousness. She rubbed her fingers together, as if to shake off some sort of dust, and averted her eyes to somewhere else in the lounge as she got embarrassed again.
“Unless I am wildly off-base. I–... We’ve just met. You must have your own, real reasons for wanting to be here in Japan.”
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
"That's a less than stellar thought," Skarnir began as he considered everything Eryl was saying. By the way she was describing him, he's started to go soft in recent days. It was likely a minor concern for most, but to him, to Skarnir, it was a matter of existential dread. "What do I do if the world no longer needs... me? Heh, Skarnir the Peaceful. Continuing on through the ages as a traveling storyteller; Skarnir the Bard. HA! I'd be joked about by all who came after me. Besides, I'm not at Safeholme to be a teacher. Flynn asked me here."
Re: [Nishinoya's] Skål
"Oh! That man frustrates me so!"
The words snapped out of Eryl's mouth faster than she could think to stop them, waggling like her limbs and fingers. It had bubbled up alongside the irritation with herself and being so probing. Now she was being a poor guest at the table, and the anxiousness had wormed out another of her personal briars for her mind to catch on. Mr. Flynn had invited a god-slaying mage-killer to work at his school and he couldn't be bothered to entertain her for a short-bout of tea so she could at least try and apologize!?
Eryl took a deep breath and then another sample of her negroni.
"For what reason, exactly? If you don't mind my asking?" her tone was innocent and light, as if she hadn't spat fire about Ruarc just a moment ago. "If not to be a teacher, then what?"
The words snapped out of Eryl's mouth faster than she could think to stop them, waggling like her limbs and fingers. It had bubbled up alongside the irritation with herself and being so probing. Now she was being a poor guest at the table, and the anxiousness had wormed out another of her personal briars for her mind to catch on. Mr. Flynn had invited a god-slaying mage-killer to work at his school and he couldn't be bothered to entertain her for a short-bout of tea so she could at least try and apologize!?
Eryl took a deep breath and then another sample of her negroni.
"For what reason, exactly? If you don't mind my asking?" her tone was innocent and light, as if she hadn't spat fire about Ruarc just a moment ago. "If not to be a teacher, then what?"