Private Tales Where Dragons Hide

[Malachi]

E R E T E J V A T U N D R A
Northwestern Shores
Gal

The fjord was unusually quiet. All that could be heard would be the gentle lapping of the waves against the cliffs on either side, the sun barely filtering through the scattered, thick clouds overhead. There was a fine fog lingering in the distance, threatening to descend upon any travelers within an hours time.

Vesterfjord was a remote village at the northwestern corner of the Eretejva Tundra. It was rare to see any travelers this far north, let alone when the days would grow short and the nights would lengthen. The village none the less was one of the few capable to sustain a partial trade. If anyone was caught up this far north and were in need of supplies, Vesterfjord would be it.

For those who would step into it, it would be saturated with Nordish culture. Hardy of nature, they carved out a living in the tundra after being castaway here several generations ago. It is a village drenched with customs and lore, who while are welcoming to strangers, are also wary enough to encourage their quick departure.

Some say it has to do with the local Jorn and his protective ways. Others say it has other origins, that the Landvaettir are suspicious of any newcomers and will not tolerate their lengthy stay. That the people of Vesterfjord had already pressed at the land spirits limits and now paid for it in blood.

It is hard to determine if these are just folklore or if it holds a token of truth. It is hard to say. None have witnessed any tributes of sacrifices of animals or food. But then again, who is to say what the people of Vesterfjord do to ensure their survival this far North where none should at all.

 

[Gal]

“Land! Land ta’ port!”

The roar echoed loud and joyous across the deck of a ghost ship. For a few moments, nothing happened. The waves continued to wash softly over the barnacled hull, lines continued to creak, and canvas continued to sing its luffing song in the still wind.

Then the din of action burst out of the lower deck as sailors poured onboard. Orders echoed between the heave of halyards; pirates scrambled like a swarm up the ratlines, unfurling sail after sail until the very skysail was singing against the down of dawn.

With the heavy jingle of gold Eshan al-Kamah emerged from the Captain’s cabin. “Alright ye haggard dogs, let’s tack this old boat ashore. I need me a strong drink and a nice pair of lips wrapped ‘round me pe—”

“Port ta’ port!”

Al-Kamah knit his eyebrows and directed a seething glare at the grinning face peering over the edge of the crow’s nest. “Wummin—”

“Looks ta’ be a villaj, Capo.”

The thin lips of disapproval quirked up at the sides. The Captain folded out his spyglass and inspected the nearing coast through the morning mists.

“Hoist the colors, Gal,” he said without looking away from their new quarry. “I can already feel that whore sucking me off.”

 

[Malachi]

Gal

The Norns were easy to pick out. Brawn of chest and of certain looming height, there was strength and power to their bloodlines. Their ancestors, of course, had been raiding Nordsmen who'd in an ancient age made a living through raiding parties. There was a certain mix of colorings due to the slaves that they'd captured along the way and still existed as a way of life here.

They were no longer the seafaring people they used to be -- out in the Tundra this far north, wood was a precious commodity. Instead, they took their skills to the land either by game or farming what precious few harvests they could gather.

It would be odd that this far North a village would survive the harsh climate and even harsher winters. None the less, it was large enough to hold around 500 villagers. If anyone was looking for some entertainment for the night, they'd be hard pressed to find it. If lucky enough, they might find a partner willing enough, but it appeared as if there was a distinct lack of younger women over the age of twelve and twenty-five.

The fjord wasn't large enough to dock a full ship right at the meager harbor. That meant that the anchor would need to drop and any would be visitors to row by boat. A small marketplace would be just off the harbor, with smaller fishing boats tugging the lines of their wares. Their clothing was colorful to say the least, with thick woven fabrics and furs as caps, cloaks and lining their boots.

All the while, there was a distinct aura lingering about the people. As if something was not quite right. Perhaps it was just a mind trick. Or maybe it was merely due to the rather oppressive air that the frozen Tundra and short days provide.

 

[Gal]

“Capo.”

“Was I in any way unclear?”

Gal had been sailing with Eshan al-Kamah for too long to still wither under his gaze. Even his advantage of looming height had disappeared over the years, evened to a level status quo that had them locked in a battle of stares no-one would soon interrupt.

It was a good way to end up with a second smile across your throat.

“Ah ain’ hoistin’ oor colors. Can’ we jus’ trade wit dem folk fo’ a change?”

“My orders—”

“Dis ne-ent da navy ship. We have oor say, ne?”

Al-Kamah seethed, bushy brows creased up together into a single stormy frown. “Very well. We’ll put it up to a vote.”

That’s how the Southern Wind dropped anchor under the Allirian flag. That’s how a boatful of pirates rowed into Vesturfjord wearing stolen merchant clothes. That’s how a fur-draped Gal first set foot on Eretejva land.

And it’s how she came to offer up her hand in greeting to the pale peoples of the north, her red sash and blue scarf the only splash of color against the overcast sky.

 

[Malachi]

It would be easy for the newcomers to see that the gloom and unforgiving nature of the location had easily weighted down on the villagers. They'd been wary at first, but not fearful of new ships at their harbor.

"'velcome, sailors." the singular harbor master would offer. It was a village of about one hundred hearths, no more than perhaps five hundred souls within the village and the outskirts. The vast jorts and small marketplace was enough to offer a venue to rest and have a drink.

"Come traveling far north." most would have avoided the fjord that would be required to find the village here.

"Good of you to find us." he'd welcome, gesturing to the village.

"It was a good summer. A solid harvest. If you so desire to trade, we are interested on what you might have."

There were more than a few curious eyes that would befall the fur smothered Gal. All the more so when considering the color of her skin. Most who were that dusky generally fell within the village among the distant slaver caste.

"Just on past the tavern is sure to warm your bellies and toes." Everyone was covered from head to toe in some sort of thick hide and carefully embroidered textiles. Handmade and passed down from generation to generation. A closer inspection would show that there was some variety to the Nords.

 

[Gal]

Hard to tell on a clear day what was going on behind those black eyes. There was a glint of appraisal in her gaze as she swept it across the huddled village; across the swaddled villagers. Finally it settled on the stocky harbormaster.

She smiled, and sharp teeth peeked out.

“Da tavern, ah think. Den bisnis.” Gal nodded as much to herself as to al-Kamah, who was surely observing the meeting through his spyglass. “Ye got a merchant man fo’ me ta’ talk ta’?

 

[Malachi]

Gal

"That we do," the man replied carefully, thick bushy brows drawing close. He gave a swing of his head in the affirmative and spoke simply, "That's me."

Around them, the villagers seemed to battle between curiosity and quiet avoidance. They were so far North that it was hard to imagine anyone would find their fjord, must the less the village at the end of it. Those few who did, however, would either be welcomed with curiosity or, during the times of the Brides, tend to avoid and keep to themselves. It would be neigh eight more years or so before the time came again, but even then, they held close as they could to what they treasured most.

Beyond the normal bustle of curious eyes to the vast ship that docked in their harbor, there were a few that took a more attentive view of the ship. Aeroic Olefsson, the current Jarl of Vesterfjord, would peer from the overlook wooden deck at the top of the village down to the harbor below. Ice blue eyes boring at it in deep contemplation.

 

[Gal]

Those rich red lips spread into a wide smile despite the cold. “Das jus’ grand. Ye wanna talk insayd?”

Even through the heavy fur cloak drawn taut over her shoulder, Gal felt the ice creeping in. The locals might’ve been born and bred in these impossible temperatures, but she was of the south, where warmth only retreated on those days where the moon swallowed the sun.

Right now, she wasn’t sure she could feel her toes anymore. A crackling hearth sounded divine.

 

[Malachi]

Gal

The man gave a conservative nod. Even for a large man, he would move quietly, the Tundra this far North having shaped him in ways to bear with the frigid environment. He might be short of words, but with so few visitors that he could count in his hand for the past few years, being wary of those who come wouldn't be too much of stretch.

Gesturing for her to follow, the Harbor Master introduce himself, "I am Jergan Bergsson." he held out one thickly muscle arm to shake her hand.

 

[Gal]

“Gal.”

At least the greeting was universal. She reached out and grasped his forearm with a firm grip of her own. The smile stayed firmly in place – frozen already, judging by the way she had trouble flexing her face into normal expressions.

How inconvenient.

She released his hand with a small hiccup of movement and hastened her pace towards the longhouse he’d pointed out as the tavern. Her constitution was tuned to temperatures in the opposite direction. Given a choice between numbing cold and scorching heat, she’d pick the latter any day of the week.

“So wat do ye got ta’ treyd?” This land of ice and snow didn’t seem given to any sort of produce. Pelts and bones, though, and baleen, perhaps? Despite the encroaching cold, Gal felt the warmth of excitement bubbling up behind her ribs.