Hjalmar Godefroy - Worth Fighting For

[Obsidian Sea]

It has been some time since a camp of Tuigans first settled on the outskirts of Sarshel. Initial unease at their anti-social presence there became exacerbated by business concerns; Sarshel's recent history has been chequered enough, and it may dissuade or antagonise certain persons of importance to believe the city to be complicit in sheltering the kinsmen of those that terrorised the civilized north for several years. More imminently, the stables fear that the Tuigans wish to steal their horses.

So with the passing of the days, and the unsettling sight of blood in the snow around the stables leading to the camp of the Tuigans, the three warriors of the wastes are pushed out from the sight of the main trading roads and towards the fringe of the settlements. They relocate to the wilds on the outskirts of Outentown, and are perceived to be watching those that come and go from the quaint village which sits at the beginning and end of the Royal and Laviguer Roads. They seem unable to speak Common fluently, and the few that approach them are not greeted warmly - sometimes not at all. It seems that the Tuigans come to the road in anticipation of someone - or something - quite particular.

[OldBear]

With their move to the outskirts of Outentown area, Ornak sends a dispatch to his lord notifying him of their presence and requesting if his Lord has any particular instructions for him to follow?

[Crusader]

Huddled somewhere in the winter woodlands of Impiltur, Hjalmar of Holgerstead sat by a crackling fire and warmed his hands. He had been on a hunt, and caught no less than a lone wolf stalking the undergrowth. It served as a poor feast, as wolves were wont to do, but the raider had grown accustomed to miserable fare ever since he came ashore. A good thing that he always carried a horn of ale to wash it down with, or it might have been the contents of his bowels that lay strewn on the forest floor, rather than the wolf he had skinned.

After a brief respite, he stomped out the flames and slung the recently-acquired pelt over one shoulder, slugging through the snow as he made his way back to the city. It was when he reached the outskirts of Outentown that his daily routine was suddenly altered. A small crowd of faces, foreign yet familiar, halted him on the road. Judging by the expressions on their faces, he gathered that they wanted something from him, but he had a feeling that it could only be seized at the price of bloodshed.

[Obsidian Sea]

Hjalmar Godefroy is met without hostility by the three Tuigans, though their true intentions are elusive beneath the inexpressivity of their countenances. They turn and walk into the Easting Wilds: do they mean to ambush him? The branches of the trees are wet with snow, and the grass comes up to the Barbarian's knees here beneath the heavy evergreen canopy that has shielded this quiet place from the worst of the perpetual snowfall.

The Tuigan with which Hjalmar of Holgerstead had battled does not sit when his kinsmen do. He lifts a bottle of wine - one too small for Hjalmar's taste, no doubt - and he offers it to him. Is this the deference shown in defeat? The horse warrior has healed, but Hjalmar cannot doubt that scars have been left no matter the medicinal knowledge of the Tuigans, or the kindness shown by Rannie Marrinson and Aleira Nemesk. If he would drink of the wine, the taste would be unlike any other. There is something starchy and sticky about the sweetness of the wine.

"Rice wine," the man explains in brief. He then goes on to exchange several sentences of dialogue with his kinsmen.

Perhaps the wine is a delicacy? Something brought from afar? If so, to share it might be a meaningful gesture. Or, as Tuigans are known to be capable of, perhaps this is just a plundered product, passed along to a fellow warrior without sentiment.

The Tuigan picks up his two-bladed sword, giving it a lengthy examination. He turns again to Hjalmar, but keeps the weapon lowered. His kinsmen turn their eyes up at the Barbarian too. It is quiet in the wilds. Even the woodland creatures must want to flee these savages.

"Selenecca," he starts.

His kinsmen turn their attention back to their campfire. The smoke from the pot goes up in a weak, thin river, losing itself against the canvas of a cast iron sky. No doubt it is rabbit stew they share tonight

"Fighting Selenecca, and win. Not me. You."

The Tuigan then circles the campfire and sits down between his two kinsmen, legs crossed and lifting a pewter bowl towards the stew pot. His thin eyes watch over the rim of the pot, sharing a final word to Hjalmar as the hot, gamey stew is dropped into the bowl by the man upon his left.

"Champion."

[Crusader]

He returned to the Tuigans' camp the next morning, clad in the worn hauberk that he was rarely seen without. Although he had tried to remove the stains of battle from his armour, it was still caked in dried blood in various spots throughout. It was not something that he had lost any sleep over, though, as the Tuigans were unlikely to take offence at the sight.

In this early hour of the day, he had scarcely expected them to be awake, but there they sat, all three of them, breaking their fast on a roasted hare in the summer snows. When they caught sight of Hjalmar approaching, nothing about their behaviour changed remarkably. They were reserved and inexpressive as ever, which seemed to be the norm among Tuigans. He stood in front of their campfire and glanced between them, waiting for some sort of reaction. When it never came, he took it upon himself to break the initial silence.

"I met with your Selenecca. This is what remains o' her earthly possessions."

He reached into his rucksack and drew out a golden neckpiece set with bright gemstones, which had the unmistakably gaudy character of a pirate queen's. Indifferently, he flung it on the ground, as though it had no more value to him than a pile of bones. A smile crept onto his lips in a self-satisfied smirk as he watched their faces, curious to see how they might respond to the news.

[Obsidian Sea]

As a chorus, the Tuigans turn their eyes down to the ground to look upon Selenecca's Neckpiece. The first of the Tuigans, humbled by defeat at Hjalmar Godefroy's hands, reaches forward and takes the necklace, interlacing it between his rough, calloused fingers.

"Dead?"

He rises a few moments later, and extends an arm towards Hjalmar, shaking it in a vague gesture, as though to suggest he were holding a tin or a glass.

"Cup?"

His two kinsmen follow his movements with their eyes until they come to rest upon Hjalmar of Holgerstead again with patient expectation for what the Barbarian might say.

[Crusader]

He gave the Tuigan a quizzical look, eyeing his outstretched arm. It took him a moment to understand what they were after, but when it finally dawned on him, he snorted derisively and produced an object wrapped in a sheet of satin from the same bag. Waiting for their gazes to find it, he held it up and drew off the cover, unveiling an immaculate cup of spun gold. As he discerned the excitement in their eyes, Hjalmar instantly knew that the goblet had been the object of their desire this entire time -- not the death of Selenecca. He brought the cup forward by extending his arm, as though he meant to surrender it over, only to stop it inches away from the Tuigan's grasping hand. A wicked smirk played across his lips as he withdrew the cup and tucked it back into his satchel.

"By right o' conquest, this cup belongs to me now. Unless you can somehow make me a better offer, it stays within my possession. Failin' that, I see this goin' down two ways. Either you goat-fuckers content yourselves with Selenecca's necklace and the knowledge o' her death, or you'll try to take this cup from me by force. We all know how the latter's like to end, don't we? Now, shall we let the wolves go hungry tonight, or give 'em the feast that they're hopin' for?"

Grimacing, he reached up to grasp at the leather grip of his greataxe. He could feel his muscles tensing under the metal rings of his hauberk, and that euphoric feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins before a battle. It fed him, gave him sustenance -- and, more importantly, it filled him with rage. A blind, red rage that could only be sated with the blood of his fallen foes. His rough-hewn fingers trailed the axe handle before clutching about it tightly. All that remained was to draw Widowmaker from her sheath, but that depended more so on the actions of the Tuigans than his own, as he was wholly prepared for the bloodshed that might ensue.

[Obsidian Sea]

The foremost of the kinsmen sustains the deadness of his expression throughout. The Barbarian's aggression does not provoke them; perhaps they know they would not win that battle? Instead, he pushes out a derisive breath, eyeing Hjalmar Godefroy up and down before he turns away from him and back to his camp. He settles down, legs crossed, and waves the islander away with his hand.

"Is good you have cup. Earned. You won where we could not. Go. No business with one like you."

His kinsmen remain calm. It is unclear how much of Hjalmar's taunt they have understood, but their blood seems not to boil with an eagerness for combat. One tosses a log upon the fire, breaking the burnt wood below and sending a crackle of embers into the silence of the glade which holds them. The first Tuigan pushes the hand around which Selenecca's necklace is interlaced into his snow for a moment, and then retracts it, leaving the she-pirate's ornament in front of the fire for a time for himself and his companions to contemplate. To Hjalmar, it appears that they have nothing more to say.

Tuigans are strange men; perhaps not altogether men at all. The world of men is hostile towards them, and perhaps with good reason. If Hjalmar is right, and the goblet had been the object of their desire all the time - if it is true that the Barbarian was merely a pawn in their game, then perhaps it is suspicious that they will not fight him now. Perhaps he ought to sleep with one eye open? What is the honour of such men? Unger mac Rotu's words of warning might come again to Hjalmar's mind. The Tuigans show no inclination to bring the fight to Hjalmar, no matter how willing, but that does not mean his word of promise to Ornak has not been broken. But that was a promise of words; actions speak louder, do they not? In the eyes of a Barbarian, perhaps such promises mean nothing when weighed against the promise of another battle.