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Aztryd looks around the table. Two of the Dwarves are drifting toward sleep. Aztryd stifles a yawn of her own, as the meal and the warm kitchen relax her exhausted body. Best to finish this tale, for the benefit of the elder and the tall one, who are still listening, and then she can find a spot to sleep herself.
"Well, it was all very comfortable, and I do appreciate not being eaten by the dragon, but it was not home. Can one live forever on thin elvish wine, and not good sturdy ale?" Aztryd raises her now-empty mug to the master brewer beside her. "I grew restless to return here. Those elves were a seafaring folk, and would have been glad to bring me home by ship --" She grimaces at that word. "-- but winter storms were upon them. So they lent me the use of yonder swan, with no more thought than some might lend a horse, and sent one of their sisters with me who knew the route, the same sister who delivered my letter to Azagak. Swan-riding is a strange way to travel, and not particularly comfortable, but I assure you it can be done."
Hjalmarr has managed to extract himself from the dinner in which he has been dozing. He dabs ineffectually at the gravy in his beard. Azagak...Azagak...why does that name sound familiar? His eyes widen at the introduction of swan-riding to the tale. "In my day," he grumbles to himself, "dwarves kept their feet on the ground. Or underground, as the case be. But at great need one may do unexpected things. Flying! With a babe!" He shakes his head with a frown.
Fafnir listens to Aztryd finish her tale, but his gaze keeps wandering to where Nasi has moved toward the fire. He stares at the broad shoulders, taut and rigid, and his eyes narrow as he thinks. Such anger in the stonemason. True, the story does seem more the stuff of a night time tale to tuck in unruly poppets, but Fafnir was surprised by the vehemence he heard in the handsome dwarf's words. He turns back to the company seated as Hjalmarr finishes, and his eyes rest briefly upon the white haired jeweler. No Elder there; he can barely keep his eyes open once he is fed, and he is more like to tell tales of his youth than to actually try to lead this bedraggled and unkempt band of survivors. No, Adelsteinn is their only surviving Elder, and he, Fafnir, now the only survivor worthy to be of great administrative assistance. But this wild tale is finished now, and they must decide...he must decide..what to make of it, and Aztryd, and their future. He brings his gaze to rest upon the master brewer, and bobs his head before speaking to Aztryd. "What an adventure, sweetling, and to have a babe to tend to boot! I scare know what to make of it." Or you, he thinks.
The elder considers Aztryd's story. He has seen the swan already; not the small one that was brought in but the large magnificent one outside. He is also curious for the elf. But now that the tale is finished, he offers Aztryd and everyone else at the table another ale. "I think we need another drink after that tale." He knows he is the highest surviving elder and that Fafnir's service is his. He will need to decide what to do, but he needs to think, and drinking is the best way to start his thinking. In response to Fafnir, he says, "I am not sure what to think of it as well, but, that elf," he turns to Aztryd, "that elf guided you here? As I understand it?" He then takes a deep drink of ale.
Aztryd turns with concern to the bedraggled fellow next to her. "Take this, father," she says, waving a clean towel toward his gravy-stained beard. She nods gratefully to the elder, murmuring a word of thanks as he passes around the ale. "Aye, she did," she answers him, and then takes a swallow of the golden brew. "And it was no easy task, crossing the trackless ocean."
"Thank you," Hjalmarr says gruffly to the adventuring mother. His clothing is a complete disaster, nothing like his usual state of quiet prosperity. It touches his pride to be so bedraggled, but at least he can wipe his face. He eyes the tall elder and the finely-dressed thin dwarf across the table. He hasn't much time for the sort of dwarves who sit on councils and don't know a seam of mithril from a knock on the head. Eilif, now, that's a proper dwarf, clever and actually useful. He hands the towel back to Aztryd with a nod. "You were not afraid of the deep ocean, young mother?"
Fafnir gratefully accepts as Adelsteinn refills each dwarf's tankard, watching as Aztryd offers Hjalmarr a towel. He takes a long pull from his mug, the foam weaving in and out of his mustache, and he lifts his gaze from his own drink to meet the other's eyes. He shifts his weight on the bench and leans forward. "You are, indeed, uncommonly brave. And the little one seems to be uncommonly considerate of us to sleep so quietly." He looks pointedly over at Aztryd across the bench. "And now, little mother, here you are, and here we are, and whatever are we to do now?" He sets his mug down on the table. "It's clear that we can't be eating this large swan of yours. It would hardly seem the polite or politic thing to do. Elves get most annoyed when you digest something they are fond of, no matter how logical the case."
"No, I should think not," he responds to Fafnir. He takes another drink. The giant swan is good evidence on which to base some validity of Aztryd's tale, but it still seems ludicrous. Maybe the elf could provide some insight. "Very nice tale and brave of you, Aztryd, and amazing you came here through all of this unscathed. I think it is time we meet this elf. Is she still in the room down the corridor? Perhaps Fafnir could go check on her and bring her here?" He hopes Aztryd does not take his request the wrong way, but he needs some more proof. "Maybe entice her with some of my famous brew," he adds with a slight smile. "Then, we will decide what to do next."
Aztryd shudders at the memory of the hours -- was it only today? -- crossing the ocean. The howling of freezing winds, damp spray of the waves, featureless water as far as the eye could see, for hours on end. To the grandfather she answers, "It wasn't a journey I would make for pleasure, indeed. But should I stay among strangers -- elves, at that -- because there was a sea between me and my home?"
Aztryd nods to the elder. "Of course, sir. I expect she can put your mind at ease about many details." Perhaps her story would sound more plausible, with Elwing to back her up.
"No, I can't imagine you would want to stay among Elves. Especially if they have dragons for friends!" Hjalmarr has not forgotten that part of the story, although he wonders if he heard that properly. Dragons were not known to be friendly, in any tales he had heard. "Where is this Elf, then? It speaks well of her that she would travel with you far from her own home. But Elves are strange folk. Who knows why they do as they do?"
Fafnir nods at Adelsteinn's words, giving the master brewer his most obsequious and earnest expression. "But, of course, Elder, I should be very glad to do as you request." He rises to his feet and steps around the bench, casting a brief glance over at the stone mason, who remains, immobile, before the fire, his dark hair shining as the reflective light dances along the curls. Biting his lip, he turns back to the table and flashes a smile at the little mother. "Of course, it does come to my mind, Elder, that the elf may be a little unsettled, surrounded as she is, and we are, by charred remains of our home and such destruction. Perhaps," He pauses as he moves around the table and closer to Aztryd, in his eyes a playful light, "perhaps, apple dumpling, if you were to lend me your sweet company, hearing your honey voice will soothe and reassure her. After all, you both have weathered a journey. I am sure she is most anxious to know you are back with your kith and clan. You know how skittish elves can be. I am sure with you beside me, we can get her to return with us, smooth as churned butter." He extends a hand to Aztryd.
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"Well, it was all very comfortable, and I do appreciate not being eaten by the dragon, but it was not home. Can one live forever on thin elvish wine, and not good sturdy ale?" Aztryd raises her now-empty mug to the master brewer beside her. "I grew restless to return here. Those elves were a seafaring folk, and would have been glad to bring me home by ship --" She grimaces at that word. "-- but winter storms were upon them. So they lent me the use of yonder swan, with no more thought than some might lend a horse, and sent one of their sisters with me who knew the route, the same sister who delivered my letter to Azagak. Swan-riding is a strange way to travel, and not particularly comfortable, but I assure you it can be done."
Hjalmarr has managed to extract himself from the dinner in which he has been dozing. He dabs ineffectually at the gravy in his beard. Azagak...Azagak...why does that name sound familiar? His eyes widen at the introduction of swan-riding to the tale. "In my day," he grumbles to himself, "dwarves kept their feet on the ground. Or underground, as the case be. But at great need one may do unexpected things. Flying! With a babe!" He shakes his head with a frown.
Fafnir listens to Aztryd finish her tale, but his gaze keeps wandering to where Nasi has moved toward the fire. He stares at the broad shoulders, taut and rigid, and his eyes narrow as he thinks. Such anger in the stonemason. True, the story does seem more the stuff of a night time tale to tuck in unruly poppets, but Fafnir was surprised by the vehemence he heard in the handsome dwarf's words. He turns back to the company seated as Hjalmarr finishes, and his eyes rest briefly upon the white haired jeweler. No Elder there; he can barely keep his eyes open once he is fed, and he is more like to tell tales of his youth than to actually try to lead this bedraggled and unkempt band of survivors. No, Adelsteinn is their only surviving Elder, and he, Fafnir, now the only survivor worthy to be of great administrative assistance. But this wild tale is finished now, and they must decide...he must decide..what to make of it, and Aztryd, and their future. He brings his gaze to rest upon the master brewer, and bobs his head before speaking to Aztryd. "What an adventure, sweetling, and to have a babe to tend to boot! I scare know what to make of it." Or you, he thinks.
The elder considers Aztryd's story. He has seen the swan already; not the small one that was brought in but the large magnificent one outside. He is also curious for the elf. But now that the tale is finished, he offers Aztryd and everyone else at the table another ale. "I think we need another drink after that tale." He knows he is the highest surviving elder and that Fafnir's service is his. He will need to decide what to do, but he needs to think, and drinking is the best way to start his thinking. In response to Fafnir, he says, "I am not sure what to think of it as well, but, that elf," he turns to Aztryd, "that elf guided you here? As I understand it?" He then takes a deep drink of ale.Aztryd turns with concern to the bedraggled fellow next to her. "Take this, father," she says, waving a clean towel toward his gravy-stained beard. She nods gratefully to the elder, murmuring a word of thanks as he passes around the ale. "Aye, she did," she answers him, and then takes a swallow of the golden brew. "And it was no easy task, crossing the trackless ocean."
"Thank you," Hjalmarr says gruffly to the adventuring mother. His clothing is a complete disaster, nothing like his usual state of quiet prosperity. It touches his pride to be so bedraggled, but at least he can wipe his face. He eyes the tall elder and the finely-dressed thin dwarf across the table. He hasn't much time for the sort of dwarves who sit on councils and don't know a seam of mithril from a knock on the head. Eilif, now, that's a proper dwarf, clever and actually useful. He hands the towel back to Aztryd with a nod. "You were not afraid of the deep ocean, young mother?"
Fafnir gratefully accepts as Adelsteinn refills each dwarf's tankard, watching as Aztryd offers Hjalmarr a towel. He takes a long pull from his mug, the foam weaving in and out of his mustache, and he lifts his gaze from his own drink to meet the other's eyes. He shifts his weight on the bench and leans forward. "You are, indeed, uncommonly brave. And the little one seems to be uncommonly considerate of us to sleep so quietly." He looks pointedly over at Aztryd across the bench. "And now, little mother, here you are, and here we are, and whatever are we to do now?" He sets his mug down on the table. "It's clear that we can't be eating this large swan of yours. It would hardly seem the polite or politic thing to do. Elves get most annoyed when you digest something they are fond of, no matter how logical the case.""No, I should think not," he responds to Fafnir. He takes another drink. The giant swan is good evidence on which to base some validity of Aztryd's tale, but it still seems ludicrous. Maybe the elf could provide some insight. "Very nice tale and brave of you, Aztryd, and amazing you came here through all of this unscathed. I think it is time we meet this elf. Is she still in the room down the corridor? Perhaps Fafnir could go check on her and bring her here?" He hopes Aztryd does not take his request the wrong way, but he needs some more proof. "Maybe entice her with some of my famous brew," he adds with a slight smile. "Then, we will decide what to do next."
Aztryd shudders at the memory of the hours -- was it only today? -- crossing the ocean. The howling of freezing winds, damp spray of the waves, featureless water as far as the eye could see, for hours on end. To the grandfather she answers, "It wasn't a journey I would make for pleasure, indeed. But should I stay among strangers -- elves, at that -- because there was a sea between me and my home?"
Aztryd nods to the elder. "Of course, sir. I expect she can put your mind at ease about many details." Perhaps her story would sound more plausible, with Elwing to back her up.
"No, I can't imagine you would want to stay among Elves. Especially if they have dragons for friends!" Hjalmarr has not forgotten that part of the story, although he wonders if he heard that properly. Dragons were not known to be friendly, in any tales he had heard. "Where is this Elf, then? It speaks well of her that she would travel with you far from her own home. But Elves are strange folk. Who knows why they do as they do?"Fafnir nods at Adelsteinn's words, giving the master brewer his most obsequious and earnest expression. "But, of course, Elder, I should be very glad to do as you request." He rises to his feet and steps around the bench, casting a brief glance over at the stone mason, who remains, immobile, before the fire, his dark hair shining as the reflective light dances along the curls. Biting his lip, he turns back to the table and flashes a smile at the little mother. "Of course, it does come to my mind, Elder, that the elf may be a little unsettled, surrounded as she is, and we are, by charred remains of our home and such destruction. Perhaps," He pauses as he moves around the table and closer to Aztryd, in his eyes a playful light, "perhaps, apple dumpling, if you were to lend me your sweet company, hearing your honey voice will soothe and reassure her. After all, you both have weathered a journey. I am sure she is most anxious to know you are back with your kith and clan. You know how skittish elves can be. I am sure with you beside me, we can get her to return with us, smooth as churned butter." He extends a hand to Aztryd.
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