[center][color=forestgreen][b]Caiside Maedoc
Jarl of the Brazen Sword clan[/b][/color][/center]

He had come with the Broken Hammer envoy. With the woman some Daoine called their 'slave master' with venom in their voice. He barely compared to half the height of the fair Jarl Geirlaug, for which he had traveled with over rough seas from far north. Caiside was short, that was sure, and his long dark ginger hair tied in braids and beaded about his head, keeping it tidy and neat. His beard was done primarily the same way, locks tied off in beads, with a single, flowing lock down the center of his chin. And Jarl Caiside had dressed for the occasion. He wore his golden-colored tunic and a green tartan-pattern kilt, no doubt he had come with many tens of knives and weapons hidden in the belt, as was the garment's significance. Last, a piece of leather and hide protected his torso, and tucked into its seams, a red tartan cloth cloak.

Needless to say, he stood out heavily in the hall, dressed in his rather colorful but homely attire, sat beside a woman twice his height, drinking mead which was very different compared to the Braggot brewed in the highlands. And Caiside knew well his clan's reputation. Backwards mountain people, perhaps deserving of the same respect of goblins, a clan that earned its earldom only through its sheer mediocrity. But he pushed it out of his mind, drank the mead which was more bitter than he was used to, siting perhaps where the Jarl of the Brazen Sword sat two Daoine generations ago.

Caiside looked around the hall, rather stunned at the chatter which bounced back and forth between the attendants, the outright denouncing of the regent before her very face. He simply could not believe it. He had never been to any moot, save for the one in his own hold, the moot which had elected him Jarl of the Daoine. But it had not been so upfront. The competition between he and his relatives had not stooped to denunciation of their potential merit, nor had it carried such venom. But it was surely true, if even harsh. No merit had yet been presented. What right was given to demand the title of 'peer'?

He looked to Jarl Geirlaug, seated beside him. He intently listened to her speak, and found his sentiment to be shared. He knocked back another gulp of mead before idly mumbling to Geirlaug, low so only she could hear, articulating his low, thickly-accented voice to his advantage. "Is this how these lowlanders and southerners present themselves?" He asked with a particular venomous suspicion, perhaps calling back to the tales he was told as a boy, of the uncivilized, crude lowland southern peoples which raided the seas and cowered before the pale-men.