[centre][h3]Snippets from the Dûnans - A Tavern Story[/h3][/centre] [hr] It was late in the afternoon - the sun was beginning to set on the horizon, warm reds inking the clouds dim shades of pink. The day’s laborious tasks were over for the Dûnan peasantry, and most gathered around the mealhouses on the outskirts of town - large longhouses made for hosting up to twenty people each. In total, there were two of these around Ha-Dûna, placed strategically where the terrain grew too harsh and cumbersome for exhausted farmers to make their way all the way back to town. The northernmost establishment, the one also furthest away from the town proper, had acquired an air of age and usage, musty smells of old thatch and smoked wood filling its insides. Its patrons were, however, still as eager customers as ever, filling every bench flanking the three hearths lining the centre at three points and exchanging jokes and stories over bowls of stew and brown bread. A roaring chorus of laughter came from the benches closest to the door. “You’re talking piss, Gondar!” “No, no, no!” Gondar snorted the teary snot back inside his nose. “When Macgram came back, she not only found Fionn hip-deep in his daughter, but the herd he was supposed to watch had skipped to the hills over Blikkenberg!” The chorus resumed, intermittently interrupted by wheezes and coughing. “And!” sniffed Gondar, “and it took ‘em three days to get ‘em back!” After everyone’s sides were properly stinging, an older man tugged thoughtfully at his bushy mustache. “Kids these days, I swear… Macgram oughta take that lad’s hand for laying it on his daughter - especially since it nearly cost him his whole herd.” “Always one for the harsher punishments, aren’t you?” mused Gondar. “Classic Arald, that,” rumbled another. “It’s what the old gaardskarls did back in Jarnstad - it worked wonder, y’know,” protested the mustached man. “The old gaardskarls are just that - old! Ha-Dûna has different laws, Arald - thought you’d know that after three years.” “Can’t teach an old sage knew wisdom,” mused Gondar again and chuckled into his clay cup. The mustached man growled quietly. Gondar sucked on a tooth and wriggled his nose. “No, no… I reckon he and Macgram’s daughter’ll both get a stern talking to by Kaer Pinya before the druids’ll make ‘em marry and go at it under the grace of Reiya and Taeg Eit. ‘S how it usually goes.” “Ain’t right,” Arald rumbled. “Why should they get to decide that?” “They don’t - the gods do, old fool,” snapped one of the others and Arald glared back. “What was that?! Got something you wanna say?!” Gondar stood up and waved for them to calm down. “Hey, hey! Lads, we’re having a good time, alright? Let’s not ruin it with squalor. Vlanders, be respectful. Arald raises a good question… It ain’t always right that the druids can overrule the plans parents have for their children, but… At the same time, cuttin’ of the hands of a somewhat touchy lad - is that right? Taeg Eit will be happy as long as they marry.” “It’s the old way.” “For the gaardskarls, it is. Rest of us, the ciennon fen, the herjegallings and the rest - for us, that ain’t the old way.” The mustached man finished his cup of drink and growled. “I’m heading home.” “Oh, Arald, come oooon… We were having such a great time!” The man didn’t reply, instead pushing the animal skin door curtain aside and stepping out into the autumn afternoon. The three other lads on the bench sighed - a different bench had taken on the responsibility of keeping the mood light and bubbly. “So… What now, Gondar?” The man hummed to himself. “How about another story - this one from outside the Dûnlands.” “Which one’s that?” “The Reaper of Ramhome.” The room went silent. All eyes turned to Gondar, who accepted the stares with defiant confidence. “I’m serious.” “Gondar, we-... Is this a good time? We ain’t exactly out camping.” “C’mon, horror stories are perfect for this kind’a mood. Besides, it’s along the same lines as our earlier conversation. You, come join us.” Their own conversation having wilted away, the other benches were pulled closer by their occupants until a halfmoon had formed in front of the man. Gondar received another cup of kefir and leaned in so the flickering shadow of the hearth danced across his dirt-shaded face. “Long, long ago, there was a beautiful young lady named Robin, and she was beloved by her whole village. She had yet to marry, waiting so eagerly for her sweetheart to one day arrive. Then, one day, her sweetheart did arrive - a tall, strong man came to their village in the night, tired and weary of the road. It was love at first sight. In their lust, they snuck out into the woods and had their way. Taeg Eit saw this and was furious - the agreement of marriage had yet to be made, and no druids were there back then to right their wrongs in the eyes of the gods. So she sent a tremorous troll and seven swathes of reaving raiders at the village, until all that remained within the fortnight was Robin, kneeling in its ashes. She begged, begged for forgiveness and for someone to take her sorrows away - she had lost everything: home, friends, love. From on high, Naya cursed her arrogance - sorrow is for us to keep, see - and took away her beauty and her love for others, forcing her to wander the world for eternity until she would realise the true meaning of sorrow.” He paused and eyed the crowd. “... No one saw her for ages… Until there once came a cloaked figure to the town of Ramhome. None of them knew her story, and none had time to learn it. She went from door to door, slaying everyone in the village with her terrible spear. Did she do this to learn what sorrow is? Maybe she thought that, to learn what sorrow is, one must see others suffer?” He shrugged. “None by the gods know what she truly thought, for none lived to tell the tale of Ramhome…” The crowd exchanged uncomfortable frowns, and Gondar smirked. “And some say… She’s still roaming the highlands to this day.” The room was silent, only the gingerly slurps of water or goat milk being heard in the background. Eventually, Vlanders slapped him on the back. “Way to bring down the mood, goatbrains! Tell ye what - I have another story! Story of our favourite hero, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd turned to the man, who at this point had risen up, found his pipe and was patting the bowl full of pipeweed. “Yes! The song of Gaard Goldhair!” The crowds cheered and started clapping along. Gondar rolled his eyes and snickered into his cup. The song rumbled in the walls until the curfew set in, and laughter and cheers followed every verse: [centre][i] Ooooooooo! In ‘Trefan lands of slaves and shit, Our people were so deep in it! Then outta nowhere came our laird The handsome Gaard with golden hair! Ram-dee-dam-dee-dam-dee-daa! Rangelly-dangelly-ham-dee-daa! His body rivalled those of trolls - By gods, no muscles were as swole! He swung his club with holy might And ploughed Ketrefans through the night! Ram-dee-dam-dee-dam-dee-daa! Rangelly-dangelly-ham-dee-daa! The walled-in bastards followed him To far off forests dark and grim - But did they catch him? By Caden no! Our hero dragged -them- back in tow! Ram-dee-dam-dee-dam-dee-daa! Rangelly-dangelly-ham-dee-daa! His mind was blessèd by the gods; He won against outrageous odds; And while the king was after him, He drank his wine and fucked his queen! Ram-dee-dam-dee-dam-dee-daa! Rangelly-dangelly-ham-dee-daa! Alas, the tale of Gaard did end: When he his people did defend, The Ketties slayed him, that is truuuuuuuuueee… *Tap* *Tap* *Tap* *Tap* BUT IT TOOK A HUNDRED MEN TO DO! [/i][/centre] [hider=Sumsum!] Dûnan farmers are chilling in a mealhouse (basically a tavern worked by the community) and telling stories. The first story is about a boy hip-deep in a girl he ain’t married to, and hints are dropped that marriage is hecka important to the Dûnans. Some intertribal lore is also dropped. Second story is about the Dûnan version of a scorned woman. Third is a song about the Chad of Chads, Gaard Goldhair. [/hider]