[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/TiC9fEF.png[/img]
[h2]Breaking Bread[/h2]
[/centre]
[hr]
[sub][i]Year 30AA, early Winter, Ha-Dûna...[/i][/sub]

Clement du Pierre stood alone in the dark of twilight, dressed in his finest clothes and equipped with a basket of fruits, vegetables and small pots of spices. He wore a magnificent white cloak of wool, treated with felgar oil to make it resistant to the winter elements. His green linen shirt, coloured with the juice of mashed grass, needed help from a wool-reinforced vest of buffalo skin, gifted onto him by a Nubveian friend. His pants were of borak skin: thick, heavy and well-suited for the snows that would be here any day. His boots were expertly cobbled from the skin of bearfish, oddly elastic and soft despite years and years away from the sea. Atop his head, a finely waulked bonnet of goat’s wool imported all the way from the distant land of Cúibarsear, brought to Ha-Dûna through great Fìrinn’s mirror. Somehow, it sat more majestically atop his bronze-haired head than any hat of local wool. 

He was alone. He had been escorted here by his cousin and her siblings - brave members of his [i]hildargeach[/i], but he had been asked to come alone, after all, and his word was his chain. He stood before a great door fashioned from wood - a rare sight even in Ha-Dûna. Its frame was carved beautifully with imagery depicting the tale of Jeanix Blanche’s battle of wits against the troll sorceror Mysticka, a favourite around clan Blanche hearths. Clement studied the details of the shining woman’s face and its contrasts to the demonic troll hag’s mug in the scene where Jeanix solves the sorceror’s riddle. He pondered whether he should have his own clan’s myths enshrined in wood in this manner.

The bar on the other side scraped against the inside of the door and it was pulled open, revealing the bald, smiling, mustached face of Charlix of Blanche, who took a bow and drummed his chest in salute. “Clement, my prestigious colleague and friend - welcome to [i]Maiseonne Blanchease[/i].”

Clement returned the gesture and bowed a little lower, though his movements were rougher than his counterpart’s. “Charlix, my fellow [i]mórthéin[/i] and brother of different blood - thank you for the invitation.” He tilted his head up to study his host - at first glance, one could make the mistake of assuming that Charlix wore poorer clothing than Clement, dressed as he was in a simple shirt knotted together at the collar, a blue and yellow tartan kilt and long, woolen stockings under a pair of wooden shoes. However, the shirt had a sheen to it unachievable with both wool and linen; the kilt was held up by a belt buckled with gold tied into intricate knots; the stockings were of felgar wool; and the shoes were fashioned from an exotic sort of lumber that few in this area even knew the properties of. 

“Please,” said Charlix with a grin. “Come inside. You must be freezing.”

[centre][img]https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yPy-t_NTqLA/VyDknIP9uxI/AAAAAAAAJbE/apmNrfwbpmUGxGzAYhU-J8_xP_aidTjdwCLcB/s1600/a06a220016174eab349cae48b1f871de.gif[/img][/centre]

“Oh, no, no,” Clement replied politely and kicked the first snows off the underside of his boots before he stepped inside. The inside of the Blanche [i]tún[/i] longhouse, the legendary [i]Maiseonne Blanchease[/i], was a wonder of architecture: Three decades of ceaseless timberwork had resulted in a hall large enough to house twenty people comfortably, kept warm by not one, but two hearths. All along the walls hung colourful carpets and animal pelts; many such also decked the floor. The house was so large that, in addition to the main hall, the two ends of the longhouse were their own separate rooms - to the south, the largest room, the [i]laird[/i] kept his animals in the winter, and already, Clement heard the grunts and bleats of curious sheep; to the north, Charlix had built a separate storage for food, which combined with another hearth into its own kitchen, allowing for the main hall to exclusively be used for feasting and, for the guests, sleeping. The host and his family would sleep on a sort of second floor, which had been built above the storage room. Clement marvelled at the structure and passively said, “I’ve been quite fine, but thank you.” He gave the air a sniff. “Oh, what are these smells?”

“Do they draw your interest?” chuckled the host as Clement’s cape was taken by a young lady dressed in a beautiful blue and yellow, tartan-patterned linen dress, topped with a woolen vest around her torso and a kerchief around her neck. She offered the guest a smile and walked off. Clement blinked.

“Was that your Beatrice?”

“Not quite,” answered Charlix and guided him over to a decked long table between the two hearths, full as they were of dancing flames. “It is my Enguerrand’s wife, Aranrhod, though I can see how they resemble one another.”

“Enguerrand’s wife, huh…” mumbled Clement as he placed his hands on the back of one of two chairs, each situated on opposite ends of the long table. The table sported a wooden plate for each of them, a linen cloth, a spoon and gilded drinking holds. The table between them was decked to the brim with bowls of fruit, pots of porridge, plates of meat, baskets of cakes and jugs of drink. Clement swallowed at the sight. “What, uhm, what clan does she hail from, then?”

“Leona,” answered Charlix. “That old vixen Branwen sure knew how to ensnare my boy with her daughter, that she did. She wasn’t cheap on the bridal gifts, either.” He sighed and pulled out his chair to sit down; Clement did the same, though he naturally let the host be seated first. “But alas, as a father who loves his son, who would I be to deny him the love of his life?” 

Clement nodded. A young man came over to him with a bowl of ash and a small basin of water. Clement briefly dipped his hands in water, then pinched some ash and rubbed it over his hands before quickly washing it off again. The young man bowed and returned to whence he’d come. As he tried his washed hands on his kerchief, he asked, “I couldn’t agree more, my friend. So, will your son be moving to the Leona [i]tún[/i], then? I seem to recall Aranrhod is the oldest of their flock.”

As the young man returned to pour them drinks, Charlix shook his head. “Nnnno… No, I don’t think so.”

Clement raised a brow and lifted his now-steaming horn, filled three-quarters full of something warm. “Oh? Well, why not? I’ve heard the Leona [i]tún[/i] is a most satisfactory estate - I’m certain your son will be blessed to live there together with his wife and children-to-come.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Charlix agreed, “but my Guiscard has said he would be willing to offer him the other house - the one on the hill - should he choose to stay and become [i]hildargeach[/i].”

Clement nearly spilled his drink before he could take a sip. “And Branwen agreed to let her oldest and heir marry into a different clan?!”

A smirk lifted one corner of Charlix’s mouth as he dipped his lips into his drink. “As I said: The bridal gifts were not cheap.”

Clement put down his horn, left fingers catching his forehead ponderously. “Does that mean that their [i]tún[/i] will pass unto--”

“Gods, Clement!” scoffed Charlix and chuckled. “Of course not! Do you mean to assume that I am out to unite all of Ha-Dûna under the Blanche? No, no, the estate will pass to little Conall once Old Branwen passes on, I reckon.”

“Conall? Oh! Yes, yes, of course… Right, since last winter…”

“Aye,” Charlix nodded solemnly. “Shame about that cough. Cian would’ve been a worthy second choice after Aranrhod. Alas, the Bone Serpent must have his due, as the Mink say… Try the wine, by the way. It is most exquisite!”

Clement blinked down at his horn and picked it up again, giving the rim a sniff. A warming scent amplified by the rising steam and vapours of alcohol filled his nose with memories of autumn, of wandering aimlessly through berry bushes and sneaking whiffs from the spice boxes of foreign merchants at the market. He gave the drink a sip and felt himself grow light. Such sweetness and fullness had he never before tasted in, well, anything - it was magnificent, a work of culinary art. Affording himself a second, longer sip, he eventually lowered his horn and stared wide-eyed at Charlix. “What in the gods’ names is this?”

“You like it?” snickered the host. “Marvelous - I have been dying to share this cask with someone for ages. This, my friend, is Caefirite grape wine from the Gold Coast - bought it from an Arraki merchant some weeks back. You can tell it was made by artisans using only the finest ingredients.” To illustrate his point, Charlix savoured intently his following sip. Clement, on the other hand, seemed to have fallen off at “grape”, for he had never heard of such a fruit, as he presumed it was. He decided not to pry, though, and sipped his horn again, the flavour forcing him to close his eyes in pleasure.

“Mm… Oh, by the gods, your clan has come a long way since you drank curdled milk and muddy water back in Old Brasforts.” 

“Hoho, my friend - we are miles beyond that now. After all, this city is meant to be the Jewel of the North, is it not? The former sanndatr was archaic in her understanding of wealth - what we need is a proper aristocracy, someone with means to invest and develop this land!”

“Hear, hear,” Clement mumbled passively into his horn, eyeing the food hungrily. Charlix followed his gaze and chuckle.

“O-ho! Where are my manners! Please, my friend - eat, eat your fill! Everything on the table is for us, after all.” He helped himself to an oatcake and some stewed meat. Clement blinked.

“A-all of this is for us? Charlix, this could feed a warband.”

Charlix raised a brow at him. “Point being? Come on, eat now.”

Clement furrowed his brow to the point where it fused together into one flat line, but he wasn’t the kind to stare a gift horse in the mouth. He scooped some stewed meats onto his plate, helped himself to some potted carrots, grilled onions and oatcakes. He gently dipped a cake in the stew, topped it with a piece of onion and carrot and took a bite. A million sensations assaulted his tongue simultaneously and he had to block his mouth shut with his fist as his body had almost instinctively assumed such flavours and textures couldn’t be natural. Chewing slowly, he savoured each and every one - the cake had a wholesome warmth and roundness to it, a theatre of flavour compared to the dull ash loafs he ate at home; the meat stew offered salt and umami, followed by a burning sensation that made him reach for his drink; his hand was stopped, however, as the sweetness and acidity of the carrot offered respite; and the onion finished off the experience with the sort of gentle, sugary flavour and jammy texture only hours of cooking could achieve. He struggled to swallow, for his mouth wanted to preserve the flavour for as long as possible. Across the table, he caught Charlix’ smirk. At last, he managed to swallow and said,

“... This, this food…”

“A product of the labour of this world’s many peoples and cultures, my friend,” the man answered with calm and satisfaction. Charlix snapped his fingers and Aranrhod came out into the room again.

“Yes, Father?” she asked politely and bowed.

“Bring the spice box, would you? The [i]mórthéin[/i] is curious about the flavours.”

“Yes, Father.” With that, she walked off again, turning the corner to enter the kitchen. Clement pursed his lips.

“The spice box?”

“Why, of course! A meal like this would be unachievable without the gold of the west, as they call it.” Aranrhod returned swiftly with a box of similar dimensions to a sheet of cowhide used for writing. It was about as deep as a regular drinking cup, and she carried it with both hands. Stepping over to Clement, she opened it, revealing to the guest what Charlix had meant by “the gold of the west”. Inside the box was a four-by-six grid of separated rooms, each containing its own little pod, bead, grain or twig of spice, herb or flower. While all of it had been dried for preservation, they still had an aroma unlike anything that grew in these parts. They had all been neatly sorted so that each spice had a room to itself, though it was clear that Charlix and his family favoured some over others. Clement picked up a roll of what appeared to be bark and gave it a gentle whiff. The sensation was so unfamiliar to him that he had to sniff it again. Charlix chuckled. “Do you like it? A Doserung merchant brought me that - said he had bought it from the [i]Hacuáins[/i] from the Prairie Sea. And that’s not all - supposedly, the [i]Hacuáins[/i] acquired this from a distant continent, further away than any Dûnan has ever travelled - the mythical land of [i]Mithia[/i].”

“Mithia,” mumbled Clement. Charlix nodded.

“Supposedly, there, the men and women walk in the night and sleep in the day; their skin is as blue as the sea, and they have ears like frightened rabbits. They tattoo their skin to frighten their enemies and divide society by this very same ink. There, insects as large as the terrorwasps of the distant east have formed a great empire. There, all employ magic similar to Bastian sorcery to fuel great slaver empires which grow plants such as these. That one there - he said they call it ‘zeenahmon.’”

Clement gave it one last whiff before putting it back. “Remarkable… To think I have lived my whole life without ever knowing such fragrances - without knowing such stories.”

Charlix grinned. “Right? The world is a book, my friend, eager and waiting to be read. Oh! Speaking of books! He snapped his fingers again and the young man came out of the kitchen, carrying a large tome with him. It looked like a stack of three bricks, being about as thick as a grown man’s forearm and as long and broad as one, too. The covers were two sheets of elephant skin, connected together with a spine of quillat quills. Between the covers were thick sheets of cowhide pages. In golden Dûnan letters on the front page, a title read, “The Hundred Journeys of Tillis: A Collection of Stories and Tales by the Famed Explorer of [i]Harbiuré[/i]”. Clement was speechless.

“For… For…”

“I know your son, Claude, has been shirking his lessons. Well, these are, supposedly, some of the most intriguing stories in the land - eyewitness accounts of everything this beautiful world has to offer. With this, he’ll hardly want to stop reading.” Before Clement could continue, Charlix added, “By the way, I had it all translated into Dûnan for him. Would be best to keep with the times, would it not, so he, too, would leave Ketrefan behind?”

Clement cracked it open and turned the pages. Writing on cowhides was a very recent trend in Ha-Dûna - they were easier to write on than the more traditional wood tablets, but cowhides were so expensive that they were only reserved for the most valuable documents. Additionally, the Dûnan script had existed for less than a year. This translation was not only written beautifully - Clement admittedly could not read most of it, though - but it was complete with illustrations, colouring and much more to make the stories come to life. He could practically see them before him without reading a single word. “How, how did you have time to--”

“Oh, time was no issue. With enough scribes, one could translate a book like this in a week.”

“What on Galbar did that cost you?” demanded Clement.

Charlix said nothing, but he winked playfully back at his guest. Clement felt a pang of fear in his chest as he laid aside the book. He had known that Clan Blanche was rich, but this was insane. The clothes, the house, the spices, the gift - these things must have cost the equivalent of Ha-Dûna herself, should you sell her.

The table went quiet for a moment as the two returned to eating. After savouring another serving, Clement could no longer hold back something that had been irking him ever since he had received the invitation to come. Of course, he already suspected what the answer may be, but he needed to hear it from Charlix’ mouth. He scraped the last spoonful of stew off his plate and took a sip of wine and said, “Charlix, my friend… This is… This is all so kind of you…”

“Oh, ‘tis my deepest pleasure,” the host replied proudly.

“Still, I… I must ask: Why? Why all this? What is the reason for this feast?”

Charlix chuckled. “What, can I not invite a friend and colleague to dinner and give him gifts like any other?”

Clement wrinkled his nose. “While I appreciate the implications of your words, I know you well enough to see that there is another side to this. Yes, we have been colleagues for a few months now, and we have met for feasts and the like for many, many years. But you know as well as I that our families have never been on the friendliest terms; at best, the two of us have maintained a sort of mutual agreement to remain acquaintances and only acquaintances. Even as we both were made [i]mórthéins[/i], this agreement persisted - we have hardly exchanged a word - until that silence was broken this evening, and ‘broken’ does the situation little justice - ‘shattered’ is more like it.” Clement studied his host as he paused; Charlix maintained a small smile, his hand hovering movelessly in the air while holding his drinking horn. The guest continued, “I do not wish to offend by being direct, but understand me correctly when I say that I would prefer if we could do away with the false pretenses and flattering words. Tell me, so, Charlix of Blanche - what are you planning?”

For a twenty seconds, the host said nothing, and the air snapped sparks between them. However, he eventually offered a small chuckle and said, “I should have expected as much, Clement. You have always made an effort to make others think you are slower than you actually are. I admire that about you.”

Clement made a small smile. “What did I say about the flattery just now?”

“Oh, no, please do not misunderstand! The compliment was genuine. It shows that you have a knack for intrigue - trick your opponent into underestimating you, and the upper hand is yours.”

“Why, of course. A viable strategy in combat, that,” Clement agreed.

“A subject that you know quite a lot about, in fact. The songs about your deeds before and during the Conquests are still sung in the taverns here and there, I hear.”

“I am humbled.”

“Yes, I can imagine. However, it is a competency that I, myself, do not possess. As you have probably both heard and seen, I am an abysmal fighter.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say abysmal, but--”

Charlix grinned. “See how easily the flattery comes?”

Clement stopped himself and chuckled. “Must be the wine… Please, do go on.”

“Yes, well - I am not only an abysmal fighter; I have also never had a knack for strategy in battle, at least not when it comes to fighting in real life. The planning phase is all well and good, but, well, the sound of battle tenses me up - makes me tight in the chest. Surely, it must be the ghost of Naya overtaking me with the thoughts of the tragedy to come.”

Clement nodded along slowly. “Not all were made to swing the axe…”

“Surely, my friend, you can see where I aim to take this,” continued Charlix as though the subject had grown too personal to discuss further. Clement took the hint and nodded.

“You want me to take command in this war.”

“Precisely. The druids will need some time yet to find the next sanndatr. In the meantime, governance of this city falls to us, the [i]mórthéins[/i]. By breaking bread together this way, I propose an alliance between the two of us - one that plays on each of our strengths to combat our weaknesses.”

Clement put down his drinking horn and folded his hands under his nose. “I’m listening.”

Charlix smiled. “Starting today, my [i]hildargeach[/i] are yours to command. With both my warriors and yours backing your claim to leadership, you should have no issue making even the most loyal of Boudicca’s followers fall in line. Should anyone give you trouble, refer them to me, and I will do my best to persuade them to fight for the city’s cause.”

Clement nodded. “... A very alluring proposal. What will be your role in this?”

Charlix had another sip of wine. “Well, as we both know very, very well, among the two of us, it is clear that I have a somewhat better grasp of, well…” He gestured around. “Finances.”

Clement frowned. “... Noted.”

“Anyway, I will remain here, as it were, and ensure that the city remains functional during this war - I will ensure that your army’s supplies do not run out, all while maintaining trade with the north, west and south to make certain that Ha-Dûna does not starve.” He plucked an oatcake from a nearby basket and dipped it in some stew remains on his plate. “I have already reached out to the King of Bast. He has agreed to sell me two ships which can sail up along the coast for the whole winter given that the sea does not freeze. This should speed up trade with the reindeer herders, seal hunters and reef-folk.”

Clement blinked and swallowed. “You… You’ve certainly thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“Well, that is my job, is it not?”

The guest nodded slowly to himself and then squinted one eye suspiciously. Charlix caught the expression and frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“How can I be sure your word is true?” Clement hardened both eyes now and studied his host intensely. Charlix pursed his lips and licked the inside of his upper lip.

“A [i]laird’s[/i] word is all he has, Clement. Who knows what would happen to me - to my clan - should I betray your trust in this?”

“Do not take this the wrong way, Charlix,” Clement started, “but ask yourself - would you have trusted yourself with your word?” There was a long pause. Eventually, Charlix chuckled once again and poured himself some more wine.

“Certainly, my friend, you are as quick as they come.”

“You must have had abysmal expectations of me if you thought I would be so dense as to outright trust you,” retorted the guest. The host nodded in quiet agreement.

“So be it, then. What must I do to earn your trust in this? Understand, my friend, that I am genuine in my words - I am doing this for the sake of our relationship as friends and co-rulers-to-be. Whatever you may want, you shall have.”

“Then…” mumbled Clement. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then said, “Your eldest son and heir. He will join me as my lieutenant.”

“My eldest,” Charlix replied as though it was just another word. “Guiscard?”

“Unless he has a twin I don’t know about,” Clement replied jokingly. “Guiscard is a worthy and mighty warrior, trained by none other than Frode the Enduring to become a young legend among the [i]hildargeach[/i] in every clan. His aid would be irreplaceable at my side.”

A moment to ponder later, Charlix uttered a single, “Done.”

Clement frowned. “Really? Your son and heir?”

Charlix shrugged. “He is part of my [i]hildargeach[/i], after all, so he would have most likely come along to fight anyway, and at your side, he will be much safer than at the front. Furthermore…” Clement felt himself grow somewhat intimidated as his host’s mouth curled into a smirk of almost malicious quality. “... If he is your lieutenant, he will be your responsibility, and news around here travels fast - should anything happen to him, I will know days before you can return to your side of the story.” He rose to his feet and held his horn out in a toast. He smiled, but behind his teeth, Clement saw a spirit of vengeance like few others he had seen before. He joined him in the toast, a ball of uncertainty pushing uncomfortably at his windpipe. “And know this, Clement du Pierre,” Charlix continued, “if I receive a certain kind of news, you can cover it up all you want; you can try to flee the country or attempt to kill me yourself; no matter what you do, you will not know peace, and you will be punished for your treachery against me.”

The room was momentarily silent as the grave pyre, only the hearths chittering in the background. Then Charlix broke it: “In that respect, you could say this is a reassurance for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?”

“... Y-yes… Certainly.” 

“Well, then,” said the host cheerfully. “A toast - to the formation of a new and fruitful alliance between our two houses. Cheers!”

Clement forced a smile and lifted his horn. “Cheers!”

[hider=Summary!]
Clement has been invited over for an unforgettable luncheon at Charlix’ place. Clement dresses nicely and all, but when Charlix opens the door, it turns out the Clement has gotten outswagged. In fact, as the night goes on, Charlix keeps dropping bougie shit on Clement every other second, going as far as to gift him a whole book for free (possibly worth as much as a small country). Clement gets wise and sees that this is an obvious ploy to win him over, so he asks Charlix what the deal is. Charlix admits that he wants to form an alliance, where Clement takes over military command and Charlix administers Ha-Dûna. Clement agrees on the condition that Charlix sends his firstborn and heir, Guiscard, with him to war, so that he’s sure Charlix won’t try any funny business while he’s off warring. Charlix agrees instantly, and Clement understands why when Charlix says that the son will be his responsibility in the war, and if anything happens to him, Charlix will make his life hell on Galbar. Thus, the pact is formed, and the two toast to good cooperation and hopefully not backstabby treachery.
[/hider]