The Old Hound
As still as a statue fashioned from the darkest marble, the old hound of Amriel sat. Zarathustra Whitemane, descendent of the great Snorri Metsamees, sat silent up until now. His great hands folded on the table before him, his light blue piercing eyes watching each man and women at the table speak their peace, his mind weighing the odds behind his cold gaze. Dressed in a great cloak made of the hide of a once mighty white wolf, draped over his finely made nordic steel, his long locks of silver white hair splayed about him like a great mane of diamonds. Which stood in streak contrast to his remarkably coal black skin, giving him the appearance of a living onyx golem. This combined with his powerful physique marked him as an intriguing if intimidating man, perhaps the most interesting man in the room if such was based on appearances alone. Indeed the many scars upon him told many a tale, and of course revealed that Zarathustra had seen his fair share of battles, and one such scar most prominent among his features was visible as a red line running down from his left eye.
His own aura of dread about him was only amplified by the great fierce hound coiled some feet back from his chair. Nuntis was far more than a mere hound however, oh indeed one would know it without question with one look at that mighty beast! That unnatural spark of light in its dark eyes bespoke of understanding few animals held. It's fur was of such faded brown to appear almost like gold when the light hit it in just the right way, indeed his name was well deserved. At that moment it paid no heed to others in the room, gnawing on a large bone at the moment, though it remained watchful over its master even so preoccupied.
Nuntis was not the only member of Zarathustra retinue however, there was his eldest son Kjarik, a fine a warrior as one might ever find or need, and also proven himself in his duties as Arl. Then there was his younger brother as well, Sorarik Whitemane Thane of Amriel, both ambitious and strong, though lacking the wisdom that came only with age. Hellne too had come, though only after much arguing was Zarathustra at last convinced to take her as well. As the debate waged on, Zarathustra took hold of his mug, no fancy goblet, and seeped of the mead within. Mostly to wet his dry throat, for it paid to not drink heavily at a moot, though Zarathustra constitution offered him a formidable resistance to alcohol. Zarathustra weighed Henrik's speech in his mind that one had a fondness for flowery words he did. However sweet words held no power over Zarathustra, he was a man of action, and it was always action that spook loudest in the minds of all Nords. Eyildr was another speaker who words Zarathustra pondered, for he held respect for her as well, the kind only one who had survived as long as sh could so easily earn.
Though for her part unmistakable wisdom weighed strongly in each word, of that he could not deny for she raised important points. Still there was a fine line between diplomacy and meekness. Could a man like Henik walk it, or would he bulk at the challenge as Beron had done and show weakness where he should have shown strength? Then there was the Jarless of Ashfall, who threw her support behind the high king as well, though not without groveling for position like some milk drinker. The smallest hint of a frown followed her declaration of support. His sharp eyes did not miss Henrik's subtle nod in her direction however. He even noted Jarl Bertil's seeming loss of interest as the moot waned on. More flowery speech followed as Henrik answered every challenge sent his way, the man had a way with honeyed words Zarathustra would give him that. Indeed there was much gain if he took the throne Zarathustra had to admit.
When Koval stood however and spoke his peace at last, a rare smile graced his lips for just a moment. Zarathustra knew Koval well; indeed they had both fought and bleed together on the same battlefield throughout much of the Goth and Nordic conflict. Whoever believed Zarathustra had not risked much for his homeland they were sadly mistaken. Indeed Koval was a man much like Zarathustra, a man of honor and integrity. It might be said that Koval were among the few in that room who matched Zarathustra own great stature.
"The War Giants" Some had dared whisper in part from the fact both Jarl's had not taken the peace with Gothra well. The back and forth between Henrik and Koval had been the most interesting part of the Jarlmoot thus far. However in the end, Henik had indeed answered Koval's concerns. Zarathustra could see that his response to the threat Gothra presented would be hardly different from that of his predecessor it seemed. 'Wait and see' was not the attitude one would be wise to take at such a time as this. One could not have it both ways, to swim the cold waters yet not feel the bite of the cold. It would be unwise verging on the edge of a foolishness to wait, thus allowing Gothra to reclaim its lost strength. No such a move would be a terrible blunder on Henik’s part, already time was against them.
Zarathustra rested his elbows on the oak table, hands entwined under his chin as he watched Henrik closely. Even as Bertil spoke of trade and more peace. Finally the Old Hound could remain quite no longer. Clearing his throat for silence he moved to stand, a certain unnatural kind of grace to his movements despite his age and size. Standing now at his full height he seemed to truly dwarf those around him. When a spoke, his voice was deep and resounding, the kind that seemed to rumble with a clarity that hinted at a man used to shouting orders on the battlefield easily heard even over the sounds of slaughter. His breastplate gleamed in the fire light, his family's crest easily visible as it was displayed proudly upon his chest. A backdrop of black and at its center the fiery face of a wolf. In some ways one might see much of that wolf in Zarathustra, fierce, strong, proud, but, almighty loyal to those who earned his trust.
"My friends, brothers, sisters all. I ask for your ear now." His voice boomed, an odd calm to it despite the giant who wielded it. He waited a moment as he met each of their gazes with pale blue orbs. "I have listened as each of you spoke your peace, weighing in my heart all the while the choice we must make today in the wake of Beron The Bard's untimely demise, we must choose who among us will lead this proud realm we call home. Yet...more importantly we choose who will be the face of Norsia to those within and without this ancient realm. I am not a man of honeyed words, nor do I possess the wisdom of as many winters as our dear Jarless of Hjaldr's Vale." He bowed respectively in her direction. "But I offer you now, what wisdom I may. Henrik has positioned his candidacy for the throne--indeed he has proven himself a capable jarl in Tyr, something few can dispute. Henrik Havarr has ever been a wise and cautious leader, a man of honor and holding firm in the old ways, admirable traits all. However, while there might have been a time I too would have quickly placed my trust in Henrik, such uncertain times as now require swift action, not mere promises or waiting."
"I do not pretend to have any great love of Gothra- In fact I do admit I would like nothing more than seeing their king put to the torch. But make no mistake; Gothra is very much a real threat. Have you all forgotten already how close they had come to victory so early in the conflict? Only unexpected ferocity of our people and the alienness of our land halted their march, something Beron in his wisdom was quick to use to our advantage- even the sacking of Wallachia had been chance, the Gothrain fools never believing we would strike so deep and so decisively. But did Beron press his advantage and use that victory to make certain they would never strike use again? Nay, he accepted their surrender instead, showing them a mercy they would never have offered to us. My friends, do you think Gothra will be content to lick their wounds and settle into trade? Do you believe a people willing to start a war to stamp us out for raids will take defeat humbly and seek no retribution? Will we wait for them to rebuild their strength, throwing away the sacrifice of countless warriors to 'wait and see'? There are those among you who will think me nothing but a warmonger, I care not. Your feelings will not change fact, and that truth my friends, is these Gothrain's will not sit idle; even now they rebuild their strength. Five years fighting these snakes, and I am certain of only one thing. They 'will' return again, and do not think they will repeat the same mistakes they have in the past."
He paused, his eyes resting on each jarl, to finally end on Henrik.
"So, at the risk of repeating a question already drawn before us. Are you Henrik- are any of us- so willing to gamble the lives of our people on a 'wait and see' attitude?""
