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</div></div>There was a wind that howled off the mountain-tops today, billowing out under the grey clouds that held sway over the heavens. From the mighty inland plateus where only ice and giants could live, out to the sea where it seemed to grow dark as if caught in the shadow of Jormangandr's coils. Gundahar watched the wind carry tufts of snow off the high outcrops, dragging narrow wisps of shimmering cold. Seers arranged in circles, reading omens not far from the entrance to the large yard, bespeaking the blessings offered in the tides of coming summer.<br/><br/>A grin was all that the Celt could spare. In entering, he stepped near enough to those holy men, the friends of the Gods, to listen to their speaking. One was particularly clear to Gundahar, but that they all spoke at once, perhaps he was the only one to hear him. Perhaps he was the admixture of a few voices. Perhaps they were the words of the gods that broke through their clamor. Perhaps Gundahar only imagined the words from the noises of the aged figures.<br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><i>"Hark, those ye' that listen!<br/>
The halls above open their doors.<br/>
This day, all the branches sway on the great tree.<br/>
The Gods know it too, Frey and Thor tilt their horns.<br/>
Greatness cometh, in an age of iron.<br/>
Behold with your eyes, glory!<br/>
To those among us who will reach for it."</i>​</div><br/><br/>A good claim, were it true. As far as Gundahar Yngvesson was concerned, in matters of faith, faith could be kept. In all others, reason was more valuable.<br/><br/>Keeping his arms on his person, Gundahar felt no need necessary surrender them without query. His shield was his symbol, and his spear was... well, he liked his spear. Even moreso when he came upon games of throwing. Knives, axes, and javelins were arranged. Each weapon freshly shafted and well taken to the hands. A small mound of sawdust went unseen, but Gundahar was thankful for its placement - not too close. Near upon the range, he'd tip a nod to those standing, each competitor having appraised the other's finer throwing abilities for a later competition. Turning his head, Gundahar could see that the targets spotted a variety of wounds from different implements. The most recent were still lodged, done with accuracy greater than his own by far.<br/><br/>Ah, but, if Gundahar couldn't shine just a little bit on his own.<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #ffffff">Which of you men nearly threaded the eye of that poor hopilite?</span>" Gundahar asked, referring to a Javelin that rested at a near perfect bulls-eye.<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #bfbfbf">Bandur Benmagsson, that's me.</span>" One spoke up in return, crossing his arms with a cheerful smirk. "<span style="color: #bfbfbf">Lookin' to best me in a round of tosses? I swear on the meeting of a volva that it is no fluke.</span>"<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #ffffff">Not so much, you are my better in that. I wish you well in contests further.</span>" Gundahar offered, without deception. Such skills were greatly impressive. A unit of skirmishers under him could do an entire army much renown. "<span style="color: #ffffff">I offer you instead, a challenge. To sharpen your skills, perhaps. On a wager of two palms of silver, we throw one javelin. Better throw wins. The game of it though, we turn around, and our friends move the targets. They count to three when finished. Only then do we turn and throw.</span>"<br/><br/>The man seemed a bit intrigued by the ruleset, though immediately seeing the reasoning for it. "<span style="color: #bfbfbf">A challenge then? And a bold one at that. I accept, countryman!</span>"<br/><br/>Both Gundahar and the newly met Bandur gestured the other competitors to make due of the targets, and since they wanted to watch, they went quickly. Turning and taking some steps to separate them, Gundahar gestured pleasantly to his opponent. "<span style="color: #ffffff">Gundahar Yngvesson, may the gods hold Loki still until we finish our throws.</span>"<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #bfbfbf">Hold him fast indeed.</span>" Bandur offered in return, before steadying himself in what appeared to be his regular mental preparation before a throw.<br/><br/>It wasn't much longer after that when both men who'd gone to set targets gave their call. Gundahar turned immediately, in such a flash as it might well have been he faced that way all along. In that same moment, he took a step in the direction and gave toss without a spot of hesitation. As Bandur turned, he could only see that the first javelin thrown would not be his. It took even then an additional moment or so to find the target and reel the arm enough necessary to launch it in full. Even then, his aim was not quite as profound as it was with the first shot. But, it was just as well a great aim when the javelin landed.<br/><br/>Bandur's target stuck on the second ring out, near on to the first. Such did Gundahar's, in much the same way, though perhaps further out from the center than Bandur's by some fractional measure. One major difference though, in not just the timing, was that Bandur's javelin was a genuine javelin. Bandur's javelin was his proper war-spear, having penetrated deeper through, sticking just as pronounced into the target as Bandur's - if not more.<br/><br/>The two competitors, and the two onlookers, appraised the situation quietly. The first sound to protest the silence were blatant syllables crashing against the tenseness of the wager. Gundahar began to laugh, which sparked the jovial turn in all surrounding men. The range, stopped at present by their joy, became a terse interchange of boasts and nudgings.<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #ffffff">How about we agree to split the ways. I'll hand the silver to start our cups with mead, and you'll hand the silver to finish them! Swear it on the gods if it is true!</span>" Gundahar challenged, glancing to Bandur, or any of the two men who would speak for him.<br/><br/>"<span style="color: #bfbfbf">Well and true enough! I swear on Freja's golden hair.</span>" Bandur complied, before a general rousing cheer went up amidst all of them.<br/><br/>Were that they had been wanting for much else. He gestured the two palms of silver to Bandur to have them replaced with mead - or a tab with which to get it. Tucking some idle blonde bangs away, bangs that were only long enough to fall into his face or behind his ears, he'd meander over towards where the mead casks were stacked on high. Gundahar knew eventually that was the direction where he'd eventually need to venture, but the sly smile that formed to crook the edges of his lips pronounced silently that he was interested enough in all matters present to shake things up before getting terribly serious.<br/><br/>Walking along with a renewed swagger, feeling good to be home, Gundahar entertained only minor distractions. Borrowing an already filled tankard from a serving woman after stopping abruptly, without asking, or bothering to figure out whom it was to be for. He'd interrupt what was likely to be her opinion of his forwardness by borrowing an equally deep kiss. The lips of the Celt would find hers, part them as sheaves of wool piled for storage, leaning over the Norse woman and offering the arm of his that wasn't holding a spear for support. Coming back up after the momentary 'discourse', he'd return the tankard, and summarily continue walking on his way towards the doors of the longhall. He'd stop at the inherent splendor of the doorway, casting his gaze inside.<br/><br/>To his surprise, Skngyrd was not present upon the prominent seat of the hall. It lingered empty as if a throne for ghosts. With a certain foreboding, considering that Frostaxe was likely in some private deliberation, or that the fates were at work, or both. Gundahar bided the answer with the patience he had, turning away from the doors and mounting back down to the festivity of the yard.<br/><br/>Arriving at the stows of mead, Bandur would look up to the apparent merry throne. Glancing up, his eyes would catch on the particular shine of copper in its various places, before finding the leather which huddled up on a desirable female form. His blue eyes would follow the trail all the way up the curves of the body, eventually finding breasts and immediately jumping the rest of the way to a painted, womanly face that boasted all the strength that Bandur himself could dream of. Smiling without noticing it, taking in the features of the decorated braids and displayed marking, no trappings of battle caught his eyes.<br/><br/>Feeling a tap on his shoulders from one of his fellows, he'd thought to turn and give them reprimand for interrupting his viewing pleasure. Though, in turning his head, he noticed quite how close he had been to a large, very large, shirtless man who looked like something out of a terror dream involving falling down to Jotunheim. It was all he could do to suppress a startled cry down to a botched yelp, staggering back a bit with a minor pratfall. The concern of his fellows quickly turned to chiding laughter.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>