First meetings
Jan. 22nd, 2016 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewidewideworldTjølling was entirely not Sinric’s kind of place. After the better part of a year wandering between the cultured cities of Novgorod and Kiev, the small trading port seemed... well, very small indeed. Both in size and in mind.
He found hospitality here and there, relying on his small stash of hack silver more than his voice to pay his way. The men of Tjølling were hard and taciturn. They considered themselves worldly, living in a market port but in truth, few of them had travelled more than a few days from the place and relied on news and goods to come to them.
On the whole, not people who wanted to hear tell of the great wide world beyond their fjord. Not unless it affected the price of grain.
After two weeks, Sinric knew it was time to move on.
He looked up at the sky from his perch on a barrel by the docks, absently polishing his flute with a scrap of linen. It was clear enough now but there was a bite to the air, a cold feeling that felt like the edge of a knife.
Winter was still some distance away but it would be a hard one no doubt. Best to find a hall where his talents would be welcomed before the snows came.
His salvation came in the form of a trading vessel. A sturdy boat, unremarkable in itself but the men who stepped ashore were as welcome a sight as Sinric could remember. Tall and sun-darkened, with shaven heads and tight pointed beards.
Varangians.
“What news from Miklagard?” Sinric called, using the low Greek most common between soldiers.
“Ill enough to be returning to this shithole instead of wintering somewhere warm.” One of the men called back, landing on the pier with the solid thump of well made Byzantine boots. Funny how such a simple thing should stand out to Sinric, even after all this time.
“I take it things are not well in the court of Constantine VI? Or is it Irene’s court now?” Sinric asked, dark eyes watchful.
A shorter, broad shouldered man made him way down to where Sinric sat, eyes the colour of a storm. “You seem well informed for a resident of this dung heap?” His tan was shallower, his Greek clipped and proper. This man was an officer, not a common soldier.
“I am a wanderer. I reside nowhere but where I choose; between earth and sky.” Sinric answered. Usually that was enough. The Northern conviction that gods walked among them as wanderers was often useful in avoiding too many questions. But he could tell this man was too pragmatic to accept such an airy answer. “But I once served at the court of the last true Emperor, Constantine the fifth.”
“Huh.” The man looked him over, then looked him over again, clicking his tongue. “Then you may well be the only one here worth the breath to talk to.” He nods towards a nearby tavern. “You’ll want news and I’ll want a drink. Lets solve those problems together.”
A week later, Sinric was sailing south with them.
***
The hall in this port held better prospects than the last. There was a warmth to it, a welcome that came without the suspicions and sideways glances he had been greeted with in Tjølling.
People looked at him askew still. But he had resigned himself they always would. His beauty was a memory but he still stood out – long hair that looked more grey than blonde in the wrong light, teeth no longer straight and white as they once were. He was still small, barely to the shoulders of most to the men around him but he could no longer pass as a woman well. Although he was by no means always recognised at first as a man.
He looked around the hall, hoping to find a lord or earl to present himself to but no figure stood out as first amongst these men. It was a celebration of some kind, seemingly open to all the town so Sinric slipped in quietly and found a seat some comfortable distance from the fire.
There was an art to this. To sitting close enough by the fire to share its warmth, but far enough to keep the light of it off his face. To cast him in shadows is such a way that made him unobtrusive and mysterious. He settled his pack by his side and drew out his flute. Softly, deftly he proceeded to play.
The song started simple but grew complex, winding in and out of melodies that snagged the ear and brought the mind with it. It was almost a spell, this song. One with which, on the right night and with the right crowd, he could bind his listeners to him.
And so he did.
The hall fell silent, little by little as men and women both strained to hear him, hushing their fellows. Sinric rose, moving into the light as he played, aware that all eyes followed him.
“It would seem our marriage is doubly blessed, my love.” A man dressed in white wool stepped from behind a screen as the song ended, hand in hand with a tall, dark haired woman. “It seems we have Bragi himself at our feast. Tell me, skald god, what honour can we offer you for the beauty of your song?”
Sinric laughs warmly and lowers the flute, bowing slightly. “I thank you, lord. But I can claim no such bright lineage. I am but a wanderer, seeking shelter from the cold. But I would be honoured to play for your wedding feast, if it pleased the lady.” He bowed to her then, calling a greeting in the Slavic tongue he guessed matched her high cheekbones and dark colouring.
From the way her face lit up, he knew he was right. “It pleases the lady very much.” She called in return. “Play on, and you will have the shelter of this hall and our patronage.” She cast her new husband a quick look, defying him to contradict her. But there was nothing in his expression but admiration. It was clearly a love match and one between a pair matched in will.
The earl, for an earl he was, banged his cup on the table. “Bring the skald mead and let us have a song for dancing!”
It wasn’t till some time much later, Sinric thought to ask the name of the port where it seemed he would settle for a while at least.
Ribe.
He found hospitality here and there, relying on his small stash of hack silver more than his voice to pay his way. The men of Tjølling were hard and taciturn. They considered themselves worldly, living in a market port but in truth, few of them had travelled more than a few days from the place and relied on news and goods to come to them.
On the whole, not people who wanted to hear tell of the great wide world beyond their fjord. Not unless it affected the price of grain.
After two weeks, Sinric knew it was time to move on.
He looked up at the sky from his perch on a barrel by the docks, absently polishing his flute with a scrap of linen. It was clear enough now but there was a bite to the air, a cold feeling that felt like the edge of a knife.
Winter was still some distance away but it would be a hard one no doubt. Best to find a hall where his talents would be welcomed before the snows came.
His salvation came in the form of a trading vessel. A sturdy boat, unremarkable in itself but the men who stepped ashore were as welcome a sight as Sinric could remember. Tall and sun-darkened, with shaven heads and tight pointed beards.
Varangians.
“What news from Miklagard?” Sinric called, using the low Greek most common between soldiers.
“Ill enough to be returning to this shithole instead of wintering somewhere warm.” One of the men called back, landing on the pier with the solid thump of well made Byzantine boots. Funny how such a simple thing should stand out to Sinric, even after all this time.
“I take it things are not well in the court of Constantine VI? Or is it Irene’s court now?” Sinric asked, dark eyes watchful.
A shorter, broad shouldered man made him way down to where Sinric sat, eyes the colour of a storm. “You seem well informed for a resident of this dung heap?” His tan was shallower, his Greek clipped and proper. This man was an officer, not a common soldier.
“I am a wanderer. I reside nowhere but where I choose; between earth and sky.” Sinric answered. Usually that was enough. The Northern conviction that gods walked among them as wanderers was often useful in avoiding too many questions. But he could tell this man was too pragmatic to accept such an airy answer. “But I once served at the court of the last true Emperor, Constantine the fifth.”
“Huh.” The man looked him over, then looked him over again, clicking his tongue. “Then you may well be the only one here worth the breath to talk to.” He nods towards a nearby tavern. “You’ll want news and I’ll want a drink. Lets solve those problems together.”
A week later, Sinric was sailing south with them.
***
The hall in this port held better prospects than the last. There was a warmth to it, a welcome that came without the suspicions and sideways glances he had been greeted with in Tjølling.
People looked at him askew still. But he had resigned himself they always would. His beauty was a memory but he still stood out – long hair that looked more grey than blonde in the wrong light, teeth no longer straight and white as they once were. He was still small, barely to the shoulders of most to the men around him but he could no longer pass as a woman well. Although he was by no means always recognised at first as a man.
He looked around the hall, hoping to find a lord or earl to present himself to but no figure stood out as first amongst these men. It was a celebration of some kind, seemingly open to all the town so Sinric slipped in quietly and found a seat some comfortable distance from the fire.
There was an art to this. To sitting close enough by the fire to share its warmth, but far enough to keep the light of it off his face. To cast him in shadows is such a way that made him unobtrusive and mysterious. He settled his pack by his side and drew out his flute. Softly, deftly he proceeded to play.
The song started simple but grew complex, winding in and out of melodies that snagged the ear and brought the mind with it. It was almost a spell, this song. One with which, on the right night and with the right crowd, he could bind his listeners to him.
And so he did.
The hall fell silent, little by little as men and women both strained to hear him, hushing their fellows. Sinric rose, moving into the light as he played, aware that all eyes followed him.
“It would seem our marriage is doubly blessed, my love.” A man dressed in white wool stepped from behind a screen as the song ended, hand in hand with a tall, dark haired woman. “It seems we have Bragi himself at our feast. Tell me, skald god, what honour can we offer you for the beauty of your song?”
Sinric laughs warmly and lowers the flute, bowing slightly. “I thank you, lord. But I can claim no such bright lineage. I am but a wanderer, seeking shelter from the cold. But I would be honoured to play for your wedding feast, if it pleased the lady.” He bowed to her then, calling a greeting in the Slavic tongue he guessed matched her high cheekbones and dark colouring.
From the way her face lit up, he knew he was right. “It pleases the lady very much.” She called in return. “Play on, and you will have the shelter of this hall and our patronage.” She cast her new husband a quick look, defying him to contradict her. But there was nothing in his expression but admiration. It was clearly a love match and one between a pair matched in will.
The earl, for an earl he was, banged his cup on the table. “Bring the skald mead and let us have a song for dancing!”
It wasn’t till some time much later, Sinric thought to ask the name of the port where it seemed he would settle for a while at least.
Ribe.
