A trio of warrior lords quibble over who is to inherit a large swath of land, for the will was lost in the fire which killed the former ruler. To avoid a war, the three visit seeress, who leads them to a shine of Wothynn, with the foretelling that the one who is the best Poet shall be judged the rightful heir to the land -- Deathshead419
Things were done differently in the Northlands. Politics was often settled with the sword, when it couldn't be resolved via the marital bed. Might often made right. Attacking an enemy the day after they'd just had drinking games in their mead halls was a legitimate war tactic. The Northmen were tough, hardy, and fond of their booze. The North women were even more fearsome.
Thork Thorvigsson had been a mighty warrior with thralls all across the fjords. Until, after one night of drunken revelry, someone set his longhouse ablaze.
Nobody knew who did it, and there was a passing chance that one of the feasters had knocked a candle or lantern into the threshes anyway. What was certain was that Thork Thorvigsson left a lot of land ungoverned and an enormous power vacuum.
Ulfrig Darluvsson, Tjorvi Marsson, and Darluv Ulfrigsson faced each other across the smouldering remains of the longhouse. None had yet drawn a weapon, but the tension between them was as real as the murmuring of the wind. They could easily fight to see who was the strongest, and let the winner take it all.
Except...
Except they had broken bread at the same table. Shared feasts and fun at the very longhouse that had just burned down. They had fought side by side together against Thork's enemies. They were friends. They hadn't raised a blade against one another for far too long.
"There has to be a wiser way to do this," said Ulfrig.
"We crossed arms with mead in our hands," agreed Darluv. "We should not cross swords over who should rule."
"I know a soothsayer," offered Tjorvi. "Lives in a cave, eats a lot of mushrooms and talks to the stones. She could read the bones and tell us the best fate."
Darluv grinned. "Guess we're hunting ourselves some meat on the way."
The three cheered, and set off looking for something fearsome to hunt in Thork's memory. On the way to the soothsayer's cave, of course. It was a journey of two months, and just before they reached the seer's mountains, they slayed a giant elk. An excellent sacrifice and tool for the foretelling.
Hildigun the seer welcomed the payment of meat, and threw a shoulder bone from the elk into the flames as the three Northmen explained the issue. She watched the bone char and crack while she nibbled on some if the bizarre mushrooms that gave her her gift.
"It's not muscle or might that wins the right to reign," she proclaimed. "It is the wit of poetry that will declare the thane."
They made her adjudicator, of course. While she was relatively sober. Each one declaring their plans in an epically poetic boast.
They had plenty of meat to sustain them during their war of words.
[Photo by Carla Santiago on Unsplash]
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