Love and Bounty

Chapter Twenty-Two: Life of the Party

Gunnar and his group really knew how to burn the place down.

His bunch of Nord buddies were rowdy, and that was just how Hrolf liked it. The biggest, roughest, and toughest of them threw back bottle after bottle of mead, sending each other flying across tables and into stacked barrels. All the while, the other Blackbloods roared in cheer as wooden containers exploded into splinters and chunks in the wake of massive bodies.

It had been a long time since Hrolf had been in any brawls like that—ones where two warriors bloodied each other with bare knuckles just for the fun of it. As exciting as it looked, one thing few ever said about fighting bare-handed was the cascade of exhaustion that built up like snow banks. Even the toughest of fighters would feel its effects during an extended scuffle, and come the end of the fight, that fighter had better pray the battle was done.

That was what Pa had to say about it, anyway, and it held true during Hrolf's mad years. Nature was always victorious in the end, so it was better to make things quick.

As things began to settle down and the bruises darkened, Hrolf's musical talents had been called upon, and so he delivered the absolute best rendition of "Shor's Tongue"—the first song of King Wulfharth—that Haafingar hold had ever seen. The band of Nords regressed back to the First Era in their mannerisms, shaking tables and shattering bottles in a frenzy of song and chants in tune with the lyrics of elven slaughter. With some of the lyrics that boomed through the cavern, he would surely have to apologize to Iscraah later on sheer principle—even if she had heard none of it.

When the song's end came, though, all of the Nords exploded into rapturous laughter and cheers that lifted Hrolf's spirit well beyond the Throat of the World and into Kyne's yawning sky. Finally, he was making something for himself. And over the sea of revelrous outlaws, Gunnar smiled at him, his grin half-shaded by his beard.

As the shouting began to simmer down, one Blackblood piped up:

"Play Ragnar the Red!"

Hrolf frowned with his entire face. Another Blackblood got the hint and slung an iron tankard across the chamber, right into the first's fat gob.

"He doesn't want to play that, troll-ass!"

The first Blackblood spat out a whole tooth. "I'll show you troll-ass!"

After more blood was spilled and more teeth were knocked out, the revelry eased into boasts and chatter amongst the outlaws. It was a brief respite, but in the moment of relative silence, Hrolf's mind was clouded once again—and the frothy mug of mead before him, faithless in his hour of need, did nothing to silence them.

No matter how hard he tried to forget, as soon as his mind was no longer preoccupied, when silence began to settle, he would be mentally shunted right back next to Deeja. Their meeting the day prior gave him glimpses into a new side of the prickly Argonian outlaw: one that genuinely wanted to change for the better—one that wanted to rebuild bridges and invite a new perspective. The cute lizard-lady's usual demeanor was enough to win him over, but her hidden tenderness and the genuine care she gave her relationships—her willingness to confront her own wrongs, even when it wasn't easy—is what truly made him fall for her.

...

Gods, you're in trouble now. Especially after the mess you made.

Gunnar's voice yanked Hrolf from his ruminations: "You put on a killer performance, kinsman."

Hrolf flinched hard. Harder than he'd meant to.

"Mara's mercy!" Gunnar blurted out, halting himself from taking a seat next to the startled Nord. "You alright?"