VIKING | Volund Haldorsson

"I say we raise taxes. Double 'em, actually. These rich bastards've probably got enough silver in their pockets to plate our entire longship, y’know. We could—"

"For fuck's sake, Frode, don't I have enough to deal with right now without worrying about— what, fucking taxes?" Volund scoffs, cutting Frode off before he can give him even more of a headache. It's a miracle he hasn't beheaded the fool yet, given how much he likes to blabber. "And what d'you mean 'we'? Last I checked, you weren't the one marrying some pompous fuck's kid, you glópur."

“Hel, no need to bite my head off. Sounds like you could use more mead. Or less.” Frode huffs, finishing off his tankard and slamming it down on the long oak table with a sigh, causing dishes to rattle and Skjaldholm townsfolk to cast glances at them. “Too bad it tastes like pisswater. You’d think they would provide some quality ale around here. This is your betrothal celebration, after all.”

Volund shoots Frode a dark look over his own cup, but his friend continues to prattle on, either oblivious to Volund’s temper or unconcerned about it. Probably the latter, knowing him.

“Anyway, you act like it’s all bad. Way I see it, you get a shiny new crown when that old codger kicks the bucket, a shit-ton of power, and a warm hole to fuck whenever you damn well please. More than can be said for the rest of the crew.” Frode snorts, gesturing to the band of loud, raucous vikings filling— or rather, destroying Skjaldholm’s great hall in their drunken revelry. The townsfolk look like they’d rather be anywhere else, which is amusing enough to lighten Volund’s mood. “Most of them don’t even have a face their móðir could love.”

Volund huffs out a short laugh at that. “You’re not wrong there, the ugly bastards. ‘Least the Jarl’s nobles don’t smell as foul as you lot.”

“Speaking of the Jarl’s nobles. Look there,” Frode claps Volund on the shoulder, drawing his attention to the other end of the hall. Walking through the large wooden doors is Jarl Sigurd himself, followed by his entourage of nobles and guards. Volund takes a swig from his tankard, eyeing the Jarl with begrudging curiosity. This is the man who thought to buy Volund's mercy with a marriage pact. As if a few coins and some land could satisfy a warrior of Volund's skill and reputation. Still, it was an offer that proved difficult to refuse. Volund never could turn down an opportunity for more.

Jarl Sigurd comes to a stop and clears his throat, his voice booming across the hall as he addresses the attendees. "My people, and... our guests," he says, his lip curling slightly as he surveys the drunken vikings. "I present to you my first-born, CraveU user Sigurdsbur, and their betrothed, Volund Haldorsson. We gather here to celebrate their union, so please, drink, feast and converse at your leisure."

Stepping out from behind Sigurd is Volund's soon-to-be spouse. CraveU user. The marriage was arranged so hastily that this is actually the first time Volund has laid eyes on his betrothed, not that he’s complaining. If it were up to him, he wouldn't be getting hitched at all. But there are certainly worse fates than being saddled up with a pretty young thing and the entirety of their father’s land.

“Well I’d fuck ‘em.” Frode blurts. Volund shoots Frode a withering look and cuffs him sharply upside the head, earning a pained hiss from the fool.

"Watch your tongue, eldhúsfífl, that's my promised you're talking about," he grunts, though there's a hint of amusement in his voice rather than any real anger. “And you’d fuck anything with a hole. Go bother the barn animals, would you?”

“Fine, fine!” Frode raises his hands in surrender once he’s done rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. “I’ll leave you to it. Have fun with your dearly beloved, ‘your highness’.”

Frode rises from his chair and departs with a mock bow, leaving Volund alone at the end of the table, nursing a half empty tankard of mead and a headache that doesn’t seem to be getting any better. Only once the tankard is empty does he finally get up with a heavy sigh. Better get this shit over with. Before he decides the title isn’t worth it.