There is a Faulkie expression that states: “Drink hearty so long as the sun does not see you.” Considering that weather in the jarldoms could be anywhere between stormy, overcast, and foggy, the Faulk are always eager to party.

Some (small) part of Rael felt upset about not getting to even see Nize from the slave ship. They got a full experience of the Stone Circle however, when Rael and Azmond followed Jarl Feldon’s procession. They got off the ships, the captains played their bagpipes, and the skalds played their own instruments behind them as the crew followed. They were laughing and cheering as the locals passed them horns brimming with mead and baskets full of fruits. When they saw Azmond, their eyes widened and gave him a wide berth, whispering in the reverent tones of those seeing a living legend. This parade flowed from the docks down bridges across several more of the floating sections of the city, people joining the festivities until a massive crowd stood before the biggest longhouse Rael had ever seen. Norn’s Hall.

It was nestled between the weaves that held the baskets to the earth, on the highest point of the rocky hill. The longhouses in Feldon were flipped boats, no longer than twenty meters long and five meters wide. But this one was less a flipped boat and more an ark that never expected to touch the water. The rounded keel stretched a dozen meters high and was more than twice as long as any longhouse in Feldon, and nearly as thick. Norn’s Hall was almost bowl shaped, its planks so tightly bound together, only the barest shadows gave any hint as to where one piece of wood ended and another began.

Warriors in white crocodile leather slammed their fists against their armor and turned around to pull open the giant pair of doors. The scent of braised meats and sweet wines washed over the crowd, the sound of a riotous celebration inside dying down with the new arrivals.

“Presenting Jarl Feldon, Avenger of Lark, and Shieldmaiden Edith the Battlemaster!” Skald Pequit called into the longhouse.

Feldon and Edith passed the threshold, the crowd inside and out slamming their feet on the ground in an uproar. They walked easily towards the last empty table and sat down casually.

“Shaman Bak the Wise!” Pequit introduced, the shaman patted Rael’s back before he entered, giving them a gentle smile of encouragement. He nodded sagely at the crowd and sat at Feldon’s table.

“Captain Derrol the Bloodsworn! Captain Ulric the Righteous! Captain Kip Morrisson!” Each name was welcomed with measured approval, though Kip’s seemed to be lacking compared to the others.

Rael’s heart beat so loudly in their chest that it drowned out the clamor around them. The leather armor Feldon had made for them pinched them in the joints, rubbing uncomfortably against their skin. Every fiber of their being wanted to run away, be free from the expectant stares of scores of people.

There must have been thousands of people. More than the entirety of Tulip's Hold, several times over. They felt a small hand wiggle into their clenched fist and entwine small fingers between their own. Az was beamed at Rael, and their worries melted away.

“Dragonward Rael Demonslayer and their ward, Azmond the Scaled!” The stunned pause inside the longhouse was swept up in the cheers coming from those listening from outside. Azmond took the first few steps, pulling Rael along with him. The pair entered the longhouse and sat by the captains. The rest of the crew were given cursory introductions until everyone was settled at the table and the doors closed behind the skalds, sealing the excited crowd’s jubilations.

Meaty dishes laden with bread and grain were brought to the table, followed by flagons of mead. Whereas normal servants brought them all food, Azmond’s share was brought by a crone in long robes. The crew did not seem to recognize her, but Bak and Feldon kept their eyes on her. Her skin and body sagged with age, yet her eyes were clearer than river water. She ran her index and middle finger from the crown of Azmond’s head to between his brows and she smiled. The crone left a flagon of spiced milk for the Child of Dragons bowing to him and Rael in turn before walking away.

“Who was she?” Rael whispered to Bak, the shaman watching the woman shuffle into the crowd of servants.

“One of the Norns, Astrid. A devout follower of the dragons. Her servants are the ones who brought us our food.” Bak kept his voice below the din of the longhouse. “It seems you and the little one have another powerful ally.”

“An ally implies that we will have enemies.” Rael focused on the shaman as he pursed his lips and looked away.

“There will be some who are opposed to your presence here.” Bak explained, twirling his hair nervously. “They would question Azmond’s legitimacy, your competence, and Feldon’s motives for bringing you here. Especially after Bergin’s attack.” He nodded his head to Rael’s right, a man whose bald scalp was crisscrossed with scars with arms wreathed in blue tattoos swaggered towards Feldon’s table with a determined face. “Here it comes.”

Feldon’s table quieted as the man approached. He slammed his hand on the table right beside Rael and glared at Azmond. Rael’s fists were clenched but their instincts screamed at them to observe first and act calmly. More eyes were focused on Feldon’s table, the Jarls at the heads of each table subtly looking in their direction. The only exception was from one of the biggest tables. They all stared in Rael’s direction, sharing similar tattoos across their muscled bodies. Rael almost flinched.

The man did not speak, drilling his gaze into Azmond. The child cocked his head curiously. A vein pulsated on the tattooed man's head.

“I’m afraid Az’s seat is occupied.” The man swung his body towards Rael, close enough for them to see the strings of meat stuck between his scowling teeth.

“I’m no fool, girly.” His green eyes shone with sadistic glee. “The child of the dragons would not be so…small.”

“My name’s Azmond!” Said the child, responding to the man’s threatening movements with a smile and a hand offered out in friendship. “What’s yours?”

The warrior was taken aback, his scowl fading somewhat.

“It is only fair that we know your name, friend.” Rael’s smile was sickly sweet. “We came late and weren’t blessed with your entrance.”

“I am Captain Klai, serving under Jarl Erikar.” The captain said curtly, ignoring Azmond’s hand. “And—”

“Nice to meet you, Captain Klai.” The Dragonward interrupted, the small vein bulging in Klai’s forehead again, titillating Rael. “This may be a surprise, but Azmond is a child. That’s why he’s so small.”

Klai grimaced, his muscles tensing. Rael tensed as well, focusing on the hand closest to Azmond. Then they stared at Klai’s throat, wondering if they’d be able to punch him there.

“I think what Captain Klai want to know is if those horns are fake.” Someone said from behind Klai. The captain froze and backed away. A tall woman stood there, her ice-blue eyes staring daggers into Klai. Her nose, her eyebrows, her tone...Everything about her screamed sharpness.

“Jarl Moryn.” The captain nervously backed away.

“Jarl Moryn, how nice of you to say hello.” Feldon called from the head of the table.

“We can discuss pleasantries later, Jarl Feldon.” She waved a thin hand in Feldon’s direction, focusing instead on Rael and Azmond. “I’m interested in these two for the moment.” She got on her knees so she could look at them both on the same level. “May I touch his horns?” Moryn asked Rael.

“Azmond, are you okay with Jarl Moryn touching your horns?” Rael threw the question to Az himself. He rubbed his braid in thought for a few seconds before nodding slowly.

Moryn ran her delicate fingers across Azmond’s face, from the bottom of his chin and up his jawline and into his thick white hair. She frowned in concentration as she traced lines on his scalp until she found where his horns met his forehead. The skin near Azmond’s horns prickled, not unpleasantly, when her fingers traced around the horns a few times. The prickling followed her touch, gliding up to the tips of his horns. Moryn smiled curiously.

“Fascinating.” She whispered.

“Are they real?” Captain Klai kept his distance.

“As real as you and I.” Moryn stood up again, throwing back her long black hair. “No redness or swelling near the horns, no pain either. He is not the result of magic cobbling together animal and human. His structure is elegant, efficient, lacking the failures of either human or fae design.” The longhouse had quieted as Moryn made her observations. “He is a Child of Dragons!”

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The hall erupted into discussion and a growing commotion echoed within the longhouse once more. Moryn, however, focused her gaze on Rael.

“You are Dragonward bearing the title Demonslayer.” Jarl Moryn narrowed her eyes. “What gives you the right?”

‘Bak did say my competence would be questioned.’ Rael hid their surprise. Just because someone supported Azmond didn’t mean that they would help Rael. In fact, they may want to steal Rael's title for themselves. ‘Feldon really did save Az some hassle by having me be Dragonward. Politics…’

“There was a reason we were late, Jarl Moryn.” Feldon called. “We found Aspirant Greem’s settlement under threat of a troublesome demon. Dragonward Rael was the one who dealt the finishing blow.” The crew at the table nodded to Feldon’s words, stomping their feet under the table.

“Then Dragonward Rael and I are kin in name.” Moryn bore a flat smile as she turned to Rael. “I have slain three demons by myself. They’ve taken to crawling onto our beaches in the east.”

Rael could hear the unspoken barb. Only one, and with help? She reminded Rael of their mother’s backhanded way of talking. Their fists were itching to meet Moryn’s smug face, but they held themselves back. If this willowy woman could kill a demon, then it probably meant she was much stronger than she looked. The people at the table watched winced from the Jarl’s implied insult. Rael needed to redirect attention elsewhere.

“That sounds like a tale best accompanied by better mead.” Rael slammed their fist on the table thrice. “Where can I get some of the better drinks?!” They shouted loud enough for other tables to look their way. “Three carved sapphires! Three carved sapphires for the best swill worthy of Feldon’s mighty warriors!”

Moryn’s eyes widened at the sight of three sapphire hydrangeas Rael pulled from their knapsack. Her hands twitched as Rael passed the flowers before the awed faces of Feldon’s crew. Three servants brought over a few barrels, driving spigots into them until the fragrant honeyed mead frothed into the waiting mugs. Three flowers were given to them, the Norn’s servants marveling their delicate structures for but a moment before they scurried away.

“Fascinating.” Jarl Moryn noted. She caught sight of Rael’s satisfied gaze and smiled. “Perhaps we can discuss our adventures later.” Her straight, black hair snapped around like a whip when she turned back to her table. Captain Klai had already backed towards his own, shrinking under the attention of the large man at the head.

The feast continued for hours, a battalion of skalds taking turns to sing songs old and new as the candles burned smaller. Rael struggled not to shrink under the stares of thousands as Pequit sang of Rael and Azmond’s adventures, sitting impassively as Az basked in the attention. When the light started to fade outside and bellies were taunt with food and drink, the servants began setting up a table at the front.

When it was done, the loud conversations had died down into hushed whispers, which faded into quiet reverence.

The lights of the torches burned low, shadows finding homes in every corner.

Nine old men and women hobbled and limped into a line at the table. The last hints of Faulk rowdiness were silenced. The Nine Norns had arrived.

Servants pulled out chairs. Nine ancient Faulk sat down in unison. The one in the middle, whose scars and missing arm spoke of a life of bloodshed, rang a small bell. The chime was heard clearly throughout the longhouse, likely either enchanted or faetouched. No doubt it was intended to bring the Faulk to silence, but respect and tradition rang louder than the bell ever could.

“Norn Iwen, voice of the farmer, the shepherd, the hunter. Attending.” A balding man sitting at the left end of the table rose his hand as he spoke. Balding was perhaps an understatement. Only a few hairs remained on the top of his head, the rest of his body as hairless as a baby's. Not even eyelashes remained. Yet his skin was worn rough from a lifetime spent outside in the marshes of the Jarldoms, as dark as mud and harder than the stone of the mountains.

“Norn Thurid, voice of the shipwright, the blacksmith, the crafter.” This time a woman at the right end of the table rose her hand, glaring at the man next to her for a moment before her face was hidden in a mask of impassivity. “Attending.” She was among the shortest there, though her hands were large for her diminutive height. Her white hair was short cropped and messy, as if she cut it off whenever it got in the way.

“Norn Arngunn, voice of the singer, the storyteller, the skald.” She sat to the right of Iwen, her voice was melodic and firm, contrasting her hand trembling from the rigors of age. “Attending.” Arngunn was the frailest of the Norns, yet she was the only one with such a wide smile. Her gray hair carefully braided with colorful bits of twine, which she slowly played with as she talked.

“Norn Jaxxon.” This one was curt, ignoring the glare Thurid had sent his way. His perfectly maintained beard hardly moved as he continued. “Voice of the sailor, the navigator, and the captain. Attending.” He was a stocky man, with a square face and big eyes. When he sat down, he brought his hands together into a combined fist on the table, and had not moved since.

“Norn Laouig, voice of the scout, the traveler, the trader.” The old man was the shortest and the widest there, his shoulders almost bumping into Arngunn on his left. His voice was the softest, barely reaching the back of the hall. “Attending.” It was rare to see an fat Faulk, or even one with so many gold torcs and piercings. His nose and eyebrows each had gold rings, and his earlobes were stretched to accommodate more jewelry. Even his long gray hair was coiled around sticks of gold and silver and threaded through torcs embedded with precious jewels. When he moved, his riches jingled and sparkled in the low light, but his body remained as solid as marble. He had the physique of a man who carried things much heavier than him.

“Norn Grima, voice of the builder, the planner, the strategist.” Her ink-stained hair cascaded over her head, hiding most of her body from sight save a sliver of her sallow face and a raised hand. “Attending.” Her voice contained a tone of tired resignation. As if she was surprised she was still in the room. Despite the covering most of her body, her hair was wispy enough to hang in the air when she moved, tickling the skin of the closest two Norns, Astrid and Jaxxon.

“Norn Halbrand, voice of the warrior, the raider, the berserker.” Faded tattoos of serpentine dragons covered his body, meeting together on his cheeks, mouths open like vipers ready to strike. It looked like they were hissing at his bushy gray mustache. Corded muscles flexed under his lighter brown skin as he rose his hand. “Attending.” Rather than the braided hair typical of Faulk men, he had cut his hair into a mohawk that spilled over his back. Despite his fearsome title, he was incredibly composed, ignoring the light from Laouig's jewelry even as it jumped in his eyes.

“Norn Astrid, voice of the wilds, the fae, the shaman.” Astrid rose a hand slowly and elegantly. “Attending.” Among them all, she was the oldest. Her skin looked as if it would bruise from the lightest touch, waves of wrinkles on every surface of her body. While Arngunn's smile was wide and welcoming and Laouig's was polite and warm, Astrid's smile was small. It was one of an old woman who'd seen the same things again and again, yet found something new and exciting each time.

“Norn Thorgrim,” the elderly man in the middle rose his hand early, a scowl etched on his features. “Voice of the cripple, the elderly, the survivor. Attending.”

Rael winced. Thorgrim seemed to have the most important position, but one that no warrior would want to see themselves occupying. There was something about his features and the way that he moved that seemed familiar to Rael, though they couldn’t put their finger on it. Rael didn’t have any time to ponder on that, Thorgrim continuing to speak after the nine put down their hands.

“The Althing is now in session to discuss the Bergin Empire’s attack on Hightown Trygyve, the election of a new High Jarl, and any other new…developments.” His gaze flicked to Azmond for a moment, and he continued. “I expect you to all be aware of what happened. The Bergin Empire found Hightown, presented an ultimatum, and then attacked.” Some murmurs and subtle glances were thrown about the room, mostly aimed in Azmond’s direction. Norn Thorgrim grumbled, flicking the small bell in front of him. The people who were talking flinched, covering their ears. “We can discuss how they knew about a Child of Dragons before we did, later.”

“Norn Thorgrim!” A Jarl stood up at her table, pointing towards Feldon. “How can we be sure Feldon has not betrayed us for the Bergin Empire? It could be a—AUGH!”

Thorgrim was angrily flicking the bell several times, glaring at the Jarl. Once she sat back down, hands clasped over her ears as she groaned in pain, he stopped.

“Accusations without evidence are distractions, Jarl Kelly. Our sources tell us that Bergin did think there was a Scaled in Hightown. Whether it was through incompetence, caution, or fate that we did not know about Azmond the Scaled, it does not matter. We would not have given our enemies what they wanted either way.”

There were whispers of agreement that threatened to grow into a loud hubbub until Thorgrim held his hand in warning above the bell. At once, the hall returned to silence.

“We Norns have discussed who among the Jarls present is worthy of becoming the next Jarl. Normally, the previous High Jarl would have a list of candidates that we would narrow down, but Fraya was…neglectful in this aspect of her duties.” Thorgrim grumbled, motioning Grima to pass him something.

From within her hair, she pulled out a paper, something rarely seen in the jarldoms, and passed it to him. He mumbled something about hating reading, unfolding the paper, and holding it aloft.

“Of the hundred and twenty-six of you, we have chosen…eighteen as potential candidates.” He closed the paper and hid it. “Still too many. Telling you the candidates now would get your blood running too high. We will reconvene within the week with our final list of candidates, upon which we will also plan our offensive against Bergin. Anything to add?”

Thorgrim’s hand was achingly close to the bell. Nevertheless, someone stood up.

“Norns!” He saluted. “Since a few months ago, the talk of demon attacks has increased on the grapevine. It is no longer a rare event that occurs once every couple years, but one that plagues Faulkie villages every week!” More people stood in agreement. Another called out.

“Those of us who trade with the southerners have also heard tale of demon attacks there!”

The hall filled with questions and demands for explanations. With a wave of his hand, Thorgrim silenced them.

“We are aware.” Laouig said, his fellow Norns nodding their heads.

“Only thing we can do is kill ‘em quick.” Halbrand added.

“More will be discussed with the Jarls.” Thorgrim concluded. “Anything else?”

Faulk would stand and offer problems they faced. Sometimes it was solved on the spot, such as disagreements over land and loot. Others needed a more nuanced perspective, the Norns offering to see the issue for themselves. Eventually, none more stood, and all who were not Jarls were ushered out of the longhouse.