Oleksandr follows the princess as she makes her way through the castle, his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings as they go. As they pass the main hall, he notices a group of men standing there, talking to the king. He can't hear what they're saying, but the sight of a few heavily armed men in the company of the king piques his curiosity. However, he doesn't have time to linger, as the princess keeps walking, heading towards the dining hall.
Oleksandr drops the princess off with her handmaidens and servants, his eyes lingering on her figure as she walks away. He then turns and makes his way back to the main hall, where he takes up a position at the door, looking in at the gathering of men. He listens intently, trying to pick up any bits of conversation or information that might be useful. The men speaking with the king are strikingly different from those of the local areas. They are tall, their fair complexions and rugged beards marking them clearly as Northmen. Their appearance is familiar to Oleksandr, who has seen similar traits among his Varangian Guard comrades from various northern origins. As they engage in a discussion with the king, their conversation centers around a trade deal, their accents and mannerisms revealing their foreign roots.
As Oleksandr focuses on the towering figure leading the group, he is struck by his imposing size and presence. He is at least 6'6, with a long, flowing mane of fair hair that is streaked with gray from age, and a beard and mustache to match. There is a rugged scar cutting across his brow, a tell-tale sign of his strength and toughness. Despite his age, he exudes a powerful aura, and Oleksandr can already tell that he is a force to be reckoned with. As he listens to the trade offer from the towering Northman, he picks up on the man's booming, clear voice, and the distinctive Norwegian accent of his speech.
"Now, Dragoje, I also have plenty of slaves to offer you. Mostly strong, durable workers." Oleksandr's body tenses slightly at the mention of slaves, his mind involuntarily flashing back to his own childhood spent enslaved, but he understands business is business. The king leans back on his throne, contemplating the offer.
"Hmmm, yes, slaves are always useful. Especially strong ones." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "And you say you have plenty to offer? How much for the livestock?" The Norwegian chieftain nods, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"Aye, plenty. Mostly younger ones, but a few older ones as well, from the coast of France to the Eastern slopes and beyond. We can spare more than a hundred, if the offer is right." The king nods, his interest piqued.
"Yes, that's quite a number. And they're all in good condition, you say?" The chieftain nods again.
"Aye, all strong and healthy. We don't take weak or sick ones, waste of space they are. We only take the most prime stock, fit for hard labor." King Dragoje raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
"And what price do you put on these 'prime' slaves?"
"Forty gold a head. Or, three cows each, or six goats." Dragoje's eyes widen at the price, clearly taken aback.
"Forty gold a head? Are you out of your mind, man?" He splutters. "That's highway robbery!"
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"Perhaps for a servant or an average slave. I'm offering you the cream of the crop! City builders, manual laborers." Dragoje grumbles in response, clearly not happy with the high price.
"The cream of the crop? And how do I know they're worth the asking price?"
"You are aware of my tribe's wealth, yes?" Dragoje nods slowly, his expression a bit more thoughtful now.
"Aye, I have heard tales of your tribe's riches. But that doesn't mean you can ask me to pay an arm and a leg for a few slaves!"
"I'll keep 'em then, the Mongrels will pay a prettier penny." Dragoje lets out an exasperated huff at the chieftain's stubbornness.
"Oh, for the love of... fine! Thirty-five gold a head, and I'll offset it with twenty young cows. And that's my final offer. Any more and it's a ripoff, and you know it!" The Northman grins.
"Deal." Dragoje grumbles in agreement, clearly not happy about paying so much, but also not wanting to lose out on such a large number of potential slaves.
"Fine, fine. Thirty-five gold it is. But you better make sure that every one of those slaves is worth the price, you hear me?"
Oleksandr can't help but be impressed by the chieftain's bargaining skills. He had managed to strong-arm Dragoje into paying a hefty sum for his slaves, and now the king looks thoroughly put out. He can't help but admire the man's cunning and finesse. The king lets out a gruff "hmph," as the Norwegian chieftain shakes his hand sealing the deal. The chieftain and his men begin to make their way out of the room, striding confidently, as if they had just won a major victory. Oleksandr follows them with his gaze, taking note of their confident stride and air of swagger. He glances around, his eyes surveying the room. He notices that the king is seething, clearly not happy with the outcome of the deal. The guards and servants in the room move about, going about their tasks, as if nothing unusual had happened.
"And who was that?" As Oleksandr approaches the king, arms crossed, Dragoje looks up, his expression still visibly irritated.
He lets out a huff, "that, my friend, was Oddvarr, chieftain of the Skarnjöl tribe. A stubborn, arrogant bastard, but a powerful one. This was my first, and will be my last time trading with him." Dragoje leans back on his throne, still grumbling to himself. "He's a damn good negotiator, I'll give him that. But he knows very well that he's the only one with so many slaves to spare at the moment. Plus, they're all fit and strong. I had no choice but to agree to his demands, but I'll be damned if I'm not losing on this deal." Dragoje lets out a grunt. "He knows I need those damn slaves, and he knows that I'm desperate. He's probably laughing his arse off right now, happy with the deal he just made." He turns to Oleksandr. "You know son, you’re the only man who looks like that that I’ve been able to trust." Oleksandr raises an eyebrow at his unexpected comment.
"Like me? How so?" Dragoje lets out a small scoff, looking at Oleksandr in disbelief.
"Come off it, you must be jesting. Why, you're a giant! A blonde one, at that. Who even looks like you? You're taller than all of my men, that's for sure." Oleksandr shrugs slightly, not quite knowing what to say in response to the king's comment. He was used to being the tallest and most physically imposing person in any room he was in, but he also knew that his size and pale hair made him stand out like a sore thumb. Dragoje lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. "You're a strange one, I'll give you that. But you can see what I mean about the tribesmen. He did have that same rugged, barbaric look about him. Aye, I can see the resemblance."
Oleksandr casts a glance over at the men across the room, finalizing the deal with a scribe. He notices the tribesman looking at him and their eyes meet for a brief moment. The man's narrowed eyes study him, as if he was searching for something in his face; but it is gone as quickly as it appeared, the man turning away and striding out of the room, leaving Oleksandr with a strange, uneasy feeling.