Amund Olafson's Story

The Sjiefding's lodge was set at the highest point in the City of Windcrest and it afforded a view of both the sprawling city and the distant snowy plains that lay beyond.

Unlike many of the buildings in the lower reaches of the city, the Sjief's lodge still maintained a very traditional architectural design for the region. The long sweeping hog-back lodge provided ample room for the Sjiefding and his family - as well as guests.

The interior was rather on the rustic side but comfortable. A stone hearth dominated the center of the room, and animal pelts were been strewn about the floor by which one can sit and warm themselves by the hearth. Long benches ran the lengths of the walls and they too were covered by animal pelts, and smoke-holes near the ceiling allowed for ventilation as well as sunlight during the daylight hours.

Numerous hunting trophies hung from the walls along with a wide assortment of fully functional and battle-ready weaponry.

Currently Amund Olafson, or Olaf as most know him, was seated at a heavy oak table, engorging himself on a wide array of food. The interior of the lodge was warm and the tantalizing aroma of wafted outdoors. Beef and bacon pie, a thick meat stew, buttered beets, fresh nuts, stale bread, and ale made up the brunt of the meal and the portions looked to be enough to feed five men.

Of course, given Olaf's near seven and a half foot stature this was perhaps to be expected. The behemoth of a man was currently scooping up sopping hunks of stew with crusts of bread to be shoveled into his mouth to be washed down with heavy quaffs of ale.

Two black-coated crag hounds were sprawled on the floor with their eyes watchful for any dropped or discarded food. The breed was common around here, and were originally bred by mountain giants as watch-dogs. Resembling a pair of over-sized mastiffs, the seemingly lazy louts could throw a lot of weight around if they were riled into aggression.

The front door opened with a bang as Olaf's daughter, Eyfrid, joined him inside the large lodge. The seven foot tall woman towered over even the men of the city, but she still managed to scarcely come to her fathers shoulder in height.

"Father?" she asked. "That Franklin Brice wants to see you."

"Now?" he asked. He wasn't in the most presentable of states, and bits of food and rivulets of ale dribbled their way down his beard as he grunted. "Eh, why not," he muttered as he waved a hand. "Send him in."

Many men may claim to metaphorically walk among giants, but only men from Windcrest could mean it in a literal sense.

Franklin Brice stood with a straight back as he strode into the great hall that topped his hometown like a dull Christmas ornament, but he did not even try to lie to himself about the situation he was in. For a normal human like himself, Giants and Half-Giant alike were simply of another breed. There was no ill-will between the two here in Windcrest however, the relationship between the two was amiable yet apathetic really. One group would simply keep to themselves, while the other did the same.

Brice respected that, it was what he grew up knowing. There was but one Giant who had set up shop here in the main city, a smithy, and a damn good one at that. Whilst Brice was not naive enough to try and unite the races, he did however consider the Giants citizens of North Aslund all the same, and he hoped to represent them to the best of his ability.


But then there was Olaf. The man was pretty much a folk hero, a legend to all. Brice dared to consider him nobility, presumed at one point the man must've been.

This man would be important to convince, a strong ally, or an even stronger foe.

"Good Evening, Sjief." Brice said, pulling a hand out of the pockets of the fleece shirt he wore, black with high collar that could be zippered close and long sleeves. "I appreciate you agreeing to meeting with me."

Brice did not bow, nor perform any similar action. He respected this man, wanted to befriend him, but he did not wish to be controlled, or dominated either. The giants had their strength, and the men from Windcrest had their pride.

Olaf rose from his seat as he looked down with a glower at the smaller man who stood there with his head held high. The scowl upon his grizzled face might have sent weaker men running, but Brice seemed to hold his dignity in front of the seven and a half foot tall bear of a man.

After a moment, Olaf broke out in a loud laugh and clapped a hand against Brice's shoulder. Of course given his immense size, the light slap would likely stagger Brice's balance.

"You have stones," Olaf remarked with approval as the laughter eased off.

The glower was replaced by a seemingly good-natured disposition as he gestured towards the table.

"Come! There's plenty of food. Help yourself."

Brice fought to stay silent as the air in his lungs fleed him, scattered by Olaf's strong hands. Still, this was a good sign, and it proved that his conclusion's about Olaf were on the right track. When respect is given, respect is earned.

"I will have to take you up on that offer." Brice smiled as he took a seat, not far from the Sjef's side. He helped himself to a slice of meat, and stuffed it between two pieces of bread.

"It's been rather warm lately, wouldn't you agree?" Warm, the people from North Aslund were certainly a confusing bunch.

The laughter eased off into a rumbling chuckle as Olaf settled himself back down in his own seat, which creaked loudly beneath his weight.

"That it is!" he agreed.

They had been experience a hard winter so far, but the weather had finally taken a turn for the better.

"Well then, what was it you were wantin' to speak to me about?" he asked.

"Well, Sjef Olaf, I'd wanted to discuss the upcoming parliamentary elections with you. As I'm sure you're well aware of already, I've been given the great honor of being selected as a candidate to represent Windcrest and the rest of North Aslund."

Brice swallowed another bite of his sandwich.

"And since the TNG is a democratic nation, I need the support and the votes of it's citizens to ensure that I can hold that office. I wanted to give you the opportunity to...interview me so to speak, so that you could reach a decision on whether or not you believe I am qualified for the position."

"I'm not a man of politics," Olaf replied. "But if you want the people of the north to put faith in you, you're going to need to show them that you're prepared to represent them and not just their land. You have our blood, but you dress like a southerner, and you propose southern ideals."

He picked up his tankard and gave a wave with it.

"Its in our culture, and in our pride that you find our strength."

He took a healthy guzzle of his tankard, ale dripping down his beard that he wiped away with the back of his arm.

"You're not the first to point out those facts about me, I am not your average man from Windcrest. But I ask you if that is such a bad thing?" Brice leaned forward slightly, elbows now on the table, but he still clutched to the food he had been given.

"Politics is a dangerous game, filled with men and woman who let the size of their egos and their wallets control the fate of a nation. If one is to defeat an enemy, one must think like their enemy, would you not agree? I may seem like I have forsaken my homeland, but the truth is I'm merely wearing a uniform for battle. The other regions outnumber us greatly, and their simple lives have deafened them to the everyday war a man from Windcrest has to fight against the very land we inhabit. I want to make them hear, make them understand just what it is my fellow people desire and need. If I have to dress a certain way in order for them to pay me mind then I will not hesitate to do so. That is why I wear the clothes of a southerner."

"And when you start to sacrifice who we are just to be accepted, you forget what it means to represent us." He gave Franklin a hard appraising look. "We don't grovel and conform to win our place. We demand it and we take it, because it is our right - regardless of what they think of our culture and our people."

He settled back in his chair again.

"Though frankly, we have never had much need of them up here. We have always gotten on just fine off our own grit."

Brice did not press the issue, he was smart enough to realize that however unfortunate it may have been, there was no winning the Sjef's favor on this first one.

He took another bite after a nod, using chewing as an excuse to think on what he would say next.

"I do agree that we do well enough without aid, and I do not intend to make appeals for aid, I simply want to ensure that our lands are respected and protected."

"I'm sure you'll make a fine opponent for my son," he grunted as he stood up. "For now I need to go oversee some matters at the mines."

Truthfully he wasn't much sure his son had what it takes for this politics jargon, but only time would tell how the elections would go.

"Help yourself to the food, and let yourself out when you're done."

Amund Olafson, or more well known as 'Olaf' by the locals, had chosen to attend the debates. His table was well distinguishable from the rest given its size and heft. At seven foot, five inches, Olaf stood a few inches taller than his already towering son, and when he entered the market square his burly form simply waded through as people seemed all to willing to step out of his way.

He propped his axe up against the side of the table - a weapon of such heft as to cause the wood to creak against its weight. Easing himself down onto the bench, the oaken planks gave an even louder and somewhat disconcerting creak but they held up under his weight.

Though the location was rugged and likely unpleasant for those unaccustomed to the climate, the northerners had held little reserves in seeing that comfort in the form of food and drink were plentiful. If there were two things the people of Windcrest did in great abundance, it was eat and drink.

Olaf downed an entire tankard of mead that dribbled in long rivulets down his beard before he wiped his face with the back of a burly arm. The man was legendary for his capacity to imbibe alcohol though, and he had little need to mediate his intake.

A seat had been reserved at his table for a perhaps somewhat controversial guest. Those arriving in Windcrest may have taken note of the Aschen transport vessel situated outside the city - an alarming fact to many. Word had reached Olaf as to Nagala's desire to speak with him, and he had assured her they would discuss whatever matter had brought her to Windcrest at the completion of the debates. He knew not if she would attend, but if she did he had deemed it best she be seated near at hand. The natives of Windcrest had little in the way of personal conflict with the Aschen over the years - mostly because not even foreign invaders wanted much to do with the frigid wasteland - but there was certainly an element of wary distrust at the Aschen's reputation. The concern though came from the fact that there was a noteworthy concentration of displaced southerners who held a great deal of resentment and hostility towards the Aschen. Few would try to start anything with Nagala while Olaf was near at hand though.

Distrust and suspicion or no, the woman had been permitted into the city, and as a guest it would be a matter of great embarrassment should anything happen to her under Olaf's watch - especially in the wake of the charitable donations being distributed to the local orphanages by Nagala's men.

Also among those who had turned out today was Adriaan Kavaki, a Volarian that it would seem was far from home. Politics were never his strong suit, and he came from a society that still practiced monarchy, so matters of parliament and regional representation were foreign matters that simply didn't hold his attention. It wasn't that he was averse to democracy, it was just of little personal relevance to him. His Volarian citizenship would bar him from voting anyways, but he had turned out as a show of support from the Patronus.

Shelby Lockhart, acting Captain of the Knight's of Le'thorian in Arrow's absence, was in attendance as well, but she was among the Knight's of Le'thorian seeing to the city patrols. Maintaining the safety and security of the city, the parliament candidates, and their southern guests was at the forefront of her responsibilities for the moment.

Tahlia bishop, another member of the Patronus, was seated among the spectators, but like Shelby she was largely there for security purposes.

A short distance from the main debate area, a slender and eerie young woman was sat. Clad in thick furs as shelter against the bitter chill, the pale girl sat alone but for a single knight of Le'thorian keeping vigil over her. Aiedai Nasazura was a familiar face to the people of Windcrest, one of the better known - and more distinctive - of the Patronus from the nearby Mountainside Temple. It was difficult to forget the way her skin seemed to give off its own ethereal glow, and her decidedly alien mannerisms on the rare occasions that she chose to speak to someone at any length.

As she sat, her mind was not focused on her own location, but rather spread like a blanket over the entire area. She brushed with the lightest touch over the minds of those assembled, gleaning snatches of thought and emotion from them with every passing moment. The psychic was on the lookout for anything that might suggest malicious intent, and every so often she would focus her net in on one or two individuals based on a spike of emotion or a stray thought, listening into their surface thoughts briefly before retreating away.

Not all in the crowd were susceptible to such eavesdropping, protected by technology or magic, but every little safety net helped.

Amidst the crowd itself, other members of the Patronus were positioned - not necessarily as security, but in the full knowledge that their role might find itself transitioning from spectator to protector at any given moment. Near the front, Cináed was stood, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans as though he were on a beach in Southern Aslund rather than the icy peaks of Windcrest. The cold didn't seem to be bothering him in the slightest.

With him was stood the taller and more practically clad Anaiya Thorn. One of Windcrest's doctors, the woman was a native to the region and as such had grown up under the Olafsons. She shared what was likely the opinion of many of the locals in being dubious about these debates and elections, but unlike some, she was not entirely close-minded to the possibility of change.

"Some of the children from the orphanage were talking about you." she said, glancing across at the blonde teen to her side.

Cináed looked up at her, blinking. "Oh?" he replied questioningly, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, I was there the other day tending to a boy with the flu." she said, "He and a few of the others were talking about 'the boy that could make fire'. A girl was regaling a few of them with a story of you fighting off a horde of slime monsters." Anaiya smirked in amusement.

Cináed laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, yeah, I've been telling them the few stories I have. In my defence, they asked! I wasn't just bragging!"

Anaiya paused. "You mean you actually did fight off a horde of slime monsters?"

"Oh, I had help, but yeah. Definitely slime monsters. They were nasty."

"And there was me thinking the kids were making it up. I suppose I should have expected as much from someone who's joined up with the Patronus." the older woman nodded her head thoughtfully.

On the edge of the crowd, the black-and-gold armour-clad figure of Anria was stood, her halberd grasped firmly as she spoke with a bundle of cloaks that might somewhere in the middle have contained the pointy-eared form of Talren.

"It's cold." the roguish man stated irritably.

Anria chuckled with amusement. "Pah! Hardly cold enough for you to be wrapped up in blankies like a babe, elf!"

"C. O. L. D. It is cold. Very cold. You're just ..."

"Possessed of more hardiness than an anorexic pixie carrying heavy shopping?" the warrior suggested.

"... stop mocking me. I like my cloak cocoon. And when the winter is over I'll emerge from it like a beautiful butterfly, and then you'll be the one who looks stupid."

"Aye, I'm sure."

"I will!"

Admiral Nagala made her way through the thick crowds of the market square. Four Imperial Marines flanking her on either side, two in front of her, and two behind her escorting her in perfect lock step.

As Nagala moved through the crowds that had gathered around the Market square, it was as if she was parting an ocean. The people from the south spotted the Aschen Admiral, and they moved away, forming a wide path for her to walk through.

Nagala paid little attention to the scattered whispers and murmurs from the southerners as she made her way towards the reserved seat, where Amund Olafson was seated.

As she approached, she slowly lowered herself into the chair, dismissing her Marines to take up posts around the square, to compliment Wind Crest's security. Though the Marines had been disarmed, they could provide adequate security should the need arise.

She inclined her head politely, before she turned to where the candidates were speaking. Clasped in her hand was a small note that had questions scribbled upon it in Anquietas, questions she hoped to ask the prospective candidates.

The soft rustle of the fabric was a sound that Sigurd hated, he'd rather go naked to this debate and dance in the snow, then they'd see who had the bigger point. The thought of it made him chuckle as he pulled the gloves around his hands, thought twice and threw them to the bottom of the pile of clothes his assistant had piled on his bed.

Apparently the rest of his clothes were not too suiting for a politician. "Too threatening." "Too large." "Too many points." The lists that ran out of the girls mouth was endless and an unusual form of torture. That family of hers didn't help either, they always had a look in their eye that made him think they thought their daughter was riding him like a Sleipnir.

Finally, Sigurd adorned himself in a thick sheepskin scarf and stormed out the door, before he could eat the shrapnel out of his father's vulcan boomstick just to end the feeling of dread; The prospect of an onslaught of talk. was far worse than any Ghrigorian berserker.

Sigurd passed Igtrid's smith on the way to the debate, briefly stopping to consider hiding behind the fiery smith's skirts, then realized she had no skirts to hide behind, and she'd probably throw him out if he even tried hiding inside her smith. Sigurd sighed a warm breath into the air and gave her a brief affirming nod before walking on.

Sigurd had been given a mental list by his assistant, who he assumed would bound up to him in a matter of seconds. "Do not drink too much, do not beat the cameramen with their microphones, no duels are permitted, blah blah blah blah." Sigurd had slid on his helmet half way though her talking and slept.

It took all of his effort when he saw the humongous crowd not to turn completely around and lock himself in the nearest tavern and refuse to come out till they all left. If it had been a humongous army at his father's doorstep, he would've waved in fearlessly to slaughter them all, but they were all talking, laughing and some of them even looked like fellow warriors.

Sigurd's mouth twitched. Pretend they're trying to kill you, pretend their trying to kill you, pretend they're trying to kill you.

Sigurd slammed both his fists to his chest and swung them in the air, letting loose a shouting cheer of victory. The few people who drunk with Sigurd during his extended pubcrawls caught on and started yelling too, raising their fists in the air and shouting, nudging whoever was next to them to do the same, a few of their nudges pointed towards the numerous Patronus and the lone centaur.

Glorious. The pretend battle was already in his favor.

It wasn't much longer after Taco's outburst that Brice arrived at the entrance in the company of two others. Both of these older individuals were Brice's parents. His mother stood beaming in surprise at just how much of the city had shown up for the occasion, and his father, leaning heavily on both Franklin and an oak cane, expressed his astonishment with a short whistle.

Brice's clothes were in heavy contrast to that of his parents. While he wore a dark charcoal bomber jacket over a white shirt and matching jeans, his parents wore less fashionable attire. His mother wore a heavy gray coat, stuffed with fake feathers and insulation, and his father wore a dark brown longcoat with a furry cap. Brice's parents were as used to the cold as any windcrest native, but even they fell subject to their age and often bundled up to keep warm, today being no exception.

After helping his parents through the front gate he gave both of his parents a hug and let an aide and trusted friend help them to their seats. He then quickly jogged after a member of the event's staff towards the stage.

He ran right up the steps and into the middle of the stage, where he proceeded to do a quick, small bow.

"Sorry to keep everyone waiting," He pulled a small tin flask out from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it above his head. "I couldn't find my lucky whiskey. To make it up to you all, first rounds on me."

He took a quick shot from the flask and laughed loudly. "Let us begin then."

"And it looks like both of our delegates have assumed their positions at the podium!" Tom announced, "the moderator will now step forward and formally commence the debates."

It was at that moment that a cloaked man rose from the throngs of northerners. Those around him looked up at the gaunt figure as if they were only now aware that he had been among them at all. He walked slowly through the crowds, up the stairs to the stage, his knees audibly cracking with each step. He stood between the two podiums, wrinkled hands drawing back a linen hood to reveal an old man with hair as clean and white as fresh snow. Any true-blooded northerner would know who this man was: the Seer of the North, the Frozen Wanderer, Regndropi.

"Kveðjur, vinir," he hailed both of the candidates, bowing slightly at the waist, "Olafson. Brice-Drengr." He turned slowly to the crowds behind and held up his hands. He was as salty and ancient as an old sea turtle, but did not, even for a moment, give an impression of frailty. Every movement, albeit slow, was direct and firm. Despite his smallish stature and physique, he stood with shoulder squared and chest barreled.

"Hail, Northerners!" his oiled-leather voice carried through the marketplace well. The crowds offered a hearty 'Hail!' in return. Glasses clinked. Meaty hands slapped wooden tables.

"I am your humble word-keeper today, the vörsluaðili of these debates! Before I turn and ask my questions of these men behind me, I speak to you, men and women of the north. I beg you keep an open mind these next few hours, to rid yourselves of bias and prejudice, to hear the words and philosophies of your native sons with tempered ears and placid hearts." He lowered his hands. "Lokið... enough of this. My voice grows weary."

He turned back to the two candidates. "You two know how this works. I will present a question. You will each have a turn to answer without interruption in the order in which you arrived. Olafson shall respond first, followed by Brice-Drengr. Once you've both answered, there will be a chance to openly-debate one another and challenge each other's views. There is no speaking order or set time-limit on this. You can go back and forth debating to your hearts' content. When I deem the topic exhausted or appropriately answered, I will stop the argument and move on to the next question." He held up a finger. "But of course, you two are not the only ones here tonight that must be examined. Your nation has demanded you take secretaries, aðstoðarfólk, assistants who are both your aids, advisers, running-mates, organizers and councilmen. They will have power if elected, and as such, must be questioned to see what they will do with such power. I will periodically ask questions of your secretaries as well." His sparkling grey eyes narrowed. "Now then. Let's begin."

Drawing a deep breath, Regndropi proceeded with the first question.

"For generations," he began, "the northern cities and tribes have been, for the most part, isolated from the rest of Aslund. Trade comes and goes and the Patronus help where they are needed, but the people of the north have always been self-sufficient and independent." His frazzled brows wrinkled. "So I ask you, men of the north, is this isolationism and solitude good? Should the north take a more active role in assisting the rest of Terra? Or are we better off proceeding as we have been, strong unto ourselves?"

Sigurd took his seat in his appropriate chair, pulling his the chair to his left for his secretary, much to the chagrin of the person already sitting there. Sigurd begun opening his mouth to answer before noticing that his rival had indeed made his way into the square.

Late, but he'd turned it his way, Sigurd would have to figure out how to do that, he'd need a few gallons of that lucky whiskey.

The warrior knew of the frozen wanderer, he had been in stories that had amazed the younger Sigurd and driven him to push himself towards the path he was on now. Sigurd moved to enter the discussion again, but something caught his eye in the tarps. There was a pair of eyes watching there, there were lots of guards and warriors here, so a sniper or assassin would have to try a little harder to remain concealed.

Sigurd winked at the pair of eyes, it had given him an idea too. Sigurd would wait for Brice to make the first speech.

Sigurd stomped up the steps of the Lodge, brushing his beard free and brushing the snow off his boots. The day had been a long one, talking had never been his strong point but he had managed to pull though the endless questions, statements and political pitfalls.

He grunted in bemusement, hanging his helmet on the wall and sliding into a seat at the heavy oak table and warming his hands by the hearth, giving one of pet crag hounds a quick scratch behind the ears. The northerner-cum-politician leaned back in his chair, moving his hands behind his head.

"You dogs have it easy, eh?" Sigurd said to the animals near the hearth.

Though docile and of seemingly an easy life, the scars on the dogs spoke of their many battles in the icy peaks of of the mountains in their younger years. It would seem even the pets had more field experience than Sigurd.

It was a while later when Olaf returned back at the lodge. The door swung open as the behemoth of a man shook the snow from his hair and beard. More clung to the furs of his clothes as it had apparently begun to snow, or perhaps more accurately begun to blizzard from the haze of white at his back.

He hung his helmet up on a hook by the door and grunted gruffly at Sigurd reclining back in the chair.

"That was quite a spectacle you put on," he grunted as he threw his many layers of coat and furs over a chair by the hearth to dry.

Sigurd grunted back, nodding softly. "Good spectacle, too much talking. So much to see, so little time to see all of it. I guess that's why I need a secretary." Sigurd laughed, leaned forward in his chair. "You know that man, Franklin Brice has a killer for a secretary? I could see it in her eyes, I wonder if I can duel her." Sigurd paused to think, grunting in thought.

"Nah, probably not." Sigurd shrugged and turned to look at his dear old dad. "Why are the Aschen here anyway?"

"Haven't spoken to them yet," Olaf replied.

He eased himself down onto one of the long wooden benches with a grunt as the wood creaked beneath his weight.

"Maybe you're going about all of this the wrong way," Olaf suggested. "You're a northerner trying to play at a southerner's game. Way I understand it, all you need is the support of the people in the north. Doesn't rightly matter what the southerners think of you."

He frowned thoughtfully.

"Problem is, your name is only known around here. You have Windcrest at your back, but you'll need the whole of the north behind you. By the time I was your age, I was known in every town and village this side of the Icy Peaks. Maybe it's time you left home," he told Sigurd. "Less time in the bars, and more time out there making a name for yourself."

Going out in the world to glean a name, glory and honor? Sigurd could sign to that. "What is there to kill now apart from sheep and old legends?" Sigurd scratched at his chin, he'd always wanted to leave Windcrest and chase after glory, but he'd never expected it to be so soon.

Sigurd turned his chair away from the hearth and turned to face his father. "Who would speak for me in the political events then father? My secretary is like a mouse." Sigurd grinned. "I don't suppose the Patronus know how to make illusions?"

"Maybe you should head east, past the mountains and into G'ael," Olaf told him.

G'ael was a wild and untamed land, and as of yet still independent from the rest of the north, and unofficially from the TNG.

"They're of the north like us, and as I understand it, the TNG's claim extends into G'ael even if the people living there don't acknowledge it. Don't rightly know of any TNG folk who have tried to go in and tell them otherwise either," he added with a laugh. "Win them over and the rest of the north will begin to hear tale of your acts. I'm sure you'll be back in time for whatever debates they'll want you for around here."

The thought that sending Sigurd into G'ael could well result in Sigurd never returning hadn't much dawned on Olaf. Sigurd was an Olafson and he would return.