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As I mentioned in the Guess the Author thread, I was laid down with a nasty cold last week. But since every cloud has a silver lining, I ending up spending my copious free time writing several chapters and chapter outlines for Born to Breed, which I have sadly neglected since August.
The plan is one short chapter every Sunday until Christmas day. Let's see if I can resist the temptation to revise over and over again, causing delays.
EDIT: This seems to be at the top of a new page, at least for me. So let me be clear for anybody else in the same situation: There is a new update in the post immediately prior to this.
The burlesque part of the heavy burlesque was gone long time ago; it has been beyond the vicinity of its outer limits. Toto, we are not in Kansas any more. Well played. Feeling uneasy, as knowing that the bloke is only 32, and it will only get weirder at top gear.
And yet the chapter does come with rare slips of the fingers dancing on the keyboard;
This one has more options to understand. Apart from the simple explanation of honest-overlook, it can be guessed that at first the sentence was I know how I plan to use you, but what are you really after? but then the first part was realised to be too good to miss, therefore the complementary-return question was added later, and the latter part was pushed beyond as a successive question. If such, then yes, concurring with that it is too good to miss from a writing standpoint.
The punchline of the chapter comes with a lol, of course.
What is not that much obvious is, that it has a hint of unknown-unconscious-unawares allusion to a different type of wanting - desire - fetish of Sverker: It is almost close to the interpretation of Wild at Heart(d. David Lynch, 1990) by Slavoj Žižek (and a whole lot of references to Lacan) - to make the other to want but only to reject.
Though of all the bizarreness that the bonkers-problematic case of Sverker has, that one would be just a cherry on the top of the cake.
Silence descended and for some reason all my guests were staring at us, except for Áslaug's mother, who crossed herself and began speaking Latin. I only understood one word in five, but given the amount of hellfire and damnation I made out, this was probably not a prayer.
Yes, it should obviously have been "..." not ".." - FIXED.
This one has more options to understand. Apart from the simple explanation of honest-overlook, it can be guessed that at first the sentence was I know how I plan to use you, but what are you really after? but then the first part was realised to be too good to miss, therefore the complementary-return question was added later, and the latter part was pushed beyond as a successive question. If such, then yes, concurring with that it is too good to miss from a writing standpoint.
Impeccable forensic analysis. The sentence did indeed start out I know how I plan to use you, but what are you really after?, and was later rewritten I know how I plan to use you, but how do you plan to use me? what are you really after? for exactly that reason, but I forgot to capitalize the successive question.
Now fixed.
Judging by how the chapter develops, oh Sverker, mate, you have no idea.
Does she not? I had intended for her introduction with Viola to imply they were fairly close, but rereading I see how it easily gets lost in Sverker's musings.
Whatever the case, the entry provides one unambiguous clue that she knows Viola and Sverker pretty well, though Sverker of course would neither notice, care, nor remember her due to his well known deficiencies in that regard..
- Chapter the Twenty-third: The Sverker Diaries, part nineteen - the world of 933
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – the morning after
Dear Diary,
I awoke refreshed to blessed quiet.
Turning on the side to look at my wife, I saw that Áslaug had nearly managed to chew through the whip before sleep claimed her, which showed an abundance of determination and very strong teeth.
It almost seemed a shame to wake her, so instead I began playing with her Idun's apples, which were firm and responsive, just the way I like them.
Her eyes flashed open.
“Want some help with the whip?” I asked her helpfully, and received a strong glare for my trouble as she renewed her chewing effort.
If looks could kill, that would have done me in, but despite the discourtesy I respected her wishes and left her to her work, and me to mine.
Alas, she was soon done, and my quiet morning was at an end.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SVERKER?” she asked me kindly.
Clearly, this called for tact.
“Could you specify, dear Áslaug?” I asked her kindly.
“Yes... Yes, I can do that. I am somewhat confused as to why you would gag me and go to sleep rather than having your way with me, AND DEAR FREYJA, YOUR COVER IS LEVITATING!?”
“Obviously, I was trying to please you, “ I responded, having had a good half an hour to think of an explanation, “and that's not levitation, it is morning wood. Care to help a poor fellow out?”
Her eyes boggled. “Explanations first, dear Sverker.”
“You wanted to be punished, ideally in a vile and depraved way, so I asked myself: What's the worst I can do do you? It came to me that Denial of Service, leaving you unfulfilled on your wedding night, would be both cruel and unusual punishment, and just about the worst thing I could do to you. Pretty hard on myself too, that deprivation, but I do try to humour my wives' minor eccentricities, and based on your consternation it would seem I was right.”
“I see. I was thinking of a less intellectual approach, husband. Whipping, slapping, roughing me up. Rough sex. Dominating me. Not stopping when I beg you to. That sort of thing.”
“What we have here is a failure to communicate. Perhaps you could tell me what's up with the pole, chain, manacles, and rope, not to mention the general theme of abuse? Seems unhealthy to me. In my experience women will often go to extreme lengths to avoid that sort of thing.”
“Three reasons, if you must know. First, it is traditional. It is how my father met my mother. Second, WILL YOU PLEASE STOP PLAYING WITH MY BOOBS AND LOOK AT MY FACE WHILE I'M TALKING TO YOU”
Was that a trick question? Better play it safe.
“No.” I said, and continued gently stroking them.
“Right on! Ignoring me and satisfying your own desires. That's the spirit!”
Áslaug was clearly mental.
“Second, I need to be punished. Third, I hate you. I hate you so much. Having my arms tied removes the risk that I might let my hatred triumph over my ambition and cause me to attempt harm to you, spoiling the marriage should I succeed, or causing you to take offence should I fail.”
“I don't care about your father's 'how I met your mother' tale, and your hatred? That adds spice to life. Just ask Sif. My winsome personality will win you over soon enough. But please help me understand why you need to be punished?”
“My late husband died for my sins because a vile man lusted after me, and only by suffering can I atone.”
“I say, have you been listening to Christians? Take it from me as Fylkir, the gods don't care about such things, so why should you?”
“Fuck the gods. I care, and that is all that matters!”
“Now, that I can respect, wife. Punishment coming right up, once I untie your legs to improve blood circulation. It'll also help you struggle more, which I guess your grief-stricken mind would see as a negative. Or possibly positive? Anyhow, it is better for me, and that's how you want it, right?”
“NO!” she cried.
“I'll take that as a yes, then?”
“RIGHT ON!”
Ha! And Viola says I don't understand women!
After she had cured me of my morning wood, and she had finally agreed to be freed to go to the chamberpot, and we lay relaxing by each other in bed, I could for a moment forget the weirdness of the day. But alas, it didn't last long, as I asked her a question that came to my drowsing mind, and more fool me.
“Not that it matters, but since my little witch insists I pretend to be interested in my wives beyond the practical, I have to ask, why do you hate me?”
She raised herself on the side and loomed over me, looking down on me with hatred blazing in her eyes.
“Must you do this, Sverker? You KNOW why I hate you. MUST I say it?” she said, indignantly.
I knew? News to me.
“Humour me, wife.”
“You killed my husband!” she said. As voices of doom goes, it was a decent attempt.
“Really? I kill so many people, I can't keep count, but fancy that. What are the odds? What was it, a friendly stab in the heat of battle?” I inquired.
“You chopped off his head!”
“I've been working on the backswing, but you know how it is; If somebody doesn't know how to duck, well, that's greatfather Odin's way of weeding out the idiots and the unlucky.”
“Sverker, you BASTARD! You killed him right in front of me, while you raped me with your eyes!”
“Errr... That's not how it is done...” I said, pondering the mechanics.
“SVERKER! If you don't tie me up now, I'm going to do something I'll regret.” she said, gnashing her teeth, and I felt cold iron touching IT.
Well, I wasted no time overpowering her and tying her hands to the bedposts again, that was for sure. Only to discover that she'd been wielding a spoon, but better safe than sorry.
“That's better. Sverker, I just don't understand you. I can, perhaps, understand why you want to pretend in public that you didn't lust after me, kill my husband, and then take me for your own, pretending that you have clean hands. I would have thought that showing you for the rapacious beast you are would earn you more support in our family, but it depends on who you want to appeal to. So I am perfectly willing to play along with that official story as I did yesterday night when we discussed it.”
What? When had we discussed that? This woman confused me on so many levels, that even the bear within was roused from slumber.
“But denying reality in private... I just don't get it. Is this a sick game?”
“Let me get this right. You believe – probably because some troll put it into your head, but you truly believe it - that you are indirectly guilty for me killing your moronic late husband out of lust for you, and your preferred way of punishing yourself is to marry me and urge me to repeatedly violate you?”
“Yes... Though to be fair, the punishment and violation is just a bonus. I am mostly in it for the power Viola offered. And, frankly, it is rather flattering to have the mightiest king on life kill a loyal Jarl, just so he can claim me and make me queen. Really reaffirms my value as a woman.”
Well, yes, she should be flattered. Good point.
“Just a shame it had to be the love of my life you killed, but nobody claimed life was fair. So in the circumstances marrying you makes excellent sense even if I have to subdue the desire to geld you. Not that one turns Viola down when she makes a suggestion like that, mind you. She's dead serious about breeding.”
She really is. Finally something we could agree to. Áslaug was clearly delusional, but I could work with that, and so could the bear. Grandpa Sigurd once told me that one of the lessons of his long life I could profit from was not to stick my dick in crazy, but considering my grandmas he was clearly joking. Anyway, between Viola, Kráka, and Sif, it was obviously too late to take that advice to heart. What could one more hurt?
“It didn't happen that way, but if you need to believe such nonsense of me to make your life make sense, who am I to disabuse you?”
“A liar and a hypocrite! I knew it!” she said with relish, “but why are you growling? Is that supposed to scare me?”
“You talk too much. Prepare to be royally screwed.”
“I already am.”
“Not like this,” I managed to say before the bear seized control.
Through the thunder in my ears I heard the door open, and as my primary brain regained a minimum of control, I heard the voice of my little witch calling, “STALL INSPECTION!” cutting through Áslaug's repeated cries of “OH GOD!”
What in Odin's name was going on? I was not to be left in darkness for long.
“Áslaug! It is 'My Lord', not 'OH GOD!' when you are praying”, an unfamiliar voice added, “Remember your Bible!”
Female voice, her Danish afflicted by a Greek accent. Who?
“Leontia? Get the Hell out of my room!” Áslaug managed to gasp between divine invocations.
“Don't mind us. Keep up the good work, my stallion!” my little witch called out to me.
“Such a disobedient daughter, Viola. A heathen and revelling in it, destined for Hell. But at least she learned her Bible.” the voice continued. “But he's slacking off if she can put together full sentences. PUNISH HER, GREAT KING! FUCK HARDER, NOT SMARTER!”
Recognition dawned. It was the older Greek hottie. My new mother-in-law. With frankly unsettling advice. But far be it from me to disappoint my mother-in-law, so I urged the bear on. Not that it needed much urging. This was all far too confusing.
“I trust you are satisfied with what you see,” asked my little witch.
“I am, Viola, I am. Not that I doubted you, but it does a mother's heart glad to see her daughter properly submissive to her husband as the Lord intended.”
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
“Not at all like she was with my first son-in-law. It was bad enough that she was marrying beneath her station, but though Karl had muscles on his muscles and was the ideal warrior, he had no brains and obeyed her utterly. Truly disgusting.”
“But Sverker, now. I always suspected he was a devil at heart, you know, but seeing is believing... My Lord, he sure knows how to drive a nail home, doesn't he?”
“He sure does. Why, the stories I could tell.” Viola answered proudly.
“And her all tied up, unable to resist. Brings back memories.”
“Good memories I hope, Leontia?”
“Oh, yes. In retrospect, though I certainly did not think so at the time. Did I ever tell you how I got hitched, Viola?”
“I don't think so. I know the general outline, of course – you know how he was when in a boasting mood – but I don't think you ever told me the details.”
“It happened like this. I had been attending this little party in Vienna, hoping to attract a suitor. At 22 years of age I was past my bloom, but my father, God rest his soul, held out for a suitable marriage with the upper nobility to rescue the family fortunes long past reasonable hopes of success.”
“Being a fabled beauty is all well and good, but in the courts of my youth nobody but an idiot would marry for beauty alone, and my father was poor. Had I had the brains to match my beauty I might still have been a contender, but I did not.”
“So I was hunting unmarried wealthy idiots, and when the party got stuffy, I went outside with just such a fool, who fancied himself a poet. A bit of a prize, I thought. This might be just the moron I needed. Hanging on his every word, applauding his awful verse... It was enough to convince me that marriage to him would indeed be a fate worse than death, and I was about to return to the main party when he suddenly went 'uuurk' and the sun went out.”
It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on the job on hand, but one advantage of Áslaug being tied up that I had not anticipated, was that she had few means of showing her displeasure if I slowed down and listened to her mother's story. Which I tried to do. Unfortunately, the bear had other plans and the following is reconstructed as best I can from memory, but much was missed.
“It wasn't the sun going out, of course. I soon realized that I had been bagged, and from the young man's screams I guessed he had been stabbed. The art critic slung me over his shoulder and abducted me. I screamed too, of course, and for better reason, while trying to fight my way out of the bag. Alas, I was upside down and inexperienced in these things so it availed me nothing.”
...Bagging isn't easy either, I thought. Nobody appreciates a craftsman.
“Eventually I lost consciousness, and when I came to I found myself gagged and chained in a little cart being driven by the scourge of the north. I was properly frightened, I should think, anticipating imminent ravishment, torture, and abandonment based on the tales I had heard. So I composed myself and prayed to God for deliverance.”
“I know where this is going,” my little witch said, “Handy Henchmen?”
“Yes, he loved and feared his mighty father in equal measure, but was not averse to copying the best. The henchmen treated me exquisitely, if one ignores carting me off against my will, which I guess one must.”
“Many weeks later they brought me to a warcamp somewhere near the Eider and presented me to their leader, this great beast of a man, who wasted no time having me chained to a pole in his tent and getting rid of my travelling companions.”
“Then he came to inspect me, gabbling at me in the ghastly Danish tongue - forgive me, Viola, but so it seemed to me at the time – and getting handsy. I realized I had been spared so far only to face a higher class of rapist, and I prayed in desperation to God to calm this savage beast.”
“To my great surprise, he suddenly paused his inspection, saying “Excuse me, this is nothing personal” in perfect Greek.”
“Oh, no!” my little witch laughed.
“Oh, yes!” my mother-in-law laughed right back. “I misunderstood the situation completely, considering it a miracle. Which I guess it was, in its way, for God's ways are indeed mysterious and it was years before I understood his plan for me.”
“But in the situation, I thought God had soothed him and gifted him with the civilized tongue, so I addressed him courteously and told him that everything was forgiven and I didn't take his actions personally, but would be please unchain me? He ignored me and began stripping me of my clothes, and every time I tried to speak up, he just said “Excuse me, this is nothing personal.”
“Well, by the time he had stripped me naked and was ogling my body, while his hands were skilfully evoking a rush of new sensations. I was fed up with his excuses and the strangeness of the day and asked him what this was, if not personal?”
“Hah, that's just so typical of him!” my little witch interjected, “Always trying to do things the proper way, always apologizing.”
“Yes it was. I didn't know it at the time, but I was more fortunate than I had any right to be. So there I was, 22 years of age with visions of martyrdom in my mind, and I had just insulted this mighty norse Chieftain who was twice my size, and all he did was scratch his beard while looking distracted, as if trying to solve a puzzle.”
“Eventually he looked straight at me and said, “Excuse me. I am Patriarch but bad at Greek. That was nothing personal. This is something personal”, and proceeded to teach me the difference.”
“It was,” Leontia said nostalgically, “somewhat different from the great romances the poets of my youth had described, though probably closer to the truth of the romances than the poets' sweet lies. None of the teachings on comportment and debate my father had paid painstakingly hoarded coin for to prepare me for a high society marriage seemed appropriate to dealing with a barbarian Patriarch spreading his faith by direct injection. As I had no gift for languages and was never very clever, I put my trust in God and decided to make the best of what seemed, at the the time, a very bad situation.”
“He kept me under strict guard, fearing that I would flee – to where, I ask? - and eventually “Excuse me, this is nothing personal” and “Excuse me, this is something personal” became the language of lovers, signifying our intent. I learned Danish in his arms, and other things besides, and sought to take advantage of his cautious nature.”
“He always feared being attacked while spreading the faith, and given some of the women that were unwillingly brought to his tent while I was there, rightfully so, but I professed love and within weeks he stopped chaining me to the pole or strapping me down on the table when it was personal. He also allowed me to lend a hand strapping them in, when he had other women.”
“I fancied myself such an accomplished seductress”, she sighed, “when he finally stopped bringing in other victims and gave all his attention to me, ignorant as I was that he was merely doing his best to follow his father's commands with what he considered a third rate woman, but one with potential. Brains before brawn. Brawn before beauty. Plough daily.”
“After a few months of that I became pregnant and was shipped off to the capital, where I was given rooms of my own and servants. I was overseen by this stern matron I disliked on first sight, and what a misjudgment of Praxida that turned out to be. In due time our bright Áslaug was born. I remember still the glow in his eyes when he first held her, and in front of all the assembled women, he spoke softly to me in Greek, saying: “Excuse me, this is something personal. You are my queen.” They didn't understand him, of course, but it was,” she said finishing her tale, “so very romantic.”
The women shared a chuckle. There was something there that my mind tried to draw my attention to, but what could it be? I was distracted from continuing the thought, when I realized that the bear had withdrawn and Áslaug lay limp in my grasp. She must have been unresponsive for several minutes while IT operated in autonomous mode for the bear to give up, and I'd been too engrossed by the story to notice. Fortunately a quick check showed she was still breathing. Unfortunately I must have worn her out, which boded ill. Both Kráka and Sif could last much longer.
“Life as his wife certainly wasn't like anything I had ever envisioned back in the carefree days of my youth, but it had its attractions. I never managed to civilize or convert him, and he's in Hell now, suffering until the last day, but he would never have had it otherwise, clinging stubbornly to his false religion to the last. He was a good lover, husband, and father to Áslaug and the twins, hell-bound scamps one and all though they be. I miss him still.”
Something clicked. And it wasn't Áslaug, who had fainted. Perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on her. She was pregnant, after all, even if only in the very early stage, and her arms had been locked in a stupid position for half a day. She was probably just exhausted from the combination. Time to liberate her and get her some food and light exercise once she recovered, then some athletics to get the juices flowing.
“Ladies, would you excuse us? Áslaug needs some time to recover as I rode her too hard, and we are going to be needing all the room for a game of Raid and Capture once she is fit for running. Also, Viola, once I am done here, we need to have a little talk.”
“Sure thing, my stallion!”
“I must apologize for my daughter. The youth of today have no stamina,” my mother-in-law said disapprovingly. “I'll cook some soup that'll have her on her feet quicker than she can say 'modicae fidei, quare dubitasti?'”
“It was increasingly difficult to concentrate on the job on hand, but one advantage of Aslaug being tied up that I had not anticipated, was that she had few means of showing her displeasure if I slowed down and listened to her mother's story. Which I tried to do. Unfortunately, the bear had other plans and the following is reconstructed as best I can from memory, but much was missed.”
Whereas not being part of the dialogue, this part is given in quotes mistakenly; it belongs to the character's inner thoughts on the... weird situation.
somewhat different from the great romances the poets of my youth had described, though probably closer to the truth of the romances than the poets' sweet lies.
The line is such good that it can be considered the core of the theme; it can be even used as the tagline for Born to Breed.
Though not without context, as it has to be explained very carefully. Lol.
Also, Viola, once I am done here, we need to have a little talk.
Sure, but judging by the nine (and perhaps more) wars seen in the chapter screenshots of the previous and this, Sverker wins the "best version for the This is fine meme".
Whereas not being part of the dialogue, this part is given in quotes mistakenly; it belongs to the character's inner thoughts on the... weird situation.
The line is such good that it can be considered the core of the theme; it can be even used as the tagline for Born to Breed.
Though not without context, as it has to be explained very carefully. Lol.
Sure, but judging by the nine (and perhaps more) wars seen in the chapter screenshots of the previous and this, Sverker wins the "best version for the This is fine meme".
Ha. Hadn't even considered that might be contentious. Doesn't everybody plan and execute multiple wars simultaneously in CK3 to speed up conquest outside the very early game?
Ha. Hadn't even considered that might be contentious. Doesn't everybody plan and execute multiple wars simultaneously in CK3 to speed up conquest outside the very early game?
What an outrageous suggestion! How could you possibly think he would do that.
Leontia is much too old to satisfy Viola's requirements.
---
Also, I got caught up rewatching favourite Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes today, so the Dec. 11 update will be pushed to Monday night. Hopefully.
- Chapter the Twenty-fourth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty - the world of 933-934
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – the morning after
Dear Diary,
After a memorable morning, my little witch and I had a serious talk. I was annoyed upon realizing that she had managed to saddle me with yet another of Baldr's daughters despite my stated opposition to the very idea, and upset that she had lied about it. Well, perhaps not lied, but at least she had creatively misinterpreted my directives.
I had few expectations of the conversation, but it was necessary, however much it might hurt. I started gently to ease the way into the harder topics, but the conversation went off on a tangent from the start and turned out even stranger than anything I could possibly have imagined.
“Little witch. I am not happy. Not happy at all.”
“You sounded happy enough earlier playing Raid and Capture. The house shook to your roar of triumph when you ran Áslaug down.”
“...I blame the soup.”
“Oh, dear. You should have known better than to eat Leontia's soup. That was for Áslaug alone. Added to your natural drive, I shudder to think of the experience. Better her than me.”
“What do you mean by that? NO. Forget the soup. I have some questions for you that cannot wait.”
“I am listening, my stallion.”
“That stall inspection... What must Leontia think of me?”
“She thinks you have improved greatly since we were her and Baldr's wards.”
...I knew she seemed familiar!
“And thus Áslaug is one of uncle Baldr's daughters.”
“Yes, and?”
“I may be going potty before my time, but I could have sworn that you assured me my new wife was an aged widow and definitely not one of uncle Baldr's children.”
“Has the morning's exercise scrambled your brain, my stallion? Why would I do that?”
“But... I checked my diary, and when we agreed on Áslaug, I did ask you...” I said, confused.
“What you did, my potty stallion, was ask me whether I suggested Karl's widow Áslaug because of Kráka and Sif missing their sister, and I explained that she earned her way onto the waiting list by merit.”
...What? Waiting list? No. Focus. Deal with that later.
“It was very considerate of you to ask me,” my little witch beamed at me, “considering the trouble you went to kill him to get her in the first place.”
“Errrr...”
“I must admit I was a bit worried due to the well-known rift between the daughters of Praxida and Leontia, and of course Áslaug was too old to be an ideal pick, but you clearly intended to have your way, dismissing my 3P candidates out of hand. You didn't even want to meet her to see how she felt about the whole 'marrying my husband's killer' issue, so much did you lust for her... or perhaps you considered her feelings irrelevant. Which was it?”
“Errrr...”
...The day's events as written in my diary fresh in memory, I guess Viola could have interpreted my remarks like that. I felt sick.
“You were so in lust, my stallion”, she chuckled. “You didn't even confirm that we were talking about Áslaug, plain refused to have me name her, which did worry me at the time,” my little witch said contemplatively, “because theoretically there could have been other widows matching the profile, but then I realized that you were affirming your trust in me to discern your will without words. You are sweet when you do that, my stallion.”
I am not sweet! But her words made me feel better nevertheless. How does she manage to do that?
“But...”
“But what? You are seldom so incoherent. What is troubling you?”
“Áslaug believe I killed her husband to take her as a wife.”
“You could hardly expect her not to catch on, my stallion.”
“But I didn't!”
“You didn't? Did Karl lose his head in a freak shaving-accident, perhaps? Áslaug told me you forced her to watch while you chopped it off, but perhaps she was mistaken.”
“NO! I mean, yes. I did chop off his head, but it was for adultery with the wife of one of his chiefs. The law is clear.”
“And did you chop off the head of the chief's wife as well?”
“No. Why would I want to do that?” I asked, puzzled. Just where was she going with this?
“And since when have you started taking an interest in anybody's sex life other than your own? For that matter, how about punishing adultery with death rather than leaving such minor matters to those involved? Is that new policy?”
“Errr...”
“And since when have you started caring about adultery?”
“Err...”
“And since when have you,” she began, but she got no further, for I had had enough.
“Confound it, little witch. If you must have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” I said, before she cut me short.
“I don't.” she grinned.
“Well, you'll get it. I killed him because Kráka and Sif would be sad if I didn't punish him for making their sister sad. It seemed a practical solution to the problem.”
“Thus ignoring that actually killing him rather than giving him a slap of the wrist would make their sister even more sad?” my little witch asked.
“Why would I care about her feelings?” I asked.
“No particular reason. How about Sif and Kráka's feelings?
“I don't care about their feelings either. You know that. Oh, I'll humour them if it suits me, but care? You've got to be joking! I care about you, and only you.”
“You say the sweetest things, my stallion, but I believe you just made my case for me.” she said.
“What case?”
“Engage your prodigious intellect, my stallion, and consider this: What is more likely. That you a) executed a loyal Jarl due to showing consideration for women and then went on to marry his unhappy wife by fortunate coincidence, or b) that you lusted after the wife of a loyal Jarl and executed him to take his unhappy wife, will she or nill she.”
When she put it like that, I guess she had a point. It sounded an awful lot like b) to me, and I am me. I mean, Áslaug was a women well worth stealing - anybody could see that – and eccentricities notwithstanding she was better suited for my bedchamber than one of my moronic Jarls. Also, killing the husband was the traditional way of handling such things, and who could possibly object to that?
“As an intellectual exercise, I will answer b). But only under protest. It wasn't like that at all!”
“A likely story, my stallion.”
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – a week after my wedding
Dear Diary,
Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
For a week I have honoured Áslaug at night and in the morning, as she tries to exhaust me for the coming day.
For a week I have broken my fast in a room as frosty as Niefelheim, as Sif, Kráka, and Áslaug trades barbs.
For a week both Kráka and Sif have laid cunning ambushes during the day, dropping in on me at work for a talk, or accidentally dropping something and stooping over, or falling into my lap when I'm sitting, or accidentally tripping but fortunately being caught because I happen to be on hand, and usually one thing leads to another, because one really has to admire their persistence. I just wish they wouldn't shout loud enough to wake the dead when they run off to update the scoreboard. It can be rather embarrassing to explain to those who'd been waiting for an audience with the king, and I am never the best at lying at such times.
For a week the four of us have provided amusement for my little witch, who rather than reining in the sister-wives cheer on their competition.
I am beat.
I have had enough.
I am not “good to the last drop.”
This is not a life worth living.
I need a plan.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – eight days after my wedding
Dear Diary,
I am a genius. Marriage is a sacred bond, and I am Fylkir! Time for a revelation!
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – ten days after my wedding
Dear Diary,
Today is the day! After breakfast, I took my little witch aside to inform her about the upcoming changes and I had caught her completely off guard for once! She never saw it coming.
“Little witch,” I said, “I have some thoughts about my wives I want to share.”
“You've come to the right person, my stallion,” she grinned at me. “If you aren't satisfied with Áslaug, it is not too late to marry one or both of the two 3P guaranteed prospects I had for you. One of them resides in Norway, but the other one is visiting family in Cornwall and could easily be here for a wedding in two weeks, should you so desire. Should I set it up for you?”
“Viola?”
“Yes?”
“This is not going to happen.”
“Too soon, is it? You are probably right. Better to wait until after the next raiding season.”
“I am not going to marry after the next raiding season either.”
“Now you are just being unreasonable. Are you thinking of waiting half a year? There is plenty of room in the stables!”
“I am not thinking of waiting half a year.”
“Whew, you had me worried there. You are dancing around the subject, my stallion. What exactly do you mean?”
“Read my lips: No new wives.”
“What?”
“I am serious.”
“But...why? Think of the Grand Plan!”
“I have had a vision from the All-father!”
“Colour me surprised.”
“Henceforth no man may marry more than four women on pain of having his manhood cut off and shoved up his arse.”
“Well, I guess I can always fill the remaining stalls with thralls.”
“And furthermore, treating thralls as if they were concubines is an offence to the Gods and the sacred institution of marriage. Concubinage was forbidden for good reason. Rogering the occasional thrall is fine, everybody does that, well, everybody who isn't as fortunate in their marriage as I am, but any thrall that is treated like a concubine must be killed or freed and married to her owner, subject to the provision aforementioned.
“WHAT!?”
“Finally, the All-father gave me a bit of personal advice regards structuring the household, and this is how it will be done.
The fourth day of the week, Odin's day, is sacred: It is my day, and you make no schedule for it. I may rest alone or spend the evening with any wife I choose. This will bring me closer to the divine communion shared by Odin and Frigg.”
“In other word, when you are not lazing around, you plan to spend Wednesdays with me.”
“I might not.”
“WHAT!?” my little witch shouted, completely wrong-footed for once.
“Just my little joke.” I smirked, and continued: “The sixth day of the week, Frigg's day, all wives fit for duty play a game, with the winner claiming me for the night, and whether the score for this night is tallied on the scoreboard or not is up to the sole discretion of the winner.”
“I am appalled.”
“Too bad. It is my will. I mean Odin's.”
“Sure it is.”
“Finally, the remaining five days, Sun's day, Moon's day, Tyr's day, Thor's day, and Washing day, are all to be scheduled in the usual manner. Now, for the duties of the wives: Áslaug will present the public face, as was your plan all along. You will maintain control of the household and wifely schedule with the exceptions I just mentioned. Kráka is in charge of making up games for Frigg's day. Sif is in charge of... well, I really can't think of anything to put her in charge of, but since you are in charge of running the household, I'm sure you'll think up something.”
“Are you out of your mind, Sverker?” she shouted.
“No. This is how it will be. Would you prefer me to introduce this new schedule to my three sister-wives tomorrow at breakfast, or will you inform them yourself?”
“I will tell them.”
“I thought that was how you would see it, little witch.”
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
This marks the first week on the new regime – and my freedom!
I relaxed with my little witch on Wednesday, just friendly cuddling. Kráka gave up her ambushes in favour of designing a party game for Friday. Sif stayed mostly to herself and watered the children or whatever chores it is my wives do when I'm not around. Áslaug is still mental, but putting in a grand official performance, relieving the strain on my little witch.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
Winter will be over soon; As relaxing as the last weeks have been, I must say I am looking forwards to the fighting season.
Perhaps I was divinely inspired with my new schedule, but I prefer to give myself all the credit. I deserve it. The household has quieted and everybody is on their best behaviour... Except for my little witch, who is making some point or another to me by not letting a single day of the last three weeks be an s-day, despite Sif being healthy and not with child. But I'll be blasted if I can figure out what her point is – Sif can't possibly still be ahead on points due to that epic chess night and the following week of ambushes.
Overall, I am feeling myself again. Which, granted, is natural. Who else would I feel like? But it is reassuring.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
Winter is coming to a close and it is time for campaigning. I set sail now for the lands of my fathers to meet interesting people and kill them. THIS is what I was made for.
Was the soup laced with aphrodisiacs or something?
Leontia totally misinterpreted that and so did Viola. I love how Sverker was convinced that he intended to do something that he didn't intend to do...
Also, abusing religious power for convenience! I wonder if that will piss anyone off... are there any Old Norse (Traditional Asatru?) worshippers left? A Reformation-esque event could be amusing....
Sorry to @HistoryDude for not answering, and for everybody still reading (all five of you? Who knows, no reliable statistics) for skipping last week's promised update; As expected Christmas frenzy ended up overtaking me.
The soup is a family recipe.
As for misinterpretation, that seems to be the case, though whether deliberate or not in the case of Viola , who can say? We must also admit the possibility that Viola is right, and that Sverker has been lying to himself about his motivations and intentions. Perhaps he did notice Áslaug and it subconsciously influenced his decision. Viola does know him better than anybody, after all, so if she is sure, who are we to doubt her? Or perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between? Whatever the facts of the case might be, the truth now is the one that accords with Viola's wishes, and Sverker can live with that.
The old believers are few and far between and pose no threat to anybody. If Sverker's divine revelation causes problems, they will be caused by family. Like most of his other problems.
- Chapter the Twenty-fifth: The Sverker Diaries, part twenty-one - the world of 934
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
There is much to be said for a simple, safe, and uncomplicated life. Especially when compared to the complexities at home, where I risk ambush at any moment. To say nothing of the dangers inherent to rulership amongst the Danes.
The sea breeze. Sailing up rivers into the unknown. Landing and taking unsuspecting villages by storm. Fighting people who earnestly want to kill you, and making free with their treasures and their women when they die.
This is the life!
No nonsense, no questions. Spreading the faith old-school and putting the fun back in fundamentalist. Boldly going where few Danes has gone before! The luxury of several nights with uninterrupted sleep in a row, leaving your body in fine trim and ready to take out your aggression fuelled by sexual deprivation on the next poor sod to oppose you.
What's not to like? Getting killed or maimed, I guess, but so far I have avoided that.
I have been fortunate. Half my left pinky gone and my fair share of scars to the front tell tales of my valour, but few scars on my back, and those I came by honourably. They tell different tales, of women clawing my back in ecstasy or desperation.
Except for the big bite mark on my left buttock left by a sheepdog, when it took offence to my entertaining a lonely shepherdess on the moors of Ireland and chomped down while I was distracted. How my little witch had laughed.
But I digress.
I'm back at the front, killing time and people as the conquest resumes, but mostly people.
I'm loving it.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
Scarcely two weeks into the campaign, and I have received reinforcements from England. This came as a bit of a surprise as I had neither ordered reinforcements nor needed them, but given the opportunistic nature of my people where every man fancies himself a potential chief if he isn't one already, not a great one.
They arrived late in the day, two splendid ships laden with warriors, and as it turned out they were led by one of my neighbours, Svend the Hairless.
He had recently discovered grey in his hair (I didn't ask) and upon receiving this reminder of his age and mortality decided to outfit two ships and join the fun with some of his lads, that he might relive his youth or die in the attempt.
A very plausible story, but clearly not all of the story.
For he was accompanied by Toke the Silent and Thorkell the Wolf of Lejre, two of the handy henchmen who were supposed to be on duty back home, protecting my family.
They must have been sent by my little witch, and the choice of henchmen suggested that there was a story to be had, though perhaps not in public. Thorkell was renowned for his discretion, and Toke spoke only sparingly. Nobody knew what he was saving his words for, but given the Trollish streak in his blood courtesy of a great-grandmother who'd unwillingly done her part to strengthen inter-species relations, or so it was said, perhaps it was better so.
I told them to follow me to the house I had taken for my use in this miserable village, but Thorkell said, “carpet”, and to my surprise they picked up a great rolled-up carpet from where it was lying on the ground before following me. Did Viola think I needed a carpet on campaign?
I was soon to find out.
Once indoors and safe from being overheard, I demanded answers, and Thorkell gave them, laconically as always. Viola had ordered them to go, so they did. They brought gifts from my wives to strengthen me on campaign, all neatly hidden from prying eyes in the carpet. Toke grunted at that, and I must admit that I could see his point. I ordered them to stand guard outdoors until I had something for them to do.
Then I bent down to unroll the carpet, but it was a lot heavier than I expected, and as I was trying to get a good grip on it – it sneezed!
I gave it a huge heave in surprise, and it rapidly unrolled in front of me, and what did I find in its centre?
Sif. A very dizzy Sif.
That's no way to transport any of my wives, not even one as addled as Sif, and I was about to call the henchmen to punish them, when she called out to me from the floor and I was reminded of priorities. Such as, what was she doing here? I was soon to find out.
“What in the name of my great-father Odin is going on, Sif?” I asked, confusion and anger warring for control of my voice, with confusion narrowly securing a victory.
She got to her feet with her back to me, and swaying slightly, she began speaking.
“Don't be angry with them, Sverker. The carpet was Viola's idea.” she said, as if that explained anything. “She said it was traditional, and I was only rolled up once we saw shore. If not for the dust it might even have been comfortable, but as it is, I rate the experience 1/5. Would not be rolled up again.”
The unrolling must have scrambled her wits, such as they were.
“Relax, Sif. Get a grip on yourself, then turn around and tell me why you are you here.” I told her gently.
Athletic as always and quick as an adder, she spun to me, but overdid the rotation and did a full circle, undoubtedly adding to her confusion, and once again facing away from me she spoke up, saying, “I am your bodyguard and I bring lists!”
There was only one thing to do. I took her in my arms to steady her. She flinched and went stiff like a board.
I hugged her close, and gradually the stiffness left her limbs and she leaned back into my chest, relaxing and enjoying my attention.
“This is nice. What was it you wanted to know?” she asked.
“Why are you here, Sif? Not that I am not always delighted to see my wives, but it is passing strange, you must admit.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.” I said, giving her a little friendly squeeze.
“It is my new role. The big reorganization left me without a role, possibly because I had been a tiny bit uncooperative in the bygone days of my youth...”
“Half a year ago...” I couldn't stop myself from muttering
“But Viola happily found a solution! Since you had refused to marry a warrior-wife like Dalla, who while admittedly a bit on the young side would still make you a much better wife than that viper Áslaug, you have nobody to keep you company on campaign.”
Uh-oh. Sleep deprivation alert. I could see where this was going.
“And since I am pretty good at unarmed combat, having learned how to protect my virtue, and furthermore know all there is to know of military theory, my role is to keep you alive and warm at night while on campaign, while ceding my time with you while we are at home unless the others are indisposed. Apart from my victories in the Friday games, that is.”
That was one mystery explained. Oh, yes, Viola had been much too meek in accepting the new household regime.
“Pardon me for asking,” I said, giving her a loving squeeze, “but do you mean every night? I know that you still flinch from my touch unless you consciously subdue that unnatural reaction, a legacy of childish fantasies that still haunt your mind, and surely that would be hard on you. I would not want for you to be uncomfortable.”
“Well, not Wednesdays, obviously. Those are yours according to the rules.”
“Obviously not Wednesdays, but six nights a week?”
“Obviously not on nights when you are outbreeding with foreign women either, should that duty extend into the night. Viola definitely wants you to continue your good work there – it is of vital importance to the Grand Plan. But on all the other nights... Well, I am allowed to miss a few, but I have to meet a quota.”
“Obviously.” I said, my heart sinking. I had rather been shirking my duties with regards to spreading the faith firsthand, having cut down on outbreeding in favour of sleep. Happily she couldn't see my face, for I must have looked incredibly guilty.
“In fact – and please don't take this wrong, Sverker – one of my duties is to keep a record of your outbreeding.”
It was monstrous. And getting worse.
“She didn't say it, but I think she suspects you of shirking your duties. You didn't bring back any good tales for Kráka to make games of from the last campaign, and you didn't boast of your conquests either. Hence the lists.”
My little witch had always known me better than anybody else did, and upon occasion better than I did, but I really wished this had not been one of those occasions. But wait, what was that about lists?
“The lists?”
“To help you focus on the Grand Plan, we were all invited to write a wishing list for you. Would you read them now?”
This couldn't be happening.
But it was.
I could feel the noose of destiny right enough, so I answered in the affirmative and Sif retrieved them from their safe storage in her bodice. They were warm as befit the subject.
My little witch wished for me to ravish 2 duchesses, 4 countesses, 8 baronesses - or their local rank equivalents – as well as 16 of their daughters, all of ages 16 to 40. And if I couldn't lay my hands on a suitable number of duchesses, countesses, and baronesses in the right age band, substituting additional daughters would be acceptable with a preference of younger and, underlined, more fertile ones. Plus targets of opportunity at my discretion, because she didn't want to hamper my spontaneous enjoyment. Her mind might work in mysterious and occasionally disturbing ways, but it sure was sharp and to the point.
Áslaug, on the other hand, wished for me to rape nine specific women, giving their name and address. And instructions on how I was to violate them. Disturbing instructions in some cases. Where would I get fresh celery this time of the year?
“Friends of hers?” I asked Sif.
“Might be. I believe most are foreign neighbours who slighted her, but with that snake, who knows? It would be like her to take revenge on friends as well for minor slights when she had the chance. I think Viola weeded out all those whose husbands are loyal subjects, but you had better check, just in case she missed one.” she answered me, and continued, “It was a much longer list originally.”
And several on Áslaug's list were of rank to satisfy Viola's list, so if I treated them as twofers, this didn't add all that many to the thirty I was already obligated to have a go at by my little witch. This might not be quite as bad as I had feared.
Kráka's list was next and demonstrated that spirit of playful experimentation and games so characteristic of her better qualities, but even so... No, just no!
“Does she REALLY expect me to line up all the virgins in a conquered village and starting at one end of the line, ravish them one by one in full sight of the village to see how many I can handle?”
“Yes? That's the best part of raiding. Our father always said so.”
“Nobody does that. I TOLD her so when she flaunted that idiotic idea the first time!”
“Are you calling our father a liar?”
“Yes. It is the kind of stupid thing men boast of, but nobody does. How would it even work? The women would undoubtedly escape or mill around or mob me before I'd completed a dozen. It is ridiculous!”
“That's why you chain them to poles, silly. Granted that our father often lied, he always brought poles and chains with him when raiding. Leontia says he only needed one for his tent, so he must have been using the rest for something. Viola was all for the Kráka's idea, and Áslaug knew father's supplier, so Svend the Hairless is bringing enough equipment for a village with forty virgins, which seems optimistic to me. She must think you can do a whole town.”
They were mad. All of my wives. Mad.
“I shudder to ask, but do you have a list as well?”
“Indeed I do, and I thank you for asking.”
Her list was shorter. Much shorter. It consisted of a single word, “Me.”
I turned it over to look at the other side of the parchment, but it was blank. It really was just that one word. Had I misjudged her? Did she love me or desire my body that much? That hardly seemed likely. Better to ask.
“You?”
She sighed contentedly.
“Funny thing, Sverker, During the voyage I worked on a speech to answer that question, revising it again and again. There was a splendid denunciation and a clarion call to action, but standing here, resting in your arms, I can hardly concentrate to recall it.”
“That might be because I am fondling your breasts. Restless hand syndrome. Many women find it distracting.”
She took a while to consider my diagnosis, then emitted a short happy sound, and answered.
“No, I don't think that is it. I think it is because I feel safe in your arms. Like I belong here. I didn't expect that.”
“Of course you belong there. You are mine.”
“I guess I am, at that.” she said, contemplating the notion, and I don't know who of us was the most surprised at the pleasure in her voice.
“Soooo... the reason for your list being so short is?” I ventured.
“Oh, that. Why would I wish to inflict you on other women? What am I, a monster?
“I don't understand.” I said, flummoxed.
“I know, and that's part of the tragedy.”
“Are you saying that Viola, and Kráka, and Áslaug are monsters?” I asked cautiously. This was new territory, and I didn't want to spoil the occasion.
“Of course not,” she answered, “except for Áslaug, but that's not why.”
“Then what? Is it because you want me all for yourself?”
“You wish,” she chuckled, “but no, that's not it. Sharing is caring. It is just that I am not in favour of rape, that's all. I hate it.” she answered, sounding resigned, as if explaining something to a particularly slow-witted child she knew wouldn't understand, but trying nevertheless out of duty.
Sif was clearly the maddest of them all. It was traditional as well as enjoyable, a family-friendly activity and, indeed, one of the activities most likely to enlarge it. What was not to like?
“Not even of heathens? That is practically a sacred duty.”
“Not even of heathens, Sverker. You wouldn't understand.”
She was right about that! It was completely irrational. Oh, I had met the occasional woman, who objected to being raped even after trying it, but some people are never satisfied. Though I try.
And in all fairness I could see myself objecting as well, were I to fall victim to an unskilled woman, or an unpleasant one, or a manshagger. Same as how cutting somebody up in battle seems a jolly good idea when you are on the dealing end, but can be a real bummer when you are on the receiving. But that hardly stops us from fighting, does it? What an insane notion.
So I could understand if she objected on her own behalf, but being against it in general? The mind boggled. As well object to killing, or bathing, or enjoying the sunshine. Living without life's little pleasures would hardly be a life worth living at all!
On the other hand, my primary brain reminded me, consider cauliflower.
And it had a point.
I hate like cauliflower and no amount of people telling me it is a foreign delicacy has ever convinced me to. My dislike is irrational and emotional, but it is mine and it won't change. Cauliflower is just awful, and if others want to indulge, well, that's their business. But don't expect me to approve of it.
And thinking back to the early days of our marriage, Sif had been rather strident on the violation issue. So perhaps rape is to Sif as cauliflower is to me.
It struck me that however much she had pestered me during the early months of our marriage, she had never taken me to task for avoiding cauliflower, not even once. Thinking about it, she had really been very understanding of the issue, which was very sweet of her. Even then she must have fancied me a lot more than she let on, which I had always suspected, but it was good to have confirmation.
I felt a warm glow of kinship: She didn't like rape and I didn't like cauliflower, but unreasonable minds can disagree, and we both loved me. Why would I make a big deal of her perverse preferences, when we had so much in common?
“That explains it,” I said generously, “and since you are pleasure, not business, I thank you for not adding to my workload.”
“You say the sweetest things, Sverker.”
And so we stood in companionable silence for several minutes and all was well with the world, and if in my heart I wished it was Viola standing there, who can blame me? But Sif made a decent second best.
“Funny thing, Sif. I really ought to be getting on with the day's work, but standing here, with you resting in my arms, I can hardly concentrate.”
“That might be because I am fondling Archimedes Lever. Restless hand syndrome. Many men find it distracting.” she echoed me, her voice slightly tinged by some emotion I couldn't identify. She had sneakily infiltrated my trousers while we were talking! No wonder I was thinking of my little witch!
“My goodness, Sif! I didn't think you had it in you.”
“Did I do it wrong?” she asked me, sounding normal again, and miserable.
“What? Explain yourself.”
“I asked Viola how to act seductively, and she suggested I use my hand, and I did it all wrong and now you are angry and I am so stupid,”, she cried, not letting me get a word in edgewise, “I'll pull it out now.” Sif answered, dejected.
Sif attempting seduction? Truly I lived in an age of miracles. What would she think of next?
“Don't stop! You did fine! Just fine.” I encouraged her. “All you lack is experience, and remember: Practice makes perfect!” I said, and gave her a loving squeeze, which she returned. My eyes crossed and my voice rose an octave, “Though perhaps apply a bit less pressure.”
Concentration was getting harder, and it wasn't the only thing.
“So, Sverker, hypothetically speaking, were I to pull IT out now,” she asked me in that strange voice I now realized was her attempt at sounding seductive, “what are the odds you would end up punning, My goodness, Sif, I didn't think you had IT in you?”
“Better than average,” I growled, “and it is cruel to disable my puns in advance.”
She sighed deeply, then spoke in her normal voice: “Too bad it is Wednesday.”
“Err...What?” She was confusing me, and I don't like being confused when my secondary brain is diverting most of my resources.
“It means I'll have to stop so you can relax,” she said, pulling out her hand - empty. “Divine regulations, I'm afraid. I'll send Thorkell to get my luggage and have it delivered to our room - I assume we have a room? - but don't worry, I promise I'll behave myself tonight. Just the two of us, side by side, sleeping.”
“Sif,” I began, then had to subdue the bear within, and it was a close thing but I wanted the last word, “your long overdue discovery of sarcasm is as ill-timed as it is inappropriate. On Wednesdays, I choose, and today I choose you!”
“Yes! Growl for me. Show me you still care,” she teased, “and I'll beat Viola's quoooooooh oooh harder oooh dear Freya, quooooooh how many oh god ahhh that was good you quooooooooooooo foiled again MORE, MORE I'M STILL NOT SATISFIED – wait, I'm in the zone: QUOTA. Testing, testing. I can speak without interfererence! - I'm going to beat Viola's quotaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh great goddess, how many days have you been deprived, Sverker? Noooo, don't aaaaaaaanswer.” as determined as I to have the last word, regardless of circumstances.
The last thing I remember before the bear took control was Sif blushing furiously, and when we were done I asked her why.
“I heard your henchmen speaking from beyond the door,” she muttered, blushing all over again at the thought of a public performance.
“I think he missed her,” said Thorkell.
“Sounds like a hit to me,” said Toke.
My henchmen are a bundle of laughs. Fortunately I don't employ them for their sense of humour.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
Sif is a genius.
Her unnatural preference does not interfere with her sense of duty, or possibly it is her fear of Viola, but either works for me. Based on available information, she has plotted a shortest-path campaign for me that will hit all Áslaug's targets and meet Viola's outbreeding quotas (acts of the gods excepted) while leaving me a month to focus on conquest before the season ends.
One good deed deserves another, so I have carefully erased the sections from Áslaug's list that required Sif's participation. I wonder whether Áslaug included Sif to reward her or to punish her, or ditto the target, or whether she perhaps did it thinking I would be pleased? So many questions, but they can wait.
I will probably have to short-change some of the baronesses and daughters, doing them in job lots rather than paying them the individual attention they deserve, and Kráka's deranged village request makes the scheduling even tighter, but that's large scale war for you: It loses that intimate personal touch.
Sverker was the epitome of the man who returns to work to rest from his time off, until THE WITCH sent new requests. Thank you for providing news from Sverker as he tries to tumble Wilt Chamberlain 1000 women mark.
“So, Sverker, hypothetically speaking, were I to pull IT out now,” she asked me in that strange voice I now realized was her attempt at sounding seductive, “what are the odds you would end up punning, My goodness, Sif, I didn't think you had IT in you?”
“Better than average,” I growled, “and it is cruel to disable my puns in advance.”
She sighed deeply, then spoke in her normal voice: “Too bad it is Wednesday.”
“Err...What?” She was confusing me, and I don't like being confused when my secondary brain is diverting most of my resources.
“It means I'll have to stop so you can relax,” she said, pulling out her hand - empty. “Divine regulations, I'm afraid. I'll send Thorkell to get my luggage and have it delivered to our room - I assume we have a room? - but don't worry, I promise I'll behave myself tonight. Just the two of us, side by side, sleeping.”
“Sif,” I began, then had to subdue the bear within, and it was a close thing but I wanted the last word, “your long overdue discovery of sarcasm is as ill-timed as it is inappropriate.
