Everything that led up to this was just too good, but this moment just had me rolling on the floor. I love it!
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Born to Breed: House of the Prophets (WARNING: May contain nuts and traces of ribaldry; a few scenes NSFW in puritanical societies)
- Thread starter Peter Ebbesen
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These diary entries are all very entertaining and it seems like Viola has well and truly tempered our genius prince. I'm looking forward to more of them and seeing the results of Viola's "grand plan"
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Thanks for the encouraging words. I finally got over the writing slump and wrote Sverker's wedding. Though I had originally intended this chapter to cover the following four years as well, looking at what I had written it became obvious that this was the natural place to stop, and so I did.
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In case any people with a low tolerance for ribaldry have been reading this AAR, which admittedly seems a low percentage scenario after Sigurd's Courtship, I give fair warning that the next chapter includes deeply deplorable conduct, a lack of sensitivity to other cultures and religions, questionable humour, and some frankly absurd bedroom gymnastics (don't try this at home! or if you must, take it slow), as Sverker sets about fulfilling his beloved's birthday advice and chronicles his adventures in his diary.
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In case any people with a low tolerance for ribaldry have been reading this AAR, which admittedly seems a low percentage scenario after Sigurd's Courtship, I give fair warning that the next chapter includes deeply deplorable conduct, a lack of sensitivity to other cultures and religions, questionable humour, and some frankly absurd bedroom gymnastics (don't try this at home! or if you must, take it slow), as Sverker sets about fulfilling his beloved's birthday advice and chronicles his adventures in his diary.
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The Sverker Diaries, part nine
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Thirteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part Nine -
the world of 917-919
- Chapter the Thirteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part Nine -
the world of 917-919
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Mother is visiting, down from Njall's court. She is much aged, her face lined with sorrow rather than its customary joy. She asked me about court and I brought her the family news and told her all about my little witch, excepting only her witchcraft and her ambitious Grand Plan.
Mother was overjoyed at the news, and ribbed me that she had despaired of my ever opening my eyes to Viola's many qualities, but I scoffed at that. I was never blind to her qualities, be they her otherwordly beauty, her intelligence, her splendid wit, her righteous wrath, her compassionate nature, or her superb compact body – it was simply a matter of putting them in the right perspective, I said, counterfeiting an innocent look.
She looked at me long and hard, and I looked back, face unchanging, but eventually one of us broke and it might have been me and we both descended into howls of laughter. It was great to hear mother laugh again.
When we recovered, she asked me whether I wanted to hear the details of Grandpa Sigurd the King's plan for Viola and me, now that I had reached my majority, and it was my greatest pleasure to refuse her.
Plans were for the living, not the dead, I said forcefully, and Viola and I would make our own plans.
Mother seemed content with that. I guess I really am the lord and master of my own destiny now, and one of my plans is learning Latin to please my little witch.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
It is a day of good and bad news.
The Danish host terrorizing my countryside of Leinster is not here to kill me, but they are here to deprive me of Leinster. Their commander, my uncle Bødvar, was apologetic about it but orders are orders.
It turns out my little witch had been prevailing on uncle Baldr the king to retrieve me from exile, and the simplest solution he could find was to conquer my land as part of his greater campaign of “aesthetical borders for a better tomorrow, tomorrow”. I pointed out to Bødvar that I was lord of both Leinster in the south and Ailech in the north, so conquering my Leinster would not retrieve me, but he cut me short and said that Baldr had never sweated the small details and wasn't going to do so now.
Seeing my dejected looks, he promised to cheer me up by teaching me the half-Bødvar move, so beloved by the raider in a hurry, and with the enthusiastic help of two farm girls whom he gave good gold for their efforts, he did just that and a merry time was had by all. By the end of the day I was exhausted, but could pull off the move four times out of five. I promised Bødvar to keep up practice, and he clapped me on the shoulder and went on his way.
So tomorrow I'm off for Ailech, a place even more dismal than Leinster. But I should be able to find willing participants for further practice, for what else is there to do in Ailech? Ideally women of different sizes, weight, and build, since the secret is in the shoulder action, and judging weight, angle, and momentum properly for the lift, heave, push, and thrust. Practice makes perfect, and there'll be no embarrassing failures for me once I go raiding.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I've been too exhausted to write this last week, but now that we are on the road home I feel reinvigorated. What a raid we've had, but this last stop took the prize. Raiding religious communities is definitely an acquired taste. On the one hand, high reward for low risk. On the other, dealing with the rampant hypocrisy is aggravating.
The adventure unfolded like this: Following directions provided by a native of an entrepreneurial bent, my merry men and I managed to take a convent of nuns unawares last week. Arriving in the late afternoon, we stealthily approached the convent and overran it in one fell swoop, gathering the women in the central hall on my orders.
Once they were rounded up and safely corralled in a circle of my men, I called upon them in Latin for peace and quiet. We were weary travellers looking for hospitality and wealth, and we could handle this the easy way or the hard way.
They looked dumbfounded to be addressed in Latin, and their leader, a hatchet-faced woman in her early thirties who spoke passable Latin and was called mother superior, answered that they were a) armoured in faith, b) celibate, and c) willing to die for their Lord before yielding to the infidel, so she suspected there was little difference between the two where they were concerned, but just in case, what was the easy way?
A feast!
I had them prepare a feast for us under the directions of their mother superior, and I set her beside me in the high seat as befit her role as leader of the community – and the only one of the nuns I could converse with. I found her a captive audience, and she had some fascinating notions.
While the mother superior claimed the women were all the brides of Christ and hence inviolate, events proved her wrong as inhibitions slipped during the evening and couples began peeling off from the main feast to find their entertainment elsewhere, the armour of faith proving little defence against the spears of the Danes.
As this was going on, a few harridans tried to hold the amorous couples back, complaining that their younger sisters were having all the fun and that it was their turn, or so I surmise from their ghastly gobbling in their unintelligible native language. They were evicted from the feast for disturbing the festive spirit.
The mother superior, sister Iyana, seemed mildly perturbed by the treatment of the harridans, but agreed not to make a fuzz when I pointed out that doing so risked disturbing the genial mood, driving the men into a frenzy of killing and raping. If they really wanted a turn, I pointed out, undoubtedly some of the men would soon be drunk enough and go looking for them despite their age and looks, since the stock of inviolate sisters was dwindling rapidly and the remaining revellers would soon have to share.
Sister Iyana stared disbelievingly at me and suggested that, perhaps, just perhaps, they had not been waiting for a turn but had other concerns, and I asked her to explain herself but she had some problems getting her point across the language divide.
She intrigued me, this curious and opinionated woman. An educated iron-willed Spanish noblewoman who had committed a minor indiscretion, about which she was loath to speak, she had been packed off to oversee this community far from civilized society, and she was bitter about it and short on sisterly love. She was versed in politics and theology, so we soon forgot the feast and dived into spirited debate, discussing our gods.
I was in the midst of delivering a devastating argument on how Freyja beat her Lord Christ hands down for practical everyday business, when I realized that sister Iyana wasn't eating, had stopped listening, and was transfixed by something happening on the floor.
So I looked to see what had caught her attention, and what did I see but a small sister enthusiastically teaching a wide-eyed Thorbjørn Skullsplitter every sin and heresy in the book and making him blush. They were in a state of nature, and from the looks of it she was going about her enterprise in alphabetical order, clearly having passed through Adamantism and Bestiality some time ago and now eagerly working on the d's.
My secondary brain broke the horrified fascination with a proposal, and I was reminded of priorities. I suggested to Iyana that since she seemed to be done eating and had no taste for the party games, how about we absent ourselves from the proceedings and continue our conversation about fertility goddesses in a more intimate setting with some horizontal refreshment? She sighed, thanked me for letting her keep at least a shred of dignity in the face of the inevitable unlike so many of her sisters, and led me to her quarters. Once there, she stripped and asked me defiantly how I wanted to proceed. She was much woman.
So I told Iyana that my bethrothed had instructed me to hunt Catholic nuns, and as the senior nun I expected her to be the most experienced and I would thus be much obliged were she to teach me their tricks, for in the biblical sense I had mainly known uneducated farm girls and the occasional lonely shepherdess. Her quarters seemed rather small for a hunt, but perhaps she was up for a game of Raid and Capture with a rather stiffer penalty than usual?
The look on her face was indescribable, a mix of fear, anger, curiosity, surprise, desire, hate, bafflement and several other conflicting emotions, and when she finally got control of it, she told me that her convent was not a house of sexual education, the sexual prowess of nuns having perhaps been exaggerated in the telling in the north, since most nuns had little or no experience. Prior to a visit by the scourge of the north, anyhow. The devotion to spiritual rather than wordly pursuits was rather the point of their monastic life.
I could as well go screw any virgin off the street if I could find one, for all I would learn from it. If I wanted experience, then why in God's name didn't I raid a brothel rather than a convent? Practice makes perfect! She suspected that whomever had told my bethrothed to “hunt for nuns” had been pulling her leg, and she felt rather ill done by and asked bitterly if such a joke was the cause of her community's misery and ravaging.
Knowing my little witch's older brothers, that seemed horribly plausible to me, but I reassured the mother superior that we were here primarily for Christ's treasures and that the ravaging of the sisterhood was just a welcome bonus, part of the cultural exchange we extended to any group of unprotected women we came across when raiding or waging war. Strangely this did little to comfort her.
As for raiding brothels, that was right out. My bethrothed had told me that if I got poxed, I got culled, and that would be a real shame for her and her future fellow wives, not to mention deeply unpleasant to me, so I had to get my training elsewhere.
For a long moment the mother superior looked lost for words. Slow-witted, like most people. Not that my own primary brain was working at optimum, the secondary brain diverting increasing flows of blood and straining to escape its confines. I started growling like a bear. That's a bad sign; or a good one depending on the viewpoint. Mother and Father always left the hall swiftly when he did it, and she never complained. We bear cubs soon learned what it meant: there'd be another cub in the making.
The growling shook her out of her stupor, and getting a grip of herself Iyana said that perhaps I was in luck anyway. For she might not have any special knowledge as a nun, but she had been rather skilled at the oldest game before she was sent into exile to rot, and while it had been a long time she did not think she had lost her touch. If I was gentle with her, she would consent to teaching me.
I tried to answer, but words failed me and I could only growl louder. Sister Iyana looked at me with sick fascination as IT escaped its confines and arose in glory and said that, “goodness gracious me”, perhaps she was the one who was in luck and we could learn from each other. As she was the more experienced, she suggested that I demonstrate what I already knew so she'd know what she had to work with. Show, don't tell, she told me.
That sounded reasonable to what little intellect remained to me, so I let out a roar, bear-rushed her, grabbed her tit and buttock as I had been taught, and her eyes had only just started to widen in surprise when with a half-Bødvar I flipped her onto her back on the table, her legs flying into the air, spread them leaning in, and nailed her on the very first thrust. All those hours of practice back in Ailech paid off! Briefly stunned by my roar, out of breath from the landing, and her thoughts scrambled as much as mine by the impalement, she was soon invoking her Lord with every thrust, a fitting accompaniment to the divine act from so holy a woman. When I was spent she praised my vigour and said the approach had a certain rough charm to it, but I had much to learn – not least giving pleasure to the woman as well as taking it.
So I told her to teach me, and she did. So much for chastity.
It was an eye-opening experience. I declared Iyana off-limits to the men, and we spent a delightful week together at the convent while I recovered from the hardships of the raid. I sampled two or three of the other sisters a day for variety, but none were anywhere near as accomplished as Iyana, proving her claims about the general lack of knowledge by empirical experimentation, so I kept returning to her for further lessons. But all good things must come to an end and as supplies were running low, the men were getting restless, and it was late in the raiding season, I ordered the men to sack the convent, gather what food they could carry and get ready to march.
And that's when the trouble started.
Many of the women raised their voices in lamentation, for they had convinced themselves or, knowing my men, possibly been told sweet lies using the language that needs few words, that they'd be brought back to Denmark as wives. That was out of the question, of course. With the loot we had gained they would never had fit in our longships and bringing just a few of them was guaranteed to cause bad feelings.
To my surprise the mother superior was one of them, somehow reasoning to herself that I was her way out of dull banishment to the convent. She told me, bold as can be, that she would come north as my second wife and teach both me and Viola, upon whom I had perhaps dwelled a bit in my conversations with Iyana, tricks unknown to the north.
She said that she would fit right into the “Grand Plan” (how she had giggled when I first explained it), since she was young enough to bear several children – and God knows, if she wasn't pregnant by now, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying on our part.
And finally, she pointed out, since I was of divine and royal blood and she the holiest sister of the noblest Asturian blood, obviously we were fated to be together.
Now, there were obvious problems with her ridiculous notion, starting with my little witch's stern injunction about found fillies and permanent companionship. Great Odin, now even I was thinking in horse metaphors!
So I let Iyana down diplomatically, for am I not of the blood of Odin Glapsviðr? I told her that while I was grateful for her teaching, and while she was undoubtedly of good blood for an Asturian, she came nowhere near measuring up to Viola's standards and her body was of dubious value for crossbreeding.
And finally, I pointed out, sister Iyana was a bride of Christ and as an honourable man I could never marry another man's bride while he lived. Even were I willing to give up my honour for her sake, marrying her would dishonour her in the eyes of men and gods, and I respected her too much as a woman to ever do that.
For a moment it looked as if she would spontaneously combust, but she collected herself and was about to muster a counter-argument about the life and death of her Lord, when I asked her, “or are you saying that your god is dead? I mean dead-dead, gone to Hel?”
Religious people are such hypocrites.
As we left, Iyana came to the front gate to see me off, eager to get the last word with a sharp cutting argument. She threw a small knife at my face, and it flew straight and true, but the spawn of the Raven god are not so easily slain and my swift right hand caught it in flight.
The knife had “Iyana” inscribed on one side of the hilt, and she must not have been lying about her noble origins, for the knife was perfectly balanced for throwing, its blade extremely sharp, and unless I was very much mistaken its water pattern meant that the blade was Damascene steel, making the knife an almost invaluable treasure so far from its distant homeland in the East.
It was with a light heart that my crew made its way to the ship and regaled those who had stayed behind with tales of our adventure. They grumbled at having missed out – such is ever the fate of those chosen to protect the ships – but they were happy enough to get their fair share of the loot, so it was in a merry mood we set sail for Ireland.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
A messenger arrived from my little witch. She has somehow managed to wheedle uncle Baldr into sending me one of his new “world maps”. I appreciate the gesture, though it has little practical use to somebody stuck in exile without influence.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – my little witch's birthday!
Dear Diary,
I made it! My little witch is so pleased I made it to attend her 15th birthday and she loved her present. That necklace cost me more than I can easily afford, and the setting for its pendant even more, but it was worth it.
She thought it a beautiful but curious pendant, a bejewelled stallion's head gripping the blade of small knife in its teeth, the knife dangling like a traditional Thor's hammer. So I showed her how with a twist she could detach the small knife from its setting, giving her a weapon of last resort to protect her even when I was away. She hefted it in her hand and if fit her perfectly.
That, of course, is when she noticed the inscription on the hilt and asked about it, as I had hung it from the pendant with the inscription inwards. Just the opening I had been waiting for.
The knife, I said, was the legendary named blade, Iyana, which I had taken from a defeated foe in Asturias, and the taking thereof was a tale of derring-do with many secret lessons for the wise. Would she like to hear it? She looked doubtfully at me, suspecting a joke, and said I could tell it at the feast for entertainment, but I refused, for the secrets of Iyana were only for me and my little witch to know.
If she wanted, I could tell it now if she couldn't think of anything better to do, but if she relished the mystery it could wait and I'd tell her after we were married.
So she sat in her favourite bearchair and we played kissing, touching, and feeling games until we were interrupted and hurriedly pretended that we had been doing nothing of the sort, fooling nobody.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 18 – my Wedding Day
Dear Diary,
As I furtively write these notes, my little witch charmingly snoring in our bed, I reflect on a day and a night that brought many surprises.
It began like this.
Freyr sped my feet, and I arrived early for my little witch's birthday celebration and our wedding, her father having agreed to making the occasion a double feature, a combination of giving in to Viola's pressure for the earliest wedding possible and the economics of the situation, I suspect.
Mother was here, and my sisters, and my brother Njall, but unfortunately Tryggvi had been prevented due to war. Most of the Danish court came as well for uncle Baldr the King had brought everybody along to celebrate his latest ward's graduation and marriage at somebody else's expense.
My little witch's smile lit the room as I arrived, but alas the afternoon was spent apart as the women prepared her for the wedding, while we men got an early start on the drinking and boasting. Just weak beer, the good stuff being reserved for the feast, and it was all very tiresome, really. There were the usual good-hearted jokes about the bride and my physical prowess, which lesser men confuse for wit, and one of uncle Baldr's courtiers who made an amusing but poorly chosen comparison between Viola and his favourite horse ended up suffering a friendly stab, as the Jarl of Wessex ran him through by accident while showing me his newest sword, but that was it. No fights, no feuds – it was a blessedly dull affair.
The eternal afternoon came to an end and Viola and I were presented to the assembled guests. She was radiant and clad in clothes worthy of a queen, while I wore the best Ireland could provide, and if I came off the poorer by comparison, so much the better. This was her day of glory.
We were seated together at the high table and feted by the assembled guests, but had no chance to talk by ourselves as every wanted to talk to us. I was telling the Jarl of Wessex tall tales about my great raid on Hispania the previous year, while thinking of her, and she must have been thinking of me as well, for suddenly I noticed her sitting at the next table waving to me! My little witch's wicked sense of humour had escaped her control, and this could have dangerous consequences. I glanced at Viola by my side who pretended not to notice, and hoping she would tire of the game I determinedly did not look at her at the other table either.
Finally it was time and we were ushered to the floor in front of everybody to begin the wedding ceremony. There are many variations, but our parents had chosen a traditional one as suited a man of the lineage of kings, so I was wearing my good sword, polished to perfection, and Viola was wearing one of her father's swords, practical and deadly like mine.
In front of the family we faced off against each other, and I handed Viola my sword, saying that my bloodline was now in her keeping, and she thanked me for the precious gift.
Then she handed me her sword, saying that her protection was now in my keeping, and I thanked her for the precious gift.
Next I affixed her wedding band to the point of her sword, and she did likewise with my band on mine, and then we raised the swords and crossed them, each taking our wedding band from the tip of our own sword and putting them on, and though my sword is heavy and my little witch tiny, she held my sword steady and true.
Lowering the swords, we turned to our parents, and I spoke the ritual words to her father and told him that I owned Viola now and would tend her and bring her joy and fill her with children.
Then she spoke them to my mother and said that she owned me now and would tend me and bring me joy and bear me many children.
Then as one we turned to face the guests, lifted the swords, and pronounced ourselves a wedded couple and the Fylkir, uncle Baldr the king himself, stepped forth and shouted that he blessed this marriage in the name of the High One and Frigg the beloved, and ordered us with a big grin to depart immediately for the bridal chamber to complete our vows and the guests shouted their approval.
We bowed to him, handed him our swords, and I took my little witch in my arms and carried her off to the cheers of our family and assorted hangers-on, but once we reached the bridal chamber and were all alone things got awkward for ceremony was at an end.
The chamber had a table set for two with some mugs of strong beer and graced with flowers, a lavish bed, a large mirror, and washing facilities, but most of all it had my little witch and me, standing within arms reach of each other, waiting for the other to act.
We both started speaking several times, but now that the time had come we did not know what to say or how to proceed. She was my wife, my one and only little witch, not merely a woman met on my travels, and though she had long awaited this day, and her longing practically dripped from her eyes when she looked at me, she also looked scared. Hesitant. Unprepared. This was not, I realized, a time for the half-Bødvar.
So I told her that it had been a long day and sat down at the table, inviting her to take a seat in her bearchair so we could discuss the day as we had so many times back in the days when we were both uncle Baldr's wards. We had time, I cajoled her, no need to engage in the main act until we felt like it. I saw relief in her eyes and she happily complied.
From the sound of it, the female rituals had been every bit as dull as the male ones, though with less stabbing, so sooner rather than later we arrived at discussing the feast and I realized that there was one thing I could not in good faith hold secret from my wife and it was better out in the open, so I told her not to grow angry, but I knew she was a witch and I did not mind at all. She said that of course she was my little witch, but I did not let her evasion pass that easily.
“I have proof”, I said.
“Tell me”, she said.
So I let it all out. The shopping trips to the village, the ruse with the ribbon, the scary cabbages, her ever more frequent duplicate appearances, including this very night, to which, I might add, her otherwordly beauty, her unnatural ability to charm uncle Baldr, and the way she had stolen my cold cynical heart and brought it to life.
She twisted in my lap and stared disbelieving at me as it all rushed out.
But it was when I asked whether I'd have to entertain her in duplicate tonight that she buried her head in my chest and broke into an uncontrolled burst of giggling. Once she regained control, she looked me straight in the eye and guaranteed that this was not going to happen, for on this night of all nights Gizella was sure to stay away.
“Gizella?” I asked.
“My identical twin”, she answered.
I am not going to write down for posterity, not even for my own entertainment years hence, the subsequent discussion regarding my amazing ability to overlook the simple fact that Viola had a twin for more than a decade, though it entertained her greatly. Suffice to say that it was mortifying, and in my defence her father had done the best he could to keep them separated so as to not confuse the men they were bethrothed to, but surely somebody ought to have mentioned this to me.
The strangeness of the day had dispelled most of our unease, so while continued snuggling certainly had its attraction, and we had somehow ended up playing a kissing game during our discussion through force of habit, as we progressed naturally from that to the touching game new options suggested themselves to me. I gazed into my beloved's eyes and saw my curiosity reflected, so I knew we were of one mind and answered her unspoken question by lifting her gently to her feet and getting out of my chair, and first slowly, then with growing haste, we helped each other shed the fancy wedding clothes so we could continue our exploration unhindered.
Her body was oh, so soft, and so welcoming, and I could have explored it forever, but there was only so much exploration of my own body by my little witch's deft fingers I could take before my secondary brain took over, so sooner rather than later IT arose in solitary majesty to her rapt, almost feverish, fascination, and I couldn't help but consider her small wonderfully compact body and my heart sank...
“I think I might be too big for you”, I began, but I made it no further before she scornfully cut me short, telling me in no uncertain terms that, though impressive, it surely was no larger than a baby's head and that she was ready. More than ready. So would I for the love of Freyja stop talking and take her!
I panicked. I started babbling and asked her how she wanted it, and whether she wanted to do it standing here, or on the floor, or on the bed, or perhaps on the table, and whether she wanted to engage in this thing called foreplay I learned in Hispania, and she got this murderous glint in her eye and cried “STOP TALKING AND STALLIONIZE ME!”, and in the absence of higher command my secondary brain seized control and carried out her order on the spot.
Afterwards we repaired to the bed to continued experimentation, and bouts of silly small talk, and after we tried a position she found particularly impressive, she wanted to know how I had learned it. It was all to her credit, I explained, and told her about how I had studied Latin at her suggestion and put it to good practical use on my adventures abroad, and thus she finally learned the origin of her knife Iyana. When I was done talking I had revived, and we put Iyana's lessons to good use. In the final equation, while her brothers were scoundrels for recommending nuns as teachers, there was no arguing with results.
The night was young and so were we, but eventually even my little witch had to succumb to exhaustion and sleep and now that I have finished writing, so shall I.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 18 – my Wedding Day +1
Dear Diary,
I awoke to the pleasant sensation of delicate fingers tracing patterns on my chest and unbound hair caressing my face, and I knew without looking that my wife, her short warm body nestled at my side, was leaning over me, her small perfect breasts within easy reach. I knew then that it would be a good day and I slowly opened my eyes and I saw, that it was so.
The sun was in her golden hair, and I had slept long past dawn, and so, by her looks, had she, and soon somebody would come to check on us, but all my half-awake mind could focus on as I saw this tiny goddess looking down on me, promise in her eyes, was that in bed we were the same height and I could drown in her azure eyes for hours without either of us straining the neck, which seemed like a good idea at the time.
My little witch had other plans.
“Rise and shine, my stallion,” she said, “you can't stay in bed all day. Not lazing around, anyway.”
“As you command, little witch”, I mumbled in answer, and began the slow process of dragging myself from sleep by focusing on her breasts which were, indeed, within easy reach.
She asked me teasingly, but possibly also with a touch of real concern, whether she was still my little witch, even if she was not, in fact, a witch, and I was not too sleepy to know how to answer that properly, so I assured her that of course she was, since she had thoroughly enchanted me. Her fingers started moving down my body, which did wonders for my awakening, and she got a wicked glint in her eye and asked me teasingly how she could believe that.
“I have proof”, I said.
“Show me”, she said.
And I did.
But I got my own back – or thought I did - when I asked her whether she had considered her twin Gizella for my second wife in the Grand Plan. Keeping it in the family, as it were. She obviously had a perfect body since Viola did, and wouldn't it be nice always to have her sister around rather than missing her once we returned to Ailech?
Thou shalt not mock the Grand Plan.
My little witch sternly instructed me that Gizella, while perfect of body, was much too stupid for inclusion in the Grand Plan. As well as being bethrothed to a local noble easily as stupid as herself. And she certainly did not want Gizella around. Both sisters were eagerly anticipating being separated by a great distance so people would stop mistaking them for one another, she said, throwing me an amused glance at which I could do nothing but cringe in apology. Meeting each other for family gatherings would surely be often enough.
And finally, she said, twisting her verbal knife in my self-inflicted wound as her face broke into an evil grin of epic proportions, it would never work as Gizella had hated me ever since I threw her into the pond.
So I surrendered in ignominy and promised not to joke about the Grand Plan ever again and begged for mercy, but having made her point my little witch tired of her game, and asked me if I would growl for her, as I had done for Iyana. I told her that this was not something I could do on demand – I had only experienced it once, and only recognized it because of how my father growled at my mother. Her eyes grew steely.
I realized my mistake almost immediately, but fortunately she chose to view it as a challenge. She suggested a game of Raid and Capture with a half-Bødvar penalty, having clearly taken notes from my raid story last night, and I agreed immediately.
How my little witch can run!
For though the bridal chamber was small, she is swift and she evaded capture for the longest time, all the while the bear was rising within me, and soon I was growling with every breath and devoid of higher brain functions and I STILL could not catch her, the little tease.
But finally, whether by design or mistake on her part, she was just a moment too slow after turning her head to throw me an inviting glance, and I was unstoppable as I bear-rushed her, and though the half-Bødvar was successful and my lance struck true, in my might and her eagerness we soon broke the table asunder and crashed to continue on the floor, midst splinters, flowers, and spilled beer – and that's how our parents found us, coming to call us to lunch. (A time-honoured ruse, allowing the bridal chamber to be inspected for proof of consummation by busybodies from both families).
I did not pay them any attention, being preoccupied doing Freyr proud and having eyes only for the little witch beneath me, but my wife showed herself the greater diplomat, waving welcome to them with a foot and, after spitting out a flower that had somehow gotten wedged in her teeth, stifled her moans, peeked around me to greet them calmly, and told them that we'd be right along for lunch once we were done here, for she did not think any earthly force could stop me now. I spoke up in support of this, but all that came out was a deep rumbling full-body growl that caused Viola to forget our parents and return to more pressing matters. Gripping my back like a vice she urged me on, her moans a paean to Freyja.
The Jarl silently took in the scene, but my mother thanked Viola and then quietly herded the Jarl out the door, saying that surely this counted as proof of consummation. As she closed the door behind them, I heard her reminding him of how my father was in his youth and saying that if she judged the timbre of my growls right, we'd miss lunch and emerge famished in the early afternoon, so they had better leave us to it rather than interfering with our fun.
And she was right.
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If anybody has experience setting thread cover images, I could use some advice.
I have been trying to create an appropriate cover, but the problem is that if I make a cover in landscape mode that looks good on PC or tablet, it gets seriously cropped on both sides and shows only the final evolutionary step and a bit of text when viewed on a mobile phone held in normal reading position (which rather loses the joke and is possibly, arguably, NSWF in other places than Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan), whereas if I go with the suggested 1000x600 size, I get something that looks good on the phone and atrociously cropped when viewed on PC/tablet, as it shows the central part of the image, cropping top, bottom, left, and right due to 600 pixels being much more than the PC view allocates to the cover for obvious reasons.
How do you reconcile the problems of making a cover that looks decent on all the common devices? Is it an impossible quest? Does the forum have some hidden functionality that allows one to upload two covers, one for mobile, one for non-mobile? (Which would be the rational approach)
The two variants of the cover:
PC/tablet friendly
mobile-friendly
I have been trying to create an appropriate cover, but the problem is that if I make a cover in landscape mode that looks good on PC or tablet, it gets seriously cropped on both sides and shows only the final evolutionary step and a bit of text when viewed on a mobile phone held in normal reading position (which rather loses the joke and is possibly, arguably, NSWF in other places than Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan), whereas if I go with the suggested 1000x600 size, I get something that looks good on the phone and atrociously cropped when viewed on PC/tablet, as it shows the central part of the image, cropping top, bottom, left, and right due to 600 pixels being much more than the PC view allocates to the cover for obvious reasons.
How do you reconcile the problems of making a cover that looks decent on all the common devices? Is it an impossible quest? Does the forum have some hidden functionality that allows one to upload two covers, one for mobile, one for non-mobile? (Which would be the rational approach)
The two variants of the cover:
PC/tablet friendly
mobile-friendly
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Ah the time-honored tradition, there is no better justification.
Good to hear that the marriage went well after all. I quite enjoyed the twin revelation, a shame that Gizella does not fit in the plan but I'm sure Viola has plenty of designs of her own.
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A shame the young genius didn't think to inquire closer about the matching red ribbons after her revelation, but in his defense he was otherwise preoccupied. And perhaps he just mistook one red ribbon for another. It would be a natural mistake to make.
As for Viola's designs? That does seem rather likely, does it not?
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The Sverker Diaries, part ten
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Fourteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part ten -
the world of 921-924
- Chapter the Fourteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part ten -
the world of 921-924
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Our second wedding anniversary has come and gone, the festivities muted, and my little witch remains inconsolable. She tried so hard, and worried so long when she didn't get pregnant no matter the effort, that she put all her heart into it when we were finally blessed this autumn. To have it all end in a miscarriage three days before her birth- and wedding-day... The gods are too cruel.
I tried interesting her with news from the south, where her brothers joined king Baldr's Great Raid, but she did not listen. All she wanted was to sit in her bearchair and cry and forget the world, so I held her tight and told her that I loved her and that this pain too shall pass. What else could I do?
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Reinforcements have arrived! Mother is here and will be staying for a few weeks. Mother knows what to do. Starting with scolding me, naturally.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
My little witch is recovering! At breakfast today she was in higher spirits, and when I carefully asked her plans for the day, she told me to stop moping around. She said that I ought to know that even the very best brood mares had an occasional miscarriage, and she was not as frail as all that. So I should stop acting the hanged dog around her. I was really depressing when I was gloomy, not her bold stallion at all, and I was neglecting my duties.
If there is one thing being a married man has taught me, it is that strict adherence to my own view of events is the greatest sin, so I readily agreed with hers, excused my behaviour, and promised to do better. And I did.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
My little witch never fails to surprise me.
I returned late in the day from my visit to Tryggvi, and I was currying my horse when my little witch found me in the stables, practically bursting with excitement. My birthday had come a month early while I was gone, she said. She had worked hard and in secret acquiring my birthday present - and now it was here!
I was understandable intrigued and said I looked forwards to it, but it could surely wait until its appointed time as after two weeks abroad, I had more urgent matters to attend to. Stepping up to me, she did a provocative strut and asked teasingly what I could possibly mean by that, so I gave her a mock growl, and she clasped her hands to her bosom in feigned shock and modesty, eyes sparkling with promise. I dropped the currying tools and leaned down in an embrace and we held each other unmoving in a perfect moment in time, and the world was whole again.
But time moves on. While I could have stood there forever embracing my little witch, she had other plans, and with a naughty chuckle her hands left my back and started wandering. Pretty soon things were looking up for me, and one thing in particular, so they might have taken their natural course right there and then in the hay to the great surprise of the horses, had it not been for the pitter-patter of tiny feet. I looked up saw to my surprise a finely dressed girlchild with blonde hair standing in the doorway, her face screwed up in thought, looking at us intently, and holding up her right hand as if seeking my attention.
When she saw I had noticed her, the girl lowered her hand and asked me curiously what we were doing. Flummoxed, I released my little witch, who gracefully swiveled to face the unwelcome interloper, hands clasped behind her back.
Unsure what to do with my big clumsy bear hands that had so recently held the world's bounty, I rested them on Viola's shoulders and affected a casual look. But where I was flummoxed, Viola was all business, if perhaps slightly flushed.
She introduced me to my cousin Kráka, king Baldr's daughter by queen Praxida, and now, at eight years of age, Viola's ward. Well, my ward, technically, but Viola was in charge of children. She had arrived last week, and, my little witch said, grinning a secret grin to Kráka speaking of shared experiences, she was a real treasure.
What a coup! I knew that Kráka was the apple of her father's eye, but no wonder I had not recognized her. I had seen her when we were uncle Baldr's wards, and she must have been all of two or three years old at the time. An adorable child, to be sure, but one that only hinted at the beauty she now possessed. She was going to be a stunner when she grew to womanhood, no doubt about it.
Now, my little witch had wormed her way into uncle Baldr's heart during her time as a ward and remained one of his few friends afterwards, and their regular contact by messenger after our marriage had been the best source of fresh news in Ailech, but even so, prevailing on him to send to Kráka to the darkest Ireland as a ward, far from his court? It must have been the work of months.
So I bid cousin Kráka welcome and told her sternly to obey Viola's orders in all things, for she was wise and the epitome of the female principle. Kráka nodded sagely, and answered that in that case she would address her question to her Guardian. She looked to Viola, and repeated her question, insistently asking her what we were doing.
My little witch was for some reason slow in answering and Kráka's focus kept drifting to Viola's right as if there was something of compulsive interest there, so I looked down to see what engaged her so and discovered my hand gently fondling a witchy breast. How it had ended up there I really do not know. Forces of habit can be hard to shake, I guess. I very casually removed both my hands and clasped them behind my back, while Viola testily told Kráka that we had been grooming the horse after my ride and would like to finish it. Alone.
Kráka thanked her, apologized for interfering, and said she'd go watch the ducklings by the pond, and after she left we completed our unfinished business.
At dinner Kraka quizzed Viola about the details of horse-grooming, and my little witch was more than happy to oblige, horses being one of her favourite topics. I zoned out from the conversation to focus on the food. After days on the trail and an exhilarating afternoon, it really hit the spot.
And so I ate while the womenfolk droned on and all was good in the world, when a sudden shout of ”GOT YOU!” from the little girl broke my food-enduced reverie. I looked up and saw to my surprise little Kráka standing victoriously on her chair, pointing an accusing finger at my little witch, who was trying to hold back laughter.
Bemusedly, I asked her what was going on, and she told Kráka to explain, which the girl was more than happy to do. All the evidence stacked up, she said, counting it out on her little fingers.
First, none of her Guardian's horse-grooming instructions, and there were many, were improved by being performed by two people in as close proximity as we had exhibited.
Second, the currying tools were scattered all over the floor as if they had been dropped in haste, not in hand as they would have been were they in use. This was circumstantial evidence, but she asked me to keep it in mind.
It was a fascinating performance, the little girl doing her oratorical best, so I gravely promised to keep it in mind and waved her on.
Third, both her Guardian and the Lord of Ailech were curiously distracted, heavy of breath, and slow in answering during her introduction.
Fourth, the heaviness of breath and slowness in answering could not be due to stupidity, as her father had asserted we were both smart and he made few errors in such matters, and as we had clearly not been exercising heavily, that couldn't be it either.
Fifth, by inference this meant we were concentrating on something of great and more immediate importance to us than her introduction, and, she said more hesitantly, some of her assurance wilting under my fascinated glare as I wondered where she was going with this, by prior evidence this wasn't grooming the horse.
I granted that we were both pretty smart people and that her reasoning seemed sound, and bade her continue.
Sixth, the way I had been fondling her Guardian and her Guardian's subconscious physical reactions to it indicated that this something was of a sexual nature, and our heaviness of breath further supported this hypothesis, and seventh, and most importantly, she said, making a good stab at a dramatic oratorical pause and waiting for a cue.
Viola was holding her breath to hold in laughter now, eyes sparkling with laughter, so I was happy to oblige and urged Kráka to finish quickly.
SEVENTH, she said, the way the two of us had completed the introduction and seen her on the way to the ducklings without either of us appearing to notice that her Guardian's left hand had been steadily sneaking its way inside my coat and then down my trousers until it got hold of my rod of lordly might, as well as my subconscious physical reaction plastered all over my face once that goal was achieved, proved to her conclusively that we had NOT been currying my horse, but that his grace the Lord of Ailech had been about to stallionize her Guardian when Kráka interrupted.
And finally EIGHTH, she concluded triumphantly, from our satisfied faces at dinner she deduced that we had provided the Quod Erat Demonstrandum to that after she left.
Viola burst out in howls of laughter, and I must had looked like a stunned fish for a moment or two before I joined her, for it was true. I had not noticed at the time, being too preoccupied trying to focus on the introduction against the inclinations of my body, and after Kráka deserted us in favour of ducklings there had been few moments of rational thought.
So what could I do but congratulate the beaming child on her quick wits and magnificent victory?
Later, after Kráka had been sent to bed, I congratulated my little witch on her magnificent victory. Uncle Baldr was known to favour me as a successor, when he was not drunk, bored, or annoyed with me at any rate, and I had my little witch to thank for that, but realistically I did not have a power base of my own outside Ailech and was not considered much of a contender by those who considered me at all.
The wardship of Kráka would undoubtedly speed my return to court and then, THEN, would our rise to power begin, and if she had preferred to keep it secret until it was certain and she could present a done deal rather than discussing it with her lord, master, and husband, as she really ought to, well, that's my little witch to you. Ex Viola semper aliquid novi, as the old Romans she loved to read about would have said.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Cousin Kráka has been underfoot for a day, and she is a delightful child indeed. This gave me an opening to discuss a dangerous topic with my little witch: her fixation with bearing me boys. She does so want children and so, I guess, do I, though frankly I see more attraction in the begetting thereof than the result, but what if she were to bear only girls? Would it break her heart? Kráka gave me the opening I needed.
At the end of the day after I had regaled my wife with the tale of my visit to Tryggivi, and after she had entertained me with the tale of Kráka's first week and her lively adventures, and as we were considering moving from bearchair to bed, I just so happened to mention to Viola that Kráka seemed a bright spark in a dull world, and that though I knew Viola wanted boys, were she to bear girls like Kráka instead I would be well satisfied.
She made an inquisitive noise, so I explained that there was enough darkness in the world and it was immediately obvious to me why uncle Baldr so loved her, and could we do any less were we to have such a girl? My little witch looked at me compassionately and said that was good to know, and having had the pleasure of longer observation, she agreed with my assessment of Kráka's character.
The problem with girls, she reminded me, was that girls ended up bartered away and had to make do with what they were given, at least if they were girls without property, while unsatisfied boys could take up sword and take what they needed, and few girls were as lucky with their husbands as she had been.
Take the bright Kráka as an example. Assume a loving environment bringing out the best in her as she grew to womanhood and became a healthy, beautiful, spirited, learned, and loving woman, she might still end up traded to a miser, a bore, a sadist, or a toothless ancient, or what was worse a wife-beater, wife-killer, or poxed bastard, or perhaps more likely she'd be married off to somebody decent but slow-witted, unable to appreciate her qualities and unworthy of her love.
I granted her the argument in general, but pointed out that with regards to this specific Kráka as opposed to the hypothetical one, I was sure that uncle Baldr and queen Praxida would do their best to bethrothe her well, just as we would in their situation had we such a girl, and she granted me the point.
In fact, they had already done so, she told me, and she approved of their choice. Kráka was to marry one of Sigurd's grandsons, a man in the prime of his life.
In other words a cousin marriage. Not exactly the done thing, but not that unusual either in our family. I wondered which of my cousins it could be, but there are so many and I never paid much attention to the family tree. A worthless stray thought, easier to ask.
So she told me that he was a great warrior and leader, a paragon of the manly virtues, who was not only ”tall, strong, wise, and vigorous” but was also ”built like a bear”. She gazed lovingly into my eyes, as I slowly awoke to the horrified realization:
That my second wife was to be my eight year old cousin who had celebrated her eighth birthday the day before yesterday together with my first wife, and would be living with us the next eight years in that wife's loving care.
I looked at my little witch in shock and opened my mouth to speak, but she spoke first and told me that it was already agreed with my uncle Baldr the king, and surely I was not thinking of disappointing him by refusing his favourite daughter?
”Are you”, was all I managed to say before she smothered me with a passionate kiss that sucked all breath out of me, and when I came up for breath I was uncertain whether I had been about to continue with ”serious”, ”out of your mind”, or possibly, ”telling me you want me to roger my eight year old cousin”, and she used the opportunity to ruthlessly play the child card.
In her most pitious voice she reminded me that she so longed for children, and the Grand Plan wasn't going anywhere without them, and the thought of having to find a fertile second wife for me before she had given me a child herself was tearing her apart, and Kráka fit the profile she was looking for perfectly, and this way she might yet get it all: The joy of raising a child until she had one of her own, and an extra pair of hands to help raise it afterwards, and in time a second wife raised to love me as she did to help carry out the Grand Plan – it was the greatest gift she could give me and her heart's desire. And then she started to sob gently.
What she did not say, was that it would be another tie to the king to help us achieve our escape from Irish exile, and that marriage to one of the king's daughters, should uncle Baldr live long enough to see us married, would significantly strengthen my claim to the kingdoms on succession as I could leverage the marriage for support from Baldr's branch of the family. I knew my beloved wife well enough by now to know that it must have formed some part of her design, because at heart this must have been her design, not the king's.
And she was right, dammit, and even were she not, could I rationally oppose it just because the thought of stallionizing my eight year old cousin was instinctively abhorrent to me? And I realized just where Kráka had learned that particular term. Had Viola already started talking to her about such matters? Surely not. I discarded the thought as unhelpful, and decided to think it through.
Realistically, I would be doing nothing of the sort. It would be 28 year old me teaching my 16 year old cousin how to polish my sword and undoubtedly having trouble keeping up with her youthful energy. As for her age, many a happy marriage had been made across larger age gaps. Why, my own mother had been 15 years younger than my father, and she had never complained that I had heard of.
Then there was the issue of watching her grow to adulthood while waiting to deflower her, which instinctively felt wrong, but was that really so different from my bethrothal to Viola? And if it was, so what? I was hardly going to waste my time being a father figure to her or caring for her, what a waste of time that would be. No sentimental objections to stop me once it was time to engage in a bit of how's your father, as I'd be her distant lord and master until it was time to close the gap. So to speak. And as for her being my cousin, well, that was practically divine.
And finally, finally... regardless of the validity of what even to me smacked of hasty rationalization, it was what my little witch desired – a way of fooling herself that she was staying faithful to the ”Grand Plan”, while years went by without her having any competition and without me functioning as stud to her dozen ”mares”, something so exhausting it didn't even bear thinking of. Why would I want anybody but my little witch in my life?
So I kissed away her tears and said it was the best of plans. My little witch perked up right away, her grief skin-deep as I expected, and I told her slyly that I intended to do everything in my power to prevent Kráka from bearing my first child, and we had eight years to accomplish that...
Eight years less two days, she replied, and led me to bed.
The old Romans have nothing on my little witch.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 21
Dear Diary,
Uncle Baldr is at it again and has declared a new round of “aesthetical borders for a better tomorrow, tomorrow”. This time I ensured my little witch helpfully provided him a map of necessary Irish conquests.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 22
Dear Diary,
Why did uncle Baldr the king declare war on Ireland if he wasn't intending to invade? Why, oh, why? Well, now I know. The trusted messenger Viola sent to uncle Bødvar for an explanation returned with the answer: ”Scheduling conflict”. Apparently killing random Christians in Francia and taking their lands is more important to uncle Baldr than liberating me from Ireland by conquering my lands. It really puts my worth to him in perspective, does it not?
I wish I could just turn my coat and join him rather than this farce of waiting to be conquered. It would be quick, it would save lives, and it would be altogether more pleasant for everybody involved. But brother Tryggvi might not understand, and many of the knucklehead Jarls would consider this treacherous rather than resourceful, which would seriously hurt my chances as a candidate to succeed uncle Baldr.
Enough negative thinking!
This is the 9th day in a row my wife is glowing, and I bask in her shine; pregnancy suits her. The Godi taught her a new and improved prayer to Frigg today, and nothing would do but she had to try it out. To show willing, I promised Frigg an Ox and a barrel of good beer once our winter child is born and if my prayers concern the mother's safety in childbed rather than the child's, that's between me and the goddess.
It is probably all in the hands of the Norns anyway, Frigg being much too busy with important work to care about individual human births, and especially those descended from her husband's by-blows, but, well, it can't hurt.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 22
Dear Diary,
My son is born! He's got fingers, and toes, and a neat little dagger, and everything, so he'll be fine. I congratulated my little witch on a job well done, but she just looked exhausted from the ordeal.
If she'd just hurried up rather than taking her sweet time about it, I am sure she would be less exhausted, but I chose diplomatically not to mention it. She probably learned her lesson and will do better next time even without my prompting, and she can be testy when I point out the errors of her ways.
To honour my father, I shall name my son Wincenty after my father's father.
I told her it was a good Slavic name, and she explained to me that my ancestors had obviously stolen it from the Latin Vincent. Which seems very likely, based on the few stories my father told me from the old country. Apparently my slavic ancestors stole everything that wasn't nailed down, and the nails too when they could get away with it. Not unlike my Danish ancestors. Waste not, want not.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
OH, GLORIOUS DAY! Never has defeat been so sweet. Last and possibly least of this year's conquests, but not forgotten. Uncle Baldr himself led the Danish army that overran my brave Irish defenders. Their sacrifice shall not be in vain.
I surrendered my lands into his keeping and hailed him my lord and king, and in return he granted me the Jarldom of Jutland and Irish Ennis to me. So I guess I am not entirely done with Ireland. Tryggvi still rules in Connacht, paying lip service to yet another weak king, my cousin Einar.
King Baldr congratulated me on little Wincenty and on Viola's new pregnancy, and asked whether my illness would prevent me from taking up the task of handling non-axe diplomacy for him for the time being, but I hastened to assure him that I was merely recovering from a flesh wound and was ready and raring to go.
Little Kráka was on her best behaviour for her father, and an enjoyable time was had by all. Apart from, possibly, some of my erstwhile Ailech subjects dealing with the aftermath of conquest. Minor issues always crop up during violent transfers of power, but you cannot please everybody and anyhow they were Baldr's subjects now and none of my concern.
So tomorrow I will pack up my little household for Denmark and join the ranks of the handy henchmen as Chancellor of Denmark. I had better stick around in court at Salisbury for some time.
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Confusing times and borders abound. At least the blood traits mean sexing your relations doesn't lead to bad consequences...
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It looks like Sverker is going up in the world! I'm curious to see what little Wincenty will end up being like.
The situation with Kráka is a bit disconcerting but it certainly wouldn't be the strangest marriage in history
The situation with Kráka is a bit disconcerting but it certainly wouldn't be the strangest marriage in history
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For the recently completed CK3 design contest, I made a joke entry featuring Sigurd and his wives. Unsurprisingly, it lost.
I have now included in the AAR itself in the relevant chapter for new readers to enjoy when they reach it, but for readers who've been with the AAR for some time and have no plans to revisit the early chapters, I reproduce it here:
(Good vision or zooming will reveal the Snake-in-the-eye.)
I have now included in the AAR itself in the relevant chapter for new readers to enjoy when they reach it, but for readers who've been with the AAR for some time and have no plans to revisit the early chapters, I reproduce it here:
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@Peter Ebbesen, thank you for giving me this wonderful comedy and wonderful look at Norse courtship rituals.
Irmele is giving the others a look that says "My bodycount still isn't high enough."
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I guarantee you that I'm not going the New Atalantis route. Sverker will NOT be a father figure to Kráka.
Marriage between a guardian and his female ward was not unheard of, though it carried an air of incestuousness since the guardian had assumed the paternal role, and first cousin marriages were pretty common in many places, but the combination of the two was uncommon indeed.
My pleasure. Most of the courtship rituals are made up out of whole cloth, or heavily inspired by Røde Orm by Frans Bengtsson (if you haven't read it, you should), or strongly affected by the game's conventions, but the wedding celebration is not - for the most part.
As an example, birthdays were not celebrated in Scandinavia in the 9th century, so the whole "celebrating birthday and wedding on the same day" for Sverker's mother and later for Viola makes no sense.
Unless one were to argue that Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye nicked the concept from the Christians (who had it from the old Romans) and not only ran with it as they practiced it, but extended it to celebrating the birthdays of females, something that historically only began around the 12th century or so.
And even if Sigurd had done that, it seems extremely unlikely that as Fylkir he'd have broken with the tradition of weddings taking place only on Fridays (Frigg's day). Who'd want to risk going without her blessing? And, of course, the timing was important too as weddings were ideally held between the end of harvest and the first snowfall (as that was the time people were least busy and travel was still possible). But well, game conventions being what they are with a mandatory age of majority of 16 and the player being prompted to finalize a betrothal with marriage on that exact date, it seemed too good a joke to pass up on.
In practice women were usually wedded between 12 and 15 years of age to men older* and with property and after careful negotiation between the families, usually with the woman having some say in the matter, and a marriage contract was agreed or a customary standard followed (depending on rank and wealth of the parties involved), usually stating how much or what the woman would get in case she divorced her husband (as was her right). This was then followed by a long bethrothal before the eventual marriage.
The chosen wedding ceremony with swords, rings, and vows, is historical enough, though I took some liberties with the exact wording and exactly which swords were used. Ancestral swords, day-to-day swords - and of course not everybody was wealthy enough to have spare swords lying around - differs in the sources. The bridal chamber - eh, one used what was available. Ensuring that there was plenty to drink of both ale and mead, not just for the guests at the wedding but also for the newlyweds to relax and shed inhibitions as they got to know eachother over the next full moon (possibly the origin of the term honeymoon) was a high priority.
* though usually not much older - the average lifespan was considerably shorter than today, and men established themselves in a trade or other work considerably earlier than today, and often inherited early as well
Thanks!
I do worry at times whether I'm verging too far into softporn territory (and bad softporn at that
) when Sverker, whom I wrote from an early age to be very explicit in his secret diary about things that interested him, has a new sexual experience and wants to write it down for posterity or perhaps later reference.Given how I decided early on that one of his character flaws would be "does not understand women" and given the development of the childhood romance, it seemed a natural development for him to not only pass through the chest-thumping "look at me! I fuck girls!" stage of young male behaviour that afflict many men and most get over in their early 20s (to the silent thanks of the rest of humanity), but to be eager to write it down in his diary for accurate recollection, later reference, or perhaps as a gift to the future - he's not exactly the humble type, after all.
Fortunately he has Viola to ground him. He'd be insufferable without her as an anchor and occasional foil,. Their interactions are so fun to write, that whenever I worry about whether I'm going too far with Sverker's escapades, all I have to do is ask, "What would Viola do?" or "perhaps I should focus on their strange love story for a moment or two", and the worry disappears.
Might still be too much for some readers, but since the stupid forum only shows views rounded to thousands (currently at 3k) rather than the exact number, I have no way of knowing even roughly how many are still reading each chapter and whether readers would prefer I tone it down or not.
Since she'd only recently joined the funny farm as concubine #3 at that time and probably would have liked the idea of advancement to wife (though she'd be utterly lost at performing the household duties of a wife), since it would take time to come to appreciate her man's other women, this seems disturbingly possible.
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The Sverker Diaries, part eleven
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Fifteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part eleven -
the world of 924-929
- Chapter the Fifteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part eleven -
the world of 924-929
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
Being chancellor isn't all it is made out to be.
Work is SO FRUSTRATING. I get to deal with those who offend uncle Baldr, and am called to maintain his peace and handle their small disputes. Convincing them that paying weregild beats feuding, that burning your neighbour's hall with everybody inside and killing those who flee is so last century, and that all else being equal, the king prefers them to raid his enemies rather than their neighbours. This should be so easy for a genius like me, were they reasonable people.
BUT NO.
Most of the people I have to deal with are shit-for-brains whose first response to problems is all too often their last, going for their weapons rather than listening to the words of reason.
Were I not bigger than most of the complainers, considerably stronger, and actively working on building a reputation as significantly meaner, I'd have been dead within a fortnight. As it is I can talk most of them down, and as for the rest I have had no repeat complaints though some of the inheritors have grumbled.
There has got to be a better way of handling a kingdom than this.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
It is great to have my little witch with me in Salisbury rather than moping around in Aalborg, but she is big with child, so we have to be careful. As I am tied up at court, alternatives that are not politically dangerous or potentially poxed are few and far between. Frustrating.
The benefits of having several wives are starting to stack up according to my secondary brain, though my primary insists it might be underestimating the disadvantages. On the other hand most of my fellow Jarls seem to deal with it with few problems, so how hard can it be? Or perhaps they are faking it? Is that the source of the aggression that makes my work so miserable? Can that be why so many spend their time raiding, to get away from their wives?
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as Iyana used to say when I woke her in the morning. I wonder how she is now. Why am I even thinking of her? To Hel with that! I certainly cannot take a second wife while I am betrothed to uncle Baldr's daughter without risking offending him, for she is still his favourite and a demotion to third wife might not sit well with him.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
I may have carried my experiments in channelling both my frustrated intellect and sexual frustration into work-related violence too far.
King Baldr came to me today, and told me that while he was impressed with my ingenious resolution to the French feud that threatened the stability of the western realm, I might have gone a bit too far. Youthful excitement, no doubt, but some people might see it as an overreaction... His voice trailed off, and he seemed for a moment at a loss for words before continuing.
Everybody gets aggressive when they are cooped up during winter. It is known. And sometimes it is necessary to kill a few people suddenly, violently, and all over the place if they have it coming. No reasonable man could fault me for that. But if you tear all the leading members of both feuding parties limb from limb, you cannot expect their family to like it. And by the way, would I care to explain how I had done that? Not even his best berserkers could match that feat.
So I lied to him, saying that their repeated refusals to see sense at the reconciliation meeting, and their insistence on handling things the old way rather than according to the king's laws, had awoken the bear within. If they were so set on oldschool resolution by attrition, I could provide a shortcut. Cut down the leading idiots in a shocking display of evenhanded justice and the rest would fall in line. So as the bear woke and my skin hardened against iron, I drew my sword and started cutting them up. They resisted, of course, for all the good it did them, but unfortunately I lost control to the bear while killing the first half dozen, who truly deserved it. Being hardened against iron only protects me from having my skin pierced – it does nothing to reduce the force of battering, and the bear hates being battered. So the other half had to go as well before the bear withdrew, and it disdained tools and preferred tearing them apart limb from limb with my paws.
He looked amused for a moment, then thanked me for the explanation. He had occasionally wondered what “built like a bear” was really about. He'd heard it first from his sister, my mother, when she fawned upon her husband, but she refused to go into any details when he asked. And as for me, well, he hadn't listened to me when I rambled about it in childhood because I was a cracked egg.
This explained it perfectly. Nothing to be ashamed of, and it might work out well in the end if it became more widely known that his chancellor for non-axe diplomacy was a skinshifter, hardened against iron, something that only a few berserkers mastered in these civilized times. Not like when he was a child and berserkers were mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Truly, the old skills were all dying out.
Not to worry, he said, he'd make sure the facts were known.
There's nothing quite like lying to a man who knows he's being lied to in a good cause and approves of it. He's probably got a rough idea of what happened, but he doesn't know, and he might be wrong. If he really wants to know he'll have the truth from my little witch soon enough, but he probably won't. This way he can truthfully say that he had the tale from me and it fits all the evidence, and, after all, I might have told mostly the truth and only lied about small details of motivation. There might be a moral in there somewhere, I guess, but I doubt it.
HOWEVER, uncle Baldr pointed out, it might be a good idea to absent myself from court while he propagated the true story, the bodies cooled and the last pieces were collected. They were missing an arm and a leg, apparently, from two different people. I wonder where my henchmen lost them, but there's no asking them now after their accident. I guess it will have to remain a mystery.
Since I seemed to be making enemies faster than I make friends as chancellor, which was most definitely not the idea, and since my brilliant solution, though effective in stopping the feud and quite therapeutic to me, had led many of the survivors to unify against me, I quite saw his point.
So I told him that I had been considering a spring raid. Get some healthy fresh air. Work out my frustrations on foreigners. Perhaps a return to Asturias or even further south, visiting the muslims in Seville or fabled Cordoba? See what was left after the Great Raid?
He said “Good man!” and clapped me on the shoulder.
I'll start gathering a crew right away.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 24
Dear Diary,
Eight days to the day after my birthday, and my second son is born. I shall name him Udalrich after my father. My little witch was exhausted (again), but thankfully she had little Kráka to catch Wincenty, whenever he made a run for it, squealing with glee. My firstborn is shaping up to be a master of escape, now that he has mastered running. My beloved says I must stop rewarding him with laughter when he seizes the moment and starts running on those short legs of his, but how can I comply? It is funny.
At the dinner table I entertained them tales of my spring raid, at least such parts as are suited for small ears, and they were much amused. After dinner my little witch asked for the unexpurgated version and I told her the tale of the Seven Veils.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 24
Dear Diary,
As I returned to work today, the Handy Henchman on duty informed me that Jarl Gormr had been waiting for days to see the Iron Chancellor. Since he's the king's third son and my elder, I of course saw him immediately, but despite his well deserved reputation for being a pain in the arse, he treated me almost civilly. I love my new reputation – he's hardly the first to call me the iron chancellor or to take the tale seriously, but he is the most important and every one who does it reinforces my reputation as a man dangerous to cross and makes it more likely that the next troublemaker will believe it.
Only one downside. He asked me if he could try stabbing me to try my skin's hardening, for it would be a wondrous thing to see, but I just gave him a glare and asked him whether he wanted to provoke the bear. This quelled him, but as the tale spreads I may have to look out for idiots and opportunists looking for fun, and thinking that stabbing, chopping, shooting arrows, or throwing javelins at me would make a harmless joke. I know these people. Even our idiot Gods do it, as witness fair Baldr's death to a shaft of mistletoe.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 25
Dear Diary,
Today was every bit as unpleasant as I expected, and then some.
Acting on the information my little witch had uncovered, king Baldr hung back in the hunt. He did not want to believe it, and I had warned him that her information was not certain as her maid-informers were not fully reliable, but he is not one to shy from confrontation. Master huntsman that he is, he followed queen Praxida's trail with few problems. When he joined the main hunt later he was his jolly self and it appeared that nothing had occurred.
It had. The king came straight to our chambers after the hunt feast, to relax in our company. Well, mainly to vent in my little witch's company, but as her husband and his chancellor I was included as her plus one. And he was miserable. He had found his queen, right enough, enjoying a tryst with one of his younger Jarls - much as we had feared.
To make matters worse, he interrupted them while the Jarl was giving the queen a green gown, much to the enjoyment of both parties. Naturally, the king rushed in with sword drawn to slay the nithing, but at the last moment the queen noticed his approach and screamed for him to stay his hand.
Now, nobody has ever accused uncle Baldr of an excess of compassion, so he was not minded to heed her words, but it distracted him for the fraction of a moment necessary for the terrified Jarl to turn his head to face the king. Uncle Baldr was stunned: the adulterer was none other than Prince Grettir, his own son by queen Mateja. He confronted them, and whatever words passed between them were too painful for him to confess to Viola, and then he left them.
I doubt he will punish either in public as it would hurt his reputation. Tonight he looked a broken man, uncertain of how to handle the situation. Hopefully it will pass.
Perhaps telling him was a mistake. Grettir is queen Mateja's get, so no actual blood violation took place. But even so, they violated the law and a man has got a right to know. It is only just.
And, as Viola pointed out after he was gone, that is Grettir out of the competition for good, as king Baldr can be counted on to sabotage his bid to succeed him with every means possible short of revealing the truth. Every cloud has a silver lining.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 25
Dear Diary,
THIS IS IT!
I have sent out the word! I'll show them all that the Iron Chancellor is not just a not just a Handy Henchman trusted with non-axe diplomacy, who is uncommonly well suited for the job, but a man to be reckoned with.
I wonder how many will show. Between my Jutes, the chiefs who joined me in raiding Hispania, and the handful of minor rulers who owe me for favourable verdicts as chancellor, I should be able to muster in excess of two thousand men... if everybody turns up.
Which they probably won't, many getting lost on the way or getting drunk or deciding it is a splendid opportunity to raid their neighbours while the bulk of the Danish might is engaged in Lotharingia.
While my army may be small compared to the gathering host, it is large enough to be of significance and this war will make my name. It had better. Uncle Baldr is not growing any younger, and he has lost his appetite and sometimes seem to be deliberately starving himself, despite the best his wives can do and my little witch's frequent messages encouraging him to eat. He needs to live! At least long enough for me to marry Kráka and use her to sway her brothers to my cause.
Read my promise, Asa-gods, writ for eternity! Let Tyr grant my battle wisdom, Thor strengthen my arm, Odin grant me victory, and Freyr protect my loins! I shall sacrifice in your name, and to encourage you to make a good effort I shall make a small sacrifice tomorrow to give you a taste of my bountry, and a grand sacrifice once I am victorious. Rest assured that it will be no cheap sacrifice. This time.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 26
Dear Diary,
Word reached me that the laggard emperor has shown up to aid his ally, but he is too late. King Baldr has ordered us to avoid fighting the might of empire in favour of crushing the Germans for now; The emperor's host is mighty indeed and will undoubtedly recapture many of the fortified positions now in our hands, but it is operating far from its supply lines and given time it will either need to plunder the locals for food and then them against the emperor, or it will split up for survival, or it will starve. And then we will fall upon them like wolves in the fold. Either suits the king's purpose.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 26
Dear Diary,
Victory is ours! The pride of Lotharingia has fallen and the king despairs of the emperor's forces coming to his succour. The more fool he, with his capital near liberated, but his spirit is broken.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 27
Dear Diary,
The king's health worries me. It was bad enough when he was morose and not eating enough, now he alternates starving and forcefeeding himself, which has left him in an even worse mood, and an unstable one. To think that all this started because of his unfaithful wife and despicable son.
Today I encouraged him to eat better, but he snarled in response, looked at me with a wild look, and said I just wanted him to live in misery till I could fuck his darling Kráka, get rid of him, and take the throne.
Which, granted, shows that he's still in command of his faculties though it is more claiming her political value as bride than her maidenhood that excites me, but is still an undiplomatic thing to say to somebody who wishes you well, much less your future son-in-law.
I told him I wanted no such thing, I merely wished for his health - and then he asked me what was wrong with his darling Kráka that I didn't want to fuck her.
So I told him there was nothing wrong with her, and I'd love nothing better than to roger her rigid in the due course of time - and he erupted in anger at me for wanting to despoil his innocent child and cursed me for a cradle-snatcher.
I am never going to mention the king's health or eating habits to him again. It is too volatile a subject.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 27
Dear Diary,
Damnation to these Yule celebrations. Disaster was only narrowly avoided, but fortunately this morning Kráka seems none the worse for wear. Shamefaced about drinking too much and having to be carried to bed, naturally, and unamused to be dealing with her first hangover, but that was about it. I expected more of a hangover considering how much she drank, but children are resilient and she bounced right back.
Which definitely gave her the advantage over me and my little witch.
At least it means she won't go crying to her father. Not that he'd necessarily disapprove, but uncle Baldr's mood is less than tranquil these days, as he prepares the great eastern conquest.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28
Dear Diary,
My third son is born a summer-child. I shall name him Blazej, because I am drunk – at least according to my little witch.
It was touch and go – she wanted to name him Bezprzym, after somebody from Mogyër mythology who, if I understood her ramblings right, was born with a long dagger and put it to good use. Well, I'd no objections to that except that the name was unpronouncable. So I suggested Blazej instead, which was the name of my father's favourite dog. She countered that this was ridiculous.
So I countered that Blazej was undoubtedly stolen from the Latin Blasius, just like the Francian name Blaise, and thus had a noble derivation, whereas Bezprzym sounded like a full-body sneeze, so Blazej it would be.
She retorted that I was drunk.
Which, admittedly, I was, but that's got nothing to do with it. I shall name him Blazej.
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I wonder if BlazeJ will grow to be a drunkard as his name was a drunken selection. King Baldir live long but not too long. Thank you for replying
Granted that Viola is all too likely to tell him the origin of his name if he asks, I doubt he'll pursue drunkenness due to his naming. But let's face it, given the stress of the times, odds are he'll do so regardless. Certainly being a drunkard is more acceptable to contemporary society than king Baldr's loss of appetite. That's just strange. And, for a man in his early 60s, likely to prove terminal any day now.
....Especially since I, the cruel player, can stop his attempts at staving off starvation by forcing himself to feed any time I want to enact the decision.
But perhaps the king has got a few good years remaining. Let's see what happens.
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