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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I for one, cannot wait to see the succession actually go down. I'm expecting lots of waste materiel to strike the rapidly spinning blades.
Damn, I love these back-and-forth moments.
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All hail the Power of Denmark: Queen V of Denmark . . . Queen K of Denmark . . . Princess H of Denmark and the mark not so in charge King S! Thank you for the update
The roleplaying was hilarious, it's good to see Kraka having fun
And congratulations to Sverker on becoming king!
And congratulations to Sverker on becoming king!
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The Empire's capital is suspiciously close to Old Sarum and boroughs didn't get rottener than that.
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Holy guybrush threepwood.
As the cringe style of the burlesque has ever been growing, causing the inevitable laughter to explode every time, firmly acknowledging the born to breed was more than a comedic choice, but a dead-serious title.
Holy cheetos.
Now a scoreboard??
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How time flies.
As I have finished most Christmas shopping, it is time for a few interludes and a chapter or two during December.
As I have finished most Christmas shopping, it is time for a few interludes and a chapter or two during December.
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The Sverker Diaries, interlude 1
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 1 -
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 1 -
Karmavision, June 3rd 1st 2119
As promised last week, joining us tonight is the one and only prince Sigurd af Sigurd of Isfahan, here to answer your most burning questions concerning his worldwide best seller, volume 1 of Born to Breed: House of the Prophets, soon to be a major motion picture.
AUDIENCE: APPLAUSE.
Sigurd – For the first question, a considerable number of viewers are confused about the talk of votes and bloodshed in pre-empire elections, and I'll admit to being confused myself. That's not part of any election I know of! Would you care to elaborate on the ancient practice?
I can try. It is a difficult concept to understand, but you must remember that these were dark times. The Sigurdr gene had not been isolated and oneness had not been achieved, so in essence, there was no guidance.
Om?
Exactly.
I see. I think.
And thereby reach perfection. Next question?
Err... Perhaps you could expand a bit on the explanation, Sigurd? Perhaps compare elections now and then?
If I must. Today elections are a simple affair. At each level of government, your fellow Sigurdr subjects for any official position sit and meditate until consensus is achieved. Ten minutes tops from the moment they assume the position to the final “Om”, in most cases. Easy, efficient, and with little room for error. They had none of that. Succession by election was a question of having the most free men supporting you – except where the primitive rite of succession by birth was practised.
Free men? No women?
Correct. We aren't sure why, but current thinking has it that the women were too smart and sensibly avoided getting involved. It seems reasonable. Anyway, in the days before Sigurd the Prophet, once a new ruler was required, those chiefs who considered themselves to be contenders would join up at a local Thing with their sworn men, all sworn to Odin's peace, and calmly explain why they would make the best ruler. With me so far?
Yes.
When each chief had spoken, if that did not convince the other contenders to withdraw in favour of the one who had spoken most eloquently, the free men supporting each candidate would raise a cry. Whomever shouted loudest and demoralized the other contenders' supporters would be crowned chief (or king at the national Things) by popular acclamation.
Sounds peaceful enough.
Mostly, yes. If nothing else, then because everybody bringing an armed group of supporters reduced the opportunity for one of the opponents to reduce the contender headcount before they reached the safety of the Thing. Granted, there was the risk that a sore loser who disagreed with the verdict might leave the Thing early and attempt to waylay the winner as he left the Thing, but doing so was considered bad form. Things got messy then, when the swords talked.
Fascinating. This, then, was the system that Sigurd the Prophet reformed?
Yes. Sigurd tried reforming it in various ways through his long reign. An early reform was finding the intentions of chiefs before the succession, in the hope of working out differences of opinion beforehand, whether by reason or sword. He had his Handy Henchmen compile official Free Men estimates for each ruler, to stand in for showing up with an armed host. During Yule celebrations, he had all contenders rowed into the middle of the Sound and dumped in the water, while asking the remaining chiefs on the shore who they hoped survived the swim, and then he tallied the Free Men scores. This was a little joke of his, as no serious contender would have a problem with a short 2 kilometer swim or, in the years where the Sound froze, walk.
Sounds merry.
Indeed it was, and as a historical curiosity it is the origin of the phrase “taking soundings”. Sigurd was supposedly much taken with the spectacle, and were it not for the blizzard of 896, renowned in saga and song, culling the competition, he might have stuck with it. The following year he reformed the practice by making contenders take part in a symbolic swim in an indoor artificial lake of beer erected for the purpose, and asking the other chiefs who they supported. This had the advantage that they could stay indoors and drink the beer afterwards, so on the whole it was considered an improvement.
Fascinating, but unhygienic.
Flavourful, certainly. Your opinion was shared by Baldr the King, who reformed the process by getting rid of the symbolic swim and keeping the beer, and only the old guard complained about the weakening of the moral fibre. His Yule celebrations turned into official and unofficial vote tallies, both as the king's party game, as education for the youth, and as a very practical way of measuring the balance of power in the realm between the different Sigurdr princes. This practice spread throughout the Danish realm, and soon most successions were determined in principle in advance based on taking soundings, which were then publicly supported at the Thing upon succession, making it all nice and civilized except in cases of strong differences of opinion.
Strong differences of opinion?
Treachery. Arson. Murder most foul. In other words, business as usual in the 9th century, and the sort of old-fashioned nonsense that was frowned upon during the reign of Baldr the king in the 10th.
Thanks for the explanation, Sigurd. We are all the wiser for this.
Om.
For your next question, Sigurd, perhaps unsurprisingly, the majority of question we've received concern the half-Bødvar, ranging from the bewildered, to the disbelieving, to the hostile from members of the medical profession claiming you are single-handedly responsibly for the worldwide rise in the number of back injuries this spring, but the one thing they all have in common is a burning desire to know: How?
Frankly, I had expected that to be the first question.
AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER
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The Sverker Diaries, interlude 2
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 2 -
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 2 -
Undated notes preserved in copy in the royal archives.
I CALL THE MEETING OF THE COMMITTEE TO ELECT SVERKER HIGH KING TO ORDER. Will you do the minutes, little witch?
If I must, but please don't shout. I'm not deaf, beloved.
GREAT! Errr, great. Attending: I'm present. Are you present, Kráka.
Yes, my love.
And my little witch?
Yes, my stallion.
All present and accounted for. First point on the agenda is Diplomatic Initiatives.
Where else would we be, my stallion? Really, this is silly.
It is not silly! I'm being sensitive.
He's right, it isn't silly. I could be in my room preparing for tonight, Viola. When you agreed I could have him all week to distract me from father's impending death, I began planning a new game in several acts, and there are still so many preparations to do.
ORDER!
Oh? Give me details, there's a dear.
I call it Darkest Dungeon. See, there is this lecherous lord, who has a dungeon stocked with captives, but – plot twist – he is blind! (I've got a blindfold, don't worry.) So one night, when he visits his dungeon...
ORDER! ORDER! AS I WAS SAYING, I'm just trying to be sensitive to Kráka's feelings, little witch. It isn't every day her father's about to shuffle off the mortal coil and join the einherjar. Starving himself to death, miserable and raging from meat-withdrawal, why, it's enough to make anybody a bit sad, even if he's a terrible old bore who's made a lifestyle out of nearly dying and reviving, delaying my rightful accession to the throne. Speaking of which, I hope he really IS dying this time Kráka, and not pulling another miraculous recovery by broccoli. ANYHOW, little witch, if I didn't approach this happy subject in a sensitive empathetic and touchy-feely fashion, Kráka would cry, and we wouldn't want that, would we?
No, we wouldn't, and I guess it is working, my stallion, not a tear to be seen. A rather disturbing grin, though.
What she said. And don't worry, father is definitely dying this time. He was plotting to attack unsuspecting visitors in the hope of an honourable exit when I left him. Which reminds me, please don't visit him. So I'm definitely crying on the inside, but good work cheering me up with your sensitivity and empathetic nature and stuff. Your concern means a lot to me. And that's a sad grin, Viola.
Were your grin any wider, dear, half your head would fall off, I'm just saying.
Proof that Sverker's encouragement is working!
DIPLOMATIC INITIATIVES, PLEASE.
Let me guess, Kráka. Your game is an “I have you now, my pretty” situation, where most of the captives are young women either in a shocking states of undress or easily torn clothing, and some are virgins.
Got me there, Viola. Stick to the basics, I say.
CAN WE PLEASE STAY ON SUBJECT... Wait, VIRGINS? Again? Look, Kráka, what is it with the despoiling of virgins in your games? Take it from me, it really isn't all that interesting an activity dealing with inexperience coupled with existential angst or misguided fantasies when you break them in.
My father used to boast that lining up the virgins and doing them one by one was the best part of raiding.
Nobody ever does that! That's just the sort of nonsense men boast to one another. Just like the size of their equipment. Look, it is a fine enough activity for young men to engage in, but for stress relief, give me a matron who knows what's what any day of the week, if you know what I'm saying. Also, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, your virgin impression is somewhat lacking, Kráka, as your experience shows. Your farmgirl impression, though. Rawr!
Thanks!
But I digress, though while we are on the topic of games, I must inform you that nobody, anywhere, ever, said, “I have you now, my pretty”, except under duress or when forced by the rules of your games. Finally, I have never, ever, encountered a lord who stockpiled virgins in his dungeons. That's an unsound economical practise, if ever I heard of one. I mean, even if you could find them, and there are fewer of them around that you might think, any ruler who went rounding them up would soon have an uprising on his hands. So what would be the point?
I get to perform innocence lost and do my squeaky voice! I've been practising and I am really looking forwards to doing my squeaky voice!
About that, dear. It is rather high-pitched. And loud. Would it be possible for you to dampen the squeaky voice and the screams of outrage a bit? Last time you woke the little ones.
I'll try to keep it in mind, Viola, but you know how hard it is to concentrate when he enters ramming mode.
I TRUST THAT'S ALL? DIPLOMATIC INITITATIVES, ANYBODY? Sorry, little witch. Got carried away there. I don't know what came over me.
He's blushing!
AM NOT.
Are too, my stallion. But Kráka, as amusing as this is, please be a dear and stop teasing him, or he'll be a grouchy old bear and we'll be here all the day. I believe you have some news you wish to share?
Right. Right. Business before pleasure. I've been talking to Egill since he arrived from his self-imposed exile in Samogitia, and I know you don't need his vote, and I know you don't owe him anything after knocking him out of the competition fair and square (well, square, at least), but you did promise me you'd reinstate him in the dynasty, and he's my favourite brother and married to your sister, and he really could be very helpful to you.
Yes, yes. Your father did Egill wrong when he disinherited him over that minor issue. What does Egill want.
Reinstatement. Kingdom of Lithuania. Serving as your marshal.
He can have two out of three and count himself lucky. Reinstatement and kingdom in return for his loyal and public support and tell him he'll have to prove himself worthy of leading the armies. I hope that makes you happy. Anything else?
Thanks, Sverker, you're the best. There are no other changes with my brothers. Gudfridr is still firmly in your camp and one day you'll have to tell me how you managed that, and Emundr isn't. But Emundr is mostly grumbling. He likes ruling Greater Poland. The rest don't count.
Well done, Kráka. Now, my little witch, how about your diplomatic initiatives?
I am pleased to say those under my thumb are voting the party line. That idiot in Kent showed signs of straying, but a few words from his chief wife returned him to the fold. Still, he bears watching.
Noted. Anything else?
I have developed a new contact in Prussia. Karl – you know Karl? Muscles on muscles and loyal to a fault?
Solid dependable man for a non-Sigurdr. Uncle Baldr gave him a lot of land on the Baltic and foisted a daughter on him to keep it in the family. I take it she is your contact?
She reports to me now. They are in town to be in on the kill and division of spoils, and I saw an opportunity. No offense intended, Kráka, but Aslaug is a cynical bitch if ever there was none, and I can use that. Karl was getting a bit too comfy with Emundr of Greater Poland, but he's besotted with his wife and Aslaug has set him straight and he's now champing at the bit to violate a few borders when he returns home, to keep Emundr on his toes.
None taken, Viola. Aslaug was always a bitch, looking down on me and Sif and Praxida's other children, but now that she's here for father's death, she is downright nauseating. She's all “Karl this” and “Karl that”, as if her Karl has anything on our Sverker. I can't wait for the happy moment when she has to address me as high queen and I'll rub her nose in it. It can't happen soon enough.
Your claws are showing, dear.
Don't care. She always brings out the worst up in me.
No fighting, no biting, wives. As for me, I've been rallying the faithful and drinking the wavering under the table. In unrelated news, we have been the beneficiaries of a stroke of luck, as there's been an outbreak of friendly stabbings in Normandy. The bodies were piled three deep by the end, significantly reducing the count of free men. Or at least the count will be, once the survivors get around to counting the bodies and reporting the outcome.
How fortuitous, my stallion. It wouldn't surprise me if the fitness of the Norman Dukes to rule became a matter for debate.
When you put it like that, little witch, neither would I.
On a related note, could my sister Sif stay over while we wait for father to die? I really miss her and she could prove useful.
Out of the question. She's an unsurpassed annoyance. What in the name of Thor the not-so-bright made you think I'd agree to have your sister as guest, insulting me morning and evening, in these crucial days where I need to hold my temper. And how's that a related note anyway?
I'm sure she wouldn't insult you. That's ancient history. She's much more mature than on her last visit.
It was three months ago!
That's a long time when you are 17, Sverker, my love. I'm just trying to help, so no need for you to carry on so.
Sorry... Please tell me how this would be a help to me. I am all agog.
Sif, as you'll recall, is bethrothed to Hugh, son of the Duke of Normandy and a Duke in his own right up in Norway, like altogether too many of the Duke of Normandy's sons, and they are thick as thieves. Hence our slight Norman problem. Sif hasn't met Hugh since they were bethrothed a decade ago, so with both of them at court now, mother has arranged for her to meet him several times to get to know him before their upcoming marriage. If Sif stays with us, she'll be more than happy to spy on him and the other Normans for me, just like old times. If she stays at home with mother, then mother will get all the hot news, and, as you know, mother doesn't share.
You are making me choose between my sanity and my desire for power, Kráka. Not fair.
Sanity is overrated, my stallion.
Does that mean I can invite Sif?
…
I'm going to regret this, but yes.
You are the best, Sverker!
Thanks. Next point on the agenda is People Who Need to Die, Soonest. I've been busy reducing headcount this week, so I don't have anybody. How about you?
I'm good, Sverker.
Ditto. Bodies from the last round needs to cool first or it'll appear suspicious. Well, more suspicious.
Moving on, the final point on the agenda is Any Other Business. Hands up if you've got some. Both of you? Kráka, you get to go first.
I managed to impress cousin Freyr of Flanders, for what it is worth. I doubt you can count on his support, but he's in awe of you and I think unlikely to oppose you.
It is worth little, but anything helps, I guess. Even the Fucker of Flanders.
What did you do to impress him, dear?
You are going to love this, Viola. I encountered him on my way to visit Sif yesterday, and, probably out of boredom, he came on to me all lubricious, the way he does to any woman over the age of twelve and below 80 or so when he's got nothing better to do, you know what I mean.
Oh, yes. He's suffering Freyja's curse, that one, and must be handled firmly. You've got to step on that creep, hard, to make him slink away, and from the light in your eyes, you did exactly that.
I did better! First I told him to cut it out as I was a married woman, which, of course, he ignored, and he followed up by asking what Sverker had that he didn't...
Oh no, he didn't.
Oh yes, he did. Primed for a boasting contest and waiting for my initial bid. So I looked him straight in the eyes, and I stepped right up and crowded his personal space, inches from his body, and told him: “A two foot iron rod.”
Wait what? Granted that IT is larger than most when it arises in might, you've surely handled it enough to know it isn't two feet long Kráka. Nobody could swallow that. STOP LAUGHING, LITTLE WITCH. It was a Lokian slip. You know what I mean.
Yes, my stallion.
I mean, foot-and-a-half, and that's really stretching it. Err. Unfortunate choice of words there.
If you've got small feet.
What was that, little witch?
Just thinking of the children while you are rambling, my stallion. Udalrich needs new boots. Now shush, I want to hear the rest of Kráka's tale.
Thanks Viola. So, there I was, Freyr looking stunned, and I moved in for the kill, asking him scornfully: “Are you man enough to compete?” Well, Freyr knew that he was outmatched, or perhaps he couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't have you coming for his head, Sverker, my love, but to give him some credit he made a valiant attempt at forfeiting with grace, repeating the old saw that it isn't its size that matters or how you use it, it is the sound it makes when you smack it on the table.
I hope you picked up that gauntlet, dear.
Oh, yes, and flung it right back in his face. I put on a worried expression and agreed that there was something to be said for the wisdom of the ancients. For while it was great way to start the day with the insertion of the first foot or so, and have IT lift me out of bed so I slid down the full length, and while it impressed when my husband used it to do push-ups, perhaps I was overly impressed because I was an excitable young woman who had only known one man. I'd make sure to ask Sverker to smack IT on the table tonight and report back on the sound. I left him green with envy, and shrinking on the spot.
Glorious! I chose well when I chose you!
You're both crazy. Just thinking of attempting using it for push-ups makes IT shrink, Kráka. And as for using it as an internal lever to lift you out of bed? Nobody would believe that. At least not hands-free. I'll consider cousin Freyr to be intimidated by mental damage and let us never mention this again lest I be affected too.
Let's try it anyway, my stallion? I'm smaller and lighter than Kráka, so you could experiment and work your way up.
NO. Not right now, at any rate. Let's discuss it on the next v-day. For now, back to business. You had something you wanted to say too, little witch?
Smack IT on the table for us, my stallion! Freyja wills it!
NO, JUST NO.
He's afraid to break the table, Viola. Stands to reason.
I AM NOT AFRAID. I AM GOAL ORIENTED.
So am I. Kráka, quickly, grab his left arm, I've got the right one.
What's this, little witch?
You are our prisoner. Smack the table!
This is ridiculous!
Kráka promised, my stallion.
I did, my love.
It is still ridiculous! Firstly, I'm not in the mood and IT is completely limp, so the whole idea is a no-go. And secondly, and more importantly before you get any smart ideas, I'm about to become the bloody High King and the two of you High Queens, and you want me to smack the table with IT? Have I no dignity? Have you no respect?
Is that a trick question, my stallion?
Oohh, I know. You can teach me all about respect tonight, Sverker, my love, when you encounter... a noble VIRGIN! What do you think of this one: Is this a sword I see before me, the handle towards my hand. Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Thou art? I clutch thee, and thou throb? Heat-seeking, thou sayest? What a curious idea. Stab me deep, Oh Lecherous Lord, and bathe thy instrument of desire in this maiden's blood!
NOT THE SQUEAKY VOICE!
That was a pretty good one, Kráka. He may claim to hate the squeaky voice, but IT is definitely stirring.
Thanks.
IS NOT. LET GO OF ME!
Kráka, I'm about to teach you some secret Christian magic our husband brought me as a gift for our wedding. He stole it from a Christian witch he seduced.
Iyana's sermon? It won't work, little witch. I am older and stronger, and I can withstand it if I try.
Let's put it to the test, shall we? Now, listen very carefully, Kráka, I shall say this only once: Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and they loved Lazarus. Then said Jesus unto them plainly, Lazarus is dead, and they looked down, and they saw, that it was so.
I am calm and in control, little witch.
And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort them concerning their lover. Jesus saith unto Martha, Thy lover shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.
We've got movement, Viola!
STOP IT!
Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life. I know a shortcut if thou wouldst know the glory of God. And he commanded, LAZARUS, COME FORTH! And he that was dead did come forth, and Martha was filled by the glory of God. And when she was satisfied, she called Mary her sister secretly, saying, The Master is come, and calleth for thee!
BLAAM!!!
By Freyja, that's some magic! I still have so much to learn from you, Viola.
Disappointing. Most disappointing. I was expecting something more impressive.
IT tore right through his trousers, Viola!
I'm referring to the sound, dear. Does smacking the table from below count, or should I make him give it another go from above?
It definitely counts, Viola.
Too bad. Oh, well. Run along to your stall and prepare.
Meeting adjourned while I recover my dignity and a new pair of trousers.
Don't forget to mend the table while you are at it, my stallion. We need it whole for dinner.
Hah. Hah. Very funny, little witch.
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Cannot stop laughing at this. This is mental
The rest is... well, it is in the deep valley of very dark subjects.
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My questionable sense of humour got the better of me.
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My questionable sense of humour got the better of me.
And we're all dying of laughter because of it. No complains here. Because I'm too busy just wheezing.
XD you're killing me.
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Thank goodness that Sverker is a genius or the ladies would attempt to control him. May you, your family and the glorious triangle have a wonderful holiday season even if the ladies seem to be preparing for Easter instead of Christmas. May 2022 be a great year for everyone and Sverker get the required votes.
I hope everybody had a merry Christmas and a happy New Year's Eve.
These short interludes are coming to an end, with just two more to go. I had intended to post the next interlude January 1st, while readers might be in a festive spirit, but I was otherwise occupied. Reading it now, six days later... It is probably too much Sverker as we know and love him. Sverker unplugged. I suspect it would have read better when you were all sleep deprived, drunk, or tranquilized. But oh well, I wrote it and even if it is cringeworthy, well, that's hardly new for Sverker's diary entries when he's in a certain mood.
These short interludes are coming to an end, with just two more to go. I had intended to post the next interlude January 1st, while readers might be in a festive spirit, but I was otherwise occupied. Reading it now, six days later... It is probably too much Sverker as we know and love him. Sverker unplugged. I suspect it would have read better when you were all sleep deprived, drunk, or tranquilized. But oh well, I wrote it and even if it is cringeworthy, well, that's hardly new for Sverker's diary entries when he's in a certain mood.
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The Sverker Diaries, interlude 3
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 3 -
- The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 3 -
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 31
Dear Diary,
My little witch hates taking minutes.
This has been an embarrassing day. So embarrassing it is hard to say what embarrassed me most, but let me repeat myself:
My little witch hates taking minutes.
After today's meeting of the Committee to Elect Sverker High King, which was embarrassing in its own right due to some wifely digressions from the subject matter, I read the minutes in anticipation of filing them.
I found myself both surprised and further embarrassed, as it turned out that my little witch had taken certain liberties in the writing thereof. My stern and majestic dominance of the meeting was presented in terms that could easily be misunderstood, leading the reader to mistake me for a henpecked husband at worst, and a slightly dimwitted braggart being led by the nose by my wives at best. What's worse, she indulged in what can only be described as a creative writing exercise, inventing stories about certain events that were struck from the record because they were obviously irrelevant to the meeting's purpose!
So I confronted her, gently pointing out that the purpose of writing minutes in the first place was to record the facts. She claimed that that was exactly what she had done, writing down everything exactly as she recalled it, and when I pointed out that the minutes differed significantly from my recollections, and in particular that she had not struck the events from the record that I had clearly decided needed to be struck, she said the following:
“My stallion... It is characteristic of all committee discussions and decisions that every member has a vivid recollection of them and that every member's recollection of them differs violently from every other member's recollection. Consequently we accept the convention that the official decisions are those and only those which have officially recorded in the minutes by the officials, from which it emerges with an elegant inevitability that any decision which has been officially reached will have been officially recorded in the minutes by the officials and any decision which is not recorded in the minutes has not been officially reached even if one or more members believe they can recollect it, so in this particular case if the decision had been officially reached it would have been officially recorded in the minutes by the officials. And it isn't so it wasn't.”
So I asked her whether that did not mean, in practice, that whatever she felt like writing would be the official record of decisions, regardless of my opinion thereof?
She said she hadn't really thought of it in those terms, but she guessed I was right. How fortunate, then, that she had such an excellent memory. Unless I wanted to overturn convention and insist on my own memory overruling the proper record, of course, which was well within my right as king and husband, but in that case, what would be the point of writing minutes in the first place? Perhaps I would like to write the minutes myself, she suggested, grinning at me.
I hastily reassured her that there was no reason to go to such extremes, and I was happy with her writing the minutes. It was rather embarrassing having to back down like that, but on the other hand, my little witch was greatly amused by her victory, so I'll consider it half a win for myself anyhow. She's usually too busy to have much fun, so everything I can do to help counts.
...And from a practical perspective, it is not as if I had any other option, really. It wouldn't be fitting for a great king to take minutes, and obviously I cannot have a scribe present for secret meetings, and the one time Kráka took the minutes we ended up with the rules for a new social game she called Werebear, which, while considerable fun at parties, were useless as a record of the meeting.
So that means my little witch, and I guess her minutes are of some use to me as a record of events even when she gets creative. Hopefully nobody else will ever read them. Perhaps leave standing orders that all minutes be burned upon my death.
Was that the most embarrassing event of the day? No, it was not.
Consider dinner.
During dinner Sif stared daggers at me and though it beat suffering her insults, it was rather distracting. When I finally could not take it any longer, I asked her diplomatically to stop, and in response to my reasonable request she abased herself on the floor and answered sarcastically, “Your wish is my command, oh great Violator.” Kráka laughed and the children were in stitches, and though my little witch held her tongue, her eyes sparkled with mirth.
It was hard maintaining a proper sense of decorum and dignity after that, but I managed. Probably not the most embarrassing event either, but I am already regretting granted Kráka's wish. It is going to be a long week if Sif keeps this up.
Or perhaps Kráka's new game was the most embarrassing. It is certainly a fair contender.
After I came to her room, she stripped and blindfolded me, then spun me around “to see which cell you end up facing”. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend spinning while blindfolded. It is not at all the same as spinning with closed eyes, where some light penetrates.
So she went beyond the game partition to dress for her first role, or undress, as it turned out, and returned and told the Lecherous Lord to move forwards to violate... A reluctant virgin, trapped against the wall! I gritted my teeth and, as she instructed, said “I like a girl with spirit” (which is only marginally an improvement on “I have you now, my pretty”), and had her up against the wall. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend serving Freyr's sauce to somebody pretending to resist while blindfolded. Things aren't always where you think they are.
That being said, I must admit that whether it was because of her practising the squeaky voice (it was worse than ever), her desire to prove my comments at the meeting wrong, or perhaps, just perhaps, because I was completely blind and had to operate by touch and sound, she managed to make it feel like I was engaging somebody wholly inexperienced at the oldest game as I blindly had at her. Fun times, but in retrospect, I think most credit goes to my blindness rather than her acting abilities.
After the next spin the Lecherous Lord was apparently facing a scantily clad Shrieking Scythian Warrior Woman who was an excellent equestrian and, surprise, a virgin. I'll be damned if knew where the Lecherous Lord had collected such a woman – or where Kráka had learned of the Scythians, for that matter; Though scratch that, my little witch being an expert on ancient Rome and Greece, the source is all too clear.
Apparently, the unsuspecting warrior woman needed to be taken for a ride by surprise, just as at our wedding (hah), but Kráka was too clever by half with this play. I did manage to impale her, more by luck than by skill, but since I was dangerously unstable and tottering around after the spin, like the experienced rider she was Kráka locked legs immediately rather than flailing around as at our wedding. She still made an attempt at seeming reluctant and not knowing what's what, but it was a poor showing as we were both more concerned with avoiding falling than reenacting the wedding night, and Kráka shrieked directions in a truly weird voice while I bumped into things and muttered curses. After I bruised my shin on a chair that unreasonably didn't move out of the way fast enough, she saw the wisdom in directing me to the bed, and the exercise ended better than I had expected. But as novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend taking anybody for a ride while blindfolded.
I'll admit I was getting into the spirit of the thing, “I like a girl with spirit” notwithstanding, and after a short rest and a bit of grumbling about my bruised shin-bone, I was on my feet and spinning again. I now had to perform the half-Bødvar on the table, the victim being a nun taken unawares while praying. Who was apparently in the habit of being naked under her habit. Very funny, Kráka.
I had my doubts at the wisdom of trying to nail her blindfolded with a half-Bødvar while dizzy, and rather expected I'd be hammering her leg or missing entirely to our mutual embarrassment, but, well, it was her game, and she did need comforting and distracting from her father's imminent death, and if this is what it took, I'd be a poor husband if I objected to her small eccentricities. So I had at her, tearing the habit, getting a grip, flipping her in the air – and I have seldom been more embarrassed in my life, than when she crashed to the floor with a cry of “Sverker!!!!” while I thrust, missed, and tripped over her body. Fortunately she cushioned my fall. Kráka is considerate like that. As novel an experience as it was, I do not recommend performing the half-Bødvar while blindfolded.
Kráka accidentally kicked me in the royal jewels as she got to her feet, which hurt like nobody's business, and by mutual assent we called it a night. She hobbled in pain behind the game screen to dress while I sat on the floor, whimpering and ridding myself of the silly blindfold. When I finally got to my feet she returned, and disregarding her own pain, she insisted on soothing mine, since she considered herself at fault for not moving me into a proper position at the table to start with to ensure she had something to land on. Counting on me to know the direction after spinning had been a big mistake. To which I could only agree, but wise to the ways of women, I did so silently.
I did insist on banning the half-Bødvar from any future blindfolded games.
But was that the most embarrassing event of the day? No, it was not.
No, if I have to single out one event as the most embarrassing, my choice is earlier in the evening, after dinner, as the women were clearing the table, when I overheard young Wincenty ask my little witch, “Mummy, what cracked the table?” and she replied that he was too young to know.
At which point he looked at me curiously and said deadpan, “Say no more”.
It is going to be a long week. Uncle Baldr can't die soon enough.
–--
Yes, Viola was channelling Sir Humphrey Appleby here. Steal from the best!
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On his good days, a blind hen-pecked husband led by his wives. Thank you for the update
And thanks for your comment. As reward, here is the final Christmas interlude, slightly delayed. After that I return to the regular story.
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