Southeastern Seashore

Njal took too many trips to this beach.

As a Jarl, every movement one makes carries weight. You could hardly take a trip behind a bush without it sending a shiver down someone's spine. So whenever the old Jarl requested time alone to meditate, naturally some of the younger folk's gazes would follow in wonder. Just what deep wisdom and esoteric thoughts would the sunset imbue upon the old man's bones?

"Blech. No place to sit down here, and my feet are hurting." Njal looked around for a boulder, a washed-up log, a dead whale, anything he could sit down on. But this beach was too perfect.

He squinted his eyes. Oh wait, there was a rock over there. But it looked so craggy, and wet, and it was way over there, and not where he was. Damn it. Oh well, it couldn't be helped. He sighed and started walking towards it.

If the world was the body of a deceased giant, and there were other giants among the stars, could it be that the sky was just a great graveyard? What was the sun, really? Was it a campfire for giants? Or a massive funeral pyre?

Bizarre though they were, such thoughts brought Njal comfort as he approached the end of his life. The universality of death, of new life, of warmth among a sea of ice, these things brought order to the cosmos, in his mind at least. But Njal kept these musings to himself, since he had no doubt the others would associate his ruminations of death with the fact that he was becoming a doddering old man.

As he sat down the rock, he concluded it was more comfortable than it looked.

He wanted to sing, but he didn't want to attract unwanted attention. He hated himself for thinking that. A true wise old man wouldn't give a dead starfish what anyone else thought of him. But if anything his age had made him less confident and more insecure. What twisted logic was that anyways? How foolish. No, no he would do the opposite. He would speak up more, not less. He would clap and laugh and shout. He'd waggle his finger and tell people to listen to their elders. Yes, that was what he'd do.

"I'm not in Valhala yet, damn it."

He sighed again. Age inevitably brought certain kinds of wisdom with it no matter how immature one's heart was, like knowledge of the longing of old friends gone by.

"Eh, screw it."

He began to sing. He sang loudly, loud enough for the whole length of the beach to hear him. He sang of sunsets and funeral pyres, and how youth was wasted on the young. He sang of beautiful maidens with crass senses of humor, and of baby sea lions catching their first fish. He was a doddering old fool, and he didn't care.

As time went by, he felt a few runes form in his mind. He made sure to write them down before it was too dark to see. He thanked the landvaettir for their blessings. Funny thing was, he hadn't even been looking for a chant. It just came to him, piece by piece. He estimated it was about halfway done. He knew deep down inside he wasn't as talented as the other runelords, like Hoegr Rakki. But he did feel like he'd accomplished something. Landvaettir didn't give out their secrets out of pity for old men, after all.

As he sat back up, his back creaked. He stretched and groaned. Stupid rock.

You know what? I'd take a pity chant. I deserve a little compassion from the spirits, damn it. He chuckled as he made his way back to the village, like the obnoxious old man he was proud to be.

Her silence meant that, from his perspective, the woman had just materialized as he got off his rock. Now, by what providence had another singing creature of high stature appeared by his side?

"And a beautiful one at that." He said under his breath. But he shook his head. No no no. He was no longer a spring hen. And besides, he'd lived a long life and had his fun. Better to leave the Usqueans to the younger men of his tribe. No, this meeting was clearly intended by the spirits to be something else.

One thing that fascinated Njal about the Usqueans was their love of song. It wasn't as boisterous or rooted in oration and history as that of the Eygor Mjok, but rather it was something subtle. Nearly every Usquean woman he had the pleasure of befriending had a habit of humming like this. The Usqueans had readily joined their forest procession not long ago as well, which lead to the creation of that sacred forest of theirs. However, he had not seen them initiate such an encounter. Their fondness of music was, like many things of women, a soft, gentle mystery.

But perhaps the spirits intended for Njal to learn something of it.

So, rather than spring his presence upon her, or even leave her alone, he decided to approach just a bit to make sure he was within earshot, and then stop. Then, pretending he hadn't actually seen her yet, he began singing again.

The words were not of the common tongue, but rather an ancient one unique to the Eygor Mjok. It started low, and climbed up, and went back down again, like waves. It was an inquisitive chant. And of course, it was loud and forceful. The old man had quite a set of lungs on him still. Not that Neris would understand it, but Njal was asking the ocean what plagued it, why was it wrathful some days and calm the next. He was asking the ocean if had scars which would not heal, which made it lash out at the land and sky spirits.

He knew of course that Neris would hear him, and when he had her attention, he would only give her a friendly smirk, and say nothing, only pausing enough to invite her to contribute to the sounds of the beach, if she wanted to of course.