The group steps inside the longhouse, and immediately, Oleksandr is struck by the stark contrast of warmth compared to the icy exterior. The air is thick with the scents of roasted meat, boiling stews, and the faint tang of wood smoke. People move around the great hall with purpose, some attending to tasks, others engaged in quiet conversation. The low murmur of voices fills the air, the sound of wooden tools scraping against stone, the occasional clink of metal.
Massive dogs sprawl lazily near the hearths, their eyes half-closed in contentment as the heat of the fires warms their thick fur, even a couple of fluffy cats lay with them, licking their furs. A few of the servants pass by, their movements swift and silent, eyes cast downward as they go about their duties.
Oleksandr takes in the sight of the longhouse, his gaze sweeping over the grandeur. The walls are adorned with a combination of looted treasures, trophies from hunts, and a hodgepodge of various artifacts that speak to the tribe’s storied history. Shields, axes and swords hang on the walls, trophies of warriors long past; horns and antlers line the rafters, their darkened, polished surfaces glinting in the flickering light of the fire. Pelt rugs cover the floors, some in vibrant hues, others faded with age, yet all of them speaking of the wealth that Oddvarr’s tribe has accumulated over the years.
A couple of concubines, dressed in simple but ornate garments, pass by Oleksandr with respectful nods. Their eyes linger on him for only a moment, before they continue about their own business, some preparing food, others tending to the fires.
As Oddvarr steps inside, there’s no need for him to speak. The servants, who seem to anticipate his every movement, immediately spring into action. They rush to stoke the fires, ensuring the longhouse is filled with warmth and light. One servant begins preparing food at a large central hearth, while another carries crates of mead toward the table, the clinking of the bottles sharp against the low murmur of conversation. The scent of honeyed mead soon begins to mingle with the aroma of cooking meat, filling the air with the promise of a hearty feast.
Two servants approach Oddvarr, quickly shedding him of his furs without a word. They know the ritual, a silent acknowledgment of his return from a long voyage. Oddvarr’s men, too, are stripped of their outer layers, the heat from the fire becoming more than welcome after the freezing journey across the northern seas.
Oleksandr stands at the edge of the room, feeling the weight of the place settle around him. It is not just a home—it is a statement of power and wealth, a testament to Oddvarr’s dominance. Here, the spoils of war and trade are visible in every corner, a reminder of the tribe’s ability to survive in one of the harshest regions of the world.
The servants quickly attend to Oleksandr and his companions with the same level of care they show Oddvarr. Fresh clothes are brought to them, and warm water basins are set out for bathing. The men are given everything they need to recover from their long journey—comforts befitting the favored guests of the Skarnj?l tribe. Oddvarr, with a casual wave of his hand, tells them to make themselves at home, his voice carrying the promise of the privileges that come with his hospitality.
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"Impressive dwelling you have here," Oleksandr says, his voice calm but observant. Oddvarr grins, a smile that stretches across his face like a wolf showing its teeth, clearly pleased by the compliment. His eyes sparkle with pride, though there's something cold and calculating beneath that pride, something that makes Oleksandr cautious.
"Thank you. It's taken hard work to achieve such comforts." His voice carries the weight of someone who believes in the fruits of his labor, in the empire he’s built.
Oleksandr studies him, his curiosity piqued by the brief vulnerability he glimpsed. “And does your family stay here? You have family?” He asks, keeping his tone neutral but probing. At the question, Oddvarr’s expression falters for just a moment. His eyes narrow, and for the briefest second, there’s something there—something deeper. It’s not anger, but a flicker of something Oleksandr cannot name. He quickly masks it with his usual demeanor, his voice coming out steady and cold, a response that’s part deflection, part truth. "We all have family, don't we?" Oddvarr says, his gaze sweeping over his men, the warriors who follow him with unwavering loyalty. "My family is my kin, my tribe," he finishes, the words almost a command, as if that should be enough.
He doesn’t wait for a response, turning sharply and moving towards the back of the longhouse, his furs flowing behind him like a shadow. The air grows a little colder in his absence, the flicker of emotion disappearing as quickly as it had come. Oleksandr sits in silence for a moment, his mind turning over the exchange. Oddvarr's words, though cryptic, feel incomplete. There's more to the man than the dominant, swaggering leader he presents to the world. But whatever that something is, it's locked away, hidden beneath layers of pride and the weight of a life built on power and survival.
After the long, grueling journey, the crew finally takes some time to settle in. The cold and exhaustion that had been gnawing at them for weeks seem to melt away as they get the chance to wash up and warm themselves. Oleksandr, Ivan, and Samorix are especially appreciative, savoring the warmth and the fresh feeling of being able to scrub off the grime of their journey. Even the dogs seem content, stretching out beside the fire, their massive forms nearly blending into the surroundings.
Soon, Oddvarr emerges again, looking as composed as ever, his furs falling around him like a king’s cloak. His voice booms through the hall, inviting everyone to join him at the long table. The promise of food and drink cuts through the weariness of the men. Oleksandr, Ivan, and Samorix exchange a brief glance before following the others to the table. The long table is a sight to behold. It is laden with a feast, everything from roasted mutton and fish to freshly baked breads and soft cheeses, the air thick with the scent of hearty meals and strong drink.
Oddvarr, with his characteristic grin, takes his seat at the head of the table. His sharp teeth gleam as he looks over the crew, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and control. As the men settle down, he raises a flagon of mead, his voice cutting through the chatter.
"To victory and fortune," Oddvarr declares, his tone booming, his gaze sweeping over the group. "May the gods look kindly upon us, for we've earned this feast." The men raise their horns in response, their voices echoing in the great hall as they drink to their success. As the meal continues, Oddvarr remains at the head of the table, his demeanor still that of a leader, watching over his men, as they share stories and drink. The conversation flows easily, laced with laughter and the occasional bout of boasting. The longhouse hums with energy and camaraderie, the noise of the feast echoing through the walls.
