He wasn't sure what to expect. None of them were, not even the blackguard – some of which had traveled far and wide in the past. There were stories, incredible tales, half of them too difficult to take at face value. The Free State of Amistad. Tyr had been further west once, crossing through Baccia what seemed like a lifetime ago. Amistad was not a country. Not even a nation in the strictest sense of the word, it was a free city state that no man could rule over, ever, as per the agreements between Haran and Varia forged via the treaty following their long war.

Given time, it had blossomed into a mage state. A city built by magic to become the defacto neutral ground between the two great empires, with neither possessing real jurisdiction. It was only natural that it became the 'official' capital of magic on the eastern continent. Unofficially, it had become so powerful that none of the successor states would dream of putting pressure on it, even in matters of trade. It was 'ruled' by a council of mages and all positions of authority in the city state were earned by magical merit, and that alone.

There were no nobles, and over time the authority of the twin empires had shrunk until they occupied naught but two palace-esque embassies to serve as a publicly facing representation of their influence. The only law in this place was extradition of mages and apostates fleeing crimes performed in the empires, and even that wasn't set in stone. After centuries of peace, Haran and Varia had simply stopped caring about it. Amistad governed themselves and in their appropriative claim as the authority over magic, they did more good than harm.

The empires would only step in if Amistad attempted to break from its original agreement or conquer their neighbors. Which naturally, actually happened. Once. It hadn't lasted long, according to the histories. They called that event the 37 minute war.

The caravan has crossed the span, making way through the twinkeeps and their massive bridges that hung over the precipitous canyon that separated Haran from the free marches. A crater in the earth with mountains in the east, the same mountains that Tyr had stared at not so long ago, just on the other side of the span. The lip of the crater lowering into a basin that was full of all manner of towers and keeps built in a wide variety of styles. Looking in one direction, they'd see the simple, almost spartan architecture of Haran, neat and square. A pragmatic people who valued form over function. Set against a spire in the more 'artistic' Varian style. The gold domes of far flung mages that had at one point made their way here from Assyria, and open faced Milanese style compounds.

Diversity here was simply the norm. Something anyone from either empire would find strange, and Tyr was no exception. He gasped at the scale of it all. Magic could work wonders, and if there was a singularity in it – it was here in Amistad. Everywhere was almost unnaturally manicured into the aesthetics of whoever owned those parcels of land.

That word. “Diversity” was worth a sidebar. From Tyr's perspective, he'd never seen so much of it, awed by the sights and sounds. But from Samson's...

Ultimately, it wasn't so diverse. Nowhere in his vicinity was, token members of different races could be found in most places but most of the continent was human. There were so many races, but few of them here. Other races didn't often take well to human magic and after years of imperialism had chosen to isolate themselves or live in a tentative state of symbiosis. Whether that be in trade, industry, or otherwise. Man was not a forgiving race, not prone to pacifism either. Of the eight hundred thousand native population backed in that dense crater, perhaps eight percent of them were human. And as with everywhere else, the other races to be seen were those termed 'humanoid'. Dwarves, halflings, gnomes, as apparently there was a difference, beastkin, they were the majority of that remaining twenty or so percent.

More alien races kept to themselves, and things were better off that way. Samson was surprised at the lack of diversity. That word seemed inappropriate in a continent that hosted at least thirty sapient races, twenty three of which he had not seen. And that was lumping things by category. For example, halflings were considered human, a far away divergence in DNA from interbreeding with gnomes. That's what they said, at least, considering them as kin as anything else. In Agoron, things were not like this. His clan was party to seven major races alone, all living and working together to further themselves. Here, in the far north, everything was so... Dry. All of the wonders of the world had been stripped clean, the chaos regimented, its unique elements monetized. It was sad.

That wasn't to say the sight wasn't miraculous, though. These northerners, as all men were 'northerners' to him, they certainly knew how to... Make a show of things, he might say. They were industrious, almost rabidly so, always reaching forward. Never contenting themselves with ignominy. They tried, at least, and for good or ill the success of that was all around.

Urban sprawl competed with natural beauty, no apparent form to it beyond the high walls at the center – almost disorienting how it cut away so eccentrically from one estate to the next. Clean borders demarcated this or that compound to indicate the individual territory of mages. All patterning the gentle incline toward the top of the crater. It was loud, very much so. That was the first thing they noticed. A kind of noise you didn't find in the orderly confines of the imperial capital. A city built carefully to ensure that industry and residency were neatly separated, Amistad was just a mess in comparison. Everyone was always yelling, it seemed, always in a hurry somewhere as if the moons might come crashing down at any moment.

The second observation Tyr had was that nobody batted an eye at Okami, loping beside them with his tongue hanging out. Nor did the beastkin attract stares. Tyr was sure, there was no place on this great earth more different from his homeland than right here. The Harani were a simple people, more modest or pragmatic. They cared for little more than a full stomach and warm bed, that the necessities were met was enough for most at least among the commons. Even though magic influenced their everyday lives, they feared it.

As taught by the eight pillars. Magic was dangerous and not to be trusted, some churches more extreme in their assertion that mages should be killed on sight by default. Thankfully, those particular faiths were small. Apparently it had been much worse in the past. Some called those teachings the 'old way'. Even Tyr knew there wasn't an ounce of truth in that, the 'old way' was magic. This adherence to rigidity and law was not traditional, mankind wasn't meant to live dragging around unseen yokes. Living in a cage. Maybe he was wrong, he didn't real care, he was too cocksure and rebellious an individual to bend the knee even in a metaphorical sense.

Alex looked impressed, which was a wonder as unexpected as the startling views and vistas they were exposed to. Impressing her, someone who seemed to have the wonder of youth ripped out of her by education and the books she always read, was easier said than done.

“I can't believe we'll be staying here.” Astrid leaned out of her carriage, laughing as they entered a queue before the city gates. Tyr could not agree more. Haran had many bastions both large and small, but he was beyond confident none of their walls stood as tall as Amistad's. Near thirty meters high, it was incredible. One hundred feet, ten stories! They were so tall as to not even make sense, who needed walls that big? It hurt his neck just to stare up at top of them, wondering why his own nation didn't use magic this way.

Perhaps they did, or perhaps they'd grown complacent due to the presence of the primus. Maybe it was the churches... He didn't know. It was a question he was content to wait for an answer to. Some of the carriages in front of them weren't even drawn by horse, but levitating. Men and women soared through the air on all manner of devices to see themselves admitted via the checkpoints atop the wall. Fortunately for them, their queue seemed to move much faster than Tyr's own. Yet despite the time waiting, he didn't mind. It gave him more time to look, and frankly he was sick to his stomach with anxiety. It was all too much, all at once.

Finding himself lost in the rich mana of this place, so thick that he could feel it whirling against his skin. Carried on the very air he breathed into his lungs. The byproduct of spells. No spell was perfectly efficient, it's what they called 'the wash'. That bit of mana not consumed that lingered around, and in a city of magic it was as common as dust in the desert. It was not unpleasant though, not at all.

I see now why he wanted me to come here, and not anywhere else... Every breath he took, literally, was infused which so much mana that it made him heady. It was a wonder how it didn't hurt or even fell uncomfortable, but it did seem to keep all of his world energy pressed beneath the surface of his skin. Some sort of balancing factor, a pressure beyond the physical. To draw a comparison, it felt like being in a pool, except all the time. with none of the physical resistance a liquid provided.

Admittance into the city came after a brief conversation between Tythas, their chosen representative, and the guard. Just like any other city, a presenting of passes and reason for visiting. The gatehouse was stout and blocky, blending neatly into the fortifications surrounding the city. This wall was not only tall, but it was also ten meters deep, or wide. More of a tunnel than a gateway, with thousands of runes of an unknown purpose spiraling through the passageway. Tyr could see murder holes and cleverly hidden compartments all over the arched ceiling.

He wondered why his father, or any of the other primus' would allow such a conglomeration of power. Was a primus really this strong? Could his father break down these walls by himself, smash all of these magical defenses confidently? Surely, Haran might have more men, but more mages...? He wasn't sure. He doubted anywhere else had more mages than this single city state between empires. Varia was similar enough to consider it. Haran had 18 colleges and no college was permitted to have more than a thousand members at any time.

Eighteen thousand might seem like a lot of mages. It was, definitely, until one realized that the 800,000 permanent residents of Amistad were mostly mages. Or at least what Haran would consider a mage. A little over six hundred thousand. 600,000! It was insane! The rings of the imperial capital only held half a million, and Amistad had more mages in this one place than that densely populated core of the empire! Even a fifth of that was almost ten times the total operating mages wielded by all of the colleges. It was just... It was a lot. A peeling away of the film that Haran was the greatest nation on this earth, and Tyr felt some anxiety in realization of just how strong Amistad could be. Surely they wouldn't stay so content forever?

The streets weren't as full as one would expect them to be considering the population. Much of the foot traffic was replaced by people who flew either on individual devices or wide bodied skiffs. Flight was a level four spell, far beyond Tyr's paltry capabilities, and beyond 'most' mages – but they'd solved that with artifacts. It was in the lay of the city that some function met form. Square at the walls, with neatly organized streets and organized signage to guide each and every wagon to their destination efficiently on roads dedicated to specific tasks. Some held compasses acting as guided maps, others... It was too much, too much stimulation for Tyr's tiny brain. He could barely focus on his meditation while taking it all in.

“See what I mean?” Tythas near doubled over with suppressed laughter. Tyr knew exactly what he meant when he had said that the prince had no idea how wide the world was. Magic was common enough everywhere, but this place flew in this face of his cultural ideals. In Haran and Oresund specifically, mages were mostly for fighting and shooting fireballs, but this... They, seemingly, could do anything. Every possibly conceivable amenity was enhanced by mana.

“What is this place?” Tyr asked, turning toward the others who were guided out of their carriages by a team of servant staff. Before him stood a wall about three meters high, with an elaborate gate fashioned into the middle of it. Deep, near the core of the city where the spires of what they called the 'palace' lay.

“Are you serious?” Alex asked with curled lips. “I can never understand if you're just plain ignorant, or just plain stupid.”

“This is your villa.” Astrid cast her a meaningful look before taking him by the arm and guiding him forward. A 'team' of servant staff. Near a hundred of the bastards were lined perfectly along the path toward the massive building. Fluted columns, a door big enough for three horses to walk abreast inside, and at least five floors at the peak. Everything cast of white marble, the servants all well dressed, healthy, and manicured. A tower was mounted on all four corners, their sides wreathed with multicolored, flowered vines. In and of itself, it wasn't an exaggeration to call it a literal castle...

“My villa?” Tyr asked. What did she mean, his villa? “You mean my fathers?” He owned nothing as prince. Everything belonged to the ruling primus, that was the law. Even the money in his pocket was, legally, his fathers. The clothes on his back, the sword he'd been given. Everything Tyr bought, ate, wore, stole, even the bed he slept in – was all Jartor's by default.

“No, you idiot.” Alex sighed. “Your fathers villa is in the innermost block of the city. You, and therefore I – own this structure. Forever, or until you die at least. After which it would be bequeathed to your successor, or the next prince.”

“I own this...?” Tyr repeated, breathless. He'd never thought of owning such a titanic structure a day in his life. He was privileged, a bit spoiled, but Tyr had never been possessive of much in the material sense. From birth he'd been told that was was nothing, and owned nothing.

“I'm going to have an aneurysm...” Alex's hand struck her face with audible force. “Yes! All of the primus' and all of their heirs, or however you'd like, own villas in this city. The council offers them in tribute to the primus' after each ascension trial. Have you never read a book? This city, this whole city, it literally exists to serve the various primus'. They used to worship them like gods here. Obviously, that means you.”

Tyr had always fancied himself a hard man. 'Steel blooded' if you like. He'd kill men. Dozens of them, and more besides. Killed other things too without question. He'd seen wonders that would cause any scholar to froth and the mouth and hadn't been cowed. But here, for whatever reason – he fainted.

–

Breasts. That was the first thing he saw. Decently sized, round, perky breasts, hovering just over his face as his head was adjusted by what he assumed to be the accompanying pair of hands. Hands belonging to the same body that held those phenomenal breasts. Not bare, of course, but the blouse covering them didn't leave much to the imagination. He was a man after all, and men had... Predilections.

Of course, there was the breast man. And then, there was the ass man. Which one of these men were Tyr?

He had always wished that someone would ask.

First, let us consider the question of ass versus tits.

'Which is the superior set of flesh mounds? First, consider this. Tits are not universal to all. Breast size is dependent upon genetics. Simply put, to prioritize the tit would be to promote the genetic ability of a person. It would be authoritarian propaganda. The working class should not depend on genetics for sexual salvation. In addition, the only way to change tit size is by expensive, magical, cosmetic surgery. Therefore, the only way to subvert boob genetics is to have money, to have capital. The promotion of boob idolization only allows those with money to attain the top level of 'boobiness'. Much like wealth is concentrated among the capitalist pigs, boob attractiveness is concentrated among the monied classes. There is no recourse for the working class to attain the top level of tit appreciation, no sexual mobility. The system has been rigged against them, and the working class must tear down the bourgeois titty state in order to build a sexual world where everyone has value. If the Great Proletarian Sexual Revolution is to take place, then I propose that we must not seek to replicate titty liberalism. Continued fetishization of the tits will only result in will only lead to the same result. Tits can only be objectively attractive for so long before they sag, so the contradictions of mammary society will bring those with unsavory breasts to the bottom of society, while those with good tits at birth or at least those with redistributed titties will rise to prominence on the backs of the global titless class. It is social mammocracy at best, and by that definition, is liberalism.

Instead, let us consider the ass. The ass is the true sexual organ of the working class. All asses are valued. Be they black skinned, old blooded, assyrian, male, female, nonbinary, old, or young, all asses have value. Every ass, no matter the gender, age, or color, can be whatever you'd like. Pleasure of the ass is available to all members of the working class, while pleasure of the tits is only available to the genetically blessed and moneyed. There is no need for one to win the genetic lottery to have a good ass. Ass is the true form of socialism: all is for all. Everyone can have an ass. In addition, improvement of the ass is not limited by money. It can be toned by physical exercise. Like a better world, a better ass is obtainable by all those with a mind toward ambition. The bourgeois state cannot deny access to a better ass via healthcare costs, because a better ass is only for the worker to seize. The ass is the organ upon which the worker takes their due rest, it is their respite from the cruel capitalist world. The ass is like the worker, it is soft and it has potential to be great. It can be valued as it is simply due to its universality, or it can be hardened like the revolutionary working class, formed into the buns of steel that will strike down the bourgeoisie and bring about socialism. Like the working class, ass is eternal, and it is the working class alone that ensures that the dictatorship of the glutenous proletariat remains toned, ready to sit on reactionaries and provide the foundation of a world where the worker is on top.'

Or so Tyr had been instructed by one of his great tutors before the man had been expelled dishonorably from service to their house. In essence, the prince had been cast as the truest of 'ass men'. Unfortunately, he had neither the point of view or presence of mind to observe the balance between worlds. Both seemed nice enough in his mind though.

Wait, what the hell am I saying? Remembering elder Panik's words at a time like this...

“Uh, hello...?” He went for an even tone, but ended up sounding a bit muffled under the cloth. It was half open to, a noble and well tailored blouse. Clearly expensive. His view, if one were the be crude, didn't leave much to the imagination. Tyr's mind felt dizzy at the scent of lilac and gooseberries, a scent vaguely familiar to his memories of childhood. Despite not knowing what a gooseberry was... Some obscure reference, maybe. Nobody cared.

He could hear her voice, though unable to see the woman's face. “Watch your eyes or I'll burn them from their sockets, you dog.”

“Alexis...?” Tyr sighed, looking away from the breasts before him with no small amount of disappointment bleeding into his voice. “What exactly are you doing?”

“What business of is it of yours what I do? I'm practicing levitation magic, if you must know.” She spoke in the same way she always did, with a nasty bite to her words. As kind as she was to the other girls, she'd never been anything but rude to Tyr. Exaggeratedly so... He'd never understood what he'd done to get on her bad side other than be forced to marry her.

Well... Tyr was Tyr. A so-called self aware individual, aware enough to know that he didn't rub many the right away.

“Oh, okay.” He paused after answering. “But why here? Why aren't you wearing, er... A brassiere.” Tyr blushed. While she may not be the most appropriate partner, she was still a woman – and he was very much a virgin. A very beautiful woman, at that. It was too bad her mouth ran the way that it did... Tyr asserted that it wasn't sexist for him to want for a partner that didn't verbally lash him every time they met.

“The metal bands in them disrupt a full body mana skin. Here in the estate I see no reason to wear anything that gets in the way of my magic.” With that, she zoomed off, grunting in effort as she regained control of her spell. Not flying, just floating, akin to skating on ice with her waist bent at an angle and sliding through the air.

Not very impressive... What use is that?

“That is a strange young woman.” Mikhail's voice came from the side – oiling his axe in tempo to the grunts of acknowledgment from the others making themselves at home in the place. Tyr rose to find himself resting on a chaise in the middle of the foyer. It seemed odd to call it a foyer, it was more of a gallery – a huge, rounded, central chamber full of fine furniture, statues, complete with a domed ceiling. A bevy of hallways and another set of double doors into the interior of the greater structure was lay beyond.

Again, he considered the vastness of the structure. It wasn't quite as big as the imperial palace, but it didn't come far off if one removed the subterranean levels. Fountains and gardens and servants were everywhere. So many statues, too, and Tyr didn't recognize a single face cut into the stone.

“Prince Tyr.” An old man offered a shallow bow, gnarled and ancient though possessive of some vitality, enough to joke. At least sixty winters, perhaps even older. “It's nice to see you again. Well, I'd say that, but you're still as weak and soft in the hands as ever.” Tyr didn't recognize him.

“Who in all the hells are you, old man?” Tyr asked, uncouth as ever – drawing a few gasps of shock from the staff and a grunt of laughter from Tor.

His chuckling only grew louder when the old man stepped forward and backhanded Tyr full across the face with enough force to snap his head around and cause his teeth to rattle against his gums. “Oh...” That was the only reply he could think of. Considerations of a servant hitting a member of the royal family aside, Tyr started laughing as well. Before long they were all laughing, even the old man.

“You've got a nice arm on you, I'll give you that. But seriously... Who the fuck are you?”

“Are you serious? I thought you were joking.” The old man asked. At no point had he looked angry, only amused. Now, there was a touch of concern about his face. An upturned eyebrow above his startlingly blue eyes. Familiar eyes, not eyes of Harani stock.

“Uh...” The cogs in the princes mind whirled before coming up with an answer of: “Yes. Actually.”

The old man sighed, seating himself on the only unoccupied armchair in the room. His accent made it pretty clear he was Oresundian, but the way he crossed his legs and moved his hands about he seemed a bit more southern... “I'm your uncle. Astal of House Ebonfist, elder brother of Signe. You truly don't remember me?”

“By gods, you've gotten old.” Tyr frowned. The last time he'd seen Astal... Well, it'd have to have been over ten years ago now, back when the mans hair was as black as Jartor's and he'd beaten Regar half senseless in a 'duel'. Even in his advanced age, he was a fairly large man well above the average, standing an inch or two shorter than Tyr but wider around the shoulders, with a neatly trimmed beard and twin scars bisecting one brow. Not handsome, nothing like his sister – but a near twin approximate of his late grandfather with a rough charm about him.

Tyr was around six foot two, maybe three at this point. Alex had not lied, even in his short time away he'd sprouted. Astal was about six foot tall, give or take. That made him a giant to the southerners, their average height only being five foot five. About 1.7 meters as the dwarves measured, though Tyr always favored the Imperial. Would argue over it, too...

“Yes.” Astal chuckled. “That tends to happen after eleven years. I'd have barely recognized you either with that girlish hair, just like your mother's. You're in dire need of the shears, boy.”

Not a servant, then. Astal Ebonfist, of the house of the same name – and older brother of his late mother. And as far as Tyr was aware, the lord of their household. He didn't know how Oresundian succession worked, but for the 'great houses', of which there were seven, it shouldn't be much different than Haran.

“Aren't you managing the clan lands?” Tyr asked. It was strange for a northman to be this far south, let alone in the unofficial capital of mages. Stranger still that the eldest man and scion of House Ebonfist was not tending to his duties. The prince had never been to Oresund, always too sickly or small to make the long journey across the northern sea – but he'd heard much. Ebonfist was a strong and well regarded 'clan' in the north – standing third or fourth in terms of succession for the crown of the high king. Not that it mattered considering that the family of the primus would, in theory, rule forever – but they were considered the sister clan of the Stalvarg. Part of the reason he'd been married to Astrid without courtship.

Astrid, Astal, Sigi, Signe, Tyr, Tor... He was starting to see a pattern here with these northern names.

“Bah! I've had eleven sons with five wives, after all my years I've had a few that can handle things on their own.” Astal waved away his concern. “My eldest tends to my lands, while his brothers and sisters do whatever it is that they do. I've been traveling for near five years, apologies for not visiting. Your father is a bit of an ass, gods forgive me for that. Never liked me and I've never trusted a man who wouldn't bleed when cut by honest iron.”

“No offense taken.” Tyr perked up at that, remembering all the tales of adventure his uncle would tell him during his infrequent visits to see his mother. There was always something, some great raid or slaying of a dragon. Children's stories, but his uncle was a famed warrior among the northmen. As soon as his heritage was mentioned, Tor had immediately shut his trap. If there was ever a sign of respect from a fellow man of Oresund, it was that. Not a man to laugh at, that Astal. “I'd love to hear more about your adventures, but that doesn't explain why you're here.”

“Ah, that. Your father... My boy, that man. There I was, sailing my longship up the hatchet with my lads. Blue skies and calm seas all around, with a nice headwind. Thinking I'd better see some ripe milkers before Hel gone off and take me. All calm and easy like. Next moment, that brute comes soaring down from the sky and nearly capsizes my boat! Tells me he needs me and the boys to look after you. Strange man, but I suppose all the high ones are.”

“My father can fly?” Tyr tilted his head, he'd never heard anything of the sort. Jartor had no access to magic, just incredible brute strength which would include feats of speed and athletics. And then, he'd learned about world energy and the strange phenomena it possessed. With so little in the way of a tutor on world energy... He wanted to know what it was truly capable of. What he himself would be capable of.

“Not flying, lad. Jumps. Scared the living daylights out of me, watching him fall from the sky like that. Even jumping over the water, cresting to the clouds and back down again. You primus'... Something else. Ole Ragnar was never that flashy, but your father come crashing down like a chunk of skymetal all brazen and bearded.”

“I see.” Tyr wasn't exactly disappointed, but he'd certainly hoped for more. Though, at the same time, it gave him a good grasp of the situation and explained why his estate was crawling with northmen. Not a lot of them, but at least sixty. Big men, fierce and obviously not southern, too many furs on their shoulders for that. Salt men, raiders and reavers. Warriors. The average height of a man in Haran was only about five feet and ten inches, and they were considered tall among southern men. Varian's and such called them 'northmen' too – but Oresundians were of the 'real' north. Near all of them crested the six foot mark and were of a far sturdier build.

Hulking brutes, with a few of them able to look the seven foot Samson in the eye without craning their neck. A happy lot though. After all, they were being paid to lounge around with mugs full of ale for an indeterminate period of time. Genetically, Tyr was half Oresundian himself and they all considered him something akin to a 'little brother'. An honor guard, that's what they styled themselves, and they thought it a great honor to match the name.

'Got all these fine couches and leather shoes, gods have blessed us not having to shit off the edge of that moldy boat no more.' They'd howled with laughter at that. Apparently, these longships they said did not have anything in the way of latrines, the thought of it making Tyr shudder. Must've been uncomfortable, and if Varik was to be believed – another of the northmen – mermaids would come up and play drums on their asscheeks while they did their business. That... Probably wasn't true... Tyr hoped.

Still, they were kind enough to him. Rough and uncouth as they were – their treatment was nothing more than equitable, even friendly. The best Tyr would get in terms of custom was 'prince', otherwise they'd call him all sorts of nicknames, constantly inviting him to drink, fight, or gamble before Astal would shoo them off. Tyr had always considered the northmen as strong fighters, that's what they were famed for. In exchange, the southern scholars said, they were dirty, ignorant, angry, and all sorts of foul.

It was nothing like that. Not at all. They were hard workers, quick to song and dance. They dressed themselves in bright colors denoting their clan. Not dirty, either. Obsessive in their bathing, actually. They bathed every day! Tyr could scarcely believe it. Not even higher nobles bathed every day, not in Haran. He was certain that their immaculately braided beards were cleaner than half the silver platters he'd eaten from. They even played and wrestled with Okami, affectionately referring to him as 'beloved partner' – or elskede in their language.

Partner not just to them, but to their prince. As in Tyr. He'd never felt so surrounded by warmth in his entire life, and wasn't sure what to make of it. They were smart, too. Not educated in the sense of the scholar, but wise to the world. Quick witted with philosophy and always playing at some diversion or another. Often, during dinner, they'd stand and engage one another in the custom of 'flyting', rhyming back and forth in their language until one or the other would surrender the match. Usually in a way that saw heavy use of insult toward a mans wife, but nobody became offended at what in Haran would be considered a dishonor. They really liked to joke, and insult, in a strangely amicable way.

Tyr didn't understand a word they said when they moved to their native tongue, but he laughed along with them. He knew little of their language, mostly how to cuss in the old tongue, and there was a lot of that. Astrid and Sigi seemed to feel more relaxed with their presence. The men treated the former like some kind of goddess, and the latter as their own sister – sparring with her whenever she asked no matter how many times they lost.

They were a strange people. A free people who did as they pleased and offered few men a respect they hadn't earned by glory or merit. But he liked them, and was glad his father had sent them here.

Tyr wanted...

No.

He needed to learn more of the world. And he was about to learn more than he'd ever bargained for. About the world, himself, and all manner of things.