Joining the feast once more, the two Champions did not loudly announce their brotherhood just yet. Apart from discussing Wulfrik’s plans for the near future, they had also touched upon the current political situation between the Sarls, Aeslings and Frost Wolves, and by extension the rest of the Skaelings too.

Erik had promised his new brother that he would do the best he could to have the Frost Wolves side with the Sarls and that, when Wulfrik calls upon their Oath, Erik would sail to reinforce him immediately regardless of the Frost Wolves’ potential neutrality.

Of course, Erik already knew the conflict itself was inevitable. He even knew what the underlying plans were and what role Wulfrik would play in those plans.

‘Butterfly effect be damned, I will scupper those plans the moment they threaten my own! And my plans include Wulfrik as a staunch ally at my side, not with him eternally Wandering the world in search of worthy adversaries.’ – Were Erik’s honest thoughts.

Jumping back into the increasingly drunk mass of people, the next couple of hours went by in a blurry daze of food, drink and dance.

The feast was set to last an entire week but of course nobody was expected to be present for the entirety of it. Droves of people moved to and from their homes, either going for a quick rest or coming back from one. Regardless, the party never once stopped.

While Erik could possibly stay up the entirety of it if he pushed himself, but he decided to use the notifications of gained Favour from partying excessively as a warning prompt instead.

Well, he would mostly take a seat at the edge of the feast together with some other people, mostly his own men or other commanders of the tribe. After all, when the final tide of winter where everything gets buried beneath meters of snow was over, the first Raiding season would begin.

And Erik wanted to glean every bit of advantage he could by tying his men ever closer to himself and picking the brain of the experienced raiders.

“You’d think peasants are poor pissers, but they’ve always got some silver put away. Not in some big shiny vaults or chests like their lords, but hidden in little nooks and crannies all over their huts.

Under a smouldering hearth or fireplace, dug in some corner of a room or even hidden amidst their thatch roofs accompanied by the mice and other vermin.” – Was the advice of one such veterans.

“Takes a lot of time though to search it yourself, so it’s a lot quicker to put a knife to the farmer’s kids’ neck and force them to dig it up themselves. He digs it up, we have our treasure and then we kill the idiot.

Take the kids to sell down south, if they’re too small it’s not worth taking them with us back home. And if there’s no plans to go that far south, either slit their throats too or let ‘m run.

Not teenagers though. Those are all taken back with us, perfect for replenishing the Thralls lost in Winter. And if you fancy one of the southerner women, can just take ‘m with and toss away when you’re bored.” – Another one chimed in.

Listening to these men gave Erik a clear idea of what to expect of raiding. The tribal confederacy did not organise just 1 enormous raiding fleet for the first raid. Such excursions were left for the second or third raids of the year when the seas were calmer and the Marauders could find more food when they inevitably had to resupply.

So for the first round, the Jarls and King of the confederacy roughly divided the coastline of the Old World and each tribal leader would lead then his men to raid in designated parts of that coastline.

“While you were out Hunting, the division was also made. We’re heading to those Lady-loving Brettonians. Good raiding territory, plentiful crops to take and the peasants there are hardy, good for the hard labour we need them for.”

“But what about their Knights? Certainly they won’t just let us do as we please while we raid them?” – Erik asked.

“Well, those fancy southerners on their horses don’t really give a shit about what we do to their peasants. Mostly anyway. They will most likely retreat back into their fortresses and send messages to gather some ‘Crusading Army’ to drive us out.

Can see them coming from miles away and the idiots actually want to be seen riding towards glory. So if there’s enough of us we’ll oblige them, attack from the woods and kill the pricks right through their finery and soft bellies.

Too many of them? We’ll just take our stuff and sail away. The idiots never seem to realise that if they gather every single soldier in the area in one place, the rest of it is left completely undefended!

Haha, nothing easier than raiding and pillaging when a Brettonian Chevauchee is on the wrong side of a territory where we left them chasing ghosts!”

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When he wasn’t sounding out the veterans for their wisdom, Erik simply drank and ate as he participated in arm-wrestling contests, jumped over fires (and singing his ass when the fire flared up) and he also had to loudly tell the stories of his exploits during the Hunt. Finally, a bit more secretive, Erik was also led to secluded areas behind or straight up into nearby buildings for lust filled rendezvous’. Not all of which were elicited by Skadi or Sigrun.

In his extreme drunkenness, Erik was frequently taken advantage of by both young, lonely widows seeking to slake their thirst with a young, virile Champion and young maidens in the throes of passionate idolisation of ‘the perfect man’ that ‘singlehandedly made the Hunt succeed’.

Instances of couples sneaking off to fuck were almost as continuous as people going to rest. And only a small distance away from the main festivities, the sounds of passion were almost as deafening as the singing and laughing near the fires. Of course, when a new duo of partners approached a suitable spot, it was very common for the spot to already be occupied by at least 1 other couple.

At one point, when Erik returned from one such rendezvous with a particularly feisty girl, he questioned the morality of it at one of his regular ‘pause-groups’.

“What are you complaining about? It’s our right, yours in particularly as the Hunt’s Chief, to enjoy the adulation of the tribesmen and the perks that come with it. As long as you don’t fuck a married woman, all is well. Well, not knowingly fuck a married woman.” – Was the reply he got from both his Captains and the veterans.

“Besides, that’s one of the functions of this feast in the first place. We still lost 200 good, young men right? The constant fucking during the feast will result in a decent chunk of those numbers being replaced, gives the Hunters an opportunity to find wives and concubines and it also counts as worship for the Dark Prince Slaanesh!”

Convinced that he wasn’t being irresponsible or otherwise morally apprehensible, likely in part due to a permanent state of intoxication, Erik let it go and continued to enjoy every part of the festivities.

The feast had been going on for over four days now and there was still no sign of it stopping any time soon.

Once more being led away to what was quickly becoming his usual fuck-spot by a pair of rosy haired twins, Erik spotted Prince Ralf for the first time since the start of the feast.

Not minding him, Erik turned all his attention towards the antsy, touchy girls so he did not see Ralf eyeing the area where Sigrun, Skadi and Tykira were enjoying the feast with the other spoken-for women.

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Erik returned to the feast an hour later. The twins turned out to be virgins and Erik’s increasingly forceful ministrations, fuelled by the ever louder voices screaming for more, had made them faint with blissful yet also slightly pained smiles.

He didn’t want to just leave them out there in the cold snow, so Erik spent a good half an hour carrying them around before awkwardly, but luckily, running into the girls’ older brother. Delivering them home only took a moment after that and Erik then walked together with the brother back to the feast.

Yet when Erik re-joined the feast for the umpteenth time, a strange tension hung over the square. Only the crackling of the flames and sizzling of meat could be heard over the loud argument playing out in a certain corner of the square.

The Aesling Princeling, Ralf, had approached the group containing Sigrun, Skadi, Tykira, Helles and a number of other women and began to bother and annoy them.

At first he was just rudely staring at Sigrun, then he switched target to Tykira and a bit of anger became visible on his face.

At one point, he began to swear and curse at them. Saying inane things like: “They should have been mine!” “What right does that no-name nobody have to take what’s mine?!” “How dare his men get in my way when it is his honour that I fancy something of theirs?!” And many more such stupidly arrogant claims.

Wulfrik, having noticed the annoyance, quickly came to the rescue of his brother’s women. Sadly, he did so with all the finesse a drunk Norscan could muster:

“Fuck off, Aesling! Stop being an arse-turd and go back shag those horses you Aesling milk-drinkers like so much!”

Ah yes, very peaceful and instantly diffusing the situation. Not.

Suddenly interrupted by, of all people, a Sarl made Ralf completely lose control. This is when Erik came back to the feast and also noticed the argument.

When Erik saw who were involved, connected it to himself and made his way over to try and stop it from getting out of hand, it was already too late.

“Who the fuck does that Erik even think he is? I bet he never even actually wet his sword and everything they brought back was all either taken from wrecked ships, an abandoned Frost Wyrm lair or straight up prepared by others. He is a despicable coward and not worth the dirt on my boots!”

‘Insult! He iNSuLtS you! kILl hiM! QuEStIons you! BeLITlles you! CANNOT STAND THIS!’ – The voices went a rampant. During the feast, heavy with excess and pleasure, the ‘pink’ voices were dominant. Yet right now, after hearing such unwarranted words from a manlet Erik considered beneath him due to his arrogance and posture, the ‘crimson’ voices threatened to overcome Erik’s mind.

Combined with the drinks and quite likely the drugs wafting in fumes from the fires , Erik almost went into his Berserk mode from anger. Retaining just a bit of rationale, he pinched himself hard to increase control over his mind before calmly walking up to Ralf, who had his back turned to him.

“Those are fighting words, Aesling. Are you man enough to back them up? You’ve been nothing but a pest-like nuisance, bothering my women and my men.”

After the first words Ralf turned to face Erik, surprised to find him standing there. And when Erik saw Scaldar, Vikti of the Frost Wolves, standing nearby, a bright idea sprung up.

“I still have one final Trial, a final duel to perform before the Gods have had their due. Great Vikti, would me fighting the Aesling arse-weasel over here please the Gods?”