Bards - Tag Tale Part 4

Marlin Stout ldcharls at
Wed Jan 10 01:49:16 PST 2001

(Of course, even that indignity would be bearable if that Norn-damned
shipwright hadn't sold him on the idea of a wild boar as a figurehead)
  Sven's men set into sacking the village that the peasants had just
left, though to Sven's eyes it didn't look like they'd get much. Sven
decided he'd be happy to just get some provisions and be gone from here.
He really had expected the Scots to put up a good fight, and was
disappointed that they all ran away. That just wasn't like Scots at all. 
  He spied Oleg Olegsson strolling past laden down with a keg on one
shoulder and a side of meat on the other. "Good work, Oleg. We could use
some good drink, and I'm sure the rest will appreciate the fresh meat." 
  "Aye," Oleg replied, "These Scots, they gots good pork."
  Sven winced. He really didn't want so see another pig as long as he
lived. And then, to make it worse, Svain Spoonbeard sauntered toward the
ship with several slabs of bacon...
  Before Sven could decide whether to throw the bacon or Svain (or both)
overboard, there arose a ruckus from within the town. Sven turned and
saw all of his men scurrying back to the ship, carrying what meager
plunder they had been able to scrape up in this Odin-forsaken rathole.
Olaf jogged up to him, carrying a sack full of suckling piglets, and
blurted, "It's the local laird, Laughton MacNoughton and he's got easily
four times our number with him. And they're all fine BIG fellows, too."
  Laird Laughton strode out upon the beach and bellowed out "Weil, if
it's nae after bein' Sven Svin-kyssa I'm sein' befair me. Much as me
lad'sd like tae be cuttin' ye up, I've had tha' hearin' tha' yer a man
as likes a little wager. Sae I'll mak ye a wee bet...


Ld Charles Mackinnon
Bryn Gwlad
(aren't we ALL sick puppies, after all?)

Donald Riney wrote:
> >
> >You're a sick man, FitzMorgan.
> >
> > > Tag Tale
> > > Part 1 by Robert Fitzmorgan
> > >
> > >     Sven stood at the prow of his longship.  The rolling of the ship a
> >match
> > > to the rolling in his gut.  The sun was peaking over the horizon like a
> >giant
> > > bloodshot eye.  He had drunk a great deal of mead the night before,
> >everyone
> > > had.  Not enough though.  Not enough for them to forget ...  Was there
> >enough
> > > mead in all the world to make them forget that?  The oarsmen were
> >intently
> > > studying the sunrise, the sea or the backs of their companions, looking
> > > anywhere but at him.  No one dared to look at him.
> > >     It was time to decide on a destination.  It would have to be
> >Ireland.
> >No
> > > one knew him in Ireland.  He would have to do something very impressive
> >if
> >he
> > > was ever to show his face at home again.  He would have to build a
> >reputation
> > > so fierce that know one would dare to so much as smile behind his back.
> >Not
> > > that they would forget.  They would never forget.
> > >     If only it hadn't been Gunther's pig.
> > >
> >
> >
> >   Already the other men on the ship were making little "nooff-nooff"
> >sounds
> >like pigs when they thought he couldn't hear.  Seven days of this might
> >find
> >his temper too short for the ribbing of even the best of friends.
> >   The casks and bales had been loaded the day before, and all was ready.
> >Sven curtly ordered the steersman, Olaf, to put them out of this Danish bog
> >and onto the clean road of the horse of the sea.
> >   "Where to, sea-king?" asked Olaf.
> >   "Dublin." he answered.  "The furs and amber will fetch fine prices
> >there,
> >and we can take on some linen.  Maybe the land of the Franks after that, or
> >even the Moors.  Irish linen should fetch a fine price there."
> >   Not that he needed the silver.  Not now.  Gunthar was good to his word,
> >and had paid up on the bet.  But the bag hanging at his side was not as
> >heavy as the stone in his stomach.  His reputation turned to foolery for
> >one
> >foolish bet.  The High One warns of too much mead, the godi say.  He should
> >have been specific about kissing pigs.
> >
> On the seas his temper began to cool, the thought on anonymity in the
> foriegn lands pleased him. Soon he would be in Scotland and their his fame
> would grow as a wrriors should. A path of Bloddy victory he would carve
> across that island. From the crags of the Highlands to the marshes of Wales
> Mothers would use his name to scare their children to bed. Smiling he
> thought of their  words, "Get you to bed lest Sven the  Mighty gets you." Or
> maybe 'Sven the Strongaxe', or even 'Sven Scotskiller'.
> Lost in his musings he started when his lookouts called the sighting of
> land. PEering into the mist of Scotland he could see a small safe harbor.
> Here would he begin anew, soon no one would remember anything but the power
> of his axe and the riches of his plunder. He would be generous to those that
> followed him and ruthless to those who oppsed him! By blood and conquest he
> would assure his place in the hall of heros!
> Doning his helm he ordered the raid on the coastal town. Screams filled the
> night air. Once upon the beach the people scattered like flies shoe from
> sweet breads, but Sven fell as if he had been struck dead. No matter how
> strong was his axe it seemed the voice of the skald was stronger yet, for as
> the townsfolk ran they screamed, "Run for your lives, it is Sven
> Svin-kyssa!!!"
> Ulf you're a pretty sick puppy yerself!
> Darius :)
> (PS "Svin-kyssa" = "Pig Kisser")
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