Tales of the Slain: 5-Draugr

Kvasir sat next to the fireplace in the meadhall glad for the warmth of it. He'd spent three days out with a band of Jotnar, frost giants, and he thought the cold had settled into his bones forever.

He reached under his red woollen cloak into a small pouch and pulled forth the Kvashorn, his personal drinking horn that would never empty providing the observances of dutiful hospitality were observed. And after a long drink he looked around the meadhall.

 

This one was sparsely populated, and the folk who sat at the tables were a brutal looking lot. No binders of runes or folk of cunning words. Each was scarred and wore old pieces of armour and weapons that had seen better days. Every single one of them had a gaunt look, their skin was ashen grey despite the flickering of the fireplace.

He knew their type. Draugr. The dead who were bound to their bodies and could not pass to any other hall of the gods for final rest. Why Hel allowed them to roam was a mystery to everyone, including perhaps even Odin.

 

One of the draugr looked at Kvasir and nodded to those at its table. They made room for him and he approached them carefully.

"I am Kvasir, called Wise by many, Bringer of poetry and song by many more. My blood mead is a muse for all. Will you drink with me and tell me of yourselves?" He put forward the drinking horn for one to take.

"I was called Breidox and when i struck my foe-man their shields would shatter like a virgins resolve on the wedding night" Breidox took the Kvashorn and drank from it. The taste... ah it had not tasted for a long time and did not want to pass the horn to the next but it noticed that the horn had not begun to refill so grudgingly it passed it to the next who reached for it.
"I once was known as Swerda, but many came to call me Sverd. When my foe-man fought me and i was nothing but my name i could dance on the air and make him drop his own weapon before i would strike him down to death" Swerda drank deep from the Kvashorn, the sweetness of the mead filling him and he passed it to the next.

Kvasir sat and listened to them all, the meanings of their names, the boasts of who they were. Never did he feel threatened despite the strength of the words said in the meadhall that night.
None could truly threaten Kvasir the Wise for he knew what lay behind their words and in their hearts once they had drank of his mead. 

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