My World of 1x1s discussion

Name: Gwenhwyvar
Age: 19
Species: Human
Occupation: Queen
Appearance:

Personality: courageous; bold; fearless; spirited; passionate; impatient.
History: As the only legitimate child of King Gunther and Queen Halldís, it fell to Gwenhwyvar to take over the throne at the age of sixteen when her father died in battle against a warring tribe. Many men have tried to take her kingdom from her, but the Queen has held steadfast, choosing to fight her challengers by herself rather than with the help of a champion.

Name: Haneveld
Age: 21
Species: Human
Occupation: Woodsman and self-appointed Guardian of the Ways
Appearance:
Personality: Shy; unassuming; pacifistic; newly charismatic; confident; principled; determined.
History: Always mindful of his status as one of the unnoticed essentials of his alpine village, Haneveld took after his father, wielding the trusty but never rusty axe handed down from father to son for generations. However, always one to listen keenly into the tales told by the bards and skalds who braved the jaws of the freeze to bring isolated villages such as Honnleath, he has always dreamed of a life beyond the pines, a madcap diversion that miraculously comes true when an encounter with a wingless fire drake in the Whitefang mountains yields him a truly unique gift, one that changes his life forever.

She had heard such wonderful tales about him. Bards were already singing about Haneveld the Troll Slayer (though she doubted this title to be true--those drunken entertainers where always making stories up just to get their audience's attention), and so the Queen had decided that she would meet this woodcutter herself to determine his worth in person. The messenger who had been sent to find the peasant had arrived back the night before and Gwenhwyvar had rewarded her subject with a hot meal and a warm bed. In the morning she had gone out to bathe in the freezing cold lake outside of her kingdom and after drip drying in the nude, she waited calmly for her manservant to dress her in her leather and light armor before making her way into the dining hall to break her fast.

Now, with the sun hanging brightly in the crisp morning sky, Gwenhwyvar was out on the practice field in the courtyard of the castle's outer walls drilling her swordplay with a poor lad of barely fourteen who, thankfully, had reached puberty and could therefore manage to hold up the shield he carried to block the Queen's powerful attack.

She expected the woodcutter to walk through the gates any moment now.

"Now you've gone and done it Hani you dunce," It was somewhat out of character for the strapping 6'3" blonde man mountain to indulge in such moments of self-reproach; that was the hallmark of the old Haneveld, Haneveld the humble hairy hillock pillock, that was what they used to call me, he reflected wryly as he trudged onwards down the mud-caked road, his preference to be conveyed by the virtue of his own two feet not having deserted him since his unanticipated transformation. It wasn't as though the ring had turned him into an impostor, someone he was not, but rather it had somehow "found" the hero inside him, the man who traversed the frigid and fire-stained wastes of his imagination, conceived by his love for tales of the great and glorious spouted by every bard, skald or talebearer from the Seething Sea in the South to the Nevermore Mountains to the extreme North. Crippled by his sense of duty but inwardly hamstrung by his hearkening for the wide open wanderings of men who transcended their lots in life, who dared to dream, who became what they were by challenging and changing their fate, somehow, the ring had made it all clear.

And now here he was, accosted by a rider the noon previously with a summon to come to the court of the Ice Queen herself, the equally feared and admired warrioress Gwenhwyvar. Seizing her father's throne at the tender age of sixteen, when most girls were mooning over boys or stroking distended bellies ripe with the next generation, the Queen had faced down the rebel rabble of the disunited tribal nations, and forged them like a blade into a single people, and they called him the hero!

Heaving a bracing breath, his eyes beheld the sturdy wooden fortifications that preceded the royal fortified town. Out of nervous habit, his hand crept to the ring; unremarkable and sans a distinguishing gem, its dull beaten gold was hardly eye-catching, and for a moment he mentally surveyed his leathers and furs, what a sight he would be. "State yer bizniss!" barked a gatepost, and it took him several seconds to discern the brown cloaked man standing stoically before him , long matted shit-coloured hair adding to the illusion of his thick brown cloak. "Summoned by her majesty." Handing the man the parchment he had been given, he waited patiently as the missive was scrutinised. "Pass!" Inclining his head slightly, Haneveld set his face, before taking a firm stride towards what, and whom, waited within.

She would have never guessed it were him, so unassuming was his appearance from afar, but by the time a young messenger boy from the gates had run up to inform his queen that The Hero had just arrived, Haneveld was close at hand. Pausing in her sparring, the Queen turned her gaze regally towards the direction of her guest and the first thing she thought to herself as her blue-green eyes landed on the woodcutter was that he was massively built. Perhaps he actually was a troll slayer. Standing up straight placed her lithe, toned frame at 5'5"--small for a Viking woman, but she had found that that could be used to her advantage--and she had to tilt her neck up slightly to keep his bearded face within her vision. "You are The Hero," Gwenhwyvar stated in her clear, confident voice, the sentence ambiguous in its questioning tone. The warriors who had been training alongside their leader paused too in their activities to take a breather and to size up potential competition, for while none of them voiced their thoughts, they all subconsciously hoped that one day they might bed the Queen and become her King. The presence of a new male who claimed to be a hero could only bode ill for them.

His size advantage could not have been more stark; Haneveld's eyes arrowed to the only female form in the training arena. He towered over her and would have easily outweighed her two to one or thereabouts by his reckoning, and yet, in spite of all that, he clearly felt that he was the one at a decided disadvantage. The way she stated what many had come to call him almost forced a scarlet rash on his pumiced cheeks, and it was to his considerable surprise that he instead awarded her pronouncement with a stoic nod, as though being called a hero was the least he deserved. "And you are Queen Gwenhwyvar, your renown precedes you, your majesty, but I have to profess, word of your beauty falls utterly short of reality." What did I just say? A scared squeak peeped out from a corner of his gilded mind, surely she would think him a meatheaded clod for indulging in such a transparent show of flattery as that, she was a Queen, mistress of her own, uh, Queendom, and here he was giving her flattery that would not turn the head of a run of the mill village lass. But it's what you're supposed to say, spoke the other voice in a broad, calm gold-infused tone, relax I'll take care of this. Trying not to stare overmuch Haneveld eyed the hulking brutes in the background; just look at them in their polished leather and flakemail, I must look a rude yokel to them, no doubt what they saw was not the hero the bards had foolishly blabbermouthed about, and for a heartbeat, he felt like the fraud he was. His instinct was to run, but the warmth that was always with him now stiffened his back, and he sketched a bow, hoping to Freyja that he had not betrayed his ill upbringing before such an exalted personage.

Gwenhwyvar's black brow arched up ever so slightly into the metal headband that protected her face, though the gear did not do a good job at hiding the somewhat amused expression that danced across her features. "It pleases me to hear that the bards are at least singing of my martial prowess, for that is what I prefer." Though she had never been bashful about the effects her appearance had on men, and while she had taken those she deemed worthy to her bed when the mood struck, Gwenhwyvar did not base herself upon her feminine attractions. His bow brought an actual close lipped smile to her mouth as her eyes flashed with amusement. "I expect homage to be paid to me with a kneel, Hero, but you need not do so unless you choose to swear fealty to me," she told the woodcutter, the sword in her hand turning from side to side as she stood otherwise unmoving before him. "Will you show me your worth?" she asked, this time a real question in her regal voice.

The combination of her stated pleasure at having her prowess immortalised in song, in addition to the language her lithe, muscular body was speaking in no uncertain terms, told the recently christened Hero of Honnleath that what was to follow would almost certainly involve weapons, exertion, and possible a measure of scarlet spillage. There it was again, that deeply rooted sense of excitement almost, a perverse desire to dispense with the words and dive into battle, but with a concerted effort, Haneveld managed to restrain his less admirable hunger. "Majesty, I would swaer falty to you, but I have sworn an oath, one that transcends loyalties, a pledge, if you will to the ones in need, you may think me foolish and by Odin, I mean you no disrespect." Something about the magi had unleashed his tongue and it stretched like a newly sleeping fell wolf, but in reply yo her question, he reached behind him, and produced, not the two-handed axe slung across his back, but a small-hilted longsword. "By Tyr, command me highness, and let my worth be yours to determine."

His denial to her stroked her ego the wrong way, and an expression of disappointment filtered across Gwenhwyvar's face. She had hoped to have the woodcutter swear fealty to her once he had proven his worth, but now all she would be getting was the possible latter. "If the ones in need are also my subjects then that would not go against your oath, Hero," the Queen pointed out then with a challenging raise of her brow. Seeing him draw out a sword, she held out her other arm to no one in particular and was rewarded with a small round shield, slightly larger than a buckler, as she replied, "You will fight me, Troll Slayer." Gwenhwyvar held it in place to protect her torso as she eyed her massive opponent, thinking that no matter how hard she swung, he would be able to out muscle her. She would have to be quick and nimble instead to get through his hulking defenses.

A crowd was gathering in the practice field and it made the Queen happy to know that her men were watching.

It was decidedly not in keeping with his nature to attack anyone, let alone a woman, but reluctantly, Haneveld knew the way things traditionally worked among his people. Respect was earned by victory in combat, prestige was forged by defeating one's opponent and acclaim was proclaimed upon the surrender of one of two contesting parties, that was just the way things had always been. No vengeance, no ill will, no murder, just a way to win worthiness. "Aye, I will," he said unsmilingly, flexing his sword wrist, weaving the heavy blade in a figure of eight loop. "But it is my desire, that win or lose here, I shall pledge my blade to your cause, for I have heard naught but acclaim of your rule, and if you would have me, I shall serve."

"Let us see if that sword is first worth pledging then, Hero," Gwenhwyvar replied as she gave him a small smirk, the corner of her mouth quirking up in response to her own words. "Do not be afraid to hold back," she commanded as she readied herself for his attack. He was truly massive and she only hoped that he was slow and cumbersome, although the fact that he did not wear much in the way of armor did not make her feel confident that this was the case. Perhaps the bards truly had not lied about him at all.

Raising the blade in a defensive configuration, he waited, tensed for the first strike. Imbued with a sense of deadly confidence which he could feel snaking around him from the unprepossessing metallic accessory on the third finger from his left thumb. "Though I do not wish to defy you, highness, I will not strike at a woman unless doing so serves to continue my existence." he said carefully, trying his best to gauge exactly what kind of fighter she was, and her degree of skill; slender as a reed, but taut and tense as a bowstring, it was immediately apparent to the former woodcutter that to underestimate this delicately warlike woman was to accept an invitation to dine on high in Valhalla, not something that he wishes to countenance anytime soon. Readjusting his grip, he awaited her fury.

His reluctance to attack her first made her want to show him that women could be equally as deadly as men, the idea that his honor and chivalry were what were holding him back lost on her. Without giving him time to change his mind, Gwenhwyvar, darted forward and brought her sword down on his bare arm, the one that should have had a shield, to see how quick his reflexes were before she dodged back. She hoped for his sake that he would not lose an arm today.

Judging from her expression, she hadn't anticipated his parry. Something about the manner in which she had launched smoothly into the strike told him that she had been fast, that she was fast, even in spit of the armour that she wore. A shock trembled up his forearm as the force of her downward slash was transferred along the length of his blade. Pushing outwards, the towering woodsman repelled her assault, pushing her back onto her heels. It ha happened again, though it was much less unnerving this time around; the seemingly slow manner in which she had blatantly made her attack plain to him, the time he had had to organise his defence. It was the ring's doing, that much he knew, never having been much of a swordsman, and indeed, never having received instruction in the art of swordplay. Taking advantage of her repulsion, the one some called Trollslayer stepped forward, effecting a sweeping left to right slash rising from his hip towards her left shoulder.

Gwenhwyvar was not sure how she felt quite yet about the Troll-Slayer’s ability to block her swing, but she was at least satisfied to see that the bards were not spewing nonsense. Quickly dodging his return blow, she stepped away and immediately went back for his ribs.

She would work him to the ground.

***

Though he had not technically won the match, it had been dangerously close and the Queen knew that the woodcutter knew as well. Again she was unsure how she felt but as she met his brown gaze with her own grey-blue one, she said to him in a clear voice that did not show her fatigue. “You fight well, Hero. I will reward your demonstration of skill with a feast tonight.”

There was a moment of silence among the watching crowd and after a pause, the men erupted in loud shouts of approval, their boisterous noise filling the courtyard with cheers.

Fighting with the ferocity of a berserker coupled with the finesse of a true warrior, Haneveld knew at on em that had he faced her equipped with the skills and gifts his heritage had given him, he would have died, quickly and would have represented not so much as a training bout for the queen of the northern tribes. Her renown, like her beauty, her fairness and her generosity even in defeat had proven to be well founded indeed, a rarity in the day and age where exaggeration, lies and artifice tended to embellish bardic stories. Dropping to his knee, sword jolt held out to her as an offering, he said, head slightly bowed, "Hail and well met, queen of the north, my thanks be to your graciousness, now allow me to make amends for my mutton-headed oversight previously, I hereby offer you my sword,and my service,should you see fit to accept it. The people of the north are as much yours to protect as they are mine, our purposes are one." Holding his breath he waited for the cold steel fang to be removed from his hand, to feel the touch of icy death upon either his shoulder or his nape, his life in her hands.

That response from the woodcutter did bring a please smirk to Gwenhwyvar's face and as he knelt in front of her, she took a step forward and picked up his weapon by the hilt, still warm from his previous grasp of it. "I accept your oath, Haneveld the Troll-Slayer," she said to him in her clear, confident voice, tapping each side of his neck with two swift movements before continuing. "Rise now. I will see you at the feast tonight," she told him, placing his sword back from where it came, nodding to one of her men to take him to where he needed to go for armor fitting. She needed another bath after this morning's exertion.

Reclaiming his towering stance, Haneveld replaced the sword into the shoulder sheath he preferred over the more conventional hip-mounted scabbard. Judging from her body language, the queen was disguising the pangs of her exertion rather expertly, the woodsman suddenly felt a twinge of sorrow for the proud beauty. Far be it for such a one as he, a virtual nobody before his fortunes inexplicably turned, to express pity for the most powerful woman in the northlands, but there was something about hearing tiredness and defeat in a woman's breathing that awakened some patriarchal sympathy within him. At that point, the sound of a throat being surreptitiously cleared recalled him to his senses. "Hail and well met Trollslayer, her Highness has tasked me with conveying you to yonder bath house should you be after a soothing dip after your exertions." No stranger to perspiration, indeed, he wore it oftentimes as a second garment, Haneveld was made acutely aware of the manly reek his recent trial by blade had occasioned, and nodded soberly at the speaker, one of the younger warriors, icy blue of gaze and lemon pale of hair. "I am, Haneveld, son of Harnehald, an honour to make your acquaintance." Eliciting a look of surprise from the youth it was a moment before he replied, "Egil son of Edmure, and the honour is all mine trollslayer." It would seem that there was no losing that appellation, and conceding defeat, the woodcutter followed the young huskarl down towards a large thatched building a fair distance from where they were, his eyes lingering on the sights of the fortified town, the shadow of the stone-boned fortification looming over his shoulders.

Without waiting for him to leave first, Gwenhwyvar turned on her own heel and made her way to the inner walls of the castle towards her own chambers. She was followed by two of her guards and her manservant who ran ahead to tell her maids to prepare her queenship a bath. Gwenhwyvar rolled one of her shoulders as she walked, wincing ever so slightly with the pain that shot through her limb from overexertion. She had a wound along her shield arm and it was still not fully healed. But that had never stopped the Queen from giving her all even in mock combat.

Once she was inside her chambers, her guards dropped off and took vigil by her door as she paused in the outer layer of her room for her squire to remove her light armor and take her weapons for repair should they need it. She was always one to look after her tools; sparring matches with woodcutters made her ritual no different.

Glad of the privacy afforded him in this new, imposing place, Haneveld drew a lungful of relief as he sank slowly up to his neck in steaming water. Fed from the nearby hot springs sourced at the foot of the abutting mountains, the mineral rich soup eased the tension in his knotted muscles as he reflected upon his most recent triumph. It still felt wrong to beat her, the woodsman was unable to altogether shake that feeling of unease from his broad shoulders. She had been a deft, incisive fighter, it was small wonder that her prowess as both ruler and warrior was known far and wide, trumpeted by messengers and sung on the words of bards alike. Expelling a long streamer of air from between his yellowed, but otherwise strong teeth, the woodcutter recalled the blazing look she had given him, both before and after their sparring; there had been naked approval there, but only because he had been able to see it, and even then, only because of his gilded advantage. Ring aside, the Queen gave precious little away, with only subtle nuances of her character peeping out at intervals. Pulling in a lungful, Haneveld submerged himself fully, enjoying the golden heat as it encapsulated him like a large womb, his long bear-brown hair clouding the water somewhat. "Yes, you have been remarkably resistant to the lures of my cave, your mind remains pure, simple, but pure." the worm had purred softly, amusement and interest waging a skirmish within it's golden eyes, "You do not seek to slay me, and take my hoard, unusual for a fleshling, and I who can see into men's hearts see no avarice in yours. Truly you are... strange." True, they called him a hero now, but having sought refuge in what had seemed to be a shallow, unassuming cave, he had felt anything but, rooted to the spot before a live fireworm, he had refused to show the fear that was coalescing in his heart; "If it kills me, let this be an end to it." Swearing mentally to exercise greater control on his curiosity in future, if future he was permitted to have release was utterly unexpected, the gift granted, had surely been a Godly intervention. Jerked from his thoughts by the sound of rapping on the stout wooden door, Haneveld tugged on his garments, hurrying to acquiesce to the indication that her highness would seek an audience with him.