235 Politicking

Michael didn't lay anything down, no was he required to as the bear pelt technically counted as his contribution, or so he was told by Valdr. Apparently, it was the biggest contribution out of everyone here today, which included the Jarl who'd personally laid down thirty Deathbells for some reason.

Soon enough, everyone was gathered around the pyre as Runil lit it. The Priest hadn't given any speeches of longwinded prayers, that would begin when they actually buried Lohir, which was confusing in itself. Apparently, if your body was too mangled to bury, they'd burn you on a pyre and bury your ashes... This only really occurred in Falkreath however, as it was seen as a great honour to be buried amongst the many heroes who rested here. Everywhere else only the Pyre was really required depending on the location's own traditions.

Strangely, the fire seemed to burn far faster and hotter than any regular flame. And once the Deathbells had started burning, it turned a shade of dark blue for a couple minutes before returning to normal. It was like the primitive version of fireworks Michael supposed.

Some people left while the pyre was burning, going to attend to their respective duties but promising to return for the burial and celebration afterwards. Not everyone could spend an entire day doing nothing after all.

Speaking of which, Michael noticed the Jarl and his Steward walking towards him, "Greetings young Michael, I am Nenya, Steward of the Jarl." she gestures politely to the man next to her, "This is Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn,"

The Jarl nods and holds out a hand, "It's always a fine day to meet a fellow warrior. I have heard good things about you."

Michael nods and shakes the offered hand, only to find the mand attempting to squeeze it into jello. Michael just responds with equal strength, not wishing to get into trouble offending yet more nobles. "Pleasure to meet you, Jarl. Stuhn is a title I'm guessing? Must come with quite a story?"

Dengeir's stern face loosens slightly, taking it as a compliment, "Aye it does, but we can trade stories later over some ale. For now, my Steward thought it appropriate to seek out your services, would you be willing to offer your aid in some more trying matters?"

Michael shrugs, "It depends on the job I suppose, but as long as it pays well and isn't too far out of my abilities..."

Nenya nods graciously, "That works fine for us. We can discuss this on another day, I am sure you are more interested in the celebration for now." she looks to the Jarl, "I will go about my duties, please do not drink too much, Tekla has enough work without you adding to it by emptying your stomach on the floor." she jokes causing Dengeir to sniff in annoyance.

"It was one time!" he exclaims, glances to Michael, "Women, make one mistake and they'll hang it over you until you die or they kill you." he huffs.

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Soon enough, the pyre ends and Runil sweeps out some of Lohir's ashes and carries them into the graveyard to a pre-dug grave. Unfortunately for Michael, this is where the prayers begin... An hour of the Priest praying, moments of silence, people giving their last farewells to Lohir...

The only thing that kept Michael from leaving was the tankard in his hand that kept getting refilled by someone...? He was getting pretty drunk at this point, despite the low alcohol content drinks he was being served.

Eventually, the burial was over, and everyone ventured back to the pyre where Valga had arrived with many barrels of drinks... She even had Illococoo out here serving drinks to people, Charlotte was presumably back at the inn looking after Tiffania and her mother though... How did Valga get her to agree to let Illococoo out?

He didn't have much time to think on it before he was dragged to the largest table, handed many drinks, and badgered by almost everyone present to tell the tale of how he slew the bear. It was pretty nerve-wracking, to be honest, he hated public speaking, but the liquid confidence that was starting to slur his speech egged him on anyway.

He began the story, beginning it by explaining that he ventured into the cave alone after everyone else had either refused or was less eager to do so. This got the crowd to jeer at Valdr, his friends, and the couple of red-faced guards who were there and had now gone without their armour, but it was good-natured enough... Everyone had seen the bear pelt, so they understood why they had seconds thoughts about traversing alone through pitch-darkness.

He went on to explain his encounter with the bear, finding Lohir and having a life to death battle with it. The Nords were very interested in the specifics of it all, some even having him act it out with a chair leg...

A minute or so later, he spoke of his final confrontation with the bear, and everyone was on the edge of their seat, finally cheering when he stabbed down with the chair leg, "And I stabbed it in its throat! Even after that it still kept coming at me! But with its earlier injuries, it'd already more than enough blood. You lot saw me when I came back covered in it!"

"Hahahaha! You're a mad man Michael! I saw that thing dead and I was tempted to run! What made you fight it head-on instead of following the plan!?" a red-faced and thoroughly drunk Valdr asks.

Michael shrugs, almost letting slip that Hircine had trapped him there, "I wanted a challenge I guess!?"

Everyone laughs at that, the Jarl dropping into a seat next to him and heavily clapping him on the back, "Hahaha! You're different from those other Milk-Drinkers that usually come through here! You must have some Nord blood in you!"

"Maybe!?" he starts, "Didn't you say you'd tell me how you started being called Stuhn!?" Michael loudly asks, his volume levels becoming quite irregular due to the alcohol and loudness of the celebrating crowd itself.

"Bah! Don't get him started! He tells that story every time I see him! Oh, you got called Stuhn for raiding High Elf pirates attacking Windhelm!? Big deal!" an unnamed guest states, causing the Jarl to frown at having his tale spoiled, "At least this old man's got stories to tell you poppy-headed mud-crab! Maybe if you weren't so busy hiding behind you're mother's blouse you'd have something to say!"

"Grr, what did you say old man!?"

Michael watches in fascination as the Jarl, a man reaching his twilight years, throws himself over the table and begins throwing fists. He and his quarry brawling as if he wasn't the leader of this entire Hold... Still, the drinks in him had his less rational mind working, causing him to join the crowd and cheer for one of them to win.

Strangely, that was where Michael's memories of the night ended... Not having any clue who'd won the fight between the Jarl and the other guy.