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shinonFandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Skrimir, Ranulf
Word count: ~750
Warnings: Alcohol. Some jokes about killing horses.
Notes:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
getyourwordsout Yahtzee, "orgulous." Early part 3. I love this stupid cat.
Skrimir was drunk, which took some doing.
The beast tribes didn't drink beer as religiously as the beorc – can you believe, one of the Crimeans said it was safer than drinking water! What had they been doing to their groundwater? - but they weren't unfamiliar with intoxicants. For festivals, or big gatherings, or the type of negotiation you couldn't conduct solely through growling and tail posture, they fermented wild fruits and grains. Things could get a bit messy. And Ranulf had personally witnessed, not more than a year ago at the natal feast of Giffca's grandchildren, that General Skrimir was no slouch.
And so: Skrimir, grinning maniacally, only maintaining balance by complex and erratic movements of his tail, was roving around the encampment challenging everyone. “What are you doing?” he would say, leaning down over someone roasting meat or chopping wood or sharpening weapons. “I can do that better than you. Face me.” Ranulf wondered: is he going to get himself stabbed? And: is Soren going to bill us for the extra supplies? What must that have taken, a full barrel? Two?
“Any fool can throw a knife,” Skrimir said, and plucked one from the hand of a pale-haired beorc boy.
“That's not for throwing,” said the boy. He'd looked alarmed to have a lion bearing down on him, but he was not afraid now – this was just a drunk. “I use it to cut meat.”
“To cut meat!” Skrimir roared, rocking back on his heels in mock incredulity. Or maybe it was genuine. He stumbled, righted himself, and loomed forward again. “Bah! You wouldn't need that if you had proper teeth.” He pulled his lips back to show his own.
The knife was still in his hand, which put it rather too close to his face. Ranulf finally drew even with him, yanked his hand down, pried his fingers apart, and returned the knife to the child. “Sorry about that, Rolf. Don't mind this lunkhead.”
“Lunk-?” Skrimir sputtered indignantly. He turned an unfocused gaze on Ranulf. “There you are. Do you know...” Rolf took the opportunity to slip away. Skrimir glanced back after him in confusion, lost balance, and caught himself by propping his elbow on Ranulf's shoulder. “Do you know, Ranulf.” He was very heavy. “None of these cowards accepted my challenge.” He evidently did not plan to move. “I didn't even ask them to fight me!” A dull ache took up residence in Ranulf's clavicle. “I would win, if they fought me. I would tear them like paper.”
“Thank you for the restraint. Tearing up your allies is frowned upon.”
Skrimir nodded sagely. Ranulf started to sag under the weight of his arm. “Contests of skill,” he said. “Tests of strength. Still, no one accepts! I said to a man” - he gestured off vaguely toward the center of the camp - “'get on your horse and race me. If I win, I will eat the horse.' And the sluggard said no!”
“Of course not,” Ranulf said. “What was in it for him?” Skrimir only frowned and blinked at him. “What would you give him if he won?”
Skrimir scoffed. “He wouldn't.”
“I see. And without his horse, how is he supposed to help us in battle?”
“Lots of beorc don't use horses.”
“True. But cavalry have mobility and opposable thumbs. You or I can only do one at a time.”
Skrimir looked at him. “You're very clever, Ranulf.” And yet he sounded displeased.
Ranulf sighed. “Look, let's get you a quiet place to sit down and rest, huh? Maybe something to eat -”
“A horse!”
“No horses.”
Skrimir blew out his lips in annoyance. But he let himself be led away from the beorc, and away from the diplomatic incident he could've started at any moment.
At length he said, “I am worth ten men. I am the strongest.”
Several choice retorts came to mind, but Skrimir was impervious to reason sober and there was no reason to believe he'd be more receptive now. If you're so strong, then others' strength shouldn't be a threat to you. Ten men who do ten different things are worth more than one slab of brainless muscle. Stuff like that.
Well, maybe he'd learn on his own. That was why Caineghis sent him here, right? Ranulf just had to keep him alive long enough.
“The strongest,” Skrimir said again, plaintively.
Ranulf patted his back. “There, there.”
Characters: Skrimir, Ranulf
Word count: ~750
Warnings: Alcohol. Some jokes about killing horses.
Notes:
getyourwordsout Yahtzee, "orgulous." Early part 3. I love this stupid cat.Skrimir was drunk, which took some doing.
The beast tribes didn't drink beer as religiously as the beorc – can you believe, one of the Crimeans said it was safer than drinking water! What had they been doing to their groundwater? - but they weren't unfamiliar with intoxicants. For festivals, or big gatherings, or the type of negotiation you couldn't conduct solely through growling and tail posture, they fermented wild fruits and grains. Things could get a bit messy. And Ranulf had personally witnessed, not more than a year ago at the natal feast of Giffca's grandchildren, that General Skrimir was no slouch.
And so: Skrimir, grinning maniacally, only maintaining balance by complex and erratic movements of his tail, was roving around the encampment challenging everyone. “What are you doing?” he would say, leaning down over someone roasting meat or chopping wood or sharpening weapons. “I can do that better than you. Face me.” Ranulf wondered: is he going to get himself stabbed? And: is Soren going to bill us for the extra supplies? What must that have taken, a full barrel? Two?
“Any fool can throw a knife,” Skrimir said, and plucked one from the hand of a pale-haired beorc boy.
“That's not for throwing,” said the boy. He'd looked alarmed to have a lion bearing down on him, but he was not afraid now – this was just a drunk. “I use it to cut meat.”
“To cut meat!” Skrimir roared, rocking back on his heels in mock incredulity. Or maybe it was genuine. He stumbled, righted himself, and loomed forward again. “Bah! You wouldn't need that if you had proper teeth.” He pulled his lips back to show his own.
The knife was still in his hand, which put it rather too close to his face. Ranulf finally drew even with him, yanked his hand down, pried his fingers apart, and returned the knife to the child. “Sorry about that, Rolf. Don't mind this lunkhead.”
“Lunk-?” Skrimir sputtered indignantly. He turned an unfocused gaze on Ranulf. “There you are. Do you know...” Rolf took the opportunity to slip away. Skrimir glanced back after him in confusion, lost balance, and caught himself by propping his elbow on Ranulf's shoulder. “Do you know, Ranulf.” He was very heavy. “None of these cowards accepted my challenge.” He evidently did not plan to move. “I didn't even ask them to fight me!” A dull ache took up residence in Ranulf's clavicle. “I would win, if they fought me. I would tear them like paper.”
“Thank you for the restraint. Tearing up your allies is frowned upon.”
Skrimir nodded sagely. Ranulf started to sag under the weight of his arm. “Contests of skill,” he said. “Tests of strength. Still, no one accepts! I said to a man” - he gestured off vaguely toward the center of the camp - “'get on your horse and race me. If I win, I will eat the horse.' And the sluggard said no!”
“Of course not,” Ranulf said. “What was in it for him?” Skrimir only frowned and blinked at him. “What would you give him if he won?”
Skrimir scoffed. “He wouldn't.”
“I see. And without his horse, how is he supposed to help us in battle?”
“Lots of beorc don't use horses.”
“True. But cavalry have mobility and opposable thumbs. You or I can only do one at a time.”
Skrimir looked at him. “You're very clever, Ranulf.” And yet he sounded displeased.
Ranulf sighed. “Look, let's get you a quiet place to sit down and rest, huh? Maybe something to eat -”
“A horse!”
“No horses.”
Skrimir blew out his lips in annoyance. But he let himself be led away from the beorc, and away from the diplomatic incident he could've started at any moment.
At length he said, “I am worth ten men. I am the strongest.”
Several choice retorts came to mind, but Skrimir was impervious to reason sober and there was no reason to believe he'd be more receptive now. If you're so strong, then others' strength shouldn't be a threat to you. Ten men who do ten different things are worth more than one slab of brainless muscle. Stuff like that.
Well, maybe he'd learn on his own. That was why Caineghis sent him here, right? Ranulf just had to keep him alive long enough.
“The strongest,” Skrimir said again, plaintively.
Ranulf patted his back. “There, there.”
