Doug in Asgard, part 1
Aug. 5th, 2004 07:52 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsDoug falls through the interdimensional portal and winds up in an old bard's living quarters in an Asgardian mead hall. He doesn't make a jackass of himself, and thus doesn't get slapped in a collar and put to work in the scullery. He initially doesn't give his real name, but the bard allows him some paranoia given what just happened. Doug winds up telling him the truth, and then he negotiates with the old bard and winds up getting hired on as an apprentice.
The flashing lights and sudden side-to-side lurching reminded Doug of nothing so much as the wormhole effects from the old TV show Sliders. That didn't make falling through it any more palatable, though. His stomach roiled as he fell for an unknown length of time. Finally, he popped out of wherever it was he was falling through, and slammed down onto a hard-wood floor, knocking the wind from him. Slowly, Doug struggled to his hands and knees, and he managed to crawl to a window just as his stomach emptied itself.
The meadhall had just enough rooms that the owner could spare the smallest for Hugaldr. Normally, skalds were mobile, traveling from place to place, bringing news and song. Age and one too many drunken brawls had taken his ability to ride with ease, but reputation made it so that his last years could be had in relative comfort. He didn't need more than the small room and a place to sing.
In truth, the old man could have probably talked his way into a larger room, but it served no purpose - he cared not to entertain wenches, and he had no family - a larger room would just be a waste. He pushed the door open slowly, thanking Odin silently that the old hinges had finally been replaced with good dwarven hardwood. Having to shove his own door open after a full night of story-telling and performing had gotten annoying.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the slender figure at his window was -not- an underfed thief. It was... a boy? Barely a child, he thought. No beard, slender shoulders, and retching like someone had just punched him in the gut.
Doug straightened quickly at the noise of the door opening, then moaned and clapped a hand to his head at the too-sudden movement. "Sorry," he said. "I just fell through some sort of interdimensional..." He trailed off as he took in the lack of technology in the room, the rough clothes of the man at the door, and the complete lack of comprehension in his eyes. "Well, shit," Doug muttered to himself. "I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore..."
What kind of language was the boy speaking? Hugaldr squinted at him. The boy looked Vanir, but that -certainly- was not High Norse. Shaking his head slowly, he pointed behind him to the door. "If you have gotten seperated from your family, I can ask Jorundr, but I'm afraid that there isn't much else I can do," he said, slowly. It wouldn't be the first time a Vanir child got curious about the 'peasantry' and went exploring, though, there was something about this child's face that made him think twice. Less haughtiness than most of the Vanir that visited to see the brutes and their meadhalls.
If there had ever been a time when Doug was thankful for his mutant power, it was now. The language the old man at the door spoke sounded Scandanavian, somehow. "This may sound a bit odd," Doug replied in the same language, "but where am I?"
Hugaldr raises his eyebrows at the boy. "My room? Have you had more than your share of mead?" he said, just a bit suspiciously. After a moment of pause, he stepped inside and shut the door and looked the boy over carefully. He spoke some odd language that was not Norse, or any of the varients Hugaldr knew, he looked like a boy - but sounded like a man in voice - and he was dressed -so- oddly. Soft-looking, brightly colored clothing, like someone had made leggings and a tunic out of a woman's dress. The hat was what gave him real pause. What on -earth- was that made of?
Taking a guess - he had heard the barest rumors of it happening before, once. "You are not Vanir, are you?"
Doug shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't frame the question right. I haven't had any mead today. I'm aware that I'm in your room. I meant to ask where am I in the broader sense. As in, what city and land is this?" He paused, taking in the old man's question. "Vanir? Who, or what, is a Vanir?"
Taking slow careful steps - not entirely sure this was not some kind of trick - Hugaldr crossed the room, and sat down on the wooden bench next to his small table. "This is Asgard City, Odin's city." He peered at Doug curiously. "You really must not be Vanir. No Vanir boy I have ever seen could maintain that expression of complete confusion for more than a few minutes without laughing like a fool."
He ran a hand through his greying hair, and frowned. "The Vanir are a lot of idiots, overly concerned with themselves and how they are so very much more civilized than we are. And until you opened your mouth, I would have picked you for one."
Doug grinned good-naturedly. "That sounds like someone I know. Completely obsessed with his own nobility and superior breeding. Where I come from, we call it a 'stuffed shirt'," he said, not sure whether the expression would translate very well. He looked around the room, taking in the pile of furs that was obviously a makeshift bed, a chest, a small table and bench, and a handful of what appeared to be musical instruments in various stages of repair. "Asgard, hm? And you are...a bard?" he asked, hazarding a guess.
"A stuffed shirt? That is a very odd expression." The old man laughed roughly. "And you have a lot of questions for someone who I have found in my room, losing his dinner out the window. I am a skald, though I do not travel anymore." He patted his knees. "One too many nights losing -my- dinner out of a window to spend days on horseback anymore."
Doug blinked, wringing his hands nervously. The old skald had a point about Doug being in his room. "I apologize if I seem...impertinent," he said. "I..." Well, if he was in Asgard, and Odin really _did_ exist, this bard probably wouldn't blink if Doug mentioned "...magic. Some sort of spell took hold of me and transported me here."
Hugaldr frowned and spat on the floor. "Sorcerers. The entire lot of them should burn simply for trying to confuse the normal lives of everyone else." He sighed, and chuckled. "Except then I would be out of new stories to tell. I would be inclined to disbelive you, but what kind of idiot would make up such a stupid lie?"
Doug schooled his features carefully, filing away mental notes of every reaction the old skald had to things that he said. If he hoped to survive, and hopefully find his way home, he was going to have to be very careful indeed. "I do not know who was responsible, all that I know is that I am here." He held out a hand. "My name is...Aron." On an impulse, Doug decided not to use his real name. True names had power, as Amanda said.
"No, it is not, but I will grant you some paranoia. If someone was angry enough at me to drag me from my home, I would not want to give my birth name either." He clasped Doug's hand firmly. "I am Hugaldr, and you are going to have to learn to not pause before giving a false name if you intend to keep up that ruse."
Doug clasped Hugaldr's hand and revised his initial estimates. Hugaldr was rather savvy, and his body language spoke of belief in Doug's story, as well as honesty. Given the situation, Doug decided to go out on a limb. "You are right, Hugaldr. Aron is not my birth name, but I feel that I can trust you with the truth. My name is Douglas Ramsey, and I am from what you would call Midgard. And if I am to have any hope of surviving long enough to find my way home, I think I am going to need some help."
Hugaldr folded his arms and looked Doug over. "I hope you are -far- stronger than you look. I can most likely talk Jorundr into taking on someone to run errands, but crates of mead are heavy." He scratched his head in thought. "You're a great deal smaller than I am, or I'd lend you clothes. And I don't expect you have any gold on you to buy any. You'll never pass in those."
Doug shook his head. Martial arts practice with Mr. Wisdom had put _some_ muscle on his frame, but probably not enough to toss around crates of mead. And he didn't have any gold, either. Except... He raised his hands to his ear and unclasped the small golden hoop that was there. "Only this. I don't know how much it will buy, but it may be a start. As to the rest...would you consider taking on an apprentice?"
"Keep the earring. It would be more trouble to explain where I got one worked so well than it would be worth in trade." Hugaldr said, frowning. "An apprentice? It would not be looked at oddly. The idea does have merit. I take it you can sing? Or believe you can sing?" He said the last with a smirk - it would not be the first time a potential apprentice had less talent then they believed, although with this Douglas, he suspected otherwise. He did not seem to be the type to exaggerate his own abilities.
Doug nodded. The smirk was a bit irksome, but he knew that he was going to have to work hard to convince Hugaldr. He took a moment to try and translate in his head, then gave Hugaldr the opening verse and chorus of Matchbox Twenty's "Bright Lights" a cappella. When he finished, he explained "I am the lead singer for a..." He struggled to find a cultural equivalent for "rock band". "...musical group at my home in Midgard."
The kid could sing. That was a good start. Hugaldr scratched his head again. "Its a good start. The rest I can probably explain away as you not having heard some of the old tales." He grinned. "Sheltered life you've led, cooped up in one of those fancy Vanir towns. Tied to your wet nurse's apron strings, kept away from the barbarians and their ale. "
Doug nodded. It was a good cover, if a trifle unflattering. But in a culture like this, nobody was going to take him seriously until he grew at least the beginnings of a beard. He sat down on another bench at Hugaldr's gesture and smiled. "Sounds like a plan. And in return, I have a few stories that you probably haven't heard. For instance, you remind me of a character in a story I know. Let me tell you a bit about the Wise Belgarath and how the boy-king Garion slew the evil god Torak..."
The flashing lights and sudden side-to-side lurching reminded Doug of nothing so much as the wormhole effects from the old TV show Sliders. That didn't make falling through it any more palatable, though. His stomach roiled as he fell for an unknown length of time. Finally, he popped out of wherever it was he was falling through, and slammed down onto a hard-wood floor, knocking the wind from him. Slowly, Doug struggled to his hands and knees, and he managed to crawl to a window just as his stomach emptied itself.
The meadhall had just enough rooms that the owner could spare the smallest for Hugaldr. Normally, skalds were mobile, traveling from place to place, bringing news and song. Age and one too many drunken brawls had taken his ability to ride with ease, but reputation made it so that his last years could be had in relative comfort. He didn't need more than the small room and a place to sing.
In truth, the old man could have probably talked his way into a larger room, but it served no purpose - he cared not to entertain wenches, and he had no family - a larger room would just be a waste. He pushed the door open slowly, thanking Odin silently that the old hinges had finally been replaced with good dwarven hardwood. Having to shove his own door open after a full night of story-telling and performing had gotten annoying.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the slender figure at his window was -not- an underfed thief. It was... a boy? Barely a child, he thought. No beard, slender shoulders, and retching like someone had just punched him in the gut.
Doug straightened quickly at the noise of the door opening, then moaned and clapped a hand to his head at the too-sudden movement. "Sorry," he said. "I just fell through some sort of interdimensional..." He trailed off as he took in the lack of technology in the room, the rough clothes of the man at the door, and the complete lack of comprehension in his eyes. "Well, shit," Doug muttered to himself. "I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore..."
What kind of language was the boy speaking? Hugaldr squinted at him. The boy looked Vanir, but that -certainly- was not High Norse. Shaking his head slowly, he pointed behind him to the door. "If you have gotten seperated from your family, I can ask Jorundr, but I'm afraid that there isn't much else I can do," he said, slowly. It wouldn't be the first time a Vanir child got curious about the 'peasantry' and went exploring, though, there was something about this child's face that made him think twice. Less haughtiness than most of the Vanir that visited to see the brutes and their meadhalls.
If there had ever been a time when Doug was thankful for his mutant power, it was now. The language the old man at the door spoke sounded Scandanavian, somehow. "This may sound a bit odd," Doug replied in the same language, "but where am I?"
Hugaldr raises his eyebrows at the boy. "My room? Have you had more than your share of mead?" he said, just a bit suspiciously. After a moment of pause, he stepped inside and shut the door and looked the boy over carefully. He spoke some odd language that was not Norse, or any of the varients Hugaldr knew, he looked like a boy - but sounded like a man in voice - and he was dressed -so- oddly. Soft-looking, brightly colored clothing, like someone had made leggings and a tunic out of a woman's dress. The hat was what gave him real pause. What on -earth- was that made of?
Taking a guess - he had heard the barest rumors of it happening before, once. "You are not Vanir, are you?"
Doug shook his head. "Sorry, I didn't frame the question right. I haven't had any mead today. I'm aware that I'm in your room. I meant to ask where am I in the broader sense. As in, what city and land is this?" He paused, taking in the old man's question. "Vanir? Who, or what, is a Vanir?"
Taking slow careful steps - not entirely sure this was not some kind of trick - Hugaldr crossed the room, and sat down on the wooden bench next to his small table. "This is Asgard City, Odin's city." He peered at Doug curiously. "You really must not be Vanir. No Vanir boy I have ever seen could maintain that expression of complete confusion for more than a few minutes without laughing like a fool."
He ran a hand through his greying hair, and frowned. "The Vanir are a lot of idiots, overly concerned with themselves and how they are so very much more civilized than we are. And until you opened your mouth, I would have picked you for one."
Doug grinned good-naturedly. "That sounds like someone I know. Completely obsessed with his own nobility and superior breeding. Where I come from, we call it a 'stuffed shirt'," he said, not sure whether the expression would translate very well. He looked around the room, taking in the pile of furs that was obviously a makeshift bed, a chest, a small table and bench, and a handful of what appeared to be musical instruments in various stages of repair. "Asgard, hm? And you are...a bard?" he asked, hazarding a guess.
"A stuffed shirt? That is a very odd expression." The old man laughed roughly. "And you have a lot of questions for someone who I have found in my room, losing his dinner out the window. I am a skald, though I do not travel anymore." He patted his knees. "One too many nights losing -my- dinner out of a window to spend days on horseback anymore."
Doug blinked, wringing his hands nervously. The old skald had a point about Doug being in his room. "I apologize if I seem...impertinent," he said. "I..." Well, if he was in Asgard, and Odin really _did_ exist, this bard probably wouldn't blink if Doug mentioned "...magic. Some sort of spell took hold of me and transported me here."
Hugaldr frowned and spat on the floor. "Sorcerers. The entire lot of them should burn simply for trying to confuse the normal lives of everyone else." He sighed, and chuckled. "Except then I would be out of new stories to tell. I would be inclined to disbelive you, but what kind of idiot would make up such a stupid lie?"
Doug schooled his features carefully, filing away mental notes of every reaction the old skald had to things that he said. If he hoped to survive, and hopefully find his way home, he was going to have to be very careful indeed. "I do not know who was responsible, all that I know is that I am here." He held out a hand. "My name is...Aron." On an impulse, Doug decided not to use his real name. True names had power, as Amanda said.
"No, it is not, but I will grant you some paranoia. If someone was angry enough at me to drag me from my home, I would not want to give my birth name either." He clasped Doug's hand firmly. "I am Hugaldr, and you are going to have to learn to not pause before giving a false name if you intend to keep up that ruse."
Doug clasped Hugaldr's hand and revised his initial estimates. Hugaldr was rather savvy, and his body language spoke of belief in Doug's story, as well as honesty. Given the situation, Doug decided to go out on a limb. "You are right, Hugaldr. Aron is not my birth name, but I feel that I can trust you with the truth. My name is Douglas Ramsey, and I am from what you would call Midgard. And if I am to have any hope of surviving long enough to find my way home, I think I am going to need some help."
Hugaldr folded his arms and looked Doug over. "I hope you are -far- stronger than you look. I can most likely talk Jorundr into taking on someone to run errands, but crates of mead are heavy." He scratched his head in thought. "You're a great deal smaller than I am, or I'd lend you clothes. And I don't expect you have any gold on you to buy any. You'll never pass in those."
Doug shook his head. Martial arts practice with Mr. Wisdom had put _some_ muscle on his frame, but probably not enough to toss around crates of mead. And he didn't have any gold, either. Except... He raised his hands to his ear and unclasped the small golden hoop that was there. "Only this. I don't know how much it will buy, but it may be a start. As to the rest...would you consider taking on an apprentice?"
"Keep the earring. It would be more trouble to explain where I got one worked so well than it would be worth in trade." Hugaldr said, frowning. "An apprentice? It would not be looked at oddly. The idea does have merit. I take it you can sing? Or believe you can sing?" He said the last with a smirk - it would not be the first time a potential apprentice had less talent then they believed, although with this Douglas, he suspected otherwise. He did not seem to be the type to exaggerate his own abilities.
Doug nodded. The smirk was a bit irksome, but he knew that he was going to have to work hard to convince Hugaldr. He took a moment to try and translate in his head, then gave Hugaldr the opening verse and chorus of Matchbox Twenty's "Bright Lights" a cappella. When he finished, he explained "I am the lead singer for a..." He struggled to find a cultural equivalent for "rock band". "...musical group at my home in Midgard."
The kid could sing. That was a good start. Hugaldr scratched his head again. "Its a good start. The rest I can probably explain away as you not having heard some of the old tales." He grinned. "Sheltered life you've led, cooped up in one of those fancy Vanir towns. Tied to your wet nurse's apron strings, kept away from the barbarians and their ale. "
Doug nodded. It was a good cover, if a trifle unflattering. But in a culture like this, nobody was going to take him seriously until he grew at least the beginnings of a beard. He sat down on another bench at Hugaldr's gesture and smiled. "Sounds like a plan. And in return, I have a few stories that you probably haven't heard. For instance, you remind me of a character in a story I know. Let me tell you a bit about the Wise Belgarath and how the boy-king Garion slew the evil god Torak..."
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