Even as the entourage climbs through the long streets of Grandael, crowds still fill the streets. Despite being known for its stern behavior, it seems the people trully embraces the idea of such an alliance. As the group moves up, the inner walls become even more pronounced. There, the ever-watching stone heads of the gods, one for each corner of the inner fortress, contemplate the surrounding lands for eternity. Ages ago, when the enemies of Grandael roamed the lands free, such figures protected the warriors and helped subdue the darkest, most dangerous mystical attacks against the walls of Grandael. Even giants would bend their knees to the strength of Grandael's gods, all placed under the wise sign of Odin. If the legends are true, the ancestors of the grandaelians were brought to these shores by the hand of the Corpseteller himself, after a tragic act of treason perpetrated by servants of Loki, out of jealousy. Such stories are still sung by skalds within the halls of Grandael, and as the group crosses the walls to reach old Volund's longhouse, these are the songs sung sweetly by the sinuously inebriated tongues of the poets.
At the main hall, the group is received with great fanfare. Their attackers were conveniently taken away from anyone's view, at least for the time being. The hall is full and the festivities, which were already intense, are now at their peak. The bride receives all sorts of complements, as well as the father. Cups are raised as they cross the halls, approaching the Jarl's chair. Around them, the travelers contemplate a wealth of weapons, gathered from Grandaelian heroes, as well as fallen enemies. The heads of a hundred slain animals fill the walls around, mounting to the legendary prizes of Thorir's bloodline: four heads of ferocious giants flank the area that surround the throne, with four giant swords of odd shapes, one for each head. These were once enemies of Grandael, descending from the hills, clad in strange armor and brandishing monstrous blades of death. But the trully astounding trophies are in the back: between a pair of troll's heads rests a pair of misshapen heads, fused together by a single, monstrous neck. A former king of the giants, Erlend the Bane was fell by the weapon displayed underneath him, the Lance of Grandael, once brandished by Even Folkenson in the March of the Mountains. If the legends are true, every year, in the day of his death, Erlend opens his two mouths, spilling profecies like Mimir, But one head speaks the truth, while the other tells only lies. It remains for the listener to decide which is which. That would explain the highs and lows of grandaelian lordship throughout the ages...
Underneath such impressive prizes, the tall chair, covered in auroch skin and flanked by seabeasts teeth, rests Einar Volundson, Thorir's elder brother and regent for the people of Grandael. The man that set things in motion - at least until now - still holds a stiff, yet charitable, countenance. His strong arms and rigid smile are a contrast to his backbones, a bit more curved than a few years ago. His hair has also grown longer, hints of white becoming more common lately. Some would say he took the heaviness of his duties all too seriously, aging in his father's stead. Others would say that his alliances doomed him to a vanishing life within these halls. Either way, he is no less impressive than once he was. His voice echoes through the room as the guests fall silent upon the arrival fo the bride, all attentions drown towards her and her noble father.
Einar smiles a simple, inflexible smile as he raises, offering his right hand to the bride and his left hand to Alec.
"Welcome! You have been waited with great anxiety by many of us! Above all by me, lovely Astrid! Your beauty rivals the gods'... But it is the strength in your eyes that do justice to your valor!"
He then turns to Alec.
"And you, lord Alec! I must admit it I did not expect you among us, and such a sweet surprise this is! Blessed are the winds that surprise a man by bringing his friends to him!" - he glances at the other members of the party, saluting Arvid in silence, satisfaction and secrecy translated in his eyes.
[Ok, will Thorir enter? Your choice [MENTION=2820]Fenris[/MENTION]!]