Beehive
Since that month in which he had been chosen to represent the Alfather at the great annual festival, Hrafn was a little disturbed. Maybe it was the huge amount of wine, beer and ale; or all those herbs... and the worst, the Bloodmoon Fruit infusions. Sometimes his head was just a buzzing sound of voices and memories, some of his own, others totally invented to perfection by his own unconscious perception of the world. Sometimes the clarity came like a lightning striking a dead tree in a desert of silence. So he would rather sing to keep everything away, every piece of mind in its proper place. But one voice was louder than all.
"Don't be shy, son. Tell her you're going to plow her field like the last bloody farmer of Blaastambar in search of something to quench his hunger before dying in peace. That you're going to drink her to the last drop and quench your thirst like I(we) did with that last drop of wine from a bottle that I(we) take from that Fontanese bitch. Are you singing? Let me sing to her. Let me out, son!!!"
Hrafn shook his head and stopped singing to daze the voices. He was approaching the Bridge of the Fallen, a dark silhouette appearing in his black vest and his cape with feathers. He was not in his armor, but the short sword was resting at the belt. Already visible, he had not listened to the voices, engrossed in his own beehive. He was afraid to stutter as he spoke, so he first bowed in a beautiful and educated reverence, in reality, as imperfect and awkward as his own proper experience with the nobility. Only when he straightened his body did he dare look at her, just for an instant. It had to be her. Otherwise, he would be doomed to throw himself off the bridge and die in shame. They had sent letters to each other, but obviously it was not the same. He felt needles in his skin, a remind of those damn arrows. "You barely looked at her. Lucky you if she is not one-eyed as I am, smiling a toothless mouth at you like a sailor. Har Har Harrrr!"... He ignored the obscene part of the previous speech and the stupidity (but terrifying) truth of the last and filled his voice with an almost foolish courage inherited from those old dragons; almost.
Hrafn, looking almost exclusively at Ferdinand, feeling miserable for not having brought his own representative: "I am Sir Hrafn of the House Skovgaard. I am here to plead the right to court Lady Sigrid..."
He tried to keep his eyes on the servant, not knowing if that was the most respectful thing to do, but like a good raven, he tried to peek Lady Sigrid. Does she even look like a sailor? Damn voices. Luckily, his cape concealed the dead face of a poor Westmorian who had been skinned by Dürion. It would be terrible to break the ice. Little did he know.
