The Skirling Pass

[Ollie]

Olivan pursed his lips beneath his hood. "Mayhap I have more story than you know, old wolf."

[Horas]

Gangriss furrows his brow. Though not a young man, Crowsbane's beard is still a dark brown without any traces of grey. "Who are you calling old?" he growls, "Stop speaking in riddles before I get angry and break your damn face."

[Ollie]

"Your camp, your rule," the hooded man replied, grasping the fringe of his cover and pulling it down around his shoulders to reveal his face. Two vibrant green eyes glanced up to meet the wildling king's own gaze. "No riddles."

[Horas]

Gangriss snorts and shakes his head at the man's strange manner of speech, then turns to return to his fire.

[Ollie]

The crannogman follows his irritable host and takes a seat opposite him, across the fire. For a moment, he says nothing, nor even looks directly at the wildling, but after their was given the long opportunity to stretch its legs, he spoke.

"The tales I might tell you are not those that you may be accustomed to hearing. These aren't great yarns stretched from the wrinkled hands of your nan, no, neither are they the threads that young men pull at and stretch until they stand ten feet tall and three feet long. The tales I tell are but snippets of a greater story, all but glimmers and catches of chapters of some fable known only by the gods themselves. If these be the stories you seek, then I will oblige you readily, but if it's the same tired tales you're after, I can certainly entertain you if that is your wish."

[Horas]

Olivan cannot help but notice that though Gangriss calls himself king, he is a king in a fashion unknown to the south. No servants attend him and no one kneels to pay fealty to him as he walks back to his encampment. His fire is surrounded by a ring of burly men with axes and spears.

"Tell a funny story, Southron," Crowsbane says, "Leave the preachings of the Gods to the old crones."

[Ollie]

Olivan cleared his throat, taking a withered, pitiful looking apple from within his cloak and nibbled on the bitter fruit.

"Have you heard the tale of the haughty shadowcat whose females had turned on him?" he asked, innocently. "Aye, it was a real shame -- t'was his pride that did him in."

[Horas]

Silence reigns in the wake of Olivan's "joke." Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Gangriss cracks a smile, then a chortle.

"Southron," he says, the smile still on his face, "That was the worst jape I have ever heard."

[Ollie]

"I aim to please."

The crannogman cracks a grin, and brings up his apple for another bite when something stays his hand. Crawling out of the core of the fruit are two writhing weevils. The grin Olivan wears shifts to a smirk, and he inclines his head to the wildling king.

"Crowsbane, look here..." he spoke, displaying the infested apple at arms length. "If you had to, and I say this as if there were no other choice, if you had to pick one of these weevils... which would you choose?"

Upon closer inspection, there is a stark difference between the two pests. One of the weevils is a long, fat insect with enthusiastically wriggling antenna. The second was a withered, miserable looking thing that appeared as though was exerting every ounce of power just to crawl forward.

[Horas]

Gangriss frowns. "Why would I choose a weevil?"

[Ollie]

"Because you must. You either choose this weevil or what weevil. There is no other choice."

[Horas]

Gangriss' brow creases again. "Then I'd pick that one," he points to the larger weevil, "But if this is some mystic riddley lesson I swear I'll throw you into my fire."

[Ollie]

"No, no..." Olivan says, in a somber tone. "No trickery. I just though you should know..." he pressed on, breaking into a smile. "It is always a wise man who picks the lesser of two weevils."

[Horas]

A mixture of snorts and groans comes from around the fire in response to Olivan's joke.

"Do all of you Southrons tell such horrible japes?" Gangriss asks.

[Ollie]

Olivan only looked amiably over the fire, smiling.