“Would it not be a waste?” Fryg argued, having just risen from her seat at the head of the table to walk over. “Splitting such a large tusk will slash its value when we could sell it and buy a pre-formed chunk of ivory with a fraction of the proceeds.”

“This is not about money,” said Gunnar. “My son has become a true man. He chose to stake his life on his convictions and he returned having seen such battle that not one among a hundred of his countrymen can claim to be his equal in honor. You may not like this truth, great-grandmother, but it is the truth nonetheless. You cannot control your entire family at all times.”

“Gunnar… That you dare to say such a thing and that I won’t strike you for saying it proves that the times truly have changed,” the crone admitted begrudgingly. Gunnar turned his attention from the conversation and towards one of their guests, seemingly distracted.

Jorfr’s father was the first to come up to Zelsys. He stood tall enough to look her in the eye, which was only an above-average height for Borean men in her experience. His chest was bare and tattooed in runes, and in his forehead he had the same symbol as Jorfr, though cracks in his skin spidered out around it as if it had been hammered into his forehead, cracking the skull and leaving permanent marks even once the skull healed. In the face he looked like a nearly perfect copy of Jorfr, or she supposed it was the other way around. Unlike Jorfr, however, he wore his hair in three long braids with thick silver rings holding them together. His beard was also braided into one thick, chest-length braid. His hair was a dirty blonde, approaching brown.

“You must be Zelsys! Er- I am Gunnar, Jorfr’s father and second-in-command among our great clan’s elders. By the ancestors, I ought to challenge you to holmgang for stealing my son away like you did. I hear you beat him into submission in a pit fight you did,” he said, grinning ear-to-ear and beaming with a personable energy akin to a golden retriever. A golden retriever with a muzzle stained in blood and big enough teeth to tear out a three-eyed dragon descendant’s neck, but a golden retriever nonetheless. He leaned in to give her a friendly hug in greeting, whispering in her ear in a low voice as he did so: “I was going to test your intent… But I no longer see a need. That you have butted heads with Fryg over her treatment of my son is proof enough to me.”

“I hope to prove myself with more than mere words, I assure you,” she whispered back before they separated.

“Do not hold Fryg’s views against her. The idea that the honor system could fall to corruption was unthinkable in her lifetime, and a draugr rarely ever changes their convictions after their first death,” he added. Fryg clearly overheard, given the cold stare she gave Gunnar in the back. He flinched at what must’ve been a sudden surge of cold, but pretended not to notice right after.

“...By that do you mean that draugrs tend to be the kind of person to hold onto their convictions, or that there is some sort of arcane aspect that prevents them from changing?” she asked out loud, adding: “I ask because I know of immortals who are so inured to change that they cannot even cut their hair. I’d rather not make assumptions about how this form of immortality functions.”

A nearby woman of similarly massive stature to Gunnar seemed to overhear; Zel had already learned that it was his wife and Jorfr’s mother, Yvonne. After having near-smothered Jorfr, she had focused an overly-doting level of attention on Victor, and had only now released him from her clutches in favor of heading over to Zelsys and Gunnar. The sheer size of her chest was astounding, even more so with the consideration that she fought with those things, even if enchanted clothing was at play to stabilize them. Her hair was shorter than Gunnar’s, impossibly dense and dark brown, the same shade as Jorfr’s. She had it combed off to one side such that it went a short way down her front on the right.

“It was once said that one who rises as a draugr is destined to eternally do battle for the cause in whose name they first rose, but… As far as I know it’s nothing magical like a geas or one of the Chromatic Contracts. My personal theory is that it is a psychological aftereffect of the circumstances required for one to become a draugr.”

“I may not be a draugr, but I can see how dying and returning through force of will might cement the convictions that led one to reject death so strongly,” Zel agreed.

“You never know, you might be a draugr of sorts. A desire for life so strong that one denies the laws of nature… It surely sounds like the circumstances that create a Necrobeast, does it not?” Yvonne smiled as her half-closed eyes glanced across the metallized scars denoting where Zel’s head and right arm had been severed. She knew. Not just what was in the books, but something actually private.

The raising of an eyebrow elicited an explanation from the generously-endowed woman. She pointed to the gem embedded in her forehead: “I can see your Traits, dear. Every last one.”

Yvonne reassuringly, yet smugly raised a finger to her lips and gave a wink, promising: “Worry not, I know better than to reveal the secrets of a friend, let alone my boy’s shield-sibling.”

She wasn’t lying; at least Zel didn’t feel that she was, but she decided to still be cautious, as she knew that there were ways to fool her gut instinct.

Her attention - and the attention of more or less everyone else in the room - was suddenly grabbed by a question from Jorfr, pointing out something Zelsys had noticed herself: “Where are the others? Something feels wrong.”