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The Citadel
High on a promontory on the southern peninsula of Marsilikos, the Citadel stands tall and firm against the winds whipping in from the sea. Its only approach is from the north, a set of stairs carved in a coil directly into the granite of the mount, wide enough for only two to pass shoulder to shoulder, rising to meet the single gate room between the inner and outer walls of the citadel, both of travertine, white against the dark grey bedrock that rises high over the port, studded with guardposts, each flying the billowing blue banner of Marsilikos.
Within the twin walls of the citadel the granite has been leveled into a flat rectangular surface, atop which a variety of buildings have been built. The most well-fortified of these is the great octagonal watchtower, crafted in grey granite blocks which match the terrain, rising ten stories higher than the top of the citadel itself, in the top belfry of which is kept a wide array of spyglasses, alarums and massive flags to haul aloft to warn the town below of the arrival of various ships from sea. On the other side of the courtyard are two shorter granite buildings with big bronze doors, under guard all day and all night: the Treasury and Armory, respectively, of Marsilikos. There is also a wooden barracks-building to house the troops which staff the citadel, and the bulk of the citadel floor is open and used for military drills and exercises.
Sometime late yesterday a summons managed to make its way to the Baphinol residence and then to their Skald bodyguard. Well, summons might be too strong a term for it; an interview was requested by one of the soldiers of the City Guard, and arranged for the next morning at an hour just early enough to precede most of the nobility's waking. A room has been arranged, and that's where Gal is settled, sitting on one side of a black-stained wooden table, holding a leather cord wrapped around one hand. He leans back in his seat and cranes his neck to look out the window while he waits.
Not one to refuse a request from the Guard, voluntary or otherwise, the big ol' hired barbarian shows up. Tancred is dressed as befits his occupation, clad in heavy mail and consequently mildly more threatening than he'd might like to appear. Of course, it doesn't occur to him he might be called upon for cultural sensibilities. He moves, sitting opposite of Gal without waiting for invitation. "I was called."
Gal jerks his head about when someone enters, brows raised in anticipation and then a grin flowering into place when he recognizes the guy he was looking for. In a sign of tardy respect, he scrabbles up from his seat and waits for Tancred to sit down before he sits down, once more, too. "Hey— yeah! Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it. I just wanted to ask you if you wouldn't mind looking at a piece of jewelry for me. We're trying to determine whether its origin is Skaldic or… something else."
Always to the point and without a shortage of candor, Tancred pulls off his right glove, offering the palm to Gal outstretched. "Let me see it."
Gal is careful with the artefact, something with the care of which he has been charged— he unwinds the cord from his hand and unfurls his fingers to display a simple pebble pendant with an etching on it like an arrow. He sets it down with both palms onto Tancred's outstretched palm. "Thanks for taking a look, it means a lot," he murmurs.
Tancred winds the cordage around his index finger delicately and holds it up close to the nearest lantern, candle, or window. He likely does not need that much lighting, but nonetheless such things merit thorough inspection in his mind. He grunts, followed by a muttering in Skaldic, and then his question, in d'Angeline : "Where'd you get it?"
Gal has got to learn that language one of these years. His lips draw into a line when Tancred mutters something he can't understand, but he doesn't say anything about it, just letting out a breath through his nose. At the question, he lifts a brow, cagey: "Does it matter?"
"It is common among our people to inscribe runes of power on stone and wood as charms and trinkets and gifts." Tancred turns the arrow so that Gal's reminded of that symbol that he'd likely already spent hours just ruminating on. After a pregnant pause, he returns it to the guard's possession, face vaguely scrunched up with displeasure. "But only one rune is strange - and this is one I do not recognize. It may be of another tribe, or of the Gotland raiders." Pause. "Did a Skaldi gift it?"
Gal almost had his hopes up at that prologue; but Tancred doesn't know the rune, either, and Gal lets out a breath through slightly skewed lips, puffing a lock of curly hair up away from his eyes. "OK. Thank you," he adds, to be polite, even if there's a mote of disappointment. The Gotlander lead is interesting, something he's heard before, maybe something to pursue. "Hum? Oh… no. Or, maybe. We're trying to figure that out, sorta. She has amnesia and thinks the charm will be a clue to her origins. Though… she also has a lot of tattoos. If I brought you to visit her, would you be able to look at those, too?"
"Are you asking if I would not desire to look at a woman's nudity?" Tancred remains rather stony-faced, but there's a note of amusement lodged in his thick accent. "Send for me again when you are able, and I will take a look. Else, I will talk to her and see if she understands me. Though I would not keep high hopes." He begins to rise from his chair, which releases a plaintive creak of recovery after having suffered under his weight.
"I thought foreigners were allergic to nakedness," Gal jokes back— assuming that the former was a joke, after all. "But she's got ones you can see with her clothes on, so you're safe. I'll see about getting approval to take you in and I'll be in touch." He rises, too; the chair need not complain so loudly. He transfers the pendant into his left hand and then holds out his right to shake with Tancred. "Have a good morning."
"Foreigners are allergic to open marriage, not nudity. The tribes of Skaldia know what baths and bathhouses are." Tancred's tone this time is faintly wry. How true that is, is uncertain, but it's clear enough that the handshake and its derivatives enjoys greater universality. He slides his glove back on, gives Gal's a good, firm, non-crushing shake, and lets go. "And you. We should cross swords some day." Whether genuine or mere courtesy, he takes his leave and ducks out the door either way.