The Interview, Part I

The warrior from Dagnorok tensed his muscles as he looked around the room. His long, dark, disheleved hair fell about his bare shoulders, as his tanned, oiled skin glistened in the glow of the lighting. The place was well-lit, and he wondered what magical fires caused the torches to burn without flickering. Their sconces were of varying quality, and many appeared to be fashioned into upside-down braziers. His mind pondered on what sorcery kept the oil and flames from spilling out the bottom.

Others had answered the summons, too and were present in the room. They were dressed in fabrics from other lands, perhaps faraway Jarkania, in the East, where the silks of worms were woven into delicate fibers. The males wore a light jacket which would keep no man warm. They also bore a long strip of fabric which dangled from their necks. Dogs with collars, thought the plainsman. They must be the weak who have been forced into slavery.

There were females present as well. Some were dressed in skirts as the highlanders wear, and others wore trousers in the masculine style. The burly man made no attempt to hide his lascivious leer as he stared at their figures. The wenches shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the barbarian. It is no matter, he thought. They are ashamed to be in the presence of one who has conqured the Amazonian homeland and taken the once-great Queen Hyrtania as his thrall!

The other men did not meet his gaze, either. One individual stared in terror at the large battle axe layed across his lap. He wore a wired mask over his eyes which gave the impression that he was peering out of small windows. The plainsman attempted to put him at ease by introducing himself. Unfortunately, his gruff voice frightened the man even more.

"I am Yolthar, from Dagnorok," he barked at the man.

The other overcame his startle and extended a shaking hand. "Kevin, from... Ballard. Are you here for the programmer position?"

Yolthar frowned and stared at the proffered hand. He gripped his axe tighter and drew it closer to himself. "Aye. I have come to lend my axe to the cause." Losing interest in the simple man, he looked about the room in curiousity.

The man called Kevin clearly wanted to end the conversation, and Yolthar was content to let it lie. He was a man of action, and conversation merely served to delay the time between killing. Where he was from, an uninteresting conversation could be ended with a stroke of an axe, and the unfortunate gibberer would be forced to speak to whomever would listen to him in the underlife. A decapitated head held much better conversation, particularly when mounted on a wall next to the trophy-skulls of his enemy.

But then again, this was considered "civilized" country, and people here did not slice through a man's neck tendons merely for being boring. Yolthar sighed and his mind drifted to happier thoughts, of the smell of blood on his nostrils and a sandeled foot on the throat of his enemies. He shifted his weight on the chair. It had been years since he had sat down in a proper chair, and that had been on the throne of Umbra. Since his abdication he had been accustomed to the straw floors of huts, or the gathered tinder of a forest bed. His sculpted buttocks ached to stretch out and rove about the room.

Just then a woman came out with a manuscript and a writing device.

"Yolthar?" Her eyes settled on the barabarian and she gave an empty smile. "You're next. If you could follow me please?"

Yolthar strapped his giant axe to his broad back and stood up, dusting off his mud-stained loin cloth as he rose. He made his way across the room with the stride of a lion as he followed the woman beyond a portal into the next room.