Ulfric's accusation threw Grünn into disarray; he hadn't expected the usually dull and cowardly Ulf to suddenly become so articulate, and he grew anxious and angry, fearing that the Lord would hear Ulfric's accusation.
"Enough! No matter what, Grünn is the slave overseer I appointed. As a slave, to defy him is to defy my authority. Do you know what punishment you will receive?" Hrofr suddenly stood up, grabbing the Viking iron sword beside him.
"This is bad," Ulfric's brows furrowed. He hadn't expected the Viking Lord to be so unreasonable, seemingly determined to execute him. His eyes darted around, hoping to find a glimmer of hope.
"Respected Lord, if you no longer need this slave, then sell him to me," Vargarr suddenly stood up, clapped his hands, and said to Lord Hrofr.
"Sell him to you? What do you plan to do with him?" Hrofr asked with some curiosity.
"I will tie him to my warhorse, then take him to the cliff and throw him down from a height to see if I can lure out the giant in the cave. I will personally kill a giant," Vargarr said haughtily.
Ulfric scoffed at this. Of course, there were no giants in the world. Vikings loved to boast and tell stories because, according to legend, when a Viking died, he would be brought by a valkyrie before Odin, the Father of the Gods. Odin would personally listen to him recount his life's adventures, and a splendid story would earn the God King's reward, allowing him to join the eternal feast.
"That's a good idea. How about it, slave? Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for Vargarr's cause?" Hrofr stroked his chin with interest, sat back down, and asked with a smile. Laughter erupted among the people at the feast.
"If it means sacrificing for Lord Vargarr to defeat a giant, I am certainly willing, but I have an even more brilliant idea," Ulfric's eyes darted around. He had already thought of a way to escape, so he said.
"Oh?" Hrofr raised his chin, glanced at his wife beside him, and asked curiously.
"I am willing to provide a few good stories for this wonderful feast, perhaps allowing everyone to immediately experience the adventures of heroes," Ulfric said calmly to everyone.
"Oh, stories."
"That's great, we don't have a bard right now."
"What good stories could a slave have? Probably just some tales of wild horses breeding, hahahaha."
"Not necessarily, it could also be an epic of a few insects."
"Hahahahaha."
The Vikings all burst into loud laughter. They didn't believe a slave who had never left the Town in his life could bring any good stories, as good stories could only be brought by those mysterious traveling bards.
"Lord, may I be allowed to speak?" Ulfric, however, smiled faintly. He confidently said to Hrofr.
"Hmph, well, I'm already tired of arm wrestling and drinking," Hrofr leaned back comfortably, one leg ungracefully propped on the table in front of him. Others were not surprised; Vikings were inherently a wild and uninhibited people.
Ulfric cleared his throat, a deep, resonant sound that cut through the boisterous clamor of the Viking feast. "Alright," he proclaimed, his voice now imbued with a commanding gravitas, "I'm going to tell you a grand epic, a saga of unwavering resistance against the encroaching shadow, a tale of ultimate sacrifice waged for the radiant dawn of the world."
As he summoned the intricate details of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings from his memory, Ulfric launched into his narration. He spoke of the One Ring, an artifact of such profound and malevolent power that it was forged in the very fires of Mount Doom. This wasn't merely a piece of jewelry; it was the master, destined to subjugate all other Rings of Power and, through them, to bind and enslave every free creature in Middle-earth. For countless ages, this singular object had been the relentless, all-consuming obsession of the Dark Lord Sauron, its creator, who tirelessly sought its return to complete his tyrannical dominion.
To safeguard his tranquil homeland, the idyllic and unassuming Shire, young Frodo Baggins, the reluctant heir to the Ring's terrible burden, made an agonizing decision to depart. With a heavy heart but an unyielding spirit, he embarked on a perilous journey into an unknown destiny. Accompanying him was a fellowship as diverse as it was valiant: wise wizards whose ancient magic crackled with latent power, brave men bearing the lineage of kings, beautiful elves whose timeless wisdom shimmered like starlight, steadfast dwarves with axes sharp and loyalty as unyielding as stone, and his fellow peace-loving hobbits, whose unassuming courage would prove to be the linchpin of their quest.
Ulfric's voice, now a flowing river of sound, wove a spell over the previously rowdy hall. The clatter of tankards and boisterous conversations gradually faded, replaced by an attentive silence as the Vikings became utterly captivated by his every word. The bards held in high esteem by these Norse warriors typically spun brief, unconnected tales of the Asgardian Gods or isolated deeds of heroes—short accounts of dragon-slaying or treasure-hoarding, narratives still in their formative, almost embryonic stage. But now, Ulfric wasn't merely reciting; he was directly unveiling the sprawling, intricate epic fantasy of Tolkien, the venerable storyteller from a distant future. He presented it to the Vikings with an explosive impact, a sudden, dazzling revelation. It was as if someone who had known only the meager sustenance of thin gruel was abruptly ushered into a five-star Michelin restaurant, with the world's most lavish and exquisitely prepared dishes laid out before them—an overwhelming feast for the senses, a taste of something entirely new and magnificent.
"...As time passed," Ulfric continued, his voice shifting subtly, drawing his audience deeper into the narrative's unfolding mysteries, "an unusual phenomenon began to surface. People started to notice that Frodo seemed to have discovered the secret of 'maintaining good health.' On the outside, despite the arduous years and the harrowing trials he had endured, he still appeared as an energetic youth..." Ulfric's voice became a versatile instrument, at times dropping to a low, guttural rumble, perfectly mimicking the terrifying growls of the dreaded Ringwraiths, then transforming, light and airy, to flawlessly capture the innocent charm of the lovable hobbits of the Shire.
"By Odin, is this ring real?" The Vikings were drawn into the story by his voice, their hearts beginning to rise and fall with the adventure. Any sound would provoke the Anger of others.
Suddenly, Ulfric stopped telling the story. He stood still like a wooden man, and the story happened to be at a critical point. The Vikings didn't react for a long time, thinking there was more to come, and waited patiently, but Ulfric merely narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What's going on? What happened to Bilbo? Where did he disappear to?"
"Has Gandalf the Grey figured it out?"
Finally, someone grew impatient and loudly questioned Ulfric.
"Hey, slave, why aren't you continuing?" Even Lord Hrofr couldn't help himself. He leaned forward, asking Ulfric with dissatisfaction.
"Respected Lord, I have been speaking for a long time, and my throat is dry and my voice hoarse," Ulfric cleared his throat and said to Hrofr with a bitter smile.
"Damn it!" Hrofr slammed the table in frustration, but Ulfric kept his lips tightly sealed, like an old monk in meditation.
"Filthy slave pig, you dare to defy the Lord's command, ah!" Grünn suddenly remembered his goal was to punish Ulfric. He seized the opportunity to step forward and teach Ulfric a lesson, but he didn't notice that Vargarr had extended a foot beneath him, tripping him to the ground.
"Hahahaha!" The other Vikings all burst into laughter. Many of them had been captivated by Ulfric's story and, instead, developed a liking for this slave who could tell such wonderful tales.
"Respected Lord, such a wonderful story, I believe it is worth a horn of mead," Vargarr stood up and said to Lord Hrofr, putting aside their past grievances.
"Alright, give it to him." Hrofr would normally never give precious mead to a slave, but now with many Vikings watching him at the feast, as a Lord, he had to appear generous. So, he waved his hand.
A female slave carrying a jug came forward, picked up a horn, and filled it with golden mead. Vikings loved this golden drink, believing it contained magical power, and that those who drank mead would gain infinite courage and wisdom.
"Gulp, gulp." Ulfric didn't stand on ceremony. He was indeed parched. He took the horn cup and drank the mead in one gulp. The sour taste of the drink was unexpected, but as a slave, he had no other choice. He drank the mead, put down the cup, and let out a satisfied burp.
"Hahaha, although he's a slave, he certainly knows how to enjoy himself." This public impropriety did not cause any displeasure among the crowd; instead, some Vikings laughed and patted Ulfric on the back.
The atmosphere in the feast livened up again, and Ulfric took the opportunity to tell a few more interesting stories, such as the rock giants as tall as mountains, throwing rocks at each other amidst lightning and thunder, almost crushing the young Bilbo and his companions to death. Or Deathwing, who plundered the endless wealth of the dwarves.
The Vikings indeed loved stories of dragons and wealth. They listened very intently, and only let Ulfric go very late. Because of Ulfric's wonderful stories, Hrofr realized his value, and so he ordered Grünn not to trouble Ulfric anymore, and also bestowed upon him much food to take back.
"Yes, respected Lord," Grünn's face was as bitter as a gourd, but he was helpless. He could only watch as Ulfric, like a triumphant victor, left with a pile of food.
When Ulfric left the feast, in the shadows between the corner pillars of the great hall, Anger, leaning against a pillar with her arms crossed, let out a sigh of relief. A faint smile hung on her lips.
"Idiot Ulf, an interesting person," Anger muttered softly. She had never paid attention to this slave before, but for some reason today, she had developed a strong interest in this slave who could tell epic stories.
"I don't really like hobbits. Who would like a bunch of short people with hairy feet?"
"Haha, but their village must be very rich, no wonder the Orcs targeted them. If it were me, I would definitely attack too."
"That Dark Lord Sauron is a bit like the god Loki in disguise, you know he loves to play such tricks."
"Dwarves, I like dwarves, they have exquisite craftsmanship. I truly wish I could meet them."
After Ulfric left, the Vikings were still chatting with great interest. Unbeknownst to them, old man Tolkien probably never dreamed that he would gain a group of Viking fans in a medieval world.
"Respected Lord, we should also have an adventure of our own, don't you agree?" Vargarr stood up, raised his wine cup, and loudly said to Hrofr.
"Brave warrior from afar, Vargarr, if you can join my ranks, we will surely achieve great things." Hrofr's eyes also gleamed with longing and fervor. He raised his wine cup and said to everyone.
"Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, raid, raid, raid!" The Vikings felt Hrofr's fervor, and they all began to loudly bang on the sturdy wooden tables in front of them, shouting.