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It is a great shame. If those suppliants had only crawled the few yards of tunnel, they would have discovered a nest of unusual comfort and arrangement. The chamber's spaciousness greatly alleviates the confinement of the tunnel adjoining. The darkness (which Redbeard bears as cheerfully as his poverty) is easily perforated by the removal of some handfuls of dried grass stuffed into the minute holes on the dome. They would then see the shelf of stone Redbeard uses for a bunk, the boulder which he has flattened, with protracted labor, into a kind of table on which lay the totality of his possessions: a bronze razor, a wooden bowl and mug, some pieces of wood in various states of progress toward tafl pieces (the board having already been carved into the table), and a small hatchet you recognize as belonging to one of the villagers, likely a gift for his good counsel. On the dirt floor beneath the shelf, one could often find sketched runes and figures which seemed to hold great meaning and interest for Redbeard, but were inscrutable to all besides. One time, you recognized what must have been the outlines of a map, but the geography was totally alien to you, and you have never seen it again.
Laying your own offerings at the table (but keeping the torc in hand, to pass it directly), you go and gently shake Redbeard awake. The muscles on his back and shoulders are well-packed and hard as rocks, and often you have wondered if he had not been an oarsman in a former life, for although their abidance is explained by his occasional forestry, you cannot imagine any other occupation that could develop an anatomy such as his. But if he had been an oarsmen--and no self-respecting skipper would ever let a foreigner touch his oars--he has never spoken of it.
He rouses instantly at your touch. You offer him your hand to lift him up, and grasping it with his own monstrously calloused one, he leaps out of the shelf. After the usual pleasantries are exchanged, the two of you sit by the low table, Redbeard with his legs crossed, yourself on your hams, both silently munching on the bread and cheese you have brought. The geitarostr is not your favorite, you prefer the sweeter, softer texture of skyr to this pungent tang (in which the smell of goat still lingers), but the rye is still warm and soft in the middle, and its sourness nicely complements the intensity of the cheese. It is, at any rate, Redbeard's favorite, which is what counts.
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