NorseQuest (A Norse Xianxia)

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Snow crunches underfoot as you grit your teeth and soldier on. The storm bites at your ears and nose, turning both as red as your hair. While a conjuring of Semi-Halting Vortex helps keep the snow from your eyes, it doesn't solve the underlying problem. It's like if you were to bandage a an infected, scabbed-over wound. Sure, it'll stop any future bleeding, but it's not going to purge the infection!

Fortunately, you came prepared!

Crimson-glowing orthstirr pools between your brows as, rather then connect with that strange something like normal, it latches onto what can only be described as 'veins'. Regardless of the oddity, it still works as its subtle pull directs you to the left—towards whatever serves as 'north' in the Ice Sword's soulscape.

'I wonder what would happen if you used this trick in your own soul?' Blackhand muses as you carefully stay on course. 'I imagine that it'd point to your farm, but why? And what if it doesn't?'

You frown as you consider his musings. As you do, a question springs back to mind, a question that you'd been meaning to ask for some time now, "So, how does the North-Knowing trick work, anyways?"

'It works by connecting to something called a 'magnetosphere',' he hums to himself as a light frown graces his 'features'. 'This was once explained to me by a friend in my youth, a friend whose name now escapes my traitorous memory.'

"Okay, so," you frown as you roll the unfamiliar, oddly-difficult-to-speak syllables around your mouth, "what's a mag-knee-toe-sphere?" It's very clearly not Norse in origin, so it's only logical that an inferior tongue would produce such an unwieldy word!

'I'm not sure I ever really understood how it works,' Blackhand admits as he quickly moves on, 'but, you know how cloth sometimes sticks to you? Or when you get shocked after touching certain things?'

You nod, "Yeah, happens a lot in winter."

'The magnetosphere is what causes that to happen,' Blackhand pauses a moment before quickly appending his statement with an, 'I think, anyways.'

"And how does that work?" You squint as you wave your free arm around, "Sticking to and shocking stuff are two completely different things!"

Blackhand 'shrugs', 'Like I said, I don't know. I think it has something to do with the little flame, but I'm not well-versed with that either.'

You don't get a chance to ask him anything more as, with not an ounce of warning, the blizzard stops.

The sudden lack of wind-pressure sends you stumbling, but—with wildly waving arms—you manage to stay, mostly, upright. Glancing around, you find yourself at the edge of what appears to be an abandoned village. The ringing ting of iron-on-iron echoes out from the single occupied building in all the village—the smithy.

Swallowing the sudden lump invading your throat, you force your way through the greasy malaise and deeper into that forest of long empty nests. As you draw closer, the source of the sound makes itself clear as a hammer rises and falls in a fashion that feels wrong to your senses.

An old man stands hunching over an anvil, his back to you. He's stripped to his waist, seemingly uncaring of the cold. His back may as well be a single surface with all the layers of corded, knotted muscle covering it. His hair is whiter then snow and falls uncombed and unkempt around his back, shoulders, and—presumably—face. He lifts the hammer again and you realize just what makes you feel that way.

Despite the obvious effort the smith is giving his work, no progress can be made with a cold, unfired forge. He doesn't seem to care, though, given the way his hammer rises and falls in an unceasing tempo.

You don't get the feeling that he's hostile, but it's probably a good idea to play it safe regardless.

What do you do?
[ ] Write in

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AN: This one was a real 'stream of conscious', so apologies if there's anything weird in the grammar! My fingers were barely able to keep up with the speed of my thoughts!

No moratorium, short vote.

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Clearing your throat load enough to announce your presence, you greet the smith with a wave and a, "Hello there! I see you're trying to work some iron! Do you need any help, say, lighting your forge?"

The smith says nothing. He merely swings his hammer again and again, to little avail.

You try again for the same irritating result. A scowl passes across your face as even going so far as tapping the smith on the shoulder draws nothing more then a hammer swing from the white-haired smith.

You were about to give the man a piece of your mind when a familiar voice calls out, "Halt, heathen, for you will find no mind to converse with in him."

"He the guy that forged you?" You nod towards the smith.

"In a manner of speaking," the sword answers cryptically, as things so often do. "Have you come to kill me? To drag me kicking and screaming back to whence I came?"

Your eyes narrow at that. Something weird is going on here, that much is clear. Just what and how weird, however, are mysteries you have yet to answer.

What do you do?
[ ] Write in

(Goal Tell says that the spirit wants to... stay as it is? What?)

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AN: A bit of a short one. Perhaps short enough to allow for a third update, but we will see.

No moratorium.