NorseQuest (A Norse Xianxia)

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Grid Trembler lacked a warrior's heart. Just one look at him would tell any onlooker all they needed to know of his fighting prowess. With narrow shoulders, thin wrists, and a round face prone to over-expression, he looked more out of place on the battlefield then a donkey does in a horse race.

Dressed in thick, ill-fitting cloth and with a helmet that keeps slipping over his eyes, Grid looks more like a boy in his father's armor then a man full grown. Standing near the back of the fighting line, what little metal there was on his body clinks and clanks as he shows off how he earned his kenning.

Blood sprays across his face as Trond Tollaksson takes a sword to the skull and collapses, leaving Grid as the only thing standing between the Hadingmen and them breaking through the line in full. His spearhead shakes and shivers as Trond's killer—a blonde giant in the shape of a man—merely takes a single step forward as shadows swirl around his body.

Grid knew this was a mistake the moment Trond knocked on his door with words of vengeance on his lips. Of course he wanted vengeance for his sister and her family! Of course he wanted to make the Hadingmen bleed for what they did! What man worth the name would ever allow such things to go unavenged?

But despite the bravado, a simple truth remains. Grid Trembler was no warrior; he wasn't even that good a farmer! All he would ever be was a dead weight on his family's neck, dragging them down and holding them back!

At the very least, he could die bravely, with a weapon in hand and his enemy's blood on his iron. But as the shadow-cloaked swordsgiant stomps ever-closer, Grid knew he'll fail in that too.

Dropping his shield and taking his spear in both hands, Grid finds one last morsel of courage in his heart. If he is to die here today, then he'll die on his feet with a spear in his hand! A real man's death!

Screaming from the top of his lungs, Grid churns up the ground beneath his feet as he throws himself into a sprint. The spear, miraculously, stays level as he charges—for once in his life his hands stay still and steady. Ironic, really, that it's only as he meets his death that they stay tremble-free.

A sound like death rolls across the battlefield, putting a stop to all other noises. Once-clear skies fill with an all-consuming fog as swirling mists grow from the ground. Thoughts of Heimdall and Ragnarok filter across Grid's mind as he stumbles to a stop and the horn calls again. Marrow chills in his bones as blood freezes in his veins, his spear slipping free from suddenly numb fingers.

He falls to his knees as his lower lip quivers. The giant nods an apology as he lifts his sword for one final blow.

For once in his life, his ill-fitting helmet's tendency to slip down over his eyes is a boon.

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Like a war goddess, you avenge yourself upon those who would dare attack your homes. The Aggilsfjordmen scatter so much chaff before the scythes of the wrath-filled Hadingmen. Men die in droves as they try to leap the river, only to be snatched from the air by surging waters. The Hading herself takes to the field as she dooms dozens of men to a watery grave, dragged to their demise by their ankles!

Most of the surviving men throw down their weapons and lift their hands in surrender, but only thirteen of the sixty-five were taken alive. The rest either were killed in the fighting, the rout, or simply refused to give. Their bravery is admirable, even if the outcome was certain. To be brave in the face of certain death is the make of a true man.

Those who lived found themselves clapped in iron chains and marched off towards Asvir, towards a life of thralldom. Despite the thoughts and feelings you have on concept as a whole, you can't seem to bring yourself to care all that much about the freedom of the men who came to burn and ravage your home. While you're sure that Blackhand would have some comments, he's not here to speak them.

In the aftermath of the battle, your friends and allies set to binding their wounds and caring for the dead and dying. Of the roughly ninety men that accompanied Dorri, sixty-three came out with life and limb mostly intact. Eighteen were slain in the battle while ten men were rendered noncombatants thanks to the severity of their wounds.

Fortunately, those ten wounded and eighteen dead have a Halla on standby.

"You're a life-saver, Halla Life-Bringer!" a raspy-voiced man you only vaguely know—a newcomer by the name of Vragi Ditch-Digger—gasps out his praise as he matches his wrist to yours. "Should you ever need it, my sword is yours!"

Similar promises echo in your wake as you sweep across the fighting grounds. Each oath sworn adds itself to your soul as the bonds of fate bind you together. Of the eighteen dead, eleven were able to be brought back.

On this day, seven men met their fates. Their names shall be remembered upon a runestone, alongside all others who fall this bloody day.

Ove Liver-Feaster, who took a spear to the stomach while trying to stop a rock from disrupting the lines.

Oscar Sharphone, who slew two men before meeting his end at a Champion's axe.

Njord Torbjornsson, who fell protecting his wounded son from Aggilsfjorder spears.

Torbjorn Njordsson, who died avenging his fallen father.

Rollo Suneson, who was killed in a skirmisher duel.

Somerled Lungingwalk, who was killed by an errant spear toss during the pursuit.

Kelldorr Crowfoot, who was slain in a duel by Lars Forkbeard.

You shake your head as you come to Kelldorr's corpse. It was he who had the idea to trap the raiders with the river. It was his home that was under attack. It was death that rewarded him for his hard work and it was Lars Forkbeard who delivered it.

Lars fucking Forkbeard, back from the dead to torment you once again.

At the very least, he's probably not going to be troubling the Hading again, given what Sten did to him. Nobody's quite sure what, exactly, he did—beyond a general consensus of 'freaky Finnish magic'—but all who witnessed keep beyond arm's reach of Sten. Apparently, he killed more then a dozen people in the fight, so whatever he did had to have been truly spine-chilling to cause such a reaction—a reaction that's spared you of having to answer any questions of your own feats!

You suppose you'll have to ask him of it later.

Regardless, after binding wounds and tending to the fallen, a runner from Logi's force appeared bearing a message. As he speaks it aloud, a happy cheer springs free from smiling faces.

Logi crushed not only the group he was after, but also managed to catch the band Framarr was scouting with their pants down in a very literal fashion. Apparently, the place they'd hit for food had slipped some manner of bowel-affecting poison into their food. The raiders, unable to control themselves, helped themselves to the feast left out for them—to disastrous results.

There's not been any word, good or bad, from Folkmarr's team. A gnawing pit starts to form in your gut as you recall the fact that Eric went with Folkmarr.

Dorri then invites the men of standing to have their say in what they should do next. Being one of those people of standing, you may speak your piece should you so desire.
[ ] Proceed with the plan as is, group up with Logi and the others and hunt after the last band of foraging raiders
[ ] Alter the plan slightly, group up with Logi and the others and then take on the ship guards
[ ] Diverge from the plan, send a group to find Folkmarr while pulling back to Asvir to consolidate
[ ] Write in

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AN: This was a bit of a weird one to write, I won't lie.

Regardless, no moratorium and probably a short vote.