NorseQuest (A Norse Xianxia)

0~0~0
Kurt Frogtongue
Blood not his own coats Kurt Frogtongue's face as his lungs empty of breath in sharp, staccato bursts. Staggering to the side as his sword nearly slips free of weary fingers, a last surge of strength from the depths of his being keeps it in his hand. Swallowing the burning bile in his throat, he breathes heavy as Halla's brother, Sten Iskearauta, wipes his hand clean on the headless corpse of the man he had just killed.

Glancing away from the body, Kurt's eyes find the grim-set face of the man next to be his foe. A shorter man of good posture, blonde curls fall from under the dented helmet upon his head. The top half of a broken spear sits in his sword hand while his off-hand holds a battle-worn shield. Kurt and the man had clashed once before—with Kurt giving him that dent on his helmet and the man nearly taking his leg below the knee in return—so it wasn't fear of the unknown that kept him from engaging as soon as he locked eyes.

It certainly wasn't cowardice, either, for he had fought as hard as any man on this day and none could challenge that claim. To put it as simply as possible, Kurt was tired, exhausted, and nearly spent. Were he any other man, in any other position in the fight, he'd have tapped out long ago. It isn't wise to push yourself to your absolute limits, after all. His father had told him as much when he married sweet Haydis.

Oh, Haydis... She wasn't happy at all with Kurt swearing himself into Halla's service, even with the fertility ritual in mind. If it weren't for Hallotta and Little Diggy—and her own forgetfulness—she may very well have divorced him on the spot! But, despite her anger, she held her tongue and kept her silence, not wanting to rip a nascent family apart.

Despite what some others may say, Haydis didn't marry him for his tongue. No, she married him—for it was clear as day that she was the one who initiated talks—for another reason entirely.

'I married you because you're safe, because you're not someone who goes out and gets killed on some distant beach, never to be heard from again. And then you go and do this, swear yourself into the service of a warrior so far beyond you that she may as well be a mountain to your pebble. What could she possibly need your sword and shield to do that she could not herself?'

It was a good question, one he still couldn't answer. But it was a question that he didn't need to answer, for he spoke the same words he had on their wedding night, when Haydis told him the truth.

'Haydis... I promise you that I'll come home, always. No matter what, I'll come home.'

But just as he promised Haydis that he'd return, he promised Halla Sunshine his service. He would be her sword and her shield till death or loss of service. Her enemies were his enemies, her fights were his fights, and her will was as his own.

Were he any other man, in any other situation, he'd have pulled back and let someone else take his place. But, he was himself and he was the only thing stopping the foe-men from having free access to the men on the boulder, from being able to put a stop to Alvis' skaldcraft.

It was only him, and him alone. All others were locked in fights of their own. Tryggr was wrestling with the man who'd wounded his brother. Jordan was gutting the man who'd thrown a spear through Joarr's stomach. There was no one to take his place. There was no one to let him rest.

If he turned tail now... He'd be breaking his oath to Halla. But if he didn't... Haydis might never see him again. Oath vs oath, promise against promise. Which was worth keeping? Which was the right thing to do?

As Joarr cried out in pain, begging for his mother to take it away, Kurt's decision was made for him. He'd never be able to forgive himself if he let Joarr, little more than a fresh-faced man just leaving boyhood, fall prey to the foe before him.

His shield little more than a pile of splinters in the shape of a circle, Kurt tosses it aside in favor of taking his sword in both hands. His palms grip the sweat-drenched handle as his teeth chatter in his head, the exhaustion sending spasms shooting through his tense muscles. But yet he stands, firm and fearless, as his foe approaches him warily.

Curly-Hair takes the initiative—which Kurt could only thank him for—and lunges first with his spear-half and then with the shield. Orange orthstirr spills like liquid from the man's weapon and body, his strength a cloying, sticky thing as it splatters against grass and dirt alike.

The world falls away as Kurt stares the spear-head dead-on, utter exhaustion weighing his limbs down. All there is in all existence is the spear, him, and his sword—and suddenly, none at all.

There was no swing. There was no cut. There was no sword.

One moment, the man with the curly hair was one. The next, he was two.

The world rushes back in as something slips from someone's numb fingers. It was only as somebody fell as well that Kurt realized what all three of those unknowns were.

His sword. His fingers. His self.

Darkness.

0~0~0
Stigmar Kersson
Ghostly blades scythe through his shield as Stigmar grits his teeth and dodges back at the last second. Sending dirt flying with a back-pedaling kick, Stigmar allows the phantasmal sword to pass harmlessly by as he finds his footing once again. His foe—a dark haired man with the ability to turn his weapons to wind—off-balanced, there won't be a better time than this to press the attack.

Spittle flies as strong iron leaves ribs cracked and spine shattered. Shield and sword fall from insensate hands as the dark-haired man collapses limply around the iron-rimmed shield severing his spinal column. Wrenching the shield free in a shower of bone and blood, Stigmar turns just in time to catch his oathsworn lady dart across the battlefield again.

An eyelid twitches as Stigmar's lips press thin and he hastens to follow her. As Halla Sunshine's sworn shield, it is his role to keep her safe on the battlefield. If someone would threaten her with axe and blade, it is he who they must get through first. That is his responsibility—and his privilege—but she sure doesn't make it easy to perform!

Arrows fall among flying spears as Halla flies across the battlefield with her signature wings of crimson flame. Each wing easily eclipses the height of two men as she twists and turns and twirls across the blood-stained killing ground. Standstill and magic leap from her hands as she lends her strength to her men. But for all her agility and flying prowess, it can't help her avoid the attention of her foes.

She twists and spins as arrows fly and spear-throws leap from readied arms, ever-able to stay just one step ahead of her foes' fighting strength. No man, however, can avoid each and every single projectile heading their way and Halla is no different.

But that's where Stigmar comes in.

As a well-aimed spear sails straight at Halla's turned back, Stigmar's cloak gathers about his shoulders as it bends the wind to its will. Air explodes from beneath the silver-decorated, feather-stylized cloak as it sends Stigmar hurtling across the battlefield. Lips pealed back from the force of his flight, Stigmar stares the spear-thrower dead in the eye as shield deflects spear, hand snatches spear, and a man finds his property returned to him.

Mud splashes up against his body as Stigmar rolls to a sliding stop. He gets little chance to collect himself, however, as a sudden sharp pain radiating from the back of his neck sends him sprawling to the ground.

Fragments of red-speckled helm-mail sprouts from the muddied earth as Stigmar tosses aside the pain and rolls away from a follow-up blow. Mud sprays from the strike as Stigmar scrambles to his feet with sword and shield in firmly-gripping hands. Worrying warmth trickles down his neck as he faces off against his newest foe. An axe in one hand and a shield in the other, the grizzled Berserk returns Stigmar's gaze with a one-eyed stare of his own.

With Halla already across the entire damn battlefield, Stigmar can't allow himself to waste precious seconds fighting the older man. He needs to catch up. He cannot fall behind, not if he wants to keep her safe. Not if he wants to keep his oath.

A Berserk for an older brother, Stigmar knows well the tricks to fighting one. The more time you give a Berserk to plan and analyze, the narrower your odds of victory shrink. With that in mind and a reserve of clay in his pocket, Stigmar does the only thing he can.

The Berserk's head snaps back as blood sprays from his broken nose. A fist-shaped lump of clay flows back into Stigmar's pocket as he drives a foot against the ground and presses the advantage. Throwing himself at his momentary foe, sword-strikes like rain batter against the Berserk's shield as he desperately backpedals away. A powerful blow splits the shield down the middle, taking the Berserk's arm with it.

Blood squirting from severed arteries, the Berserk manages to make a half-strength swing that Stigmar avoids with a simple sway. The Berserk's struggles cease with a flash of a sword across the shoulders.

Turning to once more follow Halla, the only warning Stigmar gets is a cry of pained rage before yet another foe is upon him.

The teary-eyed foe-man's double-handed spear-thrust goes wide as Stigmar pivots on his heel. Blood-slick mud would've robbed him of a chance to retaliate if not for the enemy over-committing to his attack, leaving him wide-open in a slipped slide. A thrust splits open his belly as a shield to the temple sends the man to the floor.

Wasting no time, Stigmar wrenches his weapon free as he sends a dozen handfuls of clay scattering across the muddied ground. Not waiting for any more foes to try their luck, Stigmar leaps into action as he rushes across the battlefield—his target having darted across it once more.

Clay columns rise from the earth, forming gray platforms for his feet as he jumps from pillar to pillar in quick succession. A spear-throw tries its luck, only to find another would-be slayer meeting his weapon from the business end.

Hitting the ground before his charge, relief washes across Stigmar's soul as he looks up to see Halla still there. Following her across the battlefield wasn't easy, but he finally managed to do it! Against all the odds, against all the strength mustered in his way, he caught up to Halla Sunshine!

Now then, to keep her safe...

...

Halla gives him an odd look as his shoulders slump, "Are... You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stigmar waves her off as he shoots a nasty look at the now-silent battlefield, "I'm fine."

All that effort, all that fighting, only for the battle to end the moment he catches up.

The Norns can truly be cruel.

0~0~0
Kare Wolf-Seek
While Stigmar Kersson unknowingly puts an end to the fighting all in an effort to keep up with Halla Sunshine, Kare Wolf-Seek locks eyes with his opponent as he prepares for another round of fighting.

Jogrim Foestep is far from a pushover, as Kare is quickly coming to learn. It wasn't as if Kare had expected Jogrim to be an easy fight—far from it!—but he simply hadn't grasped the true depths of Jogrim's strength.

Even when reduced to scraping the residue of his orthstirr reserves, Jogrim Foestep is a force to be reckoned without a doubt. Defending against any of Jogrim's swings is like trying to block a ship's ram at full-mast. His shield hadn't held for more than a handful of blows, leaving Kare to depend on his sword-arm's strength to keep him safe.

Each and every blow blocked sends rattling waves across Kare's ever-number arms as he grits his teeth and forces himself to respond. Letting a man like Jogrim take the initiative is a surefire way to spell out one's demise, so Kare must retaliate. He has no choice.

Teeth clenching so hard he half-fears they may crack from the force, Kare drives a foot against the ground as he throws himself into a lunge. White orthstirr washes across his body as his power aids his motion and enhances his blows, only for blue strength to do the same for Jogrim.

Even with that chasm of a wound in his chest, Jogrim is fast. Far faster than Kare, that's as is clear as day as he sways around the thrust and draws his sword across Kare's chest. If it weren't for a last-second dodge to the side redirecting the blow to Kare's armor, he'd have had the spitting image of Jogrim's wound.

Breathing heavy and covered in pins and needles, Kare backs away as his shoulder throbs from rattling, lingering pain. Fighting Jogrim is a test of endurance, that's for certain, a test that Kare will fail if things go on as they are. Though far from unused to harsh conditions, Kare simply lacks the stamina to face off against a man like Jogrim. If he had Moonlight, then this wouldn't even be a problem!

A heavy frown creases the corners of Kare's wolfish lips. That damned thought rears its head once again, eh? Sure, if he had Moonlight he'd have no issues defeating Jogrim, but he doesn't. He won't. He can't. The power that runs through the children of the Nightwolf's veins is something Kare can never have, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how hard, how desperate his pleas, it is a gift he will never be given.

But that doesn't mean all hope is lost. Kare is many things, but any lying man who dares call him 'willing to give up' is in for a world of pain. Overly cautious, perhaps. Selfish, without a doubt. But lacking in determination? In drive? In the ability to keep going against all the odds? Never.

If Kare wants to win this fight, he'll have to do it in the next clash of blades. He simply has no other choice. He lacks the stamina to go on any longer, not with how hard he pushed himself to get this fight in the first place. He can only hope that Jogrim's found his limits as well, or else this stunt of his won't get very far at all.

Once, Kare heard tales of a place called 'Rome' that conquered all the Mediterranean. A center of culture and civilization filled to bursting with a strong, powerful people. These people were strong, yes, but according to the Skald who told those stories, it was not their force of arm or strength of will that carried them to their victories, but their willingness to adapt, to change, to make use of oddities and to improvise when the going got tough.

That part of Rome's tale always struck something of a chord in Kare's soul. That flexibility, that improvisational prowess, it always sounded so familiar to Kare—for it is a similar aspect that drives his own people to the heights they walk today. When Norsemen come sailing into port, they do so with the host's mother tongue on their lips. When Norsemen claim a land as their own and populate it as home, they take lengths to ally the residents of that land, to learn their languages and customs. When Norsemen find themselves at long odds, they search for ways to shorten those odds and even them out. If that way is to discard a sword and pick up a sled runner, then so be it.

It is that aspect of his people that drives Kare to take this sudden leap. Risk and reward, a balancing act that rarely is ever certain. Both hands find a grip on his sword as Kare prepares himself for the perilous next step.

Like his forefathers before him and their ancestors before even them, Kare embraces the actions of his forebears and throws his sword.

Jogrim's eyes snap wide as Kare's magic sword zips through the air with tremendous force. The only thing he wasn't expecting, the only thing his Frenzy had not yet identified, was what Kare did. A thunderous, earsplitting crack follows the sword's flight as it closes the gap in an instant.

At the very last second, Jogrim's limbs kick into gear. Red-hot sparks shower the field as sword and sax grind against lakespun sword. Muscles flex and teeth grind as the sword goes wide, deflected by Jogrim's efforts.

Exactly as expected.

Already moving by the time the sword finds Jogrim, Kare takes his belt-knife in hand as he throws himself into a diving tackle. Kare's impact against Jogrim's stomach draws a grunt of shock and surprise as his knees buckle and Kare's sudden weight brings him down. The fall frees Jogrim's weapons from his grip as his hands find holds and a wrestling match for the ages begins.

A smaller man than Jogrim, Kare's only real advantage is the shock and surprise of such an unexpected move. As such, the knife in Kare's hand draws dangerously close to Jogrim's neck before a meaty palm finds Kare's wrist.

The knife descends slowly, but surely, as Kare puts his weight behind his knife's advance. Leveraging his superior position, Kare forces the knife lower and lower as both struggle with all their might, but Jogrim's broken wrist proves weak. The tip pierces flesh and elation soars in Kare's heart as blood leaks from the shallow wound.

That is, until Jogrim makes his move.

An experienced wrestler, Jogrim knows well the tricks of the trade. The moment the knife found flesh, he'd already started his plan. Twisting his head to the side in a sudden move as his hand pulls to the left, the knife finds a new home deep in Jogrim's shoulder—a place difficult to free a weapon from.

Pain shoots through Kare's body as the wind leaves his lungs, a palm like an eating bowl driving deep into his side. Gasping for air, there's little he can do as his knife slips his grip and Kare finds himself pinned under Jogrim's weight.

Twin sets of fingers meet against Kare's neck as pressure begins to build. Maw snapping open, Kare chokes on his own spit as Jogrim squeezes ever tighter. Blood pounds in his ears as Kare bats helplessly against Jogrim's mass.

"You fought well, Kare Wolf-Seek, and were a worthy adversary," Jogrim's voice manages to cut through the hammering of Kare's heart as he scratches and claws at his would-be-killer, "Let any who say otherwise face me in a battle to the death."

Kare's struggles cease for a heartbeat as shock races through his mind. Jogrim chuckles as Kare's skin purples, "Should you meet your fate on this day, I swear to tell your tale to all who'd hear it—for any man who goes to such lengths for the woman he loves is a man worthy of my respect."

Darkness creeps in from the corners of his vision as his flailing grows weaker and weaker. Little more than slaps now, there's nothing Kare can do but die.

"L-leave him alone!" A stuttered shout from an all-too-familiar voice relieves the pressure for a precious moment. Those deadly fingers release their lethal grip as Jogrim sits back, his weight keeping Kare pinned beneath him.

Hands claw at his crushed windpipe as Kare lays there, gasping for the meagerest dollops of air. But his eyes, his eyes turn to the source of that voice, for he has to make certain of his fears.

Standing there, with a shaking sword held in quaking hands, is nonother than Ingolf Ulfsson. The tip of his shivering sword can't stay steady as he points it straight at Jogrim. Jogrim's eyes flick from Kare to Ingolf, a spark of recognition playing across his gaze as he snorts, "Your brother, I assume?"

"I won't let you kill him!" Ingolf's shout is sudden and timed poorly, starting midway through Jogrim's speaking and nearly causing both to stumble over their own words in the process.

A second snort flees Jogrim's nose as he rises to his feet and rolls his shoulders. "You've got a good brother," he nods to Kare as he gasps at his feet, "you should be proud."

Unable to do anything but wheeze helplessly on the ground, Kare's forced to watch his brother stand off against this bear of a man. Little more than a boy, there isn't a candleflame's chance in a squall that Ingolf will win. Not against Jogrim, not on this day. If Ingolf were more experienced in the ways of violence, then, perhaps, he'd have a sliver of a chance. But he does not, and so he doesn't.

The fight—if it could even be called that—lasts less time than it takes to open a barrel of beer in the middle of a thirsty feast. Ingolf lunges forward with his eyes screwed shut and sword held before him. Jogrim twists, grabs the sword by the guard, and drives an elbow deep between Ingolf's shoulder-blades. Mouth opening in pain and surprise, it swiftly finds itself snapping shut as the sword's pommel cracks against his chin.

Falling to the ground in an unconscious heap, Ingolf wheezes as Jogrim leans down and offers a pat to his head. "You fought as well as you could, no matter the odds before you, which is all that anyone can ask of a man. Learn from this loss, grow stronger, and challenge me when you're older."

Turning his back to Ingolf, Jogrim's eyes fall on Kare's crumpled form as he desperately tries to crawl towards Ingolf. Lips thin, Jogrim uses a foot to gently roll Kare over onto his back as he straddles his body with sword held high, "Kare Wolf-Seek," with one hand on either side of the guard, he prepares to let it drop, "goodbye."

Blood splashes as a grunt of pained shock slips through clenched teeth and Jogrim stumbles back. At Jogrim's feet, with belt-knife in hand and blood smeared around his lips, is Ingolf yet again. Teeth clamped tight around Jogrim's ankle, the knife rises and falls as he carves deep into calf-muscle.

A roar of pain and anger leaving his lips, a sharp kick sees Ingolf flying through the air with Jogrim in close pursuit. There's no time for Ingolf to land let alone get to his feet before Jogrim is on him again. A hand wraps around his ankle as, with a surge of strength, Jogrim swings him up and snaps him down like a whip.

A sharp, stomach-churning Crack! reaches Kare's ears as he watches in horrified agony as his brother's spine breaks in more places than he is fingers.

Ingolf's sword lifts high in Jogrim's hands as he glares down at the broken, shattered boy, "There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, boy, and that is what I shall teach you today!"

The sword falls, blood turns the ground red, and tears pool in Kare's eyes. He can't even cry out as his brother's meager motions still, not with how broken his throat truly is. The most he can muster is a mouthed 'no'.

Jogrim shakes his head as he turns back towards Kare, his lips moving as he speaks, but Kare can't hear a word he's saying. His eyes stay locked to Ingolf's corpse as despair claws its way deep into his heart.

He failed. He failed to avenge Vesna. He failed to keep his brother safe. Kare failed.

A sob manages to escape his windpipe as Kare collapses, completely unable to muster even the slightest resistance to Jogrim's victory. All he can do is turn his tear-filled eyes to the sky, to where the sword hangs over his head and golden flames gather beneath the... clouds?

A voice sings wordless songs as golden flames burn against the blue sky. Clouds turn to ash as the flames weaken the fabric of space, ripping open the seams and casting the world in a silver glow.

The moon's pockmarked surface fills Kare's vision with its soothing, silver shimmer. What a glorious sight to bear witness to on the eve of his death.

Craters paint the moon in shadows as it seems to shake its head. In a motion only Kare can see, a hand of silver moonlight reaches down through the tear in space. With fingers like a mother's touch, the hand caresses Kare's face as time seems to halt around him.

The hand takes his own as palms press together for but a moment before pulling away. A simple gift left in its wake, the shimmer of silver light soon sinks into his empty palm. The moment the light fades away, power hums anew beneath the surface of his skin.

The sudden motion of his arm snapping towards the moon sends Jogrim stumbling back, shock and surprise playing across his face in equal measure. From the surface of the moon, Kare pulls free a birthright he had no claim to.

A silver sword of shining moonlight rests against his palm as Kare staggers to his feet. Limbs weary and muscles burning, bereft of all but the most meager scraps of strength, Kare turns his sword on Jogrim as he readies his own sword.

The next blow decides the fight.

Moonlight shines as Kare swings, limbs a blur of motion that Jogrim can barely follow.

Blood sizzles away as Moonlight cleaves through iron and flesh alike.

0~0~0
Halla Sunshine
Stigmar stays close as you cautiously approach Kare. After he'd pulled that strange sword and used it to put Jogrim to eternal rest—after which the sword faded away—he'd fallen to his knees beneath the empty blue sky.

Eyes locked to Ingolf's body, Kare barely musters the slightest acknowledgement of your presence as you come to a stop before him. "Kare?" Your voice draws a flick of an ear, but nothing more, "I'm going to heal your brother, okay?"

No response.

You and Stigmar exchange a glance and a shrug as you swallow the odd lump in your throat. Bending over, your palm finds Ingolf's shattered body as you muster up the strength of your soul. Power flows from your soul into his as the beating of his heart resumes at a leisurely pace. With such great injuries, it will take some time for consciousness to return to him. Still, Ingolf lives once more.

"Thank you," Kare's voice is a quiet, raspy thing. Little more than a whisper, the ugly purple bruise around his neck is evidence enough of the cause.

"Of course!" You answer with a small laugh as you reach a hand over to heal his own wounds. "But, if you want to repay me, you can tell me what that sword you used was?"

After all, it felt more like, well, like a God's power than anything you've felt before. For a mortal to wield such a thing speaks volumes of their strength.

The bruise fades away as your power washes over Kare's body. He rubs a hand to his neck as his stare stays locked to Ingolf's now-breathing body. His chest rises and falls with every gentle breath, all the evidence Kare needs for his health.

Swallowing, Kare manages to tear his eyes away only to turn them on you. Where once there was the yellow of a wolf, now only the silver of the moon shines. "It's... It's something I shouldn't have, by all rights."

"What is it?" You ask as you sit down next to him, Stigmar staying standing just in case any of the surrendered men try anything stupid.

"Moonlight," a surge of silver sparks lift from Kare's palm as he speaks, "the power of the Nightwolf and his lineage, a lineage I am not a member of."

"Aren't you related to him, though? Didn't he come to save Ingolf...?"

"The Nightwolf is my uncle, through my mother," Kare replies through thinning lips, eyes turning to the empty skies. "It's a special relationship by all reckonings, but not one that means I get his strength as my own. That right is reserved for his sons and daughters alone. I shouldn't have it, but..."

"But you do," you finish for him as a slight frown crosses your face. "Does Ingolf share this strength?"

"I... I don't know," Kare shrugs after a long stretch of silence, "maybe? Maybe not? I didn't think I had it until..." He doesn't glance towards Jogrim's body, but the meaning is clear regardless.

"Halla," Stigmar's voice pulls you away from your thoughts before you can really start, "there's people wanting your aid."

Sighing to yourself, you lay a hand on Kare's shoulder before turning your attention to the wounded.

It was a bloody battle, after all.

But at least it's over now.

Pick 1 to receive an additional boost:
[ ] Kurt's Sword Stepping
[ ] Stigmar keeping up
[ ] Kare's Moonlight

0~0~0

AN: BOOM! Update done, baybee! That's a damn good feeling, that's for sure!

No moratorium.