Outlaw (A Norse Xianxia)

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Thing-Mound, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9037

Unlike in the case of a full outlaw, a lesser outlaw is not thrown entirely to their new wolfskin bedmates. A lesser outlaw is allowed three buildings within which to dwell, whereupon he may not be slain freely. Should the lesser outlaw die by man's hand inside a bow's shot of one of these dwellings, or on the road to or from said locations, his kin are owed a triple-value weregild—man-price, the fine one pays after taking the life of another.

There are certain restrictions on what can or cannot be a place of immunity. One prominent restriction is that, as lesser outlaws are not allowed to step foot on sacred ground on pain of a full outlawing, no building containing a shrine to any God may house an outlaw. With that restricting removing the possibility of selecting Dumvald's house or Sterki Godi's house—for Dumvald's contains a shrine to Gna and Sterki's to Tyr—Barki is left with few options available to him.

It is as Barki's eyes drift to the grinning face of a triumphant Modolfr that a certain cunning idea reveals itself. Standing before the gathered judges, Barki prepares to list his places of immunity, "My first place of immunity is Sunningskeld," no man has anything to say of that, so Barki carries on, "the second is Laugarvatntjald, trading post of the Hawkdalesmen," no words are spoken in defiance, so, with a smile, Barki reveals the third and final of his selections, "my final choice is Stacksdell, home of Modolfr Jarnsson."

Modolfr freezes mid-victory drink, his smile turning plastered as his eyes widen to shields. Mead splashes as he hacks and wheezes, the voices of those in attendance silencing as all eyes turn to him. Striking himself on the chest, he eventually manages to croak out, "W-what?! Surely that cannot be legal!"

Sterki Godi hides a smile under the lip of a mead-horn, "No such laws prohibit such selection."

"Then should Barki drag himself to my doorstep, I will slay him as a trespasser for he holds no hospitality in my home," Modolfr declares with folding arms.

"Treat him as you will," Dumvald says with a cup raised Barki's way, "for no law states than a man must provide hospitality when his home becomes the dwelling of an outlaw's immunity. But do keep in mind, Modolfr, that the law does say that an outlaw slain in a dwelling of immunity is owed three-times his value in weregild. And, furthermore, he is allowed the restoration of bodily functionality should his death be un-Fated."

When a child takes their very first breath, it is not air that fills their lungs but the voices of the Norns as they weave the child a Fated Day. No man may stay down before his Day has come, but nothing can nor will spare a man when his Day is due. Such is the lot of the Norse.

All Men Die, and Barki is no different.

Barki swallows, the rush of realization crashing upon him. To be an outlaw is to be driven before death's yoke. Every moment of every day spent looking over one's shoulder, watching for the flash of iron and glint of eye.

It is a life of loneliness; one without the warmth of those you care for, without the love of companions. And it's a life Barki must now live.

"Wise choices, Barki," Sterki Godi's voice pulls Barki from his contemplations of mortality, a shoulder-pressed-hand stops his body from shaking as he's directed aside, "and clever indeed."

"My thanks, Godi," Barki says as he's ushered into Sterki Godi's booth—and what a booth it is! Dozens of silk bolts hang from the ceiling, products of a great escapade conducted during Sterki Godi's time in the Varangian Guard. He and his compatriots had managed to smuggle some of Miklagard's silkworms all the way to Iceland by disguising themselves as monks—a feat that saw Sterki Godi's outlawing in the lands of the Greeks. Still, though Sterki's silkworms fared poorly in Iceland, what little they produced still allowed him fabulous wealth. "Might I ask how your worms are doing?"

A flicker of some indiscernible emotion crosses Sterki Godi's face but disappears much too fast for any true tells to arise, "They are as they should be." Barki's lips purse with a nod, letting the topic fall flat as Sterki changes the subject, "I wish for you to know that, should you find need of it, I will arrange for you safe passage from Iceland shores. All you need do is speak the words and I shall do my part."

A small smile creases Barki's face as his wrist greets Sterki's, some of the shoulder-borne weight falling away with those simple words, "Time and time again, you have proven yourself a wise and honorable Godi. This I promise you; when my outlawing is done, your deeds will not be forgotten."
Sterki smiles, big and broad, as the praise-words fall about his shoulders like a cloak of shining glory. He claps Barki about the shoulder and leans in close, "Would that I could properly honor your loyalty, Barki, but I fear such matters would only delay your escape. Besides, I hear whispers that Dumvald seeks your ear."

Barki returns the smile as he parts ways with Sterki. Exiting the Godi's booth with parting words on his lips, he makes it no more than three steps before Dumvald makes his presence known.

"Barki!" Dumvald's voice is a whisper-hiss as he pulls Barki aside and into the shadow of Sterki Godi's booth. Eyes keep on watch for any would-be eavesdroppers as Dumvald's words stay low and hard-heard, "My in-laws in Hawkdale, the Soursops, possess a ship taken from some Norwegian vikingar," men of the bay who come to trade and pillage in equal measure. "They will certainly make available to you their ship should you present them with this token," an odd object finds itself pressed into Barki's palm as Dumvald speaks.

Silver and shiny the surface, twenty cut-out teeth line two edges—ten to a side—while the third and final is a smooth curve. It weighs no more than a third of an ounce, but the work is clearly that of a skilled and talented craftsman. No mere dabbler could keep such a pair toothed edges without even the smallest of breaks from ruining the pattern. It would take great care and steady hands to ensure such a clean cut—steady hands that would do well in the carving of a comb.

Could the hands that made this token have also done the working of Bestla's comb?

"Who made such a wonder?" Barki asks aloud, thoughts running rampant as he presses the token to the side of his head so that his hair and ear conceal its presence. His bloodline does its job as Dumvald nods.

"Gisli Sursson, my brother-in-law, worked the silver in his home in Dyrafirth, at the mouth of the Hawkdale river in the Westfjords," Dumvald says as Barki nods, vague memories of a map he once saw surfacing in his mind. A journey of four weeks or more on foot, not ideal for an outlaw. "It is a destination beyond your immunity, so I must ask that you take Olfossa to ease the burden."

Barki frowns at that, hesitation playing across his face. Though Olfossa would certainly make such a journey easier, it would also put Dumvald at risk. To aid an outlaw is to become an outlaw, so says the law. "While I thank you for offering aid, I would rather you not be made an enemy of the... law..." Barki trails off as an idea ignites in his mind, an idea cunning enough to curl the corners of his lips, "However, does the law have anything to say regarding the opinions of a horse for its rider?"

Dumvald's eyes glint as a sly smile creases his face, "Not as I am aware. In fact, I find myself somewhat doubting such a thing would ever be considered."

"In that case," Barki's grin grows to a full-blown smirk, "why don't we ask the horse its thoughts? After all, what law prevents a horse a rider?"

"Go on ahead, Barki," Dumvald says as he glances to the horizon, where the sun creeps ever-closer to its comfy headrest, "I will waylay any pursuers as best I can. My song-voice needs a tuning, after all, and what better time is there than at the Thing?"

Sharing a laugh and clapping each other on the shoulder, Dumvald and Barki part ways. Barki makes his passage to where Olfossa and Keld rest as the crooning of a dear friend dances in the distance—alongside the anguished shouting of those at mercy of that torturer's tongue. More a series of variably pitched screams than any true singing, a skald once forfeited a duel of song simply to avoid giving Dumvald a chance to sing.

With the distant word-war raging on, Barki finds Olfossa with his head down and his saddlebags missing. The mystery lasts no time at all, for the carefully-cleaned bones of salted herring lay scattered around Olfossa as he noses the now-emptied saddlebags for any hidden treasure.

Keld barks a greeting as he leaps to his feet, tongue lolling from his maw as his tail wags a furious tempo. Olfossa greets Barki with a rather flat stare, the remains of a herring hanging from the corner of his mouth. Barki smiles, Olfossa doesn't, and so Barki stops.

Pursing his lips, Barki rocks on his heels as he says, "So, Olfossa, would you mind letting me ride you?"

Olfossa continues to stare as he shifts the herring-tail from one side of his mouth to the other.

"I'll give you more salted herring if you do?" Not that Sunningskeld has any salted herring on hand, but silver can be used to purchase goods and services. Wealth covers a multitude of sins, as the saying goes.

Olfossa nods and crunches the bones, his expression immediately twisting inwards as he gags. As Olfossa hacks and wheezes up a storm, Barki lifts Keld up as he follows soon after.

Mounted up, Barki, Keld, and Olfossa begin the four-hour ride back to Sunningskeld, for Bestla deserves to know the fortunes of her husband by his own mouth.

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Four hours pass in a blur of non-stop riding as the sun dips below the horizon and plunges the group into a moonless night. The stars barely enough to see one's hands by, Barki's forced to slow to a gentle walk if only to spare Olfossa an injury. Still, even with the light as poor as it is, Barki knows his land. Soon a bend, next an arbor, and then his house on the hill. That's all there's left to travel, all the distance to cross.

And yet, as Barki rounds the bend and Keld's fur stands on end, the Fates will always have their say.

The wind dies to a close-throated whisper as the stars wink out one-by-one and the buzzing of insects comes to an end. Trees bend away from the path as if caught by the great force of some invisible storm as grass uproots itself in a wave of green, all to get away from the encounter they know soon approaches.

The earth itself trembles as the clouds flee, making a break for the horizons as the cawing of crows fills the flat air. Shadows lengthen as all sources of light screw their eyes shut, fear robbing them of their gaze.

Thunder cracks in an empty sky as a flash of lightning reveals that which lurks ahead.

Reclining on a throne of ice with a fist propping up his chin, half of Harald Ice-walker's face is cast in shadow as he waits with legs crossed and an axe across his lap. In the darkness, the only source of any light is the occasional crack of clear-sky lightning in the distance.

"Hello, Barki."

"Hello, Harald."

"Pretty poor night for a ride."

"You work with the tools you have."

A snort mists in the suddenly sub-zero air as Harald uncrosses his legs and leans forward, his axe shifting from lap to shoulder as a sky-flash glints in those cold eyes deader than Hel itself. "I am hunting you, Barki Gunnvaldsson, and I am wealthy enough to afford to break your immunity."

Barki's grip on Sunning tightens as he meets those eyes unflinching. Though not yet drawn, the weight of his sword on his hip still brings calm to his soul. "Are we to do battle, then?"

Tension enough to stop the hearts of mortal men dances across the shoulders of a single man and a warrior worth five of his foe. Should there be battle, Barki will not survive.

And yet, a dreng does not fear the end, for All Men Die. A dreng stands proud against the tide; he stands firm and resolute even when all the odds are stacked against him. He fights on no matter what comes his way, because that is what it means to be a man.

To be a man is to be the rock that breaks the waves, and so Barki meets the gaze of a man five times his strength with chin held high and back straight.

Frost crawls across the surface of leaf and earth alike as a low grumble fills the air, a flash of light revealing the empty expression on Harald's face.

"Not yet," tension shatters with a pair of uttered syllables as Harald leans back in his throne, his ankle now resting on his knee. "That trial was a fucking sham, not at all what I was promised."

"And what were you promised?" Olfossa shifts uncertainly between Barki's legs, knowing full well that such a question could mean a man's death if spoken at the wrong time—and what time is this if not wrong?

"That you were a thief," Harald huffs as he rests a cheek on a fist, the fingers of his shield-hand playing with his axe-edge as the stars, one-by-one, re-open their sky-eyes, "That you'd be found guilty beyond any shadow of doubt."

"Was I not?"

"Not enough for me, no. Sterki Godi didn't even make you return the comb," Harald says while a yawn stretches his cheeks. "I am, of course, nothing if not opportunistic, so I will still kill you for your lands and to allow Bestla to marry again, for she deserves better than you."

"And in that," Barki says with a slight grin, "we can find common ground."

A second snort mists, one soon followed by another yawn. Harald waves a hand Barki's way, a flippant dismissal of his presence, "It is late now, Barki, and I find myself missing the warmth of wed and bed, so I shall let you go this night, and the six next. But be warned, Barki," Harald's voice gains an edge as his eyes fall to half-lids, "for soon I will be hunting you in truth."

With that, Harald rises to his feet and walks into the forest, the throne of ice melting in his wake.

"Goodbye, Harald."

"Goodbye, Barki."

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The front door of Sunningskeld opens to reveal a tear-streaked, red-cheeked face. Bestla's lower lip is a bloody mess as renewed tears stream down her scarlet cheeks.

"Harald was just here," she chokes out as Keld noses her dangling hand.

"So you know," Barki's lips thin as Bestla silently nods, her motions faint and jerking.

"How could you be so stupid?" She hisses, her tears turning to rage in an instant as her hand draws back as if to lash out.

And then she collapses in on herself, falling to her knees and then the floor. Sobs wrack her body as she clutches at herself, her face screwed into the perfect picture of the tormented sufferer.

Barki's lips thin as his brows crease, his arms already scooping up his poor wife as his legs take them both into the hearth-room. Setting Bestla down on their bed, he wraps her tight in their sleeping furs as he eyes the room.

Knowing Bestla as well as he does, a sneaking suspicion turns confirmed fact as he notes the lack of a dirty kitchen. Bestla's not eaten since he left, has she?

Taking a bucket down from a shelf, Barki passes it to Keld alongside instructions to fill it with spring water. Keld barks his determination as he takes the handle between his jaws. Darting off with great purpose fueling every step, he disappears beyond the door as Barki turns to where the reindeer cuts hang from the ceiling—a product of Bestla's time at home.

Drawing his knife, Barki cuts down the choicest cuts and sets them on a table. Retrieving the herbs, spices, and seasoning from where they hide beneath the floorboards—for such things are of great value and easily hidden, perfect for the prospective thief—he takes a careful look at each of the various containers before coming to a decision. Plucking the necessary ingredients from the box, he turns to the cuts and begins to massage the spices and seasoning in—all while Bestla watches from her furred cocoon, her sobs turning silent as she seeks to memorize every minute detail of Barki's being.

Keld returns with a triumphant trot, bucket in mouth and head held high. Setting the bucket before his master, he leaps onto the bed and curls up on Bestla's lap as Barki pulls a waterskin off the wall. Filling it with hot water, he passes the skin to Bestla before using the rest of the bucket to fill the cauldron.

Placing the meats in the cauldron, Barki waits for it to boil with a trio of wooden bowls at hands. Bubbles pop and Barki nods, quickly ladling the meat into into the bowls as he uncovers some of the bread from the hearth's charcoal grave.

Climbing into bed with his arms around his wife, Barki sets the bowls down on his lap as he slowly, carefully, carves up the meat and bread into easily-chewable chunks. Serving it all together, Barki offers Bestla as much as she can stomach while the rest disappears down his throat—a common saying is that Barki eats what Bestla doesn't.

Empty bowls stacked on the floor, Barki wraps his arms about Bestla's fur-wrapped form as... as h... he...

...

Sunlight peaks through smoke-holes—often the sole source of natural light in a Norse house—as Barki yawns and Bestla murmurs at his movements. Keld yawns in tandem with his master, both working the sleep from their mouths as they cast their eyes about the central room.

As one, master and hound spring to their feet as the events of the day previous come rushing back in. The trial, the outlawing... He needs tools, supplies!

"It's real, isn't it? I'd thought it all a nightmare..." Bestla asks as Barki rushes about the houses, collecting any item of potential value and piling them on the table. Bestla sets her jaw as her brows furrow, "Alright, then, if this is the path they've picked, then let wolves have their shoes and the ground be filled with rocks, for no husband of mine will go down easy."

Leaping to her feet, Bestla prepares what she knows as Barki retrieves what tools he can find. Husband and wife working like a well-built machine, they plan and prioritize as a single unit.

What does Barki grab from his home? Everything on your person will be tracked and takes up space in your inventory, so pack wisely.
[ ] Write in

And what is Barki's next step?
[ ] Write in

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AN: I had some fun writing this update.

No moratorium. I'm not super concerned with what you folks choose to bring with you, as long as you consider what Barki is likely to have actually had in his home before you do so.