Outlaw (A Norse Xianxia)

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Seaside Cave Near Sterki Godi's Silkworm Grove, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007

While camping under the stars certainly has some manner of appeal, such endeavors have never particularly interested Barki. With this in mind, it should be no surprise that he takes measures to avoid having to do just that.

As Keld happily trots alongside Barki with Olfossa bringing up the rear, the horse can't quite understand exactly how Barki means to set up camp in such a place so poorly suited for it. The ground of the earthen sea-ramp is at an angle, providing foundation for poor rest and bitter early-morning tempers. The elements, those lashing waves and whistling winds, batter from all angles save for the cliffside wall at their backs.

There can be no doubt in anyone's mind, this is a bad campsite by all meaning of the word.

Olfossa snorts, hot breath steaming in the chilly evening air. His master—for that is what Barki is now, Olfossa supposes—must have worms on the brain to think such a site to be good and right. What manner of mischief has he gotten himself into now, he wonders, as Barki examines the grounds with a hand stroking his bearded chin.

Keld smirks, batting at the horse's side with a tail wag, and declares that they should trust their master, for he hasn't led them wrong yet. Besides, the mind of a man such as Barki is a place of cunning gambles and clever plays, he would know that resting his head here would only serve him ill.

Olfossa narrows his eyes but holds his tongue. If Keld, of the illustrious half-wise hound lineage, says that Barki has a plan, then Olfossa shall keep his peace. For now.

Barki, somehow sensing his horse's negative disposition, turns something of a keen eye Olfossa's way. After spending a moment judging Olfossa and Keld, as if getting the measure of them in some manner, Barki nods and claps his hands together.

In an instant, the world wobbles and Olfossa's eyes snap wide, the ground vanishing beneath his feet only to be replaced with the warmth of a man. An arm wrapped about his equine form, Barki hoists the horse up onto his shoulder as his free hand lifts up Keld.

Olfossa starts to struggle, his hooves dashing against the air, only for a sharp bark from Keld to put a stop to his motions. Barki, that insane madman, takes a step forward, balancing horse and hound upon and under his shoulders, as his foot falls over open water.

This is it, Olfossa realizes as Barki's foot touches the water, this is how he dies. Drowned on the shoulder of a man who should know better. His mother had said there'd be days like this, but he hadn't taken her word as fact! Oh how he wishes he could strike his younger self upside the head for thinking such foolish thoughts!

And yet, as Barki steps again, his foot stays firm and his movement unhindered. His bloodline, that which allows for finding a grip on any surface, holds him steady as he carries horse and hound across the waters. The water, though rolling, and the waves, though boisterous, tarry him not a moment as the surface of the wet carries him along.

After a few moments of this, Olfossa finds himself deposited once more on dry land as the stars vanish and a cavern ceiling takes their place.

Clapping his palms together, Barki grins long and tall as he plants hand to hip.

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The cavern isn't much to look at, all things considered. It's round and quite lengthy, but lacks much in the width department. A gentle slope at the back leads up into the darkness, but the smell of the culprit goes no further than the flat ground near the entrance.

What is interesting about the cave are the man-made features. A small divot bearing scorch-marks carved into the stone is an example of such aspects. Someone lived here for some time, almost certainly the man responsible for the tree burning.

Setting up camp went smoothly, but when Barki knelt down to light a spark in the carved-out pit, his fingers brushed up against something hard buried beneath the ash. Digging it out took no time at all and brushing it clean even less.

Barki's brows furrow as he gazes upon small slivers of shaved-off silver gleaming in his palm. Immediately, a fell chill sweeps across his shoulders as his lips press thin and a bead of sweat drips down his brow. Quickly burying the silver beneath the ash, the ill-feeling disappears alongside the gleam of silver.

His pulse thunder in his veins, Barki considers the facts of the matter. That was a spell he disturbed, a sacrifice of silver by flame to get the spirits to perform some feat. This cave, Barki casts a quick gaze across the rocky surface, a hole facing the ocean, would be a prime spot for spells of a certain sort.

Magic, like all things, requires sacrifice. It is one of the core tenants of Norse cultivation; Power Requires Sacrifice. The more one sacrifices, in the correct manner, the more power one gains. A man may sacrifice time and energy to grow their bodily might. A God may sacrifice himself to himself to wield the power of runes.

Spirits are manifold and mischievous. Some desire sensation, others items of a more physical sort. The stronger a spirit one calls upon, the greater the sacrifice they desire. Such things are the realm of the seeress, but even Barki knows a spell or two. Subtle things, like leaving a bowl of buttered porridge out for the spirits on Yule, or the proper chants for asking the spirits of the forest to reveal that which they hide, or even the striking of sword in wood to show how strong a marriage will be.

Something like this, the sacrifice of silver in a seaside cavern, is beyond Barki entirely. To sacrifice silver in a place like this, it can only mean that a powerful spell was cast. Or, perhaps, it was a spell that required large amounts of magical might to conduct? Either way, only someone learned in magic, like a godi or seer, could have performed a deed such as this.

Or, Barki squints as an idea comes to mind, someone could have been taught such things. Spells and incantations can be performed by anyone, as long as one knows the proper steps to take in the proper order. All someone would need is a teacher learned in the arts and they too would be able to cast magics of all manner of sorts.

A godi or seer would be more than capable of teaching such magics. A seer more likely than a godi, all things considered, but a godi's job is one of inherent magical authority. They represent their godord in matters both of men and of myth. If one were asking the Gods for aid and doesn't know the correct spells, then their godi should—or at least they should know who does. If they can't even do that, then what good are they as godi?

Seers, on the other hand, know more magic than most men know words. If one has questions that need answering, then a seer will know the correct methods to divine said answers. If one has a problem that needs solving and the normal methods fail to see much good work, than a seer will know how to make the problem disappear. Rarely do they give such power out for free, though, as all things require sacrifice and the actions of a seer are no different.

But, if one has the silver to sacrifice in the first place, then they will likely have the means to purchase lessons from a seer. After all, potion ingredients rarely come cheap. Barki has never known a wealthy seer, they always seem to be on the verge of abject poverty despite the refinement of their attitudes and quality of their souls.

Silver is far from cheap. Eight ounces of silver is enough to purchase four milk cows, or eighty yards of cloth. Even a single milking cow can be the difference between life and death come bitter winter. Even a few yards of material can make warm clothes to survive the winter. These shavings alone could purchase one safe lodgings in almost any environment, if only for a few nights. To sacrifice that speaks of a certain level of wealth, the sort of wealth available only to those of high standing and those who work for them.

Whoever the culprit is, he works for a man of high standing. A man who would either know the proper spells or know someone who does. A man of the rank of godi.

If Barki were a betting man—thank the Gods Stefan was the only one of his brothers to be afflicted by such a curse—then he would put a non-insubstantial amount of money on Hakon Godi being the culprit's sponsor. Few other men have any motive to want to harm Sterki Godi in such a manner as burning down his silkgrove. Most would want to kill him to take said silkgrove for themselves, so it has to be a personal vendetta of some sort. And, given the feud between Hakon Godi and Sterki Godi, there is plenty of personal vendetta floating around.

Nodding to himself, Barki turns his thoughts to matters of the morrow. While investigating the cavern turned out to be fruitful indeed, he cannot carry the silver with him for fear of angering the spirits. If he lacks the silver, a seer cannot trace the magic nor can he use it to compare against any damaged silver items he encounters on his journey.

With that in mind, Barki considers the options before him now. When dawn comes, what will be his next move? Simon Sharp-eyes will surely report his presence to those who may want his head, so he can't stay here for long. Moving on is a necessity, no matter how he may wish to take things slow.

After a few minutes of silent consideration and the gentle petting of Keld as he presses against Barki's side, Barki finds that he really only has a small number of potential courses of action. No matter what, he will have to seek out this Erlingr Cross. Since he lives in the North Quarter, Barki will either have to cross the wild Interior, take the populated Western route, or brave the fierce East with its hardy survivors.

No option is pleasant to Barki's sensibilities. Going East means dealing with the sort of people who prefer living alone, who would likely consider killing Barki even if he lacked the stain of Outlawry. Taking the Interior means crossing desolate tundra, barren wastelands as far as the eye can see. Little lives there, save for monsters and beasts of evil sort. It would, however, be the quickest route at only a handful of days, a week or so at most.

Following the Western coast, however, does have some sort of appeal to Barki's senses, he must admit. Even though it is well-populated with established farms and filled to the brim with strong warriors looking for any opportunity to increase their standing, it would mean that he could find allies in the form of Skallagrim Godi and his kin. Surely a man of such standing would have plenty of resources to share with Barki, even if only in the form of wise words.

Besides, Duncan Green-finger, shapecrafter and groveskeeper, lives further to the west on the end of a small peninsula. Seeing what he knows of the silksgrove could prove very beneficial, even more so when one considers the boons of shapecrafting that could be bestowed upon Barki.

Though shapeshifting was never one of Barki's talents, one doesn't need natural talent to have shapeshifting done to them.

Still, it will mean braving the paranoia that lurks in the shadows of the shapecrafter's mind...

Ah, what's the worst tha-

Barki cuts that thought off with a scowl and a bite of dried meat.

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Duncan Green-finger's house is, well, it's not exactly a pleasant sight. Old planks line the walls as seaborne rot eats away at wood and roof alike. Short and squat, it looms over the rocky cliffs of the stubby peninsula like a particularly warty toad does its murky puddle. The door, a thing of uneven and unmeasured make, sits crooked in the doorframe as Barki comes to a stop a fair distance away.

Dismounting from Olfossa's saddle, Barki runs fingers through Keld's fur as he fixes his dog with a stern gaze and a commanding finger, "Stay." Keld fixes his rear end to the ground with nary a complaint, a good-er dog there never was.

Nodding to himself, Barki turns to the shapecrafter's lair with a sort of hesitation in his step. His stomach twists and turns as he approaches the door barely hanging onto its hinges, stories of angered shapecrafters rolling across his mind's eye.

Shapecrafters, it is said, wield the ability to warp flesh with but a single touch. Many men pay such masters of magic to improve upon their livestock, but Barki was never wealthy enough to afford such measures. A good thing, perhaps, for it is said that shapecrafters are all mad, often delirious and unable to comprehend the truths of reality.

Breathing in and out, Barki quiets the turmoil in his gut as he lifts his hand and clicks knuckles against the wood—carefully, of course, for it would not do to accidentally destroy a shapecrafter's front door.

After a few moments of silence, the door eventually creaks open to reveal hunchbacked sight. Long, spindly strands of gray-weathered hair waterfalls down Duncan Green-finger's head like vines off a willow. His sunken eyes, yellow and sharp, peer from a harshly-hooked nose as he gazes upon Barki's form. His fingers, long with gnarled, yellowed nails, weave together as a snaggle-toothed grin spreads across his face.

"Oh good, an outlaw!" Duncan immediately announces as he leaps into motion. Bouncing backwards with surprising agility, Duncan flips heels-over-head as he rolls deeper into his lair. "Come, come," he says, cartwheeling into the main hall, "we have much to speak of, for an outlaw is a good thing for you to be for me!"

Barki blinks, but does as asked. Stepping into the lair of any magic-wielder is usually not a good idea, for it is where their power is strongest and most potent. Still, Duncan invited Barki in, so the laws of hospitality bind both their actions to ones of peaceful intent.

The inside of Duncan Green-finger's lair is no different than the exterior. Long years of harsh weather and ill-upkeep robbed the wood of any hint of rigidity; the only reason the building still stands is thanks to the wood not yet realizing its current predicament.

Duncan's smile never wavers as he waves Barki in and gestures for him to take a seat, which he does. As he sits, Duncan follows suit in a manner one could call 'sit-standing'. Essentially, Duncan doesn't so much sit on a bench as he does squat on it, his arms weaving in and out of twists all the while, "I have need of a man outside the law, for there is a man who needs to be killed and who I cannot myself."

Barki blinks, his brows twisting tight, "And what manner of man needs slaying that you cannot do yourself?"

"Hogart Jump-spider, Hakon Godi's little toadie," Duncan spits the word, his eyes alight with fire and vitriol. "He stole my vengeance! It was to be mine! Kill him, bring me his bloated corpse, and I will do whatever you need of me."

"What did he do to deserve such hate?" Barki tilts his head to the side.

"One by one, I was going to kill every single one of that bastard Sterki Godi's worms," the shapecrafter grumbles, "teach him to call my help needless..." After a moment's silence spent with Duncan staring at a fire, he eventually blinks and shakes his head, "But, yes, Hogart stole my vengeance. He burned down a tree and cast a spell, that's what must have happened! Killed all the worms, the worms' death my vengeance was to be!"

Barki frowns, but holds his tongue. That doesn't line up with what his investigation shows, but having a shapecrafter as an ally is a very useful thing indeed. Still, it would mean having to slay a man, a man who did nothing to deserve Barki's wrath. Is an allied-shapecrafter worth the death of a man?

What is the next course of action?
[ ] Write in

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Current Situation:
-Serious Puncture, Left Thigh | Bandaged + Yarrow | ~2 Days Remaining
-Two Broken Ribs, Chest | Untended | ??? Days Remaining
You are currently well-rested
You are currently well-fed

Current Time: Morning
~4 Days till Harald begins his hunt

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AN: Took me a minute to get into the groove, but once I did it hit me like a truck!