Let's take Steinarr as an example. In his relative youth he became the Hero of Crete, but by the start of the quest he was rusty and more or less in retirement.
I'd be happy for us to leave Halla's story at the equivalent of "returns home after becoming the Hero of Crete". She does some extremely badass and important things and then kinda settles down for a while.
Yall know this is Xianxia cultivation novel right? We ain't off this ride till we die or defy the Heavens!!!! (And become immortal through defying said Heavens)
I'd be happy for us to leave Halla's story at the equivalent of "returns home after becoming the Hero of Crete". She does some extremely badass and important things and then kinda settles down for a while.
To be clear, I'm pretty sure this is the only retirement option available. It'd be after the War Arc, of which what just happened was a much smaller sample. So...yeah, it's not gonna be a 'we just quit while there's still important stuff imminent' situation, I don't think.
We can also keep playing Halla, of course. Though I do think we should start the next character while she's still alive if we can, for several reasons. Playing Halla right up until then would be fine with me, though.
I don't quite understand how we could play as another character while Halla is alive? I thought the charred soul thing was meant to be Blackhand/Halla's soul attached to the next character? How can that happen while Halla is alive?
I don't quite understand how we could play as another character while Halla is alive? I thought the charred soul thing was meant to be Blackhand/Halla's soul attached to the next character? How can that happen while Halla is alive?
Before. We've been told as much. Vestfold is actually coming up pretty soon...either next year or the year after at the latest, probably. I'm leaning toward the year after next personally, with a trip and a tournament next year that are both slightly lower stakes than Vestfold will be.
I don't quite understand how we could play as another character while Halla is alive? I thought the charred soul thing was meant to be Blackhand/Halla's soul attached to the next character? How can that happen while Halla is alive?
It wouldn't. We'd play a, I guess, prologue type-thing before they got it with the intention of them getting it a bit into their story. That's only one option for what to do of course, I'm just noting it as my preferred one.
This is not strictly true, she always had it. But we played her before Blackhand was awake and talking which was a very similar play experience to not having it in practice.
Yall know this is Xianxia cultivation novel right? We ain't off this ride till we die or defy the Heavens!!!! (And become immortal through defying said Heavens)
Halla needs to avenge Blackhand's death before she dies. You can't let these things pile up or our grandchild will have like 8 feuds to avenge before they even get to the ones they started themselves.
Halla needs to avenge Blackhand's death before she dies. You can't let these things pile up or our grandchild will have like 8 feuds to avenge before they even get to the ones they started themselves.
Killing four additional Steelfathers is perhaps overly ambitious. I'm down for it if we see a meaningful opportunity, but it's a big ask.
Additionally, those people are screwed anyway. With Ironjaw's recent killing of one on top of Blackhand taking out another four, the remaining four Jomsvikingar Steelfathers are looking weak and the people they've been lording it over, including other Warbands, have their knives out. I'd be shocked if all four of the remaining ones are left for our kids to deal with even if Halla does nothing.
I am sure the first is possible for everyone with enough Hamr and for the second the is at least one blacksmith that developed tricks for mass production of stuff, even if not literally shitting nails...
[X] Muna: Hooknails' Reckoning (Keep the XP you gained from him)
|-{X}-|-{X}-|-{X}-|
It is a law as old as time itself, even older then the Gods and all combined forefathers. It is a law that all must follow, ordained by the truth learnt over a hundred thousand lifetimes. Carved into the bones of the last remnants and colored with the blood-mixed ashes of a razed world, the law stands where others fall. When time grinds all to dust, there will still be that law.
Suns set, moons fall, and all men die.
It is a simple truth of the world, one which all must follow. Gods die, cattle die, one day you too must die. Such is the way of things. Such is how it always has been. Such is how it always will be.
When the first breath of life-giving air fills the lungs of a newborn, so too does fate. Fate guides your steps, leading you inexorably towards the day decided at birth. To fight against it is to fight the tide of all the seas and oceans of the world. All one can do is wait, plan, and prepare.
But while the day of dying is written in the bones of the greatest tree, the method by which death calls remains to be. Death was decided for you, but only you alone can decide how you meet it.
All men die, but not all deaths are equal.
When death rears its familiar head and the Gods watch with bated breath, you must make the most important decision of your life. The only decision that truly matters, the last decision you will ever make. A decision that you've been working towards your entire existence.
Will it be alone in your bed, a final coward's act? Will it be surrounded by friends and family, the result of a lifetime spent feasting and farming and fighting? Will it be on the battlefield, with sword and shield in hand and an enemy in sight? Will you be welcomed by a golden host of Valkyries or will you drift off alone to an ignoble plot of mist-wreathed ground?
As the ever-shifting mass of spiritual energy disappears into the underbrush, Steinarr Freedfire drinks deep of the crisp, earthy air of the place he's made his home.
He'll miss this valley, with its verdant, fertile hills and dense, ever-encroaching forests. Never again will he guide his cattle through those stream-cut passes and fish-filled ponds. Never again will he feel the dirt between his wiggling toes. Never again will he work long hours in the sun, the knowledge that his hard work brings smiles to his loved ones face secure in his heart.
He'll miss his friends, what few of them remain after a lifetime of violence. Never again will he and his blood-brothers sing songs of what they'll do to Horra when they catch him. Never again will he and Torsten Two-Shield save each others lives, a debt traded more then a dozen times over. Never again will Vidar Bignose, though often acidic and difficult to live with, leap into the fray without a moment's hesitation—a more loyal man there never was.
Above all else, he'll miss his family. He'll miss those cozy winter evenings spent telling stories and feasting on a summer's hard work. He'll miss the sound of laughter in his ears as his children scream and play. He'll miss the tender touch of Asveig as they share the rare few moments they get alone. He'll miss seeing the greatest fruits of his labor, how his children won't have to live the life he, his father, and his father's father did—a life spent on the move with all-consuming vengeance filling the mind.
But all things must come to an end. All men die. Time marches ever on.
And it's time for him to make his choice.
Ear-filling thunder weakens to a subtle clop as a force on the march comes to a slow stop. Forty veteran soldiers clad in strong iron and bearing eyes like the fiercest fighter surround the rock upon which he sits. A small, wry smile plays across Steinarr's face as he toys with the naked Crowfeeder leaning against his knee.
From the forty-strong band of death-dealing warriors steps a single, young man. Dark, subtly-curly strands fall around his shoulders in a great pile of hair. Dusky skin stretches taut over well-worked muscles as he rests calloused hands on mail-clad, sword-keeping hips. With broad, mighty shoulders and a handsome, roguish face, his stature and bearing couldn't be more regal. There's little doubt that this man is the leader of not just this bunch, but the whole raid.
He eyes Steinarr for a long time, mouth kept shut and words left unvoiced. Eyes like cooling embers pass over Steinarr's age-worn form as a flicker of something almost approaching disappointment passes behind them. His lips press together into a thin line upon his beardless face.
"You..." He begins, his deep voice full of doubt and uncertainty, "are Steinarr Freedfire, Captain of the Varangian Guard, Hero of Crete, Savior of Three Fleets, and Slayer of the Sand Singer?"
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Steinarr taps the side of his head as a sly look slides across his face, "My mind is starting to go, you see, and I find it a pain to remember all the unimportant little details."
The insult ripples across the gathered men like a wave against the shore. Some growl and raise their weapons as hate flashes in their eyes, only kept at bay by their leader raising a hand.
"I am Alarik Dragon-Dancer," Alarik's voice carries easily over the crowd, subduing it with but a single spoken phrase, the verbalization of his willful Jarlsoul, "son of Hamund Heljarskinn and nephew of Geirmund Heljarskinn."
Steinarr scratches his cheek and blows a raspberry, "That's very interesting and all, but does this have a point?"
Alarik chuckles to himself, ignoring both the insult and his men's reaction to it, "I had heard you were trained by the Ironjaw himself. I found it questionable at the time, but after seeing how you act in the face of such overwhelming force, what doubt there was has fled my mind. You are Bram Ironjaw's student through and through."
"Overwhelming...?" Steinarr eyes the gathered men with exaggerated flair as he climbs to his feet. "For a lesser man, this would be enough, but I am no lesser man." Steinarr drives Crowfeeder's point into the rock upon which he now stands, his smiling shadow falling across Alarik's schooled face, "I am Steinarr, you said it yourself."
"So it's true, then, that you took on and killed twenty-six Saracen Cultivators in thirteen minutes?" Alarik grabs a handful of the air as his words echo across the rock-dominated field, "All at once, without a scratch to show for it?"
"The things they teach kids these days!" Steinarr laughs, a short, harsh thing that banishes the lingering remnants of spoken echo. A gleam enters his eye as his smile turns wry, "It was twenty-seven men, and I did it in twelve. You're right on the scratchless thing, though."
"Truly impressive," Alarik eyes shine with honest respect, "but you have to know that not even you can take on forty and hope to live."
The insults Steinarr dealt him would have to be answered in blood. But blood was always going to be spilled the moment Alarik stepped foot onto these shores.
Steinarr tilts his head to the side, humor gleaming in his gaze, "Who said anything about living?"
"You've gone mad," Alarik's eyebrows furrow a deep valley upon his brow. "You must have! No man would willing walk to his death!"
"One of these sentences is true," Steinarr's eyes are as cold as death as a hand slips into a pouch. "Why don't we find out which it is?"
Alarik takes a step back as Steinarr holds up a single apple slice. His eyes snap wider then a full moon as he stares, "Wh-what is that?!"
"My wife's dowry," Steinarr pops the golden apple slice into his mouth as a youthful smile curls at the corners of his lips. Blood mixes with apple juice as he runs rapidly strengthening fingers across Crowfeeder's cutting edge, "Awaken Crowfeeder, the Dead Sword of Gotland."
Just as the years fall away from Steinarr's face, so to do the years leave Crowfeeder.
All men die and Steinarr is no different.
All he asks is that he be allowed one last heroic act before he takes his leave.
|-{X}-|-{X}-|-{X}-|
You gasp desperately as life returns to your limbs and air inflates your lungs. Blankets go flying as you snap up like someone poured snow down the back of your shirt. Muscles tense and heart pounding, you cast a furtive glance about the place you find yourself in.
Your eyes dart wildly around the room, taking in every detail as you struggle to recognize any familiar sight. Tables, lamps, chairs, beds, chests, Dorri, tentpole, Logi, and... You breath a sigh of relief as you calm your beat-skipping heart, your nightmares already fading from your mind. You're safe, you won, all is well.
"Welcome back to life, Halla Sunshine," Dorri says as he and Logi pause whatever they were speaking of. By the looks of things, it seems that Dorri decided to house you in his own tent—a generous act you'll have to repay one day. Eyes flicking between their grim faces and worrying jaws, your heart starts to pick up the pace again.
"Wha-what's wrong? How long was I out?" Your voice is hoarse and little louder than a whisper as you cast a quick glance out a window-flap. Catching the warm glow of sunlight amidst the swirling shadows of the visible camp, you've either been unconscious for days—potentially multiple—or not that long at all.
"Only a handful of minutes, no more then a half-hour," Dorri says as he pulls up a chair, wood creaking as his fingers worry over the armrests. "As for what's wrong..."
Logi picks up the slack as he folds his arms before him, "Scouts watching the boat guard turned up dead," he snorts as he works his jaw. "Killed instantly with no chance of fighting back and no sign of the guards in question." He nods towards the tent's entry-flap as he continues, "Seeress ran out of juice a while ago, haven't been able to get her to heal 'em yet. We were hoping you might be able to help out a bi-"
Dorri shoots him a glare, "Logi, she needs rest."
Logi shrugs, "So do all the other fighters, but they aren't getting it either."
"I..." Dorri scowls, "I need to find my son."
The brewing argument falls silent as a slightly-muffled shout rises from beyond the tent's cloth walls.
"What in all the fucking realms do you mean I 'can't see her'?!" Eric roars as he's, presumably, stopped from entering. "I'm her Gods-damned brother!"
"I'm sorry, Eric," the tent guard audibly tries to keep his voice level, "but the Hersir said not to let anyone in save the Seeress, as Sunshine needs her rest."
"Move, damn you, or I'll make you!" Eric's voice gains more then a few hints of desperation as the sound of iron ringing free of its clothes echoes from outside.
"You can try," the tent guard growls back as his silhouette shifts to a fighting stance.
Dorri sighs and rubs at his temples, "Grundi, let him through."
Grundi Grunting sighs and does just that, but not before spitting once more before your brother's passing, "Fine, but keep your sword in its damned cover!"
"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Eric scoffs as he pushes the tent flaps, his face catching you off-guard.
He's... The raiders mutilated him. His nose and ears are gone, as are his lips. His teeth have holes drilled in them so as to make the nerves that much easier to access. His eyelids seem to struggle to close and his eyes look more like raisins than any working organ you've seen before—though he doesn't seem to struggle overmuch to see where he's going.
He'll heal, in time, but... "Eric..."
Your horror-filled voice strips the machismo-fueled bravado from Eric's face as he collapses to his hands and knees. You move to help, but are beaten to the punch by a shockingly tender Logi.
"What're you doing up and about, you idiot!" Logi scowls as he helps your brother to a chair, "You're supposed to be resting, not getting into fuckin' brawls!"
Eric brushes him aside, his attention firmly fixed to you as he struggles through his words, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He sobs through tearless eyes as he gasps for air, "I failed you, I failed them!"
"Eric," you frown as you shuffle closer, "what are you talking about? What happened to you?"
"Raiders tortured him," Logi grimaces as he answers for Eric, "but he's been struggling to say for what information."
"They know where they are!" Eric screams out in agony, torn between wanting to give you information and the promises he's made to keep it secret. "At the hiding spot!"
As Logi sighs and starts helping Eric to his feet, Dorri turns to you to ask a question—but you're already gone, trailing fire across the sky.
0~0~0
Death waits for you in the form of cawing crows and corpse-stench. All across the carrion-field that's become of your cultivation grotto are corpses. Dozens upon dozens, forty in total, lay scattered about the place you've hidden your family. Many lack heads and most bear missing limbs, but no sight compares to the fight ending just as you arrive.
Blood sprays in an explosion of bone and gore as a platter-sized hole suddenly appears on Steinarr's body. The crimson-clad Crowfeeder slips free of his wound-dealer's dying corpse as Steinarr spits up red. As one, both he and Steinarr collapse atop the corpse-riddled ground—but only Steinarr draws in precious breath.
Rushing to his side, you muster what dregs of strength linger in your body as you lay palms on his many wounds. Steinarr chuckles and flicks your hands away, a glimmer of humor in his lone-standing eye.
"Now, now, Halla," he sends a wagging finger your way—one of the last three he has on his only-remaining hand, "what've I told you about sharpening a hammer?"
"Dad, please," you refuse the metaphor as best you can, but Steinarr simply bats your hands away with deft skill. Drained as you are, you can't hope to match up to even a crippled Steinarr, but still you try, "Let me heal you!"
"Halla," his blood-stained thumb clears away heavy, unnoticed tears as his smile stays steady, "Asveig told me much on her deathbed, secrets she bade me keep, but—" Blood runs from his mouth as he hacks and coughs and wheezes, "—but I think she'll understand on this one."
"Dad," you can hardly get the words out, your body-wracking sobs threatening to leave you senseless, "please d-don't leave me. I-I'm not ready! Let me heal you, please!"
"I'm so proud of you, you know?" You freeze as he laughs and runs his sole remaining hand through your hair. "I'm gonna embarrass all the other einherjar from how hard my children outclass theirs!"
"Dad, please," you whimper and plead, but it's no use. He's not listening to you anymore—if he can even hear at all.
"Dad, take care of her for me," his head falls back as his neck goes limp, clinging to life just long enough to breath his final words, "Asveig, my love, I'm coming."
Steinarr Freedfire, Father, Son, Brother, and Hero like no other, dies with a smile on his face.
From once clear skies comes bittersweet rain as the Gods weep for the passing of a hero. Your wails shake the world-tree as it all seems to come crashing down around you. How could this happen?! He had so much longer to live! He had... You had so many things to tell him! There was... This...
...Oh Gods, why?
You're not sure how long you sit there, hunched over your father's corpse as a river of tears streaks down your face, but it's long enough for your sorrow-wells to run dry.
A slender hand gently falls upon your shoulder as a woman's comforting voice whispers in your ear. "Halla Sunshine," the voice is at once achingly familiar and horrifically alien, "the Gods welcome Steinarr Greenthumb into their hallowed halls, where he will feast and make merry with his ancestors for the rest of time."
"But what of... Asveig," you whisper the name as you look upon the Valkyrie—your breath catching in your throat.
She smiles, black hair dangling from beneath a golden helmet as black-feathered wings stretch out behind her golden armor, "She'll be there, too."
And then she's gone and Steinarr's soul with her, his corpse left empty and cold.
From the pile of bodies comes a flicker of twitching movement. Still reeling from the sudden double-strike of death and revelation in the same breath, you're left unable to do anything more then watch as the corpse of the man who dealt your father his death wound rises to his feet.
Limbs crack in unnatural angles as the man rights himself before you. A string of pops echo as he rolls his neck and shoulders and shakes off the dreary mire of death. Cold eyes of steel turn on you as the man stands tall and proud, the rain-dazzling sun outlining the back of his head.
"Your father," the man begins with a respectful nod of the head, "was a Hero like no other. The world is worsened by his passing."
"Then why'd you do it?" You desperately want to hate the man before you, but... It's like some cruel hunter took a knife to your heart and left you naught but skin and bone, a hollowed-out Halla.
"As weregild for your loss," the man crouches before you, his eyes full of honest truth, "I offer you the reason why we came, the reason your father lies dead by my hand."
His next words stoke the fires of hate in your soul.
We were invited here to kill him, by a man of no face nor name.
Pick one:
[ ] Hunt For Vengeance
[ ] Honor His Memory
0~0~0
On one of the thousand-branches of the Great World Tree, a short man with a skeletal hand sits with his back to the grand trunk. Slipping a piece of cloth between his teeth, he pulls the bicep-binding bandage taut.
Leaning against the tree and letting loose a pained sigh, he opens his eyes just in time to catch a shooting star rising into the night sky. An even heavier sigh leaves his lips as he hauls himself to his feet and starts the long climb to the top.
"Sorry, Halla," he whispers to himself as he finds firm gripping on the tree, "but I'm going to be a bit longer. I've a son to greet, you see."
0~0~0
AN: And so, as one story comes to a close, another finds further fuel.
Steinarr didn't want us to become obsessed with vengeance. One of his last thoughts was being grateful we would not have to live that life.
Vengeance is something I believe in, even in real life, but it is not something to be obsessed over. It is a task to be undertaken like any other important work. With planning, calm, and an eye to not allowing it to become your entire life.
