Sunningskeld, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007
It is said that Barki Gunnvaldsson, upon arriving in Iceland, declared that his sword, Sunning, would bring him to a fine land fit for farming. Wherever he went, he thrust his sword into the ground to test the soil. None met his standards, until one day he broke earth and fresh water sprang forth. There he made his home; and he named it 'Sunningskeld', or 'Sunning's Spring.'
Surrounding the squat hill upon which Sunningskeld sits is the forest of 'Groenstrtre', or 'Green-trees', named for the particularly verdant leaves that adorn the army-ranks of birches, rowans, and the occasional alder. Even in the winter, it is said that these trees retain their color and garments despite the bite of icy chill. A herd of reindeer—transported from the frostbitten cold of Northern Norway—had taken well to the abundant flora and flourished.
It is with one of those reindeer across his shoulders that Barki Gunnvaldsson enters this tale. Brushing the leaves from his clothes, the cheery bark of Keld at his side draws a smile to his lips. Taking a moment's knee, Barki runs fingers through gray fur as the fuzzy tents of Keld's ears receive close attention.
Keld's tongue lolls from his mouth, tail wagging harder than a young tree in a storm. A soft whine begs for Barki's hand to stay, but there is always work to be done on a farm. No matter how much Barki may want to pamper his dog for eternity, the summer melt would rot his house around him if he but gave it the chance.
With the warmth of the morning sun at his back, the thought of home drives Barki onward. A warm meal to soothe the pit in his gut, a friendly, rosy-cheeked face opening the door, and the press of his lover's lips—truly, can there be a better life than this?
The packed walls of his grass-topped home shine with the glow of early morning light. Trickle-trails of sun-dabbled smoke escape from the smoke holes dotting the rounded roof of his house. Carved above each of his home's four fireplaces, the smoke holes bear birch paneling that matches the peaked roofs of both the front and back doors. Carved elaborately with swirling lines and twisting knots, the front door opens to reveal a worried face soon replaced with warm smiles.
"Hello the house!" Barki calls as his spirits lift, the smile in the doorway renewing the spring in his step. "And hello my lovely," he says as he lays eyes on his wife.
"Hello the visitor!" Bestla gives warm greetings as her cheeks ignite in healthy glow. A single step is all it takes to close the distance and a single breath is all she needs to pull Barki into a tight embrace. "And hello my darling," she whispers just before their lips touch.
They stay like that for a long time, all responsibilities forgotten in the face of love. Neither hunger pangs nor anxious worry will trouble either as long as their lips stay locked and their grasp keeps tight.
Alas, nothing in life is forever—not even the Gods—and the sudden presence of a wet nose sees to that as Keld forces himself between the embracing pair. A jealous whine slips his lips as he begs attention from master and mistress alike, who give freely their pats and head scratches and belly rubs. A more spoiled dog there never was, and that is the truth before the Gods.
Their revelry now spoiled, there's little else to distract Barki and Bestla from the day's work. The door clinks against the doorstop as Barki follows Bestla inside, a certain lovely scent striking him upside the head. He pauses his activities, a grin painting his face as he draws in lungfuls of that wholesome honey air.
"You smell nice, wife." A playful swat is his reward as Bestla cocks a coy grin.
"And you smell of reindeer, husband," Bestla says as she motions towards the butcher's hooks dangling beside Barki's workbench—his woodworking tools still scattered across its work-scarred surface, "Butcher your smell-father while I draw water, for your hair requires my marital touch."
Light warmth heats Barki's cheeks as forefinger and thumb rub work-made greasy hair. Nodding thanks his wife's way, his palm finds reindeer fur as the power in his blood pulses and thrums. The connection between shoulder and beast breaks as his hand fills the gap. Taking his knife from where it lays stuck against his forearm—his bloodline making stowing things a simple matter—Barki hangs the reindeer from the ceiling as he starts his bloody work. All the while, the sound of running water fills his ears as the spring beneath his house fuels the bath being drawn.
To the Norse, personal hygiene and bodily care is an essential part of everyday life. Bathing is a common event in any Norse household, for one's appearance must be kept to as high a standard as he can afford—and sometimes well beyond. Purposefully dirtying another man is grounds to kill in retaliation.
So, there is no surprise to see soap and floral mixtures in Bestla's hands as she carries the essentials out to where the hot springs-turned-bath sits just to the right of Barki's house. With a stone-paved path making the route a simple matter and a fine view of the front yard's vista to look at, it should be no surprise to find Barki, Bestla, or both spending hours at a time soaking in the soothing waters of the bath.
Though the pelt isn't as fine as it could have been had Barki trapped it in winter, it will still fetch a high price once he's tanned it properly. Lathering the hide with the reindeer's own fat, Barki sets it to hang as a sharp chill runs fingers across his neck.
"Is that damn door still loose?" Barki turns a narrowing eye on the light beams pouring through the stubborn doorway gaps. The hinge-side of the doorframe keeps sagging inwards, meaning that the door won't close and the lock can't latch. "I thought I'd fixed that."
"I keep saying you should just replace the whole thing," Bestla says as she emerges from the central hearthroom—having stepped inside to check on the morning meal still in preparation.
Barki purses his lips, wiping his lard-laden hands on the towel his bloodline keeps stuck to his hip. Walking over to the door, he tilts his head to the side—a motion mirrored by Keld—as he examines with a woodworker's eye. After a moment's thought, a shake of the head heralds his words, "I reckon not just yet. As long as you're careful closing the door and don't let it bang, the frame"—to which he gives a firm shove, forcing it back into place—"won't slip, see?"
Bestla chews her bottom lip as she offers a slow nod, clearly not satisfied with Barki's solution, "I suppose I see your point. Still, the bath is ready and, by the looks of things," she eyes Barki's dirtied form with a lifting brow, "so are you."
Barki spreads his arms, a sly grin spreading on his face. Bestla's eyes narrow as a warning slips her lips, "Don't you da"—his bloodline's hold on the dirt releases, the flecks falling in a pile at his feet—"Barki!"
Forced outside by the furious Bestla, Barki shares a laugh with Keld as the pair make their way to the bath.
0~0~0
It is said that when Barki was first trying to woo Bestla, he tried approaching her with empty hands and a wide smile. Though the two had hit it off, she had refused to marry a man with such little to his name that he courts while lacking gifts. Terribly despondent and desperate for aid, Barki sought the advice of a wandering wiseman. The wiseman, who refused to give his name, gave Barki a comb of unequalled value and told Barki that if he gave Bestla the comb, Bestla would love him till the end of time.
It is that comb that now runs through Barki's fair hair as Bestla hums a song to soothe the spirits of the air, waters, and warmth. Made of a shell found only in the deepest corners of the ocean and with teeth carved of a mighty beast's ivory tusks, it is said that hair combed with it would forever be full and healthy.
"So, husband," Bestla pauses her humming as she hits a slight snag in Barki's hair, the tip of her tongue showing as she gently works her comb through the knot, "have you given attending the Thing anymore thought? It's ending today, you know."
Barki snorts as he sinks deeper into the warm waters, a few flower petals floating on by. "I have no reason to breathe the Thing's air, wife, for all I require in life is the woman now combing my hair."
"However true that may be, dear husband," the soft smile on Bestla's face undermines the stern, reproachful tone of her voice, "it reflects poorly on the both of us if you decline attendance at the Thing. And what if Sterki Godi required your aid? Surely you wouldn't refuse the call of the man who helped you on your feet when your uncle wouldn't?"
"If Sterki Godi needs my sword-arm," Barki says with a content sigh, "he will come in person to tell me just that. Besides," a flick of the fingers turns into a sweeping motion as Barki gestures to all his property, "do you see any horses, my dear wife? It is known that if a man would attend the Thing, he must ride there on the back of a horse."
The corner of Bestla's left eye twitches at the mention of the equine absence, but she remains undeterred, "But what of your good friend Dumvald Strong-rider? Surely he, a man who owns many horses, wouldn't refuse you should you make it known you desire to attend the Thing?"
"And I say again, Bestla-my-wife, my heart holds no desire to lay eyes on the Thing-mound." Barki holds Bestla's gaze for a long moment before, eventually, giving in. "But," he says as he presses a single soft kiss to Bestla's lips, her eyes fluttering in surprise at the sudden act, "if it will soothe your worries, I promise to attend the Thing when the next opportunity presents itself."
The thunder of approaching hooves punctuates Barki's words as Keld tenses, his fur standing on end as his lips peel back in a toothy growl.
Water splashes in all directions as Barki scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping on the slick bath-stones as he clambers from the bath. His clothes, piled neat and dry, darken with wet splotches as he rushes to dress himself—all the while the horse-drawn thunder draws ever-closer.
Bestla appears with Sunning and shield in hand while keeping her cloak draped across an arm. Passing the weapons Barki's way, the two turn their eyes to the tree line just as a pair of horse-topping figures ride into view.
Barki's lips thin as Bestla grabs hold of his arm, her bottom lip chaffing from the touch of her teeth.
The riders slow to a stop halfway up the hill as iron mail gleams in the light of the sun. The taller of the two, his hair white as snow, dismounts from his horse first and is soon followed by the shorter, darker-haired man. An axe as long as he is tall rests its head against the tall man's mail-clad shoulder, his icy eyes having no trouble finding Barki.
"Harald Ice-walker, and Styrkarr," Barki names the tall and short man respectively. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
"Is he treating you as well as another could've, sister?" Harald Ice-walker calls to Bestla as Styrkarr puffs up his chest, his assumptions clear. "Have you enjoyed your time in poverty?"
"To you this may be poverty," Bestla scowls as she steps forward past Barki, "but to me it is bliss!"
"I will not repeat myself again," Barki says as his brows twist into a deep canyon, "what business have you come here on?"
"If this is bliss to you," Harald shakes his head in a token effort to hide his smile, "then you have my pity."
Bestla's scowl deepens as she takes another step forward, her hands twisting into tight fists as she shouts, "You will answer my husband when he speaks to you, half-brother mine!"
"Did you see that, Styrkarr? His woman speaks for him!" Harald chuckles, a motion quickly copied by Styrkarr, but a wave of the hand puts a stop to the laughter, "But fine, fine. I've spent enough time here anyways. Say, Barki," Harald turns his gaze on Barki fully, those two pools of ice just barely containing the ocean of raw power concealed just below the surface, "what was it you asked of me? I'm afraid I couldn't quite hear you from so far below."
Barki's grip tightens around Sunning's grip, the fires of his heart's rage stoked ever-hotter by the foul words Harald speaks. Had Harald been any other man, he would not be leaving on this day. But Harald is not any other man; he is Harald Ice-walker, and he is the man who walked to Iceland over a bridge of his own ice.
Bestla goes to take another step, but a clearing of Barki's throat stops her in her tracks. Though to compare his strength with Harald's is a fool's gambit, no man can rest when challenged like this, "Harald Ice-walker, speak your piece and leave."
Harald lifts his chin, eyes never leaving Barki's for a moment, "I've been sent by the Thing to notify you of a summons. You, Barki Gunnvaldsson, stand accused of stealing that which gave you her," he stabs a thick finger at Bestla, "the comb of shell and ivory."
"Th-that's madness!" Barki shouts, shock radiating through his body, "That comb was a gift!"
"A gift given to you by a man you cannot name," Harald tilts his head to the side as Styrkarr snickers.
"Who accuses me of this?" Barki grits his teeth, worry sparking in his heart. Though he knows there was no theft, the lack of a name could be quite damning in the eyes of the court. If his accuser is a man of ill-repute, that fact shouldn't matter much. But if his accuser is well-known...
"Does it matter?" Harald scoffs, unknowingly confirming the matter to Barki. Harald would be gloating up and down the hill if Barki's accuser was a beloved man of society, for the verdict would have already been decided, "Everyone knows that you could never have afforded such a prize as that comb."
Bestla can't hold her tongue any longer, "Barki is the nephew of Harthacnut, King of the Danes!"
"Only by marriage, Bestla, not by blood," Harald retorts with folded arms, "and even if that were the case, we are not in Denmark. We stand in Iceland!" He spreads his arms wide as he shouts to the wind, "And this Icelander has had enough of this stench!"
The cloak about his shoulders twirls as Harald mounts back upon his horse, Styrkarr hurrying to copy the motions. Leading the mounts about, Harald begins the day's journey back to the Thing—Barki's eyes lingering long after he disappears into the trees.
"Well," Barki finally manages to unclench his jaw, fury keeping his fists tight as his eyes stare straight ahead, "I guess that means I'm going to the Thing after all."
0~0~0
Breakfast passes in a blur as Barki, now with a stomach full of warm morning stew, kisses Bestla goodbye as he sets out with Keld at his side. Walking down the forest trail linking Sunningskeld to the rest of Iceland, Barki's ears grow sharper and sharper with each step he takes. The quickest route to Dumvald's farm passes through a crossroads, so soon Barki will know for sure if he has enemies ahead.
If a man is summoned to court and fails to show by Thing's end, he is deemed guilty no matter the evidence against him. Waiting till the last moment to deliver the message was a calculated move and, if Barki knows Harald at all—which he, unfortunately, does—then Harald will have placed men in ambush to waylay or even kill him. Though his death would likely be only a bodily one, it would make Barki failing to arrive at the Thing a certainty.
The most obvious point of ambush is the crossroads connecting Sunningskeld to Dumvaldsby and the rest of Iceland, which is where Barki travels now.
A dreng, the Norse ideal for what it means to be a man, does not fear death. He does not fear the spears of any number of foes, for he stands proud and strong, true to his word till the very end. To the Norse, ambushes are not to be avoided, but instead they are to be met with cold iron and hot blood.
However, a dreng is also wise. If a man should know a foe is beyond him, he should avoid battle until he finds an advantage to leverage. Thus, when Keld's fur stiffens and the wind carries whispers to his ears, Barki steps into the woods and silences his tread as best he can.
A frown sharpens his lips as Barki lays eyes on two men he knows all too well. There, at the crossroads, are the lumbering figures of Labbi and Mats Gusisson. Idiots both, the brothers had been unable to agree on which of them would marry Bestla—as if either of them had a chance—and so had approached her with the 'incredible offer' of marrying the both of them.
They had never forgiven Barki for 'stealing' Bestla from them, as can clearly be seen by the axe and shield in both their hands.
Crouching in the dense brush that chokes birch forest-floors, Barki considers the options available to him. With Sunning in hand, there's no way men of such little caliber could beat him in battle, but would fighting the Gusissons be worth the time and ordstirr spent doing such?
A questioning voice cuts through Barki's thoughts as a hood-and-cloaked figure trots down the shield-hand path—the one connecting Sunningskeld and Dumvaldsby to Iceland at large, "Good mornings to you, good men," the man pulls his hood back to reveal an elderly face and a long white beard. His liver-marked hands clutch at a walking stick as he smiles a crooked grin, both his eyes milk white with blindness, "I was wondering if one of you two fine fellows could point me in the direction of Sunningskeld? I have wisdom to share with its master, you see, yet I lack knowledge of the way forwards."
The Gusissons blink and look to each other. Labbi scratches at his balding head as Mats offers a question the old man's way, "You said you're going to Sunningskeld?"
"This is the case, yes," the old man bobs his head.
"And what's your name?"
The old man snorts, a wry grin on his face, "I don't think you'd know it if I told you."
Labbi and Mats share a grin as they heft their axes, "So, you're something of an ally of Barki's then, yeah?"
Not waiting for an answer, Labbi kicks the old man's cane away as he pushes him to the ground. Sunlight gleams off the axe as Labbi pulls his hand back, readying the old man's deathblow.
Time seems to freeze as Barki's breath catches in his throat. If Barki uses this opportunity as a distraction, he will surely be able reach Dumvaldsby with time left to spare.
And yet... Can Barki really call himself a dreng if he doesn't help a potential ally?
0~0~0
What do you do?
[ ] Save the Old Man
[ ] Use the Distraction
0~0~0
AN: And there we go, the story of Outlaw begins in truth.
No moratorium, I'll call the vote either tomorrow or the day after.
