Outlaw (A Norse Xianxia)

[I.F. Ister]

Spoiler: Chosen Option

[x] What next?
-[x] Go to the sea cave to investigate and rest until dawn.
-[x] Visit Green-thumb and see if you can learn anything about what happened at the grove.

0~0~0
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.

0~0~0

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.

0~0~0

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

0~0~0

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

0~0~0

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

 

[I.F. Ister]

Spoiler: Chosen Option

[x] Assuming Green-Thumb can give us a reason he believes Hogart/Hakon to be responsible, accept the task, in return for services, with healing as a downpayment and shape crafting services to be negotiated after completion of the job.

0~0~0
Duncan Green-finger's House, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007

The fire crackles in the hearth as Barki turns the offer over in his head. Pale smoke drifts up and out the smoke-holes, adding a faint smell of cinders to the air. Duncan tosses another log onto the flames, spraying up a shower of sparks as an iron poker tends to the ash.

Killing should never be treated lightly. To kill a man, even if he survives, is to make an enemy of all those who consider themselves his ally. His family will certainly be out for blood if a weregild, man-price, cannot be reached. With all those who share a great-grandfather being kin and having allies of their own, potentially hundreds of new enemies can be made with a single stroke of the sword.

The only way to kill a man and not suffer the wrath of his kin is to pay weregild. To pay weregild, one must be subject to the Law, which no outlaw is. As weregild, like all matters of business, is done under the eyes of the Gods, an outlaw is doubly-barred from offering weregild. As such, the family of a man outlaw-slain cannot seek peace by any means and must pursue vengeance to right wrongs and clean the stain of death from their family's reputation.

To die is to admit defeat. To admit defeat is to declare that you are less of a man than another. To declare that, before the eyes of the Gods—as all fields of battle are—is enough for a man to be struck with the weight of nid. When a man receives nid, his ordstirr reduces as his might shrinks. As a man is only worth as much as he can bear, to suffer nid is to weaken the collective power of all your extended kin.

As the only way to avoid nid is with blood and iron, or through the Law, one can very quickly find themselves facing off with an army of enemies should one kill the wrong man at the wrong time.

With this in mind, one must consider all options carefully before setting out with a death as a heading. As a dreng thinks before taking action, so too does Barki.

Does having a shapecrafter as an ally outweigh making enemies of Hogart Jump-spider and his kin? It depends on the shapecrafter in question, Barki supposes as he turns his gaze on the closest shapecrafter.

"Green-finger," Barki's voice breaks the house-filling silence, "what manner of shapecraftry are you capable of? I have heard tales of shapecrafters turning men into Berserks through the gift of Frenzy, is that learning known to you?"

Duncan narrows his eyes, the tips of his forefingers bouncing together in a rapid staccato, "You believe in Berserks?"

Barki stares, blinks once, and then adds a slightly opened mouth to his gaze, "You... What?"

"Berserks don't exist," Duncan says with ironclad belief. "It's all a scam to sell more bear skins."

"My brother-in-law," Barki's shock overruling his hesitation to say anything of the sort regarding Harald Ice-walker, "is a Berserk. I saw him enter Berserkergang at the Battle of Blodkeld Baths!"

"Harald Ice-walker was a warrior of the Stormelk Lodge," Duncan retorts with his arms crossed and chin in the air. "He's in on it!"

Barki opens his mouth to respond only to think better of the matter and closes it. Arguing with a shapecrafter is often seen as the height of folly, for not only will you never convince one away from their certainties but you may also find yourself at the wrong end of their might. A life spent in the role of a flesh-blob sounds rather unappealing if you asked Barki.

Barki sighs and shakes his head, "Fine, Berserks don't exist. What can you tell me of your capabilities?"

"I am skilled in refinement and tuning," Duncan says proudly before adding, "less so in rebuilding, and don't even ask about creation! I'm not like that hack Starkell!" Starkell, of course, being the other shapecrafter in the South Quarter. "That charlatan glues antlers to dogs and claims to have made a new creature! Do you know how hard that is to do? Do you!?"

"Very, by the sounds of things," Barki mutters while returning his attention inwards.

Of the skills a shapecrafter often wields, new growth and creation are those that Barki has little need of right now. With no land to call his own, what crops would he need engineered and what cattle would he need improved? As such, an ally capable of refining his body to new heights of power is very tempting indeed.

Barki sighs, knowing all too well he can't afford to refuse an offer such as this, and says, "If I am to kill Hogart Jump-spider, I will need both a down-payment of healing and favors to spend at a later date."

Duncan Green-finger squints as he leans in, fingers tapping together, "A down-payment you shall have, but I will only extend favors should Hogart's body be brought to me. Otherwise, the down-payment will have to be enough for you."

Barki's lips thin as he considers the counterproposal, "One favor upon proof of death, two more in addition should I bring his body before you."

Duncan hums, eyes turned upwards as he strokes fingers along his lengthy chin. Eventually, he nods and says, "This is agreeable to me, I shall prepare the debt-sticks."

Barki hesitates at the mention of debt-sticks. When one agrees to a deal but cannot pay at that point in time, it is customary to carve runes onto a small piece of wood before breaking it in half. Each party keeps one half and, when the parties meet to exchange promised goods, they rejoin the debt-halves to ensure that everyone remembered accurately to what they were owed. If the sticks align properly, then all is well. Otherwise, it is clear that someone is trying to pull one over on the other.

The problem is that the breaking of a debt-stick calls the Gods to gaze upon the deal, thus temporarily turning the deal-site to sacred ground. Should Barki as a lesser outlaw be found to have been on sacred ground, he will immediately be made a full outlaw on the spot.

However, without a debt-stick, it is Barki's word versus Duncan's should he change his mind on the debt he owes. Though Barki could not use it as evidence in court, given his status as an outlaw, it would still give sufficient weight to lay nid upon Duncan's shoulders in the form of an accusation of being a liar.

The threat of nid alone is often enough to ensure deals go through as agreed upon and is good reason for Barki to use a debt-stick, but if his half of the debt-stick were to be found on his person or among his things...

What does Barki do?
[ ] Use the debt-stick
[ ] Refuse the debt-stick

0~0~0

AN: I had originally meant for this update to include a Bestla interlude, but then realized that the option to use debt-sticks is a very good opportunity to give you folks a good and proper choice.

Next update will include the Bestla interlude.

 

[I.F. Ister]

Spoiler: Chosen Option

[X] Have Keld use the debt-stick and give it to us

0~0~0
Duncan Green-finger's House, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007

Having a debt-stick with his name on it is proof that Barki stood on sacred ground, thus making a full outlaw of him. That is an indisputable fact.

However.

Barki leans in, his eyes alight with sly mischief. An idea sparks in the back of his head, one so delightfully cunning he can't quite help but grin.

However, a debt-stick in and of itself is proof of nothing; the runes on the wood are what gives it weight. Should the name it bears be different to the one who carries it, why, then what problem is there to see?

Of course, pursuing such a course of action would require a name willingly given.

Barki's eyes slide across the floor, coming to a stop on Keld's floppy-eared form.

Well, then, that solves that nicely now doesn't it?

"You want to have your dog sign for you?" Duncan Green-finger asks slowly with a slight tilt to his head and a squint to his eyes, Barki having just finished laying out his idea.

"I do, yes," Barki answers with a nod as he beckons Keld to his side. Running fingers through fur, he turns his full attention on his loyal hound, "Keld, would you consent to the use of your name?"

Keld barks, wagging tail a storm as his tongue unfurls like a rich man's slaedur. He nods and plants his paw with a meaningful stomp.

Duncan purses his lips before nodding as well, "I suppose there are no laws against a hound wanting shapecrafting? As long as proper compensation is given, I see no reason to refuse should such shapecrafting-favors be sold to another."

A snort leaves Barki as he tilts his head to the side, "You want me to pay my dog?"

Duncan blinks, pausing mid rune-carving, "That is what I said, yes? If he's the one who the debt-stick names, he is who owns the rewards. I will not allow a client of mine to be cheated from his just desserts."

"That seems fair enough, I suppose," Barki says as he fixes Keld with a warning stare; he'd better not be too demanding... Otherwise, no belly rubs for a month!

Well, maybe not a month. That is a rather long time to go without belly rubs...

A week, perhaps? A day or two, even?

"So, then, the terms of our agreement," Duncan says as he reads out the runes, "In exchange for the slaying of Hogart Jump-spider, you, Keld, are entitled to a down payment of healing as well as a favor upon completion of the task. Ferrying the corpse of Hogart back to Duncan Green-finger will earn you an additional two favors." Ending his reading, he swivels in his seat to address Keld directly, "Is this agreeable?"

He holds out the debt-stick as Keld barks his agreement. Leaning forward, Keld's teeth sink into the wood as, in lock-step with Duncan, the pair move as one and snap the debt-stick between them.

"Good deal!" Duncan exclaims as he tucks his half into his belt. Stretching out his hands and shaking them to a limber state, he turns a grin on Keld and says, "Now, then, shall we get on with your healing?"

Barki clears his throat, "The healing is for m... How much does healing normally cost your clients?"

"About an ounce of silver," Duncan says as Barki huffs.

Digging into his belt pouch with a sigh, Barki retrieves a silver pinky ring and turns to his loyal hound. Fixing it to Keld's collar—a length of red-dyed wool with a border of silver-threaded linen—Keld preens as the silver catches the light just so.

Payment done and over with, Barki soon finds himself with his eyes turned to the ceiling and his bare back pressed against table wood as Duncan fusses over him. With a careful eye, Duncan examines the ugly purple bruises covering the majority of Barki's torso, the result of a hard won victory.

"You know," Duncan says with a casual tone, his ice-cold fingers drawing twitches from Barki's skin, "it's always nice working on younger men. How old are you, again?"

"I am twenty-two," Barki says, his eyes locked to his chest as, slowly, the purple vanishes in a sea of healthy pink.

"That would explain it," Duncan nods as the tip of his tongue pokes from between his teeth. "Once a man sees twenty-five winters, his body hardens and toughen-ups, making it difficult to harm him." A frown crosses his face as he says that, a certain something catching his attention, "It also makes their bodies less malleable, which means it's harder for me to work on them."

Barki narrows his eyes, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, no," Duncan mutters almost absent-mindedly, "it's just that... Have you ever had shapecrafting done before?"

"No," Barki says with a shake of the head, "never."

"That's odd," Duncan says as he clicks his tongue, "well, I'm sure it's fine, then."

"What's fine?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about since I can't do anything for it."

Barki's eye twitches, "Just... Just tell me what 'it' is."

Duncan shrugs, but does as asked, "There's some manner of abnormality in your nervous system. Quite fascinating, really. Have you ever had trouble shapeshifting?"

"For as long as I can remember."

"Then this would likely have had some affect on your ability to do so, amongst other things," Duncan nods to himself as he says, "Before you ask, there's nothing I can do. It repulses any attempt I make to shape it."

"Is there..." Barki lets his head fall, eyes turning back towards the ceiling, "anything that can be done?"

"Not by me, no," Duncan lets that hang in the air before adding, "But, hey! I did improve your healing ability a bit, now you can stick a severed limb back on no problem, no more holding it in place for days on end!"

"That's..." Barki's lips thin, "Thank you, I suppose."

Being able to heal a severed limb quicker is a valuable tool indeed, but, in the face of learning about some hidden disability, well, such things are rarely able to be softened.

Now, then, what is Barki's next step?
[ ] Write in

(Injuries healed)
(+Healing)
(-1oz Silver)
0~0~0
Sunningskeld, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007

Red strands of delicate hair fall from Bestla's head, the comb in her hand doing its fell work. Unfinished and crude, the comb draws drops of blood on her scalp with every pass. Still, she works the comb. Still, she suffers the pain of catches and snags.

Bestla Red-cheeks made a promise and a promise she will keep. Though frizzled and frayed her hair may be, nothing shall stay her hand.

A knock, the sound of knuckles tapping thrice at the door jerks Bestla from her silent contemplation. Her neutral expression falls to a flat frown, the noise heralding an unknown presence with a similar purpose to all the rest.

Barki Gunnvaldsson is far from dead, she doesn't need some magic object or secret incantation to tell her that. Deep within, down in the core of her heart, the truth shines through as bright as the sun cresting the horizon.

Yet Barki may as well be for how all save his allies seem to act. Dumvald had promised to keep as many of the would-be-suitors away as he could, but not even he and his sons can hold back the ocean's tide.

Every summer sees more of the same. Hundreds of new arrivals flock to Iceland seeking fame and fortune in the untamed wilderness. Some of these new Icelanders are inevitably young men of bold disposition, who see a plot of developed land with an outlaw-wedded woman and think themselves better, luckier, more well-suited than the rest.

They come in, swaggering, and act as if the proceedings had already been done. Few even wait for a welcome or greeting, pushing past her to get a look at what they decide to already be theirs.

Fools, the lot of them.

Taking a deep breath, Bestla pulls a mask of neutrality over her angered face. Though she may wish to turn her suitors away at the door, such things would reflect poorly on her and, by proxy, on Barki. A stray insult could see Barki turned away from needed shelter, so Bestla keeps her peace as best she can as she turns to the door.

Standing on the other side of the door is the expected sight. A young man, early on in his adventuring years, with a handsome face and an ambitious disposition. Twin saxes, grips shining with silver inlay, hang in an X-shape off the front of his belt.

He offers a grin and a wink as he introduces himself with a sweeping armed bow, "Good morning, good miss. My name is Dalkr," he declines any mention of kenning or heritage, simply letting his name speak for itself, "and I wish for entry into your abode?"

For just a moment, Bestla's mask slips as she stands in slight shock. Rarely are her suitors so polite as to ask permission for entry into what they assume might as well already be theirs. Lips thinning, Bestla eyes Dalkr with a considering look.

He doesn't seem like much of a suitor, if that is what he is. If he is respectful enough to offer a name and a bow as deep as that, then perhaps inviting him inside will turn out better than any of those before?

Inviting him inside, Bestla leads Dalkr to the hearthroom where he hastens to warm himself by the fire. The chill of the early-morning cold bites deep this time of year, when the sun has yet to warm the night beyond survivable temperatures.

Quickly fixing up a light meal and a cup of beer, Bestla takes the seat across from Dalkr as she folds her arms on the table, "What business have you here?"

Cheerily digging in, Dalkr carefully chews and swallows the bite of bread before answering, "I am here for Barki Gunnvaldsson, do you know where might he be?"

Bestla's face drops in an instant, the goodwill vanishing in a puff of smoke. So that's what he is, huh?

Most young men come seeking developed land and a built-up home, as is the wont of young men the world over. But some come with a different purpose in mind. They have no interest in fertile lands or warm hearths, they only hunger for the glory that comes from slaying outlaws.

That's who Dalkr is, a bounty hunter.

Alas, her true thoughts can never be voiced, for she is Barki's sole point of contact with the opinion of the public. If she alienates all those who seek her out, then Barki's fate is as good as sealed. Never again would she feel his warmth or take his embrace.

With that in mind, she calms her temper and fixes Dalkr with a stern stare, "Should you wish to slay an outlaw, there are smarter ways to find his location than asking his wife."

"Outlaw?" Dalkr tilts his head to the side, the piece of bread in hand pausing mid-stew sponge-up, "Do I have the right Barki Gunnvaldsson? I seek a man with a fear of horses and a love of dogs, is this his home?"

Bestla's frown deepens, her brows furrowing in confusion of her own, "You have the right Barki Gunnvaldsson?" Her tone makes it sound like a question, but her words are anything but to Dalkr.

Dalkr's brows fling towards the smoke-holes as he stares flabbergasted with open-mouthed confusion, "What manner of mischief did Barki do to be outlawed?!"

"Nothing of the sort!" Bestla is quick to correct, "Barki did no wrong, save for lacking the funds to out-bribe his foe."

"And now Barki's after him for revenge!" Dalkr cries as he leaps to his feet, a broad smile on his face as he laughs out loud, "Perfect! This is just fantastic."

"And what of my husband's outlawing do you find so fortuitous?" Bestla asks with a flat stare.

"It was Barki who stole my vengeance, who slew Lotfrey Gundasson at the Battle of Blodkeld Baths," Dalkr says with a deep nod, his voice projecting all across the rafters, "To right that wrong, I must now steal his vengeance out from under his nose!"

Something clicks in Bestla's mind as those words reach her ears and a rather devious design descends. In situations like this, where one's husband is made an outlaw, it is the wife's duty to manage his affairs in his absence. Likewise, it falls to her shoulders to make friends and forge strong alliances to ensure her husband's return.

"You know," Bestla begins with a tap against the tabletop, "it would be a shame for Barki to die before you called upon the debt he owes you. Alas," she plays with the split-ends of her hair, peeling a strand down the middle, "outlaws live short, violent lives. With Barki being as brave as he is, he won't back down from a fight he can't win on his own..."

"Your words bear wisdom, sweet woman!" Dalkr cries as his palms greet his saxes. "No rival of mine may meet his end before I have my revenge! Tell me, wise woman, so that I may serve as his shield; where has Barki gone?"

Bestla opens her mouth to speak, a victory grin on her face, as the door suddenly swings open and a battle-ready warrior charges inside.

"Where is he?!" Dumvald cries with weapon in hand and helm on head, "Where is the man who made of my sons such slapstick buffoons with nothing but the peel of a fruit?"

"If you seek Dalkr, then you must look no further," Dalkr says as he stands with hands on hips. "But, should you wish to meet your end so soon, then let us take this battle outside. Neither you or I wish to ruin this fine young woman's home, methinks."

"A wise idea. Come," Dumvald says as he turns and walks towards the door, only for Bestla to raise her voice.

"Not so fast, Dumvald and Dalkr," she calls, freezing both men in their tracks, "for you are now allies together!" Dalkr and Dumvald share a squinted stare as Bestla surges on, "Just now, Dalkr told me that he is here to help Barki, that he wishes nothing more than for Barki to lay eyes on his hidden foe!"

"Is this true?" Dumvald asks Dalkr, who nods.

"It is, yes," it is a truth, yes, but only when viewed from a certain angle—one that has Dalkr tilting his head and gazing upon Bestla in a new light. "Say, Bestla? Since you know your husband so well, surely the role of guide is within your capabilities?"

"It would also get her out of the house," Dumvald mutters as he strokes his beard, "Makes it much easier to keep adventurers away if their target is a hundred miles away..."

"Well then," Bestla says as she rises to her feet, "I suppose we'd best be on our way, no?"

With that, Dalkr and Bestla set out on their journey while Dumvald watches over the homestead in lieu of Barki and Bestla.

0~0~0

AN: And update is done, boom!


I'm thinking of making the posting schedule every Monday and Friday, how's that sound?

 

[I.F. Ister]

Spoiler: Chosen Option

[x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, interrogate him, and kill him per your deal with Duncan.

0~0~0
7 Hours Later, Near Askafell, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007

The early evening sun shines high over the horizon as Barki wipes sweat from his bow. With one hand gripping Sunning's training-stained leather, his other pops the cap of his waterskin as a refreshing drink wets his throat. A forearm dries his lips as the skin returns to his hip, his bloodline securing it firm.

Taking a deep breath and firming his stance, Barki turns his gaze on the long-felled stump serving as his training partner. Two hands meet on Sunning's grip as the sunshine lends its cutting edge a faint purple hue. Lifting sword overhead, Barki steps forward as seafoam green ordstirr froths at the edges of his soul.

Glory-strength fills his limbs with untold vigor, Barki's swing the stuff of legends. Glowing iron slides through wood as one does foam, the sword's passage splitting the stump in two—just as expected.

Releasing the held breath, Barki lightly runs a finger along the splintered edge of the split wood. Sharp fibers claw at his skin, but fail against his thick Norsely hide. When was the last time he ever had a splinter? It must have been when he was a boy, for age hardens the body just as it hones the mind.

Regardless, Barki smiles to himself as he views the results of his new trick. The wise Norseman is constantly seeking to improve both himself and his tactics, for unknown future foes could very well have studied his methods and sought out ways to render them ineffective. The best way to avoid that is to develop new tricks and techniques whenever available. Plus, a deeper bag of tricks provides more options to use in battle, for victory is a versatile endeavor.

Tricks, as the special techniques in use all over the Norse world are known as, come in all manner of shapes and sizes. Though no two tricks execute the same effect in the same way, all tricks stand at some level of refinement, which find common names amongst the Norse.

A vague trick is a trick without technique, merely a thought in the back of one's head he may consider pursuing into reality. A rough-hewn trick is coarse and crude in construction, but it possesses the necessary steps to be wielded in battle should one be forced to such measures. Rough tricks are also always extremely ordstirr inefficient, the rough grooves catching and snagging at the flow of strength.

Refined, or 'smooth', tricks have had the rough edges and coarse inefficiencies smoothed away, resulting in a stronger trick at a lower cost. Most men stop here when it comes to their tricks, for they rarely require further refinement and are often 'good enough'. Should they continue improving the quality of their trick, they will find two more levels beyond refined.

A mastered trick is a trick with a nearly inexistent ordstirr price. So smooth are the surfaces, so easy the routes strength must flow, that the ordstirr one puts in returns as soon as desired, meaning one needs not draw upon their deeper reserves to fuel further techniques.

Tricks, all tricks, require a moment's focus to form the necessary patterns ordstirr must flow through to fuel the action. The smoother the construct's surfaces, the quicker ordstirr flows and the less ordstirr one loses to dead ends and sharp bends, meaning one must draw upon their reserves to replace lost ordstirr until it escapes wherever it lays trapped.

If one is clever and quick enough, one can strike in the tiny window left open when one prepares a trick for use. The higher the refinement, the shorter the window. To perfect a trick, as the final level of refinement is called, is to reduce the time it takes to create a trick to zero.

To perfect a trick is to know it inside and out. It is to wield it with the same ease one does their body. Lift an arm, use a trick; these are the same when tricks are perfected.

This trick of Barki's is freshly roughened, having spent many months a vague technique in the back of his head. Now, with nothing but time on his hands, there is little opportunity to distract himself from putting in the work to make it a reality. Though splinter strike—as Barki has taken to calling it—fails to muster anything special when put to the test, it is more than sufficient when taken with his woodworking expertise.

Wood is made of up thousands of tiny threads all winding together into a firm surface. If one knows wood as well as a carpenter like Barki, one can even identify the points where the threads are thick or sparse. A skilled woodworker knows to avoid using such pieces, as thick thread is difficult to work and sparse thread leaves weak wood.

Though an unskilled woodworker, such as most men, will be able to spot the knots, he will struggle to find the frays. As a man should craft his own shield with his own two hands—because a man's shield is sized to him and the exact make of it often plays a vital role in his fighting—that often means that shields have weak points unknown even to its maker.

And if one should strike those weak points at the right angle, with the sufficient amount of force, one may find themselves soon facing a shieldless foe. As the saying goes, 'the unshielded man is a man soon dead.'

If a man lacks a shield, he is declaring that he is so confident in his weaponwork that he needs no shield. Thus, he is either extraordinarily dangerous, or, as the case so often is, extraordinarily foolish. Fools die quick, such is the way of things.

A crack, the falling crunch of rock on stone, snaps Barki's gaze to the side. A ridgeline greets his eyes, his breathing picking up as he scans the horizon for any sign of the threat that must be there. Sword in hand, he swallows the dryness in his throat as a pair of vulpine eyes peer out from the evening shadows.

In Iceland, only one type of terrestrial beast finds a home. The fox, the monster-sons of vixen descent, are the sole predator native to these lands—and they are all the more dangerous for it. With their only competition the occasional white bear riding ice from the unknown beyond, the white fox has birthed dozens of sons to fill the empty niches.

Foxes lack the strength of bears and the ferocity of wolves, but they more than make up for their combat deficiencies with their beastly cunning. Of all monster-kind, the fox is most well suited to making the most of human settlement. Poacher-foxes slink in the shadows, waiting for open barns and unwatched cattle. Glimmer-foxes hunt for the shine of metal, often lifting work-knives from dozing men. Falsefur-foxes wrap around the bodies and skeletons of their fallen kin, using them as puppets to trick hunters into skinning and taking the intact beast within their home.

But the most dangerous of all fox-kind is that which cloaks itself in shadows; watching, waiting, and stalking. Stalker-foxes, they are called, and they have earned this name well. In darkness they lurk, haunting the borders of sight as they learn their prey's every habit and routine. When the fox feels they've learned enough, they make their move and attack from ambush.

Not taking his eyes off the twin pinpricks for even a moment, Barki motions towards his shield leaning against a nearby knee-high rock. With a twitch of the finger and a surge of will, an invisible string of ordstirr leaps from his knuckle and latches to the woolen cover. A flick of the wrist launches the shield towards him as he deftly snatches it from the air.

Stalker-foxes rarely dare to travel this far south—and never tread in the west—so desperation must drive it on. Hunger claws at the mind, twisting good men into horrid abominations. No fox can match the mental fortitude of a man, so what insanity must run through this beast's mind even now?

First one eye closes, then the next; the shining pinpricks vanish into the blanket as the stalker-fox makes its exit. A beat, two, pass before Barki releases the breath trapped in his chest and allows his shoulders to fall. Sunning's shining tip clinks against the rocky soil as the tension trickles from the air.

Stalker-foxes are opportunistic hunters. Never will they engage in stand-up battle, not if their foe is strong and at their best. Though cowardly and cautious, the stalker-fox is a quiet beast. Never has a man heard a stalker-fox if it doesn't want to be heard and certainly not with his own two ears.

Though some men may thank their lucky stars for falling rocks giving the stalker-fox away, the wise man knows well who truly deserves his appreciation.

Turning his eyes on the sparse trees dotting the landscape, Barki offers a deep bow to the shades and shadows and a tilting head to the winds and whistles. From his pack he pulls a cut of smoked seal which he places on the ground before backing away, still in his bow. Only when his steps number nine, when the meat fully leaves his view, does he lift his head.

A bark, the voice of a familiar yet all too alien hound, echoes in the distance. Though the meat is gone, a sense of ease passes across Barki's shoulders as he breathes deep the suddenly crisp air. A gust of playful wind bats at his hair as moisture slides across his cheek like the kiss of a loyal hound.

When a newborn opens his mouth for the very first time, the Norns carve him his fated day alongside the gift of his first breath. That breath doesn't leave a man, not even in death. It stays with him for all his life, soon growing into his fylgja.

The fylgja, the follower, is a man's constant companion as he makes his way through life. Never does a man lay eyes on his fylgja, not unless his Fate has come or a seeress has unveiled its might, but the fylgja serves loyally all the same.

The snap of a twig giving a spy away. The rattle on a window revealing the approach of enemies. The tickle of neck-hairs drawing the eye to tracks hidden by the brush. These are all the actions of the fylgja, for a man's fylgja keeps watch when he cannot and gives warning for dangers that are to come.

For such a loyal friend to go unnoticed is a travesty, so the wise man makes the effort to honor his fylgja whenever the opportunity reveals itself.

Fylgja honored, Barki nods to himself as he returns his sword to his hip. A quick glance to the sun shows that he has enough time to get in a few more rounds of practice, but... Barki grimaces as he casts a wary squint at the shadows.

It's probably about time to get a move on, anyways. If nothing else to put some distance between him and the stalker-fox.

Returning to where he stashed Olfossa with Keld as a watchdog, Barki takes a deep breath before climbing atop his horse once more. With a light tap to the sides, Olfossa sets off down the pathway to Askafell.

0~0~0

Arriving at Askafell amidst the late evening birdsong, Barki sits atop Olfossa as Keld trots alongside.

Askafell is not so much a single farm as it is an alliance of several farmsteads all acting as one entity. With the regular rain of ash leaving the ground rich and fertile, Askafell was quickly snatched up by the earliest of settlers. Over the years, many men have tried to elbow their way in and so the farmers of Askafell banded together to prevent future attempts at such.

With few trees and plenty of open space, one can see far into the distance when standing atop one of the many rolling hills of the Askafell region. Travelling anonymously will be a difficult prospect at best, entirely impossible at worst.

Fortunately, Hogart Jump-spider is of the Hastving clan and so lays his head to rest in Askhastvishus—the 'House of Ash-Hastvi'. As Askhastvishus is near the border of the region, Barki won't have to travel very deep into the ash-lands to reach his target.

Un-fortunately, however, Hogart Jump-spider is of the Hastving clan. He will always be close to family members and loyal retainers, not to mention any allies from neighboring farms, so getting him alone won't be easy.

With that in mind, Barki folds his hands under his chin as he considers his options. At some point, Hogart will have to be alone, or at least with a limited number of allies around. The only question is how long it will take until that point. Furthermore, who is to say that Barki can remain undiscovered for all that time? With how open Askafell is, the odds of Barki managing that are slim indeed.

Another option is to ride up and openly challenge Hogart to a duel. While Barki is an outlaw and, thus, Hogart is under no legal pressure to consider accepting or even play by the rules, if Barki escalates to a full holmgang then Hogart will be forced to accept for the sake of his honor alone.

That does, however, carry significant amounts of risk to it. Though Barki is an outlaw and his prospects of returning to life after a lesser death are already slim, the rituals of holmgang will ensure he cannot return should he lose life. The Gods will take his soul should he lose, even if it is not yet his Fated Day.

Not only does the risk of death loom heavily, the potential aftermath also weighs on Barki's mind. Though challenges to holmgangs can be issued in this way, doing so is an abuse of the magic and the spirits won't be pleased. Holmgangs are one of many ways to settle disputes without resorting to full blood feuds, to resort to using them solely to kill is shameful indeed.

If a man cannot meet his foes in proper battle, he should not seek them out in the first place.

But, Barki has already accepted this task. To turn back now is nothing short of nid.

No matter what Barki chooses, a sacrifice must be made. The only question is; time, the affection of the spirits, or his ordstirr?

[ ] Wait until Hogart is alone or otherwise isolated
[ ] Issue Hogart a challenge to holmgang
[ ] Go back on your word

0~0~0

AN: Good grief, I'm so sorry it took so long for me to write this one. I've just been so busy with class that I've struggled to find the time to write.

In other news, Outlaw won second-place in the Summerfest Storytelling Showdown, which is pretty nifty.

 

[I.F. Ister]

Spoiler: Chosen Option

[X] Wait until Hogart is alone or otherwise isolated

0~0~0

-Two days pass while Barki waits patiently, two days of nothing happening. It is on the second day that his supply of food nearly runs dry and he needs to go out to acquire more, a deadly venture.
-Travelling beyond the safety of his secluded hideout, Barki, with bow and arrow in hand, follows a set of fox tracks. Normally, a fox isn't the ideal prey to hunt for many reasons. One, they're tricksy and are often able to slip a hunter's focus long enough to make their escape. Two, while their fur is valuable indeed, there is a lack of meat on their bones. Little food will be gained, but enough to survive for a few days—until the meat spoils, that is.
-The sun crawls across the sky as Barki follows the trail, stopping every once in a while to listen to the winds and birdsong. All who wander the wilds know well to pay close attention the sounds of nature, for they spell out that which is yet to come.
--It is during one of these pauses that Barki notices the smoke of a campfire on the air and the smell of meat on the grill. Someone is roasting food. Barki's stomach grumbles and he's left with a choice; Approach the campsite or forgo and continue the search for the fox?

[ ] Campsite
[ ] Foxhunt

0~0~0

AN: I am so sorry about this update. I feel genuinely awful about posting it in this condition. As soon as I regain my creative tempo, I promise I'll return and do right by this chapter.