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Outlaw (A Norse Xianxia)

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Alright, I'll go ahead and call the vote now
Scheduled vote count started by I.F. Ister on Jul 18, 2024 at 3:53 PM, finished with 18 posts and 10 votes.
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Act 2: The Pursuit 6.2/Bestla 1
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    • [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?
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Barki will be going after Hogart now, gotta figure out how to approach him though.

    I think to avoid a feud we approach him and bring up the evidence about him cursing Sterki's silkworms and bait him into challenging Barki, that way Barki can kill him in the fight and reduces the chances a feud starts. How we bring his body back to the shapecrafter and prevent his allies from collecting his body, not sure about that yet.
     
    Hey Barki,

    Was it your father or mother that had the Sure Grip Bloodline?
    Do your other siblings have the same shapeshifting issue as you?
    How well can you imagine yourself, body and all?
     
    Last edited:
    Shard said:
    Hey Barki,

    Was it your father or mother that had the Sure Grip Bloodline?
    Do your other siblings have the same shapeshifting issue as you?
    How well can you imagine yourself, body and all?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Father
    Barki has three brothers and two sisters, with one brother and one sister being his junior. As far as Barki is aware, none of them share his issue with shapeshifting
    As well as any person, he's never really thought about it before
     
    Alright, I reckon I'll go ahead and call the vote, yeah?

    Also, instead of just posting whenever, I've decided to set Monday and Friday as the update days. That sound good to everyone?
    Scheduled vote count started by I.F. Ister on Jul 22, 2024 at 12:46 PM, finished with 7 posts and 0 votes.
    No votes were able to be tallied!
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    KreenWarrior said:
    Do we know where Hogart lives? How far away is he?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Hogart lives in a small collection of buildings that's gained the name 'Askafall', named for the large amounts of sky-ash that leaves the land rich and fertile. Askafall is about 7 hours to the west, so about 9 or so hours with rest. If you leave now, it will be close to evening by the time you arrive.
     
    [x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, interrogate him, and kill him per your deal with Duncan.

    Happy to see this fleshed out, but not sure what else to do.
     
    [x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, bait him into a duel, and kill him per your deal with Duncan. Try to draw him into a wager or some other ploy that assures possession of his body in the eyes of the law.
     
    Alright, now I'll actually close the vote, yeah?
    Scheduled vote count started by I.F. Ister on Jul 23, 2024 at 4:18 PM, finished with 7 posts and 5 votes.
    • [x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, interrogate him, and kill him per your deal with Duncan.
      [x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, bait him into a duel, and kill him per your deal with Duncan. Try to draw him into a wager or some other ploy that assures possession of his body in the eyes of the law.
    Click to expand...
     
    I just wanna know how the hell he got a name like 'Jump Spider'
     
    There are giant spiders in this setting??????
     
    [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. 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 struggling through 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 technique. 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.

    0~0~0

    AN: Sorry for the radio silence! I've had a very busy week and have had little time for writing as a result. I'll have this here update done tomorrow, though, and in the meantime you can have this as a teaser!
     
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