Act 2: The Pursuit 7
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
[x] Travel to Askafall, there to try to find Hogart, interrogate him, and kill him per your deal with Duncan.
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.
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