- Pronouns
- He/Him
If it's Odin, sure. Of course, if it's Odin this is likely a secret test of character...
Outlaw (A Norse Xianxia)
- Thread starter I.F. Ister
- Start date
- Original
If it's Odin, sure. Of course, if it's Odin this is likely a secret test of character...
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
...
Odin, Old Man,
I see this trick yours.
Not this, not that,
You know yet what I mean.
===
For Reals, Odin?
Courting comb be making,
Coral-crowned around hair.
Danger Danekin stranger,
Doom looms with bride price lied.
The Thing calls all to now,
To place this Barki-case.
Collect comes Highest checked,
Count for his warriors says.
Cour-ting comb be ma-king,
Co-ral-crowned a-round hair.
Dan-ger Dane-kin stran-ger,
Doom looms with bride price lied.
The Thing calls all to now,
To place this Barki-case.
Collect comes Highest checked,
Count for his warriors says.
Co-ral-crowned a-round hair.
Dan-ger Dane-kin stran-ger,
Doom looms with bride price lied.
The Thing calls all to now,
To place this Barki-case.
Collect comes Highest checked,
Count for his warriors says.
===
[X] Save the Old Man
Still, this secret,
True or treachery.
Matters not, myself,
Choice mine culls still.
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- Location
- Pittsburgh PA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You know, it feels so obviously Odin that it might actually be someone else...
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I think Odin gave us the comb. I think he probably wasn't involved directly in the frame job, but might easily have predicted it and given us the comb knowing it would happen.
This guy being attacked is probably not Odin, IMO.
This guy being attacked is probably not Odin, IMO.
Odin or not, helpless old blind men aren't wandering around early settlement era Iceland. This person is more than they appear - God, seer, skald or something else.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That I'm inclined to agree with. This guy is definitely more than he seems, I'm just dubious of the immediate 'That means he's Odin'. Technically the same is true of the guy who gave us the comb...I'm personally doubtful those are both the same person, though, and the comb thing is more Odin's style, I feel.
Like...I 100% buy that one of those people is Odin, but both of them being Odin in different disguises (since we don't recognize him) is pushing it. Not impossible, but pushing it.
- Location
- The United States
- Pronouns
- He/They
It might be Odin, but I don't care, a drengr isn't going to watch someone who appears to be faithfully attempting to do them a service be killed due to their name by people weaker than him.
- Location
- Eastern Seaboard
[X] Save the Old Man
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Nah, if it's Odin this is a test of character, he does that shit.
Okay, so I hope that Barki's thoughts are influenced by our thread discussion.
It would be so funny for him to be like Yo, that's probably Odin. Gotta help Odin, this is a test of character. Wait, if that's Odin, maybe he's helping me out and, if I help, I'm wasting his gift. But maybe THATS the real test and- aw f*** it, can't watch an oldhead die, even if he is an unkillable god.
But phrased better, of course.
It would be so funny for him to be like Yo, that's probably Odin. Gotta help Odin, this is a test of character. Wait, if that's Odin, maybe he's helping me out and, if I help, I'm wasting his gift. But maybe THATS the real test and- aw f*** it, can't watch an oldhead die, even if he is an unkillable god.
But phrased better, of course.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
I will admit that I had a line or two of Barki commenting on how the old 'blind man' knew the number of men he was talking to and requested to be 'pointed in the right direction'.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Based on the thread and the immediate responses, the first thought would be "Gotta save that guy, it's the right thing to do."...followed by all the rest. But yeah, it's probably entirely IC to suspect this might be Odin.
So it is Odin testing if he's smart enough to recognize a test and fail it anyways to actually succeed.
But I know I for sure didn't catch that this guy was less blind than he appeared.
Barki confirmed smarter than me.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I didn't catch those specific clues, but I wasn't looking carefully because the 'wandering alone in the Icelandic wilderness' had already convinced me that this guy could sense his surroundings just fine. He might well be blind (assuming he's not Odin), but he has some way of perceiving things or he'd already be dead...wandering the Icelandic wilderness alone is far from safe even in real life in the modern day.
I did catch the "point me" bit on a reread but I thought that could potentially be explained as a colloquialism rather than literal.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Barki's got a bit of a brain in him, it's true; he's a smart cookie for sure.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
I'll call the vote in 30 minutes or so. It's looking pretty unanimous to me
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Alright, voting is now closed.
Act 1: The Outlawing 2
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Groenstrtre Crossroads, South Quarter, Iceland, Early Summer of 9007
The ultimate goal in the life of any Norseman is to acquire more of and maintain their ordstirr, by any means necessary. Ordstirr—'word-glory'—is all that remains after death, all that people will remember you by, so any challenge to your ordstirr must be met with cold iron and hot blood lest your memory be tarnished.
To gain ordstirr, one must first earn the respect and awe of others by doing glorious deeds that enhance and display one's honor and might. From doing these acts and gaining said glory, one draws ordstirr. Likewise, to suffer insult and disrespect without retort is to lessen one's renown and reputation, which robs a man of his ordstirr.
Each man's ordstirr is unique to him and it is said that a man's ordstirr reveals his character. Some have ordstirr of a wild dog, baying and ready to strike at a moment's notice. Others have the ordstirr of the noble bear, slow to rise yet fierce in battle. Yet others still have the ordstirr of the lowly serpent or the clever fox, sharp and swift and able to worm past all but the mightiest of shields.
Barki Gunnvaldsson's ordstirr is a calm, single-minded thing. Unlike so many other Norsemen, who seem almost over-eager to wield their ordstirr in anger and violence, Barki's ordstirr takes its time to rouse itself from its slumbering rest. But once it does rise, few can stand against the onslaught.
Passing Sunning to his shield-hand and scooping up a rock from the forest floor, Barki reaches deep inside to where his ordstirr resides. A lumbering mass of curled-up might, to draw it forth will require three familiar motions. A poke, a prod, and a final stoke serve to rouse his soul's slumbering strength as a seafoam green glow clings to the rock's surface.
"Keld," Keld's ears perk up at Barki's whisper-hissed words, "wait for my signal, then take the axe."
Keld nods, his lips peeling back in a silent growl as he turns silver eyes on Labbi Gusisson, who even now plays with his 'food'. An axe swing turns false as he draws it back at the last moment, a cruel grin on his face as he pulls his weapon back once more. A dreng is fair and honest in his dealings, both on and off the field of battle. If he should swing his weapon, it should be with full intention to end his foe then and there.
Rising to his full height and stepping from the brush, Barki's voice lifts to the air as he cocks his hand back, "Hey, patch-face! Is that your ma's slaedur you're wearing or are you just short?"
"Wha-" Mats twists about, rage showing on his admittedly somewhat patch-bearded face as he lifts his weapons. He doesn't get to finish his sentence, however, as an ordstirr-clad stone splits his chin in two as it lodges itself deep in his throat—not nearly enough to kill him, unfortunately, but it gets the ball rolling.
Labbi looks up as his brother stumbles back, his eyes darting on Barki as recognition flashes. Gray-tone ordstirr coats his axe as he brings it back for a swing, only for a bolt of pressurized water to tear through his wrist and send his axe—hand included—spiraling into the brush.
"Good dog!" Barki shouts as a hot-blooded grin threatens to spill across his face, Keld's proud bark the sweet song of victory as he chases after his master. Drawing Sunning and casting the sheath aside to spare himself its footwork-fouling presence, Barki advances like a bow-loosed arrow.
In the rush of battle, with adrenaline pounding in your ears, it can be a struggle to think let alone plan. Yet a dreng always acts with careful thought, never speaking unless sure of his words. With tremendous force of will and fiercely clenching teeth, Barki's feet slow their charge as he forces himself to come to a stop. Eyeing his foes over the rim of his shield, he takes careful study of how they move as they likewise study him.
The Gusissons both ply their trade as lumbermen, selling cords of firewood and lumber to those who have more important things to spend their time doing. It is a meager existence by any measure, but one that gives them ample opportunity to practice their downward strokes, as can clearly be seen by the bulk of their right shoulders. Shifting his shield to better catch overhead blows, Barki closes the gap as he readies his sword.
Mats makes the first move, pushing with the back foot and covering his advance with his shield. Large muscles tense in his arm as he pulls his axe back in a powerful overhead swing. The blow starts slow, but rapidly builds up speed as pale yellow ordstirr surges alongside a fierce battle cry.
Barki darts to the side at the last moment, his hair billowing from the blow-made wind as his bloodline keeps his feet from sliding on the melt-slick ground. The axe strikes the foot-packed floor, sending up a spray of dirt as Mats carves a fresh ditch deep in the earth's surface.
Barki's foot comes down on the axe-back, driving its face deeper as he pushes forward into a swing of his own. Sunning blurs as seafoam ordstirr falls from its blade, its motions leaving twin afterimages in its wake—the hallmark of the Echo Layer trick. But rather than following the original's motions exactly, this variation on the well-known Echo Layer fans the echo-motions out to strike at three places at once.
Mats lifts his shield in time to catch the blows heading for his head and waist in the familiar clatter of iron on wood, but no shield can cover the entire body at once. The second echo-motion slips under the wool-covered rim as it splits ankle and sock in a single strike.
Mats' teeth click near-hard enough to shatter as he stumbles back sans a foot and shoe, but loyal Labbi is ever-quick to take his brother's place. His lacking hand troubles him not as his shield-edge gains a gray tone glow.
Shield meets shield as Barki's thrown back—portions of the well-trod ground still sticking to the bottom of his shoes. Impacting against a tree trunk but managing to keep his wind, Barki just barely ducks Labbi's shield as it comes in for the follow-up.
The tree groans as its trunk splinters, the blow hard enough to snap it clean through the middle. It lurches to the side, crashing into a fall as instinct mixes with plan and Barki's hand snaps out to catch it. His bloodline makes the connection as his feet shift on the spot and the entire tree starts to swing.
Labbi's eyes snap wide as the tree whips his way. His shield starts to rise, his stump-hand pressing against it, only for a sudden, gray-furred missile to bare its fangs. Keld's teeth sink deep into Labbi's shield-arm as Keld wrenches his head to the side, taking the Gusisson's arm off at the elbow—and the shield with it.
It is said that a man caught without his shield will soon be among the dead.
A scream splits the air as the tree takes Labbi by the waist and bats him against a second leaf-topped soldier. The impact cracks the bark, but Labbi's suffering is far from over. Barki lets loose a wordless battle cry as he brings his own tree to slam against Labbi's—the snapping squelch and spread of red telling tales of Labbi's flattened fate.
"N-no!" Mats' horrified cry thunders along the crossroads, but his brother's death won't stop him from wrenching his axe from the dirt and gnashing his teeth in anger. His stump-foot slowing him down, he can't quite close the distance in a single bound. His shield falls to the wayside as both hands grip the axe. Lifting it high overhead, he aims to make up the difference by cleaving Barki head-to-toe.
Barki twists on the spot, the tree shifting to follow, and catches the yellow-clad axe on the trunk. The entire tree explodes into a shower of splinters as Barki quickly slings his shield in hand while darting forward with Sunning held high.
Sunning is a sword of magnificent make. Though the name and bearing of those who forged it are long lost to history, the pride of their work lives on in the shimmering, blue-tinted surface of the blade's cutting edge. Never has it failed Barki and never has its edge needed sharpening, for it always strikes true.
Had Mats been any other person, perhaps Barki would have spared him this fate. But this Mats is the same Mats that had sent Barki a shipment of knot-filled planks when he had specifically requested no knots! Blinded by the splinter shower, Mats can't see the sword coming up between his legs until it's far too late. His eyes widen—first in shock, then in agony—as Sunning's edge greets a certain sword.
Mats' body falls to the ground. Even in death, his hands still twitch towards his pants-seat.
Wiping his sword clean on an unbloodied spot on Mats' shirt, Barki goes to sheath Sunning only to pause as a warm flush rises on his cheeks. In all the chaos of the fighting, he'd forgotten that he'd tossed it aside! Feeling rather foolish, Barki goes to retrieve it only for a soft bark and a wagging tail to draw the eye.
There, at his side, is Keld with Sunning's sheath held gently between his teeth. A laugh slips free as Barki kneels before Keld, giving him many ear rubs and plentiful praise before sheathing Sunning and fastening it to his belt.
Clapping fills the air as the old man sits cross-legged in the middle of the road, his walking stick laid neatly across his knees, "Masterfully done, young man. You're quite talented with that blade of yours, eh?"
"Thank you, elder," Barki nods his head because he totally didn't forget about the old man's presence or anything as foolish as that, not at all! "Are you injured?"
The old man waves Barki off, a broad smile on his white-browed face, "Oh, don't you worry about me. I've been through worse scrapes than this." Rising to his wobbling knees, the old man groans as he presses a hand to the small of his back, "Damn these old bones of mine," he mutters as he sighs, shaking his head of his thoughts. Turning his milk-white eyes on Barki, a spark of curiosity strikes behind them, "Still, I believe I would like to know the name of the one who saved me—and also if you could direct me to Barki Gunnvaldsson, that would be much appreciated."
"If it is Barki Gunnvaldsson you seek," Barki pulls himself up to his full height, the wind blowing through his hair in the same manner as it does for Keld at his side, "then you need not look any further than the man before you, for I am Barki Gunnvaldsson."
The old man nods, a smile lacking many teeth spreading across his face, "Praise be the Gods for guiding this weary wanderer to his sought doorstep," he taps his cane against the ground three times before drawing himself up to his full height—which, now that Barki looks closely, is a full head-and-shoulders taller than him. "To you, Barki Gunnvaldsson, I bear this wisdom; take the horse that rides rough."
Barki blinks after a few moments of extended silence, "Is... Is that all?"
The old man shrugs as he returns to his deep slouch, "It is what it is."
A few more moments of silence pass.
"In that case, I thank you for your words of wisdom and wish you fair travels to your next destination," Barki says as he casts a glance to the sky, noting with a slight tinge of worry that the sun is a fair bit farther along than last he checked.
"The same to you, young man," the old man nods his thanks as he pitter-patters about on the spot. Now facing back the way he came; he begins the stick-tapping journey to the west.
Barki goes to wave his farewell, only to wince and quickly look away. Turning to go down the path to Dumvald's farm, he starts to admonish himself only to pause as realization strikes like lightning. Brows furrowing, Barki starts to turn around, "Hey, you're not really blind, are you?"
...And there's nothing. The old man is gone.
Barki sighs, "I really hate it when they do that."
Keld whines his agreement.
(-1 Ordstirr Reserve, The Gusissons + Allies are now your enemy)
0~0~0
Dumvaldsby doesn't have anything near as interesting a story behind its name as Sunningskeld does—merely being 'Dumvald's Farm'—but it more than makes up for it by being situated at the truly beautiful boundary between forest and hillside. Birch trees curl inwards as a large, sprawling farm comes into view. Golden grass tickles ankles as they climb the rolling hills upon which Dumvaldsby sits. A small stream trickles down towards the distant coast, passing through the forest in the process.
Without a doubt, Dumvaldsby is a fine place indeed. Unfortunately, as Barki is quick to discover, Dumvaldsby is currently lacking its Dumvald.
"I dunno what to tell you," Domnall Dumvaldsson—the younger of Dumvald's two sons—shrugs as he leans on a rake, a large floppy hat shading his eyes from the sun's bite, "but Dad and Domarr left for the Thing a week ago, wanted to sell some of the horses," he adds as he takes a bite of some manner of oat-bar. "Nobody ever tells me anything, though, so I dunno when they'll be back."
"Are there any horses left?" Barki asks, anxiety rising as the sun climbs ever-closer to noon. "That are fit for riding," Barki quickly adds, knowing full well that no foal could support his weight.
"Two," Domnall says after a moment spent scratching at his cheek—his beard only just starting to come in, "want me to grab one for you?"
"Please," Barki is quick to answer, only for Domnall to stand there and purse his lips, "Well? What's the matter?"
"Well, which do you want? There's one that rides like a dream, the other..." Domnall shrugs a frown, "Well, I'll just say that he's in-training and leave it at that."
"Why is this even a quest-" Barki stops, the words of the old man filtering through his mind. Barki is far from a strong rider—one had tried to kick him as a child and the experience had put him off recreational riding for good—but only a fool disregards words of wisdom. Gritting his teeth, Barki knows what he must do, "Give me the one in-training."
"You sure? I me-" Domnall stops flat, something in Barki's eyes drawing a pair of raised brows, "Right, right. I'll get you the rough horse."
As Domnall parts to go fetch the horse, he leaves Barki with plenty of time to consider how, exactly, he's going to get to the Thing on time. The Thing-mound of the South Quarter is located about a third-of-a-day's ride to the south-west and Barki knows three routes to get there.
The first option is a path following a stream, which will take an uncertain amount of time as the ground is poor for traveling because mud and mush can often cling to its banks this time of year.
The second option is the road through the woods, which will take the shortest amount of time but is often-travelled—which means that Barki will certainly face enemies along that route.
The third option is to take the untamed hills, which means that Barki will certainly arrive at the Thing late in the day. However, this ground will be the best for fighting in and he'll see any foes coming from a distance—though the same is true for them and he.
Which route does Barki pick?
[ ] The River Route
[ ] The Forest Route
[ ] The Hill Route
0~0~0
AN: In future fights, you will have the option to plan. This fight was so that you could get a picture of what battle is like in this setting.
In short, all Norse are cultivators.
No moratorium. I have to go to a funeral today and tomorrow, so I'll call the vote when I get back.
I saw that the vote was unanimous, so I went ahead and wrote up the update while at work.
The ultimate goal in the life of any Norseman is to acquire more of and maintain their ordstirr, by any means necessary. Ordstirr—'word-glory'—is all that remains after death, all that people will remember you by, so any challenge to your ordstirr must be met with cold iron and hot blood lest your memory be tarnished.
To gain ordstirr, one must first earn the respect and awe of others by doing glorious deeds that enhance and display one's honor and might. From doing these acts and gaining said glory, one draws ordstirr. Likewise, to suffer insult and disrespect without retort is to lessen one's renown and reputation, which robs a man of his ordstirr.
Each man's ordstirr is unique to him and it is said that a man's ordstirr reveals his character. Some have ordstirr of a wild dog, baying and ready to strike at a moment's notice. Others have the ordstirr of the noble bear, slow to rise yet fierce in battle. Yet others still have the ordstirr of the lowly serpent or the clever fox, sharp and swift and able to worm past all but the mightiest of shields.
Barki Gunnvaldsson's ordstirr is a calm, single-minded thing. Unlike so many other Norsemen, who seem almost over-eager to wield their ordstirr in anger and violence, Barki's ordstirr takes its time to rouse itself from its slumbering rest. But once it does rise, few can stand against the onslaught.
Passing Sunning to his shield-hand and scooping up a rock from the forest floor, Barki reaches deep inside to where his ordstirr resides. A lumbering mass of curled-up might, to draw it forth will require three familiar motions. A poke, a prod, and a final stoke serve to rouse his soul's slumbering strength as a seafoam green glow clings to the rock's surface.
"Keld," Keld's ears perk up at Barki's whisper-hissed words, "wait for my signal, then take the axe."
Keld nods, his lips peeling back in a silent growl as he turns silver eyes on Labbi Gusisson, who even now plays with his 'food'. An axe swing turns false as he draws it back at the last moment, a cruel grin on his face as he pulls his weapon back once more. A dreng is fair and honest in his dealings, both on and off the field of battle. If he should swing his weapon, it should be with full intention to end his foe then and there.
Rising to his full height and stepping from the brush, Barki's voice lifts to the air as he cocks his hand back, "Hey, patch-face! Is that your ma's slaedur you're wearing or are you just short?"
"Wha-" Mats twists about, rage showing on his admittedly somewhat patch-bearded face as he lifts his weapons. He doesn't get to finish his sentence, however, as an ordstirr-clad stone splits his chin in two as it lodges itself deep in his throat—not nearly enough to kill him, unfortunately, but it gets the ball rolling.
Labbi looks up as his brother stumbles back, his eyes darting on Barki as recognition flashes. Gray-tone ordstirr coats his axe as he brings it back for a swing, only for a bolt of pressurized water to tear through his wrist and send his axe—hand included—spiraling into the brush.
"Good dog!" Barki shouts as a hot-blooded grin threatens to spill across his face, Keld's proud bark the sweet song of victory as he chases after his master. Drawing Sunning and casting the sheath aside to spare himself its footwork-fouling presence, Barki advances like a bow-loosed arrow.
In the rush of battle, with adrenaline pounding in your ears, it can be a struggle to think let alone plan. Yet a dreng always acts with careful thought, never speaking unless sure of his words. With tremendous force of will and fiercely clenching teeth, Barki's feet slow their charge as he forces himself to come to a stop. Eyeing his foes over the rim of his shield, he takes careful study of how they move as they likewise study him.
The Gusissons both ply their trade as lumbermen, selling cords of firewood and lumber to those who have more important things to spend their time doing. It is a meager existence by any measure, but one that gives them ample opportunity to practice their downward strokes, as can clearly be seen by the bulk of their right shoulders. Shifting his shield to better catch overhead blows, Barki closes the gap as he readies his sword.
Mats makes the first move, pushing with the back foot and covering his advance with his shield. Large muscles tense in his arm as he pulls his axe back in a powerful overhead swing. The blow starts slow, but rapidly builds up speed as pale yellow ordstirr surges alongside a fierce battle cry.
Barki darts to the side at the last moment, his hair billowing from the blow-made wind as his bloodline keeps his feet from sliding on the melt-slick ground. The axe strikes the foot-packed floor, sending up a spray of dirt as Mats carves a fresh ditch deep in the earth's surface.
Barki's foot comes down on the axe-back, driving its face deeper as he pushes forward into a swing of his own. Sunning blurs as seafoam ordstirr falls from its blade, its motions leaving twin afterimages in its wake—the hallmark of the Echo Layer trick. But rather than following the original's motions exactly, this variation on the well-known Echo Layer fans the echo-motions out to strike at three places at once.
Mats lifts his shield in time to catch the blows heading for his head and waist in the familiar clatter of iron on wood, but no shield can cover the entire body at once. The second echo-motion slips under the wool-covered rim as it splits ankle and sock in a single strike.
Mats' teeth click near-hard enough to shatter as he stumbles back sans a foot and shoe, but loyal Labbi is ever-quick to take his brother's place. His lacking hand troubles him not as his shield-edge gains a gray tone glow.
Shield meets shield as Barki's thrown back—portions of the well-trod ground still sticking to the bottom of his shoes. Impacting against a tree trunk but managing to keep his wind, Barki just barely ducks Labbi's shield as it comes in for the follow-up.
The tree groans as its trunk splinters, the blow hard enough to snap it clean through the middle. It lurches to the side, crashing into a fall as instinct mixes with plan and Barki's hand snaps out to catch it. His bloodline makes the connection as his feet shift on the spot and the entire tree starts to swing.
Labbi's eyes snap wide as the tree whips his way. His shield starts to rise, his stump-hand pressing against it, only for a sudden, gray-furred missile to bare its fangs. Keld's teeth sink deep into Labbi's shield-arm as Keld wrenches his head to the side, taking the Gusisson's arm off at the elbow—and the shield with it.
It is said that a man caught without his shield will soon be among the dead.
A scream splits the air as the tree takes Labbi by the waist and bats him against a second leaf-topped soldier. The impact cracks the bark, but Labbi's suffering is far from over. Barki lets loose a wordless battle cry as he brings his own tree to slam against Labbi's—the snapping squelch and spread of red telling tales of Labbi's flattened fate.
"N-no!" Mats' horrified cry thunders along the crossroads, but his brother's death won't stop him from wrenching his axe from the dirt and gnashing his teeth in anger. His stump-foot slowing him down, he can't quite close the distance in a single bound. His shield falls to the wayside as both hands grip the axe. Lifting it high overhead, he aims to make up the difference by cleaving Barki head-to-toe.
Barki twists on the spot, the tree shifting to follow, and catches the yellow-clad axe on the trunk. The entire tree explodes into a shower of splinters as Barki quickly slings his shield in hand while darting forward with Sunning held high.
Sunning is a sword of magnificent make. Though the name and bearing of those who forged it are long lost to history, the pride of their work lives on in the shimmering, blue-tinted surface of the blade's cutting edge. Never has it failed Barki and never has its edge needed sharpening, for it always strikes true.
Had Mats been any other person, perhaps Barki would have spared him this fate. But this Mats is the same Mats that had sent Barki a shipment of knot-filled planks when he had specifically requested no knots! Blinded by the splinter shower, Mats can't see the sword coming up between his legs until it's far too late. His eyes widen—first in shock, then in agony—as Sunning's edge greets a certain sword.
Mats' body falls to the ground. Even in death, his hands still twitch towards his pants-seat.
Wiping his sword clean on an unbloodied spot on Mats' shirt, Barki goes to sheath Sunning only to pause as a warm flush rises on his cheeks. In all the chaos of the fighting, he'd forgotten that he'd tossed it aside! Feeling rather foolish, Barki goes to retrieve it only for a soft bark and a wagging tail to draw the eye.
There, at his side, is Keld with Sunning's sheath held gently between his teeth. A laugh slips free as Barki kneels before Keld, giving him many ear rubs and plentiful praise before sheathing Sunning and fastening it to his belt.
Clapping fills the air as the old man sits cross-legged in the middle of the road, his walking stick laid neatly across his knees, "Masterfully done, young man. You're quite talented with that blade of yours, eh?"
"Thank you, elder," Barki nods his head because he totally didn't forget about the old man's presence or anything as foolish as that, not at all! "Are you injured?"
The old man waves Barki off, a broad smile on his white-browed face, "Oh, don't you worry about me. I've been through worse scrapes than this." Rising to his wobbling knees, the old man groans as he presses a hand to the small of his back, "Damn these old bones of mine," he mutters as he sighs, shaking his head of his thoughts. Turning his milk-white eyes on Barki, a spark of curiosity strikes behind them, "Still, I believe I would like to know the name of the one who saved me—and also if you could direct me to Barki Gunnvaldsson, that would be much appreciated."
"If it is Barki Gunnvaldsson you seek," Barki pulls himself up to his full height, the wind blowing through his hair in the same manner as it does for Keld at his side, "then you need not look any further than the man before you, for I am Barki Gunnvaldsson."
The old man nods, a smile lacking many teeth spreading across his face, "Praise be the Gods for guiding this weary wanderer to his sought doorstep," he taps his cane against the ground three times before drawing himself up to his full height—which, now that Barki looks closely, is a full head-and-shoulders taller than him. "To you, Barki Gunnvaldsson, I bear this wisdom; take the horse that rides rough."
Barki blinks after a few moments of extended silence, "Is... Is that all?"
The old man shrugs as he returns to his deep slouch, "It is what it is."
A few more moments of silence pass.
"In that case, I thank you for your words of wisdom and wish you fair travels to your next destination," Barki says as he casts a glance to the sky, noting with a slight tinge of worry that the sun is a fair bit farther along than last he checked.
"The same to you, young man," the old man nods his thanks as he pitter-patters about on the spot. Now facing back the way he came; he begins the stick-tapping journey to the west.
Barki goes to wave his farewell, only to wince and quickly look away. Turning to go down the path to Dumvald's farm, he starts to admonish himself only to pause as realization strikes like lightning. Brows furrowing, Barki starts to turn around, "Hey, you're not really blind, are you?"
...And there's nothing. The old man is gone.
Barki sighs, "I really hate it when they do that."
Keld whines his agreement.
(-1 Ordstirr Reserve, The Gusissons + Allies are now your enemy)
0~0~0
Dumvaldsby doesn't have anything near as interesting a story behind its name as Sunningskeld does—merely being 'Dumvald's Farm'—but it more than makes up for it by being situated at the truly beautiful boundary between forest and hillside. Birch trees curl inwards as a large, sprawling farm comes into view. Golden grass tickles ankles as they climb the rolling hills upon which Dumvaldsby sits. A small stream trickles down towards the distant coast, passing through the forest in the process.
Without a doubt, Dumvaldsby is a fine place indeed. Unfortunately, as Barki is quick to discover, Dumvaldsby is currently lacking its Dumvald.
"I dunno what to tell you," Domnall Dumvaldsson—the younger of Dumvald's two sons—shrugs as he leans on a rake, a large floppy hat shading his eyes from the sun's bite, "but Dad and Domarr left for the Thing a week ago, wanted to sell some of the horses," he adds as he takes a bite of some manner of oat-bar. "Nobody ever tells me anything, though, so I dunno when they'll be back."
"Are there any horses left?" Barki asks, anxiety rising as the sun climbs ever-closer to noon. "That are fit for riding," Barki quickly adds, knowing full well that no foal could support his weight.
"Two," Domnall says after a moment spent scratching at his cheek—his beard only just starting to come in, "want me to grab one for you?"
"Please," Barki is quick to answer, only for Domnall to stand there and purse his lips, "Well? What's the matter?"
"Well, which do you want? There's one that rides like a dream, the other..." Domnall shrugs a frown, "Well, I'll just say that he's in-training and leave it at that."
"Why is this even a quest-" Barki stops, the words of the old man filtering through his mind. Barki is far from a strong rider—one had tried to kick him as a child and the experience had put him off recreational riding for good—but only a fool disregards words of wisdom. Gritting his teeth, Barki knows what he must do, "Give me the one in-training."
"You sure? I me-" Domnall stops flat, something in Barki's eyes drawing a pair of raised brows, "Right, right. I'll get you the rough horse."
As Domnall parts to go fetch the horse, he leaves Barki with plenty of time to consider how, exactly, he's going to get to the Thing on time. The Thing-mound of the South Quarter is located about a third-of-a-day's ride to the south-west and Barki knows three routes to get there.
The first option is a path following a stream, which will take an uncertain amount of time as the ground is poor for traveling because mud and mush can often cling to its banks this time of year.
The second option is the road through the woods, which will take the shortest amount of time but is often-travelled—which means that Barki will certainly face enemies along that route.
The third option is to take the untamed hills, which means that Barki will certainly arrive at the Thing late in the day. However, this ground will be the best for fighting in and he'll see any foes coming from a distance—though the same is true for them and he.
Which route does Barki pick?
[ ] The River Route
[ ] The Forest Route
[ ] The Hill Route
0~0~0
AN: In future fights, you will have the option to plan. This fight was so that you could get a picture of what battle is like in this setting.
In short, all Norse are cultivators.
No moratorium. I have to go to a funeral today and tomorrow, so I'll call the vote when I get back.
I saw that the vote was unanimous, so I went ahead and wrote up the update while at work.
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Alectai
Speaks Words of Wisdom... On occasion
Hmm, so we helped an old man out and he gave us a useful bit of advice, I wonder how that'll pay off later?
So, what to do. We want to get to the Thing in time, but if we're buried in enemies on the way in, that'll be hard. They only need to delay us after all.
...
Wait, "Rough Riding Horse"
I think he's suggesting we take the River Route. That's definitely the "Roughest Ride" we've got here.
[X] The River Route
That's the only one that doesn't telegraph our position while taking an extra long time or charge straight through a killbox. It's definitely the hardest ride of the bunch, but that's likely its biggest downside.
So, what to do. We want to get to the Thing in time, but if we're buried in enemies on the way in, that'll be hard. They only need to delay us after all.
...
Wait, "Rough Riding Horse"
I think he's suggesting we take the River Route. That's definitely the "Roughest Ride" we've got here.
[X] The River Route
That's the only one that doesn't telegraph our position while taking an extra long time or charge straight through a killbox. It's definitely the hardest ride of the bunch, but that's likely its biggest downside.