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Expatriated Quest 2017-04-01 10:59:11 Post No. 1325208
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Expatriated Quest 2017-04-01 10:59:11 Post No. 1325208
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The chill wind of an unnaturally cold night launches batters you through your rags and you desperately fight the instinct to jump, to move, to do anything to generate more heat. The armed guards driving the wagon would jump at the chance to beat you senseless to do the same. Best not to tempt them, especially with the release from your bonds so close. So you force yourself still, opting to tough it out in the back of their wooden cart, steeling yourself with the prospect of freedom. As soon as they let you go, you'll need to get by in this frozen hell with naught but an item of your choosing and a waterskin.
Your arm still screams in muted agony from the makeshift branding you'd received earlier denoting you a criminal. Turning your head awkwardly, you stare furiously at the runes imprinted on your burnt skin. That Official twat wielding the brand was drunk, and he'd decided to make you the butt of some nonsensical joke that his similarly alcohol-impaired lackeys went along with as they held you down.
What do they say?
>Mannfýla - Asshole. A skilled drinker and brawler, like your father and grandfather before you, you'd started bar-brawling as almost a tradition in the towns you visited. You may or may not have punched a few important figures in the head, you really can't remember much from that particular night. Thinking back on it, the Official who branded you WAS missing a few teeth...
>Óvinur - Enemy. Born with little, and destined to die with less, you spent much of your life fighting and killing to survive. As you got better at it, you became a duelist for a living, challenging rich individuals in Holmgang without count. While most hired or convinced skilled warriors to duel you, some had more balls than brains and you've split the heads of some influential people along the way. Turns out that said Official MAY have lost a few relatives to your antics...
>Gunga - Coward. Raised as the son of a militiaman, you took to the ways of war bright and early in your life. In your first battle, you saw three of your best friends brutally slain by an enemy berserker and lost your nerve, fleeing the battle with your tail between your legs. Unfortunately for you, your side won and you've been branded as a deserter and coward, disowned by everyone you've ever known. That Official does look awfully like the father of one of your slain comrades...
(1/2)
>>
>>1325208
>Drulusokkur - Toilet-Plunger. A natural trickster, you loved to prank people between odd-jobs as you wandered the land. Some people took it well, some people took it personally. Usually, you had a thick skin, but when a poncy nobleman made it his job to put you in chains for your antics, you took it personally and doused him with a bucket filled with waste from a rooftop as he walked outside for a morning walk. You still contend that the bastard had it coming.
>Flón - Fool. Hunting in the woods, you loosed an arrow at a magnificent boar that pierced its hide but failed to hit any vital organs. Panicked, the beast ran away and gored another hunter to death a few miles away. His comrades decided to hunt you down for sport instead that day, and you managed to slay your pursuers AND got the boar later on. Unfortunately, you couldn't slay the murder charges thrown at you from the families. Without witnesses, you didn't have much of a chance. They took the boar too. Bastards.
(2/2)
(I'm going to go finally get some food now. Won't be gone long.)
>>
>>1325208
>Óvinur - Enemy. Born with little, and destined to die with less, you spent much of your life fighting and killing to survive. As you got better at it, you became a duelist for a living, challenging rich individuals in Holmgang without count. While most hired or convinced skilled warriors to duel you, some had more balls than brains and you've split the heads of some influential people along the way. Turns out that said Official MAY have lost a few relatives to your antics...
(((Maximum edge)))
>>
>>1325212
>Drulusokkur - Toilet-Plunger. A natural trickster, you loved to prank people between odd-jobs as you wandered the land. Some people took it well, some people took it personally. Usually, you had a thick skin, but when a poncy nobleman made it his job to put you in chains for your antics, you took it personally and doused him with a bucket filled with waste from a rooftop as he walked outside for a morning walk. You still contend that the bastard had it coming.
>>
>>1325208
>Gunga - Coward. Raised as the son of a militiaman, you took to the ways of war bright and early in your life. In your first battle, you saw three of your best friends brutally slain by an enemy berserker and lost your nerve, fleeing the battle with your tail between your legs. Unfortunately for you, your side won and you've been branded as a deserter and coward, disowned by everyone you've ever known. That Official does look awfully like the father of one of your slain comrades...
>>
>>1325208
>Óvinur - Enemy. Born with little, and destined to die with less, you spent much of your life fighting and killing to survive. As you got better at it, you became a duelist for a living, challenging rich individuals in Holmgang without count. While most hired or convinced skilled warriors to duel you, some had more balls than brains and you've split the heads of some influential people along the way. Turns out that said Official MAY have lost a few relatives to your antics...
>>
>>1325208
>Mannfýla - Asshole. A skilled drinker and brawler, like your father and grandfather before you, you'd started bar-brawling as almost a tradition in the towns you visited. You may or may not have punched a few important figures in the head, you really can't remember much from that particular night. Thinking back on it, the Official who branded you WAS missing a few teeth...
>>
>>
>>1325208
>Óvinur - Enemy. Born with little, and destined to die with less, you spent much of your life fighting and killing to survive. As you got better at it, you became a duelist for a living, challenging rich individuals in Holmgang without count. While most hired or convinced skilled warriors to duel you, some had more balls than brains and you've split the heads of some influential people along the way. Turns out that said Official MAY have lost a few relatives to your antics...
>>
>Óvinur - Enemy. Born with little, and destined to die with less, you spent much of your life fighting and killing to survive. As you got better at it, you became a duelist for a living, challenging rich individuals in Holmgang without count. While most hired or convinced skilled warriors to duel you, some had more balls than brains and you've split the heads of some influential people along the way. Turns out that said Official MAY have lost a few relatives to your antics...
>>
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Óvinur takes it!
Writing now.
>>
>>1325760
>Flón - Fool. Hunting in the woods, you loosed an arrow at a magnificent boar that pierced its hide but failed to hit any vital organs. Panicked, the beast ran away and gored another hunter to death a few miles away. His comrades decided to hunt you down for sport instead that day, and you managed to slay your pursuers AND got the boar later on. Unfortunately, you couldn't slay the murder charges thrown at you from the families. Without witnesses, you didn't have much of a chance. They took the boar too. Bastards.
I know I'm late, but I don't want to feel left out.
>>
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>>1325760
Óvinur. You have Óvinur branded into your skin! You take a few deep breaths and repress your urge to leap up and strangle one of the guards with your bonds. You also immediately suppress the idea of turning around as soon as you are freed and slaying the two sons-of-whores on the spot. The risk of getting wounded in a fight in these frigid wastes isn't worth anything in the world if you expect to survive longer than a few days.
Several bone-chilling hours later, wagon gradually comes to a stop, and one of the guards dismounts before pulling out a knife. Making his way to you, he gives you a nasty sneer which you immediately return in kind. He reaches over to your bonds and cuts through them in seconds, then grabbing you and pushing onto the road. As you get back on your feet, he unlocks the chest you'd been sitting next to in the wagon for the last couple hours and begins tossing things at your feet.
Your ragged blanket. A waterskin. And a damnable rusty sword. And with that, the guard returns to his horse and his comrade begins turning the wagon around. In a moment, the wagon begins back the way it came, and one of the guards gives you some encouragement.
"Don't take too long to die, prisoner. The wolves around these parts are always happy for another meal!"
Grabbing the sword out of the snow, you ask, "And where would these parts be, exactly?"
The guard utters a hearty laugh before waving you goodbye with a gloved hand, "Middengard! Safe travels, dead man!"
Blast. Things might be worse than you thought. You've only heard of the damn place, and if the rumors are anywhere near true, you'll need shelter if you want to last longer than a few days.
(1/2)
>>
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>>1326001
The lands of Middengard are known as the Frozen Wastes for a reason. No true civilization has thrived here for hundreds of years, the environment and the roving hordes of barbarians have made certain of the fact.
Turning the rusty sword over in your hand, you eye the blade and give it a few practice swings, cutting the frigid air with a slight whine. You've killed with less, but you're not going to be very happy dueling a competent opponent with the damned thing. Running your hand over the waterskin, you note the moderate quality of the leather and stitching and smile as you sling it and stretch your aching muscles out in the old road.
Looking at the sun, or what's left of it, you judge that you have a few hours until night and think quickly on your options. You need shelter, food and water can come a little later.
You look around and find a few points of interest in the distance and grin. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
(2/2)
>North, to the ice-covered mountains.
>West, to the thick woods.
>East, to the distant smoke of a campfire on the tundra.
>South, to the foggy coastland.
>>
>>1326274
>West, to the thick woods.
Trees break the wind
>>
>>1326274
>>West, to the thick woods.
>>
>>1326274
>West, to the thick woods
>>
>>1326274
>West, to the thick woods.
>>
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>>1326295
>>1326324
>>1326327
>>1326384
>>1326426
You head west, deep into the forests of the Middengard. If there is wildlife to be found, the greatest concentrations of it will be among the shadowy canopies of the trees. At least it won't be as windy, you hope.
Trudging through the thick snowfall, you manage to make it to the fringe of the woods a solid couple hours before sunset. Your feet tired and your throat parched, you hear the running of a stream nearby and you sprint the last remaining reserve of stamina you have left to throw yourself at the edge of the stream. Crawling a few more feet, you nearly douse your head in the ice-cold water before remembering to check upstream.
Dragging yourself up again, you stagger upstream watching for any evidence of water contamination, before finally sitting yourself down for a drink, content that you don't see any rotting corpses or massed concentrations of animal feces in the stream.
As you finish drinking, you hear an audible snap in the distance, marking itself out to you as a broken tree branch. Immediately, you dive behind a tree and bring your sword to bear. Waiting attentively, adrenaline instantly giving you the strength to ignore the chill of streamwater rushing through your body, you peer out from your tree in the direction of the noise. Nothing yet, but something is definitely out there. Question is, does it know you're here yet?
>Wait a little longer.
>Advance carefully, tree to tree.
>Create a distraction, lure it into sight with a rock.
>>
>>1326860
>>Create a distraction, lure it into sight with a rock.
>>
>>1326860
>Create a distraction, lure it into sight with a rock.
>>
>>1326860
>Advance carefully, tree to tree.
Throwing a rock will only let them figure out where we are
>>
>>1326860
>Create a distraction, lure it into sight with a rock.
>>
>>1326860
>>Create a distraction, lure it into sight with a rock.
>>
>>
>>1326968
Yeah okay I'ma start writing now, vidya done.
>>
>>1326860
>Advance carefully, tree to tree.
Don't want to be standing in freezing water.
>>
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>>1326968
Grabbing a nearby rock, you eye another tree on across the stream and take careful aim. You lob the stone hard enough to sting your own ears, making more than a few animals panic and scurry off. Crouching, you stick your head out an inch and stare ahead, fight or flight very much in action.
A few moments of heart-stopping tension pass as the rustling grows louder and louder until eventually, a massive wolf lumbers out into view. Nearly twice as large as you and sporting a patchwork of scars, you figure it must be a prime example of one of Middengards famous wolves. It stops for a drink, and you wait patiently for its pack to come out together but they don't appear.
Confused, you decide to just leave the monstrous canine alone until and sit behind the tree until it leaves when it snaps it's head up, perhaps picking up your scent. Your suspicions are confirmed when it bears it's fangs and begins to roar, prompting you to back away from your tree and into a clearer spot amidst the treeline.
Seconds later, the Wolf begins to stalk back and forth in front of you, obviously fishing for an opening and relying on its size to scare you into making a move. Unlucky for him, you've dealt with far worse odds. With proper weapons mind, but the rusty blade is more than enough.
Digging your heels in, you lean forward and raise the sword in a guard close to your right hip, blade pointing out. Should it charge you, you'll be able to stab it and sidestep if you're reactions don't fail you.
The two of you circle each other, both wary of the fact that a wound here will most certainly be life threatening, even in victory. Especially in victory, in fact.
(1/2)
>>
>>1327728
Gripping the handle tight, but not too tight, you and your foe stare each other down as the seconds go by. You allow the cold to slowly seep back into your body, the stinging feeling keeping you as sharp as an arrow's point. The wolf for his part merely continues to growl, animal cunning working in tandem with instinct as every massive muscle in its considerable frame is tensed, ready to work at a moments notice.
Seasoned predators, the two of you, playing the waiting game in some of the coldest weather on this blasted rock. Thank the Allfather this beast is alone, else you may not have even gotten this far.
You're kept aware that you won't outlast the wolf in this cold, his thick mane will make sure of that, giving you two real options. Either rush in and surprise it with an all-out assault or slowly back away, feinting a retreat to allow the Wolf to make the first move. Fencing in and out like you usually do won't work on the creature, weakness of learning how to kill men exclusively you suppose.
>Give it everything you've got!
>Feint a retreat, turn and run and hope you're fast enough to counter-strike.
(2/2)
---------
>Roll 3d10 on your vote. BO3 you know the drill.
>>
Rolled 9, 5, 4 = 18 (3d10)
>>1327777
>>Feint a retreat, turn and run and hope you're fast enough to counter-strike.
FOR VALHALLA
>>
Rolled 8, 7, 8 = 23 (3d10)
>>1327777
>Hidden option 3 throw the fucking sword at it
>>
Rolled 1, 7, 7 = 15 (3d10)
>>1327777
>Feint a retreat, turn and run and hope you're fast enough to counter-strike.
>>
Rolled 3, 7, 8 = 18 (3d10)
>>1327777
>>Feint a retreat, turn and run and hope you're fast enough to counter-strike.
Wasn't there another icy BQ-spinoff a while ago that quickly died?
>>
>>1327779
>>1327820
>>1327873
You turn around and sprint back to the stream, exposing your back to the wolf and presenting a perfect target for the beast. Within seconds, you hear the crunching of snow as clear as day as the wolf gains speed behind you. Turning around as almost feel the mass of the wolf behind you, your blade whirls like a whip and slashes through a solid wall of flesh.
Warm, hot blood splatters itself over you from the wound, and the sword manages to dig itself deep at the end of its path, leaving you with both hands tied as the mountain of bloody meat and fur hits you like a truck. The two of you hit the ground hard, and the weight of the body on top of you crushes your chest with immense pressure.
You feel something inside snap as your body is wracked with agony, and you pass out from the shock in seconds. Waking up, you find most of yourself buried under the bleeding mass of the wolf, which you really, really hope is just dead at the moment. Fighting against the pain in your chest, you try to look around for your sword, but it must have been thrown somewhere out of reach in the fall.
As you lay there, slowly being crushed to death under the corpse of your foe, you chuckle at the cruel irony of it all. You'd spent most of your life slaying men, but it looks like it wouldn't me any men slaying you in the end.
Closing your eyes, you're surprised when you hear the familiar sound of tree branches being snapped by heavy footfalls, and you crane your neck to the side to hopefully get a glimpse. What you see surprises you slightly, not totally, primarily because Middengard isn't really the kind of land you can expect to be surprised often by virtue of understanding that the environment itself is inherently surprising. [SLEEP DEPRIVATION AAAAAAA]
A mailed mountain of a man, nearly seven feet of muscle and violence armed to the teeth in steel. Behind his bushy, snowy beard is the face of a hardened fighter, his eyes as blue as the ice that caps the mountains of Middengard. You suppose he, like the wolf, is another prime specimen of the environment, a native Middengarder, though you're slightly happier at the revelation by virtue of this one at least being human. Walking over to you, he takes the scene in slowly, before crouching down in front of you and staring you in the eyes.
Like the wolf before him, you match his gaze man to man, and soon the two of you are engaged in a staring contest of comedic and yet deadly serious proportions. Minutes pass, and you recognize that the wolf and the Middengarder are uncannily similar.
(1/2)
>>
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>>1328233
A spasm of pain wrenches you from the contest, and every breath you take seems to intensify the pain. The Middengarder smiles a little, the intent behind his eyes completely unreadable besides this show of mirth. "I'll consider that contest ended by a draw, then." You note his heavy Northen accent smiting out the syllables like a hammer on an anvil and the hearty growl that accompanies it.
What is it with the North and Wolves, even?!
You're not quite sure how to continue the conversation, but logic and the pain in your chest dictates that you should probably convince him to lend you a hand.
(2/2)
>Ask him politely
>Sarcastic
>Insult
---------
(Sorry for taking so long, stomach problems are fucking killing me goddamnit it is making it hard to do anything really.)
>>1327873
yeah I had the theme I wanted to go for
>>
>>1328253
Sarcasm.
Maybe h e will appreciate it
>>
>>1328253
>Sarcastic
"Despite how this looks, I like to think I ended up on top...though I could use some help getting out from under here."
>>
>>1328253
>>Sarcastic
>>
>>1328253
Well technically it's still my victory right now but it could easily become a draw if I'm trapped underneath it much longer
>>
>>1328253
>Sarcastic
>>
stab him in the testicles with the force of ten thousand anarchists.
>>
>>1328263
>>1328268
>>1328269
>>1328388
>>1328289
"I consider it a win, but it'll be a draw if I'm trapped under this for any longer."
The stranger's grin turns into a mask of concentration, as he plants both hands on the corpse of the wolf and begins to lift it up with slight difficulty, relieving the enormous pressure on your chest. You take the opportunity to crawl out with your hands, dragging yourself across the snow until you get clear of the beast. Dropping the corpse, he wipes some of the blood off his hands in the snow and stretches his arms and legs before leaning against a tree. "So friend," he says with a slight smile, "You mind explaining what you're doing so far north? You're a long way from home, Southlander."
You roll your eyes. "I'm not here by choice, believe me." The man nods at the runes burned into your arm and his grin gets bigger somehow, "What'd you do to get thrown out here?"
"Kill too many people. Well, more specifically too many important people."
His smile widens again and he stoops down to grab your sword out of a pile of snow nearby, looking down the blade and whirling the blade around in his hand before tossing it at your feet. "Well, you won't have that problem up here, rest assured. Nice work taking out that Greatwolf, by the way. My grandmother's knitting could do more damage than that sword."
"I am Ólafur Norling, head housecarl to Jarl Mikkelsen. I have been hunting Greatwolves for days, but it seems that you've had better luck." He points behind him and chuckles, "Even brought the sled for the body and everything. Anyways, I'm not one to leave a fellow warrior out to die in the wild so if you want, you're free to head back to town with me. Provided you let me keep the Greatwolf."
"Take the bloody thing, I could live my entire life without seeing another wolf and be perfectly happy," you snap as you become of aware of how painful each breath is becoming, "There are towns in Middengard? I figured everyone just lived in huts or something."
Ólafur laughs heartily before lifting you up over his shoulders and carrying you slowly through the snow, "It is a rather common sentiment among foreigners, and not entirely without its own kind of truth."
"Speaking of living, we could use a man like you in town. A skilled practitioner of violence is always welcome in the home of any Middengarder."
"I'm not quite ready to kill anything for a little while if that's what you're asking."
The housecarl shakes his head, "Truth is, Greatwolves are hard to find, so I'll gladly take you in while you get back in shape. I'm not asking for any lasting commitment, mind, but we've got a few problems of our own and the town would greatly appreciate some fresh hands.
>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>I don't think I'm ready to sign on with anything at the moment.
>>
>>1331706
>>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>>
>>1331706
>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>>
>>1331706
>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>>
>>1331706
>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>>
>>1331706
>>>Sure, not like I have anything else to do really.
>>
>>1331730
>>1331773
>>1331851
>>1331930
"I'll join up, then. I'm specifically never allowed to return home under pain of death, so it looks like I'll be here for the long haul."
Ólafur laughs and carries you out of the forest with relative ease, and begins to answer the barrage of questions you've had lingering in the back of your mind. When the two of you finally emerge out of the treeline, none of your fears are assuaged in the slightest. All the rumors about Middengard are true, every single last one of them. You are officially stuck in a frozen hell populated with massive Northerners who carve out their living in what is most likely the most dangerous place in the world. Greatwolves are somehow considered only moderately dangerous and are rarer than they are deadlier to the hardy Northmen. Jarl Mikkelsen leads his people well, but old age may soon come to claim its bounty. The man is approaching the ripe old age of forty, and his son, Arnulf, is currently in the process of proving himself capable to lead, a situation that is distracting them from some more pressing issues.
The Orkoid races of the Eastern tundra are banding together, one tribe at a time, under the iron fist of some new overlord. You're told that this generally happens every couple generations or so and will only grow more dangerous left unattended. To the West, deep in the great forests, greater and greater monsters are spawning from the Bleak Hollows, an ancient petrified forest. From the Northernmost mountains, a deep rumbling has been heard, and none of the scouts sent have yet returned. Jarl Mikkelsen and his followers must act quickly, as the sagas reference many of these occurrences with great disasters and destruction, and so there is a general feeling of unease amongst the people.
You guess
(1/? holy shit I cannot write fast at all. continuing after classes tomorrow)
>>
>>1332349
[Cut a ton of shit out because it didn't work in my head or in words]
-you're going to be stuck with a bunch of crazy giants for the foreseeable future, and though you'd probably just kill yourself if you could manage it right now, at least your survival is assured for now. Glancing at Ólafur's way out, you aren't really surprised when you're introduced to a huge wooden dogsled, pulled by some of the largest dogs you've ever seen. You suppose Middengard dogs would make for better wolves elsewhere in the world. Tossing you in the sled, he hands you his waterskin and a little jerky as he heads back in the woods to bring back the Greatwolf. After burning through both in minutes, you fall asleep without issue, the sled proving a fairly comfortable place to rest in light of your eventful day outside.
When you wake up, it is to the sound of raucous laughter and the sloshing of alcohol in vessels. You know exactly where you're waking up. Stumbling to your feet, you immediately grab your chest and find it surprisingly less pained than before. Wiping your eyes with your hands, the first thing you notice is the roll of bandages pressed around your ribs, reeking with the sickly smell of herbal medicine. Scanning around the tavern, you find Ólafur sitting and drinking with a few of his comrades, similar in both size and mirth. Getting off on your feet, you stumble back against the wooden wall of the tavern and nearly fall back down on your arse again.The sudden movement catches the eye of Ólafur and his friends, who walk up to you and sit you down at their table, a great wooden circle made of those massive trees you'd seen in the forest. "Good to see you on your feet, Southlander! You've been out for a little while, but-
(2/? fucking seriously my ADHD is going to kill me one day)
>>
>>1335497
I know the feeling.
>>
>>1335497
You can do it
>>
>>1335497
-perhaps it was for the better. Gerda's medicine smells like a re-heated corpse for the first couple hours." You put your nose up to your bandages to confirm, and you recoil violently as you verify the truth of his statement.
(3/? will return to this in a dozen or so hours. God I fucking hate myself and life so much. If anyone's still here, I'm absolutely sorry for how fucking awful I am.)
>>
>>1339042
>that little
worst qm
>>
>>
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>>1339042
"You had them put this filthy shit on me? And why'd you decide to leave me on my arse in a tavern! Don't tell me you twats don't have a proper bed around here."
Planting yourself in a seat without waiting for the answer, you grab a mug and chug the whole thing down in a few seconds, savoring the spiced taste of adequate quality liquor. As soon as you slam the container down on the table with a ringing THUNK, you snatch a chicken leg from one of the plates lying around and begin tearing it apart. You glance up to see if you've properly acclimated to your surroundings and laugh when you see the evidence of your success in the faces of the numerous Middengarders seated in front of you.
"Southlander!" Ólafur shouts as his shocked face slowly mutates into his quintessential grin. "You sure you don't have some Northern blood in you?"
You shrug your shoulders as you toss the stripped leg to the ground and grab another leg with your greasy fingers, "Maybe. Didn't really know much about my parents. And you need to stop calling me Southlander, damnation I was born only a few weeks from here on horseback!"
"You'll fit right in here, Southlander," Ólafur laughs as he puts his arms on the stout shoulders of his comrades, "But where are my manners! Meet my comrades-in-arms!" The Northerner on his left stands up first and beats his chest with one closed fist and that damnable smile all these Middengarders seem to share, "I am Arnulf the Wolf, and if you can fight like Ólafur says you can, then I'll be proud to fight alongside you." Arnulf sits down, and the man on Ólafur's right stands up and repeats the same gesture with his fist, and he fixes you a steely stare. Not quite filled with hostility, he seems to be gazing into your soul, but as you are wont to do, you gaze back until he relents. As a grin creeps across his scarred face, he nods and announces himself, "My name is Hellmuth Axebiter. I look forward to shedding the blood of our foes with you, Southlander."
As he sits down, Ólafur stands up and grabs you by the arm, pulling you up from your chair like a dog and leading you to the door. Against his prodigious strength, you feel like an animal cub being plucked by its mother and sigh as you are separated from your meal. "Apologies, Southlander, but I've kept you here long enough. The Jarl would like to have a word with you in the Keep, and I'm not one to keep him waiting."
(4/5)
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>>1341754
He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and you are overwhelmed both by the light of the distant clouded sun, as well as the now-familiar biting cold of the Middengard air. You think about asking him for some new clothes, but decide against it as he drags you through the snow with the same effort you would use pulling a small wooden sled around. Looking around as you are manhandled like a toy, the distinct trappings of a civilized town appear as your eyes acclimate to the sun, and you find your jaw hanging open in shock. Tall buildings, great wooden behemoths loom over their surroundings, casting their shadow over the nearby lands and all around you, the sounds and sights of daily life are present. The hustle and bustle of craftsmen toiling in their wooden shops, and the jingling of coins being exchanged over counters. Nearby, the open market, where the farmers peddle their crops in baskets and buyers haggle endlessly for a decent price and the occasionally shouted insult followed by the obligatory fistfight. Surrounding the settlement, an enormous stone wall that dwarfs anything you've ever seen in the "civilized" lands you've traveled in your lifetime provides you with a lasting impression of safety that the accompanying manned guard towers and parapets only reinforce.
Glancing back, the two of you begin to approach the Keep, positioned in the middle of the settlement, an enormous stone fortress that radiates the resilient spirit of the Northmen, armed with enough firing ports, spikes, and other dangerous implements that would make any army think twice about. Built of the same stone as the wall, you feel that this gargantuan structure must have been built at the same time as the wall, for a much different purpose, to not only disparage an enemy assault but to break their fighting spirit and will over its granite knee. Heavily armed guards, some even larger than Ólafur, nod and stand aside as you are thrust inside the mighty Keep by way of it's opened gates.
Inside the interior, you note the rustic beauty of many of the fixtures placed in the hallways as move on, many of them emulating natural scenes and sights in contrast to the stony walls. You do notice, however, that each area seems to have a rack of deadly sharp swords and spears mounted on the various mounts and stands throughout. As you approach what looks like the throne room doors, Ólafur finally releases you from his vice like grip and you wind back and swing with your free right hand, sending your fist crashing into his face, driving him back against the stone wall. "Don't ever do that again, damn you!" you say as you stand back, crossing your arms. Ólafur holds his jaw for a moment, before giving you a grin, "As you wish. Nice hit, by the way, Southlander. Good to know you can hit harder than my mother after all."
(4.5/5)
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>>1341757
Laying back against the wall, he points his thumb at the door, "Jarl's waiting for you Southlander. I'll be waiting back at the inn with the boys. I'll order something for you when you get back." Nodding, you open the doors and enter the throne room. The sight that greets you is truly awe-inspiring, as light flows in through openings at the top of the room, illuminating the complement of regalia filling the walls and luscious furs. Stuffed beasts of every kind are mounted and displayed proudly alongside cases and stands of the finest weaponry, from stout wooden bows to mighty steel war hammers. In the middle of the room, sitting upon the ancient wooden throne is Jarl Mikkelsen himself, dressed in not fanciful robes like you'd expected, but in a shining coat of mail and with a sword at his hip. He gestures for you to step forward, and you approach the throne room with slight trepidation, though you can't tell whether from his sheer presence or coming to terms with the fact that this is where your life has led you. Possibly the largest man you've ever seen in your life, Jarl Mikkelsen towers over you from his throne, his ice-blue eyes digging into your soul. Ólafur had spoken of an aging man, but Mikkelsen seems quite healthy to you, you could imagine those enormous hands choking the life out of the Greatwolf you'd fought earlier without issue. The only sign of age you see so far is a smattering of gray hairs on his blonde hair, and a few wrinkles on his muscular face.
"The Southlander, I presume," he states with certainty, "I've been expecting you."
"You have?" you respond puzzledly. "I haven't been here that long have I?"
"Your coming has been foretold for some time now. A foreigner from the South, who will come in our hour of need." He gestures to a bloody sack lying at his feet before reaching inside and pulling out its horrific contents. The still-bloody head of a Middengarder, beaten, bruised, and half-eaten. "And this is, indeed, our hour of need."
You merely stare at him as he looks into your eyes, awaiting your next answer.
>"If you wanted my help, you could have just asked."
>"You definitely must be thinking of somebody else."
>"When is the next caravan out of this fucking place."
(5/5)
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>>1341760
>If you wanted my help...
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Also I'm slowly trying to put my life back together. This is why I'm updating at 4 in the fucking morning. Come saturday/sunday I'll put a dedicated session in for a few hours and we can finally fucking get somewhere.
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>>1341760
>"If you wanted my help, you could have just asked."
You don't just pull the "You are the chosen one" on people like that
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>>1341760
>"If you wanted my help, you could have just asked."
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actually dead
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>>1325208
Hey, wait a second...
This seems familiar.
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