Byrnjolf AEsbiorn's Story

The sun was far past its zenith when a massive figure approached Ciria. Completely dressed in heavy black leather the man would have been a shadow in the dusk, if it were not for the contrasting white fur decorating the armor and illuminating icy blue inscriptions highlighting the warrior's battlehammer. Equally sizable was the horse the man was riding on, also pitch black and with small hints of long fur at its large hooves; which were cause of the loud clicking of horseshoes hitting the stone paved streets. Yet this was not the most unsettling feature, for all the pomposity aside there was a chilling cold aura emanating from the battlehammer's presence fawning out everywhere he went. Full arrogance the winter dressed Byrnjolf Æsbiorn looked down upon the puny weaklings who lived in the city of Ciria.
"Look at them, running around like ants before your might." Byrnjolf whispered to his steed, "It seems this continent is filled with more soft prey then the Terra midlands." Catching the eye on some rare metals here and there Byrnjolf continued. "And richer than them too. We did well coming here Hælgi." The horse sniffed seemingly in answer to his master's words.
Byrnjolf scouted the streets, searching for an inn or tavern fitting to his tastes; instead he found a guardsman standing on duty. Byrnjolf approached the guardsman, whose eyes wandered over Æsbiorn's black armor and likewise pitch black battlehammer. When the guardsman's eyes finally connected to those of Æsbiorn he could feel a chill run down his back. Weakling. "You, guardsdog, tell me where I can find an acceptable tavern with beer and a warm meal." boomed the voice of the Terra northerner.
The guardsman looked insulted by the intimidating man’s lack of respect, but was clearly wise enough not to make it known. "A-Around the corner to the left, sir."
Byrnjolf nodded, evidently pleased at the man’s discomfort as he looked up and rode around the corner. He instantly spotted the tavern appearing welcoming from afar. The stable boy approached him when the northerner dismounted off his horse. When attempting to grasp the horse's reins the horse instantly bit towards the boy.
"Don't try again boy, else you might lose a few fingers." Byrnjolf sounded slightly disappointed the boy had not already. "I'll lead him to the stables myself." Once the horse was stabled he left to enter the tavern, planning to approach the tavern-keep for a drink and a meal. Byrnjolf had to duck slightly before entering through the door, and once inside his ever persistent cold fanned into the heated tavern.

Byrnjolf was highly pleased with himself. Traveling through small cities in Terra had drawn some attention here and there, for his size seemed unusual and grand among the soft farmers, but the amount of wary looking eyes when he entered the tavern must have been a new record. The northerner couldn't withhold a grin of pure self satisfaction. The self indulgence took so much of his attention he hadn't noticed the yelling of some fresh guard-meat directed to his person.
"...halt, in the name of the king!" were the first words penetrating his thick pompous head.
Byrnjolf had already moved towards the barkeep planning to order a good lager before he realized the yelling was actually meant for him. With slight agitation the northerner turned his head towards Trey. "What are you on about, guardsdog? Someone bootleg your spoon?" The bulky man, completely unaware of the situation he had created, took his two-handed battlehammer from his back and set it next to himself so he could sit properly. The rain had made his fur wet which causally had started to freeze due the proximity with the runes.

Trey's brow furrowed for a moment, distracted by the term he'd never encountered. Bootleg his spoon? He recognized the other though, and the nord might almost be forgiven for using it with the way the youth's hackles were rising. The blonde was standing taller, and tighter and was hardly aware of the sweeping profit Kerson had made of his winnings. He was pushing to shove through the slow gathering crowd of onlookiners who were whispering, some daring to point at the ice crystals where they sat on the barbarian's furred attire. "Dog I am not..but an honorable soldier sir, and You- he emphasized it with a stabbing point of finger- had better have a damned good explanation for why you've come marching into Ceria with -that-" Another stabbing point of his finer at the runed weapon, " on your side.." The youth's blue eyes darted from the weapon to the man again, nervous determinaton settling on his features. "Stay where you are!" It was almost a yelp. Fear of the unknown magic was almost as much a part of her reaction as the desire to represent the king's wishes. "Somebody summon the guard.." He flagged a hand behind his back in a shooing motion, even as he attempted to paint a brave face.

Sephira's grey green gaze flickered in the soldier boy's direction. It would be amusing, almost, the face off taking place. The yapping of the terrier at the heel of the bull. It couldn't end well at all, really. And yet a slow sweep of her attention around the faces gathered would tell her enough. The people were scared of what they did not understand..and of the trouble it could bring, in one form or another. That form would likely be the guard, tonight, and if they got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, who knew what consequence there would be to bear? Two incidents in the same town on the same day might be enough to get the whole placed locked down, and she had to find Gregor. Slipping out of her seat at the bar the bar'na shifted a look toward Saji and Aran both, the unspoken indicator given that it was time to move on. Only a fool stayed where the expected developments were about to unfold.. And the gihiri was no fool. There was no further communication offered to any in the tavern before the barrens woman was slipping out into the cover of a still storming night.

The previous agitation had turned slowly to amusement while Trey was barking all wound-up with all his finger pointing and such. It was quite the entertaining sight to the northerner. With a large grin on his face Byrnjolf spoke calmly. “You guard another man’s possessions in exchange for food and a roof over your head. Sounds like a dog to me.” He shrugged as if stating the obvious.
Byrnjolf’s hand petted the hammer head while he spoke of it. “This, this is my beauty. Called her Oncar, forged her myself. Rarely you’ll see a weapon as fine as this one - is that why it scares you...” His pale blue eyes stared right into the young boy. “Or is it the man handling it? I wasn’t planning on pillaging this place, well... as long you don’t give me a reason to that is.” The last few words were said with a sense of hunger in his eyes while his hand kept petting his battlehammer. He had planned on resting and eating tonight, but if it meant killing few more guards the meal would be tastier. They seemed to carry good metal with them as well, probably could earn some gold from it.

Sephira's head ducked against the raindrops that were coming with less intensity now, and her scarf was raised to cover her hair and draped loosely over her face again, instinctively. If there was going to be trouble afoot, she'd prefer it that her identity was at best vague to anybody who remembered. A steady stride was taking her with unhurried, if purposeful movement toward the direction of the stables which had grown quieter. The scene indoors was enough to draw almost every soul present into the confrontation pending within.

"Ba.." she answered Aran softly. Yes. She knew, the news had been passed on by the inn keep to herself as well, and she was already puzzling over her future course of action. Lorandor was some distance away and the Knights had a head start on horseback; and that assumed that Gregor hadn't managed to get himself killed on the way. "Damned Ta'nuk.." she murmured softly. There was too much going on in Ceria. In the time it would take her to find a buyer for the horse, another good half day would be gone, and with it the chance of finding the prince's trail in the city. Damn, but she hated having to go to the city. She'd make herself feel better about enduring the prospect by fantasizing all the ways she could make Gregor pay for it on the way.

"We'll need to ride.." the gihiri stated the obvious, quietly, and there was no need to voice the implication. They were three potential riders and one horse. Saji, shadowed at her other flank ghosted a nod and melted away into the gloom that was the stable's shadow. Aran, no doubt would persue his own course. Sephira's storm green gaze was searching over the stalls, looking for a favorable beast of her own. Instinct warned against retrieving the charger, a horse bred for war and with a memory of his captivity. No, something more malleable but road hardy was the fare she coveted. The moment the chestnut mare swung a head toward the bar'na with a soft snort and inquisitive flicker of ear, Sephira knew she was the one. A quick glance around and she slipped into the stall, remaining there to make quick and efficient work of trying to get the horse into tack.

Inside, the tension of anticipation was building as Trey took another wary step toward the nord man. "Your words mean little to me, sir, when I'm on the side of right. You are not from these parts, are you? Or you would know it's forbidden." He extended a hand whose fingers may have trembled a beat before he strengthened his gesture. "It uses..magic.." the word sat heavy on his tongue, edged with the fear and disgust it evoked. "We can all see! It made the rain to ice!.. It made the warm air cold! Its the forbidden!. It is elemental! Maybe they arrested the wrong man today..You've brought trouble on us all.. You'll bring more!. Why have you come to this town?" Trey's voice was escalating in his agitation, and with it the mood of the crowd was shifting, growing restless as the mob mentality took hold. The cries of "Yeah!" and "Trouble maker!.." and "Magus!.." were beginning to pepper the room. "Get out!.." floated last over the tense atmosphere. A few heads turned nervously to look toward the door, seeking the guard they attended.

Byrnjolf felt the tension in the air rise with the agitated words of the boy, and his smile dropped. The insults from the crowd stirred a great rage in the northerner. The idiocy, the stupidity this town held in its grip; he could not stand it any longer. Anger was written across his face as he rose from his chair, his form towering the boy. “Do you take me for a sheep? Demeaning myself to your petty farmer laws, written by those scared by the basics of nature?! Do you also discard your healers and call them witches out of fear like gossiping midwives? Cowering yourself behind pretentious scribbles on paper?” His voice, a deep intimidating below, vibrated through the tavern.
His eyes were dead-set on Trey. “You have gone too far. I had no plan to bring harm to this town. All I wished to do is spend my gold. But you, you had to come at me barking like I’m filth to your boot; challenging my pride, challenging me.” Byrnjolf’s voice vibrated of anger with those last words, and his eyes turned cold as the ice on his coat. He felt Oncar pulsing under in his hands, greedy for retribution.
The swift strike of his battlehammer came quicker than any expected, but Byrnjolf landed a blow with full strength to Trey’s side, launching him several feet to the side. Trey landed on a table, his right arm in an awkward position, unconscious with small ice-crystals forming on his side, blood dripped down on the floor like a roof leak in the rain.
Byrnjolf Æsbiorn eyed the room while holding his stance. “Anyone else wish to make true to this idiot's words?” he said with his heavy deep voice, clearly indicating how he would answer such a challenge. The runes pulsed ever brighter, enhancing the stark anger written on Byrjolf’s face. He would knock them all out if he had to, but he preferred to leave this godforsaken town as quickly as possible, his mind was already planning out his escape route. These soft headed Tirians, now I will never get that warm meal.

The unsheathing of blades and the fiery eyes did not go unnoticed to Byrnjolf. He had clearly overstayed his welcome; if he had his clan these soft skinned villagers would have rained blood upon cobblestone by now, but the clan wasn’t his anymore and he was alone in a strange land far from home. It was time to go, quickly.
“Wise words tavern man, I’ll leave you fools be and pursue a hot meal and bed elsewhere.” With his hammer leaning on his shoulder the Barbarian grasped his belongings and proceeded towards the stables for his steed. “Any who are brazen enough to chase me, know I will not pity you like I did the boy.” the northerner left the tavern and rushed towards his black Hælgi, mounting it and galloping onto the streets. Trusting his instincts Byrnjolf rushed his horse east, its hooves echoing through the rain had warned the oncoming guards and they had positioned themselves as a blockade for his approach. They had no chance to prepare for the white blaze of rain turning to snow in front of their eyes when the ice hammer slung through the air, landing squarely in the chest of a guard launching him for several feet; Hælgi’s hooves dug themselves in a skull while it road right through the ill improvised blockade. Byrnjolf galloped his black horse east out of the village. Ride and ride, not time for rest.