3. The birth of a barbarian

The birth of a barbarian


  • "Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother's breast?
    For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest.
    And was I born of womankind and laid on a father's arm?
    For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm."

    Thoughts of a nameless bard from the tribe of the Gray Wolf
    (- Rudyard Kipling: The Only Son -)

    _Winter kept the north within his firm grasp. It stifled the short days into gray twilight, with strident storms, snow and lances of ice. The cold ruled the land with white fanged and howling shadows that flit above the snow. This was the time of deadly claws, and the richly effused, and steaming red blood. The season of the Wolf - the wolf what seemed to be ready to consume the faint lamp on the sky covered with the courtain of the clouds.
    But the people of the North was hardened by times just like this. They could have dealt with the abhorrently screaming snowstorms, and the blood-thirsty wolves hunting in packs, looking for helpless prays, but the White season last longer in that year than ever. The icy hand of the frost grabbed the north and chivied the kin of the Grey Wolf, the tribe of the Uthgardt barbarian.

    Weighty stepped, thick skinned, bearded, muscular barbarians arrived from the misty forests. They came to fight with no weapons, but their bare hands, and with the insane flames in the eyes of the predaters who starved for a long time. The wild ones teared down the wooden baricades with one swing of their paws, and they growled while they killed and their fangs broke up bones, and flesh to gain the warm marrow. They have come in the night, with the fog, and the wind, and had not left anybody alive behind their back. Word spread that villages near Ravensrock had been attacked and destroyed by wolf-people…but such deeds can't be remained unavenged under the blue Moon - and avenge will be delivered as long as there is a single knight who follows the word of Father Hoar, the god of vengance.

    They arrived at sunsent to the nameless pass of the lower mountains of the Spine. Five somber, black armoured knights, on the back of huge battle-horses. Heavy, edged horseshoes injured the ice under their gallop, and snow fell on the broad shoulders, and fur cloacks. For the land beneath them it was too late. Thick, greasey smoke stirred in the valley, and the last screames had been silenced a long time ago. Two-legged wolf-kins had a feast under the burning roof of the cottages and huts. The angels of revenge, holding half-quintal great-axes have understood, that they could not prevent, but avenge the messacre. To punish the guilty ones in the name of Hoar. The fires burned, and ate the buildings made of wood, in a noisy way, and the eyes of the rampageing horde were clouded with the smoke...maybe this is why the barbarians reacted too slowly to the chargeing knights, who came down from the hill like an angry avalanche.

    The fight was short. Quick and bloody as most of the fights here up in the northern mountains. The stongest,and fiercest of the mankind, muscular, mean, veterans of hundreds battles matched their strenght with the white-fanged barbarians of the north mountains. The raw power of the muscles, and beastly hunger gave rise to the iron of heavy full-plate armors, and axes. The swings went without any grace. Four black as night steads, and a white hoss, four enormous battle axe, and one bastard sword delivered quick death to the barbarians wearing the form of their totem...the werewolf. The chill, and the stuffed belly slowed the wolf-kins...but in the heart of the knights the fire of vengance raged.

    They gasped and wheeped the clouds of their breath flew away with the wind. In the world that faded into a white frenzy with every slash and thrust, only the gray of the weapons and fur, the red of the blood and the yellow of the eyes of barbarians what twinkled with some ancient hatred coulb be seen. Nobody asked or received mercy. The kin of the Wolf-spirit got desperate and fought back hard. Four of them had grabbed one of the black armored knight, from his saddle, and tried to tore him apart. It was in vein. The gracile blade of the bastard sword swooped down like a hawk, and cut the head of the biggest Gray Wolf's follower. The second's forehead was contused by an iron-edged horseshoe. The third one almost reached the head of the fallen knight, his claws almost crushed the throat of him, but suddendly the weapon of the comtur - leader of the knight order - crushed the spine of the third one. Another flicker of the hand and the fourth of the beasts hit the ground sliced into two parts.

    And then came silence...and the white peace that fell on the valley almost hurt. The bringers of justice were too tired to speake...and after all the sons of Hoar were not famous for their smooth talk. The face of a comtur was emotionless, as he exemined the destruction all around them. Except the rider of the white hoss, they fullfilled their duties, when they had come here. They knew that they would have much more fight, before the barbarians of the Gray Wolf tribe retreat. The bear-like leader crackled his bones tiredly, when he recognised something had moved near the light of a burning hut.

    The gods make rude jokes with the mortals sometimes. An almost dead female barbarian whose final minutes had become hot, red, pain, crawled towards the attackers. The command of instincts kept the sparkle of life in her. The wind must had tricked here too, because it blew towards the avengers, so her perfect - but now blunted by the fire - nose couldn't warn her, that the shades before her were not kinfolks. The dying female had reached to his rags, and took a crieing baby from there, then she whispered with bloody pain in her voice:"Gauk...gauk..."
    Shriak had torn from the shaking lips of the new-born as the frozen wind bit his pink skin, and called forth tiers form the blue eyes. For a second the comtur eyed the baby and his mother in a suprised way, then he shrugged. The heavy axe had cleft the chilly air, when its span was diverted by a long, lightsome blade that swooped down again like a hawk.
    "The time of revenge became forfeited. Let there be the time of mercy now."
    The knight of Hoar answered with a dark glance to the sad smile of his companion who were ridden the snow-white horse. The picture of a blank scroll on the armor of the smileing knight signed that he was the follower of Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge. The leader of the group scowled. They needed the fighter...without him they would have been lost far ago, between the high hills, and deep chasms. And the man with the Oghma faith wielded the sword, that he could have bested most warriors of the avenger knighthood.
    The barbarian mother had waned on the ground and his eyes went shallow. The gauk was yowling as his skin became pale as marble laying on the ground, covered with stinky rags. The knowledge seeker fighter held his ground against the glanceing of the comtur. After a long minute the black armored "giant" shook his head and turned away, eyeing his own ones. And because he was not the man of the words, he just said that much:
    "Yours..."_

    The journey what the young boy, and his patron knight was long. 15 years and and almost the same hundred kilometers. The barbarian learnt much since his birth…but lost more. The roaming Oghma-knight Noassier vel Virenn ignored the sarcastic comments and took the whelp along with him, like some fortune-charm. Noassier belived for a long time that "gauk" is the real name of the kid, but after recogniseing his mistake he gave a real, human and civilized name to his apperantice. He named him Kalidar, after some barbarian bard, who he had read about in an ancient text. The boy, who spent his first years in the backbag of the knight, had learnt to fight and swim, before he could even speake...he had seen more adventure, and different contries than most of the so called "adventurers". He acquired the common language and the writing-reading skill after some year of practiceing. Noassier was the only person who cared about him, without any interest...

    The boy mourned the knight as though he was his father when the barbarians near the Silver Marches arrowed him to death. Kalidar had learnt a year later that his patron desecrated the holy place of the gathering place of the Black Lion tribe a few years ago by spending there a night and drawing a picture of it...and when they came back, to this region of the world, some insane member of the Blackraven's clan avenged the "foul" deed. The same fate almost reached the young boy, but the shaman of the Lion's tribe was there, and saw the sparkle of the divine power in the youngster's aura. And the tribe needed more shamans badly as the churches of Tyr, Torm and Helm converted most of the tribe members from their totem-faith. When the tatood tribesmen had taken him towards the camp of the Lions tribe he thought that ritual tortures and shouting of insane spirits and shamans awaited him, before reaching the spiritual state when he can accept the totem. He had thought that the barbarians would despise him, and his punishment for the least mistake he comit would be some horseriding, tied to the tail of it.
    But none of this happened. The Black Lion barbarians were humble people, living near Beorunna's Well, in the wide valley that separates the North from the glacier, dwelt in huts and long houses. They had forsaken the old traditions and rituals and became farmers and herders long time ago. Their old religion, the worshiping of the Black Lion, aspect of Uthgar was rare amongst the population, but as the chieftan of the tribe said once: "Farmers don't need a fierce and whimsical god...they need safety and protection�"
    And the tribemembers, with a few exceptions thought in the same way as their leader did.
    Kalidar got back his father posessions after a week and had a simple but comfortable accomodation, what he shared with a couple of young boys and the shaman. His former father had written a journal, with all the gathered knowledge in it. The restless boy read it as a holy book, page after page, searching for some evidence that how this can be true. What had happened with the barbarians? His people? He was confused, and distracted by the different paragons of the chieften and the shaman. One was telling the new life is better, and the other was convinced that they should have preserved some of the old tradition and faith. There wasn't any public argueing between the shaman and the chieftan but the old man who taught the willing young ones always instructed them as the spirits of the old ones, and the ancestors would had done.

    As time passed, days after days, weeks after weeks, months after months he was not only accepted but highly appriciated in the community. He was a swift hunter and a promising student of the spirits, and intriguied by everything that concerned the culture of his own people, especially the tribe of the Gray Wolf. He knew much about his original tribe thanks to the errand-knight. And on cloudy nights when snow stormed down from heavens he dreamed about a pack of wolfes runninng in the starless night hunting their pray...and he woke up to the sound of howling. His heart felt empty every time he had this dream, and watched the "wild" barbarians around him as they did their daily chores and work. Where is the virtue? Where is the bravery? The old ones of the tribe were able to satisfy a part of his enquiry but his wild spirit did not let him rest. The diary he had read planted idealistic pictures in his head, and he searched the faded glory all around him, in the eyes of the barbarians, in the stance of the once proud people...but he failed to see the greatness of his tribe every time. But still he had managed to endure the seven almost "everlasting" day of the initiation to manhood, when he spoke to the spirits of the ancestors, and shouted for a patron-spirit in the trance caused by starvation and thirst...and the growl of a Lion answered to his shout.

    After the spirits and the Black Lion accepted him as a student he got stubborn, and refused to help to work on a field as a farmer...this is why some of his "brothers" sticked the name "Skiver" on him. He didn't care. He hunted all day long, and left the village for longer journeys too to find something...anything that prowes he is proud of his heritage for a good reason...he hoped to find a proof that the men and women turned their faces away, not the Lion abondened them.

    _He leant to a tree with his back. Autum was ruleing the forest like a colourfull queen, dressing up the trees in different vivid dresses. The hunting ground was humming with life. The young warrior gave a puzzled look to a flieing eagle, then closed his eyes. He was confused than ever. His heart was torna part. He must chose a life quickly before he goes insane. Recently his former friends and hunting-companions abondend, and avoided him if it was possible. He lost his former personality, and became a wild, wordless hermite of the wilderness. He always escaped into the forest if he had had the opportunity.
    And his head hurt again…gods why can't I decide?
    One part of him screamed in anger to quit the peacefull life, and roam the land, battle with the enemies of Uthgar, and gain fame and fortune ont he way. The hiden instincts howled for breaking free from this miserable civilization. The images of a gray wolf filled his mined.
    "You can't deny your ancestry!" it barked.
    "Come with me I will lead you on the path of the spirits"
    The young hunter shoke his head, and the raw voice of the spirit animal vanished. A distant growl of a lion could be heared.
    Kalidar eyed the forest again, but his thoughts distracted him again from reality. He always have lived in civilization, since his childhood. His father had educated him, and he was a good student�he drank up all the knowledge that was offered. But what he gained from it? Questions unanswered because the early death of Noassier. The world is so big, and he lost the ground under his feet. And now his only solid supporter, his belief that he is an offspring of fierce warriors, and conqerors of the north...seemed to be false. Where is his place in this world? Should he be a warrior of the Gray Wolf? He didn't have the gift or curse - it depends on viewpoint - of the wolfkins. Should he be a shaman of the Black Lion? His people turned away from the great beast-totem...and he felt ashamed by this...
    Should he dig the ground for roots and vegetables? He was too restless and his spirit was too wild to be in one place doing nothing...
    Should he kill everything in sight int he wilderness until he became one of the savage predators without thoughts? To let he beast rageing inside him consume his will...to let instincts control him entirely? The spirit of the knight-teacher will never rest in piece if he have made this decision...
    "Oh mighty Uthgar give me a sign!" he murmured desperately.

    The growl of a lion came from a shorter distance. Suddenly a frightened deer broke out from the bushes. It ran like a shot arrow. The eyes of the barbarian opened immediately. The stench of a troll hit his noose after a few seconds. He had seen and smelled such beasts before, during the hunts...and all the encounters were unpleasant experiances. Maybe the beast sneaked here a long time ago, but he was too deep in thought to recognise its comeing. He dropped his bow, and reached for his sword that was crafted by the smith of the village, when Kalidar reached the age of a man. The lone lion had growled again and jumped to the glade where the young shaman stood. The troll came after him, riping some sapling tree from the earth. The lion was wounded badly, but still raged in anger, and attacked the troll on his chest. His paws had tore a big part of the trolls flesh but it seemed that the monster didn't feel it. The lion evaded some blow of the enormous claws then flinched�it was tired. But the young one was ready. It is worth to die in a battle like this...fighting by the side of his totem...his god. He charged towards the troll lonely, and impaled the beasts chest while he growled...then in animalistic anger he tore the sword from the monster, and the half of the beasts chest was gone. The troll had made Kalidar fly with a flicker of his arm then stepped back a couple of steps. Kalidar stood up swiftly and charged again and shouted, growled in rage...but he was not alone anymore. The lion leapt on the troll and bit off the face of the green creature. It flailed around, but hit nothing. The young barbarian cut off the legs of the monster with one swing...another thrust with the greatsword then it was over. Kalidar grasped, and looked up. The lion was standing there endureing his wounds proudly, showing its teeth to the human. The shaman did not move. He was just stareing at the beautifull animal, and taking heavy breathes. His tatoo of the Black Lion on the chest was flameing under his leather armor. The lion slowly backed blinked to Kalidar a few times, and then it walked away.
    "Thank you Uthgar..." he whispered as he looked up on the sky. It must have been a sign...it must be...
    The young adventurer looked back in the direction of his village, then towards the direction the way the lion walked away. This was the time of decision...but after this no questions remained unanswered. The first smile after several months appeared on Kalidar's face. So the Lion still wants followers...he still wants Kalidar...
    The barbarian sheated his sword then without any hesitation he walked towards the east...where the lion growled again._

    account:Szeltolo
    character name: Kalidar Skiveer

    //if you find any big and important language error (grammar, spelling) please pm me…for the DM who will revise it...please make a little haste with this...my chars weren't restored yet, and I can't play with this char until this xp is placed on my char...thank you:)


  • Reviewed, XP pending.