Completed Leave No Stone Unburned[Part I]

[Halvar Frostfawn]

78th Day of Winter, 514 AV

A small cloud materialised in the space around Halvar's mouth as he slowly exhaled. It lingered for a moment, then vanished. Stream-song played gently from the place where running water resisted Morwen's touch. A foul smell rode the breeze, a familiar smell: death.
Petch! Immediately, Halvar dropped into a crouch. A lid of fabric was worked into the thick cloak around his shoulders, and a quiver full of arrows protruded from it. Practised hands selected one at random, but he didn't nock it.
Not yet... Movement would be the biggest give away to his position, so he waited. Ticks turned to chimes, and his legs started to burn from the effort; trying to remain motionless in a crouch was almost impossible. Limbs straining and sweat pooling, it was barely another tick before he stumbled slightly, a lone twig hidden beneath the thin layer of snow snapping to announce the event.

Halvar's hand whipped forward, and the groove etched into his arrow fit snugly around the bowstring. His fletcher had a fondness for crow feathers, and Halvar found himself appreciating the subtle choice. Relying on the well developed muscles in his back, Halvar pushed his shoulder blades together and drew the bow, his thumb and forefinger anchoring against his lower jaw... nothing. He held the pose, his arrow straining against the taut bowstring ready to race towards a threat in a moment's notice, but none ever came. Either whatever was listening for him wasn't doing a very good job of it-
Or there's nothing listening... As if to reassure him, a bird-song he didn't quite recognise filtered through the undergrowth. If anything dangerous were still lurking nearby, the birds would have been silent. Cursing at his own rash behaviour Halvar slowly let the bowstring go slack, but he kept the arrow nocked, just in case.

Moving slowly, Halvar carefully navigated his way through the thinning tree line. He was at least a solid day's travel from Zeltiva, and being careless could cost him his life. Animal tracks clustered together on open patches of white, their footprints easily preserved in the fresh snow; a running water source tended to attract a lot of traffic.
Rabbits, Halvar noted, the small animals had passed through the area in their hundreds, he knew. Just how recently? He couldn't say. Once a few dozen animals tread on the same piece of ground, a lot of the details start to blur.
No point checking the shyke either. The cold weather would keep such things preserved, making it almost impossible to decipher their age. No, there would be no useful information there. One particularly frightening footprint caught Halvar's eye:
Moose. The bulls were bad, but the cows were even worse. Crazy mountains of flesh that had a tendency to bulldoze just about anything that cast a shadow. Give Halvar the choice between bumping into a cranky bear or a moose, and he'd choose the bear. Every time.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

The footprints sunk deeply into the snow; clearly whatever left them had made no attempts to conceal their presence. At a glance they appeared human, and Halvar would normally have dismissed them as such. The mangled corpse - which was most certainly human - demanded a more thorough consideration of the grotesque tableau, however.
What could have done this? Halvar's eyes darted from one point to another, searching for anything that could provide a clue. More than that, he was trying to distract his mind; the smell was almost unbearable. A modest stream flowed through the slanted clearing, and the ground was littered with small, smooth pebbles that were visible in the places where the snow had been worn away. It was stained crimson, all of it, or it may as well have been. Whoever this man had been, Halvar could only hope his death had been quick. Limbs had been torn from his torso, stripped of flesh, and tossed aside. Chunks of organ were smeared into the ground, and what remained of his ribcage had been ripped open. It were as if he'd been devoured by a group of wild animals, but Halvar wasn't convinced that was the case.

For one thing, wild animals weren't so wasteful. Halvar was a hunter, when he needed to be, and nothing that needed the meat from a kill to survive would leave so much behind. It was odd to think of the man as such, but whoever he had been was gone now.
We all wind up as that eventually though: a pile of meat, the solemn thought momentarily distracting him. Whatever was responsible, it didn't do it out of a need for food, he was certain. More than that, Halvar couldn't spot the tracks of an animal that would be capable of such brutality. Dropping to one knee, he studied the tracks more intently.
Why were you not wearing any shoes? Maybe- With a start, Halvar jumped back to his feet and rushed towards one of the dead man's partially devoured legs. Unfortunately it lay a fair distance away from his body.
There! A boot. The man had been wearing boots. A sick realisation hit Halvar as the pieces fell together. He was right, it hadn't been a wild animal who killed this man; it was the work of another person.
So why kill you? And why leave such a mess?

Halvar spent the next half-a-bell combing through the scene, looking for anything of use. He found a blood-stained dagger partially buried in the snow. A few inches of the blade had snapped off, and he was unable to find the fragments. He wasn't sure if the weapon belonged to the victim or the killer. It was still sharp though, so it wasn't without use. There was also a leather satchel, or what was left of one. It was nestled against the base of a tree, and a dark blotch of what he assumed was ink pooled around it. Inside it were a number of jars, most of which were shattered and a few of which contained what appeared to be plant specimens. Halvar only recognised one: nightshade, the fruit anyway. The dark orbs wouldn't start flowering until spring. Halvar was aware of the plant for one important reason: it was highly toxic, and eating it would result in a painful death.
Surely the poor sod wasn't going to eat these, otherwise whoever killed him may have been doing him a favour. A flattened quill suggested that one of the broken jars must have contained ink when it was still whole, and a leather bound book suggested the man's purpose for carrying it.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

Most of the pages had been ruined. Blotches of ink, smudged words, and smeared drawings, made the entire thing mostly illegible. From what Halvar could gather, it was a journal of some type. The drawings had been done with charcoal if he were to be any judge, and they depicted trees, flowers, and other examples of the local flora. Labels and other notes had been scribbled neatly next to them in a fluid script. The most recent entry - which hadn't been completely ruined - caught Halvar's eye:

... the specimens here are of a high qual-... guys at The Univer-... easier than I thought, out he-... started hearing an odd bird cal-... Jenna would know what it wa-...

A rough sketch of a woman's face filled the opposite page, and it was seemingly devoid of damage. The coincidence almost prompted a small smile to cross Halvar's features.
I imagine he'd be happy you're safe, he said silently to the image. The journal had answered an important question: the dead man was at least associated with The University, which gave Halvar someone he could inform of his fate. Any other conclusions would have been speculation, but it was a start.

Halvar had to carefully consider his options. His own camp was situated to the north, though it was just a small clearing near a distinctive rock formation where his pack hung suspended in a tree. Simple and easy to find, relatively speaking. While he'd been sweeping the area, Halvar noticed that the victim came from the west, his killers both following him in before leaving the same way. Killers. As he studied the tracks left in the ground, it quickly became apparent that there had been more than one. Whoever, or whatever they were, they were extremely dangerous. Crouching by the stream, Halvar pulled off his gloves and splashed liberal amounts of the cool liquid on his face. Running water was generally safe to drink, so he scooped up generous handfulls and quenched his thirst.
By Morwen, I needed that, Halvar thought, sighing with satisfaction, beads of water running down his bearded chin. The gnosis mark on his left hand would let him quickly melt snow for drinking if he needed to, but he preferred fresh water when it was an option. Pulling a pair of water skins from his belt, Halvar proceeded to fill them.

The problem with simply returning to his own camp was the lack of information. Were the killers really heading west? Was there a chance they knew of Halvar? Would they seek him out? There were too many unknown factors, and it made the entire situation more dire than he would have liked. Halvar could run, he knew; rush back to his camp, scoop up his pack, and hurry back to Zeltiva with his tail between his legs.
Wouldn't that make for a good story, he thought dryly. Halvar had no qualms with running away from danger, but his pride wouldn't let him run away from the unknown. More than that, he found himself angry on behalf of the dead scholar, who had his life cut short in such a brutal, wasteful manner. Hardening his resolve, Halvar turned his gaze skyward and located the sun: midday.
It'll have to be enough. If the killers maintained their westward course, and Halvar found no sign of them by nightfall, he'd give up the chase. He had rations enough on his person to survive another day, but he couldn't risk straying too far away from his own camp. Slipping the journal and nightshade into one of his belt pouches, Halvar started in pursuit of his new quarry.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

Halvar moved at his own equivalent of a forced march: twenty-chimes of jogging followed by forty-chimes of walking, stopping periodically to take a drink or relieve himself. Given the uneven terrain, it was a taxing affair that left his muscles aching and his lungs burning. Beads of sweat clotted his hair and cascaded down his forehead; he'd been at it for a little over two bells. Snow crunched beneath Halvar's boots with every footfall, his rhythmic breathing setting an even pace. In one hand he clutched his shortbow, still strung and ready for use. In the other, he carried the broken dagger; he'd found a use for it. Without breaking stride, Halvar slashed the nearby trunk of a pale tree, rending the bark and leaving a clear indicator of his passage. Using one of his own knives would have worn down the blade, but he didn't really care what happened to the ruined piece of metal he used instead. Marking his path would give Halvar a clear route to follow back to familiar territory, but it would also give anyone who decided to follow a clear path to him.
Not that it'd be hard to follow regardless, he thought. Both he and his quarry hadn't taken any effort to conceal their passage, leaving distinct tracks in the powdery undergrowth. Of course, if it snowed again, Halvar would be grateful for the precaution he'd taken.

Splashes of red occasionally accompanied the ungraceful footprints Halvar followed. At first, he'd thought they might have been the dead scholar's blood. If that were the case though, they wouldn't have kept appearing so far away from the scene of his death.
This must have been yours then, Halvar realised, thinking of the broken dagger. One of his quarry was wounded, which suddenly made catching them a much more realistic prospect. A large tree root had twisted free from beneath the snow, waiting patiently and blocking Halvar's path. Arms pumping, he forced out a burst of speed, letting his mind urge his flux into action. The djed pathways that webbed Halvar's body pulsed with energy, and he felt his fatigue start to drain away, soothed by the inner glow. With a grunt, he redirected the energy, letting it flood his legs and flare them with power. Pushing off the ground in a flux-enhanced leap, he easily hurdled the obstacle, landing on the snow with a dull thud. Halvar stumbled slightly but managed to keep his footing. Reluctantly, he pushed the flux away, wary of its addictive nature. Feeling returned, or rather it slammed into Halvar like a rampaging bull, prompting a passionate curse from the man.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

Halvar came upon the body quite suddenly, skidding to a stop as the corpse entered his field of vision. Unlike earlier, the lack of birdsong wasn't suitable warning; he was making enough noise to startle the wildlife himself.
What in the world... Laying face up in the snow was a creature that looked almost human, though the differences were strikingly obvious. It's skin was a muddy paste of earthen browns, cracked like a dry riverbed and devoid of hair. Stones, pebbles, and chunks of rock fused with its flesh, making its already deformed features even more displeasing to the eye. It were as if some insane sculptor had crafted this creature from the earth and gave up before actually finishing. The flesh between the creature's legs clearly identified it as a male, and its eyes were closed. A large cut ran along the creature's thigh, the blood having dried to a dark, crusty brown.
Dead. As he examined the wound from afar, Halvar came to the conclusion that the scholar's attack had mortally wounded the creature. There was some justice in that, he thought.

Walking with a deliberate step, Halvar let his shortbow fall gently to the snow, and the scholar's broken dagger followed suit. His right hand fell to the longsword strapped to his waist, and his gloved fingers wrapped firmly around the simple hilt. Steadying the scabbard with his left hand, Halvar drew the weapon, the well honed steel catching the light as it whistled free of its leather sheathe. The familiar weight settled comfortably into his hand, and he kept the blade pointed towards the ground as he moved.
Time to make sure the thing is actually dead, he thought solemnly. There was anger too: anger at the creature for what it did, and anger at himself for not being the one to stop it. He let the anger temper him, burning away his hesitation. Standing above the creature, he shifted his sword into a two-handed grip and angled the blade towards the thing's chest. Up close, Halvar noticed the creature's proportions were all wrong, and jagged nails sprouted from the ends of its fingers and toes. The thing looked less and less human the more he stared at it. Tensing his muscles, Halvar raised the sword, ready to-
The creature's eyes snapped open.
Aww, petch.

Moving with an unnatural speed, an oversized hand shot forwards and locked firmly around Halavr's ankle with a vice-like grip, yanking him off his feet before he could react. He fell to the ground with a thud, the force driving the air from his lungs and sending his sword flying well out of his reach.
"Yuuuuuukkk! Yuuuukkk!" The creature's guttural wailing pounded into Halvar's ears, and the inhuman noise sent a shiver down his spine. Kicking wildly, he struggled against the creature's grasp, but was unable to dislodge his leg. It's screams grew in both pitch and intensity, and Halvar reached desperately for his flux, flaring his djed pathways with an intense flash of energy. Focusing his mind, he forced as much strength as he could down his free leg. Raising it into the air, he let himself get pulled in by the monster before slamming his heel down like the blow of a blacksmith's hammer. Halvar was rewarded with the sound of a sickening crunch, and the creature went limp. Silence.
Okay... now it's dead.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

A hand-sized bruise coloured the side of Halvar's left ankle a blotchy mess of black, blue and purple. A series of prods, pinches and cursing revealed that the leg wasn't broken, but by Morwen did it hurt, and the injury throbbed a constant reminder of its presence. Halvar's heel had snapped the creatures neck and crushed its windpipe, killing it instantly.
Lucky I didn't hit the thing on the forehead, really. As it was, Halvar's foot was relatively unharmed, since a neck doesn't offer much resistance. Skulls tend to be a lot sturdier, however, and his flux-powered strike would have likely been more self-destructive than anything. Unfortunately, his hasty application of the flux resulted in a momentary lack of precision in his directing of the energy it bestowed. A light tingling sensation crawled up the length of his right leg, though he suspected it would fade in time. So far as he could tell, it wasn't going to affect his ability to walk, for which he was thankful.

Just to be safe, Halvar removed the creature's head, working it free from the body with his hunting knife. In doing so he noticed the creature's teeth, which were stained yellow and tapered to jagged points.
Like a beast, Halvar thought, feeling a mixture of hatred and disgust towards the thing. Normally, Halvar resented the pointless taking of a life. In that moment he felt no remorse. If anything, he felt satisfaction. Whatever that creature had been, it needed to be put down. It was the living embodiment of senseless violence, and to let it live would have been foolish.
Which makes me wonder what should be done about the other one... The creature's companion hadn't hung around when it dropped - bloodied and dying - to the ground. A single pair of tracks continued in the same westward direction Halvar had been following all day, giving no indication to how close he was to catching what he imagined was a second creature. It was Winter and the days were short, which gave Halvar little over a bell of daylight left. Clenching his fists in frustration, he resigned himself to the reality of the situation. Continuing his pursuit would be suicidal, he knew. Cursing inwardly, Halvar backtracked a mile or so and set about setting up an impromptu camp.

Come on you mongrel, let's see some sodding fire! Halvar was getting irritated at his lack of success. He'd been rubbing the vaguely cylindrical piece of wood between his hands for close to ten chimes, grinding it against a flat board of wood in the hope that the friction would be enough to create an ember. Using his hatchet, he'd trimmed thin slivers of bark to use as kindling, but without an ember to get the fire going it would amount to wasted labour. Cursing aloud, Halvar tossed the stick away.
"Sodding wood is too damp," he mumbled quietly to himself. The camp would be a cold one. Sighing, Halvar reached into one of his belt pouches and retrieved a small serving of dried meat, fruit, and a crust of bread. It wasn't much, but it would keep him alive. Twilight blanketed the land, and the temperature was rapidly dropping. Wrapping himself loosely in his cloak, Halvar sat with his back against a sizeable tree, still holding his hatchet. Fishing the whetstone from his pocket, he began to run it along the tool's edge. No point in carrying a small axe if it wasn't sharp, he reasoned, and it was a way to keep his hands busy as the ticks turned to chimes.
It's going to be a cold night. Halvar took a moment to offer a quick prayer of thanks to Morwen, for without her gnosis mark his life would very well have been in danger from the winter chill. Instead, he found it comfortable.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

80th Day of Winter, 514 AV

It was the sound of birdsong that woke Halvar. Eyes snapping open, he blinked lazily as the world shifted into focus. Dawn. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, and Syna's light barely filtered through the shifting, swirling mass. For Halvar, it felt as if he were viewing the world through a grey filter, and his wet clothing served only to dampen his mood.
What I wouldn't give for a bed, he thought sluggishly, and his mind struggled to find the motivation it needed to function. It eventually came in the form of a dull ache that clawed at the inside of his stomach. Forcing a stretch, the young man groaned in satisfaction as his muscles reached the apex of their extensions. After propping himself into a sitting position, he scooped up a double-handful of snow. Tapping the gnosis mark on the back of his left hand caused it to glow with a pale blue light, and Morwen's power flowed through him, leaving Halvar instead with a handful of chilled water. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it splashing against his face in a flurry of icy droplets.
That'll wake a man up! he thought earnestly, and the refreshing liquid washed away his lingering fatigue.

Hunger roared at Halvar, demanding his attention. He'd been forced to ignore it over the last day, instead devoting his time to travel. In the brief moments he did stop, he would relent and give it a piece of dried meat, or a crust of bread. It wasn't enough. Pushing himself to his feet, Halvar shook out his limbs and let his gaze wander over the modest camp site.
"Now, let's see if I get fresh meat this morning," he said to no one in particular, though there was a definite note of anticipation in his voice. He'd been able to collect his supplies the day before, which meant snares, and snares - hopefully - meant food. Since Halvar had no intention to stay in the area for more than one night, he only set two snares the previous afternoon. Even if he had wanted to set more, he'd only had two bells of daylight left when he stopped to make camp.
Two should be plenty, he thought. The signs were easy enough to find; game trails stood stark against the snow, a rivet of earth streaking through the white. They were the perfect places to set a snare. Walking for fifteen chimes took Halvar to the first one he'd left alone the previous night.
Empty. With a sigh, he knelt beside the contraption and started to dissemble it. Two vaguely hook shaped sticks interlocked. One was planted firmly into the earth, serving as an anchor, and the other formed the core of the snare itself. A noose of thin rope hung suspended just above the ground; it was connected to the core and rigged to easily tighten. The core was also tied to a young sapling Halvar had bent over the game trail. In theory, a rabbit or similar animal should have run through, pulled on the noose, and dislodged the core, at which point the tension in the bent sapling would fling the rodent skywards and snap its neck.
In theory, anyway. Unfortunately, this particular snare had been unsuccessful, and the odds of Halvar getting a decent feed decreased dramatically.

Making his way towards the second snare, Halvar's mind returned to the creature he'd killed. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he'd heard of them before. 'Shadow with body of stone and earth,' he'd heard the description somewhere...
In a story, maybe? No... it was a poem!

Shadow with body of stone and earth,
Dry riverbed, and twisted birth,
Something, Something, Something...

Petch! Try as he might, he couldn't remember how the rest went, nor could he remember when, or where he'd first heard the rhyme.
It'll come to me, I- a familiar sound rustled through the undergrowth, cutting the thought short. Breaking into a jog, he rounded another bend before his second snare came into view. A rabbit was caught in it. It was still alive.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

Struggling against the rope tied around its neck, the ball of grey fur dashed frantically in circles around the anchor, desperate to break its bonds. Halvar had made the second snare differently to the first, and it was in many ways inferior to the other one he'd constructed.
So naturally this is the one that'd catch a rabbit, he thought sullenly. The primary difference was the lack of a bent sapling, or other means of killing the animal it trapped. The core of the snare was tightly fastened to a fallen log that lay adjacent to the game trail, and it relied on the animal's own momentum to tighten the noose. This usually left the animal alive. Halvar was fortunate another animal hadn't simply taken the rabbit, though perhaps it had only recently been caught. The spirited energy it displayed suggested that may well have been the case. In most situations, Halvar preferred snares that killed; he took no joy in the slaughter of a trapped animal.
This ain't no festival, though. As he approached the rabbit, it's efforts intensified, but to no avail. Removing his gloves, Halvar slipped them into his belt and fell into a crouch. With one hand, he grabbed hold of the animal, pinning it to the ground. It froze. With every rapid breath or thump of its heart, Halvar could feel the rabbit's fear. It's fur felt warm beneath his touch. Using his free hand, Halvar slipped his hunting knife from its container and pressed it against the rabbit's throat.
"Thank you," he whispered, and it's life poured over his hands.

After returning to his camp, Halvar set about building a fire. By peeling back the outer layers of large trees, he was able to gather a nice selection dry bark, and his flint and steel were among the supplies he'd collected the previous day.
No more banging sticks together, he thought sarcastically. Stone rang against metal, and a shower of sparks fell into the cluster of wood shavings he'd prepared. Tilting his head and gently blowing on the tindling quickly encouraged a small fire to bloom. The tiny flame started greedily devouring the small amount of fuel it had at its disposal, but Halvar was quick to provide it with more. It was time to skin the rabbit.

Working from the back legs to the head, he alternated between loosening the skin with his hunting knife and pulling it free with his bare hands. The entire process took several chimes, ending with the removal of the rabbit's head.
Pity I won't be able to make use of this, he thought as he tossed the raw hide away. He had neither the time, nor the correct weather to dry it, and keeping it damp would render it practically useless. After gutting the rabbit and burying the entrails, he set about jointing it. The sharp blade of his knife cut through bones and all, leaving him with a roughly prepared pile of pink meat, ready for cooking.

Filling his cooking pot with snow, Halvar casually tapped his gnosis, turning it into water.
By Morwen, but that's convenient. He scooped the rabbit meat into the pot, adding a sprinkle of salt and a glove of garlic from his diminishing supply of spices. No harm in adding a little flavour, he thought. When he was younger, he'd tried cooking meat by skewering it on a stick and suspending it over a fire. All the juices would drip into the blaze; it was such a wasteful way to cook.
Stews are better. With a steady hand, Halvar pushed the pot into the flames.

[Halvar Frostfawn]

Halvar devoted his entire attention to the stew, stirring it constantly using a stick he deemed appropriate for the task.
"Wouldn't want you to burn," he said, and as he stirred, flesh fell away from the bones seemingly off its own accord. Tantalising odours wandered into Halvar's nostrils, and his mouth started to water. He distracted himself by humming a simple tune, his rough baritone often selecting notes at random. The fire encouraged a sheen of sweat to gloss the man's forehead, and his eyes would water whenever a breeze sent smoke drifting into them. When the stew finished boiling, he wrapped a hand in his cloak and pulled the cooking pot from the flames. It was finished.

Those final chimes of waiting were the hardest, but the stew needed time to cool down. Rubbing thumb against forefinger, Halvar practically counted the ticks in his head, periodically using the back of his hand to gauge the pot's temperature.
Close enough! he thought excitedly, and he set about devouring the meal in a beast-like frenzy of slurps, bites, and swallows. He'd overcooked it slightly, and the unmistakable flavour of burnt meat tarnished every other mouthful; he didn't care. To Halvar, it was delicious, a feast fit for the gods. Using his fingers, he scraped up all the remnants of the stew he could from the bottom of the cooking pot, and a neat pile of shiny bones devoid of any meat had been stacked nonchalantly off to one side.

After tidying up, Halvar found himself a comfortable spot to sit and wait for his meal to settle. Scooping up a large handful of snow, he compacted it as much as he could and tapped his gnosis mark, leaving him with a fist-sized ball of solid ice. It was uneven, and full of blemishes, but there was a beauty to it, he thought. With a second, tentative touch, he started to run one of his fingers along the side of the icy sphere. Slivers of water ran away from the ball, leaving shallow rivets where he'd carved into the ice. He repeated the process, not trying to carve anything specific, but slowly whittling the ball away to nothing. It was a relaxing way to pass the time, he knew. When he'd finished, the meal sat content in his stomach, and he was ready to move; Halvar would be back in Zeltiva by the afternoon.

[Perplexity]

CHECKMATE

Howdy Halvar,

Oookay. Let’s talk about a number of things here shall we? The first thing that I noticed throughout the entirety of this thread is the utter lack of appropriate depiction given Halvar’s skill levels. He’s a Novice. In everything. Not just that, he’s a really, really low end Novice with absolutely no supporting lore to do even half of the things you did in this thread.

I have no problem with Halvar stumbling across a mangled corpse far from the borders of Zeltiva in the Wilderness. Have at it. But Halvar has…

Lore: Common Mammal Footprints: Sylira.

That’s it. At least as far as wilderness things are concerned. That’s fine and all but you don’t know how to put a trap together. You have points in the skill, yes, but nothing else. You barely have enough skill to even hold a bow properly let alone with any semblance of speed. Halvar certainly isn’t skilled enough to just decapitate a Yukman with a…hunting knife? That’s some gruesome and difficult work right there.

Let’s talk about your Flux! Umm…no. Just, no. Halvar is going to be spending his whole 5 EXP in Flux…meditating. Concentrating on how to get a handle on the Djed pathways throughout his body. He’ll be lucky if he can even do that with enough skill to pull off even a smidgen of increased speed or strength. By all rights, with the manner in which you are just having Halvar do those things with barely any focus on the actual collection of his energies, the meditative trance necessary to pull that off at your level, and the focus required, his limb would have burst from the inside out in a gory heap from haphazardly misdirected djed.

There are several other things but I think you get the picture of what I’m getting at.

You have in your hands a character that has a solid foundation for becoming a gruff, salty, wilderness explorer/hunter/mercenary. That’s great! I just don’t think you’re showing it correctly. I have absolutely no problem with Halvar going out into the Wilds with a much more experienced and skilled mentor. By all means! Draft a city NPC (or a whole hunting party) so that you (and everyone else interested in actually doing some shenanigans outside the city) can do those things. You just need to work on actually showing your character at his appropriate skill level.

So let’s try this again shall we? You can either rewrite all of this appropriately or you can leave it as is, accepting no grade, and use it as a learning experience for future works. It’s up to you!

Regards,
Perplexity