Lodin's hazel eyes squinted in the cold winds seeing the far distance the visage of a settlement. He used what saliva he could muster within his mouth and spat on the ground. Usually the the sight of ones birthplace brought emotions of jubilation and euphoric recollection. For Lodin, the sight of
Faarin was nothing short of pain and hate. Faarin was a hard life lived being one that was not blessed. It would of been a mercy if his father had discarded him at birth. Instead, Lodin lived a life in Faarin treated as a outcast, neglected and abused at almost every turn. The worst of it was from his own family. His father, Hjorn, ignored him at the best times and only acknowledge his existence under protest by one of his mates Dalla , Lodin's human mother. His older half brother was exceptionally abusive towards him. Good portion of the scars that Lodin bares were created by Sven.
At the mere thought of his brother, Lodin's left hand instinctively rubbed the large harden leather pouch that dangled off his left hip and attached to his belt. The contents within was all that was left of Sven, a heavy clothed covered cap of a skull, Sven's skull. A token Lodin took after killing him in a vicious duel just after their father's funeral nearly twenty years go. Since then, the faarinians would label him 'carennydd', or kinslayer in common. Lodin was not favoured to win, nor did most of the faarinians wanted him to survive. But here he was, still breathing the cold air they do.
Lodin's right hand jerked as the heavily laden mule protested the forced march and pulled against the reigns he had tightly gripped. Lodin could tell the mule was not long for life, the cold was getting to him even with the ox fur blanket covering him. With his nord strength, he tugged back on the mule forcing him further towards the village. Was cruel, but life was not fair at its finest, why should it be any different for this creature? The mule buckled and collapsed off to its right side, plunging into the snow as it weakly gasped for breath. Some of the load the mule was carrying scattered further off the path. A collection of exotic furs from the southlands and trinkets Lodin had acquired in his travels.
"So be it!" The Nord growled, judging the distance between the downed mule and the village. "The Pale King will have to get his offerings here!"
Lodin drew his long hunting knife from its sheath and quickly sunk it deep into the mule's throat, cutting it wide open to allow the steaming red fluid to flow thick and heavy. A quick death for the beast of burden. A small mercy as Lodin whispered a blessing in fiirevek over the dead mule and its loot. He then rose, cleaned the blood off his blade before sheathing it. He then would trudge onward, towards home.
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Sometime later in Faarin, deep in the village and at the heart of the festival. Lodin found entertainment watching a outsider,
Garrod Arlette , getting a taste of the Faarin hospitality, only to be spared by a norden woman,
Brenna , before the spectacle got more thrilling. Lodin couldn't tell why he found it amusing, even though he is Faarinian he was just as much of a outsider, or
Straenseir in their native tongue, as the southman was. Here in Faarin Lodin would be called kinslayer which could be considered much lower in status than outsider. A distasteful title he had been given, though those that knew him in the south had a different name for him. The Bloody-nine, he was noted for his shroom fueled ferocity on the field of battle, or simply Ninefingers to moniker the physical attribute of his missing right hand middle finger. Foreign lands revered him as a respected warrior, home treated him as a burden.
