· · · ? · · ·
The note was four words.
Eirik picked it up from the counter of Skeggi’s Preserved Provisions, where it sat between a jar of pickled herring and something he was choosing not to look at too closely this early in the morning, and read it twice to make sure he hadn’t misread.
I’ve gone ahead. — S
He stood there holding it for a moment.
Rí, who had arrived at the fish stall with the hard-eyed determination of someone who’d decided the smell was a test of character and she was going to win, looked at the note, looked at the empty stall, then looked at the surly teenager behind the counter.
The boy was about fifteen, all elbows and attitude, with the particular expression of someone who’d been handed responsibility but not authority.
"Where did the old man go?" Rí asked.
The boy shrugged. "Left early. Said someone was waiting."
Eirik read the note a third time.
Not come find me. Not meet me at. Just: I did the thing first.
"He went to the inn," Eirik said.
Leif blinked. "How do you know?"
"Because my father’s at the inn," Eirik said, and couldn’t keep the resignation out of his voice, "and Skeggi loves being annoying in a way that looks like wisdom."
Leif thought about that for half a heartbeat and nodded like yes, that tracked perfectly.
"We should go to the inn," he said.
"Yes." Eirik set the note down—then stopped, because he’d been trained not to leave without checking a situation properly. His eyes flicked once: the stall, the boy, and Rí—
—who had already slid behind the counter and was eyeing the display like she was about to put it on trial.
"The herring should be in front," Rí told the apprentice. "People can smell the paste from the street. They don’t need to see it first. They need to see something they might actually want."
The apprentice stared at her. Twice her height. Four times her age. Trying very hard to remember he was supposed to be the one in charge.
"I’m not taking advice from a—"
"Leif, you stay," Eirik said.
Leif looked offended. "Why me?"
"Because she’s going to rearrange the display anyway," Eirik said, already stepping away, "and when Skeggi gets back someone should be here to make sure it’s clearly her fault."
He left before the apprentice could finish whatever sentence he was building.
· · · ? · · ·
He heard his father’s voice before he reached the table.
Not the words—the tone. The one Bj?rn used when he wasn’t being polite, or friendly, or careful. The voice that meant: this matters.
Eirik stopped in the doorway of the inn’s common room.
Bj?rn sat at the corner table with breakfast in front of him, posture controlled in the way it always was these days when the shoulder was involved. Across from him—already seated, already comfortable, cup steaming, as if he’d owned the place since sunrise—was Skeggi.
Sigrid sat at the same table, angled slightly toward Skeggi, her expression calm but attentive in a way that meant she’d been listening for a while.
Skeggi looked up and found Eirik in the doorway. His face carried the smug satisfaction of a man who enjoyed his own little performances.
Eirik stared back.
Yes, you did this on purpose.
Yes, I noticed.
No, I’m not giving you the reaction you want.
The exchange lasted three seconds and finished the conversation more efficiently than words could.
Rí appeared at Eirik’s elbow. "Is that the fish man?" she asked, loud enough to be rude in most households.
"Yes."
"Why is he at our table?"
"He got here first," Eirik said.
Rí stared at Skeggi and nodded once. "He did it on purpose."
"Yes," Eirik said. "He’s sneaky."
Rí tapped her nose like she was storing that technique for later use and marched in as if she’d been invited.
They approached the table. Bj?rn looked up at Eirik with an expression that contained several things at once, one of which was the closest Bj?rn ever came to I see the trap and I am choosing not to step out of it yet.
Sigrid’s face was neutral, which meant she’d already processed whatever she’d felt and placed it neatly where it belonged.
Skeggi sipped his drink and said, "Sit. The tea is better here than I expected from a place this size."
Eirik sat, because refusing would be a different kind of reaction, and Skeggi would enjoy it.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"You moved the display," Skeggi said, not looking up from his cup.
"Rí moved the display," Eirik corrected.
Skeggi’s mouth twitched. "The apprentice told me she was right about the herring placement."
Rí sat down with a grin so pleased it should’ve been illegal.
· · · ? · · ·
Bj?rn still hadn’t said who Skeggi was, which meant Bj?rn was still deciding where Skeggi went in the map of the world. That alone told Eirik this wasn’t just a weird fish stall anymore.
Bits came out over the next minutes—flat statements from Skeggi, occasional confirmations from Bj?rn, one short question from Sigrid that made Skeggi answer more than he meant to.
The stories weren’t the kind the garrison traded over drinks. These were older. Names that lived in the careful parts of regional history. Campaigns that had happened far enough back that people argued about them like weather.
Skeggi, by all normal accounts, should not have been sitting in an inn drinking tea and complaining about markets.
He apparently didn’t care what normal accounts said.
"Why fish?" Sigrid asked at one point, like she was asking why someone chose a trade rather than a hobby.
Skeggi shrugged. "Fermentation is interesting."
He said it with complete sincerity.
Eirik, against his better judgement, nodded. "Long brines feel different than short ones."
Skeggi looked at him over his cup. "Yes. They do."
Bj?rn watched that exchange carefully, like he didn’t like how natural it sounded.
Skeggi set his cup down. "Your shoulder," he said to Bj?rn. "The apothecary can treat what’s obvious. The part that isn’t obvious is what’ll bite you later."
Bj?rn’s stillness tightened. "The apothecary didn’t mention anything else."
"Apothecaries are good at apothecary work," Skeggi said, not unkindly. "This is also a cultivation injury. It needs attention like one."
Sigrid’s gaze sharpened by a degree. "Be specific."
Skeggi pointed with two fingers, not touching Bj?rn, hovering near the upper back. "Secondary strain above the scapula. The channels around it are irritated—nothing dramatic, but if it settles wrong you’ll lose clean rotation. Six months from now you’ll think you’re fine and then you’ll reach for something and remember you aren’t."
Bj?rn didn’t like being read. Eirik could tell by the way his jaw set. But Bj?rn also respected competence.
"What would fix it," Bj?rn asked.
Skeggi flexed his hands once as if remembering what they used to be capable of. "Hands that know what they’re doing. A few targeted sessions. I can’t do the full work myself, not anymore—" he didn’t elaborate, and Eirik didn’t push "—but I can direct your wife’s hands. She’s more than capable."
Sigrid did not look flattered. She looked offended on behalf of anyone who might’ve underestimated her.
"This would require several sessions," she said.
"Four," Skeggi said. Then he glanced at Bj?rn. "Five if you’re stubborn."
Bj?rn’s mouth moved like he wanted to object and decided it wasn’t worth it. "Probably not."
"Then four."
· · · ? · · ·
They moved the next part to the inn’s back courtyard mid-morning, where stone walls muted the street noise and the air smelled less like fish and more like damp city.
Skeggi produced a small tool from his coat—a palm-sized lens with aged glass that wasn’t cracked, just used. He set it on the bench between them like it was nothing.
"Full status pull," he told Eirik. "Everything. Titles. Achievements."
Eirik hesitated. He didn’t love doing full pulls in front of anyone. But Skeggi had already inserted himself into their lives like a thorn and apparently intended to stay there until removed with effort.
So Eirik placed his hand over the lens and let the Wyrd answer properly.
The response came clearer than usual—as if the lens didn’t add power so much as it forced the system to speak cleanly.
He held it open.
Skeggi read without changing his face.
· · · ? · · ·
EIRIK BJ?RNSSON — Full Status Pull
Year 7 · Autumn · Steinvik
Class: Unassigned
Líkami (STR) 17
Ferd (AGI) 20
Trek (END) 24 [↑1]
Hugr (INT) 34
Skyn (PER) 32 [↑1]
Tróttur (WILL) 27 [↑1]
Tokki (CHA) 15
Level — (Unassigned)
Earthroot Grár · Lv.20 ? GRADE CAP
?nd-Channeling (Basic) Grár · Lv.9
Appraiser’s Touch Grár · Lv.10
?nd-Sense Grár · Lv.13 ? hybrid: passive baseline / active extension
Blade Sense Grár · Lv.13 ? hybrid: passive read / active layer
Rune-Reader Grár · Lv.6
Dreamer’s Memory Blár · Lv.8
Ancestral Tongue Blár · Lv.13
Toughened Channels Grár · Lv.12
Keen Eye Grár · Lv.14 ? hybrid: passive baseline / active focus
Post Conditioning Grár · Lv.4
Herbalist’s Eye Grár · Lv.4
Tracking (Basic) Grár · Lv.4
Unarmed Fundamentals Grár · Lv.16 ? hybrid: internalized / active in combat
? Wanderer’s Child (birth gift — origin unclear)
? Young Cultivator (first deliberate ?nd use — Year 5)
? Foundation-Builder (foundation before application)
? Against the Grain (unusual build order)
? Unsupervised (solo cultivation period — noted)
? First Steps (S?fnun: minor)
? Still Waters (S?fnun: minor)
? Early Riser (S?fnun: minor)
? Eye for Value (spirit stone identification — S?fnun: minor)
? First Blood (genuine combat — S?fnun: significant)
S?fnun: 57% [↑4%] · Vessel filling.
WYRD NOTE:
Pre-Class growth is valid. The vessel fills by real change, not repetition. Authentic experience weighs more than volume. When the vessel reaches completion, the Naming Day offer becomes available.
· · · ? · · ·
Skeggi stared at the space where the pull had been, like the words were still there.
Then he nodded once, slow.
"Good," he said.
Eirik blinked. "That’s it?"
Skeggi glanced at him. "You want praise? Go sell drawings like your sister."
Rí, who had absolutely been listening nearby, looked delighted by the idea and immediately started considering pricing.
Skeggi tapped the bench once. "Your Endurance and Will both climbed. That’s road work, pressure, and not quitting. Your Perception climbed because you’ve been using it in a place that punishes sloppy attention. Nothing wild. Just real."
Eirik swallowed. He didn’t like how much that sounded like approval.
"Earthroot is capped," Skeggi added. "Don’t chase it like a dog chasing a cart. It’ll break when it breaks."
Eirik held still. "How do you know when it’s ready."
Skeggi’s eyes narrowed, not cruel, just direct. "You stop asking, for one moment. You stop trying to outsmart it. You meet the moment honestly. That’s the match."
He stood, joints complaining quietly.
"Three things this week," Skeggi said.
Eirik’s stomach tightened. "Three."
"First: commitment drills. One action at a time. No second-guessing mid-move. You’re sharp, but you’re always half a step away from the world like it might bite you if you stand too close."
"It does bite you," Eirik muttered.
Skeggi looked satisfied. "Good. Then you understand the problem."
"Second: channel prep. Not the breakthrough itself. Just making sure the kindling is dry and stacked right."
Eirik nodded.
"And third," Skeggi said, already turning toward the inn door, "your sister comes to the stall tomorrow after the second bell. I want to see how she holds weight."
Eirik frowned. "She’s five."
Skeggi didn’t even look back. "I know."
That was all he gave them.
Which, Eirik was learning, was Skeggi’s favorite way of giving anything.
· · · ? · · ·
That evening, Eirik’s hands hurt in a new way—less like training, more like he’d been fighting his own habits for hours and lost half the rounds. Leif sat nearby with his bow across his knees, working silently on breath timing like he’d decided the only proper response to a city was discipline.
Rí was drawing her canal birds at the table as if she might have to defend them in court later.
Sigrid and Bj?rn were upstairs. Their voices were too low to make out, but the presence of the conversation sat in the house like a weight.
Eirik looked at his palms.
The smell of fish was still faintly there, stubborn as Skeggi.
He had a feeling that was going to become a theme.
· · · ? · · ·