Savage Hospitality of the Red Bear Tribe
The sun blazed high at noon, casting a bright afternoon glow. The carriage carrying Ian's group passed through the entrance of the Red Bear Tribe's village.
"Hey. Paulik. Long time no see."
"Sigur, huh. How've you been?"
Sigur exchanged greetings with the Red Bear Tribe warriors with practiced ease. Ian didn't know it, but as Sigur had claimed, he was a fairly well-known northern warrior. Mention Sky Claw Tribe warriors to anyone, and someone would shout 'Sigur!' Outstanding warriors earned respect. Especially among the Red Bear Tribe, who loved raiding, Sigur was an outsider they couldn't help but cherish like a comrade-in-arms.
"Go see the chief first, then come out."
"Yeah, will do."
Sigur led Ian's group to the chief's tent. Pushing aside the wide flap revealed a space filled with all sorts of displayed items. Even to Ian's eyes, many seemed exotic—spoils of war plundered from distant lands and offered to the chief. Tribes like the Red Bears, raiding specialists, would sail far out to sea and plunder remote foreign shores.
"Long time no see, Sigur."
"Looking good. Ulfdin. Been eating well and resting up in warmer climes?"
Ulfdin chuckled at Sigur's joke. He was the chief's grandson, a young man about Ian's age.
"Grandpa. Wake up. Guests from the Ice Claw Tribe are here."
"Cough, cough."
The old man lying in bed stirred groggily. Seeing him, Ian felt like he was watching a sick wolf—not human—rise unsteadily. As a mage, Ian could sense it: beyond the withered flesh, layers of scars and rage. The man had lived more like a beast than a human, so a beastly aura peeked through.
"Cough... Sigur... is that you, Sigur?"
"Yes, elder. It's Sigur."
The chief's gaze fixed solely on Sigur. No reason to care about Ian's group—he was an old man, and old folks didn't like new things.
"Not in this filthy sickbed... We should've met on the vast snowfields... Cough, cough."
"Like when we smashed those Sgonu bastards' skulls."
The chief grinned toothily at Sigur's words. Old men loved recounting their tales. New tidings from afar left them numb no matter how often heard, but their own glorious pasts excited them like children.
"Yeah... Was that already ten years ago?"
"Fifteen years. Right after my coming-of-age rite."
Sigur wrapped up the chat with the chief in a gentle tone. It wasn't especially entertaining, but he played the dutiful guest, listening patiently. The Red Bear tribesfolk probably expected the same companionship from Sigur.
"Grandpa, you've been up too long. Lie down and rest."
"Ah, yeah. Lost track of time chattering away."
Ulfdin helped the chief lie back and guided Ian's group out. Ian glanced at the chief's broad but weary back as he turned away. He must've been a mighty warrior once. Now, crushed under time's weight, crumbling.
"Ah. About mealtime now."
Right on cue for hunger. Ulfdin said to Ian's group,
"Then we'll go eat."
"???"
"Man, I'm starving."
And... he was gone.
Ian stared dumbfounded at Ulfdin's retreating back. No sudden turnaround with a 'Surprise!' or anything.
"Wait, Sigur! Did we do something wrong?"
"Huh? What're you talking about?"
Ian yelled in utter bewilderment.
"Aren't we guests?"
Indeed. Even as a reincarnate in this harsh medieval fantasy world, Ian had never heard of starving guests. Even in post-apocalypse tales, crumbling tents offered food to visitors—protein blocks or chlorella synth-food, whatever. But this? Cleanly, perfectly ignored? First time!
"...Food shortage, maybe?"
Belenca offered a reasonable guess. Sigur burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! Red Bears are always like that!"
"They always ditch guests?"
"Dunno what 'ditch' means exactly, but ignore? Spot on! They don't feed guests!"
Ian finally got why the carriage was loaded with ample provisions. Sky Claw Tribe down south traded plenty, so they grasped guest hospitality. But northward, among wilder tribes, it faded. Guests came? No food!
"Whoa..."
Ian genuinely got chills. He'd met strange tribesfolk before without culture shock. But now? Felt like crash-landing in an alien village.
"Guess we eat too."
True to that, Ian's group ate separately from the Red Bears. Ideally, share meals leisurely, swap info... But separate, they wolfed it down quick, leaving loads of time.
Ian spent it touring the village. Goal: intel on Takarion, naturally.
"Hmm."
"Certainly exotic."
Ian strolled side-by-side with Belenca and Kira. Tribesfolk glanced at Ian but paid little mind. Cold, curt—that seemed their trait. But Oberon? Drew wonder.
"Look there. A raven!"
"Sent by Hrun Dal-nim?"
"Why's it following an imperial?"
Oberon was a clever raven. Ravens were clever anyway. Sensing the stares—very positive—he puffed his chest, staring ahead majestically.
Ian eyed the upright raven: Whoa. Like a chicken joint ad model... No clue why Korea's chicken ads used chickens, but they did. Chicken-leg-wielding models? Pure madness.
But only Ian belittled Oberon. Villagers and even his companions thought the raven cool.
"Caw! Caw!"
"Heh. Behold! This is my master's majesty!"
"So cool!"
Word spread fast; crowds gathered to gawk at Oberon. So when someone called Ian, no surprise.
"You there."
"Ah. Wanna see the raven?"
Ian stroked Oberon. Oberon, bark.
"Caw! Caw!"
Good boy.
The stranger eyed Ian treating the raven like a dog, face twisting oddly. Freaky as Pira warned...
"Seen? Obeys perfectly. Doesn't bite."
The man masked bewilderment, approaching.
"Name's Ragnar. Ragnar, son of Leihaul."
"Nice to meet you, Ragnar. I'm Ian, disciple of Eredis..."
Then it happened. A man behind Ragnar swung a club at Ian out of nowhere.
'Huh?'
No time to panic. Belenca whipped her scabbard, deflecting it.
"Ngh!"
Belenca staggered. Physical disparity—even top swordswoman, hard to match burly barbarian strength. She was female; less muscle mass. Swordplay? Fine—swords nimble, stab a blade in, send muscle-monsters to the afterlife. But non-lethal blunts? Her skills dulled.
Ambush? Assassination?
Ian's mind raced possibilities. Veteran of medieval fantasy travels, he judged fast, moved faster.
Leihaul... Vague recall. The dying chief in bed—Leihaul, yeah.
Chief's son.
The attacker before him: next chief.
But attacking me... To kill? Axe, not club. Clubs meant no lethal intent.
Drive off? Or...
Ian inhaled deep. Closed eyes, heard world's voice. Northern earth pulsed with sturdy life; mysteries rang clearer, sharper than imperial lands.
"Earth!"
⟨ Geokinesis ⟩
"Move!"
[Oh ho. A human calling to me. Unusual.]
Earth mystery responded warmly. As Ian felt fondness for northern mysteries, so did they for him.
[Anytime, young friend.]
Rumble...!
Ian stirred the earth mystery, quaking the attackers' feet lightly.
"Wha... what?"
Attackers flailed, panicked, collapsing.
'Shaking ground' wrecked more than thought. Fighting needed stance; this shattered it instantly!
As they tumbled, Ian drew Anorilsil.
Imagined blazing flames.
Whoosh!
The blade ignited. Ian leveled the burning sword at them, voice low.
"What the hell. You."
Leihaul's son Ragnar stared awestruck at the magic sword.
"What is that weapon...? A flaming sword. Incredible!"
"Never mind my weapon. Who the hell are you people?"
Belenca and Kira readied for fight. Ragnar raised a hand at Belenca, sword half-drawn.
Attackers pocketed clubs, stepping behind Ragnar.
"Sorry for the rough greeting. Just curious about imperial guests."
Ragnar grinned.
'Greeting?'
Ian was floored. Imperials didn't curse mages on sight, but here? Straight to clubs???
"Testing my skills, maybe?"
"Oho! Sharp too! True warriors judge quick!"
I'm a mage, you lunatic barbarian...
Ian speechless at the brute test. Club a mage to check prowess? What if lightning bolt? Then what?
"Shaking earth, flaming sword..."
Ragnar extended a hand, laughing heartily.
"Quite the shaman, eh? Haha!"
You nutjob. Mage...
"Ah. Sure. Whatever."
Ian played along. Chief's son—useful if friendly.
"Talk while walking!"
Ragnar dragged Ian off.
Starving guests aside. Sudden club swings aside.
Ian grew to hate this barbarian village.
But Ragnar and the northerners seemed clueless to their wrongs. What? No food for guests? Fill your belly before visiting—that's manners! Upset over a little clubbing? Sissy girls. Real men bond over club whacks!
Classic northerner Ragnar firmly believed he'd 'bonded' with Ian. Hence, glad he swung.
"Spit it out boldly! Imperial! Why come this far north?!"
Ian couldn't grasp Ragnar's instant familiarity. But... he'd come north willingly. Had to roll with it.
"Looking for someone."
"Someone?"
"A priest named Takarion... Heard he might be here."
Ragnar looked shocked briefly.
"Why the face?"
"Shaman prophecy hit. Said you'd mess with potion-making."
Ian scowled. Ugh. That prophecy crap. Chronomancers active here too?
Luckily, no. Tribal shamans were primitive-ancient mages. Unchanged from humanity's first mystery-handling—traditional nice, outdated nasty. No schools; one shaman handled all magics. [Future Sight] included.
"So?"
"Spot on. Caught an imperial sky-gazer recently. Our warriors bragged on his 'holiness'."
Ragnar led Ian somewhere.
"..."
A beast pen. Haggard but familiar face met Ian's eyes.
Golden Finger's Takarion. Beggar-ragged, caged like an animal.
"Imperial shaman! Take a look. Can you make proper potions with this?"
"...What do you mean?"
Ragnar bellowed in frustration, pent-up emotions spilling.
"Our tribe's shaman! Can't trust the bastard not to freeze us!"
Ragnar's voice faded unheard. Ian's gaze locked on dazed Takarion.
Bad luck magnet? Surviving horrors proved his grit. Maybe why Ian unconsciously mage-spoke to Ragnar.
"Ahh, yeah! Potions from human hearts? Amateur shaman for sure!"
"You see it too?"
Ragnar grumbled. Ian caught it: distrust between shaman and Ragnar. Exploit that, maybe free Takarion...