He cursed as he missed the first throw, failing to get it stuck in the wood, and having the axe head bounce off instead, and disappearing into the snow.
The next few stuck, and then the couple after that missed. He was left chasing his axe again. Before he knew it, the quest task in the corner of his vision had increased.
1/3 it read now. He was sure he'd only got it stuck in the wood six or seven times. Did that mean it was content with failed throws as well? That was interesting. Regardless, it seemed as though he'd at least understood the task now.
He reversed his hand position, doing the complete opposite as he had done before. Instead of putting his hand on the very bottom of the handle length, he put it just under the axe head itself.
"Now that's extremely awkward," he said, testing it. It felt as though he was going to tear his wrist off getting it to spin. It stopped him from using his shoulder muscles as he was meant to. It felt like, even if he did throw it, he'd be liable to cut himself in the process.
He slid his hand a few fingers further down. It was still incredibly awkward, and he would never choose to throw it like that, but it was at least at the point now where he could throw it.
Just as he'd done before, his first few shots missed, followed by a few ones that stuck, followed by several more that missed. Roughly half of his shots had missed, but the count went up, reading 2/3.
Now, for the final hand position, he put his hand dead-centre on the shaft. It was half a hand away from where he'd usually put it, but not as extreme in its discomfort as it had been when he'd had it right on the edge of the shaft, or right near the top.
The first landed, and stuck. It seemed easier, after having fumbled with the rest of them, as though more of the axe-skill mastery that he'd built up was taking effect. He found he preferred his usual handhold just so he could get more power on the throw, as he pulled in back behind his body, but this wasn't so bad either.
He managed to land nine out of his ten throws, almost feeling dissatisfied by the ease with which they stuck compared to the other two. Was that it? He hardly felt like he'd done anything. He hardly felt like he'd figured anything out either. He thought that was the essence of skill building, to figure something out… but here he'd sort of just fumbled, and found out what he'd hated.
Nevertheless, the quest announcement rang out, and the interface read 3/3, indicating that the task was done.
And now all that was left was to find a drunk, and knock him off the jetty. He sighed at that part, even though he'd decided to do it. He could well have backed out, but now it was only one throw that he needed to land, and he'd be guaranteed stats. What was that compared to the nearly hundred throws that he'd done since coming outside?
He left the vicinity of the longhouse. If he was going to do it, it couldn't be on raiders. Besides, he needed a man at the docks for it to count, didn't he? That didn't really seem relevant to his axe-throwing mastery, but with the personality of the System, he couldn't discount the fact that it had simply included such a thing for its own amusement.
His feet crunched in the icy snow, finding the well-trodden path that many pairs of other feet had already made for him.
Most people were inside at this time of night – those that still remained. The town, was half-empty, after all. More than that, even, from the number of houses that seemed to have no occupants. Even the dock workers had gone inside for the day. It was too cold for them.
But even if most of the people had gone, and most of the shops had closed, the torches outside the taverns still burned bright, and he could hear the loud clamour of conversation inside.
There must have been three taverns in that tiny town, even though there were barely two hundred people in the whole place. Vol supposed, that living in such a miserable spot, with the cold sea air adding further insult to the already chilly winter, you needed something to take the edge off. For some, that was drink. For others, it was one of the many women of the night that he'd caught walking around.
They stood out in their numbers. He'd seen their type back home, in Bolrif, but at least then there had been other professions for them to clash with, and hide amongst. Here, they were almost gaudy in their obviousness. Though they were wrapped up in furs like everyone else, there were subtle indicators of their profession that they wore, like a glove with a finger missing, as though that was meant to inspire lewdness.
A pair of them called out to Vol as he passed. They were stood outside one of the many taverns, hoping to catch themselves a drunk. Vol shot them a scowl. They were not particularly good-looking women. The weather had been as harsh to them as it had to the men. They drew back at his aggressiveness, as though afraid. Then, as he grew further away, they recovered their courage enough to shout insults after him.
The charisma deficit that he was in certainly wasn't helping.
As he crossed through the streets, heading closer to the docks, playing with the axe at his belt, he heard the familiar shouts of play. Children enjoying themselves, even out here, in the middle of an all but abandoned settlement.
He paused to watch. Someone had thrown gravel here, on the main path, amongst the ice, to take away the worst of the slippiness. His boots crunched as he came to a halt, but the children didn't notice him.