The Swordthane

  • A flurry of wind driven snow swept through the hall as the door opened, making the hearth fire roar and bearded men turn in annoyance, their drinks interrupted and their laughter silenced. That irritation turned to expectation when they saw it was the volva at the doorway, framed by the snow. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the sound of the storm outside, before turning to face the Nords who were staring back at her in anticipation. They had been waiting for this moment, men and woman from their isolated settlements had travelled to the White Hall to hear the stories and news of far-off places and to experience the volva's magic. The Vul Vahdin, they called her, The Dark Maiden, practitioner of an ancient magick, a sorceress and skald of the old ways.
     
    She stood still and quiet as she surveyed the scene, her dark eyes taking in the jarl seated upon his throne before her gaze swept around the hall. Slowly she lowered the black hood of her robes, her slender fingers adorned with rings of silver and gold which matched those around her bare toes, ankles and wrists. She shook her mane of long, black hair, the movement causing the circlet of silver moonstone upon her brow to sparkle in the firelight. Her pale, high-cheekboned face seemed to glow enchantingly, the dancing flame's illumination only adding to her mysterious beauty.
     
    Then she started to speak, words softly uttered at first, but clear, deep and confident, heard by all within the room...
     
    "The waves were roiled and frothed, tossed by the wind as thunder rolled overhead. Lightning flashed down and the sea rose up to meet each fork, splashing and crashing over the deck of the sinuous and lithe vessel which swam and rode as if it were a mighty whale upon and through the foamy-road. Standing tall and proud was a mighty form, a man at the beast's prow who then strode the heaving deck with grace and skill only comparable to his brawn. From the north he sailed as the wind howled and wailed, with a crew a match for the ocean's roar, hands hard and raw from their tireless work at the oars, and not a man or women in that company quailed. Yet disaster struck near the remote coast of the ice-capped waters of the Sea of Ghosts, for with a splintering sound they ran aground, the mast of timber pine splitting and snapping, wood cracking, before all was swallowed by the cold-as-winter brine.

    Churning and snaring, the isle-fetter was a raging beast, desiring with a voracious appetite to swallow mortal man in a corpse-bloated feast. One among that ill-fated crew pitted himself against the gods in that stormy stew, and while the ocean gave an almost overwhelming fight it was no match for Ingolf's might.

     

    Darkness surrounded and smothered, drawing him under, a blanket as freezing and black as the rain which fell as though even the heavens were weeping at the final fate of the once-beautiful wave-rider. The current pulled and dragged, a hand of a giant tugging him to the lightless deep and urging him towards death's dreamless sleep. He fought it, kicking with strong legs and with hands like paddles proppelled himself towards the surface where waves were as mountains and the sky the dark and monsterous eye of a wrathful goddess. With a bellow he emerged victorious to suck in the life-giving air before once more being hauled down to sink beneath the drink below.

     

    So the battle continued through the night, man against the awsome power of the sea until dawn's first light banished the darkness and calmed the storm, when the whispered plea of Mara's mercy ended Ingolf's desperate plight.

     

    Washed upon the snowy shore beneath forbidding cliffs, a bulwak weathered and scarred by the relentless wind of nature's war, Ingolf breathed deep, his lungs aching and his body weak, the victor in battle yet almost frozen to the core. In need of shelter and warmth he gathered dead branches and the flotsam of the once-proud vessel, which had carried him as faithfully as a steed through many adventures, and with these forlorn remains he set them to flames before collapsing beside this memory-pyre exhausted by his heroic deed.

    Slowly consciousness returned to the the sound of gulls as they wheeled and turned and cried in dusk-darkened skies, greeting Ingolf as he slowly opened his eyes. Kyne's-house was lit with the last blush of day, the west red-streaked and golden pink, deep blue fading to black in the east where stars were born anew in his gaze. Famished and thirsty, Ingolf needed to move swiftly and make his way before the fate he escaped became merely delayed, for this stark northern realm would show him no mercy. The Pale, a wild, white wilderness, one of the oldest and remotest of Skyrim's Holds, was a test to warriors bold who would brave the freeze brought by the north's bitter cold. A home to monsters in their lairs of evil, to err was death in this land, primeval. Mead halls of the Nords were few and far between, most settlements in sore need of high walls to defend the folk from Kyne's children who were untamed, vicious and mean as they prowled freely around the inlets and fjords.

    Dawnstar, capital of the Pale, was the destination of Ingolf the hardy and hale, this son of Fjorolf who seemed fate-blown by the wind of his destiny's gale. He and his band of warriors brave had been called by the jarl in need of strong women and men before he saw his town fade, and with his word was the promise of coin and gold to be paid in return for their sword's grisly aid. Although of the fighters only Ingolf remained, he swore to Shor that even though his body was weary and pained, he would succeed or perish trying to ensure peace again reigned.

    So onwards he strode as the wind moaned, passing yawning caves which faintly echoed the sound of the now-distant waves, and into the snow-misted marshes and moors he roamed alone beneath a newborn moon. Ingolf marched southeast across the soggy and murky plain, enduring his pain on the wet terrain, the night quiet and still save the occasional call of an owl or the distant howl of a lonely witch-beast. Purple deathbells bloomed, folklore holding they marked the mouldering remains of heroes long dead, their bodies mud-entombed, a final resting place of those who fought the Falmer elves long since fled or doomed. Soon the fog gave way to reveal a moonlit path through the gloom which loomed over that fetid bog. Ingolf's course now clear as he followed the trail under the stars towards Dawnstar of The Pale.

    Ingolf's destination lay against a mountain's lee, the town surrounding an incroaching sea where the ships at port gently swayed and rocked upon the waves. Torchlight and the sound of activty reached his eyes and ears as he turned the last corner of the road, glad at last to reach his temporary abode, this far-flung bastion of humanity. Guards patrolled with leaden gait, as if some terror or fear was pressing down upon them like a burdensome weight from the atmosphere. The place felt oppressive with forboding, where men's couage was eroding, leaving bowed heads from the menace of a nameless dread.

    Faces long and drawn turned to him as he passed through the town, mouths stifling yawns and foreheads etched with frowns. Hollow eyed and lacking hope, their gaunt cheeks and grim demeanors bespoke of lifeless winter leaves. Finally Ingolf flung open the doors of the White Hall, at last there to heed the call which had gone out across across the sea, summoning him to his destiny. Forward he strode through this lord's home to speak to the jarl seated and bent upon his throne. The jarl spoke first, though.

    '"Unless you're here to solve this nightmare problem, I don't need you. That's right. Dawnstar. My Dawnstar is plagued with nightmares. I haven't slept properly in days. That priest of Mara who came here before you says the Divines will cure us. Well, until they do, I don't have any business to discuss with outsiders."'

    '"Jarl Skald, I am Ingolf, Bleakrock's Sword-Thane of my lady queen. I have left her side, have ridden the tide, sent in the belief your people are engolfed in anguish yet now I learn I face a dream? I cannot fight a foe that cannot be seen."'

    '"This is no mere dream, boy, but the curse of a demon or an angry god. Help us or crawl back to your queen like a useless dog."'

    Ingolf, dismissed, left that hall resolved that he would end this nightmare hanging like mist or hopeless pall over the people under their jarl's care..."
     
    The Vul Vahdin's voice trailed off into silence.

Comments

8 Comments   |   Meli and 7 others like this.
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  January 22, 2017
    This is one hell of a contribution to AMOSS Phil. We know you'll add more to it. Well you better do at any rate.
    • Paws
      Paws
      Sotek
      Sotek
      Sotek
      This is one hell of a contribution to AMOSS Phil. We know you'll add more to it. Well you better do at any rate.
        ·  January 23, 2017
      Ah, thanks Sotek. Maybe next AMOSS I will add another part :P
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  January 21, 2017
    Uhg, next installment. Well we know what happens next, right? Not much more to tell. But thank you :)
  • Edana
    Edana   ·  January 21, 2017
    Damn Phil. I love the pacing and rhythm in the voice here. Lovely work. When is the next installment out? 
  • Paws
    Paws   ·  January 21, 2017
    Thank you for the kind words guys, much appreciated :)
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  January 21, 2017
    I like the use of created words. It very much captures the story-telling flavor. Great work Phil. 
  • Golden Fool
    Golden Fool   ·  January 21, 2017
    Please, sir, I want some more.
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  January 21, 2017
    This is really like reading one of the old epopoeias. The volva and the sword-thane, the whole setting giving the very strong Beowulf vibe. Especially the ending, where the hero says he cannot fight a dream. Very epic vibe. I´m desperate to see more. :)