Chieftan Ulfsark Brynt

March 14, 2013
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It was one of the harshest winters that Ulfsark Brynt had ever experienced. The Norsemen had barely enough food for themselves to last them through the cold nights, not counting what little hay there was left to feed the livestock. Even the wolves had become increasingly brave, venturing closer and closer to the village with each passing day, to snatch a chicken here or a straggling sick old man there. Ulfsark wished that either this winter would end or that the wolves would venture elsewhere, he was getting tired of cleaning the wolf off his axe on a daily basis, it was such an inconvenience.

There was talk around the village about an impending invasion of his homelands, but Ulfsark didn’t care, there was always talk of invasions and raids. Even though he was content with being the chieftain, what Ulfsark really wanted was to be free of the iron-tight grip of this freezing winter so he could resume his raids down river. He missed the summer dearly, and all the bloodshed it brought with it. The thought of violence and blood set a sort of stride in his walk, a stride that spoke of his eagerness for the fight and his confidence in his honed battleaxe. There was just the matter of getting through this winter without freezing to death, and then all of his troubles would melt like the snow and ice that encased the world.

Just at the end of his casual patrol, Ulfsark noticed that something was astray. After further investigation he saw that there was a fresh path from the exterior of the village, which was strange considering that every few people from the village would even travel longhouse to longhouse. So why was this path here, there were really no dangers in the area, for the Brynts were the dominant clan in the area and no other clan would dare to even consider trespassing on their land without a just cause. Unable to resist his curiosity Ulfsark followed the trail until he would find the source. The trail wound and wove throughout the forest, taking Ulfsark almost three whole days before he gave up tracking the trespasser and turned his path back towards the safety and warmth of his longhouse back in the village.

When he finally arrived to his home, the stench of trolls and giants filled the Norseman’s nose, and his whole world seemed to shatter. He ran with all of his might throughout the village, just to discover that all of his friends, family, and followers were butchered in their homes, which were in turn burnt down to cinders. He refused to believe it, for they were well south of the dangerous mountains where the jotunn roamed. He refused to believe, until he saw the proof.

A handsome and sly looking young man with eyes yellow as the moon was stooping in a barren patch of snow in the center of the village. Even with horns sprouting from his helm, he gave the appearance of weakness, but Ulfsark knew better. The Norseman knew that this man was not really a man, but was in truth the trickster Loki, but he ventured forth anyways. As he drew closer the man straightened his bent back and drew his eyes upon the Norseman. And then Ulfsark’s world turned to darkness.

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