Rise of the Norsemen
Chapter 1 – Upon Northern Shores
The sun stood still, suspended high in a clear blue sky. A stiff breeze raced through the fields and broke through a thick cluster of trees, revealing a Norse village. The village was small and teeming with life, and though it did not have much in terms of protection, there was a strong feeling of safety and security throughout it. The outskirts of the village housed the poorer families. Huts and small crudely built houses stood here while at the far end of the village stood the wealthier area. A group of houses composed of much more impressive and reliable materials. It was here that the Earl resided, the south side of his longhouse surrounded by the wealthier households.
From the centre of the village a noise resonated, time and time again it sounded; the clanging of steel against steel and amidst the racket stood a man; tall and stocky was he, and with shoulder length, dark red hair that was tied back into a ponytail and a long, impressive beard that was filled with an array of brown leather bands and silver beard rings. His face was etched with a most serious expression and not an ounce of joy did inhabit his face. A long scar that began above his brow travelled downwards, across his face, ending abruptly just below above his jawline. It was of a darker colour as he had received it a long time ago, it was a reminder of a battle long past in which a lucky strike from a longsword had bypassed his guard and left its lengthy mark. His name was Hroki and his place was by the forge as he was the town's blacksmith.
Hroki spent many a night at his forge, tinkering away in solitude, improving arms and armour and creating his own recipes and weaponry in a simple attempt to waste away his time, to try and give himself some sort of purpose. For the only purpose he once had, was now long lost. The village was a place of happiness and joy. The fields were farmed and the animals fed, and as each night succeeded the last, the village folk all sat together with their families. They all were truly happy...All but Hroki.
In the past Hroki had been a joyful man, surrounded by his friends and most importantly, his family. At his side stood his beautiful wife Haelga, whose lengthy golden hair was as fair as the lady Sif's and whose beauty it was told could rival that of even the goddess Freja herself. Haelga had given Hroki two sons, Buri and Dagr who had inherited their fathers red hair and masculine features, as well as their mother's piercing, icy blue eyes. The year was 793 A.D and Hroki, alongside a group of his fellow Norse warriors had travelled across the seas to Northumbria and were completing their attack on the town of Lindisfarne.
The heathens had killed and plundered their way through the town and through the monastery that was enclosed within. Their ingenuity had been rewarded as they were the very first of their kind to have navigated the seas so precisely and travelled here. And as they had hoped, the Monastery was filled with priceless objects; solid silver candelabras and solid gold crucifixes were most thrifty among the spoils. It was all they could have hoped for and more.
The men returned to the village as night approached, spoils in hand and upon entering they encountered a group of Jomsviking, brutal mercenaries who would take by force, even from their own kind. He entered the village with fear in his heart, not the fear that he may die but fear for the safety of his family. Luckily the Jomsviking forces were not too large and retreated upon witnessing the return of this large band of northmen. The Jomsviking scattered, not a retreat but a strategic replacement, but none the less they had moved away from the village. He scanned the area and called out "Haelga"..."HAELGA!"... But to no avail, the air held nothing but silence and the smell of iron, of blood.
The nearby huts were scattered and aflame. The smell of burning hit his nostrils, of both fabric and flesh. He searched the village with his eyes wide, his ears pricked and his sword raised and eager. Upon arriving at his hut his heart sank and his sword fell to the floor with an earthy clank, followed then by Hroki as his legs gave way, forcing him to his knees. He gazed within and his beloved had been revealed, as well as his two boys, lying there, on the floor, still, and lifeless. Their icy blue eyes had become dull and empty and Haelga's face was no longer one of beauty but of despair. His son's faces seemed to glisten in the moonlight, their cheeks stained by a stream of drying tears. They were dead. They were alone. Hroki did not move, nor did he speak. His breath was laboured and with a face of stone he knelt there, silently, and watched as his whole life had been washed away in an instant, no longer did he have a purpose, now he was nothing.
Time would pass, but Hroki's mind was now scarred and estranged and as the village folk would often try and engage him in conversation, every dialogue would end with the same reply...silence. The only time he did speak was in reference to his work as a smith, and even then he kept his answers down to a short and simple reply, a simple yes or no, if possible.
After a while the people of the village had realised that it was a lost cause as they had now chosen to leave Hroki to himself, to grieve and to try and once again gather his thoughts. Even Hroki's assistant Tor had been left to work in silence. A single nod was usually signalled his way, to indicate a choice between either which metal to use, or even just a simple indication of yes or no. Tor had mostly been left to learn and pick up the techniques by himself, but even so, he had eventually gathered enough information and experience to branch out and become a smith himself.
As time moved on, Tor had left the village and travelled north, to the village of Ingskar to set up shop and start his own dream of transitioning himself from pupil, to smith. And even though Hroki had seemed to barely notice the absence of his former apprentice, inside he was deeply saddened, he would miss working with young Tor and he wished he had told him this before his departure. It was likely that he would never see him again.