Chapter 2: Olaf

His golden beard swayed. The vicious, subzero winds of his homeland bit deep into his tough skin with a nostalgia he had not felt before in his lifetime. Standing like a sentinel upon the bow of the longship was Olaf, staring out at the vast approaching coastline of the Lofkarian Peninsular. His fierce blue eyes scanned the land for signs of the semi-nomadic camps of his people. Upon seeing the glow of a fire upon the cliffs through the darkening evening, his arm chopped down silently in its direction and the ship lurched in its direction.

His sight gouged into the vista before him like claw to flesh. He took in every crook and cranny of the shoreline . Angry cliffs rose like fearsome maws baring angry teeth like rocks ready to eviscerate the ship and its crew, breaking them upon the land's stony shore. He remembered the harsh winters of his boyhood where only the constant brawls and warm hearths kept the warmth within the hastily constructed longhouses. He recalled the flames that never seemed to end in the centre hearth of the longhouse during the hellish blizzards that ripped at the hardened communities. Life had been hard then but Olaf reminded himself of his position. He had to marshal them. He needed to earn his death. He could not be forgotten.

The ships oars went out, beginning a relentless rhythm that sped the longship across the surface of the frigid sea. Olaf didn't take notice that they were now sailing parallel to the cliffs as he allowed himself to be lost in his memories. Sejuani, the head of the Winter's Claw and his liege, came to his mind as he reminded himself of the mission she had given him. Her words had hit almost as hard as her choice of weapon.

"You will give them a choice. Swear fealty to my cause or be destroyed. You'll not disgrace my presence with failure therefore do not return if you do. Bring me a navy Olaf. Give me my war."

He could not fail so he set as good a plan as he could make. He would offer their leader's a glorious death in Sejuani's tabard or by his axe. Their leaders... his feelings darkened further as he realised how detached he'd become from the customs of his home and his people.

"Captain! Bogr reports movement on the cliffs! What are your orders?" The voice of his first mate interrupted his thoughts and he turned his head slightly so he could glimpse the scrawny man out of the corner of his eye. "I suggest we open fire on these scu-"

Olaf's hand shot out and caught the man's throat in a vice grip that lifted him off the ground before he could finish the sentence. His eyes bulged at the sudden pressure as his hands instinctively clawed feebly at his Captain's wrist. The grip tightened until a sickening squelch came from neck as eyes popped from their sockets and the body went limp.

"Suggestions will be taken as insubordination and will be punished by death," his voice boomed at the crew who had stopped to view the spectacle before he tossed the corpse in his hand into the icy ocean. He recognised where they were and alerted the helmsman of a small inlet a few minutes ahead where they would make land.

For several minutes they sailed, Olaf watching the shadowy figures dart across the top of the cliffs. Vanguards. He knew the scouts would report back to the Warchief of their tribe, giving the vital information to the one man with which he needed to bargain. Whether that bargain was struck at the end of his axe or with the traditional clasping of the forearm Olaf was still unsure. The Warchief of the tribe he was about to visit had been unpredictable but incredibly intelligent when Olaf had still lived on the Peninsula. He had aged early on in his tenure as Warchief, the stresses of his duties showing despite the passive expression always plastered on his face. Back then Olaf hadn't understood why such a young man had aged so quickly. How could leading men to kill things be that difficult, He had thought on the few occasions he had met him. Only now did Olaf truly understand the stress of command. The feeling of being entrusted with the very lives of his comrades.

"You better still be there Ysmor," the Berserker muttered to himself as a break in the cliffs gave way to a small beach.

Surprisingly only two very small Longboats could be seen on its shore, both dwarfed by his own. They caused his eyes to narrow in suspicion when he spotted the markings upon them for they were not the markings of Ysmor's Frost Wolves but the other two Lofkarian tribes, the Death Sharks and the Black Beaks. It clicked in his head and the situation became clear. They knew he was coming. For all of them. That was why the Vanguards had only watched. This was a Moot, a meeting of fate where the Warchiefs would decide the destiny of Lofkar. The thought caught Olaf off guard as a Moot had not occurred in centuries if the old sagas held true. He did not expect a reaction as drastic as this and caught himself mid grin as a familiar name once again rose to the forefront of his mind.

As his Longship grounded itself on the soft sand of the beach, Olaf chuckled as he thought to himself. Ysmor you crazy old bastard. Trust you to pull something like this, came the voice in the back of his head. The Winter's Claw warriors rose from their seated positions by the oars, already armed and prepared to disembark into the bitterest of battles. They waited on the command of their captain and commander to jump overboard. Handpicked by Sejuani herself, they were the best troops the Winter's Claw had to offer. Despite only having known the men for but a few weeks, he couldn't help but admire the discipline that had been instilled within them by their Liege.

"Sir! What are your orders?" a booming voice called from the back of the craft. Bogr stood facing Olaf from the back of the ship. The only other Lofkarian amongst his company, Bogr was one of the few, and perhaps the only one, among the crew that understood the full magnitude of the task set ahead of the Berserker. He was an exile just like Olaf but unlike his captain, he had found his way into Sejuani's army through a more ordinary means. He was thickly built just like most of the men of their peoples, even more so than Olaf, but having been forcibly exiled he was clean shaven from head to toe. His old tribal tattoos denoted him as a former member of the Death Sharks, the tribe most affiliated with the ocean, and as such had been one of the best sailors in Sejuani's forces.

He decided to return to more present thoughts before he let him mind wander too far. Sizing up the situation he decided upon his course of action. Giving an old Lofkarian gesture to his associate that meant 'approach' he turned toward the beach as the sailor nodded and drew near from behind him.

"My Captain, what do you require?" the man asked, his voice a deep, gruff rumble that was so characteristic of his people.

"What do you see that is strange about our state of being Bogr?" the Berserker said switching to Lofkarian.

His crewman was silent for several moments, thinking about his answer carefully before he finally spoke. "We saw the Vanguards on the cliffs but we're not halfway up the beach cleaving our way through a small horde of Lofkarian raiders," He said with a growling scoff.

"Ever heard of a 'Moot' Bogr?" inquired Olaf with a strange calmness to his voice.

"Only in the tales that were told to me as a young lad. You don't think that's what's going right now do you?" The bald sailor replied as his captain turned to face him once more with a stone face.

He walked right past the hairless man and addressed the remainder of the crew, leaving Bogr with a confused look on his face. "You will remain here for my signal which will be a fist in the air. Should any man leave this ship, I will personally hunt them down and execute them for insubordination." All crew members wordlessly presented a salute in acknowledgement and Olaf readied himself to disembark. As he leaned over the railing of the longship he spoke his native tongue again to the bald man who instantly picked it up. "You. You come with me."

He dropped silently onto the sand with bare feet and felt it seep between his toes. It was a feeling that he hadn't felt in what seemed like an age. A feeling he had taken for granted all those years ago. A brief pang of regret stung his stomach but he put the feeling aside as he heard Bogr land beside him quietly. He motioned the big man to follow him calmly with a series of small hand movements before he himself began moving cautiously up the beach. He knew they were being watched, the crawling sensation on his skin alerting him to the many eyes that studied the men moving up the beach.

Olaf sized up the forces that could be fit in the small longboats and counted no more than twenty between them. So they're either Wolf Vanguards or the Warchiefs' guards themselves...He thought as his eyes continued to scan the forest on the far side of the beach. They had just passed the halfway mark when three figures seemed to materialise out of the gloom beneath the trees. As they neared he was able to make out their features. They were all aging for Lofkarians, something of a rarity amongst their people. My people. Although, they were obviously not old enough to be beaten in a duel. It showed as a testament to their sheer experience in warfare. Olaf knew he could best them all but he had no interest in the command that would follow.

They were all wearing their ceremonial adornments of leadership, one with a patch of wolf fur upon his shoulder, another with a blackened carrion eagle beak on the hilt of his blade and the last with a shark tooth pendant hanging from his neck. The centremost member of the triumvirate stepped forward to initiate the conversation, a grin lighting his face as he began to speak. Olaf recognised him the instant he did.

"Well met old friend," Ysmor called reaching out his hand, "There is much to be discussed."

A/N: Hey guys! Neoslate here with a little something I wrote a while back. Sorry if it's a little short but still leave a review with your thoughts, I love hearing them :) Until next time :) Ciao!