Lanark, Wild Lands, year 433.
The land darkened as the clouds gathered, and lightning streaked aimlessly through the sky. Tremors shook the mist as thunder cracked. The wind cut like a sword, the raindrops mixed with the blood of the fallen.
Atop a lofty hill, dozens of men lay scattered on what was once lush green grass. Twisted into misshapen poses, their expressions etched in agony, they witnessed a young figure smeared with blood: the White Wolf.
A brave man, with his short sword firmly in hand, ventured towards the White Wolf. This seemingly middle-aged man dwarfed his younger opponent in both size and strength. However, when the colossal warrior's sword collided with the youth's battle axe, all that strength and stature were forgotten.
The formidable warrior swung his sword powerfully, fueled by hatred and violence, but his blows were effortlessly deflected by the White Wolf, who moved with almost artistic agility. His movements seemed like a deadly dance, the White Wolf gracefully evading each attack.
Quickly, the White Wolf found a blind spot and deftly used the blade of his axe to strike the giant's armpit. The attack caused a wave of pain that forced the giant to drop his sword. As the sword descended, the White Wolf snatched it out of the air, spun it around, and plunged it into the giant's chest.
Another adversary charged at the White Wolf, shouting words in an unknown tongue. The initial attack came down from above, but the White Wolf dodged gracefully.
With precise strikes at strategic points, the White Wolf quickly incapacitated his new opponent, leaving him on his knees, bleeding profusely. In a single, fluid motion, the White Wolf's axe severed the head from the vengeful warrior's body.
When the last enemy fell, there was silence, embodied by the symphony of thunder and rain. The drops of water washed the crimson blood from the White Wolf's cheeks. Weariness washed over him, for he was only a child, after all. He dropped to his knees, leaning on his axe for support.
"Bell..."
A tired voice broke the silence, calling his name. As the White Wolf's fiery red eyes lifted, they were met with those of a boy with blood-stained hair, wielding a weapon unique among his kind: a bastard sword.
"Welf..."
The name escaped the White Wolf's lips, tinged with a tone of welcome and hope. Welf stood before him like a brother, the shared history of him forged on countless battlefields.
A smile appeared on the White Wolf's face as Welf approached, their meeting sealed with a hug. Scented with blood and drenched in sweat, Welf's presence merged with that of the White Wolf, a manifestation of their unbreakable bond as comrades in war.
"Excellent, my brother..."
Stepping back, the White Wolf left Welf on the grass. The weight of exhaustion and anxiety fell off Welf's shoulders at last.
The battle over, they began to arrive.
Climbing the hill, the White Wolf stood tall as the sky darkened. Hundreds of ravens descended on the battlefield.
Odin had arrived.
Wrapped in tattered brown robes, with wings as dark as night adorning his robe, he walked deliberately among the fallen, leaning on a simple wooden staff.
A single blink was enough for the White Wolf to make the figure of the creature disappear, as if it had never existed.
This time, it seemed that the gods would not welcome them to Valhalla. The heavens had not smiled on them. They would persist as mortals, wandering and entangled in battles that would ultimately end their lives.
Eirholt, in the territory of Orario.
In the quiet embrace of a lake nestled in the heart of the forest, sat a beautiful young woman, waist-deep in water, on a hunting expedition.
Adorned in a faded purple dress, her beauty dwarfed any blemishes that marred her attire. With hair as golden as the sun, two braids graced her forehead, while a long waterfall fell down her back. Her delicate features, typical of Orario's noble caste, are juxtaposed against the backdrop of her current endeavor, making her presence in such a setting all the more intriguing.
Suddenly, a quick and agile movement accompanied the descent of a spear, whose sharp stone point disappeared under the surface of the water, to reappear adorned with a fish impaled on it.
Despite this triumph, however, the young woman's face remained devoid of a smile or visible emotion, indicating that this achievement was a familiar and recurring task.
"Did you manage to catch one so quickly? How unfair! I've been trying for quite some time," protested a female voice, belonging to her hunting partner, a young woman adorned with light brown hair and piercing blue eyes.
"I'll take this capture. You, on the other hand, can decide whether or not to persist... Although I've heard rumors of bandits prowling around these parts..."
"Aizu, spare me your jokes!" the young woman replied with her expression adorned with a pout as she emerged from the water, casting envious glances at the fish now in Aizu possession.
Eirholt was one of the many villages in the vast region of Orario's domain. Most of these villages did not enjoy any privileges, and their vulnerability made them susceptible to the depredations of innumerable bandits and marauders. Typically, those who managed to escape imprisonment in Orario seized the land in search of opportunities to plunder.
Naturally, when men were present in the vicinity, the bandits were reluctant to carry out their nefarious plans. The men surrounding the Orario capital were revered as the personal guard of the Royal Family. Over generations, they had been honed and trained for combat, their courage and prowess legendary. And though their loyalty extended beyond the Orario capital, they were often drawn into battle.
In one of these towns lived a 17-year-old boy named Bell Cranel, known by the nickname "White Wolf". He had been thrown into the crucible of battle at a tender age, and his appearance on the battlefield came when he was barely 10 years old. The cold-blooded murder of the only surviving member of his family, his grandfather, during a raid on his farm prompted his actions. Not knowing what to do with the rage inside him, he drowned in the blood of his victims.
To everyone's astonishment, the young man demonstrated extraordinary aptitude for combat. This prowess earned him the epithet "White Wolf", for his hair as pale as snow and crimson eyes like a wolf's.
Currently, Bell possessed seven years of combat experience. However, unlike many warriors, his ability extended beyond the sword...
"Tch, you start by pumping one udder at a time. Use gentle and firm strokes to avoid causing discomfort. Give it a try."
Bell had acquired his skills through keen observation of his grandfather's practices; he never sought help from others. Devoid of father figures since the age of seven, he had grown used to fending for himself. In Bell's circumstances, being a warrior and dealing with death didn't necessarily translate into monetary gains, unless he was part of a well-organized raid. Therefore, he used his knowledge to offer services to children who required guidance.
In the villages, the demand was for workers, not warriors. Many of the children who joined Bell's lessons out of obligation despised the tasks he assigned them, but they returned diligently every day. The reason behind this paradox was clear: they recognized Bell as the White Wolf, a standard bearer of their aspirations, a role model. Although Bell could have taken advantage of this situation, amassing wealth, he steadfastly refrained from teaching combat and the art of killing.
"Bell, i managed to bring him," a female voice called from behind. Bell turned to find an older woman standing there, probably about the age her mother would have been. Next to her was a boy dressed in an outfit that could be considered sophisticated by Viking standards.
Since working as a farm supervisor was not enough to survive, Bell took up another occupation. He functioned as a protector of those who sought passage to the capital, although he only accepted payments from women and the elderly, refusing tasks from other men.
"I apologize for the delay, but he's been giving me trouble all afternoon, and he's refused to come," the woman commented, while the boy kept his gaze downcast.
"We'll have to make camp halfway and reach our destination tomorrow morning. Don't worry, I won't ask you for any more money," Bell assured. The woman breathed a sigh of relief, the fatigue in her eyes easing a little. She knelt before the boy and began to say goodbye to him.
"Gunnar, that's all for today. Tell your father I'll collect the money in two nights."
Gunnar released the cow's udders with a hint of glee; milking was not a pleasant task for most children. Bell had several recurring clients, and the Ketilsson family, relatives of Gunnar's, had entrusted their two sons to Bell's care. Working with people who inspired confidence made things easier.
"Inga, I'll go get everything ready to leave tomorrow morning. Make sure your son is ready."
Inga nodded firmly, wiping away the tears that had welled up in her eyes.
Bell's farm covered an impressive area, perhaps the largest in all of Eirholt. The property was home to a variety of animals—sheep, pigs, and chickens—and when Bell ventured elsewhere, whether to work or fight, thieves would think twice before attacking his domain.
The cabin in which he resided exhibited a similar degree of splendor, built of thatch, wood, and mud. The structure featured ample space, a testament to his past when his grandfather rented rooms to travelers. Currently, only two rooms were in use: Bell's grandfather's bedroom and the kitchen.
In his room, Bell began to prepare the clothes. The cold of the mountains could easily cause illness, even death. At that moment, the bedroom door opened, and a female voice asked, "What are you doing?"
Bell did not stop what he was doing, nor did he turn around, as he replied in his characteristic monotone, "Preparing to take Inga's son to the Initiation Ceremony. I have postponed the date for quite some time. Given the important meeting tomorrow, I thought I would take advantage of this moment."
The footsteps grew louder, culminating in a lean, firm hand with white fingers gripping his shoulder.
"Weren't you planning to tell me about your departure? You think I don't know the meeting is tomorrow? You're going to be out of town for three days."
Bell looked over his shoulder, his red eyes locked on Aizu's frustrated and angry look.
"They will compensate me with 10 Valis for the round trip."
"You hardly need the money anymore," Ais say, putting pressure on his hand. Bell's red eyes held Aizu's in prolonged silence. "Why don't you stay one more day?"
"I'll need supplies, pack some food."
Bell and Aizu shared a strange bond; they weren't a couple, but they did couple things. Although she was a year older than Bell, by tradition, they could already be married. However, Bell exuded a cold and aloof demeanor that made him an undesirable candidate. And while Aizu had an equally cold and cutting personality, there was an undercurrent between families that forbade a woman like Ais from marrying a mere warrior.
Hearing the harshness of Bell's response, Aizu refrained from further opposition. She knew that Bell would never raise a hand against her, unlike her father and the other men at Eirholt. However, she was not willing to exploit Bell's kindness. Therefore, she decided to contain his persistence, swallowing her frustrations.
Night had enveloped Eirholt in darkness. Within the confines of the Cranel farm cabin, the sounds of passion had finally subsided. In the bedroom, Aizu and Bell found comfort in each other's embrace under the caress of the sheets.
"At least don't get carried away by too many women in Orario," Aizu commented, resting against Bell's chest.
"I think I can handle my desires," Bell replied quietly.
"Should that 'I think' offer me comfort or concern?" Aizu teased, a smile tracing her lips. Bell didn't answer, opting for the silence that allowed the crackling of the campfire outside to permeate the atmosphere. "What thoughts are brewing in that mind of yours, my wolf?"
"Dreams."
"Hmm?"
"Last night I dreamed that we had a son. I dreamed that I was coming home, to this house, and I was coming home with a harvesting tool and not a sword. My hands smelled of gardening and not of man's blood."
Aizu's smile faded as she looked up at the ceiling, absorbing Bell's words.
"And what do these dreams mean to you?"
Bell lifted Aizu's chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. He whispered, "Nothing," before leaning in to kiss her tenderly.