Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Mar 15, 2024 17:59:22 GMT
There was once a king in a land to the far and frigid North. He was young and full of ambition, longing for war, wishing to expand his small kingdom and make his renown greater than that of his father the late king.
One day, when the young king was out hunting in the woods, he spied a lone hooded figure on the road ahead — a one-eyed greybeard, leaning tiredly against his walking staff. The king was a well-learned lad and instantly recognised the old man as the Wanderer.
Fearful but concealing it well, the king went up to the old man and knelt before him. “Valfather, receive my pledge,” said the young king. “Grant me your favour, and I shall wage war across the land and turn many good warriors into valravens for you. Red shall be the earth where my feet tread. Make me impervious to the bite of steel, and I shall be your greatest servant.”
The old man smiled, a twinkle in his single dark eye. The king heard two ravens caw loudly from a tree behind him. He turned to look, and when he turned back, the old man was gone.
And so the king went to march against a neighbouring kingdom, riding fearlessly at the head of his army without armour. So overpowering was his battle-lust that he bit down on the top of his shield as he stood in anticipation of the enemy host, twice as large as his own, charging at him like rolling thunder.
Sword, axe, spear, and arrow bounced off his skin harmlessly. The young king carved a frenzied path through the army, hewing down warriors stronger and more experienced than him, until finally, he took the head of the enemy chief.
On the tail of this unlikely victory, the invulnerable king waged many more campaigns across the Northern lands. His kingdom’s borders expanded from sea to sea. His legend travelled even farther. Wherever his warriors went, they left a trail of hanging corpses and bale-eyed ravens. Red was his cloak, and red was the earth where his army trod.
However, youth has a way of making Time fly by. Years passed with the war-king hardly noticing and before he knew it, he was an old man, weak and sluggish and poor of sight.
In all these years, he had amassed a great wealth of spoils, yet he lived like a poor man compared to the lords of the South, as nearly all his gold went to fund his endless campaigns. His kinsmen had become tired of constant war; some had even tried to kill him. But worst of all was his own growing boredom.
“What is the point of gaining such wealth and power if I never enjoy it?” he wondered. “I have many women, but I never see them since I am always abroad making war. My kingdom is the largest in the North, yet my hall is but a modest hut.”
Enough is enough, the king decided. “This next war shall be my last. I shall spend the last of my days fat and happy.”
The final war stretched and stalled into a difficult stalemate. The enemy chieftain was a young and vigorous warrior, much like the king himself once upon a time. The great war-king soon grew impatient and keen to take matters into his own hands once again. He stepped onto his chariot, without helm nor mail as was his habit, and bade his bannerman drive him to the head of the host.
But he noticed too late that the man sitting in the driver’s seat was not one of his soldiers. Rather, it was a hooded old man, grey-bearded and one-eyed. The old man raised his wooden staff and struck a heavy blow to the king’s head.
The king reeled backwards, stunned by the feeling of pain he had not felt in decades. He felt his skull crack open and thick, warm blood rolling down his forehead. He had barely lifted his sword when two more blows struck and killed him.
When the enemy chieftain received the news that his archfoe was dead, he ordered the fighting to stop immediately. The two armies gathered on the field, solemnly standing side-by-side as the old king was laid to rest in his longship. His former nemesis performed the last rites, a gesture of respect to a legendary warchief.
As the funerary blaze slowly consumed the ship, a lone raven flew out of the burning woodwork, soaring high into the sky, and disappeared behind grey clouds.
One day, when the young king was out hunting in the woods, he spied a lone hooded figure on the road ahead — a one-eyed greybeard, leaning tiredly against his walking staff. The king was a well-learned lad and instantly recognised the old man as the Wanderer.
Fearful but concealing it well, the king went up to the old man and knelt before him. “Valfather, receive my pledge,” said the young king. “Grant me your favour, and I shall wage war across the land and turn many good warriors into valravens for you. Red shall be the earth where my feet tread. Make me impervious to the bite of steel, and I shall be your greatest servant.”
The old man smiled, a twinkle in his single dark eye. The king heard two ravens caw loudly from a tree behind him. He turned to look, and when he turned back, the old man was gone.
And so the king went to march against a neighbouring kingdom, riding fearlessly at the head of his army without armour. So overpowering was his battle-lust that he bit down on the top of his shield as he stood in anticipation of the enemy host, twice as large as his own, charging at him like rolling thunder.
Sword, axe, spear, and arrow bounced off his skin harmlessly. The young king carved a frenzied path through the army, hewing down warriors stronger and more experienced than him, until finally, he took the head of the enemy chief.
On the tail of this unlikely victory, the invulnerable king waged many more campaigns across the Northern lands. His kingdom’s borders expanded from sea to sea. His legend travelled even farther. Wherever his warriors went, they left a trail of hanging corpses and bale-eyed ravens. Red was his cloak, and red was the earth where his army trod.
However, youth has a way of making Time fly by. Years passed with the war-king hardly noticing and before he knew it, he was an old man, weak and sluggish and poor of sight.
In all these years, he had amassed a great wealth of spoils, yet he lived like a poor man compared to the lords of the South, as nearly all his gold went to fund his endless campaigns. His kinsmen had become tired of constant war; some had even tried to kill him. But worst of all was his own growing boredom.
“What is the point of gaining such wealth and power if I never enjoy it?” he wondered. “I have many women, but I never see them since I am always abroad making war. My kingdom is the largest in the North, yet my hall is but a modest hut.”
Enough is enough, the king decided. “This next war shall be my last. I shall spend the last of my days fat and happy.”
The final war stretched and stalled into a difficult stalemate. The enemy chieftain was a young and vigorous warrior, much like the king himself once upon a time. The great war-king soon grew impatient and keen to take matters into his own hands once again. He stepped onto his chariot, without helm nor mail as was his habit, and bade his bannerman drive him to the head of the host.
But he noticed too late that the man sitting in the driver’s seat was not one of his soldiers. Rather, it was a hooded old man, grey-bearded and one-eyed. The old man raised his wooden staff and struck a heavy blow to the king’s head.
The king reeled backwards, stunned by the feeling of pain he had not felt in decades. He felt his skull crack open and thick, warm blood rolling down his forehead. He had barely lifted his sword when two more blows struck and killed him.
When the enemy chieftain received the news that his archfoe was dead, he ordered the fighting to stop immediately. The two armies gathered on the field, solemnly standing side-by-side as the old king was laid to rest in his longship. His former nemesis performed the last rites, a gesture of respect to a legendary warchief.
As the funerary blaze slowly consumed the ship, a lone raven flew out of the burning woodwork, soaring high into the sky, and disappeared behind grey clouds.