PrinceCaspian
Star
- Joined
- May 10, 2011
- Location
- Canada
Kjeld had been preparing for this journey for two years. Two years of training his apprentice to take over the blacksmith trade in his village. Two years of preparing everyone he knew for his departure. Two years to come to terms that he would likely never make it back. It had been two years since his wife and child died at the hands of a neighbouring tribe and sent them before him to Valhalla.
The village sent people every year over the Bilröst bridge to pray for the safety of the village and to prove their loyalty to the gods. The gods were fickle and untrustworthy and only those who honoured their ancestors and traditions had any hope of surviving the winters. Winters could be cold and harsh and unforgiving. Many died during the cold winter months and few lived to old age. By keeping ties with Valhalla the village was protected from the worst of the winter and from the wolves.
There were only two types of people who went on the journey, those who were not welcome to live in the village and those who had no reason to live. By entering Valhalla you were facing death for simply looking on the gate. The village had been sending people for nearly ten generations. There were the occasional survivors, but only one or two a generation. There were always a couple who claimed they went, but when the harsh winter blew in and froze people in their houses or children were attacked by wolves they had been proven false.
The last one to survive was unbalanced when he departed - he came back insane. He would talk to specters in the woods that none could see and he would know secrets of other people without being told. They said he had been touched by the gods, but he was altogether crazy.
None of these things would divert Kjeld from his path. He was going to see his boy. If he could serve the village at the same time, all the better. His boy had been strong and beautiful, a boy of 10 summers. He had just begun his journey into manhood. He would have become a blacksmith like his father and he would have been a great leader of the village, perhaps even the chieftan. Alas, the raider slew him when he had been defending his mother from the rapist. The boy was split from stomach to sternum and there was nothing that could be done. Kjeld slew the raider, but it was too late. His boy was dead and his wife was dying. He got to say goodbye to his wife, but never to his son. He was going to remedy this, or die trying.
Kjeld packed his sleeping furs into his pack. Dried meats and fruits were wrapped in a soft hide and waterskins were placed at the top of the pack as well as a wool blanket and a flint and steel. The Norwegian winters were cold, but there was always firewood and shelter to be found.
He wondered who it was he was going to meet in the center of the village. Who it was that was going to accompany on this voyage of last hope. There was always the departure ceremony at the center of the village and then the departure. It was here he'd discover who he'd be traveling with.
The village sent people every year over the Bilröst bridge to pray for the safety of the village and to prove their loyalty to the gods. The gods were fickle and untrustworthy and only those who honoured their ancestors and traditions had any hope of surviving the winters. Winters could be cold and harsh and unforgiving. Many died during the cold winter months and few lived to old age. By keeping ties with Valhalla the village was protected from the worst of the winter and from the wolves.
There were only two types of people who went on the journey, those who were not welcome to live in the village and those who had no reason to live. By entering Valhalla you were facing death for simply looking on the gate. The village had been sending people for nearly ten generations. There were the occasional survivors, but only one or two a generation. There were always a couple who claimed they went, but when the harsh winter blew in and froze people in their houses or children were attacked by wolves they had been proven false.
The last one to survive was unbalanced when he departed - he came back insane. He would talk to specters in the woods that none could see and he would know secrets of other people without being told. They said he had been touched by the gods, but he was altogether crazy.
None of these things would divert Kjeld from his path. He was going to see his boy. If he could serve the village at the same time, all the better. His boy had been strong and beautiful, a boy of 10 summers. He had just begun his journey into manhood. He would have become a blacksmith like his father and he would have been a great leader of the village, perhaps even the chieftan. Alas, the raider slew him when he had been defending his mother from the rapist. The boy was split from stomach to sternum and there was nothing that could be done. Kjeld slew the raider, but it was too late. His boy was dead and his wife was dying. He got to say goodbye to his wife, but never to his son. He was going to remedy this, or die trying.
Kjeld packed his sleeping furs into his pack. Dried meats and fruits were wrapped in a soft hide and waterskins were placed at the top of the pack as well as a wool blanket and a flint and steel. The Norwegian winters were cold, but there was always firewood and shelter to be found.
He wondered who it was he was going to meet in the center of the village. Who it was that was going to accompany on this voyage of last hope. There was always the departure ceremony at the center of the village and then the departure. It was here he'd discover who he'd be traveling with.