- Chapter 1 -

The Men Who Row

858 AD

Nestled along the rugged coast of Sweden, surrounded by rolling hills and crowned by the embrace of an ancient forest, lies the heart of Öregrund. A village known for an aura of tranquil isolation and filled with wooden dwellings, weathered by time's gentle caress. Narrow pathways meander through the village, weaving a tapestry of rustic charm, and at its heart, a communal hall stands majestically. It is there, amidst the glow of hearth and home where most of the villagers gather, bound by ties of kinship and a fear that carries among them. A winter tempest of mythical proportions has descended upon their ancient settlement, and both the people and their very livelihood are locked in a dance with the might of the Baltic Sea. As twilight settles on the horizon, a cloak envelops the village, and the atmosphere crackles with latent energy. The air is heavy with the tang of salt and brine, and foreboding clouds begin to gather overhead- obscuring the celestial stars from the eyes below. The wind, unleashed from its shackles, howls like a hungry beast, and tears through the walls of their wooden homes with ferocious abandon.

Amid this all, a prince of the Varangians, stands on a cliffside that thrusts defiantly over the roiling sea. Rurik the Valiant, his name uttered in hushed tones by those who know of his exploits, strides through the world like a colossus of antiquity. His presence commands attention, and his stare pierces through the veils of time. Clad in armor that bears the scars of battle, Rurik moves with the grace of a warrior who has stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. His eyes, pools of wisdom that glimmer with the fire of unwavering resolve- are a testament to the trials he has faced and the victories he has won. Behind him, his stalwart of warriors gathers, their forms mere shadows against the backdrop of chaos, their shape a silhouette against the crashing waves below. From their perch, they witness the onslaught of the gale, beholding the ocean as it churns and froths below them.

Lightning rips the heavens apart, illuminating the bleak landscape with a jagged brilliance and although encircled by destruction, there persists a spirit of defiance that echoes through the ages-the resilience of the Norsemen. For Rurik and his comrades, they stand firm and unafraid against the might of the sea. They stand united, in the promise of a new dawn. "Brothers and sisters in arms, gather around!" Rurik's voice reverberates over the waves below, cutting through the wind. Anticipation trickles through the air as his warriors form a circle around him. "Tonight, we stand on the edge of the world, under the watchful eye of Odin, the Allfather, the Raven God, the Wanderer of the Skies! Our goal is clear. We shall take Uppsala, seize the Hall of the Gods, and claim it as Odin's rightful heir!"

With quiet determination, Rurik and his warriors set about preparing the sacrificial altar. Torvald the Strong, his muscles bulging beneath his weathered skin, maneuvers massive stones into position, while Sigrid the Swift moves among them with the grace of a hunting falcon. "Behold, the call of the Gods, it is anger that they unleash on us!" Rurik's words are carried away by the wind, but their resonance pierces his warriors. They cast their gaze over the tumultuous sea and as the sacrificial boar is brought forth, its snarls mirror the untamed spirit of the tempest itself. Rurik raises his voice once more, issuing a challenge to the storm itself. "In the name of our ancestors, we offer unto Odin a sacrifice worthy of his favor, a tribute of blood and steel!" and with that a single, decisive stroke, brings an end to the boar's life, its blood mingling with the salty spray of the sea. Astrid the Wise sprinkles sacred herbs on the altar, their fragrant aroma mingling with the sea. "Now, my warriors, follow my lead! Each of you, in turn, shall offer your own sacrifice, your own pledge of loyalty and courage!" One by one, Rurik's warriors step forward, their offerings a symbol of their devotion. Eirik the Bold presents his sword, its blade gleaming in the torchlight, while Torvald the Strong lays his shield on the altar, its surface also marked by the scars of battle. "And as the smoke rises from the sacrificial pyre, as the scent of blood fills the air, let us raise our voices in a cry that echoes across the land and sea!" With voices raised in unison, Rurik and his warriors call out to Odin, their words carried away by the wind, swallowed by the sea. "Hail Odin, Allfather! Grant us strength in the days ahead, as we march forth into battle, fearless and undaunted! Hail! Hail! Hail!"

As Rurik and his warriors stand on the windswept cliff, their eyes fixed on the Baltic Sea below, a sudden hush descends upon them. The crashing waves, once fierce and untamed, seem to bow in adoration, and the howling winds soften to a mere whisper. Suspense hangs heavy in the air, as if the very elements themselves await with bated breath. Then, as if commanded by some unseen force, the sky above bursts into a swirling vortex of dark clouds, illuminated by flashes of lightning that weave and dance like serpents in the sky. Thunder booms through the air like the heartbeat of creation as a sense of primal awe washes over the warriors. In the clouds, a spectral figure materializes- a lone rider atop a mighty horse, clad in armor that gleams with a heavenly light. Behind him stretches a vast host of spectral warriors, their forms unmistakably powerful, their eyes burning with an otherworldly fire. Rurik's heart quickens as he beholds the apparition before him- the Wild Hunt, a legendary march said to be led by Odin himself. It is a sight that strikes fear into hearts and inspires splendor in equal measure, a symbol of doom for some and a harbinger of good for others. Rurik stares the spectral army but he feels not fear, and instead admiration and wonder. For he understands that the appearance of the Wild Hunt is no mere coincidence- it is a sign, an omen of Odin's favor, a blessing of their quest to seize the Hall of the Gods in his name.

With a triumphant cry, Rurik raises his sword high above his head, his voice echoing over the havoc of the gale. "Hail Odin, Allfather! We are honored by you, and blessed by your favor! With your host at our side, we shall ride forth into battle, fearless and undaunted! For we are the chosen warriors of the North, destined for glory!" And as the spectral procession fades back into the swirling mists of the squall, Rurik and his warriors feel a newfound sense of purpose coursing through their veins. For they know that they ride with the gods themselves at their side, their spirits guided by the promise and assurance that their path is one paved with greatness.

--

Beneath a brooding sky, Rurik and his companions embark toward Uppsala, braving the waters of the Baltic Sea. Their vessels, honed through generations of masterful craftsmanship, cleave through the waves with unsettling elegance, their timbers groaning against the pounding of the waves. The wind lashes at their skin, threatening to capsize the boats with every gust, and below the surface, the darkness of the sea churns with secrets- ancient creatures, denizens of the abyss, lurking in the shadows, poised to ensnare unsuspecting men and drag them into their watery domain. In the thick of the thunder and blinding flashes of lightning, Rurik and his comrades seek refuge in their faith, their pallid faces filled with a strength that pulls at their hearts. The storm seems unending, with towering waves that rise like behemoths to swallow them whole. But they are fueled by the Wild Hunt, and so they press onward, knowing that the fate of Uppsala- and their own- hang precariously in the balance. As they draw near to their prize, the tempest reaches its climax, and the heavens unleash a torrent that batters the deck like a relentless onslaught.

In the middle of the chaos, Rurik stands firm at the helm, his steely eyes fixed on the distant horizon and his hands steady. He understands that their journey is far from over, that the true test of their mettle awaits. Despite the upheaval raging around them, Rurik and his comrade’s row onward, their spirits unbroken by the elements. For they are no longer view themselves as mere mortals, but warriors of the North, descendants of Odin, and nothing- no matter how ferocious- will deter them from their quest.

Under the shroud of night, Rurik and his warriors advance towards Uppsala, their every exhale a fleeting chill. Uppsala lies in slumber, blissfully ignorant of their approach to the edge of the city, Rurik is the first to speak, "Tonight, comrades, we inscribe our name in the Hall of the Gods," Rurik's voice holds weight as he stirs his warriors, their eyes alight with fervor. With a silent nod, they disperse, melding seamlessly into the darkness, each movement a whisper in the night.

A solitary guard atop the ramparts senses their approach, his urgent cry slices through the tranquility. “RAAAAAID-!!!” His voice and life are ended by a well placed arrow. Pandemonium ensues as Rurik's warriors clash with the Uppsala defenders, the symphony of clashing steel and spilled blood echoing through the stillness. Eirik the Bold, his fiery locks aflame in the moon's silver embrace, dances through the fray with lethal grace, his blade a beacon of vengeance. "For Odin!" his battle cry pierces the night, boosting his brethren until tragedy unfolds- a fatal spear finding its mark, bringing Eirik to his knees, and a crimson offering upon the altar of war.

As he witnesses the fall of his companion, Rurik is dismayed before a vision of beauty unfolds in front of him- a Valkyrie, glorious in her descent, carries Eirik's valiant spirit toward the Hall of the Gods. Emboldened by this intervention, Rurik surges forward, his blade carving through the ranks of his adversaries with power and precision, and in the center of the battle, Rurik confronts the leader of Uppsala. The enigmatic chief, Egil Ironheart. A figure shrouded in mystery who moves with silent grace. Dressed in armor wrought from the very essence of the earth, the ground beneath Egil’s feet seems to tremble, as if in deference to the titan who stands on its surface. Their swords meet with a thunderous clash, the sound reverberating like a scream. Each strike is a symphony of steel as Rurik, his movements fluid and precise, seeks to strike his foe, while Egil, a bulwark of defense, withstands the attack.

As the battle rages on, the air becomes thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Rurik and Egil circle each other like wolves, their eyes locked in a deadly dance of calculation. With each passing moment, the tension mounts, and then, in a moment that seems to stretch for eternity, Egil sees his opening—a glimpse of vulnerability in Rurik's defenses. With a roar that shakes the very foundations of the earth, he launches himself forward, his sword cutting through the air with the speed of a striking cobra. But Rurik is not so easily bested, and with a twist of his wrist, he parries the blow, and sinks his blade deep into the heart of his opponent. In that moment, time seems to stand still, with the world around them fading into insignificance. Rurik and Egil remained locked in a deadly embrace, holding eye contact they see a reflection of themselves in each other, and as Egil dies Rurik stays with him… until Egil too is carried away to the Hall of the Gods.

But with the triumph comes a somber toll. Atop the shattered remains of Uppsala's walls, Rurik stands, weighed down by the burden of loss. Rurik finds solace in the knowledge that Eirik's sacrifice will be etched into the annals of their legends, his memory enshrined among the bravest of their heroes. As he lifts his eyes to the heavens, Rurik understands that their quest is still not over. For as long as the flames of conflict burn, he will continue to lead his warriors proudly along the ever changing winds of fate.

--

In the splendor of the Hall of the Gods Rurik sits upon his throne, his gaze ensnared by the flickering flames of a hearth's embrace. His comrades, immersed in revelry, fill the hall with merriment, and their voices intertwine in song and laughter. The aroma of roasted meat and spiced ale curls those present into a cocoon of indulgence and comfort, of which is rudely interrupted when, suddenly- the door to the hall bursts open. A cold and eerie wind fills the hall from the darkness of outside, and the emergence of a weathered traveler disrupts the jovial ambiance. The man, a messenger, is viewed as a herald of grave tidings due to the urgency he approaches. "My lord!" he calls out, "I bring news from the land of Novgorod."

"Novgorod?" Rurik's curiosity is piqued, the unfamiliar syllables rolling off his tongue like a whispered incantation. "What news do you bring?"

"Trouble, my lord," he declares. "The people find themselves besieged and they yearn for a leader- a noble ruler to shepherd them through these dark times."

As the gravity of Novgorod's plight settles on his shoulders, Rurik's thoughts fill with the weight of responsibility. Novgorod, a land teeming with promise and peril alike, beckons him- a siren's call to ascend the summit of greatness, to carve his name once again into the annals of history. The heady allure of ambition, an insidious whisper questioning whether this path was ordained by Odin’s decree or merely the machinations of chance. Lifting his eyes heavenward, Rurik beseeches Odin for counsel, invoking the wisdom of his God, the Allfather, the weaver of destinies. In that sacred moment of communion, a solitary raven descends from the vaulted rafters, its ebony plumage a silent emissary- a sign of divine guidance.

Rurik turns his attention to the messenger. "Inform the people of Novgorod that their cry has reached my ears," he declares with conviction. "I shall heed their call and shepherd them toward the dawn of a new era." As the messenger departs, leaving the grandeur of the hall filled with palpable trepidation, Rurik's determination is crystallized. Strengthened by the blessings of Odin and the ancestral spirits that dwell within his soul, he steps across the threshold of the great hall, and carries on his shoulders the mantle of leadership, poised to etch his imprint on the fabric of time.

As discussed, @Tate, I moved it to invalid, and we are giving you permission to copy/paste into another article.

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Ekaterina Valieva - Baltimore Platoon


Thanks @Lazyeye for the sig!