[Volland, Winter Solstice]
"Come on! Hahaha~"
The laughs and cries of youths filled the winter air in joy. The calendar year was finally coming to an end, ready to mark the beginning of its next cycle, like it has a hundred years and more before.
"No fair!"
The snow and dead leaves danced with children that bounced off the ground in their celebrations, some mimicked their elders, trying to act more mature.
Adults drank and feasted amongst dancers and story tellers, some arguing and bickering under the influence of too much ale for one night. All surrounded by the warmth of fires and torches.
"Haha! That story was one of Odins!"
One particularly large man raised his cup, spilling bloody wine across parchments and wooden furniture.
"To Thor!"
Shouted a shorter man climbing over the tables in a rugged mess.
"Praise to Freya!"
The people of Volland were celebrating the longest night and readying themselves for the longest days that their gods would bring them.
"A toast to my son!"
A rowdy man, standing six foot tall with a simple short back and sides haircut rose a metal band engraved with dragons and moons in one hand. The other hand, he held onto the wrist of a younger boy with a relatively small frame.
"Ha! The boy born on the bridge between day and night. KISSED BY NOTT HERSELF!"
Myrkvi swung with his father's tugs, smiling awkwardly as his father turned to him, beaming with the pride of a many watching his legacy grow into his footprints, finally starting to take its form.
"Boy, are you ready?" He whispered gently to his son, holding onto his shoulder and moving closer, "ready to receive your band?"
His father pinched the band between his fingers and held it before the two of them, the iron band that represented Myrkvi's coming of age.
"Of course! I am Myrkvi, son of Steen."
The pale boy wore a face he thought might keep his father in high hopes, synergizing with the adults that were celebrating the coming of night.
"HAHA! That you are, boy! Come now! Let us make a sacrifice in honor of your jarnmark!"
His attempt at appeasing Steen was well met with a roaring approval. Signaling people to follow, everyone moved to a stone crucible where a sheep was waiting. Its wool wore full and its body plump with fat and meat.
Faces turned to stare at Myrkvi with glee. Everyone was ready and anticipating what came next. It is tradition to slaughter an animal, to let its blood feed iron, and the sacrifice to feed the late golden warriors feasting in Valholl.
There was a science behind these blood magic rituals, but everyone treated it like mythos and magic for the sake of tradition.
A cloaked figure walked forward, shuffling under robes to reveal a ritualistic blade. It was unconventionally jagged, but it was sharper than most swords Myrkvi had seen up close.
"Kissed by Nott," the hand that produced the blade reach out in approach, presenting it to the boy of night, "may your story be sung in Odin's halls evermore."
The knife's curves glinted in the firelight, with a hunger that no tool of tradition should carry.
'Ominous...'
At the same time, his father leant forward and placed the band into his palm, shutting fingers around it to make a tight grip.
Myrkvi flipped the knife to hold it upside down in his approach to the lamb, figures around him flicking blood across his body ritualistically. His snow-white skin had become the canvas for red streaks.
'Oh, uninteresting Myrkvi. Made it to 18 and ready to live a life of farming and trade.'
He thought to himself, with imaginary rolling eyes. He didn't dare to break his warriors mask now that he was leaning down and placing the jarnmark into the crucible. The stomps and chants of people made it seem like the world was breathing down on him.
Without pause, he grabbed onto the rough threaded leash, yanking the sheep over as he went.
'Let's make this quick for both of us, yeah?'
Holding the sheep in front of the crucible, with its head over where he placed his engraved iron band, Myrkvi swiftly drove the knife into the neck of the wooly beast, the blade gliding through muscle, tendon and artery with equal satisfaction. Moving down to the stomach as the sheep's body dropped limp.
Pools and fountains of blood flooded out in messy waves. A hand gripped onto some of the intestines as it raised toward the moon.
"For the gods! I shall make my father proud! I shall make my mother rich! My sisters safe! My brothers inspired! This is my oath!"
Myrkvi toasted loudly, causing an uproar in the crowd while drops of red fell down his arm in long, even strokes.
'For the gods....'
His jarnmark was now tainted by the foreign blood magic, seemingly changing beneath its surface to become a beautifully flexible and durable piece of metal, to be worn around bicep till oath be broken.
Taking his iron band with forlorn pride, he slid it up his arms. The etched engravings painting bloody patterns as it rose past wrist, forearm and elbow.
For a second, everything seemed to thin out. The fires and torches dimming.
Myrkvi blinked—once, twice—and then everything snapped back into place.
'Must be all the blood in the air.'
Myrkvi chuckled to himself, shaking off the hazy feeling.
[ "Tether established—binding dreamer." ]
A distinct otherworldly voice rang behind Myrkvi's eyes, rattling in his ears and mind, startling him and sending a ringing pain through his head and spine.
"Gahhh! What in hell's blood?!"
He yelped in agony. Although quieter his voice reached no ears but his own. By now everyone was celebrating too loudly amongst themselves to hear him, or even if they did, they couldn't distinguish it between genuine shock and a petty squabble coming from a bunch of drunkards.
Putting one hand to his face to massage his temple, and another to his back, he stumbled for a second, still drawing no attention to himself in the shifty crowd.
"I must've had too much to drink," his eyes widened with sudden unease, sliding his focus toward an ale barrel, "don't tell me..."
His voice trailed off for a moment, trying to suppress his worry for the revelation that had hit him.
'Thyra's ale... She said something about a mushroom infused brew.Did that crazy woman use Elfs Blood?'
Elfs Blood, a mushroom said to grow in deep forests, on the misty edges of the elven realm. It was rare to come by since it grew in such a nonsensical place that existed only in theory.
But rumors lead to roamers lead to lies and truths woven together like braids. And some-how, some-way, a handful of curious minds had claimed to have found this mystical place, returning with both eventful stories and bountiful loots.
Myrkvi stood up straight, correcting his face through the lingering pain and serving himself another pint from a different barrel, hoping desperately that this next one wasn't going to knock him on his ass like the other had.
'Nothing a bit more ale can't fix.'
Raising his drink and lowering it once more to reveal a misplaced foamy moustache.
"Who'd you steal that from?"
His father joined him in a refill briefly, laughing hysterically at his own joke before joining the crowd where a lot of the dancers were moving.
Myrkvi sighed before taking another pint and smashing it just as heavily as the last.
The rest of the night went on like it had before. Ales spilling across the tables and floors from the cups of slobbish drunks and tipsy adults stuck in idle chatter and jokes.
Volland is as Volland was. A small village out the outcropping of plentiful healthy plains and forests. Neighbored to a fjord giant that bellowed beckoning winds to challenging seafarers, wryly trying to lead them astray from their goals.
For better or for worse, the people living there all were earnest farmers that stuck with traditions and history, not a warrior or soulless fighter between the few thousand inhabitants. Which on paper might make it the perfect target for raids, but nothing of the sort ever dared to happen.
Volland was a strong part of trade with other isles and sailors. Even taking gambles to trade with pirates at times. With so many farmers concentrated in one spot, it was difficult for even the dumbest strategists to not see the flaw in attacking such a major cornerstone.
For this reason, the people of Volland could celebrate the days of Yule without interruption and hesitation.
Already Myrkvi and his father had drunk almost an entire barrel each, to show their respects to the giants who brought feast, harvest and good brewing to their village.
"I can't *hick* I can't drink anymore.... *hick*"
Myrkvi slurred his words into a barely cohesive sentence, showing willingness to withdraw for the night and rest.
"Come on boy, the night has only just begun! Do you yield so easily on such a great day?"
Steen raised a pint to the sky, almost offering it to Thor. The father of Myrkvi could not wipe away the proud smile that had rooted itself on his face, leaving red upturned cheeks.
"N-nooo. I eed sleeeep."
Myrkvi leaned over a table, trying not to lose his dinner or balance, hanging his head pitifully. A young boy was not built to take so much ale, even if they had a natural tolerance from their ancestors' histories.
"Haha! Very well then. Take yourself back to your chambers and get some rest Mr. Warrior. You'll have to pay me back tonight with a drinking contest and a flyting!"
Subdued to the spinning world that split into two images, Myrkvi stumbled out of the mess hall and away from the main party, on his way out he almost bumped into a passing uncle dressed like a bear, scaring away children as he chased them.
Home...
He limped across dirt paths and up a small ramp that led to a humble farmers house. His father's abode where he had been raised. A small lamp lit the front entrance where a chicken clucked quietly.
Myrkvi pushed into the door and entered, leaving the winter outside behind. He ducked under hides and herbs that hung from the roof in groups, drying themselves out. Sliding past a crudely made fabric barrier that separated his room from the rest.
"Uof!"
The boy slung his body across the bed in the floor. Different hides and fabrics layered roughly to make a beautifully soft and inviting cover for him to hide underneath, which is exactly what he did.
Myrkvi retreated under the covers clumsily, turning one over him as he curled into his bed and covers.
Too much damn ale...
The world around him dissolved as he closed his eyes. Images of his room flickered in and out as he blinked. Everything was one big slur before he finally slipped out of consciousness.
[ "Tethering complete—You are seen." ]
What?
Myrkvi's flicked his eyes open widely, frowning at what was before him.
The world was a vast blackness with no end. There was no sun or moon either. And no winter cold. Something was moving in that abyss, its figure was vague and unknown, like it was wearing the void itself. Trying to focus in on the moving shape, Myrkvi formed two slits with his eyes, squinting at the dark.
The abyss peered back at him.
What the fu—
Two ominous eyes turned to face him.
And then, another set opened in following.
Then a third.
A fourth.
Too many.
A foreboding feeling slithered down Myrkvi's spine. This wasn't somewhere that someone like him should be. Whatever he was exchanging focus with, he wasn't supposed to see it.
[ "Do not falter, Dreamer." ]
Those words reached him like a tidal wave, gripping around his chest and tearing him to the floor that slid away beneath him—and Myrkvi fell.
Crap!
Air rushed past in silence. No wind, cold or friction against Myrkvi's skin—just the sensation of endless descent. Myrkvi twisted his body as hell fell through the void, trying helplessly to grab onto something.
Something, something, something!
Then, far below—or was it above?—glimmers sparkled in the growing eyes of the endless abyss, growing closer to Myrkvi, or rather, drawing Myrkvi's body to it.
The glimmers grew closer, forming runes against liquid nothing that spun a perfect circl. Around them, darkness reflecting darkness reflecting darkness, an endless cycle perpetuating itself. The runes were glowing a mythical blue, like tales of magic would speak of.
Mist and bone grew from the runes, swirling into a single point to make a gate in their ring. It smiled, the doors split open to welcome him.
[ "The Gate of Draumheimr summons you." ]
What? The gate of who?
The voice vibrated through his everything, it was louder than thunder, sharper than lightning and deeper than the earth.
His limbs seized to work. His flailing in the void came to an abrupt stop as if his muscles were no longer his own.
What kind of mushroo—
And a pain.A deafening, agonizing one.
It ran through his mind erasing his memories, bleeding them into oblivion.
No scream or cry could escape Myrkvi's mouth, even as he desperately wanted to claw at is throat and roll his eyes into the back of his head.
[ "Your vessel is unmade. You are reborn." ]
Myrkvi's vision faded, and his body began to feel like it was missing pieces, like they were never there to begin with.
In the last few moments. All he heard were the creaking sounds of the gate as they passed him. And the thundering boom as they slammed shut.
The Gate of Draumheimr had devoured him.
***
Authors Note: This one chapter took a day and a half to write alone, but I wanted to make sure it was ready for webnovel and its readers!
As I've rewritten the entire intro and replaced the story in certain parts, I believe it has become more compelling to read.