setting pt-1

The distant bark of a dog pierced the night, blending with the murmur of voices that filled the air. The hall was dimly lit by flickering torches, casting restless shadows against the wooden beams. The scent of mead and sweat hung thick, and the low hum of conversation buzzed like a restless hive.

Ragnar stepped forward, his piercing blue eyes scanning the gathered men before him. "Erik."

A broad-shouldered man with a weathered face stepped out from the crowd. "Ragnar Lothbrok, welcome to my house." His gaze flicked to the side. "You too, Rollo."

Rollo grunted in response, standing beside his brother like an unmovable mountain.

Erik spread his hands wide. "I have done as you asked, Ragnar, and sought out these young men to meet you." He motioned to the assembled warriors, their expressions ranging from curious to skeptical. "All of them have sworn upon their rings to keep this meeting a secret."

Ragnar nodded, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You have done well, my friend, although I knew I could trust you."

From the back, a voice cut through the murmurs. "What are we here for?"

Ragnar turned to face the speaker—Leif, a tall, wiry man with sharp eyes.

"You are here, firstly, because you have nothing better to do."

The room erupted in laughter and playful protest, men elbowing one another, scoffing at Ragnar's jest.

His smile faded. "See, all you lot live idle and wasted lives."

A chorus of protests followed, voices rising in disagreement, but a sharp command silenced them.

"Listen to him!"

The hall quieted, eyes fixed on Ragnar as he stepped into the firelight.

"We have built a new boat," he announced, his voice carrying with quiet conviction. "And with this boat, for the first time, we can go west."

A wave of skepticism rippled through the group. Scoffs. Chuckles. Shaking heads.

"Across the great sea," Ragnar continued, undeterred, "to a place called England, where countless riches await us."

A man named Torstein leaned forward, brow furrowed. "How would we steer across the open sea?" His words sparked laughter, a few muttered jests about getting lost and never returning.

Ragnar's gaze was steady. "We have discovered a way."

Another voice, deep and uncertain, cut through the laughter. "You want us to join you in the boat?"

Rollo stepped forward, his presence commanding. "Yes, we do. And I have Ragnar's word that we will all be equal and share equally in the spoils of our raid."

A man with a thick beard, Knut, crossed his arms. "If there are any."

Murmurs of agreement spread. The men wanted proof. They wanted certainty.

Ragnar's eyes settled on Knut, studying him as though weighing his worth. "What is your name?"

"Knut."

Ragnar took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to draw the men in. "I promise you, Knut, I have heard witnesses."

Knut snorted, unimpressed. "Just stories."

A slow smile curled Ragnar's lips. "Just stories..." He nodded, almost to himself. "All things begin and end as stories."

A hush fell over the hall. The fire crackled. The weight of his words lingered.

Erik spoke next, voice cautious. "We have to remember, though, that Earl Haraldson has ordered us to sail east."

A ripple of unease moved through the crowd.

"The Earl knows nothing about our new boat," Ragnar countered. "He knows nothing about the new way of navigating. This is why he refuses to let us go west."

Leif frowned. "He could kill us for disobeying his orders."

More murmurs. More shifting feet. More glances exchanged in the flickering firelight.

Ragnar did not deny it. Instead, he let the words settle before he spoke again. "We can offer you a chance to shine in battle and impress the gods—to bring back such plunder that you have never seen before." His gaze swept over them, challenging. "Have you got the balls to join us?"

Silence stretched. Then, a voice rang out.

"I'll go."

Another followed. "And I."

Then another. "I will go."

The dam broke. The voices rose, one after another, declaring their allegiance.

"I too!"

"I will too!"

"And I!"

"I will go!"

The energy in the room shifted—what had been doubt was now fire, burning hot with promise.

Ragnar turned to Knut, one last challenge in his eyes. "What about you, Knut?"

The bearded man hesitated. Then, he exhaled, nodding. "Yes. I want a good story to tell my children."

Ragnar's face broke into a wide, triumphant grin. "Ahh!"

The men chuckled, the mood in the hall transforming into one of anticipation, of something greater stirring beneath the surface.

"Prepare to leave in the next few weeks," Ragnar instructed, his voice firm. "And tell no one who doesn't need to know."

The men nodded, murmuring amongst themselves as the meeting dissolved. But there was no more doubt. The course was set.

The west awaited.

The crisp air of the longhouse crackled with energy, laughter, and the sharp clatter of wooden pieces striking the ground. A game was in motion, and Svein watched as Siggy threw with practiced ease, the pieces landing perfectly in place.

"Good throw," Svein said, nodding in approval.

Siggy let out a soft laugh, her expression smug yet playful.

"Well played," he added, acknowledging her skill.

But before the game could continue, a heavy silence fell over the hall as Earl Haraldson strode forward, his presence commanding. His sharp gaze fixed on Olafur, who stood stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Well?" the Earl asked, his tone low and expectant.

Olafur hesitated for only a moment before speaking. "My lord, there was a meeting."

Haraldson's expression did not change, but the weight of his gaze grew heavier. "Where?"

"In the house of Erik Marteinn."

A pause. Then, a single question, spoken like the edge of a blade scraping over stone. "Was Ragnar Lothbrok there?"

A slow nod from Olafur. "Yes, lord."

The Earl's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair. "Shall we show them the axe?" Svein asked, his voice carrying the quiet hunger of a man eager for violence.

For the first time, Haraldson allowed a smirk to touch his lips, but it was cold, devoid of amusement. "Nothing would please me more," he admitted. "But it's too soon."

Siggy, seated nearby, tilted her head, a knowing gleam in her eye. "Only good things come from watching," she murmured, tracing the rim of her cup with a slender finger.

Haraldson barely glanced at her. "And waiting." His voice was thoughtful, measured.

The room settled into uneasy silence, save for the crackling of the fire. Then, his attention shifted, his gaze piercing through one of the men standing nearby.

"Were you looking at my wife?"

The question was soft. Too soft.

The accused man stiffened, the color draining from his face. "No, lord!" he stammered. "I swear on all the gods."

Haraldson leaned forward, his voice like ice. "Have you slept with her?"

"No, lord! Never!" The man's panic was evident, his body rigid as if bracing for the axe to fall.

A slow smile spread across the Earl's face, a cruel thing, void of warmth. "If she wants to sleep with you, then I give my permission."

The room held its breath.

Haraldson sat back, his smirk deepening. "It will be arranged."

The tension in the hall thickened, heavy and stifling, as the fire crackled on, indifferent to the cruel games of men.

Hooves thudded along the stony path leading to the farm's small, weathered dock, where the gentle lap of water mingled with the cries of distant birds overhead. The sky was overcast, the air tinged with the salt of the sea and the promise of change. Near the water's edge, beneath a modest shelter built of driftwood and stone, Lagertha and Ragnar stood in quiet conversation amid the bustle of preparations.

Lagertha crossed her arms, her eyes searching Ragnar's face as if trying to read the secret buried behind his determined gaze. "So when do we sail?" she asked, her tone both impatient and tinged with wistfulness.

Ragnar paused, his hands still busy at the wooden washbasin, scrubbing clothes that had seen many seasons. He looked up slowly, his eyes reflecting both resolve and regret. "I already told you," he said, his voice soft yet firm. "I don't want you to come."

Lagertha's brow furrowed in disbelief. "Why not?" she demanded, stepping closer so that the faint splash of water and the gentle murmur of the tide became their private backdrop.

Ragnar's gaze dropped to the hem of his worn tunic. "I need to leave the children and the farm in the hands of someone I trust," he explained. The words were heavy with the weight of responsibility and the fear of losing everything to the whims of power. "What if the Earl finds out we've gone without his permission? He might try and claim our family home."

The tension between them deepened as the wind tugged playfully at Lagertha's braided hair. The distant rhythm of hooves and the murmur of the farm's life served as a stark contrast to the wild call of adventure that beckoned Ragnar from the horizon.

He paused for a long moment, his voice growing louder, as if recalling a dream. "This was going to be the most exciting voyage of our lives—to go west!" His eyes shone with the intensity of a man possessed by visions. "I have dreamed of it many times, and in my dreams, we are always together."

Lagertha's face softened briefly at his words, but then doubt crept in, her tone shifting as she challenged him. "What if there is no west? What if this is the most dangerous and stupid voyage ever? What if we both die, hmm? Then who would take care of the children… Rollo?" Her voice cracked, part reproach, part desperate plea.

Ragnar's expression hardened at the mention of their son, the future of their legacy, as he listened to Lagertha's fears. "You have no right to say that!" he retorted, his tone rising with a mix of exasperation and sorrow.

After a long, heavy pause punctuated by the steady rhythm of water splashing against the dock, Ragnar sighed and shook his head. "All right, all right," he murmured, his voice softening once more. "You go. You go and I shall stay here and look after the children."

The decision hung between them like a fragile promise. The murmur of the waves and the gentle rustle of the wind seemed to carry away their unspoken fears and hopes. Ragnar's calloused hands resumed their task at the washbasin, each stroke against the rough fabric a quiet testament to the life he was bound to—one of duty, sacrifice, and dreams that stretched far beyond the familiar shores.

Lagertha's eyes glistened with a mixture of determination and longing. She reached out, almost unconsciously, to touch Ragnar's arm, but stopped short as if she feared shattering the fragile silence that now enveloped them. The unyielding resolve in his eyes told her that this journey was his alone—a path he must walk, even if it meant leaving behind the comfort of shared love.

Above them, a lone bird cried out, its call echoing like a solemn benediction over the rugged landscape. The distant sound of hooves and the constant splash of water served as a reminder that life would continue in its relentless, unpredictable rhythm, whether they sailed into the unknown or remained on the familiar soil.

As the day began to fade into the soft hues of dusk, Ragnar's figure stood silhouetted against the backdrop of a stormy sky—a lone warrior driven by the call of destiny. His heart, though heavy with the burden of choice, beat with the fierce determination of a man who had seen visions of greatness. And though Lagertha's heart ached at the thought of separation, she knew that every legend was forged in moments of profound sacrifice.

In that quiet moment at the edge of the world, with the echoes of the past mingling with the uncertain promise of the future, Ragnar and Lagertha shared one final look—a silent exchange that spoke of love, duty, and the unyielding quest for a destiny written in the stars.

In a secluded clearing deep within the heart of an ancient forest, a massive dragon loomed over the land, her scales shimmering like shards of black and purple crystal. The very air around her carried an eerie chill, frost creeping along the earth beneath her mighty claws. Towering trees bowed under the weight of ice that formed from her mere presence, their leaves frozen in silent reverence.

Before the great beast stood a young man, his black hair tipped with white, his dark purple eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous glint. A smirk played at his lips as he reached out, his fingers trailing across the dragon's massive snout with familiarity and affection. The creature rumbled, her deep, guttural purr shaking the ground beneath them.

"Who's a good girl?" he murmured, his voice both teasing and reverent.

The dragon, undeterred by her immense size and fearsome reputation, leaned into his touch, her eyes half-lidded in contentment. A low, pleased growl escaped her throat, sending small clouds of frost into the already frigid air.

In a secluded clearing deep within the heart of an ancient forest, a massive dragon loomed over the land, her scales shimmering like shards of black and purple crystal. The very air around her carried an eerie chill, frost creeping along the earth beneath her mighty claws. Towering trees bowed under the weight of ice that formed from her mere presence, their leaves frozen in silent reverence.

Before the great beast stood a young man, his black hair tipped with white, his dark purple eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous glint. A smirk played at his lips as he reached out, his fingers trailing across the dragon's massive snout with familiarity and affection. The creature rumbled, her deep, guttural purr shaking the ground beneath them.

"Who's a good girl?" he murmured, his voice both teasing and reverent.

The dragon, undeterred by her immense size and fearsome reputation, leaned into his touch, her eyes half-lidded in contentment. A low, pleased growl escaped her throat, sending small clouds of frost into the already frigid air.

The bond between them was undeniable—one of trust, power, and something far older than the histories recorded by men. Here, in the silence of the frozen glade, the Night Queen and her rider stood as one, their presence a legend waiting to be told.

Jeanyx continued stroking Nyx's snout, his dark purple eyes gleaming with pride. "You're the most beautiful creature in this world," he whispered, his voice filled with admiration. The great she-dragon purred in response, her deep, rumbling sound like distant thunder rolling across the sky.

But before he could continue his praises, the sound of snapping twigs and crunching frost announced the arrival of three familiar figures. Ragnar Lothbrok strode into the clearing with his usual air of confidence, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Jeanyx. Behind him, Rollo followed with his usual stoic presence, while Floki, ever restless, moved with an almost unnatural energy, his wide grin betraying his excitement.

"The boat is ready," Ragnar declared, stopping a few feet from Jeanyx. "We sail at first light."

Floki tilted his head, his eyes darting between Jeanyx and the towering form of Nyx. "And what of the mighty dragon?" he asked, a hint of both awe and curiosity in his voice. "Surely, she's not staying behind?"

Jeanyx smirked, his fingers still trailing along Nyx's glistening scales. "I don't go anywhere without her following," he said simply. As if to emphasize his words, Nyx let out another soft purr, her breath misting the air like a winter storm.

Rollo, arms crossed over his chest, raised a brow. "And how do you intend to bring her? She may be powerful, but even she can't stay in the air forever."

Jeanyx chuckled, stepping away from Nyx and turning to face them fully. "That's why I've already figured out a way." His smirk deepened as he gestured toward them. "Tell me, did none of you wonder why the boat is twice the size of any we've built before?"

Ragnar narrowed his eyes slightly, the pieces clicking into place. Floki, however, let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands together. "Oh, this will be interesting," he muttered, his manic grin widening.

Jeanyx folded his arms, amusement flickering in his dark purple gaze. "I've made special accommodations. Nyx will not only sail with us—she'll have a place of her own."

The three Vikings exchanged glances, and for the first time, even Rollo looked intrigued. Ragnar let out a small chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "If this works, Jeanyx, you may have just changed the way we travel forever."

Floki let out a gleeful cackle, already itching to see the monstrous vessel in action. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go see this marvel of yours!"

Jeanyx glanced back at Nyx, who tilted her massive head in silent understanding. With a graceful yet chilling movement, she unfurled her wings slightly before tucking them back in, prepared to follow wherever he led.

With one last look at the frozen glade, Jeanyx turned to the others. "Then let's set sail."

The dim candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting shifting shadows across the chamber. Siggy's lips parted as Olafur's eager hands traced along her body, their breath mingling in the chilly air. He whispered her name, his voice hushed with desire.

"Siggy…"

But suddenly, she stiffened, her expression turning to ice. She pushed him away with force, her eyes now sharp as daggers.

"Go away!" she snapped.

Olafur blinked in confusion. "But… it's so cold in here," he murmured, his breath trembling. "We'll be warm soon enough."

His hands reached for her again, but Siggy's palm met his face with a resounding slap. Olafur stumbled back, his cheek red from the blow.

"What do you take me for?" she spat, eyes blazing with fury. "Did you truly believe that a worm like you could bed a woman like me?"

Her voice dripped with scorn, and Olafur's face twisted in shock.

"I am an Earl's wife."

Her words sealed his fate.

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the slow, deliberate footsteps echoing through the hall. Olafur turned, dread pooling in his stomach. Earl Haraldson stood in the doorway, his gaze unreadable, his presence suffocating.

Now I know who to trust and who not to trust.

Olafur's breath hitched. His body tensed, his eyes darting from Siggy to the Earl, pleading for mercy, for some sliver of salvation. But there was none.

Earl Haraldson barely moved as he spoke the words that sealed Olafur's doom.

"Take him."

A guard stepped forward, gripping Olafur by the arms.

"No—no, please!" Olafur gasped, struggling as his mind raced with panic.

The Earl didn't flinch. "Get rid of him."

Svein stepped forward, his face a mask of indifference.

"Come."

Outside.

Olafur thrashed against his captors, his pleas drowned by the roaring winds beyond the hall. They dragged him into the freezing night, his feet stumbling over the rough earth. His breath came in ragged gasps, forming desperate clouds in the icy air.

Then the first stab came.

A choked scream tore from Olafur's throat as Svein plunged his blade into his gut. Again. And again. Blood spilled onto the frostbitten ground, steam rising from the crimson warmth. Olafur gurgled, his hands clawing weakly at the air, at nothing.

Svein spat to the side and raised his axe.

The final sound was a sickening chop, the thud of flesh and bone meeting steel. Silence followed, save for the distant howl of the wind.

Back inside, Earl Haraldson sat in his chair, sighing as he picked up his cup. His grip loosened, and the cup slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

He exhaled heavily, his gaze distant. A slight haze of drunkenness dulled the sharpness in his eyes.

It was done.

In the dim glow of Ragnar's great hall, the evening had slipped into a languid haze of half-remembered dreams and the soft crackle of the hearth. Ragnar sat alone near the fire, a chipped cup of wine in hand, its ruby contents reflecting the dancing flames. He sipped slowly, the wine loosening the rigid lines of his features, until a careless movement sent the cup clattering to the stone floor. A heavy sigh escaped him as the sound echoed in the quiet room.

Before he could recover, Lagertha—silent and determined—glided from the shadows. In one swift, decisive motion, she brought her shield down hard against his back, the impact reverberating through the room and sending him sprawling onto the cold floor.

"Get up!" she barked, her voice sharp and commanding. With deliberate anger, she spat onto the fire; the sizzling hiss that followed was as much a rebuke as her words.

Ragnar's eyes widened in shock as he attempted to rise, barely managing to croak, "My love!" His tone was a mix of pain and pleading.

"Never mind that," Lagertha snapped, her face a mask of hurt and fury. "Defend yourself."

With a fluid motion, she swung her shield again, the whoosh of its arc filling the space as Ragnar grunted in strained effort to push himself upright. Their struggle filled the room—clashing breaths and the muted thuds of effort punctuating the tension.

"How dare you?" Lagertha demanded, her voice trembling between indignation and sorrow. "Am I not good enough for you?"

Ragnar's eyes flashed with a mix of confusion and regret, but before he could offer words of explanation, Lagertha pressed on. "Am I not strong enough for you?" she cried, each word laced with wounded pride.

Their fight became a dance of raw emotion—a collision of love and anger, strength and vulnerability. Ragnar's labored grunts mixed with Lagertha's determined exclamations as they circled one another in the flickering light. "Ungh!" he gasped, each strained breath a testament to his inner turmoil.

"Ungh!" Lagertha echoed, her voice raw as she pushed forward, her determination etched into every movement.

In that moment, amid the crackle of the fire and the silent witness of ancient stone walls, their conflict transcended mere physicality. It was a battle of hearts, a struggle to reconcile the fierce love they shared with the scars of past betrayals and unspoken grievances. Their movements, though fraught with anger, carried the deep, complex rhythms of a love that had weathered countless storms.

Outside, the wind whispered secrets to the night, and the steady drip of rain against the roof formed a somber counterpoint to their strife. In the charged silence that followed each blow, the echoes of their passion and pain mingled—a testament to a bond as ancient and tumultuous as the land they called home.

And so, beneath the dancing shadows of firelight and the quiet judgment of the stars, Ragnar and Lagertha fought—not only for their pride, but for the fragile promise of redemption that lingered in the space between their clashing souls."Now listen…" he rasped, struggling through a series of grunts. "You listen. Ungh!" His voice was punctuated by the sound of exertion and a hard impact as Lagertha's fist met his cheek in a swift, punishing blow.

"Ragnar, how could I forget?" Lagertha hissed, her tone a volatile mix of hurt and fury. "You keep reminding me…" Her words softened for a heartbeat as she pressed her lips to his in a desperate, almost pleading kiss.

But the tenderness was short-lived. Almost as quickly, her anger flared anew. "I'm so angry with you!" she roared, launching herself at him with a relentless fury that rained blows upon his battered form.

From the doorway, Bjorn's voice rang out, cutting through the chaos. "Stop! Are you mad? You could have killed each other! Is that what you want?" His protest was desperate, charged with the fear of witnessing his parents tear each other apart.

Ragnar, gasping and bruised, managed to push himself up with the help of his own resolve. "We were just having an argument," he managed between labored breaths. His tone carried both defiance and resignation. "Well, never argue like that again. Go on then—back to bed!"

A bitter laugh escaped him as he collected his scattered breath, the words laced with a wry humor borne of countless battles and bitter reconciliations. "It's a fine thing when the little pig teaches the boar a lesson," he muttered, just as Lagertha delivered one final, resounding slap.

"Ungh!" Ragnar's cry of pain mingled with the crackle of the hearth as he staggered, his breathing heavy and labored. In that charged moment, amid the interplay of anger, sorrow, and reluctant laughter, the ancient walls bore silent witness to the fierce, tumultuous passion that defined their union.