Zentmeister

"When the old gods are forgotten, they do not die—they wait."

In the year 1025, the Viking Age wanes.
Iceland bows to Christ. The Althing governs by law. And the gods of old fade to whispers.

But in the far Westfjords, something stirs.

Vetrúlfr Úllarson, a former Varangian captain and exile, returns from the East with foreign gold, forgotten warcraft, and a hunger no man can name.

He comes not in peace, but to raise Ullrsfjörðr from ash and ice; building walls, carving runes, and waging war on behalf of a dying faith.

From Reykjavík to Aachen, rumors spread: a ghost walks the North once more. Some call him the son of Ullr. Others, a wolf-cloaked demon.

But all will know his name.

and when the Valkyries call, he will answer.

Valkyries Calling

Gilli had rallied the village's defenses — or what little remained of them. These were no warriors of the North, no skjaldmær or herfjǫtur.

They were fishers, shepherds, and landfolk who held spears only when necessity demanded.

Yet now they formed a ragged shield wall atop the village's high hill, the wooden homes below ablaze with fire and panic.

From the dark vale below came the howling; like wolves given form in men. Laughter followed, sharp and cruel.

The cries of women and children echoed up the slope, swallowed by the storm.

And through the rain and fire came a single figure, walking unafraid through the flames. Not a hulking húskarl clad in iron, but a familiar face to them all.

No, it was a familiar face to anyone in the village: Trǫndur í Gøtu.

Shield slung to his side, sword glinting in his fist, he raised his voice like a seer at the þing, a voice thick with the fury of a forgotten age.

Valkyries Over Færeyjar