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

Night draped Ullrsfjörðr in velvet black, pierced only by the hearth's low glow.

The hall lay hushed save for the soft pull of Brynhildr's needle. She sat near the embers, weaving thin silver runes into a child's tunic, her breath calm and even.

Across from her crouched the skraelingr thrall. Young by human eyes, yet her dusk-dark gaze held the patient weight of old snows and long forests.

Her hair fell in thick braids, and her hands rested light on her knees; a poise born not of training, but of some deeper stillness.

"You should be with your son," she said, voice touched by the rolling cadence of far western lands. Old, but still filled with youth.

"Not here. Not stitching fate into small garments while the boy sleeps alone."

Brynhildr's smile was faint, eyes on her work.

Securing A Future With Blood and Soil