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

Snow lay heavy across the low hills, muffling the world in patient silence.

In the hollow of the coast, skin tents and stone rings clustered close, dark mouths yawning where smoke rose to meet the pale sky.

Women scraped hides along the water's edge. Hunters returned with seal and small bear, dragging the carcasses across packed snow.

Children played among the drifted dunes, their laughter bright, unaware.

Two men, faces torn by frost and horror, stumbled from between the low birch stands at the edge of the settlement.

They fell to their knees, clawing the air, voices cracking with breathless ululations. Their words came like broken ice; urgent, terrified, spilling out in ragged bursts.

At once, the small folk gathered, clutching furs to their chests, eyes wide. Old men leaned on carven staves, blinking into the swirl of cold wind, listening.

The Shape of Their Fear