Hunger of Maps and Blood

They came back ragged, ice crusting their beards, eyes sunken from days of thin rations and thinner sleep.

The march had taken them far beyond any safe measure; deep into lands where the aurora itself seemed to watch, swirling green eyes across a black vault of sky.

Vetrúlfr's boots cracked through the wind-packed drifts as he led them down the final slope toward their settlement.

Smoke from the longhouse rose ahead, dark against the late winter light. Even that thin column felt like a promise.

At his side trudged Ivar Half-Hand, face hard and dark, and Ketil who carried a small bundle of notched sticks bound with gut string.

These were men who had been by Vetrúlfr's side since he first raised a host in Ullrsfjörðr three years prior.

Their crude map, each notch a mark for another hearth-smoke seen, another midden heap picked clean of seal bones, another track that bespoke wary movement.