"I'm not interrupting, am I?" he asked with a grin.
Both Ursang and Yacha shook their heads.
"Good! The girls will join us soon with the kids, but for now—let's go to the feast!" Sigurd said, his voice filled with excitement.
Ursang and Yacha exchanged a confused glance. "Feast?"
With a wide grin, Sigurd clapped them on the shoulders and beckoned them to follow. They trudged through the snow after him, curiosity piqued. Soon enough, they arrived at the heart of the village.
Before them stood a grand festival, a large bonfire blazing in the center, its flames licking the sky beneath a massive tent. Men and women, fierce warriors, milled about, laughing and drinking. Children darted between the tables, their laughter ringing out above the crackling of the fire. Long tables were laden with food and drink, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Some villagers sang others danced—the entire scene alive with the spirit of celebration.
Sigurd walked through the throng like a king among his people, commanding yet warm. As he reached a large chair, almost like a throne, the crowd erupted in cheers.
"Hail Sigurd! Hail the Wolf of Skara Brae!" they shouted, their voices booming with pride.
Sigurd raised both hands, quieting the crowd for a moment. "Tonight, we feast on polar bear, but not just any! The ice freak, the very beast that threatened our village! But that's not all. Tonight, we welcome guests from a far land, Yacha, and Ursang!"
The crowd erupted again, their voices filled with joy and excitement. They called for Yacha and Ursang to join them, to celebrate the death of the creature that had plagued their home. Ursang and Yacha stood there, overwhelmed by the warmth.
Under the glow of the bonfire and the drifting snowflakes, Ursang and Yacha looked at each other, grins spreading across their faces.
"Screw the mission," Yacha said, his voice filled with a rare sense of excitement.
They had survived the polar beast. They ate and drank, blending into the celebration, becoming one with the people of Skara Brae.
Suddenly, a tall, broad man stood up, raising his axe high into the cold air.
"I, Oscar, right hand of the chief, declare a spar among our warriors!" His eyes gleamed as they fell upon Yacha and Ursang.
"And our guests," he added with a challenging grin.
"No, no, not them," Sigurd said, stepping forward with a firm hand.
But Ursang was already grinning. "We don't mind," he said confidently.
Oscar roared, "Let the spars begin!"
The crowd echoed with a thunderous cheer. Tables were cleared, the space becoming an arena as warriors lined up, each declaring their name before facing off. Swords and axes clashed, and those who won remained in the arena, awaiting the next challenger.
yacha stepped into the ring, the crowd laughed at his request for a spear.
"A spear? Do you mean a stick with a pointy end? No, fight like a real Nordic warrior!" they jeered.
But yacha stood firm. Sigurd, with a nod of approval, sent a spear flying into the ground. "Here, Yacha! Fight with all you have. Show them."
With a few graceful spins of his spear, yacha entered the fray. One after another, they came at yacha, warriors with swords, axes, and shields, and one after another, they fell. Knut, Bjorn, and more, all introduced themselves before falling to the ground, disarmed and defeated.
Then Ursang stood. He stepped into the arena, a playful smirk on his lips. "I, Ursang, challenge Yacha," he declared.
Yacha smiled back, "I, Yacha, accept."
Under the snowy sky, they stood face to face, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Yacha moved first, his spear alight with fire magic, flames flickering at his feet. Yacha lunged, fast as lightning, but Ursang's sword met his strike with a deafening clang, his strength steady like the earth beneath him.
They circled each other, their weapons singing as they clashed. Yacha steps were swift, infused with fire and thunder, but Ursang, calm and focused, blocked every strike with ease. Frustration built in yacha, and with a roar, he unleashed a burst of flame, expecting to overpower him. But in an instant, Ursang sidestepped, his sword sweeping low in a move faster than yacha had ever seen.
Before he could react, the blunt edge of Ursang's sword struck, knocking yacha off balance and sending him sprawling into the snow. The crowd gasped as he stared up at Ursang, shocked. his usual serious expression softened by a victorious smirk.
"I didn't expect this," yacha admitted.
Ursang chuckled. "You didn't think I'd stay weak, did you?"
As the crowd roared with excitement, they all felt the weight of something strange and powerful. Sigurd's voice boomed, cutting through the noise, "Outstanding fight! But now, it's my turn."
A murmur of disbelief spread through them as Sigurd's presence changed. Around him, the ground began to shift, needles of hardened earth rose from the ground, transforming into iron that crackled with thunder magic. Yacha's heart pounded, as did Ursang's.
Sigurd, grinning like a wolf, launched the needles in every direction, lightning sparking around his feet. "I, Sigurd Normen, challenge Ursang."
Ursang's voice trembled as he stepped forward. "I...I, Ursang, accept."
What followed was beyond anything yacha had seen. Sigurd moved with blinding speed, his power was immense and terrifying. Ursang dodged the first strike, but before Ursang could react, Sigurd was upon him, landing a devastating kick to the back of his neck. Ursang crumpled to the ground, buried in the dirt, unconscious as the crowd stood in stunned silence.
The earth beneath, cracked slightly from the force of Sigurd's attack. Yacha could barely breathe. He had no idea that Sigurd wielded such immense power, a force far beyond what he could have imagined.
Under the canopy of snow, the air crackled with energy, thick with the aftermath of battle. Sigurd placed his hand on Ursang's back, a soft glow of mana gathering around his palm. With deliberate control, he released the magic into Ursang's body. Slowly, Ursang stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He sat up, trembling, his face a mixture of fear, confusion, and disbelief.
From afar, Oscar's voice echoed through the air.
"You didn't think you stood a chance against *The wolf *, did you? That's Sigurd's special move."
Sigurd reached out, helping Ursang to his feet, his grip firm yet reassuring. "You did well, kid," he said, though the battle had been swift. Ursang, however, didn't seem to share the sentiment. He walked away, frustration evident in his clenched fists, the sting of his quick defeat still fresh.