The first light of dawn broke gently over the snow-dusted village, casting long, golden rays across the thatched rooftops and the quiet fjord. Hakon lay wrapped in the thick fur of his bed, his small frame rising and falling with the gentle rhythm of sleep, unaware that today was a day that would change everything.
A soft but insistent rustle at his bedside stirred him. Half-dreaming, he sensed someone nearby, a presence familiar yet urgent. As he blinked his eyes open, still hazy with sleep, he found himself staring into the face of a young servant girl, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming fast, as if she had run all the way from the shore.
"Y-Young master," she whispered, a barely contained excitement lighting her eyes. "He has arrived."
For a moment, Hakon's mind struggled to grasp her words, still caught in the remnants of his dreams. But then, realization dawned, spreading a spark of excitement that chased away the last remnants of sleep.
Hakon: "Siegfried?" he breathed, hardly daring to hope.
The servant nodded, her expression mirroring his own barely-contained thrill. In that instant, Hakon's heart seemed to leap, and he shot upright, flinging the furs aside as he scrambled to his feet. The wooden floor was cold under his bare feet, but he hardly noticed as he fumbled into his tunic, his fingers clumsy in his haste.
Three winters, Hakon thought as he pulled his boots on, and now he's back. My brother—the great Siegfried—has returned!
He didn't waste another second. The tunic wasn't even fastened properly, but it didn't matter. Hakon sprinted out of the room, the servant trailing behind him, her breathless laughter mingling with the echoes of his hurried steps as he burst out of the longhouse and into the crisp morning air.
The air was cold, biting his cheeks as he tore down the well-worn path through the village. His small frame darted between the early risers—farmers and fishermen preparing for the day, women stoking fires in their hearths, and children rubbing sleep from their eyes. Heads turned as he passed, curious smiles spreading across the villagers' faces at the sight of young Hakon's eagerness.
They had all heard the rumours, of course. It had only taken one cry from the watchman on the hill for word to spread like wildfire—Siegfried Stormbringer had returned from his voyages.
And now, seeing Hakon's excitement, they knew it was true. The village seemed to come alive with the news, as neighbours greeted each other with knowing nods and whispered words. There was a spark in the air, an anticipation that had not been felt in years.
As Hakon ran, he took in the familiar sights of the village, now lit with the golden warmth of dawn. The wooden huts with their rough-hewn walls, the chimneys already puffing thin trails of smoke, filling the air with the earthy, comforting scent of pinewood. Snow clung to the edges of rooftops, glistening in the morning light like tiny shards of crystal.
The village sprawled along the edge of a shimmering fjord, its wooden buildings nestled between dense pines and rugged, snow-capped mountains. Grass-thatched roofs sloped under the weight of the morning dew, and smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning pine and cooked venison. Paths of beaten earth wove between the longhouses, each lined with wooden stakes carved with runes of protection and prosperity. Children's laughter and the clatter of blacksmiths' hammers filled the air, mingling with the rustle of the wind through the towering trees. A wooden palisade wrapped around the settlement, sturdy but simple, a testament to the villagers' pragmatic craftsmanship.
At the heart of the village stood two statues that captured the attention of all who passed. The largest was of Thor, the village's revered patron god. Carved from ancient oak and weathered by generations of offerings and prayers, the statue depicted Thor in a pose of raw strength, Mjolnir raised high and his cape flowing as if caught in an eternal storm. His eyes, chiseled with deep-set determination, seemed to watch over the village, challenging any who dared threaten it.
Nearby, though smaller in stature but no less imposing, was the statue of Odin. Fashioned from a mix of wood and stone, its presence was hauntingly wise. The Allfather was depicted seated, his spear Gungnir at his side, and his one good eye seemed to peer through time itself. Ravens, carved with intricate detail, perched on his shoulders, and runes etched into the base of the statue glowed faintly under the moon's silver gaze.
These statues stood as reminders of the divine, anchors that connected the mortal and godly realms. They were both a source of pride and a warning—proof that the gods watched, and their favour could turn as swiftly as the wind.
Hakon's heart raced as he reached the edge of the village and skidded to a halt by the shore, his gaze immediately drawn to the mighty drakkar anchored in the fjord.
There it was—a ship unlike any Hakon had ever seen. Siegfried's ship stood proud against the gentle lapping waves, its prow rising from the water like a beast from a legend. The dragon-headed prow, carved with fierce precision, seemed to stare out over the village with a watchful gaze. Its eyes were painted a deep, menacing crimson, and the carved scales along the dragon's neck glistened with a sheen of saltwater, giving the impression of an ancient creature risen from the depths.
The hull of the ship was adorned with intricate Norse carvings—symbols of storms and seas, battles and beasts, each stroke of the blade a story unto itself. Shields lined the side of the ship, their wooden surfaces battered and worn, bearing the scars of countless raids and battles. The sight of those shields, each a testament to Siegfried's journey, sent a thrill of admiration through Hakon's young heart.
The sail, once bright red, was now faded, its edges frayed and patched from rough seas and harsh weather. Yet it still caught the wind with a proud defiance, a symbol of resilience and victory over whatever trials the sea had thrown at it.
As Hakon stared, he felt a shiver of awe. This was not just a ship—it was a testament to his brother's strength, his courage, his unyielding will. Siegfried had sailed across unknown waters, faced untold dangers, and now he had returned.
And there, standing tall and unyielding on the shore, was Siegfried himself.
Hakon's breath caught as his eyes settled on the figure of his brother. Siegfried stood with his back to the sea, his broad shoulders draped in a thick wolfskin cloak that hung down past his waist, its fur dark and wild, a fitting adornment for a man who had wrestled with the elements and emerged victorious. His long blond hair was tied back in a loose knot, and a fierce beard framed his face, his jaw set with the confidence of a warrior who had seen the world and survived it.
His face was handsome yet hardened, with piercing blue eyes that held the weight of distant lands and far-off battles. Small scars marked his skin, each one telling its own story of danger and survival. His leather armour was worn and scarred, bearing the marks of countless clashes with blade and spear, but it only seemed to add to his presence, as if each scratch and tear were a badge of honour.
Strapped to his back was a sword almost as tall as Hakon himself, its hilt adorned with engravings of wolves and serpents. Hakon could see the blade's gleaming edge, even in its sheath, as if it was hungry for its next taste of battle. At Siegfried's hip hung a dagger, and around his neck, a heavy silver pendant in the shape of a raven's head caught the morning light.
Hakon swallowed, his heart pounding with admiration and excitement. This was his brother. This was the man who had gone off into the unknown and returned, bearing the marks of his journey like a second skin.
And Siegfried was looking at him, a glint of recognition and a fierce pride in his gaze.
As Hakon watched, his father, Erik Stormbringer, approached Siegfried with a proud yet restrained expression, his arms crossed over his chest. Erik's own hair was long and streaked with grey, his beard thick and wild, framing a face that seemed carved from stone. His eyes, sharp and steady, assessed his son with a mixture of pride and challenge, as if measuring the man who had returned against the boy who had left.
Siegfried saw his father and broke into a wide grin, spreading his arms to show off his bloodstained, dirt-encrusted armour.
Erik: smirking as he leaned back, his voice rough with dry humor "Look what the sea spat back onto our shores. You're not dead, then? Shame—I was just about ready to carve your name into the stones."
Siegfried: laughed, the sound deep and hearty, echoing over the quiet shore "It'll take more than a few Jotun's to end a Stormbringer. Or did you forget that's our name, old man?"
Erik: eyes twinkling with pride as he stepped forward, giving his son a once-over "Words are cheap, boy. Any fool can come back breathing. The question is, did you bring back anything worth drinking to?"
Siegfried: grinning as he reached into his sack and pulled out a golden goblet encrusted with jewels, tossing it at his father's feet "If that's not enough, I've got a sack full of silver and a story that'll make your beard turn grey."
Erik: bent down, picking up the goblet and inspecting it with a critical eye. His face remained stoic, but the pride in his eyes was unmistakable "A story, eh? The goblet's fine, but a Stormbringer's worth is in his deeds, not his tales. Tell me, did you shed blood for this, or did you let your men do the hard work while you played the poet?"
Siegfried: a flicker of irritation crossing his face before holding his father's gaze with an unflinching stare "I cut down their captain myself. Watched his blood mix with the sea. And the silver?" He nodded toward the sacks of loot being unloaded from the ship. "Taken from his own hall, while the rest of his men begged for mercy."
Erik: nodded, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He clapped a heavy hand on Siegfried's shoulder, the force enough to stagger a lesser man "That's more like it. A true Stormbringer takes what he wants and leaves nothing behind but ash and fear."
Siegfried: leaned into his father's grip, his smile fierce and proud "Ash and fear, Father. Just as you taught me."
Erik: giving Siegfried's shoulder a rough shake "Good. Then drink, Siegfried. Tonight, you're a warrior in full. But remember—" his voice lowered, taking on a serious edge "a Stormbringer's work is never done."
Siegfried: raising his head, eyes gleaming with determination "Then I'll be ready when the next storm calls."
Erik: smirked, crossing his arms "To the brave?"
Siegfried: grin widening "The spoils!"
Erik: nodded, the pride in his eyes like a flickering flame "And to the weak?"
Siegfried: voice dropping to a near growl, expression fierce "The grave."
Stormbringer family motto
As Siegfried turned, his eyes caught sight of his mother, Astrid, standing at the edge of the gathering crowd. Tall and regal, her silver-braided hair fell to her waist. Her sharp eyes softened as they met his, a rare smile gracing her lips.
Astrid:Her arms folded, voice warm but tinged with mock disapproval "So, my wandering wolf returns. I was beginning to think you preferred the company of storms and strangers to your own blood."
Siegfried: He chuckled, brushing the dirt from his cloak "Ja, but none of those storms could scowl half as well as you, Mother."
Astrid: She smirked, reaching up to fuss over his cloak as if he were still a boy "Hmph. You look thinner. Have you forgotten how to eat while you're off chasing glory?"
Siegfried: the warmth of his mother's touch grounding him, he chuckled "Just sharpening my edge, Mother. No soft bellies on the sea."
Astrid: tightening her grip on his arm, eyes scanning him from head to toe, lingering on the scars "Good. Keep that edge sharp, boy. But remember—there's no glory worth losing your head over."
Siegfried: his voice softening, meeting her gaze "I know, Mother. But the gods would have to work hard to take me from you."
Astrid: a rare warmth breaking through her stern facade "Ja. Just make sure they don't succeed." Gesturing toward the longhouse, her expression lightening "Now, come—you'll eat a real meal before you tell me all your tales."
As Siegfried's reunion with his parents drew to a close, Hakon finally found his moment. The young boy, wide-eyed and barely able to contain his excitement, took a few hesitant steps forward. This was his older brother—the brother he had barely known yet admired more than anyone. He had been only four winters old when Siegfried had sailed away, too young to understand what it meant to see someone go off into the unknown.
Now, at seven years old, Hakon was old enough to feel the weight of his brother's absence, and even more so, the excitement of his return.
Hakon: His small voice wavered as he called out, eyes wide with hope and uncertainty. "Siegfried! Do you… do you remember me?"
Siegfried turned, his gaze falling on the young boy who stood there, looking up at him with a mixture of awe and hope. For a brief moment, his fierce warrior's expression softened, replaced by something warmer, almost tender. He grinned, his blue eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint as he spread his arms wide.
Siegfried: "How could I forget my little brother?" he said, his voice warm.
Hakon's face lit up, his heart pounding with joy. Without thinking, he launched himself forward, running at full speed and leaping into Siegfried's arms. Siegfried caught him effortlessly, lifting him high with one hand and spinning him around, much to the amusement of the gathered villagers, who laughed and cheered at the sight of the reunion.
As Siegfried set him down, Hakon could barely contain himself, his words tumbling out in a flurry of excitement.
Hakon: "Did you fight monsters?" his eyes wide. "How many dungeons did you clear? Did you bring treasures? What level are you now? Are you a guild leader? Did you slay any giants? Tell me about the storms! What was the farthest land you saw?"
The questions came in a rapid torrent, his voice rising in pitch with each one. Siegfried laughed, bending down so he could look Hakon in the eye. His large hand rested on Hakon's shoulder, steadying him as if to calm the storm of curiosity that had taken hold of his little brother.
Siegfried: "Slow down, Bróðir(Brother)" he said, his grin widening. "We have plenty of time, I promise. I'll tell you everything. Every monster, every treasure, every strange land beyond the seas. But only if you promise to be patient and listen to each story in turn."
Hakon's face flushed with excitement, his mind already racing with images of the tales Siegfried would tell. "I promise!" he said, barely able to stand still.
Their father, Erik Stormbringer, raised his hand, his powerful voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Tonight, we feast in honour of my son's return!" he declared, his voice echoing across the village and down to the fjord. "Prepare the tables and gather the mead! Let every man, woman, and child know that tonight, we celebrate!"
A cheer rose from the gathered villagers, and the energy in the air grew electric. People began to scatter, each hurrying off to fulfil their roles in preparing the feast. Farmers went to their stores to bring out the best of their harvest, women prepared to bake bread and stew meat, and the mead-maker hurried back to his hut to prepare barrels for the long night ahead.
Hakon looked up at Siegfried, his heart full of pride. To see his father, the mighty Erik Stormbringer, proclaim such honours for his brother filled him with dreams of one day earning similar praise. One day, he would be the one bringing treasures and tales back to his family.
As the family began to make their way towards the longhouse, Hakon noticed a small group of warriors standing respectfully behind Siegfried, their postures firm and their expressions serious, but their eyes full of camaraderie and shared respect.
Each member of the crew had a distinct look, seasoned by years of battle and weathered by the journey. Hakon's curiosity flared again, and he tugged at Siegfried's cloak, pointing to the warriors behind him.
Hakon: "Are they… are they part of your crew, brother?" He asked, wide-eyed.
Siegfried: nodded, looking back at his companions with a fond smile. "Aye. They are more than that, little brother. They're my shield-brothers and sisters. We've fought side by side, crossed countless seas, and faced death together."
One of the crew members, a massive, bearded warrior with a face as hard as granite and arms like tree trunks, nodded at Hakon with a friendly, if somewhat intimidating, grin. His name was Bjorn the Ironhide, known for his unbreakable strength and the bear fur cloak he wore over his shoulders.
Next to him stood a lean, scarred woman with piercing green eyes and a dagger in each hand. This was Tove Swiftblade, known for her unmatched speed and deadly precision. Her gaze was sharp and calculating, but a faint smile softened her features as she looked at the young boy.
And at the back of the group was Leif Skaldson, a cheerful young warrior with a lute slung over his shoulder, his blonde hair wild and windswept. He was the storyteller of the crew, a skald whose songs kept spirits high even in the darkest of times.
Siegfried introduced each of them, pride evident in his voice as he spoke of their bravery and loyalty. Hakon listened intently, marvelling at the thought of traveling with such a group of warriors, each one carrying tales of their own.
As they reached the longhouse, each member of Siegfried's crew approached Erik and Astrid, bowing respectfully. Erik clapped each of them on the shoulder with a nod, acknowledging their courage and loyalty. Despite his rough exterior, it was clear that he held Siegfried's crew in high regard, as if they were extensions of his own family.
Erik: voice low and gruff, but filled with pride "You've done well, Siegfried. All of you have done well, Thank you Drengr for bringing my son home safely." He lifted his gaze to the crew behind Siegfried, warriors clad in mismatched armour bearing the marks of distant battles. "Tonight, you will sit at the head table as honoured guests."
The crew nodded, their expressions solemn. It was a rare honour, especially for warriors who were not blood-related, to be welcomed so warmly into the Stormbringer family. The villagers looked on, murmuring with admiration for the crew who had earned such favour.
Astrid: with her quiet dignity, nodded at each of them, her sharp eyes studying their faces as if she could read their strength and stories in their scars "Come inside," she said, gesturing towards the longhouse with a kind but firm voice. "You are all part of our family tonight."
Before entering, Siegfried stopped, his hand going to the small leather pouch at his waist. He pulled out a beautifully crafted silver arm-ring, its surface engraved with intricate symbols of dragons and storms, each line and curve echoing the legacy of the Stormbringer family.
Siegfried: "For you, Father, "He said, holding out the arm-ring. "A gift from the lands across the sea. It was taken from the treasure hall of a chieftain who thought his walls could withstand a Stormbringer."
Erik's eyes gleamed as he took the arm-ring, his fingers tracing the intricate engravings. There was a quiet pride in his gaze as he looked back at Siegfried, his expression softening ever so slightly.
Erik: "This is well-made," He said gruffly, though there was an unmistakable satisfaction in his voice. "A fitting gift for a Stormbringer, You honour our name, boy"
The simple words carried a weight that Hakon could feel. To be praised by Erik Stormbringer, a man known for his stern discipline and high expectations, was no small thing. Hakon's heart swelled with even more admiration for Siegfried, dreaming of the day when he might be able to earn such a gift for his father.
As they entered the longhouse, Hakon's gaze was immediately drawn to the broad, gleaming sword at Siegfried's side. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, and the blade bore faint engravings that glimmered faintly in the dim light—a runic script that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Hakon: "Did you use this sword to fight monsters?" He asked, his voice a mixture of awe and excitement as he pointed to the sword.
Siegfried: chuckled, patting the hilt of the weapon with a reverent hand. "This blade has tasted the blood of many foes, little brother. From the warriors of the south to the beasts that lurk in the dark corners of forgotten lands, it has stood by my side through it all."
Hakon reached out, his small fingers brushing against the cool metal of the blade. The weight of Siegfried's words hung heavy in his mind. He imagined himself wielding a sword like this one day, defending his family, fighting alongside heroes, and carving his own legacy into the annals of their people.
Astrid led them all further into the longhouse, her gaze softening as she looked at Siegfried and his companions. She extended a hand towards the hearth, where a fire crackled warmly, casting dancing shadows across the room.
Astrid: "Come," she said, her voice gentle yet commanding. "You are all part of our family tonight. Sit by the fire, warm yourselves, and share in our hearth."
The longhouse was warm and welcoming, filled with the scent of wood smoke, herbs, and mead. Banners hung from the rafters, each one bearing the crest of the Stormbringer family—a fearsome storm cloud crossed by a jagged lightning bolt. Shields lined the walls, each one a symbol of a victory won, a battle survived.
Siegfried's crew settled in, their faces lighting up with gratitude and respect for the honour bestowed upon them. The sense of camaraderie grew, binding them closer as they prepared to share stories, laughter, and perhaps even a tear or two by the night's end.
After everyone had settled in, Siegfried placed a small wooden chest on the table and opened it, revealing a collection of treasures gathered from his travels—glistening gems, exotic coins, and strange trinkets, each one shimmering in the firelight.
Hakon: eyes went wide as he reached out to touch a gleaming ruby, his fingers trembling with excitement. "Are these… all yours?"
Siegfried: He chuckled, ruffling Hakon's hair. "They're for our family, for our people. We share in the spoils of adventure. Each of these treasures has a story, a memory of a place far from here."
Hakon's heart raced as he listened, his imagination painting vivid images of the lands where these treasures had come from. He wondered what it would be like to hold his own chest of treasures one day, to bring home riches and tales for his family and his people.
As night settled over the village, casting a deep blue twilight across the fjord, the longhouse came alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking mugs. Villagers arrived one by one, each bearing plates of roasted meat, baskets of bread, and steaming cauldrons of root vegetables. The tables were quickly laden with enough food to feed the entire village, and the scent of the feast filled the air, mingling with the warmth of the fire and the rich aroma of the mead being passed around in large, carved horns.
Hakon took his place beside Siegfried, barely able to contain his excitement as the villagers gathered around them. For a young boy who had dreamed of his brother's adventures for years, this night was like a fantasy come true. He looked up at Siegfried, whose face seemed almost otherworldly in the flickering firelight, like the heroes in the stories he'd heard as a child.
The villagers crowded close, eager to see and hear from the man who had become something of a legend in their community. Murmurs of admiration and awe passed through the crowd as Siegfried settled into his seat, the worn leather of his armour creaking slightly as he leaned back, cradling a horn of mead.
Erik: stood at the head of the table, his imposing figure framed by the firelight, eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd. "To my son, Siegfried Stormbringer, who has returned to us after three long winters!" His voice cut through the noise, commanding attention with a booming authority as he raised his horn high. "Let this night be a celebration of his courage, his strength, and the spoils he has brought back for our people!"
A resounding cheer rose up from the villagers, and everyone raised their horns in unison, their voices joining in a chorus that seemed to shake the very walls of the longhouse. Hakon felt a swell of pride as he looked around, realizing that tonight, his family was at the heart of the village's joy and admiration.
Skal, Siegfried shouted raising his mead up.
"Skal!" they shouted, voices echoing through the night.
Siegfried: smiling, lifting his horn in a modest salute, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "To you all," he replied, his voice steady and resonant. "For without my people, what would my strength be worth?"
As the initial cheer settled and the villagers took their seats, Siegfried stood, his presence commanding immediate attention. The hall fell into an expectant hush, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the soft clinking of mugs as people leaned forward, eager for the tales to begin.
"I have stories for you all," Siegfried began, his deep voice carrying easily to every corner of the hall. "Stories of lands beyond the sea, of treasures guarded by monsters, and battles fought under strange stars."
Hakon felt his heart racing with anticipation. His brother had lived through the very adventures he'd only heard whispers of. Now, Siegfried was here, flesh and blood, standing before them with tales of mythic bravery. He clenched his hands in excitement, determined to commit every word to memory.
Siegfried took a long drink from his horn before setting it down, his eyes scanning the crowd, locking onto faces filled with wonder.
Siegfried: "Three winters ago," he began, "I sailed from these shores with my crew, into the mists that guard the edges of our world. The waves were fierce, the skies dark, but we carried the strength of the Stormbringers with us."
The crowd leaned forward, their eyes wide as Siegfried's words painted a vivid picture. Hakon watched, captivated, as his brother described the rolling seas, the frigid winds that bit at their skin, and the sight of towering cliffs that marked unknown lands.
Siegfried: "Our first journey took us to the Southern Isles," He continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as though sharing a secret meant only for those present. "A place of heat and sun, where the sand burned underfoot, and the trees were thick with fruit and flowers of colours I'd never seen before."
Hakon's eyes widened. He could barely imagine such a place—his world was one of snow-capped mountains, grey skies, and icy waters. The idea of warm sands and exotic flowers seemed almost magical.
Siegfried: "But it wasn't just the land that was strange, "He said, his gaze darkening slightly. "The people there worship strange gods, gods of fire and stone, and they guard their treasures fiercely. On our second night, we were attacked—ambushed in the dead of night by warriors who painted their faces with ash and carried knives as sharp as a serpent's fangs."
He paused, letting the tension hang in the air, as though he could still see the gleam of those knives in the dark. The villagers gasped, and even Erik leaned forward, his normally stern expression softened with intrigue.
Siegfried: "We fought through the night," Siegfried continued, "our blades clashing under a sky lit only by firelight. Their warriors were fierce, but they had never faced men like us. By dawn, we had broken their lines, and their leader—he knelt before me, offering his gold and silver in exchange for his life."
The crowd erupted into cheers, raising their horns to honour Siegfried's victory. Hakon watched, his mind swirling with images of the battle, of his brother standing tall over his defeated enemies. This was what it meant to be a Stormbringer, to be a hero.
As the crowd quieted, Siegfried reached into the small chest beside him, pulling out a strange, intricate idol made of blackened metal, shaped like a twisted, fanged beast.
Siegfried: "This," he said, holding it up for all to see, "was one of their sacred idols. A relic of their fire god. They said it was cursed—that anyone who held it would be plagued by visions of flame and fury."
The villagers murmured, some glancing nervously at the idol. Superstitions ran deep among their people, and the idea of a cursed relic was enough to send chills down many spines.
Hakon, however, felt only awe. To him, the idol was a symbol of his brother's bravery, a trophy from a far-off land that marked him as a man who had faced the unknown and conquered it.
Hakon: "Did you… see visions? "He asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Siegfried: He looked down at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Only once," he said, winking. "But I learned to ignore them. No curse could shake a Stormbringer."
The villagers laughed, but there was a reverent edge to their amusement. Siegfried's confidence, his defiance of dark omens, only added to his legend.
As the feast continued and the villagers refilled their mugs, Siegfried launched into his next tale—a story that seemed to grip the hall with even greater intensity.
Siegfried: "On our way back from the Southern Isles," he said, "we encountered something no man should ever have to face on the open sea."
The villagers leaned in, the atmosphere in the longhouse growing tense. Erik's gaze sharpened, and even Freydis clasped her hands, her fingers tight with anticipation.
Siegfried: "It was just after nightfall, "He continued, his voice low and steady. "We were sailing under the light of a full moon, the sea as calm as a lake, when suddenly, the water began to stir."
He paused, letting the silence build, his face cast in eerie shadows by the flickering firelight.
Siegfried: "A creature rose from the depths," he said, his voice a mere whisper. "Its body was as long as three ships, its scales as black as midnight. It had eyes like molten gold and teeth as sharp as the edge of a freshly honed sword."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and even Hakon felt a shiver run down his spine. He imagined the creature as Siegfried described it, rising from the depths of the ocean like a nightmare come to life.
Siegfried: "We fought for hours, "He continued, his eyes gleaming with the memory. "Its tail lashed against our ship, splintering wood and sending men overboard. We shot arrows, threw spears, but nothing could pierce its hide. It was only when the creature lunged at me, its jaws open wide, that I knew what I had to do."
Siegfried: He lifted his sword, the firelight catching on its runic engravings. "I plunged this blade into its mouth, driving it deep until the creature's own weight dragged it further down its throat. It writhed, its body thrashing against the ship, but at last… it sank, disappearing into the black waters below."
The villagers erupted into applause, their admiration for Siegfried reaching new heights. Hakon stared at his brother in awe, feeling as though he were looking at a living legend, a man who had fought monsters and survived to tell the tale.
As the applause died down, Hakon's gaze fell once more to the sword in Siegfried's hand. He felt a pang of longing, wondering what it would feel like to hold such a weapon, to wield the power his brother had spoken of.
Hakon: "Did you use this sword… to slay the serpent?" He asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Siegfried: He looked down at him, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Aye, little brother. This blade has tasted the blood of monsters, just as it will one day defend you and our family."
Hakon reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the hilt. The runes carved into the metal seemed to hum with a faint energy, as though the sword itself carried a fragment of Siegfried's spirit.
Hakon: "One day, I'll be strong like you, "He whispered, his eyes filled with a fierce determination.
Siegfried: He chuckled, ruffling his hair. "And one day, you'll have a sword of your own, Hakon. Until then, remember—strength doesn't come from the weapon. It comes from here." He placed a hand over Hakon's heart, his gaze steady and warm.
As the night wore on and the crowd grew louder, Siegfried knelt down, looking Hakon squarely in the eyes. The noise faded into the background, and for a moment, it felt as if they were the only two people in the hall.
Siegfried: "One day, you'll come with me, little brother," He said, his voice steady and sure. "We'll face the world together—just you, me, and the open sea."
Hakon's heart swelled with pride and excitement, his dreams of adventure reignited by his brother's words. To sail alongside Siegfried, to fight monsters and bring home treasures—it was a future he could almost taste.
Hakon: "I'll be ready, Siegfried," he whispered, his voice filled with resolve.
Siegfried: He nodded, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good. Because there's a whole world out there, and a Stormbringer never turns away from a challenge."
The night continued, the feast growing ever more lively. Villagers raised their mugs to Siegfried, cheering his name, while songs and tales filled the air. The fire crackled brightly, casting a warm glow over the faces of family and friends united in celebration.
Hakon sat beside Siegfried, his head filled with dreams of distant lands and heroic deeds. For tonight, he felt as if he were part of something greater than himself—a legacy, a destiny that awaited him just over the horizon.
And as he looked at Siegfried, who laughed and shared stories with their people, Hakon made a silent promise to himself: he would be strong, brave, and true to his family, just as his brother had shown him.
Tonight, he was more than just a boy. He was a Stormbringer.
The great feast hall of Brynhold was alive with flickering torchlight and the rich, smoky scent of roasting meat. Long wooden tables stretched across the hall, laden with platters of venison, steaming vegetables, and freshly baked bread. Horns of mead were passed around, their golden contents sloshing and spilling as laughter and conversation filled the room. Warriors, hunters, farmers, and their families filled every seat, voices raised in cheer and tales of the past year's hunts, battles, and toils.
In the centre of it all, Siegfried sat beside Erik Stormbringer, their faces illuminated by the orange glow of the firepit. Hakon was at his brother's side, eyes wide with wonder as he listened to Siegfried's stories of far-off lands and monstrous beasts. His little fingers gripped the edge of the table as he leaned in, his entire being drawn to his brother's every word.
At the far end of the hall, Astrid, Hakon's mother, rose to her feet. Her silver hair gleamed in the firelight, and she lifted a hand, calling for silence. The hall fell still, every head turning toward her. She held a great drinking horn aloft, and her voice, though soft, carried a weight of authority that commanded attention.
Astrid: "To Siegfried, who returns to us after three long winters," she said, her voice clear and proud. "To the blood he has shed and the strength he has earned. And to Brynhold, our home, our heart, our spirit."
Erik: He rose beside her, lifting his own horn. "To Brynhold!" he shouted, and the hall erupted with cheers. Horns clashed together in toasts, and mead flowed as each villager drank deeply in honor of Siegfried's return.
Then, as the cheers faded, Astrid began to sing. Her voice was low and resonant, filled with a haunting beauty, and as she sang the first line, others around her joined in, their voices weaving together in a powerful harmony.
In Brynhold's shadowed mountains high,
Where eagles soar and wolves do cry,
Our fathers fought, our mothers wept,
In frost-bound earth, their honor kept.
The warriors at the tables thumped their fists in rhythm on the wooden surface, adding a heartbeat to the song. Hakon felt the vibrations travel through his arms, making his chest swell with pride. He, too, joined in, his young voice blending with the deeper voices of the warriors, the softer tones of the women, and the laughter of children.
Siegfried grinned at him, clapping a heavy hand on Hakon's shoulder, his own voice booming alongside the others.
Hail to the hearth, to the sword and shield,
To fields of battle, the blood-soaked field.
Under the stars and northern lights,
We stand as one in darkened nights.
The song grew louder, filling the hall and spilling out into the night. Outside, villagers who hadn't found a place inside gathered around the windows and doorways, adding their voices to the chorus. A few of Siegfried's crew, seasoned warriors with faces as weathered as old oak, raised their mead horns and howled with the pride of belonging.
Astrid walked slowly around the tables as she sang, her voice carrying the song from one end of the hall to the other. Her gaze moved from face to face, her eyes softened with warmth and pride as she took in the people of Brynhold—their people, their kin.
The song reached the bridge, and the hall fell into a quieter, almost reverent murmur. The voices grew softer, somber.
The raven flies, the wolf does roam,
Guiding us back to Brynhold home.
Odin's whispers on midnight's breeze,
Tell tales of old, of victories.
The hall filled with silence, and for a moment, everyone felt the weight of their ancestors' spirits around them, as if those who had fallen in battle or passed into the mists of time were standing there among them, drawn by the power of the song. Even Siegfried, known for his boisterous nature, lowered his head in respect.
Then, as if shaking off a trance, the villagers' voices rose again, louder, fiercer, filled with pride.
Raise high the horns of mead and ale,
For those who left, yet with us sail.
In feast, in fire, in fierce embrace,
Their memory lives, their spirit's grace.
As the song rose to its final chorus, everyone stood, clapping each other on the back, lifting their drinks high. The hall was filled with laughter and the thunderous stomping of feet. Even Hakon found himself swept up in the moment, standing on his bench to see over the heads of the adults, his voice joining the chorus with all the strength his small lungs could muster.
Hail to the hearth, to the sword and shield,
To fields of battle, the blood-soaked field.
Under the stars and northern lights,
We stand as one in darkened nights.
The final lines echoed through the hall, each voice swelling with pride and echoing off the wooden walls like thunder.
As the last notes faded, a silence hung in the air, thick and almost sacred. Then, slowly, Erik raised his horn one last time.
Erik: "To Brynhold," he said, his voice softer but no less powerful, his eyes glistening with a rare emotion. "May our roots run deep, and our strength grow ever stronger."
The hall erupted in cheers once more. Villagers clapped each other on the back, and the musicians picked up their lutes and drums, striking up a lively tune as the feast resumed in full force. People danced, laughed, and swapped stories, the spirit of Brynhold alive in each voice, each smile, each clink of horns.
Hakon glanced at Siegfried, who caught his eye and nodded approvingly. The young boy felt the weight of the song settle in his heart, a weight both heavy and fierce. Tonight, he was part of something timeless and powerful—a legacy of warriors, bound by blood, spirit, and honor.