The dawn of Gabriel's second day in the village broke quietly, with little to disturb the peaceful rhythm of life. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke, as villagers began their day. Gabriel spent the morning observing their routines and helping where he could, though his thoughts occasionally drifted. Despite the calm, he couldn't shake the sense of something stirring beyond the safety of the village.
Far to the north, the world was anything but peaceful. An army of barbarians marched relentlessly through the frozen wilderness, their presence a blight upon the pristine landscape. These men were massive, many of them towering well over six feet, their bodies covered in layers of crude fur and patchwork armor pieced together from their conquests. Their faces were scarred and hardened, etched with years of battle and brutality. Some wore necklaces of bones—trophies from their victims—and others carried massive weapons that glinted ominously in the weak northern sunlight.
The sound of their advance was a cacophony of heavy boots crunching through the snow, metal clanking against metal, and guttural laughter that carried on the icy wind. Their banners, blackened and frayed, bore crude symbols of beasts and blood, fluttering in the harsh breeze as if heralding the destruction to come.
A hulking barbarian, his chest bare despite the biting cold, chuckled darkly as he trudged forward. "I can already smell the fear of the villages ahead," he said, licking his cracked lips. His voice was deep, like the rumble of distant thunder.
Another, a wiry man with an axe strapped across his back, laughed harshly. "Fear? Ha! I smell roasted meat. Vikings live well—I hear their mead flows like rivers."
"And their women," another chimed in, his tone lecherous. "Blonde, strong. They'll make fine additions to our camp."
A wave of rough laughter spread through the horde, their spirits high at the thought of the carnage and spoils awaiting them. They were predators, their minds fixated on the thrill of conquest.
At the forefront of the army rode their leader, Varg Bloodhowl, a man who embodied everything the barbarians stood for. At forty years old, Varg was a living legend among his people. His frame was massive, his broad shoulders draped in a thick wolf pelt that marked him as their alpha. His face was rugged and scarred, with a jagged line running from his left temple down to his jaw—a trophy of a duel he had won long ago. His eyes burned like embers, filled with cunning and unyielding ferocity.
Beside him rode his son, Kael Bloodhowl, a younger, leaner version of his father. At twenty-two, Kael was already a seasoned warrior, his skill with a blade rivaling men twice his age. His hair, dark and wild, fell to his shoulders, and his piercing gray eyes held a dangerous glint. Unlike his father, Kael's face bore only one scar, running across his cheek—a mark from his first kill, a rite of passage among their clan.
Varg turned to his son, his voice low and gravelly. "What do you smell, boy?"
Kael grinned wolfishly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Opportunity," he replied. "The weak will fall before us, and their women will scream our names."
Varg barked a laugh, his teeth flashing beneath his thick beard. "Good. Never let your guard down, Kael. Victory belongs to those who take it."
Kael's expression darkened slightly, his tone growing serious. "And the Vikings? I've heard their warriors are stronger than most."
"They are strong," Varg admitted, his voice laced with respect and disdain in equal measure. "But strength without numbers means nothing. They'll fight valiantly, but we'll overwhelm them. Their walls will crumble, their men will bleed, and their women… well, they'll serve our purposes."
Kael nodded, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt. "I won't fail you, Father."
Varg's laughter boomed across the snow-covered terrain. "I know you won't, boy. You carry my blood."
Through the Forest and Mountains.
The barbarian horde trudged forward, their path weaving through dense forests and treacherous mountain passes. The trees stood tall and unyielding, their frost-laden branches stretching toward the pale sky like skeletal fingers. The ground beneath them was uneven, the snow concealing hidden roots and jagged rocks that occasionally caught the unwary.
Varg surveyed their surroundings with a critical eye. "The mountains will slow us," he growled, his tone impatient. "But once we're through, the villages will be defenseless."
Kael, riding slightly behind, glanced up at the towering peaks. "The mountains will weed out the weak among us. Only the strong deserve to taste victory."
A grizzled warrior nearby snorted. "And the strong will have their fill of mead, gold, and flesh."
Varg raised his hand, halting the column. The horde stopped instantly, their chatter dying as they awaited his command. He pointed ahead, where the forest began to thin. "Once we're past the tree line, we make camp. The first village lies just beyond the next ridge. We'll strike at dawn."
Kael's lips curled into a predatory smile. "I'll lead the first charge."
"You'll earn it," Varg said, his voice heavy with meaning. "You've proven yourself, but tomorrow will test your worth."
Kael's gaze didn't waver. "I'll make you proud, Father."
Varg didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stared into the distance, his mind already envisioning the battle to come. The scent of blood and fire seemed almost tangible, a promise of the chaos they would unleash.
"Tomorrow, we carve our names into history," Varg said at last, his voice rising. "No mercy. No hesitation. Only victory."
The horde roared in approval, their voices echoing through the forest like a storm. The air grew heavier with the tension of what was to come, every step bringing them closer to their destination—and to the Vikings who would soon face their wrath.
As the barbarians pressed forward, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Birds fell silent, and the rustle of leaves grew still as if the land itself recoiled from the approaching menace. The horde was a force of nature, unstoppable and cruel, their every step a harbinger of destruction.
Back in the Viking village, Gabriel gazed toward the horizon from his room, his otherworldly senses tingling faintly. Though he couldn't yet see the threat, he felt it—a shadow moving closer, relentless and unyielding.
The barbarians had begun their march, and their path would soon collide with the serene peace of the village. Only time would tell if the Vikings, bolstered by Gabriel's presence, could withstand the storm.