Four centuries later, Europe remains in shambles from the loss of Rome. The men of the frozen North, inspired by the mighty Ragnar Lothbrok's successful invasion of the British Isles, now stand uncertain after his death to the snakepit of King Ælla. Their invincible Huscarls hold paralyzed while the piglets of Lothbrok squabble pointlessly over what scraps remain and the Saxon armies mobilize, Scandinavia once more fractured under a thousand petty Jarls.
In the farthest Northern reach of human civilization, Rögnvaldr, the Jarl of Nidaros, takes refuge in his longhouse against the deathly bite of a January snowstorm; the frozen waters forbid anything else. One of the two huscarls standing guard outside suddenly squints, stepping forward with the uncertainty of hallucination. In the violent glare of a howling snowstorm, the warrior, his beard matted with frost and dirt, sees the ghostly outline of a human figure, trudging steadily forward against the oppressive white mass. "Tell the Jarl." The Veteran grunts in gutteral Norse. "Anyone coming against the storm is either a madman or a legend. He'll be interested either way." The other Huscarl offers no protest - any excuse to take a few moments in the warmth of the Longhouse is welcome.
From the blinding storm, a great figure steps forward to present himself to the Longhouse, a pair of ice-blue eyes, hardset on an unforgiving face becoming visible before even the heavy furs that drape his massive form, or the flash of bright blonde hair against a scarred visage, nearly invisible alongside his pale skin in the eye of the white storm. Jarl Rögnvaldr makes himself known, alongside a few members of his court, as the stranger approaches, a smile on his face at the gall of a man to travel through death itself for indeterminate purpose. The Jarl is an aging man, nearly forty, and remarkably unambitious, but physically powerful as most Norsemen are, standing well above six foot with powerful, corded muscles. Yet before this nameless man he pales, eyes made to look upwards to meet a terrifying gaze.
"Rögnvaldr av Trönde." An authoritative voice growls, barely loud enough to be heard over the whistling storm and the furred hood insulating the stranger's face. "You are weak and impotent - unfit to hold dominion over the lives of free men. I challenge the right to your title."
The words hang in the freezing air, looming over the small, silent group outside. To accuse a Jarl of weakness and ineptitude has only one end for all involved, written plainly as the smile falls. The wind's howling grows louder, deafening over the wordless few as Rögnvaldr's hand moves to rest on the hilt of his blade, clearly displayed in its sheath against his side. A huscarl takes a single step forward, then stops - halted by an outreach of Rögnvaldr's arm. No man follows a coward.
"Come then, stranger." The Jarl demands, a soft scrape hidden under the winds as he draws a long, battle-scarred blade, its handle lined with runes and notches of war. The silent man gives his response in the form of throwing back his heaviest layer of furs, a brilliant, pure-white axe held high in his hand, the slim handle engraved in a mass of entwined runic notes. Only the clang of a blade's edge caught against the butt of an axe rings out over the snowblown wind - the grunts of effort are lost. A forward slash is hit to the side, and the central thrust that follows it caught in the hook of the axe. In a fraction of a second, the stranger is against Rögnvaldr, close enough to share breath for a single instant as the axe is brought upwards, the sheen of its reddened edge flashing a glare against the white sun above. The gathered men hold still once more, frozen as the air around - and then the moment is over, and the driven snow is coated with a gentle vermillion. The stranger rests his axe against his hip, taking note of the warriors cricled around.
"There are plans to be made." Growled Jarl Sigurðr, trudging towards the longhouse.
Heavy boots crunched against the slickened snow, making a soft squelch as the founder of an Empire stepped over the first few drops of Imperial Blood.
In the farthest Northern reach of human civilization, Rögnvaldr, the Jarl of Nidaros, takes refuge in his longhouse against the deathly bite of a January snowstorm; the frozen waters forbid anything else. One of the two huscarls standing guard outside suddenly squints, stepping forward with the uncertainty of hallucination. In the violent glare of a howling snowstorm, the warrior, his beard matted with frost and dirt, sees the ghostly outline of a human figure, trudging steadily forward against the oppressive white mass. "Tell the Jarl." The Veteran grunts in gutteral Norse. "Anyone coming against the storm is either a madman or a legend. He'll be interested either way." The other Huscarl offers no protest - any excuse to take a few moments in the warmth of the Longhouse is welcome.
From the blinding storm, a great figure steps forward to present himself to the Longhouse, a pair of ice-blue eyes, hardset on an unforgiving face becoming visible before even the heavy furs that drape his massive form, or the flash of bright blonde hair against a scarred visage, nearly invisible alongside his pale skin in the eye of the white storm. Jarl Rögnvaldr makes himself known, alongside a few members of his court, as the stranger approaches, a smile on his face at the gall of a man to travel through death itself for indeterminate purpose. The Jarl is an aging man, nearly forty, and remarkably unambitious, but physically powerful as most Norsemen are, standing well above six foot with powerful, corded muscles. Yet before this nameless man he pales, eyes made to look upwards to meet a terrifying gaze.
"Rögnvaldr av Trönde." An authoritative voice growls, barely loud enough to be heard over the whistling storm and the furred hood insulating the stranger's face. "You are weak and impotent - unfit to hold dominion over the lives of free men. I challenge the right to your title."
The words hang in the freezing air, looming over the small, silent group outside. To accuse a Jarl of weakness and ineptitude has only one end for all involved, written plainly as the smile falls. The wind's howling grows louder, deafening over the wordless few as Rögnvaldr's hand moves to rest on the hilt of his blade, clearly displayed in its sheath against his side. A huscarl takes a single step forward, then stops - halted by an outreach of Rögnvaldr's arm. No man follows a coward.
"Come then, stranger." The Jarl demands, a soft scrape hidden under the winds as he draws a long, battle-scarred blade, its handle lined with runes and notches of war. The silent man gives his response in the form of throwing back his heaviest layer of furs, a brilliant, pure-white axe held high in his hand, the slim handle engraved in a mass of entwined runic notes. Only the clang of a blade's edge caught against the butt of an axe rings out over the snowblown wind - the grunts of effort are lost. A forward slash is hit to the side, and the central thrust that follows it caught in the hook of the axe. In a fraction of a second, the stranger is against Rögnvaldr, close enough to share breath for a single instant as the axe is brought upwards, the sheen of its reddened edge flashing a glare against the white sun above. The gathered men hold still once more, frozen as the air around - and then the moment is over, and the driven snow is coated with a gentle vermillion. The stranger rests his axe against his hip, taking note of the warriors cricled around.
"There are plans to be made." Growled Jarl Sigurðr, trudging towards the longhouse.
Heavy boots crunched against the slickened snow, making a soft squelch as the founder of an Empire stepped over the first few drops of Imperial Blood.
IMPERIAL BLOOD
A CK2-Stellaris Megacampaign
Birth and Blood
A CK2-Stellaris Megacampaign
Birth and Blood
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