svo eg ríst og í rúnum fá'g
"So do I write and colour the runes"
Seven hundred years ago, when the galleys of the bold Northmen were scudding through storm and mist far into the unknown Rhûnic lands, riding at anchor in the shallow rivers of the East, the old stories of the battles of the gods and the giants that had been repeated for hundreds of years by Northern firesides in the long winter evenings were brought together by Bjarn the Wise in Jótunvall, and were known henceforth as the Elder Tales; and a hundred years later Erik the Bold retold the same old stories, with others equally marvellous. These ancient stories, which a brave and noble race carried in its heart through all its wide wanderings and conquests, take one back to the beginning of time, and tell of the birth of the worlds and the coming of the gods to rule over them.
Wilderland faces the river Running with a line of golden shores and dunes so deep that their foundations seem everlasting. Fish without number rise out of the tossing waves; the deep, tranquil waters, overhung with fir-covered mountains, and bright at night with the quenchless splendour of the stars, flow through narrow channels to the outer sea of Rhûn; and against the sky great mountains stand vast and immovable, as if from eternity to eternity. No Northman, steering his adventurous galley along these rocky shores, seeing, perhaps, the mighty rush of the endless waves in the channels, and hearing the long reverberation of Béma’s hooves ride from mountain peak to mountain peak, would have believed that these things had not been as he saw them from the very beginning, if the sagas, wiser than any wisdom of man, had not told him of a time when even the gods had not begun to live, and in the vast space where no worlds hung and no heavens shone there was nothing but the unseen spirit of the great All-father, solitary and silent in the depths.
“Embark the longboats!”, so sounded the risen voice of Forkbeard, he who led the Northmen raiders down the deep rivers and into the Sea of Rhûn. They were on their third week of travel and began to grow used to the water mixing with the equally salt sweat pouring from their glands. As the men boarded, each took their position at the oars and began to row off-shore.
“I’ve been pulling the threads of my wyrd for all my life; I see no reason to stop now.” Baldur said, furrowing his bushy, dark brows at his friend and companion, Hákon. They were sat at the ship’s prow, eating from a bowl of preserved mackerel. Every now and then they had to raise their meal in order to keep it from being washed away by the tossing waves. It did not seem to disturb the routined men. “What are you saying, friend?” Hákon offered quietly, inquisitive in his words. With a mouthful of salty fish the captain spoke, “We don’t know what to find there, or who. It is a risk.. a mighty one.” He held back any further words as Hákon interfered, gripping his friend’s shoulder firmly with his beefy hand. “This is no mere cause of plunder, but a sacred mission. The gods have shown us the way so far, and will pull us through.” He said stoutly, a stoic frown etched upon his courage-wired countenance. “If so, friend, if so..” Baldur uttered beneath his breath and rose to his feet. He was dressed in a colourful tunic with a green cloak sealed with a golden fibula. After all, Baldur was the original Jarl of Ternskøg, a village neighbouring Jótunvall and Firnstayn. The sword in his scabbard was decorated with a wolf’s head on the pummel and those of a raven on the guard. Mannish runes could be seen chiselled in the surface once drawn. Looking over the forty rowing men, he began to sing, and the men caught up quickly. Soon they all chanted:
“Sons of the North
Pull your oar, pull your oar
Sons of the North
Pull your oar bravely
We come to gather, not to fight
But if we fight we will be right
Back at home our children cry
We must feed them or they'll die
The ice comes to kill our fields
So we must come to take your yield
If you will not fight with us
Where is your honour? in the dust!”
Their voices long echoed through the night as the sea-serpents ran through the battering waves. The Northmen are coming.
