The swamp’s fetid breath choked the air as I waded through mire, axe in one hand, shield in the other. The moon hung low, casting a sickly glow on the bones littering the muck. Then they rose—draugr, their flesh rotting, eyes burning with unholy hunger. A dozen, maybe more.
The first lunged, its rusted blade screaming for blood. My shield caught the blow, splintering but holding. I swung my axe, its iron head cleaving through decayed sinew, sending the corpse back to Hel. They came in waves, relentless, their moans curdling my spine. A bloated one spat poison, searing my arm—I roared and buried my axe in its skull.
My shield arm ached, wood chipped and iron dented, but I stood firm. The last draugr fell, its head rolling into the sludge. I burned their remains under starlight, the fire hissing with their cursed rot. Mead dulled the pain, but the scars will linger. Odin sees my valor—tomorrow, I hunt their crypts.
The mountain air bites like a serpent, sharp and unyielding. Snow crunched underfoot as I scaled the frost-crusted peaks, my breath fogging before me. The wolves were cunning, their howls echoing off the cliffs, but my spear found their hearts. Their pelts now line my pack—warmth earned in blood.
At camp, the wind tore at my tent, screaming of drakes circling above. One dove, its icy breath grazing my helm before my arrows brought it crashing to the stones. Its scales will strengthen my shield, if the forge complies. Tin grows scarce; the coast calls for another raid.
Tonight, the fire sputters under the mountain’s shadow, fed by brittle pine and a single Surtling core. Roasted hare fills my gut, but the mead’s run dry. Odin’s ravens circled at dusk—pressing on at dawn, for glory or the grave.
The mists clung low to the meadows this morn, as if the spirits of the fallen still whispered warnings. My axe bit deep into the gnarled pines, their sap staining my hands like blood. The longhouse stands stronger now, its timbers bound tight against the winds that howl from the Black Forest.
Last eve, Greydwarves crept close, their eyes glinting like cursed embers. I drove them back with fire and iron, but not before one shattered my shield. The forge hums tonight, hungry for copper to mend my gear. Surtling cores burn low—must brave the swamps soon, though the thought of those wretched draugr sets my teeth on edge.
The hearthfire crackles, and my belly’s full of boar meat and honey mead. Odin watches, I know it. Tomorrow, I sail for the mountains. The wolf pelts will be mine, or I’ll feast in Valhalla.
Valheimians
•4/8/25 11:07
