Gasping deeply, Bjorn’s eyes sprang open, stomach convulsing in a forced sit-up as he jerked forwards and coughed loudly, abdomen jerking, eyes streaming rivers of salt-touched tears.
A snort. He looked through the bleary waterfall which misted his vision and saw the old crone cackling. Sitting on a wooden stool, light streaming down all around, glimmering through his tears. The crone was wrinkled once again. Her armour and shield had disappeared; her luscious blonde hair faded to grey wisps.
“You look like you have seen a ghost, boy,” she cackled, bony hands grasping at her stomach as she rocked steadily back and forth.
“You might have told me that you are a Valkyrie, old hag,” he muttered, rubbing dirt-stained palms into his eyes and washing them with the salt-slick which dripped down his flushed cheeks.
“And deprive myself of your moon-touched expression?” She cackled, “only a fifl-fool would do that. Though I did not expect you to harbour such gluttonous desires for punishment. Your weapons-craft is sloppy but you have Thor’s pain tolerance, that’s for sure.”
Sitting back on his hands, eyes finally unburdened, whole body aching, mouth agape, he furrowed his brow at the galdrwoman.
“My weapons-craft is not sloppy!” He said, and then he was rocking forwards, gingerly standing and crossing his arms.
“Boy, your weapons-craft is so bad that you were slain by an old-hag,” she said, mimicking his voice, eyes hard and dry. “Not a deep-cunning way to get to the hall of the slain now is it?”
“You are a Valkyrie!” He protested, “no normal human could beat you, even if you have insisted on wearing that prune-touched body.”
“Your path is your own, Bjorn Ragnarsson,” she shrugged. “But you will not defeat King Aella, will not be able to take your revenge, as you are now.” She sighed, shoulders rising and falling as she brushed her weathered hands across her knees and stood, bones cracking, back stooping. “I digress. You did not come here to seek advice from me, you came here for your class and now I have fought you, slain you, and looked into your soul, I can give it to you.”
Bjorn opened his mouth, thought-cage stalling, preventing him from asking more questions as arid air passed his lips in lieu of words. Instead of speaking, he simply nodded and glanced down, eyes lingering on the tattooed rune which adorned his forearm. He read Aella’s name and gritted his teeth, looked back up and she reached up, waggling her finger as if writing in the air. Then small, blue flames left a trace in the air before her, some kind of galdr. It was a single rune and Bjorn knew it to mean: Berserkr.
“Berserkr,” he said in a low, awed voice. “I have heard of the berserkir. Warriors said to possess the strength of bears. Is this my class?”
“In part,” she said, reaching out and plucking the blue-fire rune from the very air itself. “Where do you want it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I must burn the class mark into your flesh, like tattoo ink. Where will you wear it?”
Bjorn looked at the rune, then to the woman. His father had a tattoo and he had always wanted one. Ragnar had told him and his brodur that tattoos were earned. Marks of battle or great feats etched into flesh, a skin-trophy telling a saga tale to all who saw it. That was one of the reasons he hated that his father’s murder’s name was etched onto his arm like he was branded cattle. One day he would punch his seax through the name and cross it out for good, assuming that he could cross it out by then, and only once he had earned it. Only once Aella was cold in the ground.
Ragnar’s tattoo had been on the side of his head. He wore his hair shaved all around, apart from the top which was long and often braided – the same way Bjorn wore his now.
“Here,” he said, placing his index finger on his right temple and steeling himself for the pain which he was sure would follow.
“Very well,” she said, and then she was lining up the burning, sky-blue rune and pressing it deep into the side of his skull. Bjorn’s teeth gritted, neck and jaw tensing as the scalding, burning rune seared his flesh and blurred his vision with pain. Then Midgard froze.
Quest Complete:
Class Selection
Now that you have completed the tutorial quest and returned home, it is time to choose your class. Doing so will unlock your path to skill-based power and gift you the ability to gain levels, aiding you in the growth of your battle-fame.
Objectives:
Journey to the galdrwoman 1/1
Rewards:
Unlock your class
The quest completion runes flashed up and disappeared almost instantly as Bjorn watched. Then they changed, swirling in the air to reveal a second message.
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Class Acquisition Complete:
Berserkr:
A melee focused class said to harbour the strength and resilience of a bear. Berserkr have the potential to be some of the most fearsome and battle-famed drengr in all Midgard.
Acquiring a class has unlocked: the ability to level up and unlock skills
Acquiring the Berserkr class has unlocked: the ability to level [strength, vitality, axe, unarmed, sword] at a significantly faster rate.
The runes began to shift and change once more as Bjorn watched, smiling.
This is a good class, he thought. It will be great help in achieving battle-fame and taking my revenge. It is just a shame that my weapons craft in the sword was chosen to improve faster. I hate bacraut swords.
Folding his arms, he harumphed, furrowing his brow as he stared at the new runes forming before him.
Vitality has increased to 6
Axe has increased to 6
Well, this is good news, he thought, nodding as the runes dissipated, drifting away on the winter’s breeze, and Midgard began to move once more.
“Satisfied?” the galdrwoman asked, raising a single eyebrow at him, sagging facial skin being dragged upwards as if a piece of invisible string was attached to her brow.
“Heja,” Bjorn replied. “This is a good-strong class, well won. It will serve me, assist in the taking of my revenge.”
“It will serve the Nornir,” she said, hardened eyes unwavering. “Never forget that. But yes, it will also aid you in your revenge taking. Classes are not given freely but won. They are battle-born, for only in death can a drengr truly know the truth of his soul.”
“Are you telling me that I actually died?” Bjorn asked, heart beating hard in his chest as he stared at the old crone’s weathered face, lines and crags deeper and wiser than mountain ranges.
“Does it matter? You are here now. One day, once you are stronger, assuming you live long enough to become so, return to me and we will have more to discuss.”
***
Feeling strangely well rested, Bjorn bid the galdrwoman farewell and exited her steading with a gifted hemp-sack of dried meats, porridge oats and water. Confident that he could make the supplies last long enough to reach Lejre without the burden of hunting, he began the long journey home.
The althing will begin upon my return, he thought, allowing his mind to wander away from the pain and stench of seared temple flesh. The galdrwoman had shown him his reflection in a bowl of water before he had left. The head of a bear, drawn in thick black lines, now adorned his right temple. It was a good-strong look, if he did say so himself.
His new class excited him, though he would have to think up some deep-cunning story to tell his brodur upon his return. He was still uncertain as to how secretive he needed to be with his new abilities and connection to the Nornir. So he decided to keep it close to his chest for now.
“That was quite a battle,” a squawking voice called out and Bjorn dropped his hemp-sack, reaching for his weapons which had been fixed up almost as if they had never partaken in the galdrwoman’s holmganga. “Though after you beat those draugr so soundly I was surprised you let an old lady give you such a beating.”
Glancing hastily around as he stood halfway down the steps leading to the steading, all he could see was a single, dark-feathered raven. He looked at it and it cocked its head to the side, beak opening and closing in time to the words which seemed to form, carrying on the air of a squawk.
“Does basic language comprehension evade you or did that old woman simply beat all the clever out of you?” The raven said as Bjorn blinked a few times, struggling to grasp what was happening.
“You speak the human languages?” Bjorn asked, dumbstruck.
“Of course not,” the raven replied. “I speak the language of ravens, different vocal cords…”
Thought-cage whirring, Bjorn vaguely remembered a quest reward he had received after defeating the draugr and saving the raven they had captured. Was this the same raven? He did not know for sure, but it seemed likely. The quest reward was to gain Huginn’s favour, though he did not know what that meant.
“Are you one of Odin’s ravens?” He asked.
“Ha!” the bird squawked. “Of course not, but all the ravens of Midgard are children of Huginn and Muninn so I guess you could say that I am related to them.”
“What do you want?”
“To thank you,” it said. “You saved me and I wanted to show my gratitude. A raven always repays his debts.”
“Oh,” Bjorn said, sheathing the axe he realised was still clutched firmly in his hand. “It was not a problem.”
Especially since Skuld directed me to do so and I got a reward out of it… a reward I am yet to understand, but a reward all the same.
“Even so, my honour demands that I repay your kindness – even if you do seem to be a little slow – so I would make a contract with you.”
“A contract?” Bjorn asked, weary eyes glossing as he watched the strange bird which flapped its wings as it spoke like some kind of children’s puppet.
“Yes,” the raven continued. “I see from the scar on your head that you are class-touched. That means you have Skuld’s blessing, a connection to Asgard. That connection to the gods is probably how you are able to understand me and it means that we can create a contract.”
“Can other people understand you?”
“Only those favoured by the Nornir. To a normal human I am making only raven sounds which they cannot comprehend. Human language is so basic that without a connection to the gods they do not possess the clever to truly hear.”
“And what would this contract be?” Bjorn asked, deciding to sit on the steps for a moment as he foraged through the hemp-sack and pulled a piece of dried meat from the bag, chewing loudly on it.
“Just a typical familiar contract,” the raven shrugged, its wings coming up slightly like a person’s shoulders. “I will become bound to you, acting in your interests and aiding you where possible. I have deep-clever knowledge and make a good scout. The contract will last for a single year and then I will have repaid your kindness and we can go our separate ways.”
“I cannot see any reason to say no to this,” Bjorn shrugged. “And a scout who can find my enemies from the sky could be useful in the battles to come. I plan to invade England soon and there will be many foemen to slay.”
“Then it will be done,” the raven said with a curt nod. “What is your name, human?”
“Bjorn, son of Ragnar Lodbrok.”
“Well met, mine is Hrafn.”
“Hra-fen?” Bjorn said, sounding the unfamiliar word out syllable by syllable, the odd sounds stumbling on his tongue.
“Correct,” Hrafn replied. “Bjorn, son of Ragnar Lodbrok, I, Hrafn hereby bind myself as your familiar for a single solar rotation.” As he spoke, Hrafn’s body began to glow and pale blue runes formed along his wings, eyes gleaming with an intense, radiant light. It lasted for merely a moment before fading away, the raven returning to his usual, unassuming state of black feathers, black eyes and a black beak. Then Midgard froze as runes of the Nornir’s Weave shimmered in the sky.
You have unlocked a new skill:
Huginn’s Favour
You have made a contract with [Hrafn] for a period of one solar rotation. This contract may be extended upon request and at the agreement of both parties. This contract may be terminated by [Bjorn Ragnarsson] at any time.
You can now converse freely with all ravens.
It seems I already could, Bjorn thought. But it is good to know anyway.
Familiar: Hrafn (Raven Scout)
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