Kapitel 8: Chapter Seven: Winter Solstice
Months dragged on, and the relentless war between the Vikings and the corrupted Rune Walkers showed no sign of ceasing. Bestla stood as an unyielding pillar of strength, commanding the Viking fleets from the upper deck of her flagship. Her voice rang like a war horn, issuing orders that cut through the chaos of battle. Across the Fjord, the fleet clashed with the corrupted monstrosities. Waves churned with blood and blackened ichor, the sea itself seemed to recoil from the unnatural presence of the enemy.
On the towering cliffs, the mountains loomed as guardians, bristling with ancient weaponry. Cannons crafted from a unique alloy, their surfaces etched with runes that shimmered faintly with blue and golden light, were strategically placed among the rocky outcrops. These runic cannons, enchanted with the Essence of the Vikings, roared with devastating power, their booming salvos shaking the heavens and carving through the enemy ranks with a precision born of centuries-old craftsmanship.
Behind the cannons stood the Volur, enigmatic practitioners of ancient magic. Their presence was otherworldly, their silhouettes wreathed in flickering auras of elemental energy. Flames danced along their fingers, bolts of lightning crackled in their hands, and frost clung to the air around them. Each spell they unleashed altered the tide of battle, their magic striking like the wrath of gods. Yet, their numbers were few, their origins cloaked in mystery. Bestla yearned for more of their power, but the most potent Volur remained behind in the village, their focus on maintaining the barrier that kept the opportunistic raiders from Denland at bay.
Relations with Denland had always been brittle, even with Frodi's tenuous peace treaty. Bestla, as the protector of Kattegat, carried the weight of these precarious alliances on her shoulders. She could not afford a misstep.
From her vantage point on the ship, Bestla watched as the Rune Walkers, relentless and merciless, tore through another squad of her warriors. These abominations, once majestic creatures of the sea, had been twisted into grotesque horrors by the black corruption. Her jaw tightened as bodies fell, the sea warriors replaced by another wave of Vikings rushing to meet the threat.
She did not look away.
This was a brutal reality she had become accustomed to—a seasonal war, a tide of death. The Vikings had to exterminate this batch of corrupted sea creatures before the harsh winter descended upon them, robbing them of both strength and time. A thunderous blast echoed from the mountains, and Bestla's gaze flickered to the source. One of the runic cannons unleashed a searing shot of elemental fury, incinerating a cluster of Rune Walkers. The blast struck the sea with such force that the water hissed and boiled, steam rising like ghostly specters into the storm-gray sky.
But then, a new shadow stirred in the distance.
It rose slowly from the depths, its sheer size dwarfing the surrounding chaos. Bestla felt a chill creep down her spine as the creature emerged fully into view—a grotesque, spindly monstrosity that seemed to drink in the light around it, leaving a hollow void in its wake. Its skin was an inky black, glistening like oil, and its elongated head bore rows of serrated fangs where eyes and a nose should have been. A second, more traditional maw stretched unnaturally wide beneath its grotesque visage, saliva dripping like molten tar. A jagged fin, resembling a row of cruel, serrated blades, ran along its back, and its arms were impossibly long, ending in claws that reeked of blood and death.
This was no ordinary Rune Walker.
The air seemed to grow heavy with its presence, an oppressive aura that suffocated all who stood against it. This was the harbinger, the corrupter responsible for twisting the sea's creatures into mindless instruments of destruction. Its arrival was no coincidence—it had come because it sensed its minions faltering.
Bestla's heart pounded as she stood on the upper deck, gripping the wooden railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The creature fixed its hollow, eyeless face in her direction, as if it could see her despite its monstrous anatomy. Its gaping mouths curled into a twisted semblance of a grin, and an unsettling sound—half growl, half gurgle—rumbled across the battlefield.
"Captain!" one of her crew shouted, their voice tinged with panic. The man turned from the glowing runic screen of the ship's machinery, his face pale and drenched in sweat. "The readings... it's radiating an Essence unlike anything we've encountered before. If we don't—"
Bestla raised a hand to silence him, her steely gaze locked on the monstrous being that loomed in the distance. A tempest of determination surged within her, battling the creeping dread that threatened to take hold. She couldn't falter now. Her people needed her strength, her resolve.
"Ready the cannons," she ordered, her voice unyielding. "We end this, here and now."
As the creature began to move, the sea itself seemed to shudder in its wake, and the battle surged to a fever pitch. The Vikings braced themselves, their war cries rising to meet the abyssal growl of the enemy. The clash between light and darkness, between man and the corrupted void, was about to reach its climax.
"The Rune Walker is ranked to be around Semi Grade Two," the crew member reported, his voice edged with both concern and awe.
Bestla's sharp eyes never left the distant creature, her senses already fully attuned to its monstrous presence. She could feel its power in the air, thick with a malevolent force that stirred the sea itself. The crew member's words were almost unnecessary—her internal sense had already pierced the creature's aura, revealing its immense strength.
She sighed, the weight of the decision settling heavily on her shoulders. Despite the similarities in their cultivation levels, Rune Walkers were no mere mortals, and their power surpassed that of any ordinary being of their grade. Bestla knew, as a seasoned warrior and protector of Kattegat, that no one under her command could stand against it.
"I'm heading out," Bestla said firmly, her voice cutting through the tension like the edge of a blade. "Tell the men to retreat. I don't want them to become collateral."
Her assistant nodded, his face grim but resolute, and moved quickly to deliver her orders.
As the remaining Rune Walkers, weakened and scattered, were being mopped up by her warriors, a sharp, unmistakable sound rang out from the flagship. The sound was a signal, one that every Viking knew well. Like a practiced, synchronized dance, the warriors sprang into action, leaping from the sea's surface and back onto their ships with the agility of wolves on the hunt.
Within minutes, the fleet began to retreat, pulling away from the battleground as the remaining Rune Walkers—those not already obliterated—were left behind to face the inevitable wrath of Bestla.
Above the sea, the air crackled with raw energy. Bestla Lothbrok, the indomitable force of Kattegat, hovered effortlessly above the waves, a towering figure in the stormy skies. As the third most powerful warrior in the Kingdom of Norland, she was a force of nature in her own right. Few could ever reach the heights of power she had attained, and fewer still could master the advanced skills of flight that came with it.
Her cultivation allowed her to soar without effort, her Essence flowing smoothly through her being, feeding her every movement. She drew her blade from its sheath, the metal humming with power as she channeled the ancient force within. Sparks of blue lightning flickered along the length of her sword, igniting the very air around her with electric tension.
With a swift motion, she raised her sword high, and the heavens responded. The clouds above darkened ominously, swirling into a tempest of primal fury.
[Mjolnir Lightning Breaker]
Bolts of lightning ripped through the sky, cascading down like vengeful gods, their power unbridled and overwhelming. The force of the strike slammed into the sea with a deafening crack, splitting the waters apart as the Rune Walkers, caught in the maelstrom, were obliterated into ash and dust. The very earth beneath the ocean's surface was briefly visible, torn asunder by the destructive force of nature itself.
Below, the Vikings in the harbor watched in stunned awe, their gazes fixed on the spectacle unfolding before them. The roar of the storm, the crackle of thunder, and the lightning that split the heavens—all of it felt otherworldly, a display of power so immense that it seemed to confirm the ancient tales.
It was said that the Lothbroks were descendants of the gods, born of the Aesir bloodline, and as they watched Bestla wield the raw force of Nature's primal weapon, it was easy for them to believe.
But as the sea began to calm and the smoke from the scorched waters began to rise like an ethereal fog, Bestla's sharp eyes caught something—an unmistakable figure still standing among the remains.
The main Rune Walker, its towering, grotesque form untouched by the elemental fury, was still alive. The sight sent a fresh wave of anger through Bestla. All of its minions were gone, but this creature—this abomination—remained, its hunger for power and destruction far from satisfied.
It let out a bone-chilling roar, its massive form shuddering as it sensed the power radiating from Bestla. It was maddened, driven to the edge of insanity by its craving for the strength she wielded.
Bestla did not flinch. Her expression remained calm, cold even, as she drew her sword in a single, fluid motion.
With a sharp, decisive movement, she slashed through the air. The storm above her responded once more, lightning cascading down in a jagged arc that cleaved through the Rune Walker's monstrous form. The creature's body was torn apart, disintegrated into fine particles that vanished on the wind, its terrible existence reduced to nothingness.
Bestla returned her sword to its sheath with a practiced motion, the storm above her dissipating as quickly as it had come. As she descended back toward the harbor, the weight of the battle lifted from her shoulders.
For now, the fight was over. The Rune Walkers had been vanquished, and Kattegat was safe. The Vikings who had witnessed her power cheered, their spirits bolstered by the strength of their leader. Yet, Bestla's mind was already turning to the next challenge, the next battle—always prepared, always vigilant.
The skies were calm, and the sea was still, but the war was never truly over. Not as long as creatures like the Rune Walkers still walked the world.
****
The warmth of the long hall, filled with boisterous laughter and the clinking of mead cups, couldn't quite drown out Ragna's quiet musings. The Winter Solstice was a time for celebration, for honoring old traditions, but for Ragna, it was also a reminder of the growing divide between the past and the present. His mother, Bestla, was seated at the head of the hall, her stature commanding the respect of both her people and the gods themselves. But for Ragna, the gods seemed far less relevant. He had long ago stopped looking to the Aesir for guidance or favor, knowing their abandonment of the world had left it to flounder. Still, he respected the traditions—understanding that they were what held his people together, even if they didn't hold much meaning for him personally.
At just over five feet, Ragna was already taller than most children his age, a sign that his body was beginning to outgrow his youthful form. His muscles, still in the process of developing, were testament to his training. But it was his mind that had truly set him apart. His Psychic abilities had grown with astonishing speed, his will a force that could break weaker mortals in an instant. Despite his youth, his mind was as sharp as any seasoned warrior, and though he could easily best anyone in physical combat, it was his inner power that truly made him dangerous.
Seated with his family at the table, Ragna couldn't help but observe the flickering light from the hearth, the flame dancing in the shadows of the long hall. It reminded him of the sacrifices made to the gods, the Rune Beasts slain to honor traditions that now seemed increasingly hollow. The old customs were fading in significance, even if the common folk still clung to them. And it was them—the ordinary villagers—who still offered their prayers, even as the gods remained absent. Ragna understood why they did it, though: the Volur and the blessing of the gods were essential to their survival, especially when it came to warding off threats like the Rune Walkers. But the Vikings, those who fought to protect the land, didn't look to the gods for power. Their loyalty lay with their sovereign, with the bloodline that led them.
As the sounds of merriment grew louder, Ragna excused himself from the table, the weight of his thoughts growing heavier with each passing minute. He stepped outside, his breath visible in the cold air, and was immediately met by the familiar faces of Torvi and Anders, his closest friends. The cold wind seemed to sharpen the clarity of his thoughts as the pair approached, their cheerful banter a welcome distraction.
"Prince Ragna," Anders greeted with a grin, his freckles barely visible in the fading light. Ragna gave him a nod, the corner of his mouth curling up in an almost imperceptible smile.
Torvi, short and fiery, hit Ragna lightly on the elbow as she joined the greeting, her raven-black hair bouncing around her face. "You sure you're not going to drink with the others?" she teased, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Ragna shrugged, the celebration in the hall not holding much appeal to him. "I needed some air," he replied. "A walk."
The trio set off together, the sound of their boots crunching on the cleared path cutting through the village's blanket of snow. The houses around them were alive with the sounds of revelry, but Ragna found the movement of the village calming. It reminded him of the days before he'd started his rigorous training, the days he used to spend walking the streets with his mother, simply observing and reflecting. Now, the quiet moments were harder to come by.
As they walked, Torvi and Anders filled him in on the news from Norland and beyond. Anders, eager as always to talk about politics and happenings, spoke animatedly about a new Volva—a seer—who was quickly gaining favor among the Volur community.
"She's different, Ragna," Anders said, his voice full of intrigue. "She's not like the other Volvas who've come before. People say she has visions that predict the future, not just the usual signs. Some think she could change everything." Ragna raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued despite himself. The Volur had always been an enigmatic group, revered for their mystical connection to the gods and their ability to interpret omens. But if this new Volva was truly something special, it could shift the balance of power in the Kingdom.
"They say she is the most talented Volva that has been born in centuries," Anders said as they walked through the port market, now silent and covered in a light blanket of snow. The market was closed for the season, but the lingering scent of salt and fish from the sea hung in the air. Empty stalls, once vibrant with color, were now dark and abandoned, with only the occasional creak of a wooden sign swaying in the cold breeze. Snowflakes drifted lazily down from the sky, coating the cobblestone streets in a thick layer of white.
"Prince Ragna, if only you were born with a Natural Rune like the Volur, perhaps you might be the most talented one," Anders added, kicking up a flurry of snow with each step.
"His Highness doesn't need to be a Volva. Once he gets his first Rune, he'll become the most powerful Viking of our generation," Torvi said confidently, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp air.
"Hmm, I heard your cousin was the one rumored to be the most gifted of our generation," Anders said, glancing over at Ragna as they passed by a row of wooden houses, their windows glowing warmly with the flickering light of hearths inside. The distant sound of laughter and music drifted from the nearby longhall, where the Winter Solstice celebrations were still in full swing.
"Where did you hear that?" Torvi asked, her voice rising above the quiet hum of the village.
"My parents," Anders replied. "The Volur community is small, and they talk a lot. They've heard news about the Prince and Princess that live in the capital."
Ragna's gaze shifted towards the distant mountain range, the jagged peaks towering against the pale, cloud-covered sky. He had never met his cousins, nor had he visited the capital to meet the King. The thought of his grandfather, King Sigurd Lothbrok, sparked a curious fire within him. Rumor had it that Sigurd was the most powerful being in all the known lands. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of Cultivator his grandfather was, and what it would be like to stand before such a legend
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein