seonhyang

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Just fixed up the post which I had pondered finishing for a while. It only took about a thousand years > >

I'm excited to see where we'll go next!

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Gedda Salmundsen

---

As Åse and the women danced around the roaring blaze and the other men filled their bellies and quenched their thirst, Gedda sat and nursed a cup of wine. He had dressed the pig with clumsy hands, refusing to ask Segrim for any more guidance. Luckily, the meat had emerged unspoiled, even if Gedda had found the experience almost as harrowing as the long, sleepless nights stuck in a boat with exiles, outlaws, and Christians. After enough mead, it seemed that none of the young men could tell the difference between a well-butchered pig and a poorly-finished one. Gedda surmised that, if he had made like his friends and drank himself halfway into a stupor, he wouldn’t be able to tell either. Yet Gedda could not have been less interested in the revels, for an all-too-familiar sense of foreboding was descending over him like a net weighted with stones. Long years spent peering over his shoulder had taught him wariness. Now, though, there was no one with whom he shared whispers in the night—only strangers who laughed, their tongues loosened by drink, and forgot their troubles far more easily than Gedda could forget his.

He was watching the shadows dance, taking different shapes as they flickered over the ground like wicked, form-changing Loki. Now, there was a coward among cowards; no man would ever be as infamous as he who quite literally became a mare. Gedda was just beginning to drift off into his thoughts when the man next to him elbowed him in the ribs.

“What do you think?” It was Abiorn, one of his friends among the young men who had once served Erik. He was not more than a few years older than Gedda, but the beard that framed his grin was already shaggy and speckled with the same ale that stank on his breath.

Gedda flinched away, clutching his cup close to his chest. “Think of what, Abbi?”

“Her.” Setting a hand on Gedda’s shoulder, Abiorn pointed into the crowd. There, serving wine to a boisterous group of Norsemen, was a young woman—almost certainly enslaved, he noted, from the look of her shorn head. “She’s not so ugly, for a thrall.” When Gedda didn’t say anything in return, Abiorn glanced back towards him. His eyes were blown dark, black as a bull’s. “What do you think?”

Gedda quickly looked back to the girl to satisfy his friend’s interest. Yet where Abiorn felt desire, he only felt pity; his stomach tightened at the sight of her.

As Gedda sat in silence, Abiorn’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “Well? What do you think?”

Though he wanted to tear his gaze away, Gedda scrutinized her in the hope that Abiorn wouldn’t ask any more of him. “She looks thin,” he said softly, his gaze flitting over her birdlike, frail limbs. Below the shorn crop of her hair, her cheeks were thin; dark shadows lingered beneath her frightened eyes. “And young, more like a child than a woman.” He turned to face his friend. “Abbi,” he sighed, “are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course!” Abiorn barked. “Do you doubt me?”

“No,” Gedda lied, offering the drunken man a wan smile. “You’ve just been drinking quite a lot.” He lifted his own cup to his lips.

Abiorn’s voice swelled with thunderous anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He lunged, moving to clutch at Gedda’s cloak as the younger man rose to his feet. Yet the ale burning in his veins had made him sluggish; he missed, reaching past Gedda’s arm. Then, with strength belied by his slim stature, Gedda seized Abiorn’s shoulder and pushed his friend away.

“Don’t choke on your mead,” Gedda said, turning swiftly on his heel and stalking off into the gloom. Abiorn had been too drunk to pursue him.

Weaving between men dizzy from mead and wine, Gedda moved to warm himself by another fire. As the flames burned bright as a cat’s eye in the dark; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Then the broad shadow of Kjartan loomed over him as Erik’s brother approached with an offer.

---

Later that night, Gedda lay awake, grasping for the respite of sleep only for it to evade him like an eel slipping from his grasp. With each heave of his chest, the warmth of his breath turned to mist in the cold air. He missed the fire’s heat, but the light only illuminated what he sought to hide and the crackle and susurrant hiss of the flames were too alike to the murmured words of a friend.

When Kjartan had proposed the voyage west, Gedda had bitten his tongue in a vain attempt to hide his enthusiasm. He had offered his former lord’s brother a measured nod and his loyalty, at least for a time. It was easy to say that he was eager for a chance at adventure and word-fame, the taste of the salt air and perhaps a piece of land to call his own. Yes, he had said, he was young—not too old to find a bride—but the blood that still ran quick and hot in his veins demanded more than a domestic life of fishing and farming, more to chase than laughing children. His story had painted over the shame that spurred him to accept Kjartan’s offer, yet his lies had still cradled a seed of truth: a voyage west was just what Gedda needed.

Hearing of whom he would travel with did not shake Gedda’s resolve, though he had his doubts. Segrim the Black was a fierce warrior whose past meant little to Gedda given his own shame. He had made something admirable of himself; it was telling that their companions asked so little of his past. Tosti, too, was stalwart and well-tested in battle. He knew little of the twin sisters, but chose not to pry just as he chose to give Einar a wide berth lest the berserker’s rage turn upon him, for he had seen Einar glowering and knew not to cross him. Yet his thoughts always wandered to Åse. She was to be his future lord, he reminded himself, yet surely she would be beset from all sides by rivals who doubted a female lord’s strength. There would be a throng of greedy suitors, too, lured by the chance to steal what was hers. Gedda shook his head at the thought; nothing interested him less. Doubt whispered in his ear, reminding him of Kjartan. Would the very man who had trusted Gedda enough to recruit him have less-than-brotherly intentions with Åse? Were the looks they shared more than that of brother and sister? If that is true, he mused to himself, it seems that on every shore some taboos are more acceptably broken than others.

Groaning, Gedda clutched at his head. Perhaps I should have had more wine, he thought, staring into the empty dark. Maybe I could make like Abbi and drink myself to sleep.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

@Pagemaster I think I'll have to decline on that one - I'm not sure I'd know where to start! But if your invitation to post was for events happening prior to the attack, I can see if I can write a post soon!

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

@Pagemaster I was hyped to see this post and I wasn't disappointed! I have just one question: should our next posts detail how and when we flee, or should they take place prior to that?

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Gedda Salmundsen

---

Gedda had never given much thought to the Christians’ strange god or the teachings that crawled across the pages of his faithful’s books in dark, undecipherable letters that curled like plumes of smoke; the sack of Thetford had certainly not changed that. Yet he could see why English villagers might have come to marvel at the stained-glass window of the church. When the Danes had first hacked down the doors, he had been among them, yet even the heat of battle had seemed to pause when he first caught sight of it. Despite the noisome air—choked by the metallic tang of blood and the reek of death and filth—its majesty had been unmarred.

Now Gedda stood with the others in the chamber, his weapons having been left outside the door. Though Thetford was a ruin, the beauty of the glass still stole his breath and made him pause. The golden light of dusk filtered through its panes, casting a sanguine glow over the walls. Yet now the color recalled the death of the Christian priest, his withered cheeks crusted by the salty tracks of tears. Crimson gore had spilled on the floor beneath his eviscerated body, terrible and red as the light that bathed the walls.

Let me not die like that, Gedda thought, without a sword in hand, abandoned by gods and men, unmanful and laughing like a fool in a pool of my own filth. His lip curled; he looked over his shoulder towards the door. Kjartan was gone now, likely called outside by Åse, and the old priest’s body had been carried out of the corner where it had only sat and stank. At least the path out of the church was clear. Weaving between the others without so much as a word, Gedda stepped outside to grab his weapons from the pile outside the door. With his seax on his belt, he felt like himself. Even with the battle won, it was a familiar comfort, one of the few that had remained the same between Thetford and the town on the Danish coast that he had once called home.

By the time Gedda reached the cooking fires, wind that whipped through the remains of Thetford finally banished the charnel stench from his nose long enough for him to take a deep breath. Though the reek was behind him, his thoughts of the priest and the strange god of the Christians lingered. He remembered the first time he had lifted an oar after leaving home in shame. One of his fellows had been a man who, by the web of lines carved into his face and the grizzled gray beard that he had worn braided beneath his chin, had easily been old enough to be his father, though Gedda had long forgotten his name. Against Gedda’s protestations, the older man had taken him under his wing; Gedda had wondered if the old man’s eyes were failing him, for he had seen all of twenty years and lacked the patchy beard that might say otherwise. His gray-bearded companion had liked to offer avuncular advice on subjects ranging from women to fishing to the craft of battle, but his favorite subject had always been the matter of faith.

The old man had been a Christian, a convert who tried to make the same of every man on the ship. Upon hearing his secret, Gedda had been sure that they would not tolerate his companion for long, but the boat had been filled with exiles and men whose shame followed them like hungry hounds—men like Gedda. Their companions would not have turned on the old Christian lest it create a precedent for the others to draw blades on each of them in turn. Besides, Gedda would have been disappointed to lose him; as tiresome as they could be, his ramblings were preferable to the cold silence of solitude. Hunched over by his oar, he had told Gedda tales of White Christ and the eternity which the foreign god offered his worshippers. Indeed, his god could cure disease with his touch and restore life to the dead. At the time, Gedda had been unimpressed by his great powers. Now, lingering in the warmth of the fire with a slain pig from the town’s pens, he remained unconvinced.

If White Christ was not a sorcerer, Gedda mused, why did the old man tell me no tales of his battles? What god walks the earth only to speak with beggars and men covered in boils, never keeping the company of great warriors? Odin was ever watching the field of battle, and in the crash of thunder he heard the hammer of Thor. When he took to the sea, he heard the wailing of Njord over the water; on days when the waves turned choppy and dark in storm, he had always been quick to offer a word to his patron. If the All-father offered his gifts to wise men, Thor lent his red rage to warriors, and Njord blessed the waters for sailors and fishermen, was White Christ a god of beggars and sick men?

His thoughts drifted back to the gray waters through which he had rowed alongside the old man. Gedda had not feared the chance of a storm, for he knew Njord had always smiled upon him. Yet he knew his companion, who had forsaken the gods, would not earn their favor. For his part, though, the old man had been so calm that Gedda would have sworn he was asleep if not for his bright eyes. He had worn a strange smile, one which Gedda now recognized as not dissimilar from the old priest’s when he died.

“Are you not afraid of drowning?” Gedda had asked.

“No,” the old man had said, “I am not afraid. For if I drown, I shall be saved by Christ and sent to his kingdom where men live eternally. Are you not afraid of drowning, boy? When pagans die, you are cast into the fires of Hell. A fair young man like yourself deserves a better fate.”

Gedda had scoffed then. “Of course not. Though storms often spell the doom of men at sea, I have ever been a good swimmer; Njord would not forsake me. What makes you so certain that you shall not be cast into the fires of your hell?”

“Christ is merciful and forgives all sins,” his companion had replied. “He will forgive mine.”

Would White Christ forgive cowardice? Prodding the side of the slaughtered pig, Gedda struggled to banish the thought. From the old man’s tales of mercy, White Christ’s hands seemed, like the dead priest’s, soft and unbloodied. The strange god was enshrined as a lamb; when he was slain by lesser men, did White Christ cry like a babe? Or would he have laughed like a madman, like the priest who had lain in the corner of the church, his viscera spilling out onto the dirt floor? Regardless, a lamb was an unmanful byname unfitting of a warrior. Perhaps White Christ was a god of cowards. The soft-handed men who prayed to him, worshiping meekness, certainly seemed so; they waited for salvation instead of winning their place in Valhalla or Fólkvangr through their deeds. Yet—if the gray-beard’s tales were true—White Christ was once a man, and no man’s mercy was endless. Gedda knew all too well that love’s well could run dry. Perhaps he, like the gods of the Danes—like the rest of the world—had no love for unmanly nithings, even ones like Gedda who hid their nature well. For he could hide himself from the eyes of mortal men, but the eyes of the gods were not so dulled by ale and age.

A fierce headache throbbed in Gedda’s skull; he found himself glowering as he poked the pig with clumsy hands, dressing it as well as he could remember. If only the old fool had liked to talk of meat half as much as he liked preaching.

Segrim’s familiar voice cut through the mire of his reverie, drawing Gedda out of his thoughts. “I knew that,” he said brusquely, looking up to meet Segrim’s gaze. “How would you do it?”

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

It’s 2 in the morning in my timezone, but I should be able to get a first IC post up today, all things permitting! I’ve got @Fiscbryne’s blessing to make Gedda the younger man mentioned at the end of his post for Segrim, so I’ll be building slightly off of his in that vein.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Gedda Salmundsen

GEDDA SALMUNDSEN

---

Gedda’s hair shone red in the firelight as he approached one of the great bonfires that lined the shore. A circle of warriors laughed and shouted before the flame, their crude words flowing as freely as the wine. “Looking fair, Gedda.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder; he brushed it off and reached for a cup of wine. A chorus of japes followed; spoken through the haze of drink, they were no real insults. Despite his smooth features, his friends in the band knew him to be a fierce fighter—for his swift blade had cut the bellies of many Englishmen—and hardly questioned his fortitude. They often joked that Gedda could swim like his namesake, though he was quick to remind them not to mock the name his father gave him. Now he was determined to drink like one, but only after paying homage to his fallen lord.

Turning his back on his companions, Gedda approached Erik’s pyre. The flames leapt before his eyes as he watched his lord’s burning body shrivel in the fire. From where he stood, he could see neither Kjartan’s eyes nor Åse’s, but he had heard that Erik’s widow was not much younger than himself—perhaps too young to lose her husband. He surmised that she was silent from grief; Gedda’s quiet was not so sorrowful, borne more out of being mired in his own thoughts. At twenty, he had been busy telling tales around the fire and ingratiating himself with Erik’s men. Now, a year later, he hardly knew with whom he would sail when the sun rose. While the warriors in Erik’s service had traded many stories over the months, none of them knew of the trouble he had left behind.

As the briny air blew over the beach, intermingling with woodsmoke, the scent that lingered in the wind was not unlike that which had blown over the island outside the village Gedda had called home not two years ago. The terms of the duel had been simple: Ulfrik, the accuser, would strike first; Gedda, the accused, would strike next. So grave was Ulfrik’s insult that Gedda had agreed to let the loser’s death determine the verdict. He who lived would be innocent; he who died, guilty. They had walked the stony ground, both bearing the same weapons—sword and shield and bitter grievance. With the whole village quiet in anticipation, the only sounds had been the distant rush of the ocean and the pounding of his heart in his throat. Gedda had known that his opponent was a helmsman of decent renown, sharp-eyed in battle as he was at sea. Yet the gravity of his circumstances had not dawned on him until Ulfrik’s blade flashed, bright and vicious, rending his sleeve. Blood had bubbled hot on his shoulder; the salt air had stung at his wound. Then, feinting with his injured shoulder, Gedda had struck Ulfrik through the belly. By the time he had wrenched his blade from his opponent’s gut, Ulfrik had turned gray in the face, unable to lift his shield against Gedda’s next slash. When dark blood had pooled beneath Ulfrik’s dead body, Gedda was innocent by the law. If only the helmsman’s accusations of cowardice had died with him.

By the time golden dawn shone over the shore, Gedda had gathered all his possessions of worth. He had scarcely begun to put the town behind him when he heard heavy footfalls behind him. “Gedda!”

Gedda had turned at the sound of a familiar voice. “Ari?” There, limned in the first light of day, was his dear friend. When they were boys, Ari and Gedda had tussled together; as men, they had sailed in the same ship and fought side by side. Now the sight of a friendly face twisted Gedda’s heart. “Why are you here?”

“I would ask the same of you.” Whereas Gedda had brought his helm and mail, Ari was not dressed for battle. “Why are you leaving? You heard the decree; you are innocent.”

“Ulfrik lies dead, but his words linger like poison in a well.” Gedda had turned away so he could not see Ari’s brow creased with concern.

“In time, they will forget,” Ari had said. “He is dead; you and I shall live on. We shall win wealth and fame. When we take wives and have sons—”

“Do not speak to me of wealth and wives and sons!” Gedda must have woken the blacksmith and his wife with his shouting, but in the moment he had not cared. “You know as well as I that Ulfrik was not the dishonest one.” Then, when it seemed that Ari was finally without words, he had added, “He was right to call me a coward, Ari. If you had seen it, would you not have done the same?" That was the last Gedda had seen of Ari. After twenty years of loyal friendship—twenty years through which he was fonder of Ari than of his own brothers—his only keepsake was the shame that followed him wherever he wandered, neither an outlaw nor an exile but nevertheless without a home.

The shadow of that shame loomed over him as he drew closer to Erik’s close kinsmen, but he refused to let it darken his face. As Segrim mined wisdom from ancient verse, Gedda let the exile’s words echo in his ears. There was a man who, dishonored or not, made something of himself.

He said nothing more even as he peered around the dancing flames to see Åse and Kjartan once more. Where they planned to go, he did not know. Yet Gedda himself was restless, and the whisper of the water on the sand stirred a need to sail again.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Sorry that this CS took so long! Polishing up my painting ended up taking a little longer than expected. Here's my submission:

Gedda Salmundsen

GEDDA SALMUNDSEN

---

Gedda’s hair shone red in the firelight as he approached one of the great bonfires that lined the shore. A circle of warriors laughed and shouted before the flame, their crude words flowing as freely as the wine. “Looking fair, Gedda.” A heavy hand landed on his shoulder; he brushed it off and reached for a cup of wine. A chorus of japes followed; spoken through the haze of drink, they were no real insults. Despite his smooth features, his friends in the band knew him to be a fierce fighter—for his swift blade had cut the bellies of many Englishmen—and hardly questioned his fortitude. They often joked that Gedda could swim like his namesake, though he was quick to remind them not to mock the name his father gave him. Now he was determined to drink like one, but only after paying homage to his fallen lord.

Turning his back on his companions, Gedda approached Erik’s pyre. The flames leapt before his eyes as he watched his lord’s burning body shrivel in the fire. From where he stood, he could see neither Kjartan’s eyes nor Åse’s, but he had heard that Erik’s widow was not much younger than himself—perhaps too young to lose her husband. He surmised that she was silent from grief; Gedda’s quiet was not so sorrowful, borne more out of being mired in his own thoughts. At twenty, he had been busy telling tales around the fire and ingratiating himself with Erik’s men. Now, a year later, he hardly knew with whom he would sail when the sun rose. While the warriors in Erik’s service had traded many stories over the months, none of them knew of the trouble he had left behind.

As the briny air blew over the beach, intermingling with woodsmoke, the scent that lingered in the wind was not unlike that which had blown over the island outside the village Gedda had called home not two years ago. The terms of the duel had been simple: Ulfrik, the accuser, would strike first; Gedda, the accused, would strike next. So grave was Ulfrik’s insult that Gedda had agreed to let the loser’s death determine the verdict. He who lived would be innocent; he who died, guilty. They had walked the stony ground, both bearing the same weapons—sword and shield and bitter grievance. With the whole village quiet in anticipation, the only sounds had been the distant rush of the ocean and the pounding of his heart in his throat. Gedda had known that his opponent was a helmsman of decent renown, sharp-eyed in battle as he was at sea. Yet the gravity of his circumstances had not dawned on him until Ulfrik’s blade flashed, bright and vicious, rending his sleeve. Blood had bubbled hot on his shoulder; the salt air had stung at his wound. Then, feinting with his injured shoulder, Gedda had struck Ulfrik through the belly. By the time he had wrenched his blade from his opponent’s gut, Ulfrik had turned gray in the face, unable to lift his shield against Gedda’s next slash. When dark blood had pooled beneath Ulfrik’s dead body, Gedda was innocent by the law. If only the helmsman’s accusations of cowardice had died with him.

By the time golden dawn shone over the shore, Gedda had gathered all his possessions of worth. He had scarcely begun to put the town behind him when he heard heavy footfalls behind him. “Gedda!”

Gedda had turned at the sound of a familiar voice. “Ari?” There, limned in the first light of day, was his dear friend. When they were boys, Ari and Gedda had tussled together; as men, they had sailed in the same ship and fought side by side. Now the sight of a friendly face twisted Gedda’s heart. “Why are you here?”

“I would ask the same of you.” Whereas Gedda had brought his helm and mail, Ari was not dressed for battle. “Why are you leaving? You heard the decree; you are innocent.”

“Ulfrik lies dead, but his words linger like poison in a well.” Gedda had turned away so he could not see Ari’s brow creased with concern.

“In time, they will forget,” Ari had said. “He is dead; you and I shall live on. We shall win wealth and fame. When we take wives and have sons—”

“Do not speak to me of wealth and wives and sons!” Gedda must have woken the blacksmith and his wife with his shouting, but in the moment he had not cared. “You know as well as I that Ulfrik was not the dishonest one.” Then, when it seemed that Ari was finally without words, he had added, “He was right to call me a coward, Ari. If you had seen it, would you not have done the same?" That was the last Gedda had seen of Ari. After twenty years of loyal friendship—twenty years through which he was fonder of Ari than of his own brothers—his only keepsake was the shame that followed him wherever he wandered, neither an outlaw nor an exile but nevertheless without a home.

The shadow of that shame loomed over him as he drew closer to Erik’s close kinsmen, but he refused to let it darken his face. As Segrim mined wisdom from ancient verse, Gedda let the exile’s words echo in his ears. There was a man who, dishonored or not, made something of himself.

He said nothing more even as he peered around the dancing flames to see Åse and Kjartan once more. Where they planned to go, he did not know. Yet Gedda himself was restless, and the whisper of the water on the sand stirred a need to sail again.

Star Wars: The Heretic

Sorry I've been quiet here lately. On Monday I had a death in the family, so I've been a bit out of it. @Fiscbryne, @Auz and I have started our next collab and we'll post as soon as we can.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Hey! This RP looks very interesting. The historical setting is very intriguing and I love the rich interiority of the character posts; they lend a lot of insight. I've seen only a couple posts in IC, but may I ask if you're still open for new characters to apply?