Endzeiten - Cold Blows the Northern Wind [IC]

The prow of a rugged, gnarled longship quietly rowed out from the morning fog of the waters beyond Sagard’s bustling port. Tiny waves licked upon the hull of the vessel as a man stood at the bow, a hand clutched at a tie of rope wrapped about the longship’s nosepiece that lofted over the waves, aimed at one of Sagard’s many docks on the horizon. This dark haired man drew in a deep breath, his other hand grasped at the collar of his hauberk while sharp eyes examined the city in the distance.

There was a grumble from the men at the oars behind him, Roman craning his head just slightly to catch sight of Hralof passing the great mast of the longship, a towering northman draped in furs to keep the chilling wind of the southern seas. “Bannerman … “ The Ersten began, one hand carrying a waterskin that he offered to the Oster as he stood perched atop the lip of the vessel. “How many winters has it been since you were this far south?”

“So long, memory was long ago frozen in my mind with the chilled winds.” Roman said between a long drink from the skin as a gull cawed overhead. The Northman crossed his arms over his barrel shaped chest, watching the shore approach with a plentiful smile on his face.

“I thought you were exaggerating when you spoke of an Oster city, it’s … “ Hralof, for all his knowledge of the lands far north, seemed humbled at the reaching skyline of Sagard growing above the white capped waves striking her piers and docks.

“A rat den.” The Oster returned with a dry sound in his throat, and handed the skin back to Hralof as he stepped down from the hull of the longship. “We passed the frontier days ago, Norther. You’re at the crusted, abscessed fingers of civilization now.” Roman finished as the first bell sounded from the docks ahead.

“As good a place as any temple to draw coin from, no?” Hralof returned with a hearty laugh, the man’s long hair and sprawling beard catching at the wind. Roman stretched a hand out to the mast, quickly seizing a line from another Northman as the crew of the longship promptly dismantled the sail and lowered it across the length of the ship.

“In Sagard? There will be plenty to trade and silver to press - not much for a Northman to raid, though.” Roman offered as he swiped the line, the mast thunking against the hull as Hralof took a deep breath of the salty air and boomed.

“I bring so much more than fire and steel to these Oster lands this time!” He bellowed, a few of the dockhands eyeing the ship as it glided on her approach to a stone dock jutting into the cold waters of the south sea. “What of you, Roman? I’m pained to lose such an able companion.”

Roman promptly tied off the line, securing the mast with one final tug as his features hardened in thought a moment. “Saddened there’s not one last burning hut on our horizon together?” He said through a huff, leaning himself against the hull of the longship as it slowed to a stop before the pier. Hralof stretched a hand out to the Oster, a strange sight to behold for the denizens of Sagard as the two men embraced.

“I know not where your saga continues from here, but I will drink to the gods that you bring your enemies low.” Hralof encouraged, holding tight to Roman’s forearm. The Northman towered over Roman, yet the two exchanged as brothers while a few of the other oarsman offered their curt goodbyes. “Chase these cowards to the end of their days, Oster.”

“I intend to, Hralof. For myself, and your Jarl.” Roman only nodded slowly in return, afterwards dragging a satchel from his seat in the oars as the others gave him quiet farewells.

“Don’t drain the tavern before I get there, Ostman!” A red haired, gnollish looking man barked out at him, drawing his oar in and draping it down at his feet.

“Riches always fall to the man that finds them first.” Roman offered bluntly, soon lifting himself onto the pier as the Northmen began to disembark. With a final wave to Hralof, Roman spotted a young, short haired man that clambered out from the back of the longship, his blue tunic already drenched with saltwater as he let out a shout.

“Osterman! Roman!” The blue eyed youth was practically bowling into Roman even before he turned, the pair almost toppling off the pier as Ake, son of Hralof, gave a warm embrace to the Oster that had sailed with them for the better part of years. “You are to set off on your own then?”

“Aye I do, Ake. My charge to your father has come to an end … for now.” Roman offered, draping his arm across the back of the young man’s neck and giving him a hopeful tug. He had watched the lad grow from a whining boy into a young man charging across the seas alongside his father, and it wasn’t without a momentary, longing thought that he was bidding farewell to this band of Northmen now.

“You intend to challenge these cloaked evils by yourself, Roman? With no warriors to stand behind you?” Ake said, a hint of fear in his voice, and a bit of confusion as well, as the Oster adjusted the satchel draped over his shoulder.

“Not every battle is fought in a shield wall, Ake - your father is wise to this as well. In the past, our goals overlapped with the treachery that threatened your lands and lives. Now, though … “ Roman had much to tell the boy, though not so much as he had already told his father prior. Perhaps, in time, he would understand what would draw a man away from his companions as Roman had to now.

“I understand, Roman. Or at least, I think I do. If this is the path you must walk though, I pray you do not do it alone.” Ake said, the sadness in his voice drawing a pain from somewhere deep in Roman’s icy depths.

He wasn’t forgetting something, though. With a deft swipe, he slithered a gloved hand to draw out the small hand axe at Ake’s side, promptly hefting it up into the light as a smile crossed his face. “Didn’t think I’d be forgetting this, I hope?”

Ake took a step back at the sudden pickpocket, an amused smile racing across his face. “My father said you made that axe for me!” He hollered, taking a swipe for it back that was only met with empty air.

“Did I?” Roman tilted it over in the bright light of the day, watching sunlight beam from its sharpened edge and the ornate carvings that slithered about the handle. “I’m surprised you kept this thing in one piece across so many battles … I built it to break.”

Ake was silent then, only regarding the Oster before him like a child, bewildered by his elder. As he spoke next though, Roman was perhaps finally, is all his travels with the Northmen, left humbled himself. “Take it, Ostman. And let it be blooded with your enemies that stole so much from you.”






It was odd to blend into the townsfolk once again, especially as he now tread across the peoples and streets of his homeland. One man in a crowd of many, save for an occasional whisper that managed to cross Roman’s ears as he passed through the dock market and on towards the inns of Sagard. He passed a cart and exchanged a silver piece for some roasted fish, happy to fill his stomach after having spent most of the sailing with an empty one.

After a quick bite, Roman continued on into the stone labyrinth of Sagard’s inner town, past a square where sturdy watchman lorded over the peddlers and urchins picked at the refuse in the ditches. Up ahead, he found his first target - the tavern. It had been years since he had last passed through Sagard, yet he remembered the stone wall and entry through the rather calming garden as if he had just arrived for that first time.

Stepping through the door into the tavern, Roman’s eyes quickly adjusted from the brightness of the day beyond, yet felt more at home than he had anywhere else in the past ten years. Inside the alehouse, Roman only drew a brief eye from some nearby tables while he took a seat in the corner, with his back to the door. It was a mere moment before a barkeep was standing across from him, the healthily round man giving Roman a cautious eye before he finally spoke.

“Need a drink, traveler?” He inquired, noticing Roman’s empty bartop before him. The Oster silently fished a small pack of coin from his waist, dropping it onto the bartop and sliding it open while two fingers searched for the first piece for a warm brew. Just as the barkeep readied a tankard, however, his eyes narrowed over Roman’s shoulder, before a dissatisfied frown crossed beneath his bushy moustache. “Maybe you ought to have gotten a room, lest the watch follow you into my alehouse to muck everything up.”

Roman could sense a pair of new arrivals, and without even having to turn, he knew what they had arrived for. Passing through Sagard, he knew there were wandering eyes and listening ears, perhaps it had been a foolish wish to make it through Sagard unmolested, with a belly of ale to content him. He heard the clink of a blade in its scabbard, the jangle of chaimail, and one of the watchman raising his visor as he gave a shout through the alehouse.

“You, mercenary!” The watchman’s voice thundered, drawing a quiet silence as some of the other patrons found themselves caught between the town watch, and whatever prey they seemed to be searching for in this tavern.

Roman didn’t respond, instead raising his tankard of ale for a swig as the town guard took a deliberate step forward, pushing his way around a table of drinkers. “Are you deaf, sellsword? I said you - “