The world is ever changing, much more so for someone like Timoleon. Awoken after centuries of slumber, the legendary shaman gazes upon his people and barely recognizes their ways, their lives and those who hold power. Worst of all, his shamans are being ignored, replaced by the Volva and their schemes.

( Choice: )
Aagolmur is where the heart of Mannheim beats… and where Timoleon chose to remind the world what a shaman is.

The hills echoed with the raucous laughter of inebriated men even through the sturdy wood walls that kept the howling gale at bay. Roaring fires and ale warmed the men as they drank and made merry despite the unreasonable blizzard, the red and golden light they cast shining through the small cracks between the timbers of the longhouse. At the head of the table sat Gorm, jarl and lord of these lands, his chosen consort, Astrid, draped lazily across his lap as he spoke with quiet intensity to his neighbor, Skarde of Livmar. Around them the men drank and sang to the skald’s tune, their rough voices almost drawing out the surprisingly complex melodies he coaxed from his dråmba.Despite complaining about the bitter cold and demanding the door be shut quickly, only a few of the guests noticed the door open to admit a hunched old man. Fewer still paid attention to his careful progress from the door, now thankfully shut, to the father edge of the longhouse where the skald sat. It was only when the skald stopped playing and spoke with the elder that the men started paying attention. It was only by the time the skald had hopped off his stool and hesitantly made his way to the jarl that enough of the men had noticed the deference the skald paid the old stranger and the word shaman started being whispered across the hall. Carefully attuned to the mood of the men, Astrid quickly sensed the changing mood in the hall despite being engrossed in the details of Gorm’s proposal to Skarde… Not that she wasn’t aware of them, since she was the one who had suggested this cooperation in the first place. Unfortunately by the time she lifted her head and turned her feline eyes upon the interloper, the skald had brought him to the clear circle before the Jarl and the men were quiet. Dammit, she thought… no chance to deal with this quietly and efficiently…In time even Gorm noticed the silence, or perhaps her own changed posture, and turned to the intruder. Before he could speak the skald knelt and spoke in confident and clear voice. ‘My lord, I would honor my duty and present to you a shaman who has travelled far to offer his wisdom.’ The skald blanched at Astrids displeased hiss and could not hide his surprise when the shaman stepped forward and announced himself. ‘I am Timoleon, perhaps known to you and your kin as the Lion,’ he spoke with a quiet confidence. ‘And I come to claim what is mine by right. You are sitting on my chair. ’A cat’s footsteps could have been heard in the few seconds of stunned silence that followed. Seizing the moment, Astrid laughed scornfully and the men followed. Soon almost the entire hall was laughing at the brazen stupidity of the shaman. In fact the only individual who was not laughing was the Skald. Who had gone very pale indeed.

( Choice: )
Disrespect will not be tolerated. Teach these pups a lesson they will not soon forget. I will sort out this mess when their blood has run cold and the alcohol that dulls their senses has has flown from their bodies.

Howls of laughter pealed off the walls as the warriors laughed, but Timoleon remained unmoved.

“The words have been spoken. The challenge issued,’ he reminded the crowd testily. ‘Respond or be called craven.’ The laughter continued until the men saw the fury rising in Gorm’s eyes.

‘Those words will cost you your life old man,’ he said as he gestured to one of his Chosen warriors forward. Ever eager to prove himself, Einulf stepped forward, drawing his sword as he did so.

‘You are either brave, or addled, old man,’ the young warrior said as he sized up his hunched foe while the warriors scrambled to form a Circle. ‘You could have begged for your life and escaped with a beating before you said those words. Now…’, he shrugged as if to emphasize the futility of Timoleon’s position.

With only the barest shuffle to betray his intention the warrior lunged, extending his sword arm fully and driving his blade with incredible speed towards the elder as he sought to end this farce quickly.

That small shuffle cost him his life. Timoleon was older, slower, and weaker than his opponent but when they telegraph their move so clearly there was no need for speed or strength. A quick sidestep and sharp rotation of his body allowed him to bring the sharpened end of his walking stick forward into line as the young warrior used all of the explosive power of his lightning-fast lunge to impale himself through the throat.

The hall howled with laughter as blood flowed and the limp body of Einulf sagged and finally fell limp to the floor. Einulf had not been well liked in the Hall and his quick defeat was cause for much laughter for everyone but Gorm, whose own fury rose as he saw himself humiliated by the abject failure of his own Chosen.

‘Enough!’, he bellowed in a voice like thunder and all laughter in the hall ended at once. Gorm gestured towards Njal, the greatest warrior amongst his Chosen to step forward. Catching his mans arm, he dragged Njal close and whispered, ‘Deal with this worm and Astrid is yours’. Before shoving the man towards the Circle. Laughter had by now stopped as the men finally started to realize this could get serious.

As Njal took up position before the Timoleon, the shaman turned to look towards Gorm. ‘Your Champion fell, Carl. Your lands and title are forfeit.’

At this Gorm laughed, his booming voice drowning the worried whispers of his men as he turned, raising his arms to gesture expansively to the men arrayed all around them. ‘Old man, each and every one of these warriors would fight you on my behalf should you by some miracle manage to defeat Njal.’ He turned again towards Timoleon and leered at the old man.

‘Is that so?’, asked Timoleon, his voice quiet and deathly as a gentle wind worked it’s way around the hall. At his gesture the doors of the Hall blew inward and a blinding wall of white blew into the Hall, the thundering roar of the tamed storm drowning out the shouts of Gorm’s men.

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

Mornings after a heavy snowfall were always quiet. The heavy, smooth blanket of snow hiding the jagged shapes of reality beneath it. Unfortunately, it couldn’t do much for the blood that had pooled beneath it and spoiled its pristine state. He could hear the steady drip, drip, drip of water, or at least what he hoped was water, behind him along with the too careful movements of the thralls and wives who had come to clear the mess.

Damn it. He had lost his temper and overdone it again. Timoleon sighed heavily as he looked over the winter landscape and squinted at the glaring light that assaulted his eyes.  There was once a time when his will and temper were forged of steel and could handle all forms of provocation without making him lose control. Now the inane barking of a toothless pup had gotten to him. He sighed again and turned back to the old hall. There was a lot of cleanup to do, and he was responsible for most of it, so it made no sense to delay it any longer. With one last sigh Timoleon started walking back towards the longhouse and the terrified, accusing looks of its remaining inhabitants.

At least he had spared the warriors. Those that had enough sense not to attack him, at least. Even Njal might survive. But those fingers would be touch and go…

Dammit.

He needed to find somebody to take care of this. And he had just killed or disabled the entire pool of possible candidates. What to do? What to do?

Choice

Dammit: And these are my lands. This is my fault. So, the people are technically my responsibility. At least until Njal recovers use of his fingers. Hopefully.

Damnation, he thought, eyeing the groaning Njal. For all their youthful stupidity, they had shown spirit. As frustrated by their attitude as he had been, would he have been less disappointed if its leaders had just bent the knee, simply because an old man told them to? No.

Besides, he needed them. On one hand, this was more their world than his and their insight could prove valuable. On the other, Timoleon never liked the feel of sitting in the forefront. The mists were where he excelled, where his work was done. He needed this Njal to stand in the spotlight, as he moved the pieces from the shadows.

He knelt over the injured youth, checking the hand he had injured. He sighed, annoyed. Useless.

“Open your eyes” he said commandingly in the end. “I want you to see this. I want you to witness the power of centuries. I want you to know who I am, what I can do… and what I can offer.”

Njal’s eyes widened as the old shaman’s turned white. His hand grew cold, then colder still. He looked terrified as ice crackled and sighed, crawling from the old man’s fingers unto his, until it covered his hand all the way to his wrist. He grunted, as the ice forced his broken bones back to their place and it burned his wounds. It was painful, more painful than most things he had endured in life… until the frost claimed his hand’s senses entirely. A cold sensation replaced the feeling of his hand; a layer of glittering ice covered it and he realized that he could move it, ice cracking and reforming with every move.

The old man looked straight in his eyes, as the whiteness gave way to grey eyes once more.

“Get up, Njal Frosthand” he said. “You have work to do.”

He had been out of the game for too long. 

Njal was all too happy to share all he knew about the situation in Mannheim and Timoleon realized just how true that was. The Volva, those power-hungry harpies, had been too successful in his absence and his shamans too complacent in their duties. Now one of those witches was raising an army, ready to raid the south, while the rest were spreading their influence across the seats of the High Table. 

Not that Njal, of course, really knew or grasped any of this. His uses were as limited as they were straightforward. But what he did know and what he could share – all the while marveling at his hand, dreaming of sagas about Njal Frosthand – was enough for Timoleon to figure out the rest. He had been out of the game for too long, but not long enough so as not to know how to still play – or what the stakes truly were. 

The Volva were messing with powers they did not understand, powers best left undisturbed and ignored, even if not forgotten. Few knew of them, truly knew of them, beyond him but not few enough as far as he was concerned.

This would be his mess to clean too.

Choice

Wake the shamans: You need many hands to silence many mouths – and the Volva were blabbering their nonsense all over the land. The shamans should be woken from their complacent stupor and assume the role and duties intended for them. If he controlled the North, it did not matter what this Osesigne did in the South.

It lies on a half-lit forest. The branches above let a few rays of moonlight pass through but that is all. Dust, seeds and snowflakes float, dancing ever so slowly, ever so delicately, in harmonic patterns. Now and then, some of them glitter as they catch the moonlight and yet they never leave their defined trajectories. There is a design formed by these patterns, the shape of his land hovering above him, every corner, crevice and secret of which he knows. He is a frail, white-haired man, his long beard resting on his crossed legs in the middle of a small clearing, closed eyes, breath calm. But behind the closed eyelids, the pupils run wildly, like a man dreaming, and a drop of sweat forms now and then on his forehead. Above him, the dance continues.

At the far sides, the dance is slow, the tempo easy. Circles of seeds hold firm: they are the frontiers and they define the dance and the shape of the design. In each one seed lays such a giant, healthy tree, lay all the trees it was until it reached that age, and all the trees it will be after. And there lay this tree’s children and grandchildren and their grandchildren after that. Each seed is a forest, if one knows how to look. Each forest is beaming with life. And life is power.

Further in, the dance now grows harsher and harsher, dust and snowflakes mixing in an ever increasing violent tempo. Slowly, as the currents grow stronger, the dust and snowflakes separate, the dust being pushed towards the seeds, the snowflakes gathering in the center. They gather and gather, spinning faster and faster. And the snow turns to water only it keeps spinning faster and faster still, until steam starts hissing, its mist forming new patterns until…
The old man opens his eyes. They are white, whiter than snow. He opens his mouth.

*    *    *

Ingjir looked with frowned eyes as the mist gathered in the village below. It glided slowly between buildings, until they all seemed to float in a white sea of smoke. Then it slid purposefully uphill, towards his shack. The old shaman’s frown grew deeper still, as he tightened his cloak around him but to no avail. The mist slithered inside his boots and he shivered, the shiver crawling against his skin, from his legs, up his spine until…

Find me.

Ingjir’s eyes widened. “Yes, old one” he muttered to the mist.

He blinked, his grey eyes focusing once more, as dust, seeds and snowflakes dropped all around him. He felt alive, more alive than he had felt since he woke up, including when he fought Njal and his fellows. The ancient, lost power he had wielded still pulsated inside him, each pulse stronger than any explosion of adrenaline, stronger even than any substance infused ecstasy. But like such substances, this too would wear off, he knew, and the return to the banality of normality would hit harder too. Like such substances, it could be extremely addictive. He needed to be careful for his old age and his vast experience were of no help; if anything, they made it easier to succumb. At least they allowed him to know better than to make any decisions in this state of ecstasy or the one the lethargy that would follow. He could consider the options but he’d take his time to decide.

He had that luxury. The shamans, every single one of them taught the proper rights at least, had heard his call. So they would come to him but it would take time, weeks even. Once gathered, they would expect a sure voice to name their purpose and a firm hand to keep them focused. There should be no deliberations or debates; only a purpose given. And he had a couple of ideas.

Choice

Wisdom – Flattery and promises are easy to wield but don’t win wars; what they do win are competitors and the anger of those ignored. Let the shamans support those with wiser ears for the seats of power. Jarls and Konungyr have been raised high by the sycophancies of Volvas. When they fall, they will fall hard, a tough lesson and one not easily ignored.

“Ancient One, we did…”

“You did nothing.”

He did not yell. He did not even raise his voice in the slightest. You did not intimidate old, powerful men; he knew this better than most. Instead, he had delivered the words flatly and surely. They were a statement, not an accusation, a realization that they would inevitably reach, if they did the taxing thing of being honest with themselves.

“Nearly all of the longhouses of importance house Volvas,” he went on, in the same tone “while most of you are satisfied with lingering in secluded shacks outside the towns and villages, playing the wise sages to the handful of locals that still come to you. This, however, will change.”

“With respect, oh Old One, whatever this assembly will decide, it will do so as it has done for centuries of your absence.”

“And yet,” he retorted “in those centuries of my absence some things did not change. When one says ‘with respect’, for instance, one still means ‘sod off, kindly.’ I will say this. You keep calling me ancient and old. Both are true but of little importance. I am the Eldest. Stay silent and listen until you are asked. All in this assembly will be called to raise their voices, as ever.”

This, he knew, would not sit well with many. It did not but silence did fall in the assembly. Noting the expressions of all assembled, he let them stew in their angry juices for a while, before he spoke again.

“As I said, before someone’s respect interrupted me, nearly all of the longhouses of importance house Volvas. This will change. We will take an account and decide upon which seats of the High Table are key to turning the tide. Once those seats are decided, each of you with ties to those longhouses’ opponents will come forward and suggest a plan to raise their allies to power instead of the Volva’s puppets. Should any of you wish to seek my counsel on their case, I offer it freely, but these plans must be finalized before the end of Runwater and the coming of Sail. They must not be plans of battles and feuds, although I have no doubt those will be needed on occasion. We are not to declare war; we are to allow for change.”

“Why this Sail, Eldest?” one asked, when he fell silent.

“Their greatest ally,” he went on “and strongest pawn is the Konungyr Gudmund. In this, the Volvas help us. He is to lead an army South. Once he is gone, we must be ready to make our move.”

“The Volvas are well entrenched, Eldest,” another spoke. “They have woven themselves into the houses they influence. There is no wall that their webs of lies have not covered and their twisted roots hold the foundations of rundown houses strong.”

“Bring down a house, and the rats and spiders will starve. Let them seek refuge in the wreckage, if they so wish. We will burn them out later. No one cares when a ruin is set on fire. As for those rooted as strongly as you say, well then cut the root itself. This will be our summer.”

He paused, leaning forwards, eyeing each of his fellow shamans in turn as he went on.

“We are shaman,” he said, simply. “We are the counsels of Konungyr and Einherjar, the givers of wisdom. Let us offer it now freely to the fools that ignored our words and fell for sycophants. Teach them anew, what they never should have forgotten: we are the ice and mist and fog of Mannheim. We are the rain and wind of the north. Come this Howler, let all remember.”

Choice

Operation Success

“What manner of a name is Kaupmannhof?” he growled.

“It is a southern name,” Eiggor said. “Things have… changed, Old One. Many of Nord blood now live in the south. Their ways, and tongue, have leaked to Kaupmannhof for they do trade.” He paused, fearing the old shaman’s reaction. None came. If snow or ice had an expression, then Timoleon wore it, hiding his thoughts behind cold eyes.

“Go on,” he simply said, after a while. Eiggor was young – well, who wasn’t? – but he had shown much more cunning and wisdom than many of his elder shamans. His words carried weight and, more importantly, proved insightful and provided a… modern point of view.

“Kaupmannhof has no interest in the Old Ways. The Volva have pockets here, same as we do, but neither holds dominion in any way that moves the city. Kaupmenn care about neither Volva nor shaman. What they care about is gold and trade.”

This was obvious, he thought bitterly. There were more stalls here than he would see in all the rest of Mannheim combined, he figured, while the looks the two shamans were getting while walking between them held no respect, much less reverence.  These people were seeing no wisdom in their tattered robes; just empty pockets.

“Then why are we here?” he asked in the end. It’s not because it was on our way to Aarheim from Anslo so spit it.”

“With shamans soon whispering in the ears of most houses of note, there is little chance that the High King will not hear us, Old One, that is true. But you above all else should know that Angbjorn wants as few troubles as possible. Bring him a dispute and he will turn on you as likely as he is to welcome you. But if you bring a dispute ended, he will be a happy King.

Timoleon nodded but said nothing, so Eiggor went on.

“If news is right, Gudmund has taken a city and by the looks of it he will be forced to spend the winter there, lest he returns defeated. While the Volva, Osesigne, has promised him swordarms, blooded and even a destiny, men like Gudmund know that all of these can also be purchased. What he truly needs, is much more immediate and simple; gold.

Once more, Timoleon remained silent, his eyes dancing between the stalls around him. At some point he stopped and walked to one, his lips thinning when the merchant said something dismissive.

“If you want,” Eiggor went on, following him, “we can keep going to Aarheim and you can speak to the High King. You, if anyone, could make him listen. Even with his support, however, I doubt things will remain peaceful for long. We have surprised the Volva; but we have not defeated them. With so many houses lost to them, it is likely that they will reinforce their support of this Osesigne’s scheme and her pawn. They will back this Gudmund, if nothing else just so they can keep a place on the Table. Going to Angbjorn now is the proper way, the Nord way. It will also divide the table and if blood wants to run on snow, it will run on snow. But, you could also sail to Rimburg.”

“Why Rimburg?” Timoleon asked, almost absent-mindedly as he was scanning the wares of a stall. He picked up a southern trinket, some old brooch, with a sun emblem on it and starred at it silent for some time. Eventually, he nodded for Eiggor to continue.

“The Hanse Guild,” Eiggor said, “this alliance of tradesmen between Nords and southerners, is a multi-headed beast. Most of them will not listen unless you sell or buy. But Rimburg’s Queen is a warrior and a Nord soul. Even if she is technically a southerner, she respects the law of Nørn and abides to the Nørnting. She also holds coin; lots of it for her quarries are rich. Which means she has a voice in the guild. Convince her that Gudmund holding his city is good for her; Hela, provide her a chance to keep a friendly foothold in her neighbor’s lands. This way you will show Gudmund that true strength lies with the shamans, not the promises of pretty Volva.”

“Or,” Timoleon added, finally producing a shiny gold nugget from his robes and tossing it indifferently to the merchant, while pocketing the brooch, leaving the man stunned. “I possibly end up helping protect the one strong pawn the Volva keep on the board.”

Choice

Sail to Rimburg.

It was a different world than the one he remembered; this much was certain.

It wasn’t just the sight of Rimburg as they entered the port; a city both Nord and southern alike, with towering walls once worthy of an empire’s capital. Nor was it the sight of an enormous floating construction, digging into the walls of the fjord’s mouth, a floating quarry sucking on the bone-marrow of the earth. Such wonders in the eyes of Nords he half-expected in the south. No. It was more the simple, little things that made this world strange. The number of ships gathered in the harbor, the style of the buildings – half-Nord wooden houses, half stone constructions more befit to jewel the shores of the Bounty. That castle of grey stoned, named “Longhouse” according to Eiggor but looking nothing like one. Even their longboat was larger, more comfortable for travelers, influenced by the designs of southerners.

This, he mused, was not necessarily a bad thing. All things in life had to move and evolve or stagnate, die and be forgotten. But still, his old bones were now very old. Change did not come easy, to adopt or to accept and where others saw comfort the ancient shaman saw decadence. Still, he had missed the feeling of the wind in his beard, clawing at his skin with bitter cold and drops of seawater. Juggling the brooch he had bought in Kaupmannhoff between his fingers, he allowed himself the luxury of letting his mind roam free to days long gone.

“Ancient one,” he heard Eiggor call for his attention. “Will you require me to contact Queen Iselinn and prepare an audience?”

“You said she respects the Nørnting,” he answered.

“She does but she is of the south as well. No shaman has visited the south, none of such importance at least. There are southern ways and customs that would perhaps serve us if observed.”

He grunted as a response, tossing the brooch into the harbor’s waters.

It was a different world indeed.

Choice

Send Eiggor to prepare an audience.

He had heard she was a warrior. She was a Queen. She was an Admiral. And she was now knitting, her eyes dancing over a book on the stand next to her. Sitting in a chair before a roaring fireplace, Queen Iselinn raised her head to look at him when he entered, smiled warmly and, living her work and needles on the book, she got up and nodded her head courtly.

Timoleon liked her immediately. If she this was an honest display, a multi-faceted person was fertile ground for greatness. If it was simply for his benefit, well, knowing what would impress an ally or an enemy was to be liked and admired in a Queen.

“Old One,” she said. “Your wisdom is welcome to my Hall.”

“Then, such as it is, I offer it in service to your rule, Queen,” he returned the old greeting. She smiled, motioning for him to sit opposite her, while herself walked to a table where an impressive assortment of drinks and foods awaited. She came back only with bread, which she broke in two with her hands, offering one piece to him, before she resumed her seat.

“Knitting?” he asked.

“Were I not a Queen or such a gifted killer, Old One, I’d be a seamstress, I think,” she sighed. “The principle’s the same, I guess. Wave around the pointy end with precision,” she laughed and he mimicked her.

“Thank you for observing the southern protocols,” she added. “It is important to my Court and my people alike; with one foot north, the other south, balance can sometimes be hard to achieve.”

He nodded before he spoke. “I must admit that this invitation surprised me. Eiggor threatened me with a grand court, public exchange of pleasantries, boring talks from dignitaries…”

“Alas, those will happen too,” she said. “They must. Then, the rumors will spread like wildfire. I entertain spies from both the south and the High Table in my court and there will be no end to their guesses. Much as I appreciate it, your announcement, Old One, might have tipped your hand, I fear. But for now, at least, I thought a more private meeting would be more productive and more pleasant.”

“And I thank you for that,” he answered. “I have little patience for such things and provide even less entertainment.”

“Oh, no! Don’t thank me!” she said. “I did it for me. I remember my skalds, Old One. Better catch an adder with bare hands than to deal with a shaman when they’re sour.”

“If you already know this, Queen, then I fear my Wisdom won’t be so beneficial to your Court. That is, for the most part, what I teach these days.”

“Then let us agree that such lessons won’t be needed here,” she said pleasantly but with an edge dressing her voice. “The Kingdom’s banner already sports a stone fist. We do not need an ice one too. We find stone harder and more fitting for us.”

“We are in agreement,” he said simply.

“Good. Since my Court’s Wisdom’s been established,” she asked, “what is it you came seeking here, Old One?”

Choice

An ally.

The shaman stayed quiet for a time and Queen Iselinn did not press for an answer. Instead, she smiled at him and stood up once more. She reached the rich table and started slowly pouring strong ale in cups for both. Her back was turned at him while doing so and she was very aware of that fact. It was, she realized, like being trapped in a room with a predator; an aged, well fed and very calm predator but still one you wanted to keep in view. For when one didn’t, one was wondering if an attack was coming so strongly that with time the “if” turned to “when” and “how.” Keeping her composure only like a warrior queen could, she poured the ale calmly, then turned perhaps a little quickly once finished, only to see him slouching in his armchair in an almost awkwardly comfortable manner, lost in his own thoughts while he stared into the ether.

It was too easy for one to mistake him for a senile old man, trapped in the failings of his own mind – but then again, all the best predators lulled your guard, one way or another, she thought. She had to be careful around that man. She walked calmly to him, offering the cup while calling for his attention, as if trying to gently wake up a tired old man with a cup of warmed honeymilk on a cold winter morning. His eyes snapped back to focus and he accepted the cup with a sharp nod.

“I came seeking an ally,” he said, as if not a moment had passed since her question. She heard him water his lips in the ale, tasting it before he took two good gulps but once she had resumed her seat, his clouded, grey eyes were measuring her sharply. She gave him a pleasant, patient smile. “I would be pleased if I left knowing I had one,” he added. Still, she kept to her silence, waiting for him to go on. She was pleased when she noticed a hint of a smile quiver on his lips before his cup hid them.

Silence fell in the room, as they both quietly enjoyed their ale, interrupted by the sound of her pendulum timer. He commented on it and she informed him of this new invention from Arburg, a luxury she had allowed herself despite its cost. The conversation stirred in other directions for some time before silence crept softly in the room once more. Weighing each and every subject he had raised, she was not surprised when he spoke again at last.

“The Nords are being pulled in two different directions,” he said. “You, if anyone, must feel that pull. I see a Nord heart pumping blood to a southern mind.”

“Is that a bad thing, Old One?” she asked.

“It is a temporary thing,” he said. “A war, a struggle over the sword arm. Which will move it, the heart or the mind? The split second it could take for that to be decided is the split second that life can be snatched away. Hesitation kills a warrior surer than the enemy.”

“What enemy would that be?” she asked almost nonchalantly.

“Ask a better question,” he said flatly, much to her annoyance.

“What would an ally do during such a war?” she asked and this time he smiled.

“Hold steel in one hand and gold in the other,” he answered. “And use whichever is necessary. Eingar brought me here to wield your coffers against my enemies, for you and me to decide the fate of Gudmund and the city he holds in the land of Riismark. It might be needed. But before long, steel will be the most precious metal in Mannheim once more. I want you to be my sword in the north and my shield in the south.”

Silence fell for a little as she revisited her drink.

“A precarious position,” she commented. “There is a very fragile balance I’ve been keeping. Disturbing it could prove catastrophic for my people. What would an ally gain from such an alliance?” she asked as she was putting her empty cup on her small table.

“A seat at the table of the winning side in the North,” he said with a certainty that made her skin crawl. “A sure and guaranteed footing in the South.” He paused for a moment, eyeing her with narrowed, calculative eyes, before he went on. “Know this: Mannheim shall be shaken. Its foundations will tremble at their very core, as the deepest roots of its trees and the abysses of its dark seas shall rise to claim it like in the sagas of old. The time of… refined barbarity is drawing to an end. Soon, the mind and the heart will clash over the sword-arm. And make no mistake, Queen Iselinn; I will be the one to decide which shall wield the sword.”

Choice

Agree – Queen Iselinn will be an ally to Timoleon’s efforts.

To his credit, Eingar remained silent throughout the walk to the port. Silent in all the ways that mattered, that is. He never questioned about Timoleon’s meeting with the Queen, only he had hidden his curiosity and desire behind a series of unrelated facts, about Rimburg, about Norvden, about the castle and about the quarries, even about some of the Queen’s Table gossip. Had he asked for a better guide, Timoleon would have had a hard time finding one, even as the young shaman had more than once admitted that he was just repeating things he’d learned the night before. Eventually, however, and as the port’s smell filled their nostrils, Eingar asked something as close to what he wanted to as he dared.

“So, are we leaving then, Ancient One?”

“We are, Eingar,” the old shaman replied, his eyes betraying the smile he kept from his lips.

“Ah,” the man exclaimed, after he realized Timoleon would say no more. “And would you have me accompany you, Ancient One, or would you send me elsewhere?”

“Is my company so boring to you, Eingar, or my teaching so commonplace, that you would leave me already?”

“Oh, no, Lion, I would follow you if you’ll have me,” Eingar said quickly. “It’s just, I do not know…”

“Good,” Timoleon said sharply. “Now keep your silence, I need to think.”

He wondered, for a moment, if that had been too harsh. It did not last for his thoughts were soon racing. The Queen had agreed to an alliance, promising her support in his efforts to rally the Nords and bring them, kicking and screaming, if need be, to the wars that lie ahead. And lie ahead they did and Timoleon could see them more clearly than he did the ships docked before him. Often, in the past and recently, he had been accused of speaking in riddles and veiling his intentions behind mysticism and parables. He did no such thing. He spoke as plainly as he would to himself and if the rest failed to understand, that was their problem, not his. For all he cared, what he had said to Queen Iselinn the night before about the future was exactly as he saw it. And the question remained: the time of noble barbarity was drawing to an end. Where would the Nords walk next?

No. This was not the time to ask that question. It was drawing near, but not yet. For now the question was much simpler and much more grounded. Was it time to go to the High Table?

The answer, he felt, was finally yes. His shamans had worked against the machinations of the volvas, his chosen had supplanted the puppets of the Valkyries and their so-called religion and the world was preoccupied with their own problems. This was the time of the Nords. This was his time. To the High King it was.

He halted, a surprised Eingar almost tripping by the sudden stop then startled by the presence of the ship-captain that came to stand before them. Seasoned and grey-haired, the woman had all but salt instead of eyebrows and seawater for blood. She nodded curtly but sharply once she stood before him. Issode, Timoleon suspected, right hand to Iselinn, most trusted and faithful of her captains, and – if Eingar’s earlier gossip was true – hopelessly enamored with her Queen.

“The Northern Star is ready for you, Ancient One,” she said with a no-nonsense attitude. “But the Queen suggested you might not wish to use her and send us elsewhere instead.”

Choice

To Aarheim, Captain – Timoleon will sail with the Queen’s ship to Aarheim; a display of influence that is bound to turn heads.

They came into port on Market day.

Many were those that turned to see the royal ship, flying the stone fist of Angburg’s royal house of Sandor and the convoluted coat of arms of the Hanse guild, along with an array of other colors that Timoleon could not recognize and had not cared to ask. All he cared about was that they drew eyes, eyes that would see the ancient shaman standing tall and proud over the ship’s figurehead. And saw they did for it was, as he had planned, Market day.

“Well, Ancient One,” Eiggor said from behind him. “We have surely made an entrance. It won’t be long until every representative of the High Table knows who we are and how we arrived. Is that to your liking?”

“It is,” he said with a smile. “Let them see, Eiggor. Let their tongues run faster than the snow on the peaks of Gald dances with the wind. Let their masters drown in doubt about what I want and how I plan to take it. Let the fear settle in their hearts before I tell them what tune they’ll beat to.”

“Have you no fear, Ancient One?” Eiggor asked. “The High King is Einherjar and he does not take kindly to challengers, nor is his temper mild.”

“Worry not about Angbjorn,” Timoleon laughed. “He will not raise a hand on me. Worry about the vipers in the grass and the eels in the holes. When we moor, I want you to run to the Maiden’s Kiss and find Njal. He should be here, already. When you find him, come meet me.”

“Will you be going straight to the King’s Longhouse, Ancient One?”

Choice

Yes – We must not give time to vipers and eels. When they meet me, I will be already sitting at the High Table.

It was Summer and Sailspell at that; that meant everyone was out, enjoying the chill day the sun offered.

And so it was that all in Aarheim saw him walk through the busy market at the port. Gossips watched and rumors were born, as he walked up the main path from the port to the Longhouse, where the High Table of the King was sheltered. Spotters and minions saw him be challenged by a patrol, only for him to ignore them and them, uncertain, forgetting their challenge. Pickets and sycophants saw him as the guards before the Longhouse’s palisades crossed their weapons before him, then retrieved them hastily with but a sideways look from him. And then, all that stood between him and the High King’s home, was a short path up the hill that overlooked the city. A path, with a female figure waiting at its end, before the closed doors.

Timoleon smiled.

“I remember you. Are you here to thank me for sparring you?” he asked, standing but a dozen steps from her.

“I am Astrid Engendottir,” she said in a loud voice, loud enough, perhaps, to be heard by those watching from outside the palisades. “Consort of Gorm whose blood is on your hands. I have been waiting for you, Lion.”

“To what end, I wonder, Volva,” he answered. If she was surprised, she did not show it. “It is not vengeance, this I know. No. It is your sisters’ bidding you are here to do. You cannot hope to stop me.”

“I wield Ose’s gifts,” she said. “I know how this ends.”

“You may wield her gifts,” he answered, resting on his staff, no more than an old man in tattered grey robes and hair tangled and wild. “But I fear none of her wisdom. What you see is what could, not what will. Stand aside. The High King awaits me.”

“The High King is sleeping off his drunken night,” she said only this time her voice was tempered, lowered. “It is, you will find, all that he has been good at for some time. Who do you think has been leading the Nords while you slept, shaman? It was not your people. It was not the High King. It was not even the Konungyr sitting at this table.”

“And you take pride in this?” he asked, calmly. “Centuries of history full of what?”

“Patience,” she said proudly. “Until the gods’ return.”

“You would rob your people of their destiny and offer it to gods?” Anger tinted his voice.

“No,” she said proudly. “I would offer them a better one.”

“You know not what you speak of, Astrid,” he said. “The destiny of mortals never rested in the hands of gods. Wake the gods and the world will answer in kind. What do ants hope for when the titans war?”

“Glory,” she answered quickly and with pride. “Strength. Bravery. A good death. It is the old way. It is the only way for the Nords. What do you offer?” she asked.

“Choice,” he said.

“Your tongue is so forked, Lion, that your words trick you before others,” she retorted. “You speak of how the gods would rob the Nords of their destiny but in the same breath demand I stand aside and let you choose for them. What are you then, Lion? Sleeper of Centuries, Breather of Mists, Tamer of Storms, are you not god as well? For those are not the titles of mortals. I am mortal. My sisters are mortal. Can you claim the same?”

He paused, feeling the pain of every title as she spoke it.

“I hear you,” he said in the end. “And your words will be considered. But know this; Gods awake but I am not of them. Death walks but I do not bring it. Hunger growls but I speak not with its cries. I am Nord. I am Mannheim’s answer to these.”

“I hear you,” she repeated his words. “And your words will be considered.”

“Some wisdom, perhaps, after all,” he said. “Now, stand aside.”

Choice

This is not peace. – Astrid will let him pass but follow him inside, neither as a follower nor as a friend.

“This is not peace, old Lion,” she said, turning to open the way for him.

“Remember your Edda, Astrid,” he smiled. “As long as steel does not ring and seidhr does not sing, peace rules the land instead of a king,” he went on as he took a few steps, before turning to look behind. His eyebrows furrowed, scanning below, white tufts dancing before his grey eyes, as the cold breeze carried voices to his ears. Standing next to him, Astrid looked at his face for a moment before she followed his eyes.

Warriors and raiders were gathering, coming in groups from the twisting roads and alleys that led to the gate below, some still buckling belts and buttoning shirts as they walked. They were all glancing towards them, the volva and the shaman standing at the High King’s door, but the swords and axes some carried betrayed it was more than curiosity that was bringing them there. The two guards would only delay them for so long, before they ignored them. His eyes scanning towards the port, he saw the figures he was looking for among the crowd.

“Yours?” he asked without turning.

“Some,” she answered. “But do you think we would whisper in ears if the words were not longed for? The people are not mere sheep. Most came because they wanted to, not because they were told to.”

“There’s that lack of wisdom again,” he said bitterly.

“And there’s the arrogance of gods you so despise,” she answered. “I see your Frosthand among them.”

“One way or the other, I will not be disturbed, volva,” he said. “I have words for the High King and they are for his ears. Join if you must but that crowd will not get here, one way or the other.”

“For a lion, you care for sheep lives too much,” she answered and only then did he turn to face her.

“Stop them or mine will,” he said flatly.

Cold and beautiful against the morning light, she returned his stare.

Choice

“Embrace me.” – Forcing the shaman to show friendship towards the Volva, the crowd will wait for them to come out.

‘Embrace me,’ she said.

He smiled.

‘Now, that is clever,’ he admitted.

‘It is necessary,’ she said. ‘You say you bring choice.’

‘I bring nothing but sight to things unseen,’ he said. ‘I lead to a crossroads that would otherwise be missed.’

‘Then don’t pave the road as well,’ she urged him. ‘Don’t remove options before you offer choice.’ His eyes pierced her, grey clouds meeting a deep blue sky.

‘Your words are honest,’ he said in the end, turning to scan the crowd once more. ‘Yet they are not spoken by the voice of all your sisters – and you know this. Osesigne Dormdottir is travelling south and her path has blood behind her steps and blood before. Most of your elders instructed you not to come here while those that nodded their approval left you standing alone. No, Astrid, daughter of Engen. Your voice is all but alone. The reach of my embrace would engulf more than my intention.’

‘Most speak of your death,’ she said calmly; if his words had upset her, she showed no sign of it. ‘Some relented that you could be allowed to sleep once more. I…’

She paused, turning her face away.

‘I have been waiting for the gods all my life. I have prayed to names long dead and whispered tales of deeds whose echoes faded centuries ago. I have toiled to gather followers to ghosts and relics unmoving and unseen, until my works held less meaning to me than they did to others. But then, one night, I saw the power of gods return. A force of nature, an immortal who tamed the storms, claimed the mist as his mistress and ice was their child. His wrath claimed my lover and the seat of my power and comfort both in one fell swoop.’

‘Embrace me!’ she blurted as she turned to look at him, composed in all regards but the wetness of her eyes. ‘Give them the choice to see what I have seen.’

‘I have many flaws with magnitude of consequences, Astrid,’ he replied, smiling weakly. ‘I will not add Divinity to them. No, I am no god,’ he added as he turned to face her as well. ‘I am…’

Choice

‘I am a Nord.’ – Timoleon will embrace Astrid and allow her to join him in his meeting with the King. This will prevent violence today… but how the rest of the Volva’s will react, it is unknown.

“I saw him. I saw the old goat embrace her. There will be peace between Shamans and Volvas!”

Cheers and horns were raised in equal measure to meet the words, bellowing warrior voices adding to the clamor of the tavern. There was a cheerful feeling around the town, after the Old Lion embraced the Volva outside the High King’s door. The tension that was rising amongst the crowd under the longhouse, with weapons being hefted and grips tightening, as suspicious, weighing looks were being exchanged, had evaporated in an instant, with cheers and howls that kept reappearing around town; especially where the mead flowed.

“You!” the youth went on, eyeing his companion, quietly sipping from his horn. “You are too quiet – join us in joy, brother! Today is a good day!”

The man nodded, raised his horn politely, but made no move beyond that.

“Come!” the youth insisted, raising his horn to meet the stranger’s.

“Leave the man be, Sven,” a shieldmaiden said. “He enjoys his solitude, I think,” she went on, but the man nodded that it was alright.

“Nonsense!” the youth replied, shouting, a wide smile spread upon his flustered face as he brought his arm around the man’s shoulder. “Today is a day of camaraderie. We can all brood when winter comes again. What is your name, brother?”

Without replying, the man raised his horn to meet Sven’s. Sven laughed, downing the entire horn, before raising it and looking for the waiter to ask for another.

“A good day,” Sven said again. “I saw it all, I did! Did you see it, brother?” he asked, turning towards the stranger once more. “Your face is familiar, I think. Where you there?”

The man nodded.

“Good, good! A day for skalds’ songs, I say, and we were part of it, eh?”

The man nodded again.

“And yet, you still don’t cheer.”

The man said nothing.

“Are you mute, brother? Or do you simply not understand what happened?”

The warrior turned.

“I do not call myself a clever man,” he said, his voice slow. “Nor do I name myself among the wise. But I do know two things. One, is that a cold embrace hides a patient blade.”

“And the other?” asked the shieldmaiden, ignoring Sven’s confused, drunken look.

The man looked at her for moment, before taking off his glove. His palm glittered orange in the candle flames, ice breaking and mending as he moved it. Silence fell around the long table, as eyes widened with awe as they struggled to sight before them.

“Njal!” Sven muttered, excited. “The Frosthand! They say the old man did that to your hand to…” Ignoring his drunken fables, Njal brought his impossible hand between him and the shieldmaiden, eyes searching hers through the ice.

“The other is that the Lion does not forgive those who have slighted him.”

Njal got up, his size and stature revealed as he loomed over Sven next to him, an icy hand patting the youth’s shoulder.

“Drink in peace tonight… brother,” he said, almost gently. “Whatever they talk about with the King will last a spell. What the dawn will bring, I do not know.”

He reached for his horn, raised it to the table, then downed the mead.

“But when has dawn ever brought peace in Mannheim?”