Post by Ulfric Vilhjálmr Arngrimsson on Jul 9, 2012 3:08:05 GMT -4
The Legacy of the Vetrvaldyr goes further back than most of its members can remember… As tales do have their way of changing in time, and history be damned by a storyteller's tongue, the lands and kings may not be as they truly are and were. This is but one such tale, spoken of the days of Arngrim Wolfcaller, here to show that even in those darkened days of memory, we Vetrvaldyr, we Winter Wolves have known one thing, loyalty to the Crown.
To preface this story it must be known, the tyranny of Arngrim’s grandfather Thorril. Known by most as Kingslayer, his was a strong seed… Sewn dutifully afore by his father, Ulfgar, breaker of oaths, who’s un-sleep is marked well in Surt’s deep dales. But the tale of blood’s redemption by Sigurd, son of Thorril, is another tale, for another time. It is suffice simply to know that the obstacles set forth by the Norns were no small hill for this man to climb.
But climb, Arngrim did. And laid aside all doubt, sacrificing all he had, and holdings, unto the Sea King, Thorvald the Axe-Dane. It is then the King granted him a retinue of a dozen spears and men of skill, to hold his Northern Keep of Oxheim for his honor. And hold he did, against the enemies of Thorvald, through years and years again.
But Thorvald was no man of virtue, neither nine nor seven nor one. This is why his enemies came, tide by tide and time by time. Arngrim grew tired, as any man would, yet fought on aimlessly. A dozen men dead, a dozen spears broken, though a dozen times that held off. And Arngrim himself saw Thorvald’s hollow, but kept true his fealty to the end. And as the enemies of Thorvald the Hollow, Axe-Dane without haft, descended for the final time. Arngrim saw his wife and child to safety, making his son swear to keep strong his oath.
“When this King shall fall to waste, the Warbands herein shall fracture. Many a Chieftain shall rise from the clans… Be wise in which one to serve, for in your oath, you shall keep eternal… Fealty to the Crown, its head yours to protect.”
With that he died, the words seared to Wilhelm’s mind and heart. Arngrim’s words were true, and the Warband Clans did arise. Járnmund, Bjargnagl, Thrunðoksr, Silfrafn, a dozen or more under shields and axes. He pledged his service, not fealty though, to the Silfrafn. Watched as he did, as Chieftains came and went, finding kinship to its predominant Chieftain, Jostal Blod-Rand.
He met then the Clanmaster, leader of the bands of war, Eindridi Gramtho. A man of the gods, much reminded he was, or stories of his own ancestor Jorri. Renewed in this manner, and with Winter settling the warmer times turbulence, Wilhelm took back to his religious studies. The runes found him well, as he learned their ways, lending service to the Clans. It was these very runes that would predict the next waves of his journey; The Time of the Brothers Thronar.
These times would bring again the tides of war, and glorious they were. But when smoke died down and blood came dry, a new day was to be found. An alliance. A mighty force from the lands to the South. The rumors referred to them as Dimma Ulfur, Dark Wolves.
The Warbands were united, granted great boons from this Empire, and became solidified under its Crown, held high by what they titled their Ulfrik and Dronning. Noble crowns of Prinzdom were granted to the brother Clanmasters, and order was brought as the land was reformed under the banner of the Empire of the Wolf.
It was then that Wilhelm saw the time as right, to restore the honor of his father’s legacy, and to keep true his pledge. He rose up six men, then several more, asking be granted Clanship by the Brothers. And granted it was that the Winter Wolves once more stride, and stride they did across lands to the South, to an audience with the highest holders of Crown.
Wilhelm knelt, as did all his men, speaking as one after he did. Swearing their blood, their blade, their honor and pride, to the empire before them, and to the Crown atop. For if such greatness could unite the clans, as far extended as they were from this their Southern home, truly a great Empire it was. And by Odin’s breath, his men would serve the Holder of this Crown until they died.
“Watch to the North for me.” The King decreed, granting Drott to this group. “And should your word stay true and your deeds equal, great glory shall come from this.”
The words would ring in Wilhelm’s head, though he would not know the smile the Norns held inside. As tasked his Father’s men once were, now his men were as well. And in the barrow of his kin, Arngrim nodded, knowing the right oath was sworn.
And thus, the Vetrvaldyr were once more, their tales number many, and growing. An old friend turned Prinz, a tourney of brotherly combat, many shares of plunder and nights of camaraderie. But each of those stories will have their time, as this one draws to a close.
To preface this story it must be known, the tyranny of Arngrim’s grandfather Thorril. Known by most as Kingslayer, his was a strong seed… Sewn dutifully afore by his father, Ulfgar, breaker of oaths, who’s un-sleep is marked well in Surt’s deep dales. But the tale of blood’s redemption by Sigurd, son of Thorril, is another tale, for another time. It is suffice simply to know that the obstacles set forth by the Norns were no small hill for this man to climb.
But climb, Arngrim did. And laid aside all doubt, sacrificing all he had, and holdings, unto the Sea King, Thorvald the Axe-Dane. It is then the King granted him a retinue of a dozen spears and men of skill, to hold his Northern Keep of Oxheim for his honor. And hold he did, against the enemies of Thorvald, through years and years again.
But Thorvald was no man of virtue, neither nine nor seven nor one. This is why his enemies came, tide by tide and time by time. Arngrim grew tired, as any man would, yet fought on aimlessly. A dozen men dead, a dozen spears broken, though a dozen times that held off. And Arngrim himself saw Thorvald’s hollow, but kept true his fealty to the end. And as the enemies of Thorvald the Hollow, Axe-Dane without haft, descended for the final time. Arngrim saw his wife and child to safety, making his son swear to keep strong his oath.
“When this King shall fall to waste, the Warbands herein shall fracture. Many a Chieftain shall rise from the clans… Be wise in which one to serve, for in your oath, you shall keep eternal… Fealty to the Crown, its head yours to protect.”
With that he died, the words seared to Wilhelm’s mind and heart. Arngrim’s words were true, and the Warband Clans did arise. Járnmund, Bjargnagl, Thrunðoksr, Silfrafn, a dozen or more under shields and axes. He pledged his service, not fealty though, to the Silfrafn. Watched as he did, as Chieftains came and went, finding kinship to its predominant Chieftain, Jostal Blod-Rand.
He met then the Clanmaster, leader of the bands of war, Eindridi Gramtho. A man of the gods, much reminded he was, or stories of his own ancestor Jorri. Renewed in this manner, and with Winter settling the warmer times turbulence, Wilhelm took back to his religious studies. The runes found him well, as he learned their ways, lending service to the Clans. It was these very runes that would predict the next waves of his journey; The Time of the Brothers Thronar.
These times would bring again the tides of war, and glorious they were. But when smoke died down and blood came dry, a new day was to be found. An alliance. A mighty force from the lands to the South. The rumors referred to them as Dimma Ulfur, Dark Wolves.
The Warbands were united, granted great boons from this Empire, and became solidified under its Crown, held high by what they titled their Ulfrik and Dronning. Noble crowns of Prinzdom were granted to the brother Clanmasters, and order was brought as the land was reformed under the banner of the Empire of the Wolf.
It was then that Wilhelm saw the time as right, to restore the honor of his father’s legacy, and to keep true his pledge. He rose up six men, then several more, asking be granted Clanship by the Brothers. And granted it was that the Winter Wolves once more stride, and stride they did across lands to the South, to an audience with the highest holders of Crown.
Wilhelm knelt, as did all his men, speaking as one after he did. Swearing their blood, their blade, their honor and pride, to the empire before them, and to the Crown atop. For if such greatness could unite the clans, as far extended as they were from this their Southern home, truly a great Empire it was. And by Odin’s breath, his men would serve the Holder of this Crown until they died.
“Watch to the North for me.” The King decreed, granting Drott to this group. “And should your word stay true and your deeds equal, great glory shall come from this.”
The words would ring in Wilhelm’s head, though he would not know the smile the Norns held inside. As tasked his Father’s men once were, now his men were as well. And in the barrow of his kin, Arngrim nodded, knowing the right oath was sworn.
And thus, the Vetrvaldyr were once more, their tales number many, and growing. An old friend turned Prinz, a tourney of brotherly combat, many shares of plunder and nights of camaraderie. But each of those stories will have their time, as this one draws to a close.
