THE VARGBANE

ᛏᚺᛖ ᚢᚨᚱᚷᛒᚨᚾᛖ

“All life is a struggle. We’re born, we fight, we die. Folks will always struggle for power and land, for silver, for fame, women and slaves. The gods know that; they show their favour by bestowing courage and strength on those they choose to uphold the old ways. You have been chosen, Bjarki. You’re special. You must fight for what you know is right.”
Angus Donald 

The Last Berserker

OVERVIEW

From the cold fringes of the Northern Hearth, a small, seldom-understood brotherhood of hunters and guardians would bind themselves to the reaches of the Norlandic North. Once working with no formal charters and bearing no official banners save from the lands they were born within, their only markings borne on their skin. Where most men fight other men, those of the Vargbane turn their blades against those who slip through the dark - creatures of the Long Dark that fear not steel or flame. Their work is done not for coin or recognition, but for their eternal battle against those who occupy the shadows. Most would prefer not to think about what it is that those of the Vargbane track through the dense shrubs and pockets of green and brown, through the pines and the oaks; rather, they know what it is, it is a necessity.

The name Vargbane—literally Wolf’s Bane—was chosen to reflect both their purpose and their peril. In the old tongue, it marked not only the slayers of beasts, but also those who stood against the predatory and the cursed. To the folk of the North, it became synonymous with defiance against what lurks unseen—the bane of the devouring dark itself.

Though their customs draw from older northern traditions of monster-slayers and spirit-wards, the Vargbane as they now stand are a fledgling brotherhood—united less by lineage and more by shared conviction. Their ideals are new, forged in the thaw between the old world and the coming one. They are not relics of forgotten faiths, but a rebirth of them: new iron hammered in the fires of older forges, shaped by necessity and bound by will.

Those who join are tempered by The Vargvegr, a test of ordeals meant to separate the ready from those who aren’t, to break the ones who aren’t and to mould the ones who are. Few speak, if any, of the brotherhood of what the trials encapsulated. What follows is a harsh training regimen, but a necessary one - for those of the Long Dark, do not end easily. Those of the Vargbane have come to learn rather easily that in a land where those of the old stories sometimes walk, there must be ones, like Asmund Ingridsson, who stand between the settlements and the things that hunt them.

Kaer Sköllreach, the northern keep of the Vargbane, rises from the jagged spine of the mountains as both fortress and sentinel. The walls, blackened and jagged, descend sharply into valleys thick with pine and moss, sagging under centuries of storms, while the battlements are dotted with stunted trees, stubborn reminders that nature never fully bends to man. The keep is austere, its halls long and shadowed, its hearths few and wary; life endures here, but it is measured, utilitarian, and dictated by the vigilance and skill of those who dwell within. It is not merely a home, but the heart of the brotherhood, a stronghold carved from the mountain itself to withstand both the Long Dark and the horrors that dwell beyond it.

APPEARANCE

Life within Kaer Sköllreach shapes those who dwell there. The hunters of the Vargbane wear not the garb of knights or lords, but the attire of endurance—garments born of necessity, not pride. There is no set appearance for those amongst their ranks. Each hunter outfits themselves as they see fit, favouring what is practical for traversing the harsh and uneven terrain of the northern fringes. Their gear—boiled leather, layered wool, hard-wearing mail, and heavy furs in the bitterest winters—is built for endurance rather than show.

Their garb is plain in colour, for the dyes and treatments of the southern realms are costly and unnecessary. More importantly, muted tones serve a purpose: to blend with the stone, snow, and pine. Some among them wear charms or trophies from past hunts—fangs, scraps of hide, or carved tokens—but such displays are a matter of personal choice, not expectation.

CULTURE | BELIEFS

Kaer Sköllreach serves as both crucible and sanctuary, a fortress that embodies the brotherhood’s discipline: austere, shadowed, and unyielding. Every corner of stone, timber, and tower stands as a bulwark against the threats that prowl beyond its walls.

The Vargbane hold endurance above glory, vigilance above comfort. Their way of life is shaped by necessity and sharpened by hardship. Some whisper that their founding was woven by the Norns themselves—that fate spun a new thread for men who would stand between the realms of man and monster. Whether truth or superstition, the belief lends weight to their cause: that even fledgling hands may carry the will of something far older.

From this creed springs their method. Faith, for the Vargbane, is not found in temples or spoken prayers, but in action—in the quiet precision of a hunt, in the patience to watch the dark and wait. They believe that to endure is to serve, and to serve is to fight not for glory, but for the living who sleep unaware of what stirs beyond their fires. They do not seek out your obligation towards a set faith, merely that you finish the task you were set to do.

TACTICS AND METHOD
 

The Vargbane do not rush blindly into the dark. A blade swung without knowledge is a blade wasted—and in the wild, such waste gets you killed. Every trail is first surveyed, and every site of disturbance is studied. Be it strange tracks in the frost, a gutted deer carcass strung high in a tree, or silence where birds once sang—these are not ignored. They are read like a page from a grim book.

Hunters of the Vargbane are trained to observe before they act. Investigation is the root of survival. They are taught to read the signs left behind not just by man, but by beast and worse—by those things that do not belong in the daylight. Their knowledge of animal behaviour, plant life, spoor, and the creeping sicknesses of the land is not scholarly—it is lived, tested, and often paid for in blood.

Particularly, the study of Grendel-kind—those monstrous, half-glimpsed fiends of the Long Dark—is vital. Their habits, weaknesses, and marks of passage are compiled into old field journals and passed down through spoken traditions from one Vargbane to the next. Each hunter adds what they learn and what they survive.

To know what hunts you is the first step in learning how to kill it.

REFERENCES

This is a subliminal advertisement for recruitment to the Vargbane, a group situated in Norland. We were bored and wanted to collect the thoughts of the Vargbane into a proper written document that explains its main core aesthetics to people who may want to properly interact with the group, individuals, or join it.

To those seeking out interest, you can contact me in-game or in discord: ImmortalshadowZ, Roleplay name: Malric



Co-written by ImmortalShadowZ & Stal_27 
Formatted by Stal_27

In-game image taken by ImmortalShadowZ
Respected Images taken from these associated Pinterest links:

https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/137711701100437484

https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/1759287348244405/
https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/5770305769273448
 

THE VARGVEGR

ᛏᚺᛖ ᚢᚨᚱᚷᚢᛖᚷᚱ

“When you know about something, it stops being a nightmare. When you know how to fight something, it stops being so threatening.” 
Blood of Elves
Andrzej Sapkowski

RITE OF IRON

In the harsh winters of the North, strength is not merely admired—it is demanded. The Rite of Iron begins at the tender age of ten, when a child first grips the cold hilt of a blade or the rough haft of an axe. Iron, unyielding and unforgiving, mirrors the spirit of the Norlandic warrior, whose path is one of ceaseless struggle and hard-won mastery. 

The training is gruelling. Under the watchful eye of a mentor—often a seasoned veteran who bears the scars of countless battles—the initiate learns the dance of blade and blood. Muscles harden, instincts sharpen, and the mind is tempered like steel. Mentors become more than instructors; they are guides through the fires of growth, teaching not just how to strike but also when to wait, when to yield, and when to take life without hesitation. 

Yet the Rite of Iron is not merely a test of physical prowess. It demands patience, discipline, and the bitter wisdom that the path to mastery is without end. Even when the body grows old, and the blade dulls, a true Norlander continues to train, for to abandon the iron is to leave one’s very spirit. After the initial six years, a warrior may take up a second weapon, broadening their skill as the river widens to the sea. But they never laid down their first.

There is no final test, no grand proving to mark the end of this path. The Rite of Iron is a commitment that shapes every step, every breath, every clash of steel. In the end, a warrior's accurate measure is not in the battles won, but in the unbroken will that forged them.

RITE OF VEGRHEIM

The road to adulthood in Norland is lonely, and none walk it unchanged. The Rite of Vegrheim comes at thirteen winters, when childhood slips away like the last leaves of autumn. The youth are cast into the wilderness, far from the warmth of the hearth, carrying only their chosen weapon, a thin bedroll, and a week’s scant provisions. There are no marked paths, no whispers of guidance save the creaking of trees and the howling of the wind. The trial is a test not only of strength and endurance, but of the spirit itself. The land demands blood and sweat, and the cold whispers of forgotten warriors haunt every shadow.

Survival is the lesson, but so too is humility. If the young one stumbles upon another Norlander in the wild, they may ask for aid without shame. To reach out is not weakness, but wisdom—an acknowledgement that even the mightiest warrior cannot stand alone against the dark.

Those who return are welcomed not with fanfare, but with quiet respect, a place at the fire, and the knowing nod of their elders. They return bearing the first marks of adulthood, their eyes colder, their hearts harder, and their names spoken with more weight. For they have walked the shadowed paths and returned, and in doing so, carved their place in the land’s memory.

RITE OF ECHOES

Not all rites are entered through fire or blood. Some are walked, step by step, through obligation and endurance. The Rite of Echoes is such a passage. It is not marked by scars upon the flesh, but by the quiet weight of memory earned through service. Through it, the living are bound to the dead, not by recitation, but by labour carried out as they once did.
 

When a member of the Vargvegr is called to the Rite, they are not gathered to a hearth, nor set before elders in stillness. Instead, they are bound by contract to a mentor, one who has walked longer, failed harder, and survived with their judgment intact. The bond is formal and unyielding. Terms are spoken aloud, the obligation is accepted, and the work begins. The Rite is undertaken in motion. The Vargvegr travels with their mentor, taking on real tasks: hunts that must be finished, escorts that must arrive whole, disputes that must be settled without breaking either law or blade. Each task carries a consequence. Each choice is watched. The mentor does not explain unless asked, and answers rarely come cleanly. Instruction is given through correction, through silence, and through the weight of seeing what follows a poor decision.
 

It is in the long hours, on watch beneath cold stars, on the road between settlements, or after failure has already drawn blood—that the echoes emerge. The mentor speaks then, sparingly, of those who came before. Not as heroes, but as measures. This was tried once. This oath broke kin. This mistake buried the unwary. The past is not honoured with reverence, but with attention. There are no chants and no sacred flames. The contract itself is the ritual. To abandon the work is to fail the Rite. To complete it carelessly is to carry the mark of it forward. Some finish the Rite in a single season; others serve for years. Endurance is the measure, not speed, and patience is weighed as heavily as strength.
 

When the Rite of Echoes is complete, there is no ceremony to mark it. The mentor releases the Vargvegr from their bond, and nothing more is said. Yet the change is known. The Vargvegr walks with steadier judgment, quieter pride, and the understanding that they do not stand alone in their choices.

For the Vargvegr know this truth well: the past does not live in flame or words. It lives in work done correctly, oaths carried to their end, and the refusal to forget what it once cost to endure.
 

RITE OF SEARING WATER

Some trials bend the spirit but do not break it. Then, some trials demand the spirit burn. The Rite of Searing Water is one such ordeal. Held at Triple Falls, where the river runs hot and the air shimmers with scalding steam, this rite is a crucible of pain and faith.

The Oathsman, keeper of the warband’s oaths, leads the initiate to the river’s edge. The initiate swears their loyalty aloud under the flickering light of the torches and the ghostly breath of the boiling waters. The oath echoes over the water, each word a promise to gods and kin, a vow to hold the old ways even as flesh sears and blisters. 

The initiate must wade into the boiling currents, the water burning their flesh and testing their resolve. They remain silent, their cries held fast behind clenched teeth, for to show weakness is to betray the oath. When they emerge, steaming and scarred, sacred water is poured over their head, sealing the vow. The rite concludes with a tap of the ceremonial longsword, the blade cool against seared flesh, marking the initiate as either a Vargbane, or Vargsann. The Varvegr cheers, the horns sound, and the night echoes with the crash of weapons and the roar of rebirth.

RITE OF ASMUND

The North demands more than skill, endurance, or courage—it demands the willingness to lay down one’s life so that others may live. The Rite of Asmund is the final trial, a crucible of absolute surrender, where the initiate is called to throw themselves into certain death to safeguard kin, hearth, or the warband. There is no promise of return; only the certainty that survival is not the goal, but the protection of others.

The trial begins at the edge of the wild, where the mountains fall into shadowed valleys, and the wind cuts like sharpened steel. The initiate is tasked with leading the charge against impossible odds, often into situations deliberately orchestrated to overwhelm them—traps, ambushes, or forces far greater in number and strength. Allies are placed in perilous positions, and the initiate must choose to step forward, absorbing the danger themselves, drawing the threat away, and creating a path for others to escape.

Every step of the Rite of Asmund is a test of absolute commitment. The initiate may fall to snow, ice, blade, or beast, but to hesitate is to fail, for the trial measures devotion and sacrifice, not cunning or endurance. Success is measured not in survival but in the lives saved, in the space carved through the storm of death by one resolute heart.

Those who complete the rite — by giving all that they have, even their life, to ensure the survival of others — are revered, their names etched into the memory of the warband. Though their flesh may be broken, their spirit endures, bound to the kin they protected and honoured in every tale told around the fire. The Rite of Asmund is the ultimate testament: that the North breeds not merely warriors, but hearts willing to burn themselves entirely to shield the lives of their own.

REFERENCES

Written & Formatted by ImmortalShadowZ

ᚱᛖᛁᚲᚱ ᛁᚠᛁᚱ ᛊᛏᛖᛁᚾᛁ

Months ago, a Prophet arrived in Norland, striding into our midst with a sermon and a warning that we should not raise blade against them, and I rejected the notion outright, for even as he spoke with conviction, I could see that words alone could never bend me, that promises and threats were useless against the cold logic of survival, and that action would always speak louder than any sermon.

I came late to Valdev, following the army into a city whose palace had long since fallen, burned to ruin years before, leaving only hollowed bones of stone and halls choked with ash and shadow, and the Legion of the Mountain had made their nest among the ruins, draping their banners over the carcass as though claiming it anew, while above, the sky hung heavy and oppressive, darker than the clouds I had seen over Norland during its siege, as if the city itself mourned the life it had lost and whispered warnings to anyone daring to walk among its skeleton walls.

I took what books of Haense I could find, lifting them from shelves and alcoves that had somehow endured, knowing it was better to carry them off than leave the remnants of a people’s knowledge and culture to be ground down to nothing by time, neglect, or the hands of the Legion, and while doing so, I could not help but wonder how many of these words would survive even if the books did, how much of a people’s memory could endure when its halls had been emptied and its streets abandoned.

At the bottom floor stairwell, an earth elemental struck, and another soldier was with me — it went for him first, stone fists hammering the walls in the tight space, and we held it together, our blades biting where they could, while the creature’s weight pressed against us and the air vibrated with its force, until finally it shattered into jagged fragments, leaving only shards of its rocky core, which I collected from the rubble, careful to preserve them.

The throne room was nothing but fire and ruin, a hall of smoke, ash, and heat where several Arcanists moved in careful coordination, weaving gestures and incantations to split us apart and shield the Prophet’s work, and I found myself facing three spearmen locked in a tight wall with their shields braced while the Arcanists murmured behind them, thickening the air with their magic and forcing every step to be measured, so I cast an air spell to shatter their line, slipped through the gap that opened, and drove steel through the nearest Arcanist before he could lend aid to the Prophet’s rites, feeling the weight of each choice press down on me even as I acted.

The rest of the warband finished off the remaining Arcanists and struck down the Prophet, whose throne collapsed under the force of our attack, fire and stone burying him with it, and I watched for a moment as the dust settled, thinking that no throne, no matter how grand, could protect ambition built on deceit and fear, and that even in victory, the cost was always counted in those who could not walk away.

We pulled the wounded clear, tending those we could save, saying farewells to those we could not, and when we emerged into the square outside, all that remained was smoke, ash, and silence, a city stripped of its crown long ago, whose shadow now lay broken and scattered across the ruins.

Then the ground shuddered with a force that made even the stones groan, and the air thickened as the awakening titan emerged, moving with unnatural life across the valley towards Valdev. Once thought a mere monument, the Mountain had corrupted the human statue beyond recognition and shaped it in its image to become a weapon, its final trump card to secure Valdev and prevent anyone from interfering with the release of Orsathiael. Every step it took rattled the ground, and I could feel the pressure in my chest, the raw, unnatural power radiating from its stone form, as if the city itself recoiled at its presence. I steadied myself, sword in hand, heart hammering, knowing that the fight ahead would test every skill, every reflex, every ounce of resolve I had left, and that the ruins of Valdev had one last horror to deliver before any hope of peace could return.

We fled the city to an encampment outside, the remnants of the warband gathering quickly and urgently. Rows of cannons were primed and aimed, ready to bring the titan down should it advance any further. Even in retreat, there was a grim satisfaction in knowing we had not yet lost, and that the Mountain’s final weapon would meet fire and iron before Orsathiael could be freed. At its heart, the black monument that once towered over the city had been destroyed. The Mountain’s grip had been torn away, the chains holding the city freed, but even with its liberation, Valdev remained a broken shell of what it had once been. And yet I cannot help but ask myself— what will rise from these ashes, if anything at all?

REFERENCES & NOTICE

https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/610519293274480276
https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/70437489560895
https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/57069120274809454
 

Having missed the majority of the events due to Prebuild server addiction, this is the proper first northern front event that I attended, and drastically was also the last one, which is cool. Big shout-out to White_Wolf for managing to handle over 30 players. 

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼────────────────────⥽

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼────────────────────⥽

EYDĺS was not unused to being alone– in fact, she quite preferred it. She found solace in the dark alleyways that broke the wind and the muffled crunch of her shoes on the frost-covered mountain slopes. For many years, the closest friends she had were the strangers who offered her a shred of kindness. A warm meal there, a few stray mina there. If she were to be really lucky, they would offer her a room for the night. But aside from that, EYDĺS kept to herself. She was content with watching from the sidelines; with being unknown.

It was dark, the first time EYDĺS saw ÅSMUND. The moon shone dimly through thick clouds that threatened to engulf Solgaard in a snowstorm. He, like many others, offered her a respite from the freezing nights that flushed her ears red and her lips blue. EYDĺS, as she had grown used to, accepted the warmth he offered. Unlike most others, however, ÅSMUND didn’t leave. It was most unusual to EYDĺS, how he came back over and over. But she was not one to turn down warmth, and so she allowed him to stay. 

In fact, EYDĺS was quick to latch onto ÅSMUND in return, and within months the two were helplessly inseparable. While he was unable to read, EYDĺS was quick to transcribe letters and missives. She kept their house clean and warm for them both; it was a haven, one that she enjoyed sharing with ÅSMUND as he pursued his Templar studies and hunted all sorts of beasts and other terrors.

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼────────────────────⥽

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼────────────────────⥽

Just as any other day, EYDĺS spent her hours traveling with ÅSMUND. Hiking through the woods and climbing atop ruins was mundane, until a rider approached. Twisted and malicious with horns that sprouted from its helmet, it demanded a sacrifice. Neither EYDĺS nor ÅSMUND would offer such; it was preposterous. 

The crimson flames summoned by the warlock licked and bit into ÅSMUND’S skin. EYDĺS was bid to run, and yet, as she could see the malflame etch itself into her partner’s features, she could not bring herself to. She was quick to pivot and charge at the distracted assailant, stopping for not a moment as she leapt to bring her blade into the monster. She brought her sword down, over and over again. Nothing but red filled the vision of EYDĺS. It was red, but then, it all went black. A crippling agony tore through her skull; her eyes felt like they were exploding. They were. With a scream, EYDĺS fell to the ground, allowing ÅSMUND to sever the attacker’s head at last.

Everything hurt. EYDĺS’ eyes burned, while the rest of her just about froze. ÅSMUND was quick to her side, attempting to soothe the Norn as she wailed. He huddled her beneath his furs, as he had done many times before, and carried her back to Norland. The medics worked swiftly, but the demon had left its damage; ÅSMUND was left with the burns of malflame, and EYDĺS was left without her sight. It was a miserable night, but through it, ÅSMUND remained at her bedside. EYDĺS clung to him until the agony and the frozen droplets of blood that sealed her eyes shut dragged her into a dreamless sleep.

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼────────────────────⥽

⥼───────────────────⥽ 👁 ⥼───────────────────⥽

The shadows EYDĺS once found comfort in no longer brought any solace; only terror. Walking a world where she was the only thing of certainty was lonely to EYDĺS, but it was not the solitude she had so readily welcomed in her youth. ÅSMUND was still present– in fact, he was even less willing to leave her side now than before. But despite the warm hand that guided her, EYDĺS felt colder than ever. No longer could they take trips to the secluded library for EYDĺS to read to him; no longer could she fulfill her promise to heal him of his wounds sustained during hunts.

Very rarely did EYDĺS want, and even more rarely did she allow herself to embrace desperation. Desperation deprived one of all rationale, and EYDĺS found that it often led one to their demise rather than the survival they clawed for. But after having been alone for so long; for being shrouded in darkness; for being cold. To be so dependent, to be so helpless, was lonely for EYDĺS, and all she truly wished for was reprieve from the blindness that had so wholly consumed her.

And so, for the first time in many years, EYDĺS prayed. To the All-Father, maybe, but also to any willing to listen. She pleaded and begged to the vast universe, and was soon blessed with a response. The presence was invisible, but EYDĺS knew it was there. Its hands, bearing a fleeting warmth that seemed to always be just out of reach, tugged the fur of her hooded cloak over her eyes. And it bid her that this protection from the cold would bring her to the light. 

It was dark again, when EYDĺS opened her eyes. She turned her head, and she saw ÅSMUND. He had stayed with her; he protected her, provided for her, and nursed her back to health. And now, she could finally repay the favor to him. She would re-learn to navigate the world, but this time, EYDĺS would never have to worry about being alone. No matter the cost; no matter who thought to stand in her way ever again. 

[A scattered gathering of notes within the last few years, written in the Journal of the Huntsman, Tancred of Sólgaard. Merely shared with an individual personnel, Isana the Bard.]

THE SIEGE OF KORVACZ

Hired under mercenary work, I joined the Norlandic warband for the first siege of the war at Korvacz. My task was simple—reduce the Haense keep to rubble with cannon artillery. The battle, however, was anything but. Fog and mist rolled in, unnatural in its density; many on both sides were lost. Witchcraft, no doubt. From which side, I couldn’t say.

The Schism army struck first, destroying my cannon as I moved northward, flanking along the battlefield’s edge. Pushed into the woodlands, I turned my focus to providing sighting for our landing trebuchets and ballista bolts. When they struck, they struck hard—ripping through the enemy’s walls, slaughtering their gathered forces in waves.

Then, the breach.

Our army flooded the keep, a tide of steel and fire. Amidst the chaos, I caught glimpses of our allies—pagan brethren, the Church of Canon warriors, dwarves, and even orcs—strange company yet all bound to the exact cause, if only for the moment.

But victories are seldom absolute. The enemy scattered, slipping away into the wreckage. Some of ours did the same—whether from wounds or wariness, I do not know. When the dust settled, the Canonists stood atop the ruined keep, banners unfurled against the smoke-choked sky.

The siege was over.

THE STAKE AT THE SWAMP

After months of travelling in and out of contracts, I finally returned to Sólgaard. The Companions were already in motion, preparing a warband to march south-west towards the Swamp—a campaign that would reshape the tribe and the land itself.

Upon arrival, we found a Xionist cult gathered amid a ritual. Their purpose was clear: they sought to corrupt the land and spread plague through whatever means necessary. Among them was a knight, bound to their cause, serving as a conduit for their foul work. Rescuing them became imperative.

The battle broke out across the field. Blades clashed, blood spilled, and the warband cut through the cultists with precision. Dragomir reached the knight first—battered, barely clinging to life, yet still breathing. As the last of the Xionists fell, their bodies ridden down and cut apart, the earth itself seemed to tremble. Then it came.

The Stake.

A shockwave ripped through the swamp, scattering horses and warriors alike. The force of it sent our warband sprawling, disrupting what little order remained in the fray. Reinforcements arrived soon after—warriors of Koyo Kuni—some lending aid where they could. Even so, the battle had taken its toll. Dragomir suffered grievous wounds, while I was left reeling with a pounding headache that clouded my thoughts, and for some time, my horse, Townsend.

This was no true victory. Not like the Battle of Lumbridge years prior. The Stake had come to the Swamp, leaving more questions than answers.

There is much to discuss with the Norns—and little time to do so.

THE PRICE OF DARK ALLEGIANCE

I was hired to track down two individuals, primarily for questioning. However, matters escalated beyond initial expectations. What should have been a simple investigation quickly turned into something far more serious.

I first caught wind of a heated discussion among a group of Norlanders—one steeped in troubling matters. There were too many words and not enough action. I decided to investigate personally, not expecting events to unfold rapidly or for justice to be delivered swiftly.

Both targets were found outside the gates of Haense’s capital. The first, a man named Adam, was blonde and clad in ragged clothes. He was interrogated first, revealing that he worked for a known Darkspawn loyalist. Iulius assisted in the interrogation, proving himself to be a skilled warrior and an effective interrogator. Norland is fortunate to have him. When the truth surfaced, Adam met his end.

The second target, Darian Thorne—known as ‘The Hooded’—was marked by a blue malflame scar across the right side of his face. He wielded a Zweihander, an unusual choice, seemingly a display of strength. True to his name, he remained shrouded beneath a hood. He threatened both me and a Haense Guardsman, but he was swiftly disarmed, captured, and thrown into a cell for interrogation. During questioning, he spoke of avenging his fallen lover, Freya, and targeting the family and oathsmen of Garenbrig. A foolish plan. When he struck me and spat insults at my people, he sealed his fate. His death was swift.

Both were slain for their ties to Darkspawn. I suspect they sought further communication—perhaps attempting to build trust—but they never lived long enough to see their faith fully rewarded.

Now, my next hunt awaits. Once again, something unnatural lurks in Haense, deep within the woodlands. The last time I ventured there, I barely escaped with my life. This creature forces those it blackmails to hunt in its name, demanding beasts as offerings in exchange for survival—those who refuse become the hunted.

Not for long. I’m coming, Akira.

References 

All information is regarded as storytelling and provides no right or wrong; it is merely a set narrative by a character who saw or was informed of it and interprets it. The killed players also told me they decided to PK their personas before warping out of the roleplay encounter. Thank you for reading

Riding: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/9077636743691439/
Keep: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/403072235418372501/
Swamp: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/717831628136610103/
Duel: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/385057836890021215/

As I have recounted in this journal already, the landscapes of Norland are littered with enigmatic runestones—silent sentinels standing as remnants of a past that continues to shape the present. [Refer to this forum - https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/244709-tancreds-journal-entry-guide-to-norland/#comment-2084207]

These monoliths, ranging from towering and imposing to barely visible above the frost, are greater than simple memorials; some recount the deeds of fallen warriors, while others stand as testament to Higher Beings long venerated. Yet, among them are those whose markings resist translation—symbols alien even to the learned skalds who devote their lives to the study of the old ways. These are the runes of the forgotten tongue, relics of an age beyond record, hinting at truths that lie buried beneath the veil of time.

Runestones, as known within Norse tradition, were often erected as memorials to the dead, markers of territory, or offerings to deities. Their inscriptions, when legible, provide insights into societal structures, religious beliefs, and linguistic evolutions within Norlandic culture. However, some stones predate the known settlement of the region by Norse peoples, their inscriptions deviating from the standard Younger Futhark runes. The presence of these anomalous carvings raises critical questions about the linguistic landscape of early Norland: were these the writings of an indigenous, pre-Norse civilisation, or do they stem from an esoteric tradition lost to history?

The difficulty in deciphering these symbols is compounded by their scarcity. Unlike the well-documented runic inscriptions of Norlandic settlements, these arcane glyphs do not conform to established patterns. Some bear resemblance to the Elder Futhark, while others align with no known script. In some cases, their arrangement suggests an early form of logographic or ideographic representation rather than a phonetic writing system, indicating that they may convey meanings more complex than simple linguistic constructs.

Beyond their linguistic significance, these ancient stones possess an ineffable aura. In Norlandic folklore, it is believed that runestones are imbued with power, serving as conduits between the mortal realm and the unseen forces that shape fate. This belief is not without basis; those sensitive to such things describe an energy radiating from the inscriptions, a force that evokes either reverence or unease. It is not uncommon for travellers to leave offerings at these sites, a tradition borne of both superstition and respect. Whether these energies stem from residual ritualistic practices, latent magical constructs, or the psychological weight of historical reverence remains a matter of debate.

One particularly intriguing theory posits that the older, unreadable runestones may have been part of a system of geomantic alignment, a network of sacred markers intended to channel natural energies across the land. Similar patterns can be observed in other ancient cultures, where standing stones and engraved markers are strategically positioned to correspond with celestial movements. If this were the case, these runes may serve not merely as records of past events but as active components of a forgotten metaphysical system.

Within my time, it has been necessary to try and decipher many. Whilst placing easier symbols to letters and wording has helped. A few have been withered by age and some even crumbled. The listings below will need to be updated as I go within this. 

This was made to bring attention, my underlying work of bringing core opportunities for people to explore Norland and its environment. I personally feel like LOTC has become enclosed in just jumping between Nation to Nation and not very much exploring environments that can be rp’d in solely, groups or even with Events. All of the discussed work here is just mundane ramblings and nothing has been confirmed by S.T presence. 

Work and chartered by: TheNameMCQ and Myself
Knights staring at runes: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/8585055534261330/
Peasants pulling up runes: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/1115766876405414647/ 

Viking & runestone: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/208150814022286967/

Contract: Assassination Attempt & Guild Investigation
Involved Parties: Sa’Ragna (mutated cat), Olivia (Norlander), Amon Vourkehardt (target)

The Incident

The contract began with Sa’Ragna, a mutated feline figure, approaching Amon Vourkehardt, a young scholar, within the confines of a library. Sa’Ragna extended an invitation to join an organisation ostensibly advocating for the rights of Grendels and Kha people. Their rhetoric focused on defending the oppressed, yet Amon sensed deeper motives and declined.

This refusal set into motion a grim sequence of events. Sa’Ragna led Amon to a secluded riverside under the guise of further discussion. The young man was branded a “loose end” for knowing too much. Attempting escape, Amon was wounded by a thrown blade from Sa’Ragna. Despite the attack, Amon survived, though grievously injured.

Olivia’s Role

Olivia, a Norlander associated with the group, hesitated in her allegiance. Initially, she intervened during Sa’Ragna’s attack on Amon, indicating doubt rather than loyalty. Later, however, she followed Sa’Ragna to Garenbridg, where the group sought to exploit Amon’s family as leverage. Pressured to kidnap Amon’s kin, Olivia resisted and fled, pursued by the Kha’s agents.

In an act of contrition, Olivia surrendered herself to the House of Vourkehardt, revealing some information concerning the organisation’s operations and implicating Sa’Ragna. Given her coerced involvement, her punishment was lenient: tending the ashes of a pyre.

The Organisation

The group, described as a collective of alchemists and medics, has eight members. Sa’Ragna’s leadership displayed ruthlessness, yet his actions diverged from the group's professed ethos, as revealed in a written plea to Amon. In his letter, he expressed a willingness to sacrifice his life to protect the organisation, a stark contrast to his earlier violence.

Investigation Progress

Returning to Sólgaard, I conferred with trusted allies—Gudbrand, Sucelia, Bjorn, and Birkir.

• Gudbrand recalled a past encounter with Sa’Ragna at the forge, during which the feline questioned him about discrimination.
• Furthermore, the support provided insight into mutated cats, noting that some had been housed in the Vale. 

Therefore, I informed them of my leave and set off to the Vale.

In the Vale, a gathering near a duel provided further clues. A figure named Theodred, claiming to be an associate of Sa’Ragna, attempted to intimidate me, though his threats proved futile due to the appearance of the Solvikingrs, who were trying to find out why I was gone for so long.

The Final Encounter

Months later, the investigation led me back to Númendil, where fate intervened. With the aid of Ljúfvina, the Norn Dýravörðr, and Ser Vandrake Vourkehardt, Sa’Ragna was captured and taken to Sólgaard for questioning. His interrogation yielded little actionable intelligence, suggesting a need to trace his broader network across Aevos.

Soon after, a connected guild associate resurfaced at Númendil’s gates, now a marked Grendel. Their fate was sealed by the Knights Ser Baralin and Warrior Enrique, though her quiver bore a Norlandic insignia—a clue pointing me back to my roots.

Next Steps

The path leads home to delve deeper into the Norlandic connection and uncover the guild’s remaining secrets. Sa’Ragna’s network stretches wider than expected, and dismantling it will require unearthing each strand.

As always, vigilance remains paramount. Shadows linger where truth hides, and this contract is far from over.

Referencing

Image: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/40180621670074793/

Font: https://www.fontspace.com/norse-font-f21080

Divider: Taken from Skyrim UI elements

Notice: All information reported has been gathered through a lengthy Role-Play investigation. Witnesses provided any essential information that led me to further my investigation, and none of this went outside of the Role-Play framework. :)