A Son of Solgaard | PK

__Stal27 · August 3, 2025

A SON OF SOLGAARD

ASMUNDSSOGUR
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“I AM ASMUND, THE SON OF INGRID.”

Spoiler

https://youtu.be/qOmM3Co70Dc?si=M0UKFVKARc74WJf3

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The sky was dark, but it had been for some time now. Over the capital of Norland, the sun had grown tired. The clouds hung low like grief, slow and heavy, as though the world had braced for what was to come. From the heights of the mountains and the depths of the earth, a storm came over VJARDENGRAD not of wind, but of ruin. The forces of ORSATHIAEL had arrived, and with them came a shadow vast enough to blot out what little light remained in the North.

The day began as any other, shrouded in the creeping dread that hung over every morning since the omens began. The HIGH-KING had called, for the men and women of Norland were to convene; the defense of Vjardengrad was a necessity, his voice a rallying cry through the thinning air. Warriors of the north heeded his call, as did men of Midden, and even druids of the south. All came en masse in defense of the capital.

Among them stood ASMUND, the Norn of Solgaard, son of Ingrid stood amongst the many warriors. A man forged in the traditions of the north, who had fought for hearth, kin, and the sanctity of flame.

The battle commenced, and soon the forces of the Mountain revealed themselves, hundreds of thousands of mindless creatures akin to people drew upon the walls of the capital as they all peered down into the night. . . as figures of the foe they were to face came into view, the battle commenced. It was long and dark. Meticulous planning once made for the defences of Norland was all thrown away, as a desperate defense was instead taken.

What fortifications had stood were felled. Vanguards fell. Elementals fell. Even hope, once lit like a torch among them, flickered in the winds of slaughter. The Norn never imagined that the lives of those around would equally be felled. . . such a reality was not one that he could grip onto, it was a reality that could not come true.

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They appeared on the proper southern front. From the East, they came to reinforce as their enemies were slain. The Daemon Orsathiael himself had appeared, its ravages apparent even at the resistance shown by those of the Norlandic forces and her allies. It was a desperate defence, one that held for now. The mind of the one known as Asmund had already been driven to the edge of madness, assaulted enough and struck enough; it was only a matter of time until he was entirely consumed by the madness that struck many other templars, many other besirkirs alike this Vargbane.

Yet that battle was not concluded. For as the matter of Orsathiel appeared from beneath a broken ship at the bay beneath the Ashwood Throne, it drew its figure upon the city, its limbs and chains threatening with destruction and striking with equal destruction as the edge of the walls were broken, stone crumbled and wood was shattered, the scene was grim, survival seemed lost.

Yet from the corner of their eyes, the sight of the HESIR of Karoslund had become apparent. Imbued with some outward force, was she overtaken, her figure glowed as she was imbued, and finally, what hope was once last had returned as a holy cannon had formed before them, it was promptly loaded, in desperation, prepared to fire towards the demon itself, the cannon jarred and failed. The scene that followed was one of desperation, except for all but the Templars, who consumed the battlefield. In a moment of courageous grasp, the Norn made his choice. If it were life of his own and the destruction of Norland, or his death and the saving of what many called home, the choice was obvious.

The voice of MIKJALL, what the southerners called Malchediael, demanded little but glory and courage; there was no moment greater for such than a time like this. As the damned holy cannon seemed broken with inaction, demanding a sacrifice, Asmund gave his own.

It demanded and yearned for a soul, and there were two Templars who delivered. . .

“MALCHEADIAL - GUIDE THIS ROUND.” Called the fellow Templar-Broedir, who was followed. “I am ASMUND, Bersirkr of MIKJALL. I am the son of INGRID, grandson of the LEGENDARY KONAN-THEGN, nephew of the LEGENDARY HAAKON-KING.” - “I have served you, MIKJALL, and today I give my LIFE to you, ALL-FATHER and to NORLAND.”

As their voices boomed across the field of battle, so too did the figures of the Templars glow in a bright white, its brilliance so bright, rivaling the darkness of Orsaethial himself, for their patron answered.

IMBUED with the souls of two Templars, the canon once more roared to life as it fired once more. Whilst Raginolf gave his part, Asmund was fully consumed and taken by his patron, who answered this show of bravery and courage.

| BOOM | It formed as a blazing white sphere that flew forth at the form of the demon, with the imbuement of the Templar's soul, empowered by the patron they called MIKJALL, clashed against the demonic chain of Orsaethial. A blinding white light flushed over the battlefield as the eternal darkness which consumed Norland seemed to dissipate, bringing light to the once long-dark. . .

Yet, the light remained permanent for Asmund. A life for a life, or a life for his people. . . It became apparent as the Templar panicked not as though anyone but him and his patron could see, he faced Grendel, the forces of the mountain, Orsatheial himself, yet his true fear was the eventual death that would come upon himself and it was finally here, perhaps it was a glorious one, yet it did not stave his feelings of guilt as those who he vowed to live, he left unfulfilled.

His figure collapsed as all around him witnessed. What was once a thoughtful being was relegated to being a simple suit of armour, as his figure fell against the sodden ground beneath. . . His soul shattered and broken, his body collapsed against the ground, and yet he remained unbroken in the defence of the Hearth.

“ASMUND.” The voice of a southern knight resounded as the Norns' body was dragged and placed against a palisade, his body slumped against the broken timber, where a battle took place. His armour hissed as heat escaped, and smoke curled from the edge of his scorched plate.

His helm was already split in parts. Blood slicked down his brow and jaw beneath, revealed only by the slow drippings of blood from beneath his helmet as the eyes within his helmet stared forth, dazed, unfocused to a sight that no others could witness. For a moment, he said nothing. The only sounds emitted were the slow, shallow rattling as the chest barely moved beneath the weight of fur and steel.

“My time has come. . . Southorn. . . Valhalla. . . It beckons. . .” The voice weakly retorted, his words a little more than indiscernible whisperings as he beckoned the man. “Come closer. . . Tell this to Eydis.”

“ASMUND.” Another voice of a young, familiar Norn would break through. One who kept to his side in all of their battles. The Vargbanes' gaze flickered. The shape of the warrior looming above him, shouting his voice, earned a shallow chuckle from him.

“Go. . .” He finally said as one final word, pressed out between blood and bone.

“Fight.”

His head tilted back, as the light of the battlefield caught upon the runes of his armour and axe, the weapon, still clung within his dead hand, gleamed faintly like a beacon in the dark.

The son of Ingrid died upon the walls of Vjardengrad. Dying as he lived - in silence, with his weapon still warm.

Spoiler

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Spoiler

Thanks to all those who made playing this character so enjoyable, not knowing what to expect going into it, and finding so many opportunities and the like has been incredible. And a massive thank you to @Dr Random K. for making his death this way.

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Cheese · August 3, 2025

Every day, EYDĺS waited. That damned Mountain, it called ÅSMUND to war. EYDĺS hardly had a fear for his safety; he was a Templar, a Berserker of Mikjall. Every time he came home, even if he took too long for her liking, and even if he came home with scrapes and bruises which were even less to her liking. It meant very little though, as EYDĺS was only happy to have her husband back, and ÅSMUND just enjoyed her scoldings and her tending to him.

The Mountain neared, though, and anyone would be a fool not to bid it concern. As it descended upon Norland, EYDĺS took to her corner. The great forces of Norland and its allies would fend it off, surely. After a great many days of battle, it did! The allied forces pushed the Mountain back. With great relief that the storm could be weathered longer, EYDĺS came back above ground to find ÅSMUND.

Oddly, though, the Norlandic congregation had gathered within the Temple. EYDĺS, so apathetic to death, took to the front of the crowd. The sight that met her, however, was horrific. It was beyond horrific. There weren’t words to explain it. It was ÅSMUND.

“NO!” EYDĺS wailed. Tears blurred her vision, and before she knew it, she was running. Towards the pyre. Towards him. In the flames she saw ÅSMUND; his smile was as warm as the fire, and his hand reached out to her. He was calling her to join him; yes, he would never leave her. “DON’T TAKE HIM!”

Arms wrapped around EYDĺS, and quickly she was anchored to her spot. She was held back from the fires that separated her from her lifeline. “GET OFF OF ME!” She wailed, the scream reverberating through the hall. She reached forward again, but this time, she was held back. It wasn’t long before her knees gave out too, and she collapsed to the ground. “ÅSMUND! NO, HE’S MINE– MINE! HE CAN’T LEAVE LIKE THIS! I WON’T LET HIM LEAVE WITHOUT ME!”

The screams of EYDĺS carried throughout Norland. “I DON'T WANT HIM TO BE REMEMBERED! I DON'T WANT HIM TO BE A HERO! I WANT HIM!”At the age of twenty-nine, after nine years of marriage, and fourteen years of knowing the man she now called her everything, she had been widowed. She had been abandoned by the world. And after so many years of warmth within ÅSMUND’S arms, the frigid wastelands of Norland were a cold EYDĺS could never describe. It was deeper than the chill in her bones, or the tears that froze to ice on her cheeks. It was an emptiness that would carry even farther than the grave that would surely follow soon for the woman who swore ‘till death do us part.

Spoiler

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you ~~thank you for letting me play Eydis with you~~ I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you

ReverseNebula · August 3, 2025

Spoiler

He Who Devoured The Dark

THE FIRES RAGED ON.

Ragin hadn’t sat in, when the talks of battleplans were had - when intricacies were detailed, or scheming required, for it was never his strong suit. To sit and debate the best actions for a battle to come, no - he’d only ever been a scout.. A ranger.. A swordsman.

But when the sounds of chains loomed above, and the footfalls of THOUSANDS marching were made known, he was amidst the first arrival, asking how he could’ve been of aid - requesting to stand amidst the melee, yet begrudgingly guided to another sector of defense.

Nonetheless, as he stood alongside friend and foe turned ally, did they begin to hold their ground - nearly every shot landed true, nearly everybody remained healthy… for it had been going too well.

Just when the battle began to fluctuate, the ending in sight - did the remnants of the ship begin to bubble and coalesce, conglomerating into a horrid portal that tore asunder the very fabric of reality to relinquish a beast so vile.

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Orsaethiel’s Avatar,

That was what stood afront them, a remnant of the very entity that opposed them, now poised and growing for the sole intent of striking them Norlandic folk down.

Yet when it rose, and the Wyvern flew overhead, poised for another strike at their front did Ragin give an order, so dangerous.. So.. useless it felt… He had called for a retreat.

Such a futile thing, saw their foothold faltering - only when Asmund and them arrived, did they reattempt their blows to fell the beast… did Maya’s blessing come true… did Ragin and Asmund pour their being unto such a holy weapon…

In such a brutal twist of time, and fate - a brutal, grandeur light - the ground met Raginolf and Asmund.. Their calls silenced, their blessings imbued - he swore he felt Asmund shove at him, as Ragin’s hands left the canon a split second before the other’s being was consumed.

A singular, night-shattering, darkness devouring, light engulfed Asmund as Ragin’s gaze peeled rightwards in shock - awe…
Was it then, that he died?

Everything flashed before his eyes.

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His wife that lingered elsewhere in battle, his children outside the city for safety.

A flickering memory of a cardgame the Night before the attack - a game that Njall, Asmund and an Oyashi had so gleefully played before Asmund stormed off.. It all felt so long ago.

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Joyous laughter amidst the Taverns walls, as card after card hit the table.

Exclamation, and disbelief due what was played - celebrations, and defeats… all in such a reckless endeavor… now they laid so quiet, a deafening standstill, until -

The whispered pleas of Dzsenifer came next, when she pressed something cold, and steel-laddened unto his hand.

Yet, he could not wake.

Not by his own volition, or by muttered words.

For his price had been severed, Thirty Years.
Gone in an Instant.

Who now, was he to blame?

Had his call for retreat killed Asmund?

Did Ragin falter, when his soul was tugged - or had he truly been shoved off?

Why?

WHY?

That was the question asked, as Ragin mulled about in that enforced, enslaving slumber.

𝕎𝕙𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕕, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕣𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣?

Calise11 · August 3, 2025

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The day had dawned with crackles of thunder that echoed outward across Vjardengrad. Or was it dawn? The light had been snuffed from the streets of Vjardengrad, plunging everyone into what felt like an eternal grappling darkness. Cold light seeped through the library’s hearth. Asmund and Eistalyn. Stood—side by side. Two silhouettes among a crowd of a hundred. One was most certainly taller than the other. Eistalyn had vowed to be his shadow. And he, her shield. As one does with a mentor and student. Although they had never spoken of that bond, it was evident that Eistalyn held Asmund up on a pedestal like no other. She learnt under his guise. She had promised to follow into the flame. Norns of Solgaard side by side. Broder and Sistra of Sol. And he had promised he would not let the storm touch her.

Then the Elder of Sol, Hrungnir, approached. His voice was a low grind that commanded authority. He took a knee next to the smaller Elf.
He warned her: "Do not underestimate the enemy."
She met his gaze with somewhat stubborn little blues, brushing his words aside like wind collecting snow. She tried to convince him she knew battle, and Asmund in turn gave the father reassurance—not permission, but conviction, something to settle the Elder’s worry.

“Fadir, me, Asmund and I have gone to battle before. Many a time, even. It will be fine, I promise.”

But Hrungnir’s frown held fast—even if it was encased under the helm. She did not know, not yet. But by the end of the war, she would.. . .

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"Eistalyn—Skarimir—with me!" Asmund’s voice rose among the chaos of cannon fire—and their own roared beneath their command. Together they felled not one but two trebuchets of the foulspawn’s work. Relics of war that were assisted in the shattering under Norn fire.

“Uh... Asmund?” she called as her helm tilted upward, spotting a curious giant that had assailed their walls.

“I see it, Essie.”

And with that, he was gone. Charging forward with a valiant spark flaring bright with a holy flame.

Asmund dove into the heat of an enemy far too big for him—an Elemental forged of earth and malice, bearing down on a lone mage stranded atop the tower. Alone. Of course Asmund would valiantly charge to the rescue. He had done the same when one of theirs had fallen—a vat rendering him unconscious. Even then, he had dragged the man—leaving the cannon for Eistalyn to guide and fire while he sought the man the medical aid he needed.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

He struck—again and again—blade and soul ablaze. Elowyn had joined the chaos; the enemy rose before him and collapsed as they felled him. Asmund had found himself snaked under the beast.

Eistalyn followed in his steps—breath torn from her lungs as a roof hurled in fury from the Elemental had winded—wounded but not broken—her. Eistalyn would protect him, no matter the pain. She raised her blade high in defiance || Whooosh || as it swept through the air—barreling down towards the creature's skull...

But before she could do anything, the floor gave underneath them, and they tumbled from story to story—a brief pause between each floor before it collapsed again and again.

A groan came from the Templar—Asmund, having fallen and surfed the same journey. And yet he rose with hearth still lit in radiant white light in his eyes. Vigour hummed through his veins as did pain course. He called for her in the wreckage and found where she lay. Dazed. Hurting. And lifted her gently as she complained of being bruised like a root vegetable. He guided Esistalyn across a broken rope ladder and shattered stones.

That was Asmund.
The iron in his kindness was paramount.
Despite the blizzard that continued to rage on, Asmund was the warmth that unthawed and bestowed comfort in times when things seemed bleak.

Together they reached the front. They had held the East.

And there he stood. Not a man—not a beast—but a mountain of a daemon clad in stone and fiery hell.

Asmund declared war. Not with the forces that were desperately assailing the walls while Aegon was being torn to shreds like holding the wall of Goldenvine troops.

He summoned Eistalyn to advance. They found a cannon. And the Hesir finally loaded it.

Asmund screamed—a sound that tore the clouds of the heavens above—somewhere his ancestors stirred as they heard his plight. Warmed his ale, for he was soon to be welcomed into Valhalla. The hearth of the greats.

"MALCHEADIAL - GUIDE THIS ROUND.” Called the fellow Templar-Broedir, who was followed. “I am ASMUND, Bersirkr of MIKJALL. I am the son of INGRID, grandson of the LEGENDARY KONAN-THEGN, nephew of the LEGENDARY HAAKON-KING.” - “I have served you, MIKJALL, and today I give my LIFE to you, ALL-FATHER and to NORLAND."

. . .

|| KABOOOOOOOOOOOOM ||

The world seemed to slow, things moving second by second, and Asmund’s body started to falter—crumpling. His flame and his hearth that he carried so valiantly now dimming.

Eistalyn did not need to run to him. She was in his shadow. Her arms just... extended? Catching him and cradling him. She struggled under his weight as she slowly lowered him to the floor—trying to avoid any unceremonious stumble as his life—being drained from his body and imbued into a most holy cannon shot—would give...

Her breath was shallow—ragged—and she called his name once—twice. “Asmund?!” But the light was flickering far away.

And then he was wrenched from her arms. - He said something to her. Maybe one day she would remember.

Gone.
His warmth vanished.

The battle raged around her—shouts and steel spells—but she could not hear, for all went... white?

For the first time in war, she was without Asmund.

Only once had she declared to go off and fight alone—for only Asmund and Eistalyn to pick the same foe and reunite in the battle of Valdez. Side by side once more.

Asmund had been her guiding flame in the dark. The first into battle. And the last to retreat. An anchor to her fury and a calm that collected quietly in any storm.

She had only ever known true war and battle with him at her side.

She wept—deep, wracking sobs that tore through her like a violent, spiked winter wind that bared barbed wire into the flesh of those ignorant enough not to be bundled in furs.

in grief, rage stirred.

“FOR ASMUND!!!” she belted with a choked sob behind it. Blade in hand—pain stitched through her limbs like a rag doll half-sewn together with mismatched string.

And because of his sacrifice—because of him—the Daemon faltered.

“GOD HAS SAVED US!” some Southron called across the battle.

In turn, Eistalyn screamed,
“NO—ASMUND HAS. ASMUND DIED FOR US TO LIVE—FOR ASMUND!”
A battle cry of Northernkin and Southron alike as the now-fallen’s name was chanted.

A hollow peace enveloped Vjardengrad where war had taken place.

She had hoped he was holding on. She had no clue how Templars died or what imbuing their soul could do.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

She found him—slumped up against a wooden barrier with his friend.

“Asmund?” she whispered, approaching the Norn brethren.

No voice replied.

No joke.

No warm quip.

Only a soul-shattering stillness.

She collapsed again—knees imprinting into bloodied soil—and a stranger, one she could not name, wrapped her in silence in his arms. Tears spilt down and mixed with blood once again under her helm. A request passed her lips like a summons:

“Someone—get an Elder—of Sol.”

And as she requested, the vagabond Tancred appeared, deeming it his rites to be read. Traditions of Solgaard to be followed.

So. For the last time, Eistalyn would walk as Asmund's shadow.

An arm looped under his rag-dolled form as she and another carried him off—her blood flowed freely, winding in rivulets down her nape and sides—but she bore him with a sense of duty, with sorrow, and love for her brother.

She promised to protect him.
And in the end, she did
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

His body was placed upon the pyre that once housed the All-fathers' flame Eydis’s sobs and pleas for Asmund’s life b r o k e Eistalyn in two. Her blonde curls, matted with blood and sweat, obscured most of the happenings within her dulled blue pearls. She found solace in her father Hrungnir . He offered her kind and reassuring words. A helm was removed. Respect shown. But some she would remember more then others.

Hrungnir, solemn and sage, bestowed on her a lesson at dawn that became truth by dusk:

“Now you know the price of war.”

Edited August 3, 2025 by Calise11

Frawlic · August 3, 2025

Dima was mildly familiar with the magic of templars, having witnessed the sacrifice of one prior in her life. But Asmund's sacrifice was much different; it was no flare of light, at least not right away. It was quiet, despite his words, ones she could barely hear over the shouts of many.

"LIVE FOR THE WORLD NEEDS YOU ALL."

So when the night sky became lit up, like dawn, but not in the literal sense, from the sheer power behind the cannon fire, something did feel off regarding the young man's shouts. That they were the last taken with soon-to-be dying breaths. But she was not sure how to mourn him. Maybe his existence, which was cut short, that she could mourn. Though really, she felt more guilt, for the trust placed in her, for the calls of no martyrs and the swearing that the stone of Vjardengrad would not be anyone’s grave. Both became his future and his present. And that made her a liar.

prophetisms · August 3, 2025

A young woman, once a girl given a stern talking-to upon the steps of Vjardengrad by the fallen Ingridsson, felt an odd bout of melancholy on her way back home. It was the phantom feeling of something–someone–lost, but surely, not forgotten.

Otakuu · August 3, 2025

Spoiler

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A voice had echoed within the chambers of the Temple in Vjardengrad. A voice so beautiful it sounded like an angel's chant and so alluring like a siren's song. That day in the Temple, that voice had sung a song, a powerful prayer to help guide a dear friend back home.

Fey Hrungnirsdottir had tears running down her cheeks as she sung, watching as her friend's body was consumed by the flames. She couldn't help but think how unfair it all was, to lose such a great warrior, a great friend like him. She had not seen how he fell, she had not been on his side of the battle, but the loss was greatly felt when she stumbled upon the group that surrounded him. Her heart had shattered as she heard her sister, Eistalyn's cries, to which the woman had tried to comfort her, despite being injured herself.

Now she stood, watching the flames flicker and grow intensely, the smell of burning flesh and fur tickling at her nose and the heat travelling in waves over the crowd towards her.

"Årle ell i dagars hell."

"You will be free from the bonds that bind you..."

"Enn veit ravnen om eg fell."

"You are free from the bonds that bound you..."

As her song took a softer approach, within her mind, Fey spoke to Asmund, hoping that it would reach him as his soul departed.

"What you have given us this day, your sacrifice, has earned us a great triumph. And now you are free. You can rest now, broedr. We will carry on in your stead."

Her song came to a close, leaving the Temple in silence save for the roaring of flames. A great sadness took over the woman's heart and soul as she forced herself to walk away and get treatment for her wounds. Eydis's wails filled the silence, echoing far into the hallway of which Fey walked.

With tears streaming down her cheeks like waterfalls, she brought a tight fist to her chest plate and reached out within her mind once more.

"I will see you again, Asmund. And together we will drink and feast within the halls of the All Father."

"But not yet..."

"Not yet."

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Iulius · August 3, 2025

Reserved

Monty Cobra · August 3, 2025

A small Norn lad sat for many hours before the pyre, alongside those others who mourned — the air pressing down with a suffocating grief. Still donned in armor a size too big, hands blood-smeared and eyes tear-stained, Njáll gazed into those blazing flames.

Loss was no new concept to the boy, but that loss he had experienced before was different. This was some raw agony, a guttural despair for that man he had affectionately known. This time Njáll knew the one that had been lost would not return.

All he had left of Åsmund, that man who had surpassed all others in his service to Norland, was memory. So Njáll sat and forced himself to remember, a dozen encounters, moments, and words—over and over, until they were etched into the farthest depths of his mind.

Sonybut7 · August 3, 2025