Runestone

And the sky is blue overhead
There will always be a hearth and a home

When they tread the earth, the lesser creatures jump like crumbs on a drumskin. You will know them when you see them.

For the shoots that break the earth's skin
And the fruits of the vine
Give thanks to Odin for the flesh and bone
The smoke from the cooking fire, the warm pelt
And the strength of your arm

These things Ulf has learned for himself. Now he writes them on this stone to help others. Pray to Odin for his soul.

Now the raven guides me and I fight the great beasts in Odin's name.

A full belly
A full sail
The weight of a spear to your hand
And a song on your lips
Let all the mountains crumble
And the seas boil to salt
One day in the sun is a life well-lived

Look also to the wild boar who roam these lands. They fear fire and the hand of man but they can be taught to obey it. Go quietly to them and let them eat of your stock. Roots of the ground are their pleasure.

But in Valheim they have flourished. It has been centuries since any in Midgard saw the great trolls stamp flat the land and bring down the trees for joy. Look upon this great and noble sight, wanderers in a strange land! Then take to your heels and run...

But Odin has gifted you a second chance... Praise the Allfather!

All around are the ruins of those who came before us but where are the hands that built them?
Perhaps, when a warrior loses the will to remain here, they can no longer return...

When the soul of a murderer or a great sinner rots under the ground, it makes a hollow cyst which draws rock and wood and moss to it. It gathers up the peat into flesh, braids reeds into bone and takes rags for skin.
It should not walk but when the night comes it walks. Should you who read this see one with a sword to your hand, lance it and let it out. Or put it to the torch, for it fears the flame.

Bone speaks to bone
Remembering flesh.

Walker among the dead, you tread a grave with every step.

Do not scorn the dead, you who are dead yourself.

Now they are sunk many hundreds of years deep. No songs sing of their stories, and the earth has claimed their cities. But pride cannot be killed entirely and the warriors who fought in that final battle will not surrender until their bodies are dust and the dust long gone. They return as Draugr, unholy walkers in ancient armour, creatures of rust and despair.
Break them, bury them, let them know they are dead.

Long ago the great demon Surtr was brought down and destroyed by the First Men, giant warriors of whom you are but a dwindling echo. They smote long upon the body of this Surtr with swords and hammers so that his fiery substance was shattered into many small pieces.
He who was made of the fire was fire in every part of him. You could not say ‘Here is the brain of Surtr’ or ‘Here is Surtr’s liver’ because every part was Surtr. So all the fragments of him were Surtr still, only much weaker in power and in thought and in memory, with no way to become whole once again.
Now we call these fragments Surtlings and when they are found they should be stamped out like the last embers of a fire or doused with water to choke off their flames at the root. They will throw fire from afar and joy in causing terror and destruction. Even in his scattered dotage, the demon seeks revenge on the children of the First Men.

We know that when a warrior dies, their soul cracks open and seeps into the earth around them, thereby to nourish new life and strengthen those who follow after.
Yet if a warrior should die with no great deeds to their name, their soul will be too thin and airy. It will flow upwards instead, like smoke from a hearth. These wisps of souls sometimes catch in the branches of trees long enough to form wraiths, wretched shadows with nothing but bitterness and jealousy to drive them. Blown about the land in despair, they remain only to prey on those who are still living.
Should you see one, kill it and count it a mercy.

Harden your heart, settler in a strange land
Build from the ground upwards

Slay the Forsaken. Chain their heads. I will come.

For many moons I braved storms and fierce beasts in search of answers. Where were the gods? Was this to be my reward? Where was Odin?
But now I know. When I pulled up the greydwarfs like weeds from a field or stamped out the surtlings like embers, I did Odin's work. And when I matched my strength against a great wyrm and smote off its head with one blow, I felt Odin's joy within me, deep and proud.
We are Odin's hands, each one of us, and our worth in life is to work his will.

They are fierce and noble creatures, true foes worthy of battle. If they scorn to meet your blade, send your arrows to greet them.

Haunter of the night.
Soft of foot
Sharp of tooth
Slow to stalk
Quick to bite.

Down, turns out, is easier than up.
The lake helped best it could, but it could only do so much.
It took me strength not to empty it completely, to leave you weary traveller a chance just as I had.
I hope you came here more prepared than I.
If not, there is room here next to me, to just lay down and.. rest.

Frost Cave

Regretfully the cave was too deep.
...
Back here again considering the jump.
Alas, the coward I am is climbing back down.

Frost Cave

The most common form of the wyrm are the Drakes, the small males that cares for the offspring. Most often they can be seen poised by rocky nests guarding the eggs. In contrast, the females are much larger and a rare sight to behold, but once angered they provide a vicious foe.

And no crops will grow
Still the ground can give up treasures.

In the green meadows I fought Eikthyr the Great Stag and lost an eye to his horns.
In the deep woods I gave my shield hand to the Old Man of the Forest, and took a draugr arrow below my ribs that my fingers can still feel.
On the mountainside I fought the Mother Drake and she bit off my leg at the knee so that I must walk always with a staff.
Now my last battle must be at hand. When I sleep this time, where will I wake?

With the wind in your hair
And a blue sky before you.
And what joy it is
To stand tall against your foes
And speak plainly to the world.
And then, what joy it is
To come home from your travels
And find the fire still bright in the hearth.

Great Odin is not a loving father, kind and gentle, speaking honeyed words. Nor is he a stern liege-lord, arms banded with gold, commanding his thralls on pain of death.
He did not send you here to fight his foes for love or fear of him, but because his foes are your foes. His joy and honour are yours also. You will fight and win just as he once did.
Sons and daughters of Odin, rejoice!

Only Yagluth, the great sorcerer, would not bend or break before his fury. So Odin tore his body in half and cast the remains into Valheim, where he bled into the earth and crumbled to dust, wept over by the last of his people.
Now the Fuling rule over the plains of Valheim, savage and wild with only hatred and fear in their hearts. But Yagluth is with them still, an unseen force that the Fuling shamans draw upon for their crooked magic, growing again in strength as his people spread across the world...

What is living must die, and what is dead must be born again.

Here in Valheim they mine the bones of the Jotunn and distill eitr, the stuff of magic. If left alone, they are happy with their own plans and care little for the lives of others, but when raised they will defend themselves.

Weary of mist and magic, Ulf carved this stone. Now I go to find a less troublesome place.

Where do you go? Not knowing what you were, Nor seeing where you go.

Now we set this stone among rubble and turn out backs on the land of our birth. Maybe future ages take warning from us.

We named him the Winter Child and we took him to be a good omen. May the gods have mercy on fools.

Nobody knew what passed between them but all saw the change in the king. Justice flared into the wrath and caution deepened into fear. Laws were passed that musk be broken and each time the lawbreakers were punished more harshly. Tyranny came in a spiral, like a great storm.

Those were the last good days any of us knew, before the return of our king.

Brothers fought against brothers, sisters against sisters. The Kingdom of the Emerald Flame tore itself apart. Now only these charred ruins remain, within which not even the death can find rest.

But for those who are burned by a drake's fire, the blessing is a curse. They are killed and quickened at the same time, caught forever between death and life. Such are the unfortunate souls who wander this ruined land, with flames for flesh and agony in every moment. They cannot be destroyed, only pitied.

This is the last of our stronghold and in the morning we will die defending it. We offer no more prayers and wish only for clean, free deaths, unburned by the flame.

But still the wise will seek the powerful as vines will seek a mighty tree to climb. We give our swords to the King of the Emeralds Flame because without him there is only death.

And men are fuel. When the heart-blaze kindles Their bodies are dry wood.