[A/N: The dialogue spoken by them is in Old Norse, but to make it easier to read, I’ll write it in English.]
While Zayzal took a break, Sera moved from the hut toward where the battle had just ended.
As she walked, she saw the crimson snow, cracked weaponry, and lifeless bodies. They all spoke volumes about the battle's intensity. The warriors of the village had given their all to protect their home, and the sheer number of fallen soldiers from the enemy side was a testament to their bravery.
The stone pathway, usually bustling with the laughter of children and chatter of villagers, was now ominously silent. The strong scent of smoke, burnt wood, and iron lingered in the air. Every step Sera took echoed back as if the village itself mourned its loss.
‘Must’ve been tougher than I thought if fires started to spread.’ Sera speculated with a slight frown, angry that their village’s architecture was damaged.
The buildings around the central gathering area were mostly unscathed, while others bore signs of attempted breaches and burn marks, presumably from the fires inside. It appeared that this was the final stand for many warriors as a barricade of overturned carts and makeshift shields was set up, defending the center of the village.
There she found her father, Sigurd, tending to the wounded and the survivors separating the corpses. They put the bodies of their brethren lined up on one side with their weapons lying on top of them while the monsters were thrown in a pile without care. They would deal with them later.
“Let me help, Father,” She called out, catching his attention.
“Ah, Sera! You’re back.” He nodded, signaling for her to come over before he asked, “How’s Zayzal?”
“Tired. And wounded. He fought hard today. I don’t know if we would’ve come back alive if it weren’t for him.” Sera frowned, still feeling pain in her body from being smashed against the wall. It wasn’t that bad after her body was strengthened, but it hadn’t disappeared.
Sigurd also frowned, but for different reasons. He knew his daughter's strength and had no doubt about her formidable fighting prowess. Aside from that, she was highly skilled due to training ever since she was young.
So, her words held some weight.
“What happened?” He patted her on the back and asked with a concerned tone. Sera then began telling him about their experience in the dungeon.
She started from the very beginning, right when they left the village, to when they defeated the black wolf, the blue crystal spawning monsters, the treasure chest, and especially the part where Zayzal helped make her stronger.
“So, that’s why you felt so much stronger than before.” He muttered, staring at his daughter with eyes filled with pride and amazement.
“Yeah, but Zayzal said it had something to do with one’s talent. Whatever that means. However, only my body got stronger, not my barriers.” Sera warned, but that caused his ears to perk up.
“Talents? What are those?” He asked, to which Sera just shrugged.
“I’m not exactly sure, but it seems like they are things we gained after the light descended. For example, I have two talents, [Barrier Constructor] and [Enhanced Strength].”
Sigurd became curious, “Can you show me how to find mine?”
Sera nodded, trying to recall the process. “...No. I don’t know what Zayzal did. He just touched me, sent a wave of energy into my body, and I felt a fog lift. If I were to guess, I’d say that it’s already a part of us; you just have to find it, but if you want help, you should ask Zayzal.”
Sigurd looked thoughtful, momentarily forgetting the exhaustion from battle. “Very well. Perhaps I’ll call for him after we’ve done what’s necessary here.”
Together, they worked throughout the night, tending to the wounded and assisting the survivors in arranging the aftermath of the battle.
It took them a few hours to clean up the place, put the corpses in order with their personal weapons, and prepare for the ceremony, but they finally finished everything before the sun could rise.
A few villagers, affected by the mysterious descending light, died due to the unknown energy it unleashed in their bodies. Their bodies were added alongside the rest of the fallen warriors.
The snowfall was only getting heavier as time went on, but they had created multiple fires throughout the village to help keep the place warm and provide some light.
Despite the bitter cold and recent tragedy, the fire's warmth and light brought a semblance of hope and unity.
In the heart of the village, amidst the unrelenting challenges and impending battles, the people began to prepare for the festival, which bore a profound significance for the community.
This sacred tradition, handed down through generations, served not merely as a ceremonial practice but as an emblem of remembrance and honor for those who had fallen defending their beloved homeland.
The festival was a combination of melancholy and celebration, a balance that acknowledged the bravery and sacrifice of the departed while offering solace and unity for the living.
Preparations for the event were meticulous, with villagers engaging in various rituals and tasks.
They adorned the central gathering area with symbolic artifacts, prepared offerings, and arranged ceremonial fires, each element weaving into the tapestry of their ancient, revered tradition. Every step taken, every item placed, was imbued with respect and love for the warriors who had given their lives, reflecting the community's resilient spirit and unyielding hope in the face of loss.
This festival was not just a ritual; it was a beacon of hope, a solemn pledge echoing through the night, promising to remember, honor, and persevere.
A few minutes before the festival was about to begin, Sera ran off to get Zayzal.
She lightly opened the door and found him sound asleep, the exhaustion evident on his features. With a gentle nudge, she woke him. "Come, Zayzal," she urged, "Experience our traditions. I promise it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”
“Ugh.” Zayzal smacked her hand away while groaning. “... Don’t wanna… must sleep…” He muttered groggily.
However, Sera didn’t back off and continued poking him. “You can sleep later. Gunnar, my Father, and I would like to have you at the funeral. I’m sure the other villagers would as well.”
Zayzal grunted, barely registering her words. He rolled in the bed with his back now facing her.
Seeing that he wasn’t responding, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Alright, you asked for it.”
Then, she pulled the blanket off him and picked him up off the bed.
The cold wind instantly hit him, jolting his senses awake. “Ack! Cold!” He reached out his hand for the blanket, but nothing was there.
Suddenly, he was dropped to the ground. “Ugh! What the hell?!” He shouted in surprise.
Rubbing his butt, he looked around before instantly spotting Sera. “Hey! Can’t you wake me up a bit more normally?! Why’d you have to drop me on the ground like that?”
Sera smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You weren’t waking up. Besides, a warrior of your strength shouldn’t be fazed by something as small as that.”
Zayzal shot her an annoyed glare. "Well, nobody wants to be awakened from their sleep like that. Don’t you know that saying that you shouldn’t poke a sleeping dragon?"
Sera just laughed at his plight. “What? Are you a Dragon now?” She asked sarcastically before she extended her hand to him. “Enough playing around. It’s time for the festival. Come on.”
Huffing, Zayzal took her hand and lifted himself up. Despite his show of annoyance, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. They both walked out of the hut towards the bonfire, their silhouettes casting long shadows behind them.
As they approached, the gathering's solemn nature took over. Villagers had started singing a deep, soulful melody, a song of remembrance for the fallen and of hope for a better future. The flames around them danced, seemingly in rhythm with the music, reflecting the sorrow and resilience of the village.
The sight of the unlit funeral pyre, standing tall and proud, instantly caught Zayzal's attention. It was constructed in the center of the village, providing an unobstructed path for the warrior's spirit to reach the skies.
Each of the fallen warriors, dressed in their finest armor and clothes, was laid on the pyre with great care, their weapons and personal belongings arranged around them.
Gunnar, now present, approached them with a ceremonial drinking horn adorned with intricate patterns and filled with mead. “Zayzal, I’m glad you could join us. Our ceremonies are simple, but they hold the weight of our ancestors’ traditions.”
Zayzal nodded, taking in the sight. The villagers circled the bonfire, some with instruments and others with their arms wrapped around loved ones. Even in their grief, there was a sense of strength in them.
As the final notes of the village’s mourning song lingered in the air, the old seeress, Freydis, made her approach.
Clutched tightly in her grip was an ancient staff, its gnarled dark wood marked by runes that glowed faintly in the firelight. Her old silver hair flowed behind her, and her wrinkled face told tales of wisdom accumulated over the years.
With a commanding voice, she began the invocation, "We call upon the gods, the spirits of our ancestors, and the might of the Allfather, Odin. We beseech you to open the gates of Valhalla and welcome our brave warriors who have shown their valor in battle." Her voice echoed through the cold night, reaching every corner of the village.
The villagers responded with a chorus of approval, their voices melding together in a powerful affirmation of the invocation. The atmosphere was thick with emotion: a mix of sorrow, pride, and hope.
The ceremonial fire was then lit. The flames began as a small flicker, gradually building in intensity until they consumed the pyre in a fiery embrace.
The roaring fire was not merely an act of farewell to the departed but also a representation of rebirth and hope for the village. Every flame that danced into the night sky carried the village's prayers and the spirits of their lost warriors toward the heavens.
Zayzal, being an outsider, observed with respect and a hint of melancholy. The raw emotion of the ceremony reminded him of the deaths that happened inside the dungeon. Yet, the unity and strength displayed by the villagers, their faith in the face of tragedy, was awe-inspiring.
Beside him, Sera sang along with the others, her voice soft and melodic. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She stood tall, honoring the dead and drawing strength from the living.
Gunnar leaned towards Zayzal, handing him the ceremonial drinking horn. “It is our custom to drink in honor of the fallen,” he said, his voice rough from singing and emotion. “It's mead, made from the finest honey in our lands.”
Zayzal hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disrespect their customs. But seeing the nod of approval from Sera, he took the ceremonial horn and drank deeply. The mead was sweet with a slight tang, warming his insides.
The ceremony went on for hours. There were dances, stories shared about the bravery of the fallen, and even moments of laughter as they reminisced about the good times. It was a cathartic release, allowing the villagers to mourn yet also celebrate the lives that had been.
As dawn approached, the fire began to die down, the embers glowing a deep orange-red. The warriors on the pyre had disappeared, now nothing but ash, leaving only the memories of their courage behind.
The villagers began to disperse, heading to their homes for some much-needed rest.
Sigurd approached Zayzal, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You might not be one of us by blood, but after today, you are a part of our village. Thank you for standing by us.” He spoke in English. It wasn’t great, and he had a thick Scandinavian accent, but at least it was understandable.
Although they might be a remote mountain village, that didn’t mean they didn’t speak other languages. English has grown in popularity, and now, most people in Norway speak it. A lot of the kids like to go down the mountain and play or explore, so it was almost necessary for them to know the basics of English just to interact with others.
Zayzal was a bit surprised, but since Sera could speak English, it would make sense if the Dad could too. So, he just smiled faintly and nodded. “It was an honor to fight beside you and to witness your traditions. Thank you for allowing me to witness this.”
Sigurd nodded. His gaze was solemn as he watched the few hundred villagers remaining return to their homes. “May the gods spare us from ever facing such darkness again.”
He turned to Zayzal, and his eyes seemed to be hinting at something, but before anyone could say anything, the large Viking Chief waved his hand.
“Let’s leave the serious stuff for later. Right now, you all should get some rest. You’ve worked hard today.”
Sera, Zayzal, and Gunnar all nodded as they just now realized how tired they really were.
[A/N: The dialogue spoken by them is in Old Norse, but to make it easier to read, I’ll write it in English.]
While Zayzal took a break, Sera moved from the hut toward where the battle had just ended.
As she walked, she saw the crimson snow, cracked weaponry, and lifeless bodies. They all spoke volumes about the battle's intensity. The warriors of the village had given their all to protect their home, and the sheer number of fallen soldiers from the enemy side was a testament to their bravery.
The stone pathway, usually bustling with the laughter of children and chatter of villagers, was now ominously silent. The strong scent of smoke, burnt wood, and iron lingered in the air. Every step Sera took echoed back as if the village itself mourned its loss.
‘Must’ve been tougher than I thought if fires started to spread.’ Sera speculated with a slight frown, angry that their village’s architecture was damaged.
The buildings around the central gathering area were mostly unscathed, while others bore signs of attempted breaches and burn marks, presumably from the fires inside. It appeared that this was the final stand for many warriors as a barricade of overturned carts and makeshift shields was set up, defending the center of the village.
There she found her father, Sigurd, tending to the wounded and the survivors separating the corpses. They put the bodies of their brethren lined up on one side with their weapons lying on top of them while the monsters were thrown in a pile without care. They would deal with them later.
“Let me help, Father,” She called out, catching his attention.
“Ah, Sera! You’re back.” He nodded, signaling for her to come over before he asked, “How’s Zayzal?”
“Tired. And wounded. He fought hard today. I don’t know if we would’ve come back alive if it weren’t for him.” Sera frowned, still feeling pain in her body from being smashed against the wall. It wasn’t that bad after her body was strengthened, but it hadn’t disappeared.
Sigurd also frowned, but for different reasons. He knew his daughter's strength and had no doubt about her formidable fighting prowess. Aside from that, she was highly skilled due to training ever since she was young.
So, her words held some weight.
“What happened?” He patted her on the back and asked with a concerned tone. Sera then began telling him about their experience in the dungeon.
She started from the very beginning, right when they left the village, to when they defeated the black wolf, the blue crystal spawning monsters, the treasure chest, and especially the part where Zayzal helped make her stronger.
“So, that’s why you felt so much stronger than before.” He muttered, staring at his daughter with eyes filled with pride and amazement.
“Yeah, but Zayzal said it had something to do with one’s talent. Whatever that means. However, only my body got stronger, not my barriers.” Sera warned, but that caused his ears to perk up.
“Talents? What are those?” He asked, to which Sera just shrugged.
“I’m not exactly sure, but it seems like they are things we gained after the light descended. For example, I have two talents, [Barrier Constructor] and [Enhanced Strength].”
Sigurd became curious, “Can you show me how to find mine?”
Sera nodded, trying to recall the process. “...No. I don’t know what Zayzal did. He just touched me, sent a wave of energy into my body, and I felt a fog lift. If I were to guess, I’d say that it’s already a part of us; you just have to find it, but if you want help, you should ask Zayzal.”
Sigurd looked thoughtful, momentarily forgetting the exhaustion from battle. “Very well. Perhaps I’ll call for him after we’ve done what’s necessary here.”
Together, they worked throughout the night, tending to the wounded and assisting the survivors in arranging the aftermath of the battle.
It took them a few hours to clean up the place, put the corpses in order with their personal weapons, and prepare for the ceremony, but they finally finished everything before the sun could rise.
A few villagers, affected by the mysterious descending light, died due to the unknown energy it unleashed in their bodies. Their bodies were added alongside the rest of the fallen warriors.
The snowfall was only getting heavier as time went on, but they had created multiple fires throughout the village to help keep the place warm and provide some light.
Despite the bitter cold and recent tragedy, the fire's warmth and light brought a semblance of hope and unity.
In the heart of the village, amidst the unrelenting challenges and impending battles, the people began to prepare for the festival, which bore a profound significance for the community.
This sacred tradition, handed down through generations, served not merely as a ceremonial practice but as an emblem of remembrance and honor for those who had fallen defending their beloved homeland.
The festival was a combination of melancholy and celebration, a balance that acknowledged the bravery and sacrifice of the departed while offering solace and unity for the living.
Preparations for the event were meticulous, with villagers engaging in various rituals and tasks.
They adorned the central gathering area with symbolic artifacts, prepared offerings, and arranged ceremonial fires, each element weaving into the tapestry of their ancient, revered tradition. Every step taken, every item placed, was imbued with respect and love for the warriors who had given their lives, reflecting the community's resilient spirit and unyielding hope in the face of loss.
This festival was not just a ritual; it was a beacon of hope, a solemn pledge echoing through the night, promising to remember, honor, and persevere.
A few minutes before the festival was about to begin, Sera ran off to get Zayzal.
She lightly opened the door and found him sound asleep, the exhaustion evident on his features. With a gentle nudge, she woke him. "Come, Zayzal," she urged, "Experience our traditions. I promise it’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”
“Ugh.” Zayzal smacked her hand away while groaning. “... Don’t wanna… must sleep…” He muttered groggily.
However, Sera didn’t back off and continued poking him. “You can sleep later. Gunnar, my Father, and I would like to have you at the funeral. I’m sure the other villagers would as well.”
Zayzal grunted, barely registering her words. He rolled in the bed with his back now facing her.
Seeing that he wasn’t responding, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Alright, you asked for it.”
Then, she pulled the blanket off him and picked him up off the bed.
The cold wind instantly hit him, jolting his senses awake. “Ack! Cold!” He reached out his hand for the blanket, but nothing was there.
Suddenly, he was dropped to the ground. “Ugh! What the hell?!” He shouted in surprise.
Rubbing his butt, he looked around before instantly spotting Sera. “Hey! Can’t you wake me up a bit more normally?! Why’d you have to drop me on the ground like that?”
Sera smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You weren’t waking up. Besides, a warrior of your strength shouldn’t be fazed by something as small as that.”
Zayzal shot her an annoyed glare. "Well, nobody wants to be awakened from their sleep like that. Don’t you know that saying that you shouldn’t poke a sleeping dragon?"
Sera just laughed at his plight. “What? Are you a Dragon now?” She asked sarcastically before she extended her hand to him. “Enough playing around. It’s time for the festival. Come on.”
Huffing, Zayzal took her hand and lifted himself up. Despite his show of annoyance, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. They both walked out of the hut towards the bonfire, their silhouettes casting long shadows behind them.
As they approached, the gathering's solemn nature took over. Villagers had started singing a deep, soulful melody, a song of remembrance for the fallen and of hope for a better future. The flames around them danced, seemingly in rhythm with the music, reflecting the sorrow and resilience of the village.
The sight of the unlit funeral pyre, standing tall and proud, instantly caught Zayzal's attention. It was constructed in the center of the village, providing an unobstructed path for the warrior's spirit to reach the skies.
Each of the fallen warriors, dressed in their finest armor and clothes, was laid on the pyre with great care, their weapons and personal belongings arranged around them.
Gunnar, now present, approached them with a ceremonial drinking horn adorned with intricate patterns and filled with mead. “Zayzal, I’m glad you could join us. Our ceremonies are simple, but they hold the weight of our ancestors’ traditions.”
Zayzal nodded, taking in the sight. The villagers circled the bonfire, some with instruments and others with their arms wrapped around loved ones. Even in their grief, there was a sense of strength in them.
As the final notes of the village’s mourning song lingered in the air, the old seeress, Freydis, made her approach.
Clutched tightly in her grip was an ancient staff, its gnarled dark wood marked by runes that glowed faintly in the firelight. Her old silver hair flowed behind her, and her wrinkled face told tales of wisdom accumulated over the years.
With a commanding voice, she began the invocation, "We call upon the gods, the spirits of our ancestors, and the might of the Allfather, Odin. We beseech you to open the gates of Valhalla and welcome our brave warriors who have shown their valor in battle." Her voice echoed through the cold night, reaching every corner of the village.
The villagers responded with a chorus of approval, their voices melding together in a powerful affirmation of the invocation. The atmosphere was thick with emotion: a mix of sorrow, pride, and hope.
The ceremonial fire was then lit. The flames began as a small flicker, gradually building in intensity until they consumed the pyre in a fiery embrace.
The roaring fire was not merely an act of farewell to the departed but also a representation of rebirth and hope for the village. Every flame that danced into the night sky carried the village's prayers and the spirits of their lost warriors toward the heavens.
Zayzal, being an outsider, observed with respect and a hint of melancholy. The raw emotion of the ceremony reminded him of the deaths that happened inside the dungeon. Yet, the unity and strength displayed by the villagers, their faith in the face of tragedy, was awe-inspiring.
Beside him, Sera sang along with the others, her voice soft and melodic. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She stood tall, honoring the dead and drawing strength from the living.
Gunnar leaned towards Zayzal, handing him the ceremonial drinking horn. “It is our custom to drink in honor of the fallen,” he said, his voice rough from singing and emotion. “It's mead, made from the finest honey in our lands.”
Zayzal hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disrespect their customs. But seeing the nod of approval from Sera, he took the ceremonial horn and drank deeply. The mead was sweet with a slight tang, warming his insides.
The ceremony went on for hours. There were dances, stories shared about the bravery of the fallen, and even moments of laughter as they reminisced about the good times. It was a cathartic release, allowing the villagers to mourn yet also celebrate the lives that had been.
As dawn approached, the fire began to die down, the embers glowing a deep orange-red. The warriors on the pyre had disappeared, now nothing but ash, leaving only the memories of their courage behind.
The villagers began to disperse, heading to their homes for some much-needed rest.
Sigurd approached Zayzal, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You might not be one of us by blood, but after today, you are a part of our village. Thank you for standing by us.” He spoke in English. It wasn’t great, and he had a thick Scandinavian accent, but at least it was understandable.
Although they might be a remote mountain village, that didn’t mean they didn’t speak other languages. English has grown in popularity, and now, most people in Norway speak it. A lot of the kids like to go down the mountain and play or explore, so it was almost necessary for them to know the basics of English just to interact with others.
Zayzal was a bit surprised, but since Sera could speak English, it would make sense if the Dad could too. So, he just smiled faintly and nodded. “It was an honor to fight beside you and to witness your traditions. Thank you for allowing me to witness this.”
Sigurd nodded. His gaze was solemn as he watched the few hundred villagers remaining return to their homes. “May the gods spare us from ever facing such darkness again.”
He turned to Zayzal, and his eyes seemed to be hinting at something, but before anyone could say anything, the large Viking Chief waved his hand.
“Let’s leave the serious stuff for later. Right now, you all should get some rest. You’ve worked hard today.”
Sera, Zayzal, and Gunnar all nodded as they just now realized how tired they really were.
