In the Halls of Ingvar the Great, the wind whispers tales of old. Of warriors and kings, of conquest and victory, of the monsters and demons that roamed our once-blighted land.
Listen, now. Look.
Here lies the axe of the fallen Thjodhild Åsmundottir, shield-maiden and mother of Ingvar himself. Legends say that once, long ago, a pack of bloodthirsty Draugar, those filthy undead, ravaged our people. They ate the flesh of the living, and drove those they did not kill mad with dreams of their putrid breath.
Thjodhild, with her axe, found the nest of the Draugar and dismembered their king, and set fire to the mouth of the cave in which they dwelled. Allas, Thjodhild was burned with them, and all we have now of her is her axe, and the song we sing of her bravery.
And here! Here is the helm of Øpir Grisson, he who braved the seas to find land and gold for his kin. It is said that Øpir Grisson’s ship was carved from a tree that Odin showed him in his dreams. He journeyed into the Black Forest, and found the tree waiting for him, as in his dream, with two great ravens roosting in the highest boughs.
From it he carved his ship, blessed by Odin himself, and set out like many brave souls, to adventure.
Stories say that he brought many riches to our kingdom. Fought Kraken on the deep seas, and defeated them all. But alas, he was taken into the woods long ago, lured by the singing of a Huldra, and was never seen again. Some say on misty nights you can just see him, wandering the edge of the forest, following a beautiful woman with a cow’s tail.
See here. Bolverk Thorfinnsson’s ring. It has been many years hence since the nuckelavee came riding out of the sea and into our land: a twisted, skinless rider sewn to a horse, itself only sinew and bone. Black blood coursed through its yellow veins; its breath alone sickened our livestock and cast a pestilence on our crops.
It is said that Bolverk Thorfinnsson rode out to the jagged edge of the sea, and there, for fifteen nights, waited for the creature to strike once again.
On the fifteenth night, it rose out of the water, its one fiery eye gleaming red in the night. It reared on its hind legs! And a battle there was, yes, a long and arduous battle between this demon and our hero, Bolverk Thorfinnson.
The nuckelavee bit and scratched and breathed fire to sear the skin off of Bolverk and his steed. Death, alas, would conquer our great hero.
But Bolverk was good, the best of all men. With his dying breath he called upon the Mither of the Sea, who heard his prayer. The story goes, she took pity on him and his noble heart, and rose up from the ocean to confine the nuckelavee in its depths.
But until when? Who knows.
My grandfather told me that the heroes who slumber within these walls are always watching us. Protecting us. Guiding us. Perhaps they will awake once more, when the monsters come again.
Step softly, child. Do not disturb their sleep.
Who knows what else you’ll wake?
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