Northern Winds

It is not the filthy crawlspace you have been crammed into for the last few weeks or the thin gruel that barely sustains you, but the cold and darkness that is your sole companion. Through the planks above you sometimes glimpse the barest rays of light, but they are not the same as in your home. Pale and grey, more akin to moonlight then the warmth of the sun and where it strikes your bare skin, it can not ward of the dampness and the chill. The sea is cold as ice and with every creak and groan of the ship, you fear that it will break through the thin hull and claim you whole.

How many days you have spent like this, you could not truly tell. When they chained you into that tiny box inside their ship, it was late summer, but you skin was cold and clammy as if in deepest winter. It was colder in the north, that much you knew, but you never had experienced it for yourself. The lands of the Imperium were warm and bright, snow barely seen outside the mountains and deepest winter. Yet the tales you heard about your captors homelands spoke of snow that lasted whole seasons, of storms that froze a mans blood in his veins and that even the salty sea would turn to ice in winter.

Back then, hearing such tales from singers while you drank wine in the sun, they seemed made up. What kind of people would live in such lands if they had a choice? How could you even live there? Now you could believe it though. Now you had met the people who called such blighted places their home. Vikings they called themselves, seafarers and raiders. Barbarians people called them in your own tongue, scum that came to the Imperium to do nothing but plunder and rape, taking everything and everyone that caught their fancy.

You still remember every moment of the battle. Every face you saw, every breath you took, and the smell of blood as they cut through everyone that stood in their way. The stench of burned flesh when their sorcerer threw thunder and lightning, the last moments of their victims searing themselves into your eyes. But not you. You were not among the dead. For now. Your fate was still in the balance, though you did not dare to hope right now.

The Northmen took slaves, true, but they also did worse things. Some of their plunder, they offered to their pagan gods, making little distinction between gold and people. You probably were not worth all that much to some deity, but it was hard to say if that made it more or less likely that your long journey over the sea would lead you to a gruesome end. After all, before they clasped you in iron, you had been just a common…


The monotony of your existence is mind numbing, your small box being opened, and a cup of gruel forced into your hand whenever your captors please. Only the coming and going of the sun helps you to count the days, but after a while you can no longer be sure if you were even counting them right. You drift in and out of sleep, only the sounds of the ship and the sea reaching your ears. But then, something other is there. Birds. Seagulls. Your journey is reaching its end.

It is at least another day before you reach the harbour and you hear the distant sounds of a city, of people talking and shouting, horses and oxen drawing carts through the streets. Not much later, you are brought out of the tiny room you were kept in and one of the burly Vikings threads a rope through your chains. A few other people captured alongside you are already bound to it and a few more are added to the procession behind you, then the march starts.

The sun stings in your eyes as you leave the ship, even though it his hidden behind the dull grey clouds spanning the sky. You nearly stumble as the Northmen drag all of you onward to the streets of the city. And a city it is, indeed, not some small hamlet or a group of barbarians in huts. The houses are made from planks thatched in reed, or hewn stone with wooden shingles, and the roads covered in even stone plates that could rival even Imperial work.

You marvel at the people out and about, dressed in finely made wool and expensive furs. At the streets filled with nothing but shops and the people buying from them. At the sounds of merriment drifting out of the tavern you pass, accompanied by the heady scent of some sort of alcohol. And above the roofs, you briefly glimpse other things. A palace resting on a rocky hill at the sea. A giant building with tiered roofs, every wall a window made from stained glass depicting scenes you cannot quite make out.

Travelers who had come this far north often told of the great cities of the Northmen and how they were no lesser then the Imperial ones, but only now that you see it for yourself you believe it. They were not myths told by self-important barbarians. And in some strange way, it fills you with hope. This place is not your home, far from it, but with every slave you pass, every row of shops where you spot a few men and women who seem to not quite fit in with the Northmen, you know that you too can find a place here.

At long last you reach a large plaza, stages arrayed on its edges and on one of those your captors drag you. By now your feet are sore from the walk and your legs tired from the exertion after all the time of disuse, but you give your best to keep standing upright and looking well. It is not fear of your captor's ire that drives you. You know a slave market when you see one, and you also know that nobody would buy someone who seems only a strong push from keeling over.

So, you push down the pain and the tiredness, blink the tears from your straining eyes to look to the crowd and upon those you might soon call master, wondering who all these people are. Most look like those you spotted in the streets, Freemen you would wager, though some groups stand out. You see warriors clad in heavy armour, the shields on their backs bedecked in symbols and pictures that make no sense to you. Sometimes they surround other men and women who look more wealthy, heavy golden jewellery adorning their clothes, beards and hair, other times walking on their own.

Some robed figures you spot too, sorcerers like the one you saw during the battle, many wielding large staffs while others bear belts carrying pouches and collections of long sticks. Or perhaps they are priests? Others seem to treat them with respect and even as the day goes on and the plaza fills, the robed figures never have to push or shove others out of the way, the crowd parting on its own for them.

Soon it is your time to be led to the small crate in the centre of the stage and then the bidding starts. You wonder if you will fetch a good price. After all, you are a young and healthy…


… and that should count for something at least. There is some interest in you, a few people bidding against each other, though in the end, you are bought by…

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AN: Welcome to my newest quest, this time with a much shorter character creation. Please generally use plan voting unless I indicate otherwise.

A large and probably important clan in the city and the current owners of Lucia. As of yet, you know little of the clan or it's history, though it appears to hold sway over an entire district over the city and has ties to many other important clans.


Main Family

Lord Lífsteinn Bjornson af Dagr
A slightly chubby man with long, grey hair and beard, which show some errand strands of ash blond hair among them if you look closely enough. He is the current leader of the clan, but despite that seems to rarely be in the clanhold, instead spending most of his days on matters in the city. While looks alone might be deceiving, he appears to be not as martially inclined as his wife and eldest children, instead carrying himself with the air of a merchant or courtier.

Lady Ragnhildr Asriðrdottir af Dagr
The matriarch of the clan and the person who is usually in charge of the clanhold itself, commanding both the garrison and the servants. She is often seen in armored robes and ocassionally still trains with the warriors and especially her daughter Rannveig. Despite her lean stature, she is quite strong and her usual cold demeanor hides a fiery temper. Ever since the split in the family, she has taken up residence in the guest quarters of the hold, shunning he husbands presence and even refusing to share a table with him during meal times.

Stéfnir Lífsteinnson af Dagr
Eldest son of the Lord and as of recently his desired successor. He recently returned from a long and successful raid, bringing riches and glory with him. He outwardly pretends that nothing is wrong, but others whisper that he seems gloomy and withdrawn since the clash with his sister.

Randvér Lífsteinnson af Dagr
The second son, junior to Stéfnir by a year, and rather similar to him in both appearance and behavior. The two of them are inseparable since Stéfnirs return and they often make trips to the city together or can be found training in one of the yards.

Rannveig Lífsteinndottir af Dagr
Eldest child of the Lord af Dagr and as such, until recently, the Tanist of the clan. She had been groomed for the role since birth and when her father proclaimed his intention to make her brother Stéfnir his successor, she vocally object and declared a grudge against him over the matter. Now she plans to raid some place beyond the ocean to the west to prove herself. She is in many ways like her mother, though the cold shell she presents others is much thinner and she has a reputation to be easy to provoke.

Auðvin
Third son of the current Lord, but he became a Gothir in young years and has cut all ties with the clan. Apparently there was some row between the Lord and the Lady shortly before he left.

Nóri Lífsteinnson af Dagr
A young man and the youngest son of the Lady af Dagr, often considered the black sheep of the family. He is known to amuse himself by flaunting his ability to leave the hold whenever he pleases, no matter the orders of his parents, and is a known troublemaker all over the city. Especially the Gothra hold him in contempt for some event in years past. He also is known to be rather affectionate towards some of the female slaves, having allegedly sired a child on a stable hand named Irpa.

Dagr Hórason af Dagr
A young boy that the Lord had with a common whore, which is something nobody lets him forget by even naming him after his mothers profession. As a result, he is rather quiet and withdrawn, preferring to not draw the attention of his elder siblings.

Valgerðr and Undrlaug Lífsteinndottir af Dagr
The straw blond twins are the youngest children of the Lord. Their mother was his mistress Svafa, who died in child-bed. They mostly stay in the quarters of the family, where their wet nurse Halla takes care of them. The Lady outwardly is distant to the two, but rumor is that she can be rather affectionate towards them behind closed doors.


Slaves and Servants

Gunthar
The Seneschal of the clan and thus in charge of all slaves and servants of the household. Outwardly a friendly and unfailingly polite man, but most of the slaves fear him for his coldness. It's said that he his loyal to the main family above all else and that he would commit any atrocity willingly and happily, just to please them.

Nechtan
Head cook of the clanhold and in charge of the slaves in the kitchen. He can be rather demanding, though also often shows some genuine kindness to others. Above all else though, he tries to run the kitchen as tightly as possible, seeking to make his charges lives easier by keeping them out of trouble and the attention of Gunthar elsewhere.

Ingomer
A rather unpleasant woman, who is the only other in the kitchen besides Nechtan who speaks fluent Imperial. She is often derisive of others and seems to dislike you solely for being born in the Imperium, though she equally dislikes anyone of Northmen descend.