Blood of Ice and Ash

He was called Skjoldulf—Shield-Wolf—by those who whispered his name along the frozen fjords. Born of frost and fire beneath the watchful gaze of Odin, he was the son of a jarl and a thrall, bound by blood to both sword and survival. The warpaint across his face wasn’t mere intimidation—it marked his pact with the gods, the red swath over his eyes for blood shed in vengeance, and the black streaks drawn downward for the fallen brothers whose names he carried in silence.

Feathers from ravens—sacred to the Allfather—dangled from his helm, swaying with every stormwind that swept the North Sea. As war brewed beyond the horizon, Skjoldulf stood at the prow of a longship, eyes fixed like iron on the lands of the Saxons. He had no thirst for gold, only for legacy—a place in the sagas yet to be sung.