Asgeirr awoke to the sound of the harsh winds of his homeland howling around the corners of his hut. His eyes wandered through the darkness, trying to make out the planks that made up the roof, but his senses were clouded these days. The nights barely did him any good, for each night he was haunted by visions, dreams, ideas that weren't his own, or were they? As he thought about this, he managed to raise his body of his bed, in actuality a heap of furs, and knelt down to ignite the wood in his fireplace, in order to warm up his muscled body. Asgeirr being a Norscan, the cold didn't have it's toll on him as much as it would have had on other, lesser men from the south. After feeling adequately warm, he put on his clothes, leather boots, trousers made of heavy, green cloth, a shirt made of crimson silk and a long heavy fur coat. He stepped out through his door, into the blinding light of the frozen plains of Norsca, his steely blue eyes set upon the one place he was almost certain to find a solution to his problems: the longhall of Jarl Hroddveig and his seer...
YOU ARE READING
THE SAGA OF ASGEIRR
Fantasy"Greetings, stranger, come, have a seat and listen. Let me tell you the Saga of Asgeirr, chosen of the gods! A tool of the gods' will, gifted with suffering and hardship, and other things that the gods seldom give. Interested? Come then, let us see...
