The Odin Scripture of Oak; Tyr Ladejarl.
Prologue
The elderly wolf sat by the grandious wooden made chair in the great hall in Sion Fortress. The fortress had once hosted the great hird(Army) and court of King Sverre of Norway, leader of the Birkebeiners. Now it it was just reduced to a shadow of its former self. The wolf lifted his head to look at the sphere-formed ceiling above his head where torn banners of old still hung displayed for all to see. The year was 1261, and 21 years had passed since the death of Duke Skule which had ended the great civil war that had torn the Kingdom of Norway for the last century and a decade.
Now, two decades after the civil war which had split Norway, the grandson of King Sverre, Haakon Haakonson had allowed the de-construction of Sverresborg (Sverre's Fortress), also named Sion.
He glimped with his eyes as he looked at the coat-of-arms displayed on the sides of the great hall, and in the mind of the wolf, sights and memorise of old passed before his eyes as if looking at a movie. It had been a bloody century, countless of lives lost, too many on this century. However, something else had come out from it, a great natonalistic feeling, the Danes and Svea's had attempted to conquer them, even amidst this chaos and yet they had prevailed it all, and stood now as the greatest kingdom in Northern Europe under King Haakon Haakonson.
Suddenly, the old and weary oak-made gates which led in to the great feast-hall sprung open, the iron-parts whined and groaned as they were put to their limits, and as the door's opened, a flock of souls came strolling in to the great hall. The wolf kept his gaze on them, old, young, girls and boys, rich and poor. He felt a smile slowly spread along his black wolven lips, so many were interested to hear the tales of old, of heroes and villains, rights and wrongs.
The wolf, an elderly male from Nidaros who just went under the name of Old Skaldson, he had been given this name when he had first began telling his tales of old, a skald (Bard), and as no one didn't even try to ask his real name, he had gone under the nickname of Old Skaldson. A smile continued to be displayed on the wolf's lips where he sat, few knew the true story. He was in matter of fact, Snorri Sturluson of Iceland, he who would be, in later history, reknown of his writing of the Heimskringla. History told that Snorri had been assassinated in his house, year 1241. He had escaped the assassination attempt and fled to Norway, and now he'd live the last years of his life here, telling the stories.
His keen blue eyes kept a constant look-out over the growing gathering before him in the grand hall. A bonfire had been made now in middle of the hall to help the attendants to keep warm, meat and mead had been carried in and now, people sat around the bonfire, eyes locked on him. He rose from the old throne, that wooden-chair carved by a masters hand, where King Sverre's story was displayed on the pictures and foreign letters carved in to it. His hands was held out to the gathering. Himself was not a sight for gods or so, clad in torn clothes, hunch-backed due to old age and tired eyes. Few would even think of him being one of the mighty jarls of old. He cleared his throat and opened the cermony.
"Greetings to you all wo have come here this night to remember the history of the great kings and heroes of forgotten ages. From how Nòr and his brother Gòr came from the north, how Nòr made himself King of a lushful and fruitful land which we will later proudfully call Norway. From the Heathen Gods of old, Easir to the Vanir, on how Harald Fairhair united the kingdom and became the first King under a unified Kingdom of Norway all up to our own age, where King Haakon Haakonson reigns as our rightful monarch. " he made a brief pause, letting his eyes wander across the great hall on all those eyes that were fixated on him, interested in hearing ye' tales of old. His hands lowered "Now, what story do you all want me to tell you on this eventful day?"
A girl rose from her sitting position by the bonfire. Her long golden hair hung slack down her back and side, piercing blue eyes met Snorri's and she said with a voice filled with anticipation "Oh Old Skaldson! Tell us of the romance!" surely she was about to come to age, a romantic female, lost in the world of true love and romantic tragedy. One of the boys, a broad-shouldered bear rose in protest "No! We want to hear of how the dragon Fafnir fell by the hands of Sigurd!" Snorri could just smile as a riot errupted in the halls among the younger generation.
He fell silent and would fall back in to the chair, seating himself in the most comfortable position he could find, his body was old and weary afterall. The shouts and arguing would go on for about ten minutes before a vote had been called for by the parents, there, it was voted for the Tale of Tyr Haakonson, Ladejarl.
Snorri had however almost fallen asleep in that old throne that had once been occupied by no other than King Sverre and his successors. Now, he was pulled back form his halflike slumber by one of the girls attending to the event. He knew who she was by looks, knowing she was one of the girls working in the Tavern here at Nidaros. She nudged his arm somewhat, making the Wolf suddenly stiffen up, eyes wide open and he looked at the taven-girl who smiled back to him and offered him a cup filled with, by the familiar scent, mead. He took it with a nod and looked down at the audience.
He took a small sip from the cup which had been offered to him and placed both his arms on the armrests of the chair, ressembling much one of the old kings, looking down at his subjects. Then he opened his mouth, the audience went silent and he started to tell the tale of Tyr Haakonson. And as he spoke, the audience was swept in to a state of dream, looking at the tale as if a movie.
Part 1: Test of Manhood
Tyr looked out over the grand view of Lade Farm as it was dubbed. The hills that went down to River of Nid was one who could just be described as one of the most norwegian views you can come over. The slopes going up and down until the lend went down in to the River of Nid which was soon swallowed by the great Fjord. He was looking for his father's ship, it was somewhat part of his morning ritual which he had been doing the last month now. His father had promised his young son to be home before autumn and now the air was slowly turning colder, indicating autumn was right around the corner now.
However, there was no ships comming in, nor any flocks of persons to greet the Ladejarl welcome home, so Tyr turned on his heels and strolled in to the center of the farm. Lade farm could hardly be called a farm at all, a great mansion where the landlord, Tyr's own father lived had been standing there since Harald Hairfair had given it to his ancestral father for aiding him in unifying Norway in to one kingdom. There were also other houses scattered around the big mansion where other people tended to sleep, like the Ladejarls personal soldiers and guards, along with the servants and farmhelpers, Lade community was its own kingdom one could say, seperated from the rest of Norway.
Today, the farm was bustling with life, hens ran amock over the open area, while two thralls ran after them in a sorry attempt to capture the fugetive hens, some stood and laughed at it, finding it amusing while other grunted and came with some not quite appropiate words, non-the-less, the lady of the house would soon enough punish the thralls for their incompentance, nothing that Tyr, the young lad would ever care about. No, today he had been allowed to train with bow and arrow with Baard Tambarskjelv, one of the finest arrow-slingers on this side of Dovre Mountain.
Tyr would stroll over the green and lush slopes that went up and down, walking north from the farm of Lade. He didn't take long to find the small river that ran there, he knew this area like his own pocket. He followed the stream of clear, fresh water upwards towards the tall mountain tops which were the start of the majestic region known as Dovre, and far out there by the horizon, he could see the feature of the legendary mountain where the region got it's name from, Dovre Mountain.
He walked for ten minutes or so until he came to the clearing where Baard and he had decided where they would meet and train in the use of bow and arrow. Baard already stood there with quiver and bow neatly placed by a tree. When he saw Tyr, the Tiger would smile.
"Greetings, my lord. It is good to see you're fashinably late as usually," the older male jokingly commented as he greeted Tyr. Tyr just grumbled something in return that could hardly be classified as words. Time was something he cared so little about, and for that, he was picked on by many, and even though he was son of the Jarl(Earl) of Lade, did not protect him much.
For several hours the two males were at the clearing. Baard made Tyr hold the bow in action for quite a long time, and over and over again it went. Pulled the string all the way back and made him hold it like that to strengthen his arm, and after when Tyr's arm could no longer keep up with the practice he had forced Tyr to shoot at would-be targets that lay scattered around by the clearing.
