Fynius was born to a simple and impoverished family of goat herders. Determined to see the world, at the age of 14 he left home and signed as a young apprentice sailor, first aboard the longboat Skúfr (Skua) and then on several others.

While he enjoyed travelling to new lands, Fynius never really fitted in.  Norjd captains were inclined to mix trading with raiding, and Fynius soon learned to handle spear and shield and axe, but he found no joy in death and pillage. Moreover, the seafarer’s life took an increasing toll. He lost an eye to an arrow. His left hand was mangled in an accident at sea. His right foot was injured when he and several shipmates were set upon by Sax brigands one night in a Baltic port. It later had to be amputated.

All of this left Fynius increasingly unable to perform a crewman’s tasks, whether clambering up a mast or making his away across a heaving deck in a heavy storm. Some captains were even reluctant to have him on board, fearing that his numerous injuries indicated that he was being punished by the Gods. “Fynius Albatrossen”” they called him behind his back—and, sometimes, to his face. Only the midget Arnuld was his friend.

He felt useless and broken, and so decided to seek his way to Valhalla. The Stormskum clan (from which he was now in any case long estranged), however, lacked even a traditional ättestupa. He thus decided instead to book working passage to the distant land of New Caledonia, explore its mysteries, and there find the end of his days.

The Shipwreck

I ponder the many ways in which death now evades me: claws and swords turned aside as if by an unseen hand, grievous wounds healing in days, the endurance and vigour of my otherwise my broken body.

The Gods—whose existence and power I do not doubt—may well have purpose for me. Is it some noble quest? Or is it to toy with me longer, before extinguishing me like the ember of an abandoned campfire? 

I do not know. For this is the thing about the Gods: no mortal soul knows their minds, and those that claim they do often prove madmen or charlatans.

Departure

Fynius stood on the longboat as it pulled away out to see, looking back at the skraeling woman he left on the beach with his sax. She would die, likely sooner than later. We all die, after all. But at least she would now have some choice in the matter, choosing her own fate.

Fynius was no philosopher, but the concept of fate troubled him deeply. Was one’s fate predetermined, and if so by whom? The gods? The universe? Did the gods have fates? They never seemed to in the stories. Perhaps this was why Frigg would say nothing of the future, for there is no future to tell. We forge it day by day.

Was it inevitable that he would lose a foot, a hand, and eye? Or had it been decided for him, perhaps as some sort of game to amuse the Aesir? Was there any point living, if one’s story was already written? If it was, one might as well skip to the end. Unless there was no end.

He looked around the longboat with a sense of unease. Raiders. Many Njord were raiders, and he had been among them. He had killed, and looted, and pillaged, and others had sought to kill him. But he was uncomfortable choosing or ending the “fate” of others, much as he disliked the idea of others determining him. He was no romantic, but if life had value, it was earned through actions and choices. He should have stayed on that island to free that woman, but he had chosen not to. He was not happy about it, but it was done. At least she had a choice to make too.

His thought back to the spirits upon the bridge. He had always hated riddles—he didn’t have the patience for them. Riddles from supernatural creatures were far worse. Once again, it stank of being toyed with. He would have happily sat on a rock and waited for his friends to come back with, refused to play their game, but suspected his friends might need his spear. But if their fates were already set, did it matter? He was no closer to answers.

Runes. Symbols. More tricks. It was like training a ferret. Why should he play at these games?

Fynius’ willingness to face danger might seem like bravery to some, but it wasn’t. It was his effort, however poorly he understood it, to test the bounds of his “fate.” No matter what risks he took, though, his thread remained unbroken. Was that his fate? Or was he fateless, drifting in the world with no home or destination? 

The island—if it had indeed been an island they were on—faded in the distance. He didn’t care. He had no curiosity about the henge, nor the ancient chamber, nor the other wondrous things they had seen. The issue of fate consumed him, tortured him, teased him. There was an irony—to be tortured both by thoughts that all was fated, and the thought that nothing was.

Well, who knew? Perhaps tomorrow he would die. 

Or not. 

Strange New Things

This New World is indeed a strange place. 

Beorn the shape-shifter.

Standing stones older than the forests, guarded by warriors of long ago.

Spirits with riddles. Riddles with spirits.

Wolf-creatures that are neither Úlfhednar nor Vagr, nor artifacts of magic as in the tales of Sigmund and Sinfjotli—but, instead, seemingly, the actual offspring of Skoll. That was concerning.

Fynius had never believed most of the legends. There were too many, and too implausible, and he had long ago given up trying to discern the motives of the Æsir, Vanir, and Jötnar. These things were not knowable, other that these creatures disposed of the fates of men as casually as one might consume a pot of picked herring. He was tired of it all. 

The fight with the wolf-creature had been perhaps the hardest he had faced, and yet he emerged from it with barely a scratch. No matter how eagerly he embraced the thought of death, it eluded him! What if it never came? What if he were forever fated to bear this broken body and never pass the gates of Valhalla?

He envied Ulfhild. She would die easily and gloriously one day, savagely torn apart by tooth and claw, or impaled on a bloody spear, or cut deeply while frothing in a berserker rage! Such an end seemingly eluded Fynius, no matter how often he invited it.

Still, he resolved to mention his concerns to Gregori. 

His unsociable manner cloaked the depth of his knowledge, and he seemed one who revelled in riddles and clues and divinities and mythic tales. Of all of them, Gregori sought not only places to hide, but that which is hidden. If anyone might know something, it would be him, surely?

They had met those who hunt the moon, after all. Just in case the stories be true, they might be wise to keep an eye for those who chase the sun. Ragnarök? It would be ironic indeed if that is how they all perished.

Fynius allowed himself a smile. The encounter with the Hulder had been a much more pleasant experience. She had been kind. Perhaps with his grotesque deformities she had mistaken him for a Huldrekall? At least she had not asked him to dance!

The Carving

Fynius cursed as once more the piece of wood slipped from his grasp. He was never very good at this, but it used to be much easier when he had two good hands and two good eyes. Still, he was in uncharacteristically good mood tonight and determined to finish before his time on watch ended and he had to wake one of the others. 

He bent down, picked it up the carving from the ground, and returned to work with his seax.

Back on the bridge, on the island, he had somehow known Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld almost at once. More to the point, they had known him—or, rather, they had known of him precisely because they could not know him. Fynius was without thread, recognizable at once only by the gap in the tapestry. Perhaps that is why they let him pass. Certainly, he was damned if he was going to play their games.

And so it had been with Gestumblindi. Fynius had known it was Váfuðr. Why else would the ravens be displayed so, if not for Hrafnaguð? Gizurr had been bested at his own game. He had deceived Ginnarr without deceit. Fjölnir had known of Ulfhild’s feral soul and of the mysteries of Rev-Ann, could not possibly know Fynius’ destiny because that was unwoven.  No wonder he had been so interested in what the Norns had made of them.

There, the carving was finished! It wasn’t very good—it barely resembled a fish. It was ugly, though. Ah well, surely Sviðurr would know what it was. And if he didn’t—well, that thought appealed to Fynius too. He chuckled quietly. He hadn’t done that in a very long time.

Quietly he crept to where Rev-Ann slept and removed the box from her possessions. Arnuld would be proud! The midget had been his only friend, the only one who had not mocked him for his injuries.  “Dødløs” he had always called Fynius, for reasons that only now had become clear. Had he known then? Or simply a lucky guess? 

Fynius opened the box, slipped in the carving, and returned it to its place. It wasn’t an offering, really. More of a memento of his encounter with Fjölnir. And, perhaps, a request that whatever darkness had been cast upon this sleeping girl be lifted. 

His task completed, Fynius returned to place on watch. Should he tell Gregori what had happened, what had truly happened tonight? Perhaps not. Although their interactions had often been unfriendly, neither was an unkind man. Perhaps Gregori would find Rúnatýr in his own way. If death was inevitable—as it is—life is much too short for regrets.

The rest of night was uneventful. Apart from the raven, watching.

Always watching. 

Frosker og skjebne 

“Perhaps this was it?” Fynius thought as the creature pulled him under the water. Perhaps, far beneath Yggdrasil, his thread had been found and woven into the great tapestry. This giant frosk was certainly fearsome, almost crushing Sigyn in a single snap of its toothy maw. Even if one were not devoured as prey, surely no man could breathe water! At last, his end would come. Ran and her daughters would have him.

Fynius was only dimly aware of the shouting on the riverbank from his friends. There was a terrific splash somewhere beside him—but he could not know it was Ulfhild, who had thrown herself at the beast in a berserker rage but missed her quarry.

Yes, perhaps this was it. Death at last. Would he be taken to Valhalla to join the ranks of the einherjar? 

When they fought the wolves, not one had bitten him. 

When they had fought the spiders, he had been untouched—yet Rev-Ann, back at the hut, had been knocked unconscious by an unseen blow to the head.

When they had fought the giant creature of stone, he had again emerged unscathed—unlike his companions, pummelled and battered, or bleeding from rocky shards. 

When they had come upon the warband, Ullr’s bow and Sigyn’s knowledge of the woods had allowed them to lose their pursuers, once more denying him death. Fynius regretted not charging into the fray, rescuing the skraeling—no one should meet their end burned alive—but it was a fool’s errand, and he was bound by Wotan’s Oath to investigate and report.

He chuckled as the water swirled around him. Years upon the sea, only to drown in this bekk!  The Norn, at least, were better at irony than they were at riddles.

Then his vision cleared. To his amazement, the water swirled around him and subsided, for reasons he could not yet understand. Faen! What was this? The creature looked just as surprised. Fynius wrestled its sticky tongue from him and strode back to the muddy riverbank, muttering angrily. The melee continued a minute or two more, as the frog leapt once more into the fray to swallow Sigyn and then attack Gregori. But it did not last long.

“Finius! I thought you were a goner!” Sigyn remarked to him as he brushed the mud from his clothing. She looked rather worse for wear, covered in blood and bruises and a not inconsiderable amount of spytte. “And you…. you don’t have a scratch on you.”

It was true. Not a single scratch. 

Dammit.

Skraelings

The days they had spent in the ancient temple and caves had brought Fynius near to Valhalla many times, whether from frog-creatures or devious traps or even slippery rocks. Much of it was all just a blur, but at the end of it he had felt a sense of accomplishment—not because of the dangers they had faced, nor the deeds they had done, nor even the ancient temple they had discovered, but because of the simple and uncomplicated gratitude of the villagers when they had returned bearing the three runes the skraeling had sought. There is no better feeling than an obligation fulfilled.

This is why he had left the life of raiding and plunder that called so many of his kin to the sea. There was nothing heroic in preying on the weak and defenceless. There was no honour in a life motivated by greed.

It was regret, therefore, that he left the village of the Frog. They had made a vow to Yöden Jodison that they would return to Heilhofn with whatever information they might discover, and however much Fynius distrusted the jarl that is what they must do. Given the size of the war party and all they had been told by the skraeling, the settlement itself might be in danger.

It was shortly before the journey southwards that Ulfhild had told them of her condition—or, rather, told Fynius, for it seemed some of his companions already knew. He wasn’t put out by this. He wasn’t the talkative sort, and he hardly projected empathy or compassion with his gruff words and constant references to death. He was concerned, however, by the mystery of it all. It bore all the hallmarks of the gods once more playing with men (or women), of supernatural forces treating mortals as toys. That was something that had never sat well with him.

Despite the urgency of their travel back to Heilhofn, they had—for whatever reason, for it was still unclear to Fynius why they had done this—agreed to hunt for a certain brown deer at the request of a blue-hatted tomtenisse. This had taken them through a village, or quarry, or whatever it might have been, inhabited by curious tiny creatures, much like the kabouters of the folktales. Fynius had no quarrel with these beings and had offered some silver in payment of their transit. Rev-Ann had thrown them a necklace too, that she had found in some earlier place.

The necklace, however, was cursed. Fynius still remembers the anguished cries of their hersir as he put it on, only to be strangled by its deadly magical contraction. They had come in peace! They had not meant for this to happen!

There was no chance to explain (even had they known the creature’s language), for immediately they were attacked with hail of studsande stenar. Fynius had done his best to draw the attacks away from his friends, rushing at their attackers with sword and shield. Ultimately their assailants were driven off.

As was her habit, Rev-Ann had been grieviously hurt. She recovered under Gregori’s care, then uttered those faithful words.

“I thought it might be cursed…”

The necklace? She had thrown these creatures a gift, knowing it might bring them harm?!?

“..I mean, I didn’t think it would KILL one,” she added.

The revelation shocked Fynius to his core. They were in the wrong! They were murderers! How many had died at his blade? Three? Four? HE was a murderer!

For all the death he had seen, and inflicted, since arriving in New Caledonia, it was the first that weighed heavily on his conscience. They owed these creatures a weregild, something of great value. His sword? It clearly was ancient, and resided in it mystic powers. But they looked not as if they could even wield it, given their stature. What did they value? What would they recognize as recompense for Rev-Ann’s act of deadly betrayal?

He did not know. But as they left his place of death, he slipped into his pocket one of their strange stones, to remind him of this obligation. And as he did, the wolf-headed torque around his wrist glowed warmly a moment, before it returned to iron.

The vow had been made.

Death

Fynius was dead. And Gregori had killed him.

He did not blame the old man—he had simply been playing around with some glowing crystals he had found. He was not, Fynius had long ago concluded, very good at his craft. Whatever he had done, there had been a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning, and they had found themselves in this place, a strange placve, with purple skies and many moons above.

Gregori and Rev-Ann claimed they were from the future, and this was some other world. Clearly they were both mad. It was the afterlife! It wasn’t the hallowed hals of Valhalla, although the rivers here ran thick with mead. Glaðsheimr, perhaps? Somewhere else in Asgard?

The events of the past weeks that had brought them to this place were a blur. They had paid blood-gilt to the creatures Rev-Ann had slaughtered. Rev-Ann herself had died, been brought back by Gregri as a tortured soul of the undead, been killed again. They had returned to Heilhofn, whereupon Eørl Yöden had sent them out again with his underling Sven. They were attacked by Groendod and Jotun, and in that fight Sven had died (aided, perhaps, by Fynius pushing him off a cliff, and Ulfhild’s swift sword and remarkable ability to become something even more feral). Rev-Ann had returned as a Valkeyrie. It said something of the strange adventures in this strange and magical land that Ulfhild’s shape-shifting and Rev-Anns’s return didn’t seem out of place at all.

They had continued to the M’iq M’aqi  village, found it razed, discovered a small child, befriended some Jotun, and rescued Old Father, Old Mother, and a few M’iq M’aqi villagers from the hands of slavers. They had been on their way back to Heilhofn when Gregori had brought them to this strange new place.

Where were they? Fynius did not know. He looked up at the many moons above. He did not care, even if it was Helheim itself. It was the final destination. Finally he was here—although a little disappointed he was still lame.