Frostbound Vengeance

Vengeance is swift; vengeance is cold; those who embrace it shall never grow old. - Ruskev Proverb.

Summary

Frost hung in the air like shards of broken glass, each breath from Beorn Coldblood emerging as a plume of silver mist. The steel of his axe, Keljoern (Bonebreaker), glowed faintly blue in the cold, its edge sharp enough to shave the breath from a man's throat. Snow crunched beneath his heavy boots as he ascended the ridge, eyes fixed on the distant hall of Jarl Jorik Beartooth, the man who had stolen everything from him.
The Bear-banner flew high on the hall’s watchtower, Brown on the green, snapping in the bitter wind. It was a symbol of strength to the Jarl’s warriors, but to Beorn, it was a mark of betrayal. Ten winters had passed since that banner had flown over his village, over the pyres of his kin.
He had been a boy then, barely able to lift his father’s axe. He remembered the flames licking at the night sky, the howls of Jarl Jorik’s warband echoing through the valley. His mother’s last words still clung to his ears like frostbite.
"Run, Bjorn! Run and live!"
He had fled, tears freezing on his cheeks. But he had not forgotten. He had not forgiven.
Now, he had returned.
A low growl rumbled at his side. Shavii, his great black wolf companion, padded beside him, his yellow eyes scanning the horizon. The beast had been with him since his exile, a brother born of fang and frost. Shavii could sense Beorn’s rage, and he shared it. The wolf's lips curled, revealing sharp, bone-white fangs.
“Patience, brother,” Bjorn muttered, stroking Shavii’s neck. His voice was as cold as the wind that battered them. “There will be blood enough before the sun sets.”
Laughter echoed through the mead hall. Warriors drank and roared songs of glory as bone-white flames crackled in the central hearth. Jarl Jorik Beartooth sat at the head of the feast, his Bearskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His face was scarred, his eyes as sharp as broken flint. He leaned forward on his oaken chair, gnawing on a roasted haunch of venison, his beard glistening with grease.
"To the gods of war and winter!" he bellowed, raising his drinking horn. The hall erupted in cheers. Mead spilled onto the floor like golden blood.
Jarl Jorik had built his name on the ashes of others. Villages burned. Rivals slain. His legend grew with each conquest. No man dared challenge him. No one but Beorn Coldblood.
The doors of the mead hall burst open, and a gust of snow howled in, carrying the bitter bite of the night. The flames in the hearth flickered, dimming as shadows stretched long across the walls. The laughter died. Every warrior turned to the entrance, hands drifting to sword hilts.
A lone figure stood on the threshold, his outline framed by the swirling blizzard. Fur-clad shoulders as broad as a bear's, an axe resting against his back, and a wolf prowling at his side.
Beorn stepped forward, his eyes locked on Jarl Jorik. No words were needed. The hall's air grew taut, heavy with the weight of unspoken violence.
"Who comes to my hall, unbidden, on the night of victory?" Jorik's voice was like the growl of distant thunder. He rose slowly from his seat, eyes narrowing. Recognition flickered in his gaze. "No... It cannot be."
"Ten winters," Beorn growled. His voice was hoarse, but it carried the weight of mountains. "Ten winters since you burned my village. Since you buried my kin beneath your banners. I swore an oath that night, Jorik. An oath to the gods, to the dead, and to the frost that fills my lungs."
Jorik’s warriors began to rise, but the Jarl raised his hand. “Stay your blades, fools. This cub thinks himself a wolf.” He grinned, revealing his sharp, wolfish teeth. “Come then, pup. Let me see if your fangs have grown.”
The circle was drawn outside the hall, torches planted in the snow, casting flickering shadows over the clearing. Beorn stepped into the circle, removing his cloak and letting the cold bite at his bare arms. The scars that crisscrossed his skin told the story of a man who had fought beasts, men, and worse. He rolled his shoulders, gripping Keljoern in both hands. The runes along its edge glowed faintly, a soft hum filling the air.
Jarl Jorik also removed his cloak, revealing a frame forged by war. His muscles coiled like a predator, ready to strike. He drew his war axe, Fuern, an ancient blade stained with the blood of Jarls. His warriors howled like wolves, cheering for their Jarl.
The air between them grew still. **It was the silence of the storm’s eye.**
Eirik struck first, his axe arcing down like a thunderbolt. Bjorn twisted to the side, the blow cleaving the snow where he had stood. He countered with a swing of his own, the edge of Keljoern biting into Jorik's shoulder. Blood spattered the snow, steaming like fresh bread from the oven.
"You’ve grown bold, pup," Jorik hissed, teeth bared.
"Bold enough to see you die," Beorn snarled.
Blades clashed, the ring of steel on steel echoing like distant war drums. Their footwork churned the snow to slush. Jorik fought like a wild beast, every swing fueled by raw fury. Beorn fought like the frost — steady, unyielding, and cold. Every parry drained Jorik's strength. Every wound sapped his fury.
The crowd roared with each blow, but their jeers turned to gasps as Beorn found an opening. He swept low, his axe severing the tendon at Jorik’s knee. The Jarl fell to one leg, gasping. His breath misted in the cold. Beorn raised Keljoern high, ready to end it.
“Wait,” Jorik coughed, blood trickling from his lips. “You have won. No need to stain the snow further.”
Beorn's eyes narrowed. “You stained it first.” He swung his axe in a clean, brutal arc.
The bear-banner fell with its master.
The warriors of Jorik's hall watched in silence. The great bear-banner lay crumpled on the snow, red threads soaking in the Jarl’s blood.
"Well?" Beorn's voice rang out, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Will you kneel, or will you die as he did?"
Silence. Then, one by one, the warriors lowered their heads. They knelt. The bear had fallen, and in his place, a colder beast had risen. The frost wolf had taken the hall.
Shavii sat at Beorn's side, his yellow eyes fixed on the men before them. Beorn gazed up at the night sky, where faint streaks of green light swirled like serpents. The gods watched.
"You have your vengeance," a voice whispered behind him. It was Volnen, the All Seer who had wandered the wilds since time unspoken. He stood at the edge of the circle, his bound and hidden and his staff buried in the snow. "But vengeance is a fire, Beorn Coldblood. It will warm you for a night, but it will leave you cold forevermore."
Bjorn looked down at his hands, stained with blood. They were steady, but they were not warm.
"My kin are avenged," he replied. "I need no warmth."
"Then you are colder than the frost," she said softly, her breath vanishing into the night air. "You are colder than the gods themselves."
Ten winters later, Beorn sat alone in the hall, now called Hjartahöll, Heart-Hall. His warriors feasted, laughing and singing songs of his glory. But he felt nothing.
He gazed into the flames of the hearth, eyes hollow as the ash that swirled within it. The ghosts of his family still haunted him.
Shavii lay at his feet, older now, his black fur streaked with white. The wolf lifted his head, ears twitching. His yellow eyes met Beorn's, and for a moment, Bjorn saw himself reflected there — a beast crowned in frost, blood on his hands.
The seer’s words echoed in his mind. "Vengeance will warm you for a night, but it will leave you cold forevermore."
Outside, the northern winds howled. But this time, the howl was his own.

Spread

It is told by Skalds around fires to all who wish to listen to them.

Cultural Reception

While vengeance is a key part of Norrian tradition, as they are obliged to avenge their kin, this tale tells the damage fueled by the desire to achieve it, no matter the cost to oneself.

Related Ethnicities

• Norrian

Related Locations

• Continent of Norria

Beyond Revenge

It is natural to harm those who harm you and your loved ones, but it can easily consume you until you are blinded by it. - Ruskev Elder

Seeking revenge is often a common tradition amongst Norrians. When a crime has been committed against them, they and their kin do whatever is needed to see that the crime is avenged. Yet, they often try to find peaceful terms to see the desire for vengeance sated, seeing that it can quickly get out of hand and cause much more destruction than they can even fathom if a desire for bloodshed escalates to madness and obsession.