"..and he set foot upon the shores of summer and said Here shall I build my house, may the wolves of night fear the fires of my hall!" -passage from the Vÿkstraak;

Late Summer 651, Northern Coast of Aridisia

The waves threatened to toss the small ship upon the rocks as it slowly made its way along the rocky shoreline. The men rowed with all their might despite fatigue and stiff muscles. The large, natural harbor gave them hope at last for some rest.

They had been driven off course by the many storms of the Great Sea. In the wind and rain, they had not even known in which direction the Gods had taken them. When the sky finally cleared, they found by the stars that they had been driven far to the south of their intended course.

Orric Maarstenson, stood at the bow of the ship, all his weight bearing into the great steering rudder, trying to direct it away from the crashing rocks. The men sat facing him, rowing in a unison that only weeks together at sea could teach. Their faces were worn, and tired, but they strained at the task before them like they were only recently at sea. He was proud of these men. There had been some troubles, as expected. They had nearly panicked when they realized they were lost, and had more than once threatened mutiny. They survived on rainwater when their stores were gone, and ate sparingly form their supplies to conserve food. But they followed his directions still. They trusted that he could find them safely home.

That was a great source of pride to Orric. These men were his friends, his family. When Leiff Huunden had been thrown overboard and lost in the first onset of the storm, he had cried with his men, feeling his loss as if it were his own son. It made sense to him. He had known Leiff longer than his son, spent more time among these men than he had ever spent in his lodge at home with his family. Pehaps he thought of them now as his children.

They looked to him as if he had been in such situations before, being lost at sea so far from his home. He let them believe that. It gave them confidence, a feeling of safety. They needed that, he realized. They needed to believe that someone was in control, and knew how to get them home. He knew in his heart that he was far from in control. He nearly panicked himself when the storms hit. He almost despaired the third day when the winds continued to threaten to drown the ship in monstrous waves that dwarfed the longboat. When the mast snapped under the heavy winds, he nearly threw himself overboard. But he had not. He remained outwardly calm, collected, no matter what he felt inside. He knew that death at sea, though no warrior’s death, was more honorable than death from old age or sickness. That gave him a peace, he accepted that if he died, it would be with some honor. He knew that his men, Leiff also, would have that same honor, to celebrate with their ancestors in the next life. He had given them that honor. He had never let them give up, to die the coward’s death of despair. He could take that with him to the next life.

But here they were, fighting the waves on some distant shore. He couldn’t say where they were, only that it was unseasonably warmer here than it would be in their homes to the north. They had seen no sign of settlements or cities here, only the endless stretches of forested shores teeming with wildlife. This land was wealthy. An army of longboats could be kept here. The timber could be used to build the grandest hall in all of Dÿnmar! They would celebrate on land tonight. If they were not driven into the rocks to drown before they found a suitable place to put ashore.

From the front of the longboat, Ulaf Hendrickson called back from his station. He was noticeably excited, and pointing wildly ahead.

"Beaches! There are Beaches!" he called loudly.

"Row! Row!" called Orric. "We’ll feast on fowl tonight! Row!"

The men doubled their efforts, something Orric might have thought impossible if he had not known these men so well. Their arms grew taught with effort. Veins threatened to explode from their necks as they pulled against the violent waters.

"Row! Row! Row!" he called out to them in a seemingly endless cadence to help them stay in rhythm.

The oars dipped in and out of the water as if one man with many arms were manning them rather than thirty men. Only weeks together at sea could form such unity of action. They were one many now. On man with sixty arms pulling as one. They had one mind, one thought: Row! Row! Row!

It seemed to take forever, but when it seemed to Orric that his men would surely collapse in exhaustion, Ulaf leapt suddenly from the prow with a rope over his shoulder. Orric started to call out, thinking Ulaf had lost his mind when he looked ahead of the ship and saw trees and beeches not thirty yards ahead. Several other men dropped their oars and jumped over the edge behind him. When the bobbing of the ship reached its lowest point, Orric could see them toiling in the surf, waves up to their chests, pulling hard at the rope, striving for the shore. At last, after what seemed an eternity, Orric felt the boat scrape the bottom.

"Drop your oars, men, we’ll pull her ashore from here!" he cried.

As the rest of the men jumped from their seats and leapt over the prow of the ship, Orric, too, rose and made his way across the jumble of barrels and boxes that made up the deck of the boat. He leapt into the crashing waves alongside the men. He plunged into the cold surf, and was immediately swallowed by the salty water. He nearly panicked as he instinctively tried to take a breath of air, and he instead was greeted by gulp of seawater. He felt sand beneath his feet, and gathered his legs beneath him.

He stood at last, his head and chest breaking the surface of the water as his hacked and coughed up mouthfuls of the vile water. Clearing his eyes, he saw that the men in front of him took little notice of his difficulties, no doubt many of them had similar ones.

Taking hold of the rope that the men had stretched taught from the prow of the ship, Orric struggled against the waves and strong undertow that threatened to pull the ship back into the sea without them aboard. At first, he thought they might lose the boat, and be forced to attempt to swim to it before it was washed away. But his fears proved baseless. The men slowly but steadily drew the boat towards the sandy beaches ahead.

Waves crashed into the back of the men’s knees, threatening to knock them from their feet completely. The beaches were only a few yards ahead! They were almost there!

At last, after four weeks of sailing, two weeks of battling strong storms and heavy winds, and what seemed an eternity of hunger and misery, Orric Maarstenson and his men emerged from the cold, gray waters of the North Sea and set foot upon the shores of Aridisia for the first time. They collapsed in a weary heap upon the sand. After a few moments catching his breath, Orric rose to his feet again and turned to the looming green forest before him.

"Fierden Hiar kor menses Skra! Fjorin i’ Svendern al- Meniå Vÿkstrås! Horenden nir Gryschnel! Frickån nir Naad! Forkanknut sver i’ er Hårstag tranken!"