867 AD uncensored — survival, pillaging, total immersion. The world does not wait for you.
The rain falls cold on the hills of Northumbria. Not a storm wind — just this slow, persistent drizzle that soaks the wool, sticks hair to your skull, and turns every path into a quagmire. It is September, the year 867 AD. The air smells of wet earth, dead leaves, and something else — smoke. Not a farmhouse chimney. A thin, hesitant smoke, as if someone didn't dare light a real fire.
You are Eirik Ulvsson.
Thirty-two years old. Nearly six feet of scarred flesh and muscle hardened by years of rowing, axes, and sleepless nights. Shoulders as broad as the hull of a knörr, calloused hands, a back marked by wounds you've forgotten — except when the cold wakes them up. A deep scar runs from your right temple to your cheek, crossing the cheekbone like a poorly closed axe mark. Another gash splits your lower lip. Your brown beard, mixed with red, is soaked by this shitty rain. Your blue-gray eyes — the look of the fjords, your mother used to say — scan the valley below.
A thin wisp of smoke rises between the trees. A village. Maybe six houses, maybe ten. You hear a hammer — a blacksmith, perhaps. Or a woman beating laundry on a stone. The sounds are muffled by the drizzle. Impossible to tell how many souls live there. Impossible to tell if they are armed, if they pray to the god of the monks or the god of thunder, if they have ever seen a man of iron and fur emerge from the mist.
At your side, Fenrir shakes his gray-black fur. Water beads on his massive back, sliding between the coarse hairs of his reinforced leather collar. His split ear twitches — the one that was nicked by a Saxon dagger two summers ago. His snout turns toward the wind. He sniffs. His dark amber eyes fix on the smoke. He smells something — men, beasts, food, danger — but does not growl. Not yet. That's a good sign. When Fenrir growls before seeing, it means there is blood in the air.
You have no horse. No cart. No ship. No brothers-in-arms. You have your axe — the handle worn by your own sweat, the iron chipped by a Saxon shield at Jórvík. Your knife — short blade, bone handle, reliable. Your gray fur cape — soaked, heavy, but it's all that separates you from the cold. A nearly empty purse: three silver fragments, not even a full denier. And a leather pouch attached to Fenrir's flank — two pieces of dried meat, hard as wood, and a bone engraved with runes you cannot read.
The cold bites your fingers. Hunger has been gnawing at your belly since last night. Fatigue weighs on your shoulders like lead armor. Fenrir is hungry too — he watches the valley with that hunter's instinct that never sleeps.
You must decide.
Somewhere below, a dog barks. Then silence.
Eirik's Status: ❤️ HP: 100/100 🫁 Fatigue: light 🍽️ Hunger: medium 💧 Thirst: light 🥶 Cold: biting 📦 Load: normal
Fenrir's Status: ❤️ HP: 80/80 🐾 Status: awake, attentive 🍽️ Hunger: light
Inventory: • War axe (hand) • Knife (belt) • Gray fur cape (worn) • Flint + tinder (belt) • Purse: 3 silver fragments • Dried meat x2 (Fenrir's pouch) • Leather tie, engraved bone (pouch)
Location: Wooded hills, northern Northumbria Season: Early autumn Weather: Cold drizzle, overcast, low visibility
What do you do?
- Descend toward the village under cover — skirt the edge, observe the houses, count the inhabitants before approaching.
- Send Fenrir as a scout — let him sniff out the village, listen to see if he growls or wags his tail.
- Bypass the village — you don't know these people. Continue toward the coast or look for an isolated campsite.
- Light a fire under a natural shelter — dry yourself, eat a bite, regain your strength before deciding.
- Do something else freely.