The scattered mess of painted stones on the table spoke of impending defeat.

Rurik wouldn’t allow the gods another victory. He couldn’t.

But fates spelled out his ruin— the capitulation of his massed forces to an unstoppable foe.

Rurik sipped on bitter ale and thought deeply on this.

He noticed the bouncing charm on the ankle of a nearby dancer. The perfumed smoke and silk outfits filled the hall. Presents from distant rulers seeking to keep their relationships unmet acquaintances.

Rurik held no desire to visit the eastern lands. Though he made sure he never spoke of it. No need to dissuade the gift giving.

The Göjllbern hall saw many warriors pledge their blades to Rurik’s fortunes. The battle master stood alone atop the mountain of success. No other northern raider had attained his host of victories or plunder.

Still, he felt it wasn’t enough. Not to appease those waiting in the shadows. Snakes and small men, dangerous in their use of venom.