Awaited in Valhalla

Arvyd had had a long few weeks behind him. For his entire life, he had believed himself to be completely and utterly invincible. From the very start, he had known that he was destined for great things. He had refused to believe that he would die at a young age, no matter how recklessly he behaved. He was meant to die gloriously in battle, that was the fate he believed the gods to have in store for him. Not this.

A hunting trip gone wrong. Arvyd preferred to go out into the snow and the woods to supply his family with freshly-caught meat. He’d put together a hunting party of skilled warriors, and they would head out into the forest to catch themselves some caribou for supper. It was something he had done hundreds, if not thousands of times before. Hunting was like a second nature to him. But Arvyd had gotten older, slower, weaker over the years. While no one would dare defy his prowess in battle, it was no secret that his age was getting to him. He wasn’t the young warrior that he used to be anymore. He only saw his younger self anymore when he looked at his sons. The hunting party had scattered a little bit, chasing a herd of prey. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been the only hunters around. They had shared their intended prey with a savage pack of wolves, which hadn’t been too appreciative of their presence. The hunting party had been large enough to fight off the hungry canines, but not without any dire consequences. During the battle, Arvyd had managed to get his forearm completely mauled by one of the creatures. His blood had stained the pearly white snow, sharp teeth digging into his flesh. He could still recall the sound of his skin being ripped open. He had fought valiantly to protect the others, and for a while it seemed like everything would be alright. He sustained some severe wounds, but his man had managed to get him back to The Last Hearth before he bled out.

Arvyd had been the same for a little while after that. He’d gotten patched up by one of the local medics and went about his business as he would usually. His arm hurt, but he didn’t pay it too much mind. He had gotten scratched, stabbed, and clawed at a million times before. This, too, would pass. But it didn’t. After a few days, the wound had swollen significantly and turned a bright, glowing red. The gashes refused to close, and a horrid liquid oozed from the wound. Shortly thereafter, Arvyd began feeling unwell. His skin had turned a sickly pale and his body started to ache. He had cold shivers, all the while he felt extremely hot to the touch. After a few days, he was completely bedridden and most of the people of the Hearth had lost their hope. Arvyd ferociously fought, clinging onto the last thread of life he had left, but after a week the infection had taken over his entire body. Unable to do as much as keep his eyes open for the few final seconds of his life, he succumbed to the darkness that was calling out to him.