The Saga of Bjorn!

You're getting the last chapter of the Saga on Monday, so here's the entire thing! Think of it as a mini-teaser for tomorrow.

This was compiled by a beta reader, Sputnik. Thank you!!

Note: For anyone reading the whole thing and between the lines - I originally had dates on each part of Bjorn's Saga, making it clear that he's NOT a bastard Morsin. However, that fit well for a 'chronicles' type epigraph. Bjorn, however, was more Nordic in nature, and a viking saga fit him more properly... which wouldn't have careful dates on each part. Which is a bit of a shame, a few of those dates had fun (Okay, for me, read: horrifying) implications and details that the next verse would build on. (The next verse, when read backwards, as presented.)

I will say, I REALLY liked doing it mostly backwards, and slowly revealing the history one bit at a time, without a huge infodump in the middle of the story.

There were some smaller infodumps instead.

Oh, and because I like shit stirring - there's a few flat-out lies in Bjorn's Saga. Because why the hell would he tell the truth? It's a propaganda piece. For his dudes.

I debated removing the Verse headers, because they break up the story. But I decided to leave them in, so people could still read each 'chunk'

As a more meta-commentary: I'm completely convinced that Bjorn could be written as a protagonist in his own epic series, and people would cheer for him the entire time.

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Verse 1

In the hall of Alaric Morsin, whose wealth was vast but heart withered, came Maid Rose, whose beauty shone like moonlight on new-forged steel. Fair of face and fey of blood, she stirred the ghost of his first love, long cold in the barrow-mound.

Alaric took her to his bed, scorning vows and kindred. His hearth-wife raged like the sea in storm, and his blood-sons - most bitterly Dorian the Grim - spoke of blood-price and shame.

But Rose, though touched by witchcraft, held little power. “A weak seidr-woman,” they whispered. “Easily swept aside.”

Verse 2

Rose walked the sea’s edge, alone, where the gulls cry and foam dances. The great 

sea-wards, laid by the wise of Dublin, lay dormant - cracked like old shields and under 

repair.

From the mists came Skorri Blood-eye, breaker of oaths and scourge of the west isles, his dragon-ships knifing through fog like sharks through seal-flesh.

Steel sang, flames rose, and thralls were taken.

Verse 3

Rose, with six others, was bound in chains of bronze and tears. Skorri laughed, his one red eye blazing like a cursed star. They could not breach Dublin’s heart - its rune-stones still stood fast - but they gnawed at its bones and carried spoils enough to boast of in song and mead-hall.

Thus the wolf of the north turned his prow toward other shores, trailing smoke and sorrow behind him.

Verse 4

The longships faded into the mist once more, their bellies fat with plunder and pain. The thralls were herded like cattle into strange lands.

Verse 5

Bjorn was born in fire and shadow, the son claimed by no man, and yet son of all vengeance. The thrall-woman Rose groaned in a darkened hut, alone save for an old crone and the hiss of the hearth.

He came into the world not crying, but growling like a bear cub torn too early from the womb.

Verse 6

Bjorn, child of chains, knew not his father - some whispered Skorri, others the gods. But 

his eyes held a storm and his fists closed quick around steel.

He grew with fire in his bones and a hunger in his soul, burning to carve his name in the

ice of fate, so all who walked Midgard would remember Bjorn Rosearson

Verse 7

In the rough yards and shadowed corners where the sons of warriors play, Bjorn, wolf-born and mother-tethered, was set upon.

They mocked his face - dark of eye and hair, unlike the flaxen brood of the fjord.

They mocked his mother - Rose, sickly thrall and sea-lost flower, who withered in the northern frost.

They mocked his name, fatherless, rootless, unclaimed.

But Bjorn did not run. He gave back blow for blow, tooth for tooth, and blood was his constant companion.

Verse 8

The whispers changed. No longer just “the bastard boy.”

Now: scrapper, brawler, breaker of teeth.

One eve, a corpse-walker from the old barrows crept into the village, shrieking with death-runes and rot.

While men hesitated, Bjorn leapt.

With fists like thunder and a heart of stone, he tore the thing apart - and bore the death-taint in his blood.

But he spat it out, laughing, and stood.

Healed by rage alone.

The skalds took note.

Verse 9

At twelve winters, when boys are barely men, Bjorn was called by Stigandr the Drowned - black-eyed raider of the western isles.

A thrall’s son? A ghost’s get?

And yet, the drowned man saw promise.

Though Bjorn knew no runes, held no staff nor spell-bound charm, he took the offer, grasped it like a hungry wolf to a bone.

Verse 10

Among runecasters and shield-bearers, Bjorn proved his worth not with spells, but with fire in his eyes.

He charged where spellfire raged like a firestorm from Muspelheim, unarmed and unarmored, yet laughing.

He pulled comrades from burning ships.

He stood in the breach while others fell.

And when the skalds asked how, he merely shrugged:

“Fate watches. Let her be impressed.”

Verse 11

The wind howled like grieving gods as Rose, pale and broken, gave up her breath.

Bjorn knelt beside her, no longer boy but not yet whole man.

She took his hand, called him bjartur - bright one - and spoke her last:

“Live well, and bury my ashes where sea meets sky.”

And then the light left her.

Verse 12

Bjorn built her pyre with his own hands, laid her in flame like a queen.

The ashes he gathered into a small jar of silver and bone, worn always at his belt.

From that day, men called him The Ashen One.

Not only for the urn he carried - 

But for the cities left smoldering in his wake.

Verse 13

Ten winters and more did Bjorn ride the storm-winds of war.
His axe, forged from the soul-heart of a northern bear, drank deep.
In blood and thunder he taught himself the tongue of runes,
Not from scroll, but from scream.
He carved spellwork in flesh and fire, earning magic by mastery of death.
He slew Thornak the Leechking, whose breath rotted bone, with his axe through the throat.
He dragged Vorthuun, the Maw Below, from the trench of the world and fed it steel and flame.
He vanished through Ashkelon’s Teeth, stone maze of the southern mages, while ten ships followed - and none returned.
The Executioner’s Hex bent to his will, bound to his soul by fire-oath and fury.

Verse 14

With spoils piled high and blood-debt paid, Bjorn purchased Rimebreaker, fierce of prow and sturdy of wood.
Upon its deck he stood not as thrall-born, but as war-lord, chief of his own crew - men sworn by blood and coin.
Through the coasts of Logres and across the jeweled lands of the southern kingdoms, he struck.
Raider, reaver, spell-caster.
A name to be feared in wind and port alike.

Verse 15

 In a tavern thick with smoke and charm-wards, Bjorn met Alyssara, the Star-Witch of the East.
Eyes like midnight storms, and a tongue sharp with riddles,
They joined with Lars, the axe-brother of Bjorn, and together they made a coven of three.
She spoke truths none had known.
When silence took her, she vanished into her cabin - only to return with fire in her eyes and answers none dared question.
Some whispered she drank from wells forbidden, or that her soul walked strange paths.

Verse 16

 At first, even the fiercest doubted her.
But time proved her mind a blade as sharp as Bjorn’s axe.
Together, the coven wove secrets into steel.
They read fate like maps, and found the place where destiny turned dark.
Bjorn spoke of Dublin,
Of the house where ghosts dwelled.
Of vengeance not yet taken.

Verse 17

 The runes flared, the skies cracked, and Rimebreaker passed through the wards of Dublin.
Steel sang.
The city, slow to rise, could not stop the flood.

Verse 18

In the hour before dawn, Alaric Morsin, traitor and coward, choked on his own blood, taken in sleep.
Dorian Morsin, storm-eyed and bitter, reached for his focus -
Too late.
Bjorn's axe split his spine.
No mercy was shown.
The children cried out - once.
Then only the crackle of fire remained.
Bjorn left with ash on his boots and silence behind.

Verse 19

One breath, one life spared.
A single babe - Seamus, wailing amidst smoke and ruin.
Bjorn, grim-faced, stayed his axe.
Not for mercy, but for power.
The bloodline could not declare a new heir unless the blood still flowed.
And now it flowed through one child - under watch, under chain, under his control.
The gods may weep at the cruelty, but fate nodded, silent and cold.

Verse 20

 Then came the second fire: clean and unseen.
Those who held power - judges, mages, counselors, stewards -
Fell in their beds, choking on spell-smoke and betrayal.
Bjorn spoke but one word, and the wards obeyed.
It was not war.
It was erasure.

Verse 21

 Only Steward Ronan survived.
Clever, silver-haired, hands stained with ink and compromise.
Bjorn offered him two paths:
One, paved in gold -
A share of the wealth, a future for his blood,
And a name among nobles.
The other, soaked in crimson -
His kin hung from rafters like game in winter, and his own death slow and loud.
Ronan chose survival.
He bent the knee, and kissed the ash.

Verse 22

Dublin Castle, once proud and open, closed its gates like a tomb.
The Argo Pool, which shimmered with portal light, was sealed with black runes.
Wards shimmered in the air - like frost across the breath of gods.
None came in.
None went out.
The world blinked - and Dublin vanished from it for a time.

Verse 23

 While the world slept, the slaughter's echo remained trapped.
No crows flew.
No ravens cried.
No merchant brought word.
And no sword was raised -
For none yet knew.

Verse 24

Maeve Morsin, proud-blooded and flame-eyed, stepped through the Misty Gates, returning from Camelot.
Her boots touched Dublin stone -
But the air was wrong.
Too still.
Too cold.
She smelled blood beneath the cobblestones,
And knew - though no word had been spoken -
That her house was fallen.

A magic spell of stunning and paralysis took her into the darkness.

Verse 25

Maeve Morsin, last ember of her house, walked unaware into the wolf’s den.
She bore the Ring of Warding, a relic of her line, bound to her very flesh.
But no ward could match the will of Bjorn.
With blade kissed in silence, her hand was taken -
A flash of steel, a scream swallowed by runes.
The ring fell, and her protective magics with it.

Verse 26

 Maeve, bloodied but unbowed, was brought low by chalice and curse.
They forced potions down her throat -
Elixirs to twist will, to cloud the mind, to sow false warmth in a heart scorched with grief.
The witches say such brews can carve love from fear and pain,
And if not love, then at least devotion deep enough to look like it.

Verse 27

 Beneath black silk banners and a sky that did not dare storm,
Bjorn wed Maeve.
The ceremony was small - whispers only, no bells, no blessings.
Witnesses, few and hand-picked, spoke in hushed awe of how she gazed at him -
Eyes soft, voice sweet, as if all her world was narrowed to one man.
They did not see the potions.
They did not hear the chains.

Verse 28

 In the eyes of the Bloodline Magic, Bjorn was now kin.
He took the name Morsin without challenge -
Not from a court, nor from the grave.
And so the blood-runes burned with new purpose:
Bjorn, once thrall-born, now Regent,
Ruler in name and fate, until young Seamus would come of age.
But the child was small, and time was long.

Verse 29

 Bjorn stood upon the high tower of Dublin, clad in iron-dark finery,
And declared himself Duke Morsin, heir by marriage, might, and magic.
There were no protests -
Only wind over empty streets,
And the silence of those who once might have spoken.

Verse 30

 Maeve willingly entered the ritual circle, barefoot and veiled.
Her body, still not healed, was laid upon sacred stone.
The witch of Bjorn’s coven carved runes upon her skin,
And poured silver and ash into her veins.
When the chanting stopped, the prophecy was set:
She would bear two children, and no more.
But the first -
The first would be a son, and he was already stirring.

Verse 31

The world began to whisper.
Though Dublin was locked like a tomb,
Smoke always escapes through cracks.
From cloister to court, rumors spread -
That the Morsin line had fallen,
That a bastard reaver now wore their name.

Verse 32

 Bjorn, now Duke in name and will,
Summoned his banners one by one,
Not with heralds, but with orders.
The weight behind each parchment
Was not ink - but threat.

Verse 33

Count Hollowfern, lord of the misted groves and ironwood keeps,
Was the first to stand before the new duke.
At Alyssara’s whispered counsel, he and his blood were summoned.
Bjorn sat beneath blackened banners,
And demanded oaths -
Swear anew, or be unmade.

Verse 34

The Count stood tall.
He denied the usurper’s claim,
Spoke of legacy, of blood, of right.
He did not speak long.
A single word was uttered by the Duke,
And the wards flared red.
In a flash of divine fire, the Hollowfern line
Was turned to ash and shadow,
Save one daughter - spared by design.

Verse 35

 The girl, Alena, trembling and cloaked in white,
Was wed to Hans, now of the Hollowfern
Bjorn’s left hand and blood-brother in all but name.
The ceremony was grand, the music sweet -
But the pikes outside bore the truth:
The heads of her kin grinned black and smoking,
Warning all who passed.

Verse 36

The other banners saw the smoke and heard the silence.
One by one, they bowed.
Each baron and earl renewed their oaths -
Swearing to House Morsin and the flame-eyed Duke.
Those who knelt were not punished.
They were rewarded.
Golden circlets, land grants, spell-favors -
Their coffers swelled like sails in storm-wind.
Fear carved the path.
But gold paved it.

Verse 37

Yet the common folk felt no weight.
Duke Morsin declared a tax holiday.
He distributed new warding stones, stronger than the old,
Promising safety from all threats - arcane or mundane.
The fields were not burned.
The markets bustled.
To the farmers, smiths, and shopkeeps -
Nothing had changed.

And for many, that was enough.

Verse 38

 In the quiet of morning,
With no audience and no blade in sight,
Bjorn walked the castle’s rose garden -
A new one, planted with his own coin and hands.
There, beneath a white marble slab,
He fulfilled the promise made to his mother,
Rose of the Thrall-Blood,
Laid to rest not in exile,
But in sovereign soil.

Verse 39

 The Emerald Isle burned not with rebellion, but with cleansing flame.
Duke Bjorn Morsin, axe-bearer and spell-slayer, marched against the night.
The undead, the cursed, the howling things that slithered in the bogs -
All were dragged into daylight, their carcasses nailed to castle gates,
Displayed as proof:
This land was guarded. This land was ruled.

The people saw. The people cheered.
Gold filled purses. Markets hummed with song.
The nobility, once feared and aloof, now walked among the common wix,
Draped in finery, with old Morsin blood displayed like trophies -
Wives, husbands, handmaidens, consorts.
Was it mercy? Was it domination?
The people did not care.
For the first time in memory, their duke fought for them.

Verse 40

 The coffers bled silver as gifts flowed like spring thaw -
But the vaults of Dublin Castle had been taken whole.
And Ronan, the spared steward, still wove gold from old channels,
Keeping the river of coin alive.
For now, the duchy glittered.

Verse 41

 But beyond the sea, the mighty took notice.
In Logres, nobles spat blood and wine in outrage.
A thrall-born warlock sat on a ducal throne?
A witch-king, crowned in the ashes of a noble line?
Unthinkable.

The Dark Faction snarled, calling for fire and vengeance.
The Grey sold arms and knowledge to both sides, their coffers swelling.
The Light, smug and high, watched and laughed,
Glad to see their rivals slaughter each other for pride.

Verse 42

 Yet winding words in the Bureau of Arcane Taxation halted unity.
The Morsin seat, empowered by bloodline magic,
Held veto in the House of Lords.
Every motion met a wall, every order died unborn.
Bjorn ruled not just with steel -
But with law, and blood, and silence.

Verse 43

 Still, the nobility struck where they could.
They severed rents and claims in the cities of empire:
London, Paris, Lyon -
Choking off income, aiming to starve the beast.

Verse 44

 Bjorn answered.
With a wave of the hand and a rune carved in flame,
All foreign holdings within the Emerald Isle were seized.
Temples, tradehouses, noble villas - gone.
Turned to state use, or ruin.
He made clear: The Isle is mine.

Verse 45

 War came in full.
The siege of Dublin began - dead of winter, howling winds.
The armies of Logres stood outside the ancient walls,
Their spells faltering against the oldest wards,
Born in blood and bound in death.
But Bjorn was not bound by season.
He struck by sky-paths and hidden gates,
Hitting where they least expected,
A wolf in the fold while the hounds bayed at stone.

Verse 46

 Erik Morsin was born,
Son of Bjorn and Maeve -
A child of two worlds,
Bound in noble magics and power.
Some whispered the stars dimmed that night,
For a new flame now burned.

Verse 47

Seamus Morsin, last scion of the old blood,
Perished silently in the cradle of nobility.
The cause was written as Witch’s Wasting -
A rare and cruel affliction,
Stripping the soul like bark from wood.
But no healer had seen the signs.
No court wizard had been called.

Verse 48

 The bells tolled once.
Only the priest came to mourn.
The boy was laid to rest beneath a tree in the garden of ashes.
No procession. No weeping mother.
Only wind and whispers.

Verse 49

Bjorn was clever, as was Alyssara, the two conniving how to have the invaders best feel their wrath.
He struck at soft targets,
Slashing across borderlands and borderlines like a lightning storm.
Villages razed. Keeps left hollow.
Bodies displayed with artistry meant for nightmares.
Each act whispered:
"I can stop whenever I choose."
But the hand never stilled.

Verse 50

 Aoife Morsin was born,
A daughter of stone and poison,
Eyes like her mother, voice like her father.
The people cheered -
But the lords sharpened their knives.

Verse 51

 Without omen, without mercy, came The Hollowing.
A plague not of body alone,
But of magic, of core, of soul.
Wixen twisted, fell, or withered.
Nobles and commoners alike.
Flesh remained - but hollowed, drained.
Entire houses collapsed in weeks.
Magic itself seemed to forget.

Verse 52

 With ruin at every gate,
Even pride yielded to survival.
The lords of Logres,
The witches of the far north,
The grey bankers and blood-bound families -
All came to the table.
Even Bjorn.

Some whispered that letting Logres fall might summon Arthur,
King of myth and return.
Others chose the path of cold diplomacy.

Verse 53

 A bargain was struck.
Erik Morsin, now a boy of great potential and darker legacy,
Was engaged to Lady Alexandria Renard,
A noble of wide lineage and dangerous charm.
With this bond,
The Morsins tied themselves to the very throne they had once defied.

Verse 54

 The treaties were signed in silence and smoke.
The Morsins stood, not merely one of the dukes -
But first among equals.
Richest among the families.
Hated, deeply.
But in a world hollowed by plague and war,
Still standing, proud atop the bodies they made.