Chapter 3: The Prisoner of the Stone

Gunnar Seabreeze, Freyja Starlight, Olaf Whaleheart

A few days after setting sail, the Norsemen approached the Pictish shores. They reached their destination quickly with Gunnar and Freyja's expert navigation, but monstrous tidal waves had struck the region. The tsunami had wrought significant destruction and even claimed more land for the sea. As they neared the now distant shoreline, the traces of disaster became increasingly apparent: flooded fields uprooted floating trees, corpses of animals and people bobbing in the water, and a village, much of which was submerged.

They anchored in shallow water and started walking towards the village streets. The setting sun illuminated their path, but the landscape was desolate. Only the squelching of the Vikings' boots in the mud echoed around them. The crew filled the air with the salty scent of the sea, tainted by decay.

"The land seems utterly deserted," Leif remarked, stating the obvious. "Do you think we'll find anyone who survived?" Everyone remained silent, as even Leif did not want to voice the answer. They had seen many battles and endured horrors, but none as merciless as nature, not among men or gods.

The village had been a familiar trading stop, so they all had heard of it. Indeed, Gunnar, Freyja, and Olaf had visited the town in their younger days before Dragontooth. For them, the destruction was personal, as they knew the inhabitants. This personal connection drove them to move more eagerly and comfortably through the streets, hoping against hope to find their local friends.

"Do you see that stone tablet in the distance? That was the village square," Freyja pointed out to a peculiar stone." It looks untouched. Let's check it out more closely." As they approached, an unusual calm surrounded the stone tablet, engraved with Pictish runes and possessing a mystical aura. The ground around it was untouched and almost dry as if the tsunami had never reached it. Though much of the village was underwater, the stone and its surroundings stood out, yet it wasn't higher than any other part.

As Olaf and Gunnar approached the stone, a shadow moved behind it. A tall, gaunt figure emerged, his skin grey and dehydrated, but his eyes clouded with emptiness. Suddenly, the figure struck down with his sword towards Gunnar, who only managed to block it with his shield. Then, the figure kicked Gunnar in the stomach, sending the navigator sprawling backward. Olaf was about to raise his battle-axe against the corpse-scented warrior. Still, the figure suddenly screamed in his face, shocking Olaf enough to give the attacker time to thrust his sword at the giant.

However, Freyja pulled Olaf back by his cloak, so the giant fell backward, avoiding the deadly blow. While Gunnar and Olaf were getting up from the mud, Freyja aimed her bow and arrow at the attacker, who unusually did not continue his assault. Instead, he seemed unable to move away from the stone and began shouting in Pictish.

Gunnar's eyes widened as he was the first to understand what the warrior said. "Accursed! Harbingers of the apocalypse! Come here, and I will show you the mercy of Jesus Christ! How dare you set foot here after your destruction! Tell me, why didn't you let me die with my family?! Devils! What have I done to deserve this suffering? Uncover yourselves, servants of Satan!" the Pictish warrior's eyes suddenly ignited with a cold violet flame, and then he closed them. When he looked up to the sky, his eyes no longer burned, but at the bottom of his head revealed his wounds. The muscles under his jaw were missing, leaving a gaping hole through which his mouth opened. He was a draugr, an undead driven by vengeance that could not rest.

Then Gunnar recognized the warrior: "MacDougal? Is that you?"

"The village leader's son? I know he defeated us, but this figure can't be MacDougal," protested Olaf, who recognized the name. How could he forget the one who had humiliated him in the worst fight of his life?

"It is I," the bitter undead replied, turning his face towards the northerner. "I see you speak my language, but how do you know me?"

"When Olaf and I first set out on an adventure, our journey led us here," Gunnar explained, stepping closer to the draugr. "The elders said we were just to resupply here and not fight, but Olaf and I were drunk, disobedient troublemakers. Ultimately, you taught us a lesson right here in the town square with a wooden sword and soundly put us in our place."

"With a wooden sword? I remember now; that was about twenty years ago, but I could never forget the faces of those two clumsy thugs. You even ruined my wedding with Fiona!" he looked around, then continued. "Do you have something to do with this? Do you know anything about what happened? Speak!"

"We know that we saw the signs. Ragnarok has come," replied Freyja, slowly lowering her bow. She learned the dead warrior's language from Gunnar during their travels. Olaf leaned on his battle axe and lifted his drinking horn, as the language was as foreign to him as any other. He figured if anything important came up, Gunnar would tell him anyway.

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"I think I saw Jörmungandr in the storm, rising from the sea. Then those huge waves came, and this matched the sagas, too. 'For when it rises from the sea, the sea shall engulf everything,'" Gunnar explained.

"Jörmungandr?" asked Olaf and Freyja simultaneously. Freyja's face showed anger, while Olaf's showed astonishment. Understandably, because the giant only understood the name of the World Serpent. As the navigator's aide, Freyja had often been angry with him because he frequently spoke of essential things too late. Gunnar never did this out of malice; he simply always forgot that people see things differently than he does. His habit led to conflicts with his mates until Helga became their captain. After their first joint storm, she knew how to work with the navigator. Since then, Gunnar had no conflicts until now.

"You didn't see him in the storm?" Gunnar asked back, confused.

"You know, then everyone had their hands full," burst out Freyja. "Not to mention your Storm Eyes..."

Then laughter interrupted them. MacDougal laughed despairingly. "How good it is to hear human voices! Yet it's only been a few weeks since the disaster struck the village. You wouldn't think how much human speech and conversation I missed." MacDougal turned serious. "But don't forget, as a true Christian, I'm asking you. Why am I not in heaven with my loved ones? Why must I suffer here, and why don't I hear the Lord calling me?"

The Vikings looked at each other, confused. Gunnar stepped forward and cautiously replied.

"MacDougal, we don't know your God. But according to the stories we know, the gods and the forces of nature often test people. There are legends of those who were slain dishonorably by their desire for revenge and returned to the living as their shadows."

"Revenge? Dishonorable death? The sea did for me when it struck down the village. I remember banging my head on the Ancestor's Stone." he looked at the rune stone behind him. One side of the Pict Stone stood out sharper than the others, and MacDougal's blood was still faintly visible." My family perished, my village lies in ruins, and something has chained me here, so I'm unable to leave this place." He looked at the northerners, and then the violet flame in his eyes reignited as he said, "So it seems I am to stand in the way of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"MacDougal, we are not your enemies, and we did not bring the destruction," Freyja reassured the dead warrior. "And besides, only three of us are here and not four. As Gunnar mentioned, Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, is responsible for what you lost."

The Viking's words touched the Pictish warrior, and his feelings of doubt and understanding struggled. The flame in his eyes burned less brightly when he replied. "In the Bible, I believe there is talk of a Beast that comes forth during the apocalypse. It came to my mind when you spoke of the monster rising from the sea. Perhaps this Jörmungandr is the biblical Beast, and God wants me to do away with it."

As the conversation between the Vikings and MacDougal continued, the moon rose in the sky, illuminating the night with its silvery light. The area around the Pict Stone began to glow as if waiting for this moment, much like the moonlight itself. The calm of the place and the untouched state of the natural elements indicated that a special force was at work here. Freyja felt the sacred nature of the place and spoke cautiously: "MacDougal, perhaps it's no accident that you are trapped here. This place, this stone, possesses some magical power; perhaps that's why you can't leave."

MacDougal nodded, his eyes reflecting understanding and resignation. "Yes, I feel it. The force that holds me here is foreign to Christian teachings. Perhaps the ancestors want me to guard this place. How could you possess such power if you did not believe in Jesus?"

Gunnar responded to the warrior's words. "Everyone is a mystery, what their ancestors did and why. We must find where they got their knowledge or how they used it. Our sagas go back many generations. We don't fully understand much of what we saw recently, as with Ragnarok. It's as we thought, but the knowledge kept in the sagas is true about it."

"Gunnar, how can I defeat the Beast if I cannot move away from this stone?" MacDougal asked, hoping for a solution.

"We may not have the sagas' direct guidance on breaking such spells, but we have Ingrid and others knowledgeable about ancient lore back on our ship. We could consult with them and perhaps find a way to free you or at least help you in your battle against Jörmungandr," Gunnar suggested in a hopeful tone.

Freyja added, "And we can bring them here if you can't leave. This way, they can study the stone and its properties directly."

MacDougal seemed to consider this for a moment, then nodded. "It might be my only chance to find peace or fulfill whatever purpose keeps me bound to this land. Let us try."

Olaf, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke, "We will return swiftly with help. Stay strong, MacDougal. You are not alone in this." After he understands the situation, he feels the undead loss. Olaf also lost his family not so long ago.

With these words, the Vikings promised to return. They quickly returned to their ship to gather their companions and any needed resources. The sense of urgency was palpable, and each step they took away from the Pict Stone felt laden with the weight of a pending great battle.

As the Vikings departed, MacDougal turned back to the stone, his silhouette etched against the moonlit sky. He resumed his prayers, not just for salvation and the souls of his family but now also for the strength to face the ancient serpent of the Sagas. His voice, mixed with the whispers of the wind and the rhythmic sounds of the waves, carried a solemn vow to stand guard, fight, and hope. He was so engrossed in his prayers that he did not notice the mysterious figure creeping in the moonlight, who hurried to a stone and then left in the same silence.

The night deepened, and the stone glowed faintly under the moon, an ancient sentinel in the quiet village ruins. MacDougal stood there, a figure of sorrow and resilience, a bridge between the past and the present, holding on to the faith that had grounded him and left him limbo.

In this way, MacDougal's story intertwined with the Norse legends, becoming a poignant testament to the struggles and spiritual journeys of those who walk the thin line between myth and mortality. The Norsemen's return would bring a new chapter in this tale of old gods, ancient magics, and the eternal struggle against the world's dark forces. Only time would tell whether this would lead to redemption or further trials. But for now, MacDougal watched and waited, the keeper of the stone, bound by unseen forces yet steadfast in his resolve to fulfill his destiny.