Oleksandr groans as he comes to, his head pounding and his stomach churning. He slowly opens his eyes, the room swimming in and out of focus. He's still on the floor of the longhouse, the cold wood against his cheek, surrounded by his fellow revelers who are still unconscious, snoring loudly and some muttering in their sleep. He takes a moment to gather his bearings, trying to remember how much he drank the night before. The light filtering in from the windows indicates that it's morning.

Oleksandr slowly pushes himself up, his head still spinning, his body sticky and gross from the spilled mead and other substances. He peels a sticky wad of his hair off the floor where his head was as he rises, wincing at the sight. He looks around at the still-sleeping men, some of them curled up like dogs on the floor, others sprawled out on the few benches. The room is messy, the smell of alcohol and stale sweat heavy in the air.

He stumbles to his feet and reaches for a mug and takes a long, deep gulp of mead, the sweet, honeyed liquid burning his throat as it goes down. He doesn't care that it's far from breakfast-appropriate; all he cares about is quelling the desert in his throat. He can taste the alcohol, which doesn't help his headache, but at the same time, it's somewhat refreshing.

After grabbing a sausage off the table, Oleksandr saunters over to Samorix, who is laid out face first on the floor, still dead to the world. He gives the old Scotsman a few light kicks, chuckling softly to himself as the man doesn't respond. He takes a bite of the cold sausage, watching Samorix with a mixture of amusement and affection.

As he steps outside, Oleksandr takes in the sight of the village. Some of the villagers are diligently starting their day, tending to their farms, working on various tasks, and going about their everyday business. They clearly didn’t drink like they partied with the gods the night before. A woman leads a small group of ducks, their feathers iridescent in the early morning sunlight, while a man tows logs behind him, pulled by a patient horse. The morning air is crisp and clean, a stark contrast to the stench and disarray of the longhouse at his back.

He heads to a nearby trough, and starts to wash up, the cold water on his face and hands a welcome relief from the hangover. He splashes water on his face, the coldness of it waking him up more effectively than the mead had.

Oleksandr settles back down on the steps of the longhouse, pulling out his tobacco pouch and beginning to stuff his pipe. He takes a moment to look around, taking in the sight of the village waking and starting its day. His gaze falls upon a young mother walking with her little sons, their laughter and chatter bright and carefree in the cool morning air. He lights up his pipe, the tobacco catching alight and sending a small plume of smoke into the morning air. The steps behind him creak as Ivan sits down next to him, the dark-haired older man silently packing his own pipe. The two men sit for a moment, their pipes lit, puffs of smoke floating up around them, as they watch the village come to life around them.

"That was a fine letter we wrote, if you still remember." Ivan jokes dryly. Oleksandr smirks, the memory of the night before coming back to him in a blur.

"Aye, that it was," he responds, the dry tone of Ivan's voice matching his own. "I don't remember half of it, to be honest." He puffs at his pipe, the smoke curling around his head. "But I remember enough to know why my ribs are sore." Ivan nods, a smirk playing at his lips as he puffs at his own pipe. The silence between the two men is comfortable, as they sit and smoke, each one lost in their own thoughts. "It is refreshing to speak my mother tongue again."

Ivan nods in agreement, a knowing look in his eyes. "Aye, it is a fine thing. The mother tongue."

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"Mm."

"That is why you come here. Your mother."

Oleksandr glances over at Ivan. "Why do you say that?”

"That is what brings you from the south, back to the north. In search of your mother. You follow your blood." Oleksandr can feel his chest tighten at Ivan's words. He averts his gaze, looking out at the village, his mind racing. Ivan has a way of speaking that's more perceptive than most, and his words cut deep. The mention of his mother brings a wave of emotions he hasn't dealt with in a long time. He takes a long pull on his pipe, the smoke swirling around him as he tries to compose himself.

"I come here on my king's duties. Just passing through."

"We're all just passing through, aren't we?" He responds, taking a long pull on his own pipe. He glances over at Oleksandr, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "What are your king's orders?"

"I am to find a man, who betrayed my king. I'm to collect his head."

"A bounty hunter, then. In search of a bounty." Ivan puffs on his pipe, a sly smile slowly creeping up at the corner of his mouth. "A large bounty, I presume?"

"Huge."

Ivan's smile is a mixture of amusement and respect. He leans back against the stairs, his mind clearly working. "And you know where to find this man?"

Oleksandr looks him over. "Have you ever heard of a Norseman called Oddvarr?" Ivan's expression changes at the mention of the name. His smile drops and his eyes become distant, as he stands up, taking a few careful steps forward.

"Oddvarr. Yes. I've heard of him."

"What have you heard?"

"He's a name feared and loathed in these parts." Ivan says soberly, turning to fix his gaze on Oleksandr. "He's a traitor, a plunderer, an usurper, a slaver, a kidnapper. An all-around bastard." Oleksandr nods, his face serious.

"Tell me about him."

Ivan takes a moment to collect his thoughts, his pipe still burning. "He's an older man, huge, brutal and cruel. He’s been a terror across Europe for almost half a century, as I've heard. He runs his own band of reavers, but he has contacts and informants all across this land and beyond. He's wealthy, influential, and dangerous. I've seen him personally. I've felt the results of his wrath." Ivan takes a deep breath, his eyes sharp as he looks at Oleksandr, before he pulls down the neckline of his shirt, once again revealing his scar across his chest.

Oleksandr's eyes narrow at the sight. "I've been told he frequents the market in Estonia."

Ivan pulls his shirt back up, wincing slightly as the fabric scrapes against the scar. "Aye, I've heard the same." He says, a hint of anger in his voice. "Word is he trades in bodies, slaves. Men, women, children, doesn't matter."

"My king put a bounty on his head. I'm to capture him."

"Wouldn't be the first. You're a braver man than most to take on a task like that. He won't give in easy. He'll fight like a dog, and his men will follow him into the depths of hell and back. It'll be a good day when that man meets his end. He's been around too long, unchecked. No justice."

Oleksandr puffs his pipe, studying Ivan. "It's personal for you, no?"

"You could say that..." He says, the words barely above a whisper. "Twenty years ago… Oddvarr's men burned down my farm. Killed most of my animals, hurt the rest… and took my wife and child. I've never seen them again." A tense, heavy silence falls between them. Ivan's knuckles are white as he grips his pipe, a storm of anger and frustration churning beneath the surface. "If I could kill that bastard myself, I would." He says through gritted teeth.

Oleksandr leans in. "Why not?" Ivan turns his gaze to meet Oleksandr's, a flicker of surprise and then understanding sparking in his eyes.

"You serious?" He asks, his voice low and rough.

"If the man is as treacherous as you say, I'll need the help. With a Cossack and a Highlander on my side... I could take over Europe." Ivan's face slowly morphs into a smile, a twisted, eager smile.

"Aye, that you could," he says, the anger in his voice slowly twisting into something else, something darker, more violent. "I'm in."

(My illustration of Ivan)

image [https://i.imgur.com/Os3QQl1.jpeg]