Although Torigami created tengu, he was still rewarded for not actively participating in the silver and black gods’ war—an island was created for him to watch over, which boasted cold weather but an immense amount of birds. About one hundred people came to this island with him, and out of his own amusement he created a language different from that of the fighting nations. The humans under his care took this language as their own, giving gibberish words meaning. Torigami’s old name was forgotten in favor of something more fitting of this unique language—Hylli.

It’s been thousands of years since then. The nation formed on that island—Sólstaður, otherwise called ‘the place where the sun rises’—didn’t have a true, permanent leader. Legends say that Hylli didn’t particularly care for leaders, nor did Sólstaður’s god necessarily care to watch his nation. Although the Sólstaðuric people still worshipped and respected the one who brought their ancestors here, they were free of complete compliance with some…otherworldly power.

Skálpr had great faith in mankind’s own achievements, thanks to what Sólstaður has achieved in so little time without divine intervention. They made ships, wine, clothes—anything one can imagine, it came from the north. They fought wars, set the seas itself ablaze in amazing conquests. Fire was common in a place so cold, and it meant practically anything—warmth, war, death, joy, mourning, and comfort all at once.

With great pride, Skálpr stood among the other men of nearby villages. He was their influence, their inspiration—the grand chief. They watched his every action, and the other chiefs of the nation typically followed. Today, he planned to rally them to action.

“Men!” Skálpr said, speaking loudly. He knew that the women—wives and sisters and daughters of the chiefs—were listening outside, and he was always willing to give them something to talk about. Nothing said here ever stayed in the room, for various reasons. “I come to you all with a proposal.”

He made the mistake of pausing long enough for someone to chuckle, and it was Hermaðin Rokensen—a bored young man in his early twenties, only there because he was the heir of the family—who spoke. “Don’t you always?”

Skálpr frowned at him, and the boy’s father murmured something quiet enough that Skálpr couldn’t hear. He carried on regardless; it was something of a daily occurrence, ever since the Roken boy started attending the meetings. Makt, Skálpr’s heir, seemed to encourage it in their free time. “I propose that we go out to fight once more. If we wait too long, it may cause unwillingness to fight in the future—we cannot afford our children to be overcome with laziness.”

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A few men shouted their approval. One spoke up—some chief whose village was closer to the sea. “Where shall we fight? Do you have a place in mind?”

Skálpr smiled—something that he only did at others’ expense. “Our merchants bring back stories of infighting among the silver kingdom. Perhaps we could strike one of the nations on that god-protected island, when they can fully focus on us.”

Hermaðin spoke up again before his father could stop him. “There’s a higher chance we’ll win if they’re fighting each other,” he pointed out. “And our greatest opportunity for that would have been two decades ago when their other king died—morale would have been lowered in the silver kingdom, and the black kingdom would be trying to take advantage of that.”

“Have some honor, boy, and a mind to know when you should speak,” Skálpr replied coldly. “It’s not a ‘victory’ unless we overcome them while they’re at full strength—this is our perfect opportunity, now that they’re not fighting. Who knows how long it will take before the black kingdom gets bored? How long it will take for the silver kingdom to resolve its little succession crisis? They’ll kill each other first!”

“And attacking the silver kingdom while they’re fighting a civil war is any better than fighting either country when they’re at war with each other?” Hermaðin asked casually.

“Perhaps we could convince the silver kingdom to end their little feud,” Skálpr said. “We are a larger threat than half-trained farmers with sickles and knives. They’ll forget it all once we attack them—assuming we don’t fight the black kingdom instead.” He looked around the place, making sure to glance at every man assembled. “We shall take a vote. Who would like to fight against the silver kingdom?”

About a third of the group murmured agreement.

“Who would like to fight the black kingdom?”

A majority of those who did not vote gave louder noises of approval.

“As of now,” Skálpr said, “It seems that fighting the black kingdom proves to be the more popular option. I will speak with strategists and merchants to see which of the two would be more advantageous as a conquered nation.” Of course, there was also the matter of making sure they wouldn’t be majorly disadvantaged if they lost—he wouldn’t give a confirmed answer until he knew both possibilities fairly well. Even warriors needed good sense.

The following silence was meant to invite anyone to speak should he desire to have a word, but no one protested. Skálpr dismissed them with a cry that was routine by now—he could hear the women outside of the place echoing it. “Let Hylli guide us to conquest!”