On the shimmering expanse of the Sea of Drekkir, a body of water renowned for its treacherous whirlpools and ghostly fogs, a small boat cut through the waves. The boat, though modest in size, was packed with men—seventeen in total—each one clad in heavy, battle-worn armor. Their gear was a patchwork of steel and leather, adorned with intricate carvings of wolves, serpents, and eagles. The curved iron plates of their helmets bore horns, not for decoration, but for intimidation, and their cloaks were made of thick, fur-lined pelts that draped over their broad shoulders. Their shields, round and battered from countless battles, were stacked near the boat’s prow, each one painted with symbols of their guild—a guild feared and respected across the lands.

These warriors, seasoned adventurers, hailed from the Hall of the Rimeborne, a legendary guild known for their cold-hearted resolve and their penchant for taking on the most dangerous of creatures. At the center of the boat sat a grisly trophy: the severed head of a griffon, its once majestic eyes now glassy and lifeless, its beak chipped from the ferocity of its final battle. Blood still stained its feathers, but that didn’t stop the adventurers from celebrating their victory.

The warriors were singing, their voices carrying over the waves in a deep, hearty chorus. The leader, a towering man with a braided beard and eyes the color of storm clouds, was leading the shanty. Beside him sat his only son, a small boy of no more than nine winters, wearing a much smaller version of the same fur-lined cloak. The boy’s bright eyes gleamed as he clutched a small wooden sword, slashing at the air in time with the rhythm of the song.

The men sang of their triumph over the griffon, their voices booming in time with the steady beat of the waves:

"We faced the beast on the cliffs of Brannskor,

Its talons like daggers, its wings wide as war!

But with axe and with spear, and with heart full of might,

We brought down the beast in the dead of the night!"

The boy sang along, his high-pitched voice mingling with the deeper voices of the men. He was grinning ear to ear, his face flushed with excitement. Beside him, one of the older guild members, a man with a bushy white beard and a missing eye, leaned down.

“You like that one, lad?” the old warrior asked, his voice gruff but kind.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “I do! I love that song! You really killed it, didn’t you?”

“Aye, we did,” the old man replied with a chuckle, giving the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But that’s not the only song we sing. There are others—songs of the old ways, of great heroes and ancient places.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Like Gabriel’s Ladder?”

The old man nodded, casting a glance toward the leader, who was now guiding the men into a new song, this one slower, more solemn.

"The Ladder stands tall, at the world’s lonely edge,

Where the gods meet the stars at the end of the ledge. Only the worthy may climb and ascend,

But most meet their fate, where the Veils never end."

A few of the guild members were playing instruments as they sang—one strumming a lyre carved from the bones of a sea beast, another tapping out a rhythm on a hand drum made from stretched griffon hide. There was even a flutist, his notes rising and falling like the gentle roll of the waves.

The boy turned back to the old man, his curiosity piqued. “Who writes these songs?”

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The old warrior smiled, his single eye gleaming with pride. “Some of them are as old as the world itself, passed down from our ancestors. Others, well, they’re written by the Skalds of Rimehold, poets and storytellers who travel the lands, singing of our deeds. There’s one famous skald, Bjornir the Wordweaver, who wrote the song we just sang. He’s known across the Vördrheim for turning battle into legend.”

The boy’s face lit up. “One day, I want them to sing about me. I’ll climb Gabriel’s Ladder!”

The old man chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Aye, lad. But maybe grow a bit bigger first, eh?”

As the men continued their singing, the leader of the guild knelt down beside his son, resting a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. His voice, deep and gruff, softened as he spoke.

“We’ll be reaching the shores of Mount Hragvorn soon,” he said, his eyes watching the boy carefully. “You remember what I told you about your mother?”

The boy nodded, his expression growing more serious. “We’re going to spread her ashes.”

The leader smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Aye. It’s what she wanted. She always loved the mountains. Said the peaks of Hragvorn were the closest thing to touching the gods. After we finish our business in Skjaldor, we’ll climb to the top, and we’ll lay her to rest where the sky meets the snow.”

The boy’s eyes filled with a quiet reverence. “She’ll be happy there.”

The leader nodded, pulling the boy into a brief, tight embrace. “She will,” he said softly. “And so will we.”

The boat rocked gently on the waves as the men launched into another song. This one was a bit more festive, and a few of the warriors couldn’t help but stomp their feet in time with the beat.

"From the halls of Hrafnsfjord to the peaks of Lundrheim,

We’ve traveled the world and we’ll do it again!

With sword in our hand and a song in our heart,

We’ll fight till the end, and never depart!"

The boy was laughing now, clapping along with the men as they sang. The guild members were smiling, some of them slapping each other on the back, their spirits lifted by the camaraderie.

But amidst the revelry, one of the guild members—a wiry man with a face as sharp as his tongue—was trying to speak. He had been attempting to get the others’ attention for some time, but each time he opened his mouth, another verse of the song drowned him out.

“Oi! Fellas!” he called, his voice struggling to rise above the chorus.

"The bards will sing of our deeds far and wide,

From the shores of Frostmere to the Everside!"

“Oi! We’ve got a bit of a—”

"We’ve slain the beasts and we’ve conquered the land,

Now all that remains is a drink in our hand!"

The man’s face flushed with frustration as he tried again, waving his hands. “Oi! I’m tryin’ to—”

But again, the men launched into another verse, their voices booming across the waters.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, the man stood up, throwing his hands into the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. “WE LEFT GILFREK BACK AT THE TAVERN!”

The entire boat fell silent. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull.

The leader turned slowly, his face a mask of confusion and irritation. “What?”

The man, still standing, his face red from the effort of shouting, pointed back toward the horizon. “We left Gilfrek! He was still at the tavern, passed out drunk!”

There was a collective groan from the rest of the guild. Several of the warriors slapped their foreheads, while others just shook their heads in disbelief.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” the leader growled, crossing his arms.

“I tried!” the man protested, throwing his hands up. “But you lot were too busy singing about griffons and ladders to listen!”

The leader sighed, rubbing his temples. “That drunk fool... It’s not the first time he’s gone missing.”

One of the other warriors, a burly man with a braided beard, leaned over the side of the boat and spat into the sea. “He’s always disappearing. Last time we found him in a bloody chicken coop.”

The leader shook his head, turning to the rest of the men. “Alright, turn the boat around. We’ll go get him.”

As the warriors began to adjust the sails, the leader’s son crossed his arms and pouted. “But I don’t want to go back! We were going to the mountain!”

The leader shot his son a stern look. “Sit down before I throw you overboard myself.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he quickly sat back down with a huff, muttering under his breath. “Stupid Gilfrek... always ruining everything.”

As the boat turned, the warriors glanced across the sea. Other vessels dotted the horizon, their sails billowing in the same wind that carried the guild’s boat. Most were merchant ships, their decks laden with crates of exotic goods from far-off lands. There were ships from Gorhald, their hulls painted with bright colors and their sails adorned with the symbols of trade guilds. Others were smaller fishing boats, their crews hauling in nets heavy with the bounty of the sea.

One ship, in particular, caught the guild’s eye—a sleek, narrow vessel with black sails, its deck packed with barrels and crates. It was a smuggler’s ship, no doubt carrying contraband from the southern shores of Branthor, where the laws were more flexible, and the goods more dangerous.

The men watched as the ship passed, its crew giving them a wide berth. The guild’s reputation was well-known, and no one in their right mind would risk crossing them.

As the guild boat continued its slow turn back toward the shore, the songs quieted, replaced by the grumbling of the men as they prepared for the inevitable scolding Gilfrek would receive when they found him.

But despite the detour, the spirits of the men remained high. They were adventurers, after all, and every journey—whether to slay a griffon or retrieve a drunken comrade—was just another story to be sung by the fireside.

And so, as the boat sailed back toward the distant coastline, the boy leaned against his father, his small wooden sword resting in his lap, and he smiled.