Smoke coiled from the mouth of the volcano like the breath of a sleeping god, thick with ash and the scent of fire. On the blackened slopes, where molten rivers carved glowing veins through the rock, stood Eirik the Ash-Bound—a lone Viking whose twin swords shimmered with ancient runes. Etched by seers under blood moons and cooled in glacial springs, the blades pulsed with a faint blue light, whispering forgotten incantations. The enemy came in shadows—creatures of twisted iron and bone—but with each strike, Eirik's runes seared into the stone, branding the land with symbols of power and defiance.
From the haze stepped a warrior unlike the others—tall, cloaked in scorched bear fur, wielding an axe that drank in the firelight. Brynjar the Hollow, once Eirik’s blood-brother, now bound to darkness by a pact with something older than the gods. They clashed like titans, blow for blow, rune against rune, until the mountain itself cracked beneath their fury. Eirik, bleeding and grinning, drove both swords into the earth, unleashing a final surge of rune-fire that wrapped around Brynjar like a serpent. With one last cry, he drove a blade into Brynjar’s heart—sending him not into the pit, but skyward, soul soaring like smoke, toward the gates of Valhalla.
The ash fell like snow in the silence that followed. Eirik knelt, pressing his hand into the glowing stone, where his brother’s rune burned brightest. He did not weep—this was not grief. This was the cost of gods and oaths. The slope bore his legacy now—a tapestry of fire-marked runes telling the story of a warrior, a brother, a final battle, and a soul sent home in honor.
Smoke coiled from the mouth of the volcano like the breath of a sleeping god, thick with ash and the scent of fire. On the blackened slopes, where molten rivers carved glowing veins through the rock, stood Eirik the Ash-Bound—a lone Viking whose twin swords shimmered with ancient runes. Etched by seers under blood moons and cooled in glacial springs, the blades pulsed with a faint blue light, whispering forgotten incantations. The enemy came in shadows—creatures of twisted iron and bone—but with each strike, Eirik's runes seared into the stone, branding the land with symbols of power and defiance.
From the haze stepped a warrior unlike the others—tall, cloaked in scorched bear fur, wielding an axe that drank in the firelight. Brynjar the Hollow, once Eirik’s blood-brother, now bound to darkness by a pact with something older than the gods. They clashed like titans, blow for blow, rune against rune, until the mountain itself cracked beneath their fury. Eirik, bleeding and grinning, drove both swords into the earth, unleashing a final surge of rune-fire that wrapped around Brynjar like a serpent. With one last cry, he drove a blade into Brynjar’s heart—sending him not into the pit, but skyward, soul soaring like smoke, toward the gates of Valhalla.
The ash fell like snow in the silence that followed. Eirik knelt, pressing his hand into the glowing stone, where his brother’s rune burned brightest. He did not weep—this was not grief. This was the cost of gods and oaths. The slope bore his legacy now—a tapestry of fire-marked runes telling the story of a warrior, a brother, a final battle, and a soul sent home in honor.
40” x 30”
Mixed Media On Canvas
Artist: Katy Satchell
