💙01 - Night of Sacred Oaths [Runes of Wyrd - vol 2]🤍

Nordic Viking tavern, theatrical spoken word, immersive bardic feast atmosphere, lively medieval Norse tavern music, cinematic and humorous, Distinct dialogue voices: Torstein with a deep young warrior voice, loud, charismatic, drunken laughter, rough but warm; Mikki with an old raspy druid voice, playful, wise, eccentric storyteller energy, Clear conversational interaction between both male voices, theatrical dialogue delivery instead of singing, Occasional annoyed female voice reacting in background, Crowd ambience with cheering Vikings, mugs hitting tables, drunken laughter, belching, roaring, celebration chants, noisy feast hall, Traditional Nordic tavern instruments: tagelharpa, nyckelharpa, lute, frame drums, war drums, flutes, bone percussion, low horns, rhythmic clapping, Warm firelight mood, rowdy but epic, Interactive feast performance inside a Viking longhouse, immersive cinematic sound design, rich hall reverb, playful chaos

V5.5

In the picture, from left to right:
Skörta Eldrún - New queen of Norway

Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e

💙🤍

The northern wind still swept across the heights of the capital as the bronze bells echoed through the great courtyards of the royal palace. Two weeks had passed since the funeral of King Hakon Eldrún, and despite the grief still visible upon many faces, the kingdom had to move forward.

Skörta Eldrún understood that better than anyone.

For several days, the future queen had quietly prepared for her departure while entrusting the kingdom’s urgent affairs to her son Erik. The boy had only recently entered his sixteenth year, yet Skörta already recognized the same silent firmness that had once lived within his grandfather’s eyes.

And above all else, she had no choice.

Before leaving Norway to search for Yggdrasil, she needed to ensure that no one would dare challenge her authority.

So no "þing" was called. No assembly. No debate.
Her legitimacy was too strong for such things.
As the eldest daughter of King Hakon, acknowledged by the jarls themselves, Skörta required no man’s approval to wear the crown.

The ceremony took place at sunset near the great pagan temple overlooking the fjord. Hundreds of torches illuminated the ancient stones while priestesses burned juniper branches and black pine within towering iron braziers.

Skörta walked slowly between the runic pillars.
A long dark fur cloak rested upon her shoulders, fastened by silver rings, and the black markings around her eyes appeared deeper beneath the trembling flames.
The High Priestess approached her with solemn grace.

Old and weathered by age, she carried the sacred ring of the ancient kings within her hands.
“Skörta Eldrún... daughter of Hakon Eldrún. Do you swear to protect this kingdom until your final breath?”

The future queen placed her hand upon the sacred ring.
“I swear it.”
“Do you swear to preserve the honor of the old gods, even as darkness seeks to devour Midgard?”
This time, Skörta hesitated slightly.
Only for a moment.
Then she raised her gaze once more.
“I swear it.”

The priestess studied her carefully before speaking again, her voice lower now.
“And do you swear to bear the weight of the crown without allowing your heart to vanish into shadow?”
Silence spread across the temple.
Even the flames themselves seemed motionless.
Skörta thought of her father.

Of the look within his eyes during their final conversations.
Of the fear he had hidden beneath his authority.
Then she finally answered.
“I swear it... even if the gods themselves abandon me.”
At once, the war horns echoed throughout the fjord.
Warriors struck their shields.
And Skörta Eldrún officially became Queen of Norway.

The feast began shortly afterward inside the great royal hall.
Entire tables bent beneath smoked meat, grilled fish, dark bread, and overflowing barrels of mead. Skörta had personally demanded that additional rations be distributed among the poorest citizens of the capital so that none would be forgotten that night.

The songs of the skalds nearly drowned the sound of conversation as the jarls approached one after another to swear loyalty before the throne.

Skörta answered each of them with dignity, though the constant attention had already begun to exhaust her. Her back remained straight and her expression composed, yet behind her eyes lingered the weight of her father’s death.

When Mikal Finnvard Arvast finally stepped forward, several nearby conversations quietly faded.
The king’s former rival.
The diplomatic jarl.
The man many still suspected of standing too close to the newer faiths.
Mikal Finnvard lowered himself onto one knee before lifting his gaze toward her.
“Your father and I often stood in disagreement.”
His voice remained calm and measured.
“But King Hakon was a great ruler. And I sincerely hope that the new Queen of Norway shall prove just as worthy as her predecessor.”

There was no flattery within his words.
No falsehood.
Only honesty.
Skörta felt something loosen within her chest.
For the first time that evening, a genuine smile crossed her face before discipline quickly concealed it once again.
But her eyes betrayed her.

At last, she understood why this man inspired such respect despite the rumors surrounding him. Mikal Finnvard was no traitor. He was simply wise enough to understand that survival often demanded more than pride alone.
And above all... his sincere loyalty meant that no civil war would tear apart the kingdom during her absence.
The Christian threat still existed, of course.
But compared to what truly approached, it felt distant. Almost unreal.

Further within the hall, Mikki Þríkungr had already seated himself beside Torstein with remarkable speed for a man his age.
The druid held an enormous slice of meat in one hand and a mug in the other.
“Tell me, young man... so your mother might actually be a goddess? Now that is a story worthy of several barrels of mead.”

Torstein burst into laughter before emptying his mug in a single swallow. A loud belch escaped him moments later, causing Helena to grimace from several seats away.
“Gods above, you are disgusting...” she muttered.

Bruno quietly hid a smile while Mikell Skar watched the scene from the shadows beside the pillars, amusement lingering within his visible eye.
Torstein struck the old druid gently upon the back.
“Ha! My old friend, I never properly thanked you for your treatment. But as for that story... I truly know nothing myself.”
He immediately poured himself another drink.
“Still... it would be glorious, wouldn’t it? Having a goddess for a mother.”
Part of his smile faded.
“I always believed she died the day I was born.”

Mikki slowly rested a hand upon his shoulder with unexpected softness.
“Belief is one thing. Reality is often another entirely. You are already a miracle, Torstein Orrisson... and one day, I would very much like to understand why.”
Torstein’s grin quickly returned.
“Fine then, old goat. But later. After we find Yggdrasil.”
The druid slowly raised his mug.

“We shall see... though between you and me, we are all somebody else’s old goat.”
Torstein answered with a wink before clashing mugs with him.
Then his gaze drifted back toward Skörta.
The new queen stood at the center of the great hall surrounded by the jarls of Norway, with Mikal Finnvard seated at her right side as though it had always been inevitable.
She looked tired.
Burdened.
Yet the strength within her had not faded.
And despite the grief, despite the invisible dangers gathering beyond the Nine Realms, Skörta Eldrún finally seemed to understand one truth above all others:
Tonight, her father’s dream still lived on.

💙🤍

[Torstein]
Another barrel! HAH!
Tonight we drink like kings!

[Helena] Torstein, you smell like a dead wolf!

[Mikki]
So your mother is a goddess?
That explains the ego.

[Torstein]
HAH! Old goat...
You heal me just to insult me.

[Helena] hihi

[Torstein]
But if she truly lives...
I’d ask why she left.

[Mikki]
Sometimes the gods leave.
Sometimes they are simply afraid.

[Skörta's speech]
“My father carried this kingdom through storm and blood...
Now the crown falls to me.
But Norway still stands.
And as long as we stand together... it will not fall.
And tonight, I drink to every soul in this hall.
Especially Jarl Mikal-Finnvard Arvast!”

[Mikell] One day, the songs will end
[Helena] Then we sing louder before the dark comes

7459/7500

In the picture, from left to right: Skörta Eldrún - New queen of Norway Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e 💙🤍 The northern wind still swept across the heights of the capital as the bronze bells echoed through the great courtyards of the royal palace. Two weeks had passed since the funeral of King Hakon Eldrún, and despite the grief still visible upon many faces, the kingdom had to move forward. Skörta Eldrún understood that better than anyone. For several days, the future queen had quietly prepared for her departure while entrusting the kingdom’s urgent affairs to her son Erik. The boy had only recently entered his sixteenth year, yet Skörta already recognized the same silent firmness that had once lived within his grandfather’s eyes. And above all else, she had no choice. Before leaving Norway to search for Yggdrasil, she needed to ensure that no one would dare challenge her authority. So no "þing" was called. No assembly. No debate. Her legitimacy was too strong for such things. As the eldest daughter of King Hakon, acknowledged by the jarls themselves, Skörta required no man’s approval to wear the crown. The ceremony took place at sunset near the great pagan temple overlooking the fjord. Hundreds of torches illuminated the ancient stones while priestesses burned juniper branches and black pine within towering iron braziers. Skörta walked slowly between the runic pillars. A long dark fur cloak rested upon her shoulders, fastened by silver rings, and the black markings around her eyes appeared deeper beneath the trembling flames. The High Priestess approached her with solemn grace. Old and weathered by age, she carried the sacred ring of the ancient kings within her hands. “Skörta Eldrún... daughter of Hakon Eldrún. Do you swear to protect this kingdom until your final breath?” The future queen placed her hand upon the sacred ring. “I swear it.” “Do you swear to preserve the honor of the old gods, even as darkness seeks to devour Midgard?” This time, Skörta hesitated slightly. Only for a moment. Then she raised her gaze once more. “I swear it.” The priestess studied her carefully before speaking again, her voice lower now. “And do you swear to bear the weight of the crown without allowing your heart to vanish into shadow?” Silence spread across the temple. Even the flames themselves seemed motionless. Skörta thought of her father. Of the look within his eyes during their final conversations. Of the fear he had hidden beneath his authority. Then she finally answered. “I swear it... even if the gods themselves abandon me.” At once, the war horns echoed throughout the fjord. Warriors struck their shields. And Skörta Eldrún officially became Queen of Norway. The feast began shortly afterward inside the great royal hall. Entire tables bent beneath smoked meat, grilled fish, dark bread, and overflowing barrels of mead. Skörta had personally demanded that additional rations be distributed among the poorest citizens of the capital so that none would be forgotten that night. The songs of the skalds nearly drowned the sound of conversation as the jarls approached one after another to swear loyalty before the throne. Skörta answered each of them with dignity, though the constant attention had already begun to exhaust her. Her back remained straight and her expression composed, yet behind her eyes lingered the weight of her father’s death. When Mikal Finnvard Arvast finally stepped forward, several nearby conversations quietly faded. The king’s former rival. The diplomatic jarl. The man many still suspected of standing too close to the newer faiths. Mikal Finnvard lowered himself onto one knee before lifting his gaze toward her. “Your father and I often stood in disagreement.” His voice remained calm and measured. “But King Hakon was a great ruler. And I sincerely hope that the new Queen of Norway shall prove just as worthy as her predecessor.” There was no flattery within his words. No falsehood. Only honesty. Skörta felt something loosen within her chest. For the first time that evening, a genuine smile crossed her face before discipline quickly concealed it once again. But her eyes betrayed her. At last, she understood why this man inspired such respect despite the rumors surrounding him. Mikal Finnvard was no traitor. He was simply wise enough to understand that survival often demanded more than pride alone. And above all... his sincere loyalty meant that no civil war would tear apart the kingdom during her absence. The Christian threat still existed, of course. But compared to what truly approached, it felt distant. Almost unreal. Further within the hall, Mikki Þríkungr had already seated himself beside Torstein with remarkable speed for a man his age. The druid held an enormous slice of meat in one hand and a mug in the other. “Tell me, young man... so your mother might actually be a goddess? Now that is a story worthy of several barrels of mead.” Torstein burst into laughter before emptying his mug in a single swallow. A loud belch escaped him moments later, causing Helena to grimace from several seats away. “Gods above, you are disgusting...” she muttered. Bruno quietly hid a smile while Mikell Skar watched the scene from the shadows beside the pillars, amusement lingering within his visible eye. Torstein struck the old druid gently upon the back. “Ha! My old friend, I never properly thanked you for your treatment. But as for that story... I truly know nothing myself.” He immediately poured himself another drink. “Still... it would be glorious, wouldn’t it? Having a goddess for a mother.” Part of his smile faded. “I always believed she died the day I was born.” Mikki slowly rested a hand upon his shoulder with unexpected softness. “Belief is one thing. Reality is often another entirely. You are already a miracle, Torstein Orrisson... and one day, I would very much like to understand why.” Torstein’s grin quickly returned. “Fine then, old goat. But later. After we find Yggdrasil.” The druid slowly raised his mug. “We shall see... though between you and me, we are all somebody else’s old goat.” Torstein answered with a wink before clashing mugs with him. Then his gaze drifted back toward Skörta. The new queen stood at the center of the great hall surrounded by the jarls of Norway, with Mikal Finnvard seated at her right side as though it had always been inevitable. She looked tired. Burdened. Yet the strength within her had not faded. And despite the grief, despite the invisible dangers gathering beyond the Nine Realms, Skörta Eldrún finally seemed to understand one truth above all others: Tonight, her father’s dream still lived on. 💙🤍 [Torstein] Another barrel! HAH! Tonight we drink like kings! [Helena] Torstein, you smell like a dead wolf! [Mikki] So your mother is a goddess? That explains the ego. [Torstein] HAH! Old goat... You heal me just to insult me. [Helena] hihi [Torstein] But if she truly lives... I’d ask why she left. [Mikki] Sometimes the gods leave. Sometimes they are simply afraid. [Skörta's speech] “My father carried this kingdom through storm and blood... Now the crown falls to me. But Norway still stands. And as long as we stand together... it will not fall. And tonight, I drink to every soul in this hall. Especially Jarl Mikal-Finnvard Arvast!” [Mikell] One day, the songs will end [Helena] Then we sing louder before the dark comes

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