💙11 - Death won’t follow [Runes of Wyrd]🤍

viking dark folk fused with melodic black metal slow to mid tempo heavy and oppressive dominant electric tagelharpa with dissonant raw cello like textures inspired by Symphonic metal, Classical, Cello metal creating constant tension only medieval nordic instruments tagelharpa nyckelharpa massive war drums frame drums deep tribal percussion distant horns vocals dual performance female breathy trembling fragile fear driven intimate whispers and cracks male viking operatic tenor powerful dark resonant blending classical opera with raw norse warrior intensity ritualistic and commanding layers viking choirs chanting whispers screams atmosphere dark mystical oppressive ritualistic primal production ultra high quality cinematic huge war drums deep low end wide stereo immersive

V5.5

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

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍

The return to Skalvheim unfolded in an almost unnatural calm. The sails shifted gently under a steady wind, and the hull creaked as if reminding them that the world kept moving, no matter what had been seen, no matter what had been spoken. Min remained silent most of the journey, her gaze often lost beyond the horizon, unable to shake the lingering sensation of having been read, stripped bare to the deepest layers of her being by that strange, half-mad druid. She did not like it. And the more she thought about it, the less convinced she was that he had truly been mad.

Jarl Mikal-Finnvard asked no questions. He simply observed. He had known Min long enough to recognize that look, that distant stillness that closed her off from the world. It was not fear in its simplest form, but something older, something rooted deeper. And when she wore that expression, he knew better than to force words where they would not belong.

Mikki, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease. He spent the journey experimenting with strange brews, muttering fragments of ancient invocations under his breath, occasionally laughing to himself as though amused by thoughts no one else could hear. The contradiction did not escape the jarl. The old man claimed to heal in the name of the Green Faith, yet everything about him whispered of older gods. Mikal-Finnvard understood the inconsistency, but he allowed it. In the days to come, belief would matter far less than results.

Because the Fimbulvetr was coming. He could feel it.

When they reached Skalvheim, a dense crowd had already gathered near the harbor. Faces marked by fatigue and worry now carried something else as well, a fragile but tangible hope. The jarl’s return alone restored a sense of order, and the presence of the druid strengthened it further. Whatever he truly was did not matter, as long as he could bring relief.

As Mikal-Finnvard moved through his people, his attention settled on a figure he had never seen before. The man stood still, almost detached from the movement around him, as if observing rather than participating. His hair, dark yet streaked with subtle green reflections, caught the light in an unusual way. His eyes bore the same shade, piercing, unsettling, as though they saw beyond appearances.

The man stepped forward.

He cast a brief glance toward Mikki, who showed no reaction, then his gaze met Min’s. The shift was immediate. Her hands trembled, barely perceptible, and a sudden warmth spread through her body like a warning she could not ignore. She lowered her eyes almost instantly.

The stranger offered a faint, courteous smile before kneeling before the jarl.

“I have not seen you here before. Who are you, stranger?” Mikal-Finnvard asked calmly.

The man raised his head, then stood with measured composure.

“My name is Johannes Grøn-Ulv. I am not from Norway... but I am here for... business.”

His eyes flickered briefly toward Min before returning to the jarl, as if nothing had happened.

“What kind of business?” the jarl continued.

A subtle smile formed on Johannes’ lips.

“Skalvheim is a place full of opportunity. Let us say I have recognized something... promising. If you allow it, I would settle here. In return, my blade would be at your service.”

The jarl studied him for a few moments, weighing not just his words, but the space between them.

“And which gods do you honor?”

Johannes seemed to appreciate the question.

“Faith is... a shifting thing. But ancient instincts... they do not linger without reason.”

The answer was vague, yet deliberate. Mikal-Finnvard nodded slowly. The man was hiding something, that much was certain. But it was better to keep him close than let him vanish into the unknown.

“Very well. You may stay.”

Later that night, after a modest yet necessary gathering held in honor of the newcomer, Johannes slipped away from the torchlight and into a narrow alley, far from the noise of celebration. The place had been indicated to him discreetly.

Min was already there.

When he approached, she did not move. She stood still, staring at him as if her mind refused to accept what her eyes were telling her. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until it became almost unbearable.

Johannes finally broke it, his voice low.

“Hello, Elvira... Or should I say, Min. I am glad we finally meet.”

Min swallowed hard, her heart racing against her ribs.

“You... you really exist?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That’s... that’s impossible...”

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍

I felt... his eyes inside
Not skin... deeper than that
He saw what I buried
(No... don’t... don’t look...)
Something broke in me
Like old scars waking
(I know... I know him...)

I walked among their fear
Their hope tastes the same
A fragile little kingdom
(So easy... to break...)
She knows what I am
She remembers my name

I feel you under my skin (under my skin)
You shouldn’t be breathing here
This world was never yours (never yours)
He walks where death won’t follow
He walks where death won’t follow

Don’t say that name again
(It burns... it burns...)
You shouldn’t be here
(No... no... stay back...)
I buried that life
I killed who I was
(Why are you smiling...)

I feel you under my skin (under my skin)
You shouldn’t be breathing here
This world was never yours (never yours)
He walks where death won’t follow
He walks where death won’t follow

[Min]
He’s here... he’s real...
No... no this can’t... this can’t be real...

[Johannes]
 I remember...

[Min]
I remember...

[Johannes]
Why now... why me...

[Min]
What do you want from me...

[Johannes]
What are you...

I feel you under my skin (under my skin)
You shouldn’t be breathing here
This world was never yours (never yours)
He walks where death won’t follow!
You came back from the dark (from the dark)
You tore me from my grave
He walks where death won’t follow
He walks where death won’t follow!
He walks where death won’t follow!

He walks where death won’t follow!

6281/7500

In the picture, from left to right: Johannes Grøn-Ulv - A mysterious traveler who may have known Min… Min Shieldthrower – Iberian-born, now a servant of the Jarl Mikal‑Finnvard Arvast, and his mistress Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e 💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍 The return to Skalvheim unfolded in an almost unnatural calm. The sails shifted gently under a steady wind, and the hull creaked as if reminding them that the world kept moving, no matter what had been seen, no matter what had been spoken. Min remained silent most of the journey, her gaze often lost beyond the horizon, unable to shake the lingering sensation of having been read, stripped bare to the deepest layers of her being by that strange, half-mad druid. She did not like it. And the more she thought about it, the less convinced she was that he had truly been mad. Jarl Mikal-Finnvard asked no questions. He simply observed. He had known Min long enough to recognize that look, that distant stillness that closed her off from the world. It was not fear in its simplest form, but something older, something rooted deeper. And when she wore that expression, he knew better than to force words where they would not belong. Mikki, on the other hand, seemed entirely at ease. He spent the journey experimenting with strange brews, muttering fragments of ancient invocations under his breath, occasionally laughing to himself as though amused by thoughts no one else could hear. The contradiction did not escape the jarl. The old man claimed to heal in the name of the Green Faith, yet everything about him whispered of older gods. Mikal-Finnvard understood the inconsistency, but he allowed it. In the days to come, belief would matter far less than results. Because the Fimbulvetr was coming. He could feel it. When they reached Skalvheim, a dense crowd had already gathered near the harbor. Faces marked by fatigue and worry now carried something else as well, a fragile but tangible hope. The jarl’s return alone restored a sense of order, and the presence of the druid strengthened it further. Whatever he truly was did not matter, as long as he could bring relief. As Mikal-Finnvard moved through his people, his attention settled on a figure he had never seen before. The man stood still, almost detached from the movement around him, as if observing rather than participating. His hair, dark yet streaked with subtle green reflections, caught the light in an unusual way. His eyes bore the same shade, piercing, unsettling, as though they saw beyond appearances. The man stepped forward. He cast a brief glance toward Mikki, who showed no reaction, then his gaze met Min’s. The shift was immediate. Her hands trembled, barely perceptible, and a sudden warmth spread through her body like a warning she could not ignore. She lowered her eyes almost instantly. The stranger offered a faint, courteous smile before kneeling before the jarl. “I have not seen you here before. Who are you, stranger?” Mikal-Finnvard asked calmly. The man raised his head, then stood with measured composure. “My name is Johannes Grøn-Ulv. I am not from Norway... but I am here for... business.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Min before returning to the jarl, as if nothing had happened. “What kind of business?” the jarl continued. A subtle smile formed on Johannes’ lips. “Skalvheim is a place full of opportunity. Let us say I have recognized something... promising. If you allow it, I would settle here. In return, my blade would be at your service.” The jarl studied him for a few moments, weighing not just his words, but the space between them. “And which gods do you honor?” Johannes seemed to appreciate the question. “Faith is... a shifting thing. But ancient instincts... they do not linger without reason.” The answer was vague, yet deliberate. Mikal-Finnvard nodded slowly. The man was hiding something, that much was certain. But it was better to keep him close than let him vanish into the unknown. “Very well. You may stay.” Later that night, after a modest yet necessary gathering held in honor of the newcomer, Johannes slipped away from the torchlight and into a narrow alley, far from the noise of celebration. The place had been indicated to him discreetly. Min was already there. When he approached, she did not move. She stood still, staring at him as if her mind refused to accept what her eyes were telling her. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until it became almost unbearable. Johannes finally broke it, his voice low. “Hello, Elvira... Or should I say, Min. I am glad we finally meet.” Min swallowed hard, her heart racing against her ribs. “You... you really exist?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “That’s... that’s impossible...” 💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍 I felt... his eyes inside Not skin... deeper than that He saw what I buried (No... don’t... don’t look...) Something broke in me Like old scars waking (I know... I know him...) I walked among their fear Their hope tastes the same A fragile little kingdom (So easy... to break...) She knows what I am She remembers my name I feel you under my skin (under my skin) You shouldn’t be breathing here This world was never yours (never yours) He walks where death won’t follow He walks where death won’t follow Don’t say that name again (It burns... it burns...) You shouldn’t be here (No... no... stay back...) I buried that life I killed who I was (Why are you smiling...) I feel you under my skin (under my skin) You shouldn’t be breathing here This world was never yours (never yours) He walks where death won’t follow He walks where death won’t follow [Min] He’s here... he’s real... No... no this can’t... this can’t be real... [Johannes] I remember... [Min] I remember... [Johannes] Why now... why me... [Min] What do you want from me... [Johannes] What are you... I feel you under my skin (under my skin) You shouldn’t be breathing here This world was never yours (never yours) He walks where death won’t follow! You came back from the dark (from the dark) You tore me from my grave He walks where death won’t follow He walks where death won’t follow! He walks where death won’t follow! He walks where death won’t follow!

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