Fighting, Honour and Valhalla || Vikings x The Originals x TVD

The Ulfhednar

Ragnar and his men moved calmly through the dense forest. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and fallen branches, making the march slow but steady. Ragnar crouched low, his sharp eyes following the tracks that cut through the underbrush. He gestured to one of his men, Haldor, a seasoned hunter with a keen sense for tracking.

"These tracks are getting fresher," Ragnar muttered, keeping his voice low.

Haldor nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving the trail. "Aye, they've either slowed down or come to a stop. We're close."

Ragnar's lips curled into a sly grin. "They must be preparing to attack Rollo's group," he said, his voice carrying a mix of satisfaction and excitement. "The Jarl's reign will be over soon."

He muttered the words more to himself than anyone else, the thought of finally ending this conflict filling him with anticipation. This whole conflict was started because of the Jarls own paranoia, Ragnar had no desire to sit on the Jarl's throne himself—such a title meant nothing to him. Power wasn't what he craved. Fame, adventure, the thrill of the unknown—these were the things that fueled him. He wanted to be remembered, not as a ruler, but as a man who explored new lands, gained riches from the farthest reaches of the world. While the Jarl rotted and died in his own longhouse, Ragnar dreamed of dying in a distant land, a place where none of their people had been before, a place where the sun set beyond the edge of the world.

"It's nearly time," Ragnar called out quietly to his men. He drew his axe from its holster and unsheathed his sword, the metal glinting in the faint light that trickled through the trees. "We'll take the Jarl first, and then Mikael. After that, we kill anyone who doesn't surrender." After all of this he could finally turn his gaze back west.

Haldor, the hunter, pulled out a small piece of wood he had carved into the shape of a bird whistle. It was meant to signal the other group. The plan was simple: attack from both sides, catching the Jarl's men off guard. The whistle would sound like a bird's call, alerting the others when it was time to strike.

"Keep silent from here on," Ragnar ordered, and his men obeyed, crouching low and moving slowly through the brush. The forest grew even quieter, save for the soft rustling of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. They crept forward, their eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the Jarl's men. Barely a mile from the enemy, Ragnar could hear them now, voices rising in what seemed to be an argument. He grinned, a vicious smile spreading across his face. It was perfect—disorder in the enemy camp meant their attack would go smoother than expected. His grip tightened around his axe as he prepared to move in for the kill.

But before Ragnar could take another step, someone grabbed his shoulder. He spun around, eyes flashing with annoyance, only to see one of his men gesturing behind him. Ragnar turned, and his eyes widened in surprise. Walking through the thick brush, leading his horse by the reins, was Thorfinn. The man had dirt and exhaustion etched into his face, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Ragnar's heart leapt at the sight, and he couldn't help but smile. He stepped forward, embracing Thorfinn with a quiet laugh.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Ragnar whispered, clapping him on the back. "Good to see you."

Thorfinn returned the embrace. "The same to you. I'm glad I got here in time."

Ragnar pulled back, his expression growing curious. "What do you mean?"

Thorfinn's face grew serious. "You all need to leave. Now. This forest is full of creatures that could tear a man apart."

Ragnar rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly. "I thought I'd be free of these ridiculous stories since Floki isn't here," he muttered, eliciting a quiet laugh from a few of his men.