Jack Scarthe

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'Northern Jack'
Played by: dutychef

Human, Male, 35

Aliases: None
Nationality: English
Residence: Darkside
Employer: None
Function: Unknown

Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.

TRANSMIT - initiate the Óðinn call - RECEIVE - heed the skald's tale -FROM THE FURY OF THE NORSEMEN, GOOD LORD DELIVER US - cast the rune stones - WITNESS - Northern Jack.

The tasters of blood whisper of the hero of old. He that wades into battle, clad in wolf skin. The shield biter, the red hand... the Berserker.

Initiate the Danelaw.

Norsemen took the city in the eleventh month. In the years that followed they left their seed and their beliefs, beliefs that lingered on. As the Attende Domine bellows, the All Father whispers.

Skip forward enough centuries and the echo of the skald's songs still whispers:

ōs byþ ordfruma ǣlcre sprǣce

wīsdōmes wraþu and wītena frōfur

and eorla gehwām ēadnys and tō hiht

The youth seeks the path to glory. He answers the call to arms. He earns his dagger and adorns himself with the globe and laurel. His battlefields are a divided kingdom, the cradle of civilisation, and the graveyard of empires. He fights a dozen skirmishes in between each campaign, never resting.

Despite the hard won glory the warrior senses something amiss. On the battlefield, as death looms, he is truly alive. Yet, in times of peace, he feels the death of his spirit keenly. He discusses his problem wth neither kin nor friend. At night he drowns the black dog that haunts him, only for it to return when he awakens the next day.

In desperation the youth turns to the faith of his fathers, the faith of the cross and the candle, the prayer and the penance. The gloom of the confessional gives voice to his dark thoughts. He confesses. He sings a song of glories, of facing death with a laugh upon his lips. He tells of the faces of those that have fell before them. There is no remorse, no words of contrition. He honours the dead but does not mourn them. The priest recoils from the violence, horror upon his face. Our Father provides no comfort.

High upon the windy tree Huginn and Muninn watch. They see the warrior mount Yggdrasil. The body is battered but willing, the mind is truly spent. Jörmungandr coils about his neck, ragnarök of the mortal soul. As the light of Valhalla plays upon the warrior´s gasping face, Geri and Freki howl.

The flies dance The wind blows The body turns The rope gives The soul lives The fire burns The path opens

He left upon a sunlit morn. To cross the Northern sea. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Never said goodbye to me.

He went up to the mountains, To see what he could be. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Never said goodbye to me.

He went into the forests, To finally be set free. My dark headed Yorkshire boy, Was forever lost to me.

The snow falls. Geri and Freki stand mute witness as he hunts their kin. The hunters circle each other. The wolf leaps as the man charges. Spear meets flesh. A howl splits the silence. The man honours his kill. He wears his bloody raiment. Úlfheðinn. Odin's man. Huginn and Muninn caw his victory.

The man walks amongst the living once more. He is flesh and blood but fire courses through his veins. Neither blade nor spell tell upon him when the fury seizes him. The All-Father sends him forth. Before he can sup his mead and sit besides the fire once more in the long hall there is work to be done. Myths and legends walk unseen upon the land. The old tales are the new secrets. The Úlfheðinn must follow the Whispers. The old threats are the new disaster. The Úlfheðinn follow the Ur-Druag.

He left upon a sunlit morn to cross the Northern sea.

My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me.

He went up to the mountains to see what he could be.
My dark headed Yorkshire boy never said goodbye to me.