An Eternal Hope: Summary

Silly little post

An Eternal Hope: Practice at Sea

Summary: With the blessing of their mother, the triplets are on their way to Izana so that they may depart for the Worldtree, where Gryphyn-Baskets shall await them; but first, their grandfather believes they need a bit of training...

Rating: 18+

Trigger warnings: Mentions of death, blood, gore, descriptions of a hand wound, slavery, mentions of past trauma, fear of capture/torture

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide or send me a message if you have any questions!

The next morning, we set out for Izana as though we were just going back to work, but there was an enormous sense of change aboard. None of us could bring ourselves to speak, so the only noise was the sound of the ship’s bow breaking the waves, which seemed too loud for the first time since we’ve been on the sea. We could only hope that Byardölf kept his word about the sandcrawler, and we wouldn’t have to use all of the two hundred coin bonus he’d given us before we even got to the Worldtree. 

   Other than the silence, I expected the trip to Izana to go as it always did; using Alf and Jarl’s combined genius of a rope-and-pulley system that allowed just one person (Jarl, at the moment) to work the sails alone, while a different system they had installed within the very walls of the ship allowed one person to work all six oars at once with a fair amount of ease. That left one person for the rudder, which I stayed well away from, after nearly wrecking us in a storm– twice. Otherwise, we’d take turns working these ingenious contraptions, while resting in-between.  

   But instead of my expectations, I was yanked out of reading when Grandpapa suddenly took the book out of my hands and snapped it closed. He proceeded to nonchalantly take Alf’s paper and pencil (which she was using to either design something new, or to write down a new song she’d thought up), and put both of our items in the chest beside the one that held all of our coin after work. He turned to Jarl, who worked the rudder. “Up. Hildegardr, you’ll have to take the rudder.” 

   “Uh…” Jarl warily stood, eyes darting to each of us in a silent question. He didn’t let go of the rudder until Nana had a good hold of it. Grandpapa looked down at Alf and I expectantly in turn. When neither of us moved, he said impatiently, “Up, both of you.” 

    “...Why…?” Alf asked slowly, though we were standing anyway. 

   “Because I said so,” Grandpapa replied plainly. He waited until the three of us were standing side-by-side in front of him, then continued. “We won’t be able to come with you on the Gryphyn-Baskets, I’m sure you realize.” I tried not to show any form of reaction, because no, I hadn’t realized. Suddenly, the trip to Vanaheimr seemed a lot less fun. “We’ll be at Izana in three days, where the three of you alone will set off for the Svartl Worldtree. Going into the competition knowing nothing about swordsmanship is foolish and reckless. These few days are all I’ll have to teach you the basics.” 

   Grandpapa drew our iron sword from its tattered frog at his hip. “We won’t use this. There’s only one, and even if there wasn’t, we don’t need to accidentally chop each other’s heads off.” He passed the sword to Jarnir for safekeeping; he seemed just as confused as we were, but only shrugged helplessly and went along without any questions. Grandpapa then reached into our chest of belongings and withdrew two well-carved wooden practice swords– we’d had them forever, but had never thought of using them; we’d never had the time, nor the energy, to practice. He hefted each of them, testing their weight I suppose, before tossing one to Jarl, who impressively caught it with one hand and no effort.  

  “Jarl,” Grandpapa pointed the tip of his sword at him in challenge. “You first, grandson. We need to work on your grip. No offense, but… it’s awful.” Jarl laughed, then waved his practice blade around a few times, testing its weight. “Let’s start with teaching you how to parry a basic downward swipe. Swing downward at me, slowly.” 

   My brother hesitated, then hacked downward in slow motion. Grandpapa lifted his sword and held it horizontally, palm on the flat of the mock blade, blocking Jarl’s harmless blow. “See how I’m holding my sword? I’m going to swing downward at you now, and I want you to raise your sword how I just showed you.” 

   Grandpapa and Jarl lowered their swords, then repeated the move in reverse. Jarl quickly raised his sword like Grandpapa had shown him, and Grandpapa smiled. “Well done. Now, let’s try it faster.” They did the move again, but Jarl was too slow. Both Grandpapa’s sword and his own slammed into his chest with a dull crack, knocking him backward. He fell to one knee, his eyes wide with shock as he struggled to breathe. 

    “Jarl!” Ma nearly leapt off of her seat.  

   Grandpapa raised a hand to stop her without taking his eyes off Jarl. “I only knocked the breath out of him. He’ll be fine.” 

   Ma pressed her lips into a firm line and watched with worry until Jarl shook his head clear of dizziness and stood, staggering slightly. “Wow, Grandpapa. You’ve got a hard hit…” He coughed, wincing as he massaged his sore chest. “Really hard...” 

   “Again,” Grandpapa ordered without hesitation. The two of them continued to repeat the move until Jarl could effectively block Grandpapa’s attacks, then they tried it even faster. When Jarl could block Grandpapa’s downward strike at full speed, it was Alf’s turn. Jarl, breathing heavily, slouched down beside me and closed his eyes. 

    Grandpapa faced Alf with his sword ready. “You saw what I did with Jarl.” Alf nodded in response, eyeing Grandpapa’s sword nervously. “We’re going to do the very same thing. I won’t go easy on you because you are my granddaughter.” His blue eyes narrowed meaningfully, and Alf nodded. 

    “I wouldn’t ask you to,” she said, and they began. 

   Alf and Grandpapa started the move in slow motion, just as he had done with Jarl, before repeating it until Alf had almost mastered it; she was quicker in learning, having watched Jarl’s lesson closely. By the time they were done, Alf was panting and dragging her sword behind her, and Ma was very concerned. “Don’t give me that look,” Grandpapa told her firmly with a stern glance. Alf sat down beside Jarl, huffing with exhaustion. “It’ll be a lot worse for them if they get no training.” Grandpapa whipped around and jabbed his sword in my direction. “Your turn.” 

    I slowly lifted up the wooden sword (which was, sadly, very heavy for me) and held it in front of my face vertically, as best as I could. “I’m not here.” 

 “Bjalla!” snapped Grandpapa in a warning tone, making me jump to my feet immediately. “We don’t have much time.” I mumbled an apology, face burning with embarrassment.  

   We faced one another; slowly, he brought his sword down at my face. I lifted my sword to block it, just like I’d watched Jarl, then Alf do– but I wasn’t strong enough to even try and block him. Grandpapa frowned when he realized that he was able to push my sword down, despite the fact that I was straining to keep my sword still– with both hands. 

   “Again,” Grandpapa ordered, and we did it a second time; but this time, he was able to knock my sword away entirely before swinging the tip of his own up to meet my throat. 

     Jarl burst out laughing. “You-You can’t even–” He started laughing even harder and fell onto his side, joined by Alf; she covered her face, wheezing hard. Ma glared at them. 

   “Both of you, stop it.” 

    Dejectedly, I slumped over. “Well, Drakonsson’s gonna take one look at me and send me home...” The possibility was serious enough to make me worry. If Alf and Jarl can’t compete because of my weakness, what will happen? How will they react? 

  “That’s nonsense,” Grandpapa said firmly. “There are plenty of people, I’m sure, who will have trouble lifting swords high, or even lifting them at all, in the competition. You have to remember, most of them were rogues, criminals, and thralls, like us, who may never have learnt any skills either. And there are dozens of other weapons to work with. Bows, for example.” 

   I scoffed. Byardölf once had a bow in his smithy that needed a new nocking point and grip, and Byardölf had tested it after we’d fixed it to ensure the quality of the weapon hadn’t been tampered with by repairing it. I wanted to try, and could hardly pull the string back to nock an arrow. And when I’d loosed it, the arrow didn’t even hit near the target. It fell harmlessly to the ground and the string smacked into my fingers so hard it had left cuts to the bone. “You obviously forget the time I tried one at Byardölf’s smithy...” 

  Grandpapa huffed, irritated, and when he began speaking with his hands, started flinging his mock-sword around dangerously without even thinking about it. “Well, maces, daggers, axes, scimitars, crossbows; there’s a number of weapons out there. If you’re not good with swords, even after a few weeks of training, try something else.” He held up his sword in front of his chest, the flat of the blade facing me. He held his free hand up against the side of the sword facing his chest. “Strengthen your stance, plant your feet firmly, and remember to hold it like this; you won’t cut your hand, and you’ll have extra strength to push back with. You saw my example earlier, didnt you? Pay attention. Of course, don’t do it without thinking, because you could accidentally grab the sharp part of the blade, and risk cutting your hand in two.” 

   I visibly flinched at the mental image that gave me. Alf and Jarl, on the other hand... “Do it, do it, do it,” They chanted in perfect sync with broad smiles; I scowled at them, but that only made them want to do it more, until Ma silenced them with a harsh command. 

   “Lets try the move I just showed you,” Grandpapa ordered, more gently this time, “Try and keep your sword up, no matter how hard I push.” He slowly swung his sword downward, and I brought my own up, holding it like Grandpapa had showed me. 

  It was only after he started pushing again, all the pressure on my sore hand, that I remembered the gash on my left palm. I almost let go of the sword, then forced myself not to; of all the injuries I could get in the arenas that I’d have to keep fighting with–stabs, gashes, severed limbs– a cut on the hand didn’t seem so bad. 

   Grandpapa pushed on my sword even harder, and as I pushed back, the cut on my hand split back open. I bit my lip to silence my yelps, and kept my stance, refusing to be weak. I cannot enter this competition weak. I cannot enter this competition weak. Grandpapa and I stood like that for several moments, until he finally smiled and stepped back. “Well done.” 

   I staggered forward. When I steadied myself, I held up my shaking, bandaged hand. The bandage and the sleeve of my jacket were soaked through with blood, freely dripping down my hand and arm and leaving a good-sized splat on the deck. My vision swam and my stomach churned. Better learn to get that under control... 

   “Bjalla!” Nana yelped. 

   Grandpapa blinked at me a few times, dumbfounded, before looking at the wooden sword he held accusingly. “...Did... Did you cut your hand on the practice sword? ...On wood?” 

   Ma practically bowled me over in checking my “wound,” making me chuckle a little despite the sheer throbbing pain pulsing up my arm. “Oh, I didn’t mention this? Yeah, I cut myself on Byardölf’s new dagger the other day.”  

   Ma scowled at me, but it was quickly replaced with worry. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me off to one end of the ship, out of everyone else’s way. “Come over here. We need to rebandage it.” 

   Grandpapa swatted me upside the head. “I completely forgot about that. You shouldn’t have pushed back so hard with an injured hand.” After Ma had rebandaged my cut, Grandpapa and I continued to repeat the move until I could do it... Somewhat easily. I never came close to Alf or Jarl’s level of strength or resilience. 

  For the rest of the day, Grandpapa taught us the basics of parrying, dodging, and attacking, only giving us breaks when we needed to eat, rest, or, in my case, rebandage my damn cut, which happened too many times for me to count. By sunset, I felt more worn out than I had in years. My legs felt like lead, my back hurt, my head hurt, my chest hurt, and my sword arm was throbbing painfully. Every bone in my body felt like it was going to splinter– and from the way Alf and Jarl were wincing and hobbling to their bedrolls, they felt the same way I did. 

    By the time Izana was in our sights, I felt twice as badly, and we were covered in welts and bruises. Eventually, Grandpapa told Alf and Jarl to practice on one another under his supervision, leaving me to spar with him. 

  “You won’t be able to practice on the Gryphyn-Baskets,” Grandpapa muttered quietly to us as we readied ourselves for bed. “And I’m guessing the rest stops for the passengers will be short, since you can eat and sleep in the baskets themselves. Be sure to use every break you do get for practice.” 

   Without much else to say, us triplets collapsed onto our bedrolls, falling into heavy, deep sleep.

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she do a little twirl at you (and then you die)

I really want to add gifs to each part of my stories when they're up but??? Who am I supposed to use exactly???

Wip!

After several tests with watercolors, I chose to make this with ink, I don't like the effect of watercolor on this paper

Today I worked on the lineart and I can't wait to complete it, I haven't chosen whether to do it in color or black and white, but I will definitely use some copic!

Hello everyone!

I'm Elaina Pendragon (my penname), and I write fantasy young adult novels! Book one is available on Amazon in all formats, and you can learn more on my TikTok!

Below is a sneak peek (click on the images for better quality), but soon I'll be releasing a couple of chapters as well, probably chapters 1-5, including the prologue. This story is a coming of age story, one about breaking free of the past. It's for fans of fantasy, dragonriders, character growth, semi-slow burn friends-to-lovers, angst, love triangles, "I will always protect you" vs "Touch her, and I will kill you," a dark and dangerous lover vs a gallant and mysterious lover, action, viking lore, foreshadowing, and a commoner-to-hero romance.

Book one is available on Amazon in all formats and may be released on the Tiktok shop as well (link below).

 [Book One] Drakablöð Sögúr: An Eternal Hope

Pronunciation Guide ll Atlas ll

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Pendragon's Tidbits [A/N: Drabbles, paragraphs, etc.]

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Link to the full novel on Amazon

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An Eternal Hope: Flier of Fate

Summary: Recently freed from a lifetime of thralldom, young Valdyrbjalla is eager to earn her freedom as she works in the Pirate Archipelago alongside her family. Thankfully, her friend Jarnir may have just found the key to doing so...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, necromancy (?), slavery, dealing with past trauma, PTSD (?), fear of torture, let me know if I missed anything!

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

The deafening sounds of metal-on-metal filled the air. The Main Square of the Svartl Black Market, Izana, was full of conversation and bargaining. Women calculated how to buy food, or clothes, clutching skinny children or chastising them if they tried to scurry off without permission as they hurried from trader-to-trader. Young men, most of them eldest sons, guarded their families closely, grim-faced as they surveyed their surroundings with their hands prepared to brandish a sword or axe. The husbands of these families were closeby, working various jobs for various trades throughout Izana, doing what they could to provide those few coin for their struggling families. In this part of Valhöll, life was hard, and cruel, and it was every man for himself. The people who lived within or worked in Izana were mercenaries, rogues, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants; anyone and everyone who was on the run from the law could find a safe haven here. 

  Stands and booths with old weathered flags of all colors were set up around the stagnant fountain, which smelled of must and mold even three blocks away. The merchants had on display various wares such as foods, rustic handwoven clothes, modest jewelry, or weapons fashioned from whatever could be scavenged. Looming over the Main Square were old, rickety gray buildings with failing black shingles, sparkling with hundreds of years of sand blowing into their cracks and crevices from the black desert of Svartalfheimr. Their wood was rotted, their walls bowing, and each and every one of them threatened to collapse if the wind blew too hard. These buildings were mainly shops, but inside one or two were rowdy taverns to house civilians or traveling merchants. 

  The people of Izana were as harsh and unforgiving as the habitat in which they lived: rogues, mercenaries, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants, even jewel thieves– anyone who was on the run from the law resided and worked in the Black Market. The einherjerii and the royals who commanded them all knew of Izana’s presence, but its location had been hidden long ago by wizards who feared for the safety of the children in Izana. If any approached with intent to do harm to anyone in the Black Market, an impenetrable fog would appear, hindering all progress. Any who dared to venture near enough quickly turned back when they saw the graveyard of Svartl Army and Royal Einherjerii ships scattered throughout the surrounding waters. For now, the location of Izana had the security of being hidden. 

 A few children occupied themselves by crowding by the smithy, watching my grandfather, Fjörr, and our employer Byardölf, a dark elf, forge weapons and tools from ingots of steel and iron. Down the street, our close friend Jarnir and my sister Alfhildr were hard at work as an ostler and a groom at the only stable in town. On the other side of the circular marketplace across from us, my mother Rúnhildr and my grandmother Hildegardr were helping a sweet old dark she-elf named Lesnir make tapestries, rugs, and jewelry. Outside of Izana entirely, my brother Jarl remained with our small longship, the Skídbladnír. With him was our only sword, as it was up to him to ensure the safety of our ship and belongings. It had our coin from our last few weeks of work, our clothes and food, and the ship itself was in near-perfect condition. Too many bandits and pirates would try to steal it for themselves were it left unguarded; but there were no strong alliances in this place to form a formidable group, and few would take on a man with a brand-new sword when the blade might very well shatter their dull ones, or cause an injury which, in Izana, would almost always go untreated. It was up to the gods if you survived a wound here. The risk of an inglorious death by infection wasn’t on anyone’s itinerary. 

   For the last two years, we had worked every day from early-morning to mid-evening, slept on our ship, then repeated the process all over again the next day. Every month, we had one week off. We would take that time to sail to our small home on Hneflagi Island, have a day to rest, then return to Izana and our jobs. It was all to survive: coin to stock up on food and rent for the harsh winter months when the waters of the Pirate Archipelago and the northern shores of Valhöll would freeze over– nobody dared to sail during that time.  

   It took nearly all of our coin just to pay for the rent on Hneflagi. When the Pirate Archipelago had first been established, it was a safe haven for escaped slaves, rogues, and criminals of all kinds. People homesteaded off the land and built small cabins, hunting and fishing– but it fell prey to greedy jarls who claimed islands as their own, from various parts of Valhöll, showing off titles and deeds to wild lands and therefore claiming also the people as their own. Those who escaped thralldom were, once again, enslaved, if not as under poor conditions. Hunting, fishing, and growing crops was not permitted, punishable by return– a term used to mean either return to one’s previous life, previous owner, or to the einherjerii. I myself had witnessed several people, especially during the winter time, break a rule set by our jarl and be taken away. The archipelago wasn’t protected by a magical veil like Izana was. It was all too easy to get captured, and living within the walls of Izana was far too expensive. Our jarl demanded an obscene amount of coin every month in order for us to live there, even though it was simply a ten-by-ten room with eight sleeping rolls and eight little cubbies for what few belongings we possessed, one of many units within a large hall designed only for sleeping in at night. 

   Wodensdäg was the only day of the week where we could sit and rest. A good portion of the day most people spent in worship of the Old Gods such as Odin and Thor, while some still, even after their unfairness, preached of Baldr and his following Æsír. We, however, did neither, resentful toward the New Æsír for their handling of the slave issue across Valhöll that we had fallen victim to, and none of us felt that praying to gods long dead would solve anything. So we slept and ate, regaining our strength. Without that single break in a long week of hard labor, I doubt that any of us would have made it these last two years. 

   I often wondered what it was like to live free. To have a home somewhere, with actual rooms and windows and places for us to put real beds, real tables and chairs and decorations. Maybe a large yard with a garden, but at this point, I would settle for a small house in the bustling city. I wondered what it was like to not feel worried over if we would lose our home, or where our next meal would come from. I was tired of feeling the difference between surviving and living, we all were. But there was not much we could do about it;  our freedom was ridiculously priced, solely for the purpose of keeping us in a form of shackles forever. In order to be free, we would either have to live as rogues and risk getting caught more easily, or leave Valhöll entirely, and we didn’t have the resources to do that either. 

  My mind drifted to far-off places as I worked, exploring vast wilderness I’d only read about from a bird’s eye view as a way of escaping the thick, charred air of the smithy. No one could come close enough to me to watch me work, Byardölf had seen to that personally. Izana’s only smithy did noble regalia for lords and ladies miles in any given direction, even if they didn’t know it, and if anything tarnished his reputation, he would lose business– so my concentration on carving designs into the leather of grips and sheaths had to be undisturbed.  

   I had my own personal workshop, set toward the back of Byardölf’s open smithy by the wall of his house. A long stone table was before me where I could set up various tools and lay even a greatsword down to tend to its handle, adding a secure grip and any designs requested. The weapons came from people who came to Byardölf asking for repairs, or new designs to be added, and that was the majority of what we did here: repair and replacement. Only rarely were brand-new weapons made, as no one could afford the obscene costs of the materials.  

    That was why today, it was so crowded with observers.  

    They were forging a new weapon.  

   It was only an axe, but that didn’t stop anyone from being impressed. Especially the children. The process had taken place over the course of the last several hours, and the people of Izana had watched from the melting of the iron ingots to the first hammer blow and everything beyond. Now, it was nearly finished as Grandpapa plunged the red-hot woodcutter’s axe blade into a barrel of oil, quenching its fire. After a few moments, he removed it and gently eased it into the furnace, ensuring that the blade was evenly treated before bringing it back to the anvil. On the opposite side of the smithy, Byardölf’s dark gray face was set with concentration as he sharpened a dagger to perfection on the grindstone– his work was repair work. I had seen that dagger a million times by now, always returning to sharpen dull edges. I often wondered what the owner used it for, and so carelessly, and how the blade had not been reduced to a thin needle by this point. 

   The heat of the forge and the midday desert sun baking the cobblestones made it even hotter inside of the smithy, underneath the overhanging roof and surrounded by fire, smoke, and ash. The air was thick and hard to breathe, nearly choking. My eyes stung and burned like they did every day, watering so badly I kept a dry rag by my side to dab them, only using the inside as the outside was covered in a layer of soot and grime. Strands of my pitch hair were stuck to my forehead, my skin so soaked with sweat that my clothes dripped and reeked of it, plastered to my body uncomfortably.  

  One mistake with my fingers– slightly swollen and red as my heart struggled to pump blood in this sweltering heat, pounding in my wrists and legs and neck and head all at once– and my tool slipped out of my slick grasp, falling quickly to the floor with a clatter of metal that was thankfully inaudible, cloaked by the sounds of butchered conversations and the grindstone chipping away at the dull edges of a steel blade, muted by the gentle taps of Grandpapa’s hammer to the axe. The failure to properly hold the weapon made me frustrated, and a half-stifled huff burst from my chest before I could stop it. Byardölf glanced at me, his sharp elven hearing catching my irritation as well as the noise of the tool falling, but paid neither any mind and went back to his work. I tried to move as little as possible when reaching for it, grimacing as my thin clothes clung to me without any slack. With exaggerated care, I sat the tool on the desk before tugging and pulling at my shirt until it had released its death-grip on me. I barely stifled a grunt of frustration, and Byardölf turned to raise a thin eyebrow at me meaningfully, his white-on-black eyes boring into mine with a message I didn’t miss.  

   Byardölf typically didn’t like people showing irritation in his smithy. “If you’ve got to let off steam, go to the back of the house and ensure nobody sees you.” Showing frustration could let people get the wrong ideas– if you’re angry with the work and with yourself, then how well will the job be completed? It also shows the public incompetence and childish responses to an important job that needs to be done well. Even working here for two years, however, I’m still considered an apprentice, so repercussions wouldn’t be as severe as they would be if, say, Grandpapa threw a half-finished sword out of anger. The worst punishment I might get is scrubbing the whole smithy free of soot with a toothbrush (which is an exaggeration, I hope; I’ve heard Byardölf threaten such a thing, but he’s never actually forced me to do it). 

   I lifted my hand a bit in acknowledgement, letting my frustration slip away with a slow exhale. Byardölf nodded appreciatively and went back to his own work. Heaving a sigh, I did the same, leaning down close to the strip of leather I’d been working on, my nose practically touching it as my eyes struggled to focus. The design that had been requested for this particular piece was a symmetrical knotted rope design on a backdrop of triangles– it was difficult for me to draw the stupidly straight lines required, and my hands would barely work now from how long I had been straining them. They felt numb, like they’d just turned to jelly.  

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw skirts and a ruff of lace. It caught my attention immediately and I quickly looked up, smiling as I saw Byardölf’s wife, Myennr. She wore a lavender dress with white faux-silk lace, her pitch black hair drawn up in an elaborate dark elf style that was adorned with glass beads in a variety of light purples and whites to match her attire. She returned the smile warmly, holding a well-crafted tray that Byardölf had made. Balanced on it were three pottery cups, and beside it, a plateful of freshly-cut cubes of cheese. It wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t chewy, stale bread, or horse, or camel, or sandwalker steak– I swear, I’ll never eat sandwalker again. The stringy white legs twitching on its roasted body had made me so queasy that I couldn’t bear to even be near it. 

   Myennr couldn’t get everyone’s attention without yelling very loudly to be heard, so she took a few more steps toward the forge to get the attention of the toiling blacksmiths. Grandpapa saw her first, and with a warm smile, he paused only briefly enough to snatch a handful of cheese and shove it in his mouth, washing it down with a loud swig of water. The crowd of children dispersed as they realized that it was time for lunch, thankfully giving us our privacy.  

  Byardölf looked up, alerted by the sudden silence of the forge and by the departing crowd, swiveling his head in confusion. He glanced over his shoulder to see what had caused the commotion, then quickly turned back to the blade and grindstone before he accidentally sharpened his finger– we’d been here for two years, and so far, I hadn’t seen a smithing accident yet. I had to fight a shudder at the thought of tearing flesh and bone splattering all over the forge. 

    In his thick dark elven accent, Byardölf said, “Give me just a moment, my darling! This blade is almost perfect!”   

   Myennr rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics. The smithy’s cacophony of sounds had calmed significantly compared to what it had been as the grindstone slowly halted, allowing for only the hollow clank of the iron mallet on the red-hot steel. She turned her attention on me– she always doted on me, fearing the smithy was no place for a girl my age. It was an excellent place for me, actually. I didn’t mind the soot, bruises, cuts, or crushed fingertips that sometimes accompanied the job. “How is it coming with your end of the work, dear?” Her accent wasn’t as easy to understand as Byardölf’s. Whereas he had learned to speak Valhöllian fluently many decades ago and had kept it a part of his daily language, Myennr had only recently learned it, comparatively. She wasn’t extremely difficult to understand, but there were some times when she lapsed into Dark Elven in the middle of a sentence.  

   I shrugged, making a face. “I don’t know, Myennr…” I chuckled a little to myself, subtly trying to cover my half-finished designs– I’m usually better than the sorry excuse that lay before me on the unfinished grip, barely clinging to the hilt by thin straps of leather.  

   Myennr laughed softly, patting my head with a dainty smile that bunched up the apples of her cheeks, pushing her eyes into a squint. “I’m sure you’re doing fine, dear.” 

    Humbled by her faith in me, I nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Myennr.” 

   Byardölf stood then, dusting fine shavings of metal off of his pants with an old leather glove. He held up his repaired dagger proudly, a huge grin on his face as he watched the sun glint off of its fine edges– it was a prime example of the unmatched dark elven craftsmanship. The curved blade was wickedly sharp, perfect for cutting just about anything. Its newly-polished crossguard was practically blinding when it caught the light, twisting asymmetrically. It was a ceremonial dagger, one that you now couldn’t tell had been crushed underneath a longship. “Perfect, if I do say so myself!”  

  When prompted by Grandpapa’s outstretched hand, Byardölf eagerly passed the knife to him. Quickly, so as not to lose the shape of the axe, Grandpapa tested its sharpness with a quick swipe to his thumb; he hardly needed to graze it across his skin to leave a mark. He chuckled as he saw that the blade had made a clean, easy cut, then handed it back to Byardölf, wiping the blood from his thumb onto his apron and very clearly impressed. “You go right ahead and say it! That blade is possibly the finest you’ve done yet!” 

  Without asking, Byardölf passed the blade to me also– always, he treated me like a regular blacksmith, valuing my opinion as much as my grandfather’s despite my lack of experience. Without questions, I took it, excitedly admiring its sleek, shining form. But, without a proper grip, and with how sweaty my palms were, the dagger slipped backward out of my hand and cut my left palm clean open when I attempted to catch it. White-hot pain shot up my arm, starbursting from my hand. My fingers went numb immediately. Blood flooded freely from the wound, staining the sooty ground a sluggish black. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Well, shit,” I hissed, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. Grandpapa glanced over once to ensure I had all my fingers, and frowned.  

It was Byardölf who said, “Oh, dear. Can you still work?” 

   It was an effort to move my hand; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite close it and make a fist. I always stopped short, the muscles refusing to cooperate. “Not with my left hand. My right is fine.” My face lit on fire with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because I was so stupid as to try and catch it, anger because we would lose precious coin if Byardölf wouldn’t let me work with this injury.  

 “Let me see it,” Byardölf ordered gently, and I obliged with a grimace. He took my hands, turning them over and inspecting the damaged one with a deep frown. Unexpectedly, my head snapped to the side, and it took me a second to realize that he’d smacked me upside the head. “Stupid girl! Jhah’ksah! Have you learned nothing? You are lucky I will let you work with that!”  

  “Yessir,” I mumbled dejectedly, swallowing my embarrassment. Grandpapa looked on and saw him reprimanding me, and I knew he approved of the lecture because, had he not been occupied with the axe, he would have given me much more of an earful. “Th-that’s… Very sharp, Byardölf. Very sharp. I don’t think you need to work on that anymore.” 

   Byardölf huffed, shoving my hands back toward me. “Do you think sarcasm will make up for the speed you just lost?! Will it heal your hand?!” When I meekly shook my hand, he added, “Then silence yourself!” He gestured to Myennr, exasperated. “Will you patch her up, dear?” She nodded in agreement, and Byardölf collected the blade from the floor to clean it.  

  Grandpapa sighed and shook his head. “You have to be more careful, Valdyrbjalla. What if that wound gets infected?”  

  “I’ll keep it clean,” That wasn’t a promise I was sure I could keep. Already, soot was clogging the jagged edges of the gash as it drifted about from the forges, caught on the breeze. If it did become infected, there was a very good chance I could lose my hand. Worry, fear, and nausea settled in my gut, making me a squirming, sick mess as I tried to ignore the sharp throbbing in my arm. I was just glad it wasn’t my right hand, else I wouldn’t have been able to work. 

   Myennr set her tray down on the most empty edge of the table, then rushed inside to grab the necessary items; I closed my eyes tightly and struggled to focus on anything else but the open flesh, gushing blood, and the pain. I balled up my good fist and pressed my knuckles against my lips, refocusing on the pillar as I willed my stomach to calm. Myennr soon returned with a clean but tattered rag, a flask of alcohol, and a bandage. I squinted hard and tightened my jaw as she poured the stinging liquid onto the cut and made sure it seeped deep into the wound by pulling it apart. A sensation like hot fire erupted in my hand, down to the bone, numbing any feeling except pain. Burning tears sprang to my eyes, a few slipping past my eyelashes and leaving tracks on my ash-stained cheeks. A low grunt and a small flinch were the only signs of discomfort that I allowed myself to show. 

   As soon as it was over, a combination of the searing pain and the shock had left my arm nearly completely numb. Myennr carefully bandaged my hand and let it rest on my lap, which I thanked her for, because I couldn’t move my arm very well now. “Please try to be more careful with sharp things, won’t you?” I could only nod in response, still in too much shock to say much of anything. 

   Grandpapa continued his dutiful work on the axe blade, while Byardölf put the dagger, now wrapped neatly in cloth, in a locked chest by the door of his house. That was where he kept all the weapons that were repaired or crafted during the day; he would move them inside before the closing of his shop.  

   Myennr went back inside the house to tend to her own duties, and we returned to our work. Slowly, realizing that the action was picking back up and our lunch was over, people returned to crowd around the smithy. Though my wound still ached and throbbed, shock caused the pain to lose its edge. I pushed it to the back of my mind and focused, soon nearly forgetting it as I went back to cutting and shaping the leather; although it was much more difficult with only one hand. I had to improvise, using the heavy hilt of one tool to hold the leather down so that I could work on it. 

    Only a few moments had passed when a loud, drunken shout rang clearly through the smithy: “Hey!”  

  I nearly cut my good hand when I jumped, scrambling to catch my cutting tool as it tried to leap out of my hands. Grandpapa momentarily paused in shaping the axe, his head snapping up with surprise. Byardölf stopped in the middle of shoveling chips of dark wood into the smelter, trying to find the source of the yell. The three of us scanned the crowd in confusion for a moment, and then Jarnir waltzed into the smithy as if he owned it, swaying as he shoved through the people gathered near. 

  Byardölf heaved a deep sigh as Grandpapa shook his head, both returning to work irritated by his drunk and dramatic entrance. Jarnir sauntered over to me instead of either of them, knowing he’d have to yell in order for them to hear him well; I was somewhat out of the noise, here toward the back of the smithy. I leaned back, letting out a sigh of my own. Typical Jarnir… This wasn’t the first time that Jarnir’s shown up drunk, and I very much doubted if it would be the last. 

  “What are doing here, Jarnir?” Involuntarily, my nose wrinkled as the strong stench of rum washed over me when he leaned closer. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. He’d often come into the stables drunk after work, but he’d never left work. “S-shouldn’t you be in the stables?” 

   Dismissively, he waved a hand, the gesture nearly causing him to fall over. “Bah. Drank too much during lunch.” 

   Jarnir, unlike the rest of us, was born and raised a pirate. He looked the part– greasy dark hair held back by a dirty bandanna, a worn leather vest over an old tunic, ratty trousers and boots that were barely holding themselves together. This wasn’t out of a lack of coin to buy new, but rather laziness. He had been a pirate all his life and didn’t see personal hygiene the same as we did. He had been captured on the open seas shortly after we were, and soon he became our only friend during our thralldom. Here, he was renowned as one of the worst pirates around, his love for drink hindering even his basic functions. When we had first arrived here, he had been offered several jobs after proving his prowess in a raid, but after getting himself the first of many, many bottles of rum, he was never called upon again. If he were to beat his alcoholism, we could easily make extra coin, but it was a difficult road for him to take.  

  My eyes widened as the realization struck me that he’d meant that he’d gotten drunk while working. If he lost his job, again, we’d have that much less coin until he could find another. And after trying every place in town and failing to complete basic tasks because of hangovers or drunkenness (or stealing from them outright), it would be very, very difficult. He would have to risk traveling somewhere, and with his lust for drink so strong I doubted he would make it twenty feet through the desert before turning back.  

   “Did Cedrir fire you?!” My heart was in my throat.  

   Jarnir snorted– or, he tried to, anyway. It sounded more like he’d just choked. “Hah! No. Wasn’t my fault, see; other stablehands brought in some rum. Couldn’t help meself. Cedrir promised I can still work, s’long’s I can control meself next time.” It took me a moment to process his slurred speech, but when I did, I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. 

  I slumped back in my seat, relieved beyond words. We always worked so hard, and earned so little… Our landlord was one of the cruelest in the Archipelago. If the rent wasn’t paid in full, and on time… He had no sense of compassion or empathy. I’d seen on numerous occasions what he’d do, summoning hired sellswords to drag someone to the nearest battalion of einherjerii. Getting taken back is a fate worse than death. “Don’t scare me like that…” 

   Jarnir mumbled an apology before leaning down to look at the grip of the mace I was working on. After a quick, drunken examination, he smiled proudly and ruffled my hair a bit too roughly, nearly shoving me clean out of my chair. I shoved him off and he swayed drastically, stumbling back a bit. He paid no mind to it, smiling like an idiot. “Yer doin’ good!” 

   Shaking my head, I turned my focus back to the grip, trying to give him the signal to leave. “I think you should go keep Jarl company on the Skídbladnír, Jarnir…” 

    Jarnir almost fell over when he nodded. “Aye. But first…” He dug around in his pockets sloppily for a few moments. He took so long, in fact, that I had the time to finish one of the triangles of the design, and I almost forgot what he was doing. Finally, though, he managed to yank out a piece of crumpled paper. Frowning, he examined it with disappointment before his dark eyes flicked to me to gauge my reaction; because apparently, I should have one for the mystery paper that I knew nothing about. “Oops.” With some difficulty, he flattened it out as best as he could and carelessly shoved it in my face. “Take uh look!” 

   Gingerly, I plucked it out of his hand and turned it over. The paper had fancy writing and blue swirls decorating the edges underneath the framing, which was a pattern of shimmering golden knot designs. When he realized I’d started reading it, Jarnir waved his hands about frantically like I was doing something incredibly wrong. “No no no, so everyone can hear it.”  

   Stifling a sigh and barely concealing the roll of my eyes, I began to read aloud in the loudest, over-exaggerated story voice that I could muster. “‘Keifdel Drakonsson, renowned Drekivörðr general and Headmaster of Hyveldirin, is hosting a gladiatorial competition that will start in Vanaheimr in two week’s time.’” Pausing, I squinted against the harsh light of the setting sun bouncing off the cobblestones to glare at Jarnir pointedly, shaking the paper a bit for emphasis. “What is this?” 

   Jarnir only gave me a huge grin, a gold tooth flashing in the firelight of the forge. “Keep readin’.” 

   Just oblige him, I told myself, so he’ll let you get back to work. Reluctantly, I continued to read, this time unable to hide the irritated shake of my head. “‘All are welcome, including…’” The next words caused me to abruptly stop, my heart in my throat. I reread it a couple of times, excitement bubbling up before I could stop it and making my leap up from my seat with a shout, “‘In-including pirates and rogues!’” My cry alerted Grandpapa, who whipped around briefly before returning to his work when he saw nothing was the matter. Byardölf, however, had been listening the whole time, working the bellows while simultaneously paying attention to what I was reading.  

 He furrowed his brow. “My, this is the first I’ve heard of any competition that accepts pirates and rogues– and I’ve lived a long while.” Byardölf had never actually told us how old he really was, but his references and quips led us to believe that he was at least six hundred years old, maybe older; his surprise and interest only added to my own. 

 “‘...B-between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one…’” I finished hurriedly, gripping the paper so tightly it began to rip. The next sentence made me even more excited than the last, and I repeated it with a wild cry of exhilaration. “The entry fee is only fifty coin!” I let out a whooping laugh, my eagerness exploding and wholly ceasing any rational train of thought. “We might be able to…! W-wait…” As Grandpapa, hearing this part, and Byardölf both shook their heads, I realized the issue here. All my hopes smashed themselves to bits on the hard stone of reality, and I shot Jarnir a dejected glare; although really, the fault was mine for getting so excited. “Vanaheimr is an entire month’s journey away, Jarnir. We’d never make it in time.” I thrust the paper at him, frustrated. “Why would you even–” 

   He dodged my shove and spun his hands in a wheel-like motion, smiling like some goofy kid who’d just been given the keys to all the candy shops in Valhöll. “Keep readin’, Bjalla.” 

    My tight grip on the paper turned to clenched fists, shredding the edges. I found myself wanting to toss it into the forge; it was too late. What was the point of reading any more? Jarnir hadn’t found the flier in time– none of us had. “Jarnir, there’s no–” 

   He reached forward and pushed the paper further towards me. “Yes, there ‘s. Trust me.” He tried to wink, and tapped the flier repeatedly. “Just do it.” 

     I shook my head. “No, I’m not–” 

    Jarnir jabbed a finger at the page. “Look ‘ere, Bjalla, look!” Of course, he was pointing to a part of the paper that I’d already read, so I reluctantly continued from where I left off. “‘In order to ensure all participants arrive on time, they’re required to take…’” My eyes flicked back and forth between the paper and Jarnir’s dumbly pleased face, and I was confused. “Gryphyn-Baskets?” 

  Gryphyns were beautiful, majestic creatures; ones of legend that few humans were granted the privilege of seeing. With the hind end of a lion and the front end of an eagle, they were roughly fifteen-to-twenty feet long and were the gentlest of creatures, only resorting to violence if it were an absolute must. Because of this, they were tamed long ago and used to carry huge baskets that could hold small groups of people. 

  But Gryphyn-Baskets were also highly expensive, only getting more expensive the greater the distance was that you wanted to travel. Only the rich got the luxury of such quick transportation; gryphyns were magical in nature, and could travel between worlds in mere days. Not to mention, almost every registered Gryphyn-Basket in all of the Surface Worlds left for their destinations by way of the Worldtrees– it’s a lot easier to take off with a basketful of people from the mid-branches of the spawns of Yggdrasíl that straight off from the ground.  

  Entrance to those Worldtrees is very strict and secure; rogues or pirates getting in is unheard of. Death or imprisonment are usually the outcomes if anyone is stupid enough to try. I lifted the paper in a half shrug. “What I’m reading is absolute nonsense, Jarnir, this is–” 

   “By the sands, girl, just keep reading!” It was Byardölf who spouted off, surprising me; I did as I was asked and realized with a jolt that I hadn’t even finished reading the sentence I was on; and that changed my whole understanding of the situation.  

    “‘Of which all fees are paid for by the hosts in advance!’”  

   “See what happens when you stop complaining after every pause and see the whole thing through?” Byardölf chuckled, more to himself, with a shake of his head.  

    I barely heard him. My heart was pounding in my ears, my hands trembling. Only fifty coin. All travel expenses paid. Is this really happening? Do we really have a chance to go? With a shaky voice, I continued reading. “‘Anyone wishing to participate must fill a contract, obtained by stating the specific words, “I, state your name, wish to enter” on the flier you hold; on signing, the contract and the fifty coin placed on its surface will be immediately transported to the hosts and you will be expected to arrive at your closest Worldtree in nine days. 

   “‘The competition will begin once Sir Drakonsson sees the competitors are fit enough to pose a challenge. Once in motion, the competitors will face the most feared monster of each world in a gladiatorial arena. Blakkr Svartlsson, the most powerful Seiðberendr in all of Valhöll, shall revive anyone who has been killed immediately, and they shall continue onward with their team should they win. There is no real threat of death here.’” It was the prize that made me choke on my own words for a moment, the prize that caused Grandpapa to nearly drop his hammer: “‘Th-the prize for the winning team will be full training at Hyveldirin for any subject they so choose. Additionally, if any of the members of the champions are pirates or rogues, they will be granted their complete freedom and a full pardon, so long as they have never committed a murder.’”  

   My chest rattled with a shaking inhale. The Svartl Worldtree wasn’t exactly close; but its huge creaking branches could be seen even from here, wreathed in clouds and unearthly large, a soft pink with new spring blossoms that were the size of whole towns. I’m sure, barring any sandstorm, we could hire a sandwalker carriage that could take us straight there in nine days.  

   The entry fee? The traveling expenses? Hel, even the time period in which to get to the Worldtree? All of them fell nicely into place. It sounded far too good to be true. I let my arms fall to my sides, gazing dumbfounded at Grandpapa and Byardölf. Even if we don’t win… It’s a chance to do– to be– something more… 

  “What d’ya think?” Jarnir cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds fun, eh? And you three c’n actually join this one too! Worldtree’s less than a week away by wagon. Left for the journey meself to trade those horses of Cedrir’s last summer, y’remember.” I nodded for emphasis; it had been a worrisome trip, as Jarnir’s fence was to meet him in the roots of the tree closest to the entrance, and we were scared that he’d get captured. But the journey had been quick, and that only gave me more hope. Jarnir tapped the paper sloppily for emphasis. “I’m showin’ Alf next, and Rúnhildr and Hildegardr. Poor Jarl’s up last, but only ‘cause he’s standin’ guard on the ol’ Skiddy.” His crude nickname for our precious ship made me visibly cringe. He snatched the paper out of my hand before leaving the smithy, stumbling into a table stacked high with iron and steel ingots on his way out and nearly knocking it over. 

   Slowly, I looked over at Grandpapa, silently asking him his thoughts on the matter. He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know… Winning honor is one thing, but if you don’t win, they may very well send the three of you back to the duke’s when it’s all over. And with how many contestants there will be, there is a very high chance that you might not succeed.”  

    Even here, we’re constantly under threat of being returned forcefully. One wrong word or action, and off we go. We barely escaped by the skin of our teeth last time; I doubt we’d be able to pull it off again. If we could win… Hel, even if we didn’t, we’d still have been trained by Keifdel Drakonsson himself. We could gain the skills needed to become excellent sellswords, and earn far more coin than we do now. I was suddenly filled with a surge of determination. 

   We can do this… Jarl, Alf, and I, we could do this. Even if we didn’t win, we’d have made names for ourselves. We could win honor and glory through battle, just like the old days in the legends. We would see sights we never would otherwise– the Worldtree, gryphyns, dragons, all eight worlds, including the difficult-to-reach Sky Isles that loomed overhead… We would meet our heroes, and be trained by them. The competition itself seemed enough of a prize for me.  

   What Grandpapa said, though, still rang in my ears. The thought of being returned to the duke, after that lifetime of Hel he’d put us through… he’d surely torture us. We would never survive a second round. Before convincing any of my family that we could do this, I would have to convince myself that it was a risk worth taking first. 

    My hands were still shaking with excitement as I went back to work.

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Pronunciation Guide:

Drakabloð Sögur: DRAK-ah-BLODTH SOH-gur

Valhöll: VAL-holl

Alfheimr: ALV-hey-MUR

Ljósalfar: LYOS-al-VAR

Dökkalfar: DOCK-al-VAR

Svartalfheimr: SVART-alv-hey-MUR

Svartalfar: SVART-al-VAR

Íssalfar: EES-al-VAR

Jötúnheimr: YOET-oon-hey-MUR

Hýrralfar: HYEER-al-VAR

Múspellheimr: MOOS-pell-hey-MUR

Skögralfar: SKO-gur-al-VAR

Grœnnfell: GROEN-vell

Vanír: VAN-eer

Vanaheimr: VAN-a-hey-MUR

Þokalfar: THOK-al-VAR

Nídavellír: NEE-da-VELL-eer

Nærnin: NAYR-nin

Seiðberendr: SAYDTH-ba-REN-dur

Seiðragaldr: SAYDTH-ra-GAL-dur

Fafnir: FOV-neer

Vaeryn Téhlladen: VAY-rin TAY-la-DEN

Zephysus: ZEH-fi-SUS

Höddgardr: HOD-gar-DUR

Kuningaz Xekaara: KOO-ning-GAHZ za-KAR-ah

Raameshaz: rah-MEH-shaz

Hemaara: HEY-mar-AH

Zou’maal: zoo-MAHL

Ne’daag: NAY-dahg

Tal’mar: tal-MAR

Friðrs: fridth-THURS

Iilr: EEL-urs

Bilfjord Beast: bil-FYORD beest

Skjelkii: SKYEL-key

Fjorlagforað: fyor-LAG-vor-ADTHS

Nornadäg: NORN-uh-DAHG

Súnadäg: SOON-uh-DAHG

Múnadäg: MOON-uh-DAHG

Týrsadäg: TEERS-uh-DAHG

Wodensdäg: WO-dens-DAHG

Thorsadäg: THORS-uh-DAHG

Friggsadäg: FREEGS-uh-DAHG

Niflheimr: NIFL-hey-MUR

Hvergelmír: HVER-gel-MEER

Elivagar: EL-iv-AH-gar

Svöll: SVOL

Gúnnthra: GOON-thra

Fjörm: FYORM

Fimbulthúl: fim-BUL-thool

Slíd: SLEED

Hríd: HREED

Sylg: SILG

Ylg: ILG

Vid: VEED

Leipt: LAYPT

Gjöll: GYOLL

Ginnúngagap: GI-noon-GA-gahp

Ymir: EE-meer

Aurgelmír: ARE-gel-MEER

Audhumla: ODD-hum-LAH

Buri: BUR-ee

Börr: BOR

Bergelmir: BER-gel-MEER

Ask: OSK

Embla: em-BLAH

Sol: SOL

Mani: MAHN-ee

Bil: BEEL

Hjuki: HYOO-kee

Hati: HAH-tee

Sköll: SKOLL

Yggdrasíl: IGG-dra-SEEL

Hraesvelg: HRAYS-velg

Nídhöggr: NEED-hog-UR

Ratatösk: RAT-at-OSK

Modsognir: MOD-sog-NIR

Durin: DUR-in

Æsír: AY-seer

Frey: FRAY

Valfreyja: VAL-frey-YAH

Heimdallr: HEYM-dall-UR

Bïfröst: BIE-frost

Baldr: BAL-dur

Nänna: NAHN-nah

Ragnarök: RAG-nah-ROHK

Fimbulvetr: FIM-bul-VEYTR

Fenrisúlfr: FEN-ris-OOL-fur

Jörmúngandr: YORE-moon-GAHN-dar

Naglfar: NAHGL-var

Vígrid: VEE-grid

Gjállarhorn: GYAE-lar-HORN

Einherjar/Einherjerii: AIN-her-YAR/AIN-her-YAER-ee

Valhalla: VAL-hall-AH

Surtr: SUR-tur

Líf: LEEF

Lífthrasir: LEEF-thray-SEER

Gimlé: gim-LAY

Brimir: BREE-meer

Okolnír: oh-KOL-neer

Sindri: SIN-dree

Nidafjöll: NEED-ah-FYOL

Nastrond: nas-TROND

Drekivörðr: DREK-ee-VOR-dthur

Vandr: VAHN-dur

Rígurd: REE-gurd

Dögúl: DOH-gool

Bïfröstblaða: BIE-frost-BLADTH-ah

Sígarsholm: SEE-gars-HOLM

Galdyrbrynja: GAL-dur-BRIN-ya

Gleipnír: GLEYP-neer

Ellída: el-LEE-da

Vaettrhaerr: VAY-tur-HAYR

Izana: AYE-zan-AH

Fjörr: FYOR

Byardölf: BYARD-olv

Jarnir: YAR-neer

Alfhildr: ALV-hil-DUR

Rúnhildr: ROON-hil-DUR

Hildegardr: HIL-de-GAR-dur

Jarl: YARL

Skídbladnír: SKEED-blahd-NEER

Hneflagi: HNE-flah-GEE

Myennr: MYEH-nur

Keifdel Drekínalen: CAVE-dell drek-EE-nah-LEN

Vedthrelta: VED-thur-EL-tah

Lydia: lid-AYE-ah

Feldûrröst: fel-DOO-rost

Fjoðrbrandr: FYO-dthur-BRAN-dur

Asbjorn: AZ-bjorn

Zazyr: ZAZ-ur

Hráfnfär: HRAE-vin-VAR

Valdyrbjalla: VAL-dyur-BYAL-ah

Dàlr: DAH-lur

Múfnir: MOOV-neer

Ylette: YIL-ett

Reiyr: RAI-ur

Denris: DEN-ris

Laefden: LAYF-den

Alyr: AH-lyur

W’ei: wuh-AY

Aallviinaax: ALL-vee-NAX

Norðrljós: NOR-dthur-LYOS

Bleiðarak: BLIE-tha-RAK

Ornúsüm: OR-noo-ZOOM

Iirvaedín: ur-VAY-deen

Araelys: uh-RAY-lis

Ómakligr: OO-mok-LEE-gur

Eljúðnir: ael-YOODTH-neer

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