Blood slickens the haft of my axe, the blade is heavy with the dead. Will they sing of me, will I be remembered by my people or my enemies? I, Erik of Hell, my blood pure toxin.The Soft Men are Hard Women, their breasts iron and their blades sharp. An Empire for a Week, falls to the Weak. The Beach is red with death, their cities burn in black flames. Gold is no comfort to dead men, their bodies can not be bought. Standing amongst twelve of my remaining banner, surrounded by the bodies of their fallen. It is no shame to admit defeat – but to face the consequences must now seem glorious.I raise my axe, heavy with souls. To die as Erik the Reaper, Erik the Wolf. My body gone to the crows.
His Empire Of a Week, crumbles with his body, disappearing into the sand as an arrow strikes his neck. The black feathers of its fletching more lively than his men, who came for gold and found only ash. Even a Wolf has it’s predators, amongst them are Man. But how rare it is for men to hunt crows. Whoever heard of a crow-feather coat?