One of the prominent adventurers in Rimholm is Vigarr Thorgilsson, also known as Vigarr Ulfsbane or Vigarr Mail-Breaker. He was a shipwright's son who became a warrior and later an outlaw during the early years of Queen Astrid's reign.
There was a man named Thorgils who lived in Rimholm in the days before Queen Astrid's reign. He was a karl of no great fame but strong in the arm and skilled at his trade. The shipwrights’ guild gave him his place among the harbor carpenters, for his timbers held tight for the Bjorning fleet. He swore his oaths before the Drekansreir's hearth as required, but his loyalty followed only the sound of purse-song.
Thorgils had a wife called Brynja. No one knew for certain whence she came, but neighbors whispered she hailed from the western isles, where the sea cliffs are sharp, and the sun sets slowly. Her hair was dark, and her eyes held the grey of a gathering storm cloud. She tended the land as though she had always belonged there and worked the fields without complaint. She spoke little and did not laugh often. She never had to raise her voice because none ever wished to stand against her.
They had a daughter, but she died in her third winter.
Their son, Vigarr, was born soon after when Vanskrdal and the lands north of Vargstrondfjord fell to the ridders of the Gott warhost.
Vigarr was taller than the other children and quiet like his mother. He always listened more than he spoke. His hands took well to the hammer, and he learned how to shape a ship from his father. When ten winters passed, he could peg a keel straighter than most grown hands.
When Vigarr had seen twelve winters, High King Bård Sygtrigsson and Queen Astrid wed. As the banners rose, a call went out from the Drekansreir that timber was needed to bolster the fleet. The carpenters, pressed with work, could only spare Vigarr and several other young apprentices for a journey to Snæfell, where the trees grow tall, and the snow comes early. His mother sent him on his way with a new set of tools, a slice of bread, and a skin of water.
Brynja said, "Careful… trolls live in Snæfell, and they eat those who forget the ways of the forest."
Vigarr nodded and left with the others.
In the hills of Snæfell, the trees stood like spears of the Lords of Battle. Each stood tall but not true, so none were fit for the grand fleet.
The others split off to search for straighter trunks among the hills. Vigarr finished the last crumb of his bread and drank until his skin ran dry. Still, he found nothing. So he walked farther into the forest, where others did not dare, until he found a tree taller than the rest in a spot where the trunks grew thick with age. It was a tree fit for a queen, and he brought down the forest's crown as an offering for her. But it was too great to move without aid.
He searched for his fellows, but they had left early, back to the safety of Rimholm's wall.
Yet, Vigarr stayed.
He looked upon the felled tree, wondering how he might bring it back to town. As he measured the weight of his burden, the wind carried a deep voice from the darkness.
Someone called, "Thief, do you know what has been taken?"
The forest was silent. Then came slow footsteps in the snow. A towering troll lumbered out from the pines, dragging a broken sled with one split runner.
The troll scoffed, "Is the tree for firewood? A house?"
Vigarr was surprised but replied, "No, spirit of the trees, the Queen calls for ships to guard the shores."
"Ha!” the troll snarled. “I see no ships here, only little pests."
Vigarr said, "Forgive my intrusion. If these woods still honor the Old Ways, then I stand here as your guest. My name is Vigarr, son of Thorgils of the Eslalings."
The troll huffed and turned to tend to the fallen tree.
Vigarr continued, "This will become a mighty ship that will protect the town, the bay, and the forest."
The troll said, "Ha! But, how will you carry such a treasure?"
Vigarr said, "Well, it would be a shame to leave it here."
The troll said, "Ha! You felled it, but you'll not move it far, puny runt."
Vigarr said, "Well, ‘tis true, but if I fix your sled, would you pull the tree to town for me?"
The troll grunted, "Ha! If it holds."
Vigarr knelt and worked in silence. He cut a wedge from a branch knot and bound it with pitch thread and bark. Then he ran his hand along the break. The grain was torn crooked, and the lashings were worn thin. His own tools would not hold, but then he saw the troll's belt, where a mighty hammer hung. It was the color of storm-wet rock, with no mark of smith or rune.
Vigarr said, "This won't do. My hammer's haft is too strong and the weight too great. It was a gift from the Asar, after all, and it would split your sled before the ridge. If only there were another..."
The troll's brow lifted.
The troll said, "Your tiny hammer looks new and unused."
Vigarr met his gaze. "Mine can split bone and stone, but its power is in restraint and grows mightier with each passing moon. The longer I go without using it, the stronger it becomes. But even now, it would do more harm than help for your sled."
The troll looked down at his own hammer, dark and smooth with age, and said, "Mine is older than the laws of your precious Asar. But it holds steady. We could trade."
Vigarr nodded. "Well, it is my great loss, but, generous spirit, it could serve here, for both our sakes."
The troll unhooked the hammer and swapped for it, eager and wide-eyed. Vigarr took it without a word and returned to the sled. He finished as his father had taught him and bound the runner fast and strong.
As agreed, the troll bent to the sled, hoisted the tree onto it and dragged it down the path. At the edge of the last hill before Rimholm, he stopped and rolled the log off the sled.
The troll said, "I must return before first light. I cannot walk to your gate.”
Vigarr bowed.
Before leaving, the troll said, “If this ship holds, so may the forest."
Vigarr nodded.
Thinking he had bested Vigarr in his trade, the troll vanished into the pines, satisfied and laughing all the way.
They say Oak-Drake, the Queen's swiftest ship, had a spine from that tree. And not long after, a hundred more sails were raised in the harbor to patrol the waters of the Skyet Sea.
In the year when Halla was born to the King and Queen, Vigarr was summoned for the levy. Then, as now, there was no peace between the Bjornings and the Gotts, who slipped through the high passes each summer to test the lowlands. And so, each year, brave warriors were called to guard the banks of the Hvitfljot, where the white-tongued spirit grows quiet.
Vigarr went where he was told and did not complain. As fate allowed, he returned to the forest, but not to fell trees.
That summer, warriors gathered beneath Queen Astrid’s banner. Down the line came an old huskarl with a braided beard and a red cloak faded by sun and salt. His name was Jorund Law-Speaker, and none questioned his place at the Queen’s side, for he had served her long and as faithfully as any.
He approached Vigarr and looked him up and down.
Jorund said, “You’re the carpenter boy, then?”
Vigarr answered with a short nod.
Jorund said, “We’ll see if you can cut down Gotts like timber. A crooked beam breaks the same as a crooked warrior.”
Vigarr took the words as a lesson and stood straighter.
Jorund laughed and clapped him on the back as if Vigarr were his own son.
That day, the Gotts came through the birch grove and met the levy along the coast. The shieldwalls locked, and spears cut through the air.
One of the Gotts bore a wide shield, painted blue and iron-rimmed. It was patched here and there where the boards had warped. Vigarr saw it and lunged forward. He drove his spear just above the boss, and the shield split like bark. The Gott behind it fell, with splintered wood still in his grip.
Vigarr fought where he was told, bearing spear and shield in the line, as was the custom. But when the shields buckled beneath the ridder’s charge, he let his spear fall and reached for his hammer.
When Vigarr swung the hammer, mail cracked and shields shattered. None knew how he came to possess it. Some say the weight of it was wrong for any smith’s forge, and that the haft was shaped for hands not quite human. In time, he earned a name for the way it crushed his foes. They called him Mail-Breaker, though he answered to none of it.
Each fall, he returned home to reap what little had grown in the harvest. The frost did not wait, and the grain ripened thin on the hills and slopes. Still, he gathered what he could.
Vigarr worked from sun-up to dusk, binding sheaves and hauling bundles down the scree path. He took what comfort he could, knowing the work fed his kin better than war ever had.
Winter bit hard, and scarce was the comfort not earned by toil. There was hunger and sickness. He nearly starved to death, yet he remained standing come the spring.
Others returned from battle with fresh spoils and silver rings. They boasted of steadings put to the torch and livestock taken as tithe for the Queen.
Vigarr said little. He knew how long it took to till hard earth and raise what raiders burned in a single night.
For those few winters, Rimholm persevered. The Queen gave thanks to the warband, and the hearths stayed warm. The Bjorning fleet guarded the waters of Rik Bay from both serpent and raider. Longships prowled the inlets like a linnorm on dark currents, and sails rose where none had been seen in decades. Old tithes, long ignored, were gathered once more.
While the Queen’s hirth feasted on the spoils, Thorgils was named shipwright among the guild. They gave him a small advance in silver and a cabin by the timber yard, the guild’s mark burned into the beam as proof of his craft and a fate carved in wood.
Vigarr had yet seen eighteen winters when High King Bård Sygtrigsson, bane of the Gotts, was thrown from his horse and perished shortly thereafter. Some said the saddle strap had been cut. Others said the Lady Freydis had claimed him for her hall in Helheim. So ended the reign of the High King.
Thus began the reign of High Queen Astrid, who sent word across the Bjornlag that all owed not tithes of grain or hides but silver coin. Those charged with collecting the Queen’s due were called tax-farmers, and were not welcomed by the villagers. To guard their voyage, retinues were raised from the levies. For one such trip, Jorund chose Vigarr to march with a hardened band to Vindfjall.
Vigarr brought with him the troll’s hammer. None asked how it came into his hands, but all watched how he bore its weight and how it shattered mail like driftwood. At night, his pious shield-fellows left offerings of bone at the edge of the fire to appease the Ancient Jotnar, lest they come to reclaim the troll’s oath-ender.
When the winds shifted along the coasts, old enemies tested their strength anew. Then came word that the Gotts had landed nearby, bolder than before. Vigarr’s company was sent to hold the high pass above the Rimfjord, where the trails run narrow.
The warband prepared for battle at the Pass of Whiterock. Two sons of Einar Broken-Tooth, Eirik and Yngmar, led the warriors to meet the Gott raiders. They were the troublesome nephews of Jorund Law-Speaker, whose name bore the burden of their misdeeds. Eirik was fierce and boastful, and though he had not seen half the battles Vigarr had, he spoke loudest by the fire. He let it be known that he cared little for Vigarr and called him names behind his back. One night, he asked aloud whether sons of sea-women were fit for the levy. All knew whose mother he meant. Vigarr held his tongue no longer. He rose from the fire and meant to call for a duel.
Their quarrel was left unfinished, for the Gotts came upon them swiftly and sent a call for parley. Eirik turned his back on Vigarr and said no more. He took up his sword and rode out alone to meet them. But he did not return, and many believed he had been taken for ransom. The warband wished to leave Eirik to take up a better position down the river, but Yngmar held them there, reminding them of their oath to Eirik.
Vigarr had his doubts and was not so easily fooled, for he had looked into the hearts of cowards before, and he saw the shape of trickery. So, he set his bedroll on the ridge above the trail and waited, his spear across his knees, and the hammer beside him.
At the moon's peak, the Gotts crept up the pass in silence, swords drawn.
Vigarr gave a shout and cast his spear, striking the first Gott. The camp roused in confusion as Vigarr barked to ready shields. He stood and answered with the iron-biter in hand as the Bjornings joined him. The line held through the dark, Vigarr’s hammer ringing like thunder on steel.
But at dawn, more Gotts came, riding hard to break the flanks. Yngmar turned and fled, and the rest followed. Only Vigarr remained.
His roar shook the pass and sent the horses running. His hammer rose and fell. Gotts died where they stood, and none who faced him lived to boast of it. The Gotts broke against him like waves on stone, and those who fled swore they saw Freydis, the Lady of Reaping, standing in his place. When the dawn came and no word reached the coast, Vigarr was thought slain. In her mother’s grief, Brynja dove into the bay and did not return.
Still, the Gotts fled, and the Rimfjord held.
Vigarr did not join his ancestors in Helheim. Though all counted him dead, Vigarr drew breath still some days later. Frostbitten and blood-caked, he stumbled into Asgautsby, the closest steading near the river pass. It was a house that had grown quiet in recent years, and the fields about it stood fallow.
The hersir, Asgaut Geirsson, met Vigarr at the gate. He did not recognize Vigarr at first, mistaking him for a pale and ragged beggar. Then his eyes caught the red cloak of the Bjornings, and he pointed to the longhouse. He said, “Others have drifted in with the wind out of Whiterock.”
Inside the longhouse, Vigarr found Yngmar seated near the hearth, drinking under the protection of the rites of hospitality. Wrapped in a fine cloak, Yngmar and a few others from the levy sat nearby. They kept their eyes low and hushed their song as Vigarr entered.
Yngmar greeted him with surprise. “You live, then,” he said, smiling with wine-wet lips.
Vigarr stood before him. His nod came slowly, as if the fire had only begun to thaw his bones.
Yngmar answered before the question came, “I saw the same as you. Eirik rode out and never came back. We await news of his return so that we may ferry these coins to the Queen.”
Vigarr sat beside Yngmar. His throat was as dry as bark, yet he drank just enough to wet his voice.
A thin smirk crossed his lips. “Your boots are fit for a jarl,” Vigarr said.
Yngmar rose from the bench as if struck across the cheek. His boots were shiny, new leather, thick-soled, and stitched in a foreign style. Not the boots he had worn in the battle.
“From my uncle,” Yngmar said too quickly.
No one moved. The fire cracked, and the silence grew long.
Yngmar’s face reddened. His hand went for his sword, but instead he found his coin-pouch at his belt. The silver inside rang like truth unspoken.
Vigarr scoffed, “You dishonor your ancestors!” He stood to speak a challenge, but the doors of the longhouse opened with a groan of old timbers.
Yngmar turned at once. “Cousin!” he said, and went to place his arm around Asgaut’s shoulder.
Vigarr’s eyes narrowed. He saw that the same skein of fate ran through them, bound by blood from Einar Broken-Tooth, who ruled with axe and scorn, to Jorund Law-Speaker, who twisted words like twine, and now to Asgaut Geirsson, keeper of this crooked hall.
All watched as Yngmar turned to the crowd. “Vigarr means to spill blood under this roof,” he said, pointing. “He has broken the Old Ways and insulted our Lords.”
Asgaut quickly gave the order. “Bind him,” he said. “We will let the Thing decide.”
Vigarr did not protest, nor would he risk shaming his ancestors. He slowly set the hammer down upon the table. Then the warriors took him by the arms and led him to the far end of the hall. The pigs stirred as he was lowered into the stall beneath the house, where the straw was damp and the mud stank.
There he waited, with no company but the memory of oath-breakers who drank by the fire.
That night, a hush lay over the hall. As the drunkards slumped to sleep, the hearth burned low.
At dawn, Yngmar was found dead, his skull split like firewood. No cry had been heard in the hall. If any had seen the hand that struck the blow, they gave no name to it.
Before the sun rose, Olrun, who had fought beside Vigarr at Whiterock, came to the pen. She only knelt and cut his bonds, then quickly unbarred the gate. Without hesitation, she placed the troll-hammer in his hands.
“Go now,” she said in a low voice. “Asgaut will lay Yngmar’s death at your feet, whether the blow was yours or not. The missing silver will surely be blamed upon you too. There is no justice left in this hall… only the glitter of want.”
And so Vigarr fled the frost-crusted fields of oaths and law, bound once more for the forest.
It is said Vigarr returned to Snæfell, where the snow hangs thick and the roots run deep. There he kept from the trails and slept beneath the boughs.
But the forest remembered his name, and offered no place to hide. One night, as the fire burned low, the troll came again. His back was bent and his breath billowed in puffs of steam. He carried his sled with him once more.
“You tricked me,” the troll said. “Your tiny hammer is not magic and that hammer is mine!”
Vigarr rose slowly, the troll’s hammer in hand. “I am not nearly clever enough for that,” he said. “We made a trade, ‘tis true. But since your wits are sharp, I can offer you three guesses at my question. If you find the answer, you may drain the marrow from my bones. Fail, and the hammer remains with me.”
In that moment, the troll laughed so deep and long that even the birds fled. “Ha! Fine,” the troll said.
Then Vigarr nodded and gave the troll a riddle that held no easy end.
He said, “I am born from roots, yet never grow.
I carry thunder, though make no sound.
I build no hall, but break the hearth.
I start no feud, but end the fight.”
Three times the troll guessed wrong.
Vigarr raised the hammer and set it upright between them. “This speaks your answer,” he said.
The troll gleefully laughed at the man who held it.
Vigarr said, “If I have taken more than I was owed, then let me repay it.”
From then on, Vigarr kept watch for the trolls during the day when they could not walk the woods. He warned them of patrols, of flames, of foresters who cut too much. And in turn, the trolls let him be.
At the Thing, Vigarr was not present to speak when called. In his place stood Jorund Law-Speaker. He gave the account of Eirik’s disappearance and Yngmar’s death, as the law demanded. The folk weighed the matter and cast their judgment. Vigarr was named outlaw. No one was to shelter or feed him, and he could never return. Thorgils paid a fine to Einar, for the blood that had been spilled. Though the hand was not proven, the shame was shared.
From that day, the shipwright-son’s name was no longer spoken by his kin.
Still, some say he defends Rimholm against its foes and guards the forest for the Queen with the trolls by his side.
And so it was in the second year of Queen Astrid’s reign, many came to Rimholm to plead quarrels and favors. Among them was a man who hailed from Svanland, who called himself Hroald Wolf-Hair and brought ten steel-faced warriors.
He bore a parchment sealed in wax and said it named him the rightful owner of Oak-Drake, the Queen’s swift ship whose spine was hewn from the great tree of Snæfell. He claimed the grant was given by the High King’s own hand before he departed for the Dry Lands. But the seal was shallow, and the script thick as tar.
The hall murmured that the King’s word must be honored.
Then a tall figure in a weather-worn red cloak stepped out from the crowd. His hood was low, but his voice carried clear. “He lies,” the man said, “and I can prove it.”
Guards moved to seize him, but the Queen raised her hand, and they waited.
The stranger turned to Hroald and asked, “What true name did the High King take from the spirit of the tree?”
Hroald gave no answer.
The man continued, “Surely the High King would have told you, for no man grants a ship and forgets the name whispered at the prow.”
The man stepped forward and asked to see the parchment. He held it up, studied the seal, then tossed it into the hearth.
“Words of the Bjornings should not burn so easily," he said.
The hall laughed. Queen Astrid did not smile, but she did not suffer Hroald’s claim any longer. Hroald and his men sailed south and did not return.
The Queen wished to thank the man, but he had slipped away unseen.
To this day, the skalds have not named the cloaked figure. Some say he perished in the winter. Others claim to have spoken with him as a spirit of the forest. But when the woods fall silent, a hammer rings like thunder, and they say the shipwright’s son fights once more for Rimholm.
As fate sees fit, Oak-Drake’s dragon-prow still guards the Rimfjord, bound to the Queen’s command.
Level 4 Bjorning Warrior
Fighter 4
Hunter 3
Commander 3
Mentor 2
Rider 2
Survivalist 5
Scout 2
Cook 2
Orator 3
Persuader 4
Manipulator 4
Carpenter 6
“There is no honor in strength used recklessly.”
He fights only when forced, believing that true power lies in restraint.
“Always find the exits before crossing the threshold.”
Triggers a free test to find escape routes or secret passages.