Ragvald was once a great warrior, known for his berserker trances brought on by imbibing the sacred mushroom. But now he struggles to discern what is real and what are visions the mushrooms bring. -- Deathshead419
In the frozen Northlands, the Berserkr gained heavy respect in battle. Mostly due to their ability to literally tear apart the enemy. Or anyone who got in their way, for that matter. When they're foaming at the mouth and have run out of enemies, they have sacred companions whose job it is to pull them away from their allies or, at worst, way them down until sanity revisits them.
They usually die young.
Ragvald had grown so old that he could not run, which was always an impediment among the Berserkr. Worse, he was lost between the worlds.
The mushrooms that helped him into the rage place had a lingering effect. They were meant to wear off when the battle was done and the Berserkr in question had pissed them out of their system. And it worked like that on the younger ones. As far as this tribe of Northmen were concerned, Ragvald was the first to survive to old age as a Berserkr.
He could no longer tell what was there and what was not. He spent half his time snarling at shadows or shafts of light, attacking flowers or blades of grass with his axe.
They called it "having one foot in Faerieland". There were others who had the same issue. Seers who took too much of a specific fungus found inside mountain caverns. People who were just... like that from the moment they drew breath. The only difference was that Ragvald was dangerous to himself than others when he was fighting phantoms.
Styorz quietly took his axes and swords away from him. Covertly removed all the sharp objects from his house. He also kept the woodpile stocked and the stewpot full. He made sure the bread he had was in the form of small buns that were easily torn, and that the ale in his barrel was lightened with water. He also made sure to be there for Ragvald.
This time, he was seated in the middle of a meadow, staring at something Styorz couldn't see. Ragvald did a lot of staring at things Styorz couldn't see. At least he wasn't fighting whatever it was.
Styorz put a hat on Ragvald's head and got on with his cautionary stocking. Checking to make sure the old man hadn't acquired anything dangerous. Looking after him in a way that he could not protest.
Styorz ventured out to the meadow where Ragvald was still seated. Apparently chatting to a daisy.
"No, dandelions make my folk piss," he said. "I have enough trouble with piss." Ragvald looked up to Styorz, a peculiar smile on his face. "I've been speaking with the Kind Ones. If I give them milk in gold, they can help... dandelion won't help. Helps them."
"As you say," said Styorz. Safe words when he thought Ragvald was rambling. "It's hot under the sun, and I got you a barrel of cool ale."
"I won't get drunk," said Ragvald. "You're a good friend who makes sure I stay away from anger."
Styorz helped him in from the sun, and helped tell him which shadows were shadows. Milk in gold. Well. If it helped in any way, it had to be worth it. The first step was getting the gold vessel. The milk would be so much easier.
Maybe he did have one foot in Faerieland.
[Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash]
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