Gultunga Iverson
The prow of the longship cuts effortlessly
through the turbulant white capped waves
as it heads towards the nearby protected
harbour that lay ahead.
The cadence of the beating drum increased
markedly the closer they came to the shore. Olaf
wanted to ensure that their ships momentum would drag it high
onto the shore, thus preventing it from being carried back out to
sea by the ever changing tides.
Every available man found themselves straining at their self ap-
pointed oars. Guldtungas throbbing muscles burned from the con-
stant exertion.
The salt spray blew over the longships gunwhales and into Guldtungas
stinging icey blue orbs, consequently matting his crimson hued pate
of disarrayed hair to his noblely chisseled skull. His sweat and
salt water comingled, thoroughly soaking both his barbaric form,
raiment, and accoutraments.
The Norsemans wet clothing completely covered his ivory white flesh
so that it would protect him from the piercing rays of the sun.
Their longships water and food supplies were low and needed replent-
ishment, thus assuring that a foraging party would be gathered and
promptly sent out.
As soon as the longships hull slid high upon the bank, Guldtunga
promptly gathered up all of his scant possessions, weapons, and
shield. The Nordic lad made his way to the ships bow and lithely
jumped down onto the sandy beach. Guldtungas fit form of eighteen
hands and nigh seventeen stones ballast landed firmly upon his feet,
standing at the ready for whatever the gods had destined for him.
A large smile brightened the Warriors countenance most fair as he
headed inland along with a dozen of his battlehardened companions
. . .