The Silence of the Barrow
Trapped in darkness for a thousand years, the air inside the burial mound is stale and cold. Smelling of rust, dry earth, and things that have ceased to be, the chamber remains still, preserved by the frost coating the stone walls.
In the center, atop a pile of tarnished silver, arm-rings, and rotting tapestries, sits the Draugr.
Once a Jarl, a leader of men who sailed the whale-road to England and Francia, he remembers the spray of salt water, the heat of the shield-wall, the weight of gold being poured into his hands. Now he is a husk. Purple-black skin, hard as tanned leather, is pulled tight over his bones. Neither skeleton nor living man, he is a corpse swollen with unnatural power. Sitting on his throne, dead hands grip the hilt of a rusted iron broadsword.
He does not breathe. He does not blink. He waits. The gold beneath his boots is his only concern, the anchor that binds him to this middle-earth. It is his legacy, and he will not share it.
The Disturbance
Vibrations travel through the earth. Footsteps. Heavy, clumsy, mortal footsteps.
The Draugr’s head snaps up. The motion is not fluid; it is jerky and mechanical, accompanied by the sound of grinding cartilage and snapping tendons. Eyes glowing with a pale, corpse-fire yellow (the Draugr-light) pierce the darkness.
Someone is digging into the mound.
He rises. He is enormous, seemingly larger in death than he was in life. Steps heavy as boulders, he descends from the dais, gold coins clinking beneath his iron-shod boots. A low growl emanates from his massive chest—a sound like tectonic plates shifting.
The Intruder
A hole appears in the ceiling of the barrow. Dirt cascades down, followed by a rope. A man lowers himself into the chamber, holding a torch. Firelight dances on the walls, reflecting off the treasure.
"Odin's beard," the thief whispers, spotting the glint of gold. Blinded by greed, he does not see the shadow looming behind the pillar.
Scrambling toward the hoard, the thief reaches out and grabs a handful of silver arm-rings.
That is the mistake. The curse requires a theft.
Stepping into the light, the Draugr reveals himself. The thief turns and screams, dropping the torch. Sputtering on the damp floor, the fire casts long, frantic shadows that seem to dance with the undead king.
The Punishment
The Draugr does not draw his sword. That blade is for worthy opponents, for warriors who seek Valhalla. For a thief, he uses his hands.
He moves with shocking speed for a creature so old. He grabs the man by the throat. The grip is like a vice of cold iron. He lifts the intruder off the ground effortlessly, choking the scream in his throat.ief's throat.
Clawing at the dead wrist, the man strikes leather-hard skin that feels like stone. The Draugr leans in. Exhaling a breath that smells of the grave and wet soil, he unleashes a miasma that saps the strength from the living, turning their blood to ice.
He does not kill the man immediately. He wants him to understand. This gold is mine, the dead eyes say. I earned it with blood. You cannot take it.
Throwing the man across the room, the thief hits the stone wall with a sickening crunch. He slides down, broken and still.
The Return to Rest
Standing over the broken body, the Draugr picks up the scattered silver arm-rings. Placing them back on the pile with terrifying gentleness, he ensures every coin is accounted for.
Looking up at the hole in the roof, he knows he cannot fix it, but he can guard it. Dragging the thief’s body to the entrance, he leaves it as a grim scarecrow, a warning for the next fool who dares to disturb the sleep of the Vikings.
Returning to his throne, he sits, arranging his sword across his knees. Eyes dim, the yellow fire fading back to darkness. He becomes stone once more, a sentinel in the dark, waiting for the next heartbeat to interrupt his eternal silence.
