Imperial Tension - Björn The Champion’s Saga

“First…”

We were trapped behind the wooden bars. They were ramshackled from basic small trees, yet
incredibly sturdy when put to force. I had just finished recounting a story. I was trying to
keep the wits of those about me. Unintentionally, however, our guard had heard me.

“I too once sat as you do now, in a cage just like this. I did not show nearly the same brazen
spirit as you did. As fearless a man you seem to be… It is your storytelling which brings me
joy. I suspect you might be someone who could the Ancestral song very well. I would tell
you my story; hoping that you would retell it as you do. Do you think that you would be
pleased to this?”

I removed my boots to sit up proper. I leaned in and gave him the serious attention I felt this
guard deserved. He was a tall, lanky man. His skull was longer than his cranial width
wouldhave suggested, dolichocephalic. His physiognomy revealed an honest and intense
character of mastering an unknown gift. At this point he had short shaved blonde hair and a
large mustache. It clambered from above his lip to the sides of his mouth. It then vined along
his jowl up to his earring clad earlobes. This was the hallmark of a man from the wildlands. A
foreign appearance in the city we had now been stationed next to. In the warband I had seen
that as he moved about, all men looked upon this lowly soldier. As if he was their general!
The actual general, as well, walked with him as an equal. Yet never once did I see this guard
give in to anything but humility. In short, he seemed a man to be respected, and so I did.

I told this soldier:

“Tell me your name, recount your ancestors and tell me only the facts. One day, when I leave
this cage as soldier and a skald. I will sing at the fire for every fighting day I have. Be warned
however. For if my judgement seems to have failed me, and you are not what I believe you to
be. I will not sing praises, but I will sing songs of warning. And this name will live on
infamy!”

“Sitting here in a cage… About to be put on the frontlines as fodder and most likely die. You
would still make demands and threats to me. I, who could decide the outcome of your life.
You have my respect for your courage, young man. Surely the Ancestors will judge you the
same when battle comes…” He took a deep breath and continued

“My name is Björn. My Father was Sigurd, the trapper of the Jokilaakso(river valley). His
father was Alfred, the forester of the valley. His father was Jouko, the settler of the valley.
His father, Ecgbert, was the adventurer and pioneer of the Kynsiä. Finally, his father, Sigurd,
was a bastard prince, thus a blue blood, of the Kynsiä. Of course his father was Ragnar
Kynsiä, the chieftain of Kynsiä.”
And following is the account I promised to tell by his facts. A story in my own words, yet of
his experience:

In the river valley, Jokilaakso. There exists a small settlement of families all stemming from a
single settler, Jouko. In this beautiful fjord, a river serpentenely flows between two jagged
greencapped mountains. A smaller valley, that separates the stone beds, surrounds the river.
Not too far off where the river ends, a forest lies. In this forest, all the food is sourced for
these people. For once Jouko settled the land, he had sold all their chances in the old world.
This so that they had every advantage in settling this new land. It turned out, however, that
the soil was barren to anything but small grass. Up for any challenge the village turned away
from agriculture. Refocusing to be hunters and pastoralists. Letting goats and sheep roam the
valley along the cliffside. Fishing in the river. Trapping and stalking into the woods for game.
This had turned out well for them, initially. But not by the time Sigurd had his first son,
Björn. The once valley of plentiful had turned into a chasm of barrenness. Able to support
few goats… Hosting a now green river supporting little fish life… A forest showing less wild
game despite a greatly skilled hunter wandering through them daily. Sigurd had been a
talented man. He was been capable of surviving even in spite of the downturn. And his
endurance and pride let him not leave purely out of desperation. Instead he would take on
nature itself as the glory of his life. However, most of the village saw reason. This left only
Sigurd and his brother, their wives, and three children.

Sigurd, and his brother Sigberd came to find something out. That Sigurd’s two sons’ natural
teenage drive fascinated itself with one subject. The idol of this drive had become Sigberd’s
daughter Emilia. In their competition for her interest, they would master their crafts. But an
accident struck Björn’s brother dead, leaving Björn the victor of a barren valley. As well as
leaving him the love of his cousin, turned wife. Not soon thereafter, his uncle and father
would grow older. More unable to keep up the same produce as before. Leaving most of the
hard work to Björn. Despite constant hardship, Björn lived the same glory as his father.
Conquering this barren landscape that nature had decided would deprive them. In it he
created a joyous life, albeit one of toil and struggle. He would go on to have a daughter. Then
love life as only a new father could. Until the birth of his second daughter robbed him of his
beautiful wife. Her last words to him was the wish for him to protect her children He there
and then made an oath to be there to protect them.

In the dusk of this tragedy however; The census had decided that Jokilaakso had to pay
tribute by means of conscription. Finding Sigurd and Sigberd, though of blue blood ancestry,
too old to fight. Yet deemed healthy enough to provide for the women and children. It fell
upon Björn to be conscripted to the great coalition war band. Björn struggled and tried to
fight them off. But starvation and little means had reached his strength of body at this point.
Being a man relying on clever trapping and wit rather than force. He had no power to stop
these men from simply carrying him off. The same tradition of conscription I myself found
my way into. In a cage, Björn was now at the hands of the coalition. The war band called out
to the camp that they would wander into a supply point. Then march straight into the
borderlands for a battle. A battle so soon as too bloody and prepare the new recruits for the
life. Truly many outside our culture would consider this practice horrific. But for men living
according to the Ancestral ways, this was initiation to life itself. Failure to test your mettle, if
you ask me, leads to a hollow life. Björn saw it differently, trying to escape the whole time.
Even once succeeding before being ridden down by cavalry and put back. Now instead he sat
there with rougher restraints. For his insolence, they would let him fight with those shackles.
So that if he lived, all the more glory was given. If he died, revenge could be had for the
embarrassment caused.

“Second…”

At the then borderlands of the Risti, the first coalition army was headed under Gyllenkrona.
That tribe of men which possess the greatest and largest farms and mines. Their name
meaning literally crown of gold. As the battle was gearing up, the Risti soldiers were seen on
the horizon. Markedly smaller in stature and size than was the coalition army. Displaying a
sort of uniformity throughout it. The Risti soldiers were not fighters who came to battle with
their brothers and fathers. Nor were they adventurers looking for glory. These people were
volunteers whose benefit was really money. Money and the idea of sacrificing themselves to
this greater ambition of Johannes. Johannes, the king of the Risti established this empire long
ago. This ambition of empire. Björn and his fellow fodder, stuck in their cages, were finally
let out. Only to be surrounded by the spears and revolvers of Gyllenkronas army. At the
supply point, a new captain had been put in charge of them. This man was tall and broad, he
had lots of fat on his body. No man would ever question that he was strong, however. Being
able to carry large lumber without any aid. And so large that the horses could not carry him.
This man was Jaalo of Gyllenkrona. Today we know him as the grand marshal of the entire
coalition army. At this point, his brother had not yet ascended to the throne, however. Thus,
he was but a minor officer who had the regal duty of bloodying the recruits.

Jaalo looked at the recruits and saw their unwillingness to fight.

“Do you not know that this war is just?”
And all of them looked terrified. Thinking that it did not really matter how just the war was.
Just that they were to die in it.
“Let me give you a brief overview then of why this is just and why it is just then to die for it;
In heresy and revolt against the ancestors, the Risti seek to control by empire the world. They
believe only in stability by the name and not by the property. They think that should their
name echo for a thousand years, that will mean they have served God and done well. But we
who have listened and cherished the words of the ancestors heed their warning of empire.
Empire is the position by which parasitism is allowed to thrive, it is the continuous attempt of
man to fight against his nature. To think he is so blessed that whatever virtues has given him
good fortune in life, that it will be retained as long as his name is as well. That simply by his
name and his blood living on, so does the glory of his deeds. They care not about the virtue of
each man, but the virtue of a founder and then a line of parasites who simply sit on a throne
with unearned good reputation and take the gold offered by systems created in the past. They
do not understand the essence of what keeps their rule in place, and so they commit treason
against their own interests time and time again. Every now and then empire might be blessed
with a glorious despot such as those who built the empire, but ultimately, always and
eventually, every emperor falls to human nature and so does the line of emperors with them.
The difference being in that the name which echoes now becomes foul and stinks of cursed
properties. They have no virtue, only vice left, and they succumb to being the furthest
removed from the consequence of their own actions than any man was ever meant to be.
They become blind to the reality, the honesty, the accuracy of their rule and their life. We of
the ancestral way, we might fight with eachother, we might dominate, we war, we kill, we
slaughter and we burn. But we do so in accordance with our nature, and we do so knowing
that this is the only place the greatest of us will ever have a place. Not even the Mustaveri in
their worst days tried to establish empire, for in their infinite cruelty they still maintained a
respect for the Ancestors, in fact more ardently and piously than many others. But they were
weak and in that moment of weakness, just as they would’ve, the rest of us united to balance
the powers again and to bring about a more righteous world. The Risti would forsake this
balance, they forsake it for eternal name rather than transcendental virtue, they care not for
the freedom and discipline in which glory rings eternal, they simply deem stability and
security of the most superficial things to be the one concern of man on earth. They care not
about blood or race, elevating even the lowliest of slaves and peasants to govern entire
duchies. They care not for the courageous and glorious sport of war between tribes, thinking
that such conflicts and disputes and their resolution are a filthy byproduct of a bygone era.
Claiming that the agreeable avoidance of conflict between men, and making men into
women, will in fact free us from our own worst instincts. How petty and ignorant Johannes
must be then, to not realize the folly and unnaturalness of his own ways, of how he spits on
the ancestors, and on how no matter the result of our war, history and the sands of times when
history is rewritten, will eventually prove us right and his name will have become sullied by a
thousand generations of parasites following his great conquest and skill.”

So aroused were they by this that they now remembered their ancestors were watching. Those
men who had escaped the old world under the guidance of the prophet. Those who became
the first settlers of Uusi Suomi. It was a sign of why Jaalo would one day become marshall.
That he could take such low morale and turn it around. Even Björn who was resigned to flee.
Had now decided that it was better to die bravely than to run as a coward. His personal oath
be damned, his life was in the hands of God.

The Risti army advanced, with massive shields all aligned. Painted large shields with a brass
ball in the middle of it with spikes. The pattern was that of the cross. Such that a green cross
was emblazoned unto a red background. Their flame spears turned forward, and readied to
fire off. They slowly and carefully tread ground.

The coalition army stood next to each other. Not by rank and file, but instead by kinship and
fealty. All blue bloods standing confidently behind a large swathe of conscripts. Employing
few pieces of armour or weaponry. With the exception of Björn who had nothing. They were
each handed a small knife, a heavy revolver and flame spears. A small shield the size of their
forearm. A helmet and chain that shielded from head to just below their heart. The conscripts’
armours were ruddied, bloody and dirty from all the previous users. Jaalo, however, wore no
armour at all. Only wearing pants and sporting a warpaint all across his body. Clay red in the
shape of a skull on his face. Black-green ash covering on the rest of his body. He held a
massive battle hammer of the highest caliber. A hammer with its own power source. Using
complex engine mechanics to produce an output many times his own strength. A strength
which was already considerable. Another captain over conscripts stood nearby with his own
squadron. He wore nothing but oil and a lion’s head as helmet. Larger and seemingly stronger
than Jaalo even. This red haired, swarthy fellow had the cruelest look upon his face. This was
Jarmo, who we of course know of today as Jarmo the Mustaveri.

At the blow of the horn, the conscripts ran ahead, without discipline or unity. They ran
against the uniform mass of shields and spears. Firing their revolvers randomly into the
shields without effects. Then turning to the spears and plunging their explosive edges
forward. To no real avail, however, as the Risti spears were about twice as long. And their
discipline would not allow their shields to flinch for even a second. Stray bullets would
wound up in Risti heads and soldiers dropped instantly dead. When this occurred, the man
behind simply stepped ahead, no fear visible in his eyes. Their spears went straight through
the charging conscripts. When fighting began in earnest, those surviving of the first strike
switched to revolver and knife. Desperately scratching their ways through the shield wall.
Many succeeded, only to be struck down and then have the gap filled in. This was a tactic of
the Risti; To create small openings to surround the enemy. Strike them down, and then all in
unison, upon command, pushing back the shield wall.

Björn, with courage, had run right towards the spears. Somehow, having had the luck to find
an opening. When in the opening, all spears turned towards him. Each strike missed as his
adrenaline and fear seemed to wave them off. In a war like rhythm, he moved as if dancing.
Frustration increased, more and more soldiers turned towards Björn. In vain striking towards
this man who should be surrounded and guaranteed dead.

At this distraction the two captains saw the weak point emerge in the line. They ran around
on the outskirts of the struggle gathering stray conscripts. Finally sending word for the
cavalry and blue bloods hanging back. They would charge the weak point with everything
they had. They just needed the backup to follow through for complete victory. They saw their
message had been received, and the blue bloods moved ahead. Their forces were large
enough now. They pushed into the gap where Björn still had not died somehow. He bled by
small scratches and burns, but nothing serious. Björn desperately tried to stay alive, so much
that his entire mind went dull. He remembers nothing of this time. However, second hand
accounts from others tell me what happened:

Jaalo took the swing of his massive hammer. It went, not just, through a single shield, but
through several shields. A mass of flesh had stood, which exploded in a gore. Jarmo swung
his battleaxe in a singular swing, attempting to outdo Jaalo. He decapitated and split in half
dozens of bodies. As they say, the cavalry had arrived. Conscripts poured into this new
opening, backed by blue bloods. Each of which were worth tens to hundreds of conscripts in
their prowess. The large united front of the Risti had now been split into two balls. They were
slowly being surrounded by the coalition army. Their backs all against each other with
nowhere to run. Except for small cracks provided by the clever blue bloods. The Risti
soldiers managed to get through the small cracks. By then, having dropped their shields and
weapons to be quicker. They were met with more blue bloods waiting outside. In their
desperation, they had not realized there was no way out. Only the illusion so as to break
morale and ease resistance.

Not a single Risti soldiers was left alive in that battle. Many conscripts died, as they are
meant to. The greater among them were now on the track to becoming blue bloods. As their
ancestors had been. Greatest among these new men were Björn. He was recognized by both
Captains as the key to the decisive victory. Nobody could explain how. This man in shackles
had his story told so many times. Most, even I, I will admit, have heard of this astounding tale
before. I did not know, however, that it was this man in front of me was this hero.

“Third…”

When they returned to basecamp, for a second set of conscripts. Only this last year, the king
Gyllenkrona had died of old age at a hundred and eighty-two. His son Adolf the second now
ascended to the crown at the age of seventy-two. Jaalo was called back. The entire war band,
expecting what would happen, followed him back to the capital. As the new conscripts were
moving towards the capital outskirts, the war band set camp. They waited until nightfall, to
show the walls they were friendly rather than foe. In the morning they would ring the horn to
set out. Until then the blue bloods were eager since they not sported since the battle. Only
having marched for entire days since that to get back.

One man, Appeli, a prince of the Turkki, clapped on Björns back. He suggested a wrestling
tournament. Could the others have committed his acts, or if he was uniquely great? Another
screamed that wrestling would be too restrictive. He said that pankration, mixed martial arts,
would be a more fit contest. Riled up by the idea of this blood sport, nearly every man
entered. So they grilled a feast, poured mead and ale. They all boasted and argued how well
they would fare against each other. Some showing off their new techniques, others simply
sitting in quiet confidence of their skill. Others yet attempting to psyche out and intimidate
each other to win the mental game.

In the first match was Jarmo and for the sake of pride, a no-name. Jarmo would again, go
oiled up and nude, sporting only his lions head. His pride in the lion’s head was easy to see.
He had killed it at the age of nine with his bare hands. He would never fight without it, given
the chance. The man he went up against would bring his fists up to his head. Sporting a
boxing style of defense. Jarmo instead opted to stand completely open. He crouched down
with his hands as far apart as possible. His elbows maintained about a ninety degree angle.
Both waiting for the other to strike, Jarmo then took a giant leap. Leading his opponent to
readying a strike. Jarmo kicked up the dirt from the ground to his eyes. His opponent,
blinded, started wildly flailing haymakers. Shifting back to defensive stances whenever he
could. This was useless, as Jarmo hugged the man and lifted him. He simply squeezed him
unconscious, then he tossed him to the ground.

Several matches went by until Björn had his chance. Every attempt to fight Björn went the
same way throughout the same tournament. It was as if some spirit had awakened within him.
His mind again went dull when the greatest challenges appeared. Each man fighting him
attempted to follow through whenever they noticed no aggression. But in attempting to do so
they always overextended. Allowing Björn for easy hits and tosses, which he turned into
submissions onto the ground.

Jaalo, in the capital while the war band waited outside, of course did not participate. He came
back just in time for the final battle, where Jarmo would fight Björn. Jarmo was respected and
feared as their greatest soldier. The sole living male heir to the Mustaveri. He was expected to
win every single tournament. When one went up against him, it was really a challenge against
yourself. To see how far you could go against him, never expecting to win. This time
however, men were excited to see this new recruit’s mettle. Him having exceeded every
expectation so far by multitudes.

Jaalo sat on a piece of rock watching, he was in a good mood.

“Before this finale commences, I’d like to announce to this whole war band. I will be taking
over Grand Marshall Armas Gyllenkrona’s position. He will be redesignated to the royal
guard in the city instead.I will lead this war band to victory against the Risti.”

He took a breath before standing up:

“You all know why we fight. You all understand that the ancestors wished for more than
anything that we rid this world and ourselves of poisons. That we live simply, despite being
capable of large complex societies, technologies and economies. That we use our strength
and courage rather than deceit and intrigue to explore how far we can get in life. That we
measure this greatness, not by external and material means, but rather by our spirit and the
simple sacrifices for God in even the smallest tasks. The Risti have forsaken all of this…
Johannes the baptist, should rather be called Johannes the rapist, as he has taken from the
tribes around him, their virtue, against their will. He has connived, tricked, deceived and
schemed, while also fighting as a great man on the field of battle. This duality that is present
in Johannes, exists in all of us, for it is in our nature and an unfortunate bias that we must
desire empire, eternity and excess of this carnal world’s desires. His balance has been
disrupted, and we must correct it, for he is such a great man that when his balance was
corrupted, his whole tribe and all neighboring ones to him fell off their balance too. We are
not without flaw, but we have the opportunity right here and right now to correct this flaw at
least. We are duty bound, as always, in all things, to the Ancestors, the prophet and God to do
so.”
He sat down again and his tone changed to a more casual one.

“Now fight this battle well, lick your wounds, take your final drinks of your mead and then
sleep hearty. When morning commences, we will march, we will sport, and we will make
sacrifices at the temple of the Ancestors.”

The cruelest physiognomy in the entire war band rested on the face of Jarmo. He was the
strongest and most skilled man in the army, and everyone knew it, but him more than anyone.
His entire bloodline had been wiped out in the most serious war of Uusi Suomi history since
the war that forced the Ancestors to flee the old world. He was intent on not letting anyone
forget why we once had feared and respected the Mustaveri.

The second the battle begun, Jarmo had leapt at Björn, but as always, he had dodged. Jarmo’s
speed was unnatural for his size, and had been unnatural even for a man half his size, and yet
Björn could not be touched. Neither grapple nor strike reached him, as his passivity stopped
him from taking aggressive action himself. Infuriated by this, Jarmo attempted to first
increase his verocity, but noticed himself overextending and paused.

“Why do you not strike me? Am I not worthy of your dainty hands’ touch?”

“It is not that you are not worthy, it is that you are too worthy an opponent for me ever to lose
humility and attack you with any intent on seizing you victoriously”

Jarmo then went slowly up to Björn, and attempted for nearly half an hour to touch him, with
no avail. Finally Jarmo spat at the ground, went to the side and grabbed his axe and tossed it
at Björns feet. He need not have moved, but he flinched anyways, thinking it was meant for
him. Jarmo went up to the axe and hit hard down with his hand agains the edge to split it in
half. His black blood started pouring for a second but then the veins sealed. Slowly the halves
grew strings of flesh, bone and skin to eachother, piecing itself together in a patchwork.
Without saying a word, Jarmo took his axe up with his now healed hand and went back to his
camp. A most serious look was upon his face.

Björn was treated like a champion and received the nickname Björn the champion. For while
he had not defeated Jarmo, he had just done the impossible, and he had not himself been
defeated by him. The second of the mighty deeds to his name. Only a year after his
conscription, and despite only having served in a single proper battle and always staying back
at camp during skirmishes and raids, he was now the most respected soldier in the war band,
and many knew his name over the land. They knew of ‘Björn the champion’.

This however, is not the zenith. As the sun rises, it must reach its peak. The ascent of Björn
coincided with many things, but his solstice was his alone. For as all of our people know,
long ago, we were very few, only five families. These five families had each a head, and the
head of the families were accordingly known as the Eugenicist of the Mustaveri, the
Diplomat of the Gyllenkrona, The Foreigner of the Singh, The Engineer of the Maissiviski
and finally, the Prophet of the Risti. The ancestral song say that they came to Uusi Suomi
from beyond the stars when the ways of their old homeworld had decayed into empire,
parasitism and unsalvageable degenerate complexity. The great “White Flight” was then
undertaken by our ancestors to settle new lands and let the degeneracy of the old world
implode upon itself, and some day in the future, it is our destiny to return and resettle the
lands. But until then we must remain pure. Many doubt this prophecy, and among those who
doubt it, even still there are those who cynically use it for their own purposes, their own
translations or perspective on it. Johannes of Risti is such a man, and he claims to have
inherited the powers of the Prophet.

Today, the most holy site upon this world is the place where the Ancestors first settled, with
an ancient relic, completely unlike everything we know today, said to house the Ancestral
throne. It is called the Temple of The Prophet. Before each great undertaking, such as that of
stopping an empire from being born, and thus the opening to parasites hidden underneath the
surface to assume their true form, a sacrifice is made to the throne. Thusly the war band
which was confident under its new grand marshal marched to the throne to make this
sacrifice, then bide it’s time waiting for the opportunity and sign from God that the time was
right to finish the Risti once and for all.

The war band did nothing lightly, and so a procession was formed with the war band for a
consecration at the holy site. Blood Ristis still remained the primary caretakers of this site, a
position of great unease among most, but impossible to do anything against, since a
replacement of such holy men was up to God, not men. Jaalo had assumed the bear skull of
the grand marshall now, and was marching in the smoothest fur of the Golden Royal Bear, a
species indirectly bred by controlled hunt to produce the finest and most beautiful fur. A great
exercise of self control and delayed gratification for the generations of hunters which have
engaged in the breeding, and the most profitable of game trades.

His hammer was left behind in the war band’s trail, and having ordered Björn to go check on
it, this is where Björn would meet Kirsikka. Kirsikka is known widely among the blue bloods
as the cleverest girl alive. She is the daughter of the famed inventor and engineer Elmeri, and
brother of the cleverest man alive, who unfortunately is so unstable that no man alive can
enjoy his works, choosing instead to live as a hermit in seclusion. It is said he has taken oath
not to provide his mind until the true Prophet has been revealed, so that he can undertake the
journey to bring our people back to the stars and reconquer our original homeworld. Kirsikka
justly was put to be the primary engineer for the war band, and so when more complex
weaponry and armour was to be improved, mended, created or destroyed, she was the go to.
Björn went to check on her and the two became fast friends.

Reaching the temple, Jaalo was informed by the Risti priests that the monument had been
awakened, and that some of them had engaged in councils to determine whether it was true
what Johannes Risti had claimed, that he in fact had inherited the powers of the Prophet and
his empire was in fact the unification of the world so as to resettle the world of the Ancestors.
Spitting in the snow Jaalo in a disgusted contorted face would quickly catch himself and go
back to a sort neutral and attentive gaze.

“This is a mistake, even if Johannes were the inheritor, we can not purify the Ancestral
homeworld by means of what the Ancestors ran away from. If he sees the future, truly, he
would know this, for it is clear in the song of the Ancestors.”

“Bring your sacrifice to the altar and see for yourself, the Ancestral gates are opening and the
shrine will reveal the relics of legend. Something has changed in the last year, it must have.”

“Johannes has been building his empire for decades, even if only in the light of day and not
covertly for a few years. But then as well he has no been going for only a year, it can not be
the case that he is the Prophet. Stand aside and I will bring my companion party to the altar
and we will sacrifice and pray for answers.”

So the Risti priest stood aside and allowed him to pass. With him he had brought Björn,
Jarmo, Kirsikka and finally two of his Gyllenkrona princely cousins, Ola and Olle. They went
up to the altar carrying a the last year’s worth of wealth and all of Jaalos material possessions
gathered over his life as a prince. Technologies, materials, items of considerable complexity
and cost of creation. They were all put upon the altar and melted down to nothing but the bare
atoms. This was a sacrifice, and Jaalo had not taken it lightly, in effect, he had given the fruits
of his entire life and in an instant it was gone. Björn says that he could see doubt in Jaalo,
followed by frightening regret and worry, but that Jaalo did his best to conceal it and instead
put on a face of content.

“Ancestors, sing your song, and pass your judgement, I wish to ask if it is just to destroy
Johannes the false prophet yet, and what this change of status quo in your temple means.”

A loud mechanical noise echoed as something was activating. The shrine which had its gates
closed since the day the Prophet had died, now opened in front of them, and at the edge of
this doorway small stone like objects appearing carved out as animals stood up.

“Grand Marshal, clearly it has opened because of me, as the last heir of the Mustaveri, the
Ancestors must have foreseen a genocide as the one caused upon my blood by the likes of
your great grandfather and now presents me with the means of restoring my tribe!”

“Stand back, that is an order Jarmo” Jaalo yelled.

But Jarmo had started walking anyways, removing his pants so as to walk naked in only his
lion skin into the shrine, but instead a loud warping noise was produced and Jarmo’s entire
skin was burned off and his body flung back. His black blood started pouring, then slowly his
skin started growing back as steam came up from his body.

This cold winter’s day, in the temple at the top of a mountain, had presented a unique twist of
fate. As the companion party stood and watched as what had happened to Jarmo would
presumably happen to any of them. Jaalo convened with his cousins and Kirsikka and they
concluded what was only so obvious to those who would hear this story now.

“Björn, attempt to enter.”

“That is certain death, my prince?”

“It is uncertain death, and it is sacrifice well worth it.”

“Well worth it perhaps to you who sacrifices nothing, but I have been spared an untimely
death in battle already, if I simply keep going like this I can go home to my daughters!”

“Enter it, Björn”

“I will not.”

“You will.”

Björn looked around him and realized there was no way he could break this order. The
determination on the faces surrounding said only one thing was certain; and it was not the
death of the attempt, but the refusal of the coward to even try. He walked to the point Jarmo
had been singed, and found that nothing happened. Instead a bell began to ring, and the Risti
priests knew what this meant. The whole war band had a suspicion, but they could know that
it was Björn who entered, taking bets that it was either the clever Kirsikka, the noble Jaalo or
the great Jarmo. Björn was a champion, but he was barely a blue blood, having been over six
generations removed from the royal bloodline of the Kysiä.

Björn opened the chest presented within the shrine and found within it a sword stuck into a
piece of stone. He grasped it and pulled it out. An ancient runic inscription started lighting up
on it and it said “The Prophet Reborn, The Earthen Crusade Approach”. In Björns grey eyes,
a blue flame could be seen, as his eyes turned from dead to the brightest blue, almost shining.
The companion part knew what had happened and they all kneeled, even Jarmo albeit
hesitantly.

The Prophet had been reborn.

“Fourth…”

Despite this revelation, it had not been shown that it was the time to destroy the Risti empire
just yet, and so the war band continued relying on skirmish and raid for another two years.
Until today. I am part of the conscription that has occurred by the signs at the temple of the
Ancestors has changed, and Björn sits in front of me as a still a soldier, but with the
responsibilities of a blue blood destined for command, being in charge of bloodying the
recruits.

He respected our awe in becoming aware of his story and trusted us to not be in the cage.
Although we would’ve enjoyed it, we still questioned whether it was wise to break the
ancient ways, despite knowing we would not escape. But Björn simply smiled and put his
hand on his sword sheath.

“The Ancestral ways served us well, and their song is eternally and transcendentally pure and
beautiful. But I serve this army knowing that at any point I could return and help my
daughters instead. Every generation is ancestral to the next, and the Ancestors we sing off
were not the first Ancestors to have songs. I believe we have entered an age of heroes, and
that once the Risti threat is dealt with, we will become the Ancestors of the next a thousand
years.”

He looked back at the stars

“We might as well start thinking of some new traditions where the old ones seemed to have
decayed into something useless”

I hesistantly asked, now having lost my bravado from before.

“Björn? Prophet? Whatever we should call you… Why do you still serve as a mere soldier in
this army? Why do you heed the Royal King or the Grand Marshal, why would you not listen
to the oath you made to your wife and live as you had planned to? Or even conquer Uusi
Suomi for yourself and lead the reconquista?”

Björn put his finger in front of his mouth and gave us the sign to be quiet. He put his hand to
his ear after it was quiet and said:

“Temper your mind and listen. It is not by external absolute values by which greatness is
achieved. In this material world, nothing matters, and in your spiritual experience, everything
matters eternally. The purpose of life is to struggle and sacrifice for the transcendental values,
for God. Sacrifice for God. No matter what, life is as a banquet, and it is your duty in life to
simply take what passes by you at the banquet table, not asking for what is not before you.
You take only from what is given to you, and even then, you restrict yourself as an ascetic for
most of it. Your discipline limits your life then to only very few works, that comes naturally
handed down to you, there is no need to struggle to find purpose, fate shows itself in subtle
variations all the time. If you temper your mind and listen, you can feel the earth moving in
the way that it speaks to you. It tells you that all works are the same, all struggles are the
same. Whether you are a peasant or a king, a farmer or a trader, a warrior or a priest. The
struggle is the same, because the external and material, the appearance of things, they hold no
true place. They are not part of the kingdom of God and you are not of the same substance as
they are. It is only by your experience of the struggle, and in your willing sacrifice to the
transcendental values, to give everything you can in it for God, that is where greatness lies.
True greatness is not measured by the songs and stories of you, by the knowledge that other
mortals have of it, or even by any other material measure such as a net worth or size of land
or quantity or quality of artistic masterpieces. It is only in your struggle, and your self
imposed restrictions, that discipline, which allows you true freedom. True freedom is a world
of infinite opportunities, and it is harmonious with your nature, but it only comes when you
have limited your focus, limited your works, your ambitions, your skills, your desires. By
discipline, you bring true freedom. But foremost this discipline comes back to tempering your
mind and listening to the destiny brought to you. Struggle in the little things that come to you,
and struggle with them for the eternal values. Strive for accuracy, precision, to be honest and
true. To achieve simplicity and clarity and harmony. To make it clean, beautiful and ordered.
No matter how small, don’t worry about appearances or external measures. Simply take on
what is given and you can struggle and sacrifice gloriously for the task that is given to you.
Whether it is to clean the campsite, or to fight at the frontlines, or to manage the packing and
marching for hours and days on end. God affords you the smallest opportunities to prove you
are great as long as you are not tempted to seek the appearance of glory but rather the true
experience of it for yourself and nobody else but God. All large glories are the result of a
million small ones, and their appearance are driven by tail ends of tail ends of probabilities,
but those things matter not. For those who achieve them, focus on not on the tail ends but
rather the constant small works, and those who do not achieve them can still be glorious and
great, even if they lack the appearance of it. But those concerned only with the appearance
are doomed not just to not appear such, but to truly be without it. A tragedy with only one in
the audience to witness it and weep. So listen now to your fate, and suffer dutifully, sacrifice
beautifully and measure your greatness and glory not by the words of your brothers or the
numbers and sensations of the world around you, but instead simply by your ability to have
restricted yourself and sacrificed for the transcendental, to have had faith through the
toughest of temptations and challenges. This life, your experience, is your story and God is
the one who reads it, nobody else will ever truly know it. And by sacrificing to God, you will
live eternally as the great ancestors have. This is why we do not give names to the ancestors,
because we remember stories of men who simply had the appearance of greatness, but we all
understand and know that true glory belongs to all, not just the legendary warrior kings and
heroes, but every single ancestor who restricted themself so as to not fall into temptation of
the weakest aspects of our human nature.”

His passion having been stirred at first, he concluded decisively but calmly while gazing into
our eyes with determination in those shining blue eyes:

“Take only the opportunities that simply come to you, and even then restrict yourself of most
of them. Limit your life to only the smallest tasks and the fewest lines of action, so as to align
yourself with simplicity. Do not worry about ambitions or themes or stories, reject comfort
and simply struggle for the transcendental values constantly in every small thing. Do not
argue with God, just pick up your cross and carry it until the final destination at which point
only God will know what judgement you truly deserve, and you will accept even that ultimate
decision faithfully.”