Bad North: Jotunn Edition News

"It's grim up north," it's said in the UK - often sardonically by northerners. They don't know the half of it. We're north of north now, where the hills are high and craggy - a reflection of the people that live between them, constantly bracing for outside intrusion. The pines are tall and spiky, just like the pikes we've fashioned from their branches. I'm grateful for these natural defences against the oncoming assault. We stand on the beaches, sharp sticks pointed outwards, ready to poke the invaders back into the cold seas. Or failing that, make enough holes in them that they stop climbing.

Discordant horns jeer from the horizon, or at least where the horizon ought to be - the fog is so thick that we can hear our enemy before we see them. Black-clad and white-helmed, reminiscent of Spirited Away's No Face, the marauders crash against the shore like waves. I can see my tiny soldiers fidgeting in their ranks, buckling under the onslaught of Viking bodies. But they don't break, this time. Our beautiful yet cruel land, once a pristine Scandinavian white, is now coated in the blood of outsiders.

This is home, but we cannot stay. The force we've seen off is simply the vanguard - the army that follows is large enough to envelop any defense we could muster. So we press on, sailing from island to island, turning our weapons outward each time, picking up new comrades to replace those who've disappeared beneath the Viking waves. It's grim, but that's the north.

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