Rotagoll and Story Creation
Hello everyone!
Here I wanted to share a bit of what I go through when I have a new story idea. I’ve included a bunch of my notes that show what I do when I’ve discovered a new story idea that I want to explore. This is for Rotagoll, a viking woman! I’ve got a big love for the lore around vikings, Norse mythology, etc. I think it’s fun.
Anyway, onto the scribbles of notes!
NOTE: All pieces below are subject to change. They are also all rough drafts and should not be considered finished pieces.
Taavi; Nefja; Rikvi; Gǫll (means “noise” / “battle” and is the name of a valkyrie)
Rotagǫll Rakvisun
Combination of Róta (to stir, tear) and Goll (noise, battle)
Guttural cries of fanfare rose up around the pit of fire. Bearish men and women stomped their feet, clanked their axes and swords together, and cried out in deep howls from the depths of their chest cavities. The warrior, Rotagoll, pushed her way through the crowd of norse warriors, at least a head taller than the largest among them. She was stripped down to her bare clothes, a simple tan tunic and tanned animal leather pants. She hadn’t stopped growing after the injury to her eye. Each morning, she woke an inch taller, and the skin on the left side of her face itched terribly.
The grunts and huffs of song from her fellows resonated in her bones as she came to the pit of fire and knelt down, her knees pressing against the cold, hardened winter earth. The warmth from the flames filled her flesh with a burning hunger. She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
“Rotagoll Rakvisun,” spoke the Sayer, who crunched across the thawing earth to stand in front of her. “It has become clear to us that you are not human.”
Rotagoll let her tongue roll over the fangs on the left side of her mouth. Where once were normal molars, now were canine’s teeth. She knew she wasn’t human the moment she woke up a week ago and saw herself in the mirror. Saw her eye in the mirror.
“You are something out of this world. We cannot dream to imagine what you might be, but the gods have blessed us with your skills for an age. Your valor in battle has proven you might just yet push the English back.” He shifted in front of her, and Rot opened her eyes to peer at him. He held in his hands a bowl of black ink. The man smiled, his blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Today, we mark you as a warrior true.”
Rot closed her eyes again and held her breath. The ebony ink splattered across her eyes, smearing over the unnatural fur that sprouted from the scar over her left eye. The ink drooled down her cheeks, down her jawline, and dripped onto her knees. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Rotagoll, daughter of Rakvia, rise. You go to battle this day.”
There was nothing like the delicious sound of battle. Rotagoll felt it stir her soul as she swung her axe, the blade digging into the neck of an Englishman heathen, gore splattering the sky and staining the steel and even brighter shade of red. She kicked the man away and waded further into the skirmish, finding opponent after opponent lacking in the skills to slay her. The leather handle of her two-handed axe dug into her calloused palms as she slashed through man and woman. Crimson stained her fur cloak, dirtied the soles of her boots, lent flavor to the tip of her tongue.
Over head, two ravens soared past and her fellow norsemen noticed and raised their voices in a cheer. A chill ran across her flesh.
Odin is with us.
Arrows were loosed from the heathen Englishmen, raining down across the battlefield. Rotagoll grabbed a shield from the hands of a deadman, lifted it and blocked the arrows that arched towards her. Some of her fellows fell to the tip of arrows, collapsing into the piles of bodies around them. Their souls would be carried to gods. She only hoped she could die so honorably.
Grasping her axe with one hand, she lunged forward, down the ravine. The Norse had to climb the other hill to reach the English commander, but only a quick glance showed the English were unprepared for the screaming, howling soldiers they faced. Odin was with them indeed.
The bloodbath did not last long. Rot used her shield to smash the faces of those who got in her way, shouting and whooping after each kill. Her blue eyes gleamed beneath the smear of ash and blood that coated the area around them. Rotagoll surged up the opposite side with her brothers and sisters as the commanders on horses turned tail to run. Rot dropped her shield, tossed her axed into her opposite hand, and snatched up a dagger from a fallen heathen. She studied the weight of the dagger while she ran, then planted her feet, and launched it through the air.
The dagger smashed into the hind leg of one of the commander’s horses, toppling the animal and pinning the man beneath it. Her sisters saw this and did the same, while her brothers sprinted ahead to slay those who dare bring filth to their land. Rot ran with them and came upon her prey. The Englishman squirmed beneath his horse, wheezing from crushed ribs. Blood stained his lips. His thick armor had done him little good.
The man’s terrified gaze lifted to hers, with wrinkles creasing the edge of his eyes. His pale skin was light, like hers, but around his neck was a cross. Around his neck was the reason he was here, attempting to slaughter her people, attempting to get them to abandon all they had known. Invaders.
Rot raised her axe with a sneer, intent on cleaving his head in two. But then there was an englishman soldier, sprinting at her with a dagger. She twisted her stance to face him and swung. Her axe crushed the armor around his middle and cut through into his organs. The man spat blood as he sliced his dagger down.
The blade cut a diagonal line across her left eye, slicing the iris in two, spilling blood and juices across her cheek. Rot howled and kicked the englishman away, before she turned and cleaved the head of the commander. Her vision blurred and she pressed one hand to it, cursing. She had hoped to make it through without serious wounds, but at least now all will know she fought valiantly.
Gore seeped from her left eye, liquid oozing through her fingers and blood staining her cheek. The top of her tunic was stained with her blood and that of the Englishmen. Rotagoll sat in the tent of their healer, who smashed herbs in a bowl and muttered whispered prayers. The battle was won. Live or die, she was honorable.
“Take your hand off your eye, Rakvisun,” the healer said. Rot lowered her hand, and the man knelt in front of her. Freckles dotted his skin and his crimson hair was knit into tight braids pressed against his skull. He peered at her wound, frowned, and pressed the paste he made against it. Rotagoll scowled, but refused to move. She would not show weakness. The healer wrapped her head in a tight, woven section of fabric and tied it off to keep the paste against the open gash across her eye and the diagonal slice that led to and from it. He leaned back and shook his head.
“Do not get sick,” he said. “And clean it with water in the morning.”
“Thank you,
—–
—–
Wuulfsun
Chapter 1
The raid was set to take place during the darkest hour of the night. Sea water splashed against the boat, staining her furs with stiff salt, flavoring her lips with its touch. Overhead, ravens called, their shadows crossing the crescent moon above. Torchlight gleamed on the shore as the unaware guards patrolled the streets. Their homes were of little concern to her, though. No, her dark gaze shifted to the monastery situated above it all, gleaming with stained glass windows, burning with golden brands of their god’s symbol: the cross.
A smirk crossed her lips. Let’s see whose gods are stronger.
The longboat came onto the beaches, sliding across the sand. She gripped the side of her boat and threw herself onto land. Her hand grasped her axe as she looked back at her brothers and sisters in arms. All of them were dressed similarly to her: pelts of slain animals pulled over their shoulders, ranging from bears, to wolves, and even to dozens upon dozens of birds. Armor was woven together with silver and copper coins into a leather stomach brace, protecting them from glancing blades. A few of them had spaulders, but she hated how they made her feel. All she wore was a earthen tunic, the pelt of a wolf that hung down her left side, woven stomach armor, and numerous pouches to store the loot waiting to be taken.
Silent as the gliding ravens overhead, she and her family went viking. Creeping across the crunching sand went without a single flaw, their forces of forty strong managing to keep their mouths shut and their footsteps gentle. When they reached the end of the beach and climbed into the city, they all dispersed. The homes were made of wood, worn from the sea’s winds. Several had cracks, allowing the interior’s light to spill out from fireplaces and cooking stoves. She kept her body low to the ground as she avoided the most well-lit homes. Once they reached the monastery, all they needed to do was grab what they could and sprint back to the boats. It didn’t matter who saw them then. It would be too late.
Grass shifted against her leather shoes, pressed into the moist dirt beneath her toes. She paused beside a home, where she could hear a guard moving down the street just to her right. She pressed against the side of the wood, clutching her axe. She could hear the sound of children talking in the home against her shoulder. Good for them to speak. Their voices would cover the slaughter.
As the guard stepped forward, his torchlight illuminating her pale features, she jerked up and cleaved her axe into his neck. He gasped, the sound swallowed by the gurgling blood pooling up his throat. Crimson tendrils spilled down his black beard, onto the leather armor strapped across his chest. He dropped to his knees and she pulled the weapon from his flesh. She glanced down the alley to see a sibling doing the same to a second guard. The two shared a nod and continued on their way.
The hike up the hill to the monastery was brief, surpassed with long legs and quick, even strides. Ravens landed on the golden cross that sat at its peak. The stonework held wear, but even then, it seemed as if it were cleaned frequently. The grass was kept low, and no ivy or moss grew on the side of the building. Stained glass windows reflected stories of the Christian god. She wondered what god would leave such stores of goods in a single house without defense. She reached the double wood doors. She grasped the iron handles and, with a grin, she threw them open.
Gasps rang through the prayer chamber, and monks looked up from their studies by torchlight. Wearing mud colored cloth, the three in the room stood up from the pews as her siblings rushed in, grasping at the golden treasures laid in the open, waiting to be plundered.
“What are you doing?” cried a monk, rushing to stop one of her brothers. “Stop!”
Her brother pulled at a dagger and stabbed it into the monk’s stomach without hesitation. Gasping, the man staggered away, grasping the weapon in his gut. One of the other monks rushed to him, pulled him away, while a third looked at the scene in panic.
“Don’t fight,” she said, stalking closer. She loomed over him in both height and bulk, and the axe at her side dripped blood onto the stone floor. “We can see you have no training.”
The man’s pale skin grew more white. He swallowed hard. He spilled out words in a language she knew only a handful of from the trading her people did with those a little more north. She caught the word lord and right. She shook her head and tried again in his tongue:
“Fight,” she said. She jabbed one finger into his chest. “Die.”
Shaking, the man continued to stand tall. The monk who was bleeding called for him, and he glanced over at the two, before looking back at her. “Name,” he breathed. “What….name?”
She couldn’t catch the middle of his sentence, but beaming, she spread her arms wide. A large grin crossed her face. “Rotagoll Rakvisun.” Then, in her native tongue: “Thank you for your patronage.”
Chapter 2
Upon the eve of the first snow, the Christians declared war. Rotagoll heard the news over her morning meal, perched in her hut with a bowl of hot stew for her, and a smaller bowl of less hot stew for the cat that followed her everywhere. A knock came at her door and, without waiting for an answer, a woman came in. She was a few inches shorter than Rot, and perhaps a little less bulky, but her blonde-white hair was impressive enough. Today, it was woven into a tight braid that fell on her back, the tunic she wore currently covered by the fur of a dark brown bear pelt.
“Rakvisun, I didn’t think you’d still be eating,” she said, entering the home and striding over to the hearth, where she peered at the stew.
“If you didn’t think I’d be here, why did you enter?” Rot asked, taking a spoonful of her breakfast into her mouth.
“I was hoping you’d have left me some,” the woman said with a flash of a smile. Tattoos lined the woman’s neck, just below her jawline, before vanishing beneath her clothing. The dark marks provided her with protection and good fortune. Perhaps too good, as Rot found herself always feeding the beggar.
“You have more than enough from the others you pester,” Rot said. “Get away from there.”
“In truth, I thought you’d be out gathering your weapons,” she said. “I thought you’d be the first to join the war.”
Rot frowned. “Out with it,” she growled. “If you come here to tell me something, then say it.”
“I’m too hungry to think of it,” the woman sighed. She sat in one of Rot’s stools near the fire. “Maybe some food would wake me up a bit.”
Rot groaned and rubbed her eyes. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Eat.”
With a grin, the woman fetched herself a bowl and filled it with Rot’s food. The cat at Rot’s feet meowed, and Rot leaned over to scratch the scraggly beast’s head. His fur was matted grey and white, thick enough to keep him plenty warm during the winter months.
“The Christians declared war,” the woman said around a mouthful. She glanced at Rot. “They attacked our siblings to the South.”
Rot stiffened. “Do we know how many survived?”
“Most survived,” she replied. “But the attack wasn’t expected. There were casualties. The Christians are camped outside the city, waiting to strike again. We’re looking to lend our southern family aid.”
Rot looked down at her meal, then quickly downed the burning food and swallowed hard. She set her bowl down and stood. “Right,” she breathed, steam spilling from her lips. “Are you coming, Tyrsun?”
The woman smirked. “Are we so formal now that we can’t use each other’s names?”
“You used my mother’s,” Rot said, stepping around the cat and heading to the front door. “I’ll see you on the water.”
Tyrsun nodded. “I’ll douse your hearth.”
Rot grabbed her wolf pelt, her girdle, and her axe. She dressed herself for war and stepped into the early morning snow.
As you can see, I run through a few different names, do a little research, and then write a few different starting scenes for the character and her story. These scenes help me get a feel for the story’s overall mood and atmosphere, along with a rough idea about the main character and how I’d like the arc to go. Often times, these scenes don’t get used in a final piece!
That’s all for now! I’ve not hashed out much else for her story yet, as I switched back to writing for the third book in the Viridis Series. But stay tuned! I plan on doing more with Rot.