Having already said his goodbyes to his wife and unborn child, Vetrúlfr and his men cast forth from the harbor of Ullrsfjörðr, armed and ready to seize the islands of Færeyjar.
Fáfnirsfangr slipped into the waves like a dragon returning to its primordial sea.
Had it been a Christened vessel, it might have borne the name Leviathan for the way it glided with effortless menace across the deep. But this was no Christian ship.
The ochre vegvísir stood proudly upon earthen-black sails, while the bronze draconic motifs on the prow shimmered beneath the hard sun like the fangs of a slumbering wyrm.
Two dozen knǫrr flanked its sides; each fearsome in its own right, but dwarfed by the dreki that led them.
For a land like Færeyjar, Vetrúlfr did not need to summon the full might of Ísland. Merely his own fleet and those loyal jarls who had pledged their oaths beneath the banner of the White Wolf.
