Yngvar Yngolsson

Backstory
Aboard a trading vessel sailing the Nortwest Sea bringing ice-mead to the far Fair-Dust Isle, the skald sang a song. It was a sad song from the singer, fair-haired and sky-eyed was he, Yngvar Son of Yngol. Of home he sang, telling the sad tale of his family's fall and the triumph of the Weeping Lady, the nemissary of The Lover Clad in Tears. The worst part of the story, that tore at the voice that sang it, was that it wasn't the evil witch that tore the tribe apart.

It was the tribe itself. Torn asunder by the berserker rage they'd stoked and forged in their hearts. Friend became foe and before long, all were dead. Except the one that now sang the song. He'd been found and nurtured by a neighboring tribe, thought to be a liar until the empty hamlet was found.

Tears teetered but didn't fall as the singer sang on, this time a tale of tender mercies and the kindness of strangers. Strangers who without fail met their fates. Some with honor, some with bravery, some with great reluctance. But they died and their deaths were worth telling so he continued...

...right until the pirates attacked.

Battle began, with quarter neither asked nor given as steel rang with steel and men screamed and died or lingered with limbs askew or broken or missing.

And then the sun above hid its face. The firmament shone in this false dusk and as the coppery crown glared in return, so too did the ambiance of Yngvar Silvertongue. Both captains had killed one another, their feud settled the customary way these things are ended and both ships foundered, tethered to one another in their death throes.

And the singer who had until recently been singing, then fighting for his life, stood battered and bruised and bloodied and raised his voice, asking the remaining men who fought, “Why are you here? To die...?” and on from there. To the accompaniment of the sighs and creaks of lumber cracked and torn and about to become a shipwreck, he sang.

This time he sang of the hope that life brings. Where there was life, there was possibility but death...death was nearer at hand. He didn't rally his side to the cause of victory. Rather, he exhorted above all the merits of survival.

And both crews, just moments before dedicated to the eradication of their enemies, threw down their arms and saw to the ships, their only salvation on the deep sea. For a night and a day they toiled and were rewarded by the gods not with fair weather and a strong tailwind but instead a gale.

Later, the Northron skald Yngvar awoke with naught but his tattered clothes and the memories of songs and stories to his name. He began to help those he could as they fed him and clothed him and finally, had him perform from time to time. The folk were common and though kind, they were poor. At least most were.

Others, though. Others tried to make him earn his way with a sword. And invariably, he fled. But not from the danger, though that was part of it. He fled because he told the tales of that great eclipse. He fled because he wanted them to know what he was.

But that was the tale he told last, the punch-line to the joke no one found funny. So first, he wanted to hear their stories, of course. He wanted to drink much and share more of whatever was locally imbibed where he was. He wanted to frolic with the fairest maidens and the most robust youths as he boasted and toasted and cheered and jeered. He shouted war-chants, told sagas, crooned ballads and recited epic poetry in turn. Some he'd been told, some he'd lived and some he'd stolen.

And always the last, was the tale of the Chosen of the Unconquered Son. His tale. The tale of Yngvar Silvertongue of the Snow Boar Tribe.

Credits et all
Image taken from: character screenshot from Skyrim by "JS"