The Immortal Gazette: Egil Skallagrimsson | The Viking Who Defied Kings and Death Itself
The storytelling studio of the Immortal Gazette was alive with the scent of burning mead and the crackle of distant thunder. Loki lounged against a gilded column, swirling a goblet lazily in his hand. Alice sat cross-legged atop the table, boots knocking against the wood. Rumplestiltskin sharpened a dagger, his grin growing sharper with each stroke.
“This one’s a tale of blood and defiance,” Alice mused, flipping open a heavy tome. “Of a man so fierce even the gods took notice.”
Loki smirked. “Oh, Egil Skallagrimsson. I always did admire that miserable, terrifying bastard.”
Rumplestiltskin chuckled. “A warrior. A sorcerer. And one hell of a poet. Go on, let’s hear it.”
The Making of a Warrior-Poet
Egil was born into the house of Skallagrim, a family of warriors known for their tempers and their talent with a blade. By the age of three, he had already killed a boy in a fit of rage. By seven, he composed his first poem—a biting, venomous thing that could cut as sharply as his father’s axe.
But it wasn’t just strength that ran in his blood.
The Skallagrim line carried the gift of seiðr—the old magic of the Norse, a power feared and revered in equal measure. Some whispered that Odin himself had marked Egil, that his words carried a power beyond mortal understanding.
By the time he reached manhood, Egil was more than a warrior. He was a berserker—one of those rare warriors who, when the battle-fury took them, became unstoppable forces of destruction. His eyes would darken, his breath would quicken, and in that frenzied state, he would slaughter everything in his path.
And slaughter he did.
The Wrath of Kings
Egil’s legend truly began when he crossed paths with King Erik Bloodaxe—one of the most brutal and feared rulers of the Viking world. The two hated each other with a passion that could set ships aflame.
Alice smirked. “You see, Egil had a habit of insulting people he didn’t like.”
Loki snorted. “And he didn’t like anyone.”
Rumplestiltskin chuckled. “Especially kings.”
After one particularly bloody feud, King Erik had had enough. He captured Egil, threw him into a dungeon, and sentenced him to death.
Most men would have prayed.
Most men would have begged.
But Egil?
He wrote a poem.
Not just any poem. A drápur—a poem so powerful, so laced with old magic, that when he spoke it aloud, the air itself seemed to shudder. He wove words like spells, turning his own death sentence into something so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, that even Erik Bloodaxe, his mortal enemy, was forced to spare him.
Loki whistled. “Imagine hating someone so much that they poem their way out of your grasp.”
Alice laughed. “That’s Egil for you.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “And he wasn’t done yet.”
The Battle That Broke the World
Years later, with his legend already carved in blood and ink, Egil led his warriors into battle once more—this time against overwhelming odds. The sky churned black with storm clouds. The waves roared against the shores. And in the heart of battle, Egil called upon Odin himself.
He raised his sword and sang.
His voice thundered across the battlefield, weaving power into every word. He called upon the Old Gods, the spirits of his ancestors, and the unbreakable fury of the berserker rage.
What happened next became the stuff of myth.
Some say the sky itself split open, that Odin sent a raven-winged storm to shield him. Others swear Egil became the storm, his body moving like a force of nature, cutting through enemies like they were nothing but mist.
All that is known is that he walked away, undefeated.
Even when old age crept upon him, Egil never bent to time. He wrote, he fought, he defied. And when he finally left this world, his legend remained—etched in sagas, whispered in storms, and feared by those who knew his name.
The Legend Lives On
Alice closed the book with a snap. “So, what have we learned?”
Loki smirked. “That poetry can save your life.”
Rumplestiltskin grinned. “And that some men are so full of rage, not even death can take them without a fight.”
Alice raised a brow. “Would you have fought beside him?”
Loki chuckled. “Oh, absolutely. Just not against him.”
And so, dear mortals, if ever you find yourself lost in a storm, listen closely.
If the wind howls like a song half-remembered, if the sky cracks with something more than thunder…
Perhaps Egil Skallagrimsson still walks among us.
🖋️✨📜🖤
