The Lost Saga of Brikk the Unbold
On the island of Starkk lived Grimm Gorm Brain. He inherited a farm at the foot of Vrack, a volcano with a red cone and slopes of black slag. His fields never truly thawed from the snow and ice and profound cold of winter. A few rows of cauliflowers, turnips, carrots and potatoes was all he could grow, so he lived mostly on fish from the sea and nearby lakes and moose meat. When his chin grew a beard, he wedded Bertha White Wolf. She gave birth to Brikk the Unbold. This is his saga, while men still listen to tales. It was evening in the farmhouse. There was a knock at the door. Bertha opened it and saw a man standing there. It was Brikk.
“Mother, why did you call me the Unbold? I do not behave unbrave. Tales are not told about men who are unbold,” said Brikk.
“That’s why I named you the Unbold, so no one will remember you. No one will remember me. Why should anyone remember you?” said Bertha.
“What if I bring victory in battle or slay a dragon or a troll hag?” said Brikk.
“No one will take you seriously if you did, not with your name,” said Bertha.
“All my life you have been older than me, so I accept your wisdom,” said Brikk.
Deserving to be called Mute Tongue, he said no more. The moon shone above the cone of the volcano as he trudged home to the hut he shared with his wife, Annhild.
There was a man called Surt Hot Head but this is not his saga.
“Yes, it is. This is my saga,” bawled Surt, berserk in his bear coat, and hit his shield so hard he broke a bone in his knuckle. Do and say what he would, this is still not his saga.
Meanwhile, Bertha sat at table, eating moose broth with her husband, Grimm Gorm Brain.