Painting Ragnar Lothbrok Real Novels & Stories

The walls were made of compressed glacial ice, so clear that you could see the frozen corpses of Ragnar’s enemies trapped within the layers like prehistoric insects. At the far end of the hall, sitting on a throne carved from a single, gargantuan sapphire, was Ragnar the Eternal. He didn't look like the other Frost-Wolves. He was thin, almost skeletal, and his skin was covered in frost-runes that pulsed with a rhythmic, azure light. Resting on a pedestal of bone beside him was the Frozen Heart. It was a jagged, fist-sized crystal that didn't just radiate cold; it seemed to suck the very concept of warmth out of the universe.

My home burned behind us, but my spirit refused to break. Three figures stood out among the crew, their presence commanding the very air around them. Jarl Ragnar Bloodaxe, the leader, was a giant of a man with braided blond hair, a beard woven with silver rings, and eyes the color of storm-tossed seas. His muscular frame, covered in furs and leather, bore the scars of countless battles. Beside him stood his brother, Thorsten the Stormcaller, leaner but no less imposing, with wild red hair and tattoos of ravens covering his arms—marks of his connection to the gods. And then there was young Bjorn Ironfist, the jarl’s closest shield-brother, with sharp features, dark hair, and a body honed like

Viktor shrugged. My brows twitched, I drew in a deep breath to calm myself then turned away. My eyes caught sight of something that stole my attention, and I wasn't able to look away. It was a large painting on one side where wolves were, and on the other were people. They seemed to be at war then, and between them stood a man dressed in red. The painting was very graphic with a lot of gore. It was telling a story which intrigued me. Viktor's gaze lingered on me before it moved to the painting. "That was the first great war," Viktor mentioned.

“Is that… the Raven Wolf King?” “Yes.” Grimm, who had followed me, answers. He leans on the wall next to the tapestry and looks up at it. “This is my favorite, to be honest.” I study the picture. A man with long black hair flowing to his waist and piercing black eyes stands in dark armor, a wolf insignia emblazoned on his chest. Behind him, lightning splits furious clouds while ravens wheel through the storm. One perched firmly on his shoulder. He looks imposing, shadowed, and dark.

They made it halfway across the living area when the front door slammed open, banging against the wall. Ragnar stood in the entryway, his mouth red with blood, and she wondered if Leidolf, the loner red, had tangled with the demon. He was dressed in denims and a sweatshirt that were as black as his mood. His black hair hung loosely at his shoulders, and he looked as if he’d fallen out of bed in a hurry and hadn’t had his first cup of coffee yet. But the demonic look in Ragnar’s black eyes had nothing to do with missing a mug of caffeine. His unfulfilled lust for Diana showed in every angry line creasing his stern face.

But Luca was pinned by two rogues, unable to intercept. Raven lunged, but she was too far, mud slowing her down. “Ragnar!” she roared, voice tearing from her wolf’s throat. He didn’t run. Lightning cracked across the sky as the rogue leapt, claws out, jaws open, and Ragnar swung the branch with a roar of his own, catching the rogue in the ribs and driving it back. The rogue clawed at Ragnar’s shoulder, blood spraying, but Ragnar held on, shoving forward, eyes blazing with fury.

I asked. "It doesn't feel great. But it's worth the art," Ragnar admitted. That was something beautiful I hadn't expected to hear from him. It was a simple thought, but it left an impact that I couldn't deny. "I need to show you something," I blurted. "When you're done." Ragnar nodded, not looking up from where he was filling in the last of what looked like the snarling head of a wolf. Finally, he set the pen aside and looked at me.

"Look." I followed the timeline. The earliest paintings showed Theron's execution, the flames rendered in stark red and orange. Then Mirren, a small figure carrying stones to build a cairn. The Gray Reach rising in the mountains. Generations of Moon-Wolves hiding, running, surviving. The Frostborn's ice fortress. A battlefield soaked in blood.

It is too fun not to mess with him. "I know, I know, I am sorry," I laugh out, continuing. "It started around the time I first got here. I was wondering about the castle, when I came across a painting of Fafnir in dragon form,” I begin to explain. "Why did they have a painting of him?" Soren asks. "It was by mere coincidence, you see; Gregory is a collector of art," I say, thinking back to the beautiful painting of my brother, and the way his eyes glowed with life.

As I stood there, gazing at the enormous painting hung on the white wall, I was transfixed by the sight before me. The painting was of Ryan in a stunning medieval outfit, complete with a doublet and hose, his hair long and flowing down his back. He stood tall and proud, gazing out with a confident expression on his face. Behind him, was an mountainous backdrop that looked ancient as well. It stretched out, with rolling hills and misty mountains in the distance. The colors were rich and vibrant, with deep blues and greens that seem to come alive under the soft light.