Painting Ragnar Lothbrok Real Novels & Stories

Looking at the empty space around him, this young man raised his eyebrows and pressed his finger towards the empty space. Countless source auras surged up, quickly forming several paintings, among which endless scenes appeared, it was Tadhg Walter killing the illusory Emperor Grand and Karma Fire Emperor step by step.

Ragnar was standing beside her, staring hungrily at her smooth neck. "Get the fuck away from her, Ragnar!" I roared, rushing toward them right before crushing against an invisible wall, just a few feet away from them. Ragnar burst into laughter. "What's the matter, nephew? Can't you walk a little closer?" he scoffed. I hit the air in front of me with my fist, and it felt hard as if I was trying to punch a stone or metal. "What the fuck did you do, Ragnar?!" He chuckled. "That's one of the witch's toys. I thought it might be useful." He pointed at the green crystal lying on the ground next to his feet. "Don't bother to get through its force. It's impossible."

They sipped from crystal goblets, murmured idle gossip, and smiled with empty eyes. This was not war. It was entertainment. At the far end, above all others, on a high black platform... the throne. Ragnar. He sat like a god carved from darkness. Blood-red silk draped over his broad shoulders. His crown glinted like polished death, a cruel band of jagged obsidian and bone. The throne itself was a grotesque monument, fashioned from twisted iron and broken swords, fragments of shields, and bones bleached white with time. He didn’t speak.

Every legend has its hidden face and every myth is polished by the language of the poets who tell it. Ragnar Lodbrok's epic is therefore no exception. Contrary to what is known from the story of the illustrious and legendary king and warrior; Ragnar Lodbrok did not come into the world with the common physical characteristics of the Vikings whom we know as strong, tall and combative. He was born a hunchback: the bitter fruit of a second trick and a challenge that Loki gave to Hoder, the "blind god" of Asgard.

" He said, walking away from there and Mira slowly followed him towards the center of the room. There she could see the wall a t the end had the biggest painting ever. All she saw was smoke, ash everywhere in that painting. There were people everywhere, no wolves anymore. People crying." "This was both Ragnor's and my lands for years. The war went on, that is when my father killed Dorus, right in front of Ragnar. His father's blood everywhere. And there everything disappeared, that day the hell that we create, it started growing wherever we went." He explained, and to her this wasn't shocking, it was just pain. "Where was your mother in all of this?" She asked.

She chuckled, turning her head at me. “Promise me you won’t sell this, Red,” she laughed. I shook my head, my shoulders shaking as I laughed with her. “I will keep this. You didn’t tell me you have this kind of talent, but you got my lips wrong.” I raised my hand, my index finger pointing at the curve of the lips of her stick man drawing. Aya glanced at me and then nodded. “Paint again, Red,” she murmured. “I can’t. Since Scarlett died, I felt like I could not paint anymore,” I muttered sadly, glancing at the last piece I made, Scarlett and our twins.

Livia's POV: She dismissed me and I immediately dashed towards the direction of the kitchen to prepare Alpha Xandros' lunch but I saw something that brought my feet to a sudden halt. A wall of paintings… painting of about seven different men each possessing red eyes and the symbol of lightning bolts on the left side of their chest that seems to illuminate light. “Who could they be?” The last painting caught my attention and all I could see was a striking resemblance between him and the man from the training ground.

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”

KING RAGNAR LOTHBROK and his crew were away for nearly six months when they returned, bearing news of their triumphant raid. The people of Kattegat sang their praises, welcoming their beloved warriors back to town with jubilant cheers. Sophie stood beside Helen and the other slaves, a little away from the boisterous crowd, observing the Lothbrok family's reunion. Rollo's absence was notable, considering he was renowned as one of the best warriors. She watched the famous priest, Athelstan, whom she had yet to meet, warmly greet Queen Aslaug and Ivar, a display of affection that made Sophie wonder if she would ever hold them in such high regard.

He stood there staring at me, I swear he licked his lips but I shook it off as he finally turned to open the door. "Nice. Guess I can bring everything considering it's empty." "Oh yeah, I used this for my art, like painting and whatnot so no furniture besides that" I pointed to the comfy chair in the corner that used to be next to a small bookshelf I had there. "Didn't get a chance to move that yet, sorry." Just then I heard the door open and close down stairs. "Frey? Who is here?" "I am Mr. Lothbrok, my mom said it should be fine for me to come bring a few things that fit in my truck tonight."