The Viking Red Beard and his warriors

On a cold night covered by fog, the last red beard of the northern kingdom, plunged me into the journey with a horizon of a new conquest, only nine warriors, who embrace the death of a sure glory, two wolves who don't care in the seas of dreams, I only implore my god of thunder, to fill me with wisdom, in these seas without glories. It is the contrast between the simplicity of that journey of a path towards ruin of all awareness of the unknown, it was like a division of the kingdom, to which greed is not distinguished.

I cannot wish that the sin had not been committed, the fruit of the triumph of this trip being so beautiful, I only think just to see in this mist that invades us, where I have only wanted an estimate, no matter how much a raven looks like or a rascal that came to the world with another kingdom, my closest warrior whom I called the white wolf, showed me the purpose in the most discreet of my soul, where our firm intention is to shake from our ancients, being a path that will lead us drag to a death without any weight. Like my warriors, we have a space of freedom in one where you can be valued only in battle, honor is the most I loved being a warrior from the north and with my ax, forged with the metal of the gods, I will be the dragon of the wrath of my opponents, so my grave is at sea as my peace with flames of frankness.

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