Foreword:

The reason this writing has been posted in this length is that I had to connect it in real-time from when it starts to my current player in modern-day. When I initially spoke with the grading team, I expected my player to appear around chapter five, and in fact, we don’t reach him until chapter ten. All the players I create have stories. It was and still mostly is the reason why I participate in SIM leagues. The inspiration for my current player, Savva Kirik, came from the start of the Russia/Ukraine war. From the thought of what it would be like to be a Russian person, growing up in a world of communism and thrust into a war that you may or may not believe in.

Graders – I do not expect this to be paid out immediately and understand the length of time it will take to review it. There are 5 chapters in each act, if each chapter took a minimum of one week for review, both acts could be graded in 10 weeks. I’m in no hurry to be paid and I wouldn’t mind if it they were pinned or saved so they could be read by anyone who might want to read them (over time).




Nestled along the rugged coast of Sweden, surrounded by rolling hills and crowned by the embrace of an ancient forest, lies the heart of Öregrund. A village known for a tranquil isolation and filled with wooden dwellings, weathered by time's gentle caress. Narrow pathways meander through the village, weaving a tapestry of rustic charm, and at its heart, a communal hall stands. It is there, amidst the glow of hearth and home where most of the villagers gather, bound by ties of kinship and a fear that carries among them. A winter storm of mythical proportions has descended upon their settlement, and the people and their livelihood are locked in with the might of the Baltic Sea. As twilight settles, a cloak envelops the village, and the atmosphere crackles with latent energy. The air is heavy with the tang of salt and brine, and foreboding clouds begin to gather overhead- obscuring the stars from the eyes below. The wind howls like a hungry beast, and tears through the walls of their wooden homes with ferocious abandon.

A prince stands on a cliffside that thrusts defiantly over the roiling sea. Rurik the Valiant, his name uttered in hushed tones by those who know of his exploits, strides through the world like a colossus of antiquity. Clad in armor that bears the scars of battle, Rurik moves with the grace of a warrior who has stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. His piercing blue eyes, glimmer with the fire of unwavering resolve- and behind him, his stalwart of warriors gathers, their shape a silhouette against the crashing waves below. From their perch, they witness the onslaught of the tempest, beholding the ocean as it churns and froths below. Lightning rips the heavens apart, illuminating the bleak landscape with a jagged brilliance and although encircled by destruction, there persists a spirit of defiance in these Norsemen. For Rurik and his comrades, they stand firm and unafraid against the might of the sea. They stand united, in the promise of a new dawn. "Brothers and sisters in arms, gather around!" Rurik's voice reverberates over the waves below, cutting through the wind. Anticipation trickles through the air as his warriors form a circle around him. "Tonight, we stand on the edge of the world, under the eye of Odin, the Allfather, the Raven God, the Wanderer of the Skies! Our goal is clear. We shall take the village of Uppsala, seize the Hall of the Gods, and claim it as Odin's rightful heir!"

Rurik and his warriors set about preparing the sacrificial altar. Torvald the Strong, his muscles bulging beneath his weathered skin, maneuvers massive stones into position, while Sigrid the Swift moves among them with the grace of a hunting falcon.

"Behold, the call of the Gods, it is anger that they unleash upon us!" Rurik's words are carried away by the wind, but their resonance pierces his warriors. They cast their gaze over the tumultuous sea and as the sacrificial boar is brought forth, its snarls mirror the untamed spirit of the storm itself. Rurik raises his voice once more, issuing a challenge to the sky above. "In the name of our ancestors, we offer unto Odin a sacrifice worthy of his favor, a tribute of blood and steel!" and with that a single, decisive stroke, brings an end to the boar's life, its blood mingling with the salty spray of the sea. "Now, my warriors, follow my lead! Each of you, in turn, shall offer your own sacrifice, your own pledge of loyalty and courage!"

One by one, Rurik's warriors step forward, their offerings a symbol of their devotion. Eirik the Bold presents his sword, while Torvald lays his shield on the altar, its surface also marked by the scars of battle.

"And as the smoke rises from the sacrificial pyre, as the scent of blood fills the air, let us raise our voices in a cry that will be heard across the land and sea!" With voices raised in unison, Rurik and his warriors call out to Odin, their words carried away by the wind, swallowed by the sea.

"Hail Odin, Allfather!”
“Grant us strength!”
“Make us fearless!”
“Hail!”
“Hail!”
“Hail!"

A sudden hush descends upon them. The crashing waves, once fierce and untamed, seem to bow in adoration, and the howling winds soften to a mere whisper. Suspense hangs heavy in the air, as if the very elements themselves await with bated breath. Then, as if commanded by some unseen force, the sky above bursts into a swirling vortex of dark clouds, illuminated by flashes of lightning that weave like serpents in the sky. Thunder booms through the air like the heartbeat of creation as a sense of primal awe washes over the warriors. In the clouds, a spectral figure materializes- a lone rider atop a mighty horse, clad in armor that shines with a heavenly light. Behind him stretches a vast of spectral warriors, their forms unmistakably powerful, their eyes burning with an otherworldly fire. Rurik's heart quickens as he beholds the apparition before him- the Wild Hunt, a legendary march said to be led by Odin himself. It is a sight that strikes fear into hearts and inspires splendor in equal measure, a symbol of doom for some and a harbinger of good for others. Rurik stares the spectral army, but he feels not fear, and instead admiration and wonder. For he understands that the appearance of the Wild Hunt is no mere coincidence- it is a sign, an omen of Odin's favor, a blessing of their quest to seize the Hall of the Gods in his name.

With a triumphant cry, Rurik raises his sword high above his head, his voice hovering over the havoc of the gale. "Hail Odin, Allfather! We are honored by you and blessed by your favor! We shall ride forth into battle, fearless and undaunted! For we are the chosen warriors of the North, destined for glory!" And as the spectral procession fades back into the mists of the squall, Rurik and his warriors feel a sense of purpose coursing through their veins. For they know that they ride with the gods at their side, their spirits guided by the promise that their path is paved with greatness.


Beneath a brooding sky, Rurik and his warriors embark toward Uppsala, braving the waters of the Baltic Sea. Their ships, honed through generations of craftsmanship, cut through the waves with unsettling elegance, their timbers groaning against the pounding of the waves. The wind lashes at their skin, threatening to capsize the boats with every gust, and below the surface, the darkness of the sea churns with secrets- ancient creatures, denizens of the abyss, lurking in the shadows, poised to ensnare unsuspecting men and drag them into their watery domain. In the thick of the thunder and blinding flashes of lightning, Rurik and his comrades seek refuge in their faith, their faces filled with a strength that pulls at their hearts. The storm seems unending, with towering waves that rise like behemoths to swallow them whole. But they are fueled by the Wild Hunt, and so they press onward, knowing that the fate of Uppsala- and their own- hang precariously in the balance. As they draw near to their prize, the tempest reaches its climax, and the heavens unleash a torrent that batters their decks like a relentless onslaught.

Rurik stands firm at the helm, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon and his hands steady. He understands that their journey is far from over, that the true test of their mettle awaits. Despite the upheaval raging around them, Rurik, and his comrade’s row onward, their spirits unbroken by the elements. For they are no longer view themselves as mere mortals, but warriors of the North, descendants of Odin, and nothing- no matter how ferocious- will deter them from their quest.


Under the shroud of night, Rurik and his warriors advance towards Uppsala, their every exhale a fleeting chill. Uppsala lies in slumber, blissfully ignorant of their approach to the edge of the city. Rurik is the first to speak, "Tonight, we inscribe our name in the Hall of the Gods," his voice holds weight as he stirs his warriors. With a silent nod, they disperse seamlessly into the darkness, each movement a whisper in the night.

A solitary guard atop the ramparts senses their approach, his urgent cry slices through the silence, “RAAAAAID-!!!”

His life is ended by a well-placed arrow.

Pandemonium ensues as Rurik's warriors clash with the Uppsala defenders, the symphony of steel and blood echoing through the stillness. Eirik the Bold, dances through the fray with lethal grace, his blade a beacon of vengeance. "For Odin!" his battle cry pierces the night, boosting his brethren until tragedy unfolds- a fatal spear finding its mark, bringing him to his knees, and a crimson offering upon the altar of war.

As he witnesses the fall of his comrade, Rurik watches a vision of beauty unfold in front of him- a Valkyrie, glorious in her descent, carries Eirik's valiant spirit toward the Hall of the Gods. Emboldened by this intervention, Rurik surges forward, his blade carving through the ranks of his adversaries with precision.

In the center of the battle, Rurik confronts the leader of Uppsala. The enigmatic chief, Egil Ironheart. A figure who moves with silent grace, dressed in armor wrought from the very essence of the earth. The ground beneath Egil’s feet seems to tremble, and as their swords meet with a thunderous clash, Rurik lunges to strike his foe, while Egil, withstands the attack. Rurik and Egil circle each other like wolves, their eyes locked in a deadly dance of calculation. With each passing moment, the tension mounts, and then, Egil sees his opening- he launches himself forward, his sword moving through the air with the speed of a striking cobra. But Rurik is not so easily beaten, and with a twist of his wrist, he parries the blow, and sinks his blade deep into the heart of his opponent. In that moment, Rurik and Egil remained locked in an embrace, and as Egil dies Rurik stays with him… until Egil too is carried away to the Hall of the Gods.


In the splendor of the Hall of the Gods Rurik sits upon his throne, his gaze ensnared by the flickering flames of a hearth's embrace. His comrades, fill the hall with merriment, and their voices intertwine in song and laughter. The aroma of roasted meat and spiced ale curls those present into a cocoon of indulgence, that of which is rudely interrupted when, suddenly- the door to the hall bursts open. A cold wind fills the hall from the darkness of outside, and the emergence of a tired traveler disrupts the jovial ambiance. The man is a messenger and is almost instantly viewed as a herald of grave tidings. "My lord Rurik!" he calls out, "I bring news from the land of Novgorod."

"Novgorod?" Rurik's curiosity is piqued as the unfamiliar syllables rolling off his tongue like an incantation, "What news do you bring?"

"Trouble, my lord," he declares. "The people are besieged and yearn for a leader- a noble ruler to shepherd them through these dark times."

Rurik's thoughts fill with the weight of responsibility, Novgorod, a land teeming with promise and peril, beckons him- a siren's call to the summit of greatness. The heady allure of ambition, an insidious whisper questioning whether this path was ordained by Odin’s decree or merely the machinations of chance. Lifting his eyes heavenward, Rurik beseeches Odin for counsel, invoking the wisdom of his God, the Allfather. In that sacred moment of communion, a solitary raven descends from the vaulted rafters, its ebony plumage a sign of divine guidance. Rurik turns his attention to the messenger. "Inform the people of Novgorod that their cry has reached my ears," he declares with conviction. "I shall heed their call."




As the moon begins its ascent into the star-studded sky, it casts a glow over the ancient city of Novgorod. Nestled in the bends of the Volkhov River, Novgorod exudes timelessness, its cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footfalls and wagon wheels. The skyline is dominated by the imposing spires of Pagan temples, their onion-shaped domes shining in the moonlight like polished silver. Each bell tower is a symbol of the faith to the people, and their intricate carvings and colorful drawings tell stories of gods and miracles of old. As midnight approaches, the markets and narrow alleyways of Novgorod begin to empty, their vibrant energy yielding to a hushed stillness. Torches illuminate the walls of the medieval buildings, and wooden shutters creak softly in the breeze, their paint faded and peeling from years of exposure to the elements.

The air is filled with the scent of wood smoke and spices, carried on the cool wind that sweeps in from the nearby forests. Above, the stars shine like diamonds scattered across a black canvas, their brilliance mirrored in the dark water of the Volkhov River below. The sound of distant laughter drifts through the night, mingling with the haunting strains of a lute. The grandeur of the Kremlin looms large, its towering walls and fortified towers standing as proof of Novgorod's strength. Guards patrol the ramparts, their torches casting shadows on the ancient stones. Within the Kremlin's lies another marketplace, where merchants from far and wide gather to trade their wares. Once midnight arrives, the city's ancient bells toll in unison, their calls heard through the night like a heartbeat. The streets are momentarily illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns, casting long shadows that dance in time with the ancient rhythms of the city. In this moment, as the clock strikes twelve, Novgorod feels alive, a place where the past and present converge in sights, sounds, and sensations. For those fortunate enough to experience it, the city's beauty is nothing short of magical, a glimpse into a world where history and legend intertwine to create something truly extraordinary.

Prince Aleksandr, the great grandson of Rurik, exits the Kremlin and intermixes with the crowd in the street. His long, dark hair flows freely in the wind, framing a face that holds the marks of wisdom. He looks remarkably like his great grandfather, with the differences of intermixed bloodlines present only in his figure. Prince Aleksandr walks openly in the streets of his city without worry or cause for harm. The legacy of Rurik has remained strong since his great grandfather’s death, and his family has been beloved in the years since.

"Good evening, my Prince," a friend appears from the crowd. He is a warrior who has served alongside Aleksandr for many years and a man of formidable stature and strength. His attire is practical yet distinguished, chainmail armor adorned with intricate patterns and symbols of his allegiance. "A fine night for conquest, is it not?" his friend asks with a sly grin.

Aleksandr nods approvingly, "Indeed,” Aleksandr returns the smile before adding, “But let us hope that peace will prevail for one more night."

“May I join you?” his knows that the prince is on his way to the temple for prayer.

“Please,” Aleksandr motions for his friend to walk alongside him.

The two continue forward before they are stopped by a local healer, a woman. She approaches them cautiously but without fear. The prince and his warrior are familiar with the local and have heard of her gentle touch for she is said to possess the power to mend even the most grievous of wounds. "Your Highness," the healer speaks, "I come bearing a gift, and a blessing for your journey." Intrigued, Prince Aleksandr pauses, and with a graceful gesture from him, the healer unfurls the cloth, revealing the object nestled within. It is a small amulet, fashioned from amber and encased in a delicate silver setting. The amber gleams like liquid sunshine, casting a warm, golden glow upon the prince's face. "This amulet," the healer explains, her eyes alight with intensity, "has the energies of the earth itself. It will grant protection to those who carry it."

She offers it to the prince and with a nod, the prince accepts his gift, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the amber with admiration. "Thank you," his voice is steady, "I will carry this with me to the altar." Aleksandr tucks the amulet into his cloak and resumes his journey towards the sacred altar.

His friend smirks as he keeps pace alongside the prince, “What is it like my lord?” he asks, “To receive such gifts from our people.”

Aleksandr doesn’t answer quickly, he ponders the question, "I am honored,” his mind stays with the thought, “and now Odin must be too."

They reach the front of the temple, their footsteps clanking against the cobblestone street. As they enter the hallowed halls, a sense of honor washes over them, filling their hearts with a sense of respect. At the altar, they find Father Orlov, the high priest of Novgorod, deep in prayer. His face wears the marks of devotion, "Welcome, my children," he says, "The gods smile upon us on this day, for we are blessed with the presence of Prince Aleksandr himself."

Aleksandr bows his head respectfully. "Gothi, we come to offer our prayers and sacrifices to Odin, in hopes of gaining his favor in the days to come."

The priest nods, gesturing for them to approach the altar. "Then let us begin. May our offerings be pleasing to the gods, and may Odin grant us support in the trial that lies ahead."

Prince Aleksandr kneels before the sacred altar, and bows to the god Odin. The air is thick with the scent of burning herbs, their fragrant smoke swirling around him like a cloak of ancient magic. Shadows dance across the walls, as if the very spirits of the ancestors are watching over him. "Odin, Allfather, hear my plea," Aleksandr calls out, "Grant me the strength and wisdom to lead my people, to defend them in times of strife and to guide them towards prosperity." As he speaks, Aleksandr reaches out to the offerings laid before the altar, his fingers trembling. The goblets seemed to shimmer in response to his touch, their surfaces reflecting the flames of the hearth. It is as if the spirits themselves are acknowledging his presence, bestowing their blessings upon him. "Grant me the courage to face my enemies," he continues, his voice strong with conviction. "To stand firm and uphold the honor of my ancestors."

Outside, the wind howls like a wild beast, its primal cry calling out in the night. But within the confines of the sacred chamber, Aleksandr feels a sense of calm descend upon him, a feeling of being cradled in the embrace of the divine.

"Guide me, Allfather, as I navigate the waters abroad," Aleksandr prays, his words a plea. "Grant me the insight to discern friend from foe, and the ability to vanquish those who seek to do us harm." As his prayer reaches its crescendo, Aleksandr feels a shift in the air, a ripple of energy that seems to pulse through the room. It is as if Odin himself is answering his call, his presence looming large. With a final call to his Allfather, Aleksandr rises from his knees, his spirit uplifted by the knowledge that Odin is with him, guiding his every step. And as he steps out into the darkness of the night, he holds the strength of a true believer, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Emboldened by the mystical presence of Odin, the Allfather that has graced his sacred prayer.


Prince Aleksandr of Novgorod stands at the front of his army, his eyes fixed across the battlefield at the opposing forces of the Holmgard warriors. Among them is Jarl Ragnar, a seasoned veteran, and a formidable foe. Aleksandr surveys the enemy encampment, his eyes sweeping over the rows of shielded men, their weapons shining in the morning light. He knows that victory will not come easily, but he is undeterred. Beside him stands his friend and warrior, his gaze mirroring the prince's. "Today, we make our own history!" Aleksandr declares, his voice ringing out across the battlefield. "We fight for our homeland, our people, and for the honor of our gods. Today, we prove that Novgorod will not to be challenged!"

The warriors of Novgorod raise their weapons high, their cheers heard across the field. They are ready to face whatever lies ahead, their hearts filled with the fire of Odin's blessing. As Aleksandr points his blade toward the sky and cries out to Odin the battle begins. The two forces converge and suddenly the air is filled with the cries of the victorious and wounded. Jarl Ragnar rallies his troops, his voice calling over the mess of battle as he directs movements with precision. He is a great leader, his strategic prowess evident in every maneuver.

But Prince Aleksandr is equally skilled, his swordsmanship unmatched as he cuts through the enemies with ease. He fights with the ferocity of a wolf, his blows raining down on his foes like thunderbolts from the heavens. His men fight at the prince's side, their strength a match for any opponent. Together, they carve a path through the enemy lines, their comrades following in their wake. With each swing of their swords, they inch closer to victory. The warriors of Novgorod press their advantage, their relentless assault driving the enemy forces back with each passing moment. But Jarl Ragnar does not yield, and his warriors fight with desperation. They rally around their leader, their shields forming a wall against the onslaught of Novgorod's finest. The combatants are locked in destruction. Aleksandr and Ragnar face off in the heart of the melee, "You fight well, Prince," Jarl Ragnar grunts, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "But victory is mine."

Aleksandr grits his teeth, his muscles straining with exertion.

With a roar, the two warriors renew their attack, their swords clash with a fury that borders on madness. Each blow is met with equal force, as the warriors of Novgorod redouble their efforts, their faces unyielding in the face of exhaustion. At last, Ragnar’s forces begin to falter. Their ranks thinning with each passing swing, they become no match for the relentless assault of Aleksandr’s forces. With a final cry, Jarl Ragnar calls for retreat, his men scattering in disarray. Prince Aleksandr pursues them relentlessly, their blades slicing down any who dare to stand in their way. 

“Stand and face me, Jarl, or die a coward!

Hearing the cry of Prince Aleksandr, Jarl Ragnar stops his horse, and dismounts. Witnessing the Jarl turn back toward him, Aleksandr follows suit and dismounts, drawing his sword. The two men are given the space to approach each other and as they do, both sides of battlefield fall silent. The eyes of the warriors present watch their leaders face off in what will inevitably decide the victors of the battle. “Ready to die in front of your men?” the Jarl asks him as he draws his sword, a blade similar in almost every way to Aleksandr’s.

“Odin watches over me,” Aleksandr tells the Jarl as he feels the amber amulet resting against his chest begin to warm, “Now and forever!” Aleksandr strikes first, and is so fast that the Jarl narrowly counters, causing a gasp to be heard from the crowd. The two leaders engage in a breathtaking display of swordsmanship, their blades movement is fueled by years of training. Sparks fly as steel meets steel, and as the duel intensifies, their swords blur in a flurry of strikes and parries.

With a swift maneuver, Aleksandr disarms the Jarl, forcing the confrontation into hand-to-hand combat. They grapple fiercely, muscles straining against the weight of their armor as they exchange powerful blows. Each punch and kick radiate through their bodies, yet neither man shows any sign of faltering. Aleksandr gains the upper hand, overpowering the Jarl with a relentless onslaught of jabs and uppercuts. In a desperate bid, Ragnar attempts to break free, but Aleksandr seizes the opportunity to deliver a calculated move, and he immobilizes Ragnar and locks him in a suffocating hold, cutting off his air supply.

As the Jarl gasps for breath, he witnesses a spectral image of Odin materializes over top and behind Aleksandr, his presence casting a divine aura over the fight. The Jarl holds eye contact with the god as Aleksandr subdues him and suffocates him to death. Realizing that the deed is done, Prince Aleksandr stands up victorious, his triumph marked by the intervention of Odin himself. As his warriors gather around him to celebrate their victory, Prince Aleksandr looks to the sky and offers his thanks to the god for his protection. For it is by his grace that they are victorious, his faith in the raven is now stronger than ever before. Tonight, they will feast in their triumph, emboldened by the mystical presence of Odin, the Allfather that has graced their sacred prayer.




In Kiev, the capital of the Rus' lands, Vladimir the Great holds court. Towering and robust, with golden hair and piercing blue eyes that mirror the fiery passion within, Vladimir rules the lands with an iron fist. Beside him stands his heir, Yaroslav, a mirror image of his father in stature and strength. Though fierce on the battlefield, Yaroslav bears a gentler demeanor, his mind ever curious and his heart open. Opposite to them is Oleg, Vladimir's trusted general, a man of few words but fiercely loyal. Under Vladimir's rule, the land continues to prosper, their riches expanding with the spoils of conquest. Vladimir watches the sprawling city below. The streets teem with life- merchants selling their wares, children playing in the squares, and soldiers marching with purpose. Despite the vibrant daily life, a darkness lingers within his heart.

From a young age, he has been steeped in the stories of his ancestors, tales of mighty men and fearsome gods. Odin, the Allfather, is their guiding light, or so he is told. Odin is the only source of their strength and power- or so it has been said. Vladmir cannot count the number of times in his life he has been told that Rurik was chosen by Odin to lead their people to greatness, and Vladimir’s bloodline has been blessed with divine favor because of it. But as he grows older, doubt gnaws at him like an itch. Vladimir has never felt the presence of Odin, never witnessed a vision, or heard a whisper… certainly not in the way that has been spoken by his forefathers. Was it so easy to convince his father the same weave of tales? It is a question he cannot ask, for long has his father been dead, and left him without the proper guidance to pass even unto his own son. How can he be sure that he is destined to rule by divine right? What if it all has been a convenient tale spun by forefathers to justify their family’s rule?

He remembers the tales his grandmother told him, of battles fought and won in Odin's name, of sacrifices made to appease the gods. But as he stands here, overlooking the city, he cannot shake the feeling of emptiness that claws at him from within. "Is it true?" he looks to the sky, as if expecting an answer from the heavens above. "Am I truly blessed by you, Allfather?" No answer comes, and instead all that can be heard are the sounds of the city below. Vladimir looks down from the sky and away, frustrated and longing for sense of certainty, of reassurance that his faith is not misplaced. But try as he might, he finds no comfort in the empty sky above him, and as the sunlight fades, Vladimir makes a silent vow to seek the truth, no matter where it leads him. For if faith is to be the cornerstone of his rule, it must be built upon a foundation of certainty, not doubt.

Christianity, a foreign religion has been spoken of in hushed tones and spreading like a wildfire among his people. The words of Christ bring messages of forgiveness and are captivating hearts and minds alike. Initially, Vladimir was dismissive of these whispers as nothing but the ramblings of fools and dreamers. But he questions now if he has been wrong about his beliefs all along, and that he’s been stuck as a person raised in the roots of strong traditions. His devotion to Odin and the Norse gods is supposed to run deep, but as the days turn to weeks and the weeks to months, Vladimir finds himself haunted by visions of a man on a cross… his voice speaking to him… telling him of eternal life.

Caught between the old ways and the new, Vladimir grapples with a decision to abandon the gods. Is it a betrayal to follow one’s heart, and to destroy a legacy? What if risking it all means the wrath of the gods who are responsible for his very being? The allure of Christianity offers a promise of unity, stability, and the chance to forge alliances with neighboring lands.

Days pass in Kiev and as his doubt grows louder, Vladimir seeks peace in the quiet moments. Each night, he dreams of Odin, a presence both menacing and comforting. In his dreams, Vladimir stands before the Allfather, his doubt heavy upon his shoulders. "Am I forsaking my heritage?" he asks Odin.

Odin's response is enigmatic, a cryptic riddle, "To embrace what is new, you must honor what is old," he intones, his voice like thunder rolling across the heavens. "The path you walk is fraught with peril. Tread carefully."

Awakening from these nocturnal encounters, Vladimir finds himself more conflicted than ever. The words of the Allfather linger in his mind, their meaning elusive. What does he mean by embracing the new? Does that mean that embracing Christianity would honor the traditions of his forefathers, or is it a betrayal of everything his family has stood for? Vladimir grapples with these questions, seeking counsel from those he trusts most. Olga, his beloved wife, offers words of wisdom and comfort, her gentle presence a beacon of light in the darkness of his doubt. "Follow your heart, my lord," she urges, her voice soft but firm. "The gods have guided us this far, and perhaps it is Odin that is guiding you toward Christ."

Their son Yaroslav is the voice of reason, and approaches his father with a measured perspective, "Change is inevitable, Father," he says, his tone respectful, "We cannot cling to the past at the expense of the future. If Christianity offers us a chance for prosperity, it is worth considering."

Even Oleg, the stalwart general whose loyalty to Odin is unwavering, offers a begrudging acknowledgment of the shifting tides. "Times are changing, my lord," he grumbles, "We must not ignore what lives among the people."

But despite the counsel of those around him, Vladimir remains torn. The weight of his decision hangs heavy upon him, a burden too great to bear alone. With each passing day, the doubt grows louder, and as the twilight descends, he finds himself no closer to the answers he seeks.

Then suddenly, it begins innocuously with unrest among the common folk. Rumors continue to spread through the streets of Kiev, tales of miracles about the son of God, a priest who healed the sick and has brought eternal life to all who follow him. This time, Vladimir does not dismiss these stories, and as the fervor spreads, he no longer ignores the undeniable truth before him. The people are flocking to this new faith, and so must he. Intrigued yet wary, Vladimir sets out to witness these miracles for himself. He finds himself standing in a throng of believers, and watches as the crowd hangs upon every word of a humble priest reciting the words of Christ himself. And then, it happens.

A young girl, afflicted with a crippling illness since birth, is brought forward, her body wracked with pain. With trembling hands, the Christian priest lays his hands upon her, uttering words of prayer, and in an instant, the girl's affliction is lifted, her limbs straightening, and her eyes shining with newfound vitality. In that moment, Vladimir's world is turned upside down. The doubts that had plagued him for so long are swept away in awe and wonder. Could it be that this new faith holds the key to true power, the power to heal and to bring hope to the hopeless? Driven by a newfound sense of purpose, Vladimir makes a fateful decision. He embraces Christianity wholeheartedly, casting aside the old ways in favor of this new and miraculous path. But in his zeal to embrace the light, he becomes blinded to the consequences of his actions.

Much to the horror of some, Vladimir embarks on a campaign to stamp out the old faith with ruthless efficiency. Pagan temples are burned to the ground, their sacred relics and artifacts consigned to the flames. Books are burned, their pages turned to ash as centuries of history are wiped away in a single stroke. Vladimir looks upon the smoldering ruins of his ancestors' legacy, and a seed of doubt begins to take root within him. Has he truly embraced the light, or has he merely traded one form of tyranny for another? In his zeal to embrace the new faith, has he become the very thing he sought to destroy? But as he surveys the wreckage of his people's history, he cannot help but wonder if the line between good and evil has become irreversibly blurred.

Despite Vladimir's efforts to impose his will upon the land, discontent lingers in the air. Some see his conversion as an act of betrayal of the gods who have watched over them. Others view it as a necessary sacrifice, a means to secure their future in an ever-changing world. In the days that follow, the people are plunged into turmoil. Riots erupt in the streets, fueled by resentment. But Vladimir continues imposing his newfound religion, sweeping away paganism with an intensity unmatched by any before him. Churches spring up like mushrooms after the rain, their spires reaching towards the heavens as if to grasp the divine. Priests, clad in robes of white, walk the streets, spreading the gospel of Christ to all who will listen.

As the days unfold, Vladimir's new faith intensifies. He becomes determined to ensure that Christianity supplants the old pagan ways completely, sparing no effort to eradicate any trace of the past from his land. With each temple burned to the ground and each sacred idol reduced to rubble, Vladimir believes he is paving the way for a brighter future, one free from the shackles of superstition and fear. Some of his people, so long steeped in the traditions of their ancestors, are slow to embrace this new and unfamiliar belief. Some cling stubbornly to the old ways, refusing to abandon the gods who have watched over them for generations. Others, disillusioned by Vladimir's ruthlessness, begin to question whether the promises of Christianity are worth the price of their heritage.


In the heart of Kiev, a crowd gathers at the center of the square, for a platform that has been erected. Its rough-hewn timbers are stained with the blood of those who have dared to defy the will of Vladimir the Great. A procession emerges from the cathedral, led by a group of priests clad in robes of purest white. Behind them, a line of prisoners shuffles forward, their hands bound tightly with rope. Among them, a young woman stands defiant, her fiery red hair cascading down her back. Her name is Katerina, and she is a priestess of the old ways, a keeper of the ancient rituals that have sustained her people for generations. As she is led up onto the platform, the crowd falls still, broken only by the sound of their heavy footsteps on the cobblestones.

High above, Vladimir watches from a distance, his face a mask of cold indifference as he prepares to witness the execution of those who have dared to defy his will.

A priest steps forward, "People of Kiev!" he cries, "Today, we bear witness to the triumph of the one true faith over the darkness of paganism. These heretics have chosen to cling to the old ways, to reject the light of Christ and embrace the past. But their time has come to an end." With a wave of his hand, the priest signals to the executioner, who steps forward with a large axe held high.

Katerina looks up and toward Vladimir, her eyes speaking volumes of the love that burns within her hearts. "May the gods forgive you," Katerina speaks directly to Vladimir, her voice is cut off by the roar of the crowd.

With a single stroke, the axe falls, cleaving through the air with a sickening thud. The crowd erupts into cheers, their voices mingling with the cries of the condemned as their lifeblood spills out onto the platform below. As the cries fill the air, Vladimir turns away, his heart heavy with a sense of unease. In his quest to impose his will upon the land, he has unleashed forces beyond his control, stirring up a hornet's nest of rebellion that threatens to tear his kingdom apart. Discontent ripples through the crowd, growing louder with each passing moment. Some view the public display of brutality as a necessary means of asserting Vladimir's authority, while others recoil in horror at the sight of their fellow countrymen being put to death for their beliefs.

Among the crowd is a young man, his features twisted in anguish as he watches the scene unfold before him. He had once been a supporter of Vladimir's campaign to stamp out the old ways, but now, as he bears witness to the brutality of the executions, he feels a sense of unease gnaw at his soul. Beside him, his wife, clutches his arm tightly, her eyes filled with tears of grief. "How can this be happening?" she asks him, her voice trembling with emotion. "How can we do nothing?" The young man clenches his jaw as he struggles to find the words to comfort his wife. He had once believed wholeheartedly in Vladimir's vision of a united Rus', free from the shackles of paganism and superstition. But now, as he looks upon the blood-stained platform before him, and he finds himself questioning everything he once held dear.

Vladimir watches from a distance and with a heavy sigh he turns away from the scene before him, knowing that there is no easy solution. He had hoped that by embracing the new faith, he could bring about a brighter future for his people. But now, as he witnesses the division and bloodshed that his actions have caused, he cannot help but wonder if he has made a grave mistake.



As the sun sets over the vast Russian landscape, we bear witness to a nation torn apart by change. The conversion to Christianity, once thought to bring unity and enlightenment, instead sows seeds of hatred that now threaten to engulf the entire country. In the aftermath of Vladimir's decree to embrace Christianity, the Russian people find themselves divided along lines of faith. While some flock to the new following, seeing it as a path to salvation and prosperity, others cling fiercely to their old beliefs, viewing the Christian faith as a threat to their way of life and ancestral traditions. The rift between the followers of the Orthodox Church and those who remain faithful to the old pagan gods deepens with each passing day, tearing at the Russian society. Families are divided, villages split, and ancient alliances shattered as each side seeks to assert its dominance over the other. Talks of rebellion begin to move through the land. Those who feel marginalized and oppressed by the growing influence of Christianity rally behind leaders who promise to restore the old ways and cast off the Orthodox Church. It is a civil war, a religious war, and one that has pitted brother against brother and torn apart communities that have coexisted for generations.

It is then that the Mongols descend upon the fractured people. Taking advantage of Russia's weakened state, the Mongol horde sweeps across the countryside with merciless efficiency, leaving scorched Earth in their wake. Exploiting the internal strife of the Russians, the Mongols' onslaught is swift and devastating. Riding with unmatched skill and coordination, the horde leaves villages burned to the ground, fields laid to waste, and countless lives lost as they carve a path across the countryside. But the invasion is not merely a military conquest; it is an opportunity for expansion, driven by the relentless pursuit of power. Mounted on horses and armed with deadly precision, the Mongol warriors are as brutal as they are effective, employing siege and psychological warfare, and sheer military might to subdue resistance and assert their dominance. For the Mongols, it is about supremacy, and with each victory, they solidify their grip on the territories, imposing their will and extracting tribute to fuel their insatiable thirst.

In the grand halls of Kiev's palace, Prince Ivan Rurikov stands at the head of his war council. Tall and imposing, Ivan is every inch the warrior prince that his forefathers were, and his eyes match their piercing shade of blue. "We cannot withstand the horde alone," Ivan's voice is deep and gruff, cutting through the silence of the council, "We must seek allies if we are to have any hope of survival." Ivan's eyes are fixed on the maps spread out before him, their intricate lines and symbols a reflection of the alliances and rivalries that define the current landscape of Kiev Rus. "But who?" Ivan wonders aloud, his frustration evident in his tone. "We are divided." His gaze settles on the names of the different leaders scattered across the region, each with their own spheres of influence and ambitions. One name that stands out is the Prince of Galicia-Volhynia, known for his military prowess and diplomatic cunning. Galicia-Volhynia has long harbored ambitions of expanding his territory and consolidating power in the region. Perhaps, Ivan thinks, he could be persuaded to set aside his own goals temporarily and join forces against their common enemy. Another potential ally lies in Prince Chernigov, a seasoned warrior with a deep sense of loyalty to the land of Kiev Rus. Despite their differences in the past, Ivan believes that the prince could be convinced to put aside old grievances in the face of a greater threat. Then there is the Prince of Smolensk, a strategist known for being pragmatic and resourceful. If anyone can find a way to rally the desperate people of Kiev Rus, it could be him. But even as Ivan considers these options, doubt lingers in his mind. Would these leaders be willing to put aside their own feelings for the greater good? Could they overcome centuries of distrust to stand united against the Mongols? With each day, the horde draws closer, their advance relentless. The time for action is now, and Ivan will need to muster all his diplomatic skill in the days to come if there are to have any chance for survival.

Unbeknownst to Ivan, the Mongol forces have already marshalled their strength on the outskirts of the city. At the head of the horde rides Batu Khan, a figure with a cruel smile, "We will crush them," Batu’s voice is low, "Their walls will not be able to withstand us. Prepare our warriors for battle."

Odin, the Allfather, watches from the realm of Asgard. His one good eye glimpses the plight of his people, the last remnants of the old pagan ways. But Odin is powerless in this struggle, for the faith of the Russians has shifted, and with it his influence has waned. He cannot intervene for his hands are tied by the lack of belief in the ancient gods, leaving him only to helplessly observe. The rise of a killing moon sets the stage for a clash of empires as darkness washes over the palace grounds. The horde bristles before given the signal, and once it is shown to them - they charge forward, their war cries mingling with the thunder of hooves. They surge towards the defenses of Kiev, their banners bearing the fearsome insignia of Genghis Khan. Unprepared for a nighttime attack, the Russians are ill-equipped and scattered, but it isn’t long before the alarm is raised, and the soldiers of Kiev rise to their feet. The two armies collide, and the air becomes electric with adrenaline driving each moment forward.

From the palace, Prince Ivan runs to the balcony to survey the enemy lines. "They’re here!" He declares as he turns back toward the council, “They’re already here!”

Meanwhile, down at the gates of the palace a Russian commander calls out to his men, "Hold your ground!" his voice commands, "Fight together as one!"

On the opposite side of the gate, a young Mongol warrior spurs his horse forward, "For Khan!" he shouts as he pulls back on his bow and fires an arrow into the heart of a Russian warrior holding fort atop the ramparts. "For glory!" The young warrior calls out as he watches his victim plummet to the ground below.

Next to him Batu Khan approaches, "Stay disciplined," his tone is authoritative, "Remember the Khan's teachings!"

The Russians attempt a charge against the Mongol flank but are pushed back. A Russian soldier at the front lines cries out before he cuts through enemies like a scythe through wheat, "For Kiev Rus!" he screams as Mongol arrows rain down on him like a deadly hailstorm, and in an instant, he is dead. Like a colony of ants, the two sides shift back and forth before the tide begins to turn against Prince Ivan's men, and exhausted and outnumbered, they are unable to stop the Mongols from overcoming the city walls.

Prince Ivan watches in horror as the horde fills his streets, and in a attempt to rally his men he yells down at them from his balcony, "Hold fast, comrades!" he shouts in a desperate bid to garner inspiration but despite their will, the Russians are pushed further back, their lines crumbling under the assault of the horde. Wave after wave of mounted warriors crash against the walls within Kiev, their arrows blotting out the starlight above. The streets run red with the blood of its people, and as the last of the city's defenses crumble, Kiev has fallen.

Prince Ivan Rurikov, his heart heavy with defeat, realizes there is no hope in further resistance. He knows that fleeing is his only hope for survival. "We must escape!" he commands his council, his voice strained with urgency. "Quickly!" His councillors scramble to obey, and with panic mounting, the group of men spring into action. Desperation fuels their movements as they frantically search for a route to take, their eyes darting around the ornate chambers for any sign of salvation. Ivan is well-versed in the palace's layout and knows of a hidden passageway that runs beneath the palace grounds. "There is a way out through the tunnels," he suggests, "This way!" Trusting in the Prince, his remaining loyalists follow suit, and they hurry through the dimly lit corridors.

The sound of approaching footsteps sends fear coursing through the group. They press themselves against the cold stone walls, their hearts pounding in their chests. A band of Mongol warriors emerges from the darkness, and they fan out in search of their prey. Ivan and his council hold their breath, praying they remain unseen, but luck is not on their side, and before they can slip away unnoticed, a Mongol warrior spots them. “STOP!” He yells in his own language, and while the Russians do not understand the word, they understand the meaning. Ivan and his companions are quickly overwhelmed and captured. Their fate lies now in the hands of their captors, and as they are dragged away into the depths of the palace, they can only wonder what awaits them.

Thrown into the dark, dank dungeon, Ivan and his council find themselves chained like animals, their wrists bound tightly with heavy iron shackles. The stench of sweat hangs heavy in the air as they are shoved into cramped cells, barely large enough to stand in. By all accounts of what they’ve heard, their capture by the Mongols means a grim fate. Prisoners typically endure brutal interrogations, and it is likely that the days ahead will be filled with torture.

As Ivan's eyes adjust to the dim light of the dungeon, he catches a glimpse of something in the shadows—a spectral figure, cloaked in darkness, but unmistakable. It is Odin, the Allfather, "You are not a brave man," Odin’s mouth moves but it is the voice of Batu, and as he does his face shifts from Odin’s into that of Batu. Ivan realizes that is has been Batu speaking to him all along, and in Russian. While his pronunciation is flawed, Ivan can understand him, especially the mockery in his tone, "Will your fear save you now?"

Ivan meets Batu’s gaze, "What do you want?" he asks, his tone steady.

Batu Khan's lips curl into a cruel smile as he gestures toward the burning city of Kiev, "Everything," he replies, "And then what’s left, too."

“Then be done with it,” the prince is fearless in his response, and part of him means it.

“That… is a choice,” Batu tells him, “But you, and your people could accept another.”

“Why?” Ivan asks before he is struck across his face by a Mongol warrior, blood beginning to seep from his mouth as his head hangs low.

When confronted with the question of to spare the Russians, Batu offers a chilling smile, "The wisdom of Khan," his voice is measured, "lies not in destruction, but in control." Batu's carries a hint of amusement as he continues, "By allowing you to remain alive, we ensure tribute and resources to feed our empire. Your lands are our land now, your people our subjects." Batu leans in closer, his eyes alive with a predatory light, "Make no mistake, prince," he says, "your survival will come at a cost. You will serve the Great Khan, or you will die. Consider yourselves fortunate, for not all are given a choice."

Prince Ivan's mind races as he considers the implications of Batu’s words. He knows that resistance is futile in this moment, and that his people stand no chance of redemption without outside intervention. He is at a complete disadvantage and reluctantly, he nods his agreement, knowing it is the only choice. A forced alliance is created between Kiev and the Mongol invaders, and under the terms of their arrangement, the prince agrees to surrender control to Batu, allowing the Mongols to extract tribute from the Russian people in exchange for sparing their lives. It is a bitter pill to swallow for Ivan and his council, knowing that they have essentially traded their freedom for survival.

After the Mongols depart, Prince Ivan and his council find themselves alone in the dimly lit dungeon. With no other solace in sight, they turn to prayer. One by one, the men bow their heads, uttering pleas to Christ for deliverance. Even Ivan, the prince himself, joins in the chorus of prayers, hoping for a divine intervention.

"Lord Jesus Christ, hear the prayers of Your servants. Do not abandon us in this dark imprisonment; let Your blessed hand deliver us from calamity and misfortune.”

" Lord, have mercy, Lord, bless! Lead us, Lord, into the light with Your merciful grace, and deliver us from our captivity.”

" Blessed be the Lord God of Russia, our savior! Forgive our sins, and bring forth light, so that we may offer our prayers and serve You heard.”

"Lord Jesus Christ, bless our unfortunate land and our hearts with Your mercy. Grant us hope in the dark night and salvation from all troubles.”

" Most merciful Lord, look upon us with Your boundless love. Allow us to order our lives according to Your will and to fulfill Your commandments at all times.”

The minutes stretched into hours, their prayers echo off the cold stone walls, unanswered. Despite their unwavering faith, there is no sign of relief, and the silence that follows their prayers hangs heavy in the air.



Centuries slip away since the Mongols sweep across the steppes of Central Asia, taking hold of Mother Russia. In the heart of Kiev, a once-proud metropolis now stands as a haunting image of its former glory, its streets lined with the ghosts of a bygone era. Once teeming with life, the markets of Kiev lie in ruins, and the dreams of its people have crumbled like ancient parchment. The Russians labor under the weight of oppressive taxes and servitude that has been imposed upon them by their masters. They are bound by submission, forced to toil in the fields, and beaten until their hope for liberation grows weaker. The Mongols, ever eager to extinguish any flame of resistance, have stamped out every vestige of the Russians' heritage, imposing their own customs and beliefs upon the land like a suffocating blanket. Gone are the days of pagan rituals and ancient rites, instead they’ve been replaced by the dictates of Christianity. Those who dare speak out or defy the Mongol rule are met with swift punishment, and often with displays of brutality.

It is here, in this moment, that a flicker of hope remains. Hidden from the eyes of his oppressors, a lone figure ponders aloud as he navigates a labyrinth that grips his homeland. Ivan Rurik Vasilyevich is like only a few before him, guided by an unseen force and an invisible hand that is urging him forward in the face of overwhelming odds. Unsure of how to put it into words, it is a feeling he has felt since childhood – and since he can remember having memories. It is almost as though there is a voice in his head, one so quiet that he can barely hear it. But that voice that has brought him success when listened to and it has allowed him to grow into a man of full health. With a sturdy frame and broad shoulders, his features are distinctly Slavic, with high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing blue eyes. In the village of Novgorod, Ivan's ancestral home is constructed of sturdy timber and rough-hewn stone, its walls weathered by time, and inside, the air is thick with the scent of woodsmoke.

The interior of the house is simple yet cozy, with rough-hewn furniture and woven tapestries adorning the walls. A large fireplace dominates one corner of the main room, its flames casting shadows across the worn floor. In the center of the room, a sturdy oak table serves as the focal point, where Ivan sits alone. “Christ oh Lord, hear my prayer…” Ivan clasps his hands together in prayer to the only God he has ever known, “Help me. I know I must do something…” Ivan gasps as the fire across the room appears to be sucked upwards into the chimney, disappearing in a flash, and leaving only a few embers behind, “What…” Before Ivan can finish getting more words out, lightning strikes! Ivan is hurled backward, crashing into his wooden chair, and breaking it apart from his weight. His back burns from pain and still kneeling on the ground, his eyes begin to adjust to the darkened room. Before him stands Odin, emanating a presence that fills the room with an otherworldly aura. Clad in a cloak of deep blue, embroidered with ancient symbols of power and wisdom, Odin stands tall. His long, flowing beard, as white as the winter snow with piercing blue eyes, hold a gaze that seems to penetrate the very soul of Ivan. With every movement, there is a sense of grace and purpose, as though he is a force of nature itself. “Odin,” Ivan says aloud as he feels the presence of the ancient god bear down on him. The weight of centuries of tradition is spoken to Ivan in a single blink, “Is it really you?” Ivan asks him.

Odin reaches out and touches Ivan’s shoulder, sending him on a vision through the war-torn countryside. Ivan watches as he becomes a beacon of hope for his people, his very presence a symbol against the Mongols. Ivan is shown gathering followers one by one, uniting them in their desire to reclaim their homeland. Everything happens so fast that when Ivan returns from the vision, he is still kneeling on the ground before Odin, “Was that real?” Ivan asks him and in the silence that follows, he feels the ancient god's presence wash over him, filling him with courage. “Will you be with me, every step of the way?” Ivan asks him as he raises his eyes to connect with the Allfather, and as his answer – Odin extends Ivan his hand.


Ivan stands at the edge of Pskov, his eyes scanning the city's outskirts, now eerily quiet under the reign of the Mongols. The streets are devoid of life, save for the occasional patrol of Mongol soldiers. Under the watchful gaze of Odin, Ivan’s movements are purposeful as he navigates the alleyways and backstreets that crisscross the city. His every step is guided by a raven that flies high above, and one in which only he can see. As Ivan nears the heart of the city, he senses a stirring in the air, and watches as the raven soars down from the sky - capturing the attention of passersby and leading them unwittingly towards a secluded square. Gathered in the dim light of dusk, the people of Pskov huddle together, their faces etched with a mixture of fear as they listen to Ivan's impassioned plea for freedom. His voice, deep and commanding, cries for liberation.

"Comrades," Ivan's words carry across the square, "We may be shackled by chains of iron, but together, we can rise against the Mongols and reclaim our birthright as free men and women!" With each word, Ivan's presence grows, his figure bathed in the ethereal glow of Odin's blessing. And as the people of Pskov raise their voices in defiance, a surge of power courses through Ivan's veins. Beside him, Odin looms like a silent guardian, invisible to all present. The crowd gathers around Ivan, their faces drawn, and their eyes filled with a mixture of hope and apprehension. They listen intently as Ivan speaks, "We are not mere subjects to be ruled," Ivan continues, "We are the sons and daughters of Mother Russia, heirs to a legacy of strength! It is our duty, our obligation, to rise and cast off the tyranny that has been put upon us!"

The crowd stirs, a murmur of agreement rippling through their ranks like a wave upon the shore. They raise their voices in solidarity, their fists clenched as they pledge themselves to the cause. “But how!?” a voice is heard from the crowd, and Ivan immediately singles out the owner.

As Ivan speaks, his eyes move from each person in the crowd, to the other, “We are the descendants of warriors and kings from the plains of Novgorod to the sun-kissed shores of the Black Sea. We possess a courage that knows no bounds, and together, we will stand firm. We will forge alliances, unite our forces, and march as one against the Mongol hordes. And when the time comes, and the fate of our nation hangs in the balance, we will not falter, we will not waver. We will fight with every ounce of strength that resides within us!” the crowd erupts into a cheer, and Ivan is quick to silence them, “Make no mistake, my friends, the road ahead will be long. We must keep quiet until the signal is given, even now we risk exposure. So let us not raise our voices in defiance, let us not raise our swords in solidarity. Let’s march forward together, for we are Russians, and together, there is nothing that we cannot achieve!”

But as the meeting reaches its crescendo, a sudden hush falls over the square, broken only by the sound of approaching footsteps. Panic grips the crowd as they realize they've drawn the attention of the Mongol occupiers, their hearts pounding with fear as they brace themselves for a confrontation. Ivan's mind races as he searches for a way to protect his people, his gaze darting frantically around the square in search of a means of escape. But before he can act, a gust of wind sweeps through the square, cloaking them in mist that swirls and dances in the air like a living thing. In the blink of an eye, they vanish from sight, leaving the Mongols bewildered and disoriented as they search in vain for what was responsible for the loud noises they heard.

On the outskirts of Pskov, Ivan finds himself standing alone and breathless with relief. He looks to the stars in the sky and his eyes shine with gratitude as he offers a silent prayer of thanks to the Odin. "Where to next, Allfather?" Ivan asks.


The sun rises over the Urga River, casting its golden rays upon the battlefield where history will be written in blood and steel. On one side, the mighty Mongol horde, their banners fluttering in the morning breeze, their ranks stretching as far as the eye can see. On the other, a ragtag assembly of Russian warriors, their faces set in grim determination, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of the task that lies before them. At the forefront of the Russian forces stands Ivan, a descendant of the legendary Rurik, his eyes ablaze with righteous fury, his sword held high in defiance of the Mongol invaders. Together, they will fight not only for their own freedom, but for the future of their homeland. “Grant me strength, Allfather,” Ivan speaks aloud to the god that has guided him this far, and as though to answer his call – a large raven flies from behind Ivan and across the battlefield toward the Mongols. Ivan follows the raven while on horseback, and with him- his army rides.

The two sides clash and all sounds are absorbed by steel on steel. The ground shakes beneath the weight of the cavalry, their hooves pounding the earth like the drums of war. A gust of wind sweeps across the field, carrying with it a cloud of dust and debris. The Russians surge forward into the mist with renewed ferocity, their weapons flashing in the sunlight like the fangs of a wolf. In the heart of it all, Ivan stands firm, riding a power coursing through his veins, a strength that is not his own. With a roar he charges blindly through the mist, his blade cutting through any enemy he encounters. And as he fights, he feels the presence of Odin at his side, his guardian guiding his every move, his wisdom of light. With each swing, Ivan channels the power of his ancestors, drawing strength from the spirits of the past to fuel his assault on the Mongols. The casualties mount, and the cries of the wounded mingle with the shouts of the dying. Ivan fights on, but as the day wears on, he realizes that they won’t win unless he can turn the tide somehow in their favor. With a desperate call, Ivan raises his sword to the sky, “Show yourself!” And as if in response to his plea, a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the ongoing battle with its blinding light. The air grows thick with tension as Odin materializes before Ivan, clad in armor forged in the fires of Valhalla itself.

With a voice that shakes the earth itself, Odin commands the attention of all present, “I am the father of gods- look upon me with fear!" As the Mongol horde look up in terror, Odin's form begins to shift and change, transforming into wormlike creature with a vermilion-red body. The wormlike creature unleashes a wave of energy that sweeps across the field, knocking everyone – including Ivan, on their feet. The Mongol forces are shattered by the sight of the monster, and as they scramble to their feet they turn and flee in terror. But even as the Mongols retreat, some of Ivan's own men do the same, their faith shaken by the appearance of such an otherworldly being. Ivan stands up and watches in amusement as the Mongols run in fear. He cannot believe what has happened, but his gratitude is not misplaced – he looks immediately to where the creature was moments before, only to see that it has now disappeared.

With the Mongols in full retreat, the Russian soldiers rally around Ivan, lifting him up on their shoulders and chanting his name in triumph, “Ivan!”

“Ivan!”
“Ivan!”
“Ivan the Great!”
“Ivan, the savior of Mother Russia!”