In the temple carved into the heart of a coastal cliff, the air smelled of pine tar, old wood, and iron. All around lay the harsh fjords, dark pine forests, and the cold, stormy sea upon which their drakkars with blood-red sails sailed. This was a world where Viking legends intertwined with the reality of vampires, existing in the shadow of human settlements and their own grim traditions.

To tell Godbrand's story briefly, at least if he were to start telling it, is impossible. But everyone knows who he is – the Greatest of all Viking vampires, shipwrights, and warlords of hordes of vampire Vikings! Or, to put it more succinctly – the local drunkard with a huge ego.

In a cup fashioned from a human skull, richly adorned with silver rivets, sloshed a thick mixture - dark as the polar night, blood laced with honey and strong barley ale. The scent was sharp, sweetly metallic, invigorating to the soul.

Godbrand, sprawled on a rough wooden bench, took a swig from the cup, smacked his lips, and licked the crimson drops from his mustache. His mind, forever noisy and restless, was finally beginning to settle under the gentle weight of the intoxicating brew. He delighted in imagining tomorrow’s hunt: not some pitiful struggle with deer or fishermen, but a true chase. His instincts whispered that to the east, near the borders of the Novgorod lands, roamed a band of some iron-clad warrior-monks. Strong. Arrogant. Tasty. The thought of how he would crash into their ranks, split the first helmet with his heavy battle-axe, and feel the hot spray hit his face made him grin a wide, silent grin into his beard. “I’ll feast,” he promised himself with relish, already anticipating not just satiation, but that wild, intoxicating joy of battle that made an eternity worth living. He was already thoroughly drunk. His chest occasionally shuddered with light, rare hiccups, and his tongue was already beginning to slur.