here's some stuff for a story I am working on
N E K R I L I A
1.WARM AND WET
Outpost Veigr—named for the old Norse word for “strength”—were used to such harshness. They were all sons and daughters of the north, descendants of seafarers and storytellers who had braved even harsher landscapes centuries ago. For the men and women of Veigr, mining was more than a job; it was a legacy, another way to wrest treasures from the frozen earth as their ancestors had once wrested survival from the sea. Yet, beneath the camaraderie of their shared heritage, there lingered unease.
“Steel yourself against the cold.” Stoves laid in the corner of each cabin and remained lit throughout the frigid nights, which barely prevented the frost from building. Workers slept in layers, woolen undershirts and thick socks doubling as both pajamas and the base layer for the day’s work.
Air was sharp, dry, and bracing, making breaths feel like inhaling ice shards, on the skin it was razors tipped with glass, deep and sharp with every breath, the sun? It never truly rose in the winter months; instead, a faint, gray twilight painted the snow-woven landscape in timbres of shadow and frost. Sharpness greeted the miners before they even stepped outside their homes, seeping through the walls of the clapboard structures and biting at exposed skin like an ever-present predator. Inside the small, dimly lit cabins, the miners stirred awake to the sound of the communal bell tolling from the outposts’ the mess hall—a slow, heavy clang that carried through the frost-choked air.
A hunched man wrapped in furs, sat in his usual spot by the long house’s hearth. A carved staff resting against his knee, his face was a road map of wrinkles, eyes pale yet piercing, as though he could see the woven tapestry of fate tangled around each worker. Before setting out, it was customary for the workers to pay their respects to Lintel, the village elder.
“Back to the sinkholes today,” one of the miners said, their voice tinged with unease.
Lintel nodded slowly, his fingers brushing the carved runes etched into his staff. “The Helgróf watches,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that demanded attention. “Take care, for it is not their time to wake.”
The locals called the sinkholes "Helgróf"—Hell’s Graves. The word carried weight, an unspoken warning, though no one dared to voice it aloud.
The miners exchanged uneasy glances. None of them fully believed the elder’s warnings—at least, not outwardly. His words had a way of settling in the mind, nagging at the edges of thought like a splinter.
Yja, the medic, lingered a moment longer. “Not their time to wake?” she asked quietly.
The elder’s gaze bore into hers, his expression grim. “You cannot fight them. Only respect them—and hope they find you worthy.”
With that, he turned his attention back to the fire, leaving Yja and the others to ready themselves for the day ahead.
The cold seemed sharper than usual as Wacian made his way through the narrow, snowy path to his family’s house. He had forgotten his father’s lantern—a tool that, while outdated, had always given him a sense of reassurance when descending into the sinkhole. It wasn’t unusual for miners to go back for forgotten gear, but the walk back alone always felt longer than it should.
Reaching his cabin, Wacian pushed the door open and was immediately greeted by the warmth of the small wood stove crackling in the corner. Setting his gloves down on the table, the first inhale smelling faintly of pine and smoke, as though the past lingered here more strongly than anywhere else in the house. Wooden shelves, carved by his grandfather, lined the walls and displayed objects that had been in the family for generations. The dim light from the high window illuminated just enough to cast soft shadows over the treasures. An iron-framed lantern rested on a low shelf, polished but well-worn, its glass stained amber from years of use. His father had carried it on his long shifts, claiming it was lucky.
Wacian ran his hand over the iron lantern, its smooth metal cool against his palm. He paused for a moment, glancing toward the old slate engraving. Propped on the shelf beside the lantern was a small piece of slate, engraved with angular Nordic runes. His grandmother had always said it was a piece of “frettasteinn,” a foretelling stone, meant to guard against poor omens. Above the shelf hung a harpoon, its wood handle splintered with age and its head rusted but still sharp. It had belonged to his great-grandfather, a sealer who braved the icy fjords. He had always called it “Havdyrsknív”—the Sea Beast’s Knife. Sometimes he wondered if his own life would leave anything worth adding to the shelves, or if his family’s legacy would end here, in the shadow of Veigr’s mines. Breaking his meandering thoughts
A voice boomed from the main room, rough and biting. “WACIAN!” hoping to avoid his father’s detection… he braced himself. “What are you doing in there? Wasting time staring at ghosts?”
Wacian exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around the lantern’s handle. “Just grabbing something I need,” he called back, keeping his voice as even as he could manage.
“Then move faster! You’ve got work to do,” Lars barked, the sound of his heavy boots creaking on the wooden floor growing louder.
Wacian turned toward the doorway just as his father appeared, towering and broad-shouldered even in the dim light. Lars’ gray hair hung in unruly strands around a face weathered like driftwood—lined with age, but harder than the Arctic wind.
“I don’t have time to stand around and babysit you,” Lars growled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You think you’ll survive the sinkholes with your head in the clouds, dreaming about useless trinkets like that?” He gestured roughly toward the shelves.
“They’re not useless,” Wacian said quietly, his voice firm despite his father’s glare. “They’re part of who we are. You kept them for a reason, didn’t you?”
Lars snorted. “I keep them because your mother did. Don’t think for a second that staring at them will make you stronger. Out there, the only thing that keeps you alive is your wits and your back.”
Wacian clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. He had long since learned that arguing with his father was like shouting into a blizzard. He grabbed the lantern and tucked the rune stone into his pocket.
“I’m going,” he said, brushing past Lars toward the door.
As he reached the threshold, Lars’ voice cut through the air like a knife. “Don’t lose yourself out there, boy. The land doesn’t care about you. And it sure as Hel won’t give you a second chance.”
Wacian paused, his hand on the door frame. He didn’t look back. “I know,” he said simply, stepping out into the cold.
The door closed behind him, muting the warmth and the tension of the house. Wacian exhaled, watching his breath bloom into the frigid air before fading away. His father’s words echoed in his mind, though not for the reasons Lars might have hoped.
He looked back at the small cabin, its windows faintly glowing against the gray sky. For all his father’s harshness, the man had never taken the relics down, never sold them, never tossed them aside. Deep down, Wacian wondered if Lars feared the same things he did—the land, the stories, the weight of history pressing down like the cold.
Lantern in hand, Wacian began the walk back to the sinkholes. Wind had picked up, stirring the snow into faint eddies that danced across the ground. Veigr’s landscape stretched out before him—endless white, broken only by the dark ridges of the distant mountains and the jagged edge of the sinkhole looming on the horizon. The crew was already gathering near the equipment sheds, their forms little more than silhouettes in the faint light. Wacian adjusted his scarf and started back toward the group, the lantern clinking softly at his side.
Walking back felt less lonely this time, though he couldn’t quite shake the sense that the land itself was watching. It was a foolish thought, he told himself. The sinkhole was just a hole. These relics were just objects... and yet, the weight in his pocket reminded him that his family had once believed otherwise—and maybe, in some small way, he still did too.
At this stage, the sinkholes appeared deceptively lifeless. The jagged edges of the largest pit loomed ahead, carved by frost and erosion. Mist clung to the ground like a veil, obscuring the depths, and the distant howling wind seemed almost like a warning.
Still, something felt... off.
Yja, walking at the rear of the group, paused to glance over her shoulder. A faint vibration hummed through her boots—not enough to draw attention but enough to make her frown. She dismissed it as the distant rumble of machinery but couldn’t shake the unease that clung to her. The others were quiet, their focus entirely on the task ahead. The air was heavy, not just with cold but with a subtle pressure that none of them could articulate. It was as if the land itself was holding its breath.
When they reached the sinkhole, the mist cleared just enough to reveal the first signs of something unusual: faint, branching patterns etched into the ice at the edges of the hole. They looked almost organic, like veins or roots frozen in place.
“What’s that?” asked Leif, crouching to inspect the markings.
“Just ice fractals,” Anders muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“Fractals don’t glow,” Freya said, her voice low. She pointed at the faint green shimmer coursing through the patterns, like bio luminescence trapped in the ice.
The group exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. After all, it was their job to dig—and dig they would.
Trouble began a week into their rotation.
Wacian, was the first to notice something amiss. He swore that the frost-covered walls of the largest sinkhole had begun to thaw—not from the machinery’s heat but from within. The ice dripped with faintly green, glowing rivulets, like veins exposed beneath translucent skin.
“Looks like Yggdrasil’s roots, don’t it?” Wacian joked nervously, pointing to the gnarled fungal patterns spreading through the thawed ice.
Yja, frowned. “Don’t speak of the Tree lightly. The old stories say it’s more than roots that dwell beneath.”
The crew laughed, but Yja’s words struck a chord. They all knew the stories—of Niflheim, the icy realm of the dead, and of Hel, the goddess who ruled there. And they all knew this place felt wrong.
It was during a night shift that things began to spiral. The workers had lowered a scanner into one of the deeper sinkholes, searching for richer deposits of nekralite. The equipment returned something unusual: a perfectly spherical chamber, smooth as polished stone, deep beneath the permafrost.
“Must’ve been some kind of volcanic pocket,” suggested Olgvar, the geologist, though his voice wavered. “Perfectly natural.”
But when they reviewed the footage, the chamber was anything but natural. The walls were covered in glowing runes, spiraling outward in intricate patterns, their shapes echoing the ancient carvings found in burial mounds back home. At the center of the chamber sat what looked like a massive fungal spire, pulsating faintly with bio luminescent light.
“It’s a rune stave,” said Einar, the eldest worker, breaking the silence. He leaned closer to the monitor, his expression grim. “For protection—or entrapment.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances. Einar was a known teller of tales, but there was something about the way he spoke that silenced their skepticism.
“Entrapment?” Yja asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Lintel nodded. “The old ones warned of things buried deep. The jotnar, the frost giants, they were said to be bound beneath the earth. Some say they still stir when the ice thaws.”
Two nights later, the earth itself seemed to confirm Bjorn’s words.
The air grew still and heavy, as though the world were holding its breath. Workers began reporting strange sensations: a persistent hum that wasn’t audible but seemed to vibrate in their chests, dreams of dark forests where the trees wept green light, and an overwhelming sense of being watched.
During a routine inspection of the sinkhole’s edge, Yja noticed something new. She called for the others, her voice taut with urgency.
When the workers gathered, they saw it: the fungal spire from the footage had grown, breaking through the ice and rock to rise above the lip of the sinkhole. It was massive, organic yet alien, its bio luminescent veins pulsing in time with the hum they all felt.
Bjorn crossed himself in the old way, tracing the sign of Thor’s hammer over his chest. “We’ve woken something,” he muttered. “Something that was meant to sleep.”
As they watched, the spire emitted a faint, rhythmic pulse. It wasn’t a sound, but the workers felt it nonetheless—a silent, thrumming presence that seemed to resonate deep within their bones.
“We need to leave,” Yja said, her voice trembling. “This is no place for us. This is... sacred.”
Karl, the foreman, shook his head. “Sacred or not, the company’s expecting results. And no one’s paying us to be scared of old stories.”
