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Anja Steinnsdottir

Tuesday, October 28, 2025

Anja Steinnsdottir, Skald of Torvaldsland story

Hello everyone. If you don't already know, I'm Anja Steinnsdottir, Skald of Torvaldsland (aka BilliAnn Bravin).

I'm happy to be back here in Turmus to tell stories.

I'm not sure which side I'm on, with everyone on every side, so I'll try to switch sides every now and then. :)

I don't believe Halloween is celebrated on Gor, except perhaps by barbarians brought here from Earth.

But look, 'tis the season. So I have a spooky story for you.

This was actually one of the first two Gor stories I ever wrote. So I hope you enjoy it. :) I call it...

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The Beast in the Forest: A Tale of Terror

By Anja Steinnsdottir, Skald of Torvaldsland

Fear gripped the village of Snorri Fjord!

Not long ago, in the mountainous regions of Torvaldsland, terror came to the small village in the form of an unknown beast that had taken up residence in the forest. No one knew exactly what it was. Some thought it was a renegade Kur; others a gigantic mountain larl descending from the heights to hunt; still others were certain it was a monstrous forest sleen, ravenous and hungry. But no one knew for sure. None who saw it lived to tell the tale.

The story began one night, several weeks after the harvest. As the villagers returned from their humble fields to their huts or the long hall to rest and drink a horn or two of mead, an eerie howl rang out in the evening darkness from the woods. It was a sound unlike any they had ever heard before, and even the village's bravest warriors stood up at attention at the cry of whatever lurked in the forest. It was only a single howl that night, but it marked the beginning of a time of terror for Snorri's Fjord.

In the days and weeks that followed, though no one had ever seen anything and no tracks or traces had ever been discovered... the animals of the village began disappearing at night. A fly here. A fly there. Then a great bush. And another. There was never a trace of what was causing these creatures' sudden disappearance. No blood. No remains. No cries. It was silent... and deadly. Whatever it was.

As if that weren't enough to unnerve even the sturdy villagers, a child soon disappeared the same way the animals did. A little boy, sleeping in his crib, had simply vanished the next morning. There was no sign of an entry. Nothing to indicate that anything had invaded the hut where he lay sleeping. He had simply... vanished. The next night, another followed. Then another. And another. And then a woman—a bond—vanished, too. And then a free woman. And more in the nights that followed. The village was in turmoil.

The men gathered together and began searching the woods during the day. But they found nothing. No sign that anything was there. Yet, every night from then on, the frightened villagers heard in the darkness the terrible cry of whatever beast was infesting their home. And other animals and people simply disappeared the next morning. Eventually, even some men began to disappear, starting with a lone

lady Selia

The village jarl, one Hanestel the Tumultuous, eventually sent a message throughout Torvaldsland, demanding that great hunters and warriors come to the village to search the forest for the beast and put an end to its rampage. The jarl resented having to ask for outside help when his fiercest warriors returned empty-handed. But being a practical man and a good jarl who cared for the safety of his people, he did it anyway. He offered a sum equal to five times the weight in gold of anyone who captured or killed the beast to the man who would rid Snorri's Fjord of this plague. This also included the best slaves in the village (those who had not yet disappeared) and any single free woman of her choice (if she agreed, of course). The offer did not go unheeded.

In the weeks and months that followed, many flocked to Snorri's Fjord to seek their fortune by finding and killing the beast. Hunters, warriors, even a member of the Black Caste, all came to the village to try to stop the creature that had nearly decimated the village by then. Even a Tarnsman from Thentis joined the hunt. None of them ever returned from the forest, not even from the pond. The villagers were beside themselves. How could they continue to live if no one could stop the monster that was carrying them off, one by one?

And then, salvation seemed within reach! One day, the mighty and legendary warrior and hunter Jorma Sturmraven entered the village! The man was known throughout Torvaldsland in sagas, songs, stories, and legends. He had lived for hundreds of years and faced numerous dangerous adventures in the lands of Gor, always emerging not only alive, but victorious. It was said he had killed a larl when he was only three years old. And a Kur when he was only twelve. It was said that even the Priest-Kings whispered his name, if they ever spoke it. He arrived with two of the fiercest and finest hunting sleen in all of Torvaldsland on leashes. The inhabitants of Snorri's Fjord rejoiced, for surely the beast that had hunted them would be hunted in turn and promptly killed!

The villagers watched from their huts as Sturmraven made his way down the long hall and presented himself to the Jarl, his two snarling sleen—creatures he had named Ravager and Killer—struggling to be released from their leashes. But Sturmraven held them tightly as he greeted the Jarl and the warriors who sat with him on the salt. The Jarl asked the powerful legend if he had come to the village to free them from the siege that had subjected them for many months, and Sturmraven replied that he had. A sigh of relief rose from those present and echoed throughout the village as the news spread. There was only one problem. Sturmraven demanded not five, but ten times his weight in gold. And the weight of each of his hunting sleen, too. The Jarl's face paled at this request, but he felt he had no choice. And he agreed.

That night, Jorma Sturmraven left the village to enter the forest in search of whatever had led to the deaths of the animals and inhabitants of Snorri Fjord. And the villagers prepared to celebrate. For if the legendary warrior couldn't free them from this scourge, who could? But they were confident. As, of course, was Sturmraven. He entered the forest with the certainty that whatever was there would soon die at his feet, a meal for his two ferocious sleen. The task was complicated, of course, by the fact that the creature—whatever it was—had left no trace when it carried its victims away from the village. Sturmraven had had his sleen sniff out the locations of the latest disappearances, to no avail. But he was certain that, once in the woods, his animals would pick up the scent.

He was wrong. The sleen, it seemed, couldn't detect anything beyond the usual in the surrounding forest. This left Sturmraven without end. But he was a practical man, one of the reasons he'd survived so long. He decided that if he couldn't find the beast, he'd let it find him. So he camped that night, making no effort to hide himself and his hunting animals. If he'd thought about it, he could have asked the village to send a slave with him to act as bait for the beast. But he expected to find it immediately and dispatch it easily, so he'd neglected to consider that option. It didn't matter. Sturmraven himself would be the bait. And when the creature approached him, he would kill it. And his sleen would feast!

To detect the cunning creature's approach, Sturmraven placed wires around his camp, hidden among the bushes and along all entrances to the site. He hung pieces of metal from them that, if touched, would rattle against the other pieces of wire, revealing the beast's proximity. Even if he was asleep, the noise would wake him, for Sturmraven had the reflexes of a warrior, and even the slightest noise in the night was enough to wake him and make him ready for battle. It seemed a foolproof plan.

That evening, Sturmraven sat around the fire, eating the roasted meat of a wild tarsk he'd killed for dinner. After his fill, he threw the remains to his hungry sleen. Not enough to put them to sleep or dampen their aggression. But enough to keep them alive until they could feast on the beast hidden somewhere in the woods. Sturmraven sensed it was close. Perhaps it was watching him even now. But it was cunning, so it was biding its time. He began to sing a song as he gazed into the glowing embers of the fire. He'd eaten heartily from a bota he'd brought with him, even though it contained only water. But the beast, if it had had even a modicum of rudimentary intelligence, would never have known. It acted as if completely drunk. Then it staggered into its tent and fell asleep.

But Sturmraven wasn't asleep. He felt in his bones that the beast was close, and so he waited, still in the tent, feigning sleep, occasionally letting out what sounded like drunken snores to lure it inside. Hours passed. Could he have been mistaken? Perhaps there wasn't a beast after all. Perhaps whatever had been tormenting the village had moved on. That would be a shame, because to collect his reward, he would have to find and kill some other disgusting-looking creature. That wasn't something he wanted to do. Honor dictated that he collect his reward simply for killing the beast. Yet, as a practical man, he felt that, if necessary, any beast he killed and gave to the village would do, at least to allay their fears.

But then, as Sturmraven contemplated these unpleasant possibilities, a sound came in the night. A clang of metal betrayed the presence of... something... It approached his camp from the right, setting off the alarms. As if sensing it had been spotted, whatever was causing the noise let out an eerie, unsettling howl: the sound of the beast! Ravager and Killer were now growling and hissing frantically at their leashes, eager to be let loose to hunt! Sturmraven leaped to his feet, grabbed his axe, and charged into the night toward the sound! He had it! The beast would be his! He rushed toward where the alarms had clanked, and... nothing! There was nothing there. Sturmraven looked around frantically, fearing an ambush. But then that howl came again, to his left, farther into the forest. Without even thinking, he turned and rushed towards it!

This went on for several hours. Sturmraven thought he was tracking the creature, only to discover it had disappeared and was howling elsewhere. The sound had obviously infuriated his hunting sleen, who had continued to growl and hiss ever since. Reflecting on this, the warrior realized he should let them follow the beast's trail, since they would surely have picked up its scent by now. He decided to return to camp and do just that. And then, once he had captured and harassed the beast, he would arrive and finish it off with his mighty axe. As he approached the camp, however, he realized he could no longer hear his sleen's growls. This disturbed him, as they had made such a racket that only when he was far away did he manage to stop hearing them.

Suddenly, the fur on Sturmraven's neck stood on end. He went still and silent, listening in the darkness. But there was no sound. Not even the typical nighttime noises heard in the sparse forests of Torvaldsland. Something was wrong. Finally, moving silently with the skill of even the most talented assassin, Sturmraven returned to the camp. The fire had died down, but in its faint reddish glow, he could see enough to see what had happened...

:As he watched, a shiver ran down Jorma Sturmraven's spine.

The Devastator was gone! the ring.

And the Assassin was... almost gone...

Jorma Sturmraven, a mighty man of song and legend, quickly lit a fire and sat behind it, axe in hand, all his senses alert, until dawn the next morning. Then he broke camp and disappeared into the wilderness, without even returning to Snorri's Fjord. No new verses would be added to his saga of this misadventure, that—and little else—was certain...

As for the village of Snorri Fjord and its unfortunate inhabitants, and the beast that had haunted them... life returned to normal. There were no more disappearances. No more cries from the woods to betray the beast's presence. Word spread that Sturmraven must have killed the beast, but that he himself had fallen into its hands just as he was saving their people from its ravages. Songs were composed. A memorial was erected in the man's honor in the village square. The Jarl locked away his gold. And life went on.

Until the following year, a few weeks after the harvest, when an eerie howl rang out from the forest...

The end????

(BilliAnn Bravin (IC:, Lady Anja Steinnsdottir) started in Gor 10 and a half years ago, at the Isle of Hunjer in Tovaldsland, where she was appointed Skald from the peoems and stories she wrote. She has told her original stories and read her original poems and sagas at many locations throughout SL Gor, including several Thing-Fairs in Torvaldsland and at the En'Kara Festival.)