Long ago, in a desolate township, lived a woman named Nadja.

She spoke her mind, and was brave like a man should be, could hold her own with drink, and was fierce even in bed.

She was stubborn, as she was fierce.

Nadja heard tales since she was a young lass of draugr, who are corpses which rise again, not being able to rest in peace for one reason or another.

The reasons vary as to how or why this could happen, from dying very unhappily, or with anger in your heart; other times practitioners of magic knew before their own death that they would return as draugr.

The story goes that the longer you lived in life, the stronger a draugr you would be, in truth, not many lived to tell the tale of such a creature.

Nadja doubted anyone in her township had done so, except perhaps one very old man, who tended his family’s burial mounds in a desolate island not all that far from town.

An island which was always laden with fog, and had an eerie, foreboding feeling about it, even to brave Nadja.

But, Nadja being stubborn as she was brave, pushed herself on to know more about this island, and particularly about draugr.

She had to know if the tales were true, and if they were, she wanted to prove herself worthy to take on such a ferocious creature.

 

The tale goesto summon a draugr, one had to be well skilled not only in rune magic, but also once the undead scoundrel awakened, had to allow them only to get halfway out of their mound, then wrestle them into submission, before the draugr might get the upper hand, for they were certainly a formidable foe in strength, for any man, or woman, no matter how brave, or strong.

Draugr were keen to wisdom from beyond, since they returned from death, learned in magic, chanting galdr, that is vocal rune magic, or so the tales went.

Nadja spent years learning what she could of runes and magic.

For this journey, she decided to place her trust in mighty Thorr, god of thunder, protector of Midgard, to give her strength, and courage in doing this seemingly impossible feat.

Against grave warnings and pleading from all her kinfolk, Nadja went to the island.

Upon approaching, Nadja’s horse nearly flung her off in protest.
Coward, she thought, as she trekked the rest of the way on foot, admittedly a bit nervous, but driven even more by her stubborn will.

Fear has different effects on folks, stopping some dead in their tracks, while driving others with encouragement, on pain of death.
Nadja was the latter of the two, always had been.

As Nadja went on, she heard rustling in the brush, only to find birds.
Two got away, one wasn’t so lucky.
Nadja made a fire, because you always ate what you killed.

After a brief meal, Nadja went on by foot.
She was getting cold, after the fire to cook dinner warmed her, but sheer terror gripped her bones by the time she arrived to the burial mounds.
The elder man in town told her how to reach the spot that most would never consider going.

Nadja covered herself in burial dirt, stayed awake for several days, spending much of her time chanting runes, in deep meditation, and contemplation to prepare as best someone could.

She cut herself to stain the bind rune she carved from oak, a tree sacred to Thorr.
Then, she cast her lot, to ask the Norns for advice.
Isa, Hagalaz, Elhaz…
Shit, she said, knowing it was a grim reading.
Still, there could be many ways to interpret, and she wasn’t backing out now.
She couldn’t let herself down, nor her ancestors.
No, she had to be brave, curiosity drove her on still.
Nadja would raise a draugr or die trying.

She called to mighty Thorr to watch over her, lightning struck a tree nearby, and several ravens flew away from her.
“More does he fear for Muninn”, she thought, remembering Odhinn’s riddle.

For many hours she sat in trance, chanting galdr, until she was so cold, she could no longer feel her body.
Physically like a corpse, cold and still in the windy night.
She was as ready as ever now, all fear had left until that moment.
She knew it was time.
She broke her bind rune as the dirt started to move.
Nadja’s magic worked, but had she really got what she wanted, or should she have paid more mind to the warnings of her kinfolk?

Too late now, white tips, so small they were impossible to recognize as fingers, poked through the earth.
Nadja almost drew her sword by instinct, but forgot she didn’t bring it.
She had to wrestle the creature bare-handed, as the tales tell.

The most horrifying screech unknown to man bellowed from below the earth, as the draugr made his way up.
Nadja knew she couldn’t let him rise too far, or she might not gain leverage, and if things didn’t go according to plan, she would be fucked.

Her palms became sweaty, her heart feeling as though it would burst from her chest.

She breathed deep, closed her eyes against every natural reaction in her souls, and waited, evoking courage from Thorr.

The right hand of the filthy corpse gripped Nadja with a strength none had ever felt.
She was dragged nearly halfway into the grave herself, instead of the draugr being halfway out.
An ominous feeling, as the once cloudy sky which held lightning clouds, became suddenly filled with fog.
Fog was a bad sign for Vikings, for they couldn’t see the sun when sailing, and in the North, the sun was seen as hope, for it cracked the ice which otherwise would make sailing impossible, and with it life.

Horrible, ungodly, groggy, snotty chanting began bellowing forth from the undead draugr.
Stop, Nadja said, over and over, yet she was pulled in toward the draugr, she hit her head on a rock, and lay nearly lifeless as him.
At least as lifeless as he initially was before being disturbed.

All the warnings from her kin repeated in Nadja’s mind, like a thousand birds cawing at once.
Don’t go, Nadja, it’s a horrible mistake, even for a brave warrior like you.
You have nothing to prove, no man would go to such a place.
No one returns from that island, you damn fool.

 

This was the first time Nadja regretted her stubbornness.

 

Fully clad in armor that the draugr must have been buried in as was customary, the draugr’s remains were pouring out of his many holes.

He pulled her nearer, and nearer, like a scene from someone’s worst nightmares.

The kind of nightmare so wrong, you only have it once in your life, yet still it lingers, conjured up vividly any time even the word dream is mentioned, a feeling shaken off sometimes before you lay your head to your pillow.

“You must lick the snot from the draugr’s nose, after wrestling it into submission” Nadja thought, seeing the oozing pus pour out of its nostrils.

Worms, maggots, unsightly liquids profusely leaked from the draugr’s every part.

This draugr was certainly not buried yesterday, but remained in the earth for some time.

 

It seemed like an eternity passed each time she shut her eyes, only to awaken again to a wretched stench, unimaginable, and it only got worse the closer she was dragged into the lair of this creature.

Finally, he was upon her.

Nadja felt the horrible mistake, her ancestors tried to warn her, heard just a moment too late, as she was being gripped by death itself.

 

Nadja’s mouth opened, as well as her eyes, viewing the creature all too near.

Sadistic laughter seemed to come from its mouth, amidst groans and moans, he vomited a huge chunk of white flies and maggots, shoving them into Nadja’s unsuspecting mouth.

The draugr put his hand over her mouth, pinning her to the floor, her left leg snapped beneath her, broken in more than one place by his unworldly strength.

She lay again lifeless, as she was before this whole ordeal waiting in trance.

Now, she lay squashed, flat on her back, her left leg bent at the knee, snapped in several places, and she didn’t even wince.

Nadja was about the fiercest mortal woman perhaps to live, but no match for the undead.

 

Nauthiz, Hagalaz, Isa… terrible rune galdr the hideous creature bellowed, inhaling and expelling fluids from what once was a functioning pair of lungs. Holding Nadja helpless to the cold, wet, muddy howe, the creature managed to raise little more than halfway.

A sound too awful to imagine commenced, as the creature held still for a moment, silent besides the new sound that seemed to well up from his insides.

The most immense amounts of projectile vomit flew into Nadja’s mouth, which the creature held gapingly open.

The draugr held his hand over Nadja’s mouth, which she spewed forth time and again, but couldn’t expel.

Nadja turned from pale white, to green.

She was almost grey, from the mixing of tones, swallowing of the undead putrefaction.

Nadja had already been pale, mimicking a graveyard mind before attempting this feat of necromancy so shunned by her kinfolk.

Stories existed of magicians raising the dead, commanding them to do all sorts of murderous acts by their will, but this was not Nadja’s day.

She should have stopped at the grim rune reading, the clouds covered by fog, had only she not been so headstrong, so stubborn.

Now she lay in the clutches, stuffed with draugr vomit, surely her fate did not look bleak, but something far worse.

 

The vile draugr released his hand, Nadja had a moment of what seemed like recovery, she drew breath, finally able to expel some of her ill-natural stomach contents.

Nauthiz, Hagalaz, Isa… the draugr continued chanting, as if immediately drawn into possessive trance, completely imbued by this rune galdr of darkest intent.

His head fell back, rotating as far back as it appeared could be, seemingly not paying a bit of attention to Nadja, her body enjoying vomiting more than one could fathom.

A glimpse of the moon, perhaps a sign of hope, a glimmer of life filled Nadja’s eyes, as she tried to mouth the words of the thunder god.

Tho…….. but was silenced just as quickly, by the draugr, realizing possibly the dangers of such an uttering.

The draugr, covered Nadja’s mouth once more, with dirt-filled fingernails, that would be heavily sought after to adorn Naglfar, Loki’s boat for Ragarnok.

He scratched holes torn into Nadja’s face, whole chunks of flesh removed.

This time Nadja did wince at the pain, as perhaps would any mortal being.

If only she didn’t have such a stubborn spirit, perhaps she wouldn’t have to endure this torment, but alas, even in what may be her dying breaths, she fought on.

The name of mighty Thorr, God of thunder, who’s chariot be pulled by Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, so angered this draugr, he received a quickening, that Nadja seemed to receive only moments before.

Fog still covered this dread island so looked down upon by the township Nadja hails from.

Perhaps this was why she received such dire warnings.

Would no God even dare tread here, or was this punishment for not hearing the warnings from her ancestors?

The worst has yet to come.

Nadja closing her eyes, when this draugr rose, allowed him to get a jump on her deadened senses.

The creature need only be revealed up to half his torso for the magician to more easily wrestle the draugr, gain leverage, lick snot from its nose, chant sacred galdr, and make him do their bidding.

She failed, the draugr was freer than he even let on, nearly hearing the holy name of Thorr, the draugr grew fierce.

He loosened the dirt that held his thighs, while his feet were beneath the earth, now gained even more leverage.

This most despicable creature freed what Nadja hoped wasn’t intact.

The worst of her nightmares was revealed, as the draugr’s fully-functioning, horribly disfigured, maggot-filled, penis throbbed.

A mighty roar bellow forth from the deepest chasm of the draugr, as his strongest muscle stretched in its conquest to be inside Nadja.

As when Sigurd, our beloved hero, stuck Fafnir in the chest with his magical sword Gram, so too did this undead filth stick Nadja with his erect penis.

A pain terrible as being gutted by a rusty weapon made by dwarves, Nadja’s eyes filled with tears, hoping for the first time that she too was dead, though with no chance of reprieve.

Beheaded and burned to ensure peace.

Nadja glanced down, in what surely must be the last actions she takes before precious life is ripped from her, to see what appeared the raunchiest, thickest, most spoiled cheese her eyes had never witnessed, but sure enough, it was the creature’s semen bursting forth from his wretched member, so proud.

Again, his head spin in semi-circular motion, eyes roll back into his head, chest heaved out, grinding on his teeth so hard they break loose, and shatter.

Nauthiz, Hagalaz, Isa… the last sounds our poor hero’s ears heard, as her heart froze, left motionless to become a bride, or treasure for the wretched draugr everyone warned her about.

Thus our story concludes, on a Gods forsaken island, an ancient burial mound left to rest in peace, fog consumed, and no one ever dared step foot there again.

Hail the Northern Gods! Hail the ancestors!