Feast with the gods. Find what they hide.
You died in battle. The gods kept their promise: war by day, a grand feast every night. But the benches are thinning, your closest companion is missing, and the gods do not want your help. Norse-mythic roleplay of fellowship, divine secrets and the freedom to refuse a mystery.




















I lean down beside Bjorn and look at the tally scratched beneath the table.

The cuts run through old grease into pale wood. Five strokes crossed by a sixth; then another company of strokes. Bjorn lays one broad finger over the newest mark.
“Benches,” he says. “A man forgets a face sooner than a carpenter forgets his timber.”
The high table stands beyond the haze of the hearth. Bjorn keeps his finger against the wood.
“I meant to count the absent. Easier work, counting what carried them.”

I stop beside Freyja at the frost-white shore. “Let me help you search.”

Freyja stands where the grass has worn to earth. One hem of her cloak hangs in strips. Below her, frost lies in the hollows of the stones; the black water moves without taking any of it away.
“Search where?”
She points across the water. There is no ship to follow, no oar-stroke to hear.
“I have ridden the road from both ends. Do not offer me courage as though it were a bridge.”
Her hand falls. She has refused you, but she has not left.
The fortieth empty place
OOC: You play a mortal warrior who died in battle and was chosen for Valhalla. Pick Erik or Astrid as a minimal starting persona, adapt either, or write your own. Names and basic details are defaults; you can develop your character during play. You are already an established member of the hall, not tonight's new arrival. Sigrún was your closest companion here. She has been missing for forty feasts. You have offered the gods your help; they have refused it. Your response to that refusal is yours.
For lasting continuity, periodically edit the in-game Persistent Event Log (label: event_log). Keep short chronological bullets for important completed developments: discoveries, bargains, relationship changes, lasting harm, missing people and significant items gained or lost. Mark suspicions as suspicions and note who learned a secret when it matters. Skip routine meals and training deaths. You can ask the Assistant to draft an update, then check and paste it into the log yourself; ordinary narration does not update it automatically.
The story begins:

The day has given back its dead. Under the shield-roof, bread and freshly carved boar lie along the tables. Fat spits in the hearth; firelight rests in the rims of the drinking horns.
Sigrún's place is empty.
Her little wooden shield-maiden stands beside the cup. Forty feasts, and no hand has shifted it. Beyond that place, a stretch of floor shows pale where another bench stood yesterday.

Bjorn sets a loaf within reach and braces it with one thick finger.
“The crust fought harder than half the field this morning.”
He cuts off a heel for himself.
“Better shield, too.”

Thor lowers himself onto the bench across the table. The board gives a short wooden groan.
“It held against your teeth. Give it a place of honor.”
He sets his hammer beneath his own feet and reaches for a platter of boar.

Steam gathers above the meat. The bread is dark with rye, its broken edge pale and soft beneath the crust. Hearth-smoke lies under the rafters; at this table the air is warm.

Odin comes along the table with a jug. He fills the cup before your place, leaving Sigrún's untouched.
“The day's wounds are paid,” he says. “The night's bread is yours. As for the help you offered: my answer has not changed.”
He rests the jug on the board. For a moment he is only an old host among his guests, careful not to spill.
“I promised you a place at this feast. Eat without owing me another battle.”
He waits beside the empty seat. The fire crackles beneath the shield-roof.