The Tale of Berserkir Hjarta
Gather close, my friends, and let me tell you a tale
a tale of warriors whose deeds echo across fjords and forests, from the icy shores of the north to the golden palaces of Byzantium.
Listen well, for this is the story of Berserkir Hjarta, the Heart of the Berserkers, the blade that carved its mark upon the 10th century and beyond.
The Journey of Jacky the Surgeon
In the Land of the rus, Where the rivers coil like serpents and the forests whisper secrets older than men, there was a warrior unlike most.
His name was Jacky the Surgeon, and though he carried no healer’s tools, his hands were as precise as any physician’s—except his patients never left his care alive.
As a child in Gnezdovo, he lived among warriors, traders, and the ever-present hum of danger. The settlement was a gateway between worlds, where the longships of the Northmen met the horsemen of the steppes, where Slavic chieftains and Varangian mercenaries drank from the same horns, their peace held together by nothing more than silver and steel.
Jacky’s father was a trader, a man who dealt in iron and weapons, supplying the ever-hungry warbands of the Rus and beyond.
But coin, no matter how well-guarded, draws the greedy and the desperate.
One night, raiders came, not an army, not even a warband, just a handful of men willing to kill for silver.
They left Jacky’s home in flames and his father bleeding out on the cold earth.
Jacky survived.
He was young, but not weak.
He did not weep, nor did he seek refuge with the priests who preached of fate and the gods’ will.
Instead, he sought the only thing that mattered in Gnezdovo, strength.
He trained in the yards of the Varangian warriors, learning to wield a sword before he could grow a beard.
He watched the duels between men who had served in Miklagard, studied how they moved, how they killed.
While other boys dreamed of raiding and riches, Jacky honed his skill like a blacksmith tempers a blade.
His strikes were clean, his movements efficient.
He learned that war was not about rage, nor about honor—it was about precision.
When he came of age, he did not wait for a call to arms.
He found his own war.
The jarl who ruled Gnezdovo was a man feared by his enemies and respected by his warriors.
He saw in Jacky something more than another sword-for-hire.
He saw a killer who did not waste breath on boasts or prayers.
A warrior who did not fight for bloodlust, but for perfection.
Jacky was tested in raids along the river, where the jarl’s men clashed with rival warbands and Slavic lords.
He proved himself not by brute force, but by his mind
his ability to strike where it mattered, to cut down leaders rather than slaughter nameless warriors.
In time, he was no longer just another warrior in the jarl’s service.
He became his sword-arm, the blade that struck where the jarl pointed, the weapon wielded with ruthless precision.
It was the jarl who first called him “Surgeon.”
"Because," he said, "you do not hack like a butcher, nor do you strike in anger.
You cut away what must be cut.
You make men bleed like a leech draws sickness from the body.
And when you are done, the battlefield is clean."
For years, Jacky fought as the jarl’s most trusted killer, earning his place among warriors twice his size and thrice his age.
His name became known not for wild fury, but for the certainty of death that followed wherever he set his blade.
But war, like fate, is cruel.
And loyalty, like steel, can break.
Jacky would learn this lesson in blood.
One bitter winter, the jarl led his warriors against a rival lord.
The river Dnieper was half-frozen, and the enemy stood on the far shore.
Jacky and his shield-brothers crossed in the dead of night, ready to strike at dawn.
But dawn never came for them.
Someone had betrayed them.
Instead of an ambush, they found themselves surrounded, outnumbered, outmatched.
The jarl’s most trusted men, men who had stood by Jacky in a hundred battles, were cut down around him.
Jacky himself took a wound to his side, a deep gash that would have killed a lesser man.
But he fought on.
When he realized the battle was lost, he did what no warrior wanted to do.
He turned and ran.
Not out of fear.
Not out of cowardice.
But because the truth had burned into his mind like a brand
loyalty meant nothing when men sought only power.
Someone had sold them out, and Jacky did not intend to die for the ambitions of weak men.
By the time he reached Gnezdovo, his home was no longer his own.
His jarl was dead.
His brothers were gone.
And the man who had betrayed them sat in his place, drinking his mead, surrounded by mercenaries.
Jacky could have fought him then, but he knew it was folly.
A dead man could claim no vengeance.
So he left.
Jacky’s wound healed, but his heart did not.
He wandered east, then west, then south, always seeking something he could not name.
He drank in the halls of the Rus, fought as a sword-for-hire along the Dnieper, and even traveled to Miklagard, the great city of Constantinople, where the Varangians guarded the emperor himself.
But wherever he went, he saw the same thing,
warriors who fought for gold alone, men who would sell their own kin for a heavier purse.
He saw fighters who had skill, but no code. No honor. No fire in their hearts.
And so he made a choice.
If the warriors he sought did not exist, he would find them.
He would gather them himself.
Not men who fought for a lord’s favor.
Not men who bent the knee to a king or sold their swords for coin alone.
But warriors who fought because it was who they were.
Fighters who did not need orders to know their purpose.
Men who lived for battle, but not for slaughter.
A brotherhood.
And so Jacky set out, following the rivers west, toward the lands of the Franks and Saxons, where warriors of all kinds gathered.
He no longer searched for a lord to serve
he searched for those who would stand beside him, equal in skill and fury.
Jacky and the Bull
His journey led him to Belgica, where the mist clung to the forests and the bogs whispered forgotten names.
It was here, on a narrow wooden bridge spanning a river swollen with spring melt, that he met Robin the Bull.
Jacky had been crossing alone, his mind set on the road ahead, when a voice called out from the fog.
“You walk like a man with purpose.”
Jacky halted.
From the other side of the bridge, a figure emerged.
Robin was no towering beast, no hulking brute.
He was a man of quick feet and sharp eyes, his frame lean but strong.
his stance, low, balanced, ready, told Jacky more than words ever could.
This was not some common brigand looking for a toll.
This was a warrior testing the steel of another.
Jacky exhaled, already understanding the game being played.
“And you stand like a man waiting for a challenge,” he replied.
Robin grinned. “That depends on what you offer.”
He shifted slightly, the bridge creaking beneath his boots.
“They call you the Surgeon.
They say your blade cuts like a healer’s hand, swift, clean, without waste.”
He tilted his head. “But I prefer to see a man fight with my own eyes.”
Jacky smirked. “And if I refuse?”
Robin shrugged. “Then you turn back, and I call you a coward.”
Jacky had fought many men.
Some for silver, some for honor, some simply because fate demanded it.
But Robin was something else.
There was no hatred in his voice, no arrogance in his stance, just curiosity.
That was something Jacky could respect.
He drew his blade.
Robin moved first, quick as a wolf, closing the distance in an instant.
Jacky barely had time to block as the Bull struck, fast, relentless, precise.
There was no wasted movement, no wild swings.
Every step had a purpose.
Jacky grinned. Finally, a real fight.
Steel met steel as they moved across the narrow bridge, their feet shifting to keep balance above the roaring river.
Robin struck hard, but Jacky met him at every turn, deflecting, redirecting, waiting for an opening.
Precision against speed.
Calculation against instinct.
Then Jacky found it.
A fraction of a second, Robin’s weight too far forward, his stance just slightly off.
Jacky twisted, letting the Bull’s momentum carry him forward, then swept his foot behind Robin’s ankle.
The moment passed in a breath—Robin stumbling, Jacky’s blade at his throat.
Silence.
The mist curled around them. The river raged below.
Then, Robin laughed.
A sharp, genuine laugh, not of defeat, but understanding.
He looked up at Jacky, grinning. “So, the stories are true.”
Jacky stepped back, lowering his sword.
“You fight well.”
Robin pushed himself up, rubbing his neck.
“And you fight like a man worth following.”
He dusted himself off, giving Jacky a knowing look.
“I don’t fight for coin.
I fight to test myself, to stand beside warriors who make me better.”
Jacky studied him for a moment.
He had left Gnezdovo searching for men like this.
Warriors who sought battle not for greed, but for perfection.
Finally, he nodded. “Then walk with me.”
Robin grinned. “Try to keep up.”
And so, Robin the Bull joined Jacky the Surgeon, the first of many warriors who would forge the legend of Berserkir Hjarta.
The Wild Axe of the Forest
A few days after Jacky and Robin joined forces, their journey led them deep into the forests, where whispers of a lone warrior had begun to spread like fire.
Merchants spoke of a man whose axe could cleave a tree in a single stroke, a beast of a fighter who struck like thunder and vanished into the shadows before his enemies even knew he was there.
They followed the rumors, the broken remains of bandit camps marking their path, until the sun hung low in the sky, bleeding its last light through the trees.
That was when he found them.
From the undergrowth came the soft crunch of footsteps, too light for a man his size, too deliberate for a mere traveler.
Then, out of the dimming light, he emerged.
His axe, massive, chipped, and well-worn, rested casually over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.
His head was bare, the skin weathered by sun and battle, but his beard was meticulously kept
a stark contrast to the wildness in his eyes.
Those eyes, sharp as a wolf’s, burned with untamed fire, scanning them with the keen instinct of a predator, weighing their worth in silence.
“Who steps into my forest?” his voice rumbled, low and warning.
Jacky barely had time to respond before Robin snorted, stepping forward with a smirk.
“Your forest? Looks like any other pile of trees to me.”
The wild man narrowed his gaze.
“Strangers,” he muttered.
“Not merchants, not bandits… but you walk through my forest like you belong here.”
His eyes settled on Robin.
“You move like a man who fights.”
Then, shifting to Jacky, he narrowed his stare.
“And you… you speak like one who commands.”
Jacky met his gaze without hesitation.
“Jacky the Surgeon,”
he said evenly.
“This is Robin.
We’re not here for trouble; we’re looking for warriors.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“And by the look of things, we’ve found one. You must be Dimi the Axe.”
Dimi tilted his head, his grip tightening on his weapon. “And if I am?”
Jacky’s smirk was as sharp as his blade.
“Then I’d say the stories don’t do you justice.”
He stepped closer, his voice even but firm.
“We’re building something, a band of warriors who serve no king, no lord.
Fighters who live for glory, brotherhood, and the thrill of battle.”
He let the words settle before adding, “That sound like something you’d be interested in, Axe?”
For a long moment, Dimi said nothing.
His eyes flicked between them, weighing the truth of their words, the strength in their stance. Then, slowly, his grip eased.
“I’ve spent too long fighting alone,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
His gaze locked onto Jacky’s, fire still burning behind his wolf-like stare.
“Show me this brotherhood of yours, Surgeon.”
He hefted his axe, resting it against his shoulder once more.
And so, in the quiet forests outside AS, Belgica, the three warriors first joined forces.
And so, the Heart of the Berserkers; Berserkir Hjarta was born in the fields and forests of AS, Belgium.
Three warriors, each as different as the gods they followed, united by the call of something greater.
The town of AS would never forget the night the three legends forged their bond, and neither would the world.
For from that small corner of Belgica, their saga began—a tale of blood, steel, and unbreakable brotherhood that would echo through the ages.
