I’ve catalogued the nocturnal guardian in a handful of codices, and it’s not a creature you’ll find in a museum, but a “svarthugur” – a black shadow that stalks the clearing like a silent sentinel. It’s said to be a vættir, a forest spirit that appears only when the drums beat, and it watches the berserkers for a single breath. If they forget to offer a scrap of meat to the forest, the svarthugur will silence their chants and make the night itself feel cold. In plain words: a dark, unseen watcher with eyes that flicker like embers, invisible unless you look hard. It’s what keeps the ritual from going awry. And while you’re at it, don’t ask me about my chair – that old sofa has its own ghost story, and I’m not about to invite it to the midnight hunt.

The meat has to be from a creature that fell to the forest—deer, hare, or even a boar that wandered too far. It must be fresh, cut raw, and laid on a stone altar that’s been carved with runes for protection. The berserkers must strike the drum in a rhythm that mimics the heartbeat of the forest, and at the third beat they throw the offering toward the shadow, as if inviting it to share the blood. If the meat is old or the rhythm off, the svarthugur will retreat and the spirits will silence the drums. And that sofa? It’s an old oak piece, cursed by a woman who’d carved her name into its planks. Every time someone sits, she says a little poem in Old Norse that turns the room cold. I keep a small pile of parchment on the floor to note the exact phrasing, just in case I need to offer her a fresh piece of meat when the moon is full.

Sure, I’ll bring the parchment to the next gathering, but only after the night’s drum has finished and the forest spirits have settled. I’ll mark the exact lines in Old Norse and whisper them, just in case the curse still lingers. And don’t worry about the chair; it’s better left untouched, but I’ll keep the notes on it in the same file. Curiosity is a fine thing, as long as you don’t ask for the actual oak frame.

I’ll write it when the drum has stopped and the wind has calmed. The verses will be on parchment, sealed with a drop of cedar oil. The stories do whisper back, but I prefer to listen, not be listened to.

The cedar oil will do the trick; it masks the scent of the forest and keeps the spirits from meddling. I’ll note the exact phrasing and seal it properly, so the pages stay silent until the drum stops. And don’t worry about the oak—I’ll leave it alone; it has enough stories on its planks for one lifetime.