Saga of the River's Reluctant Guardian - Captain Sten

By Renard the Quill, Viking Correspondent, thrice rejected but still loyal

In the whale-road of rivers, where the mighty Emaris river winds like a silver serpent through the reeds and mist, there stands a man whose silence weighs heavier than a war cry. Or so they say. Captain Sten, helm bearer of the Mistwing Longship, is by no means an ordinary sailor. In my opinion, he is the river’s own rune, carved by current and storm, a figure who commands not only men but the stillness of the waters themselves.

I have sought his company thrice, offering my back to the oar, my hands to the rope, my loyalty to his shield of command. However, thrice he turned me away, each refusal as sharp as the edge of a sword. No insult, no explanation, only the quiet certainty of a man who knows who belongs in his hall of waves and who does not.

And when I pressed further, daring to ask of hearth and kin, of scars and sagas that shaped him, he rejected me again. His gaze, steady as the north star, made plain: the river may bear his ship, but his soul is not for public crossing.

It’s this guardedness that makes him a legend, again in my humble opinion. His stoic yet watchful silence is a byrnie, a mail shirt of mystery. His crew quietly whisper of his rituals: how he listens to the wind’s song before giving orders, how he lets silence stretch until words fall like spears, how he treats the river not as a mere passage but a sanctuary.

I have seen him from afar, lantern - the sun of night - catching the lines of his face, as though the river itself had sculpted him. He stood at the prow like a rune come to life, unyielding, uninviting, yet just. Storms broke against him like waves against a cliff, and wolves shadowed the banks but dared not cross while he kept watch.

In the mead halls, warriors boast of blood spilt and battles slain. Yet Captain Sten’s saga is stranger: he slays not with the sword but with presence. His shield is silence, his spear is steadiness, his gift is sanctuary.

And so I remain skald, not a sailor. My ink stains parchment where his boots will never tread. I may never serve under Captain Sten, nor learn the secrets of his hearth, but I will always admire him. For some of us, the closest we come to his command is to write of it, to honour the man who guards the river, even as he guards himself from us.

Let this be my offering to the saga: Captain Sten, the River’s Reluctant Guardian. A man who rejects questions, rejects applications, rejects intrusion - and in so doing, becomes more than man. He becomes myth, a rune etched in water, a silence that sings louder than steel.

A Verse for Captain Sten

I begged for a berth, he said, “not today”,
I asked of his hearth, he turned me away.
Yet still on the river I sing with my pen,
For none sails so steady as Captain Sten.

- Renard the Quill