Returning somewhat late that night, Peter only checked in with a few people before turning in for the night.

The last person he saw that night was Anna who, in addition giving him a satisfying report on the reservoir lakes construction progress, gave him something else to be satisfied with.

If at first spending time with her had made him feel apprehensive, now spending their nights together had become normal and he had begun to like how her dark brown hair and green eyes looked even more than he had before.

But despite him enjoying himself at night, there was much work to be done and, in this way, the next few days passed.

By the 4th day after Peter had established the new village of [Mazen], he woke up early and got to work right away.

His role wasn’t so much directing the scores of men and women as they did their jobs – Peter himself didn’t have the technical knowledge on how to build an 1800’s era settlement with nothing but hand tools – but more so inspiring them by working side by side.

Naturally if he was working then Peter wouldn’t have the 500-odd Knights and Sword Sisters not working, whether or not they liked it, and so set up a rotation for his professional soldiers.

In rough numbers, groups of 150 Knights and Sword Sisters would rotate between construction work, patrolling, and standing as the night watch.

The few Marksmen left in [Rivacheg] had all been put to the task of hunting and making rough maps of the local terrain.

As for Peter himself, he had mostly stopped patrolling for River Trolls, and had started to use his considerable strength for the mundane tasks of building forges – which were needed to turn the spare weapons into iron plows strong enough to dig into the hard topsoil, digging up foundations for homes – since it was pointed out by Professor Helsing that in cold environments and structure in direct contact with the ground would be impossible to insulate, marking roadways, and the like.

The field for making red bricks was already several acre’s wide and the trees that needed to be used as firewood or made into charcoal had to be cut, transported, and stacked up for eventual use.

After barely 3 weeks had passed since he had come into this world, the village of Rivacheg had already started to leave its mark on the landscape and at times it astonished him.

Throughout the day smoke from bakers making their bread and cooks making the meals lofted over the area, and at night the small fires which were used as lighting could be seen like tiny stars in the distance.

The emerging settlement still had no industry or even permanent housing, but the overall design was clear to see.

There would be an inner and outer wall, the inner wall would be relatively small and include the Mayors residence, administrative offices, a chapel, a granary, and the citadel where residents would be able take refuge in during times of attack.

The outer wall would be much larger in comparison and encompass a town large enough to hold a few thousand residents.

Almost entirely designed by Professor Helsing, the town would have wide roads and different ‘zones’ – each of which would be initially dedicated to either industry, residential housing, or commerce. Whether it would always be that way, Peter didn’t know. He planned to eventually sell the plots of land outside of the inner walls.

All of these foundations in addition to the road and sewer markers were being put up now, and once the first batches of red bricks were fired, the entire area would sprout up from the ground like a weed.

The makeshift fields outside of Rivacheg would eventually be moved into a more interior location – perhaps between the 2 settlements, but for now many acres of fields had been planted with the vegetables that Peter had initially purchased from the Fate Casino.

He still hadn’t redeemed the cattle or horses; because despite their obvious utility he didn’t want to risk losing them and throw away his remaining precious FC to get more.

As for the enemies of mankind, the River Trolls were still being found by the patrols and killed in groups of 2 or 3. While there had been some deer that had been successfully hunted by the Marksmen, there were no signs of any intelligent life around.

The map given to Peter by the Dwarves marked ‘areas’ of danger but hadn’t pointed out any direct settlement or locations of interest.

As for the Dwarf guest himself, he wasn’t exactly a ‘jolly’ sort but was well behaved and even helped align the stones used in several forges, though he looked entirely unimpressed by the human smithies.

His name was Marek Vikramson, standing around 4ft 6 inches tall he was not as large as the Dwarven leader – or otherwise said, his older brother – Haarkon Vikramson.

Nevertheless, that was alright Peter thought as the day, Marek had been dutifully teaching Professor Hellsing the Dwarven language, and even helped himself when he asked.

And surprisingly, Peter proved to be an excellent student.

In the couple hours a day he spent with Marek he had picked up more of the Dwarven tongue than even Professor Hellsing.

Indeed, he was picking up the language so fast that Peter, who knew full well he was no brainiac in school, started wondering if that was a side effect of the [Super Soldier Serum (Model, Captain America, Marvel Comics)].

It was hard to tell, given that he was thinking with his own brain, so just shrugging it off, he really wished he remembered more about the abilities that Captain America had.

Going to bed that night after spending some time with Anna, Peter had no doubt that in a few weeks Rivacheg would be labelled a [Town] by the [Mount and Blade] system, and the large population currently working in construction could start doing more profitable things.

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At the same time Peter was going to bed, Alayen was looking over the last figures he had for the day.

Though it wasn’t high up, Rivacheg was situated on a natural plateau which made it good for defense. Unfortunately, Mazen couldn’t say the same thing as it was on purely flat grassland.

Having understood this potential risk, over the last 4 days Alayen had the citizens dig a rampart around the camp.

The design was simple but very effective, starting from a distance of about 15 yards away the people would dig a ‘wedge’ shape into the ground, with the end of slope being about 4 feet underground.

Then the dug-up dirt would then be piled on top of the other side of the wedge, which would result in an earthen wall of about 8ft in height.

Of course, without wood or stones to keep the dirt in place it wasn’t the most effective wall ever built, but it would be enough to halt any small group of trolls, and given that, Alayen had done his best.

In fact, over the last 4 days, he could only be amazed with himself.

Besides the ramparts, Mazen already had several large gardens dug up and seeded. The 40 Marksmen stationed in the village had also begun to bring back game which was a huge boon to the new villages optimism.

There had been some reports of shadowy figures in the woods reported by the hunters, but there hadn’t been any Troll attacks, nor a single stubbed toe for that matter, and Alayen was confident that while [Mazen] may never overtake [Rivacheg] in size, under his direction it would turn into a vital community for the Vaegir people in this new world.

Looking over his next plans of action, the man from Calradia breathed in deep, rubbed his eyes, and prepared himself for bed.

Walking out of his tent, he pricked up his ears, heard nothing but slight grunts and other noises coming from the tents, then looking up he eyed the green moon and thought to himself.

‘I’m sure it wasn’t that big last night, having 2 moons will take some time to get used to.’

Despite being put in a managerial role, Alayen was trained as a Knight from a young age and would easily notice changes in the night sky.

But, with not enough information to go off of, he just shrugged the sight off and went back into his tent.

Never could he have imagined that the green moon hadn’t changed to the eyes of those in Rivacheg, and so, Alayen was content in ignorance while the tiny green moon in the distance flickered ominously.

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Glancing up at the great [Morrslieb], which was shining ever brighter, Sigwulf grinned savagely: ‘The gods are giving us their blessing, tonight will be for their glory’ he thought.

Just one of hundreds, Sigwulf continued to bare his teeth with a ferocious smile while rowing the longship quietly up the river.

It had been a couple generations since there had last been a human settlement spotted this far north in Troll Country.

And the reason for that was simple, this land belonged to the Aesling.

Were these people soft-handed southerners who knew no better? Who cared.

For Sigwulf and his fellow marauders, the identities of these people meant nothing. Even if the scouts who first discovered the campfires had seen anything worth noting, they would still not care.

Since these intruders set up camp in Aesling territory they would have to pay the blood price.

Looking down, he rhythmically pulled the oar and relished in what great sacrifices he would make to the gods.

Most of his tribesmen were here for plunder and Thralls, but not Sigwulf.

He was there to show his devotion to [Karnath] and nothing more.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ he echoed in his mind over and over and over.

The Shadow-Sorcerers of their tribe had already scouted their targets and found 2 settlements, one newer and weaker so that would be their first target.

Having sacrificed his last remaining 3 Thralls to Karnath, Sigwulf wore their heads on his belt and felt full of something akin to divine power.

Knowing that it depended on the sort of fight these people put up, it wasn’t out of the question that they would sacrifice all those who surrendered before moving on to the larger settlement that very night!

‘What a gift to the Gods would that be!’ Sigwulf thought to himself, no doubt sharing the idea with many others.

Creeping through the cold springtime river, not a single longship was disturbed by the monsters which lived in the river.

Taking this as another sign that the raid was being blessed, as the monsters in Troll Country were the most concentrated of anywhere in the Old World, Sigwulf was the 1st to jump onto the rocky shore once they hit landfall.

Looking side to side, another 6 boats landed with thuds.

Each boat carried 40 marauders, some carried bows, some carried wickedly edged blades and shields, but most were like Sigwulf and carried two hand axes.

With the 2 moons, [Morrslieb] and [Mannslieb], out the 280 Aesling raiders stood out, but it didn’t matter to them.

They came at night to cause fear, not because of it.

All Norscan were natural raiders. Taught cruelty and violence from a young age they reveled in the powers granted by their dark gods.

So, despite getting out of their longships helter-skelter, the groups of raiders very quickly formed themselves into effective fighting lines.

With a very faint glow in their eyes, the Aesling didn’t speak, but carrying their ladders and weapons they all thought about past glories.

Thinking about the fall of Kraka Drak, and the glorious victory over the Dwarves, how could a mere human camp be a threat?

Looking at the settlement barely 300 yards away, Sigwulf sneered at the earthen ramparts, and leading the front of the charge, he held the ladder and started to trot.

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Standing on sentry duty, a 20-year-old Footman walked back and forth across the earthen wall holding his spear with a horn on his hip.

With both moons out, there was no need for extra lights, but a spooky green tint had covered the land, which he was not ashamed to say, scared him enough to do his job seriously.

Watching the horizon, he would only turn his head to walk to another spot to continue his watch from.

Mazen was a small settlement, and since Alayen had been using the Marksmen as hunters, naturally they were unable to stand as sentries through the night.

Taking other considerations into account, out of a total population of 246, Alayen had assigned 20 Huntresses and Footmen as semi-permanent guards.

And since there hadn’t been a single sighting of anything during the night, besides some large flying creatures far in the distance, the community had been less and less worried.

But still, Alayen was not so irresponsible to not put up some safeguards. Every few minutes the guards rotations would have them come into view of another guard and, in this way, they would constantly be checking on each other through the night.

So far there had never been a guard not seen during one of these rotations, and so when the Footman got to his observation area, he was somewhat confused when he didn’t see his friend.

‘Don’t tell me that chair maker fell asleep!’ was the man’s first thought.

In his last life the Footman had been a simple porter for almost all of his working days, he had lived a good and long life until, at the age of 54, he was on his deathbed and was given a new chance.

He was good at making short-term friends and associates, as he liked to joke, and naturally had befriended his fellow sentries.

The man who should have been looking back at him had been a furniture maker in Curaw, who was somewhat lazy, and that made the Footman think maybe his friend really did fall asleep.

Of course, the regulations were that he was supposed to sound the horn right away.

‘But if he’s asleep then…’

Naturally, a sentry falling asleep on duty was a serious offense and thinking that he would just go check on his friend, the Footman trotted over to the far wall as quietly as he could.

Then, turning a corner, he saw a scene that would forever be burned into his mind.

Coming to an immediate stop, more than a dozen pairs of eyes turned in his direction, a sensation that made his stomach drop into his bowels.

And there in the middle of the group of large men was his friend, on his knees, with his mouth bound shut, and with a red headed man carving a strange symbol into his forehead with the tip of a gruesome axe.

Then, it all happened in a second, and dropping the spear, the Footman turned to flee while reaching for the horn.

The other men moved to, speaking in some language the Footman would never understand, and just before they ran him through with their wicked blades, he pursed the horn to his lips and blew.

With the final breath he would ever take, he sounded the alarm.