Just as with the winners, clicking on the image will take you to a larger version. Oh, and for part two of the runners up, go here.

Hakon

by 17Yame48

17Yame48’s approach really tapped into a personal sweet tooth of mine. One must appreciate the exhausting effort that went into the shading of hundreds of cloth ripples. Although the artist took a conservative approach to color, the careful lighting and values make for a level of detail that draws the eye regardless.

I particularly appreciate the shadow on the parchment background. It makes the piece feel reminiscence of ancient Chinese works, much like Ma Yuan’s On a Mountain Path in Spring, but with modern pop. The contest maybe over, but I’ll be watching this artist’s portfolio long after.

Be sure to visit yame’s Deviant Art account too.

Godstone Blue and Purple

by Madeline B

Madeline B’s piece involves the godstone of Bjorulf. What isn’t clear is whether the background is meant to be suggestive of night or the encroaching darkness. Or perhaps the aurora borealis— the northern lights— which can be seen in Sweden should anyone have the inclination to visit.

In fact, looking at the art suddenly makes me think of “Standing Stones,” perhaps my favorite track from the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim soundtrack, by Jeremy Soule. Put the music on and listen to it for a while. And you may very well catch a glimpse of some of the magic Madeline is conveying.

Young Oddleif

by Evan Purcell

When we meet Oddleif in Banner Saga, we come to know her as the wizened wife of the chieftain, a master archer and excellent adviser. As such, pretty much everyone wonders what she must have been like when she was younger. Was she more adventurous? Did she see herself as getting out of traditional village life? Or perhaps someday taking charge of Skogr? And how did she end up with that scar on her cheek?

We’re pretty accustomed to using the phrase “a good man,” but perhaps we seldom enough say, “a good woman.” But Oddleif is just that, mixed with initiative and the qualities of a strong leader. And I’m certainly not one to think that such individuals come from a total vacuum.

There’s a story hiding behind those crystal blue eyes, mark my words.

For more of Purcell’s work, head to his blog.

Dredge and Nid

by Kim Gibson

One of the things that got fans particularly excited for Banner Saga 3 was the promise of finally earning allied dredge units. The prior games sometimes even hint at the possibility. What’s more frustrating is that while the menders seem to know what’s going on, they’re not sharing. Only the dredge might know for sure, and we can’t understand them… so far.

Many fans strangely hope to not have reason to hate the dredge when this is over. Perhaps they even hope for a scene like the one provided by Kim Gibson— one that stirs hope. Despite how bizarre the dredge can be, there still might be something shockingly human about them. Even as the varl try to overlook that…

Time will tell.

Defiance

by Patrick Fittkau

Our last piece for this Friday comes from Patrick Fittkau, who noticed one intriguing detail about everyone’s least favorite patience-destroying prince. In Fittkau’s own words:

“I always wondered why prince Ludin uses a spear and not a sword like his father. A sword would seem a more kingly weapon. I imagined there must have been a day quite a while back, when he decided to oppose his father’s expectations openly. Probably didn’t do him much good then. So my name for the picture became: Defiance.”

Fittkau certainly stoked the imagination with these excellent points.

By the way, be sure to check out his portfolio.

So that’s all for this Friday. Tune in next week as we showcase the remaining five contestants.

Folka heard the yox’s long moan outside and sighed. It had a tendency to free itself from the barn and yowl, trapped in the cold. Yox are not intelligent, and this one was nearly as old a family member as herself. Her boots were conveniently by the door and she trudged into the dim night.

Though, it was not as it seemed. Immediately Folka was aware that she was weaponless as she watched her yox get dragged through the crunchy snow. There must have been three thieves, their shadows barely visible in the night, and sounds from the barn suggested more. Folka had nothing with which to attack, but that’s never stopped a lumberer from fighting. Though the preference was strategy, she had learned to be resourceful. This would not be the first time it saved her.

Without even a grunt, she ran toward the stolen animal, eyes searching for something to grab and swing. The figures had stopped shuffling away and stood ready, when—

An enormous bulk dashed into them first, bowling into the mass and leaving deep gashes in the ice-crusted snow. It was impossible to tell the ruckus from itself, all screams and growls and the yox’s wails. Folka did not slow her pace, but leapt into the fray, twisting the first arm she saw and releasing leathery reins from its grip. It was mayhem and the yox reared back, the yoke catching a brigand in the gut and Folka in the face. Her blood joined the others in the moonlight, splattering on a sword she wrenched away from the wielder, hearing the pop of his wrist breaking under her force.

The barn was not in great repair before the night began, and Folka saw the shadow just before the roof crashed down by her side. Groaning, the rest of the structure could not hold as remaining brigands slammed open the doors and fled.

The white beast was upon them in an instant. Wood creaked, snapped, and the walls folded forward, toppling around the struggling figures. Dropping everything, Folka reached out her arms to stop a falling door–

And slammed it onto the outstretched heel of a brigand, causing him to drop his sword mid-thrust. Reactively, she hefted the barn door and crashed it to the ground, sending a flimsy buckler skidding across the ground. At her side, the white creature kept its stance ready to charge. But there was no longer anything to fight.

A trail of blood, dragged limbs and ripped clothing signaled the departure of the thieves, faster than Folka could bother to chase them, fast as it all began. She dropped the door deep into the snow and pushed past the beast to reclaim her yox, but death had claimed it first. Damned shame. The bear-varl, panting and familiar, was looking at her, then his eyes searched the glowing, empty windows of the house. His voice was hoarse as she remembered, the voice of an animal. “Where is your family?”

“I am all my family.”

The night smelled like pine and iron.

He huffed into his beard, “Your nose is broken.”

Folka held his stare, “I didn’t notice.”

The bear-man stood, taller than the home in which she lived, “You pretend to be so strong.”

“Why would I pretend? What would I pretend for? The trees don’t care. The sky does not care. I bring down the forest whether it believes me or not.”

She felt she owed him no thanks nor explanation. His appearance was a boon, but it did not save her yox nor her livelihood. At least there was good meat to be had, and she would get another animal somehow.

He stretched his arms and tossed a tightly-bound leather package to her feet. Folka didn’t need to open it, she had made it herself. It contained a cloth and salve, but she had no intention of using it, just as he had not. Folka had fought her brigands with a broken nose, and did not find it as difficult as the town stories said.

The land was frozen around them, so the yox would keep until morning until she was ready to prepare the meat. But dinner was on, and the warmth of the house beckoned her. Gathering an extra log for the fire, she walked back to the open door of the house. The bear-man had not moved, still surveying the night that held no other disturbance. He looked feral and fearsome, but something in him had placed him there. The gods may be dead, but their work was ever an enigma.

“I’ll finish cooking the stew,” she called out the door, “don’t leave the door open long.”

Folka walked back into her modest family home, remembering how many people it once held around the table, remembering the ordinary sound of living. A hulking shadow appeared at the door and for the first time in a year, she fetched two plates for the table.

The bear within Bolverk had awoken and he lumbered through the cold forest, hands and feet digging into the icy soil. The rites spoke of primal living, of natural existence, and shouldering the cruelty of desperation. Living at all costs was what mattered. Bears were built to withstand the harshest and worst winters, to flourish in the verdant summers. They could sleep through the cold months if the land had been kindly, but Bolverk shared the winter nights and days with the less fortunate and more hardened kind. His kind.

The rites of the berserk were strict and secret. Every few years, or any time as desired, they reconnected with the ursine spirit within them through trial and distance. Bolverk was wrong to keep any thoughts in his mind, wrong to use words in any capacity, but ever so rarely they crept back in.

The Ravens were temporarily absent of their captain. To what would Bolverk return?

Back to the woods, if all was gone. The Ravens were motley and not of his creed, nor of his capability. A finer bunch he could never find, but no fellowship among them. Bolverk was not the man to create it. He did not nurture, he enforced. The wind bit at his shoulder, an aching twinge from the scabbed arrow wound, making the cold feel deeper. That foolish girl. He broke the rites when he spoke to her. He should have chased her where she stood. That was the true way.

More land passed beneath his legs. Walk on until varl instincts were left behind.

Brigands held no interest to him, their presence only spoke of trouble elsewhere in the civilized world. Bears do not pick fights when there is naught to gain. Bolverk stayed high in his tree, watching the thin-skinned ones communicate and trek so inefficiently through the cold. Bears do not bother with talk, and Bolverk did his best to keep his ears full of the forest and not words.

But words crept in.

“Aye, the only smoke we’ve seen for days.”

“Across an entire valley, and we’re supposed to trust it?”

“Rotten yox stew is not as satisfying as it once was,” they bickered back and forth.

“Whether a camp or a home, our packs will be filled.”

To think, bears were the ones noted as savages.

Their talk grew distant as the sun hit peak in the sky. Off to make waste of their own kind. A putrid thing, civilization, rotting in its own juices.

A gust stung his cheek, his shoulder prickled with the fresh memory of the arrow. Unlikely it was the girl’s homestead that was the target of the brigands. They were a shoddy sort in any case. If she was any evidence, her family was a strong clan and would benefit from the supplies they gathered from the lowlives headed towards them.

The wind bit his new scar. He leapt down from the tree, cushioned by the crisp snow.

A bear does not use words, just instinct. Bolverk’s arms and legs followed the path cleared by shuffling human feet. He pushed out thoughts and followed the scent of battle towards a distant smudge of smoke on the side of the valley.

Folka part 4 ->

Bolverk knew this sensation. It seared and held on tight, digging as deeply as it could, and he roared in unexpected pain.

The little arrow wasn’t so buried in his shoulder after all; Bolverk sat upright and nearly dislodged it from its place. He shrugged the thin frost off his bare arms, covering them in his bearskin cloak and growled, expecting a fight.

Finding a girl.

Her feet were solid in the deep snow, and her face showed no signs of intimidation. A bear would retaliate against the attack, Bolverk knew, but her bow faced the ground and she made no further effort to draw. In this ice-quiet place, sounds muffled by peaceful snow, Bolverk was at a loss for how to respond. He grasped the arrow, tearing it out of his skin.

“Your arrows are weak.”

“My aim is worse,” she said back, rigid as any tree in the clearing. “I’m not cut out for hunting. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“A bear,” his unused voice growled, “would have eaten you.”

“No,” she stated, “but it’s unlikely I would be eating bear. Hopefully there are other creatures to hunt in the forest that I am more accustomed to.”

She wasn’t as young as she seemed, with her hair tucked back with ribbon and her arms wrapped in thick leathers. The girl, though a woman after all, shrugged at him. “You’re not a bear.”

“You know so little, girl. I’m more bear than varl. And you’re no hunter. A tiny human has no hope of hunting either.”

“Clearly.” Her gaze dropped to the pack slung across her shoulder and rustled around to withdraw out a tautly-wrapped handful. She tossed it to his feet; neither of them flinched. “Salve and a cloth bandage. It helps.”

“Why would I need that?”

“I might have shot you in the shoulder just now, if you’ve forgotten.” She closed her bag and shouldered her bow. Unafraid–like a smile on a stone wall.

Bolverk glowered, stepping forward and covering her in his shadow. He kicked the leather package past her and growled, “Are you trying to tame a bear?”

“Are you trying to threaten a woman?”

Snow filled the silence.

“I’m due to tend my family, chores await.” She turned away, “I’ll shoot no more bears.”

Bolverk watched her cut a path through the gentle snow, making the only sound for miles. She knew her way around the forest, even if she couldn’t tell the difference between a bear and a berserk.

Not his problem.

He tucked the leathery gift under his bearskin cloak and lurched further into the woods, feeling the icy wind on his bare chest and in the hole of his shoulder. Using civilized goods went against the nature of his rite and of this journey, but damned if he’d be taken down by the wayward arrows of a girl.

Folka part 3 ->

He hadn’t even left a letter. There was merely an absence where he was, a hollow where he and their marriage vows might have been. She had heard it from other people, and eventually from her father. If the story was true, it was improbable.

“He had broken his nose, you see, and they say he was weak and prone when the menace found him…”

Folka did not see how a broken nose could be so debilitating as to cause an end of life. If he had run away from this town and their future together, he should have been able to run from the brigands just as easily.

Either way, he was not coming back, and the story seemed to hurt more than the reality of it all. She forgot all but the parts that stung, and kept those inside and quiet. There was work to do.

Father was not so old, but years of cold hardship had weathered him like the trees he cut down. Folka, being of sturdier build, was accustomed to her share of the work, whether it was felling or transport of the lumber, or the things in the house that needed to be done. They ate the same food almost every night, because it was easy enough to acquire and prepare, and neither of them had much in the ways of cooking. Her calloused hands held the wooden utensils, the caricatures of better-crafted cutlery made with the limited skill of a family who had rarely encountered any. She wondered if their crude manners were the real reason there were not more people at the table with them each night. Her hair was tucked primly, with the memory of her mother and sister in every braid. Her arms preferred the bite of chill air and the scrapes of bark. Did her lover’s resolve fall like a branch from under the power of her swing?

If only hearts were as strong as trees, she thought, they could weather the cold all alone. Her axe tore through the pulp, one after the other. She would stay warm somehow.

On the third night when her father had not come back, Folka was not worried.

On the fifth night, she stopped preparing meals to share.

On the tenth night, they told her how peaceful her father had looked.

On the eleventh night, Folka prepared to do the next delivery, because a livelihood is not easily gained or upkept.

He had gone peacefully, they said, and she grimaced away her thoughts into a knot of coarse rope. The wagon was overfilled but the yox was trusty and Folka wasn’t riding, she walked. More room for the wood. Snowflakes disguised the tears on her cheeks. She would stay warm somehow, and she would buy a ribbon like her late mother’s, and she would be all the family she had left.

The town was a day’s trip away, and it was time she sorely needed.

Folka part 2 ->