A conversation a friend and I were having ended up turning into writing a Valheim story in poetry form, and I figured I'd post it here (with permission) just for a bit of fun.

I think it'll be pretty obvious to any reader that there were two writers, as our styles are very different. Also, my skill level is much, much lower.

Part of the poem is loosely based on Anglo-Saxon heroic verse, as used in Beowulf.

For context: the conversation was about a virtual deer when the poem began to form, and deer trophies are a source of amusement for us in-game.

--------------------------------

Brief was the life of the deerly departed.
But it will live on in memories, for ever.
Enduring, triumphant -- a trophy -- remains.

Such strong antlers, such a proud gaze in the once lively eyes.
Flashing like lightning. . .
In life, chained to the ground except for brief moments, but in death high up on a wall.

His words, an undying inspiration . . .
His eyes, red like rubies, shining in the dark.
Antlers, stained in gore, bedecked with burst fetters. . .

Oaken antlers, angered anew, smote the stout fighters with the storm's forked fire. . .
Fur like coal, eyes like fire; in his wake, crackling thunder.
Arrows, like eagles, rent short his reign. So fell the Forsaken, shorn from his shrine.
Death he defied, to avenge his kin, and although he failed his defiance lives on.

Onward the warriors dragged the drear trinket, to hang in the hallowed circlet of stones.
His power now courses in the warriors' veins, his strength gives them aid when they need it the most.
His might made them more so. Swiftly they swept through mild meadows, to wild woods dark, blackened and dim.

Ignoring necks, and boars, and greylings, they made their way towards hidden riches.
No dwarf could stop them, no troll stood a chance.
Neither tree-wielding trolls, nor burning-eyed brutes might muster to menace their earning of ore.

Picks pounded stone -- cut from the earth -- copper in piles. . .
Tin was the next step, found along rivers and streams; instead of green they now mined blue-grey. Then placed in a cart and made their way home.
Laden with looting, they sped to the smelters. Bright burned the coals, charred in the kilns. . .

Ore into ingots, wood into coal. The process is simple, but lacking in speed. The noise that it makes is hard on the ears.
Sought they then slumber, slept through the night. The song of the smelters sounded till sunrise.

With ingots in piles, reflecting sunlight, the next phase was started, hammers in hand.
Forged they for fighting, brazen and burnished, weapons to wield.
Old gear was retired, bronze one took its place. A club had served well, now replaced by a mace.
Quick knives and keen atgeirs, eager for slaughter, slid in their hands, hefted in hardships.

A ship was constructed, to explore the oceans.
Dangers lurk there and storms hit often, but determined were the warriors mighty.
Fog filled the furls. Winds wafted away. Storm-seeking serpents swam swift through the seas.
Hard though the fog tried to hide plains, the warriors knew to slow down their ship.
No prey for goblins became the brave vikings, no flying terrors them managed to reach.

Through the mists loomed the mountains, frost-bound and fierce.
There, watchful wolves, and glowering golems, awaited arrivals, with dithering drakes.
The warriors knew to avoid the tall ones, for the cold would end them as they lacked a strong brew.
But the time would soon come, to conquer the mountains, collecting silver and searching for seeds.

Mead to master the mountains was made, yet steep were the slopes, and weary the ways -- aching their ankles, even with Eikthyr. . .
The climb was not easy, but offered rewards aplenty. Drakes fell to arrows, golems were outrun.
Wolves were sought out; fierce hunters turned prey, their skin used for clothes to keep cold at bay.

Silver they shivered, sundered from stone, brilliant it burst, to shower the searchers. Rich was that rain, rent from the rocks.
The vikings were clever, knew how to mine fast, and soon they had silver all loaded on carts.
Next, they would find a suitable cliff, to speed up the process of hauling the ore...

Tossed from the cliff-tops, carts came crashing, slipping and sliding, slithering seawards. Bright was the bounty they heaved in the hold.
The warriors followed their carts back down, carefully sliding, taking their time.
Once the carts were reached, quick repairs took place, then back to the ship headed silver and vikings.

Foundered in fog, their sail sat, windless. Wide was the water, homeward to wend.
Serpents are drawn to ore and riches; like dragons, they hoard what treasure they find...
Sharp shown their scales, slick with saltwater, glittered and gleamed twixt the glare and the gloom.
Teeth whiter than snow, stronger than steel, could easily tear through flesh and wood.

But bold were the bearers of iron-bound weapons -- wrenched from the swamps, where dwell the draugrs. . .
Crypts full of dangers they'd faced for those scraps, fighting through poison and striking down slimes.
Blobs they had burst, and oozers ousted -- yet abrupt abominations from waters erupted. . . .
Axes are tools for cutting down trees, and bodies of wood fell to them swiftly.
Yet the warriors knew to not tread too lightly... for dangers still lurked and stalked the swamps nightly.

Forth from the swamps, weary they wandered, burdened with iron, their blades to bind. Now the sleek serpent hounded them to harbour.
That was the downfall of the fool of a serpent; straight to its doom its greed it had sent.
A harpoon was fired, the beast felt a sting; it now had been captured, and heard its captors sing.
Dragged from the drenching, the wretched worm wriggled, hooked by a hero, and felled in the fields.
Its scales were collected, its meat brought back too. For scales can be used for crafting a shield, and stew can aid vikings at a battlefield.

Slyly the champions slipped the cargo of silver, but slight was their mirth, for still stood the smelters. Wood was now needed, the work to renew.
The forest stood near, so it was no long trek, but there was a problem: every cart was a wreck.
They had to be rebuilt with wood and bronze nails, then pulled along on well-trodden trails.

Yet cheerless the chopping, with skill of such prize, for from out the forest struck a Skeleton Surprise!
Bones soon were flying as the vikings fought with fury, naught would be left of their foes' remains to bury.