Chronicles Of Middle Ages

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #27 → “Fiskesjok

Welcome to Fiskesjok, the proud home of Sweden’s most infamous fishing tradition and the only place in the world where the fish literally joke back.

It all started centuries ago when old man Sven, the village idiot (or genius, depending on who you ask), dropped his lute into the lake while serenading his beloved. The next morning, he pulled out not his lute, but a talking pike. Not just any talking pike. This one had a sense of humor. It told Sven a joke so funny that he laughed for three days straight, forgot his heartbreak, and accidentally invented the world’s first fish pun. (“What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fsh!”) The pike, delighted by Sven’s laughter, promised to grant the village good fortune if they kept the jokes coming.

Now, every year, Fiskesjok hosts the Great Fish Comedy Festival, where fishermen and comedians from across Scandinavia gather to tell their best jokes to the lake. If the fish laugh (evident by the bubbles rising to the surface), the festival is a success, and the village is blessed with bountiful catches. If the fish don’t laugh? Well, let’s just say last year’s “Why did the herring cross the sea?” flop led to a very lean winter.

The village’s star attraction is Jonas the Jokester, a massive, ancient pike said to be the original joke-telling fish. Jonas lives in a special pool in the town square, where visitors can try their luck at making him chuckle. Rumor has it he’s heard every joke in the book twice but has a soft spot for puns about seafood. (“I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down!” sent him into a bubble-fit for hours.)

Fiskesjok’s rivalry with neighboring Copenhagen is legendary. The Danes claim their smørrebrød is funnier than Swedish fish jokes, which is obviously ridiculous. The annual Scandi Comedy Duel is the highlight of the festival, where teams from each kingdom battle wits in front of Jonas. Last year, the Swedish team won with a knock-knock joke so bad it made Jonas spit out a gold coin in protest.

But be warned: if you visit Fiskesjok, you will be roped into telling a joke. And if Jonas doesn’t laugh? You’re sentenced to a week of peeling potatoes for the festival feast. (Pro tip: Never lead with “What’s brown and sticky? A stick.” Jonas has standards.)

So, if you’re traveling through Sweden and hear bubbles rising from a lake, followed by the sound of an entire village groaning at a dad joke, congratulations. You’ve found Fiskesjok. Just don’t blame us if you leave with a new appreciation for puns … and a slight cringe reflex.

[SWE-7]

Kingdom of Sweden

Node #19 - Vargatid

The English called it “The Howling Pit.” The Swedes call it Vargatid. The Poles won’t speak its name at all.

Three hundred years ago, an English regimen kmown as The Black Hounds marched into these woods and never marched out. They were mercenaries, hired by a Swedish king to crush a rebellion in the north. But the rebels they were sent to fight weren’t men. Not anymore. The last dispatch from the regiment’s captain, sent back to London in a bloodstained pouch, read only: “They wear our faces. God help us, they learn.” The pouch was found on the shore of the Thames, stitched shut with human hair.

Now, Vargatid is a wound in the land that never heals. The forest grows in impossible spirals, the trees leaning in as if listening. Travelers who pass through speak of seeing shapes moving just beyond the firelight. Tall, gaunt things with the faces of English soldiers, their mouths sewn shut with sinew, their eyes glowing like embers. They don’t attack. They watch. And if you meet their gaze for too long, you start to hear the whispers: fragments of English prayers, Swedish curses, and something older, something that sounds like teeth clicking together in the dark.

The river that cuts through Vargatid is called the Gråt “The Weeping.” Every autumn, when the mists rise, the water turns black, and the current reverses, flowing inland as if pulled by unseen hands. The villagers say it’s the Black Hounds, dragging something back to the pit where they fell. Last year, a Polish trader tried to cross the river at dusk. They found his cart the next morning, its wheels sunk into the mud, the horses still hitched but the horses had five legs each, and their eyes were human.

The worst part? The English still come.

Every generation, a lone traveler arrives from across the sea. A scholar, a soldier, or a fool drawn by rumors of lost gold or secrets. They always pitch their tents in the same clearing, where the grass grows in the shape of a snarling wolf. They always vanish by dawn. And every time, a new face appears in the forest: pale, gaunt, and wearing the tattered red coat of the Black Hounds. The villagers say the regiment is still recruiting.

Three winters ago, a Swedish hunter named Lars went missing in Vargatid. They found his sword leaning against a tree, its hilt bent like a bone. The stock was warm. His brother swore he heard Lars’ voice in the wind that night, chanting in English: “We march at dawn. We march forever.”

The king's men burned the clearing where the Black Hounds fell. The fire lasted three days. On the fourth morning, the ashes were gone. The grass had grown back.

And the howling started again.

[SWE-8]