As soon as he left the house, he strode toward the stables. It didn't take him long to spot his grumpy Unnvaldr, the stallion's nostrils flaring as he caught Baldur's scent. The horse huffed, stamping a hoof in greeting—or perhaps impatience.
"Easy, boy," Baldur murmured, patting him along the horse's powerful neck. He grabbed a bucket of water and held it to Unnvaldr's muzzle, watching as the horse drank deeply, the muscles in his throat working. "Thirsty, huh?"
He saddled Unnvaldr swiftly, the leather creaking as he secured it, and then set off galloping. He followed the path that led away from the shore where their houses were built. As he ascended the road, he was met with a crossroad with three paths and a great expanse of open mountainous plains and fields. These were the lands they held in their name, where the tenants they had sown and tilled the land to finally harvest the fruits of their labor after the crops grew.
Our lands weren't the best, so we mostly sowed barley and rye. Some plots, where the earth was richer and better, grew wheat. The wheat production was just barely enough for internal consumption by the people on the farm. Most of the time, we bought extra wheat if needed, but rye and barley were our main sources of life—whether for food or income.
He had noticed that oats weren't being farmed anywhere, as there was barely any selling of them in Kattegat. However, there were wild oats. Driven by his desire to eat oats with milk and honey—to rotate the barley porridge so he wouldn't get tired of it—he decided to farm them in an unused space. At first, it was just an experiment to see if there was any luck, but surprisingly, they grew fine and healthy. Now, we also have a small stock of oats for consumption.
As he looked around, following the path in front of him led to the fields and the communal longhouses for the farmers and their families, to his left it led to woods and the direction to Kattegat, while his right led to the mountain forest. He took the right, and the ride to his destination was short, as it wasn't too far from the fields. The place had started with his desire to create a better living for his family and the people who depended on them. They had ten families linked to them, working on the ancestral land of his father's family. Since Ragnar didn't want to work the land—preferring instead to be a warrior and adventurer—these people were perfect for his kind of lifestyle, which he called "farming." To him, he was more like a landlord than a farmer, but he didn't care about the semantics.
To improve everyone's conditions, he began building new crop storage facilities, as the previous ones were precarious. After seeing how the surplus crops they sold to merchants and buyers—from which his family earned income outside of raids—were fetching meager pennies, he decided it was enough. They couldn't let themselves be fooled anymore. They had been selling the crops raw, without any processing beyond harvesting. Any processing after the harvest was done only for home use, not for the bulk sold. So, he started building processing facilities and structures around them. First, he ground the crops into flour to increase their value. Then, taking advantage of the winter and the cold climate, he crudely distilled beer and mead into stronger versions by freezing and boiling them to create stronger ale or mead. It worked, but he didn't have the capacity or facilities to produce beer from their harvested crops. So, he began by buying mostly mead from the market—since it was more expensive and desired—processing it, and selling it easily. The ale also worked, though the changes were minimal compared to the mead, but it was easy to do, so he did it too. It yielded a nice profit, which he later used to build the facilities and structures needed to start brewing their own homemade beer.
For that, he needed more workers, more people, and things began piling up and growing bigger and bigger into what it is today.
The path wound past the fields. At this point, the rye lay dormant beneath a thin blanket of snow. This rye had been sown in autumn and was now waiting for spring's thaw to resume its growth. The sight of the fields made him think about how to make the best use of them and generate money. This land needed to be exploited as much as possible and experimented with, so that when his father and family ascended later, he would have the experience to better administer territories for greater things.
The cluster of buildings at the mountain's foot came into view, smoke curling from chimneys and forges alike. The spring gurgled nearby, its waters a different branch from the one that led to the house. This one fed the brewery, the workers' houses, and the furnaces. Baldur dismounted, patting Unnvaldr's flank before tying him to a post. It was a lively place, always bustling with activity, as there were different kinds of production already in place. The sound of saws cutting wood, the clatter of hammers on anvils, and the distant shouts of men training reached his ears. This was like the start of an industrial zone.
He strode past the longhouses where his workers lived. As he rode through the place, people greeted him warmly, mostly calling him "master," even if they weren't his slaves. But in another way, they really were his slaves. The brewery's scent filled the air first, followed by the acrid tang of molten metal from the forges. But it was the crucible furnace that drew him like a magnet. The squat, brick structure hummed with heat, its clay-lined belly glowing orange through the cracks. This was the heart of his operation, the key to his fortune. After months of trial and error, ruined batches, and near-disasters, he had finally perfected the process and the structure to hold it. Now, it was time to scale up.
A group of men sparred in a cleared space beyond, near the woods, their swords and shields clashing. Among them was Bjorn, already sparring with Jokul. He watched for a moment before moving to a building. This building was the heart of the place, where everything happening in the area was directed. It was like an office or reception area, or a town's municipal building.
There, a man lived and worked, following Baldur's directives.