Goats of the Iron Will:

As the sun hung low, its molten eye glaring upon the cracked earth, the wind whispered through what remained of brittle grass. This was a wasteland that time, rain and animal protection had forgotten.

But here in this land where water was a memory, three forsaken souls had taken refuge. At the mercy of the elements and human indifference, they were warriors in their own right.

Ragnar, a striking chestnut buck with a beard as grand as the fjords, kept vigil over his family. Fleet of foot, he was a nuggety Viking, set to flee at the first hit of capture. Bjorn, his young son born in his image, wore a mop of unruly red hair—a comical, defiant crown against the harshness of their fate. And Lagertha, their fierce matriarch, heavy with life, refused to bow even as thirst gnawed at her bones and her belly swelled.

But the land here was no sanctuary. The dry earth writhed with hidden serpents as the last of their water vanished with the sun’s unrelenting gaze. For how long they could last in such circumstances was a shortened guess.
Then came the strangers.

Though they did not come with blades and shields, their “weapons” were stranger still—kindness. Ragnar stood his ground but was the first to fall as a sedative dart pierced his tough rear veneer. With his dad and hero fallen, Bjorn stood confused and was an easy target.

But Lagertha.

The wise and wary stood at the crossroads of just what to do. Run for her life and flee her family or heed her instinct and stand defiant in the face of the “enemy”. And it was in that instant of indecision that the sharp sting of a dart met her flank. She fought, staggering, swaying, refusing to yield. It took time, but in the end, even warriors must rest.

When the three awoke, the world looked different. It smelled different. It was different. Here, they found fresh golden straw, sweet hay and water—clear, fresh and unlimited. They watched their new caretakers with the eyes of survivors, sceptical, waiting for the storm behind the smile.

But it never came, and our promise is it never will.

With each rising of the sun, Lagertha hinted more and more that a hidden treasure was to come. And our rescue tally would increase to four as a tiny, black-furred son marked with tan stripes, a mirror of her own fire, came into the world. He was named Ivar, a warrior born in safety, not struggle.

And slowly now, in the warmth of sanctuary, the wild-hearted begin to soften.
Their story continues…