It was a perfect day, weather-wise. The sun was shining; the air was cool and breezy. It made for an ideal day for completing errands for the small Viking village that sat upon a how hill in Sweden, or other activities like fishing and hunting. The season of snow and cold had passes, and a season of warmer weather and no snow and plenty of golden sunshine had come and danced around the entire village, nay, it seemed like the whole world was also experiencing this delightful bounty of optimistic sun and cool, comfortable air. It was a day fit for Hellsing.

            Hellsing was a very immense being, not big enough to be a giant, yet not small enough to be a human. He towered over the rest of his village, being the first to point out the best game for hunting, other people coming from afar, heading towards the village; and even being the first to feel the rain and to alert the other villagers. He was a person of age, in his mid-fifties, an almost impossible age to reach for the proud warrior he was and still is. His voice was gruff and flowed like shards of glass in a rapid stream. He was usually clad in traditional Viking clothes and when in battle, armor that was padded down in his family for many generations. Helms with long horns from slain bulls and rams, strong cloth woven from rugged material from over hundreds of years ago, almost perfectly preserved; arms that were in many battles and had spilt much blood. He moved hastily and seldom spoke, because, as the other villagers could justify, his actions spoke much louder than his words. His personality was the equivalent of a stone wall at face value, but underneath his concrete exterior was a soft pillow of compassion, thought, and love for his family. Although he was a no-nonsense person who proved to be patient, yet very determined in his goals and proactive in any situation, he sometimes put too much of the outside world behind him to make way for his family, who would die for. To his family and very close friends, he was kind and gentle to his wife Belrania, his brother Buhrn, his brother in arms and childhood friend Erikk, and especially to his only daughter Helga.

            Helga was quite a headstrong youngling. She was nine with the insight and the knowledge of someone in their late thirties. Although she was ambitious, mentally tough, and somewhat stubborn at times, she was unusually undersized for her age and physically weak. She would be considered to be the runt of the litter, to le left for dead. When she was prematurely born no one thought she would survive. Not the other villagers, not the midwives, not even Belrania. Only Hellsing would not give up hope for the little premature newborn, and he knew deep inside himself that she didn’t stop the fight to survive. She did not walk until she was three years old, and she did not speak till she was four, but she was a very quick learner. She learned every skill the villagers could teach, and she performed them flawlessly. She took after her mother in her looks. Belrania had long, flowing blonde hair; a toned, stern face; and eyes that seemed like they held the answer to infinite knowledge if you gaze into them for more than a second, and all those traits passed on to Helga. She was the product of Belrania’s appearance and Hellsing’s personality. She was the only thing that truly mattered to Hellsing.