Post by Mr. C on Jul 15, 2009 12:11:07 GMT -5
With a groan, they clawed up from the ashes to become part of the whole.
The flames of a massive bonfire burned bright in the middle of the hall. At the back of the Viking pub sat Brett Cross with his furred boots of bear skin kicked up on to the sturdy looking oak table before him. With one massive and calloused hand, Cross held an even larger horn of mead and the other rested lazily on the hilt of Brandrwulf the mythical blade of legend. Relaxed in his seat and surrounded by most beautiful wenches Midgaard had to offer, he smiled and listened to the song that the scop before him sang. Stories of his valor, his strength, his courage and his bravery but “The Norse Hammer” knew not his might would be tested once more very soon.
”Hammer felled the mighty Jotun of the snowy northern lands.
He defeated the mighty giant there with naught but his bare hands.
He traveled about the world once more and quarreled once again.
This time with Jormungandr and returned with the demon’s head…”
Listening true, the words did reach Cross’ ears. But despite the sense’s message to his mind, Cross was not truly hearing what the bard sang to him. Even through the raucous din in the Mead Hall, even despite the women that surrounded him giggling and stroking at his thick blond beard, Brett had eyes for one thing – fire. It was unusual for snow to be falling at this time of the year, and it was a fact that the Vikings had not overlooked. Snow was one of the most daunting symbols that came at the onset of Ragnarok. It was cold, and the storm blew hard outside, occasionally a gust cried louder than even the drunken stupor of the tavern in which Cross sat, screaming in agony outside the hall. Seated there, among an overwhelming whirlwind of emotion Brett Cross’ body was numb and his mind was focused; focused on one thing: the fire.
Roaring, cackling and climbing they fought upward further.
The fire, to Cross, was alluring. It was pulling him in fast and he had no intention of fighting it. For Brett Cross is a beast bred of the fires of war, it was what he lived for. Just like any Viking worth his spit in this world, he would fight for the thrill of it, he would fight for the glory that came from it, but most importantly he’d fight because it’s his part in life. The war, the chaos, to some it was unruly and barbaric but to the Vikings, to this group who were born in it and who praised the very notion of it, it’s only natural. Even their Gods promoted the idea of bloodshed, for they were all grand warriors themselves; every one of them from the mighty Thor to the All-Father Odin, and Brett Cross was no different. He loved the fires of war, and the sight was intoxicating and drew him in.
Thirsting for blood, they kept on coming, fighting fearlessly from the ground up.
“…Even Fenrisulfr of the legends, I’d say,
Would dare not to –“[/i]
Startling the story-teller from his tale, the door to the mead hall burst inward, and a war-ravaged guard ran in to the now silent mead hall. His leather armor was torn, his helmet askew and his axe-blade was covered in a strange green-blood. As soon as the guard entered, Brett Cross was on his feet with Brandrwulf drawn and ready. Outside of the pub, there were louder still screams of agony followed by horrific crunches and groans, the winds before were not crying of their own accord, but instead were carrying the death screams of the fallen outside. The air was sickening, tense and heavy. The entire scene smelled of rotting flesh and sulfur. There was a strange, off-setting mixture of the cold of the winter and the heat of the war-fire. It was as if Hel had come straight to Midgaard with all of her undead legions in tow: the snow was no fluke after all; Ragnarok truly had fallen upon the land. The frantic guard who burst in the doors did little more than confirm Hammer’s thoughts before falling victim to the attacks.
”Ragnarok is upon is! The hordes of demons are attacking! Odin save us a--ack!“
Yet before the poor guard could even finish his prayer, one of the zombies of Niflehelm had come upon him and driven its teeth deep in to the flesh of the Viking’s throat. The victim cried in pain as the creature clawed at its’ prey’s face and bit hard, feasting upon the gore at the base of his neck and all of those inside the hall could do little more than look on in horror. The wenches about Cross screamed in horror and hid behind the massive warrior, and the scop who told the tales of Cross’ might was at a complete loss for words and constitution as he succumb to his squeamishness and fell to the side. Others ran in fear as the zombie looked about the room, more still unsheathed their own weapons and headed out in to the charge, but Brett looked past all of it and out through the doors of the hall. Out there were the true fires of war, glowing stronger than the puny bonfire at the center of the building.
As he watched, the smile curled back up on to his face, a smile that beamed truer than the fake one he had on before. Hearing the stories of his accomplishments was great. Yet, making the accomplishments – fighting the battles he should never have won, that’s where his true happiness was. It was in making those memories, those legends, and those tales that would live on forever – it was in the thrill of battle. That’s where Cross felt most alive. With a battle cry that boomed out louder than any of the other warriors about him, Brett Cross took off in an all out sprint towards the opposition and with unparalleled speed for a man of his size, the other Vikings were not even close to the zombie by the time Cross was. Stepping up on to the table that was in his way, he ran down the length of it, stepping over mugs and boar-meat along the way and then dove off, looking like he’d jump right past the lone zombie that had entered the hall. But instead, while in mid-air Brett swung Brandrwulf down and cleaved the zombie in half lengthwise. Landing on his feet behind the demon, Hammer’s opposition fell to the side in both directions, cleanly divided down the middle.
Cross turned back towards the undead bastard to make sure he’d done the job, and by the way its’ intestines had begun to flop out on to the floor, flailing out around the pouring of blood as it all splashed down in to the puddle of green blood with bone splinters sprinkled all over the scene, Cross knew there was one down and many more to go. The Viking army in the hall, perhaps fifteen strong, all came over to examine the dead as well, staring proudly at the gore. Where a normal man’s stomach would churn at the sight of someone torn in two, much less someone who was already decomposing beyond recognition, these few were warriors born in blood, and the sight was more of a trophy than a disgusting pile of rotting flesh. Making his way over to the near wall, Brett reached up and began to pull down the proper Viking arming while the Viking horde about him did the same. A shield went over his one arm, and a small knife was slid in to a furred boot, two battle-axes were strapped in over his back, and Brandrwulf was held proudly in his other hand.
Burning strong, and only getting stronger were they when given more to devour.
With the Viking legion armed and ready, they made their way out to the broad doors of the mead hall to survey the land, and as they looked out, the saw the entire village was on fire. The undead lined the street, flooding the pathways with their presence. And further on, beyond their village, the fires continued to stretch, and the groan of the zombies could be heard further carried by the brisk winter winds, and as Brett Cross looked out, and the feelings of dread and hopelessness began to come over him, a booming voice resounded in his head. Looking about, Cross could not see who was speaking to him, until he looked once more in to the fires. There, made of the orange-yellow embers, was the face of the All-Father, the All-Seeing One-eyed Odin. He spoke out loudly and directly to Brett Cross, the only one who could save Midgaard from this horror.
”Hammer, I call upon you now for a task unlike any the nine worlds have seen before. Ragnarok has settled upon us, and all of the Gods are busy defending Asgaard. Loki has already begun the invasion and the Frost-Giants of Jotunheimr as well as the Fire-Giants of Muspellsheimr are advancing over the Bifrost Bridge. We have our hands full here, so you must save Midgaard, Hammer. You must fight to the Hall of Hel and stop the magic from the inside out. Even with your might, Hammer, you can not fight forever and without putting an end to this magic, you will be. You must save your realm, Hammer, for you are its protector, The God of Midgaar. Go now, and bring yourself glory. Immortalize yourself forever among the Gods as being the one who could reverse the tides of Ragnarok.”
Cross bowed his head, and said no more than, “Yes, All-Father.” There would be no chance for Odin to save them all for it was not Cross’ place to argue the commands of the All-Father, nor would it be in his nature to back down from a fight. With the Viking legions at his side, Cross ran down through the rising banks of snow in to the village, ready to take on the zombie hordes and with one goal in mind. He must make it to the Hall of Hel and stop the magic of the Queen of the Underworld, only then would the demons stop coming, only then would Midgaard be safe and only then would Ragnarok be ended.
They continued to rise up, with no end seeming to be in sight.
But any fire can be extinguished.
The flames of a massive bonfire burned bright in the middle of the hall. At the back of the Viking pub sat Brett Cross with his furred boots of bear skin kicked up on to the sturdy looking oak table before him. With one massive and calloused hand, Cross held an even larger horn of mead and the other rested lazily on the hilt of Brandrwulf the mythical blade of legend. Relaxed in his seat and surrounded by most beautiful wenches Midgaard had to offer, he smiled and listened to the song that the scop before him sang. Stories of his valor, his strength, his courage and his bravery but “The Norse Hammer” knew not his might would be tested once more very soon.
”Hammer felled the mighty Jotun of the snowy northern lands.
He defeated the mighty giant there with naught but his bare hands.
He traveled about the world once more and quarreled once again.
This time with Jormungandr and returned with the demon’s head…”
Listening true, the words did reach Cross’ ears. But despite the sense’s message to his mind, Cross was not truly hearing what the bard sang to him. Even through the raucous din in the Mead Hall, even despite the women that surrounded him giggling and stroking at his thick blond beard, Brett had eyes for one thing – fire. It was unusual for snow to be falling at this time of the year, and it was a fact that the Vikings had not overlooked. Snow was one of the most daunting symbols that came at the onset of Ragnarok. It was cold, and the storm blew hard outside, occasionally a gust cried louder than even the drunken stupor of the tavern in which Cross sat, screaming in agony outside the hall. Seated there, among an overwhelming whirlwind of emotion Brett Cross’ body was numb and his mind was focused; focused on one thing: the fire.
Roaring, cackling and climbing they fought upward further.
The fire, to Cross, was alluring. It was pulling him in fast and he had no intention of fighting it. For Brett Cross is a beast bred of the fires of war, it was what he lived for. Just like any Viking worth his spit in this world, he would fight for the thrill of it, he would fight for the glory that came from it, but most importantly he’d fight because it’s his part in life. The war, the chaos, to some it was unruly and barbaric but to the Vikings, to this group who were born in it and who praised the very notion of it, it’s only natural. Even their Gods promoted the idea of bloodshed, for they were all grand warriors themselves; every one of them from the mighty Thor to the All-Father Odin, and Brett Cross was no different. He loved the fires of war, and the sight was intoxicating and drew him in.
Thirsting for blood, they kept on coming, fighting fearlessly from the ground up.
“…Even Fenrisulfr of the legends, I’d say,
Would dare not to –“[/i]
Startling the story-teller from his tale, the door to the mead hall burst inward, and a war-ravaged guard ran in to the now silent mead hall. His leather armor was torn, his helmet askew and his axe-blade was covered in a strange green-blood. As soon as the guard entered, Brett Cross was on his feet with Brandrwulf drawn and ready. Outside of the pub, there were louder still screams of agony followed by horrific crunches and groans, the winds before were not crying of their own accord, but instead were carrying the death screams of the fallen outside. The air was sickening, tense and heavy. The entire scene smelled of rotting flesh and sulfur. There was a strange, off-setting mixture of the cold of the winter and the heat of the war-fire. It was as if Hel had come straight to Midgaard with all of her undead legions in tow: the snow was no fluke after all; Ragnarok truly had fallen upon the land. The frantic guard who burst in the doors did little more than confirm Hammer’s thoughts before falling victim to the attacks.
”Ragnarok is upon is! The hordes of demons are attacking! Odin save us a--ack!“
Yet before the poor guard could even finish his prayer, one of the zombies of Niflehelm had come upon him and driven its teeth deep in to the flesh of the Viking’s throat. The victim cried in pain as the creature clawed at its’ prey’s face and bit hard, feasting upon the gore at the base of his neck and all of those inside the hall could do little more than look on in horror. The wenches about Cross screamed in horror and hid behind the massive warrior, and the scop who told the tales of Cross’ might was at a complete loss for words and constitution as he succumb to his squeamishness and fell to the side. Others ran in fear as the zombie looked about the room, more still unsheathed their own weapons and headed out in to the charge, but Brett looked past all of it and out through the doors of the hall. Out there were the true fires of war, glowing stronger than the puny bonfire at the center of the building.
As he watched, the smile curled back up on to his face, a smile that beamed truer than the fake one he had on before. Hearing the stories of his accomplishments was great. Yet, making the accomplishments – fighting the battles he should never have won, that’s where his true happiness was. It was in making those memories, those legends, and those tales that would live on forever – it was in the thrill of battle. That’s where Cross felt most alive. With a battle cry that boomed out louder than any of the other warriors about him, Brett Cross took off in an all out sprint towards the opposition and with unparalleled speed for a man of his size, the other Vikings were not even close to the zombie by the time Cross was. Stepping up on to the table that was in his way, he ran down the length of it, stepping over mugs and boar-meat along the way and then dove off, looking like he’d jump right past the lone zombie that had entered the hall. But instead, while in mid-air Brett swung Brandrwulf down and cleaved the zombie in half lengthwise. Landing on his feet behind the demon, Hammer’s opposition fell to the side in both directions, cleanly divided down the middle.
Cross turned back towards the undead bastard to make sure he’d done the job, and by the way its’ intestines had begun to flop out on to the floor, flailing out around the pouring of blood as it all splashed down in to the puddle of green blood with bone splinters sprinkled all over the scene, Cross knew there was one down and many more to go. The Viking army in the hall, perhaps fifteen strong, all came over to examine the dead as well, staring proudly at the gore. Where a normal man’s stomach would churn at the sight of someone torn in two, much less someone who was already decomposing beyond recognition, these few were warriors born in blood, and the sight was more of a trophy than a disgusting pile of rotting flesh. Making his way over to the near wall, Brett reached up and began to pull down the proper Viking arming while the Viking horde about him did the same. A shield went over his one arm, and a small knife was slid in to a furred boot, two battle-axes were strapped in over his back, and Brandrwulf was held proudly in his other hand.
Burning strong, and only getting stronger were they when given more to devour.
With the Viking legion armed and ready, they made their way out to the broad doors of the mead hall to survey the land, and as they looked out, the saw the entire village was on fire. The undead lined the street, flooding the pathways with their presence. And further on, beyond their village, the fires continued to stretch, and the groan of the zombies could be heard further carried by the brisk winter winds, and as Brett Cross looked out, and the feelings of dread and hopelessness began to come over him, a booming voice resounded in his head. Looking about, Cross could not see who was speaking to him, until he looked once more in to the fires. There, made of the orange-yellow embers, was the face of the All-Father, the All-Seeing One-eyed Odin. He spoke out loudly and directly to Brett Cross, the only one who could save Midgaard from this horror.
”Hammer, I call upon you now for a task unlike any the nine worlds have seen before. Ragnarok has settled upon us, and all of the Gods are busy defending Asgaard. Loki has already begun the invasion and the Frost-Giants of Jotunheimr as well as the Fire-Giants of Muspellsheimr are advancing over the Bifrost Bridge. We have our hands full here, so you must save Midgaard, Hammer. You must fight to the Hall of Hel and stop the magic from the inside out. Even with your might, Hammer, you can not fight forever and without putting an end to this magic, you will be. You must save your realm, Hammer, for you are its protector, The God of Midgaar. Go now, and bring yourself glory. Immortalize yourself forever among the Gods as being the one who could reverse the tides of Ragnarok.”
Cross bowed his head, and said no more than, “Yes, All-Father.” There would be no chance for Odin to save them all for it was not Cross’ place to argue the commands of the All-Father, nor would it be in his nature to back down from a fight. With the Viking legions at his side, Cross ran down through the rising banks of snow in to the village, ready to take on the zombie hordes and with one goal in mind. He must make it to the Hall of Hel and stop the magic of the Queen of the Underworld, only then would the demons stop coming, only then would Midgaard be safe and only then would Ragnarok be ended.
They continued to rise up, with no end seeming to be in sight.
But any fire can be extinguished.
