No One to Trust

[Mr. C]

With Ragnarok fallen upon all nine realms on the branches of the teetering Yggdrasil, the Gods are struggling to win this all-war. The forces of Hel led by the God of Mischief Loki have breached the mighty walls of Asgaard. The All-Father Odin has returned the prize of Brandrwulf to Cross in a last ditch effort to save his kingdom, his people, and the universe. All that's left, the final reinforcements are just Cross and his nine generals. But now there are eight.

Viggo of Midgaard was the first to fall, fighting bravely against two Trolls as he worked to protect the youthful Godess Idunn and the apples of immortality. It was Glaeg who gave the final word to Cross as an advisor on whether to send Viggo on this mission or not, and although Cross agreed with the plan, his confidence in his long time advisor is shaken in the stress of the war. What makes things worse, is the fact that his new trusted confidant the Midgaardian Rika that he saved from Nifleheim protested the plan and offered to do the opposite. Now, Cross wonders who he should trust, without knowing the young woman he rescued from Nifleheim is now his biggest rival, the serpent tongued Loki...

The All-War: Part III
No One to Trust

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Blood was everywhere, and shining Asgaard was no longer the bastion of peace, a gilded realm of solitude for the Gods. It was a warzone. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, torn and ravaged by the blade of human, God and demon alike. On the other side of the thick oak door, Idunn panted heavily, tears at her eyes. The ever youthful Godess picked up the basket from the ground, gathering the golden apples that had fallen from it and set off deeper in the castle, knowing a simple Midgaardian farmer was the one who just saved her life.

As for Cross, he did not have such a positive outlook on the scene. Frowning deep, his face and armor splattered with blood, he turned away as the last breath gurgled out from the slit throats of the fallen trolls who had torn Viggo asunder. The first death of the final warriors left in all the nine realms. Cross was no stranger to death's cold grip, but he was not accustomed to it yet either, not when it was one of his own. Viggo would never harm a fly, Viggo was a kind man who had to learn to fight, it was not his choice. And so as he struggled to survive in a world he did not create, he was ravaged by beasts he did not believe in. All the while, full of Cross' false promises. This loss stung just as strong as when he lost his first army, the lot of them slaughtered by Loki, or when he lost his father at the hands of the same man.

As Cross headed back in to the fray, Glaeg ran to meet him, his own sympathetic frown carved in to his old, worn face. He spoke slowly, quietly, it was not often that Cross failed, and when he did no one ever knew what to say. There were only two words Glaeg could find, only two words his tongue could form. Because in the back of his mind, this failure was not on Brett Cross entirely, he had failed his cousin as well. He did not stop the conveyor that brought Viggo to the slaughter. He could only say one thing as he came up to the God of Midgaard.

"Ah'm sorry..."

And the words hit Hammer's ears. The sound registered, the words were comprehended, but there was no forgiveness and certainly no response. He stared straight ahead, The God of Midgaard, not looking back to his old friend, his confidant, his cousin. Flicking the blood from his blade, his knuckles gripped tightly to the hilt as he turned a corner past Glaeg, and there The Viper in the guise of Rika stood. Unknowingly to Cross of course, under the magic veil that made Loki the Midgaardian Rika, he was smirking with delight. Inside that devil's mind, he must have been thinking "one down, and eight more to go." But on the outside, Rika was saddened but stern. She stepped up to Cross, placing a hand on his armor, and this time The God of Midgaard stopped.

"It is but one loss, Hammer. What Asgaard needs in the end is your might, and your might alone. Do not fret over Viggo's death too much..."

And with that said, Rika ran her hand slowly down his breastplate and brushed past him as he turned his head to the side. Again, no response from the God of Midgaard, but those words seemed to strike harder than Glaeg's. For, what she said was indeed true. In war, you cannot worry over every soldier's death, you can never save them all. As a ruler, he cannot have sympathy for the underlings, and it's a truth he should have learned long ago, for over the years he has lost far too much.

O'er the years, any warrior will experience death. O'er the years, Ah 'ave experienced it true. Ah have slain both man and beast, warrior and child. Ah've 'ad entire armies slaughtered before me, my closest friends 'ave been poisoned as they slept. My father took a pike through the 'eart t' save me, an' now Viggo has fallen too. I've suffered 13 losses in a 3 year career in this federation. Far fewer than most, a batter with an average like mine would be a hero. But it's still far too many for The God of Midgaard. We've won titles, and we've lost titles. We've had near-victories, being the perennial runner-up in any of the EUW's major events. The EUW/Asylum match-up in recent memory stinging the most. But we've also held titles, and held them for long stretches of time. Ah was The God of Midgaard once, and am The God of Midgaard again. I was at one time the second-longest reigning Pure Champion of all time and I was also the only person to hold said title twice in a career. Atleast, before that title was reinvented for the new brand. Now, I am the first ever Lionheart Champion. I've also been the Hardkore champion, a title I proved last week I am far above at this point in my career. In fact, anyone with a keen eye to the EUW.com pages would be able to see that for more than half of my career I've had gold about my waist. But what's never said about my reign during that time with the Hardkore title is that I was the longest reigning Hardkore champion in EUW history, and it even ended when the title was taken from me. Aye, another harsh loss, when our title was taken from us. I know loss all too well, but I know victory even better. I know how to win, and make a name for myself.

Aye, he can't get too close to soldiers for the point of an army is for them to be cannon fodder for the true warriors. There is a reason there are no grunts in a Viking invasion, they serve only to get in the way. There is a reason why a team of Viking marauders will overtake an entire city with ease. Any one Viking could dispatch fifteen guardsmen with ease. Nay, Rika is right. These men, they are important to him, but he cannot lose sight of the big picture. He is the reason they are here, it is The God of Midgaard that the Gods need, and not the army of simple Midgaardians. As this realization comes, he looks over the scene, looking to see if all is progressing properly.

At his feet, lay the deceased bodies of one hundred demons. Then, at Asgaard's wall is where the fighting was taking place. At the hole in the fortifications is where the new battle line lies. The civilians are safe, and now the battle is ordered, structured, in fact... not at all like how a Viking war should be. These lines, these fortifications, these ploys and strategies and chess-work, it's not for him. Yelling loud, Cross raises his blade as he comes upon the flanks of the skirmish.

"All men with a will t' fight gloriously press forward! Do not hold this line, push the demons back! We are the last stand, so fight like the fate o' the worlds depends on't! We are warriors, not guardsmen!"


Aye, warriors and not guardsmen. We are a glorious, renowned warrior, and not some fat king. We rule, we lead, by example. While some 'ave their throne and think all are beneath them because of it, we 'ave our throne but go out and prove that all others are beneath us. Be it Bell as we proved last week, or be it any of the past or present champions, we have proven ourselves to be superior. Sabora, Trent Sickness, Xplode, Warrior, Jack Bull, I have bested them all throughout my career. And here I stand, superior to them all. But to truly gain that respect, to truly prove your seniority, you cannot just sit idly and boast. If any beneath us had intelligence, they would know already, but the general public as a whole seem to be a slow, foolish breed. So it is the job of the King, the job of The God of Midgaard, to come down to their level and knock sense in to them. It began with Danny Tenfold, and that fool will learn that he is not in my league, not in the league of the Asylum. Rivera has bestowed on us this honor of the Lionheart Championship, and I wield it proudly. The Gods saw in us an inner strength that our enemies do not. So it is up to us to steep to their level, dirty our hands and show them where they stand. In the past, it was Danny Tenfold. This week, it's Illidian Bane.

But as Cross began to rally the troops, a firm grasp clapped down on his shoulder. Without turning, Cross knew who it was, the voice of reason at his back, the one-eyed Glaeg. Hissing so as not to be overheard by the others, so as not to instill a sense of disunity or distrust in the group, he spoke to Cross through gritted teeth.

"My words may not carry as much weight as before, but would it not be wise t' man this front and regroup after our recent... casualty?"

Glaeg swallowed hard as he searched for that final word, not wanting to say it, not wanting to smear the failure in Brett's face. But a loss is a loss, and there is not changing it. They both knew it, they could both agree. But what they did not agree upon was the next course of action. Wheeling about, swatting Glaeg's arm away, Brett raised his blade with the tip to his cousin's throat. A single bead of crimson troll blood balled up at the point and then dripped free, falling between Glaeg's feet, and The God of Midgaard spat back his own suggestion, growling with every word.

"Nay Glaeg, it would not be wise. We are an army led by The God o' Midgaard. The important piece o' this battle is in our numbers? Pah! It is in ME. My job is not t' sing merriment to these men, nor is it my job t' keep them out o' 'arm's way. They are 'ere t' fight under me, or die trying. If they wish t' save the realm, they must show their worth, for they are the front lines and Ah'm the killing strike. Now, 'lest ye wish t' be trampled by us, fall in line and advance."

And without another word, Glaeg did just that. Even through all of this, he knew the role he had to play, and knew the position he held. It was his job to advise, but Cross' job to decide - and what he decided was law. So he, like all the others, stepped in to rank and began their assault, working to push the demon horde back. All but one other, atleast, as there was one critical piece of the puzzle watching the scene unfold from about the corner of a nearby guardhouse. At the little spat, Rika turned and smirked, heading off undoubtedly to stir up the next ambush, for this woman, Loki in disguise, knew his plan was working far better than expected.

But at rooftop, one man saw this all unfold. For, when you send out an order to charge, there is one battalion that does not lead the attack - the archers. And at the building's peak, a man with an eagle's vision noticed Rika's posture, her demeanor, and how it had all changed from when he first met her. But above all, he saw the smirk, and he knew something was amiss. He just needed to find the right moment to reveal the information. For now though, he hopped down and pulled another arrow from the quiver at his back. For now, he had but one option - to keep fighting.

And meanwhile, near the back of the pack was one man-sized Dwarf with ears too keen for his own good. He heard just what was snapped back at Glaeg, how Cross was going to treat them no different than mere grunts, and this creature in particular took exception to such a claim. In Nidavellir, he is a legend. Born of simple family, he was gifted with size unseen by any in his realm. His parents immediately did all they could to give him the proper training, the proper diet, the proper weaponry, and in no time at all he was the greatest warrior in their realm with renown reaching in to the other eight limbs of Yggdrasil as well.

Baz only knew of being the best, he never saw anyone disagree. That is, until Ragnarok fell. Then, he could not save his king, his family, his world from destruction. Save for Eitri and Brokk, he is the last of his entire species, with confidence as shattered as his homeworld. But this, this was his chance to strike. This was his chance to prove his might once again. Grumbling deeply to himself, Baz twirled his curved broadsword and tore off through the ranks, running right out in to the middle of the battle.

"God of Midgaard?! Pah! I'll show him who the killing strike truly is!"


Just like Baz the foolish dwarf, many 'ave tried t' prove their dominance against impossible odds. Case in point being Bane. A rookie, for all intents and purposes, who is by no means ready to be in the ring with us. He's a chump who doesn't know his place. He's a loser looking to make a name for himself, to try and prove something because he's won a few matches against other soft-minded rookies and washed-up has-beens. It's a plan born of sheer stupidity. You cannot even give him credit for trying - for he knows it's just suicide. But the tale of the tape must go on, and the comparisons must be made. For, this is all for fan-fare. Even though we are the odds-on favorite, every match in this company must be booked as an "anything can happen" kind of match. T'is a fool's hope, the crazy claims o' a man who knows he is already dead.

Bane, a former cop, a man trying to do something new, something equally as heroic. A man who obviously is still too young and foolhardy to realize that heroics will only get you so far. Believe us, we would know. Ye can'nae be the friend all the time. You can't be the good guy every match, pulling off the fan's cheers can only work for so long. But then, when you realize that true strength comes from within, you need to be able to sever ties. Bane, he is too soft to play that game. He is too weak to know where true strength comes from. But we do. The God of Midgaard knows. At 6'4 and 240 pounds Bane can try the power game all he wants, but bigger men have tried it and failed. We are a wrecking ball, a sheer dominant force with no stopping us. We're a colossus compared to all other competitors and be them big or small, we crush them the same. Especially rookies.

For you see, we also have a tendency to get in to their heads, to mess with their mind. They fear us, they fear The Norse Hammer. We scare them, we win before they even see that the card for the next SNV is up, because they are AFRAID. They know what we are capable of, they know that entering the ring with The Bifrost Brawler could mean leaving with their faces caved in and their careers over. Take Tyreke "Church" Bell for example just last week. A poor rookie, one who didn't even ask for the match to come. But he fell all the same. And he fell hard. This week? It's another chump, another wannabe. But this time, he's asking for it. He wants to prove his might, and what's more, he wants to be the first title defense. But just in calling us out, he's playing in to the game. He would not challenge us if he didn't know who he was. He would not bother unless he recognized us as the big dog. He's a warrior looking to prove his might, and you do not do that by killing nameless peons. Nay, he knows we are the king, and he wants to knock us down. But it won't happen, because the seeds are planted, the fear is undoubtedly setting in whether he knows it or not.

He can't win against us, it's foretold by the Norns. He's too small, too weak, too foolish, too weak, too scared. He's everything that we aren't. He's got far too much still to learn. And as for us, we've learned all there is in this game. We've reached the top, and are king once again. Right where we should be.

From the corner of his eye, Cross saw Baz take off, and he shook his head at it. Another fool rushing in to battle. He made the order to charge, not to rush in blindly to die. For a moment, Rika's words rang in his mind, he thought about letting Baz flee, of making an example of him. A legend fallen for stupidity, for foolishness confused as bravery. But then the sight of Viggo, quartered, his halves loosely laced by his entrails, rushed in to cover the previous thoughts. He couldn't just leave Baz to fall. He just hoped he wouldn't be too late.