Post by Mr. C on Feb 19, 2009 0:10:42 GMT -5
VII.
“With newfound inspiration, they marched.”
“The Norse Hammer” was once the proud Viking commander. He led a long ship full of the finest Nordic warriors. Proud, strong men full of courage and goodness. Cross did not just have pride in himself, his own ability or his command over such a grand legion. Cross had pride in being a confidant, a friend, a father-figure to all of the men he had recently lost. Cross had always been on the other end of the kill, and hadn’t gotten to witness this new feeling of loss. It hurt, in the pit of his stomach, but it was a dull hurt, because he was still proud. Proud of how the men had fought, proud of the lives they had lived and proud to know they all rode the golden chariot in to the highest limbs of Yggradsil, in to the golden mead hall of Valhalla in Asgaard. Now, Cross had one soldier left. His right hand man had survived, his truest friend. Glaeg walked by his side as the two rounded the cusp of the final mountain. They’d made it to the heart of Jotunheimr, they’d achieved their goal.
“So, ‘Ammer… Ye’ve felled Jotun before. How are we going to do’t this time? I’ve never actually laid eyes upon one of the brutes, are they as large as legend tells?” Glaeg was making small talk, he was a warrior through and through, but he was not facing a cowardly Englishman this time, he was facing creatures born of the gods, he was afraid of going up against the unknown, but his fear would soon be dispelled.
“Ah, Glaeg. Don’t you fret, for you shan’t be taking on the Jotun, t’is my quest, not yours.” Cross turned to his partner with a weird half-smile, he felt bad he had to turn Glaeg away from the glory, but he was indeed helping his friend out. It would be dangerous to say the least. Or, perhaps it wasn’t even a comment born of kindness, perhaps it was selfishness. “My quest” was how Cross put it. No longer was it a quest for his Viking horde because he no longer had a Viking horde. Due to Loki’s treachery, Cross fought alone, no matter how Glaeg protested. But protest he did not.
“Aye, ‘Ammer. And I wouldn’t dream of taking that from’st ye. Ye’r right, and I’ll stay back and leave it for ye. But when that Jotun is about to grind your puny bones remember you told me nay to step in.” Glaeg smiled loudly at the final comment and slapped Cross on the back with a loud “haw haw.” It was funny because who in the world could defeat The Norse Hammer? Cross had beaten Jotun and human alike. No beast or man had ever been even so much as a challenge for this Viking warrior. Sabora, one of the proudest pure fighters in EUW fell before Cross. Chance, former tag-champion fell not once but twice. Joe Dark, Christian Stephens, Sean England. They’d all fallen to the hammer. Be it champions, or former champions; the young or the veteran. No one stood a chance against Brett Cross, and Michael de’Archangel would soon be another line in that same statistic.
With the final steps of their march, Brett Cross and Glaeg had rounded the top of the mountain and down beneath them was a large, worn out valley. To anyone else it would be nature-formed. It would have been a Grand Canyon sized groove carved from glaciers over the millennia. It would be a natural spectacle, and a wonderful one at that. But these two Vikings knew better, this was the home of a Frost-Giant, and this valley was carved out to be his den. The cave at the back of the valley was his bedroom. This deep valley, this clearing between rocky cliff faces was the Jotun’s lair, where they’d been headed this entire time. To Glaeg, a man who had only heard of this place from the scops at home, their songs gave the sheer scale of the land no justice. The cave at the back, the Frost Giant’s sleeping quarters was literally dug in to the side of a mountain. It was not some small break in the rocks, it was as if a ton of dynamite had blown a hole straight in to the side of it. Cross turned to Glaeg and the two shook, with hands clasped around buckled forearms, before Brett hopped down in to the beast’s home.
From inside, the scale grew even larger still. Cross had to take a moment to orient himself, for he was now a mere mouse in a giant’s land. He was a single speck of dust in the vacuum of the universe, and no matter how large he was to other humans; he was an infinite amount smaller inside these walls. And as he glanced around to catch his bearings, he realized that not only was he surrounded by crumbling, rocky ledges, but by death as well. His nose should have caught up with it first, as soon the smell of decomposition of human tissue wriggled its way up in to his senses. Thousands upon thousands of bodies littered the ground in his valley. Most of the bodies were in fact not even dead bodies by what you’d picture, they were skeletons with bones that had been sucked clean of their flesh and tissue, But not every body was as such. The ones closest the Jotun’s home, those were the freshest kills. Bodies that lay broken, twisted and mangled. The structure beneath their flesh had been shattered and they lay in mangled heaps, some without arms or legs or heads. Bitten off, left to fester and marinade in their gore for that’s how the Jotun preffered his meals. These bones and rotting corpses that made up fallen warriors were the Jotun’s welcoming rug. It was a death covered red-stained snowy death bed that stretched throughout the valley.
Brett looked over each body that lay before him, and instantly remembered his army once more, the men who sadly had passed on not to long before. As gruesome of a scene as this was, Cross wished they could witness it, to see that what they heard of, what they sung about, the lore and legend they all believed in so firmly, that it was indeed real. His army should be here, now. In the mouth of this beast, waiting for the Jotun to show itself so they could all take it down together. Brett Cross was sad not because he’d have to do it alone, but because they never had the chance. There was sadness not just for their deaths, but for how they died. Every man dies, Cross knew that first hand. But the Viking warriors in his legion, they did not deserve to perish how they did. If his men were to die, be it here, with honor, in a glorious fight against insurmountable odds. They deserved to die here, and if Brett was to die be it here in this valley as well. Brett shook his head and pulled his eyes up from the carnage, and slowly unsheathed his blade, dedicating the bloodshed to follow to his fallen comrades.
Hammer pulled the blade, screeching and crying as sharpened steel ran through the opening of the sheath. He gripped the leather handle tight and stepped forward in to the center of the valley, carefully pacing over the carnage.
“Jotun! Show’s thyself! You hoard the thing I seek, you possess Brandrwulf, and the Aesir have sent me for’t! Give it to me, or prepare for me to take it from your cold dead hand!” Brett roared out to the beast in the cave. He opened his arms wide in challenge. Not that presenting his wingspan made him appear even the slightest bit larger, it would make no matter to this beast. If he were to indeed show himself.
Inside the depths of the cave, there was no stirring whatsoever. The darkness remained pure darkness, not even a swirling of the shadows deep within. For all Cross knew, the bastard child of Loki was outside of the cave gnawing on Glaeg ready to chew upon his bones, too as soon as he’d finished off Glaeg. Cross glanced back, for fear that his presumption was true and luckily it was not. He continued forward, continuing to carefully step over the skeleton legion beneath his feet, and stopped right before the mouth of the cave, peering in. Straining his eyes to see past the shadows, trying to make heads or tails of what was inside.
“Jotun! Show thy self! The bl-“
Quickly, a giant hand reached out and grasped Brett tight about his entire body. Cross’ speech was cut off, his words choked off in mid syllable. If it wasn’t for him having his arms spread wide in his cocky, defiant stance, he would right now be completely constricted. But, with luck, the vice grip about him only crushed him from the chest down. The force pressing down on him was unbearable, and Cross immediately became dizzy, his head feeling ready to explode in a horrendous display. His face was a deep purple and he struggled against the pain of loss of breath and cracking ribs. Then, with that frozen, frost-bitten hand wrapped about his body, the Jotun slowly made his way out of the cave and stood tall, the mountains around them barely making it up to this horrible spawn’s waist. The beast of legend was far more massive than words could describe. Brett Cross, the largest Viking of their tribe, could easily fit in the Jotun’s palm and be fully encased when the demon made a fist. The mountains that made up the walls of his home stretched high, but struggled to get much above his waist. The Jotun was humanlike, despite his massive size, and had all the features a human would posses. His hair was thick, snowed white, and impossible to tell if that was the true color of it or if the centuries in snow merely drove all the color from it. The same went for its rotting, bluey skin: the cold life it lived did not do wonders for its appearance. Its entire body was frozen, frost-bitten, rotten and puffy. But, that’s not to say it was a frail creature. Through all of its apparent pain and displeasure, it was a daunting figure, all brawn with a full beard and thick hair covering its entire body. The Jotun continued to squeeze the life from The Norse Hammer, and the battle appeared to be over far before it began. It squeezed the warrior tight and lifted him high above his head, nearly twice as high up as the mountains they’d taken weeks to scale, and opened his mouth wide, ready to gobble up the hero before he could even have a chance to fight back.
With a grunt, all Brett could muster with his lungs unable to draw breath, he turned the broadsword he wielded about and then drove it in to the Giant’s hand. The toothpick of a broadsword pierced right through between the monster’s thumb and forefinger and with a thunderclap of a yelp, the Jotun released Cross from the atmosphere and back down to earth. Cross had plenty of time during the descent to catch his breath, and if ribs beneath his leather war-tunic weren’t broken before, they definitely shattered from the crash-landing down in to a heap of pale, bleached bones. Skulls and femurs shot up in explosion as he crashed down, but the cracking and snapping of them and Cross couldn’t be heard over the wails of the Jotun as he furiously swung his hand about, trying to remove the blade from under his flesh. “The Norse Hammer” gritted his teeth, and despite any pain he had, he rolled from the death-bed and stood fast, taunting the demon for more. Cross stood as tall as he could and came up no higher than the beast’s ankle, but he looked the Jotun in the eyes all the same. Thunder boomed once more as the Frost-Giant attacked the mouse-sized Cross.
It kicked out at Brett, and Brett dove to one side, avoiding the foot like it was a herd of charging elephants. While touching on his own size would be a moot point in this battle, Cross was quite agile for a man of his stock. He hit the ground hard, but rolled with the landing and instantly stood back up on to his feet, agile as ever. That would be reason one Cross would win his first ever singles title at Back 2 Roots. Despite his immense size, and that alone dominates over de’Archangel, he learned from past opponents he needed to be quick and agile as well. Not only was he bigger, Cross would be faster than Michael de’Archangel when the time came.
The giant Jotun then reached down and pounded its fist to the ground, aiming for Cross who had just managed to escape once more. The two of them continued for a few more rounds, a life-or-death full-scale game of “Whack-a-Cross.” But unlike when he felled Englishmen, Cross had no time to make the humorous connections in his mind. He had to concentrate, he had to always be looking for an opening; and he was indeed doing just that. Reason number two Brett Cross had the match at Back 2 Roots firmly in his grasp was because of his tenacity. He didn’t give up and he was always on the offensive. There was not a moment in the match where he gave up or rested, it was a full-on attack until the bell sounded. The current Pure Champion doesn’t have the tenacity that Brett Cross has. Nor is he ready for the tenacity he brings. Match film does the beast’s drive no justice, and at Back 2 Roots the soon-to-be-ex Pure Champion would realize just how tenacious a driven Viking warrior is.
With a booming cry, the Jotun leaned in towards Cross and yelled out, bearing his flesh and bone caked teeth at him. The gust behind of the war cry would have sprawled a normal man backwards, but Brett Cross glared back at the beast, never backing down. Reason three, was Cross’ determination. He had to win this; it’s something he’d been after for months, now. Hell, something he’d been after his entire life. No matter how bad de’Archangel wanted to keep his title, Brett Cross wanted to take it that much more. It was his nature to pillage and steal, and now the gods commanded him to do just that. Brett Cross wasn’t going to disappoint them, and even without that added incentive Cross wouldn’t disappoint himself either. That title was his for the taking.
And above all, Cross was courageous. The demon spawn’s mouth could house an entire village, when he stared down the creature’s throat the smooth muscles went forever. He instantly remembered how long it took to fall when the Jotun dropped him, and sickeningly understood how horrible a fate being eaten alive by this creature would have been. But he looked in to the mouth of the beast without fear, for Cross was a hero. And, after Back 2 Roots, after taking on the long-reigning champion of Michael de’Archangel and winning the gold, he’d be as much a celebrated hero in EUW as he was in the village. Cross was strong and Cross was fast. Cross was tenacious and determined, and above all Cross was courageous and driven. Michael de’Archangel had run his title reign dry, and in time he’d succumb to the beast, “The Norse Hammer”, the next Pure Champion, The God of Midgaard.
Then, backing up, the Jotun cried once more and brought the heel of his foot down on Cross, grinding him in to the snowy valley of death. He let out a booming laugh and continued to grind him in, enjoying every minute of squashing this false hero. His foot boomed in to the valley, and the shockwaves reverberated out in every direction. And his laughter, far louder than the crash of his step was a horrible and hellish noise, nearly as bad as the nails-on-chalkboard sound of his rough, rotting foot grinding in to the rocky, death-littered valley floor. He’d defeated god-sent pests before, but this one was the most annoying of them all. Glaeg looked over the mountainside and saw that Cross was gone, and the beast was happily grinding his foot deep in to the snowbank. He gulped back sadness and bile and instantly turned away, shaking his head, muttering about how they never should have come, it was all a product of Loki’s treachery. But before he had much time to wallow in despair, he heard another call, a different call. This one was a startled cry, amazement, with a bassline of Norse ferocity (he could recognize that line anywhere). He looked back over the ridge and witnessed with his own two eyes Brett Cross raising the Jotun’s foot high above his head as he stood up from the banks of snow and corpses. Cross’s face was a bloody, flushed wash of grit and anger as he held the Jotun’s foot off of him, and as hard as the Frost Giant tried, he could not bring it down to finish off Cross.
Glaeg silently cheered, but as he did, he soon realized Cross would not last forever, and his presumption was instantly acknowledged as The Norse Hammer began to look about for a weapon, for something to defend himself. Even Brett Cross’ immense strength was nothing compared to this monster’s and the end was coming in just a matter of time. The Jotun still had the pin-sized broadsword stuck in his hand, and mistakenly, a product of pride perhaps, that was all Cross had thought to bring. Then, he came up with the plan. Holding the beast’s boulder-sized big toe with one hand, Cross reached down in to the death-valley and retrieved a rib of one of the fallen. Cross closed his eyes and then quickly rammed it up in to the sole of the beast’s foot, instantly being showered in a frozen spray of gore. The beast let out a yell and stumbled backwards, hopping on one foot and holding the other in pain. As Cross wiped the blood from his brow and opened his eyes, he was just in time to see the foot of the Frost-Giant barreling down on him and kicking him aside once more. It was like being hit by a double-decker bus sized wrecking ball as Cross flew through the air and in to a second pile of death. He hit hard, landing among the fallen, but he lay there peacefully as the beast whined and cried, trying to free the shank from his sole.
Cross knew this was his opportunity, though, and took but a moment to revel in the ingenuity before looking for another weapon and it took but another moment to find one. There, next to him, was a hammer clutched in the severed fist of a warrior. The gauntlet was torn and bloody, but the blood-stained fist was still clutched tight about it. Instantly, Cross smiled, the hammer was no mistake or dumb luck, it was planted there. The god who called for him before, the god who spoke to him between strikes of lightning; it was Thor – the God of Thunder! And now, he was lending him his trusted weapon of lore, Mjollnir, to fell the Jotun. Cross said a silent prayer of thanks to him before wrestling the hammer free from the dead man’s hand and just in the nick of time, too, as the Jotun’s hand thrust in to the debris, in to the pile of the dead and rotting, searching for the annoying mosquito that’d pricked him twice. As he searched, Cross scurried out between the demon’s fingers and made his way to a large dead tree that jut out from the rocky cliff face. To Hammer’s luck, his weight was supported by the dead wood, and he hid behind the trunk of it, awaiting his moment to strike.
It didn’t take long for him to get his opening, though. The beast stood up, frustrated with there being no fruition to his search, and glared about – angry, confused, in pain. He grumbled and called out for Cross to show himself in his rumbly, mangled voice, but no man in a million years would ever be able to tell those were the words he grumbled.
The Norse Hammer then let out a furious yell and jumped from the branch of the snow-covered tree. As Brett Cross jumped off, he brought both burly hands back behind his head, gripping this lent war-hammer with snow white knuckles. Louder than the bellowing that the Viking released was the stunned response of the Frost Giant he was taking on. Diving out from his vantage point in the tree, he had caught the Jotun by surprise, and the beast boomed out a horrific treble of fear and surprise. Cross landed and planted both feet firmly upon cheek-bones large enough for armies to stand upon and straddled the nose. Then, smiling at the deed to come, he brought the hammer down, and crashed it through the front of the Frost-Giant’s house-sized skull. The iron mallet shattered and splintered the cranium, and a shower of blood geysered out upon him, arrows of bone nearly impaling him as they shot through weird blue-white flesh. The Jotunn could watch the entire thing, and as he followed the hammer’s path, his eyes rolled in to the back of his head, and he slowly fell backwards. The force of the blow slammed the stories tall beast on to his back, and Brett Cross stayed firm atop its face the entire venture down. After the beast crashed down, The Norse Hammer pulled the war gavel from between the giant’s eyes. He slowly wiped the blood from his mouth and brow once more before checking back to make sure he’d truly felled the creature. He had, Cross had felled the Jotun of legend, the demonic guard of Brandrwulf, and the prize was his.
Michael de’Archangel would fall harder than the Jotun guard of Brandrwulf did. His time was up, and so was his reign. Brett Cross, “The Norse Hammer” was a warrior for the ages, and de’Archangel was the tired, weary beast that would soon have a hammer driven through his skull. The title, the blade Brandrwulf, was Cross’ for the taking. Brett Cross was the unstoppable fighter, and de’Archangel was the victim at the other end of the blade’s cutting edge. Brett Cross would in no-time be the champion and de’Archangel would be dead, history, spending the rest of his days in Niflheim. The name of the event is Back 2 Roots, and MdA will be cast down, deeper than the roots of Yggdrasl, deep below the roots of the world-tree and in to the hells below.
