Post by Mr. C on Dec 29, 2008 0:03:31 GMT -5
I.
"Odin, guide our ship."
A single gull cried out, it turned and flapped its broad wings once, gliding with the strong but calm winds. It rode along them, sliding in time with the force of nature. It cawed and flapped its wings once more so as not to approach too quickly. Waves broke and you could hear them lap against wood. The blue depths splashed against the ship as it sliced through, white foam was the gore that came from the ride. It spread around the wooden bow of the ship infinitely, the waves continued to lap against the front of the wood of the ship. Fish could be seen darting away from the planks. The seagull cawed once more and dove in, snatching up one of them in its talons. It flapped its wings once more as it pulled up the twitching fish and a bright white feather fell. It rocked and swayed as it came down, falling right in front of the determined face of Brett Cross. He held tight with one arm to the figurehead at the tip of the bow. A giant dragon’s head was what he gripped as he looked out in to the ocean, the wind pushing back his blond hair and beard.
“Some of us won’t return,” Brett Cross said more to himself than to anyone else as he looked out in to the sea. But there was no hint of remorse in his voice, no sadness for such a thing. It was the way things were. “’Tis the fate of the Norns. We have no escape from’t nor would we wish for one.”
Brett spat down in to the waves, another drop for the ocean deep. It was the circle of life; he returned the water from whence it came before, much like when he deceased, his body would return to earth. It made perfect sense to him: he knew everything returned to where it started, and things in life constantly repeat; things always want to go back to the start. But not your mind. Nor your feelings, or your emotions. Those will change and stick with your spirit. Your body may return to the earth, but your spirit continues on, to Valhalla or Hel. And, surpassing all of that, what lives on longer will be your story. The ultimate prize for a Viking would be for many years later, ancestors to raise rune stones to their memory; to remember those who had passed on and pay tribute to them, to honor them, to remember their accomplishments. The true accomplishment for a Viking would be to have tales told of them for generations. For you see, that’s their true escape from earth and their true entrance to the golden hall of Valhalla - their truly eternal life.
Brett Cross had no fear and especially none for the battle that begins soon. He had defeated Joe Dark before, and he had more recently defeated Christian Stephens. Sure, Dark had gotten the upper hand on him prior, but Cross made it ample clear that that was a fluke. Everyone slips up in their time. Even the great Thor had needed assistance against the Storm Giant that he defeated many moons ago. But not again for Cross, this was his time. Preparations for this had been long in the making, blades had been running against wet stones for close to a fortnight while gathering the weaponry for the ensuing war. Cross was prepared mentally, he was a warrior, and he had no fear. He had only a fighter’s confidence. Confidence in his own abilities and confidence in the gods that made the world’s decisions. The gods who chose who entered Valhalla or not. The gods that will bring him victory on Monday. A strand of hair fell across his brow and over his nose and Brett half-consciously pulled it from his face. He was staring out in to the sea, not in a daze so much as a trance. A fierce trance born of bloodlust.
Cross had found humor in the video he had seen of Joe Dark as he “shooted” on the upcoming PPV match-up. The lad, known for his backyard wrestling style, his hardcore roots, had written a short ditty about how the use of a lead pipe would bring him victory and in fact kill both himself and Christian Stephens. Cross remembered belting out a loud, booming, burly laugh at this. The boy had wrestling knowledge for sure as they were trained by the same master. But to claim that weapons would be the deciding factor was ridiculous. Cross at this very moment had a large shield, the size of his back strapped upon him, a shining black leather belt wrapped over his torso to keep it upon him. At his waist was a large throwing axe, the blade of it comparable to his inhuman thigh and when that had felled a combatant, crossing his back in the opposite direction was a two-handed broadsword, with a blade as long as a man stood tall, the blood groove as wide as a man’s tongue. And neither weapon shone like new, the lot of them were worn, hacked, bloodstained, chipped and ragged. The Norse Hammer had been in combat before and knew how to hold himself when it came to weaponry. While he would not challenge Joe Dark in the ways of his wrestling skill, nor Christian for that matter, to claim that he would defeat Cross in a battle of weaponry was ludicrous and would be exploited for sure. Hell, Cross was sure that “Mr. LA” himself wouldn’t even know what end of a blade it was to grasp, much less have the strength or gall to swing one.
For, you see, Brett Cross being a true Viking warrior had respect for both competitors once. Once. But, following last week, regardless of whether his temper got the best of him or not, he lost respect for them. For you see, there are plenty of men in the locker rooms that claimed to be the best at what they do. And that’s all fine and good. But to put the name warrior, combatant, fighter, soldier, or any other likeness anywhere near them was a slap in the face to any true warrior like himself. They knew not even the meaning of the words, they had survival skills at best, but they knew not the true base morals and values of being a warrior. And that’s a true sign of disrespect. While mimicry may be the greatest form of flattery, poor mimicry is by the same token the greatest insult for a man. And Brett Cross was a beast of a man. Christian Stephens and Joe Dark paled in comparison to him, as did many men in the back. England, for example, tops the list. But, that’s another battle for another time…
The feather that had floated down affront Cross hit the waves and followed them, up and down, up and down, until it crashed and spun off the peak at the front of the boat and then lazily continued its snaky path to the back of the boat and on in to the eternity of the seas.
Cross wondered if those two competitors had fear. Joe Dark sure did not show it if he did. In fact, he was boasting proudly, a Viking indeed in that respect, but Cross couldn’t help wondering if they feared what was to come. For they have each been in the business long enough, have each had their share of bumps, they know that what is to come will not be a walk in the park, it will not be an easy task. There is a strong chance that someone will be broken. Did that scare Joe Dark? Did he fear that he may become so scarred he’d need to find a nickname to replace being “The Ladies Man”? Did Captain Cali hope to re-pursue acting after EUW? Was he afraid that after having his face smashed in by the Hammer Mjollnir that he may not be able to do just that? Cross, for sure, had no fear. Pain, receiving it or dishing it out, was his life. Not just his life, what he indeed lived for. He had countless scars covering the entirety of his body to begin with. More of the same would make no difference to him. But, the idea of disfiguring those two, the two who had a lot to lose by receiving vicious beatings, that was a sick pleasure to him. That was a Viking warrior’s delight.
Cross for sure had no fear coming in to Besieged, and he knew here was where the true warrior would be determined. Because, that’s what this contest came down to. They all had points where they could brag they were better than the other two men. But now, on this grand battlefield, all the chips were laid out. Here was where the true warrior would be found and to the victor went the spoils. It was a grudge match true and true. It was a fight for blood. It was a fight for honor. Cross lived for such a thing; it was indeed what his existence was at its core. A quest to prove he was a respectable fighter, a quest for honor, and a quest to prove his manliness and abilities. This was just a straight-up fight for pride, with no fancy gimmicks. EUW attempted to throw one in, and Brett Cross was well aware of it. It could be Sterling, the Commissioner or even his former master. It would be nice, Brett thought, to see Roberts again. To show Roberts what he was capable of now. To show how he’d grown and was no longer a grunt. He wanted to show Roberts, his former master, that he was a slave no longer. That he had gone from rowing the ship, to standing at their helms and guiding them through the seas. To let Roberts see that he had broken free from the chains, from being shoved below deck and overlooked. That he was now the captain and steered the path that Odin gave him. To beat down the pretty boy Christian Stephens and the misguided Joe Dark in front of his former master would indeed be a special treat. Through steely eyes, a smile crept upon the worn face of this captain. Beneath grisly, ragged beard, his lips turned in to a sly, bloodthirsty smile. Because much like Odin had destroyed his son and cast him to Middle Earth when he became too big for his breeches, Cross would dispatch both Joe Dark and Christian Stephens.
The wind snapped the sails as they billowed out, accepting the help from the heavens during their quest. The mast rocked against the force of the gale, the winds were no longer calm for their voyage, they thrust out heavy and fierce, it was no longer a voyage; it was the entrance in to the mouth of Hel. The battle was ‘bout to begin. The ship rocked in the fierce wind, and all of the men aboard the ship let out a collective cheer. They knew that the conditions were worsening as the gods prepared the battlefield for them. A storm would be the perfect conditions for this raid, the more miserable for their enemy the better. The skies, that were once bright blue, without a cloud in sight, began to darken. The sun glistened over the waves, reflecting like a rigid mirror, a stained window pane with dips and bumps between each colored piece. It shone off the waves and in to Brett’s darkened and old face but especially off the weapons on his person and the chain about his neck. The light from the broad sword alone was blindingly white, painful to look in to. The water’s reflections of the rays danced across Brett’s face and torso, making heavenly illuminates in the creases at his brow and the definitions of his muscles. With his free hand, Brett grasped the hammer Mjollnir that hung over his chest tightly and squinted out, watching the waves ever still. Then, the sun ceased to shine as the clouds crawled their way over it. The wind picked up once more, yanking his hair and beard almost straight back, attempting to tear all of the hair from Brett’s flesh and scalp. The blonde locks shook and twirled as they were dragged back by the gale. But when it fell, so did his hair, back to its natural position. Then, there was a sharp, piercing crack followed by a deafening boom.
Not a thunderclap, but the sounds of war-drums. They were almost to land. The boom sounded again as the winds pushed them towards the mainland, and the beat commenced, thudding loudly against the brash crashing of the blue-grey deep. And with ears flooded by the sounds of this war-chant, the drums sounding along with the hums of a hundred men strong, the nose was assaulted by a harsh and intoxicating smell. It was a weird, insulting mixture of black smoke, oil and the salt of the sea. Fire.
Cross looked back at the spectacle, seeing the men at the oars rowing as hard as their arms could manage. Pulling the entire weight of the vessel against the fierce water in which they ventured through. Others clanged their swords against their shields in tune to the beat, the men at the far back of the boat where the ones blasting hide with large animal bones. And then closer to Cross were the guards who stood fast, tall, unmoving. They were sheathed in full armor, metal and mail from head to toe. Their weapons were at the ready and their faces were steel. The entireties of them were fierce walls, looks that could kill and intentions in their hearts to do just that. If it wasn’t their desires to do just that, the beat that these drums played would make any man ready to kill the one beside him. It was a death march, it was describable only as what you would have heard as a slave building a pyramid under the deathly hot Egyptian sun, or closer yet, the sounds one would hear as they took the long walk down to the fiery gates of Hel. In fact that was exactly where these warriors were headed.
With a jerk and at the final deafening beats of the march, the boat drove its way inland, wedging in to the sand. The grains pushed aside much like the waves, only this time there was no foam-blood. This was the death strike, and there would be no blood from’t. There was no turning back, now. If there was any fear, and there was none from any of these men, it would have to be dispelled now. This was going to be a war. A war waged in fire, and if Cross had to die, be it in a fiery blaze of glory like the warrior he is, and like the warrior he will this Monday prove to be. Arrows tipped in Hellfire light up the black sky and flew forward towards to small villages, the ones that didn’t quite reach the village lit up a path, incinerating the trees and shrubbery at the sides, a hellish gate awaited these Norsemen. Cross leaned out from the boat, still holding strong to the dragon figure head, the face of which seemed to have its own eyebrows furrowed in now, be it from the light of the fires or from its own personal lust for the kill. Brett’s eyes matched the monster’s look. There was a glint to them, a slight twinkle and brightness, not an ounce of fear. One might have described it as childlike, a look of confidence. But, that would be a mistake. It was his sickening Viking lust. A lust for pain, for blood, for victory, for honor. He wanted to run forward and drive steel through weak flesh, to plunge blade in to organ and hack through bone. To have a man before him bleeding, begging for his life while fire surrounded them all, destroying human and home alike. Cross wanted them to beg for their lives and then extinguish the little hope for survival they had left while looking the man in the eye, knowing he was the true warrior and they were not.
For you see, there is no remorse for a coward. Only the brave enter Valhalla. And, you see, Cross is no coward. Brett Cross, “The Norse Hammer” would take on the whole world if he had to, to enter that golden hall, to live on eternally. This Monday would show if Joe Dark and Christian Stephens had what it takes to consider themselves warriors, or if their true cowardice would come to the surface. The ramp fell from the bow of the ship, and legions of Viking warriors stormed out. Each man in there deserved to enter through the doors of Valhalla, Cross included, he leapt out from the figurehead, diving to the head of the ranks and as he did so, he shouted out a single word. His voice was deep, it boomed out louder than a thunderclap that was to follow. It was more fearsome than the war-drums that had preceded this all. It was an excited but stern cry to the masses, an order and a joyful statement.
“Attack!”
