Post by Mr. C on Nov 9, 2009 20:47:44 GMT -5
The sun burned bright, just at the horizon and slowly began to crawl upward. The darkness above was waning, the stars brightness giving way to the shine of the morning sun. There was not a cloud in the sky, no imperfection at all to the beauty, and the warrior was able to enjoy it. He stood at the edge, arms crossed as his blond hair and bear caught the waves of the gentle breeze and cast back behind him, the tips of his boots hanging dangerously over the edge of the cliff that fell for ages. And he stood precariously close to the edge, suicidally watching the sun rise. After Twilight there was always Dawn, that’s certainly no secret - he had just never appreciated the morning sun until this moment. Before, he'd only been in darkness.
Things were different now, switched all around from what he used to know. At one time, this proud warrior was The God of Midgaard. Long ago, Hammer was the most feared fighter in all the nine worlds upon Yggdrasil's mighty limbs. Back in a time that seemed so far ago, Brett Cross stood tall among the Gods, he fought Giants and he battled fiercer than any mere man before him - because he was no mere man. Ages have passed since the name Hammer drove fear in to the hearts of men and Jotun alike. But no longer does he exist. No longer is The God of Midgaard anything more than a character in a simple story.
Brett stared hard at the sky, watching the flaming hues of the sky cascade in to one another, soaking up the warmth of the morning rays as they first began to rain down upon the earth. The colors etched in the heavens reminded him of war firstly, but at the same time he was not anxious to fight – he lost that will when he lost everything else. No longer was The God of Midgaard a feared being, he now was nothing more than a cold, empty shell. He was stripped of his title and cast down to being no longer a god, but a man of monotony; sent back to do what had already been done. And as he sat there, imploring the sky to answer his questions, to solve the mysteries of what had happened, he could not help but repeat the same question over and over again: How did it become like this? He just couldn’t remember.
But as he searched the sky’s bright swirls of color for any kind of sign, he noticed something he never would have considered had he seen the sunrise at any other time. Why did the sun rise? Why did the sun fall? Conventional wisdom claims that Sol, wife of Glenr, brings the sun around the world upon her chariot, and at the fall of Ragnarok the task would then be passed down to her daughter and then perhaps passed down again and again and again after for all eternity. But why move the sun around at all? Why does Sol push on each day, doing this seemingly pointless task? What is her purpose, beyond the obvious? What is anyone’s purpose, and if there is any purpose for anyone, how do you know what it is? And if you achieve that purpose, what’s next? Or, how do you know when or if you have achieved it? Cross at one time felt his purpose was to save the world at Ragnarok. He fought toward that purpose for a long while, for he even thought he would fight among the gods and save the worlds after all. But now? Now he stood upon this cliff-edge staring out at the morning sun’s rise, searching for answers in his life and ready to give in to the nonsense of living.
And as he pondered, looking deep in to the flames of the sun, it occurred to him. Perhaps, there is no purpose. Perhaps, there’s no goal for every person on this earth. Perhaps, you only do with each day, with each lifetime as you will. Everyone is not destined for greatness, and everyone is not destined to do great things. Hell, many people are destined for evil, or mediocrity, some are destined to live on forever in a blaze of immortality, and others die before they’re even born and it’s also conceivable you could do anything in between. No, Life is not random. You pick a task, you make up your purpose and you stick with it. You convince yourself that you have a reason to be alive despite all of the worldly observances of chaos around you and you live that lie.
“Pah, bull shit.” Cross said of his latest revelation as he spat a large wad of spittle and snot over the edge of the cliff before turning and stepping off from the edge of the cliff-face, finally deciding what he’d been looking for all along – that the answer can’t be found in the skies. The answer he was looking for was in his head all along, and he just needed to be reminded of it. He about faced, spinning on the hell of his furred boot and walked away from dawn – back towards the darkness of the night.
Chaos or not, there’s one thing Cross has always found order in – the great story of life. Looking at the individuals, sure, life may be random, it may be chaotic, it may not even make sense. In fact, the most sense life may make is to assume that it makes no sense when you look at it person to person. But if you look at the whole, if you look at the tales of life that concern every person as one – that’s where the sense is made. Truly one could not argue the truth behind the disorder of the individual. But life itself? The great scheme of the Norns, the tales they weave and the destinies they unfurl; that’s not random, and that all truly makes sense. And Brett? He at one time fit in to that tale of the world. He was not just a player in the chess game, he was the hero of the story. So his life had to follow in some order, despite the individual chaos, despite how he may not understand it now, in the end everything will make sense – because he plays a part on the big stage. His purpose was life’s purpose, his purpose was to make good on his part in the tales that the Norn’s weave.
And he’d start on that path this week by beginning to climb up to the status he once had. As the God of Midgaard, he could no longer fall to simpletons, to weaklings, to peons and cannon fodder. Urahara was no different. A trained individual, sure. Perhaps the best at what he does, but sadly for Urahara, that means nothing when you face Brett. For he is the best at not only what he does, but he’s far better than others at what they do, too. This match was certainly his for the taking, there was no denying that. To him, Urahara was a small little annoyance, a bug ready to be squished. And that was exactly the plan, to ram the Hammer Mjollnir so far in to this faux-kung-fu artist’s face that his brain is squished right out of his ears. Because even if nothing else in life made sense, there was one thing that could be consistent, and will be consistent. The one thing Cross loves to do, and the one thing he’s good at is kicking ass – and he’s never going to stop doing that.
Surely after twilight comes dawn, but also can come dusk. With a mind of confusion, Cross walked off in to the darkness once more, this time more unsure on his life than any time prior. But he pushed on, ready to keep fighting. Because structured or not, he knows the Viking way is to press on no matter the odds – to never stop fighting.
Things were different now, switched all around from what he used to know. At one time, this proud warrior was The God of Midgaard. Long ago, Hammer was the most feared fighter in all the nine worlds upon Yggdrasil's mighty limbs. Back in a time that seemed so far ago, Brett Cross stood tall among the Gods, he fought Giants and he battled fiercer than any mere man before him - because he was no mere man. Ages have passed since the name Hammer drove fear in to the hearts of men and Jotun alike. But no longer does he exist. No longer is The God of Midgaard anything more than a character in a simple story.
Brett stared hard at the sky, watching the flaming hues of the sky cascade in to one another, soaking up the warmth of the morning rays as they first began to rain down upon the earth. The colors etched in the heavens reminded him of war firstly, but at the same time he was not anxious to fight – he lost that will when he lost everything else. No longer was The God of Midgaard a feared being, he now was nothing more than a cold, empty shell. He was stripped of his title and cast down to being no longer a god, but a man of monotony; sent back to do what had already been done. And as he sat there, imploring the sky to answer his questions, to solve the mysteries of what had happened, he could not help but repeat the same question over and over again: How did it become like this? He just couldn’t remember.
But as he searched the sky’s bright swirls of color for any kind of sign, he noticed something he never would have considered had he seen the sunrise at any other time. Why did the sun rise? Why did the sun fall? Conventional wisdom claims that Sol, wife of Glenr, brings the sun around the world upon her chariot, and at the fall of Ragnarok the task would then be passed down to her daughter and then perhaps passed down again and again and again after for all eternity. But why move the sun around at all? Why does Sol push on each day, doing this seemingly pointless task? What is her purpose, beyond the obvious? What is anyone’s purpose, and if there is any purpose for anyone, how do you know what it is? And if you achieve that purpose, what’s next? Or, how do you know when or if you have achieved it? Cross at one time felt his purpose was to save the world at Ragnarok. He fought toward that purpose for a long while, for he even thought he would fight among the gods and save the worlds after all. But now? Now he stood upon this cliff-edge staring out at the morning sun’s rise, searching for answers in his life and ready to give in to the nonsense of living.
And as he pondered, looking deep in to the flames of the sun, it occurred to him. Perhaps, there is no purpose. Perhaps, there’s no goal for every person on this earth. Perhaps, you only do with each day, with each lifetime as you will. Everyone is not destined for greatness, and everyone is not destined to do great things. Hell, many people are destined for evil, or mediocrity, some are destined to live on forever in a blaze of immortality, and others die before they’re even born and it’s also conceivable you could do anything in between. No, Life is not random. You pick a task, you make up your purpose and you stick with it. You convince yourself that you have a reason to be alive despite all of the worldly observances of chaos around you and you live that lie.
“Pah, bull shit.” Cross said of his latest revelation as he spat a large wad of spittle and snot over the edge of the cliff before turning and stepping off from the edge of the cliff-face, finally deciding what he’d been looking for all along – that the answer can’t be found in the skies. The answer he was looking for was in his head all along, and he just needed to be reminded of it. He about faced, spinning on the hell of his furred boot and walked away from dawn – back towards the darkness of the night.
Chaos or not, there’s one thing Cross has always found order in – the great story of life. Looking at the individuals, sure, life may be random, it may be chaotic, it may not even make sense. In fact, the most sense life may make is to assume that it makes no sense when you look at it person to person. But if you look at the whole, if you look at the tales of life that concern every person as one – that’s where the sense is made. Truly one could not argue the truth behind the disorder of the individual. But life itself? The great scheme of the Norns, the tales they weave and the destinies they unfurl; that’s not random, and that all truly makes sense. And Brett? He at one time fit in to that tale of the world. He was not just a player in the chess game, he was the hero of the story. So his life had to follow in some order, despite the individual chaos, despite how he may not understand it now, in the end everything will make sense – because he plays a part on the big stage. His purpose was life’s purpose, his purpose was to make good on his part in the tales that the Norn’s weave.
And he’d start on that path this week by beginning to climb up to the status he once had. As the God of Midgaard, he could no longer fall to simpletons, to weaklings, to peons and cannon fodder. Urahara was no different. A trained individual, sure. Perhaps the best at what he does, but sadly for Urahara, that means nothing when you face Brett. For he is the best at not only what he does, but he’s far better than others at what they do, too. This match was certainly his for the taking, there was no denying that. To him, Urahara was a small little annoyance, a bug ready to be squished. And that was exactly the plan, to ram the Hammer Mjollnir so far in to this faux-kung-fu artist’s face that his brain is squished right out of his ears. Because even if nothing else in life made sense, there was one thing that could be consistent, and will be consistent. The one thing Cross loves to do, and the one thing he’s good at is kicking ass – and he’s never going to stop doing that.
Surely after twilight comes dawn, but also can come dusk. With a mind of confusion, Cross walked off in to the darkness once more, this time more unsure on his life than any time prior. But he pushed on, ready to keep fighting. Because structured or not, he knows the Viking way is to press on no matter the odds – to never stop fighting.