Post by Mr. C on May 10, 2009 18:02:45 GMT -5
XV.
“The clash ring from Niflehelm to Midgaard, and shook snowflakes from the sky.”
The snow fell lightly on Midgaard, tumbling its way in gentle rumblings to the face of the world. It drifted down from the dark skies, landing gently on the hills and the seas, covering the entire scene of Cross’ Viking homeland. The wound of the skies dripped its white blood over the tombstone houses of the town. Funeral mounds of stone and wood stood tall against the snow, as it continued to rain down upon the homeland. The streets were empty; all the members of the village were huddled up in the Mead Hall for warmth. The snow was unexpected, it wasn’t the winter months, and in truth it had been growing colder for weeks now, ever since Cross had left. The snow rumbled down over the scene, over the houses, across the streets, on the ocean that surrounded them, and over the Mead Hall that housed every Viking in this village. Well, nearly every one.
Off to the side of the village sat a cave that many of the Vikings tried their best to ignore. Dug in to a jagged cliff face, the tunnel turned deep in to the side of the mound, and inside of it lived but one lonely old woman, the Viking oracle. A seer, if you will, but one the Vikings tried to ignore, for whether she could communicate with the gods or not, she only communicated with them under the worst of occasions: when death was coming.
So alone the oracle sat, spending her days staring endlessly in to the eternal flame in front of her. She needn’t ever bring fuel to the fire, it was the God’s gift for being their medium to communicate with the Midgaardians. But the flame was beginning to look less bright over the past few weeks. The colder it got, the duller the flame became, and it worried her. So the oracle stared deep in to the embers, awaiting a reply from the Gods, something she has yet to receive. And regardless of its dwindling warmth, she had not much else for her in the cave. No blankets or cushions, no homely decorations. She sat alone in the dank cave, the fire her only comfort and friend. The walls dripped, shone with disgusting goo. Not even animals, bat nor rat ventured in to the mouth of the cave. Stalagmites and stalactites made the mouth of the oracle’s home a crooked maw of an entrance, something no one dared enter. So alone she sat, staring in to the flames, waiting to speak with the Gods who called her only under the worst of occasions: when death was coming.
In the Mead Hall, too, they enjoyed the bustling fire. The warriors and their wenches were inside the hall, laughing and singing loudly. Despite the coldness outside, the air in here was warm, full of frivolity and not flakes of snow. At one end of the hall, there were a group of warriors clanging their mugs against the table at which they sat, doing their best through their inebriation to keep in time with the slurred song they sung. At the other end, a loud and boastful story was being told by a burly warrior standing atop a chair, and everyone around him was enthralled in it. And upon closer inspection, the stories, the songs, they were all about Brett Cross, about Hammer and Glaeg. The song sung of the glorious return of Brett from across the waves, and the story was a far more embellished version of how he’d felled the Jotun for Brandrwulf. The lot of the Viking crew were entirely immersed within the idea of their grand Viking hero, and they could not wait for his return. Outside, the snow began to fall a little harder, the air looking more like sheets of white, now. Inside, the oracle continued to stare in to her dying flames, while the Vikings in the Mead Hall were enjoying theirs. Little did any of them know that Cross and Glaeg were fighting in a world of fire.
Whether they all knew it or not, the fires were dying for all of them, whether they wanted it too or not. T’is the course of life and it can’t be helped. For the old woman, her fire’s dying before her eyes and she’s all too aware. The fire that burns for her is all that keeps her alive, and without it she’d soon perish, so she knew all too well how the flames were retreating. Xplode, too, a veteran in his own right, knows his fire is dying. He’s been on a losing streak as of late, beginning with losing the EUW title, and there seemed to be no hope of him rebounding. For whatever reason, age, injury, loss of inspiration, his fire has been dying, slowly burning out: and try as he might, he can’t change it. Xplode used to be on top of the world, he used to know it all. He was an oracle himself, he saw how everything went, and controlled the way EUW worked. He was the champion of the company, the commander, the leader, the face of the federation. Hell, he’s even beaten Cross not too long ago. But now, his fire is losing its heat, it’s burning out and he can’t save it. Cross would surely capitalize on that this week.
And Chance, Chance’s fire was more like the bonfire ablaze in the Mead Hall. His fire has been burning brightly for a while, whether he’s been aware of it or not. Just like the warriors in a drunken stupor, he wouldn’t know how brightly his fires were burning until they started to fade much like Xplode’s. Sure, Chance’s record shows an already fading flame, and surely Cross has beaten him countless times through that pitiful run, but Chance still has a fire that burns brightly regardless. Because unlike Cross, he owns a pinfall victory over Xplode, and has been hot since his match at Young Gunz. Perhaps he’s aware of the fire that burns inside of him already, perhaps not. Either way, he’s assuredly on a high, enjoying the new intensity he brings to the picture. Right now, the fire that burns inside Chance is a brightly flickering blaze. But, like any fire, it’s bound to burn out sooner than later.
But Cross and Glaeg? They live in fire. And right now, they’re fighting inside a world of fire. No matter what analogies for how brightly Xplode or Chance’s flames are or were, they know nothing of a true blaze. Brett Cross, “The Norse Hammer”, he’s lived and fought inside fire his entire life. He knows far more of the fire that burns inside a man, the intensity, the drive, than either of them put together. For he’s garnered far more victories over the years than either of them, and he’s bested villains far greater than either of them. He’s a glorious warrior, and is aware of every in and out of battle. The two of them? They’re fading flames, they’re pathetic wannabe’s. Right now, Cross is encased in a world of fire, and at his side he holds Brandrwulf, the Pure Title, and he knows damn well how to use it. The two of them? Xplode has been struggling to win as of late, and Fusion has been struggling to win his entire career. “The God of Midgaard” won’t let either of them beat him this week, for to do so would be an embarrassment. It’s the end for both of their flames.
Suddenly, a strong gust of snowy wind blew over the land. The gash of the skies opened up wide and the snow began to pour its white gore on to the land, a full-on blizzard with hellishly destructive gusts. From the heavens, or more like from Hel, from Jotunheimr, blew a strong wind that whipped through and blew out all the fires in the Viking homeland, Mead Hall and oracle alike. It flew in through the cave’s jagged mouth, tumbled and rampaged through the small tunnel, dispatching the old woman’s dying flame, the eternal link she had with the Gods, the one that would never die. And on the other side of the village, the same gust stormed through the front door of the hall and destroyed the massive bonfire at the middle of the scene, the thriving and lively blaze was doused in a matter of seconds. From one of the Hel’s came a gust of wind that destroyed both of the fires together in one fell swoop, much in the same way Cross would do this Monday. The boasting, the stories, the song, the concentration of all the Vikings here vanished with the gust. And in the quiet, every warrior and wench in the Mead Hall could hear the hushed, startled whisper of the oracle. The howling winds calmed just long enough to carry the words clearly, even from so far away, and the words brought fear in to the hearts of each and every one of them.