Post by Mr. C on Mar 8, 2009 21:45:47 GMT -5
IX.
“And, please Odin, I’m ready for my next quest.”
The mead hall of Cross’ village was a bustling scene, with burly warriors enjoying their drink and the scop’s song. Brett was no exception, as he sat at the back of the hall, his furred boots kicked up on top of the table, his chair rocked on to the back two legs. He watched the men enjoying their time as he took a big swig of the honey wine. His other hand rested on the pommel of the blade at his waist. In fact, his hand never left the hilt of the storied blade. It was a weapon he treasured, a weapon he took pride in. This was something he’d dreamt of since he was little, wielding such a weapon as his own.
Cross stared down at the blade, looking over the intricate detailing of the blade. He’d spent many hours staring in to the shining steel, but always managed to find something new in its artistry. The dwarfs who made this legendary weapon were the best at what they did and this was easily the finest weapon he’d ever laid eyes upon. But, before he could get too far in to a trance staring at the iconic blade, someone entered the mead hall, yelling out over the ruckus.
“Lads, ha! There’st a man on the shore who is lookin’ fer a “Brett Cross”! Have’st ye ever heard of such a stupid name?”
The entire mead hall burst out in to laughter, but Cross did not. In this village, he was known as Hammer. Hammer was the name his Viking family had given him, and the name that he used. To them, there was no Brett Cross. Hammer stood and followed the man out of the mead hall, unsure what he’d find when he stepped out on to the beaches, but as he exited the hall, he could see the largest of ships he’d ever laid eyes upon anchored to the shores. The walls of it stood tall, it was a freight of a vessel, some thing meant to carry far more than just soldiers. And the figure head at the front, it had no anger, no intimidation factor. It was a mermaid, a beautiful woman lead them through Odin’s seas. The entire vessel was laughable to a Viking, but as Cross looked for the captain of this girly-man’s ship, it did not take long for their eyes to meet.
On the beaches stood a large man, easily on par with any of the warriors here. His muscles rippled beneath the expensive clothes he wore, and his height was quite a bit more than a normal man’s. But, he was not rugged like these Vikings were, he was clean cut. His long blond hair was not left unruly over his face, but was instead pulled back in to a tightly groomed pony tail. And his beard, there was none. The lot of it was shaved off cleanly. His clothes were a deep green, a shade that Cross recognized but couldn’t quite put his finger on. The entire visage of him was a scene of wealth and grandeur, and then Cross knew exactly who he was. His father.
Cross recognized him right away, and by the look on his father’s face, vice versa. Brett made his way down to the shores, and his mind was a confusing mixture of emotion. He was surprised, stunned actually, that his father had found him here, happy to see him, sadness of him not being around for so many years. But of every emotion he had, there was no anger present unlike the men who surrounded him. No anger yet, atleast. They were indeed mad that someone had the gall to show up here. These men did the raiding, and not the other way around, especially not by someone who kept his face cleanly shaven like some kind of woman. The events out here were just as loud as the mead hall had been as the warriors demanded to know from whence this man came. He didn’t respond to any of them, as his eyes were fixed on Hammer who pushed his way through the crowd and stood face to face with his old man.
“’Lo, father. T’is been a long while, hasn’t it?”
Not all Vikings, not all fighters, were the rugged warriors like Cross’ tribe. Some were businessmen at heart, traders. All of these men lusted for gold, but some just found other ways of doing it. Most pillaged for the riches, but there were still many who found it better to be traders, and Brett Cross’ father did just that. He was a full-blooded Viking, but a trader. And in doing so, spent just as much time as any of these warriors at sea, traveling back and forth from this very village to England and becoming quite successful in the process. But after a while he could no longer stand making the trips between his home and England, and chose to settle down in this new land. He left his tribe, his life at sea, and his large family to live in this new land, lavishing in his riches.
Cross’ father was never much of a fighter, never had been. But, he had a way with people. He was a salesman, a man with a real knack for business. And during his trips to England, he was able to woo one person in particular, a nice, beautiful young woman, and together they had a child. Now he had to stay for sure, and become part of the culture, for the seas were no place for a child. Cross’ father had to change his name, to change his lifestyle, to change his religion. He was now no longer Oleg the Seafarer, he was Oleg Cross. He was no longer a captain of a trading vessel, he was a store owner. And, all of his Norse gods were forsaken as he took to a new higher power, Jesus Christ. He embraced all of it completely and in fact his name was taken right from his new non-pagan religion. And his son, he would not be given a Norse name like Hammer. Instead, he would be Brett. Brett Cross. And from the time he could understand what that meant, Brett hated it. He did not accept this culture, he did not feel welcomed.
Xplode, one could argue, is the father of EUW and not much different from Oleg. A father is someone you are suppoused to look up to, someone to be proud of, and someone to learn from and respect. Xplode, much like Oleg, did not receive any of this from Brett Cross. Cross spat at the very thought of looking up to or respecting that piece of trash. Xplode may be a father figure in EUW, but just like father Cross, he’s tame. He’s not a fighter, he’s a tame, mild-mannered businessman. He doesn’t have the skills for battle, some men simply aren’t born with them. There’s a gene of cowardice present in some, even the ruthless Vikings, and Xplode has it. Instead of fighting, he relies on nothing more than luck, and other lame lackeys such as Terry Jones or the newly reformed Firm. Champion or not, he did not win the belt with hard work, he won it by being in the right place at the right time, by being advantageous not skillful. He could barely even be called a man. He was the exact opposite of Cross, and Brett planned to make a strong example out of him.
“Indeed it has, son! It’s been many years. You’re looking well, and you’ve obviously accepted your new culture. I had a feeling from the day you were born that you weren’t going to follow in my footsteps. I knew you’d carve your own path. In fact, that brings me to why I’ve come here. Word’s reached all the way to England that you’ve found that storied blade, Brandrwulf. My, I thought it was just a cute nursery rhyme like the rest of your so called religion.”
As Oleg spoke, his voice was deep and you could tell that it had taken a lot of time to rid himself of his Norse accent. Now he was sounding forced, humorously posh (as posh as a Viking could sound) and above all, down-right snooty. But when the word Brandrwulf arose, Cross tightened his grip on the handle of the blade, and Oleg’s eyes followed down to it. The tradesman’s eye twinkled as he glanced down at the blade and it made Cross uncomfortable to say the least. He quickly turned his body partly to the side, as if his father’s sight was tarnishing the steel. And when Oleg saw Cross turn, a smirk curled up on to his face, a smile that showed his father truly felt “holier-than-thou.” They both knew that Oleg had every intention of selling the sword. That had been his goal from the very beginning, to make as much money as he could. And for a blade like this, whether the client believed in the Norse “mythology” or not, there would be a pretty penny paid. Oleg had forsaken these legends, these beliefs, the gods he used to respect and look up to, and now they were nothing more than a joke and a way to make a buck. That’s when Cross remembered more clearly what he hated most about his father and the void where his anger wasn’t present before quickly filled back up.
Oleg may be a father, may be Brett’s biological one at that. But, he was no father figure. Even settled down in England, Oleg was not allowing Brett Cross to enjoy living there. He was often times ignored, cast aside, because to Oleg, it was money first, always. Cross spent a lot of time playing alone in the dark back-alleys in this strange world, imagining himself in mean Viking wars, taking on legions of soldiers all by himself. In fact, the happiest moments of his childhood weren’t even the rare moments with his mother and father, but instead when his uncle came to visit. Uncle Gunnr, father of Glaeg, would often visit with his son to try and convince Oleg to return – and every time to no avail. Gunnr visited often enough, warning Oleg about the bounty placed on his head for leaving the tribe. Gunnr cared for his brother, even if he was misguided, but there was no changing him. His father enjoyed the money he made here in his shop far too much.
And every time Gunnr visited, Cross would marvel at his appearance. His long, unkempt beard and hair, his worn and tattered clothes, the axe that he carried strapped by leather to his back, all of it was larger than life to the young Brett Cross. He was the epitome of what he imagined as a child, and on one of the last visits by his uncle, Cross gathered up all of his courage and stowed away in the ship to head home with the Viking. He did not want to grow up to be a cowardly Viking trader, because to him there was a reason trader and traitor sounded the same. He wanted to be a warrior – the best Viking warrior there ever was. And, Cross’ father never stopped him, never came looking for him. For a while, Brett thought his father would never come looking for him, that his money and shop were far more important than his son. But, he did come. He did find Cross, and the look in his eye showed that he truly hadn’t cared. He knew where he was all along and never bothered to find him until now, until he could make some kind of profit from the venture.
Xplode’s the EUW champion, at the peak of his career, leading the locker room. He truly could be defined as the man to look up to, the father. But Brett Cross is grown now, and he’s a champion too. In fact, they’re the only two men in the company that hold titles at this moment. They’re on par with one another at this moment, but one could argue that Brett Cross has been far more successful. He’s a two-time tag champion, a feat that Xplode cannot attest to. And currently he’s the Pure Champion, with no known number one contender for his title. He’s sitting pretty on his throne, without anyone even willing to challenge him. Xplode, though? He’s showing week in and week out not that he’s the top dog, the one everyone is after, but that he’s a pushover. Cross has no challengers, with just as prestigious of a title, but Xplode has everyone after him, because they know against Xplode they have a very easy chance of winning.
Brett Cross has definitely been on a hot streak during his long quest towards winning the Pure Title. In fact, he’s been undefeated for nearly 3 months. He’s a destructive force, turning back everyone in his path. What’s Xplode got on his resume as of late? Defeating an old man covered in ring rust and sitting on his ass. Cross is grown now, and no longer a child, no longer just a son. He’s a warrior and his own man – and a better man at that.
“My, my, son. You sure are protective of your toys, didn’t your father ever teach you to share?”
“This blade is no joke, Oleg. Nor is’t any of ye’r business whether I ‘ave’t or not. I’m going to ask ye politely to leave these shores and never return. Ye aren’t welcome ‘ere.”
The smirk at Oleg’s face widens, the whole thing was indeed a joke to him. He knew what the answer would be before he came, but he came to toy with his son regardless. It had been many years since he’d abandoned the tribe, so he knew now that he would be in no danger if he visited. In fact, perhaps this was the plan the entire time. Oleg, perhaps, had planned to wait this out since the day Cross left England to see if he could somehow make this in to some kind of profit. Let his son amass all the wealth he could through pillaging, then offer to take it from him when the time is right. Oleg shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel to head back towards the ship and as he did, he yelled back towards his son, his voice dripping with evil and mock offense. The plan worked out just fine.
“That’s fine, son. I’ll leave, but I can’t promise I will never return. That blade you got is mighty pretty, and I know of a man who would pay quite a bit for it. I can’t pass up a chance to have that much money. So, if you want to keep your precious little Brandrwulf, you best keep one eye open at all times.”
As Oleg cast off, Cross frowned and headed back to the mead hall, his hand never leaving the hilt of Brandrwulf. He knew what his father said was true, he’d surely return at some point. And, what then? Would he have to kill his own father? Cross shook his head as he thought about Brandrwulf plunging through the stomach of his father. The same blade he would eventually try and wrest from him would need to be the end of his days. Unless, Cross could finish him first. He’d killed before, why not now, too? Hell, his father didn’t treat him right to begin with, perhaps it’s what the old bastard deserved for forsaking the tribe, for forsaking the gods. For, what Oleg did not realize, is that his son was one of those gods he’d forsaken. The God of Midgaard, and perhaps killing his evil father would be the best kind of poetic justice. The one god closest to him would end his life for forsaking him, the god he created.
This Monday, Cross plans to turn back EUW’s father too. He plans to beat Xplode this Monday and turn him back just like with Oleg. But, what his father said was true: this will not be their last meeting, not at all. Nor will it be the last meeting between Cross and Xplode. Cross is a far stronger man than Oleg, far stronger than Xplode and far stronger than any army either could buy. And Cross knows he’s better than Xplode, better than Oleg, too. No matter what success they both can claim, Cross has the sheer size and power, the tenacity, the raw ability. And, no matter what they both stake out as their own successes, Cross is successful in his own way, and will undoubtedly prove it this Monday. Cross is a man now, a god now, and not some child as his father would love to treat him. He wields Brandrwulf, and has defeated beasts far stronger than the likes of them. He’s been knighted The God of Midgaard and to a man with that much fame, there is no superior but Odin the All-Father. No matter what Xplode may like to think of himself, he’s definitely no Odin. He’s a business man, a cowardly Viking traitor. And Cross, he’d have no greater pleasure than to impale him on the steeled blade of Brandrwulf.
