Post by Mr. C on Jan 23, 2009 11:35:38 GMT -5
IV.
“And Monday was to be a fight for the ages.”
On horseback and in the midst of a massive brawl, Cross yanked the reigns of his steed and it arched on to its hind legs. The war-horse whinnied and grunted as it stood tall, and due to the sight of the sheer size of the creature that was about to trample him, the soldier that had come to take Cross on fell backwards on to his back in fear and surprise. He was no coward; in fact the soldier was a large man, with a massive beer belly and fiery red hair with a bulging muscles and scars covering his face. He had been in wartime before, he but he’d never seen a beast or a beast of a man quite like this. At one time he may have been a brave warrior, taking on all comers. In the past, he could have been the gladiator of gladiators. But today, he would be nothing more than another felled “hero.” Brett Cross thrust his spear down in to his chest, and the horse came down, crushing his skull beneath its front hooves. The man’s head crunched and his fiery red hair paled in comparison to the red gore that oozed out between pink and white-glittered mush. With a quick jerk, Cross pulled the spear free and wheeled the horse about, moving on to the next one, and leaving the body behind, stabbed through the heart and headless. Cross crushed his opponents without mercy.
The Norse Hammer let out a furious yell and jumped from the branch of a snow-covered tree limb. Deep in the mountains was this battle held, not the corpse-laden field the previous image showed. As Brett Cross jumped off, he brought both burly hands behind his head, gripping his 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 Jotunn 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 multiple men 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 skull elephant-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 before checking back to make sure he’d truly felled the creature. Cross crushed his opponents without mercy. Cross feared neither man nor beast.
Cross was running forward this time, through a vicious thundering storm. On either side of his path were giant walls of fire, and at the other end was a wave of weak English fodder. Cross had the axe in his right hand drawn already, and in his left was one leather strap of a large shield. With unparalleled accuracy and ferocity, Brett Cross threw forward the axe and it cart wheeled perfectly blade over handle to its target ‘till it found it with a disgusting squirt and crack. The blade of the axe drove in and it was a snug fit between the eyes. It found its’ place deep within the skull and cuddled up in to the warm pink tissue of the brain. The steel wedged in tight, slashing through skin, destroying his nose and splitting hairs that gently drifted down on either side of the man’s head. Cross recalled those hairs vividly as all nine hairs slowly wafted their way to the muddy ground, nestled next to a large root. By the time those hairs had hit the ground, the man collapsed as every joint went weak. He slumped forward in to a pile of gore and bone splinters, the pink matter of the brain and the pure white splinters of skull contrasting horrifically with the weird mud-blood puddles. Looking down at the dead man, Cross remembered likening him to a unicorn as he lay there, with axe sticking straight out from his mangled forehead. As the blood continued to spurt, drip, pour, meander its way out of the skull on to the muddy ground, lightning flashed in the sky.
Cross crushed his opponents without mercy. Cross feared neither man nor beast. Brett Cross had no problems killing, and no problems being a killer. This Monday would be no different, he’d beaten James Vincent before, and he’d do it again. He’d killed before, and he’d do that in a heartbeat, too. But until now, he hadn’t a purpose for it beyond mere sport. Not that that was a problem to him, for it was what he enjoyed and what he did best. It was what he knew; it was how he’d always lived his life. It was, to him, nothing more than a god-given talent. Now he had a purpose, The Vindicator was in his way on his path towards the EUW Pure Title. The scene went white.
“Cross!” A noble disembodied voice boomed out. Brett could see nothing but white, and the sound came from everywhere at once. It was a voice thick and deep like Brett’s, but it had an air of intelligence to it. It was not the voice of a common man; it was the voice of someone with real power, real authority, and real purpose. Whomever it was rode in on lightning and the voice, to Cross at least, … was heavenly.
“Brett Cross, I come on behalf of the gods of Asgaard and I bringeth a quest. You are the finest warrior bound to Midgaard that we have ever seen. We come to you in need of aid, Norse Hammer. Put aside your pillaging, your countless, needless warring. For Ragnarok is nearing, Cross, and we need ye on our side. Retrieve the blade of legend, Brandrwulf, and wield it in your name. This mighty sword, made by the dwarfs Eitri and Brokk is a magical weapon and closely guarded by the Jotunn for use when Ragnarok strikes. We need you Norse Hammer. We need you to wield it against the coming apocalypse. To wield it for the Gods, and to fight among us and as one of us when the time comes.”
With that said, thunder clapped once more, but the bright lights stayed the same. Brett Cross shook his head, trying to free the bright light from his vision and sat up slowly. It was not the effect of some lightning bolt that struck to close to his vision, the sun had been shining upon his face while he slept. Cross was merely dreaming the entire thing, reliving all his past victories, and his mind played the trick of gods speaking to him. Or did it? Maybe the dream was real… He looked around and his eyes were no longer filled with white, and instead there was the wondrous scene of the open seas. Crystal clear water and full blue skies that stretched on and on. This was his life, where he spent all his time, and the scene was still a beauty to him. The skies were a bright blue, and there was not a cloud in sight. The waves lapped gently against the hard wood of the ship, and could just barely be heard over the grunts of the slaves on deck, forcing the oars through the water. Brett Cross finally stood and made his way over to the side of the ship and looked over the edge, inhaling deeply the sweet, salty air. Beneath the ship, Joganmundr writhed, the serpent so long that he encircled the Earth, and as he swam underneath the shining window of the seas you could see he was firmly devoted to chasing his tail. What a peaceful creature, Brett Cross thought as he stared out over the calm waves, shielding his eyes with one hand from the bright sun overhead.
But then, stirring Brett from his thoughts was a loud caw. He looked up and noticed that overhead flapped the off-white wings of a gull. They were nearing land. This trip was as long as any he’d been on, their supplies were running short and every man here was ready to be off the ship. They lived on these planks, and loved the open seas, but man was not meant to live on the water and there wasn’t a soul on the boat that did not wish to be on land.
Brett Cross had been away from any titles for so long. That voyage was even longer than this one. It had been years since he’d held a tag-title with The Eh-Team, and never in his life had he held a singles title. But, life is a journey full of changes. Not every journey starts out how you expected it, and not every journey ends how you’d like it to. Brett Cross had moments in the past where he could have won and hadn’t, but he is a changed man, now. He was no longer a slave, he was the slave-driver, he was the master. He was no longer a mindless brute, he was the general, he was a Viking. Now was his time to step up, Brett Cross knew he was infinitely better now than he was in years past. But, besides that, he had confidence he could come out on top. His first obstacle was a boy, a weakling; it was James Vincent, the Vindicator. Brett Cross had beaten him plenty of times in the past, beaten him backwards and forwards and with his eyes closed. Last week, too, Brett considered it a victory because James Vincent still has not beaten him. Never pinned him and never made him submit. Cross smirked at the thought of that as he watched the gull circle around the ship’s crow’s nest lazily. Cross had the series advantage over a current EUW title-holder, and he knew it. If he wanted any title, he could take it easily. What’s the difference between your James Vincents or your MdAs? Nothing, they’re all pathetic and weak. They’re make-shift fighters, they’re losers. Vincent has his title, and if he was smart, he would stick to the tag-scene so he can hide behind his boyfriend Chris Sabora. Because come Monday, Brett Cross will just pound The Vindicator in to dust again, and move one step closer to reaching new gold, to grasping a new prize, and for completing a quest of the gods. He now has a god-sent purpose on this earth, and neither man nor beast will stand in his way. It was no dream, the request was real, and Brett would act on it. The gods wanted him to have this new prize, to wield Brandrwulf, to have something to show for himself. But mostly it was a test to see if he truly did deserve to fight with the gods during Ragnarok. He would do it too; Brett Cross crushes all of those who stand before him. With that thought, a quick gust of wind tossed his hair about over his face. His smirk widened and he smoothed it back behind his head and walked towards the main staff of the ship.
Cross gripped the rope and quickly unfurled the sail. It fell and unwound violently over the mast, then billowed out in the winds as Cross secured it. As Cross worked, Glaeg came up behind him, and rested a rough, cracked hand on his shoulder. Glaeg looked far better now than he did earlier when he was saved by The Norse Hammer. His eye had scarred over and healed in a gut-wrenchingly hideous display, it was a twisted and disfigured nautical star of pale-pink flesh that spiraled over the socket underneath burly blond eyebrows. The rest of his face was as rough as Cross’ with just as many lines and wrinkles. But where Cross let his beard grow long and reckless, Glaeg had thick braids turned in to his mustache that hung down on either side of his chin. He was smaller than Cross, as were most men, but nearly as stocky. Glaeg smiled with his rugged one-eyed grin and spoke to his friend in their deep Viking tongue.
“Itchin’ to be on land, are ye Cross?”
“Nay, Glaeg.” Cross said half-mindedly as he continued on, billowing out the next set of sails and securing them tightly as well. Cross’ mind was a whirlwind of thoughts as he planned out the voyage, as he tried to figure out who had spoken to him, as he wondered who is combatant would be in Ragnarok. Glaeg followed him over, and offered to help tie down the other side for Cross. Brett explained, realizing Glaeg was interested in what was going on then, if it wasn’t them heading home. “I had a dream, lad. We’re on a new mission so we’ll ‘ave to be at sea a wee bit longer.”
“A new mission, aye? What for, ‘Ammer? Is’t for more gold? Or pretty women? Ach, I know what it is that ye’d be after! I bet it’s that great Geatland mead!”
The two men finished tying down the main sails before Brett even turned to his companion who half-joked with him. And, as he did, he smiled and it was his turn to place a rough hand on his friend’s shoulder. Then, looking him in the eye, his smile grew wider and he winked at him.
“Nay, Glaeg. We’re going after Brandrwulf. I’ll explain on th’ way.”
The one-eyed Viking furrowed his brow, examining the look on his partner’s face to see if he was kidding him or not. They’d been out at sea for far longer than anyone wished, and Jottunheimr, the land of the Frost-Giants who held the legendary Brandrwulf was in the opposite direction. But, he knew Cross well and he knew Cross long. The man wouldn’t joke when it came to quests, and this was the mother of all quests.
“Left side! Row ‘arder! We’re turnin’ this ship ‘round! We’re ‘eaded for Jotunheimr so Brett Cross can wield the blade of legend. We’re ‘eaded after Brandrwulf!”
Not a single man groaned, for they knew the consequences of any such deed, especially beneath the driver Brett Cross. They all knew what was to come, they’d have to be at sea for another long while and cross through days of dense forest and high mountains, but if Brett Cross said they were sent on a mission for such a thing, then no one dared question him. He was the closest thing to an Aesir on Midgaard. But not only that, to have one of their own wielding as prestigious of a thing as Brandrwulf would make the lot of them look better in the eyes of the valkyries. This voyage has been long, and the first obstacle was coming soon. It had been a lifetime since Brett Cross had held a title, and JDV would be the first hurdle before reaching Brandrwulf. The first hardship before he completed the quest of the gods. And he would complete this quest of the gods. He’d done everything else up to this point, hadn’t he? They chose him because he was the best. This Monday didn’t prove a damn thing, for he knows he’s better than The Vindicator and he would simply be showing what everyone already knew, but when the time comes to face de’Archangel, then Brett Cross would prove the man in the dream did not make a mistake. He is the strongest warrior in Midgaard, bar none.
A second gust ran over the ship as the oars turned the ship to face with the wind. The sails billowed out, and Brett Cross moved to the figure head to watch the mission unfold from the frontlines. He would prove he was the greatest warrior in Midgaard and wield Brandrwulf alongside the mighty Asgaardians and fight for their sakes during Ragnarok. Fighting was what he lived for, and Brandrwulf was not just an honor but a title to him. A way of showing all of his hard work had paid off.
Wielding Brandrwulf and fighting alongside the gods was his destiny.
