Post by Mr. C on Sept 24, 2008 13:22:42 GMT -5
"Ha! 'Twas a good beatin' ye gave last Monday, lad! Puts me in the mind of a story..."
Frivolity was all about in the room where this man spoke. There was a loud chatter that surrounded the entire scene, everyone was talking amongst themselves, very loudly and boastfully. Certain patches of the room held singers, bad ones at that, who slurred their words and belted out crude lyrics about drinking and women. Others had women squealing and giggling, surrounded by burly men who each tried to best the other at contests such as "Who's beard is more red", a spectacle of shameless flirting all about. Then, across the entire room, were clinks and thuds as mugs of glass and wood met one another in celebration and prost. A frivolous scene it was indeed. With a fire crackling in the center of the entire deal, (a massive tusked pig was skewered and being spun above the roaring bonfire) it was obvious this was not just any tavern. This was a classic mead hall of old.
"Ya see that pig yonder? Aye, t'was me who killed it good! The creature never stood a chance against me. Having defended Bifrost side by side with the mighty Heimdall himself, after wrestling a Frost Giant man-to-man, hand-to-hand, and defeating him soundly in the dead of winter, after any accomplishment you can trace back to me, this was a small task. Ach, much like you seem to be, James Vincent!"
Brett Cross' accent was thick, almost hard to understand at times, but what he said always rolled off his tongue, like he was speaking a long story. As if everything he said was a distant memory, a tale passed down for generations. To listen to the man, you'd think that what he said was at the least vast exaggeration, but most likely closer to simply hollow boasting, with no basis on fact at all. But, to look at the man, you thought twice about if he had truly done any of the feats he claimed. Brett took up another mug, from the dozen he had circling him at the table where most of which were empty, and took a large swig of it. Grinning through the swallow, his pearly whites were an interesting contrast to the foam that gathered about his lips on his reddened beard. Then, planting down the mug firmly, shaking and bouncing all the other glasses at his disposal, he spoke once more.
"You see, Vincent. As much as ye may detest it, I liken you to a pig. A rotten, smelly, pot-bellied pig. Ye come out here day in and day out, and you bad-mouth the crowd and the superstars and management. Ye think you're better than everyone else and Vincent, lad, ye truly aren't. While I enjoy a grand brawl as much as the next, what you did last week was shameful. If there's one thing I hold in high regard, as any true warrior should, it's the idea of respect, and ye haven't a lick of't!"
This time, Cross slammed his fist down on the table, as he exclaimed his last sentiment. The tables about him heard only the fire behind his thickly accented voice, and let out a loud cheer and took a swig for him, prosts all around.
"Ya see, lad. That pig yonder, is a wild boar. A beast from the wilderness who has no place inside the walls of this lovely town. Much like'n yourself haven't any place in EUW. When that boar came in, he went right to the heart of this 'ere town, and began to tear up all the crops! Now, with winter fast approaching, we could have none of that. That pig, that boar, that creature did not know the meaning of respect. Most woodland beasts know their place, 'e did not, you do not. You're no better than a pig, Vincent. So, when no one was able to catch the damned pig, for you see he grew up in the woods and was far faster than any pig you and I would know, bigger and stronger as well, I stepped up to the challenge. I was known about these parts and held in high renown. I, "The Norse Hammer" Brett Cross, 'ad slain countless beasts in my day, what would be one more rogue pig to add to the list. Stepping out, I found where the pig was, in it's usual place, tearing apart the gardens 'ere. The battle was glorious, but entirely one sided, as it took merely one crack on the 'ead from my hammer to fell the beast. Aye, in fact I plan to do quite the same to you, Vincent. One shot from The Hammer, and you're done, ready for roastin'. Ha!"
Brett Cross gripped his burly hands together, joining them together, interlocking his calloused fingers, the same set-up for his finishing maneuver and he taunted his opponent with it. For, to him, these wrestling matches were nothing more than more valiant challenges set before him. No different then the lake trolls or the frost giants he claimed to slay. Besting James Vincent would simply be another grand, over-blown story. Brett Cross beamed his pearly whites again, grinning broad at the mere thought of the coming bout.
"Ach, you feel it, lad? The time for battle is nearin'. I hope ye'r ready, because I live for this stuff. "The Norse Hammer" is comin', boy. It's going to crush ye."
The tables about him had taken notice to the last sentence and had fell silent to listen to the boasting. For, seeing a camera crew at work in the mead hall was interesting enough. No one had taken much notice to it, before, there was far to much merriment to concern oneself with the technological equipment surround Cross, but his voice had begun to swell and deepen. As the story progressed, the entire mead hall began to listen, and when Cross had finished the entire mead hall had burst in to drunken, shouted chorus as if on queue. Beats complimented by stomping and pounding, the notes came across more like part of a march than any song by today's standards, but none the less, it was "sung" by the entire hall.
Hark! Hark!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to reality.
Cross! Cross!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to ye'r reality!
With it sung, the entire mead hall burst in to cheers and laughter, Brett Cross included. His name truly has been around in these parts, his renown unmatched. The stories he spoke, the tales he told, they were not mere hot air. They were truth, he was a beast of a man who had done what only God's could do. To face James Vincent this week would be a walk in the park. And, to make the scop's song more glorious, he was entering a battle that was not just for valor, but to stifle a false warrior. A man who knew not respect, who knew not the ideology Brett Cross fought and bled for.
Standing up on to his chair, a mammoth man standing 6'9 already hung well above everyone in the mead hall's head, including the handful of warriors at the other end dancing on their table so needless to say at this new height, he commanded the entire hall's ear.
"Heed, everyone! For "The Norse Hammer" enters battle once more this Monday's night! And, for the coming battle, and the coming victory for myself, I have but one thing to say... drinks all around! Mead for everyone! Ha ha!"
Once more, the mead hall burst in to laughter. The pig continued it's slow roast at the center, felled by who other than the hero of the north, The Hammer. And that same sentiment was said to be extracted on James Vincent come this Monday. Will the truth be told, or was all this merriment for not?
Ach, no matter. For t'was a true scene of frivolity, indeed. For now, drink up!
Hark! Hark!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to reality.
Cross! Cross!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From lore to ye'r reality!
Frivolity was all about in the room where this man spoke. There was a loud chatter that surrounded the entire scene, everyone was talking amongst themselves, very loudly and boastfully. Certain patches of the room held singers, bad ones at that, who slurred their words and belted out crude lyrics about drinking and women. Others had women squealing and giggling, surrounded by burly men who each tried to best the other at contests such as "Who's beard is more red", a spectacle of shameless flirting all about. Then, across the entire room, were clinks and thuds as mugs of glass and wood met one another in celebration and prost. A frivolous scene it was indeed. With a fire crackling in the center of the entire deal, (a massive tusked pig was skewered and being spun above the roaring bonfire) it was obvious this was not just any tavern. This was a classic mead hall of old.
"Ya see that pig yonder? Aye, t'was me who killed it good! The creature never stood a chance against me. Having defended Bifrost side by side with the mighty Heimdall himself, after wrestling a Frost Giant man-to-man, hand-to-hand, and defeating him soundly in the dead of winter, after any accomplishment you can trace back to me, this was a small task. Ach, much like you seem to be, James Vincent!"
Brett Cross' accent was thick, almost hard to understand at times, but what he said always rolled off his tongue, like he was speaking a long story. As if everything he said was a distant memory, a tale passed down for generations. To listen to the man, you'd think that what he said was at the least vast exaggeration, but most likely closer to simply hollow boasting, with no basis on fact at all. But, to look at the man, you thought twice about if he had truly done any of the feats he claimed. Brett took up another mug, from the dozen he had circling him at the table where most of which were empty, and took a large swig of it. Grinning through the swallow, his pearly whites were an interesting contrast to the foam that gathered about his lips on his reddened beard. Then, planting down the mug firmly, shaking and bouncing all the other glasses at his disposal, he spoke once more.
"You see, Vincent. As much as ye may detest it, I liken you to a pig. A rotten, smelly, pot-bellied pig. Ye come out here day in and day out, and you bad-mouth the crowd and the superstars and management. Ye think you're better than everyone else and Vincent, lad, ye truly aren't. While I enjoy a grand brawl as much as the next, what you did last week was shameful. If there's one thing I hold in high regard, as any true warrior should, it's the idea of respect, and ye haven't a lick of't!"
This time, Cross slammed his fist down on the table, as he exclaimed his last sentiment. The tables about him heard only the fire behind his thickly accented voice, and let out a loud cheer and took a swig for him, prosts all around.
"Ya see, lad. That pig yonder, is a wild boar. A beast from the wilderness who has no place inside the walls of this lovely town. Much like'n yourself haven't any place in EUW. When that boar came in, he went right to the heart of this 'ere town, and began to tear up all the crops! Now, with winter fast approaching, we could have none of that. That pig, that boar, that creature did not know the meaning of respect. Most woodland beasts know their place, 'e did not, you do not. You're no better than a pig, Vincent. So, when no one was able to catch the damned pig, for you see he grew up in the woods and was far faster than any pig you and I would know, bigger and stronger as well, I stepped up to the challenge. I was known about these parts and held in high renown. I, "The Norse Hammer" Brett Cross, 'ad slain countless beasts in my day, what would be one more rogue pig to add to the list. Stepping out, I found where the pig was, in it's usual place, tearing apart the gardens 'ere. The battle was glorious, but entirely one sided, as it took merely one crack on the 'ead from my hammer to fell the beast. Aye, in fact I plan to do quite the same to you, Vincent. One shot from The Hammer, and you're done, ready for roastin'. Ha!"
Brett Cross gripped his burly hands together, joining them together, interlocking his calloused fingers, the same set-up for his finishing maneuver and he taunted his opponent with it. For, to him, these wrestling matches were nothing more than more valiant challenges set before him. No different then the lake trolls or the frost giants he claimed to slay. Besting James Vincent would simply be another grand, over-blown story. Brett Cross beamed his pearly whites again, grinning broad at the mere thought of the coming bout.
"Ach, you feel it, lad? The time for battle is nearin'. I hope ye'r ready, because I live for this stuff. "The Norse Hammer" is comin', boy. It's going to crush ye."
The tables about him had taken notice to the last sentence and had fell silent to listen to the boasting. For, seeing a camera crew at work in the mead hall was interesting enough. No one had taken much notice to it, before, there was far to much merriment to concern oneself with the technological equipment surround Cross, but his voice had begun to swell and deepen. As the story progressed, the entire mead hall began to listen, and when Cross had finished the entire mead hall had burst in to drunken, shouted chorus as if on queue. Beats complimented by stomping and pounding, the notes came across more like part of a march than any song by today's standards, but none the less, it was "sung" by the entire hall.
Hark! Hark!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to reality.
Cross! Cross!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to ye'r reality!
With it sung, the entire mead hall burst in to cheers and laughter, Brett Cross included. His name truly has been around in these parts, his renown unmatched. The stories he spoke, the tales he told, they were not mere hot air. They were truth, he was a beast of a man who had done what only God's could do. To face James Vincent this week would be a walk in the park. And, to make the scop's song more glorious, he was entering a battle that was not just for valor, but to stifle a false warrior. A man who knew not respect, who knew not the ideology Brett Cross fought and bled for.
Standing up on to his chair, a mammoth man standing 6'9 already hung well above everyone in the mead hall's head, including the handful of warriors at the other end dancing on their table so needless to say at this new height, he commanded the entire hall's ear.
"Heed, everyone! For "The Norse Hammer" enters battle once more this Monday's night! And, for the coming battle, and the coming victory for myself, I have but one thing to say... drinks all around! Mead for everyone! Ha ha!"
Once more, the mead hall burst in to laughter. The pig continued it's slow roast at the center, felled by who other than the hero of the north, The Hammer. And that same sentiment was said to be extracted on James Vincent come this Monday. Will the truth be told, or was all this merriment for not?
Ach, no matter. For t'was a true scene of frivolity, indeed. For now, drink up!
Hark! Hark!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From mere lore to reality.
Cross! Cross!
For hither comes the beast of myth!
Brett! Cross!
From lore to ye'r reality!
