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- Dagvald Riddik
- Posts : 7
Join date : 2020-11-08
Chapter One
The following takes place directly after the events of Year Walk
“Welcome home…” A gust of wind more frigid than the most remote reaches of empty space whistles through the fallen warrior’ ears and coagulates into an intelligible whisper. “...my brother.”
As the realization of his persistent consciousness dawns over him like the rising sun which surely hath never graced such a frozen hellscape as that in which he now finds himself, it is not relief which fills his thoughts, but sheer terror. The sensation of millions of dead skin cells surrendering to the frost and flaking off his body in chunks and clumps is overwhelming. With every second that passes he is sure he has at last crumbled entirely into a frozen heap. Despite the indescribable agony, the wind has this to say in succession.
“I’ve finally saved you, brother.” The eerily silky voice is most certainly female in origin. Perhaps it is Mother Earth herself. In all his studies, Dagvald has no recollection of the great mother being so deeply imbued with paralyzing cold. It is all he can do to lie there, below the towering petrified oaks which claw at the heavens around him, half frozen, despite the charred and melted skin which hangs off him and dies in sheets of congealed fleshy morass. “I’ve waited, yes, we’ve all waited for this moment for so long. The great homecoming of Dagvald Riddik, Loki’s Prodigal Son. It’s a shame it took such unenviable methods of convincing for you to join us once again. You’ve been through such immeasurable peril, but at last, here in Helheim, you are among family.”
With each word the voice carried by the gusts grows closer, louder, and clearer. Footsteps can now be made out, etching their temporary place in the snow which threatens to swallow Dagvald before the blowing winds bury any evidence of them with freshly fallen shards of ice. In short order, the footsteps stop, surely, right at the golden haired viking’s cranium. With intense and agonizing effort, he forces himself to raise his head and behold the entity which addresses him, unfazed by this ravaging blizzard. He looks, and behold, a pale woman, half goddess, half death itself. Truly, it is indeed his sister, Hel.
Face to face with the goddess of the underworld, reality came crashing unto his skull like the old church timbers which sealed his fate so many years ago. In a seemingly inescapable cycle of all-consuming fire, he is immobile, unable to escape his failures yet again. He fears he has been condemned to the unbearable eternal misery of frozen purgatory which befalls those Norsemen who suffer a mediocre and unremarkable death. As he stares motionless and breathless into the twisted eyes of his half sister, he cannot hide these fears from her knowing gaze.
“I look into your eyes, brother, for the first time in centuries, and I see fear. You finally return to take your rightful place among the gods, and you are afraid?”
Ever defiant, Dagvald meekly musters the strength to cough out the words, “I fear… no one.”
The master of the forsaken can scarcely withhold a condescending chuckle. “You’ve always been like this, even in the days before your exile from Ásgarðar. Arrogant, naive and stubborn, traits you couldn’t help but inherit from your mortal mother. Between the dwarf’s stallion and that wench, father sure could pick ‘em, aye? Now you lie before me on your hands and knees, skin broiled and rotten, soul burnt irreparable once again, yet still you refuse to accept your fate. Tell me, dear brother, how many times must the fire consume you before you give up on rising from the ashes?”
“My… prophecy… is written by the Norns.” He chokes, and catches his breath to continue, “There is… no world wherein I fall short… of my destiny.”
“Again, your arrogance takes hold and blinds you! How dare you claim to have the divine wisdom needed to understand the very fabric of fate? This shall be your undoing, half mortal fool. You are no prodigy of my glorious and cunning father. You are nothing but a bastard son, cast out to live amongst the filth and scum of Miðgarðr. You are a stain upon my father’s legacy, a blot upon the reputation of the Æsir themselves!” The scorned woman scoffs, disgusted at the very thought of the condemnation she is about to make. “And it’s all because of her!”
At this, as though the words have ritualistically summoned the woman who has torn asunder the very fabric of fate, Hel vanishes, and in her place is the raven haired lover Dagvald has desperately sought for so long. Upon seeing the state her once strong, fierce and protective warrior is in, her knees buckle and collapse, and she falls to her boyfriend’s side. The touch of her living flesh, amidst the perpetual permafrost, is like just another raging inferno against his own frozen skin. Her passionate kiss is like a scalding shower, and her breath is like a dragon’s flame.
Only one phrase escapes her lips, and it is an urgent plea for her long lost lover to awaken from this nightmare. “Wake up…” Her voice cracks under the stress, her lungs unable to summon enough air to bellow with a ferocity which appropriately reflects the direness of the situation. “Wake up! Wake up!” She caresses his rotting corpse, melting the solid ice which has grown upon him like moss. “Wake up!” The blizzard bellows ravages yet fiercer. The once black night now glows as the light of the hidden moon refracts off every flake of snow. Her moon-shaped face is the last thing he sees as the world goes white once more.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
Again, the wetness on his face and warmth in his chest returns to awaken him. As he musters the strength to open his eyes once more, it is not his estranged lover who greets him, but his loyal Norwegian Elkhound, Beowulf, doggedly lapping at his face and pawing at his dormant body. Relief, at last, washes over him in the slimy saliva of his canine companion. He has somehow bought himself more borrowed time in this realm. But for what purpose, and at what cost?
He fights through the cramps of severe hunger and dizziness of dehydration to deliver a hearty pat to the top of his fur coated hunter’s head. Beowulf is the only entity to have ever shown such consistently unconditional loyalty towards him. Here again, alone and in need, his hound has come to his aid. He heaves himself up off the hardwood floor, which creaks against his efforts with much complaint. As he adjusts to the changing flow of blood throughout his weakened body, he raises his head, and locks eyes with the downward gaze of the Lord Jesus Christ.
The unflinching eyes of the Prophet stare with deeply held conviction in a merciful manner at the unapologetic heathen. Dagvald stares back, suddenly consumed with a raging fury to outmatch even the fires which consumed him in his nightmares. He is looking into the eyes of He who has single handedly caused the downfall of the Nordic way of life. Here he stands in the medieval church which served as the final destination for his Year Walk. The fires which had consumed it had been nothing more than visions invoked by the Kyrkogrim.
“False prophet.” Dagvald spits hideously onto the pew adjacent to him. “You are no martyr. I am the one who continues to sacrifice myself for my cause and my people! You are a divine fraud, head of a desert cult of death and lies! You were at the tip of the toxin soaked spear which poisoned and corrupted the land upon which I stand over a thousand years ago! You have occupied this land for a millenia, and I am destined to liberate it from your gluttonous clutches!”
The raging viking reaches into a large pocket in his cargo pants and extracts a jar of viscous black liquid. “There shall be no resurrection for you this time. I am the only phoenix here.” He steps atop the wooden pulpit, then grabs a secure grip on the outstretched arms of the embodiment of God. “Every time I am struck down, I rise again, closer to achieving my rightful status as Norse demigod.” He heaves himself up high enough to bathe the wooden idol in a highly flammable tar. “I have seen death, I have confronted the goddess of death herself, and you stand before me preaching a promise of eternal life if only I adhere to your demented commandments?” He hops down and trails what little is left of the fluid behind him as he walks towards the door, careful not to let Beowulf get too close.
He opens the massive twin wooden doors of the centuries old church and ushers his hound outside. He pulls another item from his pocket. The box of matches sits idly in his hand. He pulls one out and admires its simplicity. He strikes it against his bare, coarse and calloused skin. “The only son of a God here is me.” He tosses it dismissively through the arched entrance and begins the journey back to his woodland compound as smoke begins to ebb in whisps of black from the Lord’s house.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
With some effort, the weary wanderer retraces his route through the Swedish forests and returns to his compound. The aged concrete structure’s original purpose is unclear, but its obscurity has been a blessing. Shrouded, or even shielded, by the heavily wooded wilderness, Dag has remained unmolested by the sins of civilization. His hound, of course, is quite happy to have such great expanse in which to roam freely. Beowulf skips along joyfully and anticipates a fulfilling meal at last.
His master approaches the door, fiddles with the lock and key, and it swings open with much squeaking protest. Just as Dag is nearly through the portal, he realizes the door is not the only source of the high pitched noise he hears. Over his shoulder, straight through the doorway and into his compound, flies a massive raven, clad in jet black feathers from head to toe. The creature, however, does not appear to be lost or confused as Dag suspects. Instead of flapping about in distress as any confused fowl may, it glides through the rooms and towards a long ignored closet door. Also to Dag’s surprise, his hungry hound makes no attempt to nip at the prey hovering mere feet above his snout. Rather he peers up in seemingly equal astonishment and curiosity to his owner.
The message of course is quite crystal clear. Although he is hesitant to do so, he has no choice but to oblige the messenger of the gods. He pries open the door, exceedingly stubborn from months of disuse, and inside he finds relics of a time he’d hoped was behind him. Suspended in time and space from rusted iron clothes hangers, sorted haphazardly on shelves and in drawers, are the various items of gear and apparel he once donned in his brief professional wrestling career.
The premise had greatly appealed to him at one point in his life, following shortly after his acceptance of the fact he could never again lead a normal life. Upon his release from prison, he found himself abandoned by his parents, his former friends, and most crushingly, his high school sweetheart. When he found there were local, accessible instances of that larger than life combat sport he’d heard of growing up, the promise of an outlet for his fury was highly enticing. Up until June of the previous year, he’d put in work on the various European indie scenes, living as a nomad and assuming any number of false identities.
That is, until he allowed himself to get carried away. In the midst of a no disqualification match, against an especially resilient monster of an opponent, something long repressed within the pagan pyromaniac suddenly burst to the surface. After failing to secure a three count with a powerbomb through the fly-by-night production company’s flimsy wooden stage, Dagvald spotted any number of enticing pieces of pyrotechnics equipment sitting underneath it. Newspapers the next morning wrote of what doctors described as “three-dimensional third degree burns,” a phenomenon previously thought to only be possible as a result of severe radiation poisoning.
He had to flee the Croatian authorities and return once again to self-imposed exile in Sweden. Now, it would seem the gods wish for him to harness this ungodly violence in order to bring himself closer to achieving his destiny. He reaches out and brushes dust off a half-scorched kneepad as the raven watches from a windowsill. The personalized vegvísir which adorns it practically glows as the beam of sunlight through the window illuminates the runes. Now it is the fire of passion within Dagvald which is ignited.
Chapter Two
Present Day
Beams of morning light cascade through the autumn leaves which still adorn the trees that rise as stand tall as jǫtunn. In the center of a spotlight cast by the glorious rays rests a raven haired young woman, sitting cross legged, acoustic guitar in her hands. Her head droops sullenly, chin nestled against the neck of her instrument. Her long hair rustles in the chilly breeze as fallen leaves brush against her naked thighs. The cold ground soothes her bare skin. In the distance, a raven calls out over the raucous silence of a sleeping forest.
The woman is roused from her half-slumber, and immediately struggles to take in her surroundings. In her head, she feels as though she has simultaneously been whisked away to another world, yet also, as though she has finally, finally come home. The peace of the motionless pines and blur of scurrying squirrels amongst the underbrush deliver unto her a tranquility she has known scarce few times prior. Without thinking, she strums her guitar, and the echo of the lone note travels across the great beyond without hesitation. In response, the raven calls again. She strums again, and before she can contemplate the events unfolding, she plays a song unknown even to her, but one to which the ancient wilderness is no stranger.
The animals are entranced by its beauty, and even partake in the grand orchestra themselves. Above all harmonies arises the cry of the raven. In a bellowing gruff call, like stones grinding against the eroding forces of nature, it chants verses which preclude the coming of man as is known to inhabit Miðgarður.
Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
Though one thing
Never dies;
The fair fame one has earned.
Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
I know one,
That never dies;
Judgement of a dead man's life.
In a flash, the dark memories wash over the musician as those waves of a tsunami. The misery and trauma experienced is undeniably hers, yet, it is the memory which seems foreign. In a setting so much like the current environment which now threatens to consume her, with elements and embodiments of nature rejoicing, and ancestral music reverberating off the bark covered sentinels of eons past and still to come, Isabella bore witness to a travesty. The man she had loved so fiercely abandoned her and took a monstrous abomination’s hand in marriage.
Yet she had never been cognizant of this recollection until this moment, as if it had been transplanted into her mind, or she’d repressed this trauma and the present atmosphere forced it to resurface. Despite this discrepancy, she can no longer focus on anything but the pain and confusion she had felt in that moment. What was it about that vile harpy which so enticed Dagvald? Was it her impossible beauty, which was only a deflection from her inner putridity? Perhaps it was how in tune she was with nature, which she manipulated to achieve her selfishly sinister aims? It may even have been the sense of belonging with a fellow outcast, a vixen seemingly abandoned in the forest, more than willing to offer condolences to a man rejected by civilized society.
Of course, the Huldra was an evil spirit of old, banished from her forefathers’ society for her heinous acts and insidious disposition. Cursed to forever hide her cattle’s tail under dresses made with extra care to be distractingly beautiful. Only revealing her true self to the clueless animals, her victims, and her self. Isabella brushes aside a fly which has landed on her back with her tail. It takes a moment to register.
In horror, she wails in a ghastly terror the sheer ferocity of which not even the banshees could ever fantasize about. It is as though her jaw shall separate from her skull like a serpent, and the soundwaves shall shatter and disintegrate the nine realms themselves. Despite feeling like her very own body shall soon burst apart, so horrified by the realization is she that the screaming cannot be stopped.
The beautiful banshee awakens in a feverish sweat and with a migraine surely brought on by a strike from Mjǫllnir. Her head is glued to the soft memory foam mattress, and her sight is hazed beyond comprehension. The realization that she’d only been having a nightmare slowly trickles into her mental faculties, scrambled as they are. So mentally and physically exhausted is she that it is practically sleep paralysis which afflicts her. Over time, what feels like an eternity, she focuses her eyes on the nearest shape to her head. An empty cartridge of painkillers. Soon, a drained bottle of wine comes into focus. Next comes the silhouette of her favorite show guitar propped against the closet door. Finally, the shame arrives. She can’t even kill herself right.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
Chapter Three
Present Day
“The gusts of the North Sea have set my sails unto the path toward another world. Clearly, the gods smile upon me and shower me with their favor, for this new world is nothing but another place to burn.” With these words, the bonfire behind Dagvald catches firm hold over the effigial offering he erected for those who grant him such good fortune. It cackles just as he does at the ill fates which await those who dare stand in opposition of the very Æsir themselves. “I thought my days of combat sports were behind me, but the gods have made it clear they have other plans for me. Much, much grander plans. The road to my ultimate destiny, indeed, the fate of the universe itself, is interweaved by the Norns into this most glorious competition of utmost brutality.”
The night sky is illuminated by the leaping flames as they claw ever higher. Embers fall onto the ring of harvested vegetables and flowers which surround the fire pit. The massive vegvisir, constructed of thick branches, is thoroughly ablaze. “Fate has brought me to Project: Honor, and I see this as quite fitting. For the gods know there is no one more honorable than I, Dagvald Riddik, son of Loki! I have inherited all the machiavellian traits of my father, and amongst whom is there more honor than those most sinister?”
The shining glow of the fire behind him illuminates his silhouette like an unholy holy surrounding the pagan. The wrinkles on his face channel the eerie orange aura toward his furious scowl. “I welcome those who have no idea who I am, and seek to underestimate me. I welcome those who doubt me because they do not believe in my philosophy. I welcome those, who would deny my ancestral rite and discredit my lineage. The most powerful weapon I wield is the ability to tell my enemies exactly who I am and what I am capable of, and have it be so intimidatingly insurmountable that their only choice is to pretend I am exaggerating.
“The impact I shall make on Project: Honor shall be undeniable regardless, and this all begins with my first victim. Just as my ancestors had to begin the Viking age at Lindisfarne over a millenia ago, so too shall I begin my glorious era of destruction and conquest here. I cry out to you, Peter, and I beg you to heed my warning. I call out to my enemy and I plead with you to believe me when I say, you shall not be defeated, you shall be ended. Peter of France, your downfall shall be your hubris, when you refuse to heed my warning and you attempt to take down a demigod.
“I shall not outline the litany of reasons you will lose, Peter. That’s not what matters to me. I do not partake in combat to render a defeat unto my opponents. I could achieve that in any contest, a game of horseshoes, a bout of chess, no, oh no, I seek something far more glorious than dealing defeat. I seek victory in battle! I live for the thrill of coming face to face with death and emerging even more alive for the experience! I yearn for the satisfaction of knowing I faced a challenge to my life and persevered to tell the tale to my young.
“I shall not tell you why you will lose, Peter, as so many have done before me- and been proven right, might I add. No, I will not waste my time going on about how pathetic and delusional you are to exist within this alternate reality you’ve dreamt up for yourself. None of that will matter once I force reality to come crashing down upon you. I shall only tell you why I will win. I am Dagvald Riddik, a fucking demigod. I have been granted the strength of Þórr, Warrior God of Thunder, and my blows are that of lightning. I have the cunning of my father, Loki, the Trickster God who can intellectually outmaneuver any and all who have attempted to thwart him. I have seen the Vision of Óðinn the Alfa∂ir, whose wisdom guides my strategy in combat.
“I have been through hardships the likes of which you can only perceive through the lens of your ghost writers sampling from garageband vocal presets. I have survived blows from enemies the cruelty and violence of which you would never see even on those WorldStar viral videos you so desperately seek to emulate.” Dagvald leers into the recording camera propper upon a tree stump. “I have never stopped to even wipe pellets of elk shit ten times more valuable than you off my boots as I trek through the forests. The rabbit carcasses laid at the door to my compound by my hound offer me more inconvenience than you. At least those can be consumed, whereas you have been a consumer of mass media and social pressure to conform your entire miserable life.
“Peter, I know you have zero knowledge of the ways of Ásatrú, having only learned of its existence at this very moment. But there is only one tenant of my beliefs which is relevant to such a lowly lifeform as you. To a Norse, the only way to fall in battle is through death. There is no surrender or subservience. To die in battle is to ascend to Valhöll, handpicked by the Alfa∂ir to be a part of his grand army in the wake of Ragnarök. Perhaps now you may begin to understand the stakes at hand. I do not fear these things, Peter. It is not the fear of death which wills me on in battle. Do not misinterpret me, however, for even a man such as I am capable of fear.
“It is not death, I fear, Peter, it is something far, far worse. You will not defeat me not because I am better than you, or you are worse than me, or I am stronger, faster, or more cunning. You will fall to me because the inverse of unthinkable. You cannot send me to Valhöll. You are not worthy of slaying me in battle and summoning the valkyrja to herald my return to Ásgarðr. I welcome death, Peter. When the time is right, I shall face my destiny with much rejoicing, for I have led a long and tired life. The one thing I fear is eternal mediocrity such as yours. To overcome my fear, I must erase you.”
The following takes place directly after the events of Year Walk
“Welcome home…” A gust of wind more frigid than the most remote reaches of empty space whistles through the fallen warrior’ ears and coagulates into an intelligible whisper. “...my brother.”
As the realization of his persistent consciousness dawns over him like the rising sun which surely hath never graced such a frozen hellscape as that in which he now finds himself, it is not relief which fills his thoughts, but sheer terror. The sensation of millions of dead skin cells surrendering to the frost and flaking off his body in chunks and clumps is overwhelming. With every second that passes he is sure he has at last crumbled entirely into a frozen heap. Despite the indescribable agony, the wind has this to say in succession.
“I’ve finally saved you, brother.” The eerily silky voice is most certainly female in origin. Perhaps it is Mother Earth herself. In all his studies, Dagvald has no recollection of the great mother being so deeply imbued with paralyzing cold. It is all he can do to lie there, below the towering petrified oaks which claw at the heavens around him, half frozen, despite the charred and melted skin which hangs off him and dies in sheets of congealed fleshy morass. “I’ve waited, yes, we’ve all waited for this moment for so long. The great homecoming of Dagvald Riddik, Loki’s Prodigal Son. It’s a shame it took such unenviable methods of convincing for you to join us once again. You’ve been through such immeasurable peril, but at last, here in Helheim, you are among family.”
With each word the voice carried by the gusts grows closer, louder, and clearer. Footsteps can now be made out, etching their temporary place in the snow which threatens to swallow Dagvald before the blowing winds bury any evidence of them with freshly fallen shards of ice. In short order, the footsteps stop, surely, right at the golden haired viking’s cranium. With intense and agonizing effort, he forces himself to raise his head and behold the entity which addresses him, unfazed by this ravaging blizzard. He looks, and behold, a pale woman, half goddess, half death itself. Truly, it is indeed his sister, Hel.
Face to face with the goddess of the underworld, reality came crashing unto his skull like the old church timbers which sealed his fate so many years ago. In a seemingly inescapable cycle of all-consuming fire, he is immobile, unable to escape his failures yet again. He fears he has been condemned to the unbearable eternal misery of frozen purgatory which befalls those Norsemen who suffer a mediocre and unremarkable death. As he stares motionless and breathless into the twisted eyes of his half sister, he cannot hide these fears from her knowing gaze.
“I look into your eyes, brother, for the first time in centuries, and I see fear. You finally return to take your rightful place among the gods, and you are afraid?”
Ever defiant, Dagvald meekly musters the strength to cough out the words, “I fear… no one.”
The master of the forsaken can scarcely withhold a condescending chuckle. “You’ve always been like this, even in the days before your exile from Ásgarðar. Arrogant, naive and stubborn, traits you couldn’t help but inherit from your mortal mother. Between the dwarf’s stallion and that wench, father sure could pick ‘em, aye? Now you lie before me on your hands and knees, skin broiled and rotten, soul burnt irreparable once again, yet still you refuse to accept your fate. Tell me, dear brother, how many times must the fire consume you before you give up on rising from the ashes?”
“My… prophecy… is written by the Norns.” He chokes, and catches his breath to continue, “There is… no world wherein I fall short… of my destiny.”
“Again, your arrogance takes hold and blinds you! How dare you claim to have the divine wisdom needed to understand the very fabric of fate? This shall be your undoing, half mortal fool. You are no prodigy of my glorious and cunning father. You are nothing but a bastard son, cast out to live amongst the filth and scum of Miðgarðr. You are a stain upon my father’s legacy, a blot upon the reputation of the Æsir themselves!” The scorned woman scoffs, disgusted at the very thought of the condemnation she is about to make. “And it’s all because of her!”
At this, as though the words have ritualistically summoned the woman who has torn asunder the very fabric of fate, Hel vanishes, and in her place is the raven haired lover Dagvald has desperately sought for so long. Upon seeing the state her once strong, fierce and protective warrior is in, her knees buckle and collapse, and she falls to her boyfriend’s side. The touch of her living flesh, amidst the perpetual permafrost, is like just another raging inferno against his own frozen skin. Her passionate kiss is like a scalding shower, and her breath is like a dragon’s flame.
Only one phrase escapes her lips, and it is an urgent plea for her long lost lover to awaken from this nightmare. “Wake up…” Her voice cracks under the stress, her lungs unable to summon enough air to bellow with a ferocity which appropriately reflects the direness of the situation. “Wake up! Wake up!” She caresses his rotting corpse, melting the solid ice which has grown upon him like moss. “Wake up!” The blizzard bellows ravages yet fiercer. The once black night now glows as the light of the hidden moon refracts off every flake of snow. Her moon-shaped face is the last thing he sees as the world goes white once more.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
Again, the wetness on his face and warmth in his chest returns to awaken him. As he musters the strength to open his eyes once more, it is not his estranged lover who greets him, but his loyal Norwegian Elkhound, Beowulf, doggedly lapping at his face and pawing at his dormant body. Relief, at last, washes over him in the slimy saliva of his canine companion. He has somehow bought himself more borrowed time in this realm. But for what purpose, and at what cost?
He fights through the cramps of severe hunger and dizziness of dehydration to deliver a hearty pat to the top of his fur coated hunter’s head. Beowulf is the only entity to have ever shown such consistently unconditional loyalty towards him. Here again, alone and in need, his hound has come to his aid. He heaves himself up off the hardwood floor, which creaks against his efforts with much complaint. As he adjusts to the changing flow of blood throughout his weakened body, he raises his head, and locks eyes with the downward gaze of the Lord Jesus Christ.
The unflinching eyes of the Prophet stare with deeply held conviction in a merciful manner at the unapologetic heathen. Dagvald stares back, suddenly consumed with a raging fury to outmatch even the fires which consumed him in his nightmares. He is looking into the eyes of He who has single handedly caused the downfall of the Nordic way of life. Here he stands in the medieval church which served as the final destination for his Year Walk. The fires which had consumed it had been nothing more than visions invoked by the Kyrkogrim.
“False prophet.” Dagvald spits hideously onto the pew adjacent to him. “You are no martyr. I am the one who continues to sacrifice myself for my cause and my people! You are a divine fraud, head of a desert cult of death and lies! You were at the tip of the toxin soaked spear which poisoned and corrupted the land upon which I stand over a thousand years ago! You have occupied this land for a millenia, and I am destined to liberate it from your gluttonous clutches!”
The raging viking reaches into a large pocket in his cargo pants and extracts a jar of viscous black liquid. “There shall be no resurrection for you this time. I am the only phoenix here.” He steps atop the wooden pulpit, then grabs a secure grip on the outstretched arms of the embodiment of God. “Every time I am struck down, I rise again, closer to achieving my rightful status as Norse demigod.” He heaves himself up high enough to bathe the wooden idol in a highly flammable tar. “I have seen death, I have confronted the goddess of death herself, and you stand before me preaching a promise of eternal life if only I adhere to your demented commandments?” He hops down and trails what little is left of the fluid behind him as he walks towards the door, careful not to let Beowulf get too close.
He opens the massive twin wooden doors of the centuries old church and ushers his hound outside. He pulls another item from his pocket. The box of matches sits idly in his hand. He pulls one out and admires its simplicity. He strikes it against his bare, coarse and calloused skin. “The only son of a God here is me.” He tosses it dismissively through the arched entrance and begins the journey back to his woodland compound as smoke begins to ebb in whisps of black from the Lord’s house.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
With some effort, the weary wanderer retraces his route through the Swedish forests and returns to his compound. The aged concrete structure’s original purpose is unclear, but its obscurity has been a blessing. Shrouded, or even shielded, by the heavily wooded wilderness, Dag has remained unmolested by the sins of civilization. His hound, of course, is quite happy to have such great expanse in which to roam freely. Beowulf skips along joyfully and anticipates a fulfilling meal at last.
His master approaches the door, fiddles with the lock and key, and it swings open with much squeaking protest. Just as Dag is nearly through the portal, he realizes the door is not the only source of the high pitched noise he hears. Over his shoulder, straight through the doorway and into his compound, flies a massive raven, clad in jet black feathers from head to toe. The creature, however, does not appear to be lost or confused as Dag suspects. Instead of flapping about in distress as any confused fowl may, it glides through the rooms and towards a long ignored closet door. Also to Dag’s surprise, his hungry hound makes no attempt to nip at the prey hovering mere feet above his snout. Rather he peers up in seemingly equal astonishment and curiosity to his owner.
The message of course is quite crystal clear. Although he is hesitant to do so, he has no choice but to oblige the messenger of the gods. He pries open the door, exceedingly stubborn from months of disuse, and inside he finds relics of a time he’d hoped was behind him. Suspended in time and space from rusted iron clothes hangers, sorted haphazardly on shelves and in drawers, are the various items of gear and apparel he once donned in his brief professional wrestling career.
The premise had greatly appealed to him at one point in his life, following shortly after his acceptance of the fact he could never again lead a normal life. Upon his release from prison, he found himself abandoned by his parents, his former friends, and most crushingly, his high school sweetheart. When he found there were local, accessible instances of that larger than life combat sport he’d heard of growing up, the promise of an outlet for his fury was highly enticing. Up until June of the previous year, he’d put in work on the various European indie scenes, living as a nomad and assuming any number of false identities.
That is, until he allowed himself to get carried away. In the midst of a no disqualification match, against an especially resilient monster of an opponent, something long repressed within the pagan pyromaniac suddenly burst to the surface. After failing to secure a three count with a powerbomb through the fly-by-night production company’s flimsy wooden stage, Dagvald spotted any number of enticing pieces of pyrotechnics equipment sitting underneath it. Newspapers the next morning wrote of what doctors described as “three-dimensional third degree burns,” a phenomenon previously thought to only be possible as a result of severe radiation poisoning.
He had to flee the Croatian authorities and return once again to self-imposed exile in Sweden. Now, it would seem the gods wish for him to harness this ungodly violence in order to bring himself closer to achieving his destiny. He reaches out and brushes dust off a half-scorched kneepad as the raven watches from a windowsill. The personalized vegvísir which adorns it practically glows as the beam of sunlight through the window illuminates the runes. Now it is the fire of passion within Dagvald which is ignited.
Chapter Two
Present Day
Beams of morning light cascade through the autumn leaves which still adorn the trees that rise as stand tall as jǫtunn. In the center of a spotlight cast by the glorious rays rests a raven haired young woman, sitting cross legged, acoustic guitar in her hands. Her head droops sullenly, chin nestled against the neck of her instrument. Her long hair rustles in the chilly breeze as fallen leaves brush against her naked thighs. The cold ground soothes her bare skin. In the distance, a raven calls out over the raucous silence of a sleeping forest.
The woman is roused from her half-slumber, and immediately struggles to take in her surroundings. In her head, she feels as though she has simultaneously been whisked away to another world, yet also, as though she has finally, finally come home. The peace of the motionless pines and blur of scurrying squirrels amongst the underbrush deliver unto her a tranquility she has known scarce few times prior. Without thinking, she strums her guitar, and the echo of the lone note travels across the great beyond without hesitation. In response, the raven calls again. She strums again, and before she can contemplate the events unfolding, she plays a song unknown even to her, but one to which the ancient wilderness is no stranger.
The animals are entranced by its beauty, and even partake in the grand orchestra themselves. Above all harmonies arises the cry of the raven. In a bellowing gruff call, like stones grinding against the eroding forces of nature, it chants verses which preclude the coming of man as is known to inhabit Miðgarður.
Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
Though one thing
Never dies;
The fair fame one has earned.
Cattle die,
Friends die,
So, too, must you die.
I know one,
That never dies;
Judgement of a dead man's life.
In a flash, the dark memories wash over the musician as those waves of a tsunami. The misery and trauma experienced is undeniably hers, yet, it is the memory which seems foreign. In a setting so much like the current environment which now threatens to consume her, with elements and embodiments of nature rejoicing, and ancestral music reverberating off the bark covered sentinels of eons past and still to come, Isabella bore witness to a travesty. The man she had loved so fiercely abandoned her and took a monstrous abomination’s hand in marriage.
Yet she had never been cognizant of this recollection until this moment, as if it had been transplanted into her mind, or she’d repressed this trauma and the present atmosphere forced it to resurface. Despite this discrepancy, she can no longer focus on anything but the pain and confusion she had felt in that moment. What was it about that vile harpy which so enticed Dagvald? Was it her impossible beauty, which was only a deflection from her inner putridity? Perhaps it was how in tune she was with nature, which she manipulated to achieve her selfishly sinister aims? It may even have been the sense of belonging with a fellow outcast, a vixen seemingly abandoned in the forest, more than willing to offer condolences to a man rejected by civilized society.
Of course, the Huldra was an evil spirit of old, banished from her forefathers’ society for her heinous acts and insidious disposition. Cursed to forever hide her cattle’s tail under dresses made with extra care to be distractingly beautiful. Only revealing her true self to the clueless animals, her victims, and her self. Isabella brushes aside a fly which has landed on her back with her tail. It takes a moment to register.
In horror, she wails in a ghastly terror the sheer ferocity of which not even the banshees could ever fantasize about. It is as though her jaw shall separate from her skull like a serpent, and the soundwaves shall shatter and disintegrate the nine realms themselves. Despite feeling like her very own body shall soon burst apart, so horrified by the realization is she that the screaming cannot be stopped.
The beautiful banshee awakens in a feverish sweat and with a migraine surely brought on by a strike from Mjǫllnir. Her head is glued to the soft memory foam mattress, and her sight is hazed beyond comprehension. The realization that she’d only been having a nightmare slowly trickles into her mental faculties, scrambled as they are. So mentally and physically exhausted is she that it is practically sleep paralysis which afflicts her. Over time, what feels like an eternity, she focuses her eyes on the nearest shape to her head. An empty cartridge of painkillers. Soon, a drained bottle of wine comes into focus. Next comes the silhouette of her favorite show guitar propped against the closet door. Finally, the shame arrives. She can’t even kill herself right.
-~({Ø})~=~({@})~-
Chapter Three
Present Day
“The gusts of the North Sea have set my sails unto the path toward another world. Clearly, the gods smile upon me and shower me with their favor, for this new world is nothing but another place to burn.” With these words, the bonfire behind Dagvald catches firm hold over the effigial offering he erected for those who grant him such good fortune. It cackles just as he does at the ill fates which await those who dare stand in opposition of the very Æsir themselves. “I thought my days of combat sports were behind me, but the gods have made it clear they have other plans for me. Much, much grander plans. The road to my ultimate destiny, indeed, the fate of the universe itself, is interweaved by the Norns into this most glorious competition of utmost brutality.”
The night sky is illuminated by the leaping flames as they claw ever higher. Embers fall onto the ring of harvested vegetables and flowers which surround the fire pit. The massive vegvisir, constructed of thick branches, is thoroughly ablaze. “Fate has brought me to Project: Honor, and I see this as quite fitting. For the gods know there is no one more honorable than I, Dagvald Riddik, son of Loki! I have inherited all the machiavellian traits of my father, and amongst whom is there more honor than those most sinister?”
The shining glow of the fire behind him illuminates his silhouette like an unholy holy surrounding the pagan. The wrinkles on his face channel the eerie orange aura toward his furious scowl. “I welcome those who have no idea who I am, and seek to underestimate me. I welcome those who doubt me because they do not believe in my philosophy. I welcome those, who would deny my ancestral rite and discredit my lineage. The most powerful weapon I wield is the ability to tell my enemies exactly who I am and what I am capable of, and have it be so intimidatingly insurmountable that their only choice is to pretend I am exaggerating.
“The impact I shall make on Project: Honor shall be undeniable regardless, and this all begins with my first victim. Just as my ancestors had to begin the Viking age at Lindisfarne over a millenia ago, so too shall I begin my glorious era of destruction and conquest here. I cry out to you, Peter, and I beg you to heed my warning. I call out to my enemy and I plead with you to believe me when I say, you shall not be defeated, you shall be ended. Peter of France, your downfall shall be your hubris, when you refuse to heed my warning and you attempt to take down a demigod.
“I shall not outline the litany of reasons you will lose, Peter. That’s not what matters to me. I do not partake in combat to render a defeat unto my opponents. I could achieve that in any contest, a game of horseshoes, a bout of chess, no, oh no, I seek something far more glorious than dealing defeat. I seek victory in battle! I live for the thrill of coming face to face with death and emerging even more alive for the experience! I yearn for the satisfaction of knowing I faced a challenge to my life and persevered to tell the tale to my young.
“I shall not tell you why you will lose, Peter, as so many have done before me- and been proven right, might I add. No, I will not waste my time going on about how pathetic and delusional you are to exist within this alternate reality you’ve dreamt up for yourself. None of that will matter once I force reality to come crashing down upon you. I shall only tell you why I will win. I am Dagvald Riddik, a fucking demigod. I have been granted the strength of Þórr, Warrior God of Thunder, and my blows are that of lightning. I have the cunning of my father, Loki, the Trickster God who can intellectually outmaneuver any and all who have attempted to thwart him. I have seen the Vision of Óðinn the Alfa∂ir, whose wisdom guides my strategy in combat.
“I have been through hardships the likes of which you can only perceive through the lens of your ghost writers sampling from garageband vocal presets. I have survived blows from enemies the cruelty and violence of which you would never see even on those WorldStar viral videos you so desperately seek to emulate.” Dagvald leers into the recording camera propper upon a tree stump. “I have never stopped to even wipe pellets of elk shit ten times more valuable than you off my boots as I trek through the forests. The rabbit carcasses laid at the door to my compound by my hound offer me more inconvenience than you. At least those can be consumed, whereas you have been a consumer of mass media and social pressure to conform your entire miserable life.
“Peter, I know you have zero knowledge of the ways of Ásatrú, having only learned of its existence at this very moment. But there is only one tenant of my beliefs which is relevant to such a lowly lifeform as you. To a Norse, the only way to fall in battle is through death. There is no surrender or subservience. To die in battle is to ascend to Valhöll, handpicked by the Alfa∂ir to be a part of his grand army in the wake of Ragnarök. Perhaps now you may begin to understand the stakes at hand. I do not fear these things, Peter. It is not the fear of death which wills me on in battle. Do not misinterpret me, however, for even a man such as I am capable of fear.
“It is not death, I fear, Peter, it is something far, far worse. You will not defeat me not because I am better than you, or you are worse than me, or I am stronger, faster, or more cunning. You will fall to me because the inverse of unthinkable. You cannot send me to Valhöll. You are not worthy of slaying me in battle and summoning the valkyrja to herald my return to Ásgarðr. I welcome death, Peter. When the time is right, I shall face my destiny with much rejoicing, for I have led a long and tired life. The one thing I fear is eternal mediocrity such as yours. To overcome my fear, I must erase you.”
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