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- Dagvald Riddik
- Posts : 7
Join date : 2020-11-08
Chapter One
Late November
Just as stab wounds stretch across the mangled body of Ásgarðr’s finest warriors, so too do veils of light pierce their way through the spindly branches which spring forth from the World Tree. They cast a net of illuminating slivers which capture the son of Loki in a golden aura. There he sits upon a felled tree’s stump, a scar of man upon the once nameless wilderness. Carved into a rock in front of him on the bank of a small stream are elder futhark runes specially curated to summon the hallowed spirits to Miðgarðr. Around them is lain a ring of flowers, beetroots, wheat stalks and other paltry items agrarian in nature. In the center burns a solemn solitary candle.
“Herald, ye chroniclers!” Shouts Dagvald, with outstretched arms, “Herald, ye horn blowers!” Shouts Dagvald, with head canted skywards, “Herald, ye ancient skálds!” Shouts Dagvald, as he rises from the stump and harkens earthward the spirits of nature, “Hark! And behold! The Æsir’s chosen son offers unto those who molded this very world a bounty harvested from their glorious creation!”
Reaching down briefly he secures a hide-bound drum and beats it to the rhythm of the ancients. The motion is not his own, it is that which is imbued into his body by the gods. He begins to chant in Old Norse as his forebears did, eyes closed, hallowed words emanating from his gaping maw as he dances around the sacred rock.
“I have come to offer my graciousness and humility before you, O generous gods! I follow in your light, guided by your wisdom, and in the wake of such omens I find glory unparalleled. Through your favor I find victory in battle, just as my forebears found in the days of víkingr. I stare into the eyes of destiny, and she stares back through three sets of eyes, and in her eyes, I see greatness no mere mortal could ever fantasize of. Thus is my prophecy, woven by the Norns and sanctioned by gods and giants alike!”
As he bellows his warcry, a dark haze of opaque storm clouds silently crawls across the sky and consumes the entirety of Hrímfaxi’s golden chariot. Even as twilight crept near, an early dusk has settled across the wilds of northern Sweden. Feeling the dearth of warmth envelop him, Dagvald opens his eyes to see a bizarre sight. The runes etched into the stone are now glowing with a purplish hue, and the ripe and healthy plants atop it have rotted into dusty oblivion. His eyes scan upward, and to his shock, a whirling mass of empty black fog angrily spirals just above the surface of the stone. Within its nothingness emerges a pair of crystalline blue eyes, and from its non-existent mouth emanates a hideous metallic hum which translates itself into intelligible Norwegian.
“Your wrongfully placed praise to the gods falls on def ears. You have no one and nothing to thank for your short lived success. You were abandoned, cast out, long ago by those you still worship today. Your ignorance and naïvety shall carry you far, Dagvald, but your hubris shall be your downfall. And when you fall, O, when’st thou fall so far and farther still from your towering precipice, it shall be I who is there to catch you.”
Taken greatly aback, aghast at such heresy, Dagvald drops his drum and assumes a combative stance, as though he could physically assail the spinning mass of ethereal essence. “You dare question my destiny? Do you not realize that in doing so you too question the will of the gods and the prophecy they have curated not just for myself, but the entire universe they rule over? Impudent cloud! I have the mind to grab my axe and chop you into little wisps! There is nothing so unearthly that the gods have not granted me the ability to destroy it!”
The mass of nothingness retorts with a disinterested buzz, “You cannot destroy me, no more than you can destroy the wind, the sea, or… the void.”
“You are nothing like the sea!” Visions of He Who Walks Two Worlds’ distant past echo through his consciousness. “You claim only the power to destroy. The sea bears life! The sea bore me!”
An opalescent glow alights the metallic blue eyes, as though the nonphysical being is growing impatient. “I bore you, for I am nothing, and out of nothing you came... and it is into nothing you shall return.”
With those inhuman words, the extent of the dark ball of emptiness begins to expand, devouring all within its wake. The stone disappears, so too does the brooke, and the trees, and in short order, Loki’s Prodigal Son stands formless and sightless within the void. Has he eyes, there is nothing for them to see. Has he hands, there is nothing for them to touch. Has he feet, there is nothing upon which they may stand. Has he ears, there is nothing for them to hear.
Suspended in Empyrean, it feels as though time is suspended as well. Moving neither forward nor back, the Prophesied One experiences a trancelike state of unbeing. He is no longer within the universe he is destined to destroy, rather he is betwixt the dimensions of space and time themselves. Def, dumb, and blind, he is subject to the whims of the Void.
In an instantaneous explosion of creation, his senses return to him, and he bears witness to that hour of creation harkened back to by the Void. He is watching a scene unfold, though he does not look down on it with his eyes or listen with his ears which are still of no use to him. He is now one with the environment which he observes, just as the spirits he sought to summon with his ritual. He can feel the shallow frigid waves ebbing onto the rocky shore and receding back to whence they came.
He can both hear the encroaching footsteps and feel the crackling of shoe upon stone. With his omniscient gaze, he observes the treading of a young couple over the pebble covered Norwegian coast. A smartly dressed young gentleman follows closely behind his giddy, elegantly clad lover as she hops from boulder to boulder, taking in the majesty of the unmatched Scandinavian scenery. The sensations are overwhelming, but have nothing on the powerful emotions which wash over him at the recognition of the newlyweds.
Scattered across the open beach are several tall boulders which stand as sentinels guarding against foreign plunderers. From Dagvald’s spirit’s point of view, the young maiden strides hurriedly in front of them, while her groom trails more slowly and passes behind them. She looks back to see him following, then looks to the sea. As he passes out of view behind a stone, a raven flutters angrily away from it as if its rest has been disturbed. It glides out of view behind the next boulder. The lass looks back again, and from behind the second stone she sees her husband come walking.
Suspecting nothing, she turns back. Out of her view, he reaches a third massive rock and disappears. Strangely, a large stray black dog scampers quickly from that boulder to scavenge carrion at the base of a fourth sentinel. As the bride wonders if she’s gone too far ahead and steals a look back once more, from the stone the hound hid behind emerges her new husband. “Günter, come along honey! I want to feel the ocean! I haven’t been here since I was a little girl!”
Günter grunts. “Yes, you said that the whole car ride here. And it’s not the ocean, it is of course only the North Sea.”
“It’s all the same to me sweetheart, and I can’t help it, I’m excited!” Ingrid replies, “Now please come along, let’s experience it together as one!” She continues to skip giddily across the unsteady terrain until at last her sandaled feet are soothed by the sweet frigid kiss of the near arctic waters. She allows them to be fully submerged in the soft waves, but out the corner of her right eye, she catches on to her husband continuing further even than her along a rocky outcropping. She isn’t quite sure if it’s the reflection of the rising moon, his tall boots, or just her brain playing tricks, but it seems as though he is striding atop the very surface of the water.
“Where are you going honey?” She inquires innocently. She waddles through the ankle deep tide and becomes privy to what has caught her husband’s eye. Hidden deep in a crevice is a large bouyant whicker basket padded with blankets. As it bobs in the miniscule tidal pool, Günter reaches down and snatches it. He examines it for a brief moment before shuffling off a half folder blanket to reveal an infant boy.
“Just as I feared,” he mutters to himself under his breath. “I should have listened.”
His wife takes a much different approach. “Günter sweetie! My goodness, is that a baby?” She picks up her pace severely and almost stumbles face first into the water a couple times as she tries to run to her husband’s discovery. “This is surely a gift from the gods!” She examines every crease of skin on the infant’s face as her husband exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “They greatly favor our marriage! This is a sign of fertility and-“
“Ingrid would you shush up with that bloody nonsense!” Her brooding husband retorts. “Always with this bizarre obsession with the anachronistic myths of ancient, darker times. I’ve told you, I’m not interested in your warped idealisation of the world!”
“Oh Günter,” the maiden sighs through gritted teeth, “how can you deny what is right in front of you? I’ve long wished for something that could finally show you what I’m talking about, and now after our marriage vows the gods have finally agreed to share their presence with you. This is like a fairytale-“
“That’s exactly the problem! This isn’t a fairytale, this is real life. We’ve found an abandoned child and now we have to behave as real adults would. We’ve got to file a police report, we’ll have to keep it warm and check its health, take it to the hospital-“
“But what if the boy is meant for us? This is too much to just be a coincidence! Honey, you remember, I told you for the sake of transparency before we got married,” she turns pale as she draws a deep breath and continues, “about my infertility. Freya has blessed us with a child of our own!”
“What madness you spew! Are you proposing we ought to keep the child some psychopath cast out into the North Sea?”
“It’s not madness, it’s destiny! It is as I said, we have been blessed by the Æsir and now we owe them eternal gratitude for the highest gift they can bestow upon us: life!”
Günter snatches the child away from his wife’s coddling hands. “I owe those treacherous backstabbers nothing. You think you know the true face of those who mold our world, yet you are as ignorant as any other heathen. Your imagination runs wild, fueled by the bastardized myths and sagas you see in comic books and television shows penned by followers of Abraham.” He ignores the shocked and distressed look in his lover’s eyes. “You wouldn’t know the god of trickery if he was staring you straight in the eye.”
“Father…” With his one word, the vision is shattered, and the depiction of his unorthodox adoption slips right back into the furthest repressed murky depths of his broken psyche. In its place, the Void summons the night Dagvald made his debut in professional wrestling under a different moniker.
“Making his in ring debut,” booms the announcer through his microphone into the store brand USB speaker, “hailing from the Land of Heathens, Ragnar Erikson!”
Exuding false confidence from every pore, the man now known as Dagvald Riddik storms straight to the ropes and stands nose to nose with his much more physically intimidating opponent. The one known simply as Ivar stares back. The bell rings. Ivar sends Dagvald flying back against the ropes with an inhumanly strong shove, and the smaller man scrambles to regain his footing.
“Is this what you’re so afraid of?” The monotonous droning hum returns and echoes throughout the grand expanse of Dagvald’s disembodied mind.
“I told my sister, keeper of the damned, and I’ll tell you, I fear nothing!”
“Is that why you laid out a challenge for the nameless, faceless Kallie Reznik? You are so fearless you are bold enough to handpick the weakest opponent possible this side of that rat you crushed?” The drone retorts with disgust. “I know why you did it. You see potential and you wish to have it, too, crushed beneath your heel. Just as Ivar crushed you.”
“Nobody crushes Loki’s Prodi-“
“Spare me the self important bullshit! You want to rip this budding stem from the earth and shred its roots before a flower can even sprout!”
“Who is to say there is any reason I shouldn’t! Who was there to tell those who attempted the same against me!”
As the spirits argue, the man who called himself Ragnar continues to get tossed around like a sack of plundered gold on a longship. From ringpost to ringpost, his failure is all too apparent.
“You wallow in the past and seek only to turn your future into a carbon copy of previous misery. You claim to despise everything that happened to you, yet here you are seeking so desperately to recreate it. Does the suffering bring you comfort, Dagvald Riddik?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about! Do not dare use that bright eyed bimbo as some sort of allegory for the wielder of Þórr’s thunder! She has nothing to compare to my unrivaled potential, if that’s what you’re so focused on! She is a face in the crowd, another stage hand plucked from the endless sea of ‘happy to be here’ smiles which fill the rosters of fly by night promotions!”
“You sound like you’ve begun to care about this game you swore was just an outlet for your adolescent angst,” the Void snidely remarks, making up in personality what it lacks in physical manifestation.
“You sound like you’re very bold when you have not a body for me to dismember! Everything is a part of my plan, and my plan is a part of the prophecy. When I liquidate Kallie Reznik’s cloud of big dreams in the sky, I will be doing her and everyone a favor. With the arrival of Dagvald Riddik to Project: Honor, I can demonstrate to the world the sheer power and brutality inherent in the ways of our forebears. The world shall tremble before my warning, and those who can interpret the message will join me; those who are too stupid or weak shall meet their fate at our blade.”
“This sounds like a long winded excuse for distracting yourself with trivial gladiator sports while the world hurdles itself into oblivion so you can stand atop the ashes and claim credit.”
“And you sound like the wind itself, and carry just as much weight in your words! You are a wisp with no will! Just like Kallie, neither of you have a mind of your own. You are both subject to the whims of forces far greater than either of you. Kallie floats from promotion to promotion, seeking accomplishment in whatever form she can find it, so she may achieve the validation she so urgently craves. You want to do what no one, not mortal or immortal, has achieved. You want to demoralize and disenfranchise He Who Walks Two Worlds! There is nothing you can do to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny!”
At these words, the towering Ivar thrusts Ragnar high above his bald scarred scalp, soaking in the cheers from the crowd, before flipping his prey in midair and sending him crashing to the mat with a thunderous impact to land on the base of his neck, crumpled in a heaping mass. With a kick, Ivar splays the unconscious combatant on his back and pins him with a single boot to the chest.
“Half-mortal scum, I could cease your very existence if I so willed it. The irritation of the gods for having erased their favorite plaything wouldn’t be worth the effort. I cannot imagine being in your position, however, and I could almost sympathize, if half your misfortunes weren’t your own doing. If this is the path you choose, so be it. I could offer you glory untold, unimaginable even, but I see you wish not only to project how others have tried to pulverize your potential, but also squander what little remains of it yourself.”
The memory fades into oblivion, as does the vial hum of the Void. Dag fades in and out of consciousness until he gathers his wits enough to raise his head in the physical realm. He finds himself fallen face first into the sanctified stone, blood from the blunt force trauma dripping profusely from his forehead unto the carved runes. As his hazy vision clears, he realizes a new series of bindrunes have manifested upon the grey surface.
“A burnt child wisely cowers from fire.”
Chapter Two
Early December
The piss yellow lights buzz from their overhead mounts and meekly illuminate the decaying hardwood floor below. Isabella shifts uncomfortably in the wrought iron barstool and pulls out her phone. The cellular light provides a welcome distraction from the unwelcome advances which come in the dozens. She’s been uncharacteristically picky tonight. The bartender slides another Jack and Coke her way with a wink.
“You’ve stayed much longer than usual tonight Izzy. I hope everything’s alright. This one’s on the house. Least I can do for a regular.” He holds his gaze but gets no reply. Indifferently he turns and begins wiping down the turned in glasses.
Izzy thinks to herself for a moment before giving in and sipping the cocktail. Maybe it’ll make the decision making process a little easier, and she really should be heading home soon. A veritable zoo of suitors gather round her weary head, and she knows, whether they are showing it or not, whether they know she knows or not, they are eagerly awaiting her choice.
Is this just another addiction? Or is it the sacrifice she has to make to find some joy in this cruel world? Everyone has their vices. Women just want to have fun. She’s heard it all before. She’s held the power in her hands for over a decade now, yet this has brought her no lasting satisfaction. The ability to gatekeep, hand pick even, her sexual partners is supposed to be empowering. At least that’s what the influencers and talking heads want her to believe. In her life it has only brought her temporary, fleeting satisfaction.
I had a man in every town,
And I thought of you each time
when I tore off my gown
She eyes the men, dancing, singing, flexing and relaxing. It’s like an inverse brothel to her. At the cost of her dignity, she could have a rush of serotonin, if only for a while. There are plenty of modern day pop culture sycophants and hype beasts, parading around as peacocks with faux feathers trying to trick each other into thinking they are someone of status. Thin men with overly treated and dyed curly hair, meaningless tattoos and earrings aplenty. These so called players are not equipped with the skills to play her game, of this she is certain.
In a moment her sight is caught by a tall, muscular figure whose face is half hidden by long blonde hair. He is sitting alone, of course, at the opposite end of the L-shaped bar. His oversized metal band t-shirt is not hugging his buff figure; it doesn’t have to, modesty can be the key to a woman’s heart. It’s a perfect setup.
But I look for you,
In the traffic seas,
In the bars I'm always frequenting.
“C’mon Izzy! He’s clearly not the type to introduce himself,” the bartended butts in, having caught her staring even behind her curly bangs. “Go say hello.”
She blushes in embarrassment, but the invitation is beyond tempting. There’s nothing a woman loves more than a man who isn’t trying. A man who knows he doesn’t have to. A fishing line, not a spear. So it begs the question, where are the fish biting his line? She watches as he lifts his drink to his lips and drains a quarter of it in one go. The call to action grows stronger.
Then she realizes what’s just happened. The bartender, a young local fisherman’s son, is egging her on to whore herself out. In fact, he’s so sure of her intentions that he’s openly trying to play matchmaker. Is this the image of herself she wants to present to the world? Is this the level to which she will stoop just for a brief distraction from the miserable reality she faces every day? Is how badly she wants to forget about him?
And how can this help when she just tries to replace him?
She stands, pushes her nearly full glass to the edge of the counter, leaves enough to cover her bill and walks to the door.
Chapter Three
Present Day
“The voices in my head tell me to take you seriously.”
Dagvald leans into the camera. Little can be made out of what’s behind him, but it would appear he’s recording his promotional video in a far less grandiose setting than his last.
“This must be why everyone always told me not to listen to them. Oh, now, Kallie Reznik, I’m not trying to intimidate you or play my own rendition of a washed up rock star’s Joker role, I’m just a brutally honest human being. I don’t parade my visions around as some freak show attraction to earn me oppression points, but I do know people fear what they do not understand. You, miss Reznik, have plenty to fear in me.
“For there is so much you can not understand! For starters, I’m sure you’re wondering why I challenged you to a match this coming Proving Ground. The answer is actually quite simple: Pyro was already booked. Don’t you think it would have been grand to have the Pagan Pyromaniac and the Nightmare face off in an inferno match? Imagine what I would have felt when I immediately buried the career of a pyromaniac in his own match? Of course, everything about him is just ripped from my not so distant previous wrestling runs, but that’s not important because that match didn’t happen. Instead, I got stuck with you since no one had the courage to call me out.
“The truth may admittedly be a little more complex than that. There are many weapons in psychological warfare my dear. I made it known that I would accept any challenge from anyone who did not have a match already laid out! I welcomed all comers in any category of combat! An open invitation for anyone to try to dethrone the Viking demigod from his seat in Valhöll! And what did you, the bold upstart rookie looking to make a name for herself, do in response?
“You completely ignored me and proclaimed your own open challenge. What I cannot wrap my head around is the idea that you think you are somehow noteworthy enough for anyone to have seen that and thought to themselves, yes, this is the opponent I want to defeat in order to demonstrate my ability in the ring; This is who I must beat to prove I am a force to be reckoned with. Imagine! A newbie whose claim to fame is being in a tag team somewhere else! I simply cannot.
“So why, you may be asking, did I stoop to the level of putting you on notice? Because this inflated ego of yours needs to be popped. I could not, in good conscience, leave you to go unchallenged and think everyone was too afraid to call your ass out. It’s funny really, considering I know almost nothing about you, yet I know how easy it would be for you to begin thinking far too highly of yourself.
“Take for example, your misplaced confidence in your in-ring abilities. Now, I make no great claims that I am some master technician. I most certainly am not a skilled veteran by any means. I have no championships under my belt. No great opponents felled by my submission lock. Which is precisely why I do not bite off more than I can chew! You on the other hand, come barging into Project: Honor thinking you can compete with some of the greatest talent I’ve ever seen in this sport. You may not know just how inexperienced you really are, but we see it. Even I see it. If there’s one thing that may counterbalance my unbridled brutality, it is masterful mat tactics and technicalities. You have nothing of the sort, not to mention your lack of size and strength. You shall be easy pickings for the one who wields the hammer of the gods.
“That being said, I must admit one thing to you, Reznik. I see potential in you. You have dedication to your craft and you want to jump straight into the deep end to improve. It’s a pity this wide eyed eagerness shall be the factor which ensures your short lived career. You see, I get a special satisfaction from strolling through the garden of destiny, and spotting the most vibrantly green infantile stems freshly sprouted from the ground. Then I delight in plucking them right out of the soil and tearing them apart, dropping their unopened flower buds to the earth below and grinding them into seasoning beneath my heel. So shall be your fate at Proving Ground. I may even spatter you across the elk meat I shall feed to my hound. He’d appreciate the extra flavoring.”
Late November
Just as stab wounds stretch across the mangled body of Ásgarðr’s finest warriors, so too do veils of light pierce their way through the spindly branches which spring forth from the World Tree. They cast a net of illuminating slivers which capture the son of Loki in a golden aura. There he sits upon a felled tree’s stump, a scar of man upon the once nameless wilderness. Carved into a rock in front of him on the bank of a small stream are elder futhark runes specially curated to summon the hallowed spirits to Miðgarðr. Around them is lain a ring of flowers, beetroots, wheat stalks and other paltry items agrarian in nature. In the center burns a solemn solitary candle.
“Herald, ye chroniclers!” Shouts Dagvald, with outstretched arms, “Herald, ye horn blowers!” Shouts Dagvald, with head canted skywards, “Herald, ye ancient skálds!” Shouts Dagvald, as he rises from the stump and harkens earthward the spirits of nature, “Hark! And behold! The Æsir’s chosen son offers unto those who molded this very world a bounty harvested from their glorious creation!”
Reaching down briefly he secures a hide-bound drum and beats it to the rhythm of the ancients. The motion is not his own, it is that which is imbued into his body by the gods. He begins to chant in Old Norse as his forebears did, eyes closed, hallowed words emanating from his gaping maw as he dances around the sacred rock.
“I have come to offer my graciousness and humility before you, O generous gods! I follow in your light, guided by your wisdom, and in the wake of such omens I find glory unparalleled. Through your favor I find victory in battle, just as my forebears found in the days of víkingr. I stare into the eyes of destiny, and she stares back through three sets of eyes, and in her eyes, I see greatness no mere mortal could ever fantasize of. Thus is my prophecy, woven by the Norns and sanctioned by gods and giants alike!”
As he bellows his warcry, a dark haze of opaque storm clouds silently crawls across the sky and consumes the entirety of Hrímfaxi’s golden chariot. Even as twilight crept near, an early dusk has settled across the wilds of northern Sweden. Feeling the dearth of warmth envelop him, Dagvald opens his eyes to see a bizarre sight. The runes etched into the stone are now glowing with a purplish hue, and the ripe and healthy plants atop it have rotted into dusty oblivion. His eyes scan upward, and to his shock, a whirling mass of empty black fog angrily spirals just above the surface of the stone. Within its nothingness emerges a pair of crystalline blue eyes, and from its non-existent mouth emanates a hideous metallic hum which translates itself into intelligible Norwegian.
“Your wrongfully placed praise to the gods falls on def ears. You have no one and nothing to thank for your short lived success. You were abandoned, cast out, long ago by those you still worship today. Your ignorance and naïvety shall carry you far, Dagvald, but your hubris shall be your downfall. And when you fall, O, when’st thou fall so far and farther still from your towering precipice, it shall be I who is there to catch you.”
Taken greatly aback, aghast at such heresy, Dagvald drops his drum and assumes a combative stance, as though he could physically assail the spinning mass of ethereal essence. “You dare question my destiny? Do you not realize that in doing so you too question the will of the gods and the prophecy they have curated not just for myself, but the entire universe they rule over? Impudent cloud! I have the mind to grab my axe and chop you into little wisps! There is nothing so unearthly that the gods have not granted me the ability to destroy it!”
The mass of nothingness retorts with a disinterested buzz, “You cannot destroy me, no more than you can destroy the wind, the sea, or… the void.”
“You are nothing like the sea!” Visions of He Who Walks Two Worlds’ distant past echo through his consciousness. “You claim only the power to destroy. The sea bears life! The sea bore me!”
An opalescent glow alights the metallic blue eyes, as though the nonphysical being is growing impatient. “I bore you, for I am nothing, and out of nothing you came... and it is into nothing you shall return.”
With those inhuman words, the extent of the dark ball of emptiness begins to expand, devouring all within its wake. The stone disappears, so too does the brooke, and the trees, and in short order, Loki’s Prodigal Son stands formless and sightless within the void. Has he eyes, there is nothing for them to see. Has he hands, there is nothing for them to touch. Has he feet, there is nothing upon which they may stand. Has he ears, there is nothing for them to hear.
Suspended in Empyrean, it feels as though time is suspended as well. Moving neither forward nor back, the Prophesied One experiences a trancelike state of unbeing. He is no longer within the universe he is destined to destroy, rather he is betwixt the dimensions of space and time themselves. Def, dumb, and blind, he is subject to the whims of the Void.
In an instantaneous explosion of creation, his senses return to him, and he bears witness to that hour of creation harkened back to by the Void. He is watching a scene unfold, though he does not look down on it with his eyes or listen with his ears which are still of no use to him. He is now one with the environment which he observes, just as the spirits he sought to summon with his ritual. He can feel the shallow frigid waves ebbing onto the rocky shore and receding back to whence they came.
He can both hear the encroaching footsteps and feel the crackling of shoe upon stone. With his omniscient gaze, he observes the treading of a young couple over the pebble covered Norwegian coast. A smartly dressed young gentleman follows closely behind his giddy, elegantly clad lover as she hops from boulder to boulder, taking in the majesty of the unmatched Scandinavian scenery. The sensations are overwhelming, but have nothing on the powerful emotions which wash over him at the recognition of the newlyweds.
Scattered across the open beach are several tall boulders which stand as sentinels guarding against foreign plunderers. From Dagvald’s spirit’s point of view, the young maiden strides hurriedly in front of them, while her groom trails more slowly and passes behind them. She looks back to see him following, then looks to the sea. As he passes out of view behind a stone, a raven flutters angrily away from it as if its rest has been disturbed. It glides out of view behind the next boulder. The lass looks back again, and from behind the second stone she sees her husband come walking.
Suspecting nothing, she turns back. Out of her view, he reaches a third massive rock and disappears. Strangely, a large stray black dog scampers quickly from that boulder to scavenge carrion at the base of a fourth sentinel. As the bride wonders if she’s gone too far ahead and steals a look back once more, from the stone the hound hid behind emerges her new husband. “Günter, come along honey! I want to feel the ocean! I haven’t been here since I was a little girl!”
Günter grunts. “Yes, you said that the whole car ride here. And it’s not the ocean, it is of course only the North Sea.”
“It’s all the same to me sweetheart, and I can’t help it, I’m excited!” Ingrid replies, “Now please come along, let’s experience it together as one!” She continues to skip giddily across the unsteady terrain until at last her sandaled feet are soothed by the sweet frigid kiss of the near arctic waters. She allows them to be fully submerged in the soft waves, but out the corner of her right eye, she catches on to her husband continuing further even than her along a rocky outcropping. She isn’t quite sure if it’s the reflection of the rising moon, his tall boots, or just her brain playing tricks, but it seems as though he is striding atop the very surface of the water.
“Where are you going honey?” She inquires innocently. She waddles through the ankle deep tide and becomes privy to what has caught her husband’s eye. Hidden deep in a crevice is a large bouyant whicker basket padded with blankets. As it bobs in the miniscule tidal pool, Günter reaches down and snatches it. He examines it for a brief moment before shuffling off a half folder blanket to reveal an infant boy.
“Just as I feared,” he mutters to himself under his breath. “I should have listened.”
His wife takes a much different approach. “Günter sweetie! My goodness, is that a baby?” She picks up her pace severely and almost stumbles face first into the water a couple times as she tries to run to her husband’s discovery. “This is surely a gift from the gods!” She examines every crease of skin on the infant’s face as her husband exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. “They greatly favor our marriage! This is a sign of fertility and-“
“Ingrid would you shush up with that bloody nonsense!” Her brooding husband retorts. “Always with this bizarre obsession with the anachronistic myths of ancient, darker times. I’ve told you, I’m not interested in your warped idealisation of the world!”
“Oh Günter,” the maiden sighs through gritted teeth, “how can you deny what is right in front of you? I’ve long wished for something that could finally show you what I’m talking about, and now after our marriage vows the gods have finally agreed to share their presence with you. This is like a fairytale-“
“That’s exactly the problem! This isn’t a fairytale, this is real life. We’ve found an abandoned child and now we have to behave as real adults would. We’ve got to file a police report, we’ll have to keep it warm and check its health, take it to the hospital-“
“But what if the boy is meant for us? This is too much to just be a coincidence! Honey, you remember, I told you for the sake of transparency before we got married,” she turns pale as she draws a deep breath and continues, “about my infertility. Freya has blessed us with a child of our own!”
“What madness you spew! Are you proposing we ought to keep the child some psychopath cast out into the North Sea?”
“It’s not madness, it’s destiny! It is as I said, we have been blessed by the Æsir and now we owe them eternal gratitude for the highest gift they can bestow upon us: life!”
Günter snatches the child away from his wife’s coddling hands. “I owe those treacherous backstabbers nothing. You think you know the true face of those who mold our world, yet you are as ignorant as any other heathen. Your imagination runs wild, fueled by the bastardized myths and sagas you see in comic books and television shows penned by followers of Abraham.” He ignores the shocked and distressed look in his lover’s eyes. “You wouldn’t know the god of trickery if he was staring you straight in the eye.”
“Father…” With his one word, the vision is shattered, and the depiction of his unorthodox adoption slips right back into the furthest repressed murky depths of his broken psyche. In its place, the Void summons the night Dagvald made his debut in professional wrestling under a different moniker.
“Making his in ring debut,” booms the announcer through his microphone into the store brand USB speaker, “hailing from the Land of Heathens, Ragnar Erikson!”
Exuding false confidence from every pore, the man now known as Dagvald Riddik storms straight to the ropes and stands nose to nose with his much more physically intimidating opponent. The one known simply as Ivar stares back. The bell rings. Ivar sends Dagvald flying back against the ropes with an inhumanly strong shove, and the smaller man scrambles to regain his footing.
“Is this what you’re so afraid of?” The monotonous droning hum returns and echoes throughout the grand expanse of Dagvald’s disembodied mind.
“I told my sister, keeper of the damned, and I’ll tell you, I fear nothing!”
“Is that why you laid out a challenge for the nameless, faceless Kallie Reznik? You are so fearless you are bold enough to handpick the weakest opponent possible this side of that rat you crushed?” The drone retorts with disgust. “I know why you did it. You see potential and you wish to have it, too, crushed beneath your heel. Just as Ivar crushed you.”
“Nobody crushes Loki’s Prodi-“
“Spare me the self important bullshit! You want to rip this budding stem from the earth and shred its roots before a flower can even sprout!”
“Who is to say there is any reason I shouldn’t! Who was there to tell those who attempted the same against me!”
As the spirits argue, the man who called himself Ragnar continues to get tossed around like a sack of plundered gold on a longship. From ringpost to ringpost, his failure is all too apparent.
“You wallow in the past and seek only to turn your future into a carbon copy of previous misery. You claim to despise everything that happened to you, yet here you are seeking so desperately to recreate it. Does the suffering bring you comfort, Dagvald Riddik?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about! Do not dare use that bright eyed bimbo as some sort of allegory for the wielder of Þórr’s thunder! She has nothing to compare to my unrivaled potential, if that’s what you’re so focused on! She is a face in the crowd, another stage hand plucked from the endless sea of ‘happy to be here’ smiles which fill the rosters of fly by night promotions!”
“You sound like you’ve begun to care about this game you swore was just an outlet for your adolescent angst,” the Void snidely remarks, making up in personality what it lacks in physical manifestation.
“You sound like you’re very bold when you have not a body for me to dismember! Everything is a part of my plan, and my plan is a part of the prophecy. When I liquidate Kallie Reznik’s cloud of big dreams in the sky, I will be doing her and everyone a favor. With the arrival of Dagvald Riddik to Project: Honor, I can demonstrate to the world the sheer power and brutality inherent in the ways of our forebears. The world shall tremble before my warning, and those who can interpret the message will join me; those who are too stupid or weak shall meet their fate at our blade.”
“This sounds like a long winded excuse for distracting yourself with trivial gladiator sports while the world hurdles itself into oblivion so you can stand atop the ashes and claim credit.”
“And you sound like the wind itself, and carry just as much weight in your words! You are a wisp with no will! Just like Kallie, neither of you have a mind of your own. You are both subject to the whims of forces far greater than either of you. Kallie floats from promotion to promotion, seeking accomplishment in whatever form she can find it, so she may achieve the validation she so urgently craves. You want to do what no one, not mortal or immortal, has achieved. You want to demoralize and disenfranchise He Who Walks Two Worlds! There is nothing you can do to prevent me from fulfilling my destiny!”
At these words, the towering Ivar thrusts Ragnar high above his bald scarred scalp, soaking in the cheers from the crowd, before flipping his prey in midair and sending him crashing to the mat with a thunderous impact to land on the base of his neck, crumpled in a heaping mass. With a kick, Ivar splays the unconscious combatant on his back and pins him with a single boot to the chest.
“Half-mortal scum, I could cease your very existence if I so willed it. The irritation of the gods for having erased their favorite plaything wouldn’t be worth the effort. I cannot imagine being in your position, however, and I could almost sympathize, if half your misfortunes weren’t your own doing. If this is the path you choose, so be it. I could offer you glory untold, unimaginable even, but I see you wish not only to project how others have tried to pulverize your potential, but also squander what little remains of it yourself.”
The memory fades into oblivion, as does the vial hum of the Void. Dag fades in and out of consciousness until he gathers his wits enough to raise his head in the physical realm. He finds himself fallen face first into the sanctified stone, blood from the blunt force trauma dripping profusely from his forehead unto the carved runes. As his hazy vision clears, he realizes a new series of bindrunes have manifested upon the grey surface.
“A burnt child wisely cowers from fire.”
Chapter Two
Early December
The piss yellow lights buzz from their overhead mounts and meekly illuminate the decaying hardwood floor below. Isabella shifts uncomfortably in the wrought iron barstool and pulls out her phone. The cellular light provides a welcome distraction from the unwelcome advances which come in the dozens. She’s been uncharacteristically picky tonight. The bartender slides another Jack and Coke her way with a wink.
“You’ve stayed much longer than usual tonight Izzy. I hope everything’s alright. This one’s on the house. Least I can do for a regular.” He holds his gaze but gets no reply. Indifferently he turns and begins wiping down the turned in glasses.
Izzy thinks to herself for a moment before giving in and sipping the cocktail. Maybe it’ll make the decision making process a little easier, and she really should be heading home soon. A veritable zoo of suitors gather round her weary head, and she knows, whether they are showing it or not, whether they know she knows or not, they are eagerly awaiting her choice.
Is this just another addiction? Or is it the sacrifice she has to make to find some joy in this cruel world? Everyone has their vices. Women just want to have fun. She’s heard it all before. She’s held the power in her hands for over a decade now, yet this has brought her no lasting satisfaction. The ability to gatekeep, hand pick even, her sexual partners is supposed to be empowering. At least that’s what the influencers and talking heads want her to believe. In her life it has only brought her temporary, fleeting satisfaction.
I had a man in every town,
And I thought of you each time
when I tore off my gown
She eyes the men, dancing, singing, flexing and relaxing. It’s like an inverse brothel to her. At the cost of her dignity, she could have a rush of serotonin, if only for a while. There are plenty of modern day pop culture sycophants and hype beasts, parading around as peacocks with faux feathers trying to trick each other into thinking they are someone of status. Thin men with overly treated and dyed curly hair, meaningless tattoos and earrings aplenty. These so called players are not equipped with the skills to play her game, of this she is certain.
In a moment her sight is caught by a tall, muscular figure whose face is half hidden by long blonde hair. He is sitting alone, of course, at the opposite end of the L-shaped bar. His oversized metal band t-shirt is not hugging his buff figure; it doesn’t have to, modesty can be the key to a woman’s heart. It’s a perfect setup.
But I look for you,
In the traffic seas,
In the bars I'm always frequenting.
“C’mon Izzy! He’s clearly not the type to introduce himself,” the bartended butts in, having caught her staring even behind her curly bangs. “Go say hello.”
She blushes in embarrassment, but the invitation is beyond tempting. There’s nothing a woman loves more than a man who isn’t trying. A man who knows he doesn’t have to. A fishing line, not a spear. So it begs the question, where are the fish biting his line? She watches as he lifts his drink to his lips and drains a quarter of it in one go. The call to action grows stronger.
Then she realizes what’s just happened. The bartender, a young local fisherman’s son, is egging her on to whore herself out. In fact, he’s so sure of her intentions that he’s openly trying to play matchmaker. Is this the image of herself she wants to present to the world? Is this the level to which she will stoop just for a brief distraction from the miserable reality she faces every day? Is how badly she wants to forget about him?
And how can this help when she just tries to replace him?
She stands, pushes her nearly full glass to the edge of the counter, leaves enough to cover her bill and walks to the door.
Chapter Three
Present Day
“The voices in my head tell me to take you seriously.”
Dagvald leans into the camera. Little can be made out of what’s behind him, but it would appear he’s recording his promotional video in a far less grandiose setting than his last.
“This must be why everyone always told me not to listen to them. Oh, now, Kallie Reznik, I’m not trying to intimidate you or play my own rendition of a washed up rock star’s Joker role, I’m just a brutally honest human being. I don’t parade my visions around as some freak show attraction to earn me oppression points, but I do know people fear what they do not understand. You, miss Reznik, have plenty to fear in me.
“For there is so much you can not understand! For starters, I’m sure you’re wondering why I challenged you to a match this coming Proving Ground. The answer is actually quite simple: Pyro was already booked. Don’t you think it would have been grand to have the Pagan Pyromaniac and the Nightmare face off in an inferno match? Imagine what I would have felt when I immediately buried the career of a pyromaniac in his own match? Of course, everything about him is just ripped from my not so distant previous wrestling runs, but that’s not important because that match didn’t happen. Instead, I got stuck with you since no one had the courage to call me out.
“The truth may admittedly be a little more complex than that. There are many weapons in psychological warfare my dear. I made it known that I would accept any challenge from anyone who did not have a match already laid out! I welcomed all comers in any category of combat! An open invitation for anyone to try to dethrone the Viking demigod from his seat in Valhöll! And what did you, the bold upstart rookie looking to make a name for herself, do in response?
“You completely ignored me and proclaimed your own open challenge. What I cannot wrap my head around is the idea that you think you are somehow noteworthy enough for anyone to have seen that and thought to themselves, yes, this is the opponent I want to defeat in order to demonstrate my ability in the ring; This is who I must beat to prove I am a force to be reckoned with. Imagine! A newbie whose claim to fame is being in a tag team somewhere else! I simply cannot.
“So why, you may be asking, did I stoop to the level of putting you on notice? Because this inflated ego of yours needs to be popped. I could not, in good conscience, leave you to go unchallenged and think everyone was too afraid to call your ass out. It’s funny really, considering I know almost nothing about you, yet I know how easy it would be for you to begin thinking far too highly of yourself.
“Take for example, your misplaced confidence in your in-ring abilities. Now, I make no great claims that I am some master technician. I most certainly am not a skilled veteran by any means. I have no championships under my belt. No great opponents felled by my submission lock. Which is precisely why I do not bite off more than I can chew! You on the other hand, come barging into Project: Honor thinking you can compete with some of the greatest talent I’ve ever seen in this sport. You may not know just how inexperienced you really are, but we see it. Even I see it. If there’s one thing that may counterbalance my unbridled brutality, it is masterful mat tactics and technicalities. You have nothing of the sort, not to mention your lack of size and strength. You shall be easy pickings for the one who wields the hammer of the gods.
“That being said, I must admit one thing to you, Reznik. I see potential in you. You have dedication to your craft and you want to jump straight into the deep end to improve. It’s a pity this wide eyed eagerness shall be the factor which ensures your short lived career. You see, I get a special satisfaction from strolling through the garden of destiny, and spotting the most vibrantly green infantile stems freshly sprouted from the ground. Then I delight in plucking them right out of the soil and tearing them apart, dropping their unopened flower buds to the earth below and grinding them into seasoning beneath my heel. So shall be your fate at Proving Ground. I may even spatter you across the elk meat I shall feed to my hound. He’d appreciate the extra flavoring.”
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