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Wolfhunter128
Meteorite
- Joined
- Jun 1, 2022
Jon had always loved looking at the sea, especially at night. The full moon reflecting off the peaceful, calm waves, had always brought a sense of peace and relaxation to his soul. He had always been told that his parents had been Seawolves, whose job had been to raid other ships, while also hunting the denizens of the ocean for food and sustenance. Perhaps that's why he had always been relaxed by the waves. Perhaps it was in his blood and bone.
Tonight, however, that relaxation and calmness was replaced by the sound of War drums and the promise of mayhem. The warships had been summoned. The council had agreed that it was time to go raiding once again, agreeing that there was simply no choice in the matter. Their food supply had dwindled to nothing, the farmer's harvests had all been dead and decayed, and the sea creatures that they could normally feast upon had not arrived, and those few that had were skinny and nearly lifeless. The prophets said it was the end times, and that many of the other Viking villages were feeling the same strain upon resources. The council had asked for aid from the others, but had been denied, the ancient oaths trampled upon and destroyed.
In times like these, the rules of nature returned to the forefront. The rules of survival. Of the strong wolf killing and eating the weak.
And so Jon found himself on the bridge of a landing ship, packed tight with other young warriors. For nearly every youngling on the ship, this was their first battle. The Uprovd is what they were referred to as. The unproven. Most of them were orphans or the youngest sons of families that couldn't support them, with a few slaves as well. The rules were simple; survive and they would be given treasure from their raids, fed, and eventually earn a place in their society. Die, and they would be remembered as warriors who helped save the clan from destruction.
Jon didn't want to die. He could feel the fear of death coursing through him as he watched arrows start to sail towards their boats from the shore, many covered in tar and set ablaze. He could feel his heartbeat thud in his ears, just as quickly and violently as the wardrums thudding away from the back of the ship. Perhaps thats what they were for, in hindsight. To get every warrior's heart on the same beat, for the same purpose.
Screaming would sound from one of the ships in front of them as a few fire arrows slammed their way into the sail of the boat and of the man controlling the rudder. He watched in horror as the boat was covered in flames, while it turned and slammed into the boat beside it, bringing them both down to the depths below, the warrior's screaming until the depths took them. He could imagine the grizzly scene of the denizens of the deep feasting on their flesh, his stomach churning.
To distract himself, he felt over his armor to make sure that he had everything secured, trying to avoid thinking of the dead men. Being unproven, they had been given simple cloth armor, along with old iron helmets. On his left hand he held a shield, unpainted and unimportant, while on his right he held an axe. They were unworthy of carrying swords into battle, as they were more expensive and required more training. On his hip he wore a Seax, his last resort weapon should he lose his axe.
Everything was in order. And they were making landfall.
As the boat neared the shore, they were assailed by arrows themselves. The boy next to him couldn't raise his shield in time, and crumpled to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his eye, his mouth still slowly moving as if he hadn't realized he was dead. All Jon could do was hide behind his shield as arrows thudded into it, and fire started to spread from arrows hitting the mast.
However, before the fire could consume them, the boat ran aground. He felt a shaking like he had never known before as it slammed into the sand of the beach, and after a moment, the boat tipped over, sending each and every warrior careening into the sand and water. Jon,having been standing at the front of the boat, only landed in a couple inches of water, and was able to get up on his feet rather quickly. All around him, he saw his allies sprinting up the beach as quickly as they could. Some were ripped apart by arrows. Others made it up the beach only to be impaled upon the spears of the defending Clan. However, more than a few managed to make it past the spears and Dove headlong Into The Fray, Screaming with desperation and fury.
He could only watch for a moment before he was dragged to his feet by an older Warrior, he couldn't tell who it was. Nearly immediately he was swept up in a group sprinting headlong towards The Village. He watched as man after man was brought Low by Arrow and javelin, feeling the fear pump through him like fire in his blood.
When they reached the edge of the beach, they would see the lines of warriors in front of them. Many were their own, but an equal amount, or perhaps more, where the Defenders of the village. Had Jon had more time, he would have questioned their decisions. These men, women, and boys we're simply defending their home. No different than he and his clan would do. However, there was no time to think. Caught up in the wave of humanity, he crashed against the lines along with his troops, feeling a spear slam into his shield and spin him around. He regained his footing just in time to block another spear thrust, the assailant a young man perhaps five years his senior. There was nothing he could do from this distance, and the man kept jabbing at him, forcing him backwards. That was until a strike from the boy beside him sent the young man to Oblivion, his throat opened.
Jon looked to see the person who had saved him, and recognized Bjorn, a boy a year younger than him. He was skinnier than Jon, with blond hair and blue eyes that normally sparkled in mirth despite their circumstance. Now, they were wide with fear, but allowed a bit of relief to creep in upon seeing that he had saved his friend.
That fear, however, would turn to abject Terror as a meeting hand gripped his shoulder and threw him behind the Enemy Lines. Jon was on autopilot as he sprinted to follow, diving through the hole created and smashing into the man that had pulled Bjorn away. Though he used all of his body weight, he only sent the man stumbling, though it was enough to get Bjorn to his feet.
Jon, however, couldn't look at his battle brother. Instead, his eyes were transfixed on the warrior in front of them. He was massive, towering above the boys and wide enough that they could stand shoulder to shoulder and still not be as wide as the man's shoulders. He had a long, Grey beard, and what little skin he could see was covered in scars and weathered with time. The man wore a shirt of chain mail and bracers made of leather, and on his head sent a ornate and weathered steel helm, showing his position as a clan chief. He was old. Perhaps too old for a long battle. But even still, both of the boys knew that they were horribly outmatched. It was like a bear fighting two wolf pups, and when the warrior in front of them raised his axe, the haft of which was taller than either of the boys, Jon felt like he was already on the road of the dead, waiting at the gates of Hel.
However, he would not die helpless, and raised his shield. Beside him, he felt Bjorn do the same, and he could swear that he saw the warrior in front of them grin. With little Fanfare, the warrior roared and launched himself at the pair. Despite his age he moved with practiced speed and ferocity, getting to the boys before they could even move. Jon got his shield up in time to block a kick that would have sent him careening through the air, though it still made him stumble. Bjorn was in a similar predicament, raising his shield and trying to parry the man's axe, and only partially succeeding. Every blow, though it failed to connect with his body, sent the boy stumbling and shaking. Already his shield was chipped, and he could see the boy's movements falter. Before the warrior could take advantage, Jon launched himself forward, axe raised high in a desperate bid to stop him from killing his friend. The wild and predictable move, however, was easily anticipated by the old fighter, and Jon's axe was batted aside by a bracer covered arm, and he was lifted off the ground by a blow to his stomach. As the air left his body and his eyes bulged from his head, he crashed back to the ground, gasping for air as he looked up. The axeman glared down at him, his eyes merciless and full of death, as he raised a booted foot and brought it down on Jon's head. Despite the iron helmet, he was still shaken by the blow, and he felt his helmet crack under the weight of the stomp. After the next stomp, his helmet gave way completely, and Jon could hear nothing but a ringing, feeling water and blood leak down his neck as he stared at the man in a daze, helpless.
Before the warrior could raise his boot again, however, Bjorn was there, his axe slamming into the warrior's shoulder. With a howl of pain and fury the warrior stepped away from Jon, letting him recover as he set his sights fully on the blond boy. The axe wound was deep, and if the warrior survived, it likely meant he would lose his arm. But until then, he was still dangerous. He dropped his great axe and drew one of the axes on his belt, one that was still large enough for either of the boys to use in two hands, but he held in one with an ease that was terrifying. But Bjorn, to his credit, didn't shy away. Instead, he raised his shield and circled the man. When the man launched himself at him, Bjorn raised his shield and parried the blow, his own axe whipping out at the man's armored midsection. The man managed to dodge backwards, his arm still bleeding and mangled. Now it was Bjorn on the attack, moving forward with his shield, axe moving from the side to try and slam home into the Chieftan's flesh. The old warrior moved back, and as Jon recovered, he could see the man's eyes moving, thinking of how to turn it around. Jon hoped that Bjorn could do it.
He should have known better.
As Bjorn moved forward, the warrior suddenly moved forward as well, colliding with Bjorn's shield and getting it pressed to the boy's thin body. From this distance, the boy's axe was sure to hit its mark. But the axe's power, the momentum and speed of the swing, was almost non-existant due to the close proximity. When he swung, the warrior grabbed it, dropping his own axe. From there he swung Bjorn around, ragdolling him until his shield fell from his chest, and the warrior slammed a heavy knee into the boy's stomach, sending him to the ground before another kick sent him tumbling.
Jon tried to get up. Everything in him demanded that he did. But his legs wouldn't work. His brain wouldn't let him. He was a prisoner in his own body as he watched the axeman walk towards his friend. Bjorn got onto his knees, the rain and mud smearing his features, and instead of facing the man, he faced Jon. His eyes held no malice. No hint of blame at the boy for not doing enough. Instead, they held a profound sorrow. Sorrow and finality. That they both would be going to the gates of death.
Jon watched the light flee from the boy's eyes as the axeman brought the axe home into the boy's neck, the blade cutting down to his heart and killing him in an instant. Never in his final moments did he feel fear or hate or rage or anger. Just sorrow.
As Bjorn sagged on his knees, dead, Jon watched as the axeman left the axe in him before retrieving his own from the ground. When he started approaching Jon, the boy feebly got to one knee before he was kicked down into the mud, staring up at the man. The warrior wasted no time in swinging the axe, intending to bury it in Jon's face. The boy, however, raised his shield in the nick of time, the blade of the axe biting into the wood. Roaring, the warrior ripped it away, while at the same time dislocating Jon's shoulder with the ferocity of the yank, and again brought his axe down. But again, somehow, the boy would raise his shield, the axe biting even deeper into the wood. Now, it was well and truly stuck, and the old chieftain knew it. Letting go, he kicked the shield away before doing the same with Jon's axe, and grabbed the boy by his neck, dragging him up into the air and squeezing. Immediately, he could feel his throat close, his eyes bulging out of his head, the blood vessels popping. He would kick uselessly as the warrior brought him down to stare into his eyes as he died, the old man relishing the victory.
Jon's mind was fading. Fading into a dark blackness that was surely death. His eyes moved from the warrior in front of him to the body of Bjorn, the memory of the boy playing in his mind. As he looked, he spied the saex on the back of his belt, and remembered he had the same thing. Again he would feebly strike out, his hand splayed in front of the warrior's eyes. It seemed the old man was none the wiser as his other hand snaked behind him and grabbed the long knife, whipping around and driving it into the man's neck with the last of his strength.
The effect was immediate, and he felt himself dropped to the ground, the world slowly coming back into color as blood returned to his brain. The first thing he heard was his own ragged coughing and gasping as he tried to get air back into his lungs. Slowly he would look around, half expecting for the warrior to be standing above him, ready to behead him. Instead, he lay on the ground, face up, staring at the sky. He was still alive, his mouth and eyes moving, though the saex had struck true, slamming into his throat. He was a dead man. It was just a matter of time.
Getting to his feet, he looked around and saw his axe laying on the ground. Slowly he picked it up in one hand, his other arm useless from the abuse, and struggled over to the warrior. He saw the warrior's eyes bore into him, and in them, again there was no rage, but acceptance. Perhaps even some gratitude that he would not be left to suffer.
Jon, admittedly, did consider leaving the man to choke on his own blood. But, cruelty had never been in his nature. And neither had it been in Bjorn's. And so, with a scream, he raised the axe and brought it down, severing the man's head from his body.
As the axe embedded itself into the ground, Jon fell to his knees as well, the adrenaline fleeing from his body and leaving him broken and exhausted. He would sit back on his feet, his eyes scanning the battle before him, watching the savagery as the dawn sun began to rise over the sea.
Thank you for reading my post! Sorry if it was a bit long, I just had the idea and I wanted to get it down and see if anybody was interested in doing it with me. I have a couple ideas for where this could go from here. Perhaps Ragnarok has happened, the gods are dead, and the world is adjusting to their death? Or perhaps the cycle of Ragnarok means that we need to become New Gods? Honestly I am really open to anything. Please feel free to bring your ideas.
I do generally prefer it when my partner plays a female character, or multiple characters, but really I am open to anything. Thank you for reading, and feel free to message me.
Tonight, however, that relaxation and calmness was replaced by the sound of War drums and the promise of mayhem. The warships had been summoned. The council had agreed that it was time to go raiding once again, agreeing that there was simply no choice in the matter. Their food supply had dwindled to nothing, the farmer's harvests had all been dead and decayed, and the sea creatures that they could normally feast upon had not arrived, and those few that had were skinny and nearly lifeless. The prophets said it was the end times, and that many of the other Viking villages were feeling the same strain upon resources. The council had asked for aid from the others, but had been denied, the ancient oaths trampled upon and destroyed.
In times like these, the rules of nature returned to the forefront. The rules of survival. Of the strong wolf killing and eating the weak.
And so Jon found himself on the bridge of a landing ship, packed tight with other young warriors. For nearly every youngling on the ship, this was their first battle. The Uprovd is what they were referred to as. The unproven. Most of them were orphans or the youngest sons of families that couldn't support them, with a few slaves as well. The rules were simple; survive and they would be given treasure from their raids, fed, and eventually earn a place in their society. Die, and they would be remembered as warriors who helped save the clan from destruction.
Jon didn't want to die. He could feel the fear of death coursing through him as he watched arrows start to sail towards their boats from the shore, many covered in tar and set ablaze. He could feel his heartbeat thud in his ears, just as quickly and violently as the wardrums thudding away from the back of the ship. Perhaps thats what they were for, in hindsight. To get every warrior's heart on the same beat, for the same purpose.
Screaming would sound from one of the ships in front of them as a few fire arrows slammed their way into the sail of the boat and of the man controlling the rudder. He watched in horror as the boat was covered in flames, while it turned and slammed into the boat beside it, bringing them both down to the depths below, the warrior's screaming until the depths took them. He could imagine the grizzly scene of the denizens of the deep feasting on their flesh, his stomach churning.
To distract himself, he felt over his armor to make sure that he had everything secured, trying to avoid thinking of the dead men. Being unproven, they had been given simple cloth armor, along with old iron helmets. On his left hand he held a shield, unpainted and unimportant, while on his right he held an axe. They were unworthy of carrying swords into battle, as they were more expensive and required more training. On his hip he wore a Seax, his last resort weapon should he lose his axe.
Everything was in order. And they were making landfall.
As the boat neared the shore, they were assailed by arrows themselves. The boy next to him couldn't raise his shield in time, and crumpled to the ground, an arrow sticking out of his eye, his mouth still slowly moving as if he hadn't realized he was dead. All Jon could do was hide behind his shield as arrows thudded into it, and fire started to spread from arrows hitting the mast.
However, before the fire could consume them, the boat ran aground. He felt a shaking like he had never known before as it slammed into the sand of the beach, and after a moment, the boat tipped over, sending each and every warrior careening into the sand and water. Jon,having been standing at the front of the boat, only landed in a couple inches of water, and was able to get up on his feet rather quickly. All around him, he saw his allies sprinting up the beach as quickly as they could. Some were ripped apart by arrows. Others made it up the beach only to be impaled upon the spears of the defending Clan. However, more than a few managed to make it past the spears and Dove headlong Into The Fray, Screaming with desperation and fury.
He could only watch for a moment before he was dragged to his feet by an older Warrior, he couldn't tell who it was. Nearly immediately he was swept up in a group sprinting headlong towards The Village. He watched as man after man was brought Low by Arrow and javelin, feeling the fear pump through him like fire in his blood.
When they reached the edge of the beach, they would see the lines of warriors in front of them. Many were their own, but an equal amount, or perhaps more, where the Defenders of the village. Had Jon had more time, he would have questioned their decisions. These men, women, and boys we're simply defending their home. No different than he and his clan would do. However, there was no time to think. Caught up in the wave of humanity, he crashed against the lines along with his troops, feeling a spear slam into his shield and spin him around. He regained his footing just in time to block another spear thrust, the assailant a young man perhaps five years his senior. There was nothing he could do from this distance, and the man kept jabbing at him, forcing him backwards. That was until a strike from the boy beside him sent the young man to Oblivion, his throat opened.
Jon looked to see the person who had saved him, and recognized Bjorn, a boy a year younger than him. He was skinnier than Jon, with blond hair and blue eyes that normally sparkled in mirth despite their circumstance. Now, they were wide with fear, but allowed a bit of relief to creep in upon seeing that he had saved his friend.
That fear, however, would turn to abject Terror as a meeting hand gripped his shoulder and threw him behind the Enemy Lines. Jon was on autopilot as he sprinted to follow, diving through the hole created and smashing into the man that had pulled Bjorn away. Though he used all of his body weight, he only sent the man stumbling, though it was enough to get Bjorn to his feet.
Jon, however, couldn't look at his battle brother. Instead, his eyes were transfixed on the warrior in front of them. He was massive, towering above the boys and wide enough that they could stand shoulder to shoulder and still not be as wide as the man's shoulders. He had a long, Grey beard, and what little skin he could see was covered in scars and weathered with time. The man wore a shirt of chain mail and bracers made of leather, and on his head sent a ornate and weathered steel helm, showing his position as a clan chief. He was old. Perhaps too old for a long battle. But even still, both of the boys knew that they were horribly outmatched. It was like a bear fighting two wolf pups, and when the warrior in front of them raised his axe, the haft of which was taller than either of the boys, Jon felt like he was already on the road of the dead, waiting at the gates of Hel.
However, he would not die helpless, and raised his shield. Beside him, he felt Bjorn do the same, and he could swear that he saw the warrior in front of them grin. With little Fanfare, the warrior roared and launched himself at the pair. Despite his age he moved with practiced speed and ferocity, getting to the boys before they could even move. Jon got his shield up in time to block a kick that would have sent him careening through the air, though it still made him stumble. Bjorn was in a similar predicament, raising his shield and trying to parry the man's axe, and only partially succeeding. Every blow, though it failed to connect with his body, sent the boy stumbling and shaking. Already his shield was chipped, and he could see the boy's movements falter. Before the warrior could take advantage, Jon launched himself forward, axe raised high in a desperate bid to stop him from killing his friend. The wild and predictable move, however, was easily anticipated by the old fighter, and Jon's axe was batted aside by a bracer covered arm, and he was lifted off the ground by a blow to his stomach. As the air left his body and his eyes bulged from his head, he crashed back to the ground, gasping for air as he looked up. The axeman glared down at him, his eyes merciless and full of death, as he raised a booted foot and brought it down on Jon's head. Despite the iron helmet, he was still shaken by the blow, and he felt his helmet crack under the weight of the stomp. After the next stomp, his helmet gave way completely, and Jon could hear nothing but a ringing, feeling water and blood leak down his neck as he stared at the man in a daze, helpless.
Before the warrior could raise his boot again, however, Bjorn was there, his axe slamming into the warrior's shoulder. With a howl of pain and fury the warrior stepped away from Jon, letting him recover as he set his sights fully on the blond boy. The axe wound was deep, and if the warrior survived, it likely meant he would lose his arm. But until then, he was still dangerous. He dropped his great axe and drew one of the axes on his belt, one that was still large enough for either of the boys to use in two hands, but he held in one with an ease that was terrifying. But Bjorn, to his credit, didn't shy away. Instead, he raised his shield and circled the man. When the man launched himself at him, Bjorn raised his shield and parried the blow, his own axe whipping out at the man's armored midsection. The man managed to dodge backwards, his arm still bleeding and mangled. Now it was Bjorn on the attack, moving forward with his shield, axe moving from the side to try and slam home into the Chieftan's flesh. The old warrior moved back, and as Jon recovered, he could see the man's eyes moving, thinking of how to turn it around. Jon hoped that Bjorn could do it.
He should have known better.
As Bjorn moved forward, the warrior suddenly moved forward as well, colliding with Bjorn's shield and getting it pressed to the boy's thin body. From this distance, the boy's axe was sure to hit its mark. But the axe's power, the momentum and speed of the swing, was almost non-existant due to the close proximity. When he swung, the warrior grabbed it, dropping his own axe. From there he swung Bjorn around, ragdolling him until his shield fell from his chest, and the warrior slammed a heavy knee into the boy's stomach, sending him to the ground before another kick sent him tumbling.
Jon tried to get up. Everything in him demanded that he did. But his legs wouldn't work. His brain wouldn't let him. He was a prisoner in his own body as he watched the axeman walk towards his friend. Bjorn got onto his knees, the rain and mud smearing his features, and instead of facing the man, he faced Jon. His eyes held no malice. No hint of blame at the boy for not doing enough. Instead, they held a profound sorrow. Sorrow and finality. That they both would be going to the gates of death.
Jon watched the light flee from the boy's eyes as the axeman brought the axe home into the boy's neck, the blade cutting down to his heart and killing him in an instant. Never in his final moments did he feel fear or hate or rage or anger. Just sorrow.
As Bjorn sagged on his knees, dead, Jon watched as the axeman left the axe in him before retrieving his own from the ground. When he started approaching Jon, the boy feebly got to one knee before he was kicked down into the mud, staring up at the man. The warrior wasted no time in swinging the axe, intending to bury it in Jon's face. The boy, however, raised his shield in the nick of time, the blade of the axe biting into the wood. Roaring, the warrior ripped it away, while at the same time dislocating Jon's shoulder with the ferocity of the yank, and again brought his axe down. But again, somehow, the boy would raise his shield, the axe biting even deeper into the wood. Now, it was well and truly stuck, and the old chieftain knew it. Letting go, he kicked the shield away before doing the same with Jon's axe, and grabbed the boy by his neck, dragging him up into the air and squeezing. Immediately, he could feel his throat close, his eyes bulging out of his head, the blood vessels popping. He would kick uselessly as the warrior brought him down to stare into his eyes as he died, the old man relishing the victory.
Jon's mind was fading. Fading into a dark blackness that was surely death. His eyes moved from the warrior in front of him to the body of Bjorn, the memory of the boy playing in his mind. As he looked, he spied the saex on the back of his belt, and remembered he had the same thing. Again he would feebly strike out, his hand splayed in front of the warrior's eyes. It seemed the old man was none the wiser as his other hand snaked behind him and grabbed the long knife, whipping around and driving it into the man's neck with the last of his strength.
The effect was immediate, and he felt himself dropped to the ground, the world slowly coming back into color as blood returned to his brain. The first thing he heard was his own ragged coughing and gasping as he tried to get air back into his lungs. Slowly he would look around, half expecting for the warrior to be standing above him, ready to behead him. Instead, he lay on the ground, face up, staring at the sky. He was still alive, his mouth and eyes moving, though the saex had struck true, slamming into his throat. He was a dead man. It was just a matter of time.
Getting to his feet, he looked around and saw his axe laying on the ground. Slowly he picked it up in one hand, his other arm useless from the abuse, and struggled over to the warrior. He saw the warrior's eyes bore into him, and in them, again there was no rage, but acceptance. Perhaps even some gratitude that he would not be left to suffer.
Jon, admittedly, did consider leaving the man to choke on his own blood. But, cruelty had never been in his nature. And neither had it been in Bjorn's. And so, with a scream, he raised the axe and brought it down, severing the man's head from his body.
As the axe embedded itself into the ground, Jon fell to his knees as well, the adrenaline fleeing from his body and leaving him broken and exhausted. He would sit back on his feet, his eyes scanning the battle before him, watching the savagery as the dawn sun began to rise over the sea.
Thank you for reading my post! Sorry if it was a bit long, I just had the idea and I wanted to get it down and see if anybody was interested in doing it with me. I have a couple ideas for where this could go from here. Perhaps Ragnarok has happened, the gods are dead, and the world is adjusting to their death? Or perhaps the cycle of Ragnarok means that we need to become New Gods? Honestly I am really open to anything. Please feel free to bring your ideas.
I do generally prefer it when my partner plays a female character, or multiple characters, but really I am open to anything. Thank you for reading, and feel free to message me.