ASMUNDSSOGUR - ᚠ

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Å S M U N D S S O G U R

M I K J A L L S  F A N G

ᛘᛁᚴᛁᛅᛚᛚᛋ ᚠᛅᚾᚴ

 

 

[ ! ]

 

---

 

ᛟᚾᛖ

 

IAA 557, Age of the Dragonfyre,

29th of  Inn Ríkismánaðr,

Norland

 

The woods had grown quiet before anything ever appeared. It was the first sign of many that would follow, the signs so evident, yet easily missed. There was silence, but it was not like peace; instead it carried a heavy weight, one just as heavy as the descending snow around them. The pines around their particular clearing had leaned around them ever-so slightly, old and dark, despite the clearing they were still packed too close together. The bark was thick with frost, the descended and underfoot snow left undisturbed until the gate opened. There were no birds. No animals. No life, and yet, Asmund felt something appearing, even before the breach split the world before them.

 

The smell that followed was wrong, twisted and churned, reeking of death and flesh. It was not brimstone - it was rot. Fire-slick rot of something soaked in blood long dried, only now beginning to stink and stench its surroundings. A being, robed and still upon its horse, eventually spoke, voice raspy and harsh, yet its tone conveyed an offering of generosity.

 

“I will take one. The other may go.” It spoke with evident rot.

 

Such generosity was not met with a response, for Grendel filth that disgraced the Earth and the All-Father deserved none, not from a son and fang of Mikjall’s Favour. Thus, there was no response given from the Templar-Norn Åsmund, at least not aloud. He had already begun his movement, the cold wind broke, whistling past his shoulders, barely tugging upon the edges of his furs, his hand finding and grasping upon the Waraxe’s haft. Its head shimmering with lightning that seemed almost etched into it, faint and white-blue as it lazed in the fading daylight, though cackling to life as it was imbued upon by Mikjall’s favour too. Within his left hand rested a sword, simpler in design and build, but no less impressive, no less sharp. Its fuller shimmered with a faint gold sheen, and where the blade met the crossguard, a half-ringed symbol of flame and sun carved into the steel, no wider than a thumb. 

 

The beast was first to appear. A bear-thing lumbered through the portal first, yet its movements were indiscernible and erratic, as though it never lived and never died. Bones snapped upon the tramped snow and Earth as it broke into a sprint - a kind of gallop that was twisted by the animations of its limbs and body. The beast C R A S H E D into the Norn with its weight, acting like a barrier between him and its master. Its claw descended as it caught his upper-arm, slicing through fur and padding as it scratched upon meeting the plate hidden underneath. The Norn did not allow such a motion to go without a retort. He grunted at the blow, though enabling it to roll over him as he spun his Axe in a tight arc, with disciplined fury - just as the old stories claimed Konan had. The Axe’s head crashed into the side of its skull with a resounding thud that echoed through the open ground and into the dense trees. Bark-like skin cracked, the white bolts along the axe hissed and sparked. The creature stumbled and screamed in a roar.

 

Yet despite this, it did not fall.

 

Its mouth opened, the gigantic maw releasing a burst of thick, black, and fast fire towards Mikjall’s favoured. Surging upon the chest and shoulders of Asmund did the flame run, along the various cracks and crevices of his armour like floodwater. It found his ribs, neck, and beneath the joints of his gear. He kept his stance, however, although he howled as heat and smoke overtook his vision, which blinded him for the briefest of moments. His Waraxe and blade remained within the grips of his palms still.

 

Despite the heat that gripped him, he growled a reply through clenched teeth. “Heed GRENDEL - The fires of MIKJALL burn brighter than this.” 

 

His Waraxe soon shifted from the foremost point of contact, releasing the bear from a force that grappled against it, though as its maw once more opened, the weapon found its mark once more. The sharp blade descended with a thunderous roar to accompany the sparks that flew from its metal head, striking in the very same spot as the first, with the blessings of Mikjall oozing through the blade, he pushed through, this time forcing it through the beasts hide until it was felled.

 

He did not watch as the beast was felled and collapsing. Instead he sought to move, though unbeknownst to himself, the bear had clouded his very vision of what was to happen next.

 

From behind the bear, it became clear that the Grendel, fearing the fall of its beast, had begun a rite. Soon, a circle formed under the Norn. Runes flared, and the shapes, magic, and carvings were all unbeknownst to him, yet he could sense when a Grendel was working. Before he could react, he was locked in place, his once blistering pace now cut into a slow walk, if even that, and before he could even twist away, the fire came up - from below this time. The ring burst upwards as though a storm had broken through a door; instead of wind, however, it was flames. With their newfound assault upon the Norn and his charred armour, he felt the fire not as heat alone. They bit into his skin and underneath his mail, curling upon his arms and down his back, marking his soul with a pain only from hell.

 

The sword soon fell upon the now exposed Earth with a resounding C L A N G as fire burnt away snow, his left arm now exposed and mauled so vastly that his fingers did not move upon his order. The scream was guttural, unmeant, breaking out before he thought that discipline could stave his Nornish madness, his Bersirkr nature. His axe, however, remained secured within his fair hand. The crackles of holy lightning dimmed but did not die out.

 

He drove forward shoulder first, catching the demon-summoner in the ribs, yet not without rebuttal as the Grendel grasped the Norn's face with claws like iron that curled across his jaws, squeezing around his helm with pressure like a smith’s vice and pulling his face forward. He felt his face crumple and the taste of metal upon the edge of his lips, his teeth ringing from the retort.

 

He forced up his gauntlet. Then - it clicked. 

 

From its underside, twin rods of steel shot forward, the tips of blackened and barbed steel were forged to pierce the gaps in between plates of armour and bark alike. This time, they were aimed towards the neck of the Grendel, and in an instant, the rods pierced the narrow space, cutting through the space between gauntlet and neck. Whilst failing to punch deep, it was enough to send the creature back with a choked jerk, reeling from the piercing and enough to make it let go of him.

 

Asmund soon fell to his knees, choking on heat and smoke. Pain was now in everything, the weight of the armor, the bite of the cold where padding had burnt through, the stink of his own cloak smoldering at the hem and his heated flesh. His axe felt heavier. His breath caught in short bursts as he sought momentary reprieve. That was when he caught from the corner of his eye, the motion of Eydís’ charge, her blade raised and her stride light yet with haste - unhesitatingly. It was brave, perhaps too brave as the motion blurred before him, the touch of Jophiael threatening to overtake his mind as only her cries rang out. The rest of the events began to blur like the flurry of evening snow.

 

For a moment, he felt no more burn in his lungs. The notice of blood within his mouth dissipated. Instead he rose, stepping in and anchoring his boots within the trampled Earth beneath them. The Norn brought his axe down. The strike came from his hip, drawn all the way across the back - not a guess, not a lunge, but rather a full, wide executioner’s cut. His body moved before thought reached his mind, the motion was practiced, unlearned yet instinctual. He didn’t know where the motion came from, yet the blood that felled a wyvern now boiled in his arm. He didn’t waste his old blood as it remembered how it moved when it meant to kill. To survive.

 

The daemon's head struck snow as steam rose from the stump which now smelled like rain on burnt stone.

 

Åsmund didn’t speak. Mouth instead lined in blood. As his shoulder screamed. The sword lay behind him in the dirt, somewhere near the dropped body of the bear, still lit as its flames were near exhausted; a personification of its very wielder.

 

He walked until he could breathe again.

 

The air never warmed. He had no prayer to offer, no hymn to speak. Only the old words - ones he didn’t remember learning. Words that those of his blood might’ve shouted, long before the Norn was born. Words that echoed behind the teeth, not from the lips yet far too silent to properly discern.

 

---

ᛏᚹᛟ

 

IAA 563, Age of the Dragonfyre,

31st of  Svensmánaðr,

Karoslund

 

The fog in Karoslund had thickened since the fighting began. By the time the snow had begun to fall in gentle whisps once more, it no longer felt clean - no longer did it feel right. Ash had found itself imbued into the flakes of snowfall. Not the kind that drifted from a Hearth found upon flames of Mikjall within Sólgaard or the flames of Vjardengrad, but it was something harsher, something so bitter and thick that it clung to skin and breath. The matter stuck within noses and forced achings of the teeth, it felt as though they were caught within a cloud upon a volcano.

 

The Norn had retained himself upon the edge of the smoke and fog, where much of the fighting had descended towards instead of the center. The others, mixtures of Karoslundrs, allies, and fellow Norns, committed themselves in various manners to the battle, formations formed, lines were held, they clashed and they held once more. Yet, there were also things within the smoke that required chasing. And there was no reprieve to be given to Grendels who sought escape.

 

The axe in his hand shimmered faintly - not bright,but not quite dull; not loud, but rather it hummed a constant pulse along the runes carved upon its head. The white wisps of Mikjall’s favour flickered upon the groove of the weapon, quiet. Watching and waiting. The sword so often held was held back, retained within a scabbard of the Templar-Norn.

 

His steed moved at pace beneath him, boots braced and retained within the stirrups, breath as steady as it can be. The trail, often open and wide, had grown to be narrow and wet, darkened by churned, trampled soil and meltwater. It was there where his eyes spotted a figure; a shape ahead of something fleeing. Something ragged and tall, like a wraith, cloaked in smoke. It was upon this spotting that the Norn redirected his efforts, having found his target.

 

Then the fire came.

 

He did not see its form, simply its aftermath. A burst of lightless hellfire struck his steed beneath him. The horse released a churning noise that he had never heard before. A half-scream, half-sob. The loyal being bucked hard thereafter, its hooves striking the sodden ground beneath over and over again in sudden panic as foam ran from its mouth, stricken by whatever affliction was cast upon the creature. The Norn pulled at the reigns once, then twice - then he let go, refusing to let his steed die in place.

 

He muttered a curse under his breath, old and ugly, one he inherited from a huntsman years ago. Something about gods and paragons and mouths full of dirt as he dropped from the saddle, the steed departing without a second thought for its rider though - understandably so. Thus did the fog hang low, thickening. Asmund took one breath, then another. His knees ached more than they should have. 

 

He did not run immediately, instead crouching as fingers flexed around the axe and the breath dragged through his teeth. He was privy to a voice in the back of his head, whispering something half-formed. A habit, more than a thought - Steady your weight before the charge, huntsman, or waste the swing. He didn’t know where such words had come from; perhaps he imagined he was growing mad by hearing the voices of elders.

 

Then, movement. Between the trampled and sodden ground, he saw the shape again. The Wraith, hunched and crooked, turned its back in its attempt to escape moved with no real grace, just the certainty of those who fear death more than they understand it. It twisted through the drifting haze with its limbs too light and too long. Its steps were silent, yet deliberate. 

 

Åsmund did not shout. He did not warn either, for the dead had already made their choices. 

 

He stepped forward, then picked up pace. Each boot slammed into mud and snow, soaked through at the heel and biting up his calves. The axe in his hand rattled once. That was all the warning the Wraith would get as he closed the space.

 

With a horizontal cleave, the blow struck true. It wasn’t clean, nor was it meant to be with the heavy fog and smoke that descended upon the field, rough and harsh, as though it was reaching out to them., It was meant to kill, but instead, it maimed. He caught the Wraith upon the back of his shoulder, metal tearing deep into the being. There was no blood drawn, yet beneath the cloth, something resisted. It offered a simple crunch of a body resisting a blow it wasn’t built to take. An arm fell. It hit the ground not with a thud, but a crack, like brittle wood shearing from rot. Bone showed where it shouldn’t. It drew a shriek from the Wraith, not one of pain but mangled, mocking laughter.

 

It bolted once more, veering and navigating itself through the pillars of a wooden structure, its movements erratic and staggered as it felt the weight of the chase. Åsmund followed closely behind, and although his breath had begun to tighten, he was not winded. Rather, the chase and thick fog had made him forget how to breathe evenly. He cut a turn behind a split wall, then chased losing distance and then again over cracked stone. The Wraith was still moving. Fast, yes, but the world had caught up, and so had he. 

 

The axe struck again not quite as wide, more purposeful, much more vertical this time, though careful that he hadn’t struck a rogue piece of wood. It fell then, the cackling head of the  split through fabric and found the joint again, at the other side this time. The second arm fell, twitching on the cobbled earth, limp and twitching in the same strange way the first had. If the Wraith felt pain, it gave no sign of it. Still, it slowed.

 

Then, chaos. From the other side, one of the Karoslundurs darted ahead to cut off its escape. However, from the side, a glass flask whirled through the air. Some alchemist’s brew, off-course or ill-timed cracked against the flagstones near all three of them. The explosion was brief. There was no fire, but rather a combustive force that ripped the air from his lungs. A C R A S H and a T H U D - He dropped onto the ground, and with him, the Wraith too crashed down. 

 

The Wraith sought to crawl away, and he found himself turning over. A hand reached for the sodden ground as he made to clamber to his feet. The fog seemed much thicker and tighter to suck in now, a final convulsion of the dying mist it seemed. Åsmund stood once more, the axe’s weight settling and its head cackling to life - heavy, but natural. His mouth tasted like copper; his shoulders ached.

 

The Wraith made it three more steps. But before it could properly escape, the axe came down.

It was not wild, nor was it desperate. It was a practiced, final motion. The blade split from collar to neck, cleaving in a horizontal arc until the blade was free of flesh and bone on the other side. The body twitched once, the head rolling as the body sagged and fell onto the ground.

 

The Norn stood, remaining over the grendel spawn as he realised uneven breaths, grateful that the thick, descended fog had begun dissipating and the light of the All-Father descended upon them finally.

 

Spoiler

Thanks @ImmortalShadowZ @Cheese @M1919for looking over the Sogur!