The Hammer and Flame.

[ReverseNebula 373]

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

The sun had begun to sink low, upon the adventuring party, and for the last time, upon the Templar Raginolf.

 

The swamp wore dusk like wet felt, draped over its canopy, the humid warm air producing a fog that clung low to the ground and masked the thick muck. An upturned caravan, one wheel still rotating slowly, was shaded by the crackling glow of the nearby Draconic flames, still roasting the crackling frame of some diabolical, pallid creatures. 

 

The muck spit in fits, and bursts, akin to a laugh from nature, and the songs of the birds had stilled long before the sun had set. The wind only carried the dizzying sounds of sad sobbing, and, bewildered laughter, offered by those boglings that dwell in the mire.

 

Dozens of the creatures, spindling fingers, long, and needle-like, outstretched as the seams of their faces peeled open to reveal the rows and rows of teeth within them. A repulsive kiss of death, an iron maiden’s embrace wrapped in pale, mud-stained flesh, featureless, and devoid of empathy. They beset the man, left behind to his chosen fate, from all sides.

 

It was the first time in awhile, he’d smiled beneath that helm of his. This battle had nothing on the line, not for him at least, for he had resigned himself to a fate such as this for the coming months.

It was odd how joyous he felt, as his vision faltered with that drooling fountain of blood from the absent hand, staining the ground with such a vital substance that fueled him for so long, but with each mote came the carelessness of his own endeavors.

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

Such a thing was a killer, and so - when the first wave prepared to crash down atop Ragin, did his hammer sweep forth - a long, white-flamed and arcing strike bearing forward to tear through the first three unlucky, and uniformly approaching creatures… and with it, crept the mightiest cry one could’ve ever hoped to muster.

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

It was as if warmth basked over him, resolve steeled itself, and his heart willed itself to beat. His courage flourished, and that absent hand bled no more, red life refused to creep, and in its place - a holy white flame congealed as his courage manifested into a replacement for what was lost.

The mask amidst his face fell aside, in absence of its purpose, and his strength felt as if he was better than his prime, for with this utterance had the man sealed his fate.

The first strike that followed upon the first of many to barrage him, was as if a cannon thrummed from him, a thunderous echoance corralling through the treelines, and uprooting birds from their roost, the recoil of such a violent endeavor seemed not to tax him, for fatigue was no longer his enemy.

His frame was forced to rotate, with another violent careen of that spiked hammerhead, and yet another violent blossom of purple gore, deafening echoes and the initial hum of a fight, that would be one's last.

However odd it felt, as the thrum of his heartbeat and the clatter of needle-like appendages against steel, and crashing thunder; the man had come to reminisce of the simpler times, even when grief filled the people of Norland. 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

When Veta lingered in his embrace.

 

It was odd, the way the room began to settle itself against his perception, and even odder when it felt like he was peering through a window at his own memory…

 

“In time we all will be.” He affirmed, voice quiet.

 

Dead, that is.

 

“.. So soon is what really scares me.” Murmured the frightened.

 

   “You’ve got ei job, and so does everyone else.” Raginolf uttered, as his frame made ease unto the ground. He settled there, where he then did something truly foreign to Yelizaveta. His hands lofted, and the woman was carefully swept from the chair, down now to settle atop his lap. She was lulled with the utmost care, and held just as gingerly. “You, along with them, must stand against the death that wracks us all.”

 

   Yelizaveta stilled within the hold of her brother. There sounded a gasp of surprise at first, though soon, the woman found ease. Her eyes fell slow, and her arms lay crossed along her chest. She bore no signs of discomfort, no, instead. . she found peace. Comforted by the gentle hum that began to ebb so.

 

   “Und so the ones above guide us down the road,” his voice rang gentle, somber, 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

For every word sung, the Reinmaren’s facade of stoicism began to falter. His attempts choked, scratching at his throat as he dared to continue. “From our great grandparents in the ground, to all the ghosts of  our hometown, they’re the ones who find us down the road. . Grief is only love that has no place to go.” 

 

Still, he wiped her tears.

 

“You speak as if you know you’ll die soon.”

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

                                                                            

                                                                                                                                                                                    

 

 

It enraged him—or perhaps it was only the claws that slipped past his helm and bit his cheek. He roared, and rage pooled hot in his chest as the hammer rose. Iron met flesh. Thunder answered.

His off-hand tore a sword from a fallen foe. Hammer and blade worked as one—old drill, holy muscle-memory—but numbers pressed in. Skill he had; space he did not.

The trees closed like a shield wall. Limbs and roots hemmed his swing. He hewed anyway. One cut scythed through two Wastrels with the weight of a maul, forced a step forward, and bared his back.

They swarmed like shore-crabs. A plate went—stripped, abandoned. The next wound he did not feel, only the cold creep of it along his left side as white-fire ichor mingled with red.

He had seen this much crimson before. His mind slipped, not from fear but from the old truth of pain, into one single memory—when he and Sissel crossed steel instead of turning it on their common foe. His first holmgang.

Metal filled his mouth. Blood sheeted from his shoulder in long, pulsing streams; every few heartbeats the white flared to red, and back again.

It was a strange thing, to fight the woman he treasured. Stranger still to do it at her asking. He leaned in and cracked brow to brow.

Blood burst. Her nose went sideways with a hard crunch. His fingers found the dagger lodged in his shoulderblade. He ripped it free to stab—her hand snapped to his wrist. A race against time. His left arm died when the gauntlet’s mechanism ran dry.

He kicked for her knee. She dipped and wrenched, stole the blade as his weight crashed into her. The pommel slammed his face. Clay split. The old secret beneath it saw air. They grappled for the steel again, snarling in each other’s breath.

He wrenched it back at last as they tumbled. The deciding stroke came down. The dagger bit her thigh, drank deep, and tore a red line as they broke apart.

It felt a lifetime ago: falling beside her, healers shouting, hands dragging him away while he reached for her—

 

Crack.

 

The swamp snapped back into him. His longsword buried in a Wastrel’s gut and would not pull free. Another blow caved his side. He let the sword go. The hammer remained.

He drove it down. Wood and limb exploded together in a spray of splinters and pale gore. The white flame along his stump burned steady, the Courage of Malchediael made flesh, and he set his feet to stand again.

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

“Less likely to splinter, da,” a little girl murmured in acknowledgement of Raginolf’s instructions, hunched over a stick far too big for her to walk with. They talked of potions, princesses, and performances while Jorena scraped away bark. Amidst Raginolf’s lessons of different tools for their project, the girl etched squiggles and curling lines into the stick.

 

It wasn’t until after she dusted off her childish handiwork and showed it to him that Jorena found out the full lesson of her walking stick. To make something with someone gave it more meaning. The girl took Raginolf’s lesson to heart. “We should make your bracelets,” for he and Sissel, so they’d have a special meaning with his help.

 

“You’re a smart girl,” Raginolf complimented her on her quickness.

 

Jorena thanked him before she told him the same. “And you’re smart too.”

 

“Am I now?”

 

“Da,” Jorena nodded. “Because you sound like all the good people in my life, and they’re smart,” the girl then specified, after a pause. “You are one of the good people in my life.”

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

There was a crunch and clang, the sound of more and more bodies piling upon the Templar’s form. The flames sought open air, through the crevices and folds of limbs, and of those muck-laden bodies that ravenously tore at his armor. The buckles were gnawed upon, and leather slacked. The weight of the pile upon him stilled his blows, and pressed the air from his chest; 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                            

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

His inflamed hand, a glowing white tool to hold the line, and enjoy his final fate, flickered, and faded. The wastrels found their teeth chewing through armor, and pressing down upon an empty vessel, as the creaks and groans of his hauberk and mail slackened. His form began to shift, as if a thousand fireflies that lay just beneath Raginolf’s chest had found their escape, and fluttered away. 

 

The ravenous horde found naught but ash in their mouth, and with the warmth of the Templar’s flame scattered back to his divine host’s realm, his soul with it. 

 

A stillness settling upon the swamp, and a quiet where thunder once clapped and rung through a now barrow marsh.

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

A final memory flickered, like the soft lights of hope seeping from him.

 

It was such an odd thing, how his mind settled itself to escape the darkness that had overwhelmed his vision, and his breathing slowly faded from the sounds of onslaught.

 

The softest words, from the woman he so often held close.

A final truth, spilled from behind curtains unpulled.

 

 

It was a weary question, granted amidst the dull white room of a healing hall, his hands bound to the bedframe due a mental break days ago, and still blood had stained his visage in quiet adornments.

 

The silence that followed, that brief sweltering feeling that so bitterly bit at him in fear.

 

He awaited a truth he didn’t want,

 

He awaited words he couldn’t bear…

 

But the words she spoke nearly brought him to tears of happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

 

 

                                                                                               

 

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

 

Spoiler

Special thanks to:
xxRetro: For the Veta/Raginolf Interaction.
Pomegrad: For the Ragin/Jorena interaction.

VERY BIG THANKYOU TO: KIDKRINKLES  for the entire formatting.

 

[Calise11 841]

"If you want to wed me, you must first best me in a Holmgang," the veral woman spoke to the man. An agreement made. 
"I, Sissel Av Freysdottir, declare a Holmgang, Rudolf."
 

And so that man did beat her within that Holmgang. He drove a knife so deep into her femoral artery that she debated the traditions of her forefathers. Holmgangs were a thing of honour, of dispute—and rarely were they a means to test the mettle of a husband against a wife. Such was the way of the Norlanders.

She went to blind him— all or nothing, truly—her hands sinking into his cheekbones, tearing away, her thumbs sliding toward his sockets. But alas, the clay came loose in her hands. It crumbled, and so did her hold. The man quickly gained the upper hand, his face quartered—an odd, hollow thing left from an injury prior.

On the day of recovery, it was permitted they were to wed. They had been courting here and there, but truly, now was the time. Within the span Freysdottir had taken to recover from such grievous injuries dealt by her future husband, she carved him something her people once wore—a mask in the shape of the Narvaukian forebears. A simple thing, crafted from the ashwood itself. Permission had been sought to gain such a robust and beautiful material.
 

Now it sat within her hands. Her fingers were long blackened by the blessing—and curse alike—that was Orthasiel, gaps and tears wrought in her flesh. She was older—much older. Her hair had grown the taint of cinder-ash. And now, all she had of the man she loved was what she had once given him. She never thought how the mask would find its way back into her possession—but perhaps she should have. His life had been dimming, the sandglass poured and curated to ensure the man was soon to depart from her.

 

Once upon a time, they had both been young. And then, they had not. Raginolf’s life was taken and halved when he poured half his truer soul into a cannon that absorbed Asmund’s entirety, aging Raginolf’s body forty years—driving the man into age, draining the colour from his skin, and flecking his hair with silver and white.

He was still young at heart. He never truly aged in mind or soul. Still, he would try to taunt and tease his wife, even when there was a snap, crackle, and pop within his spine.

 

She still felt the click within her jaw from where he had dislocated it days prior, when his Templar’s mark bore little to no control. Of course, she was his wife—she had to step in.

The mask was not as smooth as when her blade had first carved it. So many dents—grime now. He had worn it every day since she had given to him to stop scaring the young bairn of Norland. But she could not stop thinking - She would never see him again. Not in the All-Fathers halls. Not in the abyss. For now they were apart forever and always. 

Had they even said goodbye...?

[retro 277]

r

[__Stal27 2126]

Spectating the recent battlefield, HARALDR looked upon it, twisted limbs of the fallen bodies and blood of the Grendel amalgamated with the sodden ground yet before them, the evidence of armour was apparent to even the blindest. So, did the pair, the son of Haakon and his hand, Malric, stride towards what they assumed was the empty plates of armour which denoted the one RAGINOLF. He sought for ashes, this trip had become one of recovery then aid, though he found none for such was the ending of a warrior of MALCHADIAEL, leaving naught behind but armour and weapons.

"He was a great warrior. . . even in his final moments, he felled them all." He spoke, his voice subtle and marred with emotion he did not realise he bore even in the present - his voice drawing quieter tones as he continued on. "We shall collect his belongings and return them. . . there is nothing else left for us here but only that of his which may never let us forget his memory, as the Allfather wills it. . ."

[Monty Cobra 921]

r

[Bird5k 1083]

Xavier knew this day would come, one way or another, though the letter he received still filled him with sorrow. He was proud to be the one to bestow the Blessing onto Ragin, to see such a great warrior wield it truly and with honour. Xavier looked upon the wall that had the names of the fallen carved into it, Ragin's name was the only one "I shall keep my promise, llir. And I shall see you again one day"

[KidKrinkles 2043]

News spread fast, and, the bowie knight had little to say that others could not.

 

Raginolf claimed an afterlife he was envious of, and, had cleared the fog that had lingered upon the front of his mind, and his eyes, for so long.

 

He sat quietly in Vjardengrad's tavern, and, paying for a beer that he himself would not drink, set it upon the counter wordlessly, as he had once done for Raug.

 

-{☼}-

 

And when he rode through the very swamps that swallowed him, later,

 

he chose to believe the fireflies that twinkled might be an Old Templar lighting his path.

[prophetisms 982]

Somewhere, in the swamps of Azuras, Jorena treaded the mud and brush with a weathered walking stick. Although the shifting earth was a burden for her journey, it did not compare to the burden of the mind. 

 

“You’ve all got names, writ in greatness that you’ve yet to see. Even if the world doesn’t see it, and fails to adhere.”

 

“I hope I’ll see it.”

 

Those words, from their final moments together, caused the woman to stop in her tracks, with a near glassy gaze looking out onto the waters nearby. Never, in that wayward life of hers, did Jorena feel more blind.

 

[arxchn0ph0bia 62]

reserved

[clearlynoko 201]

She remembered the day she realized Ragin's Flame was flickering. When he looked at her with eyes that suggested she was a fresh face, that he had forgotten who she was. After, her mother told her of the human condition, of truly how sick one could get in their elder years, where they can't even remember the ones they love most. She never once tried to get him to remember. What was the point of making an old man suffer more? 
 

"Ragin has gone to the Great Halls," Xavier told her in passing. Her initial thoughts had been oh, finally. They all saw it coming, there was no reason to grieve over a man who had been dying for ten years. She watched as Xavier etched the name Raginolf into the stone walls of the Flamekeeper's Keep, a memory forever kept. She could hear the man complaining already. They were making such a fuss over him!
 

Months later, she sat on the bench of the Flamekeeper's Hill, staring into unblessed flames. Letting her mind wander, she thought of that old man for the first time since the news. She let herself wonder how he was faring in the Great Halls. Was he lonely? Was he fighting? Was he finally resting? 
 

"We will see him again," Xavier had said, but that was not any time soon, hopefully. That would not be until centuries down the line, should their Flames keep burning strong. What of those who do not have the Blessing? They will never greet him in the Seven Skies. He died a Templar, a small tragedy in its own right. And, oh, how she idolized such, for if anyone deserved the Blessing, it was Raginolf.
 

A deep and heavy weight draped itself over her shoulders, restricting her breathing and causing tears to stream down her cheeks. How cruel! A fate she wanted for herself to be one she cried over.
 

The words dug in deep, only now settling and making a home in Andromeda's fresh heart: Raginolf was dead.
 

Spoiler