* RAGNAROK - Chapter 1

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1

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R A G N A R O K
C h a p t e r - 1

**“An Axe-Age, a sword age, shields will be gashed: there will be a wind-age and a wolf-age before the world is wrecked.”

“First of all Midgard will be wrenched and racked by wars for three winters. Fathers will slaughter sons; brothers will be drenched in one another’s blood. Mothers will desert their menfolk and seduce their own sons; brothers will bed with sisters.”

“Then Fimbulvetr, the winter of winters, will grip and throttle Midgard. Driving snow clouds will converge from north and south and east and west. There will be bitter forsts, biting winds; the shining sun will be helpless. Three such winters will follow each other with no summers between them.”**

So runs the myth of Ragnarok–a legend whose power was stolen by making it no more than a childern’s tale. As the centuries unfolded, the once-proud Vikings diminished from the earth. And so the truth of their lore grew dormant… forgotten for a time…

Earth, 2008 A.D.
Led by the United States, nations of the world looked on in support or despair as the sweeping giant declared its wars on terror, on oppressive regimes, on foes with masked intentions.

In Afghanistan, Iraq and North Korea, the eyes of the world were fixed. In the confusion, none thought to monitor an unlikely foe.

Red12, a small but violent neo-Soviet faction simultaneously has stormed several Ukranian missle silos, fully intent on using the threat of destructive power to further their cause.

As its allies have withdrawn one by one, the United States has found its forces spread too thin. Chaos has suddenly become the order of the day. Citizens of the earth are, for the first time, united. United in fear.

This looming shadow, however, this threat that encompasses the panicked world of mankind–it is greater yet than any man is aware. For earth is but one of many worlds, presdided over by beings more ancient and more powerful than anything seen in the modern age.

The end does indeed approach. And so much more than the world of man hangs in the balance.

2

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Failsafe
(ATTN: Poxy)

“Gentlemen,” addresses the leggy, Swedish flight attendant. Moments ago, she had flirted and winked her way passed the drunken, groping hands of a collected Wynternacht. Now her accented tone had dipped into the sharply serious.

She brushed up against the low tray table, bumping into a set of tickets marked “Oslo”. Her voice broke into a trembling whisper. She clutched the arm of the infamous Gunnar Arvidson, her face now pale white.

“There are men onboard… with guns!” she managed between crystalline tears.

The first class cabin was filled with businessmen, young professionals, and three of Gunnar’s carefree bandmates. All seemed above board.

Unlatching his seatbelt, Arvidson slid to the drawn curtain. Carefully sliding the drape back with his fingertips, the travel-weary rocker peered into coach.

From out of the far off restroom, a dark-haired man emerged–an eastern European man, with thick black eyebrows and a recently trimmed beard. His arms rested uncomfrotably under a tattered, long gray sweater. The man was fairly large, a brute with a grave expression. He was glancing to someone on the far side of the coach cabin.

(The plane is a 767, with three rows of chairs and two aisles. Looking down on the plane from the top, Gunnar and his group are in the northern part of the plane, western side near the aisle.)

3

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Control
(ATTN: Ego)

Towering over the dead body of a downed MP, Targo Vleitnikov searched the man for ammunition and ID.

Cheska3-8 was the largest of the complexes that he and his comrades had set out to secure. It would be the most defensible location as well, once Red12 was firmly in control.

Glaring up the long grey-green railings overhead, the rogue commander silently motioned three of his men to the platform. The clink-clank of iced boots echoed. They climbed up against a solid metal cylinder, rising 40’ into the air. Under his feet were wire-ridden floor panbels. Random smoke and sparse shouting lingered in the background of his raid.

Targo levelled his AN-94 at the door in front of him, preparing for the inevitble rush of the treacherous Ukranian military.

Gunshots suddenty ring out. Four. Six. Sixteen. Though the path in front of him is clear, the falling bodies of his comardes force him to take shelter.

Targo was caught between the defiant forces in the control center above him and the growing sound of incoming troops from outside.

The leader stood determined. The death of his men would not be in vain.

(Targo is in a small circular room, facing the only doorway. His back is to a metal ladder, leading up to a rounded platform. There is just enough room around the cylinder to walk tightly. Men in the control room just shot and pushed out your three men, landing around you. Men approache the hallway in front of you.)

4

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

The bitter winter seems to have locked the world in ice. Even in Maine, winters were meant to eventually pass.

Ajene Fitzgerald sensed something amiss in nature’s rage. He had heard of the effects of the cold in other places. The famine, the lack of crops had slowly begun to delbilitate the more dependent nations.

Even in a place like America, such dreadful times could fall. Wrapped tightly in a aged brown jacket, the journeyman priest approached the small wooden facility.

The church had been looted–an uncommon occurance in rural Northshore, Maine. With his help, the few but loyal parishoners had gathered to rebuild the home of their faith.

“Blizzard picking up, A.J.?” a slow but friendly young man named Eric had taken to Ajene like a faithful sidekick. In a heavy coat, he painted plain white against the walls inside. “Can’t wait until we get the heater back,” he added.

Sirens wailed. It was a shockingly loud chrip. The paint rippled and pooled a bit against a shaking wall.

“Thunderstom warning?” Eric dropped the paint roller idly into its bin.

A loud boom rolled like grounded thunder a quarter mile out.

Air raid? Ajene knew it was something more. He carried with him the unfailing survival instincts of military training. If he had taken time to think, the existence of an air raid alarm in barren Northshore might have struck him as ridiculous. If not for its sounding today.

The collection of workers numbered only around seven total, and whatever the imminent danger was, Ajene knew it was time to move.

Eric pushed open the glass doors of the tattered church to see the blur of screaming aircraft fly overhead.

The markings were unfamiliar to Ajene, but the model of the planes appeared to be European. Why an attack? Why Northshore, Maine?

For the time being, scatterd explosions would be his only answers. The six others looked to the man that had led them spiritually, to help take them to physical safety.

5

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

The legendary slopes of Europe no longer drew a mass of tourists. The threat of war and recent outbreak of international chaos kept all but the most stout-hearted at bay.

Despite the world’s fears, the Swiss Alps commanded a challenge. Atop a nefarious peak known to English speakers as “Razoredge” stood a handful of defiant skiiers.

Fearlessly peering down the range was Clive Branson. Clive was a former Navy SEAL, revitalized in life after surviving a freak ice storm. Now he challenged Fate at every opportnity. Skiing the cusp of Razoredge was just another test to be passed.

Taking a deep breath, the former soldier kicked off. As the cool breeze bit through his jacket, he haphazardly negotiated the protruding rocky ridge.

Removed somewhat from the reality of his descent, Clive felt the beckoning of memory. He recalled that storm that had nearly claimed him. He remembered the gahstly… beast that stared deadly into him.

It was not a dream, he reminded himself, refusing to accept the doctor’s assertions of his “passing out”. He knew, deep within him, that somethings lie in hidden in the earth. Things evil beyond what men can describe.

“Uff!” he shouted awkwardly. The edge of one of his skis had buckeled on the knife-like ridge. He was sent toppling, reeling head over ankles into a nearby snowdrift.

Momentum kept him rolling. After a bruise-filled tumble, he fell flat onto an icy patch near some lingering trees. He managed to lay upright, sliding slowly down the slick slope.

With heart racing, he laughed. Clive scoffed at death’s pitiful attempt. He slid, almost casually drifing down the icy vale for a moment.

Through oragne goggles, he took in the clouded-over sky. How long had the sun been hidden? He had stopped keeping track.

A black form dipped into view, quickly covering his entire range of vision for an instant. Swooping like a giant bird, the shadow flapped forward into far off branches. No bird had ever grown so big. An awful feeling began to overtake him.

He neared a glacial edge, curving upward from the mountainside like a naturaly ski ramp. Clive had no time to right himself, nor the momentum to make the jump clean.

He would certainly end up buried in the soft snow of the foothills beneath. He fought in vain against the slippery ice. In a moment, perhaps his end would arrive.

6

Breathless

Clive knew he had to act quick. He had been through worse, he wasn’t gonna die so stupidly. His idea for survival might not work but it was his only chance. He put the band of his ski poles around his wrist to secure them and quickly removed his gloves. Then, seizing his poles again, he slammed then into the ice as hard as he could. The metal creaked against the solid layer, bending to the point of nearly breaking, but he managed to lose a little speed. He braced himself for the next move.

Just as he approached the end of the slope, he threw the poles aside. He laid down his body on the ice, and as he took off in the air, starting the fall, he bent it backwards, making a full 180 degrees rotation. Throwing his arms in front of him, he managed to catch the edge of the icy embankment. The cold immediately bit through his bare fingers but he held on, slowly pulling himself up. He finally managed to get on the slope again and fell to his knees. He looked up at the sky with an air of defiance.

“Didn’t get me this time either!!!” He started laughing deliriously, the echo of his roaring laughter bouncing off the mountains.

7

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Wolf’s Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

A long howl shook a wary Thomas Drake. A cold morning mist rolled through tall evergreens into the plain where he stood. Dead bodies lay savaged, strewn about a simple campsite. He looked to his right, and saw the longspear that had come to him. A sleek metal blade rose from the long handle, the oddly familiar weapon sturdy but light.

In his left hand, he bore a thick circle of polished oak, an iron ring around its edge. His fingers tightened against the cold handle. Aged leather boots were forced down into cold soil, his warrior’s helmet on the ground next to him. He braced for the Seven to make their presence known.

From behind him came a howl. An announcement of the ambush. Tearing pain bit into his arm, his thigh, and a warm trickle ran down his cheek from his forehead. The morning light reddened against his pupils, then faded black.

Thomas Drake III sat upright in his bed. His lavish penthouse apartment welcomed him from the nightmare. He rose from his resting place to touch down on warm wood. He passed a large, gaping window and bustling New York skyline and walks to a display case in the far end of the expansive bedroom.

Sculptures, paintings, even a few hand drawn sketches line the walls and tables. A shaman from New Mexico had told Thomas that he had found his totem. The wolf was indeed something that had called out to Drake from behind the pictures.

Thomas stepped to his newly found artifact. His prize possession was the very spear that had appeared in his dream. The blade seemed to beckon him, even though he was wide awake. He reached out to take the blade called Wulfblud. It seemed to seethe with a life of its own.

A blinding flash lit the room, and the lonely businessman took a breathe. A new vigor seemed to creep into him, filling an unspoken longing within his heart. He steadied the spear, remembering its weight from the dream. It seemed a natural extension of his hand.

A resounding howl burst suddenly through the nightlit windows. Shadows played eagerly over the walls as his lamp dimmed. He shook himself, but this was no longer a dream. Glimmers of red skittered among the shadows, forming dots. Slowly the points became clear pupils, the shadows blackened fur.

If not for the surge of confidence the weapon had brought him, Drake might have dismissed the arrivals as hallucinations, or called for his bodyguard. Instead, he felt only an uncanny grin brim across his weathered face. The last of the Seven had come to his new home. A prepared Thomas Drake stood ready.

(The apartment is a large rectangle, with Thomas near a closet in the southwest corner. In the east is a large bathroom, and the hallway leading to a dining room and the exit to the hallway elevators. There is one wolf, double the size of its naturally occurring kin, now fully formed from the shadows. It stands salivating, ready to strike.)

8

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Subway trains rattled on seemingly loose tracks into the distance.

With their machinations, mankind had thought to replace their gods. A quiet old man marveled to himself at the inventions of the modern age. He hobbled across the station and through the turnstiles. Dressed in rags, most of the busy passersby chose to ignore the homeless wanderer.

As predicted, the coming of the deathly cold winter Fimbulvetr was a telltale sign to Ormstunga. He grinned slightly as he embraced the biting winds of the upper streets as he ascended the last of the concrete steps. He was closer to his master now than ever before. He could feel a familiar pulse in the air.

Tasked by Hel herself, Ormstunga continued his search. Failure meant nothing less than cursed oblivion. Success would mean the final destruction of the hated Aesir.

The beaten, rag-bearing stump of a man paced slowly among the crowded sidewalks of Moscow. The bitter wind that licked at him only reminded him of home. Heavily garbed locals milled about around him, as though the aged wanderer was invisible.

Ormstunga paused as he passed an alleyway, slowly approaching some sort of gathering. He rounded a cobblestone corner to see a handful of Russian thugs, beating a young man and his dog. The observer listened carefully, as the gibberish language they spoke attuned itself to his ears. In a matter of five minutes, the Russian language beacme as though his own.

Then a hand on his shoulder broke his concentration.

“You are in the wrong alley old man.”

The slight frame of Ormstunga was lifted, then tossed toward the unconscious youth and his barking pet. The old man crept to his feet, and looked across to see no less then six well-dressed thugs in slick suits blocking the exit to the alley.

(You are in an enclosed alley, the boy is out cold, the dog is afraid but standing his ground. The 6 mooks are all packing guns, which Ormstunga would somewhat recognize as weapons. They are obviously expecting to kill you in short order.)

9

—JOTUNHEIM: UTGARD—
Ambush
(ATTN: Devil Unicorn)

The Citadel of Utgard was alive with combat. Frost Giants had gathered in tournament, fighting to the death for the sheer glory of it all. It was in the pits of combat that an army would be raised to defeat the gods, to shatter the halls of Asgard.

The king himself had descended to the pits, to watch his fellow giants and their trial by combat. The brooding leader had reserved an important assignment for the strongest of his kin. Among the masses that had gathered was the fearsome Prottigrnari. The name was whispered among the Dwarves, and even the giants of the far north. With such a reputation of infamy, Prottigrnari came to Utgard.

He would win the king’s favor, and become foremost among his armies. Or he would kill the king himself. It truly did not matter to the barbaric beast.

As he paced into the dirty ring, Prottigrnari waited patiently for the arrival of his opponent. His foe was Egrannah, a disgraced watchman who had been assigned to be used for training in pits for his one, colossal failure.

The breaking of animal bones against the metal pit wall signaled the beginning of the deathmatch. Egrannah seemed energized, as though his spirits were not broken by a life of battle, but rather lifted.

As Prottigrnari neared, he sensed a foul smell on the air. The ether-like aroma of arcane magic. Perhaps someone had sought to even the odds, and give Egrannah a bit of an “edge” in the battle.

It would make little difference, as Prottigrnari planned to line the arena with his entrials either way.

(You are in a large, oval-shaped combat arena. There are no doors, stairs or obstacle son the field. The ground is muddy with damp soil. Each of you have a simple but large club. No other waepons have been allowed on the field.)

10

Ambush

Prottigrnari shifted the massive club back and forth between his thick hands, the cords of his muscular neck and shoulders bulging out as he began to work up his rage. He wanted this so badly. For centuries he has been trapped here in Jotunheim, nothing better to do than wander the land killing his fellow giants and the lesser creatures of the plane. He was eager for a true challenge. He wanted to kill the gods themselves.

Throwing a furious glance to the Giant King on his throne, Prottigrnari formed a wicked grin, showing off his grinding black teeth. His gaze then slid over to the trembling Ergrannah, a peon in the king’s army, if he could be called even that. The other giant was right to fear Prottigrnari, for he had crushed far greater foes under his heel.

However, there was something a bit odd about Ergrannah’s movement. He seemed far too confident and quick for his pathetic frame. Prottigrnari threw one last glance into the crowd, his beady eyes searching for the source of Ergrannah’s enhancement. He began to laugh then, long and hard, a low rumble that echoed through the arena and shook the walls. His fierce gaze once again fell upon his opponent and he hefted the club in his right hand.

“Let’s end this, weakling!” he roared in his native tongue, and then charged forward.

11

—ASGARD: VALHALLA—
Emissary
(ATTN: Fett)

Cheers rose from the depths of Valhalla. The giant hall was alive with singing, eating and drinking. The resurrected heroes of the Golden Age were gathered in one enormous structure, situated in the center of the glorious home of the gods.

The Allfather himself strode among them, causing the merriment to cease. The laughter and amusememnt wwere replaced by awe. Stepping into the feasting hall was an enormous viking warrior, clad in golden chainmail, draped about in a loose blue cloak. A proud white beard stretched out from under his helmet, a black patch tied across a lost eye. On his shoulder sat a raven, and in his hand a mighty spear.

With a deep laugh, the newcomer bellowed. “By my own beard, what is that smell?”

A thousand voices quickly joined him in laughter. Feasting, joking and singing resumed.

The imposing figure made his way out of the feast hall into a grand stadium. Casually, he walked out into the center of the ring. He lifted his aged but strong head to the sky, and was soon set upon by a pair of ravens. Each of the proud birds was larger than usual, one perched on each of his broad shoulders. Each seemed to whisper into the nearest ear.

Flutter of more wings was soon heard. The Viking lord expected the arrivals, evidenced by his continued concentration on the news of his birds. Floating effortlessly onto the field in front of the veteran warrior was a collection of heavenly maidens. Valkyres, they were called. Like avenging angles, they stood garbed in metal scale and sword. The group of them, 9 in number, now stood in line in front of their master. In unison, the maidens knelt.

For he was Odin, king of the gods and Father to All.

“Rise daughters,” he offered kindly. “What news have ye of the Nine Worlds?”

“Asgard is clear from Bifrost to the Gilded Sea,” the first replied.

“Jotunheim is rife with peril, the giants grow in number, m’lord,” said the second.

The third offered, “Alfheim is tranquil, the elves sleep.”

While the fourth chimed, “Smoke rises from Nidavellir, and all is well in the forges.”

“Svartalfheim lies dormant,” came the fifth, “No danger to report.”

“Vanaheim’s beauty remains undisturbed,” spoke the sixth.

“Muspelheim grows forever hot,” the seventh shook her head, “I dared not draw near.”

The eigth stepped forward, “Daily does Niflheim’s army stir.”

“And what of Midgard?” Odin pursued.

His captain offered a respectful gaze in reply. For she was Friija, stout defender of the Will of Odin, and tasked with reporting the world of man. After a moment of silence, she could no longer contain the truth. “Midgard suffers, m’lord. Tis in dire need of your hand.”

The Valkrye scattered in dismissal, and Odin departed for a long walk. After much contemplation, he called for Friija again. “More I needed, I’m afraid. Return to Midgard, gather me witnesses as ye may, mortals who know of the danger first hand. Things in Midgard grow out of hand.”

With that, Friija was off. By the flaming bridge of Bifrost, she made her way back to the world of men. Taking care to conceal her heavenly form, she located plainer garb and made her way. After a day’s journey, she found herself again in the land of America, the principality of New York. Here she would continue her search, though she sorely missed her faithful Asynjur, the winged steed that she had bade remain behind.

When night’s curtain drew, she took to the sky. She followed an unnatural howl to the spires of one of the city’s large castles. But as she drew close, so did a new danger. Tongues of flame ripped through the chilled night air. As they drew close to the angelic warrior, the shapes revealed themselves.

Fiery demons, minions of Muspelheim dispatched to consume her.

(You are flying high in the air over the penthouse apartment mentioned in Katanga’s ‘Wolf’s Cry’ section above. There are two totals demons, fire-coated beasts with a tangible skin. Persistent strikes may dissipate them for a time, but past experience tells you the flaming embers will eventually reunite.)

12

—MIDGARD/EARTH—
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

A wretched cackling came from under the tatters that masked Ormstunga’s form. The Old One spoke to them in a voice that made the small hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. “You would kill a harmless old man like me? Shame be upon you boys. Go home and pule to your mothers before I feast on your livers.” His form gradually grew into a beast that was all slavering jaws and snick-snackering claws.

Three of the men ran screaming into the night leaving their guns in the dirt. One stood his ground drooling, a damp stain slowly spreading out from his crotch. The last two found some sort of nerve and fired seven feet up in the air.

While they were distracted the ragman came forward using the chimerical beast as a cover. Brundabitr lashed out and found its mark as it had for centuries. The thin black blade greedily drank from the man’s vital fluids and left him a withered corpse.

The other man seemed confused and lowered his gun to a more dangerous altittude. Before he could pull the trigger on it, Ormstunga produced a pinch of black powder from a fold in his robes and blew it in his face. The dust of Hel, as the wizened one liked to call this concoction, flew up the thugs nostrils and immediately caused his lungs to seize. The robber fell to the cold ground and expired painfully, with Ormstunga watching gleefully.

“No one stands in the way of Loki’s children.” Fascinated by this loud weapon’s magic he took it and carefully placed it in a fold for later observation. He continued searching into the night leaving boy and dog to the elements.

13

Wolf’s Cry

Drake curled his body inward, drawing the spear into a defensive position. Wulfblud warmed at his touch and seemed to hunger. Drake’s dark eyes seized his shadowy foe. He spoke into the unfurling darkness.

“Finally, I have thee. I have traveled o’er cold seas of time to drive the life from ye and I shan’t be feared with magicks. Come embrace me, O’ fiendish bitch of giant-kin.”

Drake roared and dove low into the threatening gloom.

14

Evacuation

“Quickly everyone! We need to get down lower…all of you get to the church basement and gather against one of the outer basement walls. I’m going out to see if I can figure out what in Hades is going on!”, Ajene yelled over the noice of the blasts going off all around the church.

When he was satisfied that Eric and the rest were on their way, he creeped out of the church doors onto the front lawn and took a look around, trying to see if there might be a safer vantage point from which to take a closer look at the planes conducting the raid.

15

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Clive had indeed eked out another victory agains the cold hand of Death. The near-fatal incident left him alive, but stranded in semi-artic wilderness.

A quick-paced walk brought him to more level ground, and the familiarity of his starting point. He approached a small jeep–the brown and green rental that had brought him to the mountain’s base.

Clive glanced one last time at the formidable mountain, as if adding it to a mental checklist of things that couldn’t kill him. Turning back around, he fumbled for the keys to the jeep.

Nothing. The pocket was empty. And it got immediately worse. The canvas-top had been torn back like a pull tab, his belongings savaged and spilled inside and out.

All of his food had been devoured or picked through, his leather bags ripped to ribbons and strewn about the snow.

A trail of spilled coffee and blood mingled, leading beyond a distant treeline. Something shuffled just past the branches. Something big.

16

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

Clutched by panic, the smaller of the two brutes dove under the havey club of his enemy. Egrannah at first scurried to the left, then the right, frantically praying for protection.

Prottigrnari toyed with his foe. He swung slow and strong, cracking stone with his giant weapon. He heard the whispers of the coward in front of him. the fight had only just begun, and already the fool was praying for deliverance.

He didn’t need a club at all.

Egrannah swung faintly, falling under the weight of the club as he missed his target. catching his breath, he charged in again, only half-heartedly.

The attack seememd to bounce of Prottigrnari’s chest, sending the lesser giant sprwaling. After a prolonged fit of dizziness, Egrannah drifted back to his feet.

Though no sun shone over distant Utgard, a glint of golden ligth seemed to surround the equally curious Egrannah. He summoned forth the little courage that remained, and swung a solid fist into his tall blue opponent.

Wincing in unexpected pain, Prottigrnari doubled back. His chest burned as if on fire, kunckle-marks from the small fist of his foe seemed burned through his leather. It had even singed through to his equally tough skin.

Egrannah glared angrily, having frenzied since his little victory. The crowd cheered on the little giant mockingly, and Egrannah devoured the praise. His body shined like a faint star, white and orange flame now fanning out from his body.

“Prottigrnari!” shouted a voice from the stands. It was Rhasgar, one of Prottigrnari’s few freinds. The brown and white-hued spectator tossed a crudely-wrapped package into the battle arena.

Though his chest continued to burn, Prottigrnari grinned. He already knew what lie beneath the rags, as he caught the bundle.

Perhaps one of the gods had favored Egrannah. But it would take ten to save him now.

17

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Dark night swept over Moscow, but it did little to threaten Ormstunga. He had patiently walked the distance towards the somwehat impressive Basilica.

As he walked, curiosity took hold of him. He had drawn the silver weapon that one of his attackers had “left” behind. He held it as he had seen, carefully pointing the fire-bearing end away from his person.

With a wicked cackle, he squeezed the handle, finding the trigger eventually.

Pop! The pistol’s hammer came down and smoke and sound burst forth. A second shot was analyzed as well. Quickly, the illusionist had learned to balance the gun, and to take aim.

He shot out the window of a small building, delighting in his discovery. Shouts of strangers in the distance did nothing to upset him.

He pocketing the weapon once more, and strode toward the doors of the cathedral. Inside, he would meet his contact… a man who had promised him aide.

Blue lights flickered behind him as he approached the large wood and metal doors. Another of the horse-less chariots arrived, with a uniformed man stepping out. Whistling sirens faded.

“You, stop there!” came another stranger’s command. Ormstunga turned innocently to the constable, smiling poltiely.

18

Wolf’s Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

The words came out of his mouth, but Thomas Drake did not know to whom they belonged. The spear seemed to unleash some sort of energy within him.

Possessed? That was just nonsense to scare the religous or sell movie tickets.

But as half of him was completely confused, another half glared knowingly at his foe. Something in Thomas’ mind offered to… take over. With no idea what else to do, Drake allowed the impulse to run its course.

The wolf leapt forward, as if prompted by Drake’s transformation.

“Die son of Hrughmin!” is hissed in a sinsiter but clear ancient tongue. Rending claws emerged from black fur in mid-air.

Thomas Drake understood the words, as if a second language he had somehow forgotten. Hopefully his spear would remember how to find wolf-flesh. Just as the reborn warrior remembered his true identiy. The lost son of Asgard was called…

19

Ambush

Prottigrnari grinned widely as the rags slid off of his favored weapon- the ice axe, Hjalmstallrklofna. A massive two-handed axe crafted of chilling, unmelting ice, it was brought up into his hands like it was a part of him. And truly, it was.

Turning to face the other giant, wreathed in flame, Prottigrnari chuckled a bit. “I was looking for a fair fight, but someone insists on cheating. Time to even the score.” As he roars this in the tongue of Jotunheim, he swung the arctic weapon in a downward arc towards the other giant.

Ergrannah’s newfound agility helped him dodge aside, but not quick enough, as Hjalmstallrklofna struck his shoulder, slicing into his thick skin. The smaller giant howled in pain as the icy axe froze the skin and blood around the wound, leaving a black gaping hole. Throwing a vicious look towards Prottigrnari, he lunged forward again, striking the large giant across the face, his fire-wreathed fist searing a blistered gash into his cheek.

Prottigrnari countered, a smashing blow to Ergrannah’s head with the butt of his axe, knocking the puny giant to the ground, a bleeding lump already forming.

The furious giant touched his hand to the burn on his cheek, and his eyes narrowed. His face would turn red, if his blood was warm enough. All of the muscles on his arms and neck bulged as he unleashed a roar that thundered through the crowd, causing the giant-children to cover their sensitive ears.

“That will not happen again,” he snarled, charging forward, his axe swinging heavily towards Ergrannah’s head.

The lesser giant scrambled to his feet, attempting to dodge away, but Hjalmstallrklofna landed on his upper arm, severing it completely, and sinking several inches into his torso. Black blood flew, and rapidly froze in the chill air. Ergrannah screamed in utter pain and agony as his arm was seperated, to land on the dirt floor, quivering. Prottigrnari snarled, and pulled his axe away with a grunt as the flames around the little giant flared up, singing his beard.

As Prott turned away to shield himself from the flames, Ergrannah somehow shook the pain off and sneered, lunging forward to lash out at the giant warrior, his hands formed into knife-edges, chopping three times along Prott’s side, opening up cauterized wounds as if he were slashing with a hot poker. Prottigrnari turned back with a howl, and once again backhanded Ergrannah, but this time the smaller giant’s dexterity served him, and he deflected Prott’s fist, searing the flesh of his wrist as he did so.

Prottigrnari was furious now. He was actually being hurt by this ridiculous flaming peon. If he ever found out the source of this magic, there would be murders. A headbutt to the forehead caused Ergrannah to stagger back, and was quickly followed by a crushing blow from the butt of the axe, shattering the small giant’s jawbone with a loud crack!.

Taking advantage of Ergrannah’s momentary weakness, Prott threw a powerful punch into the other giant’s stomach, causing him to spew freezing blood in a gout onto the arena floor. He fell back, to the ground, and lay there panting, the flame dying out as he look up at Prottigrnari, his eyes wide in sheer terror.

“Well,” said Prott. “It looks like you’ve lost your courage.” And with that, he swung his axe high above his head…

20

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

The fighters roared by with such a force that Ajene was almost knocked over. As he recovered, he took time to count the planes: Ten by his count. Ten foreign warcraft screaming over American soil. Something was wrong. More than just wrong.

A single bomb had dropped on an old mill a quarter of a mile out. A detachment of fighters had broken off, and appeared to be circling back towards it.

Odd, Ajene thought, Why are they attacking an empty mill? Certainly not a political target…

But the threat remained. A handful of frantic childern were corralled by a single adult–their teacher perhaps. The woman was stark white, struggling to get the small flock into a the convenince store across the street from the church.

One of the children was limping–an injury still unseen by the adult. Tears spilled out of the kids’ eyes as they looked back to a flaming yellow school van down the street.

As though spoken to by God himself, Ajene’s eyes were led to the burning vehicle. As he shook his idle limbs to life, he heard a single scream echo from inside the van.