Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)
He recognized the authority in the man’s voice even if the clothes and other trappings were meaningless to him. “Is there something wrong sir? Can I help you?” His voice was that of a kindly ggrandfather. Gone was the cackling voice of madnees.
Failsafe
Two at least, Gunnar thinks, and slowly moves back to his seat. He nudges Ben, his guitarist, sleeping in the seat across the aisle from him. Ben shrugs him off, but Gunnar persists, and the grumpy musician finally rolls his head towards him.
“What the fuck, man? We there yet?”
Gunnar puts a finger to his lips and whispers, “Dizzy, Denver, 2002.”
Ben squints his eyes in confusion.
“What we did to Dizzy in Denver in 2002. Get ready.” Ben is about to say something, but Gunnar cuts him off. “Trust me.”
He sits back and moves his right foot. He can feel the comfortable weight of Fenris in it’s leg sheath – busy airport plus rowday heavy metal band equals quick bypass of security. Anybody thinking of pulling a Die Hard on this plane is in for a nasty surprise.
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)
“Sir,” the policeman lightens his tone, but still seems forced to do his job. “I need to search you… for weapons.”
Ormstunga can tell the officer is a bit conflicted, yet he moves closer to the old man anyway…
Failsafe
(ATTN: Poxy)
Ben slowly unravels the clue, and moves into position. (Since I, the GM, know nothing of the maneuver being attempted, heh.)
The would-be assailnt draws near to the curtain, still unaware of Wynternacht’s impending counterstrike.
The sound of a stewardess shrieking rings through the coach cabin, followed by the rustle of mubled confusion from the passengers. The second of the two hijakers has apparently announced himself. (Far in the back of the coach cabin, on the east side, parallel with Gunnar’s aisle on the west side)
Breathless
Clive shuddered. His situation wasn’t brilliant. He wasn’t completely safe yet. Obviously, something dangerous was waiting for him. And he had no proper weapons. Wise move leaving all your stuff at the hotel, he thought. The only thing he could use to defend himself were his skis, which he had taken in his hands for the walk back. He threw one aside, brandishing the other like he would do a mace. Not much, but that would have to do. He headed for the trees, intent on discovering what had savaged his equipment.
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)
“Of course, of course.” As the little man comes into the light the officer sees that the rags covering the beggar are stiff with filth and yet slightly damp and moldy. Fleas, flies, and a few maggots make their home there, feeding off of the fluids and dirt he is covered in. Ormstunga pulls off the hood that cloaks his head and the policemen feels bile rise in the back of his throat. Black hair is coming out in clumps revealing festering sores. What hair remains is matted and caked with dirt and feces. The face of this poor bastard is pock marked with boils and more things feed on these. One eye is clouded and matted with green pus and the other wanders lazily. The nose looks like it has broken at least twice and dried blood and mucus gather underneath it. His mouth is twisted and sores fester at its corners. White doughy flesh is barely visible under mud and dust. One finger is missing from the right hand and where it was is a stump with dried blood. “Anything I can do to help.”
Control
(*Quotations posted in italics are translated Russian dialogue.)
“Yuri! Bring your group in to close range. We’re taking heavy fire from the Command Center!”
Targo drops onto his left knee, slinging his assault rifle to his side and unhooking two CTS 7290 concussion grenades. Carefully, Targo releases the pull ring and pulls the pin. He lobs the two devices up and over the platform and into the command center’s open door. He immediately grabs the seals on his helmet to shield his ears and eyes from the blast.
Three seconds pass.
Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)
With the fading of the magic that had protected him, the feeble Egrannah appeared to be out of tricks.
Prottignrari lowered the death blow with his powerful blade. Just before the venegeful giant struck, he watched as the helpless victim mustered his remaining “gift”, and flared red once more.
But it was too late to break stride. Hjalmstallrklofna cut cleanly down into his diminutive foe. The unnatural power that radiated around Egrannah was unleashed into the open air.
With a deafening, low boom, the field was levelled. All of the ravenous onlookers were knowkced back into the stands. Wind and hot air followed the explosion of magic.
A few moments passed, and a groggy Prottignrari lifted his head from the ground. Blood was in his mouth, his tough skin bruised. He felt as if the of layer of skin on his body had melted away.
He looked around in confusion, trying to make sense of what had happened. The King sloly rose from his bone-hewn chair, agahast at what took place. Slow, pained movement came from teh crude, stone bleachers. The air was ionized, still a bit warm for a place as cold as Utgard.
A blackened scorchmark lie where Egrannah once lay. No debris, no bones or visecera. And no sign of the infamous Hjalmstallrklofna…
Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)
Clive warily made his way beyond the trees. Whatever had savaged his vehicle and belongings, it was obviously still nearby.
He rounded a stretch of pine, pacing quietly. In the distance, he saw more movement. A form that began as a silhouette moved into a lighter patch of woods.
It was a man. A large, bearded form draped in ragged furs. Over his shoulder, he pulled on the leg of a bear. The beast must have weighed twice what the carrier did. Yet he pulled the immobile creature as though it were much less of an effort.
The hunter stopped. Had he heard Clive’s approach. He had turned in the general direction of the fomrmer SEAL.
Shouts of inquiry rang out. But it was a language that Clive didn’t understand. Perhaps the man didn’t know exactly where he stood, but he would surely find Clive before too long.
Wolf’s Cry
The beast was moving in circles. Drake could hear its claws click clacking on the hard wood floors. Every so often he heard its breath. A blast of arctic air whipped through his bones and was punctuated with the swiping of claws across the man’s bare back. Drake dropped his weight to the ground and rolled low, coming up and spinning towards the attack. Warm blood was running in rivers down his back.
It was poised on its haunches; its body was lean like a man’s with velvet-like fur that was iridescent white. A ridge of inky black fur ran up it’s back and engulfed its head in a shaggy mane. With its lips curled back revealing a line of white knives, he seemed to be smiling at Drake.
The beast leapt at Drake. It covered the distance easily. Drake brought Wulfblud up in time to catch its arm as it reached to rake out his throat. The ancient spear tore through the skin and into the muscle. Drake pushed his weight into it desperately seeking its heart. The beast fell to the floor and Drake dove the spear in deeper. It’s screaming howl hurt his ears. The creature writhed away from the prodding steel. It scrambled to its feet and ran across the room.
Drake noticed the spear pulsed as the blood ran across the ancient runes on the shaft. Before he could logically think out another move his feet were moving at rapid speed towards the giant wolf. It seemed taken by his charge and then pounced to meet him. With it’s bared fangs and outstretched paws Drake brought his spear up to bear and caught the wolf square in the breastbone. He dropped to one knee and used every ounce of force to flip the creature over his head. Drake’s conscious mind seemed to be a mere spectator to the incredible feat. He watched as the beast crested his tucked head and landed hard on a glass coffee table sending millions of pebble-sized shards across the room.
The beast was breathing hard and remained motionless. Drake surveyed the animal. As if struck by a flash of lightning the beast shot out a huge paw and raked the flesh from his midsection. Blood seeped from the wound liberally. The animal took advantage of his shock and was up. Drake clasped his forearm tight around his wound. Wulfblud was throbbing. Drake’s quiet detachment noted it was like being on the cusp of orgasm. Drake drew the tip of the spear across the floor issuing a challenge to the beast.
Breathless
Clive didn’t know how to react. Was the man the one who had savaged his truck or was he friendly and had merely caught the real culprit, the bear. Ever the optimistic, Clive decided to take a chance. He lowered his ski so as to appear less menacing and stepped out of his hiding place, shouting out to the man.
“Hey there mister, you understand english?”
Prottigrnari, look around frantically, searching for his prized axe, which had become more a part of him than any limb or organ in his body. Not seeing his favored weapon anywhere, he narrowed his eyes, and turned toward the King, tossing off a half-serious salute.
Then he turned around and bellowed out a scream that drained every part of his body. He fell to his knees, every muscle in his body clenched with rage.
Hanging his head down, he finally heard the drums booming, signalling for him to clear out and for the next combatants to ready themselves. Slowly he rose to his feet, peering around the crowd behind his long greasy hair, which hung in front of his face. He muttered a curse, and vowed to find the perpetrator of this foul magic. And kill the bastard.
Slowly he trudged out of the arena, his pride for earning a spot in the King’s army diminished behind the hurt of losing Hjalmstallrklofna. The other giants met him as he went inside, clapping him on the back and shouting his name, proposing a mighty feast back at the hall in his name. His lip curled over his black teeth and he shouted, a wordless sound. He shoved one of the other giants back, the man falling down and cracking his head on the stone wall. The other giants backed away a bit, clearing a path for him to leave.
Slowly Prottigrnari walked out into the streets of the city, to search for a place to rest before the coming war.
Control
(ATTN: Ego)
The ladder that Targo rests against vibrates strongly for a moment. The flash-bang of the stun grenade had passed, and qucikly the veteran soldier made his way up the metal rungs.
Gunfire rattled down the hallway, on the ground floor spiraling beneath the climber. Yuri and his team outside had no flushed the remaining ground guards into flight. From the sound of it, it was the Ukranian guards that received most of the fire.
Targo grinned. Nearly three stories off the ground, he found the top of the ladder, and walked into the tightly cramped nerve center.
Two guards lie semi-conscious on the ground, reeling from the unexpected sensory attack. A third lay bent halfway over the rail on the far side, dangling dangerously close to a life-ending fall.
A quick glance to the wall grid showed the flashing red light on his map location. And on the other 3 targets.
Red12 had succeded. The success would be short-lived if they did not immediately use some of their newfound power to quickly alert the world. Targo’s fingers tapped against the computer disk in his left pocket.
In his right hand, he drew the slung machinegun. The most urgent matter at hand was the execution of the Ukranian traitors that slew his men. They and any others would pay the price for their blind allegiance.
Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)
Clive Branson stood face to face with the brutish hunter, who carelessly dropped the bear caracass he had collected and marched forward to greet him.
As he drew closer, more of the man’s features were visible. He was stocky, but tall. The heavy brown pelts were draped over dull metal armor. Old fashioned, ancient stuff. His right hand reached across his barrel chest, as if resting on a sword hilt.
He drew closer, sizing up the American in front of him. The bearded bear-catcher spoke, but in a strange language that Clive didn’t recognize.
It only served to make things more tense, as Branson’s hand instinctively tightened around the ski in his hand.
The warrior knocked back his shoulders, tossing off the fur-cloak he wore. A fully revealed Viking warrior, with a shield slung over his back and a metal headband. For a brief moment, he seemed as if surrounded by an aura.
Rather than panic, Clive braced himself for combat, assuming another spar with death was at hand.
Then the muscular Norseman did something odd. He produced a piece of brown parchment and read a single, undiscernable word aloud.
The paper disintigrated in a sudden puff of gray smoke, and the Viking cleared his throat with a loud cough.
“Your sword looks a bit flimsy,” he chortled in perfect, American English.
Wolf’s Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)
*The wolves of Reilsfjord–the Seven Brothers, were twisted and corrupted by evil magic. Given great, horrible power in exchange for the human souls they dispatched.
Ages ago, a legendary hero was chosen to battle them. He tracked and killed one of the foul beasts, only to be done in himself by the remaining pack. The gods refused the man entrance into Valhalla, instead giving him life once more as a mortal.
Again the warrior set out to do battle. Again he slew another of the supernatural beasts, and again he was slain.
As the centuries passed, he was reincarnated again, and the cycle continued. This proceeded until only one wolf remained.
And in his latest incarnation, as a mortal named Thomas Drake, this legendary Viking warrior would claim his final victory.*
Thomas clung with his free arm to the wound on his chest. He noticed traces of blackish-green among the red. This did not bode well for the bearer of the Spear.
He was poisoned, weakened by the cursed claws of the pack’s most deadly member. Whether the gods would welcome him home, or expel him to oblivion, only one thing held his mind.
The beast, as his kin, would be put to rest first.
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)
The officer is visibly drawn back by the decrepit shell of a man he had addressed. There was no longer any doubt that he was gravely mistaken in questioning an apparent leper.
“S…Sorry sir,” he wavered, still scooting away. “I may have been mis… taken. Please go about your worship.”
With that the officer turned and attempted to walk away casually. He disappeared into the growing fog in the distance.
Ormstunga was amused by the effort, and proceeded into the mortal’s “holy place”.
He stepped into an ornate and ancient cathedral, walking about the vestibule. The church gave him an awkward chill, an unwelcome wisp seemed to pass into his ears.
From beyond the entrance area, a worn oak door creaked open. From the antechamber stepped a modenr day cleric. One of the trusted spiritual officers of the church.
Ormstunga grinned at his contact in greeting.
“Greetings my son,” the priest feigned. “Join me in my office…”
Ilya was the man’s name. And Ormstunga had been directed to meet with him. While on the outside a noble cleric of the Orthodox church, he was in secret a pagan worhsipper of Hel. The last ten years of the cleric’s life had been spent in research, locating a hidden cave.
Soon, he would pass that information on to Ormstunga. And soon Ormstunga would bury his unholy blade in the man’s back and make his way to the lost cave.
Once in the office, a few moments of conversation passed. Father Ilya appraoched a fogged-over window, rubbing a clear streak onto the glass.
“Is it true?” He began, “You seek to release him from his prison? That Ragnarok is coming?”
Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)
Prottigrnari found his way to the gates of Utgard. Despite the infamy he had found in battle, the interference of unseen magic continued to hound him.
The king had looked upon him angrily, and with good reason. Combat in the arena was at the very least, stalled for the next hour. Whoever had empowered Egrannah had set him up for failure.
Though he had survived, and maintained his barbaric pride, Prottigrnari was without his treaured weapon. For weeks he passed beyond into the rolling hills and the large maountains that were his brothers. He passed through Jotunheim, pondering his course for the future. To take up arms with the King against the gods? OR to seek out his lost weapon and remain a wandering legend? Feared. Respected. Loathed?
He continued on for days, until one evening… As the winds howled, he was happened upon by a strange visitor.
“Thy face is long, and brow is turned down. What is it thou seek?” came a starling, cheery voice. At hearing it, Protti first questioned why the speaker was foolish enough not to fear him.
He turned to face an odd little sprite. Standing no more than two feet from the snow beneath was a curious creature. A furry, winged cherub unlike anything the Giant had seen before. It’s bright, round eyes peered up at his face, blinking. It was a healthy brown color, surprisingly unfazed by the harsh, cold winds winding down from the mountains.
“Are you edible?” the giant posed eagerly, “Did your parents taste good, when my kin deovoured them?”
The little thing was unafraid, and shot back a smile and replied, “I am not thy lunch! I am thy guide, and can take thee to thine quarry… to the mighty axe of frost thou hath lost!”
What could the tiny thing have known of Prottigrnari’s lost weapon? Surely the creature was in some desperate quest to save itelf from being eaten… Or was it? It didn’t tremble at his sight, nor quake at his threats. It only flitted about from tuft to snowbank. The carefree ball of fur grew impatient.
“What say thee, Giant?”
Control
The flash-bang erupted in the middle of the room like bolt of lightning in a pitch black sky. Marko hears nothing but a loud pop as his hearing immediately becomes the song of a choir bell. Disoriented and confused, the only thing he comprehends is the fact that he was once unleashing blazing hell on the three raiders.
I’m on the floor…maybe the ceiling…?
Confusion rips his mind in two. A swirling smoke fades slowly as his vision whirls back into the realm of comprehension. Oh God, where’s my gun? Seemingly reaching for where he imagines his rifle should be, the floor bites him across the face. Jesus…who’s arms are these?
A figure moves slowly across his vision. Marko’s perspective shifts from the floor to the general direction of the doors. Dmitri and Vermi were here with him, where are they now?
“Dmitri?” He imagines saying faintly. The horizontal shadow moves up in his frame of vision. Across the vertical floor, the image slowly focuses.
Oh my God…It’s one of them!
The image of the shadow defines the shape of a man. A soldier. A weapon.
Angling down toward another shadow an amorphous arm merges the two. Clearer and clearer, the images take shape in Marko’s mind. There are two.
Suddenly, the ringing in his head becomes greater as the standing figure jerks back quickly. Reacting, the leaning shadow winces perceptibly. It’s Vermi! Shaking his head rapidly, Dmitri clears some of the cobwebs. What has he done? The image of his long-time friend crisps. Vermi’s neck becomes one with the standing tyrant’s arm. Up and over the railing, the body of his friend disappears from view.
Nooooo!!! Marko’s mind reels. Watching this killer turn the opposite direction toward the center of the room, he finally notices Dmitri’s limp body.
Moving unsteadily, Marko is able to raise himself up on his arms, bringing his head finally perpendicular to the floor. My legs don’t move! Blood spiderwebs across the floor from where Vermi once sat. The unnamed soldier looks in Marko’s eyes, cold and ruthless pits of evil peer straight into his soul. Marko shudders. The black-clad, bringer-of-death leans down toward Dmitri’s limp body. Another shot rings in Marko’s ears as his engineer’s head erupts violently in a bloody flash. As if in slow motion, the sprays of crimson hang like fire in the air. Marko squeezes a tear from his eye as he feels the coming doom wash over him.
Let it be quick. Please, just let it be quick.
A thud against his side rolls him over on his back. Light screams into his eyes through a colorful prism of tears. The ringing subsides only for a second, until another loud boom tears into his mind. Searing pain rips up from his right foot. Uncontrollably screaming, Marko jerks violently from the pain. Looking up to the eyes of his killer, Marko can only think of his daughter. She will be alone now. What will she do? I’m sorry, Tasha, I’ve failed you! Marko weeps silently.
“Please?” The only word he can squeak out through the burning and ringing of his senses. He hears a clunk as the barrel of the gun taps the floor beside his head. The methodical movement of this angel is almost soothing. A blade is waved in front of his face, silver and gleaming it shines in the flourescent sun above him.
Oddly enough, warmth slowly begins to wash over his body. He feels the blood return to his legs and hands. Like a burning sun in his chest, everything becomes at once warm, brilliant and clear. Time stands still. Minutes seem to pass as he wonders about what his life has been. The man kneeling beside him isn’t a killer, he’s a saviour. Marko carefully watches the tip of the blade drop slowly below his chin. He looks deeply into the eyes of his dispatcher. Deep, black eyes. Calm, forgiving. The light above creates a cool halo around him. Thank you.
Cold hard steel explodes suddenly into his neck pulling him immediately out of his trance. Pain wraps his mind in a dark cloak as he gasps frantically for air. TASHA! NO! PLEASE! His arms flail uselessly against his assailant’s side as he grapples for something to hold on to. Deeper, he can feel the blade walk toward his jaw, upwards through his throat. He chokes violently as he feels the warming metal touch the top of his mouth. Warm liquid pumps down his throat and into his lungs as he kicks his legs wildly into the air.
The room tints reddish-orange as he realizes his end is so very near. Details sharpen in his mind. Pain subsides as he no longer sees, but feels the presence of the killer. He notices the red staining the ceiling, dripping quietly down to him. White tiles dot the landsape as he feels the floor drop away slowly. Floating silently, the coldness disappears from his neck, replaced only by a slight tickle in the back of his throat.
Tired. Marko Voldosiev closes his eyes for the last time.
I love you Tasha.
Evacuation
Ajene shouted to the group heading over to the conveinece store, “Come to the church basement, it will be safer there!”
When he was certain that the teacher had heard him and was beginning to heard her group over, Ajene ran as fast as he could to the school bus and tried prying one of the doors open to see who was left inside screaming…
Ambush
Prottigrnari looked down and the diminuitive sprite and snorted, then spat a large globule of viscous snot at the creature. A look of utter contempt swept over his face, then a wash of indifference. He looked up into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular.
“I say leave, before I crush your head and skewer you with a twig. You would make a nice snack before dinner.”
He turned and looked at the creature, smiling wickedly.