* RAGNAROK - Chapter 1

GAMING Boards, Cards and Tabletops
41

Breathless

Not so long ago, Clive would have been in utter shock to see a man that was visibly transported from another time and place talk to him in perfect English. But after what he had witnessed, it didn’t surprise him that much. He almost expected it, as a matter of fact. And he asked the guy, didn’t he? He lowered the ski a bit more and gave a smile to the stranger.

“Well, it’s because it’s not really a sword. We use it to slide down these moutains. It’s a local sport, kinda like hunting for you, I s’pose, but without having to kill anything. Now, I know I’ve seen some weird stuff as of late, and I shouldn’t be surprised, but what is a guy like you doing here? and what was on that paper? and did that bear just ransacked my jeep?”

42

Observation

"You prattle too much. If you possessed half of the occult knowledge I did your pitiable brain would turn to mush and you would know the answers to your silly questions.”

Ormstunga’s hand remaining buried in his rags, fingered the new weapon that he had acquired.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing and the lack of tribute upsetting. I have traveled too far and am tired and yet you have done nothing but preen in your supposed importance to our cause.”

The wizard stood and muttering nonsense words he stripped away the illusion of the ragman revealing the full grey cloak and hood. Power radiated from the small form that had been through trials that would crush a lesser being.

“Yet perhaps I have been too hard on you. It isn’t every day that one’s beliefs are confirmed in the flesh. Your poor mind must be a whirlwind.”

He stretched forth a smooth, hairless, grey hand.

“Kiss my hand and then you may fix me a proper tribute of food and drink. We can then discuss the matter of the cave and of your reward.”

43

Wolf’s Cry

The beast seemed to snicker at Drake’s realization. He rolled the spear over the top of his hand and brought it back round. The giant wolf took a teasing snipe. Drake did not move. The beast lunged again and Drake spun the butt of the spear round smashing him in the side of the skull. It only infuriated the monster.

The wolf’s growl was a low rumble as he stalked the invisible circle Drake created. The standoff could last as long as Drake could hold himself up, which wasn’t long.

“Baby, are you ok?” The voice of his female companion came from atop the staircase.

The beast and Drake’s eyes met; with a toothy smirk the monstrous wolf bounded past the man to the foot of the stair. Without hesitation Drake bolted after the beast. The woman, whose name was difficult to fetch from his mind, let loose a terrified scream as the creature leapt up the stairs ten at a time. Drake skidded to a stop to see the beast one lunge from the woman.

The thick oaken banisters obscured his sight, but taking into account the speed of the thing, Drake knew where to put the spear. Time froze as he drew the shaft of steel, forged millennia ago, to his shoulder. The muscles in his chest tightened as the pent up energy swelled. With an angered cry Drake loosed the weapon and it sped on its course.

The spear pierced the side of wolf with a sickening crunch as it split apart its ribcage. The tip of the spear lodged in its vital organs. A font of blood gushed from its mouth as it warbled out a cry. The beast’s eyes lolled and it collapsed at the foot of its victim. The woman lay crouched in the corner of the stairwell. Drake raced up the stair only to be caught off by his sudden lack of strength. He slipped on the polished wood and his legs buckled bringing the man to his knees. He could see a black puddle forming beneath him. His mouth tasted coppery. A mortal wound , he thought.

Thomas Drake clawed to where the beast lay, panting its last breath. He gripped the rail and hauled himself to his feet. Drake clasped the shaft of the spear that extended from the wolf’s trunk. He clung to it for what seemed an eternity, their rapid breathes eerily similar. With the resolve of his forebears he clutched the weapon and twisted with all his remaining strength. The wolf screamed and then lost it’s voice as Drake ripped the spear free along with a good portion of the beast’s organs.

The wounded man collapsed atop his vanquished foe. It did not stir.

The woman called him a foreign name over and over. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Her words trailed off in his mind.

“Open the gates of the dead! Magnor, Torgerwielder and slayer of the Seven Fenris is upon you.” He bellowed into the encroaching black.

44

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

“Cheska3-8… confirm status,” came the sharp radio signal. Amidst the shrill static, Targo recognized the sound of Alexsandr’s voice.

Having secured the grounds of the silo, Yuri nodded as a quick conclusion to his report. He turned to once again descend the metal ladderbehind him. As he departed, Targo punched in the transmission code on the console. A few seconds passed as the information completed transit.

“Victory, whatever the cost,” Alexsandr chanted back the proud Red12 motto to his superior. “All positions are online and running. We await further command, and the glorious first strike against our enemies.”

Targo could hear the youthful exuberance in his liuetenant’s voice. The soldier was not old enough to know the previous glory of the Soviet era—a golden age that was only a myth, something to fuel his enthusiasm. Targo grinned widely as he clicked the microphone on. He removed the diskette from his coat pocket, plunged it into the console and preapred to address his comrades.

The first target was soon to be named.

45

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

Ajene tensed as he ran. He simply didn’t have time to escort the children across the now deadly street into the church basement. Not with the flames of death threatening ever closer to the bus’ fuel tank.

Childish screams of excitement and panic interchanged in the distance behind him. Perhaps the remnants of the field trip were indeed on the move. Ajene’s mind was fixed only on the bus. He drew close to the emergency door at the rear of the vehicle.

The metal bar that secured the closing latch was hot to the touch. Wrapping his hand in his jacket, the missionary tugged at the long handle. Had it fused in place? Welded shut by the fire? He doubted temperatures had already become so extreme. Summoning equal parts strength and faith, Fitzgerald gave a mighty, final tug. As though momentarily blessed with the strength of Samson, the defiant rescuer broke back the stubborn metal bar.

The emergency door flung open, casting Ajene back onto his tailbone. Black smoke billowed out of the bus, greedily dispersing into the surrounding air. Explosions raged on in the background, but the attention of the saintly Ajene fell squarely on the occupants of the vehicle.

Shouts and coughs greeted him as rose back to his feet and vaulted up into the back of the burning bus. He slid along the sticky rubber floor padding, reaching out blindly for little arms or legs. Heat emanated from the front of the bus, as if close to the engine block or driver’s seat area. With his left hand, he tugged free a hankerchief, placing it over his nose and mouth as he proceeded.

Finally. A thin arm latched onto his, clinging and holding with a surprisingly strong deathgrip.

“Are you alone?!” he shouted to the child that scurried along the floor next to him. “Anyone else in here?!”

The child coughed out what sounded like a “yes”, and Ajene pointed the girl in the direction of the back door. He raised his voice again, feeling a split second of panic as he realized he was raising his voice to the child. But the situation demanded it. Perhaps the force in his voice would help prod the girl to rush to safety.

“Go to the back. Be careful! Climb down and run to the church!”

“What?” The child was crying and confused, coughing more than speaking.

Ajene put the cloth to her mouth. “Run… run to the Cross.”

The girl wiggled on elbows and knees in obedience.

Faint coughing barley caught Ajene’s soot-covered ear as he pressed on. The heat had become unbearable. He spread his arms out, feeling flames singing perilously close to his skin. He was near the front of the bus. The time had come to retreat and check on the others, or to give his all to complete the search.

46

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

The towering Viking stepped a bit closer, his hands now calmly at his sides. He seemed genial enough, despite having just summoned the stregnth to kill a large bear.

“This little one was digging through your chariot, yes,” he began, still on the verge of lighthearted laughter. “I do not think your plank would have been much use. Have you no sword?”

He looked to Clive to be very genuine in his query.

“I have weapons… but not here.”

“Ah,” the barbarian continued in hearty tone, “No doubt the fanciful weapons of Midgard. Until you reach your home, you should carry something… carry this.”

The warrior lifts a shortsword from his belt, a machete-like weapon, tossing it to the ground near Clive’s feet.

“Might I journey with you to your inn? I am in much need of drink…”

47

Wolf’s Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

The golden hall of Valhalla echoed with singing voices of hundreds of men. The triumph of Magnor had already been hastily put into song, a warm reception for the return of the perseverant Magnor.

The Viking’s feet touched golden soil as though dropped gently from the heavens. He felt alive, awake–the warmth of new blood rorared into his veins.

The proud gates of Valhalla lie wide open, and in strode the conqueror of the Seven. In strode Magnor, slayer of wolves. Dressed only in robes, the conqueror felt reassured by the presence of Wulfblud still warm in his right hand.

Cheers arrived in salute. Tankards were raised. The fading memories of Midgard, and the remnant of modern man crept curiously upon Magnor. For a split second, he felt as though a football hero, stepping into a sports bar where he was revered. The notion dissipated, and the reality of glorious Asgard washed over him again.

“Valiant Magnor,” came a proud, booming voice. “Finally thy victory has come. Join us now and tell us your tale.”

Towering in front of Magnor was the mighty war god named Tyr–held by all as the most courageous warrior in the Nine Worlds. Stout of heart and fierce of blade… even moreso than any of his godly kin.

Tyr was tall and lean. His proud brow was topped with an iron helm, powerful spires stretching to both sides. His long hair and beard were braided, and his kingly gaze seemed to already know every detail of Magnor’s journey. He was arrayed in spotelss leather and metal plate, draped in the blades of combat. He lifted a strong left hand to clasp with the arm of the newcomer.

Despite the fierceness of several lifetimes of battle, crossing beyond the grip of death, and the fanfare of his welcome… nothing had prepared Magnor for this. It was very clear why, out of all the gods, Tyr had chosen to welcome him.

The right hand of the god was gone. Sacrificed willingly to bind the greatest of all wolves, the enormous beast called Fenrir (aka Fenris). An unspoken kinship seemed apparent as Tyr awaited a response.

But Magnor was dumbstruck by the honor, having never in life been so welcomed, so honored… so overwhelmed.

48

Breathless

Clive kneels to pick up the weapon, carefully keeping his eyes on the barbarian. But it is clear that the man has nothing but friendly intentions. He rises and puts the weapon in his belt.

“Sure, follow me.”

They backtrack to the Jeep. The absence of keys is no big deal to Clive, as he has been also trained to deal with this kind of predicament. He manages to start the car with the wires in no time. He sits behind the wheel, patting the seat besides him to invite the giant. The man climbs aboard the Jeep, his huge frame barely fitting in the seat. He seems a bit startled by this mechanical horse.

“Not used to riding in something like that, eh?” says Clive. “You’ll be soon, don’t worry. Now, before we get back to the hostel, I mean inn, we might want to get you some clothes. And once we’re both sitting in front of a good pint, you’ll tell me what a guy like you’s doing here.”

49

Evacuation

Despite his fear and the rising heat of the interior of the bus, Ajene knew he had to at least try and get at the last child on the bus.

Using an old survival technique, Ajene quickly took a triangular bandage from his webbing, soaked it in water from his canteen, and placed it over his mouth while he advanced to the front of the bus…

50

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ilya quirks a brow for a moment at the gesture. His face widens into an eventual smile as he adjusts to Ormstunga’s personality.

He humbles himself–a blatant charade–and reaches out to take the illusionist’s discolored palm. He offers a brief kiss of respect, pulling on the hand a bit to draw it near.

As he does, a quiet hiss rattles forth. The sound of Ormstunga’s burning skin. From where Ilya touches the dark agent’s palm, smoke rises. His reanimated flesh burning slowly at the touch of the clergyman.

Ormstunga writhed against the pain, though not too much. Eventually, the priest releases and slides back into his ornate office chair.

“You are not the only one who knows of his power,” Ilya accuses, “You are but a pretender! A lackey. As such, you had better learn your place!”

Not one to show visible surprise, Ormsutnga recoils calmly. Seated deep in the chair, Father Ilya looks poised to cackle. Instead, the small old man remains quiet, dropping a silver token on the desk.

In silence he waits.

The small coin bears an emblem that Ormstunga is quite familiar with. The image of Mjollnir is emblazoned on the ancient metal disk.

51

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

“So be it, Giant,” the miniscule creature spat out, shaking its head. Without another word, it skittered beyond a natural hedge of rock and is gone.

Alone again, Prottignrari set out to find something that would actually fill his appetite. After an hour on foot, he came to a valley–the Valley of Swords.

Sharp glade cut up through a dusty field. Strong edges of grass that were nearly as hard as metal. A crude road had been formed in the pass, winding through Jotunheim to the colder reaches near the Citadel of Utgard.

Movement on the trail caught Protti’s cold eye. He carefully moved into position to surmise exactly what it was that had wandered into his native land.

Mortals! Foolish humans who had somehow stumbled into Jotunheim!

And these were no warriors. No proud Vikings or godly servants. Just pitiful travelers from Midagard. Proti looked closer, eager to plan his meal.

Six youthful beings bantered back in forth in an odd tongue. There were four males, draped in odd trappings and two females, likewise arrayed in strangeness. Each of them carried a satchel or bedroll over their shoulder. One of them seemed to be talking into his hand. Two more argued, and a third perused some kind of map.

Fools? A troupe of minstrels and jesters? Protti shook off the confusion. What did it matter? If anything, their taste would simply be more exotic.

Though he missed his precious axe, he would hardly need it in taking his prey.

52

Ambush

Prottigrnari sneered as he watched the small group of mortals meandering through the mountain pass. These weaklings would fall rather easily to him, and his hunger would finally be sated. He reached over and tore up a sapling, ripping off the spare branches and roots.

Hefting it a bit, he smiled. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it would do nicely to bash in the skulls of these fools. He loped over the the edge of the ridge, and then bellowed out, his voice reverberating through the pass.

“Mortals! You have strayed far from your home! This is not good for you, for I am about to slay thee. It is good for me, though. You will make for a fine meal.”

And with that, he raised the club high and charged down the mountain pass…

53

Control
(Targo’s speech to Red12. This is spoken Russian. Also included is the logo for Red12 I drew. Enjoy, Comrades)

Comrades, the governments of the west have wielded the power of God far too long. Now, in one swift stroke, we will seize that power from them and stand in the place of their God. America is a hunter, searching for his prized kill. We are the scorpion…small, agile and lethal. He has set his sights on a target too big and has overlooked the deadliest of enemies. We will strike the fleshy heel of their conceited nation. We shall stand witness as the mighty power of America disintegrates before our eyes. Los Angeles is called the City of Angels, yet it bristles with demons. We will wipe the lush valleys clean of their hypocrisy, and the world will behold the turning of the tide for our great revolution!

We are the stable center of our world. We are stronger in our ideas. We must exercise our guidance and exert our will from positions on high! Many of us will not live to see the decisive battles of this coming revolution, but my comrades I assure you, you will be exalted when the governments of this world kneel to the power wielded by our fists!

All Hail Mother Russia! Long live the might of the Soviet Empire!

All units stand ready to fire. The target is set. Revolution is at hand!

54

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

Rousing shouts of support were heard in near unison from the black-panelled speakers. Comrade Vleitnikov’s words had once again stirred loyalty in his men.

The control disk was in place, and Targo fell back on the secreted manual he had memorized while in prison. The launch codes, directional coordinates… all the details had been seen to by his programmer. The brilliant technician had simplified everything. Miska–Targo’s own son–was taken by an assassin’s bullet. In his honor, Red12 would shake the foundations of the country that had so long defied Soviet might.

Targo keyed in the name of his deceased child, and the targeting computer was brought online. Coordinates were fed into the keyboard from a scrap of paper propped inbetween the monitors.

Sirens chirped, boots clanked against metal. Yuri and his men had cleared the launch area. From the shielded dome in which the control center was poised, Vleitnikov watched.

A panel of four red lights flickered amber, and the commander exhaled deeply. A loud whirring noise droned through the tower, but Targo shut it out.

The cause was greater than he himself, or any of the fallen soldiers since the assault began. Not just for Miska… but for a proud Mother Russia.

Targo keyed in the failsafe code, and pressed a green “LAUNCH” button without hesitation. He slumped into the padded seat and waited.

In the field beyond the Cheska facility, steam vents burst open. The circular cover plate rolled back, as the green and gray cone slid into the open air.

In moments, the missle was clear of its earthly bounds, and rocketed outward into the night air. Certainly the Americans would intervene, but Miska had prepared his program for such eventualities.

There was indeed no turning back. Targo sat in silence as he tracked the missle.

55

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

“I am called Skarn,” the Viking replies, seated awkwardly in the tattered Jeep. Clive had completed the introductions while trying to start the dead engine.

“Trouble?” Skarn inquires innocently, rubbing his bruised head from where he struck the metal rail undearneath the Jeep’s canvas top.

Clive nodded, and ran around front to inspect the engine. Having a decent amount of mechanical knowledge, he was startled to find no sign of trouble under the hood.

“Your carriage… it bleeds,” Skarn offers again, twisting his neck around to look out the passenger side door.

Sure enough, a fluid leak quickly brought Branson to the realization that his fuel was spent. In the distance lie the extra gallon canister, tipped over and emptied into the snow.

“That must have been some bear,” Clive offered, bewildered by the assault on his vehicle.

“True,” Skarn concurred, “It was no Midgard born beast. I tracked the beast here from the edges of Nidavellir.”

“From… where?” Clive was unfamiliar with the Swedish villages in the foothills of Razoredge.

“Nidavellir… home of the dwarves?”

Clive was confused, left speechless for a moment.

“Perhaps we could push this chariot down the hill. The slope to the southeast would surely carry us halfway to the village of men below?”

56

Control

As the missle flies unhindered to the soil of the great land of hypocrisy, Targo Vleitnikov stands and salutes his motherland.

He keys the microphone and joins his men in song…

*Soy’ooz neroosh’imi resp’ooblik svob’odnikh
Splot’ila nav’eki vel’ikaia Rus
Da zdr’avstvooyet sozdanni voley nar’odov
Yed’ini mog’oochi Sov’etski Soy’ooz

Sl’avsa ot’echestvo n’ashe svob’odnoye
Dr’oojbi nar’odov nady’ojni opl’ot
P’artia L’enina, - s’ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv’oo kommun’izma vedy’ot

Skvoz g’odi siy’alo nam s’ontse svob’oodi
I L’enin vel’iki nam put ozar’il
Na pr’avoye d’elo on p’odnal nar’odi
na tr’ood i na p’odvigi nas vdokhnov’il

Sl’avsa ot’echestvo n’ashe svob’odnoye
Dr’oojbi nar’odov nady’ojni opl’ot
P’artia L’enina, - s’ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv’oo kommun’izma vedy’ot

V pob’ede bessm’ertnih idey kommoon’izma
Mi v’idim grad’oosheye n’ashey strani
I kr’asnomoo zn’ameni sl’avnoj otch’izni
Mi b’oodem vsegd’a bezav’etno verni

Sl’avsa ot’echestvo n’ashe svob’odnoye
Dr’oojbi nar’odov nady’ojni opl’ot
P’artia L’enina, - s’ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv’oo kommun’izma vedy’ot*

The Soviet National Anthem

57

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

“Scott is too high to read the map,” came a stern rebuke.

“Fuck you, Sanders,” the map-wielder replied, placing a hand above his eyes to blockout the sunny haze. Scott was a tall, clean-cut kid, a senior on the verge of graudaiton.

The company of six wandering students had unknowingly crossed beyond the border of their home world into the rocky realm of Jotunheim.

“Give me the fucking map, Scott.”

Grudingly, Scott handed the useless folds of paper to his companion. The short and rail thin Sanders was easily the least liked of the crew. “Dude,” Sanders addressed as he yanked the map away, “My dad did not fly us to Europe so we could pull a Blair Witch.”

Meanwhile, the rest of the troupe paused to smoke on the large, flat rocks of the river basin.

“Hiking… it sucks,” the brown-haired Brandy offered. “Visting Europe should be about hotels, museums… stuff like that.”

The brash Scott nodded, standing up on a small boulder to find a better vantage point. He took a puff of the hand-fashioned smoke and passed it to Branch, the muscle-bound member of the crew that thanklessly carried the largest load.

“You know I don’t touch this shit,” came Branch’s deep voice.

“Whoa,” chimed the bronze-skinned Erica, half asleep from the marijuana. "Check out this guy.

In the distance, a large form barrelled towards them. Was it… human? It was freakishly huge… blue skinned… and shouting something indiscernable as it ran towards them.

“Fuck,” Sanders and Scott spoke in unison. The map dwindled to the ground, and the pack of hikers gathered themselves in an attempt to flee.

“Randall,” the girls screamed.

Sanders took over, “We’re getting the fuck outta here!”

From behind a group of evergreens, Randall ran, tugging on his pants zipper.

“What the f…?!”

A large, leaf-riddled plank interrupted Randall, smashing into his lower back and sending him face first into the dirt between the trees.

A feral roar came from the giant. Even as the five other tresspassers scattered, Prottignrari would have no trouble catching and killing them all.

Randall moaned, lying still on the ground. Without hesitation, Protti leapt back onto the crude road, chasing the path to the oafish Branch, striking him with his namesake across the back of the neck. Leaves scattered.

“Motherfucker!” Scott shouted, as he and Sanders turned from their flight and charged the Frost Giant.

The two girls offfered support, pelting rocks at the giant, bouncing off his tough skin like pebbles.

Branch rolled on the ground until on his side. The weight of the large pack held him down. He was badly injured, but equally growing in anger. “Get this shit off me!” he growled to his companions.

Protti gave his prey time to draw closer. Two of the men were down, and the other two seemed to rush to their deaths.

It would prove to be Prottignrari’s easiest hunt in years.

58

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ormstunga looked deeply into th ecleric’s eyes and a laugh broke from his slash of a mouth. “I approve as would our master. Now that we have established that we are both pompous asses shall we get down to business?”

59

Ambush

Prottigrnari bellowed out a laugh as the weak mortals threw rocks and pebbles at him, watching them fall to the ground, and feeling little more than an itch. He had to admit, they were awfully brave to stand up to him. He was obviously much larger and far more powerful than they, but instead of fleeing, they fought him.

No matter, he was about to kill all of them.

Prottigrnari lunged forward, with a crushing backhand swing that sent Scott flying off the trail to smash into a tree. The loud *crunch* of Prott’s club slamming into him insured that a few of the mortal’s bones were broken.

Sanders’ courage suddenly gave way to horror as he saw his friend smashed aside so easily by the giant. His charge faltered a bit, and that provided the giant an oppurtunity. Reaching down with a massive icy cold hand, Prottigrnari plucked up the mortal man by his right arm, squeezing it hard. The sound of grinding bones could be heard, and if Prott squeezed any harder, the man’s arm would be pulped.

Sanders struggled to get out of the giant’s grip, beating with his other fist against the creature’s thick arm, shocked to find that the monster’s skin was deathly cold. His arm burned so badly from the intense cold that he couldn’t even feel his strained bones and muscles being crushed.

The girls began to scream and shriek as Scott was hurled aside, and then Sanders was caught. They renewed their assault, being careful not to hit Sanders with their projectiles. But their efforts seemed in vain, for the stones just deflected from the frost giant’s flesh.

Prott brought the mortal up in front of his face, grinning a black-toothed grin at the puny human, and then spoke in the Giant tongue.

“I’m going to enjoy eating you, mortal.” He looked over at the hysterical girls and chuckled, a low rumble. “You might want to tell your women to run. I will be having fun with them before they die.”

60

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ilya nods in acceptance of Ormstunga’s suggestion. The burning sensation in the illusionist’s palm remains, a small but definite scar has formed on his gray skin.

Ilya rises, pulling a dusty tome from its place on the bookshelf beside him. He returns to his seat while flipping through worn pages. With an expression of sudden recognition, he smiles.

The book drops heavily on the desktop in front of Ormstunga.

It is open to a black and white ink drawing of a mountain range–the Himalayas. Ilya sits down, drawing a red pen from a drawer underneath the desk.

Though upside-down, he manuevers the instrument to a precise location on the simple map. He crosses lines under the bold title “NEPAL”.

“The cave is most certainly protected,” Ilya warns. “But the very forces that protect the cave will also be our beacon, pointing to a more exact location…”

He implies that he is fully intent on joining the search, and awaits Ormstunga’s next move.