24-07-2012, 11:46 AM
(This post was last modified: 24-07-2012, 01:46 PM by Shaman Oren of Staghelm.)
(warning: Wall of text, get a drink and a snack! There will be typos and grammar errors, simply being that it was written in the wee A.M. Will be edited soon!)
A rain heavy sky glared down from above upon the city of Praven. Grey clouds adorned with a sinister mantle of lighting and thunder began to let loose a flow of warm rain. The city was tense, the air itself alight with fear and anger. Even the thunder hailed in a sense of urgency as the men of Praven readied their lives for victory; or death. As the sun crept to dawn upon the land a swath of gloomy light cascading down with the rain, giving the surrounding lands a look of gray apathy. Men would die here today and even the natural world was in mourning. The city of Praven and its garrison was already preparing for its defense; hearing word of approaching Jarls and their armies, even taking in the shattered remnants of stag-helm.. their once most powerful and menacing foes. Jarl Asgrim and his Gothi Oren had retreated into the city after being betrayed by a king who'd lost his way, his honor, his Nordic pride. They were the first to rise on this morning. Asgrim, having drug the screaming and bawling traitor spy with him as they fled to the city now spent the morning avenging his life time friend; still bedded in the chiururgeons houses of healing. His punishment would be primal, brutal, a testament and prayer to the true Aesir and Nordic Gods. Taking a Gaff hook and weight into his hands Asgrim fashioned a weight chain and then with great malice in his heart he took the betrayer to his house and clan and drew him up by his heck, a mighty hand gripping him tight as he spoke with that dark... commanding growl.
"You have betrayed your blood... you are unworthy of its flow and pride" And with that final phrase he took his knife and slit the betrayers belly, jabbing the gaff hook into the lower lip of the slit and slung him over the ledge of the wall. With a pitiful scream the traitorous Nord plummeted and jerked hard against the suspender he was rigged to. There he hung for near an hour, screaming, kicking, pleading for his life as the weighted gaff hook slowly split his belly open. He watched as his body was torn asunder, blood, organs, his own shit and bile spilling out below him as Nordic justice was realized
"Pathetic" Asgrim sneered as he spat over the edge of the wall and headed out. Having dispensed of the traitor Asgrim made his way to the northern battlements; facing the enemy camp. There stood wolves among men, ragged, dirty... hungry for the blood of those who have strayed from the true path. The handful of stag-helm warrior looked to their Jarl with determined eyes. They knew that this city would be their grave, the irony of dying within the walls of this place did not phase them. Resolve and vengeance held their thoughts with iron jaws and would not let go. He approved of them, all of them, they bled, fought, died as brothers...
"You lot look hungry" He spoke, looking out over them. Growls of hunger and diabolic hatred rumbled from the mens chest. They knew what they wanted, and they would have it... revenge.
"Oren isn't with us today lads. Still lying in bed with that knife hole in his back. Lets show King Ragnar how Nords fight. With Axe, and Spear, and sword. Not a milk-drinkers butter knife only to be used when a man has his back turned!" Jarl Asgrim roared out throwing his fist into the air as his men cried out with him. Turning to face the enemy camp they chanted, shields thundering in unison with the hammers of thunder above. Their axes and swords beat like an army of war drums, over and over; Thud, thud, thud. Even the Swadian knights grew weary at the sound; too familiar to those who had faced a Nordic army and lived. This was a cadence of death... not to invigorate those beating their shields in unison, but to usher in the keepers of the dead. For below these walls, upon the ramparts, there would be blood...
"Come forward Ragnar... you coward in Kings clothing..." Asgrim spat at his feet at the name Ragnar and slid his helm on, darkening his face and focusing his mind. The sun sat above the clouds now as the Swadian defense made its final preparations. It was muggy, gloomy, and rain still descended upon the city and enemy camp. Knight shifted uneasily in their armor and archers struggled to keep their bowstrings dry as the thunder and lightning ushered in harder and harder rains. This would be a messy dance and both sides were strained to have the will and courage to fight. As the Nordic soldiers looked up they could see shining steel glinting in scattered sun-shafts as rain and sunlight mingled down to the earth. The walls were a white carved stone, rigged with siege battlements, the drawbridge pulled up and sealed. at the center of the staggering city was the keep, proud red flags of a rearing lion soared in the rain, uttering their defiance to the raven flags below. The shining helms of crossbowmen reflected along with swords and shields. The city itself looked ready to fight, brimming with energy as those inside prepared to meet their Gods.
As those outside prepared for death so to did those inside pray for life. Oren, pale and unconscious lie sweating and in critical condition within the healers room. His face peaceful in a dream ladened sleep. The noise from outside did not reach his ears, nor the thundering rain. Only the beating drums of thunder itself spoke to him. Before stag-helm had retreated into the city, defeated and betrayed, he had taken a knife in his back, the now lifeless traitor seeking to murder the Jarl of Stag-helm's life time friend and demoralize those who remained. He had failed, and still he clung to life. His battle was with his wounds, aided by the Vaegir surgeon Artisia; she was his shield and pavise to the pangs of death now fighting for control. She was a kind woman, short and tanned with a generous chest and searching brown eyes. As she went about mending his torn flesh, cleaning grime and dirt from him she couldn't help but wonder why such a young man held such power, was he truly as wise as they said, was he that much more equipped to lead then men who have spent years in Swadian academies? Her hands worked diligently, obeying the one order given her in exchange for her freedom from khergit slavers.
"Keep him alive and well" Asgrim's words would not leave her, ever. One simple request and command for a life of freedom.
"I'll keep him alive... I'll keep him well. I just pray that we survive this all..." She muttered quietly as she dripped water from a white cloth onto Oren's forehead.
"You're taking fever... In my village we say that is because of heated dreams... what is burning in your mind Oren..." She stroked his hair back and looked at his face, she could see his eyes flickering as his dreams did indeed turn sour.
"Don't let go... remain here with me Nord. It is not your time to sleep..." Artisia leaned in and whispered into his ear, continuously speaking to him. Rising and walking over to a cabinet the kind woman pulled out another blanket and tucked it around him.
"Rest Gothi, rest and come back to me... I..." Her words were interrupted, looking up to the window she could hear the blast of a Nordic horn. It had begun...
Outside of the quiet keep, warm and secure; Blood, rain, and men fell to the ground as steel and stone flashed and clanged all around the city walls. Cries of agony and fear resounded from dying men as the true horror of siege was made known to them all. Ladders splintered and collapsed beneath the weight of armored men, gurgles from young men sputtered red blood as they soiled themselves in panic and death. The battle was in full sway and it was not a portrait of glorious heroes or valiant knights. Below the walls lie piles of bodies, peppered with quarrels, arrows, and javelins. Boiling oil soured the air as it poured upon the heads of besiegers, burning away skin and eyes as they cooked alive in their mail. Slowly a mighty tower approached the city, heaving and chanting men pushing and grunting to get the behemoth to its destination. They slipped and slide on blood, excrement, the bodies of their fallen friends and family. Defenders cried out as ballista and Onager slung rocks over the walls. Giant spears impaled and maimed them, knocking them down, pinning archers to their own pavise as quarrels the size of a harpoon ran them through. Bill-hooks and bearded axes pulled from siege battlements, pulling unsuspecting defenders to fall to their demise. Truly what transpired was horror defined... The northern wall soon fell as the siege tower made its creeping way to the wall. With a thundering crash the siege gate dropped and attackers poured in throwing pots of burning oil at the readied defenders. Soon shield wall met shield wall and the battle was afoot in truth. Swadian lions fought tooth and claw with Nordic wolves as sword met flesh; axe met splintering shield. Crossbows and longbows battled for the heights as the air was lit abuzz with rattling fletchings.
"The northern wall has fallen, retreat! Back to the barricade! Retreat!" A bellowing voice called out to the scattered and panicked defenders as wave after wave of Nords clambered over their fallen brothers.
Back at the barricade waited Asgrim and his men. Rallied, hungry, Menacing. Their axes and swords hummed an aria of battle hardened readiness. Their eyes forward and readied for the foe that they would soon clash with.
"Like water upon rocks..." Asgrim spoke. His nature of few words was both a blessing and a condemnation. His men knew this phrase. Their shields were thick, hard, heavy... they would hold this very ground until bodies piled against them, and when they were ready they would drop the hammer. Stag-helm berserkers painted with ravens blood would descend upon their foe from behind. And as steel is beaten and bent by hammer and anvil; so too will their foes meet the same fate. Thus they lowered their shoulders, the Jarl at the forefront cast his eyes only once up at the tower were his scout was en-route with a simple command for the Vaegir woman and his Shaman.
"Run south..."
And thus wall met wall once again. Nord against Nord, Stag-helm wolves against the Ravens of Sargoth.
"In the dead of night, THERE ARE ONLY WOLVES!" Asgrim shouted out with a thundering roar accompanied by a clash of lightning. His men responded, howling and barking like ravenous wolves, their madness and hunger bursting forth as they met shield with shield. The battle was joined and axes descending relentlessly, efficiently. The huscarls of Sargoth were untrained, soft... weakened by "noble" blood. This was made clear by their inability to take an inch from the Jarl Asgrim's wall. Thus line, after line, after line of Huscarls piled up and came to a dead halt against the mighty stag-helm shield barricade. Again, a mighty howl came from the shield wall, mocking laughter, maniacal screaming... these men lived for battle; loved it like a common tavern whore. And just as their deafening howl rung out the berserks answered. Dropping from the archway above onto the road below with razor sharp axes, still caked with the blood and hair of split skulls. What followed was a blood bath; panicked Sargothian Huscarls unknowing of which way to turn. Face the berserks and be devoured from behind, or push against the wall and be split in two like ripe tomatoes.
"Undisciplined milk drinkers..." Asgrim's thoughts amused him as his plan worked without folly... shattering the invaders main effort.
"Like water upon the rocks..." He snickered and spat upon the bloodied meat at his boot heel.
Back inside of the keep the scout had reached his destination; hastily running within to deliver the Jarl's word.
"Woman... you have been commanded to collect the Jarl's' companion and flee south. You will be met by the Jarl and his thanes. Do not tarry and do not look back. Go now." He spoke quickly, panting hard as his flight had been long and full of obstacle.
"As the Jarl commands" She responded and immediately began preparing Oren for their journey. Wrapping his body in blankets, gathering water, a small pack of provisions before bringing him outside and mounting him upon a dirty and panicking horse. Having buckled and strapped him upon the saddle she herself slung up onto her own horse, familiar and well versed in the arts of riding she easily commanded both sets of reigns, looking back up at the keep as Asgrim himself ran inside pursuing the betrayer king himself. Thus they took flight and rode south into the dark; rain burdened forest.
Indeed the betrayer King Ragnar of Sargoth was en route to the Swadian throne room. Despite the efforts of the Jarl and his thanes there was no hope. He had ordered them to tarry no further and ride southward while he himself took justice into his own two hands. Clambering up stairwell and blood slicked stone he made his way to the Crimson hall; throne room of the city of Praven Bursting in, his long blond hair soaked with blood and rain, mail dented and in pieces... Asgrim was ready. Only his Axe remained, he had to discard the shield to climb, his bow left behind in Oren's packs.
"RAGNAR!" He called out into the hall, seeing his prey standing before the Lions Chair.
"You have no place in a hall of kings, Mutt" Asgrim's voice immediately took to anger as he approached his former king and friend. Make ready and fight me milk-drinker!
"Silence... and listen" Ragnar lifted a hand and spoke. Barely taller than Asgrim with light blond hair. A wicked grin on his face as he pushed the mighty great-sword of King Harlaus over onto the floor.
"Do you heart that Asgrim... the sound of an empire shattering..." He chuckled at the metaphor and lifted his own great Axe; resting it upon the throne.
"Even Lions will kneel Asgrim... even lions..." The Armor clad traitor turned with a sickening smile, smug and content in his victory.
"you speak of lions... I am no lion! I am the black wolf of the north! I AM ASGRIM ULFRIKSON, JARL OF STAGHELM AND TONIGHT I FEAST UPON THE FLESH OF A KING!" Asgrim charged forward wildly and swung his Axe down mightily. Many breed of men would have been cut down like a beast in the wake of such an attack. However, his foe was the king of the north, Ragnar of Sargoth. Staying true to his name he was ready, lifting a saex from his belt and deflecting the shattering charge aside. Asgrim wheeled once more and lifted his arms to bring the Axe down upon his skull.
"Smile as you die pig!" He roared, just in time to let out a gasping wheeze, feeling Ragnar's heel collide into his gut and send him staggering into the throne. The mighty King charged ahead and brought his saex down, meeting the Jarl's Axe head on, pinning him against the throne.
"How does it feel Jarl... to know that your blood will wet my new throne!" Ragnar taunted him again and smiled snidely.
"I don't like your voice, pig King" Asgrim growled and let a hand loose of his Axe, slamming his mailed fist into the kings throat. Thus Ragnar staggered back, holding his neck, before he could be out of arms reach however, Asgrim had him by the collar, pulling his staggering body again into a balled fist. Ragnar could see the mail as it slammed into his eyes, sending him back and onto the floor. He looked up, sputtering, choking, coughing and gasping for air as he desperately backed away and wiped blood from his eyes.
"You cannot do this! I AM A KING! I AM AN EMPIRE! I AM SWADIA! I AM NORDLUN!" The king threw his tantrum as fear attacked him.
"You are a child pretending to be a man" Asgrim spat at him, the great-sword of Swadia in his hands as he thrust it down, stabbing Ragnar in his voice box.
"I don't want to hear a crying baby any longer..." He grumbled as he withdrew the blade from the wide eyed betrayer.
"Die now..." He lifted the blade and looked down with Nordic fury. Preparing to slay his former king. The sight of his once close friend caused a moment of hesitation... Archers, huscarls, finally found them and poured in in this moment. Soon the numbers were stacked against him and victory was stolen. Thus with regret and righteous anger Asgrim fled. Crashing through the keep window and down onto the hay below, great-sword in hand. The king let out his gurgling curse to the sky as he watched Jarl Asgrim Stag-helm Ride south from Praven, the blood of his own throat still dripping from the blade secured to his back. Thus... Praven was lost to the Nordic King Ragnar, vengeance was stolen from the Jarl Asgrim, and the theater was set for heroes and villains to be forged in the war ahead. What had happened that day was not a tale of glory. It was not the stuff of song and tale... this was no fairy tale with knights and hope... This was a Nord Invasion...
This is a rough draft, excluding bios added, other heros, more detail etc. etc. Input welcome of course, try to be positive and constructive. Just wrote this through the course of the night, hope you like it!
(now in edited version one)
A rain heavy sky glared down from above upon the city of Praven. Grey clouds adorned with a sinister mantle of lighting and thunder began to let loose a flow of warm rain. The city was tense, the air itself alight with fear and anger. Even the thunder hailed in a sense of urgency as the men of Praven readied their lives for victory; or death. As the sun crept to dawn upon the land a swath of gloomy light cascading down with the rain, giving the surrounding lands a look of gray apathy. Men would die here today and even the natural world was in mourning. The city of Praven and its garrison was already preparing for its defense; hearing word of approaching Jarls and their armies, even taking in the shattered remnants of stag-helm.. their once most powerful and menacing foes. Jarl Asgrim and his Gothi Oren had retreated into the city after being betrayed by a king who'd lost his way, his honor, his Nordic pride. They were the first to rise on this morning. Asgrim, having drug the screaming and bawling traitor spy with him as they fled to the city now spent the morning avenging his life time friend; still bedded in the chiururgeons houses of healing. His punishment would be primal, brutal, a testament and prayer to the true Aesir and Nordic Gods. Taking a Gaff hook and weight into his hands Asgrim fashioned a weight chain and then with great malice in his heart he took the betrayer to his house and clan and drew him up by his heck, a mighty hand gripping him tight as he spoke with that dark... commanding growl.
"You have betrayed your blood... you are unworthy of its flow and pride" And with that final phrase he took his knife and slit the betrayers belly, jabbing the gaff hook into the lower lip of the slit and slung him over the ledge of the wall. With a pitiful scream the traitorous Nord plummeted and jerked hard against the suspender he was rigged to. There he hung for near an hour, screaming, kicking, pleading for his life as the weighted gaff hook slowly split his belly open. He watched as his body was torn asunder, blood, organs, his own shit and bile spilling out below him as Nordic justice was realized
"Pathetic" Asgrim sneered as he spat over the edge of the wall and headed out. Having dispensed of the traitor Asgrim made his way to the northern battlements; facing the enemy camp. There stood wolves among men, ragged, dirty... hungry for the blood of those who have strayed from the true path. The handful of stag-helm warrior looked to their Jarl with determined eyes. They knew that this city would be their grave, the irony of dying within the walls of this place did not phase them. Resolve and vengeance held their thoughts with iron jaws and would not let go. He approved of them, all of them, they bled, fought, died as brothers...
"You lot look hungry" He spoke, looking out over them. Growls of hunger and diabolic hatred rumbled from the mens chest. They knew what they wanted, and they would have it... revenge.
"Oren isn't with us today lads. Still lying in bed with that knife hole in his back. Lets show King Ragnar how Nords fight. With Axe, and Spear, and sword. Not a milk-drinkers butter knife only to be used when a man has his back turned!" Jarl Asgrim roared out throwing his fist into the air as his men cried out with him. Turning to face the enemy camp they chanted, shields thundering in unison with the hammers of thunder above. Their axes and swords beat like an army of war drums, over and over; Thud, thud, thud. Even the Swadian knights grew weary at the sound; too familiar to those who had faced a Nordic army and lived. This was a cadence of death... not to invigorate those beating their shields in unison, but to usher in the keepers of the dead. For below these walls, upon the ramparts, there would be blood...
"Come forward Ragnar... you coward in Kings clothing..." Asgrim spat at his feet at the name Ragnar and slid his helm on, darkening his face and focusing his mind. The sun sat above the clouds now as the Swadian defense made its final preparations. It was muggy, gloomy, and rain still descended upon the city and enemy camp. Knight shifted uneasily in their armor and archers struggled to keep their bowstrings dry as the thunder and lightning ushered in harder and harder rains. This would be a messy dance and both sides were strained to have the will and courage to fight. As the Nordic soldiers looked up they could see shining steel glinting in scattered sun-shafts as rain and sunlight mingled down to the earth. The walls were a white carved stone, rigged with siege battlements, the drawbridge pulled up and sealed. at the center of the staggering city was the keep, proud red flags of a rearing lion soared in the rain, uttering their defiance to the raven flags below. The shining helms of crossbowmen reflected along with swords and shields. The city itself looked ready to fight, brimming with energy as those inside prepared to meet their Gods.
As those outside prepared for death so to did those inside pray for life. Oren, pale and unconscious lie sweating and in critical condition within the healers room. His face peaceful in a dream ladened sleep. The noise from outside did not reach his ears, nor the thundering rain. Only the beating drums of thunder itself spoke to him. Before stag-helm had retreated into the city, defeated and betrayed, he had taken a knife in his back, the now lifeless traitor seeking to murder the Jarl of Stag-helm's life time friend and demoralize those who remained. He had failed, and still he clung to life. His battle was with his wounds, aided by the Vaegir surgeon Artisia; she was his shield and pavise to the pangs of death now fighting for control. She was a kind woman, short and tanned with a generous chest and searching brown eyes. As she went about mending his torn flesh, cleaning grime and dirt from him she couldn't help but wonder why such a young man held such power, was he truly as wise as they said, was he that much more equipped to lead then men who have spent years in Swadian academies? Her hands worked diligently, obeying the one order given her in exchange for her freedom from khergit slavers.
"Keep him alive and well" Asgrim's words would not leave her, ever. One simple request and command for a life of freedom.
"I'll keep him alive... I'll keep him well. I just pray that we survive this all..." She muttered quietly as she dripped water from a white cloth onto Oren's forehead.
"You're taking fever... In my village we say that is because of heated dreams... what is burning in your mind Oren..." She stroked his hair back and looked at his face, she could see his eyes flickering as his dreams did indeed turn sour.
"Don't let go... remain here with me Nord. It is not your time to sleep..." Artisia leaned in and whispered into his ear, continuously speaking to him. Rising and walking over to a cabinet the kind woman pulled out another blanket and tucked it around him.
"Rest Gothi, rest and come back to me... I..." Her words were interrupted, looking up to the window she could hear the blast of a Nordic horn. It had begun...
Outside of the quiet keep, warm and secure; Blood, rain, and men fell to the ground as steel and stone flashed and clanged all around the city walls. Cries of agony and fear resounded from dying men as the true horror of siege was made known to them all. Ladders splintered and collapsed beneath the weight of armored men, gurgles from young men sputtered red blood as they soiled themselves in panic and death. The battle was in full sway and it was not a portrait of glorious heroes or valiant knights. Below the walls lie piles of bodies, peppered with quarrels, arrows, and javelins. Boiling oil soured the air as it poured upon the heads of besiegers, burning away skin and eyes as they cooked alive in their mail. Slowly a mighty tower approached the city, heaving and chanting men pushing and grunting to get the behemoth to its destination. They slipped and slide on blood, excrement, the bodies of their fallen friends and family. Defenders cried out as ballista and Onager slung rocks over the walls. Giant spears impaled and maimed them, knocking them down, pinning archers to their own pavise as quarrels the size of a harpoon ran them through. Bill-hooks and bearded axes pulled from siege battlements, pulling unsuspecting defenders to fall to their demise. Truly what transpired was horror defined... The northern wall soon fell as the siege tower made its creeping way to the wall. With a thundering crash the siege gate dropped and attackers poured in throwing pots of burning oil at the readied defenders. Soon shield wall met shield wall and the battle was afoot in truth. Swadian lions fought tooth and claw with Nordic wolves as sword met flesh; axe met splintering shield. Crossbows and longbows battled for the heights as the air was lit abuzz with rattling fletchings.
"The northern wall has fallen, retreat! Back to the barricade! Retreat!" A bellowing voice called out to the scattered and panicked defenders as wave after wave of Nords clambered over their fallen brothers.
Back at the barricade waited Asgrim and his men. Rallied, hungry, Menacing. Their axes and swords hummed an aria of battle hardened readiness. Their eyes forward and readied for the foe that they would soon clash with.
"Like water upon rocks..." Asgrim spoke. His nature of few words was both a blessing and a condemnation. His men knew this phrase. Their shields were thick, hard, heavy... they would hold this very ground until bodies piled against them, and when they were ready they would drop the hammer. Stag-helm berserkers painted with ravens blood would descend upon their foe from behind. And as steel is beaten and bent by hammer and anvil; so too will their foes meet the same fate. Thus they lowered their shoulders, the Jarl at the forefront cast his eyes only once up at the tower were his scout was en-route with a simple command for the Vaegir woman and his Shaman.
"Run south..."
And thus wall met wall once again. Nord against Nord, Stag-helm wolves against the Ravens of Sargoth.
"In the dead of night, THERE ARE ONLY WOLVES!" Asgrim shouted out with a thundering roar accompanied by a clash of lightning. His men responded, howling and barking like ravenous wolves, their madness and hunger bursting forth as they met shield with shield. The battle was joined and axes descending relentlessly, efficiently. The huscarls of Sargoth were untrained, soft... weakened by "noble" blood. This was made clear by their inability to take an inch from the Jarl Asgrim's wall. Thus line, after line, after line of Huscarls piled up and came to a dead halt against the mighty stag-helm shield barricade. Again, a mighty howl came from the shield wall, mocking laughter, maniacal screaming... these men lived for battle; loved it like a common tavern whore. And just as their deafening howl rung out the berserks answered. Dropping from the archway above onto the road below with razor sharp axes, still caked with the blood and hair of split skulls. What followed was a blood bath; panicked Sargothian Huscarls unknowing of which way to turn. Face the berserks and be devoured from behind, or push against the wall and be split in two like ripe tomatoes.
"Undisciplined milk drinkers..." Asgrim's thoughts amused him as his plan worked without folly... shattering the invaders main effort.
"Like water upon the rocks..." He snickered and spat upon the bloodied meat at his boot heel.
Back inside of the keep the scout had reached his destination; hastily running within to deliver the Jarl's word.
"Woman... you have been commanded to collect the Jarl's' companion and flee south. You will be met by the Jarl and his thanes. Do not tarry and do not look back. Go now." He spoke quickly, panting hard as his flight had been long and full of obstacle.
"As the Jarl commands" She responded and immediately began preparing Oren for their journey. Wrapping his body in blankets, gathering water, a small pack of provisions before bringing him outside and mounting him upon a dirty and panicking horse. Having buckled and strapped him upon the saddle she herself slung up onto her own horse, familiar and well versed in the arts of riding she easily commanded both sets of reigns, looking back up at the keep as Asgrim himself ran inside pursuing the betrayer king himself. Thus they took flight and rode south into the dark; rain burdened forest.
Indeed the betrayer King Ragnar of Sargoth was en route to the Swadian throne room. Despite the efforts of the Jarl and his thanes there was no hope. He had ordered them to tarry no further and ride southward while he himself took justice into his own two hands. Clambering up stairwell and blood slicked stone he made his way to the Crimson hall; throne room of the city of Praven Bursting in, his long blond hair soaked with blood and rain, mail dented and in pieces... Asgrim was ready. Only his Axe remained, he had to discard the shield to climb, his bow left behind in Oren's packs.
"RAGNAR!" He called out into the hall, seeing his prey standing before the Lions Chair.
"You have no place in a hall of kings, Mutt" Asgrim's voice immediately took to anger as he approached his former king and friend. Make ready and fight me milk-drinker!
"Silence... and listen" Ragnar lifted a hand and spoke. Barely taller than Asgrim with light blond hair. A wicked grin on his face as he pushed the mighty great-sword of King Harlaus over onto the floor.
"Do you heart that Asgrim... the sound of an empire shattering..." He chuckled at the metaphor and lifted his own great Axe; resting it upon the throne.
"Even Lions will kneel Asgrim... even lions..." The Armor clad traitor turned with a sickening smile, smug and content in his victory.
"you speak of lions... I am no lion! I am the black wolf of the north! I AM ASGRIM ULFRIKSON, JARL OF STAGHELM AND TONIGHT I FEAST UPON THE FLESH OF A KING!" Asgrim charged forward wildly and swung his Axe down mightily. Many breed of men would have been cut down like a beast in the wake of such an attack. However, his foe was the king of the north, Ragnar of Sargoth. Staying true to his name he was ready, lifting a saex from his belt and deflecting the shattering charge aside. Asgrim wheeled once more and lifted his arms to bring the Axe down upon his skull.
"Smile as you die pig!" He roared, just in time to let out a gasping wheeze, feeling Ragnar's heel collide into his gut and send him staggering into the throne. The mighty King charged ahead and brought his saex down, meeting the Jarl's Axe head on, pinning him against the throne.
"How does it feel Jarl... to know that your blood will wet my new throne!" Ragnar taunted him again and smiled snidely.
"I don't like your voice, pig King" Asgrim growled and let a hand loose of his Axe, slamming his mailed fist into the kings throat. Thus Ragnar staggered back, holding his neck, before he could be out of arms reach however, Asgrim had him by the collar, pulling his staggering body again into a balled fist. Ragnar could see the mail as it slammed into his eyes, sending him back and onto the floor. He looked up, sputtering, choking, coughing and gasping for air as he desperately backed away and wiped blood from his eyes.
"You cannot do this! I AM A KING! I AM AN EMPIRE! I AM SWADIA! I AM NORDLUN!" The king threw his tantrum as fear attacked him.
"You are a child pretending to be a man" Asgrim spat at him, the great-sword of Swadia in his hands as he thrust it down, stabbing Ragnar in his voice box.
"I don't want to hear a crying baby any longer..." He grumbled as he withdrew the blade from the wide eyed betrayer.
"Die now..." He lifted the blade and looked down with Nordic fury. Preparing to slay his former king. The sight of his once close friend caused a moment of hesitation... Archers, huscarls, finally found them and poured in in this moment. Soon the numbers were stacked against him and victory was stolen. Thus with regret and righteous anger Asgrim fled. Crashing through the keep window and down onto the hay below, great-sword in hand. The king let out his gurgling curse to the sky as he watched Jarl Asgrim Stag-helm Ride south from Praven, the blood of his own throat still dripping from the blade secured to his back. Thus... Praven was lost to the Nordic King Ragnar, vengeance was stolen from the Jarl Asgrim, and the theater was set for heroes and villains to be forged in the war ahead. What had happened that day was not a tale of glory. It was not the stuff of song and tale... this was no fairy tale with knights and hope... This was a Nord Invasion...
This is a rough draft, excluding bios added, other heros, more detail etc. etc. Input welcome of course, try to be positive and constructive. Just wrote this through the course of the night, hope you like it!
(now in edited version one)