For The Battle Alone.

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

For anyone who missed it the first time round, since it was on the Prydwen Boards.

----------------------------------------

For the Battle alone

The Creature screamed as the darkness enveloped it for the last time, a high pitched, shriek that echoed around the white mountains of Jamtland for all to hear.
“Liches blow up good!” remarked the Kobold, grinning madly
“Dey make mess ov axes too” grunted the larger of the two trolls as he shook sticky black lich-juice from his two glowing weapons.

The trio had been hunting in the mountains for some time now. Partly for fun and partly because of the fabled Bands of Ice that some of the more powerful undead creatures in the frontier were rumoured to carry. So far they had been out of luck. None of the wraiths or Liches they had vanquished so far had been in position of such a rare prize. Never the less, the joy of battle washed over them as the Kobold stood up after meditating a little.

“You ready?” he asked the trolls.
“Me are” Replied Demrog, hefting his axes in anticipation.
“Yus” answered Urgat, already eyeing up the next target in the distance.
“Ok, here we go” shouted Rubarb as he walked forwards, his skeletal minions slowly following behind.

The little blue bonedancer stopped, and began his first spell. Wisps of shadow played about his feet as he gathered the energy to him. Darkness burst around the head of a Lich in the distance, screaming in pain it looked around, and then ran towards its attacker. Already Urgat was chanting, calling to Ymir, his answer was swift, and a solid bolt of thorn formed around the shaman’s hand. With a roar he hurled it towards the approaching creature. The bolt struck squarely, and once again, the lich screamed its pain. It was then that Demrog charged. The ground vibrated noticeably as the wall of fury surged forwards. Twin axes arced forwards at the end of the charge, accompanied by a battle roar that echoed even more than the screams of the hopelessly outmatched undead creature they faced.

The three were in their element.

Rubarb grinning madly as he sent wave after wave of smothering darkness at his foe. Demrog, lost in the heat of battle, powerful strokes delivering brutal axe wounds, shearing dead flesh and bone. And Urgat, calling the power of his god forth, and grunted with satisfaction as tendrils of red mist formed around the monster, causing it to spasm uncontrollable.

As the spores did there work, Urgat checked his companions for injuries. Demrog had been struck a couple of times, but not seriously enough to warrant expending energy just yet. Rubarb had yet to be touched… evidently the Berserker’s furious assault was enraging the lich enough for it to keep its attention on the massive troll.

Whist the fight raged, Urgat mused over his two friends.

Demrog IrunClaw, his oldest friend. He and Demrog went back as far as he could remember. Way back to their first days in Galpen collecting furs from the young wolf cubs in the forest outside troll town (as local inhabitants called it) to bring back to the resident trapper in exchange for a few coppers. They had been great friends ever since, Demrog was the nearest thing he had to a brother, they had grown together and fought together. He studied as he watched his friend fight… a moment before every move, Urgat ran through what would come next. It was almost instinctive, he was so familiar with his friend, he knew exactly how he fought… even maybe a little of how he thought. Urgat smiled slightly to himself, as he watched the savage beating the lich was taking. Dem’ was fearsome, and Urgat was proud of that.

And then there was Rubarb, A younger relative of Carrot. Urgat smiled again as his thoughts brushed over another of his old friends. Carrot Head, the little kobold Shaman had been in Urgat’s life almost as long as Dem’ had. The three had hunted together too many times to count. Demrog had loved every minute of it… two shamans to aid him in his fights? Every berserker’s dream surely!

But Rubarb was a fairly new addition to the troll shaman’s regular hunting companions. One thing Urgat was sure of though… The little Follower of Bogdar was deadly. It was amazing just how quickly he had grown in power… rapidly he had risen through ranks of the bonedancers, and now at the pinnacle of his power, he was a sight to behold. Urgat couldn’t help but admire the destructive abilities the little Kobold wielded. They had hunted together on several occasions, and it was evident, even without the name, the young Rubard was one of the head Family of Kobolds and closely related to Carrot. Rapier wit, and a savage sense of humour always accompanied Carrot… and it seemed like Rubarb had inherited the gift. Yes… he liked him.

“Urgat!”
“URGAT!”

The shout brought him quickly out of his reverie.

“Look out, you goblin for brains!” Screamed Rubarb, “Behind you!”

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

2

The urgency in Rubarb’s voice was evident; and already the kobold was casting a spell. Urgat spun around just in time to catch the flash of light on metal as the pole arm crashed into his body. The blade cut deep, and the force of the blow sent the shaman to his knees. Almost in a daze, Urgat raised his shield to try to protect himself as the wielder raised its weapon to strike again, but tendrils of shadow leapt up from the ground to wrap themselves around its legs as Rubarb finished his casting. With his attacker held immobile, Urgat stumbled backwards out of reach, mind spinning with pain and confusion.

Again, the glint of sun on metal, and blue blood sprayed in an arc from Rubarb’s throat as a duel wielding human pulled his dagger out from where he had struck. At first, it seemed like he wasn’t going to react, Rubarb simply stared at the attacker, a twisted grin on his face. Then it happened. The assassin screamed. Urgat had seen this before… Rubarb was literally drinking the life of the human, using its life essence to repair his. At the same time, his skeletal servants began casting their spells. Red light danced around their hands and healing energy poured over the little blue terror as his grin turned into a sneer.

Urgat struggled to his feet, glancing round he checked on Demrog. The berserker was still fighting the lich, they had obviously been ambushed. He began chanting, calling to Ymir to mend his wound. The fallen giant answered and swirls of light played about the troll as the power of his god flowed into him, knitting troll flesh back together again. Now slightly less panicked, he considered the situation. The assassin was not worth considering; Rubarb lived for baiting silent blades. He thrived on the look on there faces when instead of running he turned to face them with that look in his eyes. He would be dead soon, the kobold would see to that. The one with the pole arm was still held fast struggling with his ethereal bonds. That left the lich, yes; it had to be finished first.

As he turned to aid his oldest friend it happened. Once more the slightest flash, as a second assassin leapt from his concealment to plunge his blade into the gap between Urgat’s hauberk and helm. Urgat gagged as he grabbed his torn throat. “Urgie!” shouted Demrog… spinning away from the lich to barrel towards his friend. “Noooo!” the rest of the word was drowned out in the battle roar of the troll berserker. The shout turned into a primal scream as Modi’s fury took hold. Muscles bulged as he charged, arms raised and flailing with uncontrolled anger.

A second strike followed. Duel daggers tearing through muscle and tendons. Urgat fell forward onto one knee, poison coursing through him, unable to move, and awaiting the death blow… It did not come.

Demrog flung himself at the assassin, oblivious to the lich tearing at his unprotected back, blind rage fuelled his axes, as they crashed down into the human, hurling him face down into the floor. Again he swung, and again he roared, but the duel wielder was quick, he rolled sideways, evading certain death at the hands of the frenzied berserker. The assassin was skilled, without doubt. But against a son of Modi in full battle rage… there are few who can stay alive long… let alone have a hope of winning. Twin axes sang out as crimson mist danced in the air.

Urgat struggled to push himself up off the ground… to get to his knees at least… the poison… he could do something about it… Almost whispering he began the chant… and then all went black.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

3

They were voices, definitely voices, but they didn’t sound right. They were muffled… yes that was it, muffled.

Urgat opened his eyes and raised his arm to ward off the searing light that cascaded into his vision. He tried to concentrate on the words but his head was spinning, in fact the whole room was spinning.

Room!

“How me get here?” he wondered as he shook his head to clear it. Things were becoming clearer and the voices were starting to make sense.

“I always said he went down like a half-cut elf whore.” The remark brought roaring laughter from the others in the room. “Trust old one eye to go down first… you can set the time by it!”

The old shaman slowly sat up to get a look at who was ridiculing him. As he did, he realised where he was. The room was smallish (for a troll) and sparsely furnished with a bed, a table and a couple of chairs which were currently occupied, along with much of the floor space by various standing people. Rubarb, Dem’, Korgarg, Zuchini, and a few others (including the owner of the insulting voice) were all drinking and talking between themselves And the din of tavern goers was to be clearly heard beyond the door.

The offending voice belonged to a dwarf in bright purple armour who was grasping a flagon of mead like it was his dearest friend. After taking another large gulp he continued. “You know, we always said Urgie should go and see the registrar down the road and get his name changed. Urgat Rip-Eye my beard, Urgat Goesdownfirsteverytime more like it!” More roaring laughter and sprayed ale followed. Until someone happened to glance in Urgat’s direction, and noticed the troll was now standing up and looking directly at Hufner, Leader of the Purple Warriors, another one who went back quite some distance in Urgat’s Life. Always willing to lend a hand, and not really a vicious bone in his body as far as Urgat knew… well at least until it came to cleaving invader’s skulls.

“Ah!” Exclaimed the still chuckling dwarf “It rises at last”
“Yub me awake now” replied Urgat “ow me get back in Jordhiem?” he asked, somewhat subdued.
“Well since you did your usual trick, you missed the end of the fight.” replied Rubarb as he started to explain. “I saw to the first infiltrator and Dem’ dealt with the one that got you”
“Yub… him hurted Urgie, Demrog smash him good!” added Demrog, nodding solemnly.
“That left the lich and the Pole Arm wielding tin can.” continued Rubarb “Between the two of us? Heh… well it was fun, put it that way” He finished with that same twisted grin on his face.
“After they finish, Rubarb Sent pigeon to Aimee” It was Korgarg speaking, another of Urgat’s old friends. Korkarg was a troll, and a hand of Thor. He too had fought along side the old shaman too many times to count. “Me, Huf’ and Zuch’ came to help. Aimee healed you all up as best she could, and we brought ya back here.”
Urgat looked around, “Where Aimee?” he asked.
“She went back to Aegirheim, to practice her spellcrafting” Offered Zuchini.
Urgat nodded to the little kobold. Another of the head family… and another bonedancer, already clawing at the heals of Rubarb in terms of Power, it wouldn’t be long before she was as potent as her older relative.
“Me go find her… say thanks.” Urgat announced as he walked towards the door. “And thanks all to you too” he added as he stepped out into the driving snow that was currently trying to blanket Midgard’s capital.

As he walked, he considered Hufner’s jests. Although he was joking, there was an element of truth. Urgat did seem to fail in fights before others… And he didn’t know what he was doing wrong. Even though he was older than a lot of the newer shamans, he had never gotten round to completing his training fully, so was it because he was still yet to reach the apex of his power? Or was that it the mere fact that he was old… and slow, and… past it?

The old troll sighed. As he watched the people of Midgard go by, ever busy, always training, striving to reach a point at which they could serve her in battle. As he trudged through the snow towards the City gates that lead to Vasudhiem he wondered what he was actually doing for his Realm. What did he actually contribute… why was he still bothering?

Slowly the big gates creaked open, Head hanging low, and thoughts spinning around his head, Urgat Rip-Eye stepped out of the great City of Jordhiem, and started to walk.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

4

“Spare some coin for a young warrior?”

The voice brought Urgat out of his reverie. “How long me been walking” he thought. Looking round he spotted the walls of a great town that could only be one place. The fort of Atla, he had been travelling for some time obviously. Yet he had not really being focused on the journey. His thoughts swam in a see of turmoil and confusion and his mind was anywhere but there, concentrating on the road ahead.

There was a great lethargy over him recently. Sick of being the victim of hidden blades and mages spells in open combat, he had resolved to finish his training. Yet even after growing in power greatly, compared to his previous skills, upon returning to the frontier, the same old story unfurled. Always would he be the first to be incapacitated. Thus he had stopped travelling to regions where invaders could be present. This way… he would not be in danger of falling first. If you do not fight… you do not fall. In all honesty… his confidence was shattered. The aspirations and dreams of a young Shaman had become lost in the harsh reality of the war.

Visions of rank upon rank of armoured humans, falling to the might of Ymir’s spore storm, were replaced by fleeting images of shadowy humans, and nightmares of small lurikeens bearing poisoned blades. So he had stayed away from the wars… spent his time in training, yet even that was becoming harder now. Most Midgardians near his level of power were concerned with the one thing he was trying to avoid… the war, so finding allies to practice his skills with was getting harder and harder. With no one to hunt with in Midgard, and a desire to avoid the frontier driving him to stay in the heartlands the old shaman was sinking deeper and deeper into a depression.

Urgat sighed as he considered the recent happenings. “There are plenty of our scouts in Odin’s Gate, and we will be near the faste anyway. You have nothing to fear” Rubarb had said. Oh no! Nothing to fear at all… only bite of an axe on a seven foot stick, and the blade of a hidden assassin!

He shuddered as the look on the face of the human flashed past his eyes again. Pure hatred when he leapt from concealment, turned into a wry knowing smile, as his blade had found troll-throat. The memory of the sick sound of his own muscle and tendons being sliced brought bile to Urgat’s mouth.

Too many times had that feeling violated him. Too many times had he been crippled by the second strike that always followed. Too many times had he stared into the face of silent death from invaders he didn’t even know. No longer would he fear them. For you cannot fear what you do not face.

“Please sir… I do not mean to be rude… but do you have any coin spare at all?”

Once again the voice brought him out of reflection. Urgat shook his head and looked for the source. A young norseman stood to his left with an expectant and hopeful look on his face. Urgat studied him briefly, and smiled as he looked upon a familiar sight… mismatched armour, an old dented small shield, and a notched steel sword. The tell tale signs of a new defender of Midgard, on the path to perceived greatness.

“What your name oomie?” He asked.
“I am Rorgald Grumnirson milord” came the answer.
“Well den Rorgald Grumnirson, follow Urgat, we see what we can do” He replied, smiling.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

5

As the pair walked towards the entrance to the fort-town of Atla, Urgat studied the young warrior. He carried himself well for one with little real experience. Long blonde braided hair, blue eyes glowing with the vigour of youth and zeal, and a healthy respect for those with greater renown, he would probably do well… providing he survived long enough to finish his training with the house of Tyr. The old troll had always admired the sons of Tyr, the God of battle. His gothis bred sturdy companions, able to bring down axe, hammer or sword with equal ease. Rarely did they taste the cold steal of the assassin… Midgard’s warriors were rightly feared and respected by invaders. The land of ice bore fighters of great calibre… easily a match for any combatant the fey or humans could muster.

Before long, Urgat had finished, and Rorgald stood in awe of his new equipment. A brand new set of chain armour, far better than the battered suit he was wearing before, two new swords, one a great sword, and the other a long sword. And a large tower shield, all shining with the enchanter’s touch in the midday sun.

“I do not know what to say Urgat” exclaimed the young fighter (For he had learned Urgat’s name during their conversations).
“Nub need say anyfin’” answered Urgat, smiling. “It gift, only fing Rorgald must do, is promise Urgat somefin’”
“Anything!”
“Promise, when Rorgald be older and someone need ‘elp like you did today. Dat you remember what me did, and do same for them. K?”
The young warrior grinned as he replied “I swear it, and I swear I’ll never forget your kindness Urgat Rip-Eye.”

As he watched the newly equipped Norseman run out of Atla into the wilds beyond, Urgat wondered how he would fair. Would he one day hear of Rorgald’s prowess in the field of battle… or would he just become another casualty, a missing face, yet one more dying body, staining the snow of Odin’s gate, red.

Once more he was wrenched from his thoughts by a shout. Was he to be allowed no time to consider his situation further!

“To arms! To arms!” someone sang out

Urgat looked up from the spider on ground where his gaze had been focused. People were running around, most to the stable master.

“To arms! To arms!” once more the call was shouted.

He scanned the crowd… surely there must be… Yes, there… amongst the bustle, one of the Purple warriors, his Cloak whipping out behind him, guild colours, flying in the wind as he ran towards the stable master.

“Beltzer!” shouted Urgat as he lumbered over. The troll warrior stopped and span around
“Urgat! Quick… to Yggdra! Warriors are meeting in Vindasul Faste!”
Urgat shook his head. “Invaders? Nub, Urgat leave to uvvers” The thought of going back into the frontier did not appeal to the shaman at all.
“No… Not understand… Orders from Hufner… ALL Purple warriors are to meet in Vindasul, quick.”
“No Belt… Tell Huf’ Urgat no can come this time, me are…”

He was cut short by Beltzer’s next sentence.

“Urg… Ghrallahorn Faste under attack…” It was said slowly, solemnly and without emphasis. It did not need to be put any other way. The relic keep was under attack. There was no choice.

Urgat looked over to the stable master, then back at Beltzer. Slowly he started towards the horses. And he was scared.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

6

The rhythmic thump of the draft horses hooves were helping… kind of.

Urgat sat hunched on the back of the frankly massive horse, and tried his utmost to drown everything but the footfall of the beast out. It had worked at first, but the closer to Vindasul faste they got, the worse it was, and the harder it was for the old troll to concentrate on the situation at hand.

Once more, he winced as the image of a flashing blade invaded his thoughts. Quickly he tried to re focus on the hoof-beats but it was too late. The flash… the pain… the sound of flesh being sliced… his flesh… the helplessness.

The shaman turned his head to the side as bile rose.

That was the third time during his trip north. There wasn’t anything left to come up now. But still his body insisted on purging the foul image from his mind by physical means.

He looked forwards again.

Not long now.

Pulling his cloak around him further to protect against the cold bite of Midgard’s northern wind, he once again tried to focus. Ghrallahorn was under attack… he would be no use in this condition. He laughed at himself after that thought… was he ever any use anyway though?

In the distance Vindasul loomed, its vast walls spanning the gap between the mountainous borders of Yggrda forest. The last defence against invasion from the Northwest, it was impregnable… or so they said… rivalling the great border keeps of Albion and Hibernia.

Urgat dismounted and trudged through the snow to the great gate. Slowly it swung open, the old heavy wood grudgingly giving way to reveal the inside of Vindasul Faste.

It was full to the brim with Midgardians.

The warders, Savage conclave, Onslaught, The Talons and many other clans were already here. Quickly scanning the great courtyard, Urgat located the Warriors and lumbered over.

“Urgat! good to see you, go with group two, they need a backup shaman” shouted Hufner “And try not to drop first!” he added, grinning.

Urgat did not reply, even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able, the last comment had brought the fleeting nightmare image back to him, and he was struggling to keep his stomach under control.

“Come on then Urg! gimmie some lovin!”

Urgat looked up, it was Korgarg. The old shaman checked his group before deciding which spells to use.

Aimee, a Norsewoman healer. Her powers of pacification would be useful.
Carrot, Urgat’s old friend, and a fellow Shaman. Urgat smiled at seeing the little kobold once more.
Korgarg, the ever joking troll follower of the storm lord.
Zuchini and Rubarb, two more from the head family, and both bonedancers. Urgat shuddered, individually they were scary… together... Well… it would be interesting.
Melodia, A skald. Urgat didn’t really know her that well, but her songs of travel, and her skill with her weapon would no doubt come in most helpful.
And then Demrog, His oldest friend smiled back at him as his gaze fell on him. Not a trace of confusion, fear or doubt on his face. How must it feel to face life like that? To live life so simply? Urgat didn’t really understand how Dem’ did it.
And so he was the last member, a back up shaman for carrot. Ymir’s blessings were greatly vaunted… one could never have too much of the giant’s aid.

This group was without doubt a support and disruption group. Two shamans And two bonedancers, perfect for harassing enemy spell casters. A healer for control over enemy forces and three of Midgard’s finest fighters to protect them all.

Urgat closed his eyes and started the chants. Hand movements reaching down, and then rising up as though pulling the very strength out of the ground itself. Ymir answered, and the grace of the fallen giant started to touch his companions. Carrot had already done much of the blessing, so before long they were ready to depart.

As they had being preparing, the situation had been briefed to all present. Kalgarn, Leader of onslaught, had taken control of the defending forces, and had explained both what was happening, and the plan to stop it continuing.

Albion forces had taken hold of the mile gate in Odin’s. So far they had repulsed attacks to take it back and prevent further reinforcements. In a bold move, the Albions that had poured through had swarmed straight to the relic keep in Yggrda, ignoring the keeps in the mountains in favour of a quick assault. Normally, the relic guards would be too numerous for such a tactic… but the Albions had brought overwhelming numbers, and with control of the mile gate, could reinforce at will.

The first order of business was to shut Odin’s gate down to Albion troops. That job had been given to the Purple Warriors, and Talons reach. Assuming they were successful, they were to keep the mile gate locked down until further orders were received.

With there part of the plan clear, the two sister guilds marched out into the white snow of Yggra forest. The shouts of jesting and laughter echoed around, as they trudged through the blizzard. Some took bets on how many kills they would tally. Others prepared there weapons.

Urgat simply walked, looking nervously around.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

7

The colour started to spread out from underneath the body, red liquid seeping into the previously untouched snow beneath the face down corpse. The Saracen wiped his twin daggers in the clean snow at his feet. “Sleep tight, scum” he whispered sarcastically as he shifted his weight and moved forwards like a shadow shifting in the night.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

8

“SOD IT, GO!” screamed Hufner.

At the sound of the Purple Warriors battle cry, they launched themselves forwards. The humans were ready and waiting, mages and healers spread out around the walls, and steps of the Albion mile gate in Odin’s, their fighters, a solid line at the bottom.

Urgat followed his group as they surged forwards to within range. Whilst they stopped to cast spells, the other Purple’s groups continued forwards. The Talons were with them, and the clash of weapons echoed out as the battle lines crashed together like waves on rocks. Already Rubarb and Zuchini were devastating the Albion Support. They had decided beforehand to assault the same targets, by working there way from left to right. The left most spell caster screamed in agony as both followers of Bogdar ripped the very life force out of him and blasted him with engulfing darkness simultaneously.
He dropped in an instant, and already the twin terrors were onto the next unfortunate mage in line.

A hail of arrows fell amongst the Midgard warriors and previously hidden archers on the hill to the right flank were already reloading and aiming. Aimee responded the quickest.

“Stop!” she commanded, pointing at the group of scouts. As one, they all looked up in her direction… eyes blank and glazed. “Kliren! The archers!” she shouted out to the little blue spirit master of Talon’s reach whilst still pointing in their direction. The kobold needed no further hints; he led his group towards the mesmerized Humans. Just as they engaged Aimee began chanting, imploring her god to aid her allies. At the climax of the spell, the energy was unleashed and Eir’s power burst among them, blinding eyes, and bursting eardrums, stunned they could do nothing to prevent the Spiritmasters of Talons Reach unleashing their close range soul blasting power.

Carrot was also busy, his eyes fixed on the battlements of the wall. Green light played about his feet as he focused on disrupting the Albion support further. A storm of poisonous spores erupted about the Humans, they coughed and spasmed as the virulent fungus did its work.

Urgat was holding back, crouching alone, he watched as the fight raged. When would it come… it was inevitable, He watched as Demrog, and Melodia engaged a few of the humans who had broken off to try and stop his group for disrupting further. Both hacking at there foes whilst Korgarg Called upon Thor to rain down hammers of lightning on them.

When would it come? Urgat closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate, tried to think past the fleeting image… but he couldn’t, it was there, burning into his minds eye. The flash, the pain, and the feeling of uselessness.

“Urgat!” again, someone brought him from his thoughts “Snap out of it!” It was Carrot.

Urgat shook his head; more had come to engage them. Aimee was under attack and unable to heal, Carrot was desperately trying to heal the warriors’ wounds, whilst Urgat stood by and did nothing.

“You be worth nothing you fool!” The troll shaman silently berated himself as he began the chant that would cause the very ground to rise up and trap the enemies.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

9

Silently he watched. The barbarian’s support was exposed and already under attack by some of the Legion. Their healer was in trouble, and their fighter already engaged… now was the perfect time to strike. Moving slowly forwards, he slipped his daggers from their sheaths, and smiled with the anticipation of an easy kill.

 

[Urgat Rip-Eye]

10

Urgat chanted at the top of his voice. Guttural syllables rolled from his tongue as he implored Ymir to answer his call. The ground moaned and spewed forth twisting vines of green grass from under the snow. Several off the humans stopped in there tracks as they struggled with entangling vegetation. Aimee was free of her pursuer and started the call to Eir that would heal the whole group. In turn, that freed carrot to conjure awful disease around the trapped individuals. Dark mist enveloped the heads of the victims, forcing them to breathe the foul infection in. Urgat was sweating and shaking, he was too close to the fight… he needed space. The others would be ok now.

There, one was breaking away. Troll and part of the support so a shaman most likely. It would do for a start. The Saracen inched forwards, he would come straight past at this rate…


Carefully he back tracked, keeping an eye on his companions. They were doing ok, they didn’t need him. They…

Urgat’s world turned to slow motion.

First the flash, then the lunging Saracen, the bite of metal, and the eruption of pain, in reality a heartbeat, to the old shaman… a lifetime, in which he could do nothing but await the inevitable.

Troll blood sprayed from the wound in Urgat’s throat.

Urgat watched it fall, arcing down to the white snow at his feet. It made a pattern in the snow. It reminded him of a butterfly he once saw in the Vaneran swamp.

Tendons snapped, as the second, crippling attack hit home.

Closer to the ground now… “Must be on knees now” he thought to himself. The butterfly had gone; it was just a dark red stain now. The shape was a bit like lake Mularn, just need to be a little narrower at the bottom.

Gaping wounds opened up as dagger strike after dagger strike tore into his body.

So this was it…. What had it all been for? All the training, all the practice, All the time spent with friends…

Never again would he see the look on Rubarb’s face as an enemy charged into certain death, or the serenity in Aimee’s face as she calmly poured her energy into healing her companions, or the Simple look of pleasure that Demrog had every time he cut someone in half with one of those axes of his.

He would never know the joys of being a hand of Ymir, never complete his training, and never see those ranks of armoured humans falling to the might of his storm of spores.

He would look down from Valhalla, and lament not being there… in the fight with them…

Valhalla!
The fight!
His Friends!
His training!
His practice!
His Realm!
His… GOD!

Tears of regret poured from the old trolls face. He raised his head to the Saracen in front of him. It should not be like this, he understood now. But it was too late… the poison boiled through him, and the assassin was about to deliver the final blows. Regret, anger at him self, and sorrow at the thought of realising too late. Frustration crept into his mind and as the daggers fell towards him he screamed his revelation to the world.

“NO!” the call echoed around the valley near the Albion mile gate, and as it did, the emotion of a dyeing troll shaman called to Ymir himself.

Black ichour rose from a rent in the ground at the Saracens feet, burning, engulfing, and holding fast that which it touched. And then came the voice, just a whisper on the wind… but there none the less.

“You need not fear, Urgat of clan Rip-Eye, My son. Already have ye proven your worth to me a hundred fold, no mere troll cub could be a Flammen Vackten of Midgard. You have served me and Midgard well so far. Take the gift of the ichour of the deep, use it well against those who would seak to surprise you with no honour, and Live Urgat Rip-Eye! Live like a true Midgardian, Live for the battle… and the Battle alone.”

And then it was gone. And the shaman knew what needed to be done