‘588 A.D (Low Countries/ Netherlands)

SkollWoods Villa (Village)

Rollo knew the legend of Odo Fenrir well, his uncle Haswalder would never shut up about it and it was just as popular with every other family in their small villa for Rollo to have a few apathetic sympathizers, who just didn’t care about the great Viking’s voyage to the Great Centre Sea (Mediterranean) anymore. Rollo had heard it a thousand times ten thousand, how the fleet of Odo Fenrir, vastly depleted from the 300 vessels which began the voyage from the North Sea coasts, had washed ashore on the sands of Egypt, on the tails of a great Storm. There, in that distant and mystic land, they had encountered Anubis or the phantom of the Egyptian Jackal-headed god, who had granted Fenrir and his miserly band of 200 an additional vessel of finest Phoenician quality to supplement their last two remaining ships from the fleet of 300. It is said that Fenrir and his men had provided the most exemplary service in battle to the god, and he blessed them with the vessel and other more unknown gifts which his lineage still celebrates. The Phoenician vessel, with its snarling-wolf-headed prow that was so lifelike as to be considered to move in certain lights as the legend goes, towed the battered ships of Odo Fenrir and his 200, through the liquid battlements of the Great Centre Sea and icy currents of the North Sea back to the very shores of Odo and Rollo’s homeland, without a helmsman or a single crew aboard- as the legend goes.

Now Rollo and all the youth, both male and female, that had achieved the age of thirteen (13) summers or more, were being made to assemble at the granary barn of the Great Manor house, some five miles away, where lived the direct descendants of Odo Fenrir the voyager. For some outdated and over-flogged piece of superstition no less- seated on the cart with his Da, as the workhorse trotted its way to the inevitable waste of time Rollo anticipated, he couldn’t help but display the results of an exasperated mind on his face. Some of his peers he had passed on the way with their own parents looked equally as gloomy about the entire ordeal as he did. Gwoenfer, the tanner’s daughter, a bit crazed as she was had made the sign of a hanging when they passed her in group with her dad and younger brother Anslem- this had made Rollo chuckle (Gwenfoer could always manage to lighten his mood, somewhat).

It was common knowledge that the Great Centre Sea is at distances so enormous at to be traversed only in several lifetimes, and the great cities of Egypt, at even greater distances than the sea at the center of the world, were all but fables and myths to the most rational-minded Norseman. Phoenicia and its merchants were best interpreted as figures of speech, relics of eras forgotten, to qualify naval skill and ability for trade. To the rebellious minds and nature of Rollo’s generation, the legend of Odo Fenrir was an unnecessary dogma among the many Nordic traditions for assimilation of youths into the larger adult community- as Rollo’s verbose bond-mate (best friend) Uther so accurately put it; it was all a pile of “hot, fresh manure”. Rollo smiled sardonically.

***

SkollWodin Castle

(Inside Skollvurn Forest)

The Manor house of SkollWodin was more aptly described as a keep; built on a well-rounded knoll, it was a structure of sheer walls rising as high as 30 feet- a local fortress from the era of the old Romani Empire that had ruled the entire world hundreds of years ago. Now it was inhabited by lords, all called Odo in deference to their legendary ancestor Fenrir, and was home to the local nobility that controlled all of 57 villas scattered haphazardly on the roads and rivers surrounding the keep of SkollWodin. Only the east face of the keep, which looked out on the great forest of Skollvurn, had a wall which rose an additional 20 feet higher than the rest of sheer faces of the keep, with battlements at 50 feet in the air. A single tower rose in the center of the wall, to a towering 90 feet- it was the only landmark which could be seen from the neighboring villas and from its height, near all villas in connection to the keep could be observed.

**

Inside of this very tower now, a shrouded figure walked back and forth. He looked to be dressed in all furs, heaped on haphazardly to counter the chill off the North Sea; it was the end of autumn and winter was expected any day from now. But in the gloom of the tower’s highest chamber, it looked like other figures watched the pacer quietly; at first they appeared to have been just other furs arranged in no particular design around the dark room, but upon further inspection eyes were to be seen glinting out of the dark recesses of the fur-covered. All eyes were watching the pacer diligently as no sound, but low growls and the occasional snarl intermingled with the snapping flames of the only torch illuminating the room from 12 feet above, escaped from any of the figures in the room. They could have been statues to the unperceptive mind-and yet they were all in the middle of a crucially decisive conversation; one which could change the fate of the gathering families along the eight major paths to SkollWodin, some of which could be seen from the one slit-window of this highest chamber of the keep.

“Neinart moves my lord, the woods stink of them” came a near-imperceptible growl from one of the watchers, as the pacer continued pacing just before the only door into the chamber, atop which flickered and danced the flames of the torch. Though the torch was in a wooden stockade attached to the stone atop the door frame, the pacer’s head appeared to be just a foot and some inches below the inner glow of the flames, casting a deeper gloom around where the face should be- in normal human terms he would be a near-12 foot giant. This concerned not the other cloaked figures, who were easily at eye-level with the pacer.

“The Garrison is fearfully low also, my lord, we have fewer than 500 on the spot” chimed in another low, rumbling growl. And still the pacer paced, seemingly paying no heed to a now consecutive series of growls from the watchers in shadow. Then he stopped; and all the growling with him- the watchers watched him as he now stood dead-center of the door, directly beneath the flickering flames. He seemed like a prophet upon the prediction of some imminent doom; and his voice gave life to this perspective.

“‘Tis not the advancing hordes of Neinart I fear most my dear comrades…” and he stopped and seemed to stare out of the single slit-window, seeing some distant event that those around him failed to notice quickly enough. “An ancient evil approaches from the sea, and this seemingly random sally against our fortified lines may be but the beginning of the first wave in a series of numerous others.” The head of the pacer drooped in its furred-hood, like he was contemplating cosmological questions. “Word must be sent to fortress Bruuksfurt and fortressVerdenstadt… let battle lines be drawn across the twi-valleys according to ancient custom. I command this in my name, as Odo Radagastius of the line of Odo Fenrir. All able-bodied Therians are to prepare for full-scale war, for I fear we are involved in greater plots than we are currently aware.”

Stolen story; please report.

“What magnitude of evil could demand the full force of the hunt, actively on the field, my lord?” asked one of the watchers, in a voice stained with bewilderment. “Surely, we alone here could reverse the tide in a swift campaign, without the risk of all three fortresses in united belligerence! What ancient force is this of which you speak?”

“Now is not the time, Siberius” said the pacer ever so quietly. “Dromir and Bredda, I leave the mobilization of Bruuksfurt and Verdenstadt to your capable hands. You may all leave now.” And with that he walked across the chamber to the slit-window, turning his back to the watchers, who all filed out of the chamber at this gesture from the pondering lord.

***

Murle’Wood

(2miles from fortress Verdenstadt/ South edge of Skollvurn Forest)

Three great grey wolves padded softly through the carpet of dead leaves on the edges of the Murle’Wood swamps. The biggest of the three was flanked by the other two, whom it walked just slightly ahead of always. Meander and wander as they might, they never changed the formation; occasionally one would pause to sniff  the air, then grunt at the others, otherwise they moved in deep silence, eyes trained forward, ears standing sharp and alert. It seemed they were on the trail of some very important game, perhaps bigger than their little force and so they seemed to stalk with the patience and cunning of hunters. Deeper and deeper into the swampy mosses they stalked- then suddenly they all stopped as if they had come to some unseen barrier. None moved, not even so much as a hair on the tail-end and for many minutes they stayed frozen, still in formation. Suddenly the two wolves on the flank of the biggest, darted with blurring speed into the marshes, away from the lead wolf. It alone continued to stand frozen, eyes set on some distant prey. The wolves were all easily the size of oxen, and the lead wolf resembled nothing less than some great bear as it now lowered its head, hunches raised, and hackles bristling. There was a low enduring growl as here and there, in the mass of fur, near where the head may be, pieces of glistening fangs became visible; some as long as a man’s middle-finger- and from behind a great tree, sagging with vines and dripping moss, stepped a man most peculiar.

***

The man wore a big ash-colored cloak, which he slung off from around his shoulders onto the wet swamp grass. He wore shin-length pantaloons in the Germanic fashion observed by all Nordic peoples, though the fringes at the bottom were heavily tattered and frayed from overuse. He looked to be incredibly dirty, caked in grime; his hair was overgrown and unkempt, forming clods in places from repetitive laying on forest ground; his toes and fingernails formed yellowed claws that curved like talons, near an inch long on each finger and toe- but his eyes glowed an icy blue, like the sun’s reflection off of ice floes in the North Sea in deep winter. Even from a distance of 20 yards or more, in the forest gloom, his eyes glowed eerily, and when he smiled he revealed two dirtied rows of pointed fangs. He wore nothing over his torso but a necklace around his neck, of chords of sinew with a large bronze Greek medusa hanging from it, above his exposed chest. At the sight of him the great wolf barked sharp and loud, as he chuckled and walked forward slowly like one in a trance. Slight ruffles in the undergrowth revealed the hulking forms of the other wolves, returned from their respective chases, now stalking the man with glowing eyes, so that he appeared to be in the center of a wolfish triangle.

  Just over ten yards from the biggest wolf, the man stopped; he began to clap softly. His abrupt stop had also halted the stalking wolves in their tracks; his clapping now seemed to confuse the two, while it clearly irritated the lead wolf. “I didn’t think it would be this heavily guarded, and by Therians, no less! You’re all Therians of course, correct?” said a voice barely louder than a whisper. The wolves remained silent but made no further moves, though their tails had begun to swish back and forth dangerously. “I tell you, if not for Master Martel’s lex Maxima, I would have had a hard time believing in your existence. And yet here I stand, before the jaws of death itself it would seem, cornered by not one, but three wolf-men!” As the man spoke, he gestured casually with his clawed hands, turning ever so lightly on the spot so that now, he had his back to the largest wolf and the two others were in his sights- if the man had meant to affront the lead wolf by showing him his back so carelessly, he succeeded. Like a blur of shadows, all three wolves leapt at the dirty, grey man; and the man, moving even faster, like a flash of lightning, was upon the nearest wolf which, in mid-air tried to catch the man it is front paws as it aimed a fatal bite for the head. Quicker than thought, the man had an arm wrapped the wolf’s great head, as big as a horse’s, and another arm gripped and snapped the right front paw of the wolf like a dry twig; the second nearest wolf was upon him as he crushed the first’s neck and, keeping a tight grip on the broken arm, swung the weight of the great beast into the air, using it to club down the snapping new attacker. All of this happened so fast as the blink of an eye, so that barely any noise had been made, except the great deep thud as bones and sinew crushed into the swamp soil. And then the lead wolf was there; its head snapped at the exposed neck of the man as he rammed one wolf atop another; in the face of danger, the man could only stick his free-arm into the mouth full of finger-length teeth, which clamped down hard, severing the man’s entire palm- there was no blood gushing from the stump and hardly a drop stained what looked like purple, dead flesh. And as the lead wolf bit down, it too was dealt a heavy blow to the mid-section by the now free arm, which had just incapacitated two wolves; the blow to the wolf’s ribs sent it crashing dozens of yards away into the bushes, breaking through a tree in the process. There was a silent giggle on the now one-handed man’s lips. “Now there is an even greater handicap, one-armed against two wolf-men”, he laughed again as faced the now rising second wolf he had smashed down with the body of the first. The great wolf sniffed at the carcass of its partner, licked the dead snout once and then let out a deep piercing howl that woke up the entire Murle’Wood marsh- it was mourning its dead comrade. Then it lowered its head and snarled savagely at the grey man. “Good dog! Now pay attention to me, you have no time to be mourning losses on the field of battle”. As the wolf dashed forth, faster than a blink, the grey man leapt several feet vertically into the air, to a height unattainable by any human effort; his eyes continued to glow and his fangs were still exposed in a ghastly smile. The charging wolf, missing its prey by mere inches, turned mid-leap, hind-paws hunching as its head followed the path of the grey man into the air, preparing to jump after him. Just then another, deeper, more baleful howl emerged from the lead wolf, now back in the chaotic clearing caused by the battle commenced but moments ago on the spot. The other wolf, either heard too late or paid no heed from the recklessness of the moment, but leapt equally as high in pursuit of the comrade-killer. Soft laughter permeated the marsh mists, “You should have listened to your alpha” said the blue-eyed man who seemed to float for a moment, as he thrust his blunted stump into the open maw of the rising wolf, shattering fangs and ripping a hole in the wolf’s throat. Two wolves were down and it had been less than half a minute. As the man made his descent into the clearing, he used his good arm to swipe a tree trunk at least feet wide, a young tree. His clawed arms shattered the trunk like an axe would firewood, felling the tree in one swing. Before its momentum could bring it crashing down on the forest floor, the man rammed his gristled stump into the center of the trunk, holding the entire length of the tree, branches and all aloft, as he would his own arm. “Now we have equilibrium” said the grey man, as the lead wolf, now alone, treaded a wary, wide circle around him. The wolf snarled and bared all its fangs, a deep rage burning in its eyes, rushing like waves across his hackles down to his tail, and the grey man smiled a wider smile, “Would you like to know the name of your slayer before you die, young one?” The medusa head glowed horridly for a brief moment, in the waning light of dusk.

*

A/N: hey guys my first work (that i'm publishing online ) hope you guys like it. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.