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Post by dagvaldriddik on Mar 14, 2019 18:08:27 GMT -5
Chapter One: Solace in Seclusion
There’s something comforting to be found in true darkness. Something which isn’t present on your average starry night or unlit room. It takes more than just turning off the lights to experience it. This feeling of contentment can only be found in the actual complete absence of light. Dagvald has found this pleasure in the underground shelter he dug for himself beneath his compound in the woods. The ceiling is not just a barrier to entry, it is a barrier to pervasive illumination. A wooden trapdoor has kept Dag in the dark for twenty three hours and thirty seven minutes.
There is no food in this shelter. Nor is there anything to drink. For nearly a day, the Prophesied One has fasted, not for religious or dietary reasons, but for ancient tradition. For most, today is a day of celebration and gluttony. Across the world, New Year’s Eve marks a time for celebration, great feasts and engorgement on alcohol. This was true even in olden times, but then, there were some who did not partake in such worldly festivities. In Scandinavia, there were those fearless (or foolish) few who sought to gain a glimpse of the vision enjoyed by Odin himself.
The All Father enjoys sight beyond that of any other immortal and certainly any lowly mortal. He can foresee the future, observe the present and recall the past in perfect clarity. Humans have been envious of this ability since they learned of their creator. Medieval man had gone to great lengths to see the future for themselves. They sought answers to questions everyone wanted to know. Would they acquire great wealth? Would they die an honorable death? Would they find love?
In Dagvald’s homeland, perhaps the realm where nature and mankind were most closely linked before the desert cult destroyed paganism, his ancestors believed they found a way to catch just a peek into their futures. They called it Year Walking. During certain days of the year when that link was strongest, a ritual may be performed to peer into what lie ahead in the year to come. The day when this practice was most effective was New Year’s Eve. First, they locked themselves up in a dark room. They were not allowed to see light for an entire day. During that day, they also could not partake in any feasts or libations. At the stroke of midnight, they exited the darkness and entered the woods outside their village. That last second before midnight was the last chance to change their mind and abandon the taboo practice. Once the clock struck, there was no going back.
For a man desperate to be reunited with the spirits who bore him, and to find out whether his efforts were going to waste or not, a Year Walk is the perfect opportunity. Sitting, hunched over in the fetal position in this cramped hole in the ground, he reflects on what he may see in the night ahead. Legends speak of monstrous visions revealing riddles to those who seek them. The monsters of Scandinavian folklore are oft mentioned in tales of Year Walking, confronting those who dared to try and gain the wisdom of the gods with puzzles that challenge the mind.
He has tried not to spend this solitary time reflecting on the frustrations of his past. Trapping oneself in a confined space with nothing to do but think is an easy way to be driven to madness. The insanity of Dag’s life is certainly not lost on him. From social outcast loner, to arsonist, to prison inmate, to self-imposed exile, to wrestler, to international revolutionary. He had achieved great success in both of his latest endeavors, only to have it ripped from him due to cosmically unfair means. Sometimes he wonders if he will ever find his true calling. Is he really cut out to bear the burden placed upon him by the gods?
After the fallout from the defeat in the Stockholm Riots, Dag has returned to his compound in the United States. Now that he’s had a taste of life back in the Motherland, he longs to return there and live in his ancestral rite. The authoritarians in power have made this impossible yet again, however, at least for the time being. Instead, he has chosen to bring the homeland back with him through this ancient tradition.
He is desperate to find guidance for the year ahead. He feels lost, swirling in uncertainty, unable to plot out the course to achieving his destiny. If the gods truly do favor him, then they will give him a sign tonight. In just moments, he will lift the hatch and begin his Year Walk, a practice which died a century and a half ago.
Heill Óðinn, sæl Óðinn, he repeats in his mind as the final seconds count down. Heill Óðinn, sæl Óðinn. Finally, the hands on his watch align at the zero hour. May the gods have mercy upon my soul. He raises the trap door roof and climbs out of the shelter. At first, even the moonlight is blinding. After so long in absolute darkness, what little light there is threatens to overwhelm him. The effects of the Year Walk seem to be taking effect almost immediately. The light is so powerfully vibrant, Dag swears he can hear it.
Trust in the light, let it be your guide. For too long you have basked in the darkness, seeking companionship among those who dwell in shadow, thrived where most won’t go. This has only blinded you, and to go forward, you must embrace your vision.
The words don’t come in the form of a voice. They are not heard. They are simply present in Dag’s mind. Then his eyes abruptly adjust to the night environment. Nothing immediately out of the ordinary, he thinks to himself. Then again, I’m not quite sure what I’m expecting. He simply decides to begin walking the approximately three mile trail to his destination. Every Year Walk came to its conclusion at the village church, and Dag has mapped out a direct route to a suitable location.
It is eerie to be alone in the dark woods, and the feeling of uneasiness is amplified by the lack of food and hydration. Some say the supernatural effects of Year Walks were simply the vision quest results of lack of sleep and nourishment. Dagvald seeks to find the truth in the power of his gods tonight.
Chapter Two: The Horse and the Boy
Several yards go by as he treks from his compound towards the trail which will take him directly to the church. It follows an old railroad route abandoned for several decades. Ahead of him, he can see the moonlight reflecting off the very large pond which sits beside the path up the hill to the main trail above. He canters slowly up to it, and begins to notice a slight migraine growing in intensity as he draws nearer to the body of stagnant water.
Let the games begin, our villain dismissively murmurs in his head. As he starts to pass the pool, he notices a seemingly shapeless form move beneath the muddy water. Perhaps he should ignore it, the walker wonders. Whatever it is may not be good for his health. But then, what else am I out here for? He stops. Like an alligator, the entity seamlessly swims through the pond toward him. As it approaches the shore, it stops, and begins to raise it’s bizarre figure into the open for all to behold: a pale horse.
An equestrian entity for sure, it’s head is that of a horse, while it’s torso is that of a man. It’s skin is the same tone as the sickly white hair of its mane. The beast’s horse legs are still half submerged in water. Perhaps the most surprising aspect of the entity as a whole is how well dressed it is, sporting a rather fetching Victorian tuxedo, which doesn’t seem to even be moist. The creature extends his arm, inviting Dag to take his hand and locking eyes.
“Bäckahästen,” Dag utters. “Brook Horse. Aren’t I a little old for you to be luring me onto your back? It’s my understanding you like the easy meat, child murderer.”
The Brook Horse indignantly replies, “You’ve got it all wrong, Mr. Riddik. I thought you knew your people’s history… tsk tsk.” The mythical entity’s voice is crystal clear, just like the water of the lake suddenly is. “I do not exist simply to capture the souls of innocent children. I carry the lost young ones to Valhalla. I am only visible to those whose fate is already decided, in fact. Since you can see me, I’m afraid it’s already too late.”
“Are you threatening me, foul creature?” Dag spits. Ever easy to antagonize, he hastily draws his sword. He is glad he brought it, though he hadn’t expected to need it so soon on his journey.
The Brooke Horse just whinnies, probably an equine substitute for a human chuckle. “Oh now, Shattered One, if only my intentions were that simple! How much easier it would be for you to face me if it were in combat. No, I’m afraid it’s much more complex than that, though the reward you stand to gain from me is far greater than the satisfaction of defeating an enemy in battle. My purpose with you is to guide the lost fraction of your soul to the peak of Yggdrasil, where he shall rejoice with the gods and your ancestors in the Great Hall.”
Dagvald, unable to decipher exactly what the abomination is trying to say, still can only perceive it as some sort of veiled threat. “Still you speak of stealing my soul away from the mortal realm and carrying it to that of the dead! I cannot interpret this any other way. If you want a fight, then just speak your mind, foul beast, and a glorious battle we shall have!” He brandishes his ancient Viking blade, authentically forged in blacksmith shops of those who once raided and conquered the furthest reaches of Europe and beyond. The moonlight reflects off of it beautifully, even bouncing into the eye of the Brook Horse.
In return, the half man, half horse neighs again, clearly wishing he could laugh like he could if his head were also human. “So much hostility, Dagvald, as though the extent of your research into the likes of me was nothing more than reading children’s bedtime stories. You really ought to know this by now, but since you insist on playing uneducated, I’ll break it down for you. Your soul is fractured, dear brother. Before you, as in, the real you, may reach Valhalla, you must shed each of the many fragments as a snake sheds its skin. I am here to relieve you of what remains of your childhood innocence.”
Disbelief swallows Dag into a chasm of confusion. “You claim to know so much about me, while implying I have some sort of so called ‘innocence’ which must be washed away? You know nothing about me, creature. You are just a myth, an illusion! Nothing about me is innocent. I never even had a real childhood, of that I assure you. Now begone, so I may continue on my journey and foresee my ultimate destiny!”
Dagvald turns away from the stagnant, murky water and attempts to resume the trail. He only manages to take a few steps before something feels wrong. The headache, which had quietly disappeared while talking to the Brook Horse, is back in full force, and he feels a great pain in his stomach. It is as though he is missing some of his body, like his insides have been ripped from out of ribs. He keeps walking, but with each footfall he grows greatly exhausted, as if each step were the equivalent of a thousand. His body nearly gives up on him entirely, forcing him to turn round and gaze at the only entity which could be causing this. Though he suspects the Bäckahästen, the horseman is no longer the only one he sees.
Cowering beneath a tree, shrouded in shadow, lies a small child huddled in the fetal position. It’s soft whimpers and Norwegian language whispers convince Dag he must ignore the urges to write it off as an illusion and investigate. Even if it is nothing but a manifestation of his own mind, it is precisely that for which he set off on this vision quest. He turns fully around and retraces his steps to the adolescent. The closer he comes, the stranger the feeling in his gut. A sense of… deja vu?
He becomes so focused on the child that he hardly notices the chuckling once again coming from the Brook Horse. “You didn’t believe me…” he softly whispers before his voice trails off. His silky equestrian head shakes back and forth. Dag slowly approaches the boy. He takes notice of the short, silky blonde hair on the little one’s head, plus the ragged clothes, and second hand, worn out sneakers. The young boy’s face is concealed as he hugs his knees and whimpers quietly.
The fractured soul bends down to reach his hand out to comfort the boy. The Brook Horse, unseen by Dag, looks as if he’s about to say something, but stops and shakes his head again. They say seeing is believing, he thinks to himself. As soon as Dag’s fingertip makes contact with the fine strands of blonde hair on the child’s head, his vision of the world around him begins to convulse uncontrollably.
Stricken with vertigo, Dag’s legs beg to give out beneath him, but his body is frozen in place. Despite the weakness he feels and how dizzy he is, his limbs refuse to even move involuntarily. He is suspended in time, seperate from the fabric of the universe with his gaze locked on the child’s head. Before his captive eyes, the boy’s head spins around in a grotesquely contorted motion. Staring back at Dagvald is the nightmarish rotting corpse of his own three year old self.
Liquified pus filled eyeballs droop out of his own skull. Maggots squirm and fall from from his nostrils. Flies buzz into his gaping, lipless jaw. Dried blood dots the pitted surface of his skin. Layers of dead epidermis molt off of his face. The decay of his younger incarnation appears to be occurring at an accelerated rate before his very eyes. For the first time in his entire life, Dagvald is desperate to scream, to succumb to the horror which has seized his soul in an unshakeable deathgrip and unleash his agony unto the world so it may share in his indescribable misery and horror.
The sound which bursts from his lungs is murderous. It seems to set the world spinning even faster, as though the chaos of the universe is feeding off of the energy inherent in his unrelenting fear. Faced with his own mortality, Dagvald slowly slips out of consciousness and into the ethereal world. What’s left of the child only continues to wither away hideously in real time until almost nothing is left but the yellowed bones which make up a young boy’s developing skeleton. He is watching himself become a myling, a soul sucking creature of ancient folklore. Unable to look away, Dag is losing himself to insanity.
Finally having seen enough, and unable to stomach anymore, the Bäckahästen finally intervenes to end the madness. He lunges with his powerful equestrian hind legs out of the water, lands beside the paralyzed figure and rips his hand away from the decaying skull. With contact broken, Dagvald regains lucidity and reconnects with the mortal world. The sudden return to reality hits him like a truck, and finally his body gives out as he collapses to the ground. After the horrifying ordeal, his breathing is rapid and shallow, his pupils dilated and skin paler than the moon.
“I told you, mortal, but you dismissed me as though I haven’t been doing this for hundreds of years,” the Brook Horse grunts. “Perhaps now you understand what I mean. That boy is an embodiment of that which you must leave behind. When you tried to leave me here, he refused to go with you. Don’t you see? Do I have to explain every little detail for you to understand what’s going on inside your very own mind? I can tell you I do not have the patience for such frivolity.”
The Fractured One, still reeling from the experience, turns to face the Bronco-headed figure. “You… you did… did this… to me…” he splutters between bated breath. He starts to say something else, then realizes the terrifying corpse may still be beside him, and before he can stop himself he looks back at it out of morbid curiosity. Even more shocking than seeing the monstrous cadaver is the fully regenerated boy looking back at him through eyes beaming with childlike wonder, as if nothing had ever happened.
“He senses freedom, Dagvald. It’s time you set him free. You embarked on this Year Walk to see the future, but why bother when you can’t let go of the past? For as long as you hold onto the sufferings you endured then, you torture yourself, and your mind will end up just like the moldering abomination I revealed to you. I did nothing but open your eyes to your own subconscious. Take my hand, Dagvald, and let him go.” The tuxedoed chauffeur of the damned extends his arm.
He Who Walks Two Worlds takes a moment to contemplate the truth behind the Horseman’s words. Suffering… he’d been through plenty as a young man. Subsistence on low income, bullying, abuse, poor education, exposure to traumatising events, he’d endured it all. It has shaped who he is today, and partially been a driving force motivating him to prove himself tough enough to make up now for his former weakness in the past. Above all of the traumatic experiences he’s been through, however, one in particular sticks out above the rest.
He begins to think of flames. Yellows, oranges and reds dance around in his head in a blurry hurricane of color. But that was so much later… he looks back into the eyes of the younger version of himself. There’s nothing to show he bears the burden of the fire in those innocent blue eyes- he is too young for that. But then, if not that, what is so crucial that he leave behind? Maybe Isabella is too important to move beyond, her grip too powerful over him, her influence too great. Or perhaps, there is a positive aspect to her hold over him which he must cling to, whereas his childhood was an irredeemable hellscape which must be forgotten.
This Myling never got a chance to be a kid. No young man should suffer the way you did, Dag thinks to himself. He returns his eyes to the Bäckahästen, hand still outstretched. The decision is made. He reaches out and firmly grasps the human hand of the half beast.
This time, in contrast to when he touched his own younger self, he feels a heavenly relief wash over him. As he looks the Brook Horse right in his glass eyes, he sees a ghostly perdition of the Myling emanate from his body. He feels himself moving backward, away from the creature, leaving the boy in his place, mimicking the stance he held. After gaining a few paces distance, he stops. The shepherd of lost souls leads his innocence by the hand into the depths of the lake until they both vanish from sight completely.
Chapter Three: Lady of the Woods
Dag is uneasy walking past the derelict hulks of abandoned locomotives rusting away on disused railroad tracks overgrown by hungry vegetation. The juxtaposition of nature and industry is representative of what Dag has been peaching for so long, seeing it is almost hard to believe. These monstrous hunks of steel, once so powerful and resilient, integral to civilized society, now sit abandoned and overrun by plantlife.
“Mother Nature is fighting an eternal battle to reclaim what is rightfully hers,” Dag whispers to himself. “There is a beauty to the abandoned, the refuse of man being broken down and returned to nature. We have corrupted this realm. The scars of man are upon the unnamed wilderness. It is my duty to serve justice unto those who commit these grave crimes against nature.”
He bends down to feel one of the steel rails. “This metal blade which slices into the skin of Fjörgyn is an abomination against our gods.” He runs his fingers along it until the rust scrapes his skin and causes it to bleed. He raises his hand to the shining moon. “I offer to you, O Great Spirit of the Forest, but a taste of the blood which shall be shed in your honor. Man will pay a great toll for his violations of the sacred oath. In it’s place, I shall forge a blood oath, swearing that these sins shall never again wreak havoc upon Midgard.”
The blood drips from his fingers to the ground. Slowly, drop by drop at first, then more and more. Before his eyes, a faucet of blood is flowing from his hand to the grass below. Dagvald is alarmed at his sudden onset of hemophilia and drops to the ground, cradling his gushing hand against his chest. Now matter how much pressure he applies, the blood refuses to stop pouring out of him. It follows the contours of the ground and creates a trickling stream from the well worn trail into the woodline. The tortured one follows it and is horrified by what he sees.
Leaning against a tree is an astonishingly beautiful woman with long, luscious brunette hair. With one gorgeous leg she stands barefoot on the ground, blood pooling around her foot and vines tickling her ankles. With the other she props herself against the tree, her bent knee lifting her relatively short and elegant white dress in a flirty fashion. Dag’s eyes follow the equally elegant curves of this mysterious woman up her body and to her incredibly attractive round face. Before he can stop himself, he looks directly into those twin deep, piercing green eyes. She smiles playfully, and brings her left hand to her face to blow a kiss and invite him over with a wave of her finger.
Dag looks down at his hand again and the blood is inexplicably gone completely, and his wounds healed. He stands up and feels compelled to walk towards the enchantress.
“Who are you?” He shouts feebly to the mystical woman, his legs impatiently carrying him forward, not waiting for a response.
“O traveler, my name is not important. You may simply know me as the pretty young girl you met in the forest.” Her voice is like an angel singing folk music with heavy reverb. Her sweet words echo off the trees and caress Dag’s cold body, seemingly warming him up. How this young lady can be comfortable in the middle of a winter night wearing nothing but a pretty dress must have some supernatural explanation, which seems about right to Dag based on his experiences so far. “Won’t you come on over and have a little dance with me, boy?”
I think I’m a little old to be called boy, Dag thinks to himself. He is so focused on the young lady ahead of him, he doesn’t pay any attention to the youthful body he suddenly inhabits. Not until he stretches out his hand to take that of the sorceress does he notice he is at least twenty years younger, with seemingly no explanation.
“I’m sure you hear this a lot, but, you’re a rather handsome gentleman, you know that?” The shy words from the petite woman echo off the trees into the abyss of the uncharted forest. The woods now seem to stretch beyond the reach the mortal eye. Dagvald feels incredibly lost and awkward surrounded by the unfamiliar terrain and from finding himself in a situation he hasn’t been in for decades. Not since Isabella has a woman tried to court his fancy. This mysterious lady of the forest twirls around and spins into his arms, inviting him to allow their bodies closer and closer.
“What is such a fine young man like yourself doing out in the woods at such an hour?” She begs the obvious question despite already knowing the answer.
“I’m… I’m just out on a walk to clear my mind. To enjoy some closeness with nature.”
“Oh, yes,” she smiles wide, “then you’ve come to the right girl. I can bring you closer to our Great Mother than you’ve ever been before!” She chuckles slyly and flows effortlessly over the tree roots, rocks and ferns which usually make it so difficult to walk through the overgrowth. She circles Dag and he turns with her, though he knows he is certainly not a dancer.
She senses his unease and uncertainty. “Daggy boy, why are you so nervous? How long has it been since you danced with a pretty girl?” She giggles.
The heartbroken one begins to answer, but realizes he never told the woman his name. “H-how do you know my…”
“Oh, don’t be silly! You think I would have invited you into my home, this beautiful untouched forest, if I didn’t know who you are? I know a lot about you. I know you long for a female companion, not to settle down with, but to experience the excitement of life with once again. Someone as fearless, strong willed and crazy as you,” she giggles again and half covers her face with her hand as shy girls do, “someone as wholesomely, traditionally good looking as you’ve always wished for in that boy’s brain of yours.”
The mysterious maiden swings around again, and Dag feels himself led by her motions and moving to her natural rhythm without even having to think about it. He begins to lose himself in this strange ritual. He isn’t thinking of the future, the past, or even the true present. All he can focus on is this impossibly beautiful brunette, staring deep into his soul with her emerald eyes, white silk dress flowing in the breeze. She is completely in tune with the sounds of the woods around her. The birds of prey which stalk the night chirp in melody, crickets chink in harmony and frogs croak in unison. Even wild deer appear to thud their antlers against the tall trees like drums.
“Let the rhythm of the wild take us, Dagvald! Let it save us from the monotonous world of man’s responsibilities. Dance with me, boy! Let us dance as one spirit deeper into the forest so we may leave the trappings of the modern world behind and return to life as nature intended! No pollution, no electronic distractions, no industrial slaughter of animals! Let us be pure as the gods intended!” She continues her enchanting dance, slipping out of Dag’s arms and twirling into the forest. “Follow my voice, Dagvald, come with me to the place where the heavens meet the Earth!”
As she slips into the ether, she sings powerfully in her mesmerizing voice. Dag is entranced and can’t help but be lured further and further from the trail. Finally he emerges in a clearing, and his eyes behold the beautiful maiden, now standing in a luxurious wedding gown beneath a pair of trees adorned with elegant white ribbons.
“Embrace me, Dagvald Riddik Eriksson, take my hand in marriage so you may have the traditional woman you've always wanted! Here surrounded by nature, I offer myself to you as the most loyal and loving woman any man could ever dream of!”
The long heartbroken wanderer finds the offer nigh impossible to resist. Before him is a spirit of nature full of unpredictable wonder and unmatchable beauty. She is begging him to marry her, to fill the void created in him decades ago which still haunts him to this day. In the revealing, low cut dress she’s flaunting, her sexual allure is absolutely irresistible. After feeling alone and unsatisfied for long, Dag simply can’t believe his eyes. The breasts, buttocks and curves on this bewitching temptress simply cannot be passed up by this sexually starved near-middle aged man.
He tenderly walks down the makeshift aisle. When he reaches her, she smiles and winks at him. He stands opposite from her beneath the white ribbons. Dag quickly realizes he can hear soft footsteps approaching, but he can’t take his eyes away from his bride.
“It’s just the priestess, here to unite us in eternal matrimony, my love,” the spirit whispers as though she read his mind. “Now the ceremony may begin!”
The black clad woman who has come out of the trees to stand between the new lovers clears her throat, opens a book of sermon and begins to preach. “Dearly beloved…”
Something snaps within Dagvald’s mind. He whips his head around, finally free of the spell placed upon him by the mysterious forest dweller. He recognizes that voice, even after so long. When his eyes meet hers, he finds he is not mistaken. “Isabella! My dearest Isabella!” He tries to grab her by the shoulders and bring her in for a hug, but she withers away and floats out of his grasp as though she is a ghost. “My love, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me alone in these woods after so long!”
Isabella just slightly raises her head to peer up at Dag from the top of her eyelids. “Your love is as fickle as fate, Dagvald. I thought you loved me, but you only loved the role I played in your bizarre fantasy. Now I am free, and I’m here to set you free as well. I encourage this marriage, so take her hand and I shall pronounce you Man and Huldra.”
“Isabella, I- it’s not true! My love,” he tries to speak but the words sputter into nothingness. “What have I done… You!” He whips back around to face the Huldra. “I should have known all along! You tricked me, just as you have so many countless before me! Reveal yourself to me, vile woman!”
The Huldra laughs loudly with a large, playful grin on her face, which quickly becomes a sinister smirk. “You could at least buy me a drink first… oh hell, it is our wedding night after all.” She sheds her clothes entirely, and can no longer conceal the cow’s tail growing out from just above her buttocks. Her naked figure glistens in the moonlight, an ever tempting forbidden fruit. “Take me, Dagvald. Let go of this mortal world and embrace your desires. Forget those who forgot you long ago and indulge your lustful needs! Are you not a man?”
It takes great mental strength to resist to the enchanting hex of the Huldra. A Huldra is another deity from ancient Scandinavian mythology known for luring men into the forest and consuming their emotions until they were an apathetic shell of a man. “I said reveal yourself to me, woman, your true self! I’ve had enough of your games! I know you are not that which you portray yourself to be. Beneath your illusions, you are a hideous abomination! I demand you reveal your true self, monster!” With his repeated battle cry, Dag draws his sword and prepares to defeat the dark sorceress and free himself from her spells.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you be careful what you wish for? As you insist.” Suddenly a blinding light erupts from the Huldra’s back. She reaches behind her and peels away her skin like the outer layer of an orange. The monster within erupts out of the deceptive human body, revealing a monstrous aberration of nature. A web of black roots and antlers bursts from the top of it’s head. There is tree bark covered in moss and fungi where there once was skin. Water flows like streams in place of blood veins. Spider webs and silk cocoons are wrapped around the twisted fusion of man and wildlife. And the face…
Before he can come to grips with the sheer horror of the abomination’s face, the Huldra’s jaw gapes open like a snake, and the blinding light returns, completely killing Dag’s sight. Panicking, worried the creature will consume him, he charges forward with his sword slicing through the air. He hears the scream of the banshee and replies in kind. He refuses to show fear.
He feels like he is running for miles, but he never slows down or tires. He will not rest until he has the skull of his demonic foe. Then, whispered quietly but so close against his ear that he can hear it even over his own screaming, comes the soft voice of his one and only. “Daggy, my love, it’s been so long, but there is still time. Find me, Dagvald. You must find me. I want you to find me. Please find me my love. Find me.”
Dag’s foot collides with a thick tree stump like a mile long coal train colliding with a cliff face. He completely collapses and falls on his face, bounces and rolls, then skids across the ground. His vision returns and re realizes the screaming has stopped. As the world stops spinning around him, he realizes he is back on the trail he set out on for his Year Walk. He takes a very long rest to nurse his potentially shattered foot. Eventually he forces himself to continue down the path to his future.
Chapter Four: Rise of the Phoenix
Finally, after what ought to have been an hour journey had turned into several, Dagvald emerges out of the trail and onto the rural road in front of Salem Church. Only a short distance now separates him from the conclusion to his Year Walk. Legends consistently speak of the final vision which most Walkers encounter at the end of their journey. Dagvald prepares himself to come face to face with the most complex and feared entities from Swedish folklore.
As he walks down the secluded, unlit concrete road, time seems to slow around him. He knows sunrise isn’t so far off. It feels as though he has been enduring this journey for an eternity already. The moderate wind which has been threatening to freeze him all night quietly ceases entirely. For a moment, the world seems to stand still. He comes to the driveway splitting off from the road leading to the church. He stands for a moment, admiring the simplicity of this quaint colonial church in contrast to the extravagant gothic cathedrals of his homeland. Still, the twin wooden doors are quite imposing.
He walks up to them, stepping lightly over the gravel. They are locked of course, but the former mercenary came prepared. He levels his sight, steadies his footing, raises his sword, and slams it down into the chain fastener. It slices about half way through, and another blow shreds it off entirely. Slowly, Dag pushes the two doors open simultaneously. They creak loudly as they creep just above the dusty floorboards. He forces himself to take the first step across the threshold and into the church.
“Weary traveller, calloused and sore, time and gravity followed you here.” A high pitched voice echoes throughout the high ceiling of the church, emanating from an as yet unidentified source. “Rest my brother, and tell me all about the fire.”
Dag wants to whip his head around frantically to find the speaker, but instead all he can do is keep walking in the darkness. Footfall after footfall conveys him to the preacher’s podium at the end of the aisle. Spontaneously, moonlight bursts through the stained glass windows and illuminates the being standing tall on the pulpit. At first glance, it appears to be the Bäckahästen once again. But as Dag studies the figure more closely, it is revealed to him that atop the well dressed male body is the head of a goat rather than a horse.
“Kyrkogrim,” he mutters. “As I was expecting.”
The church grim peers down from his overlook and looks at Dag like a god would peer down at an insect. It’s ears twitch and eyelids flutter to bat away the flies which try to gather upon it’s animalistic portion. It’s hooves are held aloft, arms in the air, mimicking the pose of Christ in the painting hung behind it. It begins to address Dagvald once again.
“I’ve never seen the fire, not like you have.” Something about the voice of this hybrid is genuinely unsettling. It’s pitch makes Dag recoil and have to fight the instinct to cover his ears, knowing it would not make a difference. “Riches, rags, famine and feast, they matter no more. Leave them behind so they shall burden you no longer. Standing below me in my House of Christ, simply tell me all about the fire.”
It’s exceedingly obvious to Dag what the goatman is talking about it. What still isn’t obvious is how these mythological creatures know so much about him and his past. He supposes if they hold the key to his future, they must be acquainted with how he gets there.
“What is there which you don’t already know? I didn’t come here to rehash my past, I came to see my future,” Dag projects his voice up into the rafters at the Grim.
“So many have stood where you stand, some have lived and some have died. As they watched the glass of sand, the grains fell which marked the time. For some journeys were just beginning, but for others they reached their ending.”
“I don’t have time for such nonsensical rambling, goat! You know what I’m here for, so give it to me and I’ll be on my way!” Dag shouts, his temper short as the hours without sleep being to pile up.
“You think I know what you want from me. How can I when you don’t even know yourself?”
“Drop the riddles, animal. I know exactly what I want: I want your heart!”
“So it’s vision you seek,” the goat states unperturbed. “You have heard that my heart holds the key to seeing into the future. You are one of many, but the first in a long time. Many have tried, many have failed. What makes you think you are different? Why do you deserve to see the future through Odin’s eye?”
Dag looks directly into the eyes of the Grim and confidently exclaims, “because Odin has chosen me personally! I am the prophesied one! The one who will salvage the creation of the gods from the brink of damnation and lead us to salvation! If you try to deny me this rite, then you are commiting no more sacrilegious act than defying the very will of the gods, so give me your heart or Odin shall guide my blade to cut it out of you!” Dag draws his sword for the third time tonight, ready to carry out his threat.
The Kyrkogrim is unimpressed, however. With a dull look in his alien like goat eyes, he responds as he walks down the steps from the pulpit. “They call you He Who Walks Two Worlds, but which worlds are those? You believe it is the mortal realm and the realm of the gods. Of course you walk amongst the living, but what if you also walk amongst the dead and damned? Who are you to know that you deserve the blessing of our lords?”
“Odin himself has spoken to me!” Dag indignantly spits the words. “He has shown me great visions, beyond that which any other man has seen in our time! Do not doubt my holiness, when your head is that of Beelzebub! You inhabit this house of the desert cult and you dare claim to speak for our true All Father?”
Having reached the bottom of the steps, the Church Grim walks casually up to Dagvald and brushes aside his sword with the thick, hardened skin of his hoof. He looks the frustrated mortal in the eyes and says, “I am a fusion of the ancient traditions with the new. Only in an entity cursed with the duality of twin religions can the key to omniscience be manifested. The gods and God our Lord have entrusted me with this Knowledge, and me alone, and you come wandering in here lost expecting it to set you on your path.
“Mortal, it has been centuries since the last of your kind approached me. Therefore, I am willing to allow you that which you request, if for nothing more than the opportunity to entertain myself. Step forward, and look into the fabric of time.” The Kyrkogrim hooks his hooves and opens the black cloak in which he is clad. The parting of his dark robes reveals a truly disturbing sight. Just as legends told, the heart of a Church Grim is crystalline yet organic, exposed and pulsating.
Dagvald comes closer to the devilish being, unsure if he is prepared for what he is about to witness. He raises his hand, palm outstretched, and reaches to place it lightly upon the beating organ. Finally he makes contact, and to his astonishment..
Nothing changes. He does not have any visions, he does not gain any heightened sense of awareness of knowledge, he simply remains standing in this old church. Frustrated, he slightly tightens his grip on the heart, carefully at first. When he feels how rock solid the crystalline object is, he confidently grasps it firmly, but still nothing changes. He grows more and more aggravated and tries to shout at the Grim, but his words won’t leave his mouth.
He is so focused on the goat headed beast that it takes several minutes before the smell registers in his conscious. Faint at first, and slowly stronger as time continues to pass. Minutes later Dagvald realizes it is accompanied by a crackling sound. Refusing to take his hand off the heart, he looks around to identify the source of these sensory stimulants.
Joining hearing and smell is sight, as he notices a glowing, flickering light behind the podium on the pulpit. It shines brightly on the face of Jesus Christ, hanging eternally crucified for man’s sins on the wall of the church. The popping and growling noise, sooty, ashy smell, and flickering oranges and yellows finally add up to an equation Dag can solve.
He panics and tries to take his hand off the Grim’s heart, but it feels cemented in place. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot free himself. In his frustration, he looks up to assault the Grim, gut those goat eyes are no longer there to stare back at him with their glassy, beady look. Nothing but the hardened heart remains, floating suspended air as fire grows and begins to consume the body of Christ from the toes up.
He cannot escape, and he cannot scream. He exists outside of time and betwixt the fabric of the worlds itself. The knowledge Dagvald sought is overwhelming him with no sign of relief. It continues to grow and spread, devouring every wooden plank the church is built of and using it as fuel to increase its destructive capability exponentially. It creeps along the walls, slowly encircling its victim which is unable to escape.
Dag remains frozen in place, despite the incinerating heat causing him to lose hydration through the sweat gushing out of his body. The flames creep closer and closer, yet still Dag cannot release himself from the floating heart. He feels the burn of the fire as it licks at his skin like kisses from his hound dog. The searing pain would be enough to make him pass out if he were truly conscious. Instead he is not spared of the unimaginable horror in such a merciful fashion. He is forced to remain fully aware as his skin melts from his muscle, and his muscle falls of his bone like a well cooked cajun chicken wing.
In his last living moments, the Chosen One accepts his fate. As he lives long past that which any mortal could possibly survive when suffering the indescribable, unfathomable pain of burning alive, he thinks of Valhalla and Hel, and wonders if he has died honorably attempting to fulfill his destiny. Even in the worst case scenario, he thinks, I only have to wait until Ragnarok to redeem my failure. In short order, his brain and sentience shut down as the last remnants of his being are consumed by fire and crushed by falling debris.
Later…
The residents living in nearby homes along the road were made aware of the fire by the unpleasant smell of smoke and the crashing of wood falling from the ceiling. Fire crews and first responders arrived as soon as possible, though some time had certainly elapsed before their arrival because of the relative isolation of this rural community. The ruins of the church are marked by nearly nothing still managing to stand. Fire trucks douse the inferno with water and sand, taking nearly half an hour to full extinguish the raging fire.
As the firemen cautiously make their way through the wreckage to inspect it for possible causes and any casualties, they find nothing suspicious or alarming. There are no potential causes immediately identifiable, and no bodies of victims to be found.
“It’s like it just magically burst into flames,” says one fireman bewilderedly to another.
As they discuss the case, a female raven swoops down and perches atop a smoldering plank. The blackbird is unperturbed by the heat still radiating off the moist board. It ruffles its feathers and cleans between them. It sits quietly watching the cleanup efforts around it. It suddenly feels a lump in its throat and starts to cough in an attempt to clear it. Something is moving in its chest, threatening to burst out. The bird coughs and coughs, heaving its chest greatly. After great effort, something begins to emerge from its beak.
Out of the little bird breaks free a great, flaming Phoenix! Enlarged by the huge entity it released unto the world, the raven now stands as tall as the fiery fowl. Its wings are skeletal and its beak sharp and pointed. The humans are aghast at the sight they behold. The Nattravnen and the Phoenix begin to dance together in the early morning darkness, looping around each other very low to the ground, weaving between the mortals as they fly.
With each pass, some men lit ablaze by the phoenix, some men are cast with disease by the Nattravnen and collapse to the ground. They assert themselves with little effort over the pitifully weak beings that make up the human race. To them, these men are like worms to pluck from the ground on a rainy morning. They treat this world as their playground, wrecking their havoc upon it with disregard for those who suffer beneath them. Soon, all who witness the two beasts have been rendered helpless by their black mysticism.
On the peak of the charred church they both perch proudly. Looking down to survey the destruction which they have wrought, they caw loudly with glee. Turning to each other, they gaze into their eyes. A being of fire, rebirth and power, accompanied by a being of death, disease and suffering. Naturally they kiss in celebration of the newfound power they wield. With this joining of beaks, they extinguish the sun and set a plague of their own fire upon the world.
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Post by kahmms on Mar 17, 2019 21:28:29 GMT -5
We see Junhoon Lee sitting in a room with a therapist in a white room. Everything is white in the area- the table, walls, the door, the books on the desk, lights and even the doctor's clothing.
Junhoon is sitting on a chair with white hospital robes, vacantly staring into the therapist's eyes. He is muttering stuff under his breath, which is not comprehensible.
Doctor: Alright, Mr. Lee. Let's begin the session. I know you are not "ILL", so to say, but we had to make sure that we get our clients in the clearest state of mind for more reliable results.
Junhoon:...(under his breath)F.... Far E-East Dragon, n-n-no, Korean I-I-Imugi....
Doctor: Hmm. Miss Cole?
Nurse: (through microphone)Yes, Dr. Allen?
Doctor: What was the dosage that we used?
Nurse: The "Truth Serum"? I think it was a teaspoon?
Doctor: Ah.... Well, you better be careful so that you do not put our patient- I mean, client, on a high like this.
Nurse: Yes sir.
Doctor: Mr. Lee, do you hear me?
Junhoon: Yes, yes I can hear you. "We are going to have a little talk," you said. And.... and.. you offered me a drink. Huh. Th-th-that's r-really odd of me. Ha...hahah. My mother always told me not to trust b-b-big guys in white vans or white gowns...
Doctor: Mr. Lee, we have been asked by your brother Mr. Ashton L-
Junhoon leaps up from his seat and flips the table.
Junhoon: MOTHERFUCKER! NOTHING IS WRONG WITH ME!
Doctor: No, nothing is wrong with you. Nothing is wrong with you.
Junhoon: I TOLD HIM NOTHING IS WRONG WITH ME! ME?! JUNHOON LEE THE KOREAN DRAGON? INSANE? HAH! THAT IS AN INSANE IDEA TO EVEN THINK OF-
Doctor: Miss Cole?
Nurse: Yes, Doctor?
The camera fades to black. Seconds later, it fades into the same room. Junhoon is now tied in a white strait jacket. The table is set up properly and everything seems to be in order.
Junhoon slowly opens his eyes, and tear rolls down his eyes.
Doctor: I am sorry, Mr. Lee, but it had to be done for everyone's safety. For now, just reply with yes or no until I tell you that I need detailed explanation. Alright?
Junhoon slowly nods.
Doctor: Good. Now, tell me- were you the Korean Dragon?
Junhoon: WAS I? I'm sti-
Doctor: Mr. Lee. Yes, or no.
Junhoon: ..... Yes.
Doctor: I see. Alright, next question. Do you have any memorable achievements AFTER getting called up from the independent scene?
Junhoon: Met up with my friend Tanno Waters and-
Doctor: Mr. Lee?
Junhoon: ... YES. Do. You. Need. Details.
Doctor: Yes, go on.
Junhoon: Met with my friend Tanno Waters and formed the Mystic Barrage in WWX-
Doctor: Which was voted as one of the most irrelevant tag teams in the federation by the WWX Universe, alright. Anything else?
Junhoon: Excuse me, doctor. We won a tag team title.
Doctor: ..Which you happened to win at Tanno's birthday only to lose it within less than a month. Anything else?
Junhoon: .....(sighs) Also had the match of my life with Damian Price in UCW..
Doctor: That is why the people they call "marks" filled the venue that day, I see. Price is also an "indie guy", is he not?
Junhoon: (under his breath)Fuck.
Doctor: That is not an answer, Mr. Lee.... Anyways. Aren't you forgetting your time under Darkson, as Shin-Ryong the evil diety?
Junhoon: Don't.
Doctor: That was labeled as one of the most "epic" fails in the sports entertainment business by many critics, did you know that?
Junhoon: Stop.
Doctor: That is not an answer, Mr. Lee.
Junhoon: ..... I will not give an answer to that.
Doctor:... Very well, then. However, if even DARKSON could not save you, wouldn't it mean you're not able enough to even survive in the big ocean of the big leagues-
Junhoon: I will NOT answer that, Doc.
Doctor:.... Alright, then. So you admit that you are just an "indie guy".
Junhoon: No.
Doctor: Were you not out of business because you finally came to knowing who you are?
Junhoon: No.
Doctor: Then why was it, Mr. Lee? Was it because of health concerns?
Junhoon: Yes. And family life.
Doctor: Hasn't your wife, Miss Mina Lee-
Junhoon: Do NOT mention her name here, Doctor.
Doctor: Hasn't Mina complained or stated that she was disappointed at how delusional you are?
Junhoon: You...
The doctor leans towards Junhoon.
Doctor: You are delusional, Mr. Lee. I just had to book this session to make sure that we can start curing your delusional mind.
Junhoon: Did Ash really call you?
Doctor: I am the one asking questions here, Mr. Lee, not you. Another delusion there.
Junhoon: DID YOU REALLY TALK TO ASH?
Doctor: ........No, but a "friend" of yours did.
Junhoon: Tanno? Was it Tanno?
Doctor: No. I won't tell who it is, Mr. Lee. But he made sure that you keep out of the business. For everyone's sake.
Junhoon takes a deep breath, and slams his head hard on the desk. His head begins bleeding.
Doctor: Do that one more time and we will call an officer to taze you. Got it?
Junhoon says nothing.
Doctor: Why did you decide to go back to wrestling in a big league promotion again? Why NCW? Did you think it would be comfortable for you, did you feel like it would be like your "indie" home ground?
Junhoon says nothing.
Doctor: Answer me.
Junhoon: No.
Doctor: Why? Did you think that your old "good warrior" self would work this time, when it has been clear that you have been failing, failing and failing?
Junhoon: No. And in fact.....
We see that Junhoon's arms are free now. The camera closes up to the doctor's horrified face.
Junhoon: Miss Cole over there surely needs to know how to secure a strait jacket.
Doctor: HELP!
Junhoon kicks the desk over and lunges at the doctor, striking his face with a flying knee. As the doctor coughs and crawls on the floor, reaching for his glasses, the camera shows Junhoon's foot crushing them.
Junhoon kneels at the doctor, and to his horror, steps hard on his hand.
The doctor screams in terrible pain.
Junhoon: Why am I going back to the big leagues, you say? Well, I actually have a score to settle with someone and he is a "big leaguer". I don't know if my "friend" who set up this appointment for me is the same guy I am thinking of, but if he is, then you better tell him to watch out for his ass. You're right, I won't get anywhere by being a "good warrior" like I used to.
The doctor gasps, trying to gain his senses, but Junhoon twists his foot slowly, causing even more pain to the doctor's hand.
Junhoon: The Korean Dragon, the Far East Phenom... Is dead. You're right- I WAS delusional. I thought I was a dragon already- but guess what? I am no "dragon". I am an Imugi. A delusional Imugi which ended up falling back to the ocean. An Imugi that now just wants revenge. An Imugi that now wants mayhem. Havoc. Chaos.
Junhoon looks at the camera.
Junhoon: Looks like Dagvald Riddik will be my first casualty. He thinks he's living in Asgard or something.
Junhoon looks down at the doctor again.
Junhoon: Hey doc, why don't you call THAT guy delusional, hmm? What- is he an actual mythical hero or a god?... Huh. This could be interesting.
....Heh heh heh. Well, good thing that I am the villain here then. Is he going to overcome the wrath of the Rogue Imugi? We will see, Doc. We will see.
Junhoon: There is one person who I have in mind right now, but oh no, it is not you, Dagvald. It's not you. You're just unfortunate to cross my way to my prey.
Junhoon: So do your heroic stuff, write some more epics, do whatever you want. Just one advice for you ,though, DEAR HERO. You will have a lot of monsters and foes to conquer, but you would always want to stay out of my way. If you decide to play hero and face my wrath- as you D&D addicts might say- oh, you will definitely see the ugly True Face of Fate.
Junhoon: And for you, NCW.... Here I am. "That another indie guy". I am back. And I am back to raise hell. Well, I'll see you in my playground, then.
Junhoon reaches the camera and turns it off, and the sound of him stepping on the doctor's hand is heard and the NCW logo fades in as the doctor's painful scream echoes.
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Post by kahmms on Mar 18, 2019 14:19:27 GMT -5
Minseok Kahm is in front of the doors in Junhoon's training gym, talking to the cameraman and biting a pen tip in a bored manner.
Minseok: This again? When they finally decide to sign me up, the Walking Wrestling Encyclopedia, and decide to waste my talent and time like this? Hah! And I gotta interview that boring Junhoon Lee guy like I did in WWX and UCW, in his "whitebread" background? HAH! Let's see if he's being an honest worker again and working his ass off in the gym only to say staple stuff again...
Minseok peeks into the gym, so does the camera. Junhoon is not to be seen anywhere inside.
Minseok: Huh. That is different. Where can he be?
Junhoon: (off-camera)I'm over here, you slowpoke.
The camera slowly pans onto Junhoon Lee, who is leaning against an outer wall of the building.
Minseok: What happened, Mr. Workaholic? Did you get s-
Junhoon: The camera is on, dumbass.
Minseok: Wha- OH!
Minseok takes out his cue cards, fumbles, and picks them back up.
Junhoon: That is why you don't get to commentate from Day One, darling.
Minseok: Shut the hell up, you sound like your disgusting tranny of a brother-
Junhoon kicks Minseok's gut and makes him fall down. While Minseok is still rolling in pain, Junhoon takes the camera away from the cameraman. He places the camera on a window.
Junhoon: Ah.. there we go. See this, ladies and gentlemen? This guy used to be a bigshot in the world of wrestling. This. Clumsy. Fumbling. Guy. You read his Greek articles on big federations' websites, you heard his babbling on TRN, and of course you heard his colorful commentating on TV every week. He still is a bigshot... bigger than me, anyway. Which is... pretty unfair if you ask me..... eh, I'm trailing off so let's see what we have here. Alright......
Junhoon reaches the ground for the fallen and scattered cue cards.
Junhoon: Ah.....duh duh duh... Oh so you were going to interview me about my upcoming match! Oh, how sweet of you, Minseok! So let's see the cue cards here....
Junhoon begins skimming and flipping through the cards.
Junhoon: Uh....huh. Ah there we go. "There are fans who expect to see your well-renowned technical prowess"- ah. AH. AH!! AHAHAHA! Ladies and gentlemen, aren't you tired of listening to this? "Technical prowess!" "Best in-ring worker in the world!" "Best technical wrestler in the world!" And some more of that jazz! Ah.. Aha! AHAHAHA!
Junhoon picks up the card with the remarks, shows it to the camera, and tears it in half, than in quarters, and into little pieces. He then lets the pieces fly into the wind.
Junhoon: Boring. Boring. BORING! GOSH! I cannot believe I used to be like that! What could I tell the wrestling world? "Oh, I am the best technical wrestler in the world!" "Oh, I'm an all-time great when it comes to in-ring performance!" GOSH! I cannot believe that I used to say that over and over again in interviews. HA! No wonder you were not entertained. I was not interesting. I was boring, and you know why? Because I kept on simply stating facts, over and over again. I AM the best technical wrestler in the world. I AM one of the all-time-greats in the ring. Need I remind you every week? That would be boring, wouldn't it?
Junhoon: THIS is why you guys were pretending to cheer me in the ring, only to cheer even louder for roided-up dorks who can't even wrestle as good as I can, huh? Then what do you guys do to me when shows are over? "He should go back to Mexico," "He should go back to the indies", "He thinks he's still in the indie scene or something", "He sucks", and all that.. all that "BEAUTIFUL" compliments you have for me. Why, thank you, and I am back for more.
Junhoon: Now, why did I come back? Like I said before, I have an unsettled score with someone, and he is in NCW now. I did not return here expecting to get cheered at or be followed, no, no, no. I am not seeking a chance to "make it big with the big boys." I am here to kick a certain pair of ass-cheeks, and other asses of those who stand in my way. Last time I said I was oh, "full of wrath" or "had evil intentions" and other dark, shady, and honestly edgy stuff, I was not being me, I was under the influence of a certain edge lord you guys know as Darkson. However, THIS time- I'm legit pissed off. I AM mad. You know why? Because I am sick of having to be "the stereotypical ethical good guy". I am sick of just having nothing to say except for "see you in the ring", "my skills are so great" and blah blah blah, and ending those boring talks with an equally lame catch phrase.
Junhoon: You were sick of seeing me being the same day in and day out? Fine! You have what you want- a pissed-off Imugi who has a prey to hunt and does not give a damn about who stands in the way. No more "oh he is a good wrestler and I respect him but I will win" and blah blah blah. No more of that "indie schoolboy". What you are going to witness is an incarnate of a pissed ancient snake monster who is only here to hunt his prey and cause wreckage, mayhem and ravage onto anyone standing in the path. Now, if the NCW roster are watching this, oh, THAT somebody knows that I am talking about him. I'm coming for you. I'm gonna kick your sorry ass with my "technical prowess". If you turn out to be the one who set up that doctor's appointment and tried to prevent me from coming back, well, I'll make you wear a tattoo of the word "coward" in Chinese, Latin and Korea on your forehead after the ass-kicking I will give you, because it is obvious that you were scared of what I would do to you. You were scared of "that vanilla indie guy". HA! That is just laughable! But it may be true.
Junhoon: Fate has been ugly for me, but now I am back. I will show you the ugliness of fate too- the terrible True Face of Fate when I snap your arms and shoulders off or get that 1-2-3 from you.
Junhoon: No disrespect for our dear good mythical warrior of the epics, Dagvald Riddik, but again, you are not my prey- you are just standing in my hunting grounds. You better watch out if you don't want a pissed of snake to ruin your medieval story.
Junhoon: Oh, you will... FEEL IT!
Junhoon: There we go.. CATCH PHRASE!
Junhoon drops the camera from the window, making it crash on the floor.
Fade into NCW logo.
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