Post by Dagvald Riddik on Feb 8, 2020 12:31:50 GMT -5
A tree stump crouches, broken, in the center of view. At first it’s dim outline is only slightly visible, but the fire behind it grows stronger, and the contrast sharpens against the forested twilight horizon. All seems still, peaceful, until an axe crashes into view and shatters the tranquility. It impacts the tree stump with immense force, slicing deep inside and shattering timbers and splinters into the atmosphere. The two hands which wield the weapon surrender their grasp and retreat out of frame.
The camera pans out, revealing more of the glade. A moment later, the barbarian who caused the disturbance of the peace marches into view. He is clad in armor passed down through generations from one warrior to another, forebear to offspring, over a millenia and more. The scars of ten thousand clashes are evident in the cracked and broken iron chain links. The battle helmet adorning his golden blonde haired head is said to have been worn first by Herald Hardrada, Emperor of the North Sea Empire, then by Eric III, the first King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, better known as the Kalmar Union. A legacy of uniting the disparate tribes of Scandinavia into one clan is borne by the man who walks two worlds.
He steps to the tree stump, wrenches the axe free, and takes a seat. He admires the weapon, still bloody, still razor sharp from the work done by master Norse craftsmen. After a brief moment he turns and looks straight into the camera.
“This axe was used in an attempt on my life. This attempt was carried out by one of the few men I could have at one point in time called my friend. In fact even after the events which transpired, perhaps I could not call him my enemy. Ødelagte was not challenging my body when he broke down my door, rather, he dared me to stand firm by my convictions and prove in battle that the vision I have for our people’s shared destiny is the only legitimate path to our survival. You see, in our culture, we settle the most pressing issues not through ‘civil debate’ or rigged elections because those methods do not reflect the society in which we thrived. In reality, we in fact, did not live in a society. We lived in nomadic warrior tribes, fighting for survival and scavenging the wilderness for gifts from the Great Mother. Therefore, when serious questions arise on how our people are to succeed, we settle these disputes in battle.”
Dagvald softly drags his thumb from the top of the blade to the bottom. It does not pierce the heavily calloused digit, but the dried blood is easily attracted to the grooves and pits of his Aryan fingerprint. “This blood is my own. It is also that of a raven. My former cellmate sacrificed a raven to gain the good graces of the gods in combat, for he did not realize I am the Chosen One. I bear the favor or the Allfather and channel his spirit within me. When my blood infused with that of the fallen brother of Odin, I felt an infusion of Veisir strength. I proved myself to be the only one with the wisdom sufficient to guide the Norse people out of slavery and into prosperity once again. And yet…”
The Risen Phoenix flips the axe and catches it with his right hand. He points it at the camera while expressing a stern stare in his blue eyes which dwell behind the iron helmet. “And yet… well, what I was about to say would probably come off extremely cliche. And why not? How many combatants have confidently and dismissively questioned how their opponent thinks they can dare stand in their way? But in reality, that doesn’t apply here, does it, Orville?” Dagvald contemptuously hacks up and spits out the ridiculous name of his Clash contender. He lets the axe fall to his side and dismissively rattles off the rest of his spiel.
“The absurdity of the caricature of a man which I have been booked against is nothing short of utterly disrespectful. That’s just it, isn’t it? You, deep down, know you cannot oppose the might I wield. That is, if a simpleton like you are even capable of having deep thoughts. You are a surface level buffoon, and if you didn’t already know that, you wouldn’t have so obviously embraced the reputation which precedes you. Your lunacy is so thorough you, a grown ass man, have to be watched over by your brother. Who, may I point out, looks like an edgy DoodleBob.
“When I’m through making another example out of you, Orville, you’ll be seeing more colors than you have on your cliche hat. You may not have chosen to be booked against me, but by showing up and fighting against me, you will be digging your own grave. You should know that my fight is just, based on how the populace at large perceive your recklessly offensive speech. Your self imposed role as a man of the under appreciated, the underdog, the goofy innocent will not survive the court of public opinion. As you continue to turn people against you while your naïve words are taken out of context and twisted into pretzels, you will learn that it was I who was right all along.”
Dag stands, heaves up the axe and slings it over his shoulder. He turns from the camera back to the tree stump. He looks down at the heavy wound inflicted by his tool of destruction. “The scars of man on the once nameless wilderness.” He ponders intently the impact he has left on the natural world for a moment. He returns his faraway stare back to the camera and mutters, “Your fear is like the forest. I can smell it in the air like a summer breeze. I can see your skin stiffen like bark when I approach. The pheasant feels the hunter near.”
Dag takes a step toward the camera. “Will you take to the wing in flight?”
Another step. “Will you outstretch your branches and stand tall against the mighty winds of change?”
Another step. “Will your trunk buckle beneath the pressure as your whole world comes crashing down around you?”
The scavenger inhales a deep, exfoliating breath, cleansing the furthest reaches of his heavy lungs. He whirls around and plunges the axe ever deeper into the rotting stump. He absorbs the impact shock and kickstands himself with the axe. His forward momentum is transferred directly into his target as it shatters into dust. Splinters clamber against his iron armor, and the very earth quivers beneath his feet. The sound of the impact roars like thunder, echoing across the rolling Allegheny hills. The phone’s camera, however, does not record this, for it cannot chronicle the visions inside The Prophesied One’s head.
He tries to free the dual purpose weapon from its resting place, but finds it too firmly entrenched. He tries to let go of the axe, but finds his hands are melded to the wooden handle. He tries to move, but his legs are now great roots uniting him with the ground under his feet. In a moment wherein he is both at peace with nature and frozen with fear, the whisper willed by the wisp breezes into his ears like the open portal of a beehive buzzing with monotonous labor.
“To see the world with diamond eyes, you must decide for yourself whether you shall address it with a tongue of silver or iron.” The soft spoken hush is quiet yet crystal clear. “There are those who are willing to listen, and those who only understand the language of the sword. I have for those who will hear it, a message, and for those who will not, a warning.”
Dagvald watches as the blackened evening sky transitions to a sickly grey. From this gloomy aura arises a sun, but not our sun. This is a new star, burning more intensely than anything our glowing orb has ever achieved. It does not displace the moon still hanging delicately in the sky. As the new sun approaches, the moon melts away into oblivion. The fire of the star rages so furiously, the oxygen is snuffed away from the fire pit in Dag’s compound, and somehow, he is plunged into a voracious darkness. In the consuming shadow, he hears the voice return to solemnly threaten, “the old fires of purification shall be made to look as dying embers.”
Isabella Davidsdottir is sat leaning against an electric guitar amp, painstakingly restringing her favorite Gibson axe. Her little fingers are well suited to slip between the thin steel coils, but under equipped to force them into place. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and goes in for one final attempt. With great effort she manages to sling the last stubborn wire into place, but not without slicing her ring finger open.
“Fuck!” She whimpers, as droplets of blood pour onto the black neck of her guitar. She quickly throws her injured fingertip into her mouth and tries to slow the bleeding. The sensation is bizarre, as she feels the warm liquid ooze onto her tongue and slide down her throat. Is this what it’s like for a wolf who catches a rabbit and devours its raw flesh? She takes her finger back out and wraps it up in the lowest fabric of her dress- only to realize what she’s doing, panic, and unravel it, looking with fear for the stain which must now be on her favorite stage get-up.
“Fuck!” She exclaims to herself again, exasperated. The stain is nothing serious, hardly noticeable in fact. But the surface level cut on her finger is still leaking precious cells. She knows her hemophilia is the culprit, and suddenly remembers she packed band-aids for this exact reason. She leans her guitar against the amp and stands up. As she tries to rush to her luggage bag, her long black silk dress catches on the unclipped tip of the new guitar string and her momentum drags the guitar to the ground. It tugs at her before it hits the ground, throwing her off balance and ripping her dress in the process.
“FUCK!” She cries as she steadies herself against the open equipment closet door. She cannot bear to inspect the damage done to her clothing after hearing the soft tear, but she must. A long tear runs straight up the side of her gown from her knees to her hips. Her prized possession, the crucial part of her character, is now useless. She feels it between her fingertips, the soft fabric so comforting to touch in this difficult moment. She can feel the warm, stuffy air caressing her long, limber legs and wrapping around her hips. She will have to slip out of it and perform in blue jeans and t-shirt.
Or is there another way to save this? The gentle kiss of oxygen on her skin gives her an idea borne out of desperation. An idea also bred from the memories of a past lover from her fiery youthful years. She hasn’t had the confidence to dress that immodestly since the one she loved was stolen from her, but tonight, she may have only one chance to save not only her show, but her self confidence. She grabs both the box of bandaids and the guitar string clippers and heads to her dressing room.
The overhead piss-yellow lightbulbs above the old ballroom finally go dim. One by one, the cell phones in the audience turn black. A spotlight illuminates the microphone stand center stage in a purple glow, and Izzy struts out, long ballgown style cuts climbing up the side of her dress. She feels like the world is staring at her and her exposed skin. The onlookers reward her with her best reception she can remember.
The camera pans out, revealing more of the glade. A moment later, the barbarian who caused the disturbance of the peace marches into view. He is clad in armor passed down through generations from one warrior to another, forebear to offspring, over a millenia and more. The scars of ten thousand clashes are evident in the cracked and broken iron chain links. The battle helmet adorning his golden blonde haired head is said to have been worn first by Herald Hardrada, Emperor of the North Sea Empire, then by Eric III, the first King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, better known as the Kalmar Union. A legacy of uniting the disparate tribes of Scandinavia into one clan is borne by the man who walks two worlds.
He steps to the tree stump, wrenches the axe free, and takes a seat. He admires the weapon, still bloody, still razor sharp from the work done by master Norse craftsmen. After a brief moment he turns and looks straight into the camera.
“This axe was used in an attempt on my life. This attempt was carried out by one of the few men I could have at one point in time called my friend. In fact even after the events which transpired, perhaps I could not call him my enemy. Ødelagte was not challenging my body when he broke down my door, rather, he dared me to stand firm by my convictions and prove in battle that the vision I have for our people’s shared destiny is the only legitimate path to our survival. You see, in our culture, we settle the most pressing issues not through ‘civil debate’ or rigged elections because those methods do not reflect the society in which we thrived. In reality, we in fact, did not live in a society. We lived in nomadic warrior tribes, fighting for survival and scavenging the wilderness for gifts from the Great Mother. Therefore, when serious questions arise on how our people are to succeed, we settle these disputes in battle.”
Dagvald softly drags his thumb from the top of the blade to the bottom. It does not pierce the heavily calloused digit, but the dried blood is easily attracted to the grooves and pits of his Aryan fingerprint. “This blood is my own. It is also that of a raven. My former cellmate sacrificed a raven to gain the good graces of the gods in combat, for he did not realize I am the Chosen One. I bear the favor or the Allfather and channel his spirit within me. When my blood infused with that of the fallen brother of Odin, I felt an infusion of Veisir strength. I proved myself to be the only one with the wisdom sufficient to guide the Norse people out of slavery and into prosperity once again. And yet…”
The Risen Phoenix flips the axe and catches it with his right hand. He points it at the camera while expressing a stern stare in his blue eyes which dwell behind the iron helmet. “And yet… well, what I was about to say would probably come off extremely cliche. And why not? How many combatants have confidently and dismissively questioned how their opponent thinks they can dare stand in their way? But in reality, that doesn’t apply here, does it, Orville?” Dagvald contemptuously hacks up and spits out the ridiculous name of his Clash contender. He lets the axe fall to his side and dismissively rattles off the rest of his spiel.
“The absurdity of the caricature of a man which I have been booked against is nothing short of utterly disrespectful. That’s just it, isn’t it? You, deep down, know you cannot oppose the might I wield. That is, if a simpleton like you are even capable of having deep thoughts. You are a surface level buffoon, and if you didn’t already know that, you wouldn’t have so obviously embraced the reputation which precedes you. Your lunacy is so thorough you, a grown ass man, have to be watched over by your brother. Who, may I point out, looks like an edgy DoodleBob.
“When I’m through making another example out of you, Orville, you’ll be seeing more colors than you have on your cliche hat. You may not have chosen to be booked against me, but by showing up and fighting against me, you will be digging your own grave. You should know that my fight is just, based on how the populace at large perceive your recklessly offensive speech. Your self imposed role as a man of the under appreciated, the underdog, the goofy innocent will not survive the court of public opinion. As you continue to turn people against you while your naïve words are taken out of context and twisted into pretzels, you will learn that it was I who was right all along.”
Dag stands, heaves up the axe and slings it over his shoulder. He turns from the camera back to the tree stump. He looks down at the heavy wound inflicted by his tool of destruction. “The scars of man on the once nameless wilderness.” He ponders intently the impact he has left on the natural world for a moment. He returns his faraway stare back to the camera and mutters, “Your fear is like the forest. I can smell it in the air like a summer breeze. I can see your skin stiffen like bark when I approach. The pheasant feels the hunter near.”
Dag takes a step toward the camera. “Will you take to the wing in flight?”
Another step. “Will you outstretch your branches and stand tall against the mighty winds of change?”
Another step. “Will your trunk buckle beneath the pressure as your whole world comes crashing down around you?”
The scavenger inhales a deep, exfoliating breath, cleansing the furthest reaches of his heavy lungs. He whirls around and plunges the axe ever deeper into the rotting stump. He absorbs the impact shock and kickstands himself with the axe. His forward momentum is transferred directly into his target as it shatters into dust. Splinters clamber against his iron armor, and the very earth quivers beneath his feet. The sound of the impact roars like thunder, echoing across the rolling Allegheny hills. The phone’s camera, however, does not record this, for it cannot chronicle the visions inside The Prophesied One’s head.
He tries to free the dual purpose weapon from its resting place, but finds it too firmly entrenched. He tries to let go of the axe, but finds his hands are melded to the wooden handle. He tries to move, but his legs are now great roots uniting him with the ground under his feet. In a moment wherein he is both at peace with nature and frozen with fear, the whisper willed by the wisp breezes into his ears like the open portal of a beehive buzzing with monotonous labor.
“To see the world with diamond eyes, you must decide for yourself whether you shall address it with a tongue of silver or iron.” The soft spoken hush is quiet yet crystal clear. “There are those who are willing to listen, and those who only understand the language of the sword. I have for those who will hear it, a message, and for those who will not, a warning.”
Dagvald watches as the blackened evening sky transitions to a sickly grey. From this gloomy aura arises a sun, but not our sun. This is a new star, burning more intensely than anything our glowing orb has ever achieved. It does not displace the moon still hanging delicately in the sky. As the new sun approaches, the moon melts away into oblivion. The fire of the star rages so furiously, the oxygen is snuffed away from the fire pit in Dag’s compound, and somehow, he is plunged into a voracious darkness. In the consuming shadow, he hears the voice return to solemnly threaten, “the old fires of purification shall be made to look as dying embers.”
Location: Philadelphia, PA
Time: Evening
Isabella Davidsdottir is sat leaning against an electric guitar amp, painstakingly restringing her favorite Gibson axe. Her little fingers are well suited to slip between the thin steel coils, but under equipped to force them into place. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and goes in for one final attempt. With great effort she manages to sling the last stubborn wire into place, but not without slicing her ring finger open.
“Fuck!” She whimpers, as droplets of blood pour onto the black neck of her guitar. She quickly throws her injured fingertip into her mouth and tries to slow the bleeding. The sensation is bizarre, as she feels the warm liquid ooze onto her tongue and slide down her throat. Is this what it’s like for a wolf who catches a rabbit and devours its raw flesh? She takes her finger back out and wraps it up in the lowest fabric of her dress- only to realize what she’s doing, panic, and unravel it, looking with fear for the stain which must now be on her favorite stage get-up.
“Fuck!” She exclaims to herself again, exasperated. The stain is nothing serious, hardly noticeable in fact. But the surface level cut on her finger is still leaking precious cells. She knows her hemophilia is the culprit, and suddenly remembers she packed band-aids for this exact reason. She leans her guitar against the amp and stands up. As she tries to rush to her luggage bag, her long black silk dress catches on the unclipped tip of the new guitar string and her momentum drags the guitar to the ground. It tugs at her before it hits the ground, throwing her off balance and ripping her dress in the process.
“FUCK!” She cries as she steadies herself against the open equipment closet door. She cannot bear to inspect the damage done to her clothing after hearing the soft tear, but she must. A long tear runs straight up the side of her gown from her knees to her hips. Her prized possession, the crucial part of her character, is now useless. She feels it between her fingertips, the soft fabric so comforting to touch in this difficult moment. She can feel the warm, stuffy air caressing her long, limber legs and wrapping around her hips. She will have to slip out of it and perform in blue jeans and t-shirt.
Or is there another way to save this? The gentle kiss of oxygen on her skin gives her an idea borne out of desperation. An idea also bred from the memories of a past lover from her fiery youthful years. She hasn’t had the confidence to dress that immodestly since the one she loved was stolen from her, but tonight, she may have only one chance to save not only her show, but her self confidence. She grabs both the box of bandaids and the guitar string clippers and heads to her dressing room.
***
The overhead piss-yellow lightbulbs above the old ballroom finally go dim. One by one, the cell phones in the audience turn black. A spotlight illuminates the microphone stand center stage in a purple glow, and Izzy struts out, long ballgown style cuts climbing up the side of her dress. She feels like the world is staring at her and her exposed skin. The onlookers reward her with her best reception she can remember.