Post by Dagvald Riddik on Feb 2, 2020 5:59:15 GMT -5
Dawn cracks the sky. Shattered remnants of the horizon erupt into golden orange flames. The shades and hues of the sun flow freely in glorious orgasm. The third rock is bathed spectacularly in natural light fit to summon the gods. And summon it does. Stirring from a deep slumber is the Reignited One. Dagvald Riddik has completed his Vision Quest, and the path to his future lies wide open and paved in gold before him. The golden leaf enshrining the stones from which the masonry of destiny’s roads are paved are indeed lined with good intentions. Lest no one forget, every villain is a hero in his own story.
The nightmare of fire consuming his very soul is now revealed to have been nothing but. Despite this revelation, he is not infused with some strange new respect for the mystery of life. Instead, a burning rage fueled by the warmth of the new day’s light liquidates his thoughts until nothing is left but an overwhelming lust for destruction. He feels a mechanical drive to eradicate the world around him, the world which harbors those who tortured him in such inhuman manner, the world which allowed him… to exist.
He tries to pinpoint targets for his rage, to identify upon whom he should channel this devastating energy, but he finds he cannot pick out a singular name or face from the whirling mass of hatred which hurls itself cyclonically through his mind. Rotating before his inner eyes are blurred faces and incoherent thoughts begging to be deciphered, but impossible to be so. He tries, and tries in vain, and keeps trying, until his mental capacity reaches its absolute limit, and under the strain he collapses, stricken by a migraine equivalent to having his brain split open to depths which rival the Grand Canyon. He lies there, again passing in and out of consciousness, spluttering nonsensical half phrases.
The face of Christ, eyes eternally open, staring in agony, beholds the suffering of His child. Though he was born from the spirit of the Allfather, he shares the divine spark of all deities. Christ spurns the rejection emanating from he who has been forsaken and who has forsaken Him. He wills the salvation of all His children. God’s Will be done.
The humble wooden doors groan as they are pushed asunder by a gentle priest. His weary head weighs heavy in his old age, and his eyes track the long planks making up the floor. The parallel lines lead him right to the resting place of our conflicted protagonist. In his elderly days, it is hard for him to hear the soft ramblings of a mad man. He bends down to offer assistance to the lone stray sheep.
“You poor man, what is the matter?” The octogenarian croons as he lifts Dag’s head off the cold floor. “You are in the Lord’s house, you have found the help you seek.”
The words spilling forth from Dag’s mouth slowly coalesce into one. “H-help? Help…!” He coughs, retching, and retorts, “I need…” he stops himself short of outright rejecting the assistance as he instinctively would. “I need… to know what day… is it?”
The priest gently helps Dag to sit up more on his own. “My friend, today is Sunday, of course. The Lord’s day. Do you fear you have been here long?”
The hazy eyes which have seen the All Sight turn to confusion, and then shock. “That’s… that’s impossible. I remember… today marks New Year’s, which is Wednesday.”
Now it is the priest’s turn to render confusion in his experienced eyes. “Today, New Year’s Day? I’m afraid you’re five days late, my friend. But if you truly have been here since the first, that may explain why you look so frail. Come, let me-“
“Frail!” Dagvald interjects. “I am not frail! I am the Chosen One, hand picked by the gods for my strength and resilience.”
“The chosen one… yes, I suppose we all have our reasons. Well, I didn't mean to insult you, sir, I only mean to help, if you’ll let me. You look like you could use a meal. I would be more than happy to offer what I can.”
The possibility is striking to Dagvald. Near comatose, for five days? Is it even possible to live that long without food? He supposes it must be, considering he’s here, alive… as far as he can tell. What’s to say this isn’t just another hallucination, or is he still stuck in the dream world? “My world is crumbling before my eyes, and I’m not even sure they’re open,” he stammers under his breath. He turns to the increasingly confused priest, and sits the rest of the way up. “I appreciate the offer, but I can feed myself, thank you.”
Before the holy elder can reply, he adds, “I did not come here seeking guidance from your Christ. I find within myself the divinity which drives me forward. Though, I do appreciate your brotherly kinship, aryan.” He pats the blue eyed man on the shoulder before helping himself to his feet. With not only a little stiffness and discomfort, he walks gingerly to the doors.
As he does, he hears the man of pure lineage offer, “my congregation will be here very soon, I shall ask of them a prayer in your name, for your recovery. I sincerely wish you the best, in God’s name and Grace.”
Dag stops, and takes in the misguided one’s words. He very slightly cocks his head and thinks about the implications. He says softly, “I am beyond the waters of the great blue sky. My destiny lies in the fires below.” He pushes open the mahogany doors, steps out, and lets them slam behind him.
He reaches in the baggy pockets of his trousers, torn from the thorns he meandered through. A small jar of black viscous liquid and a miniscule paper box are all he pulls out, but they will perform exactly as he asks of them. The light as though of subterranean dawn cracks the ground at his feet. Cleansing fire shall purify this tumor on the sacred mother. In the dancing flames, the cracking embers, and falling ash, he swears he sees Her. Pieces of the puzzle begin to come together in her eyes, and his next steps suddenly become clear.
Location: The Compound
Time: Several Hours Elapsed
Dagvald groggily brushes aside the final batch of hibernating branches obfuscating his woodland shack from the view of passersby. He pulls the key out of his pocket and unlocks the battered door, careful to swing it open without ripping it off the frail hinges. The axe marks are still visible in the timbers. The pile of dirt still rests nearby.
A flurry, and a flash!
Tackled!
Only his loyal hound Beowulf.
“My boy… my beast!” Dag pleasantly stutters between brushing aside the dog’s lapping tongue from his mouth. He steadies himself against the wall and guides his guard dog gently back to all fours. “You must be starving. Well, that makes two of us. Luckily, there is much to celebrate. Thus, a feast is in order!”
He opens the ice chest and pulls out a large wild turkey his hunter caught the day before he set off. Already skinned and prepped for cooking, he had prepared for this moment, even if he didn’t expect it to be quite so far off. He does, however, need something to ease the stomach pains now while he waits for the turkey to cook. He goes to open the pantry, and-
Wrong door. Instead of the bread and other dried goods he sought, he finds remnants of his now cloudy recent past. Mounted on hooks and sitting on shelves in this closet are a bloody sword, cracked shield, and Viking themed wrestling gear.
“It seems I can never truly exit the path I set myself upon.” The most plausible description of the enigmatic expression on the former Riot Star Wrestling Legacy Champion is stoic disappointment. “I may have done great things in these garments, but alas, I am cursed, or blessed, to forego proper memory of those feats. I remember victory, the highest of blessings. I am stained by the ink of defeat, the vilest of foulery. Despite this, I feel within myself,” he takes a long, deep sigh, “a calling.”
Location: Amtrak’s Eastbound Pennsyvlanian
Time: Roughly 8 AM
The tattooed runes denoting a traveler, lover, and dreamer skitter about the keys of the laptop as the fingers bearing them create poetic mysticism in the virtual world. Once more they flitter up to flick the dangling black locks away from her eyes to avoid screen strain. She’s been up for hours now, unable to sleep, figuring she may as well try to make use of the time she’s been given.
The airhorn can be heard sounding from the front of the train, and Altoona station gradually passes out of view of the large window beside her. Traveling alone, watching the world come and go, is one of the few solaces she has in this lifestyle she’s half chosen, half been forced into. With every new show is a new venue, and a new reason, and obligation, to journey across the country. She stops typing completely for a moment to sip her coffee and enjoy the morning view.
Strangely, as the train continues further from the city limits and into the backwoods country, she swears she can see smoke rising from the forest. No, not quite the forest, but down that gravel road? Either way, it must be some hillbilly’s fire pit. She can’t be sure if they have left it going all night when they all passed out from drunkenness, or if they’re already beginning a new cycle of intoxication and fire fazing. She returns to working on the lyrics for songs slated to feature on her next album. Most of this will be scrapped, rewritten, finalized, then left off the album anyway. Despite what the typical music industry sheeple would suggest, the lyrics, meaning, continuity and consistency behind black metal songs does actually matter. At least to her. Even if she plays to crowds of a half dozen cell phone lights, if she counts the people just there to get a beer.
She takes another swig of coffee, but it goes down too fast and burns her already sore throat. An equivalent to self flagellation is a ritualistic catharsis part and parcel of her trade. Her ornate bracelet covers the scars, though they are from long, long ago. Music is her necessary outlet. Whether anyone else appreciates it or not, it is what she has to do in order to maintain her sanity. She sometimes wonders if it is only a temporary solution.
She can’t help but question her lucidity because of the influx of caffeine and lack of sleep and proper breakfast. Was that a siren? Or, two? A fire truck siren, at that? It wails solemnly into the distance, only growing fainter and fainter still. As she continues onward, the fire joins the other inferno of her past.
The nightmare of fire consuming his very soul is now revealed to have been nothing but. Despite this revelation, he is not infused with some strange new respect for the mystery of life. Instead, a burning rage fueled by the warmth of the new day’s light liquidates his thoughts until nothing is left but an overwhelming lust for destruction. He feels a mechanical drive to eradicate the world around him, the world which harbors those who tortured him in such inhuman manner, the world which allowed him… to exist.
He tries to pinpoint targets for his rage, to identify upon whom he should channel this devastating energy, but he finds he cannot pick out a singular name or face from the whirling mass of hatred which hurls itself cyclonically through his mind. Rotating before his inner eyes are blurred faces and incoherent thoughts begging to be deciphered, but impossible to be so. He tries, and tries in vain, and keeps trying, until his mental capacity reaches its absolute limit, and under the strain he collapses, stricken by a migraine equivalent to having his brain split open to depths which rival the Grand Canyon. He lies there, again passing in and out of consciousness, spluttering nonsensical half phrases.
The face of Christ, eyes eternally open, staring in agony, beholds the suffering of His child. Though he was born from the spirit of the Allfather, he shares the divine spark of all deities. Christ spurns the rejection emanating from he who has been forsaken and who has forsaken Him. He wills the salvation of all His children. God’s Will be done.
The humble wooden doors groan as they are pushed asunder by a gentle priest. His weary head weighs heavy in his old age, and his eyes track the long planks making up the floor. The parallel lines lead him right to the resting place of our conflicted protagonist. In his elderly days, it is hard for him to hear the soft ramblings of a mad man. He bends down to offer assistance to the lone stray sheep.
“You poor man, what is the matter?” The octogenarian croons as he lifts Dag’s head off the cold floor. “You are in the Lord’s house, you have found the help you seek.”
The words spilling forth from Dag’s mouth slowly coalesce into one. “H-help? Help…!” He coughs, retching, and retorts, “I need…” he stops himself short of outright rejecting the assistance as he instinctively would. “I need… to know what day… is it?”
The priest gently helps Dag to sit up more on his own. “My friend, today is Sunday, of course. The Lord’s day. Do you fear you have been here long?”
The hazy eyes which have seen the All Sight turn to confusion, and then shock. “That’s… that’s impossible. I remember… today marks New Year’s, which is Wednesday.”
Now it is the priest’s turn to render confusion in his experienced eyes. “Today, New Year’s Day? I’m afraid you’re five days late, my friend. But if you truly have been here since the first, that may explain why you look so frail. Come, let me-“
“Frail!” Dagvald interjects. “I am not frail! I am the Chosen One, hand picked by the gods for my strength and resilience.”
“The chosen one… yes, I suppose we all have our reasons. Well, I didn't mean to insult you, sir, I only mean to help, if you’ll let me. You look like you could use a meal. I would be more than happy to offer what I can.”
The possibility is striking to Dagvald. Near comatose, for five days? Is it even possible to live that long without food? He supposes it must be, considering he’s here, alive… as far as he can tell. What’s to say this isn’t just another hallucination, or is he still stuck in the dream world? “My world is crumbling before my eyes, and I’m not even sure they’re open,” he stammers under his breath. He turns to the increasingly confused priest, and sits the rest of the way up. “I appreciate the offer, but I can feed myself, thank you.”
Before the holy elder can reply, he adds, “I did not come here seeking guidance from your Christ. I find within myself the divinity which drives me forward. Though, I do appreciate your brotherly kinship, aryan.” He pats the blue eyed man on the shoulder before helping himself to his feet. With not only a little stiffness and discomfort, he walks gingerly to the doors.
As he does, he hears the man of pure lineage offer, “my congregation will be here very soon, I shall ask of them a prayer in your name, for your recovery. I sincerely wish you the best, in God’s name and Grace.”
Dag stops, and takes in the misguided one’s words. He very slightly cocks his head and thinks about the implications. He says softly, “I am beyond the waters of the great blue sky. My destiny lies in the fires below.” He pushes open the mahogany doors, steps out, and lets them slam behind him.
He reaches in the baggy pockets of his trousers, torn from the thorns he meandered through. A small jar of black viscous liquid and a miniscule paper box are all he pulls out, but they will perform exactly as he asks of them. The light as though of subterranean dawn cracks the ground at his feet. Cleansing fire shall purify this tumor on the sacred mother. In the dancing flames, the cracking embers, and falling ash, he swears he sees Her. Pieces of the puzzle begin to come together in her eyes, and his next steps suddenly become clear.
Location: The Compound
Time: Several Hours Elapsed
Dagvald groggily brushes aside the final batch of hibernating branches obfuscating his woodland shack from the view of passersby. He pulls the key out of his pocket and unlocks the battered door, careful to swing it open without ripping it off the frail hinges. The axe marks are still visible in the timbers. The pile of dirt still rests nearby.
A flurry, and a flash!
Tackled!
Only his loyal hound Beowulf.
“My boy… my beast!” Dag pleasantly stutters between brushing aside the dog’s lapping tongue from his mouth. He steadies himself against the wall and guides his guard dog gently back to all fours. “You must be starving. Well, that makes two of us. Luckily, there is much to celebrate. Thus, a feast is in order!”
He opens the ice chest and pulls out a large wild turkey his hunter caught the day before he set off. Already skinned and prepped for cooking, he had prepared for this moment, even if he didn’t expect it to be quite so far off. He does, however, need something to ease the stomach pains now while he waits for the turkey to cook. He goes to open the pantry, and-
Wrong door. Instead of the bread and other dried goods he sought, he finds remnants of his now cloudy recent past. Mounted on hooks and sitting on shelves in this closet are a bloody sword, cracked shield, and Viking themed wrestling gear.
“It seems I can never truly exit the path I set myself upon.” The most plausible description of the enigmatic expression on the former Riot Star Wrestling Legacy Champion is stoic disappointment. “I may have done great things in these garments, but alas, I am cursed, or blessed, to forego proper memory of those feats. I remember victory, the highest of blessings. I am stained by the ink of defeat, the vilest of foulery. Despite this, I feel within myself,” he takes a long, deep sigh, “a calling.”
Location: Amtrak’s Eastbound Pennsyvlanian
Time: Roughly 8 AM
The tattooed runes denoting a traveler, lover, and dreamer skitter about the keys of the laptop as the fingers bearing them create poetic mysticism in the virtual world. Once more they flitter up to flick the dangling black locks away from her eyes to avoid screen strain. She’s been up for hours now, unable to sleep, figuring she may as well try to make use of the time she’s been given.
The airhorn can be heard sounding from the front of the train, and Altoona station gradually passes out of view of the large window beside her. Traveling alone, watching the world come and go, is one of the few solaces she has in this lifestyle she’s half chosen, half been forced into. With every new show is a new venue, and a new reason, and obligation, to journey across the country. She stops typing completely for a moment to sip her coffee and enjoy the morning view.
Strangely, as the train continues further from the city limits and into the backwoods country, she swears she can see smoke rising from the forest. No, not quite the forest, but down that gravel road? Either way, it must be some hillbilly’s fire pit. She can’t be sure if they have left it going all night when they all passed out from drunkenness, or if they’re already beginning a new cycle of intoxication and fire fazing. She returns to working on the lyrics for songs slated to feature on her next album. Most of this will be scrapped, rewritten, finalized, then left off the album anyway. Despite what the typical music industry sheeple would suggest, the lyrics, meaning, continuity and consistency behind black metal songs does actually matter. At least to her. Even if she plays to crowds of a half dozen cell phone lights, if she counts the people just there to get a beer.
She takes another swig of coffee, but it goes down too fast and burns her already sore throat. An equivalent to self flagellation is a ritualistic catharsis part and parcel of her trade. Her ornate bracelet covers the scars, though they are from long, long ago. Music is her necessary outlet. Whether anyone else appreciates it or not, it is what she has to do in order to maintain her sanity. She sometimes wonders if it is only a temporary solution.
She can’t help but question her lucidity because of the influx of caffeine and lack of sleep and proper breakfast. Was that a siren? Or, two? A fire truck siren, at that? It wails solemnly into the distance, only growing fainter and fainter still. As she continues onward, the fire joins the other inferno of her past.