Post by Dagvald Riddik on Apr 10, 2020 11:40:31 GMT -5
A low growl intercepts the serenity. Dag takes no notice and continues to tear and shred into his turkey leg, courtesy of his loyal hound at his feet. Wait- Beowulf’s warmth, noticeable even over the flames of his firepit, is suddenly ubiquitously absent from the toes of his boots. He looks around the wild outgrowth and spots his dragon slayer on the border where his glade meets the thicket. The patchwork pelted hunter emits another feral growl, eyes and muzzle deadlocked on a scarcely traceable outline. At the threat of yet another invader, Dag leaps to his feet. He calls out to Beowulf to remain steadfast in place, not wanting his only loyal companion to charge headfirst into serious injury yet again. He unsheathes his axe and skulks toward the woodline.
Beowulf’s attention is unexpectedly drawn away from the shadowy figure and towards his own master. He sniffs at the axe and growls again. He steps back away from Dagvald, looks toward the intruder and roars a succession of thunderous barks. As Dag tries to understand what the issue is, the shrouded entity emerges at last into the revealing light of the moon and fire.
Instead of an armored warrior, the figure which Dagvald beholds is a rotting, withering abomination unlike any aberration of nature he’s thus been subjected to his most nightmarish visions. He watches pus filled cysts of skin erode and fall off the black mass of muscles in real time. It opens its decaying mouth to utter in a hauntingly familiar Norwegian voice, “We meet again... Daggy Boy.”
Beowulf erupts into a ravenous fury of enraged bellows at Ødelagte, the man who almost slayed him over a year prior. His sense of smell had identified this fallen warrior from the still lingering scent left on the axe. Dag steadies himself for another round of combat with his ideologically heretical foe.
“The time for words is long over, heathen,” he mutters. “We’ve settled this dispute already, but if you have come from the Pit of the Damned to avenge yourself, I have no right to deny your doomed attempt at redemption!” With a roar of his own, he charges forward, axe high in the air, and slashes the ancient blade ruthlessly into the already crumbling body of his supernatural foe. It ruptures a massive artery right at the base of the neck and shoulder, causing black blood to pour out like the Göta älv river. In an instant, his would-be assailant is gone.
In the wake of the vanished spirit, Dag takes a deep breath and reaches for Beowulf. THWACK! An unexpected blunt force strike to the back of his skull sends him crashing face first into the forest floor. He feels a boot grind into the small of his back, then the rush of air as Beowulf leaps over him and tackles whatever assaulted him.. He swings himself over and sees the same undead incarnation of Ødelagte wrestling with his hound. He scurries to his feet and charges again, but this time the spirit doesn’t bother trying to mask his powers, and teleports out of harm’s way long before Dag connects with his axe.
“How misguided are you to believe you can kill that which is already dead?” The shrill whisper echoes throughout the Allegheny hills. “Perhaps you have forgotten the tales your ancestors told; the tales of the Draugr! I’ve been watching you ever since you murdered me, Dagvald Riddik, and I’ve learned a lot about you. The fate of our people rests in your hands, and what fickle hands they are. You obsess over these meaningless distractions, your lost lover, your wrestling career, and what do you think you stand to gain from such nonsense while our people continue to be enslaved?”
Dag looks around frantically, but he cannot find where Ødelagte has manifested what’s left of his body. “My destiny is that of the Nordic people, thus wherever I am guided by the will of the gods is the path toward our liberation! By waging combat upon the weak embodiments of this corrupt society, I show the world the true light of NeoNordicism!”
A devilish snicker rings through the hollow. “I suppose that would make sense, if your ideology wasn’t built upon you making claims you can’t back up. You want to proclaim yourself the most hardcore, yet you don’t even have the hardcore championship? Farce!”
“And you don’t have your mortality,” Dag retorts, “I wonder why!”
“I have IMMORTALITY! You tried to kill me, and your curse became a blessing! Just like everything else you’ve done, it blew up in your face! You are a failure who has never and shall never achieve your so-called destiny! You cannot even defeat the self-proclaimed gods in your little wrestling hobby, so how DARE you believe you could stand toe to toe with the Norse Pantheon!”
“You- you’re not real! None of this has ever been real… I’ve been a fool, that fire corroded my mind and none of this is real!”
“Not real? If only it were that easy, Dagvald! Why can’t I be real? Why can’t your prophecy be real? The most successful wrestler to ever compete is an Italian immigrant from New York who was chosen by Aliens and can freeze time! His former friend and his brother are both immortal! Your opponent this week can turn bloody invisible! What makes your visions so unreal? The reality of the situation is, I’m going to be here, haunting your every move, undermining your every decision, until you get this shit through your thick skull and the Nordic people are set free at last to live as our glorious ancestors did so long ago!”
“Alex Richards, I welcome you, King of Mass Confusion, a fellow monarch wielding power over the supernatural, to my own Realm of Confusion. Long before I knew your name, I was damned to suffer the eternal punishment lodged in my psyche by the Æsir as retribution for my overzealous pride. It is my destiny to ascend to the Pantheon and take my place amongst their ranks, but they are jealous gods indeed, and I must endure unimaginable suffering the likes of which you cannot even begin to fathom.”
A stream of glowing sludge descends from above Dagvald and sizzles upon making contact with his head, burning his bare skin.
“Aaaggh, for fuck’s sake woman, get back here! Richards, do you see me? Is this real, will anyone see this? I have no fucking idea, but my pain is real, I promise you that! I endure pain beyond that which any mortal can fathom, and you think you can defeat me in combat? I have been damned by the Norse gods because they see me as a threat. Here I am, restrained beneath the gaping maw of a serpent as it salivates toxic acid upon my flesh, facing the same sentence as Loki, and you dare envision yourself, a mere mortal, as capable of dealing the crushing final blow which renders me slain?”
Light footsteps scurry across the barren rock floor of the towering cavern. Isabella returns to her husband’s side, holding aloft a large dish to collect the poison and save her lover from the pain.
“Richards, let it be known, my demigod soul is not the only advantage I have over you. Here to sacrifice her autonomy to minimize my suffering is my dearest Isabella. She is the most loyal ally anyone could ever wish for, and even in her physical absence, she’s been here with me through my Vision Quests since the day we were separated. Who can you point to that has done the same for you? It’s amazing I can point that out, considering throughout the vast majority of your life, you’ve been second fiddle to bigger stars than yourself. That’s especially true in AW, where you were sucked into the Guardians where you could live out your madman fantasies and let them cover for any fuckups you would have otherwise eaten shit for.
“But that got old with them after a while, didn’t it? Where are your Guardians now? You betrayed your good nature, you betrayed your friends when you hitched your wagon to Dandy Divito and tried to be the monster you always thought you could be. Week after week you did Dandy’s dirty work, allowing him to take the spotlight and the most treasured prizes in this gladiator sport, and what do you have to show for it? Are the bruises still there, Alex? If your wounds from XIII have healed, well, I’m afraid it was all for nothing.
“But I suppose that’s not entirely true, is it? After all, you, Two-Time Hall of Famer, Number One Contender for the World Title, one time Joey Flash murker Alex Richards is set to get his revenge on Dandy Divito in the main event of Evolution III. So, is that how this works? You went along with Dandy’s braindead idea to go on strike, which by some miracle worked out for him but utterly shafted you into oblivion, and now Camila has a change of heart and names you number one contender? I suppose you really are the fuckin’ King of Mass Confusion, because the audience is pretty fuckin’ bewildered right now.
“Look at your record, Richards. Calling that hulk of revolting sludge a potential world champion is like calling a steaming regurgitated mass of putrid, stinking, maggot infested garbage a steak dinner. Sure, there’s some bits and pieces which are occasionally reminiscent of what it once was, but that only serves to render it all the more repulsive. You’ve had some huge highlights in your career, but you haven’t earned this shot. You lost to Dandy Divito already yet somehow you’ve been given an opportunity to have a storybook ending where you manage to save face after Dandy played you like a fucking fiddle for months?
“Let me break down exactly what’s going on here. Because you beat Joey Flash, one of those I can count on two hands who has, you’ve been given this shot. However, the only reason this number one contendership hasn’t been given to Crow who did the exact same thing the week before you is he’s already tag team champion. Once again, you’re the second choice behind someone you called your friend. I figure you sucked Torture’s dick for this as well as you suck down that damn Zim-Quila.”
Isabella’s dish becomes full, and she rushes off to deposit the foul liquid in a safe place. Dag sees this and winces in anticipation of the impending pain. He looks up, and realizes the snake has something in its mouth.
“You son of a bitch! The fucking snake is cracking open a can of Zim-Quila! It’s been that heinous, toxic, industrial sludge dripping down on me this whole time! Listen you son of a bitch, your mind games, your state of drunken invulnerability will not be enough to save you from the wrath of a demigod! I have the wisdom of Óðinn and the strength of Þórr, and what have you? I have emerged victorious over foes from both the mortal and the undead realms! You are a model of inconsistency, and honestly the smartest thing you ever did was go on strike. It put a pause on the world realizing how unreliable and unpredictable you are.”
The vile liquid seeps onto Dag again.
“FOOL! Behold what I continuously prevail against! I face the Wrath of the Gods! What chance do you, a self proclaimed King, stand against me? I see through your vulnerabilities, you bumbling buffoon. I won’t make the same mistake Joey did, he overestimated himself, but I know my power is beyond anything you’ve encountered. Joey’s reputation got his own head, and you knew how to take advantage of it. You have no grasp of what I’m capable of! You may be the size of a jǫtunn, but I shall carry on Óðinn’s legacy as the Giant Slayer!”
Beowulf’s attention is unexpectedly drawn away from the shadowy figure and towards his own master. He sniffs at the axe and growls again. He steps back away from Dagvald, looks toward the intruder and roars a succession of thunderous barks. As Dag tries to understand what the issue is, the shrouded entity emerges at last into the revealing light of the moon and fire.
Instead of an armored warrior, the figure which Dagvald beholds is a rotting, withering abomination unlike any aberration of nature he’s thus been subjected to his most nightmarish visions. He watches pus filled cysts of skin erode and fall off the black mass of muscles in real time. It opens its decaying mouth to utter in a hauntingly familiar Norwegian voice, “We meet again... Daggy Boy.”
Beowulf erupts into a ravenous fury of enraged bellows at Ødelagte, the man who almost slayed him over a year prior. His sense of smell had identified this fallen warrior from the still lingering scent left on the axe. Dag steadies himself for another round of combat with his ideologically heretical foe.
“The time for words is long over, heathen,” he mutters. “We’ve settled this dispute already, but if you have come from the Pit of the Damned to avenge yourself, I have no right to deny your doomed attempt at redemption!” With a roar of his own, he charges forward, axe high in the air, and slashes the ancient blade ruthlessly into the already crumbling body of his supernatural foe. It ruptures a massive artery right at the base of the neck and shoulder, causing black blood to pour out like the Göta älv river. In an instant, his would-be assailant is gone.
In the wake of the vanished spirit, Dag takes a deep breath and reaches for Beowulf. THWACK! An unexpected blunt force strike to the back of his skull sends him crashing face first into the forest floor. He feels a boot grind into the small of his back, then the rush of air as Beowulf leaps over him and tackles whatever assaulted him.. He swings himself over and sees the same undead incarnation of Ødelagte wrestling with his hound. He scurries to his feet and charges again, but this time the spirit doesn’t bother trying to mask his powers, and teleports out of harm’s way long before Dag connects with his axe.
“How misguided are you to believe you can kill that which is already dead?” The shrill whisper echoes throughout the Allegheny hills. “Perhaps you have forgotten the tales your ancestors told; the tales of the Draugr! I’ve been watching you ever since you murdered me, Dagvald Riddik, and I’ve learned a lot about you. The fate of our people rests in your hands, and what fickle hands they are. You obsess over these meaningless distractions, your lost lover, your wrestling career, and what do you think you stand to gain from such nonsense while our people continue to be enslaved?”
Dag looks around frantically, but he cannot find where Ødelagte has manifested what’s left of his body. “My destiny is that of the Nordic people, thus wherever I am guided by the will of the gods is the path toward our liberation! By waging combat upon the weak embodiments of this corrupt society, I show the world the true light of NeoNordicism!”
A devilish snicker rings through the hollow. “I suppose that would make sense, if your ideology wasn’t built upon you making claims you can’t back up. You want to proclaim yourself the most hardcore, yet you don’t even have the hardcore championship? Farce!”
“And you don’t have your mortality,” Dag retorts, “I wonder why!”
“I have IMMORTALITY! You tried to kill me, and your curse became a blessing! Just like everything else you’ve done, it blew up in your face! You are a failure who has never and shall never achieve your so-called destiny! You cannot even defeat the self-proclaimed gods in your little wrestling hobby, so how DARE you believe you could stand toe to toe with the Norse Pantheon!”
“You- you’re not real! None of this has ever been real… I’ve been a fool, that fire corroded my mind and none of this is real!”
“Not real? If only it were that easy, Dagvald! Why can’t I be real? Why can’t your prophecy be real? The most successful wrestler to ever compete is an Italian immigrant from New York who was chosen by Aliens and can freeze time! His former friend and his brother are both immortal! Your opponent this week can turn bloody invisible! What makes your visions so unreal? The reality of the situation is, I’m going to be here, haunting your every move, undermining your every decision, until you get this shit through your thick skull and the Nordic people are set free at last to live as our glorious ancestors did so long ago!”
“Alex Richards, I welcome you, King of Mass Confusion, a fellow monarch wielding power over the supernatural, to my own Realm of Confusion. Long before I knew your name, I was damned to suffer the eternal punishment lodged in my psyche by the Æsir as retribution for my overzealous pride. It is my destiny to ascend to the Pantheon and take my place amongst their ranks, but they are jealous gods indeed, and I must endure unimaginable suffering the likes of which you cannot even begin to fathom.”
A stream of glowing sludge descends from above Dagvald and sizzles upon making contact with his head, burning his bare skin.
“Aaaggh, for fuck’s sake woman, get back here! Richards, do you see me? Is this real, will anyone see this? I have no fucking idea, but my pain is real, I promise you that! I endure pain beyond that which any mortal can fathom, and you think you can defeat me in combat? I have been damned by the Norse gods because they see me as a threat. Here I am, restrained beneath the gaping maw of a serpent as it salivates toxic acid upon my flesh, facing the same sentence as Loki, and you dare envision yourself, a mere mortal, as capable of dealing the crushing final blow which renders me slain?”
Light footsteps scurry across the barren rock floor of the towering cavern. Isabella returns to her husband’s side, holding aloft a large dish to collect the poison and save her lover from the pain.
“Richards, let it be known, my demigod soul is not the only advantage I have over you. Here to sacrifice her autonomy to minimize my suffering is my dearest Isabella. She is the most loyal ally anyone could ever wish for, and even in her physical absence, she’s been here with me through my Vision Quests since the day we were separated. Who can you point to that has done the same for you? It’s amazing I can point that out, considering throughout the vast majority of your life, you’ve been second fiddle to bigger stars than yourself. That’s especially true in AW, where you were sucked into the Guardians where you could live out your madman fantasies and let them cover for any fuckups you would have otherwise eaten shit for.
“But that got old with them after a while, didn’t it? Where are your Guardians now? You betrayed your good nature, you betrayed your friends when you hitched your wagon to Dandy Divito and tried to be the monster you always thought you could be. Week after week you did Dandy’s dirty work, allowing him to take the spotlight and the most treasured prizes in this gladiator sport, and what do you have to show for it? Are the bruises still there, Alex? If your wounds from XIII have healed, well, I’m afraid it was all for nothing.
“But I suppose that’s not entirely true, is it? After all, you, Two-Time Hall of Famer, Number One Contender for the World Title, one time Joey Flash murker Alex Richards is set to get his revenge on Dandy Divito in the main event of Evolution III. So, is that how this works? You went along with Dandy’s braindead idea to go on strike, which by some miracle worked out for him but utterly shafted you into oblivion, and now Camila has a change of heart and names you number one contender? I suppose you really are the fuckin’ King of Mass Confusion, because the audience is pretty fuckin’ bewildered right now.
“Look at your record, Richards. Calling that hulk of revolting sludge a potential world champion is like calling a steaming regurgitated mass of putrid, stinking, maggot infested garbage a steak dinner. Sure, there’s some bits and pieces which are occasionally reminiscent of what it once was, but that only serves to render it all the more repulsive. You’ve had some huge highlights in your career, but you haven’t earned this shot. You lost to Dandy Divito already yet somehow you’ve been given an opportunity to have a storybook ending where you manage to save face after Dandy played you like a fucking fiddle for months?
“Let me break down exactly what’s going on here. Because you beat Joey Flash, one of those I can count on two hands who has, you’ve been given this shot. However, the only reason this number one contendership hasn’t been given to Crow who did the exact same thing the week before you is he’s already tag team champion. Once again, you’re the second choice behind someone you called your friend. I figure you sucked Torture’s dick for this as well as you suck down that damn Zim-Quila.”
Isabella’s dish becomes full, and she rushes off to deposit the foul liquid in a safe place. Dag sees this and winces in anticipation of the impending pain. He looks up, and realizes the snake has something in its mouth.
“You son of a bitch! The fucking snake is cracking open a can of Zim-Quila! It’s been that heinous, toxic, industrial sludge dripping down on me this whole time! Listen you son of a bitch, your mind games, your state of drunken invulnerability will not be enough to save you from the wrath of a demigod! I have the wisdom of Óðinn and the strength of Þórr, and what have you? I have emerged victorious over foes from both the mortal and the undead realms! You are a model of inconsistency, and honestly the smartest thing you ever did was go on strike. It put a pause on the world realizing how unreliable and unpredictable you are.”
The vile liquid seeps onto Dag again.
“FOOL! Behold what I continuously prevail against! I face the Wrath of the Gods! What chance do you, a self proclaimed King, stand against me? I see through your vulnerabilities, you bumbling buffoon. I won’t make the same mistake Joey did, he overestimated himself, but I know my power is beyond anything you’ve encountered. Joey’s reputation got his own head, and you knew how to take advantage of it. You have no grasp of what I’m capable of! You may be the size of a jǫtunn, but I shall carry on Óðinn’s legacy as the Giant Slayer!”