nield
Creative!
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My latest story, this one following Lorian Nield's father, Fjorrik. Comments here. Should I ever return to this, I expect I shall do a full rewrite. Consider the text below a window into a storyline that no longer exists.
Prologue: One last thing...
This is the story of a man who would pursue love against all odds. Faced with challenges that are each exponentially more difficult than the last. His life has a deadline. 5 weeks. 5 weeks to live his life out, though it has only just begun to begin. He is older than most, and had thought he had centuries left, plenty of time to begin living. This is the story of Fjorrik 'Heavyhammer' Balthasar, the man who crushes all in his path.
And there he lay, as the life seeped from his body through its every pore. The spark in his eye slowly died. His time... was up.
6 weeks prior...
The bandits roared with laughter. "Would you lookit this old bogie? Whatcha gonna do with that little hammer o' yours?" the leader of the bandits asked, his sword at Fjorrik's throat. Fjorrik held up the tiny hammer, barely bigger than his thumb. "Fer you lot? Ye don't deserve the taste o' me hammer. Aye, this 'ere child's toy be enough to do away wit' ye." The bandits laughed yet harder. "Do you hear this bloke? woo-OO-oo-oo, scary little thi-" The blow Fjorrik dealt sent the bandit flying. As he struggled to stand up, he clutched at his jaw, which was hanging from his face by a thread. The words that came out of the man's mouth were completely unintelligible. "Bleb blimb! Blai Bled, Bleb blimb!" "Wot? Wot'd he do t'you with a single 'it from that tiny thing?" The other bandits eyed Fjorrik off warily. "I'll give ye one last chance. Either ye leave these nice folks alone. Or I get rough wit' ye." The bandits looked at each other, laughed again and charged Fjorrik.
Fjorrik sighed. "Ah well. I gave 'em a chance." As the first bandit rushed him, he ducked under the wide sweep of the blade and gave the blade a well placed hit with the tiny hammer. The blade shattered into hundreds of pieces, several of which pierced the bandit's lungs. The bandit fell to the ground, clutching at his throat as he drowned in his own blood. Fjorrik blocked the next man's attacks with ease, parrying each with the tiny hammer. Growing bored, Fjorrik wrapped his large hand around the bandit's head. He applied pressure until the man's skull broke, piercing his brain in no fewer than a hundred places, before Fjorrik threw the now-limp corpse away. The leader and the last non-injured man stood facing Fjorrik. "Ready t' give in?" he asked. The uninjured bandit roared with rage and charged Fjorrik. "THOSE WERE MY FRIENDS YOU SON OF A-" the man said no more, as a well-placed strike on his temple caused much of the man's head to redecorate the ground. Fjorrik advanced on the leader as he fell to the ground and tried his best to scramble backwards away from him. Fjorrik reached down and gave the man's jaw a slight tug, fullly removing it. Fjorrik then pinched the man;s vocal cords, rendering him speechless. "G'on, git. If yer lucky, someone'll come upon ye and take pity. I wouldn't, but there are some naive types out there."
Fjorrik turned his back and started walking away. He heard the footsteps and the gurgling that was the bandit screaming. Fjorrik sidestepped the man's attack. "Ye've run out of chances." he said, and grabbed the man's legs and broke them. As the man screamed near-silently, producing only quiet gurgles, Fjorrik raised his boot up off the ground, and broke both of the bandit's arms by stomping on them. Fjorrik then turned his back and left the man to rot.
Fjorrik returned to the farm that the bandits had been praying on. "Y-You dealt with them? How can we ever repay you? We've not much gold but-" Fjorrik raised his hand, interrupting the farmer. "It were my pleasure to deal wit' such scum. And fer repayment, a place to hang my hat fer the night is more th'n enough." he said. In the morning he was off again, continuing to wander the land. After a week, he came upon a tent. "Could th't...? No, surely not... 'Tis!" He bounded toward the tent, the man standing there being alarmed by the sudden noise. "Fjorrik? Fjorrik is that you?" called the man. "Warlic old friend!" cried Fjorrik happily, engulfing the much-smaller Blue Mage in a bear hug. "How've ye been? It's been an age an' a day since last we met!" "Indeed, Fjorrik, it has been some time. How has your journeying been?" Fjorrik smiled. "Oh, y'know, a bit o' this, a bit o' that, a few dead bandits." Warlic shook his head and chuckled. "Come in old friend. Come in." Warlic said, waving Fjorrik into his tent.
As Fjorrik entered the tower, he took a deep breath. "Why does it smell like dirty laundry? Wait, don't answer that, I know th'answer. Cysero." Warlic sighed. "Yes... His Laundry got loose again the other day. I had to draw two new yellow lines before the day was over!" Fjorrik had a good chuckle at that. "Ye don't mind if I lay my head 'ere fer the night, do ye Warlic?" "Of course not old friend. Make yourself at home."
That night, Fjorrik had a dream that was more than a mere dream...
Fjorrik looked around at the empty tower. "Am I dreaming? This all feels so... real..." "It is supposed to, Heavyhammer, because it is and it isn't." came a voice that was both young, and old, male, and female. "Who's there?!" shouted Fjorrik, as he wheeled around, trying to find the source of the voice. "We are right here Heavyhammer." said the voice as a shadowy figure appeared before Fjorrik. The figure was constantly shifting forms, one instant the outline of a middle-aged man was before Fjorrik, the next, an elderly woman, the next, a babe. "Who... WHAT are you?" asked Fjorrik in awe. "That is unimportant, Hevayhammer. What is important is the scene that is about to play out before your eyes." Fjorrik turned around and saw a woman being dragged by a pair of giants. The two giants chained the woman to the wall, and as they moved away, Fjorrik got a look at her... and his heart swayed. The woman's skin was fair, and her hair the colour of moonlight, as her eyes fluttered open, they were revealed to be a shining silver colour. "She's beautiful..." Fjorrik whispered. "It is as well for you that you think so, Heavyhammer. For you have five weeks." "Five weeks? Five weeks for what?" The figure smiled, a gesture that sent a shiver up Fjorrik's spine. "Five weeks to save her. If that time passes and you are unsuccessful... You will die. Her name is Silvana. Silvana Stertling. Remember that name well, Heavyhammer. For your life is now tied to it." The figure then vanished, as did the dream. Fjorrik awoke then, in the middle of the night, troubled by the dream. A dream is just a dream... or is it?
In the morning, Fjorrik recounted his dream to Warlic, who then regarded his friend gravely. "Ultimatum..." Warlic muttered. "Pardon, Warlic?" "The figure from your dream, the one that is many at once. It is known as Ultimatum. It loves seeing how epic struggles play out... and it even puts a few in place itself. That was no dream. If Ultimatum said all you have left is five weeks... five weeks is all you have left." The two were silent for a time. "And th' woman, Silvana? What can ye tell me of her?" Warlic grimaced. "The Silver Siren of Riddles... I can tell you that she is held captive by a Giant Mage. And I can tell you that all who have set their hearts on rescuing this woman... have perished. Ultimatum has given you a fool's errand." "Then help me, old friend!" Warlic shook his head. "I wouldn't even if I wanted to. You know my limitation, Fjorrik. If I accompanied you..." Warlic trailed off. "And I have learned not to get involved in anything Ultimatum has set in motion. Old friend... You would do better to simply live out these last five weeks of your life as best you can." "Warlic... I am going to do this whether ye help me or not. So please old friend. At least give me some directions?" Warlic bit his lip, clearly not wanting to get the slightest bit involved. "Warlic... How long have we been friends fer now?" "... Longer than most men live for." "Aye. I'm just asking for directions." Warlic sighed. "Very well... to get to the keep you must..."
A few hours later, Fjorrik set off. "Once I'm done old friend, I'll settle down and start that town I've always talked about." "Crowsglove... The town of dead heroes... Fitting." Fjorrik shook his head and turned his back setting off.
< Message edited by nield -- 2/10/2021 7:49:07 >
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