Osku

Zcuth nearly fell to the cold floor beneath him when the odd man had bumped into him, but it only took a moment to regain his balance, even though several others nearly bumped into him due to not paying attention. The whole commotion produced quite a few more grunts and curses then was needed, and one would think that in such a place as chaotic as Nar Shadaa, that people would not make such a big deal out of it. But there were quite a few aliens of unrecognizable species for Zcuth that seemed to carry on about it, even as they moved away from him, melded into the crowd. But Zcuth's eyes (or visor, in this case) were more attentive towards the man who had bumped into him. And that man was now traveling down the stream of civilians towards Mandalore-knows-where, so naturally, Zcuth followed him, perhaps it was to chastise him for not watching where he was going, or perhaps it was to ask directions, Zcuth was unsure at this point. What was sure was that some invisible force was telling the Mandalorian to follow this man. And follow he did. The crowd was like a sea, always pushing him back the closer he got, but still Zcuth fought, shouldering his way past people with more then a few protests. In fact, Zcuth was called out to fight more then once, but Zcuth ignored it, knowing that it was a fool who fought here in this crowd, where unseen enemies lurked behind every routine maintenance droid en route to a repair site. Finally, the man exited from the stream of people, and Zcuth followed suit. But now he noticed that his hands were doing something, Beckoning me? And then bumping into me? What is he trying to lure me into? As the man disappeared into an alleyway, Zcuth stopped. He was unsure exactly who this man was, and if it was some sort of murderer or irritable drug dealer, it would be trouble. But on the other hand, something inside Zcuth told him that there was no danger here. Still, Zcuth readied his suit's flamethrower systems by activating a button on his suit's forearm armor, and proceeded cautiously into the alleyway behind the man, not knowing what to expect...

The words rang sharp in Zcuth's ears as he stepped out of the V-wing and onto one of the many landing platforms that Nar Shadaa, and this particular spaceport (an out-of the way and nondescript one, which were legion on Nar Shadaa). Breathing through his helmet's ventilation systems, he could already detect smells and sounds that he had never heard or smelled before in his life, for as a farm boy living upon Tatooine's desert sands, Zcuth had rarely been exposed to drugs and other illegal substances as he had been now. The thought revolted him, nearly making his stomach puke, but he held it in. He was Mando'a now, and if he and the rest of the Mandalorians were going to survive, they were going to need to hide where others could not find them. Primarily, Nar Shadaa. Walking out of the check-out office after negotiating the landing price with a rather shady Gran, he looked up at the numerous traffic lines and catwalks and skyscrapers, noting the colors on the signs that advertised in Galactic Basic, or some in their own, foreign languages. Diagrams of Twi'leks dancing to and fro, or Death Sticks being used by a charming and appealing young subject, it was all awkward to Zcuth's eyes. Some of the things he didn't even know. Gentleman's club. he thought, what is that? After standing there and taking it in for a few moments, Zcuth was bumped into by a Trandoshan with a flight suit on. He muttered something in Dosh and looked over at Zcuth as he walked past. Zcuth stared him down, his visor offering a gaze of emotionless spite mirroring that of a machine's. Eventually, the Trandoshan disappeared into the crowds mobbing along the catwalks, and Zcuth followed suit, though not following the Trandoshan, obviously. For his job now was to find Mandalore. The only question was how and where.

Zcuth sat in front of the communications console, "How's this thing work again?" he said, his dark-green, emerald helmet on the desk of the console in front of him, it's visor polished so bright that it reflected the flashing buttons of the computer like an obsidian mirror. The comms officer, who was armored in yellow Beskar'gam (with his helmet off as well, tucked under his right arm), replied irritably, "Green button, red button, blue button, then press ENTER and you should be good. Make sure to make your voice loud and clear, we're trying to do some repairs to the sound systems right now, so it might crackle in some parts of the city." Zcuth nodded and entered the sequence slowly and cautiously, making sure to not activate some other form of communication that might alert them to Republican presence. Once he was sure that the sequence had been entered correctly, he hit the ENTER key and spoke into the microphone that jutted out of the console, clearing his throat before he spoke, emotion poured into his voice, recalling the way he felt when he heard the message directed to him only an hour earlier, "Attention brave Mandalorian defenders of Keldeb. Hear me," he said, pronouncing the city in it's Mandalorian name which meant 'stronghold', "Mandalore himself sends his greetings from another battlefield, and calls to us. He tells us to make our leave, to scatter to the far reaches of the galaxy, to seek our own battles for now. We are to bide our time in the nooks and crannies of the universe, to arise when the beacon is lit once more. To assemble and overwhelm the galaxy as we did before, and will do, in the years to come. So I ask you, vode of the Mandalorian race, go forth and conquer with your own endeavors! Whether it is on Nar Shadaa with Mandalore himself, or in the Unknown Regions hunting down the most savage beast you have ever laid eyes upon with your bare hands, go. Go with honor. Go with conquest. Go with Mandalore. Else we become Cuy'val Dar! Else we become like the Republicans that hound after us! Honorless! Lifeless! Go. While we are still Mando'ad. Mando'ad draar digu brothers and sisters. Go in victory." Zcuth then picked up his helmet and stood up, nodding to the communications officer, who nodded back. Walking past him, Zcuth exited the communications array. Though things had previously been busy and loud with the noises of soldiers marching here and there, armorers crafting weapons in the foundries, and massive anti-aircraft guns swiveling here and there, training their sights on the smallest speck of dirt, there now fell over an utter silence as they all attempted to comprehend what had just been said to them. And although the Mandalorian war effort had been reduced somewhat, there still remained the Mandalorian war machine, and the heart and soul of that machine. And Zcuth was always sure that there would always be that machine. * * * Above the planet, in the cockpit of an Alpha-3 Nimbus-class V-wing starfighter, Zcuth looked before the controls and sighed. Now was the hard times. The times when he would need to prove himself in the fires of blood and honor. Let them come. he whispered, The weak are thinned and only the strong survive. Such is the law of the universe. And with that, Zcuth put on his helmet with a snap-hiss and punched in the coordinates to Nar Shadaa, using a list that was stored in the ship's navicomputer. Although Zcuth didn't know much about flying starfighters, he had spent some time in a flight simulator before on Mandalore, and it was enough to make the next step. The next step on the road of a thousand.

I've been at work on this for a long while. Fed up with doing short story after short story, I wanted to actually start on a continual chain of chapters and string them together in the hopes of making my first epic. I went through three separate drafts for the prologue, and after much revision, I've finally become happy with the final product. At any rate, enjoy it. There will be more to come in the future. Don't forget to check my DA in my sig for new literature pieces, which I try to put up every week. Under the Frozen Sun - Prologue The summers may be long and prosperous in the South, and the many empires there may have armies and navies as vast as their own bloated economies, but when the winds blow, they blow to the North. Past the jagged Sea of Hrolf, you will find the Lursh glaciers, as old and elder as they are solid and cold; they are the landmarks that lay before the island chains of Modsognir. A barren and inhospitable landscape filled with cliffs and steep hillsides; from there you can see the jutting peninsula that is Northfang, home to some of the most treacherous pirates this side of the world. And should you manage to make it past the cutthroats and murderous thugs that inhabit that godsforsaken place; you will come face to face with the tallest mountain range in the known world, Ir's Maw. Past its menacing teeth, you will find the very roof of the known world. The land of Irgaard. Irgaard. A place of such hidden value and wonder so arcane, there is many a man (and woman) who seeks to conquer and plunder it. The sky above shimmers at nightfall with colors so astounding to the eye, even the most entranced of shamans cannot help but gaze in maddened wonder at them. Its very borders are protected by a wide and tall mountain chain. Within them, some of the world's last forgotten wonders. Much of Irgaard is blanketed in so much ice and snow that barely any vegetation flourishes or grows above ground. Whatever vegetation does grow is enchanted, left there by the legends and myths of time immemorial. Times when Irgaard was instead known as Logthan, the earth giant. The Tale of Logthan the making of the North In the early days of existence, Logthan traversed the world as the ruler and master of land. This lay like scattered pieces of coins, dropped from the purse of life, upon the great and mighty sea. One day, a Human known as Ir the Fabled, sailed forth from unknown origins to meet Logthan in a battle that was said to have shaped the entire world. The fight raged on for many moons, going on for countless months until finally! Ir was within Logthan's teeth, about to be eaten, but as his armor and weapons were broken off and embedded in the maw, Ir the Fabled, using all his might, broke the jaw of Logthan from within his own mouth and escaped. As Logthan lay moaning in pain, Ir rushed at him with his last weapon, the legendary axe, 'Gyldfling' and decapitated Logthan, killing the earth giant, and setting the earth free from his tyranny. After Logthan's death, Ir forged the whole northern part of the world from his corpse. From his head he made the snowy land of Irgaard; with his legs, the Isle of Loki. With his blood, the sea of Hrolf, and then when that was made, he tossed his innards from his corpse and made the isles of Modsognir. (This translates to 'Giant's Gizzards' in our ancient tongue.) From Logthan's teeth, he made the Maw of Ir (or as we call it today, Ir's Maw) to guard Irgaard. And then from one of his legs, he made the peninsula of Northfang. Ir then ripped Logthan's heart in two and called it the Lursh Glaciers, with his remaining leg and arms; he melded them together and created the island of Skothia. Finally, Ir took both of Logthan's eyes and cast them up into the sky. One of them became the moon, showing people the way in the darkness. The other became the sun, illuminating the twilight of creation. Ir and the Valka Over the years, Ir accomplished many feats that earned him a name amongst the people of the earth. Who had emerged from their caves and burrows in the ground and developed skin, for they were previously rock golems living in the center of our world. But none could ever truly compare to when he achieved the love of a Valka, a separate race from the Humans, who ruled Skothia as queens and matriarchs. Now, the Valka were a similar enough people to those who had risen from the earth. But there were many differences. Mainly that their hair was in fact, pitch black and their bodies tall and long. Their eyes were also different, for it is said that in them, one can see the universe as easily as looking at a picture or photograph. Though the Skothians revered the Valka as Goddesses, Ir knew them for simply very powerful mortals. Yet one day, for reasons known to only Ir himself, he sailed to their island to seek a wife amongst them. The Valka, however, were foolishly vain and did not give respect to Ir, (though they knew of his deeds with Logthan and secretly envied his victory over a foe that they could not best) but it was then asked by Ir what he could do to earn their acknowledgment, and so they answered, "Defeat us all in a battle at once, and you shall have our blessing." Ir agreed, and the battle began. Though the Valka were mighty warriors in their own regard and had descended upon Ir in legions, the battle only lasted a few days, for Ir had grown great since the defeat of Logthan, and had already slain many of the great beasts that had so defied his rule in Irgaard and the northern world. Many of these monsters are myths and legends today, existing only in nightmares and words that drift over campfires and in mead halls. Yet Ir had defeated them all, just as he would the Valka. The Valka grudgingly acknowledged that Ir was the better warrior, and also saw that Ir was strong in his heart, and father-worthy. Talking amongst themselves, they all decided to lay with Ir, and they all conceived children. Taking responsibility as the father (or later, as we would call him, the (All-Father), Ir decided that these children would accompany him back to the lands of Irgaard. For though the southern lands of the earth were already populated; Irgaard was still a barren and empty land, devoid of any Human life. And so, over the years, these children became the first Irgaardians. They learned to fish in rivers that were ice cold all year long, hunt in forests as vast as they were brutal (and few in number!), and they learned to fight and live in lands that were untamed and wild. As the children grew up to become fine warriors and hunters, the Valka saw it fit to leave Irgaard for Skothia once more, satisfied that their children were ready to take on the challenges of life in the Great North. All but one Valka left. And she was most in love with Ir. Her name was Grosnyir, and Ir loved her as well. Their love was only deepening when the rest of the Valka left. After a time they decided to marry and be wed. Both the lands of Skothia and Irgaard rejoiced, and for a time, the Northern world was at peace. With the population in Irgaard growing and Skothia becoming more advanced, mankind continued to grow in the North. Growing such to the point where some even migrated south, to the Modsognir Isles and Lursh Glaciers, inhabiting those last reaches of the North. But then a great prophecy was foretold unto Ir from an elder of a village in the far northeast of Irgaard. There were strange practices afoot by the townspeople there. They chanted in the language of Logthan, the deceased Earth Giant, they praised his name, even carved idols in his own visage. But worse still, there were increased sightings of malformed, giant, iron-skinned figures with tusks and claws that ate and tore skin. The elder claimed that the village, as well as all of Irgaard, was doomed in the face of this evil, unless something was done immediately. But Ir had grown arrogant and fat off of all of the glories of his successes, as well as off of the luxuries of his status as a god. He dismissed the elder back to his village with a clear mind, such was his ignorance. But this assuredness soon changed, for he heard news of villages in the northeast of Irgaard being burned to the ground. Ir then knew of the foolishness of his ways. The time of the Troll had come. The Troll Years Although Ir and his armies were powerful, the Trolls had numbers greatly superior to him, and were fierce in their own way, for they could survive days without food, eating nothing but their own limbs, which regenerated the very next day. They also never seemed to sleep, but at the same time, they marched slowly, weighed down by their muscles and bulk. It was said that they were made of fire and iron, instead of mud and earth, like Man and most things on earth were. They also bred like rabbits, and so, with every Troll army that Ir quenched, another was soon on the move. For many a year this war raged in a continuous stalemate, Troll armies doing battle with that of Ir and his sons and daughters, but it was soon apparent that unless something was done, then the Trolls would soon burn down the very hall that Ir lived in (Norskheim), for though the Trolls bred like rabbits, the Humans did not, and so while the Troll population always seemed to be staying the same, the Humans were on the decline. But there was nothing that seemed to be able to stop the Trolls. Until one day, a mountain, known to many as Ingarvöden, spoke to Ir and offered to help in ridding Irgaard of the Trolls. But there was a painful price to pay, for the one thing that the mountain asked in return for the safety of Ir's people, was, ironically, his life. Ir, in his doomed wisdom, knew there was no other way. And so it went that Ir murdered himself atop the highest mountain in all of Irgaard, and it was said that Ir's scarlet blood ran down this mountain, and flowed so strongly throughout the land that all knew of Ir's passing and wept. Ir's wife, Grosnyir, was no exception. She wept for twenty days without ceasing, but despite Irgaard's mourning, Ingarvöden fulfilled its promise. Come nightfall of the fifth day of the mourning, the Troll armies were immediately swallowed into the earth, eaten by large tears in the ground; never to be seen again. Ir's death was mourned by most of the Great North, even after the many months exceeding his death. Indeed, the Valkas of Skothia dressed in black for months to mourn Ir's passing, and his own wife disappeared, perhaps to exact revenge on the Trolls, or perhaps to commit suicide and join her husband in oblivion? None can say what happened for sure, save for that Ir's death was marked in passing by a more fresh tragedy. The Black Age During the early days of the Black Age, life was in chaos in Irgaard. The sacrifice of Ir was devastating to the social order, and so, a great civil war raged throughout the land, with countless factions fighting for control of Irgaard. Among these men, three warlords emerged that were the most prominent. In the eastern regions of Irgaard, there was Flokdir the Agile. To the south, there was Mürth Gundersson, who had conquered the Modsognir Isles as well as the Lursh Glaciers, though he failed to lay claim to Northfang and their native clans. And finally, from the lands that Flokdir and Mürth had not claimed, there was the dominion of Sylg. Sylg was, perhaps, the most successful of all these warlords, and yet a vast insanity; a bane wrought of years of paranoia and being in absolute control, lurked in his mind and soul. A long and bloody conflict ensued between the three, but soon enough; a truce was reached between Sylg and Flokdir. They would fight together to kill Mürth and take his territory, but when the final battle between the two factions came to be, Sylg betrayed Flokdir and killed him in secret. Then, in the confusion of the battle, he slew Mürth as well in plain view. The remnants of the armies of Flokdir and Mürth both had a new leader to kneel to, and when the dust cleared, they did so. The insane reign of Sylg had begun. After his victory, he had a grand hall built of wood and stone to commemorate his victory. In secret, he had the bodies of Flokdir and Mürth carried to the hall, mutilated beyond all recognition, and nailed to his two entrance doors. Their faces were so beaten in and scarred that Mürth's, nor Flokdir's followers (who had both assimilated into Sylg's subjects) could not recognize the corpses of their wronged leaders, believing that they had both perished in the battle between Mürth, Flokdir, and Sylg. Sylg would later say that the corpses were lost, due to the snowstorm that had occurred after that battle. The two bodies, Sylg explained, were, in fact, not that of Mürth and Flokdir, but rather, 'disloyal subjects'. He stated that anyone who betrayed him would find a similar fate, beaten until death and after, and then nailed to his door at Sylgrad; the hall from which he would rule. Such were the words of Irgaard's insane king. But that debacle was only the very beginning. For after a few years into his rule, King Sylg demanded that all gold tributes from the outlying villages be delivered directly to him, instead of to his trusted treasurers. Yet, when the gold-carriers would come to King Sylg's hall, King Sylg would have his oathmen kill the carriers. The gold would be tossed into the sea on the word of the king as well, who claimed that it was all cursed by Troll magic. The people, after a time, realized what was happening and tried to resist in reaction to these crimes, but Sylg was too strong and his men were too loyal, enthralled with the glory of the new Irgaard that they were building, and so, the would-be rebels were crushed and knocked down again and again in violent oppression. Such was the bloodshed at the beginning of the Black Age. Days and years progressed, and the children of Sylg's line would continue to plague Irgaard and its folk. The mad tyrant's line would never be dethroned, and, to this day, they still rule over us, thinking that they deserve to. But take heart, for there is still hope, as was demonstrated many years ago in the hopes and dreams of a rebellion that nearly succeeded in liberating us from this horrid perversion of law and justice. During the later days of the Black Age, there was, around the lake of Flokdir (named after the ancient hero himself), a small community of fishermen. These fishermen, who mostly hunted around the lake and fished in it, sometimes strayed into other nearby lands. One day; a fisherman from this area had decided to go fishing in one of the king's many rivers that he had claimed for himself. The man was caught by one of the king's rangers, and was executed before the king on the grounds of trespassing. Angered upon hearing this, the small fishing community took their hooks and fishing spears, and, in revenge, lynched and hung one of the king's rangers. King Wroth, fifth of Sylg's line, heard of this and sent his warriors to burn down the fishing community in retaliation. The villagers fought a bitter fight, but it was also futile. By night's end, the entire town had been burned to the ground. The people's will of freedom, once a bright and raging flame, was now nothing more then gray ash dancing in the currents of the wind of the Great North. Yet not all was lost. A few men had managed to escape from the destruction, and they fled to the Lursh Glaciers, a place where a small group of people lived on the very rare and strange vegetation, beasts, and fish that made their home around or on the Lursh Glaciers. Over the next few years, the small band of exiles on the Lursh Glaciers had grown to a small army. Their influence, spreading as far to the Modsognir Isles by the second year of their docile existence, had attracted exile, outlaw, and renegade soldier alike to their cause. And as King Wroth sat on his throne, oblivious to the growing insurgency underneath his very feet, more and more mainlanders began to flock to the support of the rebels. Eventually, half of Irgaard had changed from the king's rule to this group, which had even dared to send a 'declaration of independence' to King Wroth. When Wroth first caught word of the rebellion, he, like Ir with the Trolls, had dismissed it as a problem that was not worth his attention. And even though the two leaders were as different as could be, they had one thing in common. The arrogance of Men. But soon, there was a declaration of independence in front of him that he seethed over, as well as more and more reports coming in of people seceding to this place they called 'Norther, the Free Kingdom'. Faced with these two omens and symbols of defiance to his absolute authority, Wroth had no choice but to act. Soon, Irgaard and the Free Kingdom of Norther were at war. This war between the free and the oppressed would be long and brutal, with most of it happening within the length of five long, freezing, years. There would be many push backs and many assaults, as well as many defenses and many sieges by both sides, but in the end, the armies of Norther stood in victory outside the walls of Sylgrad, the hall that wore the crucified skin of the defiant subjects of King Wroth's rule like a cloak of majesty. Unwilling to surrender, King Wroth came out and spoke to Norther's champion. Skog of Flokshire, a giant of a man with a forked beard and an accented tongue, a veteran of the war that had started since his village near Lake Flokdir had been burned down at the command of the very man that he now stared at with unending hatred. Talks between the two leaders were long and arduous, as well as heated. They took place in front of the assembled army of Norther, its soldiers looking on in hatred and loathing at their former dictator. But Skog knew that Wroth had still more men en route from the northern provinces. Wroth's soldiers, though commanded by a madman, were loyal, and believed that their king was helping them to build a mighty Irgaard. Even if Wroth was slain here, his remaining soldiers would also fight to a bitter end. That meant more loss, more pain, and more death. Something that Skog, in his adoration of life, despised the most. No. It was better to chance for peace, even if it was with a tyrant. But Wroth knew of Skog's weakness, and he played off of it. Skog's adoration of life would later turn to be ignorance of Wroth's insanity, and so, an ill-fated agreement was reached between the two. Wroth and Skog would duel to the death. Whoever won was declared victor of the war, and by token, King of both Irgaard and Norther. However, he had to spare the rest of the other side's remaining armies, unless they came and attacked. Wroth and Skog fought, but Skog was fated to lose. For in Wroth's possession was the blade Ratatoskr. Ratatoskr had been passed down from Sylg's line since the family's beginning when the Irgaardians were born of the Valka, many, many, years ago. It was a Valka weapon, carved with runes of arcane power, which had been a key factor for Sylg in defeating both Mürth and Flokdir in battle. After Skog's death, the Norther army looked on in shame. Trying their best to hold back their emotions and tears, for to lose control would be to shame the principle of justice and equality that their leader so desperately fought a war for. And so, in shame, the Northers returned back to their home. Waiting for whatever storm would follow, but somehow believing that the apocalypse would not come. Wroth, ever Sylg's bastard descendant, would later hunt down and destroy many former Norther villages in both southern Irgaard and the Lursh and Modsognir regions, innocent and guilty were killed alike in the most brutal of fashions. Entire villages were soon burned to the ground and transformed into villages of graves. Forests of wood were chopped down to make way for forests of severed heads, and fields of golden grain, though few in number, were salted and torched to make way for fields of scarlet blood. Age or gender made no difference in the eyes of the aggressors, for in the eyes of Wroth and his slaves, they were all 'disloyal subjects', and they all deserved to burn in righteous fire. In beginning, the flag of freedom flew high with hope and joy, but in the end, it would wind up stretched out over all of Sylgrad. The skin of the betrayers would adorn the wooden structure for years to come. Though the Black Age was mostly stained with the blood of the reign of Sylg and his kin, there was another great monstrosity that blackened the Black Age even further. Skothia's Doom Skothia, had, for the most part, been peaceful despite its sister country's civil strife and recent conflicts. Yet by the time that the tenth king of Irgaard had taken his throne in Sylgrad, Skothia was in a danger so big, it has never been matched by any event in the world since its conception in the Twilight of Creation. Skothia was an island nation, and a large one at that. As such, its people were traders and sailors who traveled to the many different corners of the world, and anywhere in between. And so it was inevitable that Skothia's unquenchable lust for exploration would one day bring about the end of Skothia herself. It is unknowable, at this time, who exactly brought the ancient artifact into Skothia, or if he or she was even a Skothian, or even Human. But, what is known is that an ancient artifact not native to this earth, was one day obtained by someone, and brought into Skothia's borders. By a doomed fate or blackest chance, a Valka obtained it from that person, and this Valka, called Ingrid, had such an obsession with the strange artifact that it drove her to insanity. Eventually, she became so paranoid that she locked herself in her own hall and slowly began killing off all her servants. It was said that she tortured them for information before she killed them by bleeding them to death. Others heard of this and it frightened them. Indeed, Valka were some of the world's most perfect of creatures. And Skothia was the Jewel of the Great North. Surely one such as them could not be driven insane by something as menial and laughable as an obscure piece from a forgotten age? Panic soon spread. And with panic's arrival came paranoia. And paranoia bred insanity. Soon there were reports of more and more Valka going insane, killing them and their servants. The insanity spread to the arbiters, to the butchers, to the street-cleaners, and eventually, to the sailors, who became so possessed by this growing madness that they blockaded their own island for no apparent reason, destroying anything that dared come close to the wall of wooden ships. Skothia's trade soon stopped, and as a result, Skothia's economy suffered, whole regions in Skothia were starved of food and supplies, spreading the madness. The last vestiges of law and order in Skothia were violently tossed to the ground and violated by the thrashing orgy of chaos and discord that now owned the island and the waters around it. Within a decade, Skothia had shifted from the Jewel of the Great North into a black stain upon our world. And there it remains. For the nations that had traded with it were unable to break it's blockade, no matter how hard they tried, whenever they approached, they were met with an odd storm, which would continually get worse as they approached the island. Eventually, the world was content to leave Skothia behind and forget the North, moving on with their own matters and issues, ignorant to the roof of the world's problems. Epilogue With Irgaard still in the grip of despotism, Skothia's destruction and other troubles here in the Great North, life is as black as ever, and with rumors of Trolls being spotted in the northeastern provinces once more, and King Thirsk twice as insane as the last twenty despots in his diseased line, we seem to be nearing the end of days. Will the darkness swallow Irgaard and cast it into the bowels of memory, like Skothia so abruptly was? Will it lose all reminder of its former glory and secede to the wills of immortal forces? Or will it remember what transpired to make this nation, and, in that remembrance, march onward to a new glorious age? The Black Age has passed, and a new age has begun. But whether this one is filled with sorrow or joy or failure or glory remains to be seen by those of us who watch... Under the Frozen Sun.

http://forums.jedi.net/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=38343 Right there, LAP. Ima try and revise it one more time. Since that version is lacking as well.

I intended it to be a standalone piece, but I think I'm going to try a few more times on revising this story.

Title: Raid (Revised) Rating: PG-13 Rated for: Violence. Critique level: [CRITIQUE ENCOURAGED] Here's my second draft guys. Fixed my tense halfway through the story as well as included some more carnage in there. Hope you all like it. Told you I'd have it up by Friday! The morning fog is dense before the long, wooden head of the ship. Carved in the fierce, polygonal shape of a dragon. It plows through the ice in the water like a serpent, the sea is rough and choppy, as if protesting the ship itself. The gales from the lands of the frozen sun blow hard and sharp. It cuts as a blade through the armor of even the most seasoned of the men aboard the mahogany beast. Under normal conditions, they would be nothing more than pirates, raiders, marauders of the tides. But not on upon this day. The mist and the men have become as one, fused together to form creatures of the most obscure structure. Indeed, even their weapons seemed to have been forged in the very depths of Hel and Niflheim. The teeth of their axes and swords glint so brightly in the day, under this stone-tinted sky. As if sunlight had broken through, and, by chance, touched the tips of these weapons. Yet the sky above remained naught but gray. Devoid of any of sign of the Rapid Traveler, as the Giant have come to say. Their shields, already attached to their bearer's arms, sat like a waiting barrier of frost-laden wood. Ready to destroy any hopes of attacking and killing what lay behind their protective bodies. Amidst this, the ocean and boat become silent for a time. With naught but the sounds of sails flapping in the wind to comfort the edgy minds of the men aboard. The black raven so clearly etched in the fabric upon the white appendages of the mast, it's wings seemed to move in the face of the cold morning breeze. As if the raven were flying. All is as oblivion. But suddenly -- --A noise. A man stands and walks to the front of the winged vessel, his mail hauberk is gray and dull, like that of frozen iron. His helmet, the same texture. It covers his bright blonde hair that drapes so freely over his pale yet rough skin, not unlike that of cold, tempered steel. His rugged chin is etched with hints of snow in it, giving it a glared, white, tint, like the mane of a snow giant. At his side, an eldritch broadsword, etched with the language of his forefathers. But in his hands, a bow. Black as ebony, yet light as a feather, forged surely out of some kind of wood, yet it is etched with carvings that one can only guess as to what they may mean. He picks up the bow and draws an arrow, nocking it in the celebrated weapon. His eyes, as blue and clear as the waters in the hot springs, pierces the cloak the mist has set over he and his brethren's vision. Nothing can stand before his gaze. For this is the look of a man who has stood within the mist itself and become as one with it, so many times, that the mist is as much a part of him as he is a part of the mist. Like a statue upon the Isle of Rhodes in the lands near sacred and blessed Miklagaard, he suddenly freezes. His eyes and mind probe the abysmal iron veil for an opening. At first, nothing. But then... ..A flash of color. A green tint in the wall of floating metal. A glimpse of life. A man, old as the warrior's broadsword, sits fishing. Oblivious to the fate that was to come to him. Unarmed and unaware, there would be no Valhalla for him. Only the cold and lonely comfort of a dishonorable death in the bowels of Hel. A sound. Like that of twine being picked. A shriek. A scream of wood as it soars through the air. A hit. A death. A soul leaves this life for the next. The man has only seconds, he tries to scream, but he cannot. This arrow that is lodged inside of his neck prevents himself from doing so. The old man dies in a storm of frustration and utter surprisal that goes unheard of. He is as a small ripple in a large ocean. Unnoticed. Uncared for. And as his body falls upon the sand of the beach he fished upon, the ground consumed his blood. Letting it sink inside it's ravenous yellow maw that extended around the entire island, in a vain attempt trying to consume it. The forest green that lay beyond the reach of the yellow so very taunting to it's efforts. And yet, this was only a small procession in the grand parade of madness and insanity that was to come marching forth to this place. Bearing the banners of discord and chaos under the guise of helmets and shirts of small leaves of steel. Wooden brown clashes with sparkling yellow as the ship lands upon the beachhead. Like fleas leaping from the back of a great furred beast, the vandals descend from the rails of the ship and charge up the hill towards the town that lay sleeping in the green meadow before them. Their grunts and snorts filled the air, letting off hot steam into the cold morning breeze. As if to taint this temple of tranquility with their presence. The town lay ever-sleeping still, in the early hours of the twilight. Like an undefended fortress that sat with it's gates unbarred and unlocked. The town sat there. Wandering in the everlasting void of 'maybes' and 'possibles' that so swam in that great white chasm. The warriors storm into the village like dogs unleashed. Their throwing axes and knives tossed like stones through the windows, their armored feet smashing the poor workmanship of the town's many doors. People awake, and soon, the town of slumber and everlasting midnight peace is now an orchestra of fear and insanity. Men try in vain to protect their families and neighbors, but all is as in vain. Weak Celtic iron like butter to the hot knives of the cold Nordic steel that so destroys them. Blades untested by weak, knock-kneed men are nothing compared to axes that have earned places in the sagas of the Norns. Wielded by heroes of the old times. The times before the Christ-god. The time of Heroes. Wills are shattered, as are bones. Fools with arms of flesh are riveted with wooden shrapnel as they raise their vessels of vain guardianship to defend themselves. But to no avail. Their beloved, poorly made driftwood shields explode like wooden grenades, and go through necks, eyeballs, and vital organs. Many choke to death. Others die blind. Others bleed to death. Some die while blind, choking, and bleeding. Inexperienced fighters are beheaded in battle, some survive with missing arms or legs, they crawl away but are trampled beneath the cold, cold, feet of their oppressors. Ever to wallow in their despicable deaths in the annals of the afterlife. Those that bathe so in hopeless sorrow attempt to hide under beds and in closets, seeking shelter from the inevitable fate that has so prostrated itself before them all. Pursuers of foreign winds drag the reluctant from their homes like tentacles of a great beast that will not be denied it's sustenance. For it has come too far now. Too far now to be stopped. Too far now to cease. In the streets, the blood of men flows like a river, in them, the drowning victims that could never accept their fate. These are the wounded and the old. These are the fighters of the truth. These are the deniers. These are the heroes. Too weak too work or too strong to be wives, they drown in the mistakes of their others, they drown in the weaknesses of their brothers and sisters. It is not their fault, but that of others. They shall not live to see their shame. Their last moments of eyesight are filled with the fires of destruction as they lay upon the cobbled streets looking up at the sky, the embers and ashes gives it a color of that of Niflheim's deepest chambers. The heavens above seemingly populated with the faces of demons and tormentors and villains, as they cackle and delight in the misfortune of those below them. As if they had died a death not worth dying. Yet it is not with delight that they laugh, but rather, with envy. For no soul as black as theirs could ever truly fight for something that they believed in, and said that it was 'good', or 'just'. No. Nothing but damnation for them. Eternal damnation. Infinite dishonor. And as the town and the weak burn under the fires of hatred and loathing brought upon by those native to Frozen Shores so distant, the creatures of the mist load their prizes upon the great, raven-winged beast with shackles and lines of rope. Some resisting, some uncaring. Some being beaten, some fleeing, only to drop to their knees moments later, the end of their life lodged in their back. The wings of the Raven begin to stir, and it's belly is rewarded with the conquest of war here. Empty when it came to shore, now full with the souls of the dead and the beaten. The lost and the damned. The forsaken fools who did not have the honor to die honorably, now are sitting in quiet shame and contemplation. Unbeknown to them of fate, be it good or evil, that awaits them upon the icy shingles of the roof of the world. And even as they sail towards their new homes, back into the depths of the mist, back beyond the transparent iron wall, away from the choppy and unwelcoming waters, they will talk, and they will say, in their dreary, hope-robbed voices.. ..that in the end, it was all just another... ...Raid.

The Partisan had been walking amongst the rot-ridden slums for hours. Time was running short. The symphony had to be played soon, or the people would lose interest. He walked through the rows of the decaying buildings and structures, careful to avoid the gangs that so populated this area. Ducking and dodging pre-emptively into broken windows and kicked in doors to avoid the criminal patrols was key to his survival down here. Seeing as how he had no visible weapon. But in the end, the only weapon you truly need, is your mind. The Partisan finally arrived before the manhole that would lead him down to the next section of his symphony. The Wood. However, there were now two uniformed officers approaching The Partisan. Which only confirmed his suspicions that he was at the right entrance. "Halt, citizen." Said one of the guards, the other guard stopping behind him. "You have no business being here. Turn back immediately." The Partisan looked into the eyes of the guard that had stopped before him. Then switched his gaze to the guard behind him. He nodded. A bright red flash was seen, blasterfire was heard, and the smell of charred flesh could be smelled. The guard crumpled to his death before him. The Partisan moved his eyes to the approaching guard, his blaster barrel still smoking. "As it was agreed to, dispose of this corpse." "That costs extra." The Partisan snorted. These corrupt guards were always bleeding you dry. "Very well." The Partisan handed him another 150 credits out of the pockets of his Starport Authority uniform. The guard nodded, then proceeded to drag off the dead corpse into the shadows of the slums. The Partisan opened the manhole covering and looked down. A service ladder went all the way into the pitch darkness below, like a bridge into the afterlife. Taking the grips of the ladder, he began to descend into the netherworld. He came out at a small platform. Dropping from the ladder he looked around him. It was just as his informants had told him. A bridge connected this metal platform with another, and that other had another manhole. The Partisan walked to the bridge and looked to it's side, there was nothing but clear water below him. Above, there was rock, this place was a natural cavern hallowed out beneath Kala'uun city. It was also the city's water storage area. The Partisan grinned, then, taking out another black square, he walked over to the controls for the facility. Logging onto the management computer, The Partisan bypassed the password via a trick that, for 1,000 more credits, the guard had informed of. He had convinced the guard that he was merely here to siphon water. Not increase the flow to the lower levels, such that it would flood. After diverting power to the extraction of water, he hit the confirm button. Immediately, the pipes in the cistern began to flow water directly into the slums at such a rate that The Partisan predicted the entire lower area would flood within a matter of hours. He could hear the scream of water as it moved up the pipes at such a very alarming rate. He could only picture the people that began to panic as water flowed out from their faucets and pipelines and began to flood houses and streets. But the worst part about this was that this was their only water supply on a harsh and unforgiving desert planet. And once the Wood section of the orchestra would begin to play, he would not need this plan to even perform like he expected it to. No. This was all just a diversion. But this was no time to sit and meditate. Chances were that the local authorities had troops on their way down to the cistern already. The Partisan placed the black square on the controls and rushed across the bridge, lifting up the manhole and escaping down the service ladder, being careful to shut the manhole as he went down. As he was halfway down the ladder, he pulled out a small stick with a red button on it. Jamming his finger down on the top, he gripped the ladder tight as the service tunnel seemed to shake. * * * The wind turbines above sat ever so peacefully in the afternoon sun on the side of the great mountain that Kala'uun was built inside of. Then, suddenly, an explosion was heard above the turbines on mountain. A large red fire marked the exit of rocks from the mountain's infrastructure. The boulders began to tumble down the slope, headed towards the wind turbines. As the rocks began to pick up speed and gain momentum, they also gained more rocks. One by one, the generators were smashed beneath the hard projectiles. The city's air system was now destroyed. The wind tunnel that supplied the whole city with Oxygen and cool, clean air was now silent. * * * The Partisan continued to descend into the air tunnel. Confident that, with the air turbines destroyed and the controls to the cistern annihilated, his next part of the plan was ready. The Wind was ready to play.

Thanks for deleting my duplicate Tiana. And thanks for your feedback! Aye! I'll have to take the metaphors into one account, especially if I'm going to be writing a chapter story, which will also be versed around Vikings, though it will be entirely set in a fictional setting, and will actually integrate parts of the Norse culture as well. (No, not all Norsemen were Vikings) Meaning it's not going to be on Earth, and I'll even get into more fictional creatures, such as dragons, Orcs, Trolls, and the like. Maybe even a few custom-made races, eh?

Title: Golden Field Scarlet Desert Rating: PG. Rated for: Blood, gore, violence. Critique level: [CRITIQUE ENCOURAGED] Please note that this isn't the revision to RAID, it's just another story about Vikings and the like. RAID is currently being fixed up, and I can assure you, I'll have revised part of RAID up by next Friday. Maybe I'll even make it longer? Fields of gold like hair lay atop the head of the Earth. Grain stalks like the many yellow follicles that so adorned the crown, jewels strung amidst this crest, and yet, men lay claim to it. Just as they lay claim to the sea underneath the cliffs of this royal jewel. And soon they will lay claim to the sky above in the days that lay in wait. But for now, the Dominion of Man is as incomplete as it is contested. Two armies walk forth on the opposite sides of the shining sea of dreams, twin ravens meet, one of ebon night and the other of ivory stars. Brothers of the North, fighting for land. For each to extend their empires as far as they can. Who shall win? None can say. For the Norns are the only ones who can see what lies beyond the vaulted keeps of destiny. A breath. A sign of reprieve in a landscape full of emotion. The hatred in their eyes, the fear in their minds. The cruel unknown that is akin to absolute terror locked in their arms and legs. Here, there is no answer, yet many questions. Many doors, but no keys. A movement. Sword in morning air, blade to beckon to the sky above as the shield of gray and sleet move forth to eclipse the ever watchful eye that is the sun. As if the sky itself were to put it's own hands to block it's vision, so that it might not look upon the carnage and massacre that is to unfold. And yet as the visage of the sky is veiled, tears draw down from the heavens overhead. To weep for those who are to pass, and those who have already passed. A yell. This is the whip that spurs the Dogs of War to charge forward. The two ravens fly towards eachother, their talons bared, the armies before them smashing into one another like two rivers meeting in a flood. Walls of wood and metal rise above to bulwark the teeth of the monster that is death. Yet these walls, born of mortal things, buckle and submit to the shadow of oblivion. Limbs leave their owners as they are forced, the rain cannot delude the memories and lives that flow away as the ground beneath them is soaked with the tears of the gods and the excrement of war. A blade pushed into a gut, a roar of triumph so gleeful that Death takes note and silences it. Hacking off the chords that once were played by the fingers of life. Falling to the floor, a head, a broken instrument soon smashed beneath the mailed currents of the ignorant rivers made of the men of the Earth. Cyclones and whirlpools of entrails float throughout this glorious assembly of destiny. Yet the sins of the past would not wash into the sea, for the rivers dried up ever slowly as waters of flesh turned to sand of gore. This place was a lake of dying thoughts, emotions, once unheard of, now exploded into vast orgies of shouts and death throes so laced with tears that were not seen by the arrogant eyes of men and ravens. Fits of sorrow that were accompanied by cries of frustration that lit up the sky and roared across the lands were still ignored by the assembled armies of pride and greed that lurked below the curtain of denial and depression. For now, no longer were there rivers of flesh, but instead a desert who's dirt was naught but blood. One raven kneels to another, a scowl upon his face. And as he is taken back to the cities and walls, the desert sits there, claiming the land once unmolested. And as the raven is stripped naked and dragged through the streets, the desert degrades and mocks the grain that would give so many life. A crimson perversion of golden salvation, another prisoner to lurk in the fortress of the void of all things. One raven is beheaded and the other takes his crown. Believing his control spans over all. And yet, the only true conqueror of the fields of gold, is the desert of scarlet amnesia, where all is consumed by the void.

I can understand staying with one tense, but you want it to be more graphic? As in more violence, blood, and gore?! Animals! Savages! This goes against my moral code in all regards! I'll start working on a revision tonight.

Thanks. It's been a bit since I put this one up, was wondering if I was going to get any feedback at all on this one.

The Percussion, The Partisan decided. Kala'uun City, Commercial District. Hours and minutes found The Partisan sitting at the very back of the mountain which Kala'uun was situated in. He was looking outside the window of one particular Ryll den. He noted the curved sloping, descending, and widening maw of the cavern that grew as it came down. This whole place was like a monster, swallowing the lives of those who would rather die in it's mouth then die in the desert heat. Though The Partisan had been offered many times to ingest Ryll, he decided against it. It was not time yet for celebration, when the symphony had not even begun. He looked away from the window and out to the rest of the Ryll den. The intoxicated customers, the entranced dealers that were little more then customers themselves. Indeed, the whole place reeked of ignorance. What did these people have to celebrate? The Partisan asked himself, as he approached the backroom. The backroom was dark and musty. There was virtually nothing here, but he had decided to change that. The Partisan, under his left arm, had held a square brown parcel. In it? Nothing but medical supplies. He placed the box near the wall farthest him, for it connected to the cavern's exterior walls themselves. He had to be sure that his plan would work, after all, he had even taken a skiff ride around the exterior of the mountain once or twice, just to note the exact location where the mountain was above the wind generators beneath the side of it. After he placed the box near the wall, he walked calmly into the room and lifted a dazed Twi'lek male off of a large, luxurious, couch and plopped him on one of the many floor cushions. He lifted up the cushions and stuffed a black square, no bigger then a CD case, under it. Then he proceeded to exit the establishment and went out into the street, blending in with many of the millions of people that called this all-consuming monster home. The Percussion were now set to play. Now for the Wood and the Wind.

Kala'uun Starport The Partisan. That was his name now. A misguided youth caught up in the power struggle between the Empire and the Republic. Seventeen years old, but tall for his age. Eyes and hair the color of earth and rock, and a blue uniform covering his body, contrasting this. Over the last few days, The Partisan had drifted from place to place, searching for work. Over the last few days, The Partisan had found a place to work. The Partisan was here. The Partisan looked out over the stream of traffic that was below him. He stood on one of the city's many cavernous cliffs. Noting the various spots moving back and forth in straight lines criss-crossing eachother below him. Their lights making an echo of colors all across the depths of the underground city. He had noted the several spots of interests in this city. The place of water. The place of air. The spot near the wind machines. The gate that let forth both enemy and ally alike in from the barrens. The legs that held the tallest building of the city up, as well as what lay beneath it. The whole city was like a beautiful symphony of chaos and discord assembled before him, looking up at their grand conductor, and all The Partisan had to do was command it to begin. The only question was, Which part to to conduct first? The percussion or the wood?

Title: RAID. Rating: PG-13 Rated for: Violence, some ideologically sensitive materials, ex : The women being taken and the churches burning at the end, but it's historically accurate, very brief and I don't dwell on it much. Critique level: [CRITIQUE ENCOURAGED] A Short Story I wrote at work one day during both my morning and my lunch break. It's a story about your basic 8th century Viking raid. Enjoy. The morning fog is dense before the long, wooden head of the ship as it plows through waters as icy as the moon's gaze. The winds of the North blow hard, and it cuts as a knife through the armor of even the most seasoned of the warriors onboard the single wooden ship. The warrior's swords and axes are a blue-white with the color of the clear Northern Sea. The engravings upon them, ancestral carvings, eagerly await the blood of the fools who would seek to stand against the tides of their anger and rage. Their shields and targes ready to stand like a wall of wood and steel ice against those who would strike their bearers down, the scars and bruises upon the bodies of some of these shields are a mere testament to their own might. The scene is dead silent, with the only sound emerging from the sail flapping in the gail. Suddenly, a noise. A person walks up to the bow of the ship and then takes out a bow. It is long, with a color of oaken wood. Many engravings are marked upon it, and as the armored man reaches behind his back and plucks out a quail-feathered arrow from his quiver, the ship seems to pick up speed. The wind currents like the shouts of the Gods above egging them on. Eager to see the bloodshed of the heathens. The warrior brought back the arrow within the celebrated longbow, and as he looked to the mist-covered horizon, the golden sun that was just rising above now illuminated the dense white clouds. It was like one giant spa, where the false pretense of relaxation was endorsed by the clouds of white and clearness. Yet still, he did not give into apathy. His knuckles whitened from his grip upon his arrow, his eyes narrowed as they were determined to be the first one to see his target. The warrior's teeth were gritted together so much that they were actually making a vein pop out of his neck. Like a sentinel, the warrior waited. Waited to be the first one to see land, waited for the first one to let loose his arrow. Waited to be the first one to gain a kill on this attack. Waited to taste glory first. Nothing was alive here. This was a battlefield, and everything knew it. The stage had been cleared, and it was now just them and their unknowing enemy. Locked in eternal conflict. All was silent for a few moments, time seemed to slow. And then.. The sharp sound of a band of twine suddenly being released, the dull shriek of an arrow being let fly. The warcry of the wooden missile as it plows through the air, rushing towards it's target like the warrior's ship is charging towards the beach of the island. The man's head was hit so hard by the arrow, it knocked him upon his back. Blood seeped out from the end of the arrowhead as it stuck out of the man's head. A red stain in the sand of the beach was now enveloping his whole body. Bathing it in it's own gore. But this was nothing but a vanguard to the army of corpses that would soon garrison the island where the dead man had been born and raised. A townsperson had tried to shout as they saw the raiders come from the sea and land upon the wharfs at the beachhead, but they too were impaled by another quail-feathered arrow. The end of the projectile this time, was jutting from the woman's back. Impaling her heart all the way through. Soon, the bow of the boat had touched the sand of the beachhead. And then, all was in chaos. People were shouting, townsfolk were arming themselves with poorly made weapons, children cried as their mothers rushed them away in vain. For who could stop such an onslaught of iron, metal, and anger? The armored men filed out of the ship and climbed the beachhead, heading from the beach to the town like an army of demonic cannibals. Hungry for the flesh of those who would fall. Their birthmarked axes and swords like teeth glinting in the early morning sun. Their warcries and curses were like demands for food to a government that had been hoarding it all for itself. Yet still, valiant men and women rushed out of the town to meet them in battle. Some of them were still getting their mail shirts on, some without helmets, some without swords and some without shields. Though there was more of the townspeople's militia then the warriors, it still didn't make up for alot. Besides, as the two sides met in combat, the numbers of at least one side began to change a bit heavily. The blades of the warriors cleaved through bone and organ alike, but the crudely forged iron blades of the townsfolk were no match for the mail coifs and hauberks born of steel from lands so cold, they seemed to be edged with frost themselves. Woe to the townsmen who were unable to pierce these bulwarks of Nordic might, for their strong and stalwart durability had defended most of the invaders from the crude iron weapons. When the battle was over, there was naught but corpses and the emotion of overwhelming fear for the townsfolk left. Shattered weapons and broken shields were clutched in the hands of the fallen. Some had no hands at all. The invaders had descended upon the townspeople like carrion birds upon a corpse. Ripping away the rotted skin that was their terrible skill at fighting, until there was nothing. The marauders charged into the streets of the city, doors were bashed in, windows broken, food was taken as well as loot and the daughters, sisters, and wives of the townsfolk, who were now nothing more then disgraced widows. The raiders took all they could back to their ship. Flesh or steel or meat or wood, it did not matter. All was theirs now. Their town hall burned and the churches collapsed in purging fires of unholy hatred. An inferno of aggression soon swallowed the whole town, there was nothing but cold after the fires subsided. The ash and the fire had worked together to decimate the life in that area. But such was the emptiness of the place that it had once been so full of life but was now so empty. But maggots would get fat and the birds would get their fill. And as the fires sent smoke above off to the distant sky above, they let all see of what transpired, and they already knew, of course. That it was just another... ..RAID.