Fantasy Changing Fate

[Soviet Panda]

The Longhouse was alight with celebration. The ocean was freezing over, and raiding season was coming to a close, and a prosperous one at that. Ale flowed freely and plates were not empty for long as the warriors and citizens boasted about feats of strength, regaled an audience with a tale of their most glorious deeds, or showed off their particular skills. Jarl Ulfar, face already red with drink and a wide smile splitting his face in two, had a massive man under each arm and swung them this way and that, boisterously telling them to put their backs into it. Shield Maiden Frida was outlining a willing participant with thrown knives and cutlery with one of her Sisters eyeing up a throw of her own.

But some distance away from the Longhouse that was so full of light and life stood a small hut. And inside the hut slept Helle Freyjasgyðja, Seeress of the clan. But her sleep was not a peaceful one. She was wracked by dreams gifted to her by the Norns themselves. She saw a man riding out to fight a gargantuan serpent, his hammer raised high as lightning struck his chariot, the lightning and thunder turning into the sparks and hammer blows of a forge as shadowy figures worked on something. A longship tumbling down, falling through the air and into the maw of a great wyrm only for the head of a stag of such gargantuan size as to fill her entire vision to appear. She saw a massive wolf lunging at a figure with a sword raised to strike, or perhaps a hand was being held out in friendship? Of yet two more wolves chasing after a globe of gold and one of silver, their massive maws slowly closing around their so desired prey. And of a being of fire, whose raised sword shone as brightly as the sun, prepared to strike down an unseen opponent. Then she awoke, with the sound of a rooster crowing in the dead of night.

"It has begun," she frantically whispered as she scrambled out of bed, only slowing enough to put some proper clothing on before scurrying to the Longhouse. "It has begun, but perhaps we can change it."
Historical Storyteller Morrighan MechanicalSnake

 

[Morrighan]

Helle

The Hall was alight, full of song and drink and joy. Such things had always come with the ending of the Summer Raids, a celebration of the warriors’ valor and a reminder of the long winter ahead. This year had seemed no different.

How wrong they’d all been.

How foolishly naïve.

The doors slammed shut behind her as though the winds of Thor had followed behind in her race to reach the Jarl. Not seeming to care that her hair was a mess - or the kohl around her eyes smudged - Helle rushed to the High Table, where her Jarl sat watching her with wide, questioning eyes. She was not known to join in the celebrations since her mother’s death, and no one had expected her presence here tonight.

With the eyes of her village on her, the Seeress stood before the great Warriors of the land and fought her fear, her terror at the grave revelation she brought.

“Helle? What is wrong, that you come racing as though the World Eater followed? What has happened?” Questioned the Jarl over the remnants of his feast.

Nothing could have prepared him, could have prepared anyone, for what the Völva said next.

“The Gods had given me a vision, my Jarl.” The young woman steeled herself. ”Ragnarok has come.”​

 

[MechanicalSnake]

Seated on the Jarl's right hand, Einar was finishing his second portion of roasted boar when Helle rushed into the hall, only carefully washing it down with ale. He rarely ever got drunk, even on occasions such as this, because someone had to make sure the Jarl didn't die a death without honor, killed in his bed by a rival while everyone else was sleeping off a hangover. Where there was success, there were enemies. And they'd had a very succesful season.

All that was momentarily forgotten as his eyes fell on the white-haired girl everyone had learned to respect despite her relative youth. Thanks to his position, Einar could see right into the terror-struck eyes of the seeres as she delivered her message; there was all the ice of Niflheim reflected in their depths. Similarly, all life in the hall seemed to have frozen in place when she spoke. A knife was dropped somewhere, one or two feet shifted on the ground; someone swallowed a bite they'd been chewing on, and those sounds appeared to be unnaturally loud, out of place. Then, laughter - a lonely voice of disbelief that immediately dissipated again.

Surely, that could not be right? Einar cleared his throat, encompassing the hall in one long gaze, and dared to do what no one else had: speak. "Well, what exactly have you seen? Because there will be signs in every person's life when he clearly believes that Ragnarok is near. Dissension splits kinsmen and despair spreads, visions bring sings that the final battle is near. The only true evidence of Ragnarok, however, is Fimbulwinter that lasts for three years. Everyone knows that. And we are all sitting here, about to part with the summer time."

​

 

[Historical Storyteller]

At the far end of the table sat Agnarr, one of the Jarl's more seasoned huscarls, who angrily stuffed pieces of elk and deer into his mouth. Several men beside him were doing exactly the same thing. Their names are: Hroarr, a giant of a man, who ate the meat of a bear smaller than he was tall; Olvir, the young warrior, who feasted on the fowls of the air; Folke, a small but strong fellow, dined on the meat of the pig and boar; and lastly was Agnarr himself, a middle-aged veteran, who as previously mentioned ate elk and deer. Across this table gathered a huge crowd of spectators who cheered the feasting men on, encouraging them to eat as fast as they possibly could. Apparently, an eating contest was taking place, one that happened spontaneously. Agnarr himself was the first to go, after bravely dining on a single deer, the second one that came next proved too much for him and he stopped.

Olvir was the next to go, right after he finished off the fiftieth grouse, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, "I'm beaten, I'm beaten, enough!" More servings of bear and boar were laid right in front of Hroarr and Folke respectively, and for a few moments the two men just stared at each other, "I'll beat you this time, Hroarr, I'm sure of it." said Folke, who narrowed his eyes, "I've been practicing all spring, summer and fall for this and I won't fail now." And Hroarr, without missing a beat replied, "HAH! You've always been brave, Folke. . ." Hroarr wagged his finger, "But ALSO you've always been so damned foolish. This winter will be the same like all the winters past. . ." Hroarr pointed his thumb towards himself, "With me winning. . ." Hroarr pointed a finger straight at Folke, "And YOU losing! HAH HAH HAH HAH."

"That's right, Hroarr, show him who's boss!"
"Don't listen to them, Folke, you can do it."
"You can't back down now. . ."
"Not again. . ."

Bets were placed, Hroarr stood the greatest chance of winning while Folke remained a question mark, a clear underdog. Most put their money on the giant but a few believers, daring for hope, risked a month's pay for the dwarf. And just when both of them began to eat, the Seeress arrived with the doors slamming behind her loudly, all turned to look at her with concern. The joy and laughter were gone and replaced with a grim silence. The Jarl asked her what was wrong and what happened, the Seeress answered that Ragnarok had come. Agnarr was the first to react, with a laugh "Hahhahahaha!" Hroarr put a hand over his mouth and told him to keep quiet. Everybody else shushed Agnarr down.

Agnarr pulled Hroarr's hand down and whispered, "Is she serious?"

Hroarr put a hand over his heart, "When has Helle ever lied to us?"

Agnarr raised his hands, palms up, "You mean all the time?"

Hroarr buried his face into his hand, "You fool."

 

[Morrighan]

Helle

The sound the of empty, fearful silence crashed over the girl like a rogue wave. She had never before brought such calamitous news before her people, who knew her to be a hopeful spirit, at least in the years before her mother’s death. Agnaar’s laughter was cruel to her ears, but she paid him no mind. He was a warrior, not a scholar or priest.

Her vision had graced no other souls but her own.

Ever since childhood, the Gods has set her aside. Her prophecies were never false, even when all seemed seen through smoke and lies. In the end, what she saw became truth.

“You speak, Jarl, as if the dreaded Snows must come in the seasons of ice and slumber. Nothing in the Sagas speak of such a thing, I assure you. My mother always warned against viewing prophecy through closed eyes, and I make the same warning now. What I have seen is true, and the Gods have spoken. We must prepare for Ragnarok.”

More people laughed, some merely stared at her in shock, while others still began to weep. The Jarl and his warriors still appeared skeptical, and so Helle told them all that her vision had entailed in as much detail as she could bare. Every sign was there, every bloody battle.

Still, she saw disbelief. Still, a few men mocked her.

But it did not change what was true.​

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Agnarr closed his eyes and thought of his life, every struggle, every battle, every lesson he learned passed through his mind. He felt the weight of being a man, a warrior and a father. And by the time he opened his eyes, he was seized by a fierce determination. Agnarr stood up suddenly and cried aloud, "And so what if Ragnarok has come? Will we weep? Will we laugh? Or will we fight with weapons in our hands? To us, Ragnarok is but another battle, it is the ultimate battle but it is one we knew we were going to fight all along. . ." Agnarr's mouth was still open but he found he had no more words to say. He stood there for a good few moments before taking a seat.

 

[Soviet Panda]

Jarl Ulfar had found his way to his seat next to Otrygg. The wise man was dejectedly sipping at his mead, never one to enjoy the company of others. Though he made a few exceptions, this celebration certainly being one of them. It had nothing to do with the Jarl all but carrying the ornery old shaman into the longhouse, certainly not that. But perhaps it was fate that forced him to be there, for the news that the Seeress Helle brought of her vision was certainly grim.

Ulfar silenced the derisive laughter with an evil glare before turning back to the Seeress. "What exactly was it you saw," he asked her. As she spoke, the shaman Otrygg sat up and leaned further and further in, until his beard was almost on top of the roast in front of him. But once she was done, it was Ulfar that spoke first. "And what makes you think that this means Ragnarok? It could mean many things, a great travel with difficult struggles, perhaps."

"No, you fool," Otrygg hissed as he stood up and began his long walk around the table to stand face to face with Helle. "That serpent was Jormungander, and Thor riding out to fight him, that I am certain. And the two wolves are Skoll and Hati devouring sun and moon. It is as she says, Ragnarok has come. But why would the Norns show us this? There is nothing we can do about it, it was they that foretold the Twilight of the Gods to begin with."

 

[MechanicalSnake]

As drunk as Agnarr must have been , judging by his inappropriate fit of laughter, he had a point there. He'd spoken like a warrior, and Einar couldn't but agree. "If Ragnarok truly is to come, we will ride out and face it without fear, for it will be a great honor to fight the Jotunn alongside Odin, Thor and all our ancestors in Valhalla. And what a glorious battle it will be, unlike anything anyone has ever seen!"

In certainly was somewhat of a consolation, to know that if the world was to end, it would go out with the clanking of swords, streams of hot blood melting the snow and screams of the fallen resounding throughout Midgard and beyond. And they would all be there for it.

But what then? Einar's inquisitive mind asked. What would be left of the world, once the gods and the giants destroyed each other and their respective armies? And what about humans, where would their souls go - or those of the dead gods?

It was unbearable to imagine, the nothingness. Utter lack of existence. An abyss filled with a vacuum, a frightening thought, yet still easier to face than the ultimate realization that he would never have this experience, no one would, because there would be no consciousness. No awareness, not the cold plains of Hel for eternity that all men wished to avoid, but... nothing. But those thoughts he chose to keep for himself, for there was no reason to give anyone else the same deep chill he was feeling at the moment.

"Sure there is something we can do," a female voice said, so sharp and stingy that almost everyone turned in its direction to see Hervor, seated on the table where everyone could see her. She was still holding a horn of mead, looking way too comfortable considering the gravity of the situation. It was her way, to always appear as though she was untouched by fear, as though she didn't know discomfort, as though she had a solution where there was none. And it worked, mostly. Sometimes solutions came to her then. Other times, she managed to make others feel bad about the fact that they hadn't presented any, if nothing else.

"You all have turds where there's supposed to be a mind," she announced, emptying her horn with a few large gulps. "Odin didn't hang on a three for nine days and nine nights, nor did he give up his eye for nothing. He devoted his life to trying to postpone Ragnarok! Visions don't just come randomly. If we got one, maybe he wants us to help. Fimbullwinter is supposed to last for three years. Three years! That's a shitload of time to do something."

 

[Morrighan]

Helle

It took everything the Völva had not to weep from gratitude to the Shield-maiden. Helle had never really even spoken to Hervor, who had always been everything the younger woman dreamt of being since childhood. She was strong, fierce, and an amazing warrior.

And she was beautiful. So, so beautiful.

The men paused to listen to the Shield-maiden’s words, and a few could be seen nodding along or speaking amongst themselves. None dared argue her point, not when all knew the tales of Odin and his thirst for knowledge. Helle herself could feel the truth of the older woman’s words in her bones, and all at once she knew what they were meant to do.

“Myrkheim,” she murmured softly, the word hesitant and questioning. Was Myrkheim the dark, beautiful place that she’d seen in her dream between one beat of her heart and the next?

“What is it that you said, Helle?” Questioned the Jarl.

For reasons utterly unknown to herself, the young Seeress found her eyes seeking Hervor in that moment. Something about the way she’d spoken, in her countenance and strength, made Helle feel as though she could be brave too.

“We must go to Myrkheim, the Realm of Elves and Shadow.”​

 

[Soviet Panda]

Jarl Ulfar and the Shaman Otrygg both stared at Helle silently at what she had said. Otrygg was the first of the two to put the pieces together. "The shadowy figures in their forge," he whispered fervently. "They will be our first step then. Helle, you will be coming with us."

"What!?" Jarl Ulfar interjected. "She barely knows how to hold an axe let alone use it. She'd do nothing but slow us down, no offense, Volva," he hastily added, his mother having instilled in him the importance of respect towards women of such status long before she passed. "You will do, Otrygg. Agnarr, shut up and get your men and ship ready, we leave tomorrow. You to, Sorli, and make sure your man is sober by then. Einar, you are coming as well, pick several of the warriors you trust the most. We'll be needing them."

Having given his commands, he leaned back in his seat. "But first, let us finish this celebration. If not for the end of our finest season to date, then to see us off to stop Ragnarok." Grabbing his tankard of mead, he raises it high into the air, gives a thunderous cheer, and downed it in a matter of seconds. Looking around at the dumbstruck faces in the hall, he continues. "If the world was going to end tomorrow, I don't think the Norns would have bothered." And with that simple explanation out of the way, the celebration began once more, but with a noticeably different air about it then previous.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day

Otrygg was overseeing the supplies being loaded onto the gathered longships. There were five in total, two of which being almost entirely dedicated towards food and water. Jarl Ulfar appeared at the shaman's side and asked a question. "Do you think this will be enough?"

Leaning against his spear, Otrygg pondered the question momentarily before answering. "Probably not. If we must first travel to Myrkheim, who knows where else we will have to go? Or what we will face along the way? But these are strong and durable men and women, a night or two without dinner is nothing strange to them."

Grunting to himself, Ulfar stood next to Otrygg, the two not saying a word to each other and watching the last barrel of fresh water being rolled onboard and the last crate of dried foods was secured. These would be trying times, even if they were to succeed. For they were setting sail for unfamiliar waters, with unknown enemies. But as long as they could sink their axe or sword into it, they could handle it.