Welcome to Gaia! ::

somehow I have to catch up 18,000 words or so by Thursday night...

Vidar screamed, “FATHER!” He raced forward, blasting through any and everything in his way. He doubled over, tucking his left shoulder in so as to thrust his right shoulder out, making it easier to barrel through anyone. Vidar had several leagues to cross with all sorts of enemies in his way; giants, elves, dwarves, and so much more. Perspiration danced across his forehead as the son of Odin dashed to his vengeance.

Fenris stumbled, barely managing to stand on all four feet. His tongue licked around his face, as if trying to suck back in the blood draining from his wounds. His eyes widened as he saw the silent son of Odin, as he was sometimes referred to, darting forth, ready to kill. Fenris snarled, a saliva and blood concoction dripping from his jowls. Just when I thought he could not have possibly been more possessed with anger or rage, I was wrong. Fire seemed to have laced the beast’s eyes, the fiery hatred of one of if not the foulest creature imaginable.

The wolf’s eyes appeared to bulge out of their sockets and it took me a second to realize why. Vidar had reached a clearing, no longer blocked by hordes of mindless followers, now open for his revenge. Vidar leapt through the air, drawing his sword from the sheathe on his back. He swung downwards, letting the blade gain momentum until he sliced it across the wolf’s snout.

He landed on one knee, head bent, his sword in his left hand pointed straight out. He stood slowly, ears ringing from the roar of the wretched beast. Fenris’s jaw dropped as the heat of the pain from the blow Vidar had just dealt ripped across the wolf’s face. When the lower jaw hit the ground, the beast inhaled and began to suck in everything around it. Standing slowly, the silent son of Odin slid the sword back in its sheathe on the back; for the moment it wasn’t the weapon he needed. Vidar strode forwards and fulfilled his role in the prophecy; his role in Ragnarok.

With those wonderful shoes that his mother had made for him, Vidar stomped down on the bottom jaw, shoving up on the top jaw of the wolf. The severs that his father had made were now dancing down the mouth of Fenris. Each second that passed, the tears grew longer, wider, deeper. The beast screamed; an echoing threnody that simply would not fade.

In but a matter of seconds, though it seemed as if it were a millennia, Vidar was half way through ripping and tearing apart the body of the wolf. With a mighty battle cry, partially from grief, partially from rage, he heaved through the last section, severing the beast in two. I held my breath, as I know others did for I could hear Leif and Randgrid do the same, as Odin tumbled out of the belly of the beast. The Val Father was dead, we could all see that, but I wished it were otherwise. The edges of the flesh were jagged, obviously not a clean tear. The pain was definitely excruciating, unbearable; yet, somehow, the wolf had not died.

Lying in a pool of water and blood, entrails and intestines, was the still beating heart of the wolf, Fenris. Vidar strode slowly to the organ, only somewhat aware of the fact that the eyes darted wildly from the fallen head of the beast, drawing his sword once more from its sheathe. Glistening drops of rage and sadness streamed down Vidar’s face as he gripped his sword in only his right hand. He spun his wrist, the sword dancing in a circle, while he raised it above his head, catching the sword with his left hand.

The blade pointed straight down, both hands firmly grasping the hilt. He cried out as he plunged the sword to lay to rest the vicious wolf that had slain his father. As the blade pierced the most vital of organs, the silent son collapsed to his knees, head bent and resting on the hilt. Fenris’s eyes went blank as the heart stopped beating. I’m sure the Hel Vidar sent him to must feel like heaven after what had been done to him.

For what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute or two, Vidar knelt there, weeping over the loss of his father. Several of the Valkyries that had survived thus far joined at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder here, on his head there. He rose slowly, pulling the sword from the ground and from the heart where it currently rested. Vidar chose not to look back at his father’s cadaver, for reasons I can not imagine. Maybe he wished not to sully the memory of his beloved dad, maybe there was another rationalization for it that I just can not comprehend. No matter what the vindication for never looking back, I know only of what I saw.



I laughed. That pitiful fool, Odin, lay dead. Fenris was a devastating loss, but still, we were going to win this battle. I glanced over at the other duels now being fought; Loki and Heimdall, Surt and Frey, Garm and Tyr. Everywhere I looked, our army was devouring the Einharjar and their disgusting comrades. I gripped my axe’s handle, my hands wrapping tightly around the wood.

Both of the double blades from my axe were stained with a rusty red hue; blood. I have sunk my axe into more of my enemies than I could count. I lost my body count, the number of those that my weapon had kissed. It was growing dull from all the stains, now more of a mace than an actual axe, bashing more than it ever cut. I strapped it to my back once more, my hands finding a decent sized sword plucked fresh from a fallen foe. The blade was fairly clean because the elf I had taken this from was a bit of a coward, one who would rather sing and dance than fight for what was right. Well, he wasn’t right either way, and as he lay dead at my feet, I wondered if whatever hall he had wandered to if he was dancing at it.

I singled out a small group of Einharjar, maybe half a dozen, with a Valkyrie or two throughout the mix. There was but about a hundred feet separating us, and the distance quickly transformed into nothingness as we met on a clearing, mostly devoid of bodies. I grinned as they tried to circle around me, even more when a dark elf I had not noticed before let loose an arrow, set to pierce my chest. I caught the arrow in my left hand, snapping it in half between my first and third fingers, bending it over the middle one.

With a flick of the wrist, I drove the sword into his stomach for a slow and painful death. I kicked him in the chest, drawing out my recently received blade from the poor b*****d. He slumped to the ground before me, and I turned to the next in line. All at once they tried to attack me. All at once I sent them to their doom. I killed them all as quickly as I could, slashing and hacking away at my assailants, nearly sick with delight as they fell to the ground around me.

When the last had collapsed, I surveyed my surroundings. Bits and pieces of flesh littered the area at my feet, and I had to skip and hop or else I would walk straight through pools of the liquids that had but until now sustained their owners with life. I stared at another group… this one seemed special. It was three people, two humans and a Valkyrie. This seemed like something I would gladly take on. A fight worthy of my strength. I know not what compelled me to move towards them, what made them special, but I had to fight them. I would not rest until this blade I now held kissed their skin.



This monster loomed ahead of me, a fire giant with more hatred than any I had ever seen before, well any other than Surt. I glanced to Leif on my left, Randgrid at my right. Together we would fight this creature; together we would kill this b*****d. I withdrew Laevatinir from his sheathe one last time, calling upon his great power to help me through this battle. Randgrid hefted her sword; Leif, his axe. He thought for a second, then paused, putting it back and pulling out his own sword.

We would fight together through this; we would die together if we had to. I will not fall.



The man standing at my right looked more determined than I had ever seen him before. Nothing could shake his will. We watched as our comrades fell at the hands of this fire giant, this son of Muspellheim. I slid my empty left hand into his, my right still gripping my sword tightly. I loved this man. We couldn’t die. We would survive this.

I blinked away my tears and I thought back to the night that he had made those promises to me…


“I will not die, we will live on. I will fight to survive until there is not a breath left in my body. Of this I promise you, Randgrid.” I wanted to love her for as long as I could and then even longer.


He promised. We had to live. I could not stand to lose him as I had lost so many others. I loved him.



The man standing to my left had been the closest friend I have had in years. He was like a brother to me. We had fought together, we had been injured together, and we had even laughed and stared longingly at the beautiful goddesses and valkyries. Of course, now that lucky b*****d had gotten together with the Valkyrie Randgrid.

My hands grasped the hilt of my sword, blade pointed at an angle to the ground to my right. The fire giant stood before me. I glanced over at my brother in arms and grinned, nodding. I threw my head back, blonde hair falling wildly all about my shoulders, and shouted. It didn’t matter what I shouted, or even to whom I was shouting it, the passion in my voice let the son of Muspell know fully damn good and well what our intentions were.



Leif howled next to me, and I took up the call with him. Our battle cries rang through the desolate ground, echoing and reverberating across the plain. My beautiful Valkyrie, Randgrid, simply bowed her head, praying for some kind of help from anyone and any deity that could grant it at this moment.

The wind felt cold against my face, though I suppose it should have felt much, much warmer; the heat from Surt’s sword, Laevateinn, burning hot across our battle field Vigrid.

I looked back and forth between Leif and Randgrid, unsure of when I would ever see them again. I would miss my friends, my loved ones. I remembered days when we would laugh and sing, dancing around fires on summer nights. We consumed a lot of ale, a lot of mead, a lot of food. Our joviality was unequaled, not even the elves during their favorite holiday festivities were as happy as we were.

Oh, how I would miss those days.

Cool.... I just hope I finish in time.

The Black God grinned at the battlefield before him. Surt commanded over the strongest forces alive. As he strode across the plain, Fenris was locked into battle with Odin, the Midgard Serpent squared off against Thor. If he squinted hard enough, the Black God could make out Loki in his fight against Heimdall.

Laevateinn burned hot in his hands, a sword so deadly that even the gods themselves feared this blade. Hundreds could fall at a flick of the wrist because of this weapon. He had been lucky to get it, but when he did, he cherished it.

He stepped between some of his soldiers, fire giants from Muspellheim, the undead from Hel, and even some dark elves from far away. His massive gauntlets landed on a hand of a previously fallen soldier, a few undead men, and shoved them out of the way. They flew to the ground, rolling hard and fainting.

The Black God smiled faintly, the Seeress had predicted what was about to happen. Frey, one of the Vanir, a god of fertility, was the first who approached him. Frey, the brother of the love goddess Freyja, had previously owned the sword Laevateinn, but gave it up so he could wed the giantess Gerd. Now, riding weaponless across the plain on the back of Gullinbursti, a boar that illuminated the way only for his owner and was made by the dwarves, Frey was going to attempt something impossible, to defeat Surt without his sword.

Laevateinn wasn’t just any sword for that matter; it almost fought and thought for itself. It was forged by the elf Volund. If he could have just controlled himself, Frey probably would have saved the entire world’s existence. With it, Frey could have defeated any foe; that is how powerful Laevateinn is. The sword was known as the Wounding Wand, and the Staff of Destruction. It was made for the hands of a god, and only a god had the strength to wield it.

Laevateinn could make the wielder invincible. Nothing could harm the God lucky enough to grip this blade by the hilt. The Staff of Destruction could fight on its own, dancing around by itself as it slaughtered any and all in its way.

The Lord of the Realm of Fire grinned once more as Gullinbursti came to a stop, Frey throwing his right leg over the boar and stepping off. Frey looked back, but he continued to his destiny. The Black God let go of Laevateinn, letting the Wounding Wand work its magic, fighting on its own. He stepped forward, a long black cloak falling around his feet.

It wasn’t until then that Frey surprised us all. I had expected him to be more defensive, that is, until he could gain control of Laevateinn. That would be his only way to survive. Too bad it seemed as though he didn’t think of that. Frey instead went totally against the Vanir’s nature. The Vanir were not like the Æsir, who were war gods, they were not as prone to fighting.

Frey dashed forward, ducking under a well aimed right hook, balling his fist and driving it in an uppercut to the Lord of the Realm of Fire’s chin. Surt flew backwards, his shoulders slamming into the ground first, right around his neck area.

The Black God pulled himself up to one elbow, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. He glared at the Fertility God, and rose to his feet. His black lips like rose petals peeled back, revealing pearly white fangs of hatred. The fire of his lands and of his sword swirled in his eyes as he began his own offensive.

Frey kept jumping back and forth, desperately trying to avoid the beating Surt wished to lay on him. His luck was running out, the Fertility God only had so much room. And that was when fate ran out for him. The Norns must have really hated him; a rock was all it took to potentially devastate Frey.

The Fertility God tripped backwards over a rock, landing on his back. He stared up in fear as the Staff of Destruction flew back into the Lord of the Realm of Fire’s open and anxiously waiting right hand. The Wounding Wand yearned for a chance to plunge itself into the undeserving heart of Frey.

As Laevateinn raced down, seconds before ending the life of this Vanir, Frey rolled to the side, his hand landing on a scimitar, snatching it up from the scabbard of a fallen undead soldier. The Fertility God lashed out, slashing across the Black God’s chest, painting a line of crimson on his skin.

To his horror, Frey witnessed the thin wound that had begun to drip with blood began to heal. The blood that had slipped out appeared to be sucked back in by the infinite power of that mighty weapon Surt wielded. Perhaps this was more futile than even Frey had imagined.

Frey rolled back, placing his hands behind his shoulders and shoving up, thrusting his legs out as his body arched. He landed on his feet, striking up with the blade which was near his left leg and across to end the swing with the blade pointed diagonally at the sky towards his right shoulder. To any man or god not wielding the Staff of Destruction, this blow would have been mortal. Unluckily for Frey, Surt just so happened to hold that powerful blade.

The Black God leapt backwards, clutching his stomach where the blade had kissed him. His black lipped smile froze Frey’s heart; once more the wound was healing before his eyes, evaporating into nothingness. The Fertility God’s despair was seemingly tangible, and none of us knew what to do.

Defiantly, Frey moved into an offensive stance, sword pointed straight at the chest of Surt. His hands gripped the hilt of the blade, arms pulled back, and ready for a thrusting lunge. It was in vain, sure, but still, he had to. What was there to do, if he did not fight then he was surrendering to his fate? He had to attack, even if after every single would be mortal death blow was mended and cured instantaneously.

Surt darted forward, willingly impaling himself on the sword. Didn’t really matter, it’s not as though the wound would kill him. He grabbed Frey by his tunic with his right hand, twisting and pulling the Fertility God into him. Frey’s sword pierced straight through the sternum of Surt, a wet noise emanating from the gaping hole in his body. The Lord of the Realm of Fire cocked his head to the side, lips peeled back once more, white fangs ready to rip out the throat of the Fertility God.

Frey let loose of the sword, finally realizing the futility of his actions. He bowed his head, and it seemed as though he had finally given up. He sure fooled us. Just as Surt was once again prepared for a killing strike, Frey uppercut the leader of the fire giants, who fell back, the gravity of the fall driving him into the ground, the sword lodging into the earth so deep that it would not budge.

Surt twisted and turned, writhing under the blade, not in pain but out of frustration. He was reluctant to sit down the Staff of Destruction, even for a second. The Lord of the Realm of Fire grasped the sword that had impaled him with his left hand, trying to free it from the ground but to no avail. He slid Laevateinn into the scabbard on his side, which was by no means an easy task. With both hands now free, the Black God hefted the blade from his sternum. His hands were cut on the sword, having to slide it out with palms on either side of the sharp edges. Rivers of crimson life force laced down the double edged blades.

His cuts healed as fast as his pride, as he finally pried the blade from the hole in his body, he noticed Frey. During these past few moments his mind had been preoccupied with getting up and freeing the sword. The Fertility God grinned back at the obsidian lipped fire giant.

In his hand was another sword, a spatha, which was just another name for that type of blade. Because of the type of weapon, that made Frey a spatharius, or one who wielded a spatha, which was also just referred to as a Viking sword. The pommel was golden, a symbol of Yggdrasil etched into it. The grip was black, leather, with perfectly spaced raised areas for a better grasp from either hand. The guard was silver, a rose stem complete with thorns adorned upon it. The blade was about two and a half feet long, plenty long enough to do all of what he was about to do. Frey smiled as he performed a perfect pirouette, upon which he swung the spatha out, connecting to the soft dark skin at the nape of the Black God’s neck.

Never before have I seen anyone’s head fly through the air like that. It was a marvelous flight, simply spectacular. Laevateinn, the Wounding Wand, that Staff of Destruction, leapt from its sheathe; sailing through the air and plunging into Surt’s head. The sword flew back, landing on the Lord of the Realm of Fire’s chest. That was when I jumped. What we all thought was a cadaver, a thought we had cherished and held fast to, lifted its arms, hands groping around for its missing appendage. When the hands finally found contact with the skull, they pulled it back up, holding it to the bleeding stump of a neck.

Strands of flesh, as strings, stitched the head back to the body. It was as though some dark and malignant Norn was threading skin as it threaded fate through a loom. The head quickly reattached, and those blank eyes that we had once hoped would go livid returned with flare.

Surt shot up, glaring at the Fertility God. Frey was horrified at this sight, his blood turning into ice. The only thing that could have possibly made it worse happened but a moment later, as the Black God stared at Frey; he pitched his head back and laughed. Laughing doesn’t quite describe that sickening sound, that fire giant cackled as only evil men and creatures can do.

Rising to his feet, his black boots resounding with each step, the booms reverberating with each footfall, Frey could only watch in horror. His stomach churned, the ice pumping throughout his veins.

It was in those last fleeting moments that the first of the gods – both Æsir and Vanir alike – fell at the hands of their mortal and unfortunately for the Fertility God’s case, immortal, enemies. Laevateinn, flying free from the hands of the Black God plunged into the area just above the stomach of Frey, just as Frey had done to the Lord of the Realm of Fire.

Surt was all about equal treatment, ripping the sword from its nest in the Fertility God’s sternum. He grinned as he held the sword, mimicking those few moments before his head had gone for a trip, leaving his body behind. The Black God spun, just as Frey himself had, pirouetting perfectly.

I lied earlier, when I said I had never seen a head sail like that. Well at the time it was true, but now it was certainly a fallacy. Frey had fought valiantly to stay alive, surprising everyone well more than once, but in the end, that damned Seeress could not be proven wrong. Her prophecies had been true thus far, and this was no exception.

One of the most respected and cherished Vanir, a peaceful and loving god of Fertility, who also reigned over the rain, the shining of the sun, and the produce of the field, Frey was the first to fall at the hands of Surt, the Black God. Laevateinn had satisfied his hunger, ironically on the blood of its first and true master. Who was next to fall?

Spanish for peace and love. My spanish teacher tells me that every time I start beating people up XD

...what? he stole my book! evil THE ONE I WAS WRITING! And he was twice my size, so it didn't matter anyway.

You don't have to comment, but you at least have to vote! It's a matter of crucial importance!

I'm not going to delete this... I don't know if I posted Chapter XIV up, but I do have it saved...

I don't mind, whenever you can finish reading it... (then when I'm a famous published author, you can always read it in a hardback, leather bound book).

I don't know if I will tone down chapter 8 or not...

From an artist's perspective, nothing is too controversial. Fact is, that kind of thing happened. No one was safe.

However I can't put off my readers too much.

It might get fixed in the editorial process. I've got to fix a lot, move chapters about, fix my mythologically incorrectness (pretty much those parts where I've fecked up.. yes... feck. That is my word).

Trying to get it published anyways.

Yeah, I know a few people that will read and fix all the problems... but I've got to go back and self edit a lot. I need to fix anything that isn't mythologically correct. Plus add a whole lot more to the depth of the story.