* RAGNAROK - Chapter 1

[General Logan]

(NOTE: This thread is open to all who would like to read. If you are not "signed up" to play, please do not post. If you are interested in joining the campaign, refer to the Questions/Comments thread or email me @ generallogan@hotmail.com)

R A G N A R O K
C h a p t e r - 1

"An Axe-Age, a sword age, shields will be gashed: there will be a wind-age and a wolf-age before the world is wrecked."

"First of all Midgard will be wrenched and racked by wars for three winters. Fathers will slaughter sons; brothers will be drenched in one another's blood. Mothers will desert their menfolk and seduce their own sons; brothers will bed with sisters."

"Then Fimbulvetr, the winter of winters, will grip and throttle Midgard. Driving snow clouds will converge from north and south and east and west. There will be bitter forsts, biting winds; the shining sun will be helpless. Three such winters will follow each other with no summers between them."

So runs the myth of Ragnarok--a legend whose power was stolen by making it no more than a childern's tale. As the centuries unfolded, the once-proud Vikings diminished from the earth. And so the truth of their lore grew dormant... forgotten for a time...

Earth, 2008 A.D.
Led by the United States, nations of the world looked on in support or despair as the sweeping giant declared its wars on terror, on oppressive regimes, on foes with masked intentions.

In Afghanistan, Iraq and North Korea, the eyes of the world were fixed. In the confusion, none thought to monitor an unlikely foe.

Red12, a small but violent neo-Soviet faction simultaneously has stormed several Ukranian missle silos, fully intent on using the threat of destructive power to further their cause.

As its allies have withdrawn one by one, the United States has found its forces spread too thin. Chaos has suddenly become the order of the day. Citizens of the earth are, for the first time, united. United in fear.

This looming shadow, however, this threat that encompasses the panicked world of mankind--it is greater yet than any man is aware. For earth is but one of many worlds, presdided over by beings more ancient and more powerful than anything seen in the modern age.

The end does indeed approach. And so much more than the world of man hangs in the balance.

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Failsafe
(ATTN: Poxy)

"Gentlemen," addresses the leggy, Swedish flight attendant. Moments ago, she had flirted and winked her way passed the drunken, groping hands of a collected Wynternacht. Now her accented tone had dipped into the sharply serious.

She brushed up against the low tray table, bumping into a set of tickets marked "Oslo". Her voice broke into a trembling whisper. She clutched the arm of the infamous Gunnar Arvidson, her face now pale white.

"There are men onboard... with guns!" she managed between crystalline tears.

The first class cabin was filled with businessmen, young professionals, and three of Gunnar's carefree bandmates. All seemed above board.

Unlatching his seatbelt, Arvidson slid to the drawn curtain. Carefully sliding the drape back with his fingertips, the travel-weary rocker peered into coach.

From out of the far off restroom, a dark-haired man emerged--an eastern European man, with thick black eyebrows and a recently trimmed beard. His arms rested uncomfrotably under a tattered, long gray sweater. The man was fairly large, a brute with a grave expression. He was glancing to someone on the far side of the coach cabin.

(The plane is a 767, with three rows of chairs and two aisles. Looking down on the plane from the top, Gunnar and his group are in the northern part of the plane, western side near the aisle.)

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Control
(ATTN: Ego)

Towering over the dead body of a downed MP, Targo Vleitnikov searched the man for ammunition and ID.

Cheska3-8 was the largest of the complexes that he and his comrades had set out to secure. It would be the most defensible location as well, once Red12 was firmly in control.

Glaring up the long grey-green railings overhead, the rogue commander silently motioned three of his men to the platform. The clink-clank of iced boots echoed. They climbed up against a solid metal cylinder, rising 40' into the air. Under his feet were wire-ridden floor panbels. Random smoke and sparse shouting lingered in the background of his raid.

Targo levelled his AN-94 at the door in front of him, preparing for the inevitble rush of the treacherous Ukranian military.

Gunshots suddenty ring out. Four. Six. Sixteen. Though the path in front of him is clear, the falling bodies of his comardes force him to take shelter.

Targo was caught between the defiant forces in the control center above him and the growing sound of incoming troops from outside.

The leader stood determined. The death of his men would not be in vain.

(Targo is in a small circular room, facing the only doorway. His back is to a metal ladder, leading up to a rounded platform. There is just enough room around the cylinder to walk tightly. Men in the control room just shot and pushed out your three men, landing around you. Men approache the hallway in front of you.)

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

The bitter winter seems to have locked the world in ice. Even in Maine, winters were meant to eventually pass.

Ajene Fitzgerald sensed something amiss in nature's rage. He had heard of the effects of the cold in other places. The famine, the lack of crops had slowly begun to delbilitate the more dependent nations.

Even in a place like America, such dreadful times could fall. Wrapped tightly in a aged brown jacket, the journeyman priest approached the small wooden facility.

The church had been looted--an uncommon occurance in rural Northshore, Maine. With his help, the few but loyal parishoners had gathered to rebuild the home of their faith.

"Blizzard picking up, A.J.?" a slow but friendly young man named Eric had taken to Ajene like a faithful sidekick. In a heavy coat, he painted plain white against the walls inside. "Can't wait until we get the heater back," he added.

Sirens wailed. It was a shockingly loud chrip. The paint rippled and pooled a bit against a shaking wall.

"Thunderstom warning?" Eric dropped the paint roller idly into its bin.

A loud boom rolled like grounded thunder a quarter mile out.

Air raid? Ajene knew it was something more. He carried with him the unfailing survival instincts of military training. If he had taken time to think, the existence of an air raid alarm in barren Northshore might have struck him as ridiculous. If not for its sounding today.

The collection of workers numbered only around seven total, and whatever the imminent danger was, Ajene knew it was time to move.

Eric pushed open the glass doors of the tattered church to see the blur of screaming aircraft fly overhead.

The markings were unfamiliar to Ajene, but the model of the planes appeared to be European. Why an attack? Why Northshore, Maine?

For the time being, scatterd explosions would be his only answers. The six others looked to the man that had led them spiritually, to help take them to physical safety.

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

The legendary slopes of Europe no longer drew a mass of tourists. The threat of war and recent outbreak of international chaos kept all but the most stout-hearted at bay.

Despite the world's fears, the Swiss Alps commanded a challenge. Atop a nefarious peak known to English speakers as "Razoredge" stood a handful of defiant skiiers.

Fearlessly peering down the range was Clive Branson. Clive was a former Navy SEAL, revitalized in life after surviving a freak ice storm. Now he challenged Fate at every opportnity. Skiing the cusp of Razoredge was just another test to be passed.

Taking a deep breath, the former soldier kicked off. As the cool breeze bit through his jacket, he haphazardly negotiated the protruding rocky ridge.

Removed somewhat from the reality of his descent, Clive felt the beckoning of memory. He recalled that storm that had nearly claimed him. He remembered the gahstly... beast that stared deadly into him.

It was not a dream, he reminded himself, refusing to accept the doctor's assertions of his "passing out". He knew, deep within him, that somethings lie in hidden in the earth. Things evil beyond what men can describe.

"Uff!" he shouted awkwardly. The edge of one of his skis had buckeled on the knife-like ridge. He was sent toppling, reeling head over ankles into a nearby snowdrift.

Momentum kept him rolling. After a bruise-filled tumble, he fell flat onto an icy patch near some lingering trees. He managed to lay upright, sliding slowly down the slick slope.

With heart racing, he laughed. Clive scoffed at death's pitiful attempt. He slid, almost casually drifing down the icy vale for a moment.

Through oragne goggles, he took in the clouded-over sky. How long had the sun been hidden? He had stopped keeping track.

A black form dipped into view, quickly covering his entire range of vision for an instant. Swooping like a giant bird, the shadow flapped forward into far off branches. No bird had ever grown so big. An awful feeling began to overtake him.

He neared a glacial edge, curving upward from the mountainside like a naturaly ski ramp. Clive had no time to right himself, nor the momentum to make the jump clean.

He would certainly end up buried in the soft snow of the foothills beneath. He fought in vain against the slippery ice. In a moment, perhaps his end would arrive.

[Blunt]

Breathless

Clive knew he had to act quick. He had been through worse, he wasn't gonna die so stupidly. His idea for survival might not work but it was his only chance. He put the band of his ski poles around his wrist to secure them and quickly removed his gloves. Then, seizing his poles again, he slammed then into the ice as hard as he could. The metal creaked against the solid layer, bending to the point of nearly breaking, but he managed to lose a little speed. He braced himself for the next move.

Just as he approached the end of the slope, he threw the poles aside. He laid down his body on the ice, and as he took off in the air, starting the fall, he bent it backwards, making a full 180 degrees rotation. Throwing his arms in front of him, he managed to catch the edge of the icy embankment. The cold immediately bit through his bare fingers but he held on, slowly pulling himself up. He finally managed to get on the slope again and fell to his knees. He looked up at the sky with an air of defiance.

"Didn't get me this time either!!!!!!" He started laughing deliriously, the echo of his roaring laughter bouncing off the mountains.

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Wolf’s Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

A long howl shook a wary Thomas Drake. A cold morning mist rolled through tall evergreens into the plain where he stood. Dead bodies lay savaged, strewn about a simple campsite. He looked to his right, and saw the longspear that had come to him. A sleek metal blade rose from the long handle, the oddly familiar weapon sturdy but light.

In his left hand, he bore a thick circle of polished oak, an iron ring around its edge. His fingers tightened against the cold handle. Aged leather boots were forced down into cold soil, his warrior’s helmet on the ground next to him. He braced for the Seven to make their presence known.

From behind him came a howl. An announcement of the ambush. Tearing pain bit into his arm, his thigh, and a warm trickle ran down his cheek from his forehead. The morning light reddened against his pupils, then faded black.

Thomas Drake III sat upright in his bed. His lavish penthouse apartment welcomed him from the nightmare. He rose from his resting place to touch down on warm wood. He passed a large, gaping window and bustling New York skyline and walks to a display case in the far end of the expansive bedroom.

Sculptures, paintings, even a few hand drawn sketches line the walls and tables. A shaman from New Mexico had told Thomas that he had found his totem. The wolf was indeed something that had called out to Drake from behind the pictures.

Thomas stepped to his newly found artifact. His prize possession was the very spear that had appeared in his dream. The blade seemed to beckon him, even though he was wide awake. He reached out to take the blade called Wulfblud. It seemed to seethe with a life of its own.

A blinding flash lit the room, and the lonely businessman took a breathe. A new vigor seemed to creep into him, filling an unspoken longing within his heart. He steadied the spear, remembering its weight from the dream. It seemed a natural extension of his hand.

A resounding howl burst suddenly through the nightlit windows. Shadows played eagerly over the walls as his lamp dimmed. He shook himself, but this was no longer a dream. Glimmers of red skittered among the shadows, forming dots. Slowly the points became clear pupils, the shadows blackened fur.

If not for the surge of confidence the weapon had brought him, Drake might have dismissed the arrivals as hallucinations, or called for his bodyguard. Instead, he felt only an uncanny grin brim across his weathered face. The last of the Seven had come to his new home. A prepared Thomas Drake stood ready.

(The apartment is a large rectangle, with Thomas near a closet in the southwest corner. In the east is a large bathroom, and the hallway leading to a dining room and the exit to the hallway elevators. There is one wolf, double the size of its naturally occurring kin, now fully formed from the shadows. It stands salivating, ready to strike.)

[General Logan]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Subway trains rattled on seemingly loose tracks into the distance.

With their machinations, mankind had thought to replace their gods. A quiet old man marveled to himself at the inventions of the modern age. He hobbled across the station and through the turnstiles. Dressed in rags, most of the busy passersby chose to ignore the homeless wanderer.

As predicted, the coming of the deathly cold winter Fimbulvetr was a telltale sign to Ormstunga. He grinned slightly as he embraced the biting winds of the upper streets as he ascended the last of the concrete steps. He was closer to his master now than ever before. He could feel a familiar pulse in the air.

Tasked by Hel herself, Ormstunga continued his search. Failure meant nothing less than cursed oblivion. Success would mean the final destruction of the hated Aesir.

The beaten, rag-bearing stump of a man paced slowly among the crowded sidewalks of Moscow. The bitter wind that licked at him only reminded him of home. Heavily garbed locals milled about around him, as though the aged wanderer was invisible.

Ormstunga paused as he passed an alleyway, slowly approaching some sort of gathering. He rounded a cobblestone corner to see a handful of Russian thugs, beating a young man and his dog. The observer listened carefully, as the gibberish language they spoke attuned itself to his ears. In a matter of five minutes, the Russian language beacme as though his own.

Then a hand on his shoulder broke his concentration.

“You are in the wrong alley old man.”

The slight frame of Ormstunga was lifted, then tossed toward the unconscious youth and his barking pet. The old man crept to his feet, and looked across to see no less then six well-dressed thugs in slick suits blocking the exit to the alley.

(You are in an enclosed alley, the boy is out cold, the dog is afraid but standing his ground. The 6 mooks are all packing guns, which Ormstunga would somewhat recognize as weapons. They are obviously expecting to kill you in short order.)

[General Logan]

---JOTUNHEIM: UTGARD---
Ambush
(ATTN: Devil Unicorn)

The Citadel of Utgard was alive with combat. Frost Giants had gathered in tournament, fighting to the death for the sheer glory of it all. It was in the pits of combat that an army would be raised to defeat the gods, to shatter the halls of Asgard.

The king himself had descended to the pits, to watch his fellow giants and their trial by combat. The brooding leader had reserved an important assignment for the strongest of his kin. Among the masses that had gathered was the fearsome Prottigrnari. The name was whispered among the Dwarves, and even the giants of the far north. With such a reputation of infamy, Prottigrnari came to Utgard.

He would win the king’s favor, and become foremost among his armies. Or he would kill the king himself. It truly did not matter to the barbaric beast.

As he paced into the dirty ring, Prottigrnari waited patiently for the arrival of his opponent. His foe was Egrannah, a disgraced watchman who had been assigned to be used for training in pits for his one, colossal failure.

The breaking of animal bones against the metal pit wall signaled the beginning of the deathmatch. Egrannah seemed energized, as though his spirits were not broken by a life of battle, but rather lifted.

As Prottigrnari neared, he sensed a foul smell on the air. The ether-like aroma of arcane magic. Perhaps someone had sought to even the odds, and give Egrannah a bit of an “edge” in the battle.

It would make little difference, as Prottigrnari planned to line the arena with his entrials either way.

(You are in a large, oval-shaped combat arena. There are no doors, stairs or obstacle son the field. The ground is muddy with damp soil. Each of you have a simple but large club. No other waepons have been allowed on the field.)

[Devil Unicorn]

Ambush

Prottigrnari shifted the massive club back and forth between his thick hands, the cords of his muscular neck and shoulders bulging out as he began to work up his rage. He wanted this so badly. For centuries he has been trapped here in Jotunheim, nothing better to do than wander the land killing his fellow giants and the lesser creatures of the plane. He was eager for a true challenge. He wanted to kill the gods themselves.

Throwing a furious glance to the Giant King on his throne, Prottigrnari formed a wicked grin, showing off his grinding black teeth. His gaze then slid over to the trembling Ergrannah, a peon in the king's army, if he could be called even that. The other giant was right to fear Prottigrnari, for he had crushed far greater foes under his heel.

However, there was something a bit odd about Ergrannah's movement. He seemed far too confident and quick for his pathetic frame. Prottigrnari threw one last glance into the crowd, his beady eyes searching for the source of Ergrannah's enhancement. He began to laugh then, long and hard, a low rumble that echoed through the arena and shook the walls. His fierce gaze once again fell upon his opponent and he hefted the club in his right hand.

"Let's end this, weakling!" he roared in his native tongue, and then charged forward.

[General Logan]

---ASGARD: VALHALLA---
Emissary
(ATTN: Fett)

Cheers rose from the depths of Valhalla. The giant hall was alive with singing, eating and drinking. The resurrected heroes of the Golden Age were gathered in one enormous structure, situated in the center of the glorious home of the gods.

The Allfather himself strode among them, causing the merriment to cease. The laughter and amusememnt wwere replaced by awe. Stepping into the feasting hall was an enormous viking warrior, clad in golden chainmail, draped about in a loose blue cloak. A proud white beard stretched out from under his helmet, a black patch tied across a lost eye. On his shoulder sat a raven, and in his hand a mighty spear.

With a deep laugh, the newcomer bellowed. “By my own beard, what is that smell?”

A thousand voices quickly joined him in laughter. Feasting, joking and singing resumed.

The imposing figure made his way out of the feast hall into a grand stadium. Casually, he walked out into the center of the ring. He lifted his aged but strong head to the sky, and was soon set upon by a pair of ravens. Each of the proud birds was larger than usual, one perched on each of his broad shoulders. Each seemed to whisper into the nearest ear.

Flutter of more wings was soon heard. The Viking lord expected the arrivals, evidenced by his continued concentration on the news of his birds. Floating effortlessly onto the field in front of the veteran warrior was a collection of heavenly maidens. Valkyres, they were called. Like avenging angles, they stood garbed in metal scale and sword. The group of them, 9 in number, now stood in line in front of their master. In unison, the maidens knelt.

For he was Odin, king of the gods and Father to All.

“Rise daughters,” he offered kindly. “What news have ye of the Nine Worlds?”

“Asgard is clear from Bifrost to the Gilded Sea,” the first replied.

“Jotunheim is rife with peril, the giants grow in number, m’lord,” said the second.

The third offered, “Alfheim is tranquil, the elves sleep.”

While the fourth chimed, “Smoke rises from Nidavellir, and all is well in the forges.”

“Svartalfheim lies dormant,” came the fifth, “No danger to report.”

“Vanaheim’s beauty remains undisturbed,” spoke the sixth.

“Muspelheim grows forever hot,” the seventh shook her head, “I dared not draw near.”

The eigth stepped forward, “Daily does Niflheim’s army stir.”

“And what of Midgard?” Odin pursued.

His captain offered a respectful gaze in reply. For she was Friija, stout defender of the Will of Odin, and tasked with reporting the world of man. After a moment of silence, she could no longer contain the truth. “Midgard suffers, m’lord. Tis in dire need of your hand.”

The Valkrye scattered in dismissal, and Odin departed for a long walk. After much contemplation, he called for Friija again. “More I needed, I’m afraid. Return to Midgard, gather me witnesses as ye may, mortals who know of the danger first hand. Things in Midgard grow out of hand.”

With that, Friija was off. By the flaming bridge of Bifrost, she made her way back to the world of men. Taking care to conceal her heavenly form, she located plainer garb and made her way. After a day’s journey, she found herself again in the land of America, the principality of New York. Here she would continue her search, though she sorely missed her faithful Asynjur, the winged steed that she had bade remain behind.

When night’s curtain drew, she took to the sky. She followed an unnatural howl to the spires of one of the city’s large castles. But as she drew close, so did a new danger. Tongues of flame ripped through the chilled night air. As they drew close to the angelic warrior, the shapes revealed themselves.

Fiery demons, minions of Muspelheim dispatched to consume her.

(You are flying high in the air over the penthouse apartment mentioned in Katanga’s ‘Wolf’s Cry’ section above. There are two totals demons, fire-coated beasts with a tangible skin. Persistent strikes may dissipate them for a time, but past experience tells you the flaming embers will eventually reunite.)

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

---MIDGARD/EARTH---
Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

A wretched cackling came from under the tatters that masked Ormstunga's form. The Old One spoke to them in a voice that made the small hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. "You would kill a harmless old man like me? Shame be upon you boys. Go home and pule to your mothers before I feast on your livers." His form gradually grew into a beast that was all slavering jaws and snick-snackering claws.

Three of the men ran screaming into the night leaving their guns in the dirt. One stood his ground drooling, a damp stain slowly spreading out from his crotch. The last two found some sort of nerve and fired seven feet up in the air.

While they were distracted the ragman came forward using the chimerical beast as a cover. Brundabitr lashed out and found its mark as it had for centuries. The thin black blade greedily drank from the man's vital fluids and left him a withered corpse.

The other man seemed confused and lowered his gun to a more dangerous altittude. Before he could pull the trigger on it, Ormstunga produced a pinch of black powder from a fold in his robes and blew it in his face. The dust of Hel, as the wizened one liked to call this concoction, flew up the thugs nostrils and immediately caused his lungs to seize. The robber fell to the cold ground and expired painfully, with Ormstunga watching gleefully.

"No one stands in the way of Loki's children." Fascinated by this loud weapon's magic he took it and carefully placed it in a fold for later observation. He continued searching into the night leaving boy and dog to the elements.

[Katanga]

Wolf's Cry

Drake curled his body inward, drawing the spear into a defensive position. Wulfblud warmed at his touch and seemed to hunger. Drake’s dark eyes seized his shadowy foe. He spoke into the unfurling darkness.

“Finally, I have thee. I have traveled o’er cold seas of time to drive the life from ye and I shan’t be feared with magicks. Come embrace me, O’ fiendish bitch of giant-kin.”

Drake roared and dove low into the threatening gloom.

[Ludwig]

Evacuation

"Quickly everyone! We need to get down lower...all of you get to the church basement and gather against one of the outer basement walls. I'm going out to see if I can figure out what in Hades is going on!", Ajene yelled over the noice of the blasts going off all around the church.

When he was satisfied that Eric and the rest were on their way, he creeped out of the church doors onto the front lawn and took a look around, trying to see if there might be a safer vantage point from which to take a closer look at the planes conducting the raid.

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Clive had indeed eked out another victory agains the cold hand of Death. The near-fatal incident left him alive, but stranded in semi-artic wilderness.

A quick-paced walk brought him to more level ground, and the familiarity of his starting point. He approached a small jeep--the brown and green rental that had brought him to the mountain's base.

Clive glanced one last time at the formidable mountain, as if adding it to a mental checklist of things that couldn't kill him. Turning back around, he fumbled for the keys to the jeep.

Nothing. The pocket was empty. And it got immediately worse. The canvas-top had been torn back like a pull tab, his belongings savaged and spilled inside and out.

All of his food had been devoured or picked through, his leather bags ripped to ribbons and strewn about the snow.

A trail of spilled coffee and blood mingled, leading beyond a distant treeline. Something shuffled just past the branches. Something big.

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

Clutched by panic, the smaller of the two brutes dove under the havey club of his enemy. Egrannah at first scurried to the left, then the right, frantically praying for protection.

Prottigrnari toyed with his foe. He swung slow and strong, cracking stone with his giant weapon. He heard the whispers of the coward in front of him. the fight had only just begun, and already the fool was praying for deliverance.

He didn't need a club at all.

Egrannah swung faintly, falling under the weight of the club as he missed his target. catching his breath, he charged in again, only half-heartedly.

The attack seememd to bounce of Prottigrnari's chest, sending the lesser giant sprwaling. After a prolonged fit of dizziness, Egrannah drifted back to his feet.

Though no sun shone over distant Utgard, a glint of golden ligth seemed to surround the equally curious Egrannah. He summoned forth the little courage that remained, and swung a solid fist into his tall blue opponent.

Wincing in unexpected pain, Prottigrnari doubled back. His chest burned as if on fire, kunckle-marks from the small fist of his foe seemed burned through his leather. It had even singed through to his equally tough skin.

Egrannah glared angrily, having frenzied since his little victory. The crowd cheered on the little giant mockingly, and Egrannah devoured the praise. His body shined like a faint star, white and orange flame now fanning out from his body.

"Prottigrnari!" shouted a voice from the stands. It was Rhasgar, one of Prottigrnari's few freinds. The brown and white-hued spectator tossed a crudely-wrapped package into the battle arena.

Though his chest continued to burn, Prottigrnari grinned. He already knew what lie beneath the rags, as he caught the bundle.

Perhaps one of the gods had favored Egrannah. But it would take ten to save him now.

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Dark night swept over Moscow, but it did little to threaten Ormstunga. He had patiently walked the distance towards the somwehat impressive Basilica.

As he walked, curiosity took hold of him. He had drawn the silver weapon that one of his attackers had "left" behind. He held it as he had seen, carefully pointing the fire-bearing end away from his person.

With a wicked cackle, he squeezed the handle, finding the trigger eventually.

Pop! The pistol's hammer came down and smoke and sound burst forth. A second shot was analyzed as well. Quickly, the illusionist had learned to balance the gun, and to take aim.

He shot out the window of a small building, delighting in his discovery. Shouts of strangers in the distance did nothing to upset him.

He pocketing the weapon once more, and strode toward the doors of the cathedral. Inside, he would meet his contact... a man who had promised him aide.

Blue lights flickered behind him as he approached the large wood and metal doors. Another of the horse-less chariots arrived, with a uniformed man stepping out. Whistling sirens faded.

"You, stop there!" came another stranger's command. Ormstunga turned innocently to the constable, smiling poltiely.

[General Logan]

Wolf's Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

The words came out of his mouth, but Thomas Drake did not know to whom they belonged. The spear seemed to unleash some sort of energy within him.

Possessed? That was just nonsense to scare the religous or sell movie tickets.

But as half of him was completely confused, another half glared knowingly at his foe. Something in Thomas' mind offered to... take over. With no idea what else to do, Drake allowed the impulse to run its course.

The wolf leapt forward, as if prompted by Drake's transformation.

"Die son of Hrughmin!" is hissed in a sinsiter but clear ancient tongue. Rending claws emerged from black fur in mid-air.

Thomas Drake understood the words, as if a second language he had somehow forgotten. Hopefully his spear would remember how to find wolf-flesh. Just as the reborn warrior remembered his true identiy. The lost son of Asgard was called...

[Devil Unicorn]

Ambush

Prottigrnari grinned widely as the rags slid off of his favored weapon- the ice axe, Hjalmstallrklofna. A massive two-handed axe crafted of chilling, unmelting ice, it was brought up into his hands like it was a part of him. And truly, it was.

Turning to face the other giant, wreathed in flame, Prottigrnari chuckled a bit. "I was looking for a fair fight, but someone insists on cheating. Time to even the score." As he roars this in the tongue of Jotunheim, he swung the arctic weapon in a downward arc towards the other giant.

Ergrannah's newfound agility helped him dodge aside, but not quick enough, as Hjalmstallrklofna struck his shoulder, slicing into his thick skin. The smaller giant howled in pain as the icy axe froze the skin and blood around the wound, leaving a black gaping hole. Throwing a vicious look towards Prottigrnari, he lunged forward again, striking the large giant across the face, his fire-wreathed fist searing a blistered gash into his cheek.

Prottigrnari countered, a smashing blow to Ergrannah's head with the butt of his axe, knocking the puny giant to the ground, a bleeding lump already forming.

The furious giant touched his hand to the burn on his cheek, and his eyes narrowed. His face would turn red, if his blood was warm enough. All of the muscles on his arms and neck bulged as he unleashed a roar that thundered through the crowd, causing the giant-children to cover their sensitive ears.

"That will not happen again," he snarled, charging forward, his axe swinging heavily towards Ergrannah's head.

The lesser giant scrambled to his feet, attempting to dodge away, but Hjalmstallrklofna landed on his upper arm, severing it completely, and sinking several inches into his torso. Black blood flew, and rapidly froze in the chill air. Ergrannah screamed in utter pain and agony as his arm was seperated, to land on the dirt floor, quivering. Prottigrnari snarled, and pulled his axe away with a grunt as the flames around the little giant flared up, singing his beard.

As Prott turned away to shield himself from the flames, Ergrannah somehow shook the pain off and sneered, lunging forward to lash out at the giant warrior, his hands formed into knife-edges, chopping three times along Prott's side, opening up cauterized wounds as if he were slashing with a hot poker. Prottigrnari turned back with a howl, and once again backhanded Ergrannah, but this time the smaller giant's dexterity served him, and he deflected Prott's fist, searing the flesh of his wrist as he did so.

Prottigrnari was furious now. He was actually being hurt by this ridiculous flaming peon. If he ever found out the source of this magic, there would be murders. A headbutt to the forehead caused Ergrannah to stagger back, and was quickly followed by a crushing blow from the butt of the axe, shattering the small giant's jawbone with a loud crack!.

Taking advantage of Ergrannah's momentary weakness, Prott threw a powerful punch into the other giant's stomach, causing him to spew freezing blood in a gout onto the arena floor. He fell back, to the ground, and lay there panting, the flame dying out as he look up at Prottigrnari, his eyes wide in sheer terror.

"Well," said Prott. "It looks like you've lost your courage." And with that, he swung his axe high above his head...

[General Logan]

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

The fighters roared by with such a force that Ajene was almost knocked over. As he recovered, he took time to count the planes: Ten by his count. Ten foreign warcraft screaming over American soil. Something was wrong. More than just wrong.

A single bomb had dropped on an old mill a quarter of a mile out. A detachment of fighters had broken off, and appeared to be circling back towards it.

Odd, Ajene thought, Why are they attacking an empty mill? Certainly not a political target...

But the threat remained. A handful of frantic childern were corralled by a single adult--their teacher perhaps. The woman was stark white, struggling to get the small flock into a the convenince store across the street from the church.

One of the children was limping--an injury still unseen by the adult. Tears spilled out of the kids' eyes as they looked back to a flaming yellow school van down the street.

As though spoken to by God himself, Ajene's eyes were led to the burning vehicle. As he shook his idle limbs to life, he heard a single scream echo from inside the van.

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

He recognized the authority in the man's voice even if the clothes and other trappings were meaningless to him. "Is there something wrong sir? Can I help you?" His voice was that of a kindly ggrandfather. Gone was the cackling voice of madnees.

[Richard Dickson]

Failsafe

Two at least, Gunnar thinks, and slowly moves back to his seat. He nudges Ben, his guitarist, sleeping in the seat across the aisle from him. Ben shrugs him off, but Gunnar persists, and the grumpy musician finally rolls his head towards him.

"What the fuck, man? We there yet?"

Gunnar puts a finger to his lips and whispers, "Dizzy, Denver, 2002."

Ben squints his eyes in confusion.

"What we did to Dizzy in Denver in 2002. Get ready." Ben is about to say something, but Gunnar cuts him off. "Trust me."

He sits back and moves his right foot. He can feel the comfortable weight of Fenris in it's leg sheath -- busy airport plus rowday heavy metal band equals quick bypass of security. Anybody thinking of pulling a Die Hard on this plane is in for a nasty surprise.

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

"Sir," the policeman lightens his tone, but still seems forced to do his job. "I need to search you... for weapons."

Ormstunga can tell the officer is a bit conflicted, yet he moves closer to the old man anyway...

[General Logan]

Failsafe
(ATTN: Poxy)

Ben slowly unravels the clue, and moves into position. (Since I, the GM, know nothing of the maneuver being attempted, heh.)

The would-be assailnt draws near to the curtain, still unaware of Wynternacht's impending counterstrike.

The sound of a stewardess shrieking rings through the coach cabin, followed by the rustle of mubled confusion from the passengers. The second of the two hijakers has apparently announced himself. (Far in the back of the coach cabin, on the east side, parallel with Gunnar's aisle on the west side)

[Blunt]

Breathless

Clive shuddered. His situation wasn't brilliant. He wasn't completely safe yet. Obviously, something dangerous was waiting for him. And he had no proper weapons. Wise move leaving all your stuff at the hotel, he thought. The only thing he could use to defend himself were his skis, which he had taken in his hands for the walk back. He threw one aside, brandishing the other like he would do a mace. Not much, but that would have to do. He headed for the trees, intent on discovering what had savaged his equipment.

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

"Of course, of course." As the little man comes into the light the officer sees that the rags covering the beggar are stiff with filth and yet slightly damp and moldy. Fleas, flies, and a few maggots make their home there, feeding off of the fluids and dirt he is covered in. Ormstunga pulls off the hood that cloaks his head and the policemen feels bile rise in the back of his throat. Black hair is coming out in clumps revealing festering sores. What hair remains is matted and caked with dirt and feces. The face of this poor bastard is pock marked with boils and more things feed on these. One eye is clouded and matted with green pus and the other wanders lazily. The nose looks like it has broken at least twice and dried blood and mucus gather underneath it. His mouth is twisted and sores fester at its corners. White doughy flesh is barely visible under mud and dust. One finger is missing from the right hand and where it was is a stump with dried blood. "Anything I can do to help."

[Kid Ego]

Control
(*Quotations posted in italics are translated Russian dialogue.)

"Yuri! Bring your group in to close range. We're taking heavy fire from the Command Center!"

Targo drops onto his left knee, slinging his assault rifle to his side and unhooking two CTS 7290 concussion grenades. Carefully, Targo releases the pull ring and pulls the pin. He lobs the two devices up and over the platform and into the command center's open door. He immediately grabs the seals on his helmet to shield his ears and eyes from the blast.

Three seconds pass.

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

With the fading of the magic that had protected him, the feeble Egrannah appeared to be out of tricks.

Prottignrari lowered the death blow with his powerful blade. Just before the venegeful giant struck, he watched as the helpless victim mustered his remaining "gift", and flared red once more.

But it was too late to break stride. Hjalmstallrklofna cut cleanly down into his diminutive foe. The unnatural power that radiated around Egrannah was unleashed into the open air.

With a deafening, low boom, the field was levelled. All of the ravenous onlookers were knowkced back into the stands. Wind and hot air followed the explosion of magic.

A few moments passed, and a groggy Prottignrari lifted his head from the ground. Blood was in his mouth, his tough skin bruised. He felt as if the of layer of skin on his body had melted away.

He looked around in confusion, trying to make sense of what had happened. The King sloly rose from his bone-hewn chair, agahast at what took place. Slow, pained movement came from teh crude, stone bleachers. The air was ionized, still a bit warm for a place as cold as Utgard.

A blackened scorchmark lie where Egrannah once lay. No debris, no bones or visecera. And no sign of the infamous Hjalmstallrklofna...

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Clive warily made his way beyond the trees. Whatever had savaged his vehicle and belongings, it was obviously still nearby.

He rounded a stretch of pine, pacing quietly. In the distance, he saw more movement. A form that began as a silhouette moved into a lighter patch of woods.

It was a man. A large, bearded form draped in ragged furs. Over his shoulder, he pulled on the leg of a bear. The beast must have weighed twice what the carrier did. Yet he pulled the immobile creature as though it were much less of an effort.

The hunter stopped. Had he heard Clive's approach. He had turned in the general direction of the fomrmer SEAL.

Shouts of inquiry rang out. But it was a language that Clive didn't understand. Perhaps the man didn't know exactly where he stood, but he would surely find Clive before too long.

[Katanga]

Wolf's Cry

The beast was moving in circles. Drake could hear its claws click clacking on the hard wood floors. Every so often he heard its breath. A blast of arctic air whipped through his bones and was punctuated with the swiping of claws across the man’s bare back. Drake dropped his weight to the ground and rolled low, coming up and spinning towards the attack. Warm blood was running in rivers down his back.

It was poised on its haunches; its body was lean like a man’s with velvet-like fur that was iridescent white. A ridge of inky black fur ran up it’s back and engulfed its head in a shaggy mane. With its lips curled back revealing a line of white knives, he seemed to be smiling at Drake.

The beast leapt at Drake. It covered the distance easily. Drake brought Wulfblud up in time to catch its arm as it reached to rake out his throat. The ancient spear tore through the skin and into the muscle. Drake pushed his weight into it desperately seeking its heart. The beast fell to the floor and Drake dove the spear in deeper. It’s screaming howl hurt his ears. The creature writhed away from the prodding steel. It scrambled to its feet and ran across the room.

Drake noticed the spear pulsed as the blood ran across the ancient runes on the shaft. Before he could logically think out another move his feet were moving at rapid speed towards the giant wolf. It seemed taken by his charge and then pounced to meet him. With it’s bared fangs and outstretched paws Drake brought his spear up to bear and caught the wolf square in the breastbone. He dropped to one knee and used every ounce of force to flip the creature over his head. Drake’s conscious mind seemed to be a mere spectator to the incredible feat. He watched as the beast crested his tucked head and landed hard on a glass coffee table sending millions of pebble-sized shards across the room.

The beast was breathing hard and remained motionless. Drake surveyed the animal. As if struck by a flash of lightning the beast shot out a huge paw and raked the flesh from his midsection. Blood seeped from the wound liberally. The animal took advantage of his shock and was up. Drake clasped his forearm tight around his wound. Wulfblud was throbbing. Drake’s quiet detachment noted it was like being on the cusp of orgasm. Drake drew the tip of the spear across the floor issuing a challenge to the beast.

[Blunt]

Breathless

Clive didn't know how to react. Was the man the one who had savaged his truck or was he friendly and had merely caught the real culprit, the bear. Ever the optimistic, Clive decided to take a chance. He lowered his ski so as to appear less menacing and stepped out of his hiding place, shouting out to the man.

"Hey there mister, you understand english?"

[Devil Unicorn]

Prottigrnari, look around frantically, searching for his prized axe, which had become more a part of him than any limb or organ in his body. Not seeing his favored weapon anywhere, he narrowed his eyes, and turned toward the King, tossing off a half-serious salute.

Then he turned around and bellowed out a scream that drained every part of his body. He fell to his knees, every muscle in his body clenched with rage.

Hanging his head down, he finally heard the drums booming, signalling for him to clear out and for the next combatants to ready themselves. Slowly he rose to his feet, peering around the crowd behind his long greasy hair, which hung in front of his face. He muttered a curse, and vowed to find the perpetrator of this foul magic. And kill the bastard.

Slowly he trudged out of the arena, his pride for earning a spot in the King's army diminished behind the hurt of losing Hjalmstallrklofna. The other giants met him as he went inside, clapping him on the back and shouting his name, proposing a mighty feast back at the hall in his name. His lip curled over his black teeth and he shouted, a wordless sound. He shoved one of the other giants back, the man falling down and cracking his head on the stone wall. The other giants backed away a bit, clearing a path for him to leave.

Slowly Prottigrnari walked out into the streets of the city, to search for a place to rest before the coming war.

[General Logan]

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

The ladder that Targo rests against vibrates strongly for a moment. The flash-bang of the stun grenade had passed, and qucikly the veteran soldier made his way up the metal rungs.

Gunfire rattled down the hallway, on the ground floor spiraling beneath the climber. Yuri and his team outside had no flushed the remaining ground guards into flight. From the sound of it, it was the Ukranian guards that received most of the fire.

Targo grinned. Nearly three stories off the ground, he found the top of the ladder, and walked into the tightly cramped nerve center.

Two guards lie semi-conscious on the ground, reeling from the unexpected sensory attack. A third lay bent halfway over the rail on the far side, dangling dangerously close to a life-ending fall.

A quick glance to the wall grid showed the flashing red light on his map location. And on the other 3 targets.

Red12 had succeded. The success would be short-lived if they did not immediately use some of their newfound power to quickly alert the world. Targo's fingers tapped against the computer disk in his left pocket.

In his right hand, he drew the slung machinegun. The most urgent matter at hand was the execution of the Ukranian traitors that slew his men. They and any others would pay the price for their blind allegiance.

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Clive Branson stood face to face with the brutish hunter, who carelessly dropped the bear caracass he had collected and marched forward to greet him.

As he drew closer, more of the man's features were visible. He was stocky, but tall. The heavy brown pelts were draped over dull metal armor. Old fashioned, ancient stuff. His right hand reached across his barrel chest, as if resting on a sword hilt.

He drew closer, sizing up the American in front of him. The bearded bear-catcher spoke, but in a strange language that Clive didn't recognize.

It only served to make things more tense, as Branson's hand instinctively tightened around the ski in his hand.

The warrior knocked back his shoulders, tossing off the fur-cloak he wore. A fully revealed Viking warrior, with a shield slung over his back and a metal headband. For a brief moment, he seemed as if surrounded by an aura.

Rather than panic, Clive braced himself for combat, assuming another spar with death was at hand.

Then the muscular Norseman did something odd. He produced a piece of brown parchment and read a single, undiscernable word aloud.

The paper disintigrated in a sudden puff of gray smoke, and the Viking cleared his throat with a loud cough.

"Your sword looks a bit flimsy," he chortled in perfect, American English.

[General Logan]

Wolf's Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

The wolves of Reilsfjord--the Seven Brothers, were twisted and corrupted by evil magic. Given great, horrible power in exchange for the human souls they dispatched.

Ages ago, a legendary hero was chosen to battle them. He tracked and killed one of the foul beasts, only to be done in himself by the remaining pack. The gods refused the man entrance into Valhalla, instead giving him life once more as a mortal.

Again the warrior set out to do battle. Again he slew another of the supernatural beasts, and again he was slain.

As the centuries passed, he was reincarnated again, and the cycle continued. This proceeded until only one wolf remained.

And in his latest incarnation, as a mortal named Thomas Drake, this legendary Viking warrior would claim his final victory.

Thomas clung with his free arm to the wound on his chest. He noticed traces of blackish-green among the red. This did not bode well for the bearer of the Spear.

He was poisoned, weakened by the cursed claws of the pack's most deadly member. Whether the gods would welcome him home, or expel him to oblivion, only one thing held his mind.

The beast, as his kin, would be put to rest first.

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

The officer is visibly drawn back by the decrepit shell of a man he had addressed. There was no longer any doubt that he was gravely mistaken in questioning an apparent leper.

"S...Sorry sir," he wavered, still scooting away. "I may have been mis... taken. Please go about your worship."

With that the officer turned and attempted to walk away casually. He disappeared into the growing fog in the distance.

Ormstunga was amused by the effort, and proceeded into the mortal's "holy place".

He stepped into an ornate and ancient cathedral, walking about the vestibule. The church gave him an awkward chill, an unwelcome wisp seemed to pass into his ears.

From beyond the entrance area, a worn oak door creaked open. From the antechamber stepped a modenr day cleric. One of the trusted spiritual officers of the church.

Ormstunga grinned at his contact in greeting.

"Greetings my son," the priest feigned. "Join me in my office..."

Ilya was the man's name. And Ormstunga had been directed to meet with him. While on the outside a noble cleric of the Orthodox church, he was in secret a pagan worhsipper of Hel. The last ten years of the cleric's life had been spent in research, locating a hidden cave.

Soon, he would pass that information on to Ormstunga. And soon Ormstunga would bury his unholy blade in the man's back and make his way to the lost cave.

Once in the office, a few moments of conversation passed. Father Ilya appraoched a fogged-over window, rubbing a clear streak onto the glass.

"Is it true?" He began, "You seek to release him from his prison? That Ragnarok is coming?"

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

Prottigrnari found his way to the gates of Utgard. Despite the infamy he had found in battle, the interference of unseen magic continued to hound him.

The king had looked upon him angrily, and with good reason. Combat in the arena was at the very least, stalled for the next hour. Whoever had empowered Egrannah had set him up for failure.

Though he had survived, and maintained his barbaric pride, Prottigrnari was without his treaured weapon. For weeks he passed beyond into the rolling hills and the large maountains that were his brothers. He passed through Jotunheim, pondering his course for the future. To take up arms with the King against the gods? OR to seek out his lost weapon and remain a wandering legend? Feared. Respected. Loathed?

He continued on for days, until one evening... As the winds howled, he was happened upon by a strange visitor.

"Thy face is long, and brow is turned down. What is it thou seek?" came a starling, cheery voice. At hearing it, Protti first questioned why the speaker was foolish enough not to fear him.

He turned to face an odd little sprite. Standing no more than two feet from the snow beneath was a curious creature. A furry, winged cherub unlike anything the Giant had seen before. It's bright, round eyes peered up at his face, blinking. It was a healthy brown color, surprisingly unfazed by the harsh, cold winds winding down from the mountains.

"Are you edible?" the giant posed eagerly, "Did your parents taste good, when my kin deovoured them?"

The little thing was unafraid, and shot back a smile and replied, "I am not thy lunch! I am thy guide, and can take thee to thine quarry... to the mighty axe of frost thou hath lost!"

What could the tiny thing have known of Prottigrnari's lost weapon? Surely the creature was in some desperate quest to save itelf from being eaten... Or was it? It didn't tremble at his sight, nor quake at his threats. It only flitted about from tuft to snowbank. The carefree ball of fur grew impatient.

"What say thee, Giant?"

[Kid Ego]

Control

The flash-bang erupted in the middle of the room like bolt of lightning in a pitch black sky. Marko hears nothing but a loud pop as his hearing immediately becomes the song of a choir bell. Disoriented and confused, the only thing he comprehends is the fact that he was once unleashing blazing hell on the three raiders.

I'm on the floor...maybe the ceiling...?

Confusion rips his mind in two. A swirling smoke fades slowly as his vision whirls back into the realm of comprehension. Oh God, where's my gun? Seemingly reaching for where he imagines his rifle should be, the floor bites him across the face. Jesus...who's arms are these?

A figure moves slowly across his vision. Marko's perspective shifts from the floor to the general direction of the doors. Dmitri and Vermi were here with him, where are they now?

"Dmitri?" He imagines saying faintly. The horizontal shadow moves up in his frame of vision. Across the vertical floor, the image slowly focuses.

Oh my God...It's one of them!

The image of the shadow defines the shape of a man. A soldier. A weapon.

Angling down toward another shadow an amorphous arm merges the two. Clearer and clearer, the images take shape in Marko's mind. There are two.

Suddenly, the ringing in his head becomes greater as the standing figure jerks back quickly. Reacting, the leaning shadow winces perceptibly. It's Vermi! Shaking his head rapidly, Dmitri clears some of the cobwebs. What has he done? The image of his long-time friend crisps. Vermi's neck becomes one with the standing tyrant's arm. Up and over the railing, the body of his friend disappears from view.

Nooooo!!! Marko's mind reels. Watching this killer turn the opposite direction toward the center of the room, he finally notices Dmitri's limp body.

Moving unsteadily, Marko is able to raise himself up on his arms, bringing his head finally perpendicular to the floor. My legs don't move! Blood spiderwebs across the floor from where Vermi once sat. The unnamed soldier looks in Marko's eyes, cold and ruthless pits of evil peer straight into his soul. Marko shudders. The black-clad, bringer-of-death leans down toward Dmitri's limp body. Another shot rings in Marko's ears as his engineer's head erupts violently in a bloody flash. As if in slow motion, the sprays of crimson hang like fire in the air. Marko squeezes a tear from his eye as he feels the coming doom wash over him.

Let it be quick. Please, just let it be quick.

A thud against his side rolls him over on his back. Light screams into his eyes through a colorful prism of tears. The ringing subsides only for a second, until another loud boom tears into his mind. Searing pain rips up from his right foot. Uncontrollably screaming, Marko jerks violently from the pain. Looking up to the eyes of his killer, Marko can only think of his daughter. She will be alone now. What will she do? I'm sorry, Tasha, I've failed you! Marko weeps silently.

"Please?" The only word he can squeak out through the burning and ringing of his senses. He hears a clunk as the barrel of the gun taps the floor beside his head. The methodical movement of this angel is almost soothing. A blade is waved in front of his face, silver and gleaming it shines in the flourescent sun above him.

Oddly enough, warmth slowly begins to wash over his body. He feels the blood return to his legs and hands. Like a burning sun in his chest, everything becomes at once warm, brilliant and clear. Time stands still. Minutes seem to pass as he wonders about what his life has been. The man kneeling beside him isn't a killer, he's a saviour. Marko carefully watches the tip of the blade drop slowly below his chin. He looks deeply into the eyes of his dispatcher. Deep, black eyes. Calm, forgiving. The light above creates a cool halo around him. Thank you.

Cold hard steel explodes suddenly into his neck pulling him immediately out of his trance. Pain wraps his mind in a dark cloak as he gasps frantically for air. TASHA! NO! PLEASE! His arms flail uselessly against his assailant's side as he grapples for something to hold on to. Deeper, he can feel the blade walk toward his jaw, upwards through his throat. He chokes violently as he feels the warming metal touch the top of his mouth. Warm liquid pumps down his throat and into his lungs as he kicks his legs wildly into the air.

The room tints reddish-orange as he realizes his end is so very near. Details sharpen in his mind. Pain subsides as he no longer sees, but feels the presence of the killer. He notices the red staining the ceiling, dripping quietly down to him. White tiles dot the landsape as he feels the floor drop away slowly. Floating silently, the coldness disappears from his neck, replaced only by a slight tickle in the back of his throat.

Tired. Marko Voldosiev closes his eyes for the last time.

I love you Tasha.

[Ludwig]

Evacuation

Ajene shouted to the group heading over to the conveinece store, "Come to the church basement, it will be safer there!"

When he was certain that the teacher had heard him and was beginning to heard her group over, Ajene ran as fast as he could to the school bus and tried prying one of the doors open to see who was left inside screaming...

[Devil Unicorn]

Ambush

Prottigrnari looked down and the diminuitive sprite and snorted, then spat a large globule of viscous snot at the creature. A look of utter contempt swept over his face, then a wash of indifference. He looked up into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular.

"I say leave, before I crush your head and skewer you with a twig. You would make a nice snack before dinner."

He turned and looked at the creature, smiling wickedly.

[Blunt]

Breathless

Not so long ago, Clive would have been in utter shock to see a man that was visibly transported from another time and place talk to him in perfect English. But after what he had witnessed, it didn't surprise him that much. He almost expected it, as a matter of fact. And he asked the guy, didn't he? He lowered the ski a bit more and gave a smile to the stranger.

"Well, it's because it's not really a sword. We use it to slide down these moutains. It's a local sport, kinda like hunting for you, I s'pose, but without having to kill anything. Now, I know I've seen some weird stuff as of late, and I shouldn't be surprised, but what is a guy like you doing here? and what was on that paper? and did that bear just ransacked my jeep?"

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

Observation

"You prattle too much. If you possessed half of the occult knowledge I did your pitiable brain would turn to mush and you would know the answers to your silly questions.”

Ormstunga’s hand remaining buried in his rags, fingered the new weapon that he had acquired.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing and the lack of tribute upsetting. I have traveled too far and am tired and yet you have done nothing but preen in your supposed importance to our cause.”

The wizard stood and muttering nonsense words he stripped away the illusion of the ragman revealing the full grey cloak and hood. Power radiated from the small form that had been through trials that would crush a lesser being.

“Yet perhaps I have been too hard on you. It isn’t every day that one’s beliefs are confirmed in the flesh. Your poor mind must be a whirlwind.”

He stretched forth a smooth, hairless, grey hand.

“Kiss my hand and then you may fix me a proper tribute of food and drink. We can then discuss the matter of the cave and of your reward.”

[Katanga]

Wolf's Cry

The beast seemed to snicker at Drake’s realization. He rolled the spear over the top of his hand and brought it back round. The giant wolf took a teasing snipe. Drake did not move. The beast lunged again and Drake spun the butt of the spear round smashing him in the side of the skull. It only infuriated the monster.

The wolf’s growl was a low rumble as he stalked the invisible circle Drake created. The standoff could last as long as Drake could hold himself up, which wasn’t long.

“Baby, are you ok?” The voice of his female companion came from atop the staircase.

The beast and Drake’s eyes met; with a toothy smirk the monstrous wolf bounded past the man to the foot of the stair. Without hesitation Drake bolted after the beast. The woman, whose name was difficult to fetch from his mind, let loose a terrified scream as the creature leapt up the stairs ten at a time. Drake skidded to a stop to see the beast one lunge from the woman.

The thick oaken banisters obscured his sight, but taking into account the speed of the thing, Drake knew where to put the spear. Time froze as he drew the shaft of steel, forged millennia ago, to his shoulder. The muscles in his chest tightened as the pent up energy swelled. With an angered cry Drake loosed the weapon and it sped on its course.

The spear pierced the side of wolf with a sickening crunch as it split apart its ribcage. The tip of the spear lodged in its vital organs. A font of blood gushed from its mouth as it warbled out a cry. The beast’s eyes lolled and it collapsed at the foot of its victim. The woman lay crouched in the corner of the stairwell. Drake raced up the stair only to be caught off by his sudden lack of strength. He slipped on the polished wood and his legs buckled bringing the man to his knees. He could see a black puddle forming beneath him. His mouth tasted coppery. A mortal wound , he thought.

Thomas Drake clawed to where the beast lay, panting its last breath. He gripped the rail and hauled himself to his feet. Drake clasped the shaft of the spear that extended from the wolf’s trunk. He clung to it for what seemed an eternity, their rapid breathes eerily similar. With the resolve of his forebears he clutched the weapon and twisted with all his remaining strength. The wolf screamed and then lost it’s voice as Drake ripped the spear free along with a good portion of the beast’s organs.

The wounded man collapsed atop his vanquished foe. It did not stir.

The woman called him a foreign name over and over. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Her words trailed off in his mind.

“Open the gates of the dead! Magnor, Torgerwielder and slayer of the Seven Fenris is upon you.” He bellowed into the encroaching black.

[General Logan]

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

"Cheska3-8… confirm status," came the sharp radio signal. Amidst the shrill static, Targo recognized the sound of Alexsandr’s voice.

Having secured the grounds of the silo, Yuri nodded as a quick conclusion to his report. He turned to once again descend the metal ladderbehind him. As he departed, Targo punched in the transmission code on the console. A few seconds passed as the information completed transit.

"Victory, whatever the cost," Alexsandr chanted back the proud Red12 motto to his superior. "All positions are online and running. We await further command, and the glorious first strike against our enemies."

Targo could hear the youthful exuberance in his liuetenant's voice. The soldier was not old enough to know the previous glory of the Soviet era—a golden age that was only a myth, something to fuel his enthusiasm. Targo grinned widely as he clicked the microphone on. He removed the diskette from his coat pocket, plunged it into the console and preapred to address his comrades.

The first target was soon to be named.

[General Logan]

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

Ajene tensed as he ran. He simply didn’t have time to escort the children across the now deadly street into the church basement. Not with the flames of death threatening ever closer to the bus’ fuel tank.

Childish screams of excitement and panic interchanged in the distance behind him. Perhaps the remnants of the field trip were indeed on the move. Ajene’s mind was fixed only on the bus. He drew close to the emergency door at the rear of the vehicle.

The metal bar that secured the closing latch was hot to the touch. Wrapping his hand in his jacket, the missionary tugged at the long handle. Had it fused in place? Welded shut by the fire? He doubted temperatures had already become so extreme. Summoning equal parts strength and faith, Fitzgerald gave a mighty, final tug. As though momentarily blessed with the strength of Samson, the defiant rescuer broke back the stubborn metal bar.

The emergency door flung open, casting Ajene back onto his tailbone. Black smoke billowed out of the bus, greedily dispersing into the surrounding air. Explosions raged on in the background, but the attention of the saintly Ajene fell squarely on the occupants of the vehicle.

Shouts and coughs greeted him as rose back to his feet and vaulted up into the back of the burning bus. He slid along the sticky rubber floor padding, reaching out blindly for little arms or legs. Heat emanated from the front of the bus, as if close to the engine block or driver’s seat area. With his left hand, he tugged free a hankerchief, placing it over his nose and mouth as he proceeded.

Finally. A thin arm latched onto his, clinging and holding with a surprisingly strong deathgrip.

“Are you alone?!” he shouted to the child that scurried along the floor next to him. “Anyone else in here?!”

The child coughed out what sounded like a “yes”, and Ajene pointed the girl in the direction of the back door. He raised his voice again, feeling a split second of panic as he realized he was raising his voice to the child. But the situation demanded it. Perhaps the force in his voice would help prod the girl to rush to safety.

“Go to the back. Be careful! Climb down and run to the church!”

“What?” The child was crying and confused, coughing more than speaking.

Ajene put the cloth to her mouth. “Run… run to the Cross.”

The girl wiggled on elbows and knees in obedience.

Faint coughing barley caught Ajene’s soot-covered ear as he pressed on. The heat had become unbearable. He spread his arms out, feeling flames singing perilously close to his skin. He was near the front of the bus. The time had come to retreat and check on the others, or to give his all to complete the search.

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

The towering Viking stepped a bit closer, his hands now calmly at his sides. He seemed genial enough, despite having just summoned the stregnth to kill a large bear.

"This little one was digging through your chariot, yes," he began, still on the verge of lighthearted laughter. "I do not think your plank would have been much use. Have you no sword?"

He looked to Clive to be very genuine in his query.

"I have weapons... but not here."

"Ah," the barbarian continued in hearty tone, "No doubt the fanciful weapons of Midgard. Until you reach your home, you should carry something... carry this."

The warrior lifts a shortsword from his belt, a machete-like weapon, tossing it to the ground near Clive's feet.

"Might I journey with you to your inn? I am in much need of drink..."

[General Logan]

Wolf's Cry
(ATTN: Katanga)

The golden hall of Valhalla echoed with singing voices of hundreds of men. The triumph of Magnor had already been hastily put into song, a warm reception for the return of the perseverant Magnor.

The Viking's feet touched golden soil as though dropped gently from the heavens. He felt alive, awake--the warmth of new blood rorared into his veins.

The proud gates of Valhalla lie wide open, and in strode the conqueror of the Seven. In strode Magnor, slayer of wolves. Dressed only in robes, the conqueror felt reassured by the presence of Wulfblud still warm in his right hand.

Cheers arrived in salute. Tankards were raised. The fading memories of Midgard, and the remnant of modern man crept curiously upon Magnor. For a split second, he felt as though a football hero, stepping into a sports bar where he was revered. The notion dissipated, and the reality of glorious Asgard washed over him again.

"Valiant Magnor," came a proud, booming voice. "Finally thy victory has come. Join us now and tell us your tale."

Towering in front of Magnor was the mighty war god named Tyr--held by all as the most courageous warrior in the Nine Worlds. Stout of heart and fierce of blade... even moreso than any of his godly kin.

Tyr was tall and lean. His proud brow was topped with an iron helm, powerful spires stretching to both sides. His long hair and beard were braided, and his kingly gaze seemed to already know every detail of Magnor's journey. He was arrayed in spotelss leather and metal plate, draped in the blades of combat. He lifted a strong left hand to clasp with the arm of the newcomer.

Despite the fierceness of several lifetimes of battle, crossing beyond the grip of death, and the fanfare of his welcome... nothing had prepared Magnor for this. It was very clear why, out of all the gods, Tyr had chosen to welcome him.

The right hand of the god was gone. Sacrificed willingly to bind the greatest of all wolves, the enormous beast called Fenrir (aka Fenris). An unspoken kinship seemed apparent as Tyr awaited a response.

But Magnor was dumbstruck by the honor, having never in life been so welcomed, so honored... so overwhelmed.

[Blunt]

Breathless

Clive kneels to pick up the weapon, carefully keeping his eyes on the barbarian. But it is clear that the man has nothing but friendly intentions. He rises and puts the weapon in his belt.

"Sure, follow me."

They backtrack to the Jeep. The absence of keys is no big deal to Clive, as he has been also trained to deal with this kind of predicament. He manages to start the car with the wires in no time. He sits behind the wheel, patting the seat besides him to invite the giant. The man climbs aboard the Jeep, his huge frame barely fitting in the seat. He seems a bit startled by this mechanical horse.

"Not used to riding in something like that, eh?" says Clive. "You'll be soon, don't worry. Now, before we get back to the hostel, I mean inn, we might want to get you some clothes. And once we're both sitting in front of a good pint, you'll tell me what a guy like you's doing here."

[Ludwig]

Evacuation

Despite his fear and the rising heat of the interior of the bus, Ajene knew he had to at least try and get at the last child on the bus.

Using an old survival technique, Ajene quickly took a triangular bandage from his webbing, soaked it in water from his canteen, and placed it over his mouth while he advanced to the front of the bus...

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ilya quirks a brow for a moment at the gesture. His face widens into an eventual smile as he adjusts to Ormstunga's personality.

He humbles himself--a blatant charade--and reaches out to take the illusionist's discolored palm. He offers a brief kiss of respect, pulling on the hand a bit to draw it near.

As he does, a quiet hiss rattles forth. The sound of Ormstunga's burning skin. From where Ilya touches the dark agent's palm, smoke rises. His reanimated flesh burning slowly at the touch of the clergyman.

Ormstunga writhed against the pain, though not too much. Eventually, the priest releases and slides back into his ornate office chair.

"You are not the only one who knows of his power," Ilya accuses, "You are but a pretender! A lackey. As such, you had better learn your place!"

Not one to show visible surprise, Ormsutnga recoils calmly. Seated deep in the chair, Father Ilya looks poised to cackle. Instead, the small old man remains quiet, dropping a silver token on the desk.

In silence he waits.

The small coin bears an emblem that Ormstunga is quite familiar with. The image of Mjollnir is emblazoned on the ancient metal disk.

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

"So be it, Giant," the miniscule creature spat out, shaking its head. Without another word, it skittered beyond a natural hedge of rock and is gone.

Alone again, Prottignrari set out to find something that would actually fill his appetite. After an hour on foot, he came to a valley--the Valley of Swords.

Sharp glade cut up through a dusty field. Strong edges of grass that were nearly as hard as metal. A crude road had been formed in the pass, winding through Jotunheim to the colder reaches near the Citadel of Utgard.

Movement on the trail caught Protti's cold eye. He carefully moved into position to surmise exactly what it was that had wandered into his native land.

Mortals! Foolish humans who had somehow stumbled into Jotunheim!

And these were no warriors. No proud Vikings or godly servants. Just pitiful travelers from Midagard. Proti looked closer, eager to plan his meal.

Six youthful beings bantered back in forth in an odd tongue. There were four males, draped in odd trappings and two females, likewise arrayed in strangeness. Each of them carried a satchel or bedroll over their shoulder. One of them seemed to be talking into his hand. Two more argued, and a third perused some kind of map.

Fools? A troupe of minstrels and jesters? Protti shook off the confusion. What did it matter? If anything, their taste would simply be more exotic.

Though he missed his precious axe, he would hardly need it in taking his prey.

[Devil Unicorn]

Ambush

Prottigrnari sneered as he watched the small group of mortals meandering through the mountain pass. These weaklings would fall rather easily to him, and his hunger would finally be sated. He reached over and tore up a sapling, ripping off the spare branches and roots.

Hefting it a bit, he smiled. It wasn't anything fancy, but it would do nicely to bash in the skulls of these fools. He loped over the the edge of the ridge, and then bellowed out, his voice reverberating through the pass.

"Mortals! You have strayed far from your home! This is not good for you, for I am about to slay thee. It is good for me, though. You will make for a fine meal."

And with that, he raised the club high and charged down the mountain pass...

[Kid Ego]

Control
(Targo's speech to Red12. This is spoken Russian. Also included is the logo for Red12 I drew. Enjoy, Comrades)

Comrades, the governments of the west have wielded the power of God far too long. Now, in one swift stroke, we will seize that power from them and stand in the place of their God. America is a hunter, searching for his prized kill. We are the scorpion...small, agile and lethal. He has set his sights on a target too big and has overlooked the deadliest of enemies. We will strike the fleshy heel of their conceited nation. We shall stand witness as the mighty power of America disintegrates before our eyes. Los Angeles is called the City of Angels, yet it bristles with demons. We will wipe the lush valleys clean of their hypocrisy, and the world will behold the turning of the tide for our great revolution!

We are the stable center of our world. We are stronger in our ideas. We must exercise our guidance and exert our will from positions on high! Many of us will not live to see the decisive battles of this coming revolution, but my comrades I assure you, you will be exalted when the governments of this world kneel to the power wielded by our fists!

All Hail Mother Russia! Long live the might of the Soviet Empire!

All units stand ready to fire. The target is set. Revolution is at hand!

http://www.cusher.net/chud/red12russian.gif

[General Logan]

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

Rousing shouts of support were heard in near unison from the black-panelled speakers. Comrade Vleitnikov's words had once again stirred loyalty in his men.

The control disk was in place, and Targo fell back on the secreted manual he had memorized while in prison. The launch codes, directional coordinates... all the details had been seen to by his programmer. The brilliant technician had simplified everything. Miska--Targo's own son--was taken by an assassin's bullet. In his honor, Red12 would shake the foundations of the country that had so long defied Soviet might.

Targo keyed in the name of his deceased child, and the targeting computer was brought online. Coordinates were fed into the keyboard from a scrap of paper propped inbetween the monitors.

Sirens chirped, boots clanked against metal. Yuri and his men had cleared the launch area. From the shielded dome in which the control center was poised, Vleitnikov watched.

A panel of four red lights flickered amber, and the commander exhaled deeply. A loud whirring noise droned through the tower, but Targo shut it out.

The cause was greater than he himself, or any of the fallen soldiers since the assault began. Not just for Miska... but for a proud Mother Russia.

Targo keyed in the failsafe code, and pressed a green "LAUNCH" button without hesitation. He slumped into the padded seat and waited.

In the field beyond the Cheska facility, steam vents burst open. The circular cover plate rolled back, as the green and gray cone slid into the open air.

In moments, the missle was clear of its earthly bounds, and rocketed outward into the night air. Certainly the Americans would intervene, but Miska had prepared his program for such eventualities.

There was indeed no turning back. Targo sat in silence as he tracked the missle.

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

"I am called Skarn," the Viking replies, seated awkwardly in the tattered Jeep. Clive had completed the introductions while trying to start the dead engine.

"Trouble?" Skarn inquires innocently, rubbing his bruised head from where he struck the metal rail undearneath the Jeep's canvas top.

Clive nodded, and ran around front to inspect the engine. Having a decent amount of mechanical knowledge, he was startled to find no sign of trouble under the hood.

"Your carriage... it bleeds," Skarn offers again, twisting his neck around to look out the passenger side door.

Sure enough, a fluid leak quickly brought Branson to the realization that his fuel was spent. In the distance lie the extra gallon canister, tipped over and emptied into the snow.

"That must have been some bear," Clive offered, bewildered by the assault on his vehicle.

"True," Skarn concurred, "It was no Midgard born beast. I tracked the beast here from the edges of Nidavellir."

"From... where?" Clive was unfamiliar with the Swedish villages in the foothills of Razoredge.

"Nidavellir... home of the dwarves?"

Clive was confused, left speechless for a moment.

"Perhaps we could push this chariot down the hill. The slope to the southeast would surely carry us halfway to the village of men below?"

[Kid Ego]

Control

As the missle flies unhindered to the soil of the great land of hypocrisy, Targo Vleitnikov stands and salutes his motherland.

He keys the microphone and joins his men in song...


Soy'ooz neroosh'imi resp'ooblik svob'odnikh
Splot'ila nav'eki vel'ikaia Rus
Da zdr'avstvooyet sozdanni voley nar'odov
Yed'ini mog'oochi Sov'etski Soy'ooz

Sl'avsa ot'echestvo n'ashe svob'odnoye
Dr'oojbi nar'odov nady'ojni opl'ot
P'artia L'enina, - s'ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv'oo kommun'izma vedy'ot

Skvoz g'odi siy'alo nam s'ontse svob'oodi
I L'enin vel'iki nam put ozar'il
Na pr'avoye d'elo on p'odnal nar'odi
na tr'ood i na p'odvigi nas vdokhnov'il

Sl'avsa ot'echestvo n'ashe svob'odnoye
Dr'oojbi nar'odov nady'ojni opl'ot
P'artia L'enina, - s'ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv'oo kommun'izma vedy'ot

V pob'ede bessm'ertnih idey kommoon'izma
Mi v'idim grad'oosheye n'ashey strani
I kr'asnomoo zn'ameni sl'avnoj otch'izni
Mi b'oodem vsegd'a bezav'etno verni

Sl'avsa ot'echestvo n'ashe svob'odnoye
Dr'oojbi nar'odov nady'ojni opl'ot
P'artia L'enina, - s'ila narodnaya
Nas k torjestv'oo kommun'izma vedy'ot


---
<a href="http://www.funet.fi/pub/culture/russian/lyrics/political/SovietUnionNationalAnthem_RedArmyChorus.mp3" target="_blank">The Soviet National Anthem</a>

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

"Scott is too high to read the map," came a stern rebuke.

"Fuck you, Sanders," the map-wielder replied, placing a hand above his eyes to blockout the sunny haze. Scott was a tall, clean-cut kid, a senior on the verge of graudaiton.

The company of six wandering students had unknowingly crossed beyond the border of their home world into the rocky realm of Jotunheim.

"Give me the fucking map, Scott."

Grudingly, Scott handed the useless folds of paper to his companion. The short and rail thin Sanders was easily the least liked of the crew. "Dude," Sanders addressed as he yanked the map away, "My dad did not fly us to Europe so we could pull a Blair Witch."

Meanwhile, the rest of the troupe paused to smoke on the large, flat rocks of the river basin.

"Hiking... it sucks," the brown-haired Brandy offered. "Visting Europe should be about hotels, museums... stuff like that."

The brash Scott nodded, standing up on a small boulder to find a better vantage point. He took a puff of the hand-fashioned smoke and passed it to Branch, the muscle-bound member of the crew that thanklessly carried the largest load.

"You know I don't touch this shit," came Branch's deep voice.

"Whoa," chimed the bronze-skinned Erica, half asleep from the marijuana. "Check out this guy.

In the distance, a large form barrelled towards them. Was it... human? It was freakishly huge... blue skinned... and shouting something indiscernable as it ran towards them.

"Fuck," Sanders and Scott spoke in unison. The map dwindled to the ground, and the pack of hikers gathered themselves in an attempt to flee.

"Randall," the girls screamed.

Sanders took over, "We're getting the fuck outta here!"

From behind a group of evergreens, Randall ran, tugging on his pants zipper.

"What the f...?!"

A large, leaf-riddled plank interrupted Randall, smashing into his lower back and sending him face first into the dirt between the trees.

A feral roar came from the giant. Even as the five other tresspassers scattered, Prottignrari would have no trouble catching and killing them all.

Randall moaned, lying still on the ground. Without hesitation, Protti leapt back onto the crude road, chasing the path to the oafish Branch, striking him with his namesake across the back of the neck. Leaves scattered.

"Motherfucker!" Scott shouted, as he and Sanders turned from their flight and charged the Frost Giant.

The two girls offfered support, pelting rocks at the giant, bouncing off his tough skin like pebbles.

Branch rolled on the ground until on his side. The weight of the large pack held him down. He was badly injured, but equally growing in anger. "Get this shit off me!" he growled to his companions.

Protti gave his prey time to draw closer. Two of the men were down, and the other two seemed to rush to their deaths.

It would prove to be Prottignrari's easiest hunt in years.

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ormstunga looked deeply into th ecleric's eyes and a laugh broke from his slash of a mouth. "I approve as would our master. Now that we have established that we are both pompous asses shall we get down to business?"

[Devil Unicorn]

Ambush

Prottigrnari bellowed out a laugh as the weak mortals threw rocks and pebbles at him, watching them fall to the ground, and feeling little more than an itch. He had to admit, they were awfully brave to stand up to him. He was obviously much larger and far more powerful than they, but instead of fleeing, they fought him.

No matter, he was about to kill all of them.

Prottigrnari lunged forward, with a crushing backhand swing that sent Scott flying off the trail to smash into a tree. The loud *crunch* of Prott's club slamming into him insured that a few of the mortal's bones were broken.

Sanders' courage suddenly gave way to horror as he saw his friend smashed aside so easily by the giant. His charge faltered a bit, and that provided the giant an oppurtunity. Reaching down with a massive icy cold hand, Prottigrnari plucked up the mortal man by his right arm, squeezing it hard. The sound of grinding bones could be heard, and if Prott squeezed any harder, the man's arm would be pulped.

Sanders struggled to get out of the giant's grip, beating with his other fist against the creature's thick arm, shocked to find that the monster's skin was deathly cold. His arm burned so badly from the intense cold that he couldn't even feel his strained bones and muscles being crushed.

The girls began to scream and shriek as Scott was hurled aside, and then Sanders was caught. They renewed their assault, being careful not to hit Sanders with their projectiles. But their efforts seemed in vain, for the stones just deflected from the frost giant's flesh.

Prott brought the mortal up in front of his face, grinning a black-toothed grin at the puny human, and then spoke in the Giant tongue.

"I'm going to enjoy eating you, mortal." He looked over at the hysterical girls and chuckled, a low rumble. "You might want to tell your women to run. I will be having fun with them before they die."

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Ilya nods in acceptance of Ormstunga's suggestion. The burning sensation in the illusionist's palm remains, a small but definite scar has formed on his gray skin.

Ilya rises, pulling a dusty tome from its place on the bookshelf beside him. He returns to his seat while flipping through worn pages. With an expression of sudden recognition, he smiles.

The book drops heavily on the desktop in front of Ormstunga.

It is open to a black and white ink drawing of a mountain range--the Himalayas. Ilya sits down, drawing a red pen from a drawer underneath the desk.

Though upside-down, he manuevers the instrument to a precise location on the simple map. He crosses lines under the bold title "NEPAL".

"The cave is most certainly protected," Ilya warns. "But the very forces that protect the cave will also be our beacon, pointing to a more exact location..."

He implies that he is fully intent on joining the search, and awaits Ormstunga's next move.

[Capt. Eucalyptus]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

"I can manage getting us through any defenses, rest assured." The priest seems a little relived at the inclusiveness of his statement. "Can you make the arrangemnts for travel? I am still learning the ins and outs of your world." All the while he was speaking, Ormstunga looked forward to the moment when he could read the divinations in this one's entrails.

[Blunt]

Breathless

"Yeah, sounds like a plan. Let's do that"

The two men takes position behind the jeep and start pushing. The giant's strenght makes the task all the more easier, Clive barely needs to push himself, and the car soon starts to go down the hill. Clive immediately runs up to the driver's door and hop in behind the wheel, shouting for Skarn to join him. The giant leaps in the back. The car quickly gains speed and they cruise down the slope for a while.

Suddenly, Clive sees a huge tree appear in the distance. He slams into the brakes, to no avail, then tries to steer, without much luck either. The bear's attack must have caused more damage then he thought.

"What's going on?" asks Karn?

"We're on a collision course with one big ass obstacle, and I've no mean to avoid it! We're gonna have to jump."

Clive quickly climbs out of the cabin and joins Skarn in the back, the wind whipping against their faces. The tree grows closer and closer.

"Now!" shouts Clive.

The two men leap out of the car, mere moments before it smashes into the tree at full steam and is almost totally demolished. They roll in the snow and get up to discover the damages.

"Looks like we'll have to do the rest of the trip on foot. We're not very far away from the village. Let's go."

[General Logan]

Control
(ATTN: Ego)

The missle glided smoothly into the stratosphere, parting the clouds in its path. Like a noble hawk, it swooped across plain and mountain with undying determination. Soon the projectile made its way out to sea, miles above the icy ocean beneath.

Slowly, the pending attack came to the attention of the United States, as it scurried to launch its countermeasures.

Targo silently monitored the flight from the control center, tapping his fingers on the display. There was indeed a chance that the weapon could fail in its task. Though failure was not a word that Red12 had grown accustomed to using.

All that was left was the waiting. Many nations would surely reply on behalf of the victimized States. Targo and his men were preapred for the eye of the world to be on them.

Unknown to the Soviet rebels, another eye would soon be upon them. A greater force than any mere nation on the planet.

[General Logan]

Evacuation
(ATTN: Ludwig)

Determined to press on, Ajene crawled further along the floor of the school bus towards the driver's seat, into the heart of the blaze. A faint sound is heard, but the dizzied rescuer begins to question what might be a hallucination.

The smoke clears enough for him to take in his immediate surroundings. Brown sack lunches rest under the front seat, slowly being consumed by the fire. Black puffs swirl back into view.

It's too late.

The vehicle erupts in a horrible explosion, metal and glass shards rent free in the force of the blast.

The unprovoked air raid had taken its latest casuality. The sacrifice of the heroic Ajene Fitzgerald would never be forgotten by those he had protected, by the lives of those he had saved.

[General Logan]

Breathless
(ATTN: Blunt)

Skarn shakes the snow off of himself idly, seemingly amused by the near-death collision. He rights himself, then joins Clive as the two carefully descend the remaining hillside.

A little more insight is given as the pair of men make their way to the small Swedish village below.

Clive tried to pry more details out of the Viking's head, "So Earth... I mean, Midgard, is one of many worlds, and all are connected by a giant... tree? Which world are you from?"

Skarn was happy to indulge in the questions, despite his wondering how any person could be so naive. "I was born in Midgard, as you were. My clan once lived not far from here. I now hunt across all of Yggdrasil's roots. I have no home."

"Oh...," Clive felt as though it might be a sensitive subject. "The village is used to catering to tourists... er, visitors. Once we get you some regular clothes, you won't stick out as much."

Skarn nodded, still holding out hope for strong drink. Clive led him down into the pass that led to the village of Gluddun. Branson looked forward to a hot meal and a night's rest.

[General Logan]

Observation
(ATTN: Eucalyptus)

Father Ilya replaced the book on its ornate shelf, and walked Ormstunga to the door of his office.

"Surely. I have a chartered helicopter service that can take us to location. It should be fueled and ready by tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should... rest until then?"

The uppity cleric stood at the entrance to the Basilica, watching as his new associate walked slowly into the cold night. "Meet me here in the morning when you are ready. We should depart by 10."

Ormstunga offered a faint nod before wandering out into the evning air. No longer mortal, a being such as he needed no rest. Instead, the world-traveler would meditate, and perhaps "refine" his dark skills on the denizens of late night Moscow.

As he left, Ilya shuddered. He anticipated the time when he would be able to order the destruction of the foul creature that dared threaten him.

[General Logan]

Ambush
(ATTN: Unicorn)

A proud Prottignrari leered at his victims. The edge of the river valley was dotted with the unconscious, beaten forms of four unwary hikers. These foolish men were Protti's latest victims, soon to be his latest meal. The two females descended the steep hillside, each brandishing stones in thier hands and tears in their eyes. They cursed the giant in an odd lanugage, both seemingly determined to end his hunt all the more quickly.

Protti stepped forward to meet them, allowing his giant shadow to be cast in their path. His advance caught them unprepared, and their pace lessened abruptly. Protti storode forward, ducking under one of the larger rocks the women lobbed his way. He would soon be within arm's reach of the tiny humans, and then his hunt would be at an end.

The women shuddered, stopping still in their tracks simultaneously. Each of them cowered away from the Frost Giant, tucking knees under themselves, as if frozen in place, unable to run.

It quickly came to Protti's attention that the terrified eyes of his young prey gazed beyond his own form, to something from behind.

But there was no time to turn around.

Protti gritted his teeth in agony as a mighty warhammer swung low and wide, sailing into his mammoth rib cage and sending him reeling. The giant was lifted from the ground by the blow, sent into a long arc trajectory before touching down with a painful thud on the far side of the river. His body crackled with the sting of an electric charge.

The pain and confusion of the sudden attack left Protti shaken. He composed himself slowly, able only to watch as a blurry figure collected the downed mortals one by one and helped carry them on their way.

A string of curses rumbled out of the semi-conscious Frost Giant, unable to do more than sit upright while his injured captives fled. The once-unseen assailant stepped momentarily to the water's edge, looking across until he was sure he had the giant's attention. In his weakened state, Protti could not rise to challenge... only listen.

"Run home," came a strong voice of rebuke. "Or you will rue the day you crossed Thor, Foe of All Giants!"

Even as his enemy departed, Protti felt a burning rage grow within him. He would heal... and then, he would indeed find vengenace. But first, he would need a powerful weapon of his own. He knew he must find Hjalmstallrklofna.

[General Logan]

CHAPTER 1 IS NOW CLOSED. PLEASE DON'T POST UNTIL CHAPTER 2 IS UP (BY TOMORROW MORNING).